#hence dead brain when home in front of computer

[athyrabunlord]

Umi's face is the best in that cover art, Also I like her alot already despite only a couple sentences about her. Probably cause of how she helps Kanan. I am totally looking forward to this. Take your time though. You know I really enjoyed the way Ruby was shown in here, it lets you know that Ruby is a true Cinnamon bun. Wait. I mean a skilled Witch or at least a hard working one, she has been shown since a young age to be practicing so it only makes sense that she is a true Kurosawa.

Haha, Umi looks so harmless and soft and fluff, but she’s still Oni when it comes to studies! I’ll try to showcase her more later on since she’s a significant figure in Kanan’s life. And yes, if you compare the Ruby in the sequel and the Ruby here in the prelude… my baby’s all grown up *wipes tears*

[scoopsgf]

can i get a good night’s sleep? can i PLEASE get a good night’s sleep?!

or: five times peter parker doesn’t sleep + the one time he does

my contribution to the @friendly-neighborhood-exchange! this is for @snarky-drabbles - I hope you enjoy it! 

1. 

The first time is actually just the first in a while. Peter’s had problems sleeping ever since he was a little kid; it was just one issue of many that stacked up on top of each other, resulting in his personal belief that he must be the most difficult kid to look after on the planet.

Asthma meant hundreds of dollars spent on inhalers, covering what their shitty insurance didn’t. His poor eyesight was the same story and the bullies that used to break his glasses had never helped. But it wasn’t just physical crap, of course: he’s had anxiety for as long as he can remember.

There are cute side-effects like panic attacks and nausea, not to mention the constant sense of impending doom he’s been nursing since… well, birth, probably. When he was younger he’d worry about whether or not the taxi driver had enough gas in his car to get them where they needed to go, or maybe Ben would get shot at work (ironically enough, he’d never worried that Ben would get shot off-duty, and there is a teeny superstitious sliver of him that believes maybe if he had considered the possibility it never would have happened, like some kind of a reverse jinx or something).

One of the other cute things that comes along with it is insomnia.

So here he is, pacing in his kitchen at three in the morning because May isn’t home yet.

Her shift ended at two. She’s usually back within a half hour considering the hospital isn’t far, hence his agitation.

He’s tried calling and texting to no avail, and he keeps telling himself that everything is fine, that she probably just got held up; meanwhile his subconscious provides a great slideshow of mental images that speak to the opposite—her getting kidnapped because somehow someone links her to Spider-Man, her getting hit with a car, mugged, shot, slipping on black ice—and that’s actually not far-fetched considering it’s January, there’s a lot of it, and so he pulls out his phone and types, You didn’t slip on black ice and die did you? to May.

No little dots appear to signify that she’s typing. The message doesn’t even change from ‘delivered’ to ‘read’.

She has her read receipts on. She’s promised him. There’s no reason she’d change that, right? But maybe she accidentally switched them off when she was scrolling through her settings.

He calls her.

“Hi, this is May Parker, I’m unavailable at the moment but if you leave me a message I’ll get back to you as soon as—”

Peter hangs up with a dissatisfied grunt.

It’s only then that he realises, to his great dismay, that he’s paced all the way onto the ceiling.

In his shock he loses concentration and falls. “Ow, fuck.” He pulls his aching knee to his chest. It’ll no doubt be bruised soon. “God has forsaken me.”

He picks up his now cracked phone and texts Ned:

I just fell off the ceiling at 3 AM in the morning

Don’t ask me what I was doing on it

Every bone in my body is broken :(

No reply comes which is pretty typical; Ned probably passed out in front of his PC like, hours ago. Peter can picture it: the light of his computer screen casting a blue glow over everything in the room, his head probably tucked into his arms to muffle his snores (and there’s also probably a bowl of stale popcorn spilled across his floor at this point), his creepy mother lurking in the doorway—or worse, trying to find out how to snoop through his laptop while he’s out of it.

Peter could totally go swing down there and help the guy out. It would be something to do anyway.

