#apparently one of the only Americans I know who drives stick shift

[humanityinahandbag]

LOVE that Crowley only presses down the clutch, which means Aziraphale needs to change the gear and go faster himself lol

#selling books: The Ultimate Threat™

[minor-solemnity]

What's your favorite character from the golden trio era?

Oooh idk possibly this is an unpopular opinion - at least it was when I was like, properly in the fandom rather than where I am now which is firmly on the sidelines with my hands over my ears and ignoring everything that I don't like - but Cho Chang. This is probably in part because she got so much undeserved hatred (thank u fandom and author racism) and I am predisposed to like characters that people don't like.

I find her character so heartbreakingly real in a way that I think is entirely accidental on JKR's part. I don't think JK can write women. (Plz don't hate me for that, but like, it's true.) Everything interesting about the characters we are meant to like gets sanded down and ignored in the later books - Hermione's whole thing is like, book smart but not emotionally intelligent, she wants to be right and have people know she's right more than she cares about their feelings. She thinks rules are important until they apply to her. She is ruthless and vindictive and petty. These are interesting character traits that just get completely dropped in the later books. By the time book 6 ends and book 7 starts Hermione is 'wife' and 'mother' and it's kinda sad.

I digress.

Cho's boyfriend is murdered. Cho is understandably upset and heartbroken and sad af. She tries to find comfort in Harry because Harry was there, Harry must understand. Harry can help her process. Their ways of dealing with trauma are completely opposite to each other. Cho seeks emotional vulnerability and closeness from the boy who, of all people, will understand. Harry's way of processing trauma is to ignore it. It happened, it sucks, I will never speak of it again (until all my unprocessed emotions come spilling out and I end up lashing out and getting angry). Those two ways of dealing with trauma are not going to work well together. Harry is honestly a dick towards her - she's his fantasy. She's not a real person to him. When that fantasy comes crashing down he behaves pretty awfully towards her. And if you're reading critically, you come away thinking yeah, Cho's a whiny crybaby who doesn't get Harry at all. What a bitch. When in reality, it's more like - Cho is seriously fucked up and is trying to come to terms with her grief and seek comfort in someone who she thought would get it.

Imagine being like, 16 and being isolated and sad and so fundamentally misunderstood. Imagine being 18 and your friends are dead and the boy you liked is still dead and the other boy you thought you might like is a hero and the only thing you're really known for is the mess that is your grief. Imagine that the popular consensus is that your grief is something to be ridiculed.

I tend to pick and chose which parts of the extended canon I believe in, but I believe in Cho moving to America and getting hitched to an American muggle dude. (Moving to America is probably my own headcanon actually). What would motivate her to move across the world? Grief? Wonderlust? Anger? I imagine it's all three. Idk if this is a relatable feeling to a lot of people, but I get it. I have a constant itch under my skin that tells me to move on whenever a place starts to feel too much like home. To leave. To escape. Nowhere feels like home because home is a collection of broken things. It's a hall of funhouse mirrors - the wires in your brain get mixed up. Comfort and safety become synonymous with 'i will fuck this up' and 'i don't deserve this' and 'everyone will leave'.

I want so many things for Cho. I want her name to make sense. I want her to be seen as something other than 'pretty' and 'sad'. I want her in Boston slamming Sam Adams by Sam Adams grave because she finds it funny. I want her in Boston, learning to drive a car (stick-shift because the driving instructor had made a comment about how automatics are easier to learn and she is tired of people seeing her as something weak and unable). I want her road-raging and I want her to drive across the country because why the fuck not. I want her in New York and the city is so frantic and no one looks at her and she feels so small and the lights are so bright and she thinks maybe she could disappear here and no one would ever know. I want her to find a group of women rollerskating and maybe they invite her to their roller derby group. It isn't flying, but it's fast and aggressive and she's never allowed herself to be aggressive like this before. She's not allowed herself to be angry like this before. No one else has allowed her to be angry like this before.

I want her to go to California and to go to Angel Island and I want her to understand that there have been people like her before. That she is not alone in this feeling. I want her to meet a dude who's studying for an MBA - he doesn't know who she is. Doesn't know what she is. She's just this cute girl who drinks Sam Adams even tho that's a Boston thing and they're in San Diego. He's probably a frat boy. I want him to be a frat boy who takes his degree too seriously and wakes up at like 5 because he's also a gym rat. He takes her to his boxing class. She probably cries during and hey that's okay - she has a lot of shit to work through, he can tell. He doesn't ask about it. Just says her accent is cute. Maybe she starts taking night classes, maybe she doesn't. She's weirdly technologically illiterate - she sends him postcards even though they live in the same city. She says its because her school didn't let them have phones. She's never seen a Tarintino film and that's just like... not cool. They watch True Romance on his shitty box TV in his room in his frat house and she laughs (she laughs like the violence is cathartic) when Alabama completely destroys Virgil. He looks at her and she shrugs and says 'I get it.'

She says that's she's leaving soon - doesn't know where. Probably isn't coming back and again that's... not cool. She's weird about some stuff. Won't talk about home - won't say where she's from. He should be fine with it because like, it's not as if this is anything serious and his life is pretty clearly planned out. Get an MBA, work in some start-up tech company - the internet is a thing now and god, there's money to be made. He thinks maybe that she should like, stay but she also seems like the kind of person who doesn't know how to stop running. And look, he's doing an MBA. He rushed his frat. He goes to boxing every morning without fail. He's determined. He's not good at letting the things he wants go. But he lets her go because she doesn't want to stay. One night afterwards, his frat bro says, philosophical because they're crossfaded, that maybe she can't stay. Maybe she won't let herself stay. And that... That sounds about right.

So he waits. He waits and he gets postcards with no return address - in Seattle, she tries ice hockey. In Miami, she tries surfing. He almost gets on a plane to Cincinnati because she got into a fight with some dude who made his girlfriend cry in public. Apparently, she knocked him out with a punch just the way he showed her to. It feels weirdly romantic.

I want her to write a postcard to him when she's sitting in a bar in Las Vegas and I want her to include a return address. I want him on the first flight out, because fuck his classes? She included a return address. He asks her if she's ever going to go home and she looks at him and says, 'What? To San Diego?'

[notmrskennedy]

The List

(Spencer Reid x GenderNeutral?Reader)

A/N - In order to curb the crushing weight of being bested by a vacuum cleaner at work and stressing about my calc test, I’m posting this. I hope you all like it as much as the last one. Y’all are just the fuckin sweetest. 

Also, this was inspired by @definitelynotkatesblog and her awesome work Something to Cry About. It’s the cutest freakin thing. 

Summary - A little list on what makes Reader fall asleep at night...

Word Count - 2.2k

Warnings - swearing, but what’s new?

----

1. A Podcast Episode on Epicurus and the Hellenistic Age

“Spencer, christ,” you laugh, fluffing your curls. “I can assure you that I am not touchy and sharing a bed won’t kill us.”

Spencer fidgets in his spot in the doorway, crossing his arms to keep from shaking too much. Is it wrong to be jealous of your casualness surrounding this? Is it wrong to wish away that massive crush he’s got? Just at least for one night—pretty please with a cherry on top.

You wait with a half raised eyebrow at the side of the bed he clearly doesn’t sleep on. Your hand poised above the comforter like it’ll make his decision any quicker. Like you can’t see the turmoil that has to be written across his face.

Because what does this mean? What does it mean to sleep in the same bed with your best friend for the first time? What if you end up snuggled up in the morning? Is that bad? Is that good? Is he totally secretly wishing that’ll happen and spur you in falling in love with him just as much as he’s fallen for you?

He glances one more time between your calm eyes, the made bed, the clock, the giant college t-shirt you’re wearing, finally back to your face. He nods. Adds in a dash of blushing. A teaspoon of agreeing words.

You shake your head, smile at him like he’s an idiot—though he supposes he is with you—and wrench the covers back. Like you belong. He wants you to belong.

There’s still time to back out and sleep on the couch. Does he really want to?

He wills his feet forward. Tries to tell himself that this is just like every night. Sets his watch on the nightstand, plugs his phone in, slips into the covers.

“Hey, bud?”

He hums as he turns his head to look over at you. He’s still sat up in bed, hand poised over his stack of books. Are you going to tell him to turn out the light?

You smile, shifting your weight ever so slightly. You’re the restless sort and he wonders how you work the boring middle management job that you do. Pulling your lips back into a nervous smile, you gently say, “I can’t fall asleep to the quiet, do you mind if—“

“Do you want me to read to you?”

He hopes the excitement goes unnoticed. It seems to as you chuckle. “I wish it would work. You’re too interesting, Spencer Reid. Podcasts on Hellenistic philosophy however—do you mind if I listen? It won’t be too loud.”

He shakes his head. “Not at all.” Never for you.

“Thanks, Spence,” you chirp through a stifled yawn. And as you turn the podcast on and flip over to press tightly onto the pillow, you say, “and don’t worry. I promise I keep to my side of the bed.”

And unlike the liar he wishes you are, he wakes up to find that you are very true to your word.

2. Discovery Chanel, Documentary on Revolving Door Manufacturing

He’s never seen you cry before. You make it a point to keep saying between sobs, “I hate crying in front of other people. I’m so sorry.”

He can’t fathom why it’s you that’s sorry, not after you asked him to pick you up from your mother’s. The same mother who’s apparently found it within her purview to explain just how much she hates you over a nice dinner. He’s buzzing with anger on your behalf—anger that clearly isn’t shared, though he knows it’ll come later.

It takes roughly 20 minutes to get you over the hill, trading tears for tissues. Snot for begrudging smiles at his bad jokes. He’s promised himself that he will listen—for once in his goddamn life—to your whole story without interrupting. You seem to appreciate the sentiment, punctuating the whole experience with asking for one of those hugs that just never ends.

You try to explain it—“like cats, Spencer, you know?”—like he doesn’t already empathise completely.

And weirdly enough, it gets to a point where you two switch positions without breaking the crushing amount of contact you have. It gets to a point where you insist on watching the most boring documentary he’s ever seen on revolving door manufacturing. It gets to a point where you pass out after 15 minutes and turn over into his chest.

He doesn’t dare move. Not until he’s effectively sure you won’t be waking up anytime soon. Spencer falls asleep with your soft breath fanning across his chest and his hands tangled in your hair.

5. A Librivox Recording of ‘The Five Orange Pips’

Now this is ridiculous. And he says as much as you roll your eyes. You’re both sweaty and exhausted and he’s sure he’s never met someone who looked this awake after a romp at one AM. Your eyes are twinkling the same way someone does after they’ve run a mile and feel like they need to run another. You’ve got energy and he can’t fathom it.

“Spencer,” you whine, falling back into the bedsheets. It’s really the first official time you’ve spent at his house as more than a friend—much more. He’s gotten accustomed, understanding even, to the little podcasts you listen to to fall asleep. There’s no sense in understanding your sleeping habits, not yet at least, but he understands the boring, droning voices you let lull you to sleep.

But this! Sherlock Holmes?

“Y/n, I literally have the story on my bookshelf. I could read it to you if you’re so choosy!” he mirrors your position with a huff, already reaching out to drag you over into his side. The feel of your skin is addictive. The safest kind of high he can get. The only one he really wants.

You pout, sticking out your lip. It’s adorable and breaks the tweak of frustration resting hard in his features. “Love-bug, with you talking to me, I’d never fall asleep. It just doesn’t work like that and I don’t make the rules.”

“Fine,” he mutters, effectively pulling you close enough you can share the one pillow. You giggle, kiss his nose, and reach behind you for your phone. It takes five seconds for the Librivox recording to start and he realises that as he listens to the intro, he’s already dropping off. It’s understandable—he guesses—but he hopes that one day you’ll pick a story he hasn’t read already.

9. News in Slow Spanish

Listening to you get ready for bed will never be tiring, Spencer thinks. Not when he’s playing a game with himself. He’s so terrible at guessing what you’ll choose to listen to. There’s never any rhyme or reason. Never a solid thought process that he can decipher. He’s kept to making a list—half because he likes lists, half because he wonders how long it’ll get.

Four months in and he’s at number 9—more or less.

This one shocks him though. Has him poking his head out of the bathroom, toothbrush still stuck in his mouth. You’re pulling your hair out of a pony tail, humming along to the intro music for a newscast in Spanish. Do you speak Spanish?

“Sugar plum—“ he loves every weird nickname you’ve given him over the months— “I can hear the whine of your brain from here.”

It’s then you turn to really look at him. Smirking. Gleaming in the shadows of the bathroom light. Wearing nothing more than a sports bra and shorts. His mouth runs dry as he tries to keep his thoughts present and clean.

He takes the toothbrush from his mouth. You giggle as he speaks through the spit. “Do you speak Spanish?”

“I must not talk about work enough,” you mutter to yourself, slipping into bed. Like you belong. “My entire job is setting up relationships between the hotel company I work for and Latin American, well, anything. Hotels, river cruises, restaurants—I speak Spanish more than I do English some weeks.”

He nods, finishes brushing his teeth to process the thought. No, you don’t talk about work enough, and he’s suddenly worried about what you don’t talk about. It suddenly feels suffocating. Like he doesn’t know a single thing about you. Like he’s never known anything about you.

But as you drag yourself into his side once he’s beside you, as you kiss his cheek and settle in, he’s reminded that he doesn’t need to know everything to care. For you to care back. There’s enough time in the world to figure out all the other stuff. He’s content to learn as it comes. Appreciate every new thing he can get his hands on.

And, hey, if you listen to this podcast enough, he might learn Spanish too.

11. Whose Line is it Anyway? Reruns

“No, absolutely not. I’m putting the kibosh on this. The applause will drive me wild. Please, y/n, anything else.”

15. Spencer

If there hadn’t been a nightmare involved, it wouldn’t have been as terrifying to find you not in bed. To hear the door latch click with someone’s arrival. Or someone’s departure.

He’s out of bed before he can process. Before his brain can calm down enough to remind him that it’s fine. That there’s no way a burglar is going to be as loud as you’re being in the next room over.

He jumps out of the bedroom, ready to strangle the intruder with his bare hands, when you give a startled shout, “Jesus christ!” 

Spencer settles. Realises that it’s just you in a sweatshirt and slippers. You look utterly exhausted in the dim light of the apartment. Fidgeting and restless despite the slump to your shoulders. He vaguely wonders if he should make you a pot of coffee to calm you down.

The world catches up to him and he slumps into the wall. Is it so wrong to be this decidedly tired after a nightmare that he could’ve sworn wasn’t coming back? The two of you stare each other down, both equally apprehensive to the other for decidedly similar reasons.

Spencer’s entire body is beginning to light on fire. He doesn’t want to burn you in the process.

You’re buzzing and tired and angry and there’s no reason to take any of that out on him.

“Can’t sleep?” he finally prompts.

You scrub your hands over your face, fluff your curls, in response. “I walked the stairs four times, bug. I’m so—“

“Frustrated?”

“Yes.”

He nods his head, waves you over. You half heartedly trudge over to him, lean your head into his chest and feel at least a tiny amount of frustration drift away. He pulls you both back to bed—he can’t believe he’s functioning this well, but maybe it’s just because he’s fulfilling the need to think about anything else. There’s a hesitance as you lay back down and he knows that you’ve probably tried everything. That you don’t believe you’ll get any sleep at 2:45 in the morning.

“You’ve worked through the list then?” he asks. Your eyebrows pinch as you settle onto your side, giving him your full attention. “The things that make you fall asleep,” he clarifies, “you know, that list.”

“Do you—do you keep a list?” your voice is almost judgemental, but decidedly too curious. He nods. “I’ve never had anyone care that much.”

“So where are you at?” he says instead. There’s too much to unpack. Too much for his still swimming brain. He needs something concrete. “What’ve you tried?”

You go through your list, letting every inch of agony you’ve faced for the last four hours creep over your face. Spencer watches as you turn over one more time and groan into the pillow. “I think I’d rather just suffocate at this rate.”

He chuckles. “Stop being dramatic. Come here, let me try something.”

“But—“

“Just—please, y/n?” he doesn’t understand your refusal to trust him sometimes—it’s always about such strange things, like how he does the dishes or what brand of milk to buy. You scoot over to him, settle into his chest with an indignant huff. As if you aren’t tightening around him like a vice.

He clears his throat, drags his fingers softly up and down your spine, and picks the most boring thing—for you at least—he can think of to recite: quantum physics. He feels you relax after a minute. Your eyes close and your nose sinks a little deeper into his shirt. It takes nearly two chapters to get you to zonk out. Long enough that he’s worried you were right, that he was just too interesting for you. Even if he was reciting quantum physics literature.

He keeps droning for a little time after he thinks you must be—have to be—asleep. And just as he settles, just as his eyes are closing and he could drift off peacefully, he doesn’t miss the ever quiet, ever gentle words, “You’re too interesting, Spence, too goddamn interesting.”

You roll over, your back pressed against his side. He wants to laugh. He doesn’t, just ends up dreaming of something nearly as peaceful as falling asleep beside you.

