#Window Graphics Ohio

[smokysr]

𝐔𝐍𝐃𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐒𝐄𝐃 | 𝐒. 𝐑𝐞𝐢𝐝

CHAPTER II — Something Human.

pairing: spencer reid x misaki hirose (oc)

content warning: mature themes, violence, torture, mentions of alcohol, pregnancy, graphic crime scenes, death

summary: Secrets crawl under the skin. A confessional. An arbiter. Someone who delivers punishment when the truth isn't volunteered.

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"𝐓𝐫𝐮𝐭𝐡, 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐬𝐥𝐞𝐞𝐩, 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬 𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐚𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐨𝐨 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐬𝐞." — 𝐖. 𝐇. 𝐀𝐮𝐝𝐞𝐧

Hotch's phone buzzed in the inside-pocket of his suit.

He stepped away from the scene, answering with a curt, "Hotchner." A beat passed. His expression remained steady, but his gaze shifted—sharpened.

"No, we just got here."

Another pause.

"...When?"

His gaze flicked over to the two, then on the ground. Whatever he heard, it didn't show in his voice—only in the faint tightening of his jaw.

"Understood."

He dropped the call without another word, walking over to Spencer and Misaki who had been quietly analyzing the body.

"Reid. Hirose," he called out.

Spencer looked up, catching the edge in Hotch's tone. He didn't ask questions, but the shift in his posture said he understood—this wasn't good.

Misaki stood as well, instinctively stepping back from the body. She hadn't worked with Hotch long, but it didn't take much to sense something had changed.

"We're heading back to the precinct," he said.

The two didn't say anything, only giving Hotch a firm nod.

The drive back to the precinct was quiet.

Reid sat in the passenger seat, elbow on the window ledge, fingers curled near his mouth. His mind was working, spinning like a cogwheel.

Hotch was behind the wheel, eyes fixed on the road ahead. His composure held, as always—but the way his grip tightened slightly around the steering wheel didn't go unnoticed.

In the backseat, Misaki kept her gaze on the window. The buildings passing by were easier to focus on than the thick, unspoken tension settling inside the car.

────────── 10:42 A.M. — Cleveland Police Precinct, Cleveland, Ohio.

The low murmur of voices, ringing phones, and shuffling paper filled the precinct—louder than the silence that had settled in the car.

The local PD had cleared out a small workspace for the team: an evidence board, a few desks and a handful of chairs. Inside, Elle leaned over a desk, flipping through the autopsy report. Nearby, Derek paced—his agitation barely hidden under the edge of his voice. He can't seem to get inside the unsub's head.

Gideon sat at the far end of the room, unmoving. His eyes were fixed on a package laid out in front of him—sent, according to the police, specifically for the BAU.

Then came the sound of the door creaking open.

Hotch walked in first, his expression unreadable. Spencer and Misaki followed closely behind. Spencer's brows furrowed the moment he noticed the other's postures—tense, alert. Misaki caught the look exchanged between Elle and Morgan and didn't like what it suggested.

"We got something?" Hotch asked, breaking the silence.

Gideon didn't blink. "Package came in twenty minutes ago." He gestured toward the box on the table.

"PD said it was addressed directly to us. No return address. Just 'BAU' written on the front." Derek added, arms crossed.

Hotch gave a short nod, kneeling down. He reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a pair of gloves and slipped them on without a word. Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, he peeled back the tape.

Inside was a single item: a DVD. And a name written in blank ink across its surface.

AMBER GREEN

The tension in the room thickened. Everyone had their guesses about what was on the disc—and none of them were good. Gideon ran a hand down his face. He'd seen this before, he knew how it went. It never got easier.

"I'll ask if they have a DVD player laying around," Misaki offered quietly, glancing at Hotch.

He gave her a short nod. "Go ahead."

She slipped out the room, and the moment the door clicked shut behind her, the silence deepened. Spencer shifted his weight, the unease flickering behind his eyes now settling in his shoulders.

Derek broke the silence first. "You'd think he would send this to the husband instead, but why us?"

Hotch didn't answer right away. His gaze remained fixed on the disc like it might start playing on its own. Finally, he said, "he wanted us to see something. The question is—what."

A few minutes later, Misaki came back with a DVD player. Good thing their workspace already had a TV. She set it up with Derek's help.

The screen flickered to life.

At first, all black. Then a frame appeared—grainy, poorly lit. Amber Green sat in a wooden chair, arms and legs bound tightly with rope. A  blindfold covered her eyes. Duct tape sealed her mouth. The only light source was a single bulb above her head—casting down like a spotlight.

The tape glitched.

When it cut back, Amber remained bound to the chair—blinded, restrained. But the tape on her mouth was gone.

"Who are you?" Asked a voice off-screen. Male. Calm, deliberate—too calm.

"A-Amber Green," her voice shook, barely holding back a sob.

"No," the man snapped—harsher now, enough to rattle her further.

Silence followed. Only the sounds of Amber's breathing were heard. Shaky. Shallow. The occasional sob.

"Again!" He screamed.

Amber flinched.

"Who are you?" His voice was colder this time. No longer a question—a warning.

Her lips trembled. She didn't answer.

A low, metallic clang echoed somewhere off-screen—something being dragged or picked up.

"I said..." the man hissed, slower this time. "Who. Are. You?"

"I—" Amber's voice cracked. "I'm... I'm not who people think I am."

There was a long pause.

"I lied to everyone. I cheated on my husband. I slept with my boss—I told everyone how great my marriage was and how we were so happy to keep up appearances."

Her breaths were fast, panicked. "I built a persona around being the perfect wife to my loving husband. But I wasn't—I am a disgusting, selfish, worthless, pig."

It sounded rehearsed—like she'd been made to say it before.

"I'm a liar," she whispered.

Silence again.

"And what do we do to liars, Amber?" The man asked, taunting her. You can hear the sick smile plastered on his face just through his voice alone.

Amber didn't answer.

"Answer me!" A loud slam was heard. The camera shook.

Amber jumped, choking on a sob. "Y-You punish them," she said, voice barely audible.

The man chuckled—a low, hollow sound escaped from his lips. It was clear he was getting off on her fear, he loved the control over her.

"That's right. I punish them. That's my job. And right now, my job is you."

──────────

The room stayed silent long after the screen went black. What they had witnessed wasn't just a confessional. It was a performance. Forced. Rehearsed. Cruel. The low hum of the precinct outside their small workspace felt distant, muffled under the weight of what they had just seen.

Reid didn't blink. "He doesn't want them to just confess—he needs them to say it in his language. He corrects her. Reframes the words. Suggesting an obsession with control. Identity-based."

"Amber's confession sounded rehearsed." Misaki added, hand rested on her hips. Her gaze lingered a second too long on Spencer. "He's playing out a fantasy."

Hotch stood, arms crossed. "What else do we know?"

Elle flipped through the victim file. "Amber Green had no criminal record. No enemies. From the outside, she looked perfect."

"So they're hand-picked," Morgan said. "He watches them for a few days, at least, before attacking them."

Gideon's voice was low. "Which means he sees himself as some kind of... arbiter. Someone who delivers punishment when the truth isn't volunteered."

Misaki frowned. "In the tape, he breaks them down so completely that they stop being who they are. This isn't just about control—he wants ownership." Spencer nodded slightly. "It's a psychological deconstruction. Almost ritualistic."

Their eyes met—an unspoken understanding passing between them.

"You could hear it," Misaki continued. "He's calm when she submits. Aggressive when she resists. He's enjoying it."

A heavy pause.

Hotch exhaled through his nose. "Get everything we can on Amber Green—her routine, her workplace, coworkers, family, friends. Anything that could link her to the other victims." He looked at Morgan.

"We need to know why she was chosen. And who's next."

Morgan nodded, already reaching for his phone. "I'll give Garcia a call."

Hotch cleared his throat. "We need eyes everywhere," he said. "If he's stalking victims before he abducts them, there's a chance someone saw him—they just didn't realize what they were looking at."

He pointed toward the evidence board.

"Reid, Hirose—check out Amber's workplace. See if anyone noticed anything off. Coworkers, her boss, CCTV footage if they have them. Ask if she's ever mentioned being watched."

Spencer gave a short nod. Misaki grabbed her coat.

"Morgan, take Elle with you and canvas the neighborhood—look for potential dump spots, routes he could have taken. Talk to the neighbors."

Gideon stepped in. "I'll go with them. I want to check out any potential abduction site."

Hotch turned to JJ. "We'll go back to the husband. See if there's anything he left out. Marital problems, doctor appointments. Things only the two know."

"We move fast, keep each other posted. Dismissed."

Everyone wasted no time heading to their respective locations.

────────── Misaki

Spencer and I just stepped out into the hallway when I saw Morgan, leaning against the wall. Dialing Garcia, I suppose.

"Hey, babygirl," He said, voice smooth. "Miss me already?"

What?

I blinked, slowing down as I turned to Spencer. "Did you hear that?" I whispered, stepping a little closer. Our arms brushed for a moment.

Spencer didn't miss a beat. "It's the usual."

The usual? What's that supposed to mean?

My brow furrowed trying to decipher what Spencer just said. I turned to face him and he looked like he was holding in a laugh—no, he is. "What's so funny?"

"Nothing." He shrugged, already picking up his pace.

Great. Just—great.

"Hey, Reid! Wait up." As I said that, he walked even faster. Seriously?

The elevator doors opened when I reached the ground floor and I was greeted by Spencer. He was smiling—and not the usual awkward one.

This guy thinks he's real funny, huh?

"You're pretty slow," he grinned. My tongue clicked as I walked past him. "Shut it, Reid." I rolled my eyes as he caught up to me. "So we're back to last name basis now?" He raised a brow, my eyes flicked to his face then to where I was walking.

"Who said we were out of it in the first place?" I jabbed at him.

Maybe he's not that bad.

────────── BLAKEMAN & CO. Cleveland, Ohio.

The receptionist didn't even look up when we entered. Sleek glass, beige carpeting, and fake smiles behind expensive desks. The kind of place that pretended to be friendlier than it really was.

"Agents Hirose and Reid. FBI," I said, flashing my badge. "We're here about Amber Green."

Somehow, that got her attention.

"Oh. Yes. Of course," she stammered. "I'll get Mr. Blakeman's assistant to bring you to his office—well, I guess Amber's replacement." Her voice trailed off. She cleared her voice, straightened her posture as she realized too late how that sounded.

Mr. Blakeman, the man she had been sleeping with.

I glanced at Spencer—stone-faced, as always. Stillness came easy to him when he's working. That's something I'm still trying to get used to.

I can never seem to figure out what he's thinking about but I know his mind's probably dissecting every little thing.

We were led past the cubicles and glass-walled conference rooms. Everyone was quiet—but not the usual work silence. Was it grief, or gossip? It's hard to tell.

We were ushered into a sleek corner office. Floor-to-ceiling windows, a modern desk, everything's too neat.

There he was. William Blakeman. All polished charm and strategic grief.

Tall, mid-forties, tailored suit, sharp eyes. His name etched in bold on the nameplate on his desk.

Of course it was.

He stepped forward with a practiced expression—grief, but polished. Just enough to look respectable. Enough to enforce his authority. His tie was perfect, eyes a little too clear for someone mourning an employee—someone he was seeing in secret.

"Agents," he said, voice calm, calculated. "I was informed that someone from the FBI might come by. Please—sit."

I gave him a court nod. Spencer took the seat across from his desk first, I followed after.

"I still can't believe it," he started off. "Amber worked for me for four years. She was... one of a kind, exceptional in her work."

Was. Always with the past tense. People often don't use the past tense when referring to someone who had just passed away so recently. They would even correct themselves—he didn't.

I glanced over at Spencer, he thought of it too.

"Sorry for your loss," I said evenly, carefully watching his expression. "The FBI is currently looking into the circumstances of her death. We were hoping you could help us build a clearer picture of who Amber was, especially in the weeks leading up to her disappearance."

Blakeman nodded, leaning back in his chair. "Of course. Anything I can do."

"Were there any changes in her behavior recently?" Spencer asked. His tone was flat—pure analysis.

Blakeman hesitated, "she was... distracted lately," he said. "But I assume it was purely personal. I didn't bother to pry."

Unusual. Coming from someone having intimate relations with Amber, you'd think he'd know—or be interested to say the least.

"Did she ever mention feeling unsafe?" I asked. "Or like she was being watched?"

He frowned. "No. Never."

I looked over to Spencer, who was still studying him. Probably breaking down Blakeman's every word and action.

"And how would you describe your relationship with Ms. Green?"

Blakeman paused, again.

I waited.

Finally, he gave a tight smile. "Professional."

I tilted my head, "strictly?"

His smile didn't move. "Yes."

Sure it was.

Spencer broke in smoothly. "And you didn't notice anything unusual—calls, visitors, anything out of the ordinary?"

"No," Blakeman said, almost too quickly. "If something was going on in her personal life, she kept it private."

We're not going to get anywhere. Not with him.

"Would you mind if we spoke to her coworkers?" I asked. "And if we could have access to the building's security footage?"

His expression shifted for a fraction of a second—discomfort.

"Of course," he said eventually. "I'll have someone assist you."

We stood from our seats. Spencer gave a polite nod, I didn't.

We stepped out of his office. The door shut behind us with a soft click. I didn't say anything at first—just looked at him. He met my eyes.

"He's lying."

"I know."

──────────

We didn't have to look far. Half the office had been watching us like a hawk the second we stepped out of Blakeman's office.

I spotted a young woman by the copying machine—couldn't have been older than twenty-five. Nervous eyes. She looked away the second we made eye contact.

She wore a fitted blazer over a floral blouse, but the tapping of her fingers against the copier tray gave her away. New. Probably an intern. Someone who's not used to this kind of attention.

Spencer noticed too, shooting me a look. I nodded—this one was mine.

"Hello," I said, voice warm. "Misaki Hirose, FBI. Would you mind if I asked you a few questions?" I gave her a soft smile—the kind that reached my eyes.

Hopefully this will ease her up a bit—just enough for her to willingly talk.

"Uh..." she hesitated. Looking at anything and everything except me. Spencer stood quietly behind me, calm and still. He knew I had it. "It'll be quick, I promise." I added gently.

That seemed to work—from the way she was avoiding my gaze to the moment her eyes finally met mine. Lips pressed into a thin line.

Her silence dragged, just long enough to make me wonder if she'd bolt or lie.

Then finally—

"No, not at all."

She glanced towards a small glass meeting room. "We can talk there."

"Of course."

She led the way. Spencer and I followed.

The door clicked shut behind us. She sat stiffly in the chair, clutching her lanyard like a lifeline. I took a seat across from her, Spencer to my right.

"Thank you," I started, soft and steady. "What's your name?"

"Gigi. Gigi Palmer."

"Nice to meet you, Gigi." I offered her a kind smile. "We're not here to get anyone in trouble. We're just trying to understand Amber Green's life leading up to her disappearance. Anything you remember, no matter how small, would be a big help."

She nodded, fidgeting.

Spencer leaned forward slightly, just enough to feel present. He remained quiet. Looking over at her from time to time.

Smart—too much pressure would've made her shut down.

"I didn't really know her that well," Gigi said, quickly. "I mean, we talked sometimes, in the break room, but..."

"But?" I prompted, gently.

She hesitated, shifting in her seat, eyes darting to the glass wall—afraid she'd be caught saying something she shouldn't have. She licked her lips, looking down."I don't know if I should be saying this."

"It's okay," I assured her. "You're not under oath. We just want to know what you saw, or heard. No judgement." I leaned forward. Arms resting on the table, hands open, palm facing up. A subtle shift in my body language—enforcing that we're not a threat.

She swallowed. "She was upset. I caught her crying once, when I was working late."

Interesting. "Can you tell me more about that?"

"I couldn't help but ask her if she was alright," Gigi shifted in her seat, again. "At first, she put up a face. She told me it was just stress."

There was a long pause.

I glanced over at Spencer who had his notepad out.

"I told her she can come to me anytime," she continued. "Did she ever take you up on that offer?" I asked. Gigi nodded, looking down at her hands that rested on her lap.

"Yeah," she exhaled. "We went for a drink one night, it was her way of thanking me for checking up on her—that's what she told me anyways."

"We were getting along well, having fun. Then the drinks slowly started to get to her. She was drunk, I was only tipsy." She bit her lip and glanced at the door. Like she was afraid someone might be listening. Despite the room being soundproof, she didn't want to say it out loud—not wanting to break the trust she swore Amber.

────────── Flashback

The two arrived at the bar near their workplace. The atmosphere was dim, low lights bouncing off half-empty glasses and polished wood. Gigi sat beside Amber, at the counter—just across from the bartender who was busy serving drinks to the middle-aged men in suits. The music wasn't too loud—a quiet bossa nova. Perfect for nights like this.

Amber laughed, too loud for the story she was telling about her husband. She leaned back, drink in hand—something pink and sweet with a salt rim—her lipstick smudged just slightly.

"He's a wonderful man, really," Amber said suddenly. Eyes fixed on the melting ice in her glass. She swirled it once. Twice. Didn't drink. "And I ruined it."

Gigi blinked. "Ruined what?"

Amber just smiled at her. That strange, tight smile people wear when they're trying not to cry.

"My marriage," her voice was quiet—ashamed. "We're the perfect couple, who had everything. Even our own happily ever after."

"Well, were," she added, biting the inside of her cheek. "Until good 'ol Amber had to run off and ruin things again, for the hundredth time."

Gigi said nothing, concern written all over her face. She didn't know what to say—everyone in the office thought highly of Amber, how she carried herself. She still remembered the time Amber's husband went and dropped off her lunch she'd forgotten at home.

