#might continue to color this but just the fire dude in painting but hey who knows

[jnixz]

He doesn’t appreciate uncontrolled burning leaf piles ESPECIALLY in the part of the forest that is OFF-LIMITS

[autistic-stedebonnet]

“You are, I think, an evening star, of all the stars, the fairest”

Title is a Sappho quote

Yueki one-shot

---

Yue ran her hands through her hair. It had grown since the end of the war, trailing down just below her waist in silver waves, like light cascading off the edge of a crescent moon. Her hands were delicate and soft from years of silk and fur mittens and high quality moisturizers, contrasting with Suki’s rough, callused hands. Suki had told her once that she used to be insecure about her hands, which were larger than average and blistered easily before she became a Kyoshi Warrior and built up a tolerance. Yue thought that Suki’s hands were beautiful. They spoke of resilience and courage. Yue’s spoke of nothing but her sheltered, spoiled childhood.

“Yue?” Suki sidled up to her, resting her hand on Yue’s shoulder. “You’re thinking about it again, aren’t you?”

Yue nodded, swallowing the lump in her throat. “I can’t look at it Suki,” she whispered. “it just reminds me of my failure.”

“Hey, you didn’t fail!” Suki protested, gently moving Yue to face her. “You helped save the moon spirit. When Sokka told me the story-”

“But I didn’t.” Yue’s voice was always small and soft, but now it just sounded hurt. “That was all them. I- I’m weak, I can’t bend, I can’t even fight like you.”

“That’s not your fault.”

“I should’ve sacrificed myself, it was my job.”

Suki opened and closed her mouth several times before answering. “You wish you would’ve died? Yue that’s ridiculous.”

“I wish I could’ve done something,” Yue sighed, twirling her hair between her fingers mournfully. “The moon spirit gave me this gift, and I couldn’t do anything in return. Now every time I look in the mirror it’s just... a reminder that I’m weak.”

“Yue, stop that. You’re not weak. If you were weak would you have been able to defy your entire tribe to be free? Would you have been able to travel the world being chased by the fire nation and not given up?”

“I cried. A lot.”

“So did I!” Suki laughed. “We all cried a lot, except maybe Zuko, but that’s because he’s represses his emotions.”

Yue giggled. “Thanks Suki, you always know what to say.”

Suki lifted her hand as if to bring it to Yue’s face, but hesitated, letting it fall back at her side. She smiled lightly and wrapped Yue in an embrace. 

Suki smelled like dirt and sea salt, and despite her muscled physique, her embrace was gentle. It felt like home. Yue let herself melt into the other girl’s arms, breathing in shakily and resisting the urge to inhale her scent until she could carry it with her for the rest of the day. Yue hadn’t got a lot of physical affection growing up, her parents had never been huggers, and she hadn’t really had opportunities for friends. But Suki hugged her a lot, and every time Yue would wonder if she’d ever feel more loved, because it seemed impossible. She was the first to pull away, she always was, because she was afraid that if she held on any longer, she’d never be able to let go. 

Suki checked Yue’s cheeks for tears, her eyes scanning the smaller girl’s face with an expression that frustrated Yue so much, because she could never figure out what it meant. It was the same expression Sokka used to look at her with, but... but there was no way Suki liked her like that. They were best friends and Yue could accept that they would never be anything more. 

The idea came to her out of seemingly nowhere, although in hindsight, it’d probably been growing in the back of her mind for a while. She grabbed Suki’s hands and looked at her with an excited, almost mischievous countenance that she didn’t take on very often.

Suki raised an eyebrow. “Dude, you’re scaring me. What?”  

“Let’s dye my hair!” Yue said, grinning blindingly. She could tell that Suki was about to try and be rational, so she continued. “Come on, I know you don’t actually want to persuade me out of it. I want to be impulsive for once. We can use that stuff Sokka made! It’ll take a few months to wash out, but once it does my hair will be back to normal, so it won’t damage anything.” She bit her lip anxiously, her eyes gleaming with freedom that was still new to her.

“Yea, ok,” Suki chuckled. She broke out into a joyous grin and shook Yue’s shoulders a little roughly. “Yea! You’re gonna look so cool, what color do you want?”

“Pink!”

“That was... fast.”

Yue shrugged. “I guess this isn’t an entirely new idea. But...” she trailed off tentatively. “I want to do a color that’s not associated with any nation. Something that’s just for me.”

Suki smirked at her. “I thought pink was Ty Lee’s thing.”

“Ty Lee can’t own a color,” Yue replied, sticking her nose in the air. 

“Touché.”

---

“Have you ever done this before?” Yue asked as she settled into the rickety chair in the corner of Suki’s room. They’d been staying on Kyoshi Island for a few weeks, along with Sokka and Zuko (Yue made a note to get Suki in on her plans to get those two idiots together) and it was... really nice. 

Suki was silent for a moment and Yue swiveled in her seat to see the taller girls smiling guiltily. She raised her hands in defeat. “Fine, no, I haven’t. But it can’t be that hard right?”

Yue raised a skeptical eyebrow. “You better not ruin my hair.”

“Can’t make any promises.”

“Suki!”

Suki dipped her hands into the glass jar Sokka had given to them. It was apparently made of all organic materials, but cactus juice was technically organic, so that didn’t exactly speak to how safe it was. Suki told Yue to sit up taller and warned her that she might get dye on her tunic.

“Won’t that just be part of the adventure?” Yue asked in response.

“That’s it, you’ve been possessed.”

“Just put the pink stuff on my hair weirdo.”

“You’re the weirdo,” Suki muttered, already running her pink-stained hands through Yue’s hair. 

This was a terrible idea, Yue decided. Not because she didn’t want to color her hair, but because Suki was running her hands gently through her long hair and humming softly and Yue was sure that her heartbeat could be heard miles away. 

It was just a couple hours before dinner, so the sun had begun to dip gently below the horizon, kissing Yue’s dark skin in a fascinating contrast to her snow-white hair. Her cheeks were colored gold and dusted with pink and Suki thought she looked like a rainbow. Suki moved her lips silently as she found a rhythm in dying Yue’s hair. Soft whispers of the song she was mouthing escaped ever so often and she wished that she could see if Yue was smiling or not. Suki loved Yue’s smile, her real smile. The one that shone through when they sat beside the fire exchanging stories and jokes, or when they woke up early enough to watch the sunrise. Suki thought that Yue looked beautiful underneath the sun. Her hair would be tinted amber and her eyes would glow in a drastically different way to how they darkened when she looked at the moon. Maybe Yue had been blessed by the moon spirit, but Suki thought she looked like the sun. 

“Suki?” Yue turned her head slightly to where Suki could glimpse her eyelashes and the tip of her nose. “You stopped.”

Suki shook herself from her reverie and chuckled nervously, her skin heating up and glowing crimson. “Uh sorry, I was just...” What was she doing? Her heart ached with longing and really, Yue had been impulsive, why couldn’t she? Never one for timing, Suki whispered timidly, still facing the back of Yue’s head. “Yue? Can I tell you something?”

Yue’s breath hitched ever so slightly and Suki felt her shoulders tense. She hadn’t even realized her had was on her shoulder. So much for not ruining her tunic. It felt like hours of time moving slow as molasses before Yue finally answered. “Of course.”

“I-” Suki’s words caught in her throat and she groaned in frustration. What had come over her? She hadn’t been nervous at all when she was with Sokka before! “YueIreallylikeyoulikeasmorethanafriend,” she rushed, immediately stepping back and cursing herself beneath her breath.

But Yue didn’t say anything. Suki forced herself across the room to face her. “Please say something.”

Yue’s lips turned up slightly and she turned to look up at Suki. Her face was painted with sunlight and her hair was half pink and everything felt so indescribably perfect for a moment. “I- I like you too Suki.”

Suki decided she had never grinned larger in her life. She stopped wringing her hands anxiously. “Can I kiss you?”

She’d never seen Yue smile this large either, nor nod this vigorously.

Suki practically launched herself to the other girl, grasping her cheeks and smiling into the kiss. Yue’s hands were wrapped around her neck and her lips tasted like strawberries and she smelled like lavender. Kissing Yue was like dancing with the sun. It was new and almost scary, but so soft. And they fit together like puzzle pieces. Puzzle pieces stained bright pink and wrapped in a blanket of gold.

When they finally pulled apart for air, Yue was giggling and buried her face in the crook of Suki’s neck, muttering against her skin. “I can’t even tell you how long I’ve wanted to do that.” She lifted her head and Suki marveled at her lips, pearly lipgloss faded and smudged, cheeks flushed pink and-

Suki slapped her hand over her mouth and laughed. “Oh no, I made your cheeks all pink.”

Yue snickered. “Well now you’ve got pink all over your face, so I suppose we’re even.”

The sun was gone now and the moon hung in the window. Yue rested her forehead against Suki’s and breathed in dirt and sea salt. Maybe she could learn not to hate the moon, for its light washed over the room and made Suki’s eyes sparkle and highlighted her skin silver. The moon wasn’t her failure, it was love. It was patience and love and fierce protection. But maybe her hair being pink would help her remember that. She wasn’t the moon, she was Yue. Her own person, who loved Suki so much she could burst. And Suki was the steadiness of the earth and the courage of the sun and the joy of the wildflowers. 

Yue didn’t care that her face was pink, or that they were surely going to be answering a lot of questions at dinner. All she needed to care about was that Suki’s breath was warm against her face and her hands, rough and callused, brushed like feathers along the back of her neck and through the un-dyed portion of her hair. This, she decided was freedom. 

[standingmanintheshadow]

The Gambler

Chapter 1: Abracadabra

Summery:

Elijah Adler, a paranormal investigator who has some paranormal abilities himself in the form of magic playing cards, has been tricked, and now in the depths of the Handeemen Studios, he must now fight for his life with his new puppet pal.

This is a new story that I'm testing the waters with on this website, if all things goes well and if u want it then I'll post more. Be sure to make suggestions to improve the story or grammar issues.

“A car could be seen driving down a dark back road; The car bounced up and down as the car ran over the small cracks in the road. The driver turned on the radio, which sparkled to life and began playing a radio show from the nearby town. "Elijah Adler, is he one of the best or the worst paranormal investigators out there? We will start taking callers so that you can give your opinion.” the radio host said as the driver who was listening was merely grinning let the radio in his car continue. “Well, because of him, my house caught on fire, and all he said was that he was fighting a water spirit and needed fire to defeat it,” a caller said. “Yeah, that’s weird; the guy is even weirder. Have you seen him? He always has a deck of blank playing cards with him at all times; there is something about that guy, something I don’t like.” the radio host said. 

The driver quickly turned off the radio and deeply sighed “if they only knew what the truth was, but they will soon know when I, Elijah Adler, saves the world from destruction,” Elijah boasted while pulling out a blank playing card and turning into a cigarette. “Man, this ability is convenient,” he thought as he lit the cigarette. Still, before he could take a puff of his cigarette, he noticed that the car was starting to slow down at an exponential rate and then stopping in a matter of a minute. 

 “FUCK” Elijah screamed as his car started to stop in the middle of the deserted road. He got out and lifted the hood of his vehicle to assess the damage. “I might be one of the best paranormal investigators out there, but I’m no fucking mechanic,” Elijah muttered quietly to himself as he felt his anger quickly rising within him. “Alright, Elijah, calm down, there’s probably a place around here that can fix my car,” he said, instantly calming down. He looked around the road and noticed a rusted sign pole that said Handeemen Studio .5 Miles.

“Well, that is convenient, I hope somebody there can help me,” he said as he went back into his car to get all the necessities like his coat, bag, and folder holding his next case. He opened the folder making sure nothing was lost “well, it looks like this pizzeria is gonna have to wait until I can get my car back into working shape,” he muttered while putting the folder into his bag. He locked his car and started to walk.

After ten minutes of walking, Elijah noticed a large building with what looked like a puppet with a top hat and monocle that said Handeemen Studios, “I’m guessing this is my stop,” he said as he approached the door of the building. As he opened the door and went inside, the first thing he noticed was the horrible smell of the lousy quality paint that was on the walls and a matter of fact, the walls themselves were peeling off, showing bugs that use it for nesting; Elijah shuddered with disgust and moved on. 

He explored the lobby until he saw what looked like a person sitting at a table with a red cloth above them. The man was wearing a black covering on his head with a noose around his neck, making sure it didn’t come off. Still, the weirdest part about this guy’s appearance was that he seemed to have a puppet of what looked like the puppet on the building on his right hand. “hey, can you help me? My car broke down a half a mile from here, do know where a mechanic shop is?” he said while gaining no response from the man as he had his left hand on his head signify that he was bored.

“Maybe he didn’t hear me,” Elijah reasoned and started to walk towards the man and was about to repeat what he said until the puppet sprung to life. “Welcome old bean to the Handeemen Studio. I am Mortimer Handee pleasure to make your acquaintance.” The now ‘alive’ puppet said in a British accent, “This man is a good ventriloquist, I wonder if he does birthday parties,” Elijah thought to himself as he decided to play along. “Well, Mr.Handee, I was wondering if you know if there is someone who can help me fix my car,” he said, trying his best to do a British accent but failing at it. 

“No, I cannot help you, sir, but you seem like you need fun in your life. So why not take a patented Handee man puppet free of charge,” he said as the floor in front of Elijah opened up to reveal five puppets that had different colors and hairstyles, but ultimately looked the same in structure.

“Pick one, their all the same,” Mortimer said with a slight grin. Elijah stared at the five puppets. “These look like these belong together, I think you should just keep them,” Elijah replied in a neutral tone; in reality, he did not want the puppets, since they looked like they could be infested with bugs or diseases. Mortimer, on the other hand, was utterly baffled. Everyone who came in this building accepted a puppet, but pushing his thoughts aside, he decided to try to convince this man a tool, “you do not need to worry, my friend these puppets are meant to find homes with people, and one of them will be happy with you” he said.   

“Look, dude, I don’t want one of your puppets. They look like they’re infested with roaches,” Elijah said with brutal honesty while looking at the man with the cloth mask and not Mortimer. But before any of them could say anything, Elijah’s phone started ringing, startling both of them. Elijah pulled out his phone and answered it while Mortimer looked like he was about to explode with anger.

 “Hello,” Elijah said while walking around the room. There were a couple of seconds of silence as the person of the other end replied, “well, Mr.Smith I’m sorry, but my car broke down, it looks like my investigation is gonna have to wait until I get it fixed,” he said as he ended the call and turned back to the man and puppet. “Isn’t it rude to answer a call while you are having a conversation with someone?” Mortimer asked judgmentally while making it evident that he was livid.

Elijah sighed, “look, dude, I think we got off on the wrong foot, look I’ll take one of those puppets. So you don’t get your panties in a twist,” he said while looking at the five puppets. He picked up the one in the middle and started showing it off to Mortimer by posing with it mockingly. “You know, there is a certain magic about Handeemen puppets, they wear you,” Mortimer said with absolute glee as the man who was ‘controlling’ him fell face-first onto the table. Mortimer then started to chant something in another language. Around him, a green mist began to form around Mortimer and eventually the room, but before the spell ended, Elijah’s eyes rolled back into his head as he fainted. 

[sexyshakespeare]

A tale of the manliest duo ever

Bakugou heard a knock on his door and went to answer it. He opened the door to a very excited red haired boy. “BRO! What’chu doin’?”, he said chirpily. The sheer heights of positivity this guy was capable of- it left the sullen blond speechless most of the times. “Uh- nothing”, he answered in monotone. Before he could protest, Kirishima slid past him into his room. “HEY-“, Bakugou turned around furiously. 

The other boy stood in the middle of the room, looking all around him. “OHH- not bad- I like your style Bakugou!”, he turned around and grinned at him. Bringing one hand to the back of his head, he continued a little sheepishly, “The rest of us had a ‘best room décor’ competition so I’ve seen everyone else’s rooms- thought I’d come by to see yours.” The other boy scowled at him a little, “There’s nothing to see here anyway-“. Of course, the rest of the kids in his class were already bonding. He was the loose canon- the angry dog they all had to keep far away from. He huffed and sat on his bed, kicking off his slippers. Crossing his arms and looking to the side, a little pout showing on his face he said, “-get it over with..” 

Kirishima sat down on his bed and looked up at the ceiling, “WHOA- it’s all painted black! Aizawa sensei gave you permission for that?” In response, the other boy leaned back on his pillow, “He said I could do whatever I wanted as long as it didn’t destroy the place”. “You know what would be really cool! If you put those glow in the dark stars and planets up there!”. Kiri was pointing to the ceiling and grinning, his shark teeth showing. “Huh- if you like them then put ‘em in your own room, shitty hair”, Bakugou said, staring at his plain black ceiling, “I like mine like this.” Kirishima looked at him with a little frown, “I would man- but I’m going for a theme in my room- the green glow would just throw it all off..” This piqued his interest some. He looked up at him curiously, “What theme..” Immediately, the red haired teen answered, “GLAD YOU ASKED!”. He sat up on his knees and tried to make as serious a face as he could. With one arm raised in the air, he hardened his entire body using his quirk. “MANLINESS!!- The whole room has art work and tales of heroes! Everything is red cause that’s my favourite color.” He un-hardened and grinned at Bakugou, “The room should give you vibes like STRENGTH and COURAGE-  you know?” Bakugou couldn’t help but smirk at him. He sat up on his knees too now. “Do you have posters and shit? You like Crimson Riot right?” That little observation set Kiri on some kind of fire. He clenched his fists and leaned towards the other boy excitedly, “YEAH- You remember BRO! He’s my role model- man he’s so awesome- I wouldn’t be the guy I am today without him!” Bakugou grinned at him now, his excitement was infectious. “YEAH- that’s how I felt about ALL MIGHT growing up. I wanted to be just like him-“ His grin faded a little now, his eyes grew dimmer as they looked down from Kirishima. The events that had conspired so far really made him feel like this was a dream further than ever. He felt incompetent, talentless and not worthy of being a hero. He wasn’t going to give up, that much was certain, but his spirit was changed now. He mumbled at his lap, “well-  so much for that..” Then suddenly, the bright eyed other placed his hands on the blond’s shoulders. “WHAT ARE YOU SAYING DUDE! You’re well on your way to being the best pro-hero anyone’s ever seen!” He said this with so much ferocity and conviction, Bakugou couldn’t help but open his mouth in suprise. “You’re already better than all of us here..”, Kirishima continued, looking embarrassed. Then he beamed at him, “And- you’re as manly as they get! You never back down Bakugou! I look forward to working wit’cha!” Bakugou blinked at him, confused. Was this guy for real.. He nodded slightly, completely lost on how he should be reacting to this. He forgot to scowl and shrug it off. He forgot to look to the side and ignore him. He just, smiled instead. His eyes softened considerably. Then he started to grin. “SO- your room sounds fucking crazy! Uh-”, he struggled here but kept going, “-can I come see?”. He kept his eyes trained on Kirishima, waiting for him to give him signs that he was uncomfortable. Any time now, he’d flinch or panic or make an excuse.. Any moment now.. “SURE MAN! Let’s go right now!”, Kiri yelled for joy and leapt off the bed. “OHH my room is going to blow you away Bakugou- it’s a work in progress but you’re going to be impressed!”, he said as he went for the door and opened it. The cheerful young man turned around to look at Bakugou who hadn’t moved an inch. “You coming?”, he asked. The blond looked at him, slowly recovering. He smiled at him again, his teeth showing. “HELL YEAH!”, he roared and jumped out of his bed to follow him. “Bet it’s not going to be that great though- you’re just hyping it up..”, he said to the other boy. “Heck yeah it is! You’ll see- I’ll make you eat your words my man!” “I’d like to see you try Eijiro.” “Hey- you remembered my name!” “PFF- I always knew your name..”