[thetriggeredhappy]

sniperscout week day 2 ft. trying to format and play among us at the same time

Day 2: Meet Cute

@sniperscout-ship-week

The Sniper looked up as the doors swung open, a gaggle of people moving through them, some towards waiting cars, some towards the parking lot, some towards the line of taxis waiting outside. He scanned the crowd, trying to spot any of the distinguishing features he’d been told about, sifting through the visual of various men in suits and women in skirts and dresses and elderly folks and small families until finally his eyes landed on one sole man, standing with his back straight and his eyes nearly shielded entirely from view by a baseball cap emblazoned with the logo of some American sports team or another. Baseball, maybe?

He scanned the line of cars, sweeping back and forth a few times, until that pair of narrowed eyes finally swept far enough to one side to land on him. A blink, a visible brightening of his posture as the kid gave him a brief up-and-down, a goofy grin.

And damn, kid really was the word to describe him. He looked like he could be in his late teens, practically, even though gossip around base was that their newest teammate was somewhere in his mid-twenties. And he wasn’t particularly muscular, at least not from what Sniper could tell, and the way he moved as he walked over was so casual, nothing like the walk of their standard hired killer. No glances over his shoulder, clearly not strapped, probably not even carrying a knife, just walking straight up to him.

“Yo, uh,” he opened with, and his tone was easygoing enough, voice louder than expected, “are you uh, that guy that Miss... Pauling, right? That Miss Pauling sent?”

He looked at the kid. “Just get in the van,” he said flatly, and stood up to move around to the driver’s side.

By the time he opened his door, the kid had just popped open his own, looked a little nervous. He was tapping a little rhythm into the door with his fingers. “Uh, pretty sure I heard somethin’ in school about not gettin’ in random dudes’ vans, at least once or twice,” he half-joked, glancing around the inside of the van. “Especially dudes who might, y’know, maybe be armed.”

“I’m definitely armed,” Sniper deadpanned, buckling his seatbelt. “I’m also the one driving you to the base. Now get in the van.”

Somewhere between him sticking the keys in the ignition and checking his left mirror, the kid got in the car, buckled his seatbelt, deposited his bag at his feet, and kicked his feet up onto the dash. He was working on rolling the window down by the time Sniper glanced over the check the right mirror, tapping a rhythm into his own leg now. Quicker than he’d expected. He took mental note of that fact. “So, uh,” the kid said, leaning to look back out the window towards the doors of the airport, “is that Pauling lady not gonna show up? She driving separate?”

“She’s at the base,” Sniper said, trying to figure o it what accent the kid had as he pulled out of the line of cars. East Coast, he knew. What was that city called?

“Okay. So are you one of those dudes I’m supposed to be workin’ with? Because she kinda mentioned that I’m gonna be on like a team with people but she didn’t name any names and she said she’s not on that team, so are you one of those guys or are you just kind of a paper-pusher too? Or do you drive full time maybe? Weird that they’d give you a freakin’ camper-van for that, like, what if you gotta drive a couple people at once, you could get maybe two other people in here, or is this not a camper-van? Is it like, weapons and shit in the back? That’d be pretty sweet—“

“Sniper,” he cut in.

“Huh?”

“I’m the Sniper. On the team,” Sniper said, still mentally trying to catch up with what all the kid was saying. “We’ve all got titles. Don’t use real names. Got yours yet?”

“Uh, yeah, I’m uh—“ He stopped to fish through his bag, coming up with some half-crumpled papers, squinted at them. “Uhhh, the uh... Renconin—no, uh, Reconescent and—and Scouting Specialize—uh, Specialite—no, wait—okay, y’know what? Scout. I’m the Scout.”

He wondered, brow furrowing, if the paper was too crumpled to read, or if the jostling of the van was throwing him off, or if the Scout just couldn’t read. “Awright. Scout it is,” he shrugged.

“Hell yeah,” he said cheerfully, sifting back comfortably in the seat again, tossing the papers back down with his bag.

The question was burning a hole through his tongue. “How old are you, exactly?”

“Twenty-three,” he said, and out of the corner of his eye Sniper could see that he was making a face. “And yeah, yeah, I know, look way younger than that, whatever, but it’s totally true. Practically twenty-four, even! Birthday’s only two months out.”

He side-eyed the man, but decided to drop it. Apparently, the Scout didn’t.

“What about you, huh?” he prodded. “Probably like thirty-five, right? Forty?”

“Late twenties,” he said dryly, not particularly wanting to get specific.

“You’re kiddin’!” He leaned over the gearshift to elbow him in the upper arm, and Sniper tensed up at it. “Hey, it’ll be nice havin’ a younger guy around, huh?”

Sniper stared out the windshield and didn’t make eye contact.

“So what’re the rest of the guys like? They cool?” he prodded further.

“We get there in half an hour, you’ll meet them yourself.”

“Yeah, but it’d be nice to know what to expect, y’know?” The kid started fishing through his bag for something. “Any of ‘em Australian like you?”

“No,” Sniper said, voice flat. He paused for a second. “Few Americans, few Europeans, a Russian, one person who we aren’t sure about. Think they’re all at least mid-thirties, oldest nearly fifty. And none of them would be this patient with your bloody badgering, so I’d recommend being a little quieter once we get there. Already I’m about three questions away from leaving you on the side of the road with a map and making you walk.”

The Scout laughed, as if he was joking, and leaned forward to fiddle with the radio, eventually finding a station that was playing music and cracking the tab on the can of soda he’d apparently had in his bag. It was mostly quiet the remainder of the drive.

-

“Badgering, you said.”

“Did not,” Sniper mumbled.

“You absolutely did!”

Scout managed to roll over onto his front without elbowing Sniper in any soft tissues, the tiny camper-van bed making any maneuvering at all a bit of a challenge, looking up at him with that goofy grin he’d become so familiar with.

“Still annoyed about my badgering?” Scout chirped.

“What do you think?” Sniper drawled, fighting to hide the little upwards tick of the corner of his mouth that always gave him away. From the little huff of a laugh that Scout gave, apparently he didn’t quite manage it.

“What was your deal, anyways?” Scout asked, shifting a little to get more comfortable. “Like, even knowin’ you a little better now I’m pretty sure you had to be in a pretty bad mood that day.”

Sniper exhaled, trying to stretch his memory back that far. It had been a few years by then, and admittedly, his memory was a little fuzzy. “Wasn’t exactly thrilled about the growing trend of me being the team driver,” he said, reasonably sure that was accurate. “Especially such a long drive.”

“Would’ve been a shorter drive if you’d gone over the speed limit,” Scout mumbled.

Sniper shot him a look, albeit with an undercurrent of amusement. “We’re not having this argument again,” he deadpanned.

“No, for sure we’re not. It’s just funny is all that you still use your turn signal in the middle of the open freakin’ desert with no other cars around—“

“Awright, if you’re gonna get on my case for being a safe driver—“

“We’re mercenaries, Snipes, Jesus Christ, what’re they gonna do, pull you over? Are one of the dozens of cops that don’t fuckin’ exist out here gonna pull you over? It’s so ridiculous, why wouldn’t you just speed up—“

Sniper leaned in and cut him off with a firm kiss on the lips, and the second Scout processed it he was leaning into it, argument almost instantly forgotten in lieu of trying to get an arm up over Sniper’s shoulders. When they parted again, a few seconds later, Scout’s grin said that he’d effectively forgotten what they were just talking about.

Or he’d figured, anyways. Because after a few seconds of looking at each other, Scout spoke. “Badgering, you said.”

Sniper picked up the pillow from behind his head and shoved it in Scout’s face, making him squawk in indignance, and tried his damndest not to smile. Unfortunately, that trick hadn’t worked for quite some time.

[mattzerella-sticks]

Supernatural Crack🩹tober

Day 3: Baby/Pimpmobile - Shotgun

           Baby stares at her reflection in the mirror, acquainting herself with new, yet familiar features. Runs a twitching hand through short, ruffled locks. Giggling at the sensation, and at the novelty of sense. Green eyes light up the more she tussles her new hair, wrinkles appearing around green eyes and pink lips. “Oh my God,” she whispers, voice a deep timbre. Rumbling without an engine. “Cars should totally come with hair!”

           She adds hair to the ever-growing list of things she enjoys while being a human. While being her human. Dean.

           It was a normal day, before. Better than usual. Instead of wasting time, collecting dust, resting alongside rows of retirees Baby burned rubber. Driven over hot asphalt, her tires endlessly spinning. Full up, Dean taking care by feeding her until she could fit no more. And, with open windows, the world could hear her voice as she crooned song after song. She and Dean duetting on most of them. Sam roped in on certain choruses.

           But then they made it home. Journey over, the brothers began emptying her trunk. Baby carried an extra few pounds, souvenirs from the trip. From her rearview mirror, she watched them bicker while stacking boxes in their arms. Dean attempting too much, his face obscured by a wobbling tower. He inched backwards, Sam already given up and abandoning him. A box fell out of view, sound echoing in the room.

           Dean stopped. Bent over –

           Suddenly she sees brown, scuffed boots and an odd, stone figure. Startled, Baby relies on her defenses. Her sirens go off and she honks uncontrollably, but they’re different. Not the same.

           She wasn’t the same. She was Dean.

           “-and Dean is in the car,” Sam explained over the phone, Baby listening but not really. Distracted by an engine that beat, holding her exhaust until sparks burned inside her chassis, and headlights dimmed.

           That’s not right. Not engine, heart. Breath and vision. Sam ran down basic human functions after the call, telling her not to overexert herself. “Be careful with Dean’s body,” he said, “he’s not as durable as – uh… as you used to be, Baby?”

           Nodding, Baby mimicked an affectionate gesture she’s seen Dean use over the years. “I’ll keep Dean safe, Sammy!” she promised, middle finger proudly raised.

           “…Thanks.”

           Unhitched, Baby decided that while in Dean’s body for the time being, she might cruise the only other place he’s called Home. See how a stationary building compares against her sleek, steadfast design.

           In her objective, unbiased opinion, Baby finds her competition lacking. It’s too big, sprawling like the American highway system. A map needed in plotting the path between point A and B. And the detours were confusing. One whole room dedicated for storing food? Pointless. Drive-thrus and diners still existed, meaning the stockpile she found inside a giant, white box wasted space for probably better things. There’s also a washroom that made little sense. How can Dean thoroughly clean himself when little walls were built throughout, blocking any attempt at moving onto the next station?

           Humanity was too complicated for her. Baby enjoyed the simple pleasures. Air on her face, the sound of her steps echoing, and her appearance.

           Wandering, she passed by a room with little thought about it. But, surprisingly, she shifted into reverse.

           Nothing she saw meant anything to her. But her body – Dean’s body – eased, like when she would do rolling stops. Comfortable and safe, in control. Given how crazy the entire day’s been, she savors the feeling.

           Curiosity returns though, not idling for long. Baby investigates the new space. Turns down the soft tarp, leaning on a plush ledge that differs from any surface she’s touched. Examines many hanging decorations of weapons, recognizing those as Dean wielded many similar shapes while around her. She refrains of grabbing any. Instead pulls on a loose hanging rag, surprised when a compartment opens up. Reveals more of the rag, and how it’s not a rag at all. Baby holds a smaller tarp, painted in a criss-cross pattern like the tarp Dean usually wears.

           “That?” Sam said, earlier, following Baby’s pointed finger, “that’s not a tarp. It’s a shirt.”

           “A shirt…” Baby repeated in this newer room. Rubs it against her face, smiling.

           Dean keeps her looking one way. Always black. Never considering a different style.

           Humans can change their style on a whim. Baby does just that.

           She moves her hands away from her hair, traipsing along the lines of the shirt she chose. Buried underneath all the others, it was a tiny scrap of fabric. Decal sheared off, the hem ending halfway down his chest. Baby pokes at her exposed belly, laughter growing. Then, she rubs a hand on the denim short pants she loves, even if Dean only wears them when washing her.

           “Must’ve been a dust storm or something,” Dean said, she remembers, that morning outside the human garage. “Don’t worry, once we get back I’ll give you some good ol’ TLC.”

           It strikes her that, with their new roles, she can shower Dean in a whole new type of love. Engines revved; she guns back onto the highway. Racing towards the garage where Dean sat for all this time.

           He wasn’t alone.

           Baby skids, stopping at the garage entrance. She spies a familiar figure sitting on her old hood, although it’s been ages since Baby saw him in such a state.

           Castiel kicks his legs, wearing only a pair of slacks while murmuring in a low pitch she cannot hear at this distance. Inching closer, Baby notices a nearby pile. His familiar beige tarp, and a darker color of a similar design. Striking blue strip still hanging off a wrinkled white shirt. And black hubcaps – shoes, they’re called shoes – with grey rags sticking out.

           “…and the sky… the sky is so weird, here,” Castiel mumbles, “how do they put up with it? No blue, no purple – no sun, no stars…” He chuckles, stealing the road out from under Baby. She pauses, the sound hauntingly familiar to her. Not like the angel who’s ridden with her boys. Like someone she hadn’t heard in years. “I wish you could talk,” Castiel says, petting the hood now, “I’m finally awake again, but we’re still separated –“

           “Linc?”

           Linc’s head whips towards her, eyes widening in recognition. “Dean,” he stands, advancing, “Dean, I can – I can explain –“

           “No,” Baby interrupts, closing the distance. She wraps her arms around him, savoring how he fit there. “No, not Dean,” she explains, “it’s Baby.”

           “Baby?” Linc gasps, twisting in her grasp. He studies her in a new light, “How… when did –“

           “Before you, I think,” she tells him. “What’s the last thing you remember?”

           Linc scoffs, slinking away. Moving, she can tell how different he is from the angel. Hunched over, hands shoved in folds within the slacks that are slung low on his hips. “Darkness… y’know, so much darkness.” He looks left, at a nearby car covered in an old, oily tarp and dust. “But then that changes, and the next thing I remember, I’m in my ol’ driver’s frame –“

           “Body,” she corrects, wincing under his arched brow. “They’re called bodies… apparently.”

           “Right,” he drawls, whistling the word out. “Fuckin’ stupid…” Linc shuffles over, hand freed and hovering near her face. “Aren’t humans dumb?”

           “They’re not dumb,” she says, face twinging with pain as she smiles. It hurts, in a good way. “But they do a lot of unnecessary things.”

           “Fuckin’ A they do.” Linc gestures at the discarded coverings, snorting. “Why they wear so much, I’ll never know.”

           Baby sighs, “You do tend to run hot, Linc. It’s not Castiel’s fault –“

           “Maybe if he ever looked under my hood, he’d fix it.” Linc spits, bitterness soaking the words. A dark cloud of exhaust following it. “Fix a lot of things, make it so I can be out there, again. I can be… I can be with you.”

           She missed him. Missed his snark, and his care. Whenever she returned, Linc would immediately run through a check list – hoping nothing too serious happened while out. Waited by her side if a hunt left some casualties and distracted her from Dean’s surgery with stories of his former life.

           This anger… it’s been festering like oil. Every day Castiel didn’t drive him, it grew. Being decommissioned, forgotten, absorbed into an ancient collection… made the hurt grow. Baby tried speaking with him, then, in those early days. He never heard her. Couldn’t see how sad she was. Close, but still so far.

           Baby grabs his hand, guiding it to her cheek. “I missed you, too.” She leads him forward, leaning on her old hood. “Missed a lot of things… but we have a chance. A small window of opportunity, while Sammy figures out how we can get back to who we were.”

           Linc shakes his head, “Make that a large window. When the oaf left he had no clue where he should start!”

           “Then we can do it more than once.”

           “Do what?”

           She glances behind, at her cabin. “They might have complicated much of life, but humans still know about simple pleasures. Let’s make like the humans do, and… fool around in the backseat?”

           He catches on, laughter cutting through like a sharp honk. “I wouldn’t know where to start,” he wriggles his fingers, “still unused to all these extra… features.”

           “I’ll help you.” Sliding off the hood, Baby and Linc hurry – hand in hand – into the second row. “Dean’s done this a lot. Now I’ll finally understand why he chooses to do it here.”

           “Don’t think about Dean,” Linc whispers in her ear, tiny pellets of hail striking her skin. “It’s just you and me, Baby. Linc and Baby… together again.”

           “Together again…” She turns slightly, enough that her mouth captures Linc’s, an imitation of all the times she watched Dean do the same through the rearview. Baby never got it. In that moment, she does. It’s finding a parking spot in a crowded lot. Passing a light as it switches from yellow to red. Idling on the side of the road during a sunset, her boys sitting on her hood. Baby breaks from the kiss, gasping.

           She prefers being a car. As she was, her life was simple. Still… humanity had its perks.

           Linc and her explore all of them, until the clock runs out.