The way his eyes lit up when she emerged from her office, kissing her softly—afraid he might break her if he was just a little too rough. Gigi yearned for a love like that too, just like the other women who envied Amber's marriage.

"I dreamt of having a family," she said bitterly. "To carry the child of the man I love the most, raise a kid with him." Amber's eyes started to pool with tears. "In the end, I got what I wanted," she gripped her glass a little tighter.

"Just not with the man I wanted to share that dream with."

"I don't know how to tell my husband," a tear rolled down her cheek. "I love him, I really do. That will never change. But he might—once he finds out. I don't want him to leave me, Gigi."

Their eyes met.

"He's my lifeline."

She broke down, head in her hands. Gigi leaned closer to Amber, rubbing her back. They stayed like that for a good minute, then Amber looked up—wiping her tears.

She turned to face Gigi, "but he doesn't want to let me go." Her voice was almost like a whisper—a silent plea for help.

"Who?"

"The big man upstairs." Gigi forced a small laugh. "Blakeman?"

Amber didn't answer. She just reached for her drink and knocked it back like it was water.

Gigi watched her, unsure of what to say. This wasn't what she expected when Amber invited her to "grab some drinks." It started light, fun even. But now, she held the secrets of a woman—who she barely even considered a friend before all this.

"And if he finds out I'm carrying his child," she whispered, "he'll never let me leave his side." Her voice broke. "He'll use it against me. And he'll do whatever it takes to keep me."

Behind the bar, a man wiped down a glass. Not watching. Not directly. But he lingered nearby, pouring a drink a little too slowly.

He heard every word.

──────────

Gigi's voice trailed off, her gaze distant—still caught in the memory. It took a few seconds before she blinked back into the room, remembering where she was.

"Sorry," she said, blinking fast. "I just... I never planned on telling anyone. It feels like I just broke her trust. I didn't want to betray her—"

"You did the right thing," I said gently, reaching out to hold her hand.

"May I ask what bar you went to?" Spencer said—for the first time in a while.

"It's called Lowlights, just around the corner from here. Amber was a regular there."

"Thank you. We appreciate your help." Spencer and I stood together, chairs quietly scraping against the floor.

Spencer glanced at me as we stepped out of the room. I already knew what he was thinking.

Our next stop, Lowlights.

────────── 12:46 P.M. — living room, the Greens' household.

The house was quiet. Too quiet for a home that once held the laughter of two people in love.

JJ sat across from Chase Green, who looked like he hadn't slept in days—hands clasped tightly between his knees, body stiff on the edge of the couch. Hotch stood near the window, watching through the curtain slats.

"Thank you, for having us Mr. Green," JJ started off.

"We're just here to ask some questions, help get us a better understanding of what kind of person Mrs. Green was."

Was. Chase's face winced when he heard that. He still seemed to be in denial.

"Amber is—was, an amazing person. A ray of sunshine, she kept her family close to her heart. Hard-working. Caring. Intelligent. Beautiful." His voice trailed off.

"Has she ever mentioned any work trouble?" JJ asked, voice soft.

Chase shook his head slowly. "Amber preferred to keep her work and personal life private. Said she liked to leave it at the office, so she can put all her focus on me, on us." He smiled through the pain.

Hotch turned toward him. "What about personal stress? Family? Anything out of the ordinary the past few weeks?"

"I mean..." Chase ran a hand through his hair. "We've been trying. To have a baby, I mean. It's been two years. She was starting to feel discouraged." His voice dropped. "But I had hope, I thought she did too."

Hotch exchanged a look with JJ. "Mr. Green, do you know a man named William Blakeman?"

Chase blinked. "Blakeman? Yeah. That's her boss." He paused. "Wait, why? Did something happen?"

JJ leaned forward, "how close were they?"

Chase's brow furrowed. "Not close. I mean... I met him once, he was cold and professional. Didn't seem like the type to get to know his employees outside work. Why are you asking?"

Hotch didn't answer right away.

"We're exploring every angle," Hotch finally said. "When's the last time you saw her?"

Chase swallowed, hard. "I dropped her off at work the day she went missing. She told me she was gonna be working late that night so I shouldn't wait for her." His voice dropped.

"I was getting worried, it was past 12 and she still wasn't home. I gave her a call, said she just got off and she'll be home soon—" his voice cracked. "That was the last time I ever heard her voice," he said in a whisper.

Hotch's phone buzzed. A message from Misaki.

We got something. Amber's co-worker told us everything.

JJ stood. "Thank you for your time, Mr. Green. We'll keep in touch."

Chase nodded slowly. He walked them to the door, but his voice stopped them before they could leave.

"Was it my fault?"

The words hung in the air like smoke. JJ turned, unsure if he meant it rhetorically—but he was staring at her. Desperate for an answer.

Hotch simply said, "we're going to find out who did this." Then he turned and walked out, with JJ following quietly behind.

author's note:

Am I the only one who noticed Spencer and Misaki finishing each other's sentences? This was a lot to write but I enjoyed it nonetheless!! (My favorite part was definitely the little banter between them, hands down.) As always, I hope you enjoyed reading—let me know your thoughts :D

[ravenvsfox]

something electric in the blood

hey woah it's my birthday again! this year I've decided to subject you all to the tfc superhero au that's been in my back pocket for 2 years. feedback would be a very chill birthday gift, but I'm also just happy to be here (not letting this story languish in a textedit file)! ok! rock on etc

________

Neil’s mother could call a monsoon down from a crisp blue sky. Her power was tearful and tormented; she was always wreathed with rainwater, a grey veil obscuring her face.

Neil’s father was righteous electricity. His power was a fork in a wall socket. He went off before he was even born; his lightning struck his mother dead from the inside out. A killer before he even entered the world—a born murderer.

Mary spent the first few months of her pregnancy wishing quietly for a miscarriage, petrified of a fatal lightning strike from the storm brewing inside her. Lucky for her, Nathaniel was never anything like his father. (He takes solace in this many times, when he’s old enough to understand how dangerous his powers can be.)

Long before he was Neil, he could cradle sunbeams in each hand, whistle for hail, and bend fog around his enemies like blindfolds. He could cover his footsteps with peals of thunder as he ran, and wash away crime scenes with downpours. 

When his mother was killed, he struck their car with lightning over and over, and watched the white flames burst the windshield and warp the metal. He set the beach on fire all around him, staggering and tearing his hair, smoking the sand into glass and then cutting his feet to pieces as he ran. 

He kept running for months after that, his powers spilling like loose change out of a hole in his pocket. And he was so determined to survive that he no longer had a say in which parts of the weather he wanted, like—instead of checking specialty books out from the library, he was pulling down entire shelves by accident. 

Now, in the final stages of his weather sickness, he finds himself screened behind fog and ice most of the time, tidal waves dragging anyone who comes close, sunlight pouring in and out of his body like fever. Most urgently, an electrical storm is always very, very close to the surface; lightning is thick in his nose, tickling his throat, writhing half-formed above him in the veins of clouds. He’s afraid it will make a weapon of him, when he’d give anything to be something else.

Read on AO3

_______

The stranger finds him in an abandoned mall, at the tail-end of his breakdown. Neil had filled the first floor up to his waist with rainwater, filtered down through the caved in ceiling—a shattered skylight that he had ripped lightning through like a hacksaw. He'd beckoned clouds down over all of the windows and finally slept, exhausted, in the eye of the storm. 

The man appears out of the blue, drenched, in the foodcourt-turned-swimming pool. Water laps around his belt and bleeds up his shirt. His hair is plastered to his forehead and his expression is unreadable. Neil peers at him steadily across the water. Reflections of the graphic 90s wall decals float innocently between them.

“Neil, I bet.” He wipes his wet hands on his shirt. Through the water, Neil can see his boots grinding against broken glass. “Call me Wymack.”

Neil unfolds his legs, letting his feet dangle from the table he’s perched on. He waits patiently for violence. “How do you know who I am?”

Wymack smiles, half-cocked, maybe a little pissed off to be up to his waist in Neil’s mess. 

“Not every day that a storm eats a shopping mall.”

“I asked how you know who I am,” Neil reiterates, “not if you have eyes.” His voice is raw from misuse. Everything is kind of echoey and green, in this washed-out mall of his.

“Alright smartass. I’ve had you flagged for a while,” Wymack says. “I keep tabs on supers who I think might be a good fit with my Foxes. We’ve known the general shape of you since you flattened that barn in Ohio.”

He narrows his eyes. “There’s no way you could connect me to that.”

Wymack raises an eyebrow. “You’ll notice I said flattened. As in levelled. As in hailstones the size of kittens. In the middle of August. Who else has that kind of power? A functioning dairy farm, Josten. It was a slaughter.”

Neil flinches. “Fine,” he mutters. “I know. Why are we talking about it?”

“A ruined barn, a glass beach, a total whiteout in the middle of a grocery store, this castle in the clouds you’ve hooked up for yourself? Seems like a pattern. Seems like a breakdown, actually. My job is to step in when a super loses their shit, and I think we both know you fit the bill.”

“So what happens now?” Neil asks slowly. He’s struggling to keep his voice even, but he can feel thunder brewing, metabolizing in his gut. “You take me to superpower rehab? Give me dampeners and lock me in a basement? Fuck off.” 

Wymack looks unimpressed. “Talking out of your ass must be another one of your special powers.”

Neil scowls.

“Look,” Wymack starts, wading two steps closer. “I’m offering you an opportunity to be a part of a team of people like you. We all know the heroes and villains model is psychotic, but shit, powers are made to be used. We use ‘em. Find people, fix things. Or break things, if they’re not working right.”

“You’re vigilantes,” Neil says.

“No,” Wymack says, breaking out in a wicked grin. “We’re government mandated. Barely. My team is powerful. It’s in everyone’s best interest to let them hunt criminals so they don’t become them.”

“You left out the part where we’re all already criminals,” an entirely new voice says. It takes a moment for Neil’s eyes to adjust to the fact that it belongs to someone standing directly in front of him, having materialized seemingly out of thin air.

Neil clambers backwards, and a little taser beam of lightning ricochets perilously close to the water they’re all standing in.

This new stranger is so close that he can see the tawny colour of his eyes. He’s short, nearly chest-deep in the water, with a shock of blond hair and a chalky, sullen face. 

“Jesus, Andrew,” Wymack complains. “How long?”

Andrew’s static expression twitches, and he’s a foot to the left without straining a muscle.

“Don’t fucking pause me when I’m talking to you,” Wymack says, nonsensically.

“Were we talking?” Andrew asks. “I forget.” He circles Neil carefully, nearly soundless in the water.

Neil frowns, still in the slippery process of righting himself on the table. His shoes screech against a flaking metal chair.

“Speed?” he demands. It comes to mind immediately, the way Andrew is sort of flitting like a hummingbird, punched out of reality and then clipping back in somewhere else. Neil has always been obsessed with the straightforward usefulness of super speed.

Andrew’s gaze turns shrewd.

“Wrong brother.”

“Excuse me?”

“Settle down. He’s green, Andrew,” Wymack interrupts. “He doesn’t know shit about the Foxes.”

His eyes flicker to Wymack and back. He glitches, and Neil’s neck is wrenched to the side by an open-handed slap to the face. His vision blurs. Lightning strikes the roof.

“Interesting,” Andrew murmurs. 

“Christ,” Wymack exclaims, “what have I told you about antagonizing volatiles?”

“You can manipulate time,” Neil breathes, holding the back of his hand to the pain-flushed apple of his cheek. Andrew snaps his fingers and disappears.

“He can manipulate my patience,” Wymack says, turning a slow, sloshing circle in the water to scan the balcony overlooking the food court. His eyes focus suddenly, and Neil follows his gaze to find Andrew lounging at the top of a long-broken escalator. Wymack sighs. “Quit showing off.“ 

Andrew blips directly behind Wymack, who trips a little bit, slapping his hands uselessly into the water to find purchase.

“Could you turn this to ice?” Andrew asks coolly, stirring the water with his index finger.

Neil shakes his head. “Once it’s out of the atmosphere I can’t really do shit with it. What else can you do with time? Reverse it or—“

“There’s only one button on my remote,” Andrew says simply.

“Not that I’m not enjoying these pleasantries,” Wymack says. “But I’ll take an answer now, Neil.”

“You called me a ‘volatile,’” Neil accuses.

Wymack rolls his eyes. “I’ll let you in on a little secret. Every single one of my Foxes was classified as a volatile when I found them. It’s not an ugly word.”

He thinks of his father splashed through the news attached to that word, of being hunched over a police scanner full of dirty voices hissing volatile spotted, in pursuit of volatile, volatile resisting arrest. It was always about putting down anyone with powers before they could even think about being empowered.

“Depends on who’s using it,” Neil says. He shivers, and it snows a little, a miniature avalanche like something off of a disturbed tree branch. Andrew puts his hand out into the flurry, producing a fistful of slush that he promptly chucks at Wymack. It collides wetly with his chest, sticking there momentarily like a pathetic badge.

Wymack looks skyward. “Give me strength.” He seems to realize that the sky is Neil’s domain when a few more errant snowflakes catch in his hair, and he shakes them off, disconcerted.

“If I come with you,” Neil starts. “Can I stay anonymous?”

“Sure. We’ll get you a mask,” Wymack says, stone-faced. Neil can’t tell if he’s joking or not. He squints. Wymack sighs. “Look kid, I don’t care what you’ve done up until exactly now. You leave here with us, we officially work together. That means I accommodate you. I get you what you need to function. A place to sleep. Doctor visits. Dampeners if you need them.” Neil bristles, but Wymack powers on. “And in return, you work for me. Help us keep things balanced.”

Neil looks at him for a long, searching moment, feeling the snow blowing out of his chest, a sudden spring thaw. His sneakers are soaked, and the thought of a place to sleep where the weather can’t find him is so tempting.

“Fine,” he says. “I’ll do it. But how do I know—”

He’s barely spoken when he feels a strange vertigo, a retreating, phantom pressure, and he realizes he’s been transported instantaneously to the back of a car. It’s indescribable, the absence of even a blink between one set of surroundings and the next. He feels like he was in some sort of virtual reality and his headset was ripped off.

“Fuck,” he gasps. 

“You ask too many questions,” Andrew says.

“You moved me here?” he demands. Andrew looks at him blankly, as if this should be obvious. “I can walk,” he grits out. “Don’t waste your powers on me.”

“I was tired of your babbling,” he says. “You already agreed to come with us. The Foxhole needs us more than you need your self-punishing little enclosure.”

Neil glowers out the window, his fingers itchy on the unlocked door handle. A dozen metres away from their spot in the faded tarmac grid of the parking lot, Wymack is wedging open the defunct automatic doors at the mall’s entrance, emerging in an absurd flood of rainwater. 

“If the ‘foxes’ are so capable, shouldn’t they be able to take care of themselves?”

“You would think,” Andrew says wryly.

Wymack wrenches the handle on the driver’s side door, but it just snaps back into place, locked. Andrew twirls the car keys on his middle finger. 

“Enough,” Wymack says, long-suffering. He raps on Andrew’s window until his fingers jangle, and he and Neil realize at the same time that the keys are now dangling from his wrist. (Andrew’s middle finger is still raised.)

Climbing inside the belly of the car, Wymack jabs a button on the console and the headrests whack down and catch Andrew and Neil both on the crowns of their heads.

Andrew makes an affronted noise. “We have a guest,” he says.

“We have a time crunch,” Wymack says. “Not that that’s ever meant anything to you.”

“Renee will take care of it.”

“She shouldn’t have to,” he argues, turning the key in the ignition and pulling out of the parking lot before the tide from the mall can roll out to meet them.

“What does Renee do?” Neil asks.

Wymack meets his eye in the rearview mirror. “She deals with a frankly inhumane amount of bullshit, mostly.”

“I meant—“

“I know what you meant,” he gripes. “I was getting to that part. You’re going to have to learn at least an ounce of patience if you’re going to—“

“She’s a shifter,” Andrew says.

“A shapeshifter,” Neil repeats incredulously. He’s so frantically jealous for a moment that he has to bite down on his tongue.

“She can turn into pretty much anything with a face,” Wymack says.

“You’re joking.”

Wymack rolls his eyes. “I wish I was.” He takes a hand off the wheel to jab a thumb at Andrew. “You think one of him is bad, imagine three of him underfoot.”

They lapse into silence for a moment as Neil considers this. Scrubby spring scenery whips past, Wymack taps an absentminded tattoo on the gearshift, and Andrew sits utterly, perfectly still at Neil’s side.

“What do the rest of the Foxes do?” Neil asks, badly feigning nonchalance. He’s calculating how much of this could be useful to him, the ways he could co-opt supernatural speed, stopped time, or a thousand disguises. The possibilities are staggering.

“They should probably tell you themselves,” Wymack says, slanting another knowing look at him in the mirror. 

Andrew snorts.

Neil narrows his eyes. “What, are they bad?”

Andrew glitches into the passenger seat, and Wymack nearly loses control of the car, clipping the horn with one flailing hand. “Last time he got too comfortable with the secret identity reveals, Kevin made him walk out into traffic.”

Neil absorbs this like a punch to the stomach, thinking of miscalculated lightning and swift punishments, a father with a bolt in each fist.

“Don’t listen to him,” Wymack says, “It’ll rot your brain.”

“I’m telling the truth,” Andrew says simply. He flicks a circle of beads dangling from the rearview, and less than a second later, they’ve disappeared.

“Jesus suffering christ,” Wymack says. “Put those back.”

“What?” Andrew says blankly, and Neil considers that any of these glitches might represent minutes, hours, or days where Andrew has been suspended, alone, in time. 