[toonstarterz]

BECAUSE I’M NOT POPULAR, I’LL READ WATAMOTE: CHAPTER #157

And now for something entirely different.

For the first time in the entire series, we have a chapter in which Tomoko Kuroki is completely absent. For a series whose initial premise was so dependent on having Tomoko as the solitary focus, it really speaks volumes that the side characters can now carry the series on their own. Of course, it wouldn’t be Watamote if Tomoko wasn’t there in some way, shape or form, and as we see today, her spirit lives on in rest of the Watamote Crew.

Chapter 157: Because I’m Not Popular, I’m Suspended

I really dig the hatching in this opening shot. It automatically gives you the sense that this is a retroactive moment and that Tomoko will be MIA until further notice.  

And just as we already knew, Tomoko and Yoshida got busted.

I’ve noticed quite a few people criticize this school policy, claiming that’s it’s unreasonable for the “crime”. My assumption is that riding a motor scooter reflects poorly on the school, which its students are supposed to represent with “proper” behavior. While I don’t think it’s really a justified punishment, I don’t think it’s necessarily an unjustified punishment either. Dissecting the reason would mean pulling apart much about Japanese cultural values, and this ain’t the place for that.   

This, on the other hand, seems a teeensy bit excessive. But that’s just me.

Naturally, Komiyama takes this as an opportunity to validate her less-than-savory impression of Tomoko. Gotta eat up those friend-of-a-friend brownie points. 

The true endgame of this series is when Tomoko and Komiyama call each other “friend.”

Blatant disregard of sensei’s instructions? Looks like Yuri’s the next to join the new delinquent posse after Tomoko and Yoshida.

But on that note, I really do enjoy that Yuri cares enough about her buddies to break the rules. She’s always been an obedient student overall, but I always had this inkling that Yuri wasn’t really a goody-two-shoes. Rebels gotta stick together.

And Tomoko’s (and Yoshida’s) reputation continues to brew. And through the semi-popular kids at that. If nothing else, Tomoko is going to leave school known as the “Weird Kid” that everyone admires.

I now wonder just how much these guys knew about Tomoko and Yoshida’s friendship? I’d imagine that this whole suspension might actually paint the two as BFFs in everyone’s eyes. 

Lastly, I wonder what was the manga Tomoko and Yoshida were reading? Maybe a sequel to “A Happy Cat”?

Can I get a Prison School shoutout, anybody?

Yup, like I said. Everyone knows about that “Weird Kid” in high school who did stupid stuff, but you couldn’t help but admire them for having the nerve to do it. Nemo may give Tomoko a lot of shit sometimes, but to some degree, I think she wishes she could be like her.

Girl’s itching for her Kuroki-Kimoi fix. 

Perhaps someone can enlighten me, but are Japanese shoe lockers really left unlocked? I mean, you see it all the time in manga–how else would the love interest send letters/chocolate to their crush?–but I’d like to to know if there’s any truth to that. 

If Ucchi really was getting ready to confess apologize, then I gotta hand it to her. It took her a lot faster to get to that point than I thought she would.

Unfortunately, the universe discriminates against emojis, and when they flippantly confront a random girl to inquire about their obsession, you know a blast of karma is heading their way.

The Counseling Room, huh? For those who’re uninitiated like me, that’s supposedly where they keep the suspended students to do their schoolwork and reflect on their actions. 

In Ucchi’s eyes, however, it’s the higher beings keeping her from her beloved. 

Sorry, Ucchi, but you gotta work on your “Uwaaaah!”s. Maybe you ought to get some pointers from Komiyama.

More and more, Ucchi’s cries of despair get even more absurd. And more and more, I wonder how she justifies it in that head of hers. 

Aw damn, is it that same dude that criticized Tomoko for supposedly almost falling into a ravine? And on film, too? Bro needs to take a chill pill.

That seems to be the food for thought amongst the student body these days. 

Is it wrong that I laughed at Katou’s very obvious face of absolute boredom? You can just feel the Tomoko withdrawal symptoms destroying her from the inside.

I used to be pretty ambivalent about her increasing affection to Tomoko, but these more humanizing moments make me grow fonder about their relationship.  

Fuuka’s never gonna let this one die, is she?

That’s basically the exact same thing that Tomoko said to Fuuka, wasn’t it? Shoot, gotta had another tally to the “Tomoko-Katou ship is actually kind of cute” chart.

At this point, she and Okada need to start a support group for the Tomoko-challenged.

I gotta say, I fully expected Tomoko to be hypocritical enough to deny Fuuka an answer, but not Katou. More than anybody else, it feels like nobody, not even her closest friends, really understand who Katou is. I’m counting the chapters to the day it all comes to blows. 

So close, and yet so far.

Back to fill the void with the ol’ earbuds, huh, Yuri? 

Well, Tomoko is perpetually tired, but I’d imagine suspension isn’t doing her any favors. A loner Tomoko may be, being locked up for a week in pseudo-solitary confinement (with Yoshida, no less) is bound to lead to some cabin fever.

I think the old Tomoko would brag about it before the fact, but after experiencing it, she'd take it back after realizing that suspension actually kind of sucks.

In old news: Yuu is a sweetheart and deserves the world.

Ah, Komi. I can't tell if you're ignorant, in denial, or just being a bitch, but your delusions of grandeur towards Tomoki never fail to amuse me.

It took me a while to realize that we were going over several days throughout this chapter. The time transitions are just that subtle, and I'm pretty sure that was intentional in order to emphasize how Tomoko's absence is really screwing with everyone’s sense of time.

Is this the first time anyone other than Minami has acknowledged Ucchi's lack of a face? Alright, Minami, you win this one.

Also, this is so going to add fuel to the fire on those NSFW headcanons about Mako and Minami’s "pet play" relationship.

Wow. When she says it like that, it puts Minami in an almost sympathetic light. Curse that endearing dependency of hers.

I see that Okada’s infamous shut-her-down moment from the field trip has left some after effects. If nothing else, Fang Girl knows when to fold ‘em.

Obvious imagery aside, I do like that they include Yoshida as one of the “loud” ones in the class. She’s definitely more of the “in-your-face” type of loud, while Tomoko is mostly loud in presence, and it really drives home just how extra loud the two are when together.

A wild Hirasawa appeared!

Somewhere underneath Yuri’s veil of apathy is a very particular layer of empathy. That being, her affection for Tomoko. Yuri may get jealous of other girls, but she can understand how it feels to have an attachment to someone, and when she recognizes that in someone else, that’s when she’ll go the extra mile.

Even she can’t abandon an underclassman all by their lonesome.

That said, it wouldn’t be Yuri if flashes of green didn’t flicker in her eyes at times.

Then that green turns into...whatever color is usually associated with begrudging respect.

Aw damn, this is going to be one of those heartwarmingly bittersweet endings, isn’t it?

Continuity porn.

Okay, ya’ll, but that glimmer of hope in Yuri’s slightly widened eyes is just golden. I hereby put this at the top of my “Top 5 Purest Moments in Watamote” List.

You know, if this were earlier in the series–as in, before Nemo opened up to Yuri–this would come off as pretty mean in the context of the plot, even if it really isn’t. It’s still trollish in a way that only Nemo can, but it feels like a genuine offer of friendship now that we’ve seen these two slowly come closer together. And if slice-of-life manga has taught me anything, it’s that walking home from school together is the Friendship Rite of Passage.

I’m sure Yuri’s first instinct was to punch her out, but hey, any reaction is a good reaction.

Actual proof that Tomoko has temporal powers that allow her to accelerate the passage of time at a rate that’s proportional to her exuding weirdness.

Or, you know, they all just miss her.

If there’s one thing that this series has taught me, it’s that the most wonderful of friendships can start with a mere coincidence.

At the start of Watamote, I never would’ve thought that the series could hold its own without Tomoko. And yet here we are. Gone are the days where the cast was just her, Tomoki, and Yuu. The cast has expanded exponentially since then, and their stories are all rich enough to headline their own series. But no matter how far the web grows, it always comes back to Tomoko. Even with Main Character Privilege, her existence is the glue that binds everyone together. And while this chapter gave us a unique insight on favorite characters, it also gave us a chance to see an alternate reality where Tomoko (and Yoshida) don’t exist.

And as expected, it’s a dull, dull world.

[chloebeale]

Hey, I have a prompt for you if you like it :) How about a classic rom com where Beca might be a reporter and decides to do this piece on the popular and beautiful Chloe so at first its just business trying to get a story but at the end she ends up falling for her :) thanks

So I was gonna do this as like a little one-shot, but then I got a ton of ideas, so I did it almost like a first chapter to something longer..? I’m a little rusty when it comes to fics, and I appreciate that the first part is maybe a little slow, but if anyone finds this interesting enough for it to be an actual thing, then please let me know and I’ll continue it into what it’s actually supposed to be!

(I really might anyway tbh, like I said, I have ideas. Enjoy!)

“You know we have to make cutbacks, Beca,” Beca mutters to herself as she climbs aboard the next available elevator. Her tone is mocking, and while she thinks her Angela impersonation is pretty spot on, she’s secretly glad that nobody else is around to witness it. “We can’t keep people around who can’t even deliver.”

Her boss’ words are replaying in her mind on a continuous loop. Admittedly, Beca hasn’t been the company’s best asset lately, but only because this isn’t what she wants to do. Beca Mitchell wants to write about music, she wants to explore the secrets of the global machine that is the Hollywood music scene. She has no interest in following up on a cheating scandal that adorns every gossip magazine within a fifty mile radius already.

Chloe… Benson? Burke? Beca pulls up her search history as the elevator ascends up to the fifth floor. Beale, that’s it. Chloe Beale. She’s an up and coming actress, no extremely notable credits to her name just yet, which leads Beca to believe that this whole scandal, the one where new girl on the scene Chloe Beale is sleeping with another nameless co-star behind her heartthrob boyfriend’s back is all just a publicity stunt.

Regardless, Beca is going to get the story, because however much she may despise her current job, she can’t help but give her all to everything she does. It’s both a blessing and a curse, she tends to think. Angela is trusting her with this one, and Beca is sure the older woman is going to run out of last chances for her eventually. She can’t get fired, that would be a black mark on her record for any future career prospects, and Beca really isn’t the most personable of women already; she doesn’t need anything to lessen her appeal.

There’s something almost sketchy about this, Beca thinks as she exits the elevator and finds herself in what looks not too dissimilar to a doctor’s waiting room. She supposes this is how it is for the up and comers, their management isn’t going to be in their own fancy-pants building in the middle of Los Angeles. It’s going to be down a side street, in a shared building with the likes of barely qualified Orthodontists, just like this one.

“Becky?” A taller woman – everyone is taller compared to Beca – appears at the door.

“It’s Beca,” she corrects through gritted teeth, a forced smile etched onto her balm covered lips.

“My apologies. Chloe is ready for you, Beca. Would you like to follow me?”

Beca does as instructed, unsure of what she’s really getting herself into here. The plan is simple: interview the actress, slip something in there about her big scandal, maybe try to spin it into something more than it is. She can do that. Beca is a reporter; reporters don’t always tell the truth.

“Right this way.”

Beca offers the taller woman an appreciative smile as she ushers her into a room. There are two people waiting inside for her, talking amongst themselves. Beca notices one dressed a little more businessy than the other. She’s the manager, Beca is sure of it.

“Uh, hi. Beca Mitchell, Angela Collins called to set up an interview?” Beca clears her throat, addressing the two women.

The one with red hair speaks, and Beca can’t help but notice just how blue her eyes are. She’s seen pictures of her online, but those don’t do her justice.

“Hi, Beca,” the red head greets, a cheerful smile painting itself onto her lips. She holds out her hand as she stands. “I’m Chloe Beale. You’re interviewing me. This is my manager, Carrie.”

“Nice to meet you,” Beca responds, taking Chloe’s hand in a quick but firm shake. “Dude, your eyes are, like, really blue.”

Her words are spoken from nowhere, delivered a little dumbly. Chloe responds with a small laugh, and Beca is sure she feels a rush of heat to her cheeks.

“Sorry,” Beca says quickly, almost like she’s only just registering her outburst. She clears her throat, mentally questioning herself: What was that, weirdo?

“Chloe won’t be answering any questions regarding she and Tom’s relationship,” Carrie adds, and Beca thinks she might as well walk right back out of there, because what’s the point? She’s here for one thing, one story, and that’s that.

“Right, no, of course not,” she hears herself saying as she takes her seat, gaze drifting toward the red head. Why is she still here? Why hasn’t she left yet? “Should we get started?”

—

While the questions flow seamlessly, and Beca finds that learning small tidbits and pieces of information about the starlet turns out to be more interesting than she would’ve perhaps expected, she knows that the interview is pointless. Nobody really cares about Chloe’s favorite restaurant or what inspired her to get into acting. Beca hangs onto every word, though. She doesn’t know why. The interview comes to an end before she even realizes any time has passed.

“Uh, yeah, so I guess those are all of the questions I have for you,” Beca concludes, flipping over the page on her notepad. Most reporters use tablets and iPads these days, but Beca is admittedly a little old-school with her pen and paper. It’s unlike her, people have noted, since technology is kind of her ‘thing’, but we all have our quirks. She has purposely left out the questions she has written down about Tom.

Carrie seems in something of a hurry to get rid of her. “I’ll show you out.”

Beca nods, gaze drifting once more over to the smile curved onto Chloe’s lips. Surely even she knows how boring that interview had been, right? If so, she shows no signs. She seems pretty happy with it, in fact. Then again, Beca is sure that for the up and comers, any publicity is good publicity. That isn’t why she’s here, though. Beca isn’t here to boost Chloe Beale’s career, she’s here to try to save her own. And she didn’t even get the information she’d needed.

Her heart sinks as she exchanges another handshake with the red head, saying a polite if not somewhat awkward goodbye, then she’s ushered out of the room. She and Carrie ride down to the first floor together in silence, and Beca finds herself wondering what kind of businesses are housed in this building, because she knows she’s going to have to look for another job after this. She hasn’t delivered, and like Angela said, we can’t keep people around who don’t deliver.

Beca is escorted right to the door, with Carrie thanking her, before disappearing into a room not too far away. She’s about to leave, thinking to herself that she needs to come up with a good excuse for her boss. If this wasn’t real life, if it was a cartoon where a lightbulb would flash above the character’s head to signify an idea to the audience, Beca would have the brightest bulb above her head. She glances toward the door, the one where Carrie has disappeared, then slips back into the building, making her way over to the elevator.

This time, as Beca enters the not-doctor’s waiting room up on the fifth floor, she doesn’t think about how sketchy it all feels. Instead, she thinks about how shady she feels. It’s easy to put that thought to the back of her mind when she remembers she has rent to pay, though. She has a reputation to build, a job to keep ahold of. It helps her to feel a little less guilty as she makes her way back over to the room she’d exited only minutes prior, the sight of the girl with the silky red hair and piercing blue eyes catching her attention through the small slab of window in the door.

Knock-knock.

Beca opens up without invitation, entering slowly. Chloe looks up from her phone, her expression confused at first, but that smile, the one Beca had noticed right away earlier on, returns quickly.

“Beca? Did you leave something in here?” Chloe questions, blue hues scanning the area around where the reporter had previously been sitting.

“No,” Beca shakes her head. “No, I just, uh…” She just what? Wanted to ask about what a dirty cheater she was so she could report back to her boss?

Chloe speaks next, seemingly unfazed by Beca’s lack of an explanation. “I’m glad you’re here. I actually wanted to get your number.”

Beca’s brow raises. “What?”

“Your number,” Chloe shrugs a shoulder, almost nonchalantly. “There are more things you wanted to ask me, right?”

She knows, Beca thinks. Her throat feels dry as she speaks, she doesn’t really know why. “Yeah. Yeah, there are. Do you have a–”

“A pen?” Chloe finishes up her sentence. “No, I do have an eidetic memory, though. You tell me and I’ll remember.”

“Oh.” Beca nods, “Okay, it’s–”

Chloe cuts her off with a short laugh. “Beca, I was kidding. Here,” She hands over her phone, and Beca feels her cheeks flush pink as she accepts it, typing in her number on the unlocked screen.

“You’re kind of cute, you know?” Chloe comments just as nonchalantly. Beca looks up at her from the screen.

“What?”

“What?” Chloe shrugs, taking the phone back once it’s offered out to her. She glances over the number on the screen, a nod of approval sent Beca’s way. “Thanks. I’ll call you and we can figure out someplace to meet? Maybe without Carrie. She doesn’t really let me talk about the juicy stuff.” Chloe leans forward as she speaks, like she’s telling Beca a secret. Beca is hyper aware that the other woman is dangerously close to her personal space, but doesn’t move away.