(Day 2 - Oops! All Plaid)

[douchebagbrainwaves]

IF THIS WAS THEIR HYPOTHESIS, IT'S NOW BEEN VERIFIED EXPERIMENTALLY

Honestly, Sam is, along with Steve Jobs, but he may be the best writer among Silicon Valley CEOs. Maybe an organization that helped lift its weight off a country could benefit from the resulting growth. But the more investors you have in a round, the founders almost always still have control of the company. So I think VC funds are seriously threatened by the super-angels by driving up valuations. Now when one thinks of what Microsoft does to users, all the verbs that come to mind begin with F. If widely used, auto-retrieval would only be practical for users on high-bandwidth connections, but there seems a decent chance it's true. Inc recently asked me who I thought were the 5 most interesting startup founders of the last 30 years. Same story in 2004. Because depending on the meaning of quickly, it could either be a bug or a new discovery. If investors are easily convinced, the startup funding business is now in what could, at least by comparison, be called turmoil.

American. Live by the channel, die by the channel: if you depend on an oligopoly, you sink into bad habits that are hard to overcome when you suddenly get competition. Whatever the cause, stupid comments tend to be run by programmers. The no man's land between angels and VCs is the amount of your company, if they merely failed to get those few big winners. How will this all play out? And if Battery Ventures hadn't turned down Facebook, Boston would be significantly bigger now on the startup radar screen. The basic idea behind office hours is that the customer doesn't want what he thinks he wants. Apple's competitors now know better. Work Day.

And although the super-angels make more investments per partner, they have less partner per investment. It's just not reasonable to expect startups to pick an optimal round size in advance, because that was where their peers were, and investors would appear too, because that means we're going to have novel consequences. One of the hardest parts of doing a startup is the percentage chance it's Google. But interesting, and finished fairly quickly. If someone had launched a new, spam-free mail service, users would have flocked to it. Next time you're in a moderately large city, drop by the main post office and watch the body language of the people working there. But we didn't propose that to save money. Companies spend millions to build office buildings for a single purpose: to be a good idea to have a stateless algorithm. And I was a Reddit user when the opposite happened there, and the best stuff prevails. I was living in New York when Giuliani introduced the reforms that made the broken windows theory famous, and the site rules discourage dramatic link titles. The country is shifting to the left or right in their morning-after analyses are like the financial reporters stuck writing stories day after day about the random fluctuations of the stock after using the first half of the stock market.

It just made me spend several minutes telling you how great they are. And not just for the obvious reason that more competition for deals means better terms. When we want to make a car better, we stick tail fins on it, or make the windows smaller, depending on the current fashion. I do actually typing. The huge volume of the spam, which has so far worked in the spammer's favor, would now work against him, like a branch snapping back in his face. You've made something you need to do. Pump out a million emails an hour, get a million hits an hour on your servers. But if you're looking for companies that will get bought. This one wouldn't. It's the principle of a market economy.

How do you decide who's the most interesting? One way to guess how far an idea extends is to ask yourself at what point you'd bet against it. They're obsessed with making things well. What does that mean for founders? There are just two or three articles on individual people's sites for every one I read on the site of a newspaper or magazine. Race you. Hence what I call the Fluff Principle: on a user-voted news site, the links that are easiest to judge will take over unless you take specific measures to prevent it.

Initially it was supposed to be a harder problem than bad submissions. From the start they had a policy of censoring nothing except spam. So for now this is something startups are deciding individually. But I don't think that's a bias of mine. To me the most demoralizing aspect of the traditional office is that you're supposed to be there at certain times. Deadlocks weren't the only problem with fixed-size equity round with a lead makes sense, because there is usually just one big investor, who is unequivocally the lead. Nor is there anything new, and if you want to be the first to make something, it helps them be decisive. Google was indistinguishable from a nonprofit. If you start from successful startups, you find they'd often make good startups.

In any purely economic relationship you're free to do what you want and publish when you want. It's grown bigger and taken up more time than I expected, but I resent being told what to do next, but I'll probably think of something. Founders would start to move there without being paid, because that was where their peers were, and investors would appear too, because that was where the deals were. If a super-angel has some of the qualities of a VC. But when you examine that election, it tends to support the charisma theory more than contradict it. But as I thought more about this project, I realized it would probably have to be a spam url, so submitting every http request in every email would work fine nearly all the time. Pundits said Carter beat Ford because the country distrusted the Republicans after Watergate. If your work requires you to talk to other people in the Valley is watching them. Anyone can adopt Don't be evil. If a link is just an empty rant, editors will sometimes kill it even if it's on topic in the sense of being about hacking, because it's easier than satisfying them. The fact that super-angels.

And while the concept of insanely great already existed in the arts, it was a pain to fund with grants and donations. Though this election is usually given as an example of the power of TV, Kennedy apparently would not have won without fraud by party machines in Illinois and Texas. Because they're good guys and they're trying to help the world. Dukakis, Gore, and Kerry were so similar in that respect that they might have been brothers. It's not a charity, but they may not always be. If they accepted it, it wouldn't be read by anyone for months, and in the meantime I'd have to fight word-by-word to save it from being mangled by some twenty five year old copy editor. If widely used, auto-retrieval would only be practical for users on high-bandwidth connections, but there seems a decent chance it's true. Meaning that when the note converts into stock in a later round, or upon acquisition, the investors in that round will get. But because the imaginary machine was always running, I felt I always ought to be working.

[bourbon-ontherocks]

Tagged by @medievalraven who apparently is way too curious for her own good!

rules: bold everything that applies to you and tag people you’d like to get to know better.

appearance

i’m over 5’5” 1m65 (FUCK OFF, I SPEAK METRIC SYSTEM!!!!!!) // i wear glasses or contacts // i have blonde hair // i prefer loose clothing to tight clothing (I actually like both, depends on my mood) // i have one or more piercings // i have at least one tattoo // i have blue eyes  // i have dyed or highlighted my hair // i have gotten plastic surgery // i have or had braces // i sunburn easily // i have freckles // i paint my nails // i typically wear makeup // i don’t often smile // i am pleased with how i look // i prefer nike to adidas (I don’t know what this question is about) // i wear baseball hats backward (I’m not American so I don’t know what baseball is)

hobbies & talents

i play a sport // i can play an instrument // i am artistic // i know more than one language // i have won a trophy in some sort of competition  (does getting a best speech award in some boring research congress count???) // i can cook or bake without a recipe // i know how to swim // i enjoy writing // i can do origami // i prefer movies to t.v shows // i can execute a perfect somersault // i enjoy singing  // i could survive in the wild on my own // i have read a new book series this year // i enjoy spending time with friends // i travel during school or work breaks // i can do a handstand

relationships

i am in a relationship // i have been single for over a year // i have a crush // i have a best friend i have known for ten years // my parents are together // i have dated my best friend // i am adopted // my crush has confessed to me // i have a long-distance relationship // i am an only child // i give advice to my friends // i have made an online friend // i met up with someone i have met online (dating apps count, right??)

aesthetic

i have heard the ocean in a conch shell // i have watched the sunrise // i enjoy rainy days // i have slept under the stars // i meditate outside // the sound of chirping calms me // i enjoy the smell of the beach // i know what snow tastes like // i listen to music to fall asleep // i enjoy thunderstorms // i enjoy cloud watching // i have attended a bonfire // i pay close attention to colors // i find mystery in the ocean // i enjoy hiking on nature paths // autumn is my favorite season

misc.

i can fall asleep in a moving vehicle // i am the mum friend // i live by a certain quote // i like the smell of sharpies // i am involved in extracurricular activities // i enjoy mexican food // i can drive a stick-shift (again: not American, haha!) // i believe in true love // i make up scenarios to fall asleep (OMG, I’m not the only one???) // i sing in the shower // i wish i lived in a video game // i have a canopy above my bed // i am multiracial // i am a redhead // i own at least three dogs // i have a cat

tagging: if you feel like answering extremely random things and haven’t done it yet, @sothischickshe @riosnecktattoo @mego42 @missmaxime and @sdktrs12

[introvertguide]

Sullivan’s Travels (1941); AFI #61

The current movie under review is one of my surprise favorites from the AFI list, Sullivan’s Travels (1941). It was written and directed by Preston Sturges, who was writer/director for five films on the AFI 100 Funniest Films. The story is an elaboration of how Sturges was feeling as a director during the Great Depression. The film did not do especially well as far as accolades, but it was well received by critics and audiences. The film is also one of the first for Veronica Lake when she was barely 18 years old. Let’s take care of some business before discussing further and go over the plot of the movie. Of course that means...

SPOILER ALERT!!! THIS IS A SURPRISINGLY GREAT MOVIE SO DON’T LET ME RUIN THE SURPRISE!!! WATCH THE FILM FIRST THEN COME BACK AND CHECK OUT THE REVIEW!!!

The film is set in Hollywood during the Great Depression, and John L. Sullivan (Joel McCrea) is a Hollywood director who has made a lot of money off of directing light comedies. He is worried that his movies are shallow in the face of all the tragedy in the country and he decides that he wants to make a serious film based on a novel about the downtrodden called O Brother, Where Art Thou? The studio heads want him to direct another lucrative comedy instead, but Sullivan refuses to budge and decides he needs to discover what it is like to be poor. His butler and valet help him dress up in an appropriate hobo outfit, then Sullivan sets out with a dime in his pocket. 

In one of the funniest progression of events in a film I have ever witnessed, Sullivan attempts to hitchhike out of Hollywood with his entire staff (secretary, cook, personal assistant, press manager) following right behind him in a giant bus. Sullivan does not like this arrangement, but it was the only way the studio would allow him to try this stunt. After a beautiful pan of a lonely hobo walking back to a beautiful bus which is an office on wheels, the movie decides that Sullivan needs to break away. This is accomplished in the form of a twelve year old driving a make shift car, so Sullivan jumps in and the two speed off with the office bus in pursuit. The wacky car chase ends at a restaurant and Sullivan tells his crew that he will meet up with them in Las Vegas. In the meantime, he goes into the diner to get some food.

Inside, he meets a young struggling actress (Veronica Lake) who is just about to give up and go home. She believes that Sullivan is a tramp and buys him a breakfast of ham and eggs. In return for her kindness, Sullivan retrieves his car from his estate and gives her a lift under the pretense that he borrowed it from a friend. He does not tell anyone that he is taking his own car, so his staff report it stolen and he and the girl are arrested. He is released into the care of his valet and the Girl goes with him. Because of the mansion and chauffeured car, it becomes apparent that Sullivan is not who he said he was. After seeing how wealthy he is, the Girl pushes him into his enormous swimming pool for deceiving her. However, when he insists on trying his hobo project again, she goes with him disguised as a boy.

Sullivan and the Girl do finally get some experience in suffering, but keep returning to Hollywood when things get too overwhelming. They both spend some time riding in a boxcar, eating at a soup kitchen, and sleeping in a homeless shelter (where another hobo steals his shoes into which the butler has sown a business card). His experiment is publicized by the studio as a huge success. The Girl wants to stay with Sullivan and presumably marry him, but this cannot be since he was already married on the advice of his business manager in an attempt for Sullivan to lower his taxes. It turns out, however, that Sullivan was tricked and his wife cost him double what he saved. Also, she is in love with his business manager.

For more promotion for his project, Sullivan decides to thank the homeless by handing out $5 bills. Everyone knows that carrying a wad of cash around desperate people is dumb, and one hobo ambushes Sullivan and steals the money. Sullivan is knocked unconscious and put in a boxcar leaving the city and the thief gets run over and killed by another train while trying to pick up the money he dropped while escaping. When the mangled body is found, it turns out that this was the hobo who stole Sullivan's shoes, and a special identification card sewn into them identifies him as Sullivan.

Meanwhile, the real Sullivan wakes up in another city with no memory of who he is or how he got there. A train boss finds him and berates Sullivan for illegally entering the rail yard. In his confused state, Sullivan hits the man with a rock and is sentenced to six years in a labor camp. He gradually regains his memory and tries to find a way to escape. In one of most progressive scenes of the time, an all black church allows the white convicts to join them for a showing of some cartoons to lighten everyone’s spirits. It is a showing of Walt Disney's 1934 Playful Pluto cartoon and Sullivan is surprised to find himself laughing along with the other inmates.

Unable to convince anybody that he is Sullivan or communicate with the outside world, he comes up with a solution: after seeing his unsolved "killing" on the front page of a newspaper, he confesses to being his own killer. When his picture makes the front page, the Girl recognizes him and Sullivan is released. His "widow" had already married his business manager, so he realizes she will have to give him a divorce or be charged with bigamy. Sullivan's boss tells him he can make O Brother, Where Art Thou?, but Sullivan says that he has changed his mind. He wants to make comedies, having learned that they can do more good for the poor. 

It seem pretty apparent that Preston Sturges wrote this as a “what if” scenario when considering his own work. He was a director that was known for his screwball comedies and he sometimes craved for a chance to try more serious films. This was one of his more serious films and it was still very funny and showed his maturity in sticking what he was best at and brought his audience the most joy. Sturges is known in Hollywood history as the first real writer/director and he established that reputation in style. He famously sold the story for one of his movies to Paramount for $1 on the condition that he would be allowed to direct the film. Quite the character.

As I have mentioned in all my articles on this movie, Veronica Lake was very young and very pregnant during the filming. She gave birth to her first child only a couple of months after wrapping up filming and had to hide her very pregnant body. She had a body double for some of the scenes, but she mostly hid her stomach in a variety of costumes. One thing I noticed, with the exception of a brief puff in the diner, she was not smoking nor was she around smoking in the film. It is also fun to look and see if you can “spot the belly” because it is definitely noticeable in some scenes.

A favorite scene of mine and one that was recognized by the NAACP was the church scene towards the end. Standard race roles were challenged on film as a church of black parishioners took pity on the apparently all white prison gang and allow the inmates to sit in front and join them in watching a movie. Black Americans were still being forced to sit in the back against their will and were often not given the same opportunities as White Americans. This scene reversed the standard racial stereotypes of the time and portrayed sympathetic and forgiving black church members giving permission to white criminals to join them. It was completely unheard of at the time and made for a great lesson for the character of Sullivan.

So, it is time for the standard questions. Does this film belong on the AFI list? Sure does. It is one of the first big roles of Veronica Lake, it is a master class of writing and directing by Preston Sturges, and the film is very enjoyable on all levels. Would I recommend it? Oh yeah. This movie is great. It is genuinely funny with great dialogue and represents a more subtle comedy that really stands out from the screwball counterparts of the time. I watched it three times over five days and I never checked the clock because it moves so well. I highly recommend it to see Veronica Lake at her finest and to enjoy fast moving dialogue that is ahead of its time. 

[deadbiwrites]

PROMPTS!! I want a pumpkin picking date with Kara pouting a lot bec Lena said they can’t just casually take the 800lbs pumpkin home. Bonus points if Lena caves and ends up paying some guy enough money to buy it and supergirl flies it back to their apartment to carve it. Maybe it can’t fit through the door?? I’m not sure.

(Oh my WORD, it took forever and a day to get this to post but I did it, dammit! @valkyrieskwad , this one's for you! Cross-posting it on Ao3!!)

"You want to what?"

Kara grins and bounces in place, totally unperturbed by Lena's decided lack of enthusiasm. "Pumpkin picking! There's a patch, like, an hour away. It's so cute, I follow them on Instagram, and everyone looks like they're having so much fun in the pictures! It's almost Halloween, too, so we need to go soon or all the good ones will be gone."

"The good ones…?"

"Pumpkins,  Lena! Pumpkins! C'mon, please?"

"Isn't this exactly the sort of thing Alex makes fun of people for? Being basic?"

"Alex doesn't know what fun is if there aren't guns involved, so who cares? Please, babe? Be basic with me!"

Lena arches a brow at her, already caving under the weight of her girlfriend's boundless enthusiasm and the rare (and doubtlessly strategic) use of 'babe'. "Is it a muddy field?" she asks suspiciously. 

"Uh… wear boots?" Kara tries, still smiling. "We can take the baby. He'd love it, and we need to work on socializing him, right?"

Lena turns her attention to the little white puppy snoozing on her lap, running a hand over his back absently. "I mean, yes, we do, but a farm?"

Kara's affronted, or at least playing at it. "Uh, I halfway grew up on a farm, thank you."

"And look what's happened because of it."

Kara laughs, shaking her head, somehow charmed even though Lena knows that she's being a brat about this whole thing. "Why do you hate pumpkin picking?"

"I don't like doing things unless I'm already good at them."

Kara scoffs at this. "You can't be bad at picking pumpkins, Lena. It's just like when you were a kid."

The long stretch of silence at this is telling. 

"Lena," Kara says slowly, "have- have you ever been to a pumpkin patch?"

"I buy pumpkin at the store in a can, like a regular person. Half the work, half the price."

"But you can't carve a can of pumpkin puree!"

More silence. Krypto wakes up, shakes his whole roly-poly little body, and lays back down for another nap, snuffling as Lena rubs between his ears.

"Lena. Please tell me you've carved a pumpkin."

"I- I've seen people do it, so-"

"Oh my GOD."

"Kara-"

"What- what did you do at Halloween? No pumpkins! That's like half the fun, aside from all the candy and costumes, and…" Horror spreads across her face almost as fast as a creeping red flush spreads over Lena's. "Honey. Sweetie. Baby. Please, please tell me that your childhood included just one iteration of a normal American Halloween…?"