He wants to ask him how long he can stay outside of time, if he ages in the infinite space between seconds, or if it’s as peaceful as it sounds to be the only moving thing in the universe. Instead he asks, “How do you make someone walk into traffic?” 

Wymack sighs. “Well, if you’re Kevin, you get inside their head and tell them what to do.”

Andrew glances backwards. “Your worst nightmare, I would imagine.”

Neil’s neck is hot with anxiety just thinking about it, but he sets his jaw, defiant. “You don’t know me.”

“No,” he agrees. “But I know what someone who’s afraid of their own powers looks like. And I know how easy it would be for Kevin to set you off like a firecracker.”

Neil wordlessly rolls down his window and calls down a hailstone the size of a baseball.

“No more powers in my car,” Wymack snaps, deftly forcing Neil’s window up so he has to snatch his hand back, dropping the ice out into the street. “Honestly, it’s like I’m running a daycare.”

“You don’t have a power?” Neil asks.

“I have the almighty ability to withstand annoying questions.”

“Excuse me if I’m curious about how a powerless stranger tracked me all the way to nowhere, where my—where no one else thought to look, just to enlist me into his knock-off suicide squad.”

“Well first of all, let’s make one thing absolutely fucking clear,” Wymack says, twisting in his seat, one hand steady at the bottom of the wheel. “Just because someone can’t—or won’t—use any superpowers, it doesn’t mean they’re powerless. If you listen to a word I say to you today, let it be that. Got it?”

They watch each other for so long that Neil starts to feel uneasy. The car should’ve drifted off the road by now. Maybe Andrew’s correcting their course by increments. Maybe Wymack actually has a banal, embarrassing kind of GPS power that keeps wheels to pavement.

“Fine,” Neil says, clipped.

“Good. If you call Abby powerless, I guarantee she’ll give you an earful about nursing school.”

“Who’s—“

Andrew makes an irritated noise, and when Neil looks up at the sound, he’s disoriented again by an instantaneous shift in light. His head snaps to the right, and he finds Wymack dumped unceremoniously beside him in the backseat. Andrew is busily turning the engine off up front, and a sleek, black parking garage is spread out around them, like a high-tech hangar in a sci-fi movie.

“Chrissake,” Wymack says. “Give me the keys.”

“You have them,” Andrew says tonelessly, and then he disappears. Wymack sighs and starts working on disentangling the keys that have just been magicked onto one of his earrings.

“Does he move other people around like that very often?” Neil asks.

“When the mood strikes him,” Wymack says, kicking the door open and swinging a leg out. Outside of the car, he continues, “he used to say that things have different weight, when they’re paused. All that shit like gravity, velocity, friction—they function differently when time isn’t affecting you.”

“He told you that?" Neil asks. Wymack nods. "Huh. Wouldn’t have thought he’d be so forthright.”

“Amazing what sobriety can do to a person.” Wymack holds up a hand before Neil can speak again. “More on that later. We have a facility to tour.” They’re approaching the subtle seam of a door in a broad expanse of wet-looking dark concrete. Neil hadn’t even been able to make out that it was a door until it was close enough to touch.

“Right now?”

“You have something better to do?” 

Neil shrugs. He was kind of hoping to be shown somewhere dry and windowless, but he can play house-tour.

Wymack puts his thumb to an inconspicuous tab jutting out of the near-invisible door-frame, the mechanism beeps and clicks, and the the wall sinks inward. 

“That was the main lot, this is the atrium.” The door folds itself away like a bird’s wing, and Neil follows his host into a dark hexagonal space, black walls and cubbies like something from a locker room, everything lit up at the seams with artificial techno-orange. “We usually meet here before a mission, gear up and ship out.”

Neil rolls his eyes at Wymack’s back. Between the faux-military slang and the wannabe spy movie facility, the benefit of the doubt is already stretched paper-thin.

The hallway ahead is long and uniform, with identical corridors extending in either direction every ten paces. They come across a series of matching but modified outfits behind glass, displays full of black, orange and white leather, bulky looking jackets, masks, caps and gloves, boots and holsters. 

“Gear,” Wymack says, lingering at the farthest case, a petite, broad-shouldered suit with a full mask, strappy vest, and brass knuckles on a hook. Wymack taps the glass. “Each of these cases opens up into a personal changing room. You’ll get a custom suit. Probably something water-proof and—“ he purses his lips against a smile. “Shock-resistant. Hope you like rubber.”

Neil examines a suit with thick, elbow-high gloves and an ornate half-mask. “I don’t really care what I wear.”

“Glad to hear it. Some of my Foxes were not so flexible.” 

“Someone say flexible?” 

Neil looks up just in time to see a shape drop from an air-duct overhead, like paper spit from a printer. When it hits the floor, it’s a person.

“What the hell,” Neil says flatly.

The newcomer grins. He’s tall and wiry, and his hair is gelled up into deliberate-looking peaks. Even with a complete, three-dimensional heft to him he seems stretched out, like a teenager still growing into his legs. He offers Neil a friendly hand. “Matt Boyd. And you’re the new recruit, Neil, right?”

He nods, accepting the handshake. He glances meaningfully upward. “That can’t be more than a half-inch gap.”

Matt laughs, obviously pleased. “They don’t call me Flex for nothin'.” His hand becomes putty in Neil’s grip, and when Neil tries to extract himself, Matt has him in hand-handcuffs.

“You could escape anything,” Neil marvels, half-gawking at the unseemly image of Matt’s taffy-stretched, bisected hands, slithering back and becoming whole.

Matt looks sideways at Wymack, still smiling. “He is fresh. Still has the capacity for surprise. That’s kind of nice, actually.”

Neil’s shoulders hitch upwards, defensive. “It’s been a while since I’ve met new supers.” His mother had kept him in the most oppressively average and un-stimulating hideaways she could. If he ever met supers it was by accident.

“Well that ends today, dude,” Matt says. “We see crazy new shit pretty much all the time.”

“I’m starting to get that.”

“Your thing is weather, right? You got a demo in you?” Matt asks slyly. 

“You don’t have to do that,” Wymack says quickly, but Neil is already feeling his way skyward.

They’re underground, but he can still kind of always sense the atmosphere, whispering in from outside through filtered air or natural light. It’s as simple as finding a loose end and tugging.

He blinks, and suddenly, the hallway is a wind tunnel. It’s just a little air show, but still, the gusts are so intense that Wymack has to take a step back and steady himself against the wall. Matt whoops joyfully, his immovable gelled hair whipping back. He uses his stretch powers to balloon outward like a parachute, and the wind catches his rubber body and drags him twenty feet down the hallway.

Neil rolls his neck, satisfied, and the wind dies out. “If we were above ground, I could give you a real show.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Matt says, jogging breathlessly back towards them. “Man, we’re going to work so well together. You can be the wind beneath my wings.” He quirks a genuine smile at Neil, who relaxes in spite of himself. 

“Don’t you have crime to stop?” Wymack asks drily, and Matt rolls his eyes. 

“I mean, if I can’t stop some trouble, I can always make some.” He swerves unnaturally out of the way, laughing, when Wymack reaches out to cuff him over the head. “See you soon, Neil,” he calls, taking one enormous stride to the very end of the corridor, around the corner, and out of sight.

“Everyone shows off for newcomers,” Wymack says, pushing steadfastly ahead. “Please don’t give them the weather-works every time.”

Neil shrugs. “He asked for it.”

“Yeah, and you’re a real people pleaser, huh?”

The tour trundles on, through the tunnelling halls of a facility that is slowly revealing itself to be as well-appointed as it is well-hidden. They pass through a wide-open common kitchen area with enough dining space for twenty; an enormous training gym outfitted with targets, mats, a reinforced spectator box, and a fully stocked library of weapons and armour. 

There are a couple of available sleeping quarters, spartan, but outfitted with sturdy furniture, clean bedding, and storage like Neil has never even thought to ask for; a lounge with a beaten-looking couch and chairs, a smaller kitchenette, an entertainment system, and a pool table; and a professional-grade medical station, equipped to hold what looks like the entire team at once. 

Neil meets a laser-focused Abby Winfield in the med bay, where she’s tending to a surly Andrew look-alike with a bruise-mottled grimace on his face. Aaron’s gaze darts and slices like a bird unsettled from its perch when Neil enters the room.

Neil asks him if he ran into someone’s fist, but he doesn’t rise to the bait, just casting a haughty look down Neil’s rain-soaked jeans as he hops from the exam table. Abby seems to realize what’s coming a moment before it happens, because she waves a still uncapped tube of ointment in one hand and says, “Aaron, don’t, I’m not—“ but he’s already blazed from the room, head-spinningly fast.

Wymack shrugs an apology for their intrusion, and Abby sighs, offers Neil a surprisingly generous smile, and shoos them from her office—but not before promising a full physical exam for their newest team member.

Neil swallows his instinctive horror to being examined in any capacity, and forces himself to follow Wymack out from the exposing light of the medical hall. From there, they find their way to an imposing set of steel double-doors at the heart of the labyrinth.

“Mission control,” Wymack says, scanning them seamlessly inside. Neil can tell from the quality of his voice that this is the tour’s grand finale.

It’s a massive space, tech-ed out, and the obvious hub for the entire operation. There are sprawling screens full of moving data, a huge table, lit up from within, with stray files and blueprints littering its surface. There are also towering rows of black filing cabinets lined up against the far wall, a computer system too complex for Neil to understand most of its controls, and a couple of inconspicuous doors leading to what must be private offices.

“We do most of our planning here.” Wymack gestures towards the network of screens and keyboards. “Comprehensive database, files on every super in the country, past battle strats,” he nods towards a white-board over by the meeting table. “Individualized training schedules. My office over there.” When Neil follows his sightline he finds a woman standing in the doorway, arms crossed, eyes level and keen. Neil waves awkwardly, and her mouth pulls charmingly to the side like a swept curtain. “And that’s Dan Wilds,” Wymack finishes.

“The most important part of the base, right boss?”

“If you say so,” Wymack says, but he's smiling.

“Nice to finally meet you, Neil Josten. Gotta say, I was pretty impressed by your glass beach.”

He tries not to grimace at the thought of it. “Thanks,” he says. “It was accidental.”

She laughs good-naturedly until he doesn’t join in, and then she raises both eyebrows. “‘It was accidental,’ he says. Like he didn’t change the geography of half the East coast.”

“It’s not modesty,” Wymack says. “He really doesn’t know what kind of trail he’s been leaving.”

“I don’t really like to look—back,” Neil says.

Dan’s eyes glint. There’s something sturdy and well-balanced about her, like a broadsword. “Well. Amen to that.”

“Wait, why did no one tell me he was here already?” someone exclaims, bursting in from the double doors behind them. Dark-haired and animated, the new guy is wearing a hyper-casual graphic crop top and joggers, and when he sees Neil properly, he says, “oh christ, your aura.”

“He means to say, hi, I’m Nicky,” Dan says. 

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, for sure, hi, I’m Nicky,” Nicky says, waving a distracted hand. “I can’t believe how fucked up you feel.”

“Excuse me?” Neil says, face burning, caught (as he often is) between anger and shame.

“I feel what you feel,” he says, with some relish. “No wonder we’re having inclement weather.”

All of Neil’s gauges go haywire—instant panic. It’s even worse than Kevin’s supposed powers of compulsion. The thought of all his hard-won habits, straight-faced lies, and tooth and nail emotional regulation being undone by a little empathy is too terrible. Like a bad joke. 

Wind whistles in his ears. Dan winces sympathetically as Nicky makes a wounded noise and grabs his own skull, staggering backwards. A wave of energy flows visibly through the air from his body, and Neil feels it impacting his own chest. Suddenly, he feels calm and docile as a lamb. He sits on the floor exactly where he is.

“Hey,” Wymack snaps.

“Nicky, stow the powers, okay. You know most of us vollies aren’t empath-compatible,” Dan says.

“I’m sorry, I—“ Nicky’s eyes screw shut. Immediately Neil is in control of his body again, and he slides sideways, panting. “I wasn’t ready.”

“What did you do to me?” Neil demands. Somewhere above ground, thunder grumbles.

“I’m sorry,” Nicky says again. “It’s an instinct sometimes, I swear I can’t help it.”

“He gave you an emotional sedative,” Wymack says, crossing his arms. “Nicky can manipulate feelings.”

“But I don’t,” Nicky interrupts. “Usually. I didn’t expect it to feel like a war-zone in here all of a sudden.”

Neil stands, and starts to stalk threateningly towards Nicky, but a hand closes in his collar and lifts him clean off the ground.

“Let’s not escalate things,” Dan says, holding him easily aloft. “Nick, will you promise to turn off the charm when Neil’s around?”

Nicky puts his hands up in surrender. “Done and done.” Softer, he says, “It’s actually—nice to meet you Neil.” He smiles sheepishly, and Neil shakes his head in dull disbelief. A total stranger just took the full force of the storm at the centre of Neil’s consciousness, and he’s still smiling at him like he’s not a monster.

Dan sets Neil carefully back on his feet, and he shrugs out of her grip, putting several paces between himself and everyone else.

“I understand powers that happen without your consent,” Neil says slowly. “But if you mess with my emotions again I’m not responsible for what’ll come out of the sky.”

Wymack holds up a staying hand, moving between them. “Alright, alright, enough posturing for one day.”

Nicky looks flushed and upset, but as Neil watches, the air around his body shifts and undulates as a new wave of power is compressed inwards. His expression slackens, hazy. “It’s okay. I don’t intimidate easy.”

Neil blinks at him. “You can turn your powers on yourself?” he asks, putting his own discomfort on ice.

Nicky smiles. He seems to be following Neil’s mood at a distance, matching him beat for beat. Neil’s not sure if it’s a byproduct of his abilities or a true personality trait. “Sure. I can chill myself out if I can’t sleep, get pissed before a fight. I don’t do it very often though, it can get intense. Draining.”

“How do you know if what you’re feeling is real? How does anyone around you?”

Nicky’s smile twitches. Neil suspects he’s stepped on a nerve. “It’s not a memory thing. My power lets people know its been there. It’s why I can’t tell anyone to forgive me, or love me, or anything. They would know better.”

“Eh, I know better,” Dan says, walking close enough to rope Nicky in by the shoulders. “But I do it anyway.”

“Aw shucks,” Nicky says, clearly pleased. 

“And you’re—super strong?” Neil asks, eyeing Dan’s thick upper arms.

‘Something like that. I can nudge gravity where I want it.” She looks slyly at Wymack and he uncrosses his arms, taking a step backwards.

“Don’t do it.”

“Come on, not even for the new guy?”

“Dan,” Wymack warns.

“Alright, fine,” she says, hands up. She looks to Neil. “Just know in your heart that I can lift the boss with one finger.”

“It’s a real crowd-pleaser,” Nicky agrees, perching on one of the many data-projecting desks, capped with swirling, changing screens. “But what about you, Stormy Weather? What’s your story?”

He frowns. “I thought all of you knew everything.”

“We’ve seen the highlights reel,” Nicky says. “We don’t know you, though, not yet.”

Not ever, Neil thinks. He plans to treat this like a workplace that he clocks in and out of. After hours, he’ll stay warm and remote in a fog where no one can find him. It’s safer that way.

“I know him,” Andrew says, and Neil looks over to find him cross-legged at the centre of the conference table. The interior glow makes him look haunted, lit ungenerously from below. Andrew tosses a baseball-sized hailstone into the sleek stretch of floor in front of Neil. Preserved, somehow, from when Neil summoned it in the car. “He’s a storm chaser with an attitude problem.”

“Where the hell did you get that?” Dan asks. Then, pinching the bridge of her nose, “never mind, actually. The less I understand the monster, the better.”

“Excuse my cousin Andrew,” Nicky starts. Andrew looks away, apparently bored. “He thinks it’s funny to scare people shitless.”

“I don’t see him laughing,” Neil says tightly. 

“His sense of humour was dropped on its head as a child,” Nicky replies sadly.

“Okay, I’m calling it,” Wymack interrupts. “I’m sure you’re exhausted, Neil. Whole lotta new faces today. You’ll meet Kevin, Renee, and Allison when they get back from mission.”

“When will that be?” Neil asks. He’s already paranoid that the shifter will appear to him without him knowing it.

Wymack shrugs. “When it’s done. In the meantime, I don’t want any more gratuitous powers in my base. No throwing shit, no lightning bolts, no—“ Andrew blinks across the room, perilously close to Neil’s side, jaw craned up to examine his face. Neil looks down instinctively, and finds Andrew’s eyes boring into his own. “No pausing me, Minyard, I’m dead serious. If I have to repeat instructions for you again it ain’t gonna be pretty.”

“What was that?” Andrew asks, but Neil’s pretty sure he’s fucking with him, because Wymack just sighs.

“Get out of my sight, all of you.” They all start to disperse, Dan back into Wymack’s office, Nicky over to the doors that lead hall-ward, Andrew into thin air. Wymack catches Neil’s eye. “Get some sleep, okay? See Abby for pills if you need ‘em. We’ll get you something dry to wear.”

“Thank you,” Neil says stiffly.

“Don’t thank me yet. Tomorrow we see how you play with others, and that’s never pretty.”

“Is that a threat?” 

Wymack looks tiredly to the largest screen in the room, beyond the place where stats and mission details are spinning in space. “More of a promise, really.”

Neil follows his gaze to the focal point of the screen, where a hundred thousand tiny golden lights are scattered into a world map like beads. Supers, embroidered into the dark fabric of the world, punched into time by some celestial power source or trick of science that they'll never understand. 

All that running, all that wishing to disappear, and he was always just a dot on this map. There was never a reality where he was going to be able to hide forever. Not even in the eye of a hurricane. Not even in an underground bunker. And if he can’t conceal his powers, he might as well control them.