But no. The door is too far. His suit… too much work. It’s definitely better to just stay here curled up under the table like a little turtle.

But wait—a blanket.

Is it worth the effort? Probably. Peter scans his immediate surroundings and, oh boy, Lady Fate is actually on his side tonight because there’s a gigantic purple fluffy one hanging off the couch and it only takes a little bit of physical exertion to yank it down and wrap it around his body.

He burrows deeper into it and scrolls through Instagram. MJ posted a picture of a banana today. Literally like, just a banana. No caption, no explanation on her story, nothing.

Peter double taps it and comments: i hope u asked before u took his jacket

No like. No reply. That makes sense. It is three in the fucking morning, after all.

No. Three thirty. It’s been an hour and a half.

What had May said once? That it was okay to call someone if she was two hours late?

Peter tries texting and calling one more time and then just sits there, staring at his home screen and watching the minutes pass. At exactly four AM after much deliberation and stomach churning, he calls someone else.

Three rings later: “I’m in Vienna right now so this better be good.”

Peter feels even more nauseous than before. “Oh,” he says. “I guess—never mind, then. Sorry.”

“Wait, wait, that was just for show and I’m greatly intrigued as to why you’re calling me so… early? Late? Anyway I’m out of the conference room now so lay it on me.”

Against his will, Peter’s lip quirks up. “Um, it’s kind of stupid—”

“Nothing is ever stupid,” Tony says. “Especially when it’s coming from the brain of a kid with an intelligence quotient of 260.”

He feels his cheeks heat up and then it all just comes tumbling out, “It’s really late and May was supposed to be off at two and home by two-thirty, but she’s not and I don’t know what to do. I tried calling and texting but she’s not replying and I know that I’m probably just building it up in my head but I can’t help freaking out because like, what if she got stabbed or slipped on black ice or—”

“Hey Pete?”

“Yeah?”

“Breathe.”

Tony’s voice has softened immeasurably. Something uncoils in Peter’s stomach. He flops onto his side and closes his eyes. “I’m breathing.”

“That’s good, kiddo. Now just hang on a sec, I’m gonna call the hospital.”

“What? Why?”

“Well she works there, right?”

“...Yeah.”

“And you haven’t tried calling them yet, correct?”

“...Correct.”

“Ergo,” Tony says.

“But I—”

“Yeah?”

Peter bites his lip and then he just blurts it: “I don’t want you to hang up.”

He feels like such a child but the thought of losing connection with Tony is literally making his heart palpitate and his palms sweat. He needs someone. He needs an adult.

“Well lucky for us both I have two phones.”

Peter cracks an eye. “You what?”

“I’m Tony Stark, don’t question it. Hang on, let me just—hello, hi, um, I need this room. No, it can’t wait. Yes the whole room. Yes locked. I don’t know, five minutes? Ten? An hour? No, I’m not joking. Thank you. Thanks. Yeah. Okay. Bye now.” Something slams shut—the door to the office Tony just stole, probably. “Okay, just a sec, I have the number for the reception desk she works at in my phone.”

Peter, for some reason, feels immeasurably comforted by that. He sits in silence gnawing on his lip while Tony has a somewhat muffled conversation he can’t hear the other side of. Then, “You still there?”

“Yeah, I’m here.”

“Okay, well, they said she’s covering for someone and can’t get to the phone because a baby had to have emergency surgery so she’s literally in the OR as we speak. Pretty badass and not bad as far as excuses go. Now that you know she’s fine and not dead by ice, how about you get some shut-eye, okay kid?”

Peter swallows. “Yeah. Okay. Thank you, Tony.”

“No Mr. Stark this time, huh?”

“It’s too late for formalities.”

“I see,” Tony replies. “Sleep, okay?”

“Okay.”

The line goes dead. Peter, slightly relieved but not fully consoled, rolls over to face the door. He doesn’t sleep at all that night and is still there when May comes home at six in the morning with bagels and apologies.

—

2. 

The anniversary of Ben’s death is always super weird.

This time it takes him a few minutes to remember what day it is: he’s in the middle of brushing his teeth and then it hits him like a train: oh, it’s been three years.