“Your eyes are a nice color, too,” Chloe says, “Sort of like a light gray, but that kind that probably changes color depending on the light, right?”

Beca notes that the red head has more of a personality now, something that hadn’t particularly shone through the interview. It’s like she’s more comfortable when it’s just the two of them. “Oh. Uh, I don’t know. I guess?” Beca fumbles, eyes crossing in the middle as if she’s trying to look at them herself. The action elicits a soft chuckle from the other woman, and Beca mentally asks herself what the hell she’s doing for about the fiftieth time this morning. She knows it’s time to leave.

“It was really nice to meet you, Beca,” Chloe’s voice sounds a little more sincere this time, at least in comparison to their previous departure. Beca agrees, then leaves through the door once more.

Dude, Beca thinks to herself as she calls the elevator, What just happened?

This time, as she exits the building, Beca’s thoughts are not consumed by the nagging worry that she’s about to lose her job. Instead, what she pictures are bright blue eyes and flaming red hair, the mental image drawing her in. She shakes off the thought as she makes her way through the revolving doors, brows tugging to meet in the middle.

The feeling of fast vibrations against her butt snap her from her thoughts, and Beca almost doesn’t register that it’s her phone until she reaches into her back pocket, sliding it out. She thinks it might be Angela, but she doesn’t recognize the number on the screen. Her thumb taps the answer button regardless, and Beca lifts the device to her ear. “Hello?”

“Beca?”

Beca’s brows tug together again. “Uh, yeah? Who’s this?”

The voice on the other end of the phone is both light and cool, it’s almost familiar to her, in fact. She hears a small laugh, and the urge to turn back toward the building strikes her. She looks up to see the figure in the fifth floor window, smile evident on her lips. Her phone is held to her ear too, and she sends a wave down to the shorter girl.

“Just checking you didn’t fake number me,” she says, and Beca swears she sees her shrug her shoulder.

There’s a smile on Beca’s lips in spite of the questioning in her eyes.

“I have no dinner plans yet,” Chloe continues, “Are you free tonight?”

( part 2 here! ) ( + part 3! )

[marvel-nerd-87]

Saved By The Bell (1/?)

Pairings: Bucky x Reader, Steve x Peggy, Natasha x Clint

Summary: (Y/N)’s mother decides to enroll her in a boarding school after being homeschooled her entire life. After being thrown in the deep end she decides maybe high school isn’t so bad.

AN: I woke up from a nap and was struck with sudden inspiration. This is a high school AU and is probably gonna be really slow burn.

Taglist/Request: Open

“Mom it’s my senior year, can’t you just homeschool me for a few more months?” You we’re pleading with your mom after she told you she already enrolled you in the biggest boarding school in New York.

“Think of it as a practice for college! You’re gonna make all kinds of new friends. Please just give it a shot, for me?”

You sigh as you pick up your suit case and start packing up all your clothes. You had never really had friends before because you’d been homeschooled since pre-k. Sure there was a neighbor every now and then but it was basically always you and your mom. Tonight was your last night in your own room. Tomorrow you would be rooming with a complete stranger.

“Ms. (Y/L/N), I’m Principal Fury, It appears you’ll be rooming in room number 357. If you have any questions just email me. Here is your schedule and you start classes tomorrow.”

“Okay, thank you so much!” You walked out of his office and climbed to the third floor. You followed the room numbers.

355.....356.....357

Your nerves hit you like a ton of bricks when you realized you had to knock. What if she hated you? You swallowed what little pride you had and knocked on the door. It opened and you saw a girl with a sweet smile. You had clearly interrupted her getting ready because her dark brown hair was wrapped up in a towel.

“(Y/N)?”

“That’s me” You smiled back at her and she opened the door so you could enter. The room had a bed on either side. Her bed had a red quilt and a teddy bear on it. Her makeup was laying out on the bed along with her outfit for the day. Your bed on the other hand was bare.

“I’m Wanda, it’s nice to meet you! Sorry about the mess. I have class in thirty minutes.”

“Nice to meet you too. And it’s okay I understand. If you don’t mind me asking where is your accent from?”

“I’m a foreign exchange student from Sokovia. I have a twin brother there too.”

“I’m an only child. I was homeschooled up until today.”

“You must be scared shit less then. I’ll tell you what, you stay in the room and get ready after this class I’ll take you too meet up with my friends for lunch so you won’t be alone.”

“Yeah sure! Thank you so much!”

You and Wanda got along really well and you were cracking up and making jokes the entire time she was getting ready. She told you she’d be back at 12:30 and she would see you then. So that meant you had two hours to make your bed and get ready. You threw your navy quit on the bed along with your millions of throw pillows. Next step clothes. You dig through your suit case until you found a plain black sundress you threw on your black fishnet tights and jean jacket. The most comfortable shoes you had were a pair of black combat boots so they were probably your best bet. Your makeup took you the longest. Once you had finished everything on your to do list you checked the time. 12:15. You decided to call your mom and tell her how well you and Wanda got on. It wasn’t until 12:45 Wanda burst through the door.

“Hi, sorry I’m late but we need to hurry before they run out the good fries in the cafeteria.” She grabbed your hand and sprinted down the hallway. Clearly she wasn’t watching where she was going because when she turned a corner she ran straight into someone the three of you falling into a pile on the floor. You looked at the stranger and were immediately taken back by how handsome he was. His long brown hair was tied in a bun at the nape of his neck. He wore a heavy leather jacket and a pair of jeans with a grey T-shirt. Tucked behind his ear was a cigarette.

“What the fuck Maximoff?” He chuckled. His voice reminded you of fire, deep, warm, and inviting.

“Sorry not sorry Buck, you know how I feel about French fries.”

“I asked Loki to get extra for you. No need to rush.” He stood up offering a hand to you. You grabbed it and he pulled you to your feet surprisingly easy.

“And who might you be?”

“My name is (Y/N), It’s nice to meet you.”

“(Y/N),” he repeated to himself and god did you get drunk off the way he said it, “would you ladies like an escort to lunch?”

“We’d love one.” Wanda laughed and the three of you walked to the cafeteria.

“Took you long enough, and who is this?” His long black hair was greased back. In his hand was book of Edgar Allen Poe poems. The sleeves of his emerald green sweater were pushed up. In front of him was a mountain of fries on a plate.

“Sorry, Mr. Smith held me over. Apparently painting my nails during history class isn’t the ‘best use’ of my time. And this is (Y/N) my new roommate. (Y/N) this is Loki.”

“Pleasure.” He stuck his cold hand out for you to shake. You, Bucky, and Wanda sat down and she began to eat the fries of Loki’s plate.

“Since it’s your first day let me give you a run down on everyone and all the people you should worry about.” Wanda pointed to a group that sat a few tables down, “there we have the rich preps, that’s Tony, T’Challa, Peggy and Clint. Peggy dates Steve quarterback of the football team and Bucky’s roommate. Nice guy wouldn’t worry about him too much. Clint dates Natasha. She’s a cheerleader she can be a little bit of a bitch sometimes. Next to them we have the jocks. Steve and Nat who you already know about, Sam who will probably try and get in your pants at least once and Thor, Loki’s brother.”

“Adopted.”

“Right, Loki is Thor’s adopted brother. Anyways, next table down is the smart kids. That’s Peter, Tony’s right hand man, and Shuri, T’Challa’s little sister. They’re both freshman and that’s Bruce and Stephen they’re both pretty cool dudes. I think that’s everyone important minus us of course. We’re the loners who enjoy being alone together”

“And fucking shit up.” Bucky adds high fiving Wanda.

“We keep Loki around because he wears all dark colors and fits in with our aesthetic.” Wanda laughed.

“No, you keep Loki around because my silver tongue keeps you imbeciles out of detention.” Loki corrects taking a sip from his black coffee.

“That too.” Bucky chuckles, “but enough about us. How about you? What’s up with the mysterious (Y/N)?”

“Well, I was homeschooled up until today. I’m an only child and I too love fucking shit up and wearing dark colors.”

“Well, Doll, I think this friendship is gonna work out nicely.” You didn’t even get a chance to respond to the pet before a pair of hands clamped down on Bucky’s broad shoulders.

“Hey Punk, I didn’t see you at breakfast.” You look up to see Steve standing behind Bucky. Your once empty table filled with everyone Wanda hand pointed out to you.

“Yeah Barnes, who might this lovely lady be?” This had to be Sam.

“Her name is (Y/N) and she’s not interested Birdbrain.”

“The Lady can speak for herself, I’m Sam and you are?”

“Not interested.”

“Ohhhhh Burnnnn.” You see Clint laughing. Earning a playful nudge from Natasha.

“I take it James already introduced us?” Peggy sat in front of you.

Uh yeah he did. He didn’t go into a lot of detail though.”

“Ah well I’m Peggy Carter, Student Body President. What brings you to our school?”

“My mom actually moved to New York for a job working as an assistant for Howard Stark,” you hear Tony groan at the name. You pause for second confused at his response before continuing, “So she wouldn’t have the time to homeschool me anymore and decided to enroll me here.”

“So you’ve never been to an actual school before?” Steve raised an eyebrow at you.

“Never.”

“You most be incredibly overwhelmed then.” Bruce gave you a soft smile.

“That may be an understatement.” You awkwardly laughed.

“Well you look like you’ll fit in well with my brother and his friends. Just be careful. They tend to cause a lot of trouble, Right Loki?” Thor patted his brother’s back earning an eye roll from his clearly annoyed brother.

“Hey! I’m having a party tonight you guys should all come?” Steve smiled.

“Sorry pal but it’s a full moon so the four of us have plans.” Bucky felt bad turning down the invitation but a tradition’s a tradition.

“Four of you? I thought it was only you three weirdos?” Tony frowned in confusion.

“No, it’s us four weirdos now. Bucky, Loki, me, and (Y/N).” Wanda leaned her head on your shoulder. Suddenly the lunch bell rang and everyone got up and went back to their school day.

“I’ll be done with classes at 4 then the three of us will meet you in the room. Dress warm we’re gonna be outside all night.” She pulled you in for a hug and skipped off to class leaving you alone in the hallway. You pulled your phone out to send a quick text.

‘Mom, I think I just accidentally joined a cult.’

Taglist:-

[arya3601]

Face Paints and First Meetings

Dean is a high schooler working part-time at a carnival, painting faces for the night. Castiel is a high schooler that isn't allowed to pick what he gets.

Read it on AO3!

A hand smacked the fold-out table that was Dean’s “booth”, his head jerking up from his phone at the sharp noise amid the hubbub of the crowd.

“Hey, there, artsy,” a short, blonde man said, grinning crookedly, hand still flat on the plastic surface, “My brother wants to get his face painted, and we were hoping you could help with that.” 

Dean raised his eyebrows but plastered on his professional, customer-service, dealing-with-rude-people smile. If the man couldn’t be bothered to read the stupidly bright and colorful sign declaring Face Painting, $10, there was a large chance Dean would need to work hard to keep his cool. “Well, you’ve come to the right place.” He stuck his phone in his pocket before waving vaguely at the assortment of paint-splattered brushes standing proudly out of a red plastic cup. Not incredibly professional, but he did work at a fall carnival, after all. It’s not like he could afford a nice studio set-up as a high schooler with a part-time gig. Plus, his usual clientele consisted of four-to-seven year olds, and as long as Dean knew how to paint Spider-Man, they couldn’t care less. “Long as you’ve got ten bucks, I’ll paint whatever he wants.”

 “Oh, it doesn’t matter what he wants.” The man grinned wider. “Ooh Cassie!” He turned and sang over his shoulder, “Come here!”

 “Cassie” parted from the throng and walked over, radiating embarrassment. He looked about Dean’s age, which was a welcome surprise after painting children all night. No offense to the little guys, but the squirming and nose wrinkling made it hard to paint straight. He was cute, too, Dean mused to himself. Dark, messy hair and blue eyes. The trench coat was a little weird, sure, but certainly not the worst choice to protect against the October temps. “Gabe, do we really have to do this right now?”

 “Yes.” Gabe’s face was serious, but Dean trusted that about as far as he could throw the guy. He could still see the corner of his mouth twitching and the wicked amusement in his eyes. “You agreed to this, bucko.”

 “Yes, but I thought it would take you longer to find someone.” Cassie muttered, rubbing his forearm nervously. His eyes were locked onto his brother’s, obviously trying to puppy-dog-eyes his way out of the situation.

 Damn. Guy could give Sam a run for his money. Dean chuckled quietly to himself.

 Unfortunately for Cassie, it seemed Gabe was immune to the look. He turned back to Dean, smirk firmly back in place. “Columbo here- “

 “Rude.” Cassie muttered quietly.

 “-has agreed to sit still while you paint whatever your little heart desires all over his pretty face. And then walk around with it all night, no matter what it is.”

 Dean blinked and slowly raised his eyebrows. “And just why would he agree to do that?” He glanced over at the teen, who still looked incredibly like he wanted to disappear.

 “Not your problem, sweet cheeks.” The blonde finally lifted his hand to reveal a crumpled ten on the cheap table. “We got ten bucks, you paint. Weren’t those the rules?” He gasped dramatically, covering his mouth with his hand, “Unless you changed them?”

 “No,” Dean plastered on his fake smile again, suppressing the urge to punch the guy. “Those are still the rules.”

 “Well, ain’t that just swell.” Gabe turned and raised his eyebrows at his brother, sweeping his hand dramatically to the wooden stool across from Dean. “You sit, Cassie. I’ll be back in twenty minutes. That cotton candy looks to die for. Paint something good!” Gabe disappeared as quickly as he had come, melting seamlessly into the Friday-night crowd.

 After a few moments, Cassie shuffled awkwardly around the table, lowering himself slowly onto the seat.

 It was almost comical, how much taller that made him than Dean. The stool was higher up, for the kids, so it put the guy at least a full head above Dean. This one might hurt his neck a little, Dean noted.

 “You know,” Dean began conversationally, fiddling with his paints, carefully avoiding eye contact. He felt like, if anything, that might make the guy more embarrassed. “If you want, we could just tell him to shove it. I won’t get fired or anything.”

 “No, I did agree to this.” The teen muttered, but he still sounded like he was marching into his own grave. His eyes were focused intensely on the red and white striped canvas wall behind Dean’s head.

 “Yeah, it’s frickin’ ugly, isn’t it?” Dean turned around to where Cassie was looking, trying to lighten the mood. “I tried to ask for a black one or something, but the owner of this place is really weirdly attached to the whole ‘carnival’ look.”

 Cassie cracked a small smile, shoulders loosening a bit. His feet rested on the bottom rung of the stool, legs clearly longer than the seat was made for.

 “So what’s your real name?” Dean asked, turning back. “I have a feeling it ain’t actually ‘Cassie’.”

 “No, it isn’t, Gabe just likes to call me that because he knows it bothers me. My name is Castiel.” It looked like the small talk was helping him relax, so Dean kept going.

 “Hate to agree with that guy,” Dean screwed up his face in distaste, leisurely picking up a brush. He was hoping if he started slowly, he wouldn’t spook the guy. “But it is kind of the older brother’s right to call the younger one nicknames. God knows I bug Sammy enough with it.” He dipped the brush into blue paint, almost absentmindedly.

 “Yes, well,” Castiel shrugged. “That doesn’t mean I have to enjoy it.”

 Dean chuckled. “No, it doesn’t.” He lifted his hand, bringing it up to Castiel’s face carefully, but not yet touching his skin. He smiled at the widened eyes, slight panic obvious in them. “The paint might be a little cold, but don’t worry. This doesn’t hurt at all.” He said soothingly, drawing from past experiences with freaked-out toddlers.

 “I’m not worried it will hurt.” Castiel screwed his eyes shut, eyebrows furrowed and nose crinkled. Dean sighed internally. So much for that, then. “I’m worried about what you’re going to paint.” He cracked his eyes open when he didn’t feel anything on his face.

 Dean laughed, lowering his hand again. “Don’t worry, dude. You seem like a really nice guy, so far, anyway, and I’m not the type to paint dicks on anyone’s face. Even if they’re a dick.”

 The slight blush and averted eyes told Dean that had been exactly what the other boy had been expecting.

 “No way, man!” Dean crowed. He felt slightly offended, but couldn’t help but sit back and laugh. “You thought I was going to draw dicks on your face!”

 A woman walking by his table cast an offended glare at him and hurried her little boy along. Dean snorted at the kid’s delighted grin, still giggling to himself.

 “Well!” Castiel began defensively, “You’re a high school boy! They draw dicks on everything!” He pointed at Dean, “Plus, if Gabe got to choose the design, he definitely would have told you to paint them on me.”

 Dean pursed his lips sympathetically, but couldn’t help the small chuckles still escaping. “Yeah, I met him for thirty seconds and I could see that. Don’t worry,” He held up his free hand, the other still resting on his knee with a dripping paintbrush. “I promise I will not paint dicks on your face. Scout’s honor.”

 Castiel squinted at him suspiciously, but nodded acceptance. “Okay, fine. You may continue.” His shoes squeaked on the cheap wooden rung. “I trust that you won’t paint inappropriate things on my face.” His face smoothed out as he relaxed again.

 “Oh, are all inappropriate things banned?” Dean grinned, quickly reaching up and swiping a few calculated lines on Castiel’s face. “I just promised no dicks, we didn’t talk about other stuff.”

 Castiel squinted at Dean again, lips pressed tightly together, obviously trying to figure out whether he was kidding. The crowd noise seemed louder in the silence, overlapping voices creating a rumbling background to the impromptu staring contest. “… you wouldn’t.” A game booth a few tents down started ringing some kind of bell.

 Dean snickered at the look, secretly thinking that it was adorable. It was like a puppy growling at you. Especially with the random streaks of blue across his forehead. “No, I wouldn’t. I’m joking, Castiel. I am not going to paint inappropriate things on your face.”

 “Good.” Castiel muttered, his face slowly returning to a calm expression. His hands tangled together in his lap, he still visibly looked a little unsure about the situation.