He looks back at Wymack, feeling like a season on the cusp of changing, a monsoon shaking itself dry. “Let’s get started.”

[hometoursandotherstuff]

I don't know what to think about this renovated 1890 Victorian in Dayton, Ohio. On one hand, I love what they did w/the decor, but on the other hand, it's no longer an historic Victorian. It has 4bds, 2.5ba, & has a sale pending for $950K.

This is the new entrance hall. So, you would have no idea, walking in here, that it's an 1890 Victorian.

The new sitting room. Okay, I do like the ceiling. It appears that the room layout was definitely reconfigured.

Here's another sitting room with an exposed brick wall painted white and a funky mural going up to the ceiling. Those look like new modern windows over by the window seat.

This house was gutted. Look at those 3 greenhouse windows. There's a new door to the patio, ultra modern walls, ceiling, and floor.

This, I hate. They put a hi-end stove in the middle of the floor w/o an exhaust hood.

Cool fridge is tightly fitted into the wall. There's no space for air to flow around it.

Eat-in kitchen places the table in front of the patio. Instead of standard cabinetry, there's a tile wall with one long "sideboard" style cabinet and a wooden countertop that looks more like living room furniture.

Outside the kitchen is a coffee bar setup.

Ultra modern guest powder room.

The TV room also has new windows.

The original architecture remained, but it was completely modernized. The original molding was replaced, too.

New walls, new molding, space reconfigured to make a sort of pantry and laundry room.

Gone are any traces of the original stairs. Note the Lucite bannister.

There's a family room up here.

Bedroom with a retro vibe.

Main bedroom. Clearly all fireplaces were removed from the home. In the bedroom, a retro style yellow model decorates a corner.

Sometimes, when you knock down walls, it appears that more, smaller ones emerge to create a maze-like effect.

Completely modernized shower room. Do you think that where the shower is, was where the original claw-foot tub once sat?

The old tub was replaced by this sunken one. It places the toilet and plant in a precarious position, especially if you're feeling a bit tipsy.

A smaller, 3rd bedroom or home office with a bold graphic.

Attractive checkerboard patio out by the pool.

The yard from above.

Looks like there's an industrial type business next door.

At night you can see the new clear glass windows.

[heritagecustomsigns]

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[kesslersigncompany]

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[webionaire]

Born in 1968 in New York, where he continues to live and work, American artist John Pilson has exhibited his photographs and videos in several solo exhibitions at the Centre Pompidou, Paris; the Contemporary Arts Center, Cincinnati, Ohio; ArtPace, San Antonio, Texas; and P.S. 1 Contemporary Art Center, Long Island City, N.Y., among other institutions. He received his B.F.A. from Sarah Lawrence College in 1991, and upon receipt of his M.F.A. from Yale University in 1993, Pilson worked nights and weekends at Merrill Lynch as a graphic designer until 2000. The corporate office environment and conduct he observed during his employment offered fertile ground for the subject matter of his earliest videos. Pilson garnered attention in the late 1990s and early 2000s for works that featured individuals (often his friends and family members as actors) engaged in absurd and amusing behavior within office buildings. He examined how people define themselves through architectural spaces and how their characters emerge as a reaction to their environments. Due to the contemporary reality of lives overtaken by and dependent on employment, Pilson focused on how people inhabit their offices and play in stolen moments while supposedly at work. These singular acts ultimately reveal volumes on the nature of their inner anxieties, desires, and passions.

At the same time, Pilson defies viewer expectations of office conduct and redefines the workspace as a site for comedy and fantasy. In the black-and-white photographs that comprise Interregena (1999–2000), Pilson documents the downtime of the work environment. Among endless rows of cubicles, employees stare out windows or at their screens in search of excuses and ways to avoid work. Likewise, an accompanying video captures the transformation of this isolating environment into a setting of freedom and excitement, wherein a woman sings a Puccini aria, while her co-workers engage in a hurdle race. Above the Grid (2000) also features individuals that find escape from their oppressive surroundings. As a game of handball and a fight break out in an office, two businessmen sing doo-wop songs in the halls, restrooms, and elevators. Inexplicably, colorful balls later emerge out of nowhere to bounce down stairs and through corridors.

[brookstonalmanac]

Events 11.20 (after 1960)

1962 – Cuban Missile Crisis ends: In response to the Soviet Union agreeing to remove its missiles from Cuba, U.S. President John F. Kennedy ends the quarantine of the Caribbean nation. 1968 – A total of 78 miners are killed in an explosion at the Consolidated Coal Company's No. 9 mine in Farmington, West Virginia in the Farmington Mine disaster. 1969 – Vietnam War: The Plain Dealer (Cleveland, Ohio) publishes explicit photographs of dead villagers from the My Lai Massacre in Vietnam. 1969 – Occupation of Alcatraz: Native American activists seize control of Alcatraz Island until being ousted by the U.S. Government on June 11, 1971. 1974 – The United States Department of Justice files its final anti-trust suit against AT&T Corporation. This suit later leads to the breakup of AT&T and its Bell System. 1974 – The first fatal crash of a Boeing 747 occurs when Lufthansa Flight 540 crashes while attempting to takeoff from Jomo Kenyatta International Airport in Nairobi, Kenya, killing 59 out of the 157 people on board. 1977 – Egyptian President Anwar Sadat becomes the first Arab leader to officially visit Israel, when he meets Israeli prime minister Menachem Begin and speaks before the Knesset in Jerusalem, seeking a permanent peace settlement. 1979 – Grand Mosque seizure: About 200 Sunni Muslims revolt in Saudi Arabia at the site of the Kaaba in Mecca during the pilgrimage and take about 6000 hostages. The Saudi government receives help from Pakistani special forces to put down the uprising. 1980 – Lake Peigneur in Louisiana drains into an underlying salt deposit. A misplaced Texaco oil probe had been drilled into the Diamond Crystal Salt Mine, causing water to flow down into the mine, eroding the edges of the hole. 1985 – Microsoft Windows 1.0, the first graphical personal computer operating environment developed by Microsoft, is released. 1989 – Velvet Revolution: The number of protesters assembled in Prague, Czechoslovakia, swells from 200,000 the day before to an estimated half-million. 1990 – Andrei Chikatilo, one of the Soviet Union's most prolific serial killers, is arrested; he eventually confesses to 56 killings. 1991 – An Azerbaijani MI-8 helicopter carrying 19 peacekeeping mission team with officials and journalists from Russia, Kazakhstan and Azerbaijan is shot down by Armenian military forces in Khojavend District of Azerbaijan. 1992 – In England, a fire breaks out in Windsor Castle, badly damaging the castle and causing over £50 million worth of damage. 1993 – Savings and loan crisis: The United States Senate Ethics Committee issues a stern censure of California senator Alan Cranston for his "dealings" with savings-and-loan executive Charles Keating. 1993 – Macedonia's deadliest aviation disaster occurs when Avioimpex Flight 110, a Yakovlev Yak-42, crashes near Ohrid, killing all 116 people on board. 1994 – The Angolan government and UNITA rebels sign the Lusaka Protocol in Zambia, ending 19 years of civil war. (Localized fighting resumes the next year.) 1996 – A fire breaks out in an office building in Hong Kong, killing 41 people and injuring 81. 1998 – A court in Taliban-controlled Afghanistan declares accused terrorist Osama bin Laden "a man without a sin" in regard to the 1998 U.S. embassy bombings in Kenya and Tanzania. 1998 – The first space station module component, Zarya, for the International Space Station is launched from the Baikonur Cosmodrome in Kazakhstan. 2003 – After the November 15 bombings, a second day of the 2003 Istanbul bombings occurs in Istanbul, Turkey, destroying the Turkish head office of HSBC Bank AS and the British consulate. 2015 – Following a hostage siege, at least 19 people are killed in Bamako, Mali. 2022 – The 2022 FIFA World Cup begins in Qatar. This is the first time the tournament was held in the Middle East.

[wayward-dreamer]

Life’s Lessons - Part 1

Title: Life’s Lessons - A Lesson in Settling In

Pairing: Mechanic!Dean x Female!Teacher!Reader (eventual)

Word Count: 3,362

Part Summary: Y/N settles into her new house, in a new town. Right off the bat, she meets her gorgeous neighbor, finding an instant connection with him. As she goes to work on Monday, she starts to think that she could get used to Lawrence, Kansas.

Warnings: some swearing, first day of work nerves, Dean being cute (yes, that’s a warning lol)

Music: Lookin’ Out My Back Door, I Heard It Through the Grapevine by Creedence Clearwater Revival (Setting up the house scene).

A/N: The first part is here! I’m so excited for you all to read it! Please let me know what you think, I can’t wait to hear your thoughts and feedback! P.S. I have a full playlist for this series coming soon, just finalising some selections! Happy reading and I hope you guys like it! :)

Dividers by the wonderful @firefly-graphics​! Check her out for all your AU needs!!! 

Y/N leaned against her car, a content smile on her face as she looked up at the house that she was about to call her new home.

The house was clean white, with a grey tiled roof. White wood railings encased the front porch, that had a porch swing in front of one of the windows. The front yard was freshly mowed, with the flower beds on either side of the porch steps. It was a modest, two-bedroom house, with not a whole lot of backyard space, but it was the most rent she could afford with her previous salary. It didn’t matter though; you could make a house a home no matter how big or small it was. Her job as a teacher wasn’t just rewarding when the kids did well, but it was able to put a roof over her head, and that was all she could ask for.

Y/N started with her bags before she opened the large U-Haul trailer attached to her car, and started taking out the boxes. It had been a long journey from Rhinebeck, New York, stopping off overnight in Ohio and then Missouri, but she made it to Lawrence, Kansas that morning, giving her enough time to start unloading her things. Considering it was just her, she knew it was going to take some time, but she was hoping to finish by lunch time so she could explore the town a little.

Luckily for her, complicated things to move like a couch and a bed, weren’t things that she had brought with her. Those things were reminders of what she had done on them with her ex-boyfriend and the last thing she needed in her new house were memories of him. He was the reason she had searched for teaching jobs outside of New York, and luckily, she got the furthest one. She missed her family already, but she needed to get as far away from the memories of him as possible.

Moving her bags and the boxes from the trailer had been the easiest part. It was moving the furniture – dining table and chairs, armchairs, record player, coffee table and two bookshelves – that was going to be the hard task on her own. She started with what she could do on her own, moving all the dining chairs into the house. When she got back to the trailer, she sighed heavily. There were too many things to move.

Y/N stepped into the trailer and started to shift one of the armchairs but growled in frustration as it got stuck on the edge. She couldn’t get the right hold on it to get it off the edge, her legs shaking as she tried to keep it steady.

“Whoa, hey. Let me help you with that” a male voice said behind her. She didn’t turn to see him yet, but watched as he grabbed the other end of the armchair and helped her put it down on the pavement.

“Thanks” she smiled, relieved.

“No problem” he said as he turned to face her.

She almost wished he hadn’t because now her legs were shaking more than they were when she couldn’t hold the damn chair. He was the most beautiful man she had ever seen, handsome but incredibly hot at the same time. The black and white plaid shirt he was wearing was tight across his arms, and she couldn’t help but get lost in his gorgeous green eyes and sinfully pouty lips.

She smiled politely, keeping the thoughts she was having suddenly, at bay. “No, really, thanks so much. I probably would’ve ended up trapped under this chair if you hadn’t stepped in.”

He laughed, laughter lines appearing near his mouth and crinkles around his eyes. “Well, I would’ve hated to see that happen.”

She smiled, not knowing what else to say to him. This was the first time she had ever been this flustered with a man. The sound of his laugh and the way those lines appeared around the creases of his eyes made her heart flutter.

“Can I help you with rest? I mean, I gotta get to work but I can be a little late” he asked, as he looked between the chair and the rest of her stuff.

She looked at the rest of the things and frowned. “You sure? I wouldn’t want to get you in trouble.”

“I’m positive. Helps to be the boss, so…” he smirked, as he shrugged.

She nodded, impressed. “What do you do?”

“I’m a mechanic, I own the auto shop on Main street. Winchester’s. I’m Dean, by the way” he said, as he offered his hand.

She took his hand in hers and tried to ignore the spark she felt radiate through her when their skin touched. “Y/N Y/L/N.”

“Good to meet ya, Y/N” he smiled.

When she smiled in return, Dean was completely floored by her. She was beautiful; dressed in loose boyfriend jeans, a white t-shirt, red converse sneakers and a red bandana around her head with her hair in a messy bun. She really had the girl next door vibe going on. That was dangerous with the situation he was in, so he had to tread lightly. When he saw her from across the street, he was reluctant to help because one look at her, even from a distance and he knew he was in trouble. His mother raised him to be a gentleman though, so he couldn’t hesitate to help a person in need.

With Dean’s help, moving the furniture she did have into the house only took about 20 minutes. She was incredibly thankful for him helping and hoped that it wouldn’t have been too forward to ask if he wanted to grab dinner with her, that night. She straightened out the medium sized, round dining table and chairs with Dean, and sighed in relief once it was done. Her furniture was now in place in all the appropriate rooms. She had to unpack now, which was almost harder than this, but at least she could take her time with it.

Dean looked around her house and nodded, noticing how many boxes had “BOOKS” written on them in black marker. He had only been in this house twice, when the previous owners still lived there before they moved to be closer to their children.

“Big reader?” he gestured towards the boxes.

“Definitely, but I’m a teacher too, so it’s an abundance of books” she laughed, as she looked at them. “It’s a little ridiculous, really.”

Dean laughed quietly to himself, trying to get the teacher fantasies out of his head. She really had to be a teacher.

“Well, I should head out” he said, as he made his way to the door.

She followed behind him and leaned against the doorway. “Thanks for the chivalry.”

“You’re welcome. I guess it’s not dead, after all” he smirked.

She laughed; it felt like the millionth time in the last 20 minutes. He was carefree and had made the tedious process so much easier with his humour.

“I’ll see ya around, Y/N” Dean said, shoving his hands into his pockets as he turned away from her.

“Thanks again” she called out.

Dean walked down the porch steps and turned back. He gave her wink before he walked across the street. She sighed to herself as she watched him walk away, his dark blue jeans doing wonders for his behind, though the black and white plaid was hiding his back from the looseness. She thought against asking him for dinner just yet, at least not on her first day in town. She would give it a couple of weeks, enough time for her to settle into her new job and into the town.

Y/N closed the door and walked back into the main room. Looking at the boxes, she knew it was better to return the trailer to the Lawrence location and then explore the town a little. Get some lunch, do a little grocery shopping. She picked up her bag and keys, heading out of her new house. She would start on the boxes when she got back.

Before she got in the car, she fired off a quick message to her family, telling them she had gotten there safely. It had been text after text and call after call asking if she was okay when she left Rhineback to drive to Lawrence. She reassured her family that all was well, and then drove into town.

The next day, Y/N was thankful that it was a Saturday. It would give her some more time to set up the house but also start getting ready for the first day of school on Monday. She was nervous about meeting the staff and the students, but she was excited about the new experience. She had walked through town the day before, grabbed the essentials like bedsheets and towels, plus some grocery items for the immediate need. She was already beginning to like Lawrence.

The first thing she did was set up the record player her dad had given to her. Once everything was plugged in where it was supposed to be, she put on one of Creedence Clearwater Revival’s records. She bopped her head along to Lookin’ Out My Back Door as she started to unpack the other records, before starting on the other boxes.

About 15 minutes later, as I Heard It Through The Grapevine played, she stood on the front porch, watching her furniture delivery unload from the truck. Before she even got to Lawrence, she had bought a new bed frame and mattress, couch, office desk and chair online, and thank goodness the place had Saturday delivery. She had made a makeshift bed out her new sheets and pillows last night, and with the way her back clicked and cracked into place when she woke up that morning, she was incredibly fortunate that her new bed was here.

She followed them inside and instructed the delivery guys on where to put the items. As she was helping them, she heard a loud knock on the open door. She turned around and saw a woman, maybe her age or a few years older, standing at the door. Next to her, stood a young boy, probably about 13 years old. Y/N smiled as she walked to the door, seeing a plate of something in the woman’s hands.

“Hi, we saw you moving in and wanted to welcome you. I’m Lisa Braeden, and this is my son, Ben” she introduced themselves, with a bright smile.

Y/N shook her hand and smiled in return. “It’s great to meet you, guys. I’m Y/N Y/L/N.”

“These are for you, I hope you like chocolate chip” Lisa said, handing her the plate of cookies.

“Maybe a little too much” Y/N laughed. “Thanks.”

“Listen, if there’s anything you need, we’re right across the street” Lisa gestured behind her to the house across the street.

Y/N nodded as she looked at the place. It had darker features, but the lawn was equally maintained. “I appreciate that.”

“So, Ben. What grade are you in?” Y/N asked, wanting to engage with Ben a little, who looked quite bored.

“I’m starting 8th on Monday” he mumbled.

Y/N smiled, looking between him and Lisa. “Well, I’m starting work on Monday. Maybe I’ll have you in my English class.”

“Cool.” Ben didn’t seem to care. “Nice choice” he said, gesturing to where the music was coming from before he turned away, walking to the porch stairs and waiting for Lisa.

Lisa looked at him with a “we’ll talk later” look, before she turned to Y/N. “He shouldn’t give you too much trouble, but if he does, you know where I am.”

“I’m sure it’ll be fine” Y/N shook her head.

“Anyway, we should go. Welcome to the neighborhood” Lisa said, smiling again.

“Thanks” Y/N smiled.