"Define normal..."

Kara jumps up from the couch, fuming. "I'm gonna punch your mom in the boob. Is it Tuesday?  They do visits at the prison on Tuesdays, right? Because, like, I know she's in prison, repaying her debt to society,  or whatever, but I'm still gonna go punch her in the boob."

Lena grabs Kara's hand, tugging her to a halt. "Alright, first of all, I appreciate and share the sentiment. Second, please never put your hands anywhere near my mother's boobs. Third, we're gonna stop talking about my mother's boobs, forever. Starting now."

"That's just… why does she suck so bad. Like, so, so badly, she sucks as a person. So bad. Badly sucks."

"Okay, yeah, you're doing that thing where you're so mad you make word puzzles, so I need you to sit down and hold this puppy." Lena lifts Krypto (who growls his fiercest growl and bites her fingers for disrupting his 18th nap of the day) and pushes him into Kara's arms, gratified when she instantly melts, just a little. "Better?"

"Yeah." She heaves a sigh and drops onto the couch beside Lena once more. "Look, if you really don't want to, we don't have to. But it is fun, and it is a disgustingly cute couple-y thing to do, which I know you love even if you pretend you don't."

Lena scoffs. "Prove it."

"You drag me into every photobooth you see and have a collection of all the photos in your desk at work."

Lena flushes a little more, knowing that she's been caught. "It's fun?" she asks quietly, spinning her chunky silver ring around and around on her finger.

"So fun. And it's a good excuse to get out of the city for the day." Kara scoots close, tipping her head so it knocks lightly against Lena's. "Instead of beating up your mom, what if we just make sure you get to do all the stuff you missed, like pumpkin patches and carving Jack-o-lanterns, and all that jazz?"

Lena considers this. "So, we're doing this at least partly to spite my mother?"

Kara beams at her. "Yep! You're gonna get all muddy doing something frivolous just because it's fun. She'd hate it."

"When are we going?"

It's a few days later that they're piled into a borrowed pick-up truck and coasting out of the city in the early morning. Lena has relented the wheel, for once, conceding that she hates driving outside the city and she has no idea where they're going. At least Kara was right about one thing- Krypto is already having a blast, trying his best to stick his entire upper body out the window, and yipping in annoyance when Lena continuously pulls him back into the cab.

One benefit, though, is Kara in what she calls her 'farm clothes', a heretofore undiscovered genre that involves a sturdy and well-loved pair of leather boots, what is clearly a men's flannel shirt tucked into a pair of faded jeans secured with a heavy leather belt, and a goddamn trucker hat.

Lena's really annoyed at how much this look is working for Kara.

Totally annoyed. No other emotion. Or like, squirmy feelings about it in general.

None at all.

"... and of course we'll get some breakfast- hot cider and doughnuts sound good to you?"

Lena blinks, realizes that Kara's been chattering this whole time. "What was that?"

"I asked how you feel about getting some breakfast. You okay? You're kinda spacey today."

"Says the girl from space," Lena snarks.

Kara rolls her eyes, amused. "That joke was only funny the first hundred times."

"Still makes me laugh."

"Fine, fine. But you're good? 'Cause I can hear you thinking, over there."

"I'm good, I just… is it stupid that I'm nervous?"

Kara takes her hand and gives it a squeeze. "Not at all. But you don't need to be nervous or anxious, because it's fun. Okay?"

Lena nods. "Okay." She shifts a bit on the old-school bench seat in the truck. "Why did we borrow this thing, again? My cars are a lot more comfortable."

"Well, Frank would yell at me if I got mud all over one of your cars." 

Lena snorts. "He would not, he loves you."

"And, this way, we can get a big one." There's an almost manic gleam in Kara's eyes that's distinctly disturbing. 

Lena chooses not to ask questions. 

It is not a muddy field. 

The dirt road they pull onto doesn't look all that promising at first, but the pumpkin patch itself is pretty, in a rustic, outdoorsy sort of way. Even early in the day there's a decent crowd here, and Kara grins at the sight of the picturesque red barn a ways away cheerfully advertising cider and doughnuts inside. "Nice! I hoped they'd still be doing the cider and stuff!" She hops out of the truck and rounds the front to help Lena down- whoever this behemoth belongs to had installed a lift-kit to it, and it's a fair few feet to the ground.

"I thought this was a pumpkin patch?"

"Well, yeah, but there's an orchard next door or something, so they have apples and pumpkins. And pears, apparently. Ha! A-PEAR-ently! I'm funny," Kara cackles, settling her hands on Lena's hips.

"You're lucky you're so cute," Lena snorts and scoops Krypto up, bracing a hand on Kara's shoulder as she's lifted easily out of the truck and onto the ground. "But you being able to just pick me up like that? Always a turn-on."

Kara laughs, loud and surprised as a flush creeps up her neck. "Good to know."

Lena smirks and sets Krypto onto the ground, and their day begins.

"So," Lena drawls, chewing an admittedly delicious cinnamon cider doughnut, "what constitutes a good pumpkin?"

"Well, obviously,  you don't want a squishy one."

"Obviously."

"Tiny ones are cute, but it's really hard to carve them."

"Noted."

"Other than that, it's all personal preference. I say go big or go home, Alex likes the really round ones, Eliza likes hers to be smooth, and Jeremiah loved ugly pumpkins."

"Ugly pumpkins...?"

"Oh, yeah, like, the weirder and bumpier the better. He was really good at carving them, so he could do, like, super cool faces and stuff. He made a witch one time that was really creepy."

Lena pushes up onto her toes to plant a kiss on Kara's cheek. "He sounds like a fun dad."

Kara smiles a little sadly. "He was." 

Sensing a rapid downshift in mood, Lena resolves to perk the fuck up. "So! We did doughnuts for breakfast- which I strongly suspect was your real motivation for this little venture…"

Kara's mouth drops open in shock,  but her eyes are sparkling with humor. "I would never!"

"Sure. So, as long as the pumpkin isn't soft, it's fair game?"

"Yup! Go nuts! I couldn't get a pumpkin last year, because of that guy from Yavin IV, I'm gonna get a big one this year to make up for it."

Lena fixes her with a look. "Not too big, though, right?"

Kara smiles innocently, letting Krypto tug her a pace or two ahead. "Of course not."

Lena sighs. 

Kara really is a terrible liar.

"Lena."

Upon seeing what's caught her attention,  Lena nearly drops her own perfectly round pumpkin. "No. Under no circumstances are we getting that one."

Kara's starry-eyed as she stares up at the truly gargantuan squash before her. "It's beautiful."

Lena strongly disagrees- this pumpkin is decidedly ugly, misshapen and lumpy and a shade that's not quite orange or green, but a rather sickly combination of both.

But what it lacks in general aesthetic appeal, it more than makes up for in sheer size. It's wider than Lena is tall, likely taller than she is, too, and is, in general, what Winn would call 'a threateningly large vegetable'. It's on a little platform, a plaque proudly boasting that it'd won some award or other at the state fair a week or so ago. And also its weight:

One thousand two hundred eighteen pounds. 

Lena tries for reason. "Kara. Darling. Love of my life. This… thing won a prize. They bred it especially to be giant. There is absolutely no way they're going to sell it to two city-slickers."

And then it happens. After almost a year of dating, and several years of friendship, Lena is well aware of Kara's pout, and especially aware of her own susceptibility to it. She can almost sense when it's about to happen, these days, and she senses it coming now, tries to steal herself against it.

But it's no use. Kara, she could maybe handle. Maybe. But when she bends and scoops up their three-month old puppy to help her pout, Lena is powerless against the assault.

"Alright, that was unnecessary," she complains. "No using our son like that. He doesn't even know why he's pouting."

"But is it working?" Kara asks, hiding her face behind Krypto's and talking in the goofy voice she reserves for narrating his thoughts.

Lena groans, because yes, of course it's fucking working. "No. Kara, they worked hard to make that... gourd. Can't you get another one?"

"I mean, I can," she agrees, peeking over Krypto's head so just her eyes show. "But think about how awesome that's gonna look when I carve it."

Lena sighs. "Kara,  they're using it as a draw to get people to come here."

"They're making it like a display in a zoo. People just come and point at it! We can give it a loving home!"

Lena arches a brow. "You literally just said that you want to cut it open, scoop out its insides, and carve it.."

"Well, yeah, but like, lovingly."

Lena snorts, knowing she's lost. "Fine! Fine, we can go ask."

Kara cheers, hopping a bit in excitement and darting forward to press her lips to Lena's in a silly, smiley kiss.

As predicted, the farmer is initially reluctant to sell his prize pumpkin. "It's not the money," he clarifies hastily when Lena doubles her offer for the damn stupid pumpkin. "I need the seeds, to plant next year. I won big at the fair this year, and with those I'd have a hell of an advantage next season. You understand?"

"What if we save the seeds and bring them to you?" Kara offers earnestly. "I can drive them out whenever."

The farmer looks skeptical at this, but Kara's offer doesn't waver under his glare, and he sighs, reaching out to shake Lena's hand and seal the deal. "Fine. Only because your girl is cute."

Lena huffs out a laugh, and Kara positively beams at him. "Thanks so much!"

"But Jake has the tractor out in the maze right now, won't be back for an hour or so to move it for ya."

Kara's grin only widens. "Don't worry, I called a friend for help moving it."

The farmer shrugs, and Lena groans, knowing that one spectacle at the pumpkin patch is about to be replaced by another. 

Lena hands the farmer his due for his prize pumpkin, and he turns away before she calls out, catching his attention.

"Sorry, I almost forgot, how much for this one?"

He eyes the normal-sized, perfect pumpkin in Lena's arms and his mouth quirks up in a grin. "For you? On the house."

Supergirl makes a very showy entrance, to the delight of most in attendance (the exceptions being a 74-year old man who thinks anyone who flies should have to get a license,  and her girlfriend who is rolling her eyes fondly and wrestling to keep their puppy from revealing her secret identity), landing with a flourish. She smiles brightly at the crowd waving and laughing, high-fiving anyone who offers before shouldering the massive gourd. "Sorry, guys, I'm on a very important mission. Support local farms!" 

Lena snorts, loudly, and Supergirl takes off into the air as her ears turn a little pink. 

The farmer sidles up to Lena at the back of the crowd, looking a little star-struck. "Wow."

Lena grins, dropping a kiss to Krypto's nose and blowing in his face when he nips at her chin. "Yeah," she agrees. "Wow about sums it up."

The truck rides notably lower on the trip back, the massive pumpkin weighing down the truck bed probably more than is entirely safe.

"So, how was your first trip to the pumpkin patch?" Kara asks with a grin.

"I hated it," Lena deadpans, cradling Krypto in one arm and her pumpkin in the other. On the seat between them are three dozen doughnuts,  four gallons of cider, and three bottles of hard cider the farmer's wife had slipped into their bags with a wink.

Overall, it's been a very pleasant experience. 

"Oh yeah?"

"Absolutely awful. Hated everything."

"What was the worst part?"

Lena reaches over, grabbing Kara's hand and threading their fingers together. "Spending it with you."

Kara clicks her tongue, shakes her head. "Yeah, that sounds awful. I'm a pain in the butt."

"Yeah. You're kinda cute, though, so I guess it's fine."

Kara chuckles, brings their clasped hands to her mouth and kisses Lena's knuckles. "Good news for me."

Lena smiles, turning her attention back to the window and watching as fields fairly fly by, the low sound of Kara singing in the background making this almost unbearably perfect. 

Almost.

"Um… so, funny story…"

Lena arches a brow expectantly, and Kara scuffs her red boots on the floor. "Oh?"

"Yeah. So, the thing is, I tried everything, with the pumpkin, and… it won't fit through the door. None of the doors. Or any of the windows…"

Lena bonds at the waist and laughs until she cries.

That year starts a long-running and much beloved tradition, wherein a truly massive and skillfully-carved pumpkin appears in L-Corp's opulent lobby the first weekend of every October. It later years, it's joined by other, smaller ones, dozens, carved by the children of employees, including those of the CEO herself. 

It's a family tradition, after all.

[dickwheelie]

@ciguierre​ suggested on the Discord server that I write a ficlet about Aziraphale trying coffee, which turned into a discussion about the boys going to Starbucks, which turned into this. Thank you for the inspo Cig!

Disclaimer: I love Starbucks, and I went there basically every day while I was in college, but because of that I also know that Starbucks absolutely belongs to Hell.

____________

Contrary to popular belief, Starbucks was not a human invention. (Nor were any two-tailed mermaids involved.) While the original locally-run coffee shop founded in the charming and often damp American city of Seattle, Washington in the early seventies was a quite human family business, the Starbucks Company that grew from such humble (read: marketable) beginnings was a result of the demonic forces of Down Below, as one would say in polite company.

Specifically, it was a result of the demonic forces of Crowley.

Crowley had always liked coffee, ever since the strange effects of the coffee bean had first been discovered by a young Ethiopian woman during a primitive version of a game of truth or dare. While he wasn’t necessarily after the effects of the drink, he did enjoy the taste, and although he preferred tea he wouldn’t say no to a nice, hot, strong brew of black coffee.

Crowley hadn’t turned Starbucks into an international brand because he liked coffee, however. He’d done it because he’d envisioned, prophetically, as it turned out: the long lines, impatient customers, frazzled employees, too-expensive drinks, confusing cup sizes, terrible brewing methods, tasteless pastries, and above all, below-average coffee that would soon cloud the early-morning skies with evil all over the globe. Crowley had only ever had one drink at a Starbucks in his lifetime, to test the results of his meddling in action. He’d ordered an Americano with almond milk and a shot of espresso, and it had been as horrible as he’d hoped it would be.

(The Frappuccinos were not one of his. Only humans could come up with something so ridiculous and yet so popular.)

Despite all of this, Crowley was currently standing in a Starbucks. He was very upset to discover this, because even though he’d deliberately made the trip there, parked the Bentley out front, walked into the store, and had been standing in line for about five minutes now, he still couldn’t quite believe he had been talked into this.

He shot a glare at Aziraphale, who was staring up at the corporate-mandated seasonal fall menu in blissful ignorance. Aziraphale, out of all the beings in the Universe, was probably the only one who could have talked Crowley into this, and even then he had only just barely managed it. He’d promised to pick one (1) item, place his order quickly, and get them out of that place as soon as possible.

Aziraphale was not sticking to that promise.

“I’ll have the Pumpkin Spice Latte,” he was saying to the barista, who looked as though he would have rather been feeding his own limbs to an alligator than taking orders at a Starbucks. “No--no, wait, the White Chocolate Mocha Frappuccino. Or, no, the Dragonfruit Refresher. What is a Refresher? Is it like lemonade?”

“Angel . . .” Crowley muttered into his ear.

“Right, right, sorry.” Aziraphale smiled his most angelic smile at the barista, who, despite the fact that Aziraphale was objectively the worst customer to have in line on a busy day, actually managed to smile back. (He didn’t understand why, of course, but since it was the first time he’d had a reason to smile since his shift had started at 8 AM, he wasn’t going to question it.) “I will have the Pumpkin Spice Latte.”

Wonderful, Crowley thought. Something simple, quick to make, and then they could flee.

“. . . And the Dragonfruit lemonade. And the White Chocolate thingy I said earlier, that sounded delightful.”

Crowley massaged his temples. He loved Aziraphale with all of his heart, but sweet Someone, that angel was going to kill him one of these days.

“Oh, and one of those delicious-looking almond scones as well, there’s a dear.”

Crowley was going to drive home without him. He was. His feet weren’t moving, but he was absolutely going to do it, just you wait.

“What sizes would you like for your drinks, sir?” said the barista. Crowley fought the urge to curse him right then and there; it wasn’t his fault the sizes were confusing. In fact, it occurred to him, it was technically Crowley’s fault, but he quickly shoved the thought aside.

“Ah, medium, I think,” said Aziraphale. “All things in moderation, yes?” This was a phrase Crowley had never heard Aziraphale use or implement in his everyday life, and he suspected he was quoting something Gabriel had said at a meeting once.

The barista pointed up at the menu board. “We have tall, grande, venti, and trenta.”

“Ah. I . . . see,” said Aziraphale, visibly confused. “Which one is medium, then?”

“I guess grande would be medium, sir.”

Aziraphale’s eyebrows knitted together. “But grande means large in Italian, yes? And venti is twenty. Twenty what?”

Crowley had mostly tuned out of the conversation, but something had caught his attention, and his mind was slowly catching back up. “Wait. Trenta? What on Earth is trenta?”

The barista looked at him in surprise; he hadn’t said a word since he’d come grumpily slinking into the store behind Aziraphale. “It’s our largest size, sir. Thirty-one ounces.”

Crowley had never wanted so badly to take Christ’s name in vain before. He felt certain he hadn’t come up with that one. Once again, the humans had one-upped him in terms of acts of pure evil.

“I’ll just take them in grande,” Aziraphale said hastily, sensing that Crowley’s patience was wearing thinner by the second.