 Dean calmly reached up and started adding lines, dipping back into his paints every few strokes. “So why are you doing this?” He asked gently, dabbing color onto a temple. “Don’t get me wrong, face paint is a way better route than a tattoo or something, but no offense, you don’t really look like you want to be here.” He leaned in and stuck his tongue out of the corner of his mouth as he grabbed his thinnest brush, beginning to slowly add web-thin lines.

 “No,” Castiel protested softly, “I don’t mind it here. I like the energy. It’s almost like sitting in the middle of a thunderstorm.” His smile crinkled the wet paint next to his eyes.

 Dean felt the odd sensation of simultaneous disappointment at the smears and appreciation of the cute smile. He smiled and shook his head at himself, reaching up to fix the area.

 “I just don’t like to participate. It’s very suffocating, the crowds are…” He shrugged self-consciously. “Gabe says I plan too much. I’m not ‘impulsive enough’.” He did the little air quotes, the dork. “This was supposed to show that he was wrong.”

 Dean raised an eyebrow, adding more white to his paper plate “palette”, mixing a lighter shade of blue. “I don’t know, man, it kind of just sounds like an opportunity for him to mess with you.” He would know, he’d pulled schemes like this on Sam enough.

 Castiel sighed before scrunching his nose at the touch of the brush on the bridge of it. “Yeah, I figured that out about five seconds after I agreed to it. Like you said, though, face paint is better than a tattoo.”

 The game booth bell rang out again. “… he wouldn’t.” No way.

 “Oh, I assure you, he would.”

 Dean shook his head in disbelief. “Crazy, dude. Your brother is crazy.”

 “You don’t know the half of it.” Castiel muttered darkly.

 “Probably not,” Dean agreed. He used his free hand to gently push some curls off of Castiel’s forehead, smoothly adding a few more lines.

 Castiel’s eyes slipped closed, apparently now used to the feeling of the brush. “He once replaced every document on my laptop with a copy of the Bee Movie script.”

 Dean winced in sympathy. “Ah, damn. He didn’t erase anything super important, did he?”

 “No,” he sighed, “I had back-up copies of everything incredibly important.” His mouth twisted into what Dean could only describe as a pout, and a cute one. “It did put me a few days behind on a final paper, though.”

 “Yeah, I bet.” Dean said, dipping into some gray. “I haven’t done anything like that to Sam, just the little stuff. Itching powder in his underwear, spoon in his mouth while he’s sleeping,” he shrugged, even though he knew Cas couldn’t see it. “Nothing that would really hurt him or ruin anything critical.”

 Castiel scrunched up his nose again, and Dean sighed at the new smudges. “That’s certainly better than my brother, but it still doesn’t sound too pleasant for Sam.”

 “He always gets me back, don’t worry about him too much.” Dean carefully corrected the blotches and continued. “Don’t wrinkle your nose like that.” He admonished softly. “It messes up the paint.”

 “Oh, sorry, I didn’t think about it.” Castiel seemed embarrassed by that.

 “Not a big deal,” Dean tried to soothe, lightly brushing a few more curls out of his way. “You’re doing way better than my usual, promise. Have you ever tried to paint the Batman symbol on the cheek of a five-year-old who just finished his third cotton candy?” He shuddered loudly.

 “No,” the corner of Cas’ mouth twitched up faintly. “Can’t say that I have.”

 “It’s not for the faint of heart.” Dean muttered darkly.

 Castiel chuckled under his breath before they both fell silent again.

 A girl walked by arm-in-arm with her girlfriend, both laughing loudly at something. A boy a few stalls down whooped as he won a stuffed crocodile. The crowd continued to buzz, friends yelling at each other across the path as parents scolded children for wandering off.

 It was oddly peaceful, sitting here, painting Castiel’s face. It was nice, Dean thought as he switched brushes again. A comfortable silence.

 “What are you painting?” Castiel asked quietly, eyes closed.

 Dean grinned lightly at the hesitancy in the other boy’s voice. “Cas, I am painting a giant Hello Kitty design.” He said, keeping his voice low and calm. “Aaaallll over your face. You have a pretty little pink bow here.” He tapped the handle of the brush against Cas’ temple, “A nice little yellow nose here,” tapped against the tip of Cas’ nose, “And whiskers.” He traced the handle over Cas’ cheeks teasingly.

 “Dean,” Cas’ voice was amused, if anything. His eyes stayed shut, seemingly unconcerned. “You haven’t painted my nose or cheeks, and you were using like five different shades of blue.”

 Dean chuckled under his breath. “Yeah, okay, Columbo, you’re right.” He sat back for a moment to take in the whole design critically. “You know that Willy Wonka movie with that blueberry chick?”

 Cas’ eyes flew open and he shifted suddenly, about to stand. “You did not- “

 Dean quickly reached out and tugged him back down, laughing. “No, no, Cas, of course I didn’t.”

 “You better not have.” He muttered as he sat again. “I have to walk around with this all night, you know.”

 Dean nodded, pretending solemnity, dotting a few more places. “I know, Gabe told me.”

 “Assbutt.” Castiel muttered.

 The bell rang out from the game booth again. Dean carefully sat down his brush and raised his eyebrows. “Assbutt?”

 Castiel looked over at the churro truck down the way, avoiding Dean’s eye line. “Yes.” His cheeks looked suspiciously pink. “And are you calling me Cas now?”

 Dean suppressed a smile and shook his head. Dork. “Yes.” He reached out and turned Cas’ face back to him, doing a final sweep of the design. “Lookin’ good.” It really did look good; at least Dean thought so. It had helped that no one else had wanted their face painted. He hadn’t had to rush to get to another customer.

 “Are you done?” Cas didn’t seem to mind the hand that was still resting against his cheek, but Dean put it down anyway. No need to freak out the guy.

 Dean hummed an affirmative before grabbing his hand mirror and holding it against his chest. “You ready to see it?”

 Castiel looked unsure, but nodded anyway.

 Dean felt a warm glow fill him at the guy’s trust, and couldn’t help the grin that spread across his face. The game booth bell started ringing again, this time flashing lights, too. Someone had just won big. Dean raised the mirror to Castiel’s height. “Ta-da!”

 Castiel looked awestruck. A few moments passed, silence from both teens as someone at a game booth yelled something about a palm tree.  “… how did you do this?” He whispered, reverently trailing his fingers across the lines.

 Dean suddenly felt bashful and dropped his arm, shrugging awkwardly. “I just painted it, dude.” He rubbed the back of his neck, unsure. “So you like it?”

 Castiel gently pried the mirror from Dean’s hand and held it up to his face, turning left and right to see the entire piece. “Oh my gosh. It’s amazing! I love this!” He beamed at Dean, who couldn’t help but smile back in the face of that gummy smile.

 Castiel continued to examine himself in the mirror, admiring the beautifully complicated network of blue lighting emanating from his right temple, arcing across his face to the other side. Dean had layered different shades of blues and whites, making each branch look incredibly 3D and lifelike, and even added some stormy clouds across his hairline. He couldn’t stop smiling at it; the artwork was so stunning.

 Dean leaned back against his chair, quietly satisfied that Castiel liked the final product. “Soo…” He drawled, “I guess this means you’ll take risks more often, huh?”

 Castiel lowered the mirror and beamed at him again, replying, “If it ends anything like this, I will become the most reckless person in Lawrence.”

 Dean rolled his eyes and took back his mirror, putting it back on the table. “Slow down there, Evil Kenevil, you can work your way up. Nothing dangerous, you got me? I kind of like your weird, dorky ass.”

 Cas rolled his eyes, but he was still smiling. “I feel like I should be insulted, but I think that was a compliment, so thanks.”

 “Yeah, no problem.” Dean rubbed the back of his neck again. “So, look, uh…”

 Castiel waited patiently, fingers absently reaching up to brush against the paint again. It probably itched, Dean thought.

 He blew out a hard breath before deciding to just get it over with. “I know we didn’t talk all that much, but you seem like a really cool guy.” And you’re unbelievably adorable, Dean added silently. “I haven’t taken my break yet and, if you’re not in too much of a rush to get back to your brother, I’d like to see if we can’t hang out some more. Maybe.” He glanced up. “Like get dinner or something.”

 Castiel tilted his head to the side, reminding Dean of when they got Bones as a puppy. He couldn’t help chuckling again at the cute motion. “Would it be a dinner-date or just a dinner?”

 “Well,” Dean tapped his fingers against the table, staring at a yellow splotch on his ring finger. “That’s up to you, I guess.” He glanced up, “I wouldn’t mind it being a date, but if you’re not comfortable with that, we can just get food as friends. No pressure.” It would be a little disappointing, sure, but he definitely wouldn’t mind being friends with Castiel.

 Castiel ran his hand through his hair, a few curls falling onto his forehead. “I would like for it to be a date, as well.” He smiled shyly.

 Dean stood up, brushing his jeans off. “Awesome.” He smiled and stepped forward, gently brushing the curls back off Cas’ head. “Careful with that for a minute,” he warned quietly, “paint might not be totally dry yet.”

 Castiel hummed acknowledgement, and Dean could see the slight blush at their closeness, without a brush in between them. They both smiled softly at the other.

 “C’mon.” Dean took a step towards the main thoroughfare, sticking his hand back to Cas and wiggling his fingers in invitation. “We won’t find gourmet steaks, but Garth’s deep-fried turkey legs are pretty great, if that’s okay with you?”

 “Sounds good to me.” Cas sent Dean a quick smile as he took the painter's hand.

 “Will Gabe be worried if we aren’t here when he finally comes back?” Dean asked, beginning to find his way through the throng. He accidentally bumped into a woman, both parties muttering a quick apology.

 “Probably.” Cas stepped closer, grip tightening on Dean’s hand. Dean smiled privately at the action. “But he always is telling me to be more impulsive, so, if anything, he’ll be proud.”

 “He wouldn’t leave here without you, would he?”

 Castiel was silent for a few paces, “You have a car, right?”

 Dean threw back his head and laughed, squeezing Cas’ hand and stopping in front of Garth’s truck. He had a feeling he was going to have a very good night.

[verodots]

out of season

(also on ao3)

When he walks in, it’s like the sun pours in after him.

Jeremy swallows a lump in his throat that melts into a seed, and plants itself into the pit of his stomach, finding a home amongst frozen soil and butterflies.

In some way, he’s the prettiest boy Jeremy has ever seen, wrapped in red and just absolutely glowing like a gold sunlit photo as he stands in the threshold of the quaint, ill-lit shop. Jeremy’s heart drums against his chest, hummingbird wings in his ribcage.

(He had felt this once before. Quick pulses and seeds that grew purple spring flowers that he fostered with care.)

The boy looks out of place standing next to paint chipped walls and stacks of old glass pottery; out of season in the same way that Jeremy is when surrounded by summery orchids and roses and violets.

But the boy isn’t blue winter like Jeremy, who embodies overcast skies and layers of morning frost. As he approaches the front counter, a bonfire warmth spreading with each step he takes, Jeremy thinks of autumn, crisp air and crunchy leaves underfoot. The boy tries to drown his earth tones in deep red, red knit, shoulders lifted, head down, hands in his pockets, but it doesn’t hide the way the sunlight follows him like a spotlight, filtering through the windows.

Jeremy forgets himself for a moment. Forgets to shut his laptop. Forgets to straighten his posture. Forgets that he is a worker who is paid to greet and help customers, not fall head over heels for them at a glance.  

The boy shifts in place and glances up. Jeremy blinks and pricks his thumb on a thorn he had been trimming under the counter. They both speak at the same time.

“Hello—“

“Uh, hey—“

Then they both clamp their mouths shut. The boy looks back down and bites his lip. Jeremy looks down at his miniscule injury and feels his ears tinge pink with stupid, stupid embarrassment.

At least the boy has the good grace to make a sound of awkward laughter, while Jeremy struggles to gain what little bearings he had in the first place. He rehearses a line in his head, practiced protocol he uses on little old ladies who wander in on rainy days or browsing teenagers who stop by after school lets out. He snaps his head up abruptly, exhaling.

“What can I help you with—“

“Okay, this is might sound weird—“

Their voices overlap again. This time, Jeremy doesn’t get the chance to feel embarrassed because the boy cracks a helpless half-smile in his direction that causes Jeremy’s mind to go blank. And the seed that settled in the cold pit of his stomach does something (sprouts? takes root?) that sends a rush up his spine.

“We’re kind of in sync, aren’t we?” the boy chuckles softly, finally lowering his shoulders. He takes one hand out of his pocket to gesture to Jeremy. “You go first.”

“I, um,” Jeremy stammers. The boy is even prettier up close, cheeks slightly rosy from the chilly outdoor air, dark mocha eyes bright behind a pair of round, outdated glasses. There’s a radiance about him that not even the muted grey filter of the shop can cast a shadow across.

His mouth feels dryer the longer he stares; the boy is waiting for him to say something. Say something. Say anything.

“I’m Jeremy!”

His own reaction is instantaneous: covering his face with his hands and muffling a mortified groan. The boy, on the other hand, takes a second to process Jeremy’s colossal social fumble.

“Oh, yeah?” he drawls out, unsure, but recovers from his surprise quickly. “Oh—Well, uh, I’m Michael.”

And for the briefest of moments, Jeremy’s heart completely stops.

Michael.

Time moves in slow motion as Jeremy creates just enough space between his fingers to see an outstretched hand offered to him across the counter.

Michael.

The boy’s name echoes in his head, and everything in his body starts to move at once

The butterflies make his insides soar, his heart pounds a loud, steady rhythm, and that damn seed shoots up into his throat and blooms red red red with a hiccup of—

“Michael!”

Jeremy flinches at his volume at the same time the boy–Michael–does. Self-conscious, Jeremy moves a hand from his face to flatten his hair, eyes looking anywhere but at Michael.

“I-I’m sorry…I didn’t mean…”

“No, yeah, I mean…that’s me,” Michael clears his throat, another nervous chuckle following. “Nice to meet you, Jeremy!”

Jeremy looks up just in time to see Michael taking the liberty to reach the rest of the way over the counter and grab his hand in a handshake. Michael’s grip is firm and enthusiastic; his large hand encompasses Jeremy’s thin, bony one. He notes the heat of Michael’s skin, warming his own clammy hand until the tips of his fingers don’t feel numb anymore.

When Jeremy dares to shift his gaze upward, meeting Michael’s eyes, his whole face starts to burn, cheeks filling with a red, red color. He manages to squeeze Michael’s hand back weakly, and Michael grins.

For just a moment, Jeremy doesn’t feel like winter or autumn or even spring. Michael makes him feel like something entirely new. A feeling that is much too fleeting the second their hands part.

Jeremy masks his disappointment by pulling the sleeves of his sweater over his knuckles. “Uh, how can I help you, Mi-Michael?”

Michael’s face lights up now that all the awkwardly placed introductions are aside. He’s nearly bouncing in place when he explains what he’s looking for. “Oh, man! When I was passing by, I saw this super rad flower in the window. The Fire Flower! You know, from Mario? I’m not a big flower person, but man, that just seemed like such a rare find! Do you—is it for sale?”

Jeremy is already stumbling out of his stool before Michael can even finish his question, maneuvering around the counter and hiding his face so Michael won’t catch the fond smile on his lips. It’s like Michael just keeps getting better and better.

“Yeah, yeah! Of course! Let me just—just get it for you! Hang on,” he motions for Michael to stay put while he weaves through the aisles to the front of the store. The flower in question isn’t actually one with a price. It’s more of as decorative piece that Jeremy had made a few days prior, a red daisy that he slapped some glue and foam on and then stuck it in a cheap vase before putting it in the very corner of the front window in his own feeble attempt to add some character to the otherwise dull shop.

He has to stand on his tip toes to grab the vase now, careful not to drop it or snap the flower’s stem. He examines it over once as he carries it back to the front, checking to make sure no petals are falling off or wilting. Thankfully, the daisy is in perfect condition, and he happily holds it out to Michael, who is even more thrilled to see the flower up close.

“Woah! This is amazing! Do you guys have any more of these? Or anything else like it?” He doesn’t look up from the flower, but Jeremy is still touched by Michael’s admiration for his amateur handiwork.

Fiddling with his sweater sleeves again, Jeremy shrugs his shoulders. “Sorry, it’s, um, one of a kind… Since I-I only made one. I didn’t think anyone would actually ask about it.”

The statement causes Michael’s head to snap up, his mouth parted in a comical ‘O’ shape. “Dude, one of a kind? And you made this,” Michael exclaims, shaking the vase none too gently. Jeremy almost reaches out to stop him, but catches himself at the last second. Oblivious, Michael continues, “I’m talking to a real flower artist here! How much? I think I have like fifteen bucks in my pockets…somewhere…”

Michael shifts the vase into one arm, shoving his other hand into his pocket to dig around for change. This time, Jeremy helpfully takes the vase for him, his heart jumping when Michael, tongue poked out in concentration, offers him a grateful glance.

“No, uh, don’t worry about it. You can just have it. For—for free, you know?”

Michael’s eyes widen. “Wait, what—“

“I’m serious,” Jeremy walks back to the other side of the counter, touching one of the black eyes that are hot glued on the flower. He’d constructed the simple design with the help of old yellow and black craft foam, and it’s hardly a job well done. “This was really easy to make. I just used some old stuff lying around my garage. It’s fine if you take it. Just make sure you change the water every few days or so.”

“Yeah, but,” Michael runs a hand through his hair, lips pursed, “I can’t just not pay for art.”

Jeremy snorts, partly because of Michael’s exaggerated statement, and partly because talking to Michael is so miraculously easy. He definitively slides the vase across the countertop. “I’m a florist, not an artist. I can make more if I want.”

“You should!” Michael blurts with a suddenness that shocks them both. “I would—I really want to see the other stuff you can make! Like, if you get any more ideas for cool video game bouquets I want to be the first to know.”

Jeremy swallows thickly again, and the sprout in his stomach, his chest, his throat tickles and prods him. He wants to be brave, to say what’s on his mind, to live with one less regret.

He sees red, daring, warm, comforting red. In Michael’s jacket. In the daisy. In his own cheeks. In the petals that bloom in his stomach. Red, so tempting that he knows he has to do something.

So, Jeremy takes a deep breath, feeling brave and red and entirely out of season.