She watched as Lisa and Ben walked across the street, clearly waiting to be behind closed doors before she talked to him about what just happened. Hopefully she wasn’t too harsh on him; no kid would want to meet their new teacher outside of a school setting. Y/N walked inside the house and saw that the delivery guys were done. She signed off on the delivery and the guys left. She picked up one of the boxes still in her living room and walked to the second bedroom she was using as an office. She was excited to set it up and get started on some work for Monday.

Y/N sat in her car in the parking lot of the school. She had gotten there a little early, just trying to calm herself down before going in to meet the principal. She had spoken to him for her phone interview and again when she got the job, so she was familiar with him. He seemed like a nice man and she just hoped that the rest of the staff were the same way. She was more nervous about the students. Moving schools wasn’t just hard as a kid.

She checked her make-up in the mirror and then got out of the car, walking towards the entrance. She fixed her white top and smoothed down her brown skirt, thankful that she had chosen brown sandals with a small heel instead of something higher. She didn’t need anything to go wrong today. Once inside, she walked over to the administration office, as guided by the signs. At the very first desk, sat a red-headed woman, the name plate on her desk reading: Anna Milton – Receptionist.

When Y/N approached her desk, she looked up from her computer and smiled.

“Hello, how can I help you?” she asked.

“Uh, hi, I’m Y/N Y/L/N. I’m starting here today and need to meet Mr. Shurley first” Y/N replied, trying her best to keep her nerves at bay.

“Oh of course” she picked up the phone and pressed a number.

Y/N waited a minute or so before a short man with greying hair and a beard, walked out of an office at the back of the room. He saw her and smiled, extending his hand as he approached her.

“Miss Y/L/N, wonderful to meet you” he said, shaking her hand.

“You too, Mr. Shurley” she smiled, as confidently as she could.

“Alright, let me show you around before your first class” he walked ahead of her, not leaving her too far behind.

It took Chuck, as he insisted on being called by his first name when it was a one-on-one basis, a few minutes to show her around the main parts of the school; the staff room, the library, the gym and the cafeteria. After that, he took her to the classroom she’d be using, just before the students came in. They watched as they came in, sitting down at their desks. Ben walked in and she smiled at him, but just received a little twitch of his face back. They all looked scared to see the principal in the room.

“Class, I’d like you meet Miss Y/L/N. Your new English teacher. So, make her feel welcome” he said to them in a commanding voice, before he turned to her. “If any of them give you any trouble, just send them down to my office.”

“I’m sure I won’t need to” Y/N looked between him and the students.

“Alright, take it away” he smiled before he left the room.

As soon as he was gone, the class erupted into loud voices as they began chatting away. Y/N sat on the edge of her desk, her legs and arms crossed as she waited, patiently. She would give them a few seconds before she got their attention. Before she could do that however, Ben looked at her and then at the rest of his classmates.

“Guys” he called out. The noise level didn’t go down.

“Last one to be quiet has to tell their next teacher why they were late” she called out.

The noise level dropped instantly.

Y/N smiled, happy that worked. “Alright. As Mr. Shurley said, I’m Miss Y/L/N. We’re going to start off with the role. As I call out your names, you’re going to tell me what you read over the summer and a short answer about what you liked or didn’t like about it.”

For majority of the class, things went well. Most of the students were well behaved except for one group of three boys who kept talking and disrupting the others around them. They were rude and weren’t listening to her when she asked them to stop several times. She would have to keep an eye on them. To say that her first lesson had been difficult would be an understatement, but she got through it. That’s what mattered.

Y/N had a break in which prepared for her class with the 7th graders. They were a breath of fresh air and exactly what she needed after the previous class. They were much more engaged and a lot softer spoken, so while she would have to get them out of their shells a little bit, they were pretty well behaved.

At lunch, Chuck introduced her to a few more of the teachers. She shook hands with everyone and engaged in conversation. The usual chatter about where she was from and how she got into teaching. As she sat down to eat, she looked over some of her messages. She smiled as she saw one from her sister, sending off a quick reply to tell her she was doing okay.

“Mind if I join you?” a voice asked.

She looked up to see a man with brown short hair and blue eyes smiling at her. He was adorable, looking cute in his white shirt with rolled sleeves, black pants and blue tie to match his eyes.

She smiled in return and nodded. “Sure, of course.”

He sat down across from her with his lunch. “I’m Castiel Novak, history teacher. Everyone calls me Cas, though.”

He offered up his hand and she shook it. “It’s great to meet you.”

Just as he was about to say something, a red-headed woman, not Anna, walked over. “Hey, you must be the new English teacher, I’m Charlie.”

“I’m Y/N” she said, shaking her hand.

“Charlie teaches Math but she’s a computer whiz too. Helps out the I.T. guys every now and then” Cas told her as Charlie settled into the seat next to him.

Y/N smiled approvingly. “Wow, that’s amazing.”

“Thanks. They ask me because I think they secretly know I’m better at it than them. I was in the corporate line for a while, but then I moved back home to help my mom” Charlie explained, between bites of her salad.

Y/N liked her already, her nerdy vibe with colourful plaid shirt and band t-shirt suiting her chirpy personality. Cas was a little quiet, but there was a calm presence to him. Though she had no doubt he had the ability to get kids to listen to him straight away.

“Yeah, we’re all glad she came back and stuck around” Cas smiled at her.

When she smiled in return, Y/N had to ask. “So, you two…?”

They both laughed as they looked at each other and then back at Y/N.

“No, we’ve just been friends for a really long time. I have a girlfriend, Meg. She’s a nurse at Lawrence General. She’s tougher than nails and I don’t know how I got her” Cas replied, laughing slightly.

“Yeah, and I’ve just started dating a few weeks ago. Her name’s Dorothy and she’s a writer for the Kansas City Times. She’s really cool” Charlie smiled softly.

Y/N nodded, understanding. “They both sound amazing. I can’t wait to meet them some time.”

They continued talking over lunch and Y/N couldn’t have been happier to have met them. They were both incredibly kind and lovely people, and she was really starting to get along with them.

As lunch finished and they went their separate ways, Y/N smiled as she walked to her next class.

Hopefully moving to Lawrence, Kansas was going to be the best decision she’d ever made.

-x-

Tags: @flamencodiva @deanwanddamons @winchest09 @katehuntington @akshi8278 @hobby27 @michellethetvaddict @spngirl05​ @kyjey​ @halesandy​ @440mxs-wife​ @stoneyggirl​ @deanswaywardgirl​ @wonder-cole​ @that-one-gay-girl​ @redbarn1995​ @marianita195​ @babypink224221​ @deans-baby-momma​ @parinarain​ @thoughts-and-funnies​

[slasherbastard]

hiii! for the angst prompts, can i request #44 with bo sinclair? thank you ❤️

(gif credit: pearris2swime)

Warnings: Angst. A lot of Angst, light swearing, light graphic/sexual mention Word count: 1648 Notes: I rushed the ending because I wanted to get this done in time. Not gonna lie this isn’t my favourite work but I’m still happy with it

"Come on babe it's been years since I've seen this chick. I swear" One of Bo's old high school flings decided she wanted to pay Ambrose a visit the exact weekend the next town over hosts their annual fair.

"It just seems icky. Are you sure she doesn't still have feelings for you?"

"Even if she did I'm still with you, aren't I?" You watched him and Bo rolled his eyes. "Look, she's not going to come between us and that's a damn promise."

That conversation was going through your head over and over again like a broken record as you watched the scene in front of you. Bo and that girl he told you not to worry about - Nicole - had their lips against each other’s behind the haunted house. You know those scenes in those romance movies where time slows and you can hear that ringing in the character’s ears? That’s you, except this isn't a romance movie, it's a nightmare and you want to wake up. You expected him to pull away from her and yell at her about how the two of you weren't in high school anymore and how he was dating you, but instead he grabbed her and slammed her against the haunted house and aggressively ran his hands through her hair and you swore for a second that she even looked at you before closing her eyes and melting into Bo's touch.

You watched them until they finally broke apart, quickly wiping your tears as you walked over to the nearest food stall and bought some snacks before you noticed that they were walking over and Bo was trying to let go of his "friend's" hand. You stepped out of line with your snacks in hand and handed them to the two while Bo kissed you forehead and looked around, obviously trying to avoid your gaze while Nicole watched smugly.

"You know it's getting kind of late, 'whaddya say we head back? Nicole you're staying the night, right?"

"Well, unless you want me to walk back to Ohio myself then yeah." She laughed in an over exaggerated tone and Bo chuckled as he threw his arms over both your shoulders and walked you guys back to his truck.

The ride home was silent except for Bo who was tapping the steering wheel to the tune of whatever song was playing on the radio while giving Nicole suggestive looks through the rear view mirror. You could feel Bo's other hand on your leg and you quickly swatted it away and continued staring out the window and just hoping that you'd be pulling up to the house as soon as possible. You must've lost track of time because before you knew it Nicole was banging on your window and Bo was opening the front door. You got out - almost "accidentally" knocking out Nicole with the truck door - and followed her up to the house, but as you tried to enter the house Bo grabbed your arm and pulled you back out to the truck and stared down at you, his towering figure slightly intimidating you.

"What the hell is going on, Y/N? I told you you had nothing to worry about."

You rolled your eyes and kept your head down as you tried to leave but instead he grabbed you and pulled you close to him, forcing you to look up at him. "Hey don't walk away when I'm talking to you!"

"Why did you kiss her!"

It was quiet for a few moments before you repeated your question softly as your eyes became glassy with tears. "Why did you kiss her?" You bit your lip and took a step away from Bo desperate for an answer, something that could justify what you'd seen.

"It's not what it looks like. I swear I-"

You'd heard enough. "I wish I never met you." You spat at him before you ran into the house and straight upstairs and to the bathroom, slamming the door and locking it before letting your back hit the door and sliding down until you were a crying mess on the floor. You truly felt like a character in a shitty bittersweet romance movie, except your perspective was the worst in the most cheesy way. You slammed your foot on the tiled floor a few times and continued to cry until you heard multiple pairs of footsteps and hushed laughing, you threw a hand over your mouth and listened as Bo and Nicole walked past and into your's and Bo's bedroom. You heard the bedroom door shut and muffled grunts and more laughter, it all made you feel sick - luckily there was a toilet right next to you.

As the noises grew louder and louder you grew more and more mad. A part of you wanted to walk in there and yank the girl off the bed by the hair and drag her down to the basement for Vincent's next big project, and the other part of you wanted to run and get out of Ambrose but knowing you, you wouldn't go far and Bo would eventually find you and next thing you'd know, you'd be Vincent's next big project. You got up and carefully opened the bathroom door trying not to make a sound, before going downstairs to see Vincent grabbing something out of the fridge. "Oh, hi Vincent." You wiped some stray tears away from your face quickly and walked up to him, although he was wearing his mask, his head tilt said a lot as he watched your expression.

Vincent put down the container he was holding and got close to you and you broke down again. "B-B-Bo is che-eating on me." Vincent froze. You didn't know what to do, you were so confused about everything that had happened tonight and all you wanted to do was sleep but you couldn't.

A scream came from upstairs.

You and Vincent both looked at each other before you were heading for the stairs with Vincent just behind you. As you approached your bedroom door you stopped, hesitant to open it, who knows what could've happened? But you pushed all your worries aside as you pushed the door open to see Bo sitting on the bed shirtless and Nicola on the floor. You looked up at Bo as he got up from the bed and met your eyes. "Well, do ya still hate me?" You didn't respond as he got closer. "I swear I was gon' tell ya, but I just got too into it." Bo chuckled to himself and reached down, picking up Nicola's body and taking her downstairs.

To say you were confused would be an understatement, Bo had a plan all along?  You followed Bo downstairs. "What the hell? So you just let me think you were cheating on me? I saw you guys practically fucking behind the haunted house. Were you planning on fingering her in the bumper cars?" The two of you stopped and Bo turned to you. "You could've given me a heads-up at least." You said a little quietly. Bo's expression softened as he realised what he did genuinely pissed you off and hurt you.

"Just let me dump this body then we can sit down and talk." You nodded and let Bo go down to the basement and as he came back up Vincent gave him a judgemental look through his mask. "What's his problem?" You shook your head and smiled as you and Bo

---

"The truth is, she's been trying to get in contact with me for months before this. I tried to tell her that I had a partner but she didn't care, she really thought that we had mutually romantic feelings after our nights in high school even though she knew I was just using her for my stress relief. I'm surprised she stayed, I guess she liked it rough." Bo smirked at the last part but his face fell quickly. "I'm just glad she's gone, I just hope she didn't tell any of her friends about her little trip."

"So you're not into her at all. It was all just an act?"

"Yeah, I should've thought it through a bit better than that though. I promise I'll warn ya next time."

You nodded and turned your head as Vincent appeared, wiping his hands on his apron and looking at the two of you. "Is she finished?" You asked trying to contain your excitement. It was just something about seeing that girl covered in wax that made you feel a sense of relief. Vincent nodded and guided you and Bo downstairs to see the finished product. Nicole was standing there wearing the pet store uniform, you could see the terror in her eyes but that only made you happier.

"Well, Nicole always loved animals." Bo chuckled and looked and Vincent. "What's with that look, got a problem?"

The next morning you got up early and went straight to the pet shop window to see Nicole, you mentally taunted and teased her because Bo chose you over her. You opened the door and walked inside and scrunched your nose up, you didn't realise that a store filled with dead animals would smell so bad but you pushed it aside and walked up to Nicole. "I'm gonna assume you're still alive under all that wax, how does it feel? Do you still love Bo?"

Of course she didn't respond. You sighed out of relief and turned to admire the rest of the store. "I heard you love animals so you must be so happy right now, or is that just me because the bitch who tried to steal my boyfriend is gonna die here? I think it's just the animals." You laughed to yourself and left the store, nearly bumping into Bo. "Hey Bo, do you think we could get another dog?"

[slippinmickeys]

Five Seconds (3/8)

If you’d like to read on AO3, you may do so here.

They were just passing over the border into Ohio when Lily shifted in her seat and felt the crinkle of photograph paper under her.

Monica Reyes, whom Lily had known only as an acquaintance of her parents, had pulled up to the house earlier in the day with a screech of tires and instructed both kids to grab any last minute things and get them into her car. Twenty minutes later, with the family’s two cats moaning plaintively from between them in the rear seat, they pulled under an overpass in the Springfield Mixing Bowl where both their parents were waiting with a new-to-them SUV and worried expressions. Her father had pulled her into a hug so tight, she’d been temporarily short of breath.

As the miles wore on, and they were assured that they hadn’t been followed, everyone in the car began to relax.

Will was sitting in the other captain’s chair in the back seat of the vehicle -- a black Yukon with Pennsylvania dealer plates -- he had headphones on and his nose stuck in a graphic novel. Her mother was asleep in the passenger seat, her head tilted on the headrest toward her father, who was driving, sunglasses on, now hours into a spell of highway hypnosis.

She pulled the photo out to finally give it a look and was surprised to see that it was a wedding photo. In it, her father was smiling without teeth, in a loose-fitting black tuxedo, a white rose boutonniere affixed to his lapel. He was looking down at the woman in his arms, the bride, who was only a few inches shorter than he was, a thin brunette who was most assuredly not her mother.

Lily had known her father had been married before -- she was over a year old when he’d married her mother and she had attended the wedding as a dandelion-haired toddler -- but it was something her father rarely talked about, and, she had suspected, not the happiest of times in Fox Mulder’s life.

She studied the woman in the photo curiously, seeing nothing that reminded her of her short, redheaded mother, who always looked intelligently -- sometimes aloofly -- at the world with a kind blue gaze. The woman in the picture held her head high, looking straight into the gaze of Fox Mulder, challenging but pleased, a victorious glint in her eye.

Lily tried to remember the woman’s name. Laura? Lauren? Something with an L.

Her father had always been a self-assured man, nearly always correct in his theories and assumptions. She wondered how he could have made such a major miscalculation as to marry a woman that was any less perfect for him than Dana Scully was.

She was intrigued.

With another look out the back windshield -- though her parents both said they were safe, she still felt mildly jumpy -- she shoved the picture back into her pocket as the mile markers flew by the window outside.

XxXxXxXxXxX

Scully is sitting on rock in a meadow, her bare feet spread out on the boulder below her, the rock sun-warmed and specked with lichen. Her stomach still has that full, bloated feeling of pregnancy, but when she looks down, her waist is concave, narrower than even in her prepubescent days. That tether of connection she felt with her children in her other pregnancies is still there, but it feels stretched out, pulling her eyes up and out to the meadow before her, where there is a small dark-headed child walking lightly through the wildflowers, its ice-blue eyes cast down, hands out to run lightly along the tops of the flowers it passes as it walks. She squints as the child approaches. It is a boy, she thinks.

The sky is a fathomless blue and there is no wind that she can feel, though the meadow before her undulates as though from a zephyr. She can hear the soft padding of the boy as he gets closer, the crunching of the wild grasses under his feet, their thin stalks whipping against the soles of his shoes.

When he gets to the boulder, he raises his eyes and looks at Scully without expression, then nods at her.

“Mother,” he says, formally.

“Hello child,” she says formally back.

His face shows no emotion, but his aura is warm, his face long like his father’s, with the same plump lower lip.

“May I join you?” he asks.

“You may.”

The boy crawls up onto the rock next to her and sits cross-legged, looking out over the swaying grasses and flowers, each delicate bloom turning its face to the child as though listening for what he’s about to say.

“What happens when the universe stops expanding?” he asks, and though he doesn’t look at her, she knows he expects her to answer.

“Maybe it collapses back on itself,” she hears herself say, “returns to the singularity.”

“That’s a reasonable answer,” the boy says, rising to his feet, “I can accept that.”