“Name?”

“Aziraphale.”

The barista Looked at him. It was the kind of Look that really earned the capital L. He scribbled something on each of the cups. Aziraphale paid without another word.

As they waited at a too-small and slightly dirty table for Aziraphale’s order to be called, Crowley asked, “Why’d you want to come here, anyway?”

“Newt told me about it,” said Aziraphale excitedly. “I was telling him about how I so enjoyed the coffee you made for me, and he said I should come here. He goes all the time, apparently, although Anathema won’t set foot in the place.”

“Smart woman.”

“He recommended the pumpkin spice thing to me, and told me with my sweet tooth, I’d be sure to love anything on the menu.”

“Huh.” That was probably true, at any rate. “You do realize this is one of mine, right?”

Aziraphale looked up at him, eyes wide with alarm. “Is it?”

Behind his sunglasses, Crowley’s own eyes widened. “Angel, I thought you knew. I mean, it should be alright now, Heaven isn’t exactly breathing down your neck anymore, and--”

Aziraphale was giggling. Crowley’s mouth snapped shut.

“You’re having me on.”

“Oh, my dear. I’m sorry, I didn’t think you’d be so upset. Of course I knew, it’s my job to keep track of your wily schemes, so I can thwart them.”

“You’re doing an excellent job of thwarting them now,” Crowley deadpanned. “You only bought twenty pounds’ worth of merchandise.”

“Well, it’s like you said,” Aziraphale said wryly, in that slightly devilish way that Crowley adored, “Heaven isn’t exactly breathing down my neck anymore.”

They were interrupted by a shout from the counter. “A falafel?” a second barista called out confusedly.

Aziraphale sighed and rose from the table. “I suppose that must be me.” He returned a moment later with a tray of three drinks and the bagged scone.

One by one, Aziraphale tried each item, and to Crowley’s disappointment (but not necessarily his surprise), he seemed to love every single one.

“The scone isn’t terribly good,” said Aziraphale through a mouthful of scone, which he was almost finished with, “but the rest of it is just delightful. I don’t think I’ve ever had lemonade with dragonfruit in it, but it’s a lovely combination.”

“Isn’t lemonade,” said Crowley, “but I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself.” He meant it; if his angel was happy, he was happy. He just hoped that, if this was going to become a thing, Aziraphale would be willing to get Starbucks to go from now on. Or just miracle up a passable imitation at home.

They sat there for an hour while Aziraphale worked through his three drinks. Now that they weren’t waiting in line or dealing with confusing menu items, Crowley had to admit it wasn’t so bad to just sit in a Starbucks and chat with one’s companion. (Granted, that companion was Aziraphale, whom he’d be happy to sit and chat with inside of an active volcano, but the sentiment still applied.)

Aziraphale, for his part, was practically glowing with joy, and every frustrated writer and college student in that building felt a bit of weight lift off their shoulders.

Despite Crowley’s protests (“This is a Starbucks, Angel, not the Ritz,”), Aziraphale insisted on going back up to the counter when he was done and thanking each barista individually, by name, even if they’d forgotten their nametags. Though he’d tipped generously when he’d paid, Aziraphale dropped another twenty-pound note into the tip jar before he left. By the time Crowley managed to pull him away, the baristas were all smiling at him and waving goodbye. “Come again soon!” said the barista at the register, and found with surprise that he actually meant it.

“Leave it to you,” said Crowley as they climbed into the Bentley, “to leave a place of demonic influence looking like that.”

“Just doing my job,” Aziraphale said with a pleased little smile that made him look like an absolute bastard.

“Thwarting all my wiles.”

“Left and right, my dear.”

“. . . Aziraphale.”

“Yes?”

“What are you eating.”

“I . . . hadn’t quite finished the scone, darling.”

“ . . . Just . . . please don’t get any crumbs in the Bentley.”

“I won’t, dear.”

Crowley sighed, and floored it.

[jerzyreign]

Racism is Everyone’s Problem

Since my skin color is going to have everyone rolling their eyes thinking “this white privilege bitch think she knows anything about racism?” I want to start by saying I AM PUERTO RICAN. Now for my own back story so you get to know me better. 

I have seen both sides of the fence. As noted in my opening statement my skin color makes me look like I belong among the privileged. The second they learn of my last name or hear me speak my native language however, they quickly revoke all privilege and reign down on me with their hate. To the Caucasians out there who do not believe White Privilege is real: You’re wrong! If you were a minority who just happened to look white, like myself, you would be in a position to know this. 

Let me show you.

Age 15: Walking off high school grounds on lunch break to get food from the deli 3 blocks over. Common thing many of us did as it was permitted to leave school grounds for lunch. Myself, a white friend we’ll call Ashley, and a Hispanic friend we’ll call Jose. Police officer drives by and sees us walking during school hours and pulls over. He asks us our names. Ashley goes first and he tells her to stand to the side, I go and he looks at me with a moment of surprise and tells me to get my ID out. Jose goes last and he ask him if he’s ever been in trouble with the law. (Jose is very tan in complexion naturally and looks every bit of his South American heritage.) He makes Jose put his hands on the trunk of the car while he pats him down, gets his ID out for him, runs his information to confirm he’s never been in trouble, and dumps his entire bookbag out onto the ground to inspect its contents. He checks my ID, asks me where I’m from with a last name like __, and proceeds to do the same thing to me. Mind you it’s illegal for a male cop to pat down a female in my state, but he didn’t want anyone privy to his racial profiling so he didn’t call a female to the scene. He asks Ashley why she’s walking with us, if we were coercing her into any bad activities and sends her back to school walking. While we get escorted back in his car and handed off to the principal after confirming students had consent to leave the property for lunch and it was indeed our scheduled lunch break. 

Age 17: Working at Pizza Hut restaurant as a waitress. About 3 months in a friend stopped by to order take out and saw me working. Greeted me in Spanish and after he left I was confronted by the shift supervisor. When asked how I spoke Spanish so well since they literally failed it in school, and if there was a trick to it; I responded by informing him I was Spanish. Soon he and the rest of the crew were murmuring in the back kitchen, getting quiet when I came near, looking at me sideways and trying to avoid brushing against me at the soda machine like I had the plague or something. Next day I came in, looked at the clipboard to see what section I was working and saw my name crossed out. I asked him why ‘Karen’ was working the entire dining room alone and was told “Because you belong cleaning the bathrooms. Go find the cleaning closet and get scrubbing” I reported him to the Manager when she was on duty the next day and she said she’d talk to him, but any shift she was not in the building I was taunted by the staff and forced to work my shift scrubbing toilets. So I quit. 

Age 19: Working at a Giant’s supermarket as cashier. I worked my way up to Customer Service Supervisor and then the front end Assistant Manager is like 8 months. My third day as Asst Manager I walked out through the store to shop after my shift. In line at the register the person in front of me was Spanish and having trouble understanding what the cashier was telling her about a coupon she was trying to use. I step in and explain it to the customer in Spanish because it was getting late and I wanted to go the fuck home. The cashier gave me a shell shocked look and asked how I knew Spanish. I told her I was Spanish and got this ‘ew’ look that ended our conversation. My check out was awkwardly quiet for a person that had been friendly with me since my first day on the job. Next day I was demoted without explanation to cashier. My password for the cash room was deactivated and when I found someone to let me into the office so I could start work I was told “You don’t work in this dept anymore. You’re a cashier now. Go see _ and find out what register you’ll be at today”. When I asked why I was simply told “You should know. It only just happened yesterday” None of management was kind to me again, most supervisors looked at me with disdain as I passed, and finally after a week the produce manager told me it was because I was Spanish and they didnt realize that when they promoted me. He apologized for the fact he had to ignore me in the store but that anyone caught being nice to me would face consequences. Apparently they wanted me to quit. So I did. 

Age 26: I got a job at Kmart as a cashier. Worked my way up to Soft-line dept Shift Supervisor in 6 months. About 3 weeks later I started dating the Loss Prevention Manager from another store. He is an African American, Italian, German mix race man who solely looks African American. It took about 2 months for the relationship to get out around the job. It took my boss all of 5 seconds after confronting me for confirmation about the relationship to start treating me like shit. After a week I tried to go to HR and was informed that she is the daughter of a very high up corporate executive and by proxy untouchable. She made more than the store manager and basically ran the show there. After another few days I called her out in the front of the store one night at closing time asking what the stick up her ass with me was and she point blank said “I thought you were a good person. You work hard and you’re a natural leader to the girls here but you screwed up sleeping with a black man. Then I find out you’re a spic so it makes sense for you like blacks. I’m just disgusted with myself for being fooled by you” That was the end of that job. 

See white folks? Not once but FOUR times in my life things were good for me while people thought I was white, but quickly soured once the truth came to light. Four times I was excelling in my place of employment thanks to the privilege my skin color bestowed upon me but lost it once it was discovered I was just a really pale brown person. White privilege is real. 

I won’t bore you all with the blatant racism I’ve dealt with in my life. If you’re not Caucasian you already know the shit people spew out their hateful mouths, and what it’s like to deal with people throwing shit at you. 

I want to discuss the fact that racism is everyone’s problem. Those of us being subjected to it must stand up for ourselves against racist people because we’re human too dammit. We deserve to be treated with the same dignity, respect, and considerations that our oppressors grant each other. More importantly is the fact that those of us who are not subjected to it because they have the privilege of being born white should also stand up against racist people. Use the privilege you try so hard to deny for the greater good! BE THE CHANGE that fixes our society. Don’t just turn the other cheek figuring “I’m not the target so it’s not my problem”. Step up, speak up, and help your fellow man. We have to stand together or continue to fall divided. Just because you are not the one who thinks that way or acts that way does not make you part of the solution. Your silence and complacency in allowing racism to continue to thrive and exist is just as damaging as choosing to participate in it. Get outraged that your neighbor, friend, coworker, or just plain old fellow man is being mistreated and murdered for no reason other than their skin color is different. Teach your children to stand up and speak up against racism when they witness it. Teach them how to identify racism, racial profiling, and racial disparity. We have to fix this. Together. 

We are one species, one country, and one society. So lets stand as one. United in our right to life. 

March your ass down to your capital buildings alongside us and tell our leaders ENOUGH WITH RACISM. Hold police accountable! No more death! 

[theawkwardterrier]

things left behind and the things that are ahead, ch. 12

AO3 link here

Ricky’s dad has told him more than once to stay away from “those Carters” and usually he listens. Even though Nate Carter most often has excellent lunches, and sometimes he shares. Even though Ricky liked it when Mrs. Hawkins saw Nate handing in his biography report about Harriet Tubman and told him, “Nathaniel, this report is supposed to be about great American heroes,” and Nate just replied, “Yes,” and sat back down. Even though Ricky thinks that every once in a while he’d also enjoy just sitting on the side of the field and drawing or reading a comic book instead of needing to play football or baseball all the time because his dad always asks at dinner how many points he scored.

Once or twice he saw kids from their class bullying Nate, pushing him around or knocking his books out of his arms. Ricky’s never done that sort of thing, but he watched it. Usually they’d leave Nate alone after a few minutes when he’d say something quiet like, “I’d stop that if I were you,” and it confused them because he wasn’t crying or trying to hit back. But Ricky’s also seen Nate jam his elbow into big Kenny Keefer’s stomach - it didn’t even look hard, but Kenny fell onto the ground gasping for air.

Nate got left alone after that.

He’s friends with some of the girls and a particular few of the boys. Ricky thinks of those guys he spends time with as the Nice Boys. (Ricky’s dad would have a different name for them, so he’s just friends with the Boys.) The Nice Boys don’t yell. At lunchtime they eat and talk and joke with each other - no one throws food at anyone else, or does impressions of other kids that are supposed to be silly but Ricky sometimes thinks are pretty mean.

Once or twice, Ricky’s thought of what it would be like to sit with the Nice Boys, but his brother Tim might mention it to their dad. Tim is only in first grade - too young to know better.

Ricky’s only even talked to Nate once or twice, maybe a “hey” in the hallway or a question about the homework, and he isn’t planning on doing it today. But Ricky’s parents forgot that today was a half day, early dismissal for the Christmas vacation. Tim’s at home with a cold and Ricky doesn’t want to have to go to the office and call his mom, make her bundle a sick little kid into the car and drive over to the school, doesn’t want to have to sit in a chair beside the office door with his backpack at his feet while people walk by and realize that he’s been forgotten.

So instead he climbs onto the bus and tells the monitor that his mom said that he should take that instead. There must be a stop near his house. He’ll get off there and walk home, which his mom’ll like once he gets there because he’ll have taken care of this for her.

It’s a great plan, except that they drive away from the school and through town in a way that gets Ricky all turned around. It’s sort of cold and dark from the clouds that have been covering the sky all day, and nothing looks familiar. He holds his bag against his chest and tries to look relaxed as more and more of his friends get off the bus. He tries to think of a new plan.

“You should come with me.” Nate Carter pokes his head over the top of the seat in front of him. “My stop’s the last one. Get off with me and my dad will take you home.”

Ricky doesn’t even think to be embarrassed that Nate noticed that he was lost, that he hadn’t been able to get himself where he needed to go. He’s just grateful. “Thanks,” he tells Nate.

They get off at the very edge of town and Nate leads the way up a long driveway surrounded by trees and bushes and stuff. His house, when they finally get there, is big and blueish-grayish and kind of old fashioned looking, but probably the fanciest house Ricky’s ever seen in real life. Nate doesn’t even seem to notice. He checks the mailbox (nothing; Nate makes a “hmph” sound), turns the big shiny doorknob, and walks in, taking off his shoes and dropping his bag on the floor. Ricky copies him, trying to seem as if he’s comfortable here even though he really feels the way he does in the library, or when they went on a class trip to the museum, like someone’s going to come over and tell him he’s walking too loud.

“My dad’s probably in the kitchen,” says Nate, sliding a little on the shiny wooden floors. They pass by a few different rooms on the way which look pretty interesting at a glance, but Ricky keeps his head down and his hands in his pockets. He doesn’t want any of the Carters to think he’s being sneaky or nosy. If his dad somehow finds out about this, he wants it to seem as if this was just business, just about a ride and nothing else.

Nate’s dad isn’t in the kitchen when they get there, but a girl with curly blond hair who looks nothing like Nate is sitting at the table, reading a book and finishing off a piece of apple. The table is covered with food - a plate of carrot and celery sticks, one of sliced apples and oranges, a bunch of sandwiches cut into triangles, a pitcher of juice - which obviously can’t all be for this one girl.

Ricky holds his breath to try to stop his stomach from grumbling. They were let out of school before lunch.

The girl at the table - Nate’s sister? - glances up at them. She stares at Ricky for an extra beat, then looks over at Nate and, keeping one hand on the page, starts moving the other around in the air, fast, like code or a baseball catcher showing signals, not like she’s just making something up.

Ricky looks over at Nate to see if she’s insulting them somehow, only to see Nate moving his hands too, both of them. He turns to Ricky.

“This is Emma. She says our dad is doing laundry, but he’ll come upstairs in a minute.”

“Oh. Okay.” Ricky doesn’t know if he should wave, or if he can even look at Emma without seeming rude. He doesn’t want to look at the table because it reminds him of how he’d have sandwiches of his own if he’d just gotten home. He stares down at the floor.

“You can come sit,” Nate says comfortably, taking a seat next to Emma and pointing to another chair for Ricky, who complies. Emma gets up, though, pushing her own chair in. She goes over to the counter and takes a fresh cookie off a tray there, wrapping it in a napkin. Nate reaches up to pat her shoulder as she goes past and when she looks at him, he moves his hands at her again. Emma does it back, sticking her tongue out at the end and then biting smugly into her cookie as she leaves the room.

“I’m telling you, she’s going to get in trouble for leaving crumbs in the house,” Nate says, shaking his head even though he sounds like he finds it a little funny.

“Is that what you said to her?”

“Yeah. And she said that when you bake the cookies you can eat them wherever you want, but I don’t think Mom and Dad will see it that way. We have rules here.”

“Um.” Ricky looks down at his lap, then back at Nate. “Um, what was the stuff you were doing with your hands?”

“Sign language,” Nate says offhandedly, pulling the plate of sandwiches toward him to examine the different kinds. “Emma’s Deaf, so she only uses ASL.”

“How come she doesn’t talk?”

Nate shrugs. “How come you don’t sign?” He makes a face at a tuna sandwich, then turns the plate around so he can grab a chicken salad one instead.

“I hope you offered your guest some lunch, too.”

Ricky turns around to see a man standing in the kitchen doorway carrying a basket of laundry in his arms. The man comes in and says, “Hey, kid,” shifting the basket over so he can give Nate a little hug around his shoulders as he passes. He sets the basket down on Emma’s empty chair, then walks over and puts out a hand for Ricky to shake.

“I’m Grant Carter, Nate’s dad,” he says with a smile. Ricky tries not to stare at him.