Then comes May. She usually tries to cook something for breakfast but like always it burns. He leaves the bathroom to the sound of the smoke alarm and fans a cookie sheet at the screeching little device while she swears up and down in Italian.

“It’s okay, May, really—”

“No, it’s not!” She snaps, tossing a batch of blackened cinnamon rolls into the trash. “I just want this day to be easy for you!”

Peter goes over to her and, after kicking the oven door shut with his foot, pulls her into his arms. May starts to cry even though she tries not to; sniffles turn into barely stifled sobs. He knows that it’s harder for her than it is for him. Ben was her husband and they’d been married for thirteen years when he died. Sometimes he still catches her looking to see if he’s laughing too when they watch TV, only to find an empty recliner.

“It’s okay for it to be a bad day,” he whispers. “You know that, right? I mean, I love you to pieces, May, but I don’t wanna see you bending over backwards for me.”

“But that’s my job, doofus.”

Peter pulls back. He’s an inch taller than her now. “No it’s not. We take care of each other, okay?”

Then comes school. Ned usually hovers nervously like an agitated gnat, too afraid to say anything, not sure if he should act normal or be sad in solidarity, which means it’s kind of Peter’s job to set the tone. As he’s putting his combination in for his locker he asks, “So did you beat that level of Obra Dinn last night?”

Ned, shoulders slumping with relief, starts to ramble on about how hard it was to do and how it took him like, thirty whole tries.

They go to class. Peter zones out. He doesn’t bother making more web fluid or ditching and he gets so inside his own head that Coach Wilson compliments him again during gym class. Peter deliberately slows down after that, even if it’s kind of irritating; being physically active actually helps work off his anger.

Because that’s what he is more than anything else: angry. At the mugger, yeah, but at himself more than anything else. It was his fault that they were out that night, anyway. It’s a wonder that May doesn’t hate his fucking guts.

When school is up Peter comes home to an empty house. He thinks about going on patrol but doesn’t really feel up to it, and then he feels bad for not wanting to do it because like, what if someone is dying?

So he puts on the suit and swings from rooftop to rooftop, but there’s no action today. Peter eventually settles on a fire escape with a burrito. A stray cat hops up after a while and, despite his matted fur and crazy eyes, Peter decides he has a kind of quiet dignity about him and names him Charles.

“Do you like beef?” He asks, holding some out for Charles to sniff. The cat yowls and, without any warning other than that, nearly chomps Peter’s fingers off to get the meat.

“Ow, jeez!” Peter shakes his wrist. “I was literally giving it to you for free, but go off I guess.”

Charles blinks his big brown marble eyes and then literally jumps off the fucking ledge. Peter leans over and watches him scamper across the street, somehow not getting hit by any traffic. Sometimes he thinks his spidey sense is more like feline sense in that way: he could probably manage the same thing with his eyes closed.

After a while the sun sets and all of the streetlights turn on. Peter does another patrol around the immediate vicinity but again, nothing. He stays out anyway though because he’d rather do his Chemistry homework behind a dumpster than sit alone in the apartment with nothing but the quiet for company. At least out and about there are sewer rats and mangy dogs and shady characters who actually just turn out to be skateboarders.

Peter is almost done with his assignment when the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.

He looks up and finds Iron Man himself coming in for a landing. The suit drops with a barely audible clunk; it’s Mark 54, the sleekest and most lightweight model yet.

“Oh thank God,” says Tony’s voice, “you’re not dead.”

Peter frowns even though Tony can’t see it. “No,” he agrees slowly. “Why would I be dead? What are you doing here?”

“Well, your aunt called me in a panic at around four when she got home and you weren’t there, and then I checked the scanners and saw that you’d been here, completely stationary, for like five whole hours—needless to say I had a little bit of a heart attack and here I am, relieved and also mildly infuriated. Care to explain, young padawan?”

Peter opens his mouth to speak. Closes it. Opens it again and, “It’s four AM?”

“Four fifteen,” Tony corrects.