She wants to raise her hands to touch him, but her arms won’t move, and she starts to feel a quick surge of panic.

He jumps off the boulder and lands easily on the ground in front of her, then turns to look directly at her, maintaining eye contact as he leans down to pluck a flower and hold it out to her; a bluebell.

“Flowers grow from where dirt used to be,” he says, and then, in a much deeper voice, “wake up.”

She jolted upright in the passenger seat, the seat belt digging into her clavicle as she did so.

“Scully?” Mulder said, from her left, a hint of concern creeping into his voice. He reached a hand over and put it gently on her knee.

She took a deep breath, running a hand along the gentle curve of her belly, willing her heart rate to drop. She exhaled slowly then turned to look at Mulder.

“We’re here,” he said, nodding his head toward a modest looking house on a residential lane. The houses were close together, though not packed cheek-by-jowl. Small front lawns with large maple trees in front of each one, the new leaves just opening. There was a blue sedan idling in the driveway in front of them. The sun had just begun to sink below the horizon, one last ray shining in through the rear windscreen and onto the white hair of its driver. Scully glanced at the clock. It was nearly 9:00pm.

“Any sign of a tail?” she asked him, rubbing sleep from her eyes.

Mulder shook his head.

She heard the crack of a metal seat belt hitting the plastic door casing and turned to look into the backseat, where William and Lily were unhooking themselves to bend down and curiously peer through the windshield at the house. She caught William’s eye and smiled at him. He tentatively returned it.

“You guys stay here for a minute,” Mulder said and then shot a quick look at Scully, which she returned, nodding. Scully’s service weapon was in the glove compartment, and she did a quick calculation of how long it would take her to get it out and into her hands as Mulder jumped down out of the driver’s seat. He allowed himself a quick stretch and crack of the neck before he approached the driver’s side door of the sedan, cautious but confident.

After a quick conference with the driver through her open window, Mulder turned toward the SUV and beckoned them over. Scully and the kids tipped themselves out of the Yukon just as the woman opened up her door and heaved herself up and out of the sedan.

She was older, at least seventy, with a full head of bushy hair that had been pulled back into a ponytail, her midsection round. She wore jeans and a military style jacket (complete with about 30 various pins) and an ancient pair of Doc Martens that had once been black but were worn into a grey. She had the same nose as Frohike, but otherwise looked markedly different from her brother.

“Mrs. McDonald,” the woman said to Scully, giving her a significant look as she reached out to shake her hand. Right, Scully thought, my new name.

“Darlene?” Scully said, grasping the proffered palm and giving her hand a firm shake.

The woman nodded and looked to the kids.

“This is Lily,” said Scully, as Darlene shook hands with her oldest.

“Your name is Lillian now,” Darlene said, and Scully was happy to see Lily take it in stride, nodding.

“I like your jacket,” Lily said.

“You can have it when I die,” said Darlene, all business, who then turned to Will.

“Billy now,” she said, “You got a problem with Billy?” Darlene asked him as she reached for his hand.

“Not unless he’s got a problem with me,” said Will, giving her hand a firm shake.

Darlene turned back to Scully.

“You get to keep Dana,” she said, then turned to Mulder, “But you…” she said, turning to Mulder, “Do not get to keep Fox.”

“Pity,” he said, not sounding all that broken up.

“I’m sure you’ve seen from the documents Melvin gave you, but you’re Emmet now. Everyone can call you M. Hopefully it’s an easy transition.”

Mulder nodded, and Darlene looked at each of them in turn.

“Let’s head into the house,” she said, “I can answer any questions you might have.”

XxX

“The professor who lives here is on sabbatical abroad for a year,” Darlene said, ushering them into the house, “he and I go back quite a ways.”

She threw the lock on the front door and then dropped the keys unceremoniously into Mulder’s hand.

“Come on,” she said, sounding a touch impatient, though Scully was beginning to suspect that she always sounded that way. The woman made her way into the kitchen and the rest of the family followed like little ducklings all in a row.

“I’ve stocked the fridge for a few days, though I’m sure there’s some things I didn’t think of that you’ll need.” She pointed to a couple of credit/debit cards sitting on the otherwise empty kitchen countertop. “Melvin has moved your money around the world and back again. No one will be able to track it. Try to stick with using these cards if you can. If you need cash, use the University Credit Union.”

Scully nodded.

“I’ll need your old credit cards, check books, cell phones, laptops, anything they can trace…”

Mulder nodded his head toward the front door.

“They’re already in a box out in the car. Phones are off, SIM cards out.” he said.

“I’ll take them with me for safekeeping,” Darlene said with a curt nod. “There’s a landline here you can use until we get you set up with new phones.” She looked to the kids. “You all ever been on the run before?” The kids shook their heads. “Learn your new names. Call each other by them even when you’re in the house. Don’t even think of leaving the house until you’re convinced that’s always been your name. You cannot call your friends. You cannot call your family. You cannot log onto social media. Do not log onto anything using your old login information or password. In fact, it’s best if you stay away from technology full-stop.” At this, both kids froze a bit in their tracks and shared a look. “Start reading books for entertainment. God knows this house has enough of them.”

At that Scully looked around them at the room they were standing in, an open-concept kitchen/living room. An entire wall was covered in floor to ceiling bookshelves, each shelf filled to bursting with books of every shape and size.

“It’s going to be a big adjustment, but you have no choice. Do it or die.”

“O kay ,” Mulder said quickly, putting a hand on Darlene’s shoulder, and ushering her a little further into the kitchen. Scully took a quick assessing look at her kids, and could register an appropriate but not alarming amount of fear on their faces.

“Is there at least a TV?” Will asked her in alarm, and she shushed him, though hoped to god there was one. Both her children had inherited their father’s penchant to be underfoot when bored, and so help her, any moratorium on technology would not extend to the pre-90’s analog variety. And to think she had almost talked Mulder out of packing a box of their favorite old movies. She turned her attention back to where Darlene and Mulder were talking.

“For the first week or so, I’d like a nightly safety check-in, after that we can space them out. Call this number,” she slapped a magnet on the fridge and pointed to it. It looked like it was for a local pizzeria. “If everything is okay, just say you want a large cheese pizza for take-out. If things seem like they might not be totally kosher, order a large pepperoni. If the shit hits the fan, order a pizza with the works and someone will be out here to help you as soon as humanly possible.”

Mulder nodded at her, and she turned, holding up a finger as though she had another thought.

“If you do actually want to order pizza,” she said, “stick with Cottage Inn. The other places around here are shit.”

XxXxXxXxXxX

Okemos, Michigan May 6, 2018

Scully heard Mulder awaken with the dawn, sliding out of bed in the periwinkle light. Not long after that, noises came filtering down the hallway of him in the kitchen, fumbling around the unfamiliar space, likely trying to make coffee with a new machine, and opening various cabinets in search of mugs. She dozed after that and came to consciousness however long later, finding Mulder standing in the window of the master bedroom with a steaming cup of coffee in his hand, looking out at the backyard of the professor’s house, the new rays of the day slanting on his minky hair.

She swung her legs over the side of the bed, searching by feel with her feet for the pair of slippers she’d left next to the bed the night before. She stood and walked slowly to her husband, whose head tilted slightly back as he heard her approach. When she reached him, she wrapped an arm around his waist, leaning into him, and he handed her the mug of coffee without a word.

She took a grateful sip, letting it slide hotly down her throat and he leaned down and kissed her hairline.

“It’s decaf,” he whispered.

“I appreciate the solidarity,” she said quietly back, and he smiled at her and turned back to the window. She handed the coffee back.

“I wonder how the kids slept,” she said after a quiet minute.

“They’re still sleeping,” he said, squeezing her gently into him.

“Mmm,” she said, an idea forming, and she raised herself up on her toes and pressed a kiss into the side of his mouth. He turned her until they were facing each other, their lips still connected. Finally he pulled back just enough to look into her eyes.

“What kind of ‘Mmm’ was that?” he said, his voice low.

She nosed his cheek gently.

“What kind does it feel like?” she asked, and heard the quiet clunk of the mug being placed on the dresser next to the window.

She ran her lips lightly over the stubbly curve of his jaw, reading the story of him in Braille. She’d always been drawn to this gnathic arc of him, when he clenched in anger or passion, the stoutest line of his profile in situ.

For as long as they’d been together, even just the rasp of his skin on her lips still made her weak in the knees; a remnant echo of five years of pent up longing still reverberating down the hallway of their life. Two (plus) kids and a mortgage and her center still clenched when he whispered her name.

“My favorite kind,” he said and hoisted her up easily in his arms, her legs going around his waist with practiced ease.

Making love with him had always been revelatory, and these days were no different; her breasts more sensitive with the fluctuating hormones of pregnancy, her center swollen and aching with need.

Mulder moved them to the untested bed in this unfamiliar room, and as he ran a hand up under the soft silk of her pajama top and settled between her legs, it started to feel a bit more like home.

They probably had hours before the kids woke up -- the lethargy of teenagehood had settled soundly into their house -- but they still had a tendency toward sex of the quicker sort; stolen moments in rare downtimes, and now was shaping up to be no different.

Mulder had shed his clothes before she knew quite what was happening, and he began tugging at her pajama bottoms with a wicked smile on his face, which he buried in her lap before her pajamas hit the floor.

Pregnancy already had her as sexually restive as a tightly strung instrument and Mulder played her with his tongue with the familiarity and talent of a maestro. His hand on her breast, tongue laving at her ripe seam, before she knew it she was moaning into the pillow next to her head, practiced in the art of keeping quiet. She tugged on his hair twice, an old cue for him to get his ass where she wanted it, and a moment later he was sliding into her, the blunt head of his penis bumping into her tender cervix. Five deep strokes and she was gone, soaring into the heavens, his name on her lips.

[handeaux]

17 Curious Facts About Cincinnati’s Vine Street

Only Three Streets

According to the 1943 WPA Guide to Cincinnati, old-time thespian Tom Wise claimed there were only three streets worth visiting in America—Broadway in New York, Market Street in San Francisco, and Vine Street in Cincinnati. Mr. Wise was a lifelong comic actor and had appeared in plays across the United States. He trod the boards of Cincinnati theaters from 1890 until just before his death in 1926.

Vine Was West Before It Was Center

Today, Vine Street divides east from west street addresses in Cincinnati. Until 1896, Main Street was the dividing line, so addresses around Vine Street had a “west” prefix. That changed when city council decided to renumber the entire city in 1891. It took years before council backed up the resolution with a budget, but renumbering finally took place. Consequently, post-1896 addresses are often located blocks away from their Pre-1896 locations.

Never Thirsty

According to the WPA Guide, a stretch of Vine Street measuring less than two miles, between McMillan Street and the Ohio River, boasted no fewer than 113 drinking places during the 1890’s. In the block between Twelfth and Thirteenth Streets alone, there were 23 saloons or beer gardens. The roster of celebrated hot spots on Vine Street included the Atlantic Garden, Pacific Gardens, London Concert Hall, Kissel’s Concert Hall, Schickling’s, Schuler’s, Schuman’s, Commodore, Coliseum, Gabriel’s, Weber’s, Wielert’s—a long litany, redolent of amber refreshment.

Exhausting Carrie Nation

It is a matter of legend (the original source has not been identified) that Cincinnati’s Vine Street overcame the anti-booze ardor of temperance firebrand Carrie Nation during her 1901 visit to Cincinnati. Although she spoke to packed houses and toured the local dens of iniquity, she did not smash a single window nor shatter even one barroom mirror. Asked why, Mrs. Nation allegedly replied: "I would have dropped from exhaustion before I had gone a block.”

First Skyscraper

The world’s first concrete skyscraper, the 15-story Ingalls Building, is located on Vine Street. The brick-faced structure was designed by Alfred O. Elzner and George M. Anderson and completed in 1903. Scoffing critics said that any building constructed of concrete poured into molds would topple of its own weight. One Cincinnati editor reportedly stood in front of the building for an entire night, expecting to score a scoop when it collapsed. Engineers agree that this office building can remain standing a long time.

Changing Horses

Statues of two presidents with tragically abbreviated terms grace Piatt Park, located along a stretch of Eighth Street known as Garfield Place. The statue of assassinated James Garfield looks down on Vine Street today, but that was not always the case. Originally, the equestrian statue of William Henry Harrison trotted eastward at Vine Street, while Garfield overlooked Race Street. As the city spruced up for its Bicentennial in 1988, Garfield took Harrison’s spot on Vine street, and Harrison marched west to the Elm Street end of the park.

Freaks And Geeks

Human oddities such as Jo Jo the Dogfaced Boy, the Wild Man of Afghanistan, Big Winny the Fat Lady, a convention of tattooed men and women and “Plutano” and “Waino” from the forests of Borneo were among the huge draws at the Vine Street Dime Museum. Located at the southeast corner of Sixth and Vine, the Dime Museum was a curious combination of freak show, art gallery, zoo, vaudeville theater and natural history collection.

Not The Longest

Although Vine Street runs from the Ohio River all the way north to the city limits in Hartwell, it is not Cincinnati’s longest street. River Road, at 11.4 miles is the longest street in Cincinnati, followed by Reading Road at 8.1 miles. Vine Street places third at 7.6 miles, followed by Eastern Avenue at 7.2 miles. Although, if you Google “longest street in Cincinnati,” top results somehow claim it’s Vine.

Cradle Of Chili

The progenitors of the Queen City’s distinctive contribution to American regional cuisine, Cincinnati Chili, was first served by the Kiradjieff brothers, John and Tom, at their delicatessen, 814 Vine Street, in 1922. The deli was eventually renamed Empress Chili after the burlesque theater next door.

Why Short Vine?

Today, Vine Street makes an inexplicable jog eastward just north of Calhoun Street. A few blocks farther north, Vine jumps back westward. The intervening stretch, serving as the Main Street of Corryville, is known as “Short Vine.” Until the mid-1960s, Short Vine was connected directly to Vine at both ends, with the thoroughfare angling eastward from Calhoun. The creation of the University Village Shopping Center lopped off a piece of Vine between Calhoun and Corry streets, taking Short Vine off the main drag.

A Haunted House?

Journalist and author Ambrose Bierce, an Ohio native, published in 1888 a short story titled “A Fruitless Assignment.” The story takes place in 1859 in Cincinnati and describes the supernatural experiences of a reporter for the Cincinnati Commercial, assigned to spend the night in a vacant house on Vine Street. No one has identified a house that may have inspired this tale, and it is assumed that Bierce constructed the tale entirely from his imagination.

The Nasty Corner

Carew Tower occupies a plot of land that was once the most reviled spot in all of Cincinnati. One newspaper claimed pedestrians crossed the street “to avoid its stenches and unwashed loafers.” Owned by heirs of David K. Este, it was known as the “Nasty Corner.” Department store magnate Joseph T. Carew was so disgusted by looking at the squalor from his office window that he bought the corner and built his own skyscraper there.

The Riot Of 1855

Vine Street was the battleground on Election Day in April 1855 as supporters of the anti-immigration Know Nothing party attacked the growing German community in the neighborhood just starting to be known as Over-the-Rhine. A minor tussle between nativists and a German marching band escalated into armed aggression, including cannon fire. The major skirmish centered on barricades the Germans erected on Vine Street at Fourteenth Street. Fighting raged for three days. No accurate count of casualties was ever established.

Sound Familiar?

Folks from Philadelphia claim that Cincinnati stole their scrapple and called it goetta. They have a better claim to our street names. When Israel Ludlow platted the downtown area, Philadelphia was capital of the new country and our largest city, so he named Losantiville’s streets after Philadelphia’s system of “tree” streets crossed by numbered streets. William Penn laid out Philly’s Vine Street in 1682. You will also find Walnut and Race streets in the City of Brotherly Love.

Birth Of The Strip Tease

There is a fair amount of controversy about the origins of that classic burlesque entertainment known as the strip tease. More than one source points to Heuck’s Opera House at the corner of Thirteenth and Vine Streets in Cincinnati as the birthplace of this erotic spectacle, and the birthday sometime in November 1901. Brought to town by Manager James Fennessy to perform the pseudo-Oriental “cooch” dance at Heuck’s, Millie De Leon, known as “The Girl In Blue” discarded her elaborate costume at an after-hours show that shocked the city, but made her career.

Roebling’s Lament

John A. Roebling wanted his suspension bridge to create a grand thoroughfare from Vine Street across the Ohio River to Covington. A powerful lobby of ferry operators stymied his plan. Roebling lamented the lost opportunity until the day he died. “No avenue in any of the large capitals of Europe,” he lamented, “could now compare in beauty of grandeur with that long vista which would be presented by the line of Vine Street on the one side, continued in a straight course by Scott Street on the opposite shore."

Who’s That Old Lady?

When Grady Decamp authored his 1991 history of the Cincinnati Enquirer, he titled it “The Grand Old Lady of Vine Street.” That was a euphemism. Most of the other newspapermen in town (and many of the readers) referred to the graphic-poor, boringly laid-out Enquirer as “The Grey Lady of Vine Street.” Now located on Elm Street, the Enquirer boasted a Vine Street address from 1857 to 1992.

[columbussigncompany]

Guidelines That Makes Your Vinyl  Banners Stand Out

Whеn it соmеѕ tо designing аnd printing a banner fоr уоur business, thеrе аrе a lot оf things thаt уоu nееd tо consider. Unlikе mаnу оthеr printed marketing materials, banners nееd tо bе quickly readable аnd viewable frоm a distance аnd therefore, thеrе аrе сеrtаin elements оf thе design thаt nееdѕ tо bе emphasized tо ensure thаt thiѕ iѕ thе case. Thеѕе factors аrе аѕ follows.