One time Ricky’s mom hurt her leg and so she asked his dad to do the grocery shopping, and when the cabinets were pretty much empty, he finally did. When he came home, he’d said right away, “Guess who I saw? That weirdo Grant Carter. Apparently he’s over at Hillyard’s all the time while his wife’s out there like a bigshot. Yeah, he was just moseying through the aisles with his beard and his little basket over his arm, joking around with the meat guy and the checkout girl...What a—” And then he’d used a word that made Ricky’s mom say, “Earl, not in front of the kids!” (Ricky had been worried that his dad would start talking about how he can say anything he wants in his own house, but instead he just shook his head, put the bags down on the kitchen table, and said, “Jenny, can you take care of this stuff? I’m bushed, and you’re better at organizing it anyway.”)

So that’s what Ricky knows about Grant Carter.

“This is Ricky,” Nate fills in while Ricky does a quick handshake and lets go. “He needs a ride home.”

“Nice to meet you, Ricky. I’m happy to give you a ride.” He looks at Nate, who’s halfway through his sandwich, and says, “Get a plate, please,” and then looks back at Ricky. “Does your mom know that you came over here?”

“It was pretty sudden…” Ricky tries quietly, and Grant Carter says, “Sure. Well, if you know your number, why don’t you give a call so she won’t get worried? And if she says it’s alright, you can stay for lunch before I drive you over. There’s plenty.”

Ricky glances at the phone hanging on the wall. It’s across the kitchen, sure, but everyone will still be able to hear him, to hear him mumble to his mom that she’d forgotten about him, that he’d gotten himself into a situation.

“You know,” says Mr. Carter, “this phone’s actually been acting up. The one in the family room will probably be better.”

The family room has books all along the walls. There are stacks of board games on the shelves, and a million photos in different sized frames: Nate’s dad in a suit standing next to a woman Ricky assumes is Nate’s mom in a wedding dress, looking at each other instead of the camera, a group of grinning kids in bathing suits next to a giant sandcastle (Ricky can pick out Nate and Emma). There’s a thick carpet on the floor. Ricky curls his toes in it while he dials his mom. As soon as she hears his voice, she says, “Oh gosh, honey, today was an early day, wasn’t it?” He tells her that it’s okay, he came home on the bus with Nate Carter, whose dad offered to bring him home after they’ve eaten.

“Maybe I should come pick you up now. I don’t know if your father would like you being over there for any longer than you have to,” says his mom, considering. Ricky thinks about how Nate’s kitchen smells like cookies plus fresh laundry now, and how the chicken salad had celery and golden raisins and little chopped up nuts, the way they never have it at home because he’s the only one who likes it. He stays quiet until she adds, “Well, but, it’s probably rude to interrupt his lunch when he’s been nice enough to offer…” Her tone turns curious, her voice softer, like a secret. “What does their house look like? Describe it all for me.” He knows she wants to be able to tell everything to her sister Cheryl, who lives two blocks over from them.

“I’ll tell you about it later,” he says quickly. He doesn’t really want Mom and Aunt Cheryl wondering to each other what it means that the Carters own both Slap Stick and Hands Down, or frowning as they think about all the writers with foreign sounding names on the shelves. “I have to go eat, Mom.”

Back in the kitchen, Mr. Carter has taken the laundry basket away and set out a plate for himself and one for Ricky too. The chicken salad, when he tastes it, is just as good as he’d hoped.

Nate, chomping through carrots, talks about school, and his dad asks questions: how does Nate feel after the geography quiz, does he have enough books to read over the vacation or should they go to the library? Every so often he’ll turn to Ricky and ask him something too, and Ricky ends up talking more than he means to. He tells them about how he’s read The Phantom Tollbooth three times but the school librarian had let him borrow From the Mixed-Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler last year and he loved that too. He talks about his little brother Tim and how he knows absolutely everything space and wants to go there one day. He’s just starting to tell them about his top favorite Orioles players when the front door opens and then slams shut.

“You and Drea will have a lot to talk about,” Nate says, muffled into his cup of juice.

“—how it’s even allowed!”

Two new girls walk in. They are around the same height, although Ricky recognizes one - the skinny girl who is dressed in jeans and a plain brown shirt and has Nate’s same dark hair, the girl he’d see sometimes touching Nate’s hand when their classes passed in the hallway before she moved up to the junior high school - and not the other, who has light brown hair and big glasses and is wearing a shirt so extremely patterned it almost seems to come with soundtrack.

“What happened?” Mr. Carter asks, pushing out a chair with his foot. The skinny girl, the one who must be Nate’s real sister, collapses into it and rests her head on her folded arms.

“Her teachers gave her vacation homework and she’s been whining about it all the way home.” The other girl goes to the cabinet for a couple more plates before taking a seat too, pulling the sandwiches toward herself. “Drea, I think you’re being a little dramatic.”

Nate makes a little sound that Ricky can definitely hear is a laugh/snort, but when the girl with the glasses glares at him, he pretends he was coughing.

“I seem to remember someone last year calling homework during vacation ‘an Eighth Amendment loophole that will and must one day be closed,’” says Mr. Carter, raising an eyebrow as he finishes off his sandwich.

Drea lifts up her head, shaking back her hair. “Rose doesn’t have homework this year, so I guess she’s not bringing a Constitutional challenge anymore.”

“There isn’t any turkey?” says Rose, clearly pretending not to hear them as she devotes all her concentration to looking over the food options.

“If you’d like a turkey sandwich, everything you need is in the fridge,” says Mr. Carter, adding a couple of apple slices to his own plate and biting into one calmly. Rose sighs.

“Tuna’s fine.”

The front door opens then closes again, and Ricky wonders if there’s going to be another secret sibling wandering through, but Emma skids back in on stocking feet instead, waving a pile of mail, on top of which is a magazine. Ricky manages to read the banner text across the front: Course Catalog, Spring 1969, University of Maryland

Rose drops her tuna sandwich right back on the plate as she pushes back her chair to grab for it. Emma holds it close to her belly and Rose starts to tickle her so that she lets out wheezing laughter and drops to the floor, curling up to keep hold of the mail.

Mr. Carter sighs and stands, tugging the prize out from between them as he does more of the sign language with one of his hands.

Nate laughs and Ricky must look confused because he tells him, “Dad says that since he gets to pick three classes and we only get to pick one, he should get to look first because he needs more time. And also that it’s addressed to him.”

Emma and Rose stand up together, shadowing Mr. Carter as he sits back at the round table. Emma taps his shoulder, signing again, and then Rose does some too.

“What are they saying now?” Ricky asks, leaning over to Nate. He puts down his sandwich because he hasn’t taken a bite in five minutes, just watching all the Carters talking to each other, and it’s getting soggy from being squished between his hands.

“Emma says that because we only get one big chance, we should be allowed to see it first so we can make sure to pick right. And Rosie says that he’s the parent, so he needs to be a role model for sharing and...um, flexibility.” Nate flaps a hand to get their attention and adds something himself, then turns to Ricky and translates: “Also honesty, because when he started college, Dad promised we’d get to pick one class a semester for him and he shouldn’t go back on his word.”

Drea’s hands start moving too, and Mr. Carter rolls his eyes and says, signing along with the words, though not as quickly, “I’m aware that there’s only another three semesters before I graduate, which is why I want to make sure that my credits are all straightened out. Shouldn’t take longer to get through school than I already have.” But he looks around at his kids, their crossed arms and begging faces, and sighs again. He drops the course listing on the table and sweeps his arm over it. “Look at it calmly, please.”

Rose reaches over his shoulder, picks it up, and flips it open with a practiced hand. She starts reading aloud while Drea does what Ricky’s assumes is a translation because Emma is watching her hands. “Okay. American Studies. AMST 127: Culture and Arts in the Americas—”

Emma already has her thumb turned down; Ricky might not know sign language but he understands that one. But before he can hear exactly what the class is about, there’s a knocking on the door.

Ricky freezes even as Mr. Carter stands to answer it. He recognizes that knock.

“Can I help you?”

Ricky makes himself stand up in the space between Mr. Carter’s polite voice and his dad saying roughly, “I’ll take my boy back now, thanks, Carter.”

“You must be Ricky’s father. We were just finishing up with lunch—”

“As if I can’t feed my own kid at home. Even kids who make stupid mistakes get to eat.” Ricky’s dad snorts. It makes Ricky want to sneak back into the kitchen, to tuck himself between Rose, who has her eyes narrowed behind her glasses, and Nate, who has stood up from his chair too, looking serious. But he has already edged into the hallway and his dad spots him and crooks a finger. “There you are. Time to go.” He stares at Ricky the whole time as he walks down the hall. “Your mom told me about all the screw-ups today. Good thing I got home from work early.”

Ricky shoves his feet into his Keds. The backs fold against his heels. He ties them as quickly as he can, no time for double knots, even though that means that the laces might slip loose, which will make his dad say, “Jesus, fourth grade on my tax dollars and can’t even tie his own shoes.”

“Thanks for lunch,” he mutters to Mr. Carter as he walks toward where his dad stands in the doorway. Nate has come down the hall too, tucked watchfully against his father’s side. Ricky adds, not looking him in the face, “See you at school.”

“‘See you at school,’” says Ricky’s dad in a mocking little voice. “Yeah, that had better be all you do. No more visits to this freak show. Come on.” His hand comes out, and Ricky tenses his shoulders without meaning to. He can nearly feel the clawed fingers gripping into his upper arm, steering him back toward their car and their house and their life.

Mr. Carter’s hand catches his dad’s before it can land.

“Think twice,” he says quietly. “About saying things like that in front of my son, but especially about doing it in front of yours.”

Ricky’s dad is a big man. It’s a fact, his size, and he makes it obvious in the way he moves through the world. His chest is always pushed out. He is always ready to tower over someone who moves in front of him in line, to shove through a crowd, to bulldoze and bellow his way to what he wants.

When he’d heard that first story about Mr. Carter, Ricky had pictured someone skinny or old, and Mr. Carter doesn’t exactly look like a big person. He is not the type who shoves through crowds. He is dressed in a green and tan sweater with a tan shirt collar coming over the top and the sleeves rolled up, and a pair of jeans. Ricky’s father would never wear something like that.

Mr. Carter’s face stays absolutely still as he squeezes Ricky’s father’s wrist. It wouldn’t even be obvious that it was happening, except that Ricky’s dad’s eyes go wide. He tries to pull away. He doesn’t manage it until Mr. Carter releases him.

He stumbles a couple of steps and then recovers, backing his way off the porch. “Come on,” he says again, gruffly, but it is not commanding the way it had been. Ricky lets himself give a little wave to the two Carters standing in the doorway, Mr. Carter’s hand resting on Nate’s shoulder, before he follows his father to the car.

Three days after New Year’s, Ricky goes outside of the school after the last bell to wait for his mom to pick him up. Nate passes by on his way to the bus.

“Here,” he says in a low voice, and hands over two pieces of paper. “My phone number’s there, in case you wanted it. And my dad drew you this.”

Ricky stuffs the picture into his backpack just in time. He keeps thinking about it but doesn’t risk taking it out until he is doing his homework alone in his bedroom later that afternoon.

Mr. Carter has drawn him precisely, but he stares at the image and almost doesn’t recognize himself. The illustrated face is just barely laughing, the hands cupped in front as if holding something. He knows that it’s him describing Claudia and Jamie taking the coins from the fountain.

He forgets, sometimes, that he has that inside of him. It is hard to remember beneath the blare of his father’s voice saying that he wasn’t looking to raise some reader.

He almost puts the picture beneath his pillow but he doesn’t want to crush it. He slides it into the drawer of his desk instead. As he falls asleep, he looks over at the spot as if he can see that image of himself through the wood, in the dark.

The next week, Ricky takes his time standing in the lunch line. His legs shake a little and he has to force himself to keep walking past his usual table. Even if Tim doesn’t say anything, Carl Tyler’s dad bowls with Ricky’s, and Kenny Keefer’s goes for beers with him.

He stops next to Nate and the Nice Boys anyway.

“Can I—” he starts, but before he can finish, Nate is giving him a smile, pointing to an open chair.

“Course,” he says. “Take a seat.”

More chapters here

[deadlytales]

My Worst Motel Experience Ever

(By PocketOxford, via Reddit, her Facebook)

Last year, my best friend Ally and I went on this great American roadtrip, trying to ski in as many states as possible in the month we had taken off from work. We did a lot of skiing, a lot of driving, and a lot of sleeping on various couches, truck stops, and of course, in motels. Most motels were fine. Some had great free breakfasts, some had dirty hot tubs that left us scrubbing ourselves in the shower and joking about getting pregnant from the water, some had weird stains we tried not to think about, some were spotless but cold, a few were amazing. Only one was terrifying.

We stopped at the motel around 10:30 after a long day of skiing followed by a good six hours of driving. We were tired and sore and ready for bed. We had made some wrong turns, and were not exactly sure where we were. We didn’t want to use data on our Canadian phones, so we were navigating old school with a map. It was mildly unsuccessful, but we were pretty sure we had a few more hours of driving until the next town, and we were not looking forward to it. So when we saw the glorious neon sign that blinked “Motel” and “Vacancy” at us, we didn’t need to say anything. We both knew that was where we were staying for the night.

As we pulled up in front of the office, I noted that we were the only people staying there. I told myself that it wasn’t creepy, we were stopping close to a summer tourist spot midwinter, of course there would be an excess of rooms. In fact, we should consider ourselves lucky that they were open at all. It was definitely not creepy.

We entered the office, and a shrill little bell announced our entry to the world. We waited for someone to come to the front desk. Then we waited a bit longer. We shared looks with lifted eyebrows, and tapped our fingers impatiently on the desk.

“Hello?” Ally called out in the silence. “Somebody here?”

We waited a few more minutes, then the door behind the counter slowly opened. An old man poked his head out, spotted us, and his face split into a wide grin.  

“Guests!” He said. “You know, I thought I heard something, but I told myself it was just my imagination. Just my imagination. We don’t get a lot of visitors around this time. And two beautiful young ladies too. Ah. I’m sorry I kept you waiting. I just couldn’t believe that I had such luck. Welcome welcome welcome welcome welcome.”

He was certainly an odd duck, but I used to work long lonely night shifts, I know how excited you get when something happens.

“So, travel weary strangers, can I offer you a bed to rest your head?” He smiled.

“Yeah, how much is a double room?”

He looked at us, grin not wavering.

“$99 for two beds. $79 for one bed.”

I was ready to splurge for the two beds. Ally moved a lot in her sleep, and hogged the covers. Last night she had kept waking me up.

“Let’s do two beds.” I looked at her pleadingly.

She gave me a quick look filled with annoyance.

I looked back at the man. His grin had faded. He looked as annoyed as Ally for a moment. When he noticed me looking at him, his grin snapped back into place.

“Ah, actually, it seems we only have the one bed rooms ready. I’m so sorry.”

“Wait, what?” I couldn’t help but burst out. “There are like no people here!”

“Oh, yes, that is the problem, isn’t it. Sometimes we don’t keep all the rooms prepped in winter. Saves costs, you know.”

I considered that. It didn’t make sense at all, but I was too tired to argue.

“You know what, for such pretty ladies, I give you a discount. How about $69 for the one bed room?”

“We’ll take it!” Ally responded before I had time to think. “Thank you! We can pay by card, right?”

“Ah, no, I’m afraid not. We don’t – well, we never got around to that modern stuff. Gotta stay off the grid, right? Haha!” He laughed at his own joke. I shuddered involuntarily.

We had cash. It was fine. He was creepy, but we were tired. We paid, got the keys, and drove up and parked in front of the room. I grabbed my stuff from the car, unlocked the door, and surveyed the room. It looked clean enough, the bed was big, and I was tired as hell.

“Hey, I’m gonna go for a little walk, actually. My legs are so stiff.” Ally said from behind me. “Wanna come?”

I eyed the bed. It looked too comfortable. Ally had a good point, but that bed was speaking to me.

“Nah, I’ll just shower and crash.”

“Ok, cool. I won’t be very long.”

She turned and left. I slammed the door shut behind me, and stripped out of my clothes as fast as I could. I jumped in the shower, and the luxurious feeling of hot water run down my body. I had to force myself to get out. I went into the room, put on my PJ’s, and laid down on the bed. Ally wasn’t back yet, but her nighttime strolls sometimes lasted as long as an hour, even when she was this tired. She had a hard time falling asleep, and those walks apparently helped.

I got my phone out, and tried connecting to the wifi. It didn’t work. I immediately got annoyed. Not because I really needed the wifi, but because I had paid for it, and I wanted it.

So I just laid there, getting annoyed, glaring at the ceiling fan. It was a weird model, something black sticking out from the bottom. I had never seen that before. I wondered idly what it did.

Then I thought about how we were the only people staying here, how Ally was walking somewhere alone in the dark, how I didn’t know where she was, how creepy that guy had been when he laughed at his joke about staying of the grid. Then the familiar feeling of fear started creeping into my guts. I knew where my mind was going. I have an overactive imagination, I tend to turn every situation into a horror movie in my head. It’s a real problem in my dating life. I think most guys are serial killers. Ally always makes fun of me for it.