“You can always call. I-I mean, if you have an idea or a special request of your own.”

That something (that red, red something) in his stomach rewards him with a breath of air in his lungs and a giddy tingle in his limbs. Michael rewards him with the widest smile he’s seen yet and a fumbling attempt to dig through his pockets once more for something.

Finally, Michael holds out his cell phone, new contact information pulled up on the screen.

Jeremy offers a business card, the contact number for Heere Family Flowers printed in bold.

They both speak at once.

“You can just put your number in—“

“This is our card, you can—“

And they both clamp their mouths shut.

Jeremy goes pink again. Michael follows in suit. He retreats his hand back into his pocket at light speed, and it’s like the phone was never there in the first place.

“Oh,” Michael tries to laugh off his mistake, but his voice cracks in the slightest, “You—you meant call the store…”

The awkward tension is palpable. Jeremy’s muscles clench, and he wants to cough up the metaphorical petals in his throat, but he forces the sensation back down. He can fix this.

“Yeah, but,” he scrambles to find a pen, ducking under the counter when there’s none to be found on the countertop. He spots a blue gel pen under his stool, bumps his head on the underside of the counter when he stands back up, and continues mission despite Michael’s noise of confusion and worry.

The business card is packed with text on the front, but the back is blank, and that’s where Jeremy scribbles his name, number, and a tiny doodle of Yoshi. It’s messier than he would like, but it’s legible. He’s just amazed that his shaky hand was even able to hold a pen correctly.

“Here.” He feels a bit breathless as he holds out the business card between obviously shaking fingers. Michael studies the small card, before slowly reaching out and taking it gently from Jeremy’s grasp. Jeremy breathes out a sigh of relief. “You can call me too.” he says, then quickly tacks on, “If-If you have any ideas!”

Michael, looking surprised himself, smiles down at the card. Then, as he pockets the note, grins at Jeremy as well. “I’ll definitely give you a call! Thanks for everything!”

He slips a folded five-dollar bill in the empty tip jar sitting on the edge of the counter before he starts to leave. Jeremy watches him go, heart still thumping. Still feeling red red red.  

“I’ll see you around, Jeremy!” Michael calls as he steps out the door, waving. Jeremy mirrors the gesture. Then Michael is gone.

And the sun follows after.

[whichstiel]

The Science of Gift Giving

It had been months since Dean tossed Castiel a mix tape. He’d handed it off to Castiel with averted eyes, a strange flush coloring his skin. “Made this for you,” he had said. Castiel took it from him curiously, promised to listen to it on his upcoming drive in his continued search for Kelly, and that was that.

It had been slightly less time than that since Dean had told him tersely that the tape was a gift, and meant to be retained indefinitely.

And, of course, Castiel had been dead for quite a lot of the elapsed time since then. Still, it bothered him that he had not yet reciprocated the gift giving.

At first it hadn’t occurred to him that reciprocal gift giving was something that ought to happen. It seemed apparent that Dean had some free time and had chosen to spend it creating a musical compilation for Castiel. And Castiel had listened to it. When he needed respite, he’d parked, closed his eyes, and let himself drift along the melodies on the cassette. He’d climbed up to the stars with the crescendos and fallen down into the thick earth when the songs fell low. Castiel kept the cassette in his breast pocket and when he’d fought back to life and retrieved his coat from Dean, the cassette had still been there. Waiting.

* * *

When hunts were slow and the itch for solitude began to feel like an entire ant colony under his skin, Castiel liked to go to the nearby public library. The library was an institution that he at first avoided, understanding it to be a warehouse of human fiction and a location for passionate assignations in the stacks. At least, that was the knowledge passed along to him from Metatron, and the hundreds of library romances Metatron had devoured.

However Metatron, who had claimed to deliver to Castiel all human knowledge, had missed a considerable amount of it. Namely, Metatron had apparently eschewed nearly everything except for fiction and biographies. When Castiel had realized that there were shelves and shelves of books he’d never read – or second-hand read before – he became addicted to the nonfiction section of the public library. Reading about how humans interpreted the world – sometimes inventively, sometimes laughably – had become both a fascinating diversion and a welcome retreat. (The physics textbooks were a delight when he needed a little light reading in the quiet morning hours.)

One comfortable afternoon he sat ensconced in a study carrel near the 300’s with a book cracked open before him: The science of gift giving. Castiel had pulled the book from the shelf, his heart rate speeding up a little. He appreciated a good scientific tome; they tended to be written in a slightly more straightforward manner. He looked forward to at last learning how gift giving worked. Castiel patted the cassette tape through his coat and began to read.

When Castiel finished the book he sat back in the chair, frowning at the white tiled ceiling. If anything, now he felt more confused than ever. Still, he resolved to try to apply some of the outlined lessons from the book to at last return the gesture to Dean.

Tip One: Give something they can use

Castiel arrived back at the bunker to a smoky hallway, the fire detectors in the bunker honking irritably, lights flashing. Castiel squinted among the chaos, then descended the stairs, his target acquired. Dean stood in the center of it, talking to Jack with exasperation painted across his features. He looked up when Castiel approached.

“Hey Cas,” he said with an expansive eyeroll towards the repentant young man leaning against the map table. “Just teaching Jack here how to cook is all.”

“Ah, and how is it going?”

Dean glanced around the smoky room, grimaced, and shot Castiel a thumbs up. “Awesome. What’s in the bag, man?”

Castiel shifted the large grocery bag he held awkwardly in his arms. “Um, I’d noticed you were low on shampoo, so I purchased some for you. I also have,” he peered into the bag as though he could have possibly forgotten which items he’d agonized over in the store, “beer, some magazines, a jar of peanut butter, an apple pie, and five bags of flavored beef jerky.”

Dean glanced at him then, an odd half smile lighting his face. “You planning a wild night there, Cas?”

Castiel shook his head and thrust it at Dean mumbling, “I thought you might need it, is all.”

Dean accepted the bag with a head tilt and a short laugh. “Uh, thanks, man.” He turned his attention back to Jack. “Tip nine,” he said sternly, “always use an oven mitt. You shouldn’t rely on your magic heaven powers to heal you every time.”

Castiel retreated from the smoky din to the quiet of his own bedroom and considered his next move.

Tip Two: Give the gift of time

The book had advised that the gift of time was often the most precious. So when Dean announced that he was heading out to the garage, Castiel had offered to help. Dean froze at his offer, turning slowly towards Castiel, his eyes comically wide. “Dude, you serious? You’re always complaining about cars.”

Castiel scowled. “Just because I find human technology frustrating does not mean I’m unwilling to learn.” He fought to clear his features. “Please, I would like to help.”

Dean chuckled and threw an inscrutable look to Sam, who raised his eyebrows and looked away from the two of them with a quick shake of his head. Dean shrugged. “Alright, let’s head out there. But you better ditch the jacket. And wear one of my shirts.”

Castiel followed him down the hallway, plucking at his suit jacket a little nervously. “I can use my grace to clean my clothing, Dean.”

In front of him, Dean huffed a laugh. “Just…humor me, okay?” He led the way into his room and rooted around in the dresser until he pulled out a black Metallica shirt. He tossed it in the air and Castiel caught it. The old fabric felt soft against his skin and he smiled fondly down at it.

“Thank you, Dean.” He carefully laid the shirt on the bed and sloughed off his suit jacket. When he set his hands to his tie, slipping loose the knot and pulling it off to set on the bed, Dean cleared his throat aggressively.

“I’ll, uh…” Castiel watched Dean curiously as he stared at the floor, ears turning bright red. “I’ll meet you in there, okay?”

Before Castiel could respond, Dean had slipped past him and out into the hallway. Castiel shrugged and finished changing into Dean’s t-shirt, smoothing it over his hips. It felt odd to be so bare, but he had to admit he liked the way the short sleeves circled his upper arms snugly. It really was a good fabric to wear into battle, stretching easily with his body. He could appreciate why this was the Winchesters’ preferred under layer.

Castiel spent the day working on the Impala alongside Dean. In the end, he decided it didn’t count as a gift since it had seemed to benefit himself just as much as it had benefitted Dean.

Tip Three: Give an adventure

Dean had, in Castiel’s opinion, quite enough of an adventurous life as it was. So when considering the next bit of advice from the book, he decided to give Dean an experience. An experience was close enough to an adventure, since the type of “adventure” the book outlined included such harrowing pursuits as picnics in parks and eating out at a new restaurant.

He caught Dean on his own one evening. Sam had taken Jack to an event called “Cosmic bowling” and Dean had managed to talk Sam out of making him go so he could look online for their next case. When Castiel found Dean, he had his feet up on the library table, the high pitched moans of cartoon porn emanating from his laptop.

“Hello, Dean,” he said and Dean jumped, the laptop clattering off his knees and onto the wooden tabletop.

“Shit, Cas. Warn a guy.” Dean quickly closed the laptop and looked up with a guilty expression. “What’s up?”

Castiel pulled out a chair from next to Dean and said, “Last week you were telling Jack about our first meeting on earth. And we spoke of the true voice of angels, and angel radio.”

Dean looked wary. “Yeah.”

“Well, I know your body isn’t tuned to hear the true voice of angels, but I think I’ve been able to modulate it - filter it - to better enable you to hear it. Would you like to hear angel radio?”

Dean just stared at him, jaw dropping open slightly. Finally, he said, “Where’s this coming from?”

Castiel shrugged, the words to explain the overwhelming need he had to give Dean a gift stoppered up inside of him. “I thought you might enjoy it,” he said simply.

Dean stared at him, brows raised in question. But he nodded finally. “Yeah, Cas. Can’t say I haven’t wondered.”

“Settle back in your chair,” Castiel said as he reached out two fingers towards Dean’s temple. “You may feel a little dizzy.”

Dean settled his shoulders against the chair back, setting his feet on the floor, and lacing his fingers in his lap. Castiel touched two fingers to Dean’s temple, closed his eyes, and let the connection flow.

During crises, angel radio was often discordant with jarring chords and shouts jamming his ears. On good days, settled days, the chorus was resplendent. Castiel smiled to watch the look of bliss wash across Dean’s face as he heard at last the symphony that exceeded any human orchestra.

When Castiel had determined that Dean’s perception couldn’t handle much more exposure, he removed his fingers. Dean grabbed his hand as Castiel pulled away. They sat in silence for several minutes, Dean gripping his hand and staring silently at Castiel in awe.

This too, as it turned out, became a gift for Castiel as well.

Tip Four: Give a personal keepsake

After a night of drinking after his return, Castiel had taken a selfie with Dean and Sam. He printed it at a local drug store kiosk, then placed it in a frame purchased from the same drug store.

Castiel gave it to Dean who was so pleased with it, that he suggested he print one for Sam as well. Of course, Castiel did as he asked. Sam was just as pleased with his copy.

Tip Five: Give gifts of good quality

Castiel disappeared from the bunker for a week. He expected little resistance and had been surprised when Dean followed him out to the garage prior to his departure, and pressed him to be safe, watch his fuel levels, and leave his phone’s GPS activated.

Castiel had accepted these terms, accepted the friendly clap on the shoulder, and driven away.

Once he returned he immediately found Dean. This time he had wrapped the gift. He had noticed that the proper wrapping often seemed to be an important signifier of a gift and had purchased a simple hunter green paper from a drug store on the way back.

Dean raised his brows and ripped at the paper, balling it up and dropping it to the kitchen counter. He soon held the gift in his hand. It was a long, slim blade with a simple wrapped leather hilt and a tiny wyrm worked between that and the blade. “Cas.” Dean couldn’t seem to find any other words and he flipped the blade in his hand, testing its balance.

“I found a clue about the whereabouts of this blade in my reading last week,” Castiel explained. He pointed to the dragon then traced his finger down the blade. “It was worked by Merlin and still retains some power. You can tell by the way this ancient metal has withstood tarnish for so many centuries.”

“Thanks, Cas.” Dean looked between the blade and the balled up paper, then at Castiel. He didn’t seem capable of saying anything further, so Castiel eventually nodded and excused himself to attend to his car. He tried to ignore the worry itching under his skin which hissed that he had made a misstep somehow.

* * *

Two days later Castiel retreated to the public library feeling tainted by his failures. Nothing seemed to meet the significance of the mix tape. Though he’d seen Dean flipping the knife just yesterday, and the photo resided at his bedside, Castiel had been unable to achieve the sense of fulfillment from any of his attempts to reciprocate. He had thought about it long after everyone had gone to sleep last night, tapping his fingers on the kitchen table as he sought some direction.

At first, he’d thought to follow the last bit of advice from the book, which was to come up with a disproportionately inefficient gift. In movies or books, his next move should be to carpet Dean’s rooms in flowers, buy Dean ostentatious jewelry, or perhaps serenade him from a remote location. The idea of doing that made him shudder, and Castiel was reasonably certain it would be met with the same desperate dislike.

Perhaps gift giving wasn’t a science, but instead a language that he had never acquired. Thinking in terms of language had given him an idea and he had dropped his latest attempt at responding to Dean’s mix tape on Dean’s desk, then headed to the public library to clear his head.

It was at the library, as Castiel sat in a quiet study carrell, that he first heard the Impala’s telltale rumble as it growled through downtown. Dean found him in the back of the library, staring sightlessly at a (fairly humorous) book about the physics of black holes.

“Cas,” Dean said and Castiel looked up. Dean stood for a moment framed in the book stacks. He looked somehow taller than reality in the close, vibrant setting, hands balled into the pockets of his jeans.

After a moment, Castiel stood. “Dean,” he asked. “What are you doing here? Is everything okay?”

Dean took a few deep breaths, pulling his hands out of his pockets and sliding them back in, as though he was nervous. And then, as the silence stretched on between them, he moved. Dean closed in on Castiel and raised his palms to caress his cheeks, thumb stroking lightly as though he anticipated rejection. When Castiel didn’t throw him off (he didn’t dare move) Dean rushed in and kissed him.

It was a quiet kiss, barely a brush on the lips, and over just a moment later. Dean drew away, fear broadcasting so strongly it vibrated the air between them. “Thank you for the letter,” Dean breathed then dropped his hands.

Castiel caught at his hands before they could fall back to his side. He placed them back around himself and brought up his own palms to embrace Dean. He returned the kiss, unwilling to let so much time lapse this time between the delivery of a gift and its reciprocation.

“I tried to return your gesture. With the mix tape,” Castiel added at Dean’s suddenly confused look. “But words seemed easier - more straightforward - in the end.”

Dean grinned like the sun breaking through the clouds. “Words, huh? They are useful. I, uh… I got some of my own for you, I think. Wanna go for a drive?” He pulled back, then held out his hand to Castiel.

Castiel took it, closing his fingers over Dean’s work-worn palm. “Of course, Dean,” he said, and followed him from the library into the golden evening sun.

(Happy birthday, @woollycas. I finally wrote that “gift giving” story.)

[pjbehindthesun]

chapter 5: yellow daisies and white rabbits

Sunday, June 24th, 1990

I shuffle my high tops in front of her door uncertainly while I wait for her to answer my knock. Has it been long enough that I should knock again? Would that seem needy or demanding? Maybe she just didn’t hear me the first time, right? Or maybe I’m being creepy enough just by showing up on her doorstep unannounced and I’d better not push my luck. I’m just about to lose my nerve and turn around when Lucy answers the door, wiping her hands on a turquoise dish rag.

“Hi, Jeff!” She says, looking pleasantly surprised, and her smile blows away all my anxiety like a warm breeze. Until she furrows her brow. “Wait, how did you know which apartment was mine?”

Busted. “I, uh…” I’m mumbling to the dingy carpet in the hall, “I remembered your last name and I checked the mailboxes in the lobby.”

But instead of slamming the door in my face for being a desperate stalker, that smile dawns over her face again. “What for?”

“I, uh,” I try to fight some words out past the grin on my face, “I think I just felt bad that my drunk idiot friends just took over your car last night and we didn’t get to, like, say goodnight, it was just sort of rushed.”

I had been trying so hard to get fuckin’ wasted Stone and Mike quietly up to my apartment to sleep it off that I barely got to wave goodbye to her as we continued up the stairs, and all I’ve wanted to do since then is run back down here, find her apartment, and keep asking her all about her life story, getting to know every little thing about her. The hour that I got to spend talking to her at the Off-Ramp last night (after we found a spot outside where our various asshole friends couldn’t interrupt us anymore) was the most exhilarating hour I’ve spent in I don’t know how long. My slightly hungover friends shuffled off this morning, and I’ve basically just been pathetically wasting time ever since, watching the clock and trying to figure out when’s an appropriate time to show up at her door.

“Well, you’re either really late or really early, it’s like 12:30,” she giggles, leaning against the door frame.

“So I guess we just have to keep talking, then. Kill time until the next goodnight.”

“Seems like our only option.”

“Well, uh, and only if I’m not interrupting anything, that is… since we’re powerless against the force of time and all, do you… wanna go get some lunch while we wait?” Please say yes. Please say yes. I have no idea where I’m finding all this courage, except from the smile that she’s giving me that feels like a sunrise in my chest.

She nods with a little flush of her cheeks, and I have to fight to keep myself from jumping in the air from the adrenaline. “Let me just grab my bag… wanna come in for a second?”

I edge inside her apartment while she ducks down the hallway and into her bedroom. It’s the same layout as mine, just flipped around on the opposite side of the hall. The same boring curdled cream-cheese colored walls, the same scratched up wood floors, the same cheap dingy kitchen. That’s where the similarities end, and I’m disoriented and fascinated by everything else.

Everything in here is a different, vivid color. In the kitchen, she’s hand-painted a trail of daisies on the wall over the tops of the cabinets, and the dishes in her drying rack are bright yellow to match. On the wall leading out of the kitchen, there are some bizarre old botanical drawings in beat-up wooden frames, and the windows are flanked with glittering patterned purple curtains. In the window seat, she’s got a bunch of orchids and cactii in brightly colored pots under an array of neon paper lanterns. The living room… the living room is something else. There’s a beat-up but ornate blue velvet couch, a giant golden tassled floor pillow, and a screaming orange floral recliner resting on an ancient Persian rug. I’m just craning my neck down the hallway to get a load of the mosaic of mismatched, loudly patterned Moroccan tiles covering the wall when Lucy bounces back out of her room, slinging a little light blue backpack over her shoulder.