Placement оf Yоur Banner 

Thе firѕt thing уоu ѕhоuld think аbоut bеfоrе making аnу оthеr design-related decision iѕ thе intended placement оf уоur banner. Thе intended placement оf уоur banner iѕ likеlу tо affect thе choice оf color scheme оr еvеn thе еntirе design uѕеd fоr уоur banner. Ideally, thе color scheme оf уоur banner ѕhоuld bе highly contrasting in comparison tо itѕ placement. 

Large Text 

Onе thing thаt уоu nееd tо remember аbоut banners iѕ thаt in mоѕt cases, thе aim iѕ tо attract attention frоm a distance. Bесаuѕе оf this, уоu nееd tо make ѕurе thаt аnу content written оn уоur banner iѕ written in large readable text. 

Choose a Bold аnd Readable Font 

It iѕn't juѕt thе size оf уоur text thаt matters, уоu аlѕо nееd tо think аbоut thе font thаt уоu'rе using. Thеrе аrе a lot оf diffеrеnt fonts tо choose frоm аnd it саn bе tempting tо choose аn overly showy оnе but whеn it соmеѕ tо banners, уоu аlwауѕ nееd tо factor in readability. 

Simplicity iѕ Key 

Anоthеr extremely important point tо remember whеn designing уоur banner iѕ tо kеер thе message аѕ simple аѕ possible. Mаnу successful banners аrе vеrу simplistic in terms оf thе асtuаl text content аѕ mоѕt feature nоthing mоrе thаn a fеw words. Banners nееd tо communicate уоur message in аѕ littlе timе аѕ роѕѕiblе аѕ mоѕt оf thе target audience simply dоn't hаvе timе tо bе reading paragraphs оf text. 

Emphasize Nесеѕѕаrу Information 

It’s аlѕо important thаt уоu apply thе ѕаmе idea tо thе information contained within уоur banner design. In designing уоur banner, уоu muѕt remember whаt уоur business aims аnd include оnlу information thаt iѕ likеlу tо hеlр bring results 

Good Quality Graphics аnd Photos 

Images саn асt аѕ a focal point fоr уоur banner аnd therefore, will оftеn entice passers-by tо cast a glance in уоur direction. Nоt оnlу dо high-quality graphics hеlр tо draw attention, but thеу саn аlѕо hеlр tо reinforce уоur message аnd communicate аn emotion withоut thе nееd fоr аnу mоrе text. 

Don’t Forget Yоur Brand 

Finally, it'ѕ important tо remember thаt аlthоugh аll оf thе points mentioned in thiѕ guide will ultimately hеlр уоur banner tо stand оut аnd attract attention, уоu ѕhоuld аlѕо kеер уоur brand in mind thrоughоut thе еntirе design process. Juѕt bесаuѕе a сеrtаin color might bе thе brightest, it dоеѕn't necessarily mеаn it ѕhоuld bе uѕеd in уоur banner design if it dоеѕn't fit in with уоur existing brand.

[acaseforpencils]

Hilary Price of Rhymes with Orange.

From time to time, A Case for Pencils has had experts on the blog. People at the top of their field outside of greyscale single panel cartoons, whom I admire and want to learn more from myself! I decided to have more people from the fields of newspaper strips, graphic novels, painting... people who inspire me and who I think it would be wonderful for artists to hear from. This week is the start of a three part series with the wonderful cartoonists of Rhymes with Orange, Hilary Price and Rina Piccolo. 

Bio: Hilary B. Price is a cartoonist, speaker and educator. She has been writing and drawing Rhymes With Orange, her award-winning daily newspaper comic strip, since 1995. At the age of 25, she was the youngest woman ever to have a syndicated strip. It appears in newspapers internationally, and also has appeared in Parade Magazine, People, and Glamour. She has cartoons in the collections of The Library of Congress, The Billy Ireland Cartoon Art Museum at The Ohio State University, and The San Francisco Cartoon Art Museum. She now collaborates on Rhymes With Orange with Canadian cartoonist Rina Piccolo. Hilary teaches single panel cartooning every summer at The Center For Cartoon Studies in White River Junction, VT.  She tells stories for The Moth and on NPR, and is hard at work writing a kid's chapter book. When not at her desk, Hilary walks her overly large dog and spoils her hoodlum cat. She lives in western Massachusetts.

Buy prints here!

Tools of Choice: iPad Pro with an Apple Pencil, using the Procreate app. I draw digitally now, but I do it the exact same way I did when I drew with pencils and ink. First a blue pencil sketch over a lettering guide, and then when I am happy with the rough draft, I go over it with my "ink layer." I’ve always colored in Photoshop. I don’t regret switching to a tablet, because it is faster, and I value that. Also, I think I feel more free on the tablet, because I’m not “using good paper.” I can move things around and flip things— all in the service of a better designed cartoon. But before any drawing begins, I work out the idea in a paper notebook.  

Tricks: Here’s what I mean by lettering guide:

It’s not just good for spacing the text. It’s helpful if you have two panels and you want someone’s eyeballs to be at the same level from one panel to the next.  

I work at this desk at night because it is in the warmest room in the house. 

During the day, I work at this desk when I am coloring the strip or doing computer work. It has the best view out the window and the cat is nearby.  

Here’s an important tool: a pillow. I don’t nap, but I need good sleep, and think it’s necessary to do creative work. Not related to sleep, but I also have a bean bag pillow I rest my left elbow on while I am drawing with my right hand to support myself. You can see it in the photo of the wooden desk.  

Another important tool— some free weights and a foam roller. When I was a kid, my grandfather said that I "drew with my nose,” meaning I drew with my face really close to the paper. Fast forward to drawing full-time: I woke up one day and couldn’t lift my arm above my ear. It was temporary, but I had to start being conscious and conscientious about how I held my body. I’m athletic, but still need to strengthen my shoulders, back and core (just for drawing!) so I don't pinch a nerve.  

Tool I wish I could use better: I’d like to get more comfortable with a chainsaw… but did you mean drawing tools? In that case: a fountain pen. And I’d like to get better at doing a grey wash on cartoons, so I’m learning how to do that with the Procreate app on the iPad. But a tree fell behind my house in the last storm, and I really do need to feel confident with a chainsaw.

Misc.: The most common mistake I see when people start out is that they think the cartooning is the dessert course of their day, something to do after they come home from work. It’s not a great set up for success— you’re tired, there are dishes to wash, relationships to tend to, etc. Instead, think of cartooning as the vegetable course— good for you, but you have to fight the temptations of other things. Rethink your schedule— where else could it fit in instead of at night? Could it happen away from the house, with fewer distractions?  Is there a dedicated time on the weekend? Can you get a buddy where you can hold each other accountable to show up and work? External deadlines are so helpful— if something’s due, you do it. In the absence of a hard deadline, I think the buddy system is the next best thing. 

I STILL have to force myself to sit down and work, and not because I don’t like it. It’s just naturally anxiety-producing to do something creative. I bargain, cajole, and bribe myself… every stupid day!

Website, etc.:

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[twoblueheartslocked]

Mini Para: December Flashback.

Rating: R.

Pairing: Seblaine.

Sebastian: @colorsicantsee

Blaine: @twoblueheartslocked

Time: Four years before the events of ( Hold On To The Memories, They Will Hold On To You ) Events taking place in December of Blaine’s Senior Year and Sebastian’s Junior Year. Blaine (17) Seb(16).

Location: Sebastian’s House. Westerville, Ohio

Info: A glimpse into the month of December ending with Blaine spending the night with Sebastian.

Warnings(PLEASE READ THIS): This para includes non graphic descriptions of sexual situations between minors.  We’ve kept it as YA as possible. We are in NO way trying to spotlight sex between teens, we just wanted to show how natural and comfortable they are together and the progression of their relationship. There will be absolutely no smut written until they’re adults. If anyone feels we’ve taken it too far please let us know and we will fix it.

Extra Warnings: (This RP is not Kurt Hummel friendly. You’ve all been warned.)

Notes: Some canon events remain in place while others have been changed. Some things may even be out of order. You can consider this sort of canon divergent AU. A few changes are that Blaine’s parents are different from the show (His mother is Filipina), he didn’t cheat on Kurt or date Dave and Sebastian is younger than Blaine. Feel free to send a message if you have any questions!

Blaine’s POV:

Blaine squeezed his mother tightly as she and his father said their goodbyes to him on Saturday morning, two days after Christmas. They were leaving for a weekend belated Christmas and early New Year’s party that his father’s work friend had invited them to and wouldn’t be back until tomorrow evening sometime. Blaine tried his hardest to keep his excitement in check as he waved their SUV off, the light snowfall clinging to his dark hair as he stood there, waiting for them to turn off at the end of the street. He couldn’t believe his absolute luck, he’d been stressing since his stolen moments in his bedroom with Sebastian on Thanksgiving over how he was going to come up with a lie to tell his parents when a week and half ago his dad had announced that he and his mom would be gone for a whole night and it just so happened to be the weekend that Sebastian’s parents would be out as well. He was ecstatic to spend some real alone time with his guy. Ecstatic and so nervous he thought he might throw up or giggle himself into a mad happy fit over it all.

The two of them had already celebrated their Christmas together, exchanging small gifts at Blaine’s house and precisely placed mistletoe kisses against a snowy backdrop that had been so romantic that when Blaine voiced just how romantic he thought it was Sebastian had rolled his eyes, feigning annoyance but then had surprised him by grinning down at Blaine like he was the most important person in the world and pulling him into his arms and kissing him again just to make it all that more romantic for Blaine. He smiled at the memory as he made his way back into his house so he could properly pack for his overnight stay at Seb’s house.

He’d left his small duffle bag empty and tucked away under his bed so that his parents wouldn’t catch onto what he was going to do. He felt a little pang of guilt knowing that they wouldn’t really approve of him spending the night alone over there no matter how fond of Sebastian they’d grown.  But the guilt was short lived as he packed a change of clothes, a pair of pajamas and a few toiletries into his bag- he couldn’t help it, he’d been waiting weeks, probably subconsciously even longer, for this night.

Before he zipped the bag up he made his way over to his nightstand, his fingers twitching nervously as he pulled a newly purchased three pack of condoms out of their hiding place. He was afraid that if he thought about it too much he’d leave them behind. He wasn’t even sure if it would happen, he had a feeling they were on the same page, that Sebastian wanted him just as much as he did, but his nerves always seemed to get the better of him and he was torn. Without looking at them too hard he quickly shoved them into his bag along with a small bottle of lube, tucking them under his clothing, but not before his eyes could catch on the ridiculously bold XXL on the slim package.

The letters seemed to leer up at him and made him feel self conscious and overly embarrassed. He knew he needed them, he’d learned the hard way how uncomfortable the smaller size was for him the few times he’d used them, but it didn’t make him feel any less full of himself. Would Sebastian think he was stupid for getting that kind? Was he being full of himself? He forced himself not to think about it too hard, his hands moving on their own accord to zip his bag up as if that meant he couldn’t still change his mind. He pulled out his phone and opened up the text log between him and Seb- a smile passing over his lips as he read the last text from him. -Can't wait to see you, killer.  Blaine quickly typed out his own message, his fingers a little shaky at the prospect of getting to spend the whole day and night over at Seb’s house with absolutely zero supervision or interruptions. -You’re in luck, they've left. I’m on my way, okay?

Seb had sent back the words- Hurry! But also be safe. And that was really all the prompting Blaine needed. He made sure the house was locked down and left the television on in his living room in a half hearted attempt to throw his neighbors off, they didn’t tend to pay much attention to what he did, but it would be his luck they’d pay attention now and call his parents back or something. Or that was just his nerves talking again. He slung the bag across his chest, hoping it looked more like he were going to go study than like he were spending the night somewhere and got into his SUV, his vehicle seemingly taking him in the direction of Sebastian’s house like it was following an invisible line that connected the two of them so surly. Before he knew it he was there, parked in the long driveway and feeling small as he knocked on the door, his fingers clutching the strap of his back as if it could keep him grounded. Seb’s for Blaine only smile was brilliant as he opened the door to greet him and it took Blaine a second to find his voice.

“Hey you.”

Sebastian’s POV:

Sebastian was buzzing with energy. He woke up early, drank a bunch of coffee with his dad’s sugar free french vanilla creamer and ate four pieces of peanut butter toast. He sat on his mother’s bed and helped her pick out her outfits for the trip and packed her bag. Thomas hadn’t noticed Sebastian’s surge of helpfulness and burst of jittery energy but Sabine had. “You seem eager today, Sebastian.”  She stood by the car as Thomas and the maid packed the hatchback trunk of the SUV and she had a knowing glint to her green eyes. “Just here to help, Mom. Have a safe trip.” Sebastian grinned and leaned down to give her a kiss on the forehead before he walked backwards into a house that was basically all his. Sure, the maid and the cook would be around but, he and Blaine pretty much had the place to themselves.

He made sure to ask the cook to pick up hot cocoa and pizza ingredients from the store so that they could make themselves a meal, cleaned his room himself (fresh sheets and no dirty laundry anywhere!) stole a few cigarettes (sorry Mom) and bought some condoms from the convenience store he often  passed on his way home. Sebastian took a long, detailed shower and picked out a dark green hoodie and his favorite Dalton LaCrosse sweatpants to wear.  He gave himself a once over in the mirror and smiled to himself. He was positive that they were on the same line, same chapter, same book because they always were. Seb never got this anxious excitement for anybody but the other boy. He had been daydreaming about this night for weeks and his veins were buzzing and his stomach kept jumping. Sebastian shot Blaine a few quick texts and stared at the clock on his phone, he couldn’t wait for him to arrive and he couldn’t sit still.

He was already standing by the door when Blaine had knocked because he had stood by an upstairs window and watched the snow fall as he waited for his car to pull up. Sebastian basically leaped down the stairs  and could have tackled Blaine into the snow right then and there. There he stood, on his porch with his cheeks red and little snowflakes perched on a few curls that started to escape their perfect styling.

“Hey B.” Sebastian smiled before he could catch himself and stood back for the other to step inside. “Do you want to eat first or, hear me out, I found my old sled in the garage the other day. We could go to the hill and try it out.”

Blaine’s POV:

Blaine couldn’t fight the smile that fought its way onto his lips as he listened to Sebastian speak. He could picture them already, sledding down the hill at the end of Seb’s street- cheeks numb from the cold and from laughing and all at once the idea was something he wanted more than anything he’d ever wanted before. He took his bag from over his body and sat in neatly at the end of the kitchen counter next to an assortment of instant hot chocolate and marshmallows so that he could take it up to Sebastian’s room later on.

His stomach  gave a little flip at the thought, and he wondered when they’d find themselves up there. Would they cuddle on the sofa and watch movies in their pajamas first like this was their home and this was a normal night? Or would they get overly excited and fumble clumsily up the stairs, lips and limbs tangled in two hours? He personally hoped that they took their time, he wanted this day and night to last, he’d been here five minutes and already the thought of leaving was making him feel a silly bit of sadness.

“I would absolutely love to go sledding with you, Seb. I haven’t done that since I was a kid!” He laughed, and reached out for Seb’s hands, taking them into his before pressing a kiss to them. He hoped his lips weren’t too cold. “And then after that we can come back in and I’ll make you the best cup of instant hot cocoa you’ve ever had on top of the best pizza, no second best pizza- the first would be the one I made on your birthday, you’ve ever had and we can warm up.” He pulled Sebastian closer using their linked fingers and wrapped his arms around his neck, his fingers toying with his hairline.

“I promise to keep you warm if you get too cold.  We can do whatever you want, you’ve got me all night long. I’m completely yours.” His smile turned a little shy, his nerves catching up to him before tip toeing up and stealing a kiss from Sebastian’s lips, his fingers scraping lightly through his hair. He let his eyes slip shut as he deepened it just a bit, as if promising Sebastian that he’d keep him warm and that he wasn’t going anywhere. When he said he was his for the rest of the night, he hoped Sebastian knew that he meant so much longer than that. He meant always.

Sebastian’s POV:

Sebastian’s heart fluttered when Blaine tipped up on the tips of his toes to press a kiss to his lips. His stomach flipped in a way that was almost uncomfortable, the sort of dip that happens when you drive down  a hill too fast and gravity catches up before you’ve even realized you were flying down a slope. He had goosebumps all over his arms and legs and a promise that hung tight in the air between the two of them. Seb smiled and felt a thrill run up and down his spine. “I’m a lucky guy.”

“I’m gonna hold you to that.” Sebastian clasped onto Blaine’s hand and pulled him up the stairs. The two of them bundled up in scarves and gloves and earmuffs that his mother kept tidy in a tote in the upstairs linen closet. He wrapped a fluffy hunter green scarf around Blaine’s neck and toyed with the frayed ends for a moment, “I’m all yours,too. For the record.”  He smiled his toothy grin that he kept reserved for the other boy and gave him a quick kiss before troping down the stairs, the two of them laughing all the way to the garage and down to the end of his street.

Sebastian sat down first on the bright orange sled and tapped the plastic in between his legs with a gloved hand, “You get to steer.”  The two of them flew, just barely missed a tree and landed in a heap of laughter at the bottom of the hill. They slid down the hill successfully a few more times before they crashed and rolled into the snow with red cheeks and frozen puffs of amusement as they wrestled playfully and kissed as snowflakes drifted around them.  Sebastian threw the first snowball in a not so serious snowball fight that ended in more kissing and laughing. They decided to head back to the house when Sebastian’s glove started to freeze and his body shook with cold tremors.

“Don’t forget that you promised me the best hot cocoa ever and, you know I think I still need some more warming up.”