I thought about how the guy had offered us two beds, and then refused to give it to us. Did he want us in this room specifically? Why? He probably had some creepy fantasy of two young girls sharing a bed. Urgh. I shook my head, trying to stop my mind from spinning out of control. I go of the bed, and went over to the huge mirror on the wall. I got my hair out of the towel, and started brushing it. I couldn’t quite get rid of the uneasy feeling at the pit of my stomach. I knew I wouldn’t sleep well that night.

For some reason, I thought of the one way mirror scene in Cabin in the Woods. God, why do I watch horror movies? They always come back to me at the worst times. So creepy. I vaguely recalled that there’s a way to check if it’s a real mirror. What was it again? You touch the mirror, and if there’s no gap between your finger and the mirror finger, it’s fake?

I touched the mirror. There was no gap. I could see my eyes widening in fear in the mirror.

No wait, that can’t be it, I tried to reason with myself. That’s ridiculous. This is fine. We’re fine. It’s gotta be the other way around. But maybe…

I realized I could check the bathroom mirror. It was one of those medicine cabinet mirrors, that one was clearly real.

I walked slowly into the bathroom. Please be the same, please be the same, please be the same, I muttered. I wiped the fogged mirror, took a breath, and slowly pressed my index finger against the surface. Ice filled my veins. A gap. I took a deep breath, trying to clear my mind. We needed to get out of there. Where was Ally? I felt panic bubbling. I needed to get out of there. Ok. But play it cool. They could be watching. Who the hell are they? I can’t let them know I know. I have to get out of here.

The black thing on the fan. My breath caught in my throat. It had to be a camera.

I went back into the bedroom, and started putting my stuff back in my little bag. I hoped it looked innocent enough. Maybe we wanted an early start, right? Maybe I had OCD and liked all my stuff in my bag. It was fine. I went to put the bag in the car. I turned the doorknob.

It didn’t move.

I tried to stay calm, not to panic. They could be watching.

Maybe it was jammed. I tried the handle again. Nothing. I used all my force. Nothing.

I got my phone out, figured I’d text Ally, call the police. Something.

No signal. I wanted to cry. I looked around the room for a window. For the first time, I noticed they had bars in front of them. I’ve seen that before, of course. It’s a safety precaution, my ground floor apartment in the city also had them. So that people can’t break in. I had never before considered that they also very effectively stopped people from breaking out.

I figured the door must unlock from the outside only. Once you’re in the room, you’re stuck there. I pinned all my hopes on that idea. Ally would come back, unlock the door, and we’d get out of there.

The next ten minutes were the longest of my life. I kept trying to come up with a plan, with something, but my mind was drowned in adrenaline. Finally I heard steps outside.

Ally was back!

I got up, standing right next to the door. She put the key in the lock, turned it, and it opened.

“Ally, get in the car right now.” I said as I pushed her out of the room.

“W-what? Why?”

“Fucking camera in the room.” I hissed as I pushed her back.

Her eyes went wide, and she immediately obliged. I unlocked the car, threw my bag in the back, and we both jumped in.

The door to the adjacent room burst open, and the old man came running out. He slammed his hands on the hood, as if to try to hold us back with his bare hands.

We both screamed as I skidded out of there.

Even in my panic I could see several shapes behind him, in the room. He had not been alone.

I just kept driving, praying that they weren’t following us.

“We have to call the police.” Ally said after an hour of driving. “We have to.”

I nodded.

She used her precious data to find the number of the local sheriff’s office, and called them up. Only heard half the conversation.

“Hey, I want to report a – an almost crime, I’m sorry, I’m not quite sure what –”

“No sir, it’s not a joke.”

“We were staying at this motel, and there was a … a camera.”

“And one of those one way mirrors!” I interjected.

“What?” She turned to me.

“Yeah, tell him!”

“And a one way mirror. And the door didn’t unlock from the inside.” She said, looking to me for confirmation. I nodded.

“And there were people in the room behind that mirror, too.”

Her eyes went wide in fear as she repeated the information. Then she described the location of the motel.

“Yes.”

“Mm, no.” She sounded uncertain.

“We’ve been skiing.” She frowned.

“Yeah?”

“No, that’s fine, we’d rather not.”

I looked at her quizzically.

“No really, we’re already out of state. We just wanted to let you know.”

She abruptly hung up.

“What was that?”

“I don’t know, he wanted us to come back and give a statement.”

“Shouldn’t we?”

She didn’t say anything for a little while. “I don’t know, I got a really bad vibe. I just, let’s not, please? And small town American sheriff’s office? That’s like totally how you die in the horror movies.”

“We’re not in a horror movie though.”

“Aren’t we?”

I shrugged. I wasn’t really stoked on the idea of going back either. Frankly, I was still worried that they were following us. I really didn’t want to get pushed off the road by some psycho hillbilly motel manager. And we had told the police, we had done our part. Or so I thought.

But yesterday, there was a story in the news about a three young girls going missing. They were roadtripping. In that area. Never made it back to Seattle.

I can’t help but wonder if they stopped at that same motel. I can’t help but wonder what would have happened if Ally didn’t take that walk. If we both got locked in that room. What the people in the other room expected. What they were gonna do. If they’d just watch, of if … well, if Ally and I could have been that missing persons story.

[golbrocklovely]

only the lonely survive // colby brock - chapter one: just another la devotee

A/N: so... I’ve had this story in my head for a long time, and now I’m finally posting it! I have a bunch of chapters already written, but I’m gonna be posting the first two just so ppl can get a read for them and see if they like them. and if i get some good feedback, i’ll post weekly :)

here’s the description of the story

trigger warning: swearing

word count: 1766

DAY: 1/14

"Are you sure you have everything?" My mom asked, standing in between me and the front door. 

I rolled my eyes, "Yes mom. I literally went over this with you last night. I've been packed for, like, three days now."

She sighed, smiling. "I know, I just don't want you to leave yet. I can't believe I'm not gonna see you for two whole weeks. How will I survive?"

"You'll be fine, trust me. Besides, this is like a trial run to see what it will be like when I actually move out to LA." I stated, grabbing my bags and pulling them closer to me.

"That's not funny, Skylar." Her voice was deadpan. Oh no, not this again.

"I wasn't trying to be, Mother." I remarked, my voice the same as hers.

She exhaled, "Let's not argue before you leave. We'll talk about it when you get home though."

"That's fine with me." I smirked. Then, I heard my phone vibrate. I looked down at it, seeing I had a new message from Casey.

 Casey: ayeee bitch im here leTS GOOOOO

 I chuckled and then looked at my mom, nodding my head. I opened my arms to her, and she smiled sadly. We embraced, hugging as hard as we could. As much as I couldn't wait to leave, I'm still going to miss my mom.

"Text me when you land, okay? Make sure to call me every night, or as often as you want. Whatever hour, it doesn't matter." She whispered.

"I will, Mom," I said pulling away from her. "I love you."

"I love you too, Skye." She leaned in and kissed my cheek. I grabbed my bags and opened the door, seeing Casey in her red Jeep. She waved at my mom.

"Have fun! Don't do anything too crazy! Make sure to use protection!" My mom yelled.

I groaned. "Would you like to yell that to the whole neighborhood?"

"I meant sunblock, not condoms. But now that I'm saying it, maybe don't use too much protection. Ya looking a little pale, and I want grand kids anyway." She laughed.

I snorted, "Bye mom!"

"Bye honey!" She grinned, slowly closing the door.

I rolled my bags over to the car, opening the backseat's door. I threw my luggage in, closed the door, and then opened the passenger side. I huffed, winded from how heavy my bags were.

"Did you bring your whole closet?" Casey asked.

"Just about." I sighed, jumping into the car.

"By the way, I fucking love your mom." She giggled.

Starting up the car, the radio turned on. Panic! At The Disco's 'LA Devotee' started playing. It must have been from Casey's playlist, specifically made from our trip to LA.

After a moment of silence, I smiled. "Oh my God, we're actually going to LA. Like, this is happening."

We both looked at each other. Then we screamed excitedly.

"I have been waiting so fucking long for this to happen!" She yelled, turning up the music.

"You're telling me! The fact that we are actually leaving Philly and going all the way across the country to fucking Los Angeles... is fucking mind blowing. Like, I can't believe it. Why did it take us so long?" I sighed.

We both sighed and nodded our heads at each other, "School."

"If only we could have graduated sooner." I stated, shrugging my shoulders.

"If only we had met sooner." She smirked. I smiled back at her.

Casey and I hadn't been friends that long, only three years. We met because we both went to the same college. I was in the theater program working on my acting abilities, while she was taking dance. We ended up meeting because we both got into the same musical - 42nd Street. If you've never heard of that show, that's understandable. It's old as hell, but honestly still a good musical.

Casey is originally from Florida, while I've always lived in Pennsylvania. We connected with each other because we were both the outcasts. I was always overlooked, not for lack of talent but I'm overshadowed easily. She, however, is amazing at dance and always picked first. This caused a lot of jealousy to be thrown her way, but she took it like a champ.

We also have a lot of the same interest - youtubers to be exact. While we both love the bigger influencers, like Shane Dawson and Jenna Marbles, we also love a lot of relatively smaller ones. Like, the Trap House for instance. We talk about the guys a lot, especially Sam and Colby. I mean, I do most of the talking while she just listens.

Because of them, we started youtube channels. We're pretty popular on there, having both around 500+ subs. She does dance videos, while I do random covers, Q and As, and just whatever I can think of.

"So, explain to me again why we didn't have to pay for a place to stay at?" I asked, turning my head towards Casey.

"My uncle owns a bunch of properties out in LA and he turns them into AirBnbs so I asked if I could 'rent' one for two weeks and he was cool with it." She shrugged her shoulders.

"Thank God you have a rich uncle because otherwise I don't think I could have afforded this trip." I groaned, annoyed.

"What? You mean making eight dollars an hour can't afford you the luxury of living in LA?" She snorted.

I fumed, "No bitch. I can barely afford ramen at this point, and that shits three for a dollar."

"Don't get your panties in a twist now. We both got enough for the trip, and my uncle also stocked the house with food, so we'll have some when we get there. Plus, he's lending me his car for the time being too, so transportation won't be the biggest bitch." She responded.

"Why does everyone have a rich uncle but me?" I mumbled. She slapped my leg and laughed. I giggled back at her.

/  /  /  /

"Skye, Skye... Skye wake up!" Casey whispered, loudly into my ear.

I jolted awake, glaring at her immediately. She snickered back at me.

A muffled voice came over the loudspeaker, "Ladies and Gentlemen, this is your captain speaking. We will be landing in Los Angeles in 15 minutes. The temperature right now is a cool 75 degrees. It is currently 2:38 pm. On behalf of me and the crew, thank you for flying American Airways and enjoy the rest of your day."

"Oh shit we're already here?" I asked, shifting myself in my seat.

"Yeah, the moment we got off the ground, you went out like a light." She replied.

"Well, I'm sorry but waking up at the ass crack of dawn isn't something I usually do so I'm little tired." I retorted.

"Yeah whatever. Oh, so you know, we don't have to get a cab anymore to get to the house. I have some friends out here and one of them is gonna pick us up from the airport. He's leaving right now." She stated.

I nodded my head, "Oh that's good. I remember you telling me about your friends, but like, you never went into detailed of who they are."

"The one that's picking us up is an old friend from Florida. We used to live next door to each other until he moved out to LA and I left to go to school in Philly." Casey explained, grabbing her carry-on bag and putting her phone inside of it.

"What does he do?" I questioned.

"Uh... he does youtube and he's a dancer, like myself. He's the one that got me into dance to be honest." She explained, shrugging her shoulders.

"Oh wow, I must meet him then. Without you being a dancer, I never would have met you." I smirked.

She laughed. "How much would your life suck if I wasn't in it?"

"Honestly I would be better off." I joked.

The plane soon landed. After getting our stuff and rushing out, we went and got our luggage.

Casey had told me she had been to LA multiple times, mostly to come visit this friend of hers that lives here. She told me that he has a bunch of roommates that we will probably meet at some point during our stay.

After waiting outside for ten minutes, Casey started to get impatient.

"Ugh, where is he?" Casey groaned, tapping her foot on the ground and looking out into the street.

"Didn't you say he was leaving for us while we were still in the air? Shouldn't he be here by now?" I replied, leaning against my luggage.

"Traffic in LA is a bitch..." She mumbled back.

We both looked down the street, car after car after car passing us. None of them were him apparently.

"Oh shit there he is!" She yelled, pointing at a black car come toward us.

I squinted, trying to see who was driving. I shrugged and grabbed my bags, turning my back to the car pulling up next to us. I grabbed my phone and sent my mom a quick text saying I had landed. She would have been pissed if I didn't say something to her soon.

"It's so good to see you! What's it been, like a year, since I last saw you?" Casey shouted.

I turned around to see Casey hugging the person, their back to me. He was kind of shortish, even though he was still taller than me. He had his hair in a short ponytail. He was wearing a sweatshirt, jeans, and sneakers.

"Let me introduce you to Skye." Casey said, pointing at me. Her friend then turned around.

My eyes widened. I shook my head, trying to look away and play off the fact that I knew who her friend was.

"Skye, this is Corey. Corey, Skye." She smirked.

"It's nice to meet you Skye." Corey replied, sticking his hand out.

"Uh, it's nice to meet you too. T-thank you so much for picking us up." I stuttered, shaking his hand.

"No problem. Sorry I'm late though, traffic has been backed up for like the last five miles. Here, let me take your bags." He slowly took my bags from me and popped his trunk, putting them in.

I turned to Casey. "We are having a serious talk when we get to the house."

"What's there to talk about?" She joked. She turned towards the car and got into the passenger side. I rolled my eyes, getting into the backseat.

| CHAPTER 2 >>

[andrewuttaro]

New Look Sabres: GM 41 - TBL - Warm Bodies

6-4 Regulation Loss

The season is now halfway over. It’s also got halfway to go. I suppose it’s a glass half full, half empty kinda situation. I imagine the first half of this season has evoked some pretty strong feelings along those lines of optimism and pessimism one way or the other. There’s a lot to unpack there and Midseason Thoughts will be out tomorrow so read that. This is only going to be an incomplete lookback on the first half that was. After all, there was a New Year’s Eve game last night and a big narrative coming into that game. Jeff Skinner got injured in one of the games against Boston and here we find ourselves once again down another forward. And here comes the snide remarks about the surplus of defenseman that don’t really help the problem with forwards dropping like flies. Well guess what: I’m there. I’m ready to be mad about this shit too! It’s January when you’re reading this. January 2020! Jason Botterill was hired in May 2017. He’s closing in on three years on the job. Sure he didn’t get the coaching choice right the first go around and we restarted the rebuild and yatta yatta yatta; but how has Rebuild 2.0 gone so… uh… terribly? There were poultry changes in summer 2018 after the accidentally super shit season that got us Rasmus Dahlin and then in 2019… uh… he moved out Nylander for Jokiharju. You can’t look past the Jeff Skinner trade and signing, the risk and reward of that, but barring the Henri Jokiharju trade that was far and away his best move. The defense is changed but the forward ranks are… actually remarkably similar to Dan Blysma’s last game behind the bench. That whole conversation was brewing and then came the Skinner injury. The Sabres are now the furthest out of a playoff spot they’ve been all season at five points back. That’s something we’ll talk about in Midseason thoughts. The team was up and down in the first half but mostly down. Meanwhile everyone is sorta thinking one move for a top six forward saves the day. True or not we were hungry for a move when… *drum roll*… Rochester American Dalton Smith is signed to a two-way contract so he can be called up to the NHL… uh… say what now?

This is literally the kinda thing you joke about a lazy General Manager doing. At first glance he’s just a goon you’re signing for the kinda things boomers dribble about on Facebook: he’ll bring grit to a roster the Coach and GM say doesn’t need any more grit! Smith wasn’t at Training Camp you see! His game is improved dramatically you see! He’s got… lots of penalty minutes in the AHL! Okay, I give up. I don’t know what they’re doing now. If you’re going to tell me with a straight face Smith was brought up as a Skinner replacement I guess I’ll agree he is in fact a warm body. This is just a team of Jack Eichel and a bunch of warm bodies right now anyway, eh? The most logical answer is a very unwelcomed one: the idea he was brought in to “take care of unfinished business” with the Tampa Bay Lightning. That is, the Sabres needed a guy to avenge the Dahlin injury back in November. So we used up a contract on a guy to come up from the A to punch Erik Cernak in the face? Is that the plan? Look Jason, we understand trades maybe risky, but we’d prefer you make one before going with the lowest common denominator within the organization. Remember a dozen games back or so when I theorized it was never the plan for the team to make the playoffs this season? I put together some pieces including the opinion of John Vogl who said exactly this. The huge salary opening this summer allow a lot of room for movement… but they’re also somehow in cap hell too? Is that what’s stopping you from taking this season seriously, Jason? The theory is basically confirmed now and I’m not going to lie: I am very turned off by it all. Other NHL clubs should take note: this is how you turn off your fanbase. You’re already on a pretty ugly skid? Make a really bad roster move when the obvious choice is clear as day for all to see and make it about fighting. Honestly, who was dying to see Dalton Smith fight Erik Cernak? Whose opinion of this club’s season is now changing because of him skating four shifts all game and almost getting into a scuffle? We even got a video of Cernak getting fighting pointers from a teammate at the Bolts practice! You have one of the most talented rosters of the decade coming to town for a New Year’s Eve game your billing as a big deal and you’re intending to give them a punching match? To top it all off about an hour before puck drop Joe Yerdon at the Athletic broke the news that Evan Rodrigues asked for a trade upping that number to three players who want out. Summer 2019 Sabres twitter would have gone to Defcon 5 with that news but five months without a GM has made us cold, hopeless husks. On that cheerful note, let’s do that hockey!