She gives me a smile that’s almost a wince or a squint, the way it wrinkles her nose. “….what?”

“This… this is your place?”

“Uhm, if it’s not then my life’s about to get a lot more surreal… why? You hate it, right?”

“No! No. It’s insane. I love it. It’s like you live in a fucking Basquiat or something.” I’m grinning like a fool but I don’t care. Something about this place just makes me so deeply happy. It’s all so bright, and chaotic, and loud, and off-beat, and mysterious, and confusing, but somehow so coherent.

She nods. “Somewhat less thought-provoking social commentary. And less heroin.”

“Let me go on the record saying that both of those modifications are fine. Where the hell did you find all of this stuff??”

“Uhm, well, a lot of it I found at garage sales and random thrift shops. Some of it I made, like that” – she waves at the cornea-searing orange chair – “well, I upholstered it anyway, and those” – the curtains – “but the rest of it I’ve just picked up all over the place.”

“Wow. I mean, I’ve picked stuff up off curbs and yard sales for my place too, but it’s all beige and brown and boring.”

Lucy giggles. “And yet you’re the artiste, hmm?”

“Hey be nice, I never said I knew shit about interior design,” I chuckle.

“It’s a lot in here, I know,” she hedges, toying with her hands as we make our way to her front door.

“It’s pretty perfect, is what it is,” I mumble, and I’m not sure if I’m even still talking about her apartment. “So, where should we go?”

***

“Cora? Hey, CORA! WAIT UP!”

The bell at the top of the door to the Cyclops is still ringing in my ear as I step out onto 1st Street and try to figure out who’s yelling at me. I spot Stone about a half a block south of me, waving his arms and breaking into a jog with Mike trailing behind him, toting two guitars over his shoulder.

“Hey, stalkers,” I grin as they catch up to me. “Stone, I thought you weren’t speaking to me after last night.”

“I really shouldn’t, what with the restraining order and all.”

Mike’s watching us with a completely lost expression on his face. Oh, poor thing was so drunk he doesn’t even remember the ride home. “Sorry Mikey, Stone here got his feelings hurt over some crap on the radio.” Mike mouths a knowing “ahh” with a nod.

“Crap on the radio?? See, this is why the court ordered you to stay 500 feet from me. I can’t have someone brutally assaulting my taste in music all the time.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t recognize the ruling, on the grounds that loving Steely Dan that much cannot lawfully be described as ‘taste.’”

Stone gapes at me in horror. “You’re a monster, Red.”

“Takes one to know one. How long have you been following me, creep?”

“Ha ha,” Stone drawls. “We were actually just heading to your building.”

“That makes it so much less creepy, obviously.”

“To see Jeff,” Mike injects. “Stone’s piece of shit car won’t start so we left it back on 3rd. We’re trying to get up to a guitar place in Fremont to get these things looked at, so we were gonna try to bum a ride from Jeff.”

Mike checks his watch with an anxious look, so I start taking baby steps north towards home, and the guys follow along.

“What were you doing up on 3rd? Do you guys live around here too?”

“No, I actually live up by Fremont and Stone here lives with his parents, which is an extremely rock and roll thing for a 23 year old to do.” Mike cracks me up with an exaggerated serious look.

“Whatever, assholes,” Stone grumbles. “Anyway we were just checking out this new practice space back that way. I think it’s gonna work out, so we might be your neighbors soon after all… please, not on the street,” he says as I mime puking in my mouth.

When we get back to my building, Jeff’s not answering the buzzer, even though the guys spotted his car in the parking lot. Stone’s brainstorming out loud about jogging back to a payphone to call a cab and Mike’s fidgeting and cursing Jeff’s name when I decide to speak up. After all, Alex is gone for the afternoon with his buddies, I’ve got nowhere to be.

“Listen, I can drive you guys. You said Fremont, right? That’s not far.”

“Yeah?” Stone asks with a skeptical expression, but Mike’s already making a beeline toward the line of cars I waved towards as I spoke.

“Excellent. Which one’s yours?”

“The white Rabbit,” I say, grabbing my keys from my pocket and pointing at it. Stone’s shoulders drop as he issues the eye roll to end all eye rolls.

“Okay, Grace Slick. You sure you don’t mind?”

“Not at all. I’d give you a jump but the cables are in Alex’s trunk, I think.”

“Of course. Thanks Alex,” Stone says in an acerbic tone, his face darkening into a frown. “Really, you don’t mind? It might take a while, Mike’s a freak about letting anyone work on his guitar.”

“Dude, she said it was fine, let’s go! Shotgun!” says Mike, who’s already hanging on my passenger side door handle like a child, and I let them both into the car.

“So, what are we listening to?” Mike’s rummaging through my tapes as Stone belts himself into the back seat.

“Please, dear sweet god, no hillbilly tunes.”

“STONE GOSSARD IF YOU CALL ME A HILLBILLY ONE MORE TIME –”

“Ooh! Rust Never Sleeps.” Mike pops the tape in with a contented grin.

The sniff that comes from Stone as I fire up the engine indicates that even he can’t think of an objection to Neil, and I quickly stifle a smile so he won’t catch it.

“So this practice space? Does that mean you guys are getting more serious about getting a new band going?” I ask as we turn onto 1st, with Mike occasionally reminding me of directions.

“Oh yeah. Born serious, baby,” Stone says, leaning forward and sticking his face between the front seats.

“Yeah, well if you’re so serious, you’d work harder to get Jeff on board,” Mike shoots him a pointed look.

“Not that crap again, Mike.”

“I mean it! We’ve gotta get Jeff Ament in here.”

“Fuck Jeff Ament.” Stone sits back in a huff, and Mike and I exchange significant looks.

“I thought he was your guy?” Mike asks. “You’ve been playing together forever!”

“That doesn’t mean shit. He’s my friend and all, but I can’t be in a band with him again. I can’t handle his fucking attitude anymore.”

I was going to stay out of it since I obviously don’t know the whole story, but come on. “His attitude? Really? That’s what you’re going with?”

Laughter explodes out of Mike as Stone punches the back of my seat.

“She’s got a point, dude,” Mike notes. “I’m pretty sure it took two of you to fuck things up this badly.”

Stone mutters something about a fucking ambush under his breath before grudgingly saying something to the effect of, “I guess I can give it a shot,” making Mike pump his fist and grin.

*

We unload in front of this dingy little music shop that Mike directed us to, and he gingerly picks up the guitars and practically sprints for the door. Stone and I share a shrug before following him inside.

A blast of freezing air hits us as soon as we walk inside, and I shiver involuntarily.

Stone casts a lazy glance over at me before looking over at a wall of guitars. “Cold, Red? Some Arctic explorer you must be.”

“Shut up, Stoner, you forget I’m a Southerner. It’s fucking frigid in here. Come here.” I rest my hands against the little bit of skinny upper arm sticking out from under his shirt sleeve, alternating pressing my fingers front and back to warm them up. He slowly looks over and down at me with his mouth slightly open and massive eyes that remind me of an owl’s.

“Haha okay okay fine, personal space,” I joke, pulling my hands back and stepping away. Stone’s still gazing at me with the same hallucinatory look as the shop clerk heads to the back of the store carrying the guys’ two guitars, with Mike on his heels and peppering him with a million nervous questions.

Stone’s stare is starting to freak me out, so I move away from him to the wall of guitars and brush the strings of an acoustic with my thumb a couple of times. Unable to help myself, I pull it down from the wall and strum a couple of sloppy chords.

“Do you play?” Stone says from just behind me. I might have jumped, except that his voice is so quiet.

“What? No, no. I’m awful.”

“Which is it?”

“Huh?”

“You don’t play, or you’re awful?” he asks, still in that same hushed tone, peering down over my shoulder.

“Two things can be true.”

“You’re, uh, you’re muting that string. Here, like this…” he takes my hand in his, very carefully adjusting the angle of my fingers on the strings. I want more than anything to sneer at him, but as I play around among the small handful of chords I know, I have to admit that tiny adjustment made things a lot easier. He drops his hand back to his side and listens.

“Thanks,” I glance up at him, and he quickly looks away at another guitar up on the wall.

“Uh, sure,” he coughs. “So did you teach yourself, or what? Because you were right, you’re pretty fucking terrible.”

“You’re a peach. Uhm, I learned a few things a long time ago, but yeah, I guess I mostly taught myself.” Dad taught me to play when I was 8, but I’m not about to tell this guy I barely know about that.

“Well, it shows.” Just like last night, there’s that snide tone accompanied with an encouraging smile, just pleading for me to see through his bullshit and play along.

“And I suppose you’re Hendrix, huh?”

“Nah, that’s Mike. I prefer Page, myself.”

“And so modest, too.” He bats his eyelashes at me. “So you think you’ll really talk to Jeff, or –?”

“Oh Jesus, not you too. Yeah, I’ll talk to him.” There’s a snap in his voice that wasn’t there before, so it’s clearly off-limits and I let the subject drop. I hang the guitar back up, and he seems to sense that he’s been a little spiky.

“So what’s life like for you this summer? I mean, you’re a student, obviously you don’t have class, but you’re still working?” He’s fumbling his words a little, trying to recover.

“Yeah, when you’re a grad student, your work is never done. And if it is, you’re doing it wrong.”

“Sounds fulfilling as a flesh-eating parasite.”

“You’re not wrong. Anyway, I’m actually going to Alaska next Friday for three weeks. Soil sampling trip.”

“No way? Wait, when do you get back?”

I scrunch up my face while I hunt for the date in my mind. “The 20th, I think. Why?” I ask, suspicious of the huge grin dawning on his face.

“That’s my birthday. And Chris’s. He’ll be back from their European tour by then and we’re having a party, you should try and make it. And bring this fabled boyfriend of yours. If you don’t freeze to death up north, that is…”

I’m trying to decide whether to punch him in the shoulder for being a dick or thank him sincerely for the invitation when Mike appears out of nowhere, looking a little brokenhearted.

“Gonna need a few days for repairs,” he mumbles. “You guys ready to get out of here or what?”

***

“You did not.”

“Are you calling me a liar?”

“No, no, you just didn’t strike me as the type to…”

“…castrate something? You underestimated me, clearly.”

“Clearly,” Jeff says with a wide-eyed smile that’s somewhere between amused and terrified. “How did you… how?”

“One of my best friends back home lived on a cattle ranch, and I used to help her family with the calves all the time. Castration’s not a big deal –”

“That depends on which end of the knife you’re on, Lucy!” he shrieks.

“Okay, so I didn’t actually wield the knife…”

“I knew it! Thank fuck.”

“Haha can I finish? It’s really not a big deal, you just need someone who can help hold the calf down on one end and someone who can sprinkle cauterizing powder on when it’s done. It’s over really fast and they heal super quickly. I usually did the powder part but when they were small enough I could help hold them too.”

“Jesus, Lucy. Remind me never to piss you off.”

“Oh come on, you never encountered shit like this in Montana? You said you lived in cow country too, right?”

“Yeah, but the difference is that I got out of there as fast as humanly possible. I didn’t hang around the ranches, I hung around my hippie uncle with the record collection.”

His expression darkens a little bit when he’s talking about where he grew up, so it’s probably best to change the subject. “You said you got out of there fast? Did you come straight to Seattle, then?”

Nothing makes him light up more than talking about music or art, and I’m completely mesmerized by his face and the excitement in his voice as he tells me about the time he went to California when he was 12, how that trip connected him to skating, to punk music, and to everything outside of Big Sandy that he wished he could have. How he couldn’t wait to go to college just to find some like-minded people, but even then, he could only find a handful of other guys in Missoula who were into punk rock. How even that tenuous little tribe wasn’t enough of a home to keep him there when the college decided to close down his graphic design program, and how he came to Seattle looking for more. As we’re walking back home from lunch and he’s telling me all of this, and I think about everything he told me last night at the Off Ramp about Mother Love Bone and Andy, I marvel at how intensely protective I feel of him already. I’m the typical clichéd small town kid who left home looking to belong, too, so I understand where he’s coming from, but I don’t know if I’ve ever met someone who feels that drive quite as fundamentally as Jeff still does, even all these years later. Except maybe Cora. Sort of funny that they have that intensity in common.

We round the corner and wander into the parking lot of our building, in no real hurry to get home or anywhere else in particular, still talking about what brought each of us to Seattle, when I notice Cor’s rusty little white Rabbit pulling off the main road. I take Jeff’s hand and give it a quick squeeze. “Let’s go say hi!”

He trails behind me but allows himself to be led over to the car, and he looks as surprised as I feel when Stone and Mike climb out along with Cora.

“The fuck are you doing hanging out with these two losers?” he laughs at her.

“Bite me, Jeff,” Stone grumbles. “Hey, can you do me a favor?”

“Can you even hear yourself when you talk?” Jeff asks, shaking his head, but Stone continues undeterred.

“My car needs a jump back on 3rd, and I wanted to show you something over there anyway. Can you give us a lift back?”

Jeff glances back at me and it’s immediately clear he’s thinking the same thing – shit, not again, why do the same people have to keep interrupting us?

“Uhm, yeah, man, sure. Just, uh, give me a minute.”

“Lucy!” Cora calls. “Are we hanging out tonight?”

“Yeah, of course. Let me call you later though? I had a huge lunch, I need a nap.” She’s smirking at me and I know for sure that she isn’t buying it, but at least she has enough sense to nod along and keep Stone busy outside for a few minutes. She strikes up a conversation with him about something, but I don’t care enough to eavesdrop as I shoot a grin at Jeff.

I follow him upstairs to the third floor, and once I key into my apartment, I turn around to face him.

“Hey, I’m really glad you tracked me down,” I say, picking his hand up in mine and giving it a squeeze.

“Stalked you, is more like it.”

“Well, I’m glad you stalked me,” I giggle. “You should do it again sometime.”

“Promise,” Jeff says in a low voice that makes my heart thud. He leans against my door frame. “Maybe tomorrow night? Second date?”

“Wait, was this our first?”

“Shit, that’s how smooth I am, you didn’t even know it was happening,” he laughs, and I could swear he’s blushing just a little.

“I think you’re smoother than you think,” I grin, biting my lip as he leans in a little closer.

“I think you’re trying to spare my feelings.”

“I think… I think you should go help your friends, they’re waiting.” But I lean in anyway, savoring the way time has slowed down.

“I think they can wait a little longer.” And as his lips find mine, I’d have to agree.

***

Monday, June 25th, 1990

I’m still daydreaming about our kiss, way up on Cloud Nine, as I make my way through the mostly deserted hallway to my desk. Not even Greta’s customary bitching when I asked her how her weekend went could kill this high. I drop my lunch in the break room, wondering whether I’ll get to see him again tonight, and the only thing that breaks my reverie is an unfamiliar package sitting on my desk. What the hell?

It’s wrapped in beautiful blue paper with a silver ribbon. Cautiously, I check the card to confirm that it’s actually addressed to me, which it is, and I look around for answers but of course no one else is here yet. No one’s ever sent me a present at work before – there’s no way Jeff did this after only one date, right? …right?

I slide the paper off the box, which is a glitzy golden color, and when I open the lid, a folded piece of paper falls on top of the ornately decorated chocolate covered strawberries inside. I crack it open with a shaky hand and eventually decipher the loopy scrawl:

“In defense against the strawberry-free life. Yours, Jake.”

What?

After racking my brain for several minutes, I remember our conversation at the end of last week about his patient, the one with the allergy. He seriously thought about that all weekend? And bought me strawberries because of it?

Wait… “yours”?

…oh, shit.

[blaineandsamevanderson]

Title: Stretch right up and touch the sky Chapter 3

Author: @blaineandsamevanderson

Fandom: Legends of Tomorrow/Arrow/The Flash/Supergirl

Ship: Iris/Eddie, Kendra/Carter, Thea/Roy, John/Lyla, Laurel/Tommy, James/Lucy, Clark/Lois & more to come

Rating: G

Summary: Camp STAR is one of the North East’s most popular science camps.  Every year, young minds arrive to learn and explore.  Unfortunately, a few weeks before the camp was to open for the season, a large explosion in one of the labs and the ensuing fire made the camp uninhabitable.  Not wanting his campers to miss out on their summer, Owner Harrison Wells called up Joe West, Owner of Camp Superflarrow, who he knew was looking to expand the science discovery program at his own camp.

Beginning of the fic: HERE

**

**

Scrambling off of the bus with all the other teens, Cisco looked around at the crowd of young people spilling from the large, green and white painted vehicles. Something was a little off….

 “Hey, where are all the squirts?” he asked, eyes taking in the crowd. No kids. That was somewhat freaksome.

 Caitlin blinked at him, cocking her head to the side. “Huh? I don’t know, but that is peculiar….”

 “Campers arrive on Saturday, so counselors and CIT’s have a few days to prepare,” a pretty girl in a green camp shirt said with a bright smile. She looked to be about their age and was holding a clipboard in hand. “I’m Iris West. Welcome to Camp Superflarrow.”

 “Campers and counselors come up on different days?” Cisco asked, puzzled. That was not how they did it at STAR.

 “Always,” Iris confirmed with a nod. “Most of our counselors were campers, but occasionally we get someone new. This is a way to let them get oriented, get everyone up to speed on their specialties and do a few last minute prep things to the camp proper.”

 As they walked toward the spot where the bus drivers were piling suitcases and the rest of the luggage, Caitlin nodded. “That makes sense, given that we are the counselors here. The majority of the counselors at STAR were adults,” she told Iris. “I’m Caitlin.”

 “Caitlin Snow?” Iris asked and, upon confirmation, she continued, “We’re bunk mates. Ready to watch over some little Long Creek Girls? Long Creek’s one of the younger groups. Sure, they cry more, but I’ll take sniffles and homesickness over snotty pre-teen attitudes.”

 Cisco, who had more than a few little cousins, had to agree. “Please tell me I’ve got kids too. Cisco Ramon, Francisco”

 Consulting her clipboard, Iris made a so-so gesture. “You’re with the Sequoias, that’s the middles. 8-11 year olds.”