“I didn’t even—I didn’t know! Shit, May’s totally gonna kill me, I might as well be dead—”

“Woah woah woah,” the faceplate lifts, “calm down, okay? No one is mad. Just, uh, concerned, I promise.”

Peter is still frantically packing up his school supplies and not really listening. He only stops when Tony gently touches him by lightly gripping his elbow. “Kid?”

Peter stares down at the older man’s hand. Behind the mask his eyes start to burn. “Ben died.”

“Pardon?”

“Ben died,” he repeats louder. “In this alley. Two years ago.”

All at once Tony’s face falls. He moves to sit by Peter on the grimy floor of the alley while the suit hovers nearby, a hollow shell, just the way Peter feels now.

“Kid,” Tony says, “take off the mask.”

“What? No, I’m in public—”

“No one’s around,” Tony says. “Just take it off, okay?”

Peter does, reluctantly peeling it back to reveal his tear-stained cheeks. Tony stares for a second and then, almost hesitantly, he wraps his arms around Peter. “Do you wanna talk about it?”

“I—” he chokes. “I’m just so tired. I’m tired of having to watch May be strong for me when I can’t be strong back, and I’m tired of Ben not being around. I miss him and it—it’s not fair.”

“Of course it’s not. It’s never fair. That’s why it hurts, kiddo. You’ve got all this love and no place to put it.”

Peter bites his lip to stop it from quivering and looks away, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes. “I just feel pathetic.”

“Don’t,” Tony says firmly. “I felt the same way after my mom died and it… In some ways I don’t think the feeling ever actually went away, but uh, take it from someone who’s had a lot more time to process: no one is expecting anything from you, okay? And I can guarantee there’s not a single human that thinks two years is long enough to be perfectly fine again. You’re allowed to still be upset about this.”

And Peter is. He’s really, really fucking upset about it and so tired of holding it in. Tony pulls him against his chest when Peter starts to cry and it sort of seems like he’ll never be able to stop. There’s just so much, so much guilt and pain and all kinds of other bullshit that he refuses to lay on May.

So he lays it on Tony. And it’s surprisingly not horrible or awkward or even the end of the world.

“You good?” the older man asks, when Peter finally sobers up enough to wipe his cheeks dry and take a few steadying breaths.

“Yeah,” he says, voice ragged and awful-sounding. “Um, sorry. For freaking you and May out and ruining your shirt, I mean.”

“You know there’s this really snazzy invention called a washing machine—”

“Oh my god, shut up.”

Tony laughs and it makes Peter laugh too, and the tension between them just sort of dissipates. “Speaking of clothes,” Tony claps his hands together, “you got any to wear in that backpack?”

“Uh, jeans and a hoodie?”

“Fantastic, incredible. Throw them on, I’m taking you out for breakfast.”

“But what if someone sees?!”

“Let ’em. I’ll have Pep release a statement claiming you as my personal assistant or head intern or something.”

“That’s totally unrealistic.”

“Do I care? No. Just—okay? Up and at ’em, make haste, come on. What do you feel like, pancakes or waffles?”

They bicker about which is better the entire way to the little diner Tony choses, and Peter comes home full an hour later. May is fast asleep at the kitchen table. He kisses her forehead and starts on breakfast for her.

—

3. 

He’s thirty minutes into helping MJ study for her AP French test when she finally gets a question wrong. “‘Il n'est pas clair que’?” Peter queries, holding up the flash card.

“‘It’s not certain that’?”

He makes a pitying noise. “Close. ‘It’s not clear that’.”

“What’s not clear, exactly? That if I see one more word in French I’m gonna blow my brains out?”

Peter snorts. “No, actually it says more clarification is required on how much you like your boyfriend. Suggestions to improve that include: a hug, a kiss, both—”

“Neither?”

He pouts. “Mean.”

MJ rolls her eyes, but she kisses him first. She tastes like the Twizzlers they’ve been eating and her hands are in his hair and she laughs when he presses his lips to her cheeks and nose and forehead.