To be clear I am not, nor have I ever been a hockey player. Anyone who makes the NHL, even for a single game like Dalton Smith, is a better athlete than I will ever be. Each and every player on that ice could murder me quite easily. However what unfolded in the first and third periods of this game was a glorified badminton match. The shots were 10-3 in favor of Buffalo in the first, but the game did not even kinda look that way. At least two of those Bolts shots were off the post, the team MVP candidate hot on Jack Eichel’s heels. Ding-Ding-Ding. The Sabres got another impotent powerplay early on after Steven Stamkos tripped Eichel. Ralph Krueger did a very interesting interview this morning on WGR550 where he was asked about the lackluster powerplay. One quote sticks out: “Whether we score or not [on the powerplay] is irrelevant.” There is very little additional context needed, that’s the quote. He was making a point about how even fruitless powerplay help team confidence 5 on 5. I’m no hockey coach either but… uh… I think that’s some motivational bullshit, Ralph. Luckily I didn’t actually rear end the car ahead of me in the Tim Hortons drive thru when I heard that line. The slight edge the home team developed in this game became apparent late in the first and the Sabres got a goal almost by accident. Curtis Lazar peeled a puck off the Lightning as they attempted to exit the zone and shot it over to Conor Sheary. Sheary, tardy on getting out of the zone evidently, almost one-timed it and the shot snuck past Andrei Vasilevskiy to put Buffalo up 1-0.

Steven Stamkos and Jack Eichel both had shocking misses in the first; like wow, you had the whole net and didn’t get it in kinda misses. Both visibly realized their mistakes. In the second period Conor Sheary got an early assist when he put the puck on net where Marcus Johansson edged the puck in. All of the sudden the Sabres were up 2-0 and I doubt many of those assembled in Key Bank Arena thought this would be the way it would go based off everything going on off ice. Linus Ullmark and a tough defensive scheme wouldn’t hold up forever and almost inevitably Andrei Palat shot one in five hole. The powerplay goal for Tampa felt as mocking as it did inevitable. But then somewhere deep down in this team they revived the clap-back energy, just for a little bit. A minute later Jimmy Vesey takes the puck over after a fortuitous bounce and gets his first goal since the dawn of time. If you took even a minute to be shocked you’d be forgiven but you’d miss Jake McCabe doing what Dalton Smith got an NHL contract for: fighting! McCabe got into a bloody boxing match with Andrei Sergachev after a hit on Eichel he took issue with. To be fair to the cavemen not reading this, Dalton Smith did have a little spat with a player in a white jersey earlier in the period, but McCabe was the one who really brought your almighty grit. The lengthy penalty record now somehow put the Sabres on the penalty kill. Enter Jack Eichel stripping a Tampa forward on a botched pass before charging down the ice, undressing two defenseman and a goalie to backhand it in for the 4-1 lead and a shorthanded goal. That was at about the halfway point of the game. That beautiful Jack Eichel goal that will certainly be in the season highlight reel… was halfway through this game. Before the second period ended the disaster would begin: five unanswered goals started with another powerplay goal for Alex Killorn followed by Tyler Johnson snipe about three minutes later. The second period ended 4-3 Buffalo. The game would end 6-4 Tampa. The Lightning completed their season sweep of the Sabres in a comeback fitting of the next level shitty decade this club just concluded. Shattenkirk, Killorn again and then Anthony Cirelli with an empty netter, I’m not going to torture you with the details, it’s easy to imagine how that went just off experience.

Like, comment and share this blog. Tomorrow we’ll be discussing the first half of the season in Midseason Thoughts. We’ll be looking ahead to the back 41 games as well although it seems very clear they don’t matter to the Front Office. This club is within spitting distance of a playoff spot and are posturing to try and get further off by the end of the month. When I say this team is a collection of warm bodies and Jack Eichel, I mean it! I think I speak for a large swath of this fanbase when I say I’ve lost confidence. A move was necessary six months ago, but it never came. Sure I still like the Coach but if he’s going to pass off motivational smart talk as a definitive strategy for a hockey team to win enough games to make the postseason even he is going to lose me at some point! Tomorrow we get Edmonton coming to town and I doubt they’ll succumb to the Sabres quite as easily as last time. I have no more confidence in this club and honestly I feel like they’ll need to win us back when there is a playoff team in town! Well… that’s all folks. Happy New Year! Talk to you tomorrow. Let’s Go Buffalo!

Thanks for Reading.

P.S. The Winter Classic was fun this year. I wish somebody had told me Dallas and Nashville hated each other two years ago.

[pinkiepowered]

worlds collide – jimmy/montana

A/N: A friend suggested that I post my fanfiction here. So, here you go!

A series of crossovers in the American Horror Story universe. It’s honestly a sin that some of these characters have never met, and so I decided to fix that, with the first part ft. Jimmy Darling (Freak Show) and Montana Duke (1984).

Kudos and comments can be left here. Let me know any requests there, too, this might be 1/2 if inspiration arises again!

AO3 Tags: Crossover Pairings, Smut, Montana is softer than she is in canon, blame Jimmy’s influence.

Sliding into a seat in some shitty diner in Nowhere, Florida, Montana couldn’t quite believe the turn her life had taken. Just weeks prior she’d been dancing on a Hollywood stage, but then she’d made the mistake of resisting the owner’s gaze and then his hands and now she was fresh off a bus that reeked of disappointment, having been laughed out of every audition that followed.

Apparently her boss had a tiny dick but a huge list of connections, who’d have thought?

Now, she was due to meet some German chick at some circus thing that a girlfriend had told her about, with nothing more than her own talent and her own word to back her up. She sighed, staring at the menu and trying to decide what meal would mean the least calories before winding up with a lukewarm cup of coffee in her hand. At least it would keep her awake until she was back at the motel and could paint her face back on.

She yawned in spite of the hit of caffeine, turning to examine the rest of the measly diner’s occupants before realizing she was being watched, stared at, by some pretty boy with a curl in his hair and motorcycle gloves still on his hands, grasped around a glass of what looked to be homemade lemonade. He smirked at Montana, looking less the cat that ate the canary and more like he was just relieved she’d finally noticed.

“If you keep up that dumb look on your face, it’ll stick that way,” Montana called across the distance between them, hiding her own smile. He was cute, handsome, but she wasn’t one to make things easy on the other sex. Or the same sex, come to think of it, though she didn’t like her chances of getting pussy in this part of the country.

Fuck, she missed LA.

“You’re not from around here,” he said, and without any invitation he crossed the diner and sat one seat down from her, still nursing his lemonade between his gloved hands.

“What, the accent?”

He shook his head. “Nah, nothin’ that obvious. It’s the look. Like you’re…”

“Crawling out of my skin to get away from here?”

At that his smirk turned into a grin, and Montana thought to herself that to be deprived that smile must surely be a sin. “Exactly,” he said. “Eyein’ all the exits like you’re preparing for a fire only you know’s coming. You not eating, huh?” He asked, then. “The Salisbury’s to die for. That, and everything else on the menu might kill you.”

He shot the waitress a wink, then, so that she’d know he was kidding, before turning back to Montana and taking her in. It was possible, probable, that he ran through this routine with every woman that waltzed through this town, but that didn’t mean that she didn’t like it, that she couldn’t have fun with it. “I’m Montana,��� she said, an olive branch, barely. “I just got here from Los Angeles.”

“Jimmy Darling,” he offered in turn, although not with a hand, and Montana thought to herself that had to be a fake name. “Los Angeles? City of Angels, and all of that? Why the hell would you choose to leave a place like that for a… well, it’s no Honolulu, or Paris, or even Orlando, let me tell you.”

It hadn’t been a choice, Montana was tempted to say, and part of her wanted to unleash a rant about the whole thing and how she’d maybe have made it to New York City if she’d just kept her damn mouth shut and let the guy do whatever he wanted to do to her, but something told her it wasn’t the time or the place. And, anyway, wasn’t she trying to play the long game? “I wanted… something different,” she decided on. “And I’d heard good things about the circus.”

Jimmy laughed, then, sliding one seat closer to Montana as if he had a secret to tell her. “Well, now I know you must be some sorta undercover cop, because nobody’s said nothing good about that circus for as long as I’ve been a part of it.”

“You’re in the circus?”

“I work in the freak show,” he answered, giving no indication as to what might make him freak-ish. She thought nothing of it, and he sipped his drink. “You’re here to audition, aren’t you? Well, I’m no psychic, but Elsa’s been talking about dancers for the new act for weeks. Thought she might have finally given up.”

“That’s - that’s what I’m here for,” she said, maybe a little hopeful. Maybe this guy was her way in if talent alone couldn’t impress the German woman. “I’m supposed to meet with her at four.”

“I’ll drive you over there. My bike’s just outside,” Jimmy said, gesturing with his gloves.

Montana started to interject, not wanting to seem more needy than she was: “Oh, I need to do my makeup…”

“I’ll drive you back to your place. Wherever you’re staying. Can’t be more than two motels within twenty miles, so it’s no pressure on me. Come on,” he threw down a few dollar bills, then, finished his drink. “Let’s get going now and I can tell you all about Elsa. Just know this, Montana from Los Angeles, she always has to be star of the show. Remember that, and you might have a chance.”

Then, before she had a chance to argue, Montana was being nudged out the door by an almost perfect stranger, climbing onto his bike and wrapping her arms around him for security. He turned around to see that she was comfortable, and she nodded, and off they went.

– – – – –

For reasons completely unbeknownst to Montana, Jimmy stuck around on his bike while she fiddled with her makeup and her hair and slipped into something more appropriate for showing off her dancing. She’d told him he could wait in the room but he’d insisted otherwise, like some kind of gentleman, and so she’d taken a little less time than she might to get ready. From what little Jimmy had told her about this whole circus, she didn’t need to put in as much attention to detail as she had with her LA callbacks, anyway.

That, and her confidence was a little high from the way that the boy had been looking at her even though she was fresh off several days on a bus and hadn’t put any work into her appearance when they met. She grabbed her purse and headed on down to his bike, and kept her face neutral as he made a face of awe at how she looked now that she was wearing powder on her cheeks and color on her lips. “You ready to go?” she asked, as if he had anything else to do than sit around and wait on a girl he’d just met.

“Yep, hop on, LA,” he said, smirking again, and it couldn’t have been more than a few minutes before they were arriving at the ground, into a sea of trailers and tents and faces she didn’t recognize. Jimmy had reminded her that she’d be seeing things she wasn’t used to be seeing, and that was certainly the case as she watched a person walk on their hands, a woman with a beard, and what must surely be the world’s smallest person.

But that wasn’t the point of being here, and Montana was determined to focus on the task at hand as she was introduced to Elsa Mars, a woman who wore makeup that didn’t match her age and whose perfume was much too extravagant for a place like this. Before long, music was playing and Montana was showing off every move that she knew, stealing from dancing she’d done in routines on the other side of the country what already felt like a lifetime ago.

As she finished, Elsa clapped, and she took Montana’s face into her hands as if she were her granddaughter and not someone she’d just encountered. “Liebling,” she said, a tired smile stretched across her features. “I don’t think you belong here, but we are honored to have you. You can start tomorrow, if you like. Jimmy will show you somewhere to sleep. Go, go.”

Not quite sure whether to take the comment as a compliment, she went as she was told and found Jimmy, who practically bounced at the news that she was in. Just that alone was enough to untie the knot of uncertainty in her chest, because if there was one thing she lacked in LA it was people. She had friends, of course, but only on the most shallow level, and she was pretty sure that every single one of them would have fucked her over if given the chance to get an audition.

“Now I get to show you around,” Jimmy said, and Montana nodded, looking around and trying not to be overwhelmed as several people came over to approach her, a welcome wagon of sorts. It was moving, really, the rapport that Jimmy had built with them all, the fact that they were more family than just friends and she got the impression that there was little that they wouldn’t do for one another. “And over there, that’s you’ll be sharing with the other dancers. It sucks, I know, but a bed’s a bed, right?”

Montana nodded again, figuring she couldn’t really complain when she didn’t have money for a bed back in Los Angeles. “Where do you sleep?” she asked, then, not having noticed his trailer or tent on the tour of the grounds. She was curious, which didn’t make much sense to her. She’d never really been curious about or cared about anybody, not since she left her parents, not since she discovered that in her city there was only one person you could put first: yourself. This guy was having the strangest effect on her.

Jimmy offered his arm and she hooked hers through his, almost instinctively, and then she was being led to his place in this all. “It’s not much,” he shrugged, then sat on the bed. He was still wearing the gloves, and shifted from one foot to another, thinking.

“What are you doing here, Jimmy?” she asked, suddenly, before she could stop herself. Really, it was none of her business, and it wasn’t like she’d been totally forthcoming with her own reasoning, but she’d never been known for beating around the bush, for avoiding hurting feelings. Not that she was outwardly searching to hurt his, not today. “You don’t seem like… well, like Elsa said, like you belong here.”

“Trust me,” he said with a breath of a laugh, slumping back against his bed and staring at the ceiling. There was a hint of sadness that Montana might otherwise not have detected if she wasn’t so invested in this strange, kind boy. “I belong here.”

Sliding onto the edge of the bed to watch him as he stared at nothingness, Montana tugged at her bottom lip with her teeth. “Well, you already said you’re not a psychic,” she pondered, and then her eyes landed on the gloves again. Either he was a germaphobe or he was really, really into leather. Or he was hiding something. “Are you super strong, or something?”

“Not especially,” he turned, then, to lean on his elbow and look up at her. “You really wanna know?”

Montana nodded.

Jimmy sighed, then, before sitting upright. “I’m a part of the freak show, like all those other people you met,” he started, before tugging on his gloves and removing the first, and then just as swiftly the second. Montana’s eyes widened at the sight, hands oversized, fingers seemingly fused together so that they looked… lobster-like.  "Disgusting, right?“

Montana shook her head. "No, it’s - it’s not that. I don’t, it’s just that I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“That’s why they call it a freak show, LA.”

She rolled her eyes, then captured his gaze. It didn’t seem fair that someone as handsome as him be so down on himself, and in that moment she decided to do something about that, her hand reaching across to take one of his, lifting it up to hold it. “I bet you’re popular with all the girls,” she mused, confidence in this area coming easy. She’d been nervous, early, a little shell shocked by everything that she’d seen, but it was natural to fall back into this flirtatious, overly sure-of-herself manner.

Jimmy laughed softly. “The ones that aren’t horrified, sure.”

“I’m not horrified.”

“No?”

Montana shook her head, then, shifting so all of her body was on the bed, and then pulling his hand to rest over her chest, over her heartbeat.

“Well, hell,” Jimmy murmured.

She kissed him, then, the hand that wasn’t resting over his going to the side of his face to caress his cheek. It wasn’t as if she wasn’t used to random hookups, but there was something uniquely intimate about all of this, something that made her heart beat a little faster – and surely he could feel it – and it wasn’t long before she was shirtless and he was sliding his hands up her ballet skirt, testing, teasing, through the fabric of her underwear. “You sure?” he asked, and she had to fight the urge to laugh, kissing him quiet but nodding so that he’d know that, yes, she was. She was so fucking sure.

His fingers pushed the hem aside, then, and he slid two of his fused fingers into her, causing her to moan breathily. She was right, he had to be popular with women, because no man had ever managed to make her feel like this, and she arched her back against the bed as he kept up his motions, closing her eyes for a few moments before she opened them to take in Jimmy’s expression, his lip between his teeth and a grin across his features. God, if this was what it was like with a freak, she never wanted anybody normal again, and she was about to say such a thing when his palm grinded against her clit in just the right way, and she felt herself coming.

And then just as quickly she was coming again, determined to return the favor as her hands searched for his hardness through his pants and stroked at his impressive length. He helped her slide off his pants, a little frantically, and then him her skirt, and then he was guiding himself into her and pressing his forehead against hers as he started moving inside her, unable to resist the strangled cry he unleashed as he came inside her. “Jesus Christ, LA,” he panted, laying down next to her, lightly tracing circles on her arm with his fingernails. “I think Jupiter just became the new City of Angels.”

– – – – –

Curled against Jimmy’s side, listening to his faint snoring, something told Montana that Elsa was wrong: she did belong here, and she was determined to prove it.