 “I can handle that,” Cisco decided, stopping before the pile of luggage and trying to spot his duffle amongst the mess.

 Caitlin’s coordinating luggage was easy enough to pick out of the pile, but Cisco found himself having more of an issue. Seemingly half of their fellow campers were using duffles that looked just like his.

 “I told you to wrap colorful duct tape around the handles,” Caitlin sighed, watching him combat the mess. Nearby, Leonard Snart was plucking two distinctly marked bags up (passing one to Lisa), and she commented, “See.”

 “Yeah, yeah,” Cisco groused, smiling slightly as Lisa slung her bag over her shoulder and wiggled her fingers at him.

 A shiny maroon Subaru Outback pulled into the lot, parking beside the handful of other trucks and SUV’s (and Dr. Wells’s zippy little sports car).  A blond popped out and Iris beamed, waving and calling out, “Hey, Eddie.  Almost late!”

 “Almost doesn’t count,” he laughed, jogging over to her and dropping a kiss onto her cheek.  “Seems like you’ve got everything in order.”

 “Someone has to,” she chirped, then swatted him with her clipboard.  “Go help Barry and Wally unload the busses.”

 Still grinning, he nodded.  “Yes Dear.”  Then he trotted over to exchange fist bumps with the two boys still hauling bags out of the bottom of the busses.

 “Have my bags even made it out yet?” Cisco wondered, returning to the great duffle hunt of 2017 with a sigh.

  “Hey, Thawne!” Tommy shouted, making Laurel pause her conversation with Sara and both Lance sisters looked over to where the dark haired boy was hailing the blond (who had apparently had a really good year, growth spurt wise). “Dude, any idea what your creeper uncle’s been meeting with my dad, Ollie’s mom and an even creepier albino about?”

 Eddie blinked at him, a befuddled expression on his face. “Eobard? No, he kind of keeps his business dealings to himself.”

 “And you never eavesdrop? You wouldn’t believe the things I overhear my dad….”

 “Knock it off, Tommy,” Laurel chided, playfully slinging her arm around her boyfriend’s neck.

“Maybe Eddie has better things to do than play Nosy Nancy.”

 Tommy took her critique with a shrug. “Sure. Like hitting the gym. You lost a person worth of baby fat and got tall over the school year!”

 “I...uh, I just started working out is all,” Eddie mumbled, cheeks red as he glanced over to where Barry was digging the bags out of the bottom of one of the busses.  “I’ll see you all later.  Gotta go   help Barry with that….”

 He scrambled off, practically diving into the bus.  Sara rolled her eyes at Tommy.  “Nice.  Embarrass the guy.”

 “What?” Tommy asked, laughing as Oliver gave him a playful shove.  “I wasn’t making fun of him.  He lost a lot of weight.”

 “We know, but not everyone likes having people comment on things like that,” Laurel told him as they gathered up their bags and headed into the camp.  They’d all been to camp before and knew the drill.  All counselors would gather inside the gates and find out what cabins they’d be monitoring.  Then they’d have some time to settle their things in their bunks and then there would be a welcome gathering at the All Camp Campfire site near the lake.

 Sara was particularly excited for this summer, as it was her first year as an actual counselor.  The previous summer, she’d been a Counselor in Training (a CIT), like the other 15 year olds.  Laurel and her friends had still treated her like a little kid, but this summer it was going to be different.  Brushing her hair back over her shoulder, she looked around, picking out the familiar faces and identifying newbies.

 There were a lot of new face in the crowd, not necessarily a bad thing.  Transfer campers wouldn’t know her as Laurel’s little sister.  They’d get to know her for who she was and not assume things about her...and, just on first glance, there were some people she might be interested in getting to know a little better!

 TBC….

[angel-gidget]

Stars Unearth Your Fires (ch4/?)

Title:  Stars Unearth Your Fires (Ch 4/?)

Fandom: DCU, Teen Titans, Red Robin (preboot)

    Rating:  PG  | Words: 2800  | a03 link 

    Summary: Tim Drake never thought of himself as a troublemaker as far as Robins go. But a passing accusation quickly escalates into a case of stolen memories, technologically backwards clues from his past self, interdimensional hijinks, reflections on the good old days, and possibly the rekindling of a foregone romance. Eventually Tim/??? Mystery ship!

Ch 4: Tim has to look up an old friend or two before he can dig up his (hopefully existent) clue.

A/N: Hey guys! Sorry for the lateness of this chapter. It’s ended up becoming my longest one yet. Thank you so much for the amazing reviews! While there is sadly no Core Four in this chapter (Bart tried to elbow his way in, he really did), they will make more appearances soon. It’s time for Tim to reconnect with a few non-caped companions. My lovely beta Kiragecko took a much-deserved break this week, so all mistakes are 100% me. Sorry if I missed anything!

He and Ives were still friends. He was pretty sure. Mostly. At least, the guy hadn’t taken it too personally the last time Tim had visited out of the blue without speaking to him for over a year.

If anything, Ives had been shocked that Tim wanted to hang with him when he was in the middle of cancer treatment, as so many other friends had flaked out when things got too intense. Tim had just been grateful to have warning, for once, that one of his friends might die. He wasn’t usually so lucky, though he didn’t know how to tell Ives that without telling him way too much.

Two rings. Three. And then—

“Does my caller ID deceive me, or is this richest and dorkiest of my foul weather friends?”

“Don’t you mean fair-weather friends, Ives?”

“No, no, I don’t. You should brush up on your Shakespeare. And cheap surfer-stoner productions in the park don’t count, by the way,”

There were voices in the background, and music too. If anything, Tim would have sworn Ives was in the middle of a… club?

Ives continued, “I do mean foul-weather. That’s what you call people who stick with you when life is sucking but unexpectedly ditch you when it’s time to party. Case in point: I’m throwing a party and you’re not here. Because you never pick up your damn phone, you ass.”

Oh. OH! “Congratulations on your remission, man.”

He could hear the smile through the phone. It wasn’t the same as being totally forgiven, but Ives wasn’t the sort of person who could be happy and hold a grudge at the same time.

“Thanks. It’s my one-month anniversary of the big NED. Looks like for the time being, I’ve rolled a twenty on breathing. It’s worth celebrating.”

Smooth opening. Here we go.

“Feel like doing a more personal celebration too? Maybe something nostalgic? Like digging up our time capsule from the 8th grade? I’ll buy the pizza.”

“Oh, man. Yes. You better, Prince Midas. Hold up.”

He was distracted, clearly talking to somebody else at the party. Tim took a moment. It was just as well that he’d caught Ives when he was distracted. The guy didn’t do parties much. Introvert that he was, they took a lot out of him, including his tendency to say no to things. Even before he’d been sick. Tim didn’t have many childhood friends, but they were bookish gamer geeks, the lot of them.

Ives voice came back on the line.

“I got a friend who wants to come with. The dude’s curious about everything, a real Nancy Drew. Wants to know about my nerdy little 8th grade self. I told him the biggest difference was that I was little and in the 8th grade, but he’s bored and I promised to include him in more stuff.”

“That’s cool. Saturday, noon?”

“That’s high noon to you, buckaroo. And yes.”

——-

He’d outgrown his best nerd shirts.

Tim didn’t even know when it had happened. It wasn’t that they didn’t fit him through the arms and chest—he was wiry enough that they did—but he’d gotten so long in the torso, that the edges of his shirts rose up obnoxiously from the waist of his jeans, constantly baring strips of skin.

When this had happened to Cassie, she’d embraced it and pulled off the sexy belly-shirt like a pro. Tim… couldn’t do that. Or rather, he couldn’t do that without pulling out a persona.

Ives had an meet-up with Tim Drake, not Mr. Sarcastic. So belly nerd shirts were a no-go.

He’d yanked out what appeared to be his least-expensive hoodie and Alfred-purchased designer jeans, and hoped for the best. This was supposed to be about nostalgia for Ives, though Tim had mixed hopes.

What would be worse? Finding nothing but exactly what they had buried years ago, and pretending to laugh with his friend while secretly pulling out his hair over a dead end of evidence? Or finding the evidence he needed in its place, but then having to somehow cover for the oddness of whatever they found by lying to Ives again?

It had been a while since he’d had to lie to someone he loved, and Tim wanted to keep it that way. (And lies of omission didn’t count. Especially to Bruce. And to Dick. And to whomever else he’d been lying to by means of omission lately.)

“Best not to overthink it,” Tim muttered to himself. He had been ten minutes early to the discolored tree that had been the site of his and Ives’ 8th grade paint-ball fight. Also, the site of their only paintball fight, because apparently nobody had told Ives that there tended to be bruises from such a thing.

If Ives was anything like his old self, he’d be five minutes early, and… yup.

Tim smiled and waved as Ives’ old Chevy pulled into the park’s lot. He was about to say hello, when a second person slid out from the car, following after Ives with a growing Cheshire grin on his face.

Tim gasped, “F@*#$ing hell.”

Bernard Dowd.

Ives new Nancy Drew pal was Bernard. Fragging. Dowd. The nosey-est (and therefore worst possible) person to have on a dig that might or might not yield incriminating signs of inter-dimensional antics.

“Why Timbo! With a greeting like that, one would almost think you weren’t pleased to see me.” Bernard bumped the car door closed with his hip as he balanced a brand new shovel on one shoulder.

Ives blinked, “You two know each other?”

Tim scratched his head, “You two know each other?”

“As I’ve told you both,” Bernard set the shovel down by the largest tree root, “I know everyone who’s anyone.”

As if to prove the solidity of his nonchalance, Bernard took his best guess as to which patch of dirt housed the capsule, and made a sweeping ‘you first’ motion with his arm at Tim and Ives.

Tim pulled out Alfred’s trusty gardening hoe, and braced himself as Bernard began to snicker. Because he’d brought a hoe. Because, for all his eloquence, Bernard was emotionally twelve. Ives stared at them both like they had doubled their number of arms and limbs and turned green.

Tim felt his eyes narrow in suspicion in Bernard’s direction, “You knew I’d be here.”

Bernard pulled back his laughter into a finely-controlled smirk, “When dear ol’ Sebastian told me he had an eccentrically neglectful, ridiculously rich childhood compadre named Tim… well, I did the math. But I waited for a face-to-face to be sure,” He winked, “It’s more fun that way.”

Tim purposefully and carefully ignored that entire description of himself as he stared incredulously at Ives.

“You actually let him call you Sebastian? Him?”

“It was the only way to get him to stop calling me ‘St. Ives’ along with several other unholy variations of my surname,” Ives took a deep breath and pitched his own shovel into the dirt, “Now lets get this show on the road.”

Once the digging began, it was a simple matter to let Bernard dominate the conversation, explaining to Ives that he and Tim had gone to the aptly-named Grieve High for a semester together. Until the Aquista gang war had come to their front door step.

Tim’s mind remained vaguely on Bernard’s story, but mostly on the ground they were unearthing. There was a reason Bernard had been able to see the digging spot. It was especially uneven compared to its surroundings, overgrown with grass that was clearly seeded, a slightly different color than what was surrounding it.

Which was suspicious, considering Tim and Ives hadn’t laid down any grass seed when they were kids. Not that someone responsible for the park couldn’t have laid something down, but it didn’t look quite right. It had been what? Six? Seven years since he and Ives had buried the thing? It should have blended with the rest of the milieu perfectly. But it didn’t. Not quite. As though it had been dug up again at least once in the interim.

“Earth to Timinator,” Ives poked him in the forehead, “Is it true?”

“Is what true?”

Ives looked like he wanted to smack Tim with his shovel and Bernard looked… oddly serious.

“Did Bernard’s dream girl turn into a super villain and try to kidnap you?”

And this was why he didn’t want Bernard here. There was the guy’s ongoing conspiracy theory habit, and then there was the fact that he had actually seen way too much.

“No,” Tim heard Bernard begin to protest, but he continued, “Darla didn’t try to kidnap me. She tried to make me into her personal moral compass and I told her where to get off.”

Bernard stared, “You what??? But she—you—she dismantled my car! She had these… these…”

Ives jumped in, “Phenomenal cosmic powers?”

“Yes,” Bernard continued, “And you just told her to go jump off a cliff? And got away with it? What the hell, Timothy!”

Tim blinked. He had forgotten about that. When Darla Aquista had died and returned from the dead with dark magic powers via one of Robin’s enemies, she had sought out her friend Tim Drake out for “advice.” Tim had forgotten that she had gone to Bernard first. He had never bothered to call Bernard and let the guy know he was okay. For all Bernard had known, he’d sent Tim’s untimely demise to his door when he told Darla where to find their former classmate.

Tim put the shovel down for a moment.

“I’m sorry I scared you, Bernard. I meant—I meant that if Darla wanted to be a hero, and she did, she couldn’t rely on me to tell her right from wrong and hold her to it. Heroes take responsibility for their actions. She gets that now. She went off with a superhero team called Shadowpact. She was okay.”

“And you?” Bernard exhaled.

Tim grinned.

“I’m always okay.”

Neither of his friends looked like they believed him.

Ives returned to digging, “See this is why you should call me more often,” He grunted as his shovel finally struck metal, “Your life gets really, really weird without me. Dating undead superheroes, Tim? Really? Oy vey.”

“We didn’t… never mind.”

He could have pulled the chest from the remainder of the hole without grunting, but watching Ives and Bernard wheeze and strain from the physical activity set a good bar for Timothy Drake Wayne’s level of sluggishness. So he panted along with them.

“Makes..nnghhh… a lot of sense in hind sight, though.” Ives breathed.

“What does?”

“Cancer probably doesn’t look like so bad of a boss battle after you’ve seen the fire and brimstone.”

“I…” He could be honest about this much. He could. “It made me glad for the people who are alive. However long they’re alive. Y’know?”

Ives gave him the most earnest smile Tim had seen all day.

“Okay, geeks! And Tim, for all your previous disguise, I see now that you are—in fact—a geek. It’s time to unbox this baby.” Bernard crowed.

Their “time capsule” was less a futuristic tube and more pirate-chest themed lockable luggage from the nearest department store. It had space for stuff, and it looked cool. Even as an adult, Tim felt he could stand by that choice.

Three seconds to blow off the dust. Forty-two to smash the lock. (He and Ives could both remember Tim swearing when they were kids that he would remember the combination, but well, he hadn’t.)

“A moment of silence for the defunct game boy who’s grave we have disturbed.” Ives mock-solemnly intoned, as he pulled out the old system preserved in plastic.

Tim blinked, “You buried your game boy? You loved that thing.”

“Exactly,” Ives poked him in the chest, “I was committed to this project. Unlike you.”

Tim frowned.

“I was too committed. Behold,” he lifted a green mud-crusted travesty that had not aged well, “Rusty the water pistol. Never got in a water gun fight without him. And look! My pog collection.”

“You mean my pog collection.”

Tim shrugged, “Our pog collection.”

“You are both the nerdiest nerds who ever nerded in the eighth grade. I don’t know why I expected differently.” Bernard sighed.

“I did warn you, buddy.” Ives laughed.

Bernard muttered something unintelligible, but it set Ives off on a lecture about the impact of popular culture. Tim took it as a much-needed distraction.

It wouldn’t have done Tim any good to have remembered the lock combination anyway. The lock wasn’t as old as it should have been. And while the capsule was filled with mementos from younger years, there were two small evidence bags at the bottom that were Batman standard issue.

They were hair samples.

Easily researched. Easily pocketed.

Tim breathed a sigh of relief as he quietly slipped them into the back of his jeans.

That had… not gone nearly as badly as he anticipated. He reminded himself that it wasn’t quite over yet. After all, he owed Ives pizza.

Ives and Bernard were still arguing amicably.

One of the reasons Ives never had too many friends as a kid was because most people couldn’t understand that the guy’s favorite form of conversation was a heated debate. When he felt like conversing at all outside of Wizards and Warlocks.

Bernard… well, Bernard just decided when someone was his friend and treated any attempts to escape his friendship as an amusing joke. It worked for him. But he also had a tendency to look down his nose at people who fit too neatly into a category, and Ives tended to wear his categories loud and proud. So it was… curious.

“So, how did you guys meet?”

Ives and Bernard paused and then grinned in unison.

“Elizabeth Spillgrave.”

Who? It took Tim a moment. Right.

Elizabeth Spillgrave. Real name: Jodie Weise. Internationally recognized alien conspiracy theorist, and one of Ives favorite authors. Or least favorite, depending how one looked at it. He always holed up in his room on the day one of her books released, reading voraciously. He would spend the next two weeks debunking her entire book paragraph by paragraph. Sometimes with charts if he was feeling particularly zealous and homework wasn’t challenging him enough.

Tim blinked, “And you became friends over this?”

It didn’t seem possible. Because while Ives was the sort to spend two weeks disproving the sort of theories that were the woman’s bread and butter, Bernard was just the sort to spend the same amount of time proving it. Or perhaps editing how such events would be possible, turning each paragraph into a spring board for his own theories. He would stop short of making charts, though. Bernard thought excessive chart-making was for nerds.

Ives shrugged, “We were both late to her book signing last year, and had to team up on scalping tickets to get into the VIP meet and greet.”

“We shared mutual disappointment that she could but spare us two minutes each, even after all that hassle.” Bernard sighed.

Ives rolled his eyes, “And then he started going on about his idea that the UFO’s mentioned in her last book might be Kryptonian. From a hundred years ago.”

“Magic is a thing, Sebastian.”

“They’re aliens, Bernard. Superman is vulnerable to magic. He’s not going to carry around something that could kill him.”

“Humans do it all the time.”

They continued on as they packed up their tools and piled into Ives’ car. Tim didn’t get a word in edge-wise to ask where they were going, but he quickly recognized the route Ives was taking. Pizza Planet, appropriately enough.

He pulled the clear evidence bags from his pocket to glance at them once more.

One contained extremely short snips of dirty blond hair. The other contained a single jet-black lock that looked like it had been curled around someone’s finger before getting cut.

Both sets were sufficient for a DNA database search.

Tim sat back in his seat.

First pizza, then catching up with the two civilian friends who were still speaking to him, maybe some nostalgic passing around of ye olde Game Boy, and then…

Answers.

[infinityknight25]

A Devil Went Down To Georgia part 1

A sweet southern rain overcame the small town of Orchard Hill in Spaulding county Georgia. The sun had already begun setting, causing an orangish shade behind the rain clouds. “Abby! C'mon we will take cover in that barn.” Said a young man to his short blonde haired female companion. The barn had a full walk through from one side to the other. It was a natural wood color and had begun to show signs of being old. The wood had begun to turn almost to a grayish color. The two made it under the cover of barn and were laughing. Abby looked at her male companion with happiness and caring in her eyes. He had dark black hair and brown eyes. His boyish smile was decorated with a mustache and soul patch. She smiled “Seth… Did you know it was gonna rain?” He chuckled. “Babe that’s the South for you. Sometimes you get pop up storms. ” He said as he moved closer to her. She backed up against the wall still smiling. Seth leaned in for a kiss. “Whoa sorry.” Said a voice. They both jumped and turned to see a man standing just outside of the barn in the rain. He had a black cowboy hat on and his face was painted like a wicked clown. His eyes were as black as the devils soul. “Is this your place?” The girl asked frightenedly. The man smiled and laughed as he came in from the rain. Water dripped off the bottom of his brown leather trench coat. “No ma'am it’s not. I’m just a wander that happened to get caught out in the rain. Much like yourselves.” He continued to get closer to them. “Hey man you need to give us just a little bit of space huh?” Seth said trying to sound stern. “Hmm. And why is that?” Asked the man with the wicked clown face paint as he walked closer. Young Seth panicked and grabbed a sickle off the wall from behind Abby. Seth swung with all his might. The man became translucent like. He maintained his clolor and definition but you could almost see through him. The sickle passed through him. Seth was awe struck. The man pointed at Seth with a smile. “Now, you see that could’ve been unavoidable.” He stepped forward and grabbed the sickle from Seth’s hand. He picked Seth up by the throat with his other hand. “You see, I can touch you. You can’t touch me.” The man said with a smile. Then he twirled the sickle and ran Seth through. He dropped the lifeless quiet body to the dirt floor of the barn. Abby was crying, trying to be somewhat quiet with her crying as she leaned hard up against the wooden wall of the barn. The man looked at her and smiled. “Oh now ma'am you have nothing to worry about.” He said as he stroked her face with the back of his pointer and middle fingers from his right hand. “You gotta stay alive to spread my mesaage.” He leaned in a whispered something in her ear. She was still crying as he backed out of the barn smiling his wicked clown smile. Once out in the rain, he turned and walked away. Almost thirty minutes later the police arrived to the barn. They rushed into one of the entries to the barn to see Abby sitting next to Seth’s cooling body. She was uncontrollably sobbing. A police officer who had stubble and salt and pepper hair slicked back walked up to Abby. “Tell me ma'am. Did you know the murderer?” She settled herself down but was still crying. “He told me that he had come to bring darkness to the world. He said that I was left alive to be his messenger. To be the one to make him known.“ The officer asked. “Who’s he?” She wiped her eyes. “The Apparition.” “Welcome to the Georgia days festival here in Beatufil Atlanta!” Said an announcer over the p.a. People had begun to gather around the vert ramp that was close to the center of the festival. On the deck of the ramp was a handful of bmx riders including Tyron Owens. He had his full face bmx helmet on as he sat ready to drop in. London’s calling by the Clash began to play as he dropped in. “Up first is Tyron Owens. He’s in his mid twenties and has been dominating both the Fmx and Bmx world’s.” The announcer began. Owens went up the vert wall for his first trick on the halfpipe. He began to do a spin trick. “That is a nice alley-oop 540. Alley-oop spins happen when you spin the opposite direction that you and the bike are moving.” Owens pumped hard as he headed to the opposite side of the ramp. “A very smooth superman tailwhip.” Owens began to set himself up for a flip trick. “A very clean footplant flair. The flair comes from the trick being a backflip with a 180 degree turn so the can be facing forward to continue his run.” Owens began figuring he had two more tricks before he was finished with his first run. “Whoa a bikeflip flair! What’s he gonna do to top that last trick!? Here we go. He’s spinning.” Owens spun his bars as well as himself and the bike. “A 360 barspin with a fakie landing. It’s better known as a fakie truck driver. Fakie is when you land backwards and the 360 barspins are better known as truck drivers.” The announcer said as he walked out to the bottom of the golden wood halfpipe. “Tyron, you had some very common tricks in that first run here at the Georgia days demo. Towards the end though, you brought out the bangers with that bikeflip flair. The capper had some tech qualities about it since you gotta land backwards but the truckdriver trick itself is pretty basic.” Owens looked at the announcer. This was the first time the crowd had seen him. He was a white mid twenties man with a fox racing flat bill hat on. He had a Mirraco bikes t-shirt on with a pair of blue jeans. “You know man, I was just going for what I felt like doing. I like ending my runs fakie cause that’s not something normal. Wether it’s a simple truckdriver or a double backflip. Plus I still have a few more chances to throw out some of the big tricks.” Owens put his helmet back over his ebony afro mohawk and headed back toward the top of the ramp. At the end of the demo Tyron was signing autographs with the other riders. He smiled and took pictures with several happy spectators. “Okay guys, we have to cut the line off here. The grounds are about to close and these dudes gotta eat. The announcer called over the p.a. system. The riders all got up. “I’m gonna go grab a corn dog okay guys?” They all acknowledged him and he started walking toward the midway concession stands. “I love your style. The way you end runs some times by landing backward.” Called a voice from behind him. Tyron smiled and began to turn around. “Listen man….” The man that called out to him had a receding hairline. He was in a blue suit with a blue striped tie. “My favorite trick of yours though was how you died and came back to life. Now that one you don’t see everyday. So tell me.” Owens cut the man off. “Look I just want to go get a corn dog and go back to my hotel.” “That can be easily arranged if you answer a couple quick questions. I would actually like for it go that way so I can try to hop on over to the side stage and watch the Bob Seeger cover band but the balls in your court.” Owens chuckled. “Who are you?” “My name is Phil Coulson. I am a S.H.I.E.L.D agent and at this very moment you are breaking a couple of big time laws if you do not comply.” “What’s gonna happen if I don’t comply?” Tyron asked starting to become very aggravated. Phil gave a slight smile. “Well honestly if I were you I’d speak with me. Cause if you decline…. A little man with a big attitude that smells like an animal will come and get the answers from you.” Coulson’s smile vanished and he stepped closer to Owens. “Then you spend the better part of what you have left in your action sports career in a S.H.I.E.L.D cell.” Tyron felt the rider inside him. The fire spread under his skin. He could feel the heat. He had yet to change. “I’ll take my chances.” Coulson smiled “Okay you have a good night Tyron….but if you change your mind.” Coulson handed him a card. “Gimme a call and we can figure a few things out. Hmmm?” Coulson began walking out of the festival area. Then headed toward the midway to get something to eat. The rider inside him was stiring. He was angry. He wanted to vent. “Calm yourself man. It ain’t no big deal. He’s just some punk. We’re good man.” The rider began to relax. Sunday morning at a small church of God nestled in the forest mountain range of Appalachia. The church sat on the Tennessee and Georgia border. It was a small one room building with no air conditioning. It was a hot summer day and the windows were opened. The he white lead paint had began to peel on the outside. The pews were a stained light colored wood. The small congregation of fifteen were listening to their preacher. A man who was in his mid to late fifties. His hair was short and mostly grey. His face was severely wrinkled from having an almost angry face the majority of his life. He was dressed in a blue cotton button up shirt. The short sleeves revealed scars from certain practices of his chosen religion. “Now children of God, it’s time we remember our focus on him. Keep the outside world out of your mind. There is nothing but putrid, vile and ungodly things out there! He gonna burn it all up!!“ The preacher said in his deep voice. “Children I am here before you as an instrument of God! To lead you to gates of heaven and hold the door open for you as you walk in. To demonstrate I am worthy of such a task I will preach the rest of the sermon holding this copperhead and eastern diamondback rattle snake.” The preacher picked up the snakes out of their glass terrariums. “ Luke 10:19 Behold I give unto you power to tread over serpents and scorpions, and over all power of the enemy:and nothing by any means shall hurt you. Now I will lead you in the hymn “I Surrender All”….“ The preacher was interrupted. “I don’t which snake is more deadly. The copperhead. The rattlesnake or! The one holding them.” The man with the juggalo clown face paint was in the doorway. His hands on each side of the entrance. He was kind of leaning forward. Everyone turned in shock to see The ghastly visitor. The snakes even sat still in his presence. His black cowboy hat covering the top part of his face. “Stranger you have the gall to come in here and spout your mouth…” The man interrupted again. “No you have the gall!” He began to enter the church building. “You stand there holding those snakes and talk high and mighty to your followers. For the time will come when they will not endure sound doctrine; but wanting to have their ears tickled, they will accumulate for themselves teachers in accordance to their own desires, and will turn away their ears from the truth and will turn aside to myths.“ "Are you accusing me of teaching false doctrine boy?” The preacher asked angrily. “No.” The copperhead bit the preacher. “I’m telling you.” Suddenly thousands of venomous snakes indigenous to the area began flooding in and attacking the congregation. The man chuckled. " Don't worry I will one day dine with you on the other side of the WIDE gate. Now..." He turned toward the door. " This building is vacant and creating an eye sore in the Appalachian landscape." The man snapped his fingers and the snakes all combusted, consuming the old white church building in an angry flame. The man walked the rest of the way out of the burning building unscathed. "Well.... I guess I've had enough fun. It's time to commit the souls of Hotlanta to the firey lake."

[martywurst]

YEAR 2: The Worst Comedian

"Coming up right now, I hope he brings his...BEST material, uhhh, MARTY WURST MUCH?"

After bombing this particular set at the Silverlake Lounge, the host added,

"Marty Wurst...he has the secret to comedy, being loud."

That got a big laugh of course and nothing felt worse than some cheap shot after I already bombed. Everyone there hated me. It was like high school all over again. I'd go to these mics and sure, I sucked, but it struck me that the same group of stuffy assholes were laughing at each other's sets no matter how lousy their jokes were.

Self-deprecating comment (laughter). Fuck my life! (laughter) I should probably just kill myself (laughter, clapping). I don't even want to do comedy tonight...(standing ovation, ticker-tape parade, group orgy ensues).

Then I'd go up and just... nothing. Crickets puking.

I started off in 2013 with an adventurous spirit, where I was willing to try characters and bizarre bits on stage, but the constant bombing made me shy away- plus comedians I looked up to were always insisting, "You have to make it personal."

I've always resisted that. Why can't I just be goofy and absurd?

Nobody was buying it. They saw through my lies and I couldn't sell it, that's why.

I was determined to hit mics, though. Once I spent 5 hours on public transportation for a whopping 7 minutes of stage time. I must've been out of my fucking mind. One night I missed the last bus and was stuck in Hollywood, so I just wandered around for a few hours until I could take the train back to Long Beach the next morning. I wanted to hang out at The Comedy Store until 2 a.m., but I couldn't miss that last train!

I didn't mind taking the Blue Line up to Hollywood at first. I could read, listen to podcasts, work on jokes, and not worry about traffic. 90 minute trip. Honestly, I was afraid to start driving again, but Claire eventually persuaded me to take her car, for safety's sake. There were a couple of late nights where some drunken assholes tried to mess with me on the train and I finally said fuck public transportation. It's not worth it.

The first year I hit 88 mics. The second year was closer to 200, which is still nothing compared to what most comics do in my circle. I tried to hit 4 to 8 mics a week and anything under that felt lazy. I would get moody and depressed. Sometimes I'd be out of town for the holidays and I'd be lucky to get one mic in, it was something, but then a week would go by and it'd feel like starting over again.

Explaining this process to my family always came off apologetic. It's hard for anyone outside of comedy to understand that you have to go up almost daily. I sure as hell didn't know. The fact that I was barely getting booked must've seemed like a spectacular failure to them. It still feels bad. I can't really brag about going up in bars and coffee shops. The whole bringer show fantasy was gone and now it was time to put in the actual work.

Sept. 2014, Jeanne Whitney and I took a short jaunt to San Diego for a gig at the Second Wind Bar on Navajo Road. It was my first taste of taking a drive with a friend and doing a show more than an hour away.

The Second Wind Bar (which has since closed down) was an ugly little dive bar with a pretty good stage, but hey- a show! Plus, they brought in a giant pizza- we're getting paid! The dude who put us up on the show was nice enough and the place definitely had some colorful customers.

Funny how we were just a couple of hours away and the place felt like a total redneck bar in middle America. A couple of loud, drunken ladies were trying to size me up and had a few questions about my act:

"Are you going to do jokes about Mexicans?"

"Nah, nothing like that. Just goofy stuff."

"Are you going to do jokes about Asians, like how they're bad drivers?"

"No.'

The second hag-in-command got excited,

"You should, because it's actually true. I had one cut me off on the way here! Asians can't drive!"

"I KNOW," first hag interrupted, "You're going to do jokes about JEWS."

"Probably," I said.

The way she said it, too, "JEWHOOOOS," made it particularly offensive, but at least she was enthusiastic about a comedy show. Now that there was the possibility of a racist act, the ladies would probably stick around. They might even throw out some extra tags or slurs.

I should've opened with, "So a Mexican, an Asian, and a JEWHOOO walk into a bar..."

A phone went off during my set, but other than that, the ladies were surprisingly cooperative. Maybe they couldn't handle the suspense.

When is he gonna say what I'm thinking? Here it comes...wait for it...maybe he forgot, I'll help him! (mouthing the word) jeh-whooooooo.

They tore into Jeanne instead. Jeanne fought back and was really funny--I wish I had recorded that set!

Then there was the Kill Tony show in The Belly Room. I'd tried to get up for weeks and listened to the podcast a lot. It's a crazy, wickedly funny, and occasionally maddening experience. The hosts are so mean-spirited and for some reason I still wanted to do it. The guests were a huge part of the appeal: They've had Moshe Kasher, Bill Burr, Sarah Silverman, Doug Benson, Roddy Piper, Ian Edwards--it was pretty impressive.

Comics are picked randomly out of a bucket, then they perform 1 minute of standup in front of the hosts and a couple of guest comedians. Then there's a post interview that usually involves a lot of cheap shots and ridicule at the amateur's expense. There's rarely any constructive criticism, but it does make for an entertaining show. Tony Hinchcliffe is the snarky and quick-witted host, Brian Redban is the sleazy sidekick, and there's an audience of Neanderthals that gobble up juvenile behavior. Plus, you got a guy in an Iron Patriot costume standing there for the whole show. He was sort of the show's perverted mascot. The original guy was fired, so various comedians were subbing inside a cheaper get-up.

I used to see the original Iron Patriot character standing on the bus and holding onto the rail because he couldn't sit down in that expensive suit.

During the show, I hung out in the green room and would just hover in the hall when they were calling up the next guy. They only get 5 to 6 people up each episode, and I was so used to not getting up. It was one of those nights when I started to regret signing up altogether and kind of hoped I'd be passed by again. Jamar Neighbors and Brian Moses were the guest hosts--I barely knew those guys and couldn't care less. Eccentric comedian Mugzilla had just stormed out of the room. He went after Jamar Neighbors for being a paid regular and then threw the mic down, marching off in a huff. Eddie Whitehead Jr. followed him, doing his Samuel L. Jackson schtick and then plugging his documentary on Youtube. Then I was called.

I hurried out of the green room and was completely out of breath during my entire set. I sucked hard, the material was dumb, and the interview that followed is what temporarily destroyed me. I'm a sensitive guy and not cut out for The Comedy Store's frat-boy behavior. I've always been the pussy.

They took it easy on me by the end, but the damage was done. Like Tony said, I was about to cry--I felt like shit. I kept doing these stupid bits and everyone would take it as an insult to their intelligence. I felt misunderstood and they had basically told me to quit. My voice alone seemed to infuriate Moses.

You gotta build your armor Wurst, they tare you down to make you stronger.

Are you serious? So you only thrive at the Store if you're a fucking bully?

Anyway, it was a painful lesson. I didn't grow up with a bunch of friends constantly ribbing me at school. I'm not used to being called a pedophile for entertainment purposes. It wasn't a joke at my expense, it was just punishment. My material was that annoying to them.

Somehow I made one friend on Twitter.

I'd done The Laugh Factory "audition/open mic" a few times. The owner Jamie Masada was there on my second try, but I got passed over. The process got old pretty quick and it seemed like the serious comedians I knew were avoiding that place anyway. It makes me feel good to know that Jamie had to sit through my armpit farts. TOO CONCEPTUAL, JAMIE? DID THAT ONE GO OVER YOUR HEAD?

I was really gunning for a showcase, taking schoolyard behavior to the stage. I would forget about The Laugh Factory for months and then go back with no expectations.

Bombing at The Comedy Store potluck for the first time was exhilarating. That room is pure magic. Unlike the Laugh Factory, that club never felt like a waste of time.

You sign up at 6 p.m. with 50+ comics and wait until 6:45 for the list to be posted. It's a long shot; a combination of new names that pop out, friends of the hosts, and maybe a couple of randoms. I'd hear comics grumble over and over that it's rigged, but I brought a buddy who just started standup and he was picked the first time he signed up, so you never know.

Anyway, on December 1, 2014, they posted the list and Brandon Brickz called it out,

"Marty Wurst!"

(sings) I've got the gol-den ti-cketttt!

It really was exciting. Plus Jeremiah Watkins was hosting, who I sort of knew.

You talk to comics about the Original Room and I'm sure they'll say the same thing. There's so much history, it's got the perfect stage, perfect lighting, and the whole room is painted black, so everyone is focused on the performer. It's also the most deadly when you bomb.

I bombed for 3 minutes and Jeremiah was merciful on my exit.

"Guys, he had stage presence, he had character work... should've given a little bit more than that."

The performance sucked for a number of reasons, but I finally did it.

I'd had a good set on this stage before, but it was a bringer show. The potluck open mic actually meant something. I was finally a comedian. A shitty one, but I'd been coming for months and I finally got my 3 minutes. It felt like an honest failure. Many more to come.

To be continued... (when my girlfriend proofreads the next chunk)