They somehow end up in an incredibly compromising position. “You know,” MJ muses, “I don’t think I’ve been studying the right kind of French.”

Peter, hovering over her (oops), nods in agreement. “This kind is definitely way better.”

She wraps her arms around his neck and he’s so consumed with this: her and him and the smell of her jasmine shampoo—that he almost doesn’t hear it.

Almost.

Peter rips away abruptly. “What was that?”

She groans. “God, you’re such a dog sometimes.”

He ignores her, sitting alert with his eyes narrowed at the window and, sure enough, there it is again: a faint, blood-curdling scream. “Someone’s being attacked or something. Maybe four blocks away tops.”

MJ squints. “Don’t tell me you can echolocate.”

“I—” Peter’s mouth snaps shut and then opens again. “I actually don’t know. Anyway, I gotta go.”

He presses a quick kiss to her cheek, throws on his jacket, and quickly ducks out her fire escape (which happens to be the same way that he came in). He slips the mask on and tosses his hood up; it’s raining in heavy, icy sheets and Peter is drenched within seconds of swinging. He remembers the first time he’d gone out during a storm; the webbing he’d made hadn’t held up because the chemical formula hadn’t accounted for the massive amounts of water-based reaction, so the biocables had evaporated as they left his shooters. Thankfully he hadn’t jumped first that day, otherwise he would be a Peter Pancake.

Another scream sounds. Peter follows it and winds up latched onto the side of a two-story brick building. There’s an incredibly dark alley below, but a quick flash of lightning tells him everything he needs to know: one man is trying to wrestle a woman down, while another is rifling through her purse. He’s also holding a gun.

“Oh, cute,” he mutters sarcastically.

Peter tries to time it right: he takes aim and shoots a web right at the weapon with the next bout of lightning, but to his immense misfortune, the armed mugger had already seen him and was aiming right back. The bullet hits Peter in the side.

“Ow,” he says, “that was uncalled for.”

He drops. His side is throbbing and hot but he ignores it in favour of disarming the guy who shot him. It’s a brief struggle but Peter ends up whacking the gun out of his hand and webbing it to the wall opposite. Then he knocks the guy out with a solid upper cross to the temple.

Peter rounds. The assailant has already fled, leaving the woman shivering but relatively unharmed.

“You okay, ma’am?” he asks.

“Me? That guy shot you!”

Peter looks down at his side which is now stained with blood. “Oh, yeah.”

He’d actually forgotten for half a second. Now that the adrenaline is wearing off, he’s starting to really feel it: a burning sensation in his abdomen, an aching that pulses from his stomach to his chest. Ah. Wonderful.

A little dazed, he shakes his head. “Don’t worry about me. Super healing. Are you good? You need me to call you a cab?”

“What? No, um—the police station is like, down the block, I can go get them.”

“Are you sure? Because I can totally do that—”

“I can handle myself,” she says sharply, bending down to pick up her purse and the discarded items within. “It’s just… there were two of them and there was a gun and—”

“I get it,” Peter says, his hand pressing harder into his side as the world grows blurrier around the edges. “You really don’t want me to at least walk you down?”

“I’ll take a taxi,” she says. “You just, um, get yourself fixed up, okay? And thanks.”

“Yeah, sure, anytime! But, y’know, preferably never again,” Peter says, and proceeds to swing away.

—

Tony doesn’t expect to get woken up at two AM after only just falling asleep five minutes before, but such is life; FRIDAY’s voice bleeds through the speakers above to inform him that Spider-Man is currently rifling through the Med-Bay and bleeding from a wound on his side.

Pepper looks at him. “You heard that too, right? That was real?”

“It was real.”

They both scramble out of bed. Tony takes the lead, throwing on his jacket as he runs toward the elevator. It’s times like these when every second stretches out into an eternity; it takes maybe five of them to get from their floor to the Med-Bay, but it feels like forever.

The doors open and there’s Peter, perched on a gurney with his shirt gone and a whole lot of blood staining his side. He’s bent awkwardly, clearly trying to feel his way around whatever wound