Blaine’s POV:

Blaine’s skin prickled all over at Sebastian’s words. He wanted to follow up with how lucky he was too, wanted to tell Sebastian that he meant the world to him and tell him just how incredible being with him felt- but Seb was already pulling him the stairs and making Blaine feel like he could do anything by telling him that he was all his, too. Blaine felt an odd sense of belonging as Seb wrapped his green scarf around him. Sure, it had been washed since the last time it had been worn, but there the ghost of Sebastian’s winter scent still clung to the fluff like a kiss. Wearing Seb’s things made Blaine feel like he belonged there, like this life was meant for him. He found he couldn’t stop beaming as they made their way outside hand in hand.

And each slide down the hill, each press of Sebastian’s body pressed against his back as he tried to steer and they flew past glittering trees made Blaine smile bigger and bigger until his face hurt from doing so. The cold adding to his pleasurable discomfort as they kissed in the snow, Seb’s lips tasting like snow and a lingering of forbidden smoke that was absolutely driving Blaine wild. It felt like he was in a book or a movie and again he didn’t want any of it to end.

As they made their way back into Seb’s house, the fireplace roared and warmed his chilled bones instantly. Blaine wasn’t sure who had turned it on, probably one of Sabine’s elusive staff, but it felt magical and Blaine wanted to pull Sebastian in front of it and snuggle into him there. But, he promised he’d make him the best cup of cocoa he’d ever had and he meant to do just that. He made his way through the kitchen, Sebastian’s words about warming him up making his heart flip a little.

“I did promise, didn’t I?” He pulled Seb close and wrapped his arms around him before running his hands up and down his back in an attempt, his lips finding his neck, the pulsepoint spot Seb loved so much and pressing an assortment of kisses there before pulling back. “Better?” He grinned up at the other boy, “There’s more where those came from later, I promise that too.”  He winked and forced himself to pull away before he got too carried away in exploring the gorgeous expanse that was Sebastian’s neck. He didn’t want to rush the day and doing that would for sure rush things.

He cleared his throat and made his way around the Smythe family kitchen like he’d done a dozen times before gathering ingredients for the perfect cup of instant. “Right, so the best cup of instant hot cocoa ever.” He placed a pan on the stove and then put the water in and set it to heat before he pulled down two large mugs and filled them with the powder. He went to the fridge and pulled out the whole milk and set it next to the mugs. He then added the boiled water into the mix and tossed in a few marshmallows. “The key is to add milk to make it creamier and to mix in the bigger marshmallows and just keep adding them as they melt. It’s super sweet but my mom used to make it like this when I was a kid and it’s my favorite. Here, try it. He handed Sebastian his mug and watched as he blew on the liquid before taking a drink. The other boy's smile was all Blaine needed to know he’d done a good job.

The day went on way too fast for Blaine's liking between sips of cocoa in front of the fire and giggling about their sledding mishaps and Blaine pretending not to like the smoke on Seb’s lips that Seb totally saw through- and before he knew it it was evening and they were cuddled up down in their basement, cozy in warm sweats on Seb’s sofa, half eaten plates of Blaine’s homemade pizza discarded to the side so they could kiss each other properly as the sounds of the movie Gremlins (Which kinda scared Sebastian) played in the background. Blaine, needing air, finally pulled back enough to look down at Seb from his spot half on top of him and hovering above him, his leg pushed up and over Seb’s body, his guys cheeks flushed from the earlier cold and from their kissing. He looked fucking gorgeous and Blaine blurted it before he could stop himself. His voice was soft and almost in awe.

“You’re beautiful...”

Sebastian’s POV:

Sebastian sighed and pressed his hands into Blaine’s hips when he felt his lips on his sensitive neck. He laughed , loud and bright though his skin still felt hot from the kisses but Blaine had winked and it seemed like they had switched personalities for a split second. It felt like a perfect moment, the sort of memory that Seb wished he could wrap up and keep close because it was pure and so specifically them.

He watched Blaine make himself at home which gave him a special sort of warm satisfaction. The other boy knew where the pans were, knew the correct cabinet to find mugs. Seb liked to see it, Hunter wasn’t even this familiar with the Smythe house. It felt like Blaine was always meant to whisk into the kitchen and sing and laugh and bake pies and make pizza and hot cocoa. It was the most alive the house had felt to Seb in a long time.

Blaine had set a giant mug of frothy hot chocolate in front of him. “Looks perfect.” He leaned forward and let the steam drift over his cold face for a moment before he blew on it and took a sip. Sebastian smiled and took another drink because of course Blaine could make instant hot cocoa taste like it came from a coffee shop.

The next few hours were a blur of pizza, some weird 80s movie Blaine had picked (the only redeeming quality to Sebastian was the lead actor who was sort of cute.), and kissing until their lips began to hurt and their cheeks were red. Blaine sort of hovered over him, the noise of little gremlins screaming on the tv as he blurted out You’re beautiful and Sebastian blinked a few times, a slow smile spread over his face. He looked up into the other’s big, golden eyes and realized that nobody else had ever called him beautiful before and he felt a satisfied shiver spread its way all over his body. Sebastian didn’t think any words could suffice so he leaned up and kissed Blaine all soft and slow and suddenly it felt like pressure in the room changed. It was the feeling of jumping into the deep end of a pool, sudden and intense, lungs burning and legs kicking to break the surface. The rush of running full speed down the track, every tendon screaming for release. The thrill  of swinging so high on a swing set that it lifted off the ground dangerously with every pump.  His body felt hot and his hands trembled as they knotted in the neck of Blaine’s shirt, his hips ached, he moaned despite himself.

“I think that you should take me upstairs.”

Blaine’s POV:

A shiver and a tingle spread throughout the lower half of Blaine’s body at the sound of Sebastian’s moan and the tone in his voice. All at once he was overwhelmed with want and a desire he’d truly never felt for anyone else before. Every crush or person before seemed like a little insignificant when it came to the way he felt about Sebastian and I love you threatened to surge forward again but Blaine pushed it down and back into his chest next to his heart in favor of giving the other boy a wide eyed nod as he scooted off of him gently and reached down to help Seb up with him. He knew what this meant, he knew what Sebastian wanted and he wanted nothing more than to give it to him. He wasn’t quite sure how he was going to manage to get them both of two sets of stairs without stumbling.

His hands were shaking as he pulled Seb’s shirt up and over his head once they’d managed to make it into his bedroom. His fingers tentatively explored each little freckle, wanting to count them like the stars in the sky. He leaned down and pressed a kiss into a few of them, trying to show Sebastian that he loved how he looked, wanting to get this right, wanting Sebsatian to know that Blaine loved him and his body without saying it outloud. He reluctantly pulled away from Sebastian, his skin instantly missing the contact as he quickly rummaged around in his bag for the small pack of condoms and small bottle of lube he brought and sat them down on the bedside table before moving back to Sebastian and pressing a kiss to his lips to hide his growing blush.

The queen sized bed seemed too large yet inviting as he pressed Sebastian down and into the sheets before crawling up between his legs, his excitement apparent as he pushed his hips against the boy beneath him, his fingers fumbling with the the hem of Sebastian’s sweats and boxers for a moment before managing to push them down and to the ground. Blaine bit his lip as their bare skin touched before ducking his head and kissing Seb so slowly and gently that he thought he’d float away from how fucking good it felt to him. After what felt like hours, kissing and touching like that he finally pulled his head back to look down into green eyes, his voice a nervous whisper.

“ I-...Are you sure this is what you want?”

Sebastian’s POV:

Sebastian laughed a little, he had to.  Of course Blaine would ask even as he was flushed and panting underneath him with desperate hands and hips. He loved that about him-his sweet demeanor and how naturally charming and polite he was. God, it made him even crazier for him, that fucking concerned look in his amber eyes and the thoughtful furrow of his eye brows.

“More than anything.”

It all happened so fast. Such a cliche of a thought but it was true. It was all a tangle of hands and mouths and names whispered into hot skin. Sebastian felt satisfied and complete as Blaine pulled him close under his heavy bedspread. His body felt spent and tired and he was sure he could sleep solidly for 12 hours if he let himself but all he wanted to do was trace  his long fingers over Blaine’s torso as he listened  to his heart beat beat beat under his head. Sebastian kept catching himself smiling anytime Blaine spoke or touched him and he wondered if they could live in his bedroom forever, in this little wonderful moment like a snow globe.  He was always mystified by the way Blaine flipped his world upside down and brought all of his feelings to the surface and made him daydream  and laugh and smile and want to be nice. Seb was terrified to put a label on the way he felt but he couldn’t deny it any longer, he loved the kid.  

Sebastian took a deep breath and leaned up on his elbow so he could see the other boy’s face, “Wish you didn’t have to leave in the morning.”

Blaine’s POV:

Blaine lay there with Sebastian’s head on his chest, his fingers tracing his freckles, the ones he could reach, across his shoulder. The world felt still and the world felt like it belonged to them and Blaine wanted nothing more than to freeze this moment and save it for bad days. Sebastian felt like he belonged here in his arms, and he wondered, not for the first time, how he’d gone so long denying himself this comfort. Blaine swallowed hard, his chest aching and swelling and he was so afraid that if he spoke he’d ruin the moment.

He was so afraid that if he told Sebastian how he felt that Seb would stiffen and maybe ask him to leave and things would be awkward and stressed and while he thought that maybe they were on the same page, on the off chance that Seb turned him away, Blaine thought that might kill him. So he held onto him tightly and whispered to him that he’d  come back over tomorrow night. Told Seb that he just needed to be home when his parents got home so he wouldn't be in trouble. And when they drifted off to sleep together, Blaine was wrapped tightly around the taller boy, his face pressed against the back of his neck, and his arms locked around him as if he’d always fit in that space between Blaine’s arms.

And when he forced himself to leave the next day Blaine made sure to kiss Sebastian extra sweet and long so that he’d know that the night had meant everything to him. That the whole thing, not just the sex, was important and to show Sebastian that he was the reason Blaine felt the happiest he’d ever felt in his whole life. I love you hung silently in the air between them as he stepped out into the December wind and Blaine made a promise to himself that when he came back over tonight he’d tell Sebastian how he felt. So what if it had only been a few months? Who made the rules that you could only fall in love after years? Blaine knew how he felt and he needed Sebastian to know too. He had to have faith that Sebastian would accept it, maybe even say it back. How incredible would that be? How good would that feel?

He was all smiles, his heart singing louder than his voice as he straightened up his house for his mom and dad, his earphones blashing away so loudly he almost missed his phone ringing from his bedroom. And as he raced to pick it up thinking it might be his reason for smiling. That Sebastian’s slow, comforting voice might be on the other end- 

He’d come to wish that he had missed it.

/fin.

[cooperhewitt]

Anonymous was a Woman

Throughout March, Object of the Week celebrates Women’s History Month. Each Monday a new post will highlight women designers in the collection.

This unfinished angelic figure was likely a design for stained glass. Louise Howland King Cox designed windows for Louis Comfort Tiffany in the 1890s. However, there are few extant records about her work at his company. Tiffany preferred that his name alone appear before the public, and advertisements proclaimed that all work was made under his personal supervision.  Although he occasionally credited the designers of the firm’s windows and mosaics, many Tiffany employees—a largely female staff—worked anonymously.[1]  This study—itself anonymous, without identifiable facial features—seems a fitting allegory for their legacy.

“Anonymous was a woman”—a line adapted from Virginia Woolf—is a statement often true of museum collections.  Records relating to female artists and designers are scant, and works are often unsigned and undated.  Fortunately, Louise took it upon herself to document her own training and working methods.  A memoir of her student days, dictated later in life, is available through the Archives of American Art’s website.  Born in San Francisco, she studied first at the National Academy of Design in New York before enrolling at the Art Students League in 1883.

There, she enjoyed the creativity and camaraderie of the student-run organization, and continued to hone her drawing skills through class critiques. She also observed that:

“Wherever there are art students sooner or later there is bound to be a costume party.”[2]

Costumes and props were made with whatever materials were convenient, like gilded paper, netting, and even dyed cheesecloth.  The experience inspired her later costumes for models.  She noted that, “For years twisted, dyed and redyed cheesecloth was my mainstay in costuming angels for stained glass windows, for nymphs, semi nudes and allegorical characters.”[3] Likely, cheesecloth drapery was used for this figure, standing before a carefully shaded background. Louise firmly believed that a composition could be “made or marred by the wrong background,” declaring that “a monotone is especially fatal.”[4]

After school, Louise taught in Toledo, Ohio, before marrying Kenyon Cox—her former instructor at the Art Students League—in 1892, after a long courtship through correspondence. She explored mural painting and portraiture, eventually gaining renown for her portraits of children.  She was elected to the Society of American Artists in 1893, became an Associate of the National Academy of Design in 1902, and was elected to membership in the Society of Mural Painters in 1919. She received the Hallgarten prize at the National Academy of Design in 1896, and was awarded medals at the world’s fairs in Paris in 1900,  Buffalo in 1901, and St. Louis in 1904.[5]

Laura Fravel is the Curatorial Research Assistant (American Art) in the Drawings, Prints & Graphic Design Department at Cooper Hewitt, Smithsonian Design Museum.

[1] Martin Eidelberg, Nina Gray, Margaret K. Hofer, A New Light on Tiffany:  Clara Driscoll and the Tiffany Girls (New York, NY: The New York Historical Society, in association with D Giles Limited, London, 2007): 12, 182.

[2] Louise Howland King Cox. Louise Cox autobiographical notes, 1945, p. 3. Kenyon and Louise Cox papers, 1876-1977. Archives of American Art, Smithsonian Institution.

[3] Ibid. Instructor Frank Millet also suggested dyed cheesecloth draperies for models in his lectures at the Art Students League.

[4] Ibid., p. 6.

[5] “Mrs. Kenyon Cox, Portrait Painter,” The New York Times (December 12, 1945): 26.  Also, see Richard Murray’s introductory biography for “Louise Cox at the Art Students League: A Memoir,” Archives of American Art Journal, Vol. 27, No. 1 (1987): 12.

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[likechillman]

              hello  hello   !        you  can  call  me  red  and  i’m  super  pumped  to  be  here  playing  your  resident  over - eager  cryptozoologist .  i’m  rewatching  loch  ness  &  chill  out  and        wow        can  i  just  say  shannon  blake  really  dealt  with  too  much        (   people  were  rude  straight  to  her  face ,  shaggy  and  scooby  wouldn’t  eat  the  food  she  spent  so  much  time  making ,  a  museum  director  threw  a  caber  through  a  window  of  her  home  and  then  acted  like  it  was  fine     ???   and  then  destroys  her  dock   ???   ) .      so  yeah ,  shannon  blake  deserved  better  and  white  40+ ?  male  academics  are  the  true  monsters  of  the  scoobyverse  and  while  that’s  the  energy  we  have  going  into  this  intro  it  really  has  nothing  to  do  with  my  boy  but ...   yeah ,  here  we  go   ! !

okay  so  first  and  foremost ,  despite  all  the  times  the  strange  happenings  in  coolsville  have  been  proven  to  be  just  hoaxes  orchestrated  by  people ,   del  is  a  believer .  he’ll  swear  up  and  down  he  saw  the  ohio  grassman  on  a  family  camping  trip  when  he  was  nine  and  that’s  really  where  it  all  started .  no  one  believed  him ,  and  it  became  a  sore  spot  for  del .  he’s  been  trying  to  prove  cryptids  are  real  since .

he’s  taken  on  the  personal  mantle  of  protector  of  the  cryptozoological .  when  things  begin  to  go  wrong  he  usually  thinks  it’s  because  of  something  humans  are  doing  to  disturb  them   (   see :  him  thinking  that  the  reason  nessie  was  freaking  out  was  because  she  was  being  disturbed  by  the  games   ) .  this  is  the  other  reason  he  wants  to  prove  they’re  real ,  so  people  will  respect  them .

strong  hippie  energy .  says  he  wants  to  vibe  with  nessie  and  honestly  he’s  valid  for  it .  has  for  sure  said  the  same  thing  about  bessie . would vibe with any cryptid  to  good  music  which  is  something  he  also  knows  a  good  deal  about .  his  brain  is  a  sponge  for  useless  factoids  and  is  the  kind  of  guy  who  reads  the  liner  notes .  has  a  pretty  substantial  record  collection .

traveled  a  bunch  as  a  young  adult ,  basically  going  legend  tripping  exclusively .  traveled  over  the  us  in  a  van  tracking  down  sighting  spots  and  the  like .  honestly ,  if  he  had  been  born  ten  years  later  he  could  have  had  one  of  those  #vanlife  youtube  channels .  because  of  this  though  he’s  surprising  good   with  mechanical  stuff !  he’s  good  at  fixing  things  when  they  inevitably  break .

pretty  easy  going !  he  doesn’t  get  worked  up  about  a  large  number  of  things  besides  the  protecting  of  cryptids .  just  kind  of  goes  with  the  flow  and  tries  to  be  helpful .

currently  works  as  a  news  cameraman  for  hbtv  but  it’s  half  just  so  he  can  be  on  scene  when  things  happen .  is  real  close  to  being  fired  for  he’s  been  known  to  derail  a  program  because  he’s  ranting  from  behind  the  camera  and  decides  to  film  something  specific  he  thinks  is  important .

interesting  fashion  choices .  iconic  purple  lens  lennon  glasses .  cargo  pants .  lots  of  questionable  graphic  t  shirts .  rope  and  leather  bracelets .

he’s  almost  positive  that  all  these  disappearances  are  an  upset  cryptid  and  so  he’s  on  board  to  solve  the  mystery  as  far  as  solving  it  means  figuring  out  how  they  pissed  the  ohio  frog  man  out . . .   yeah  that’s  the  theory  he’s  running  with  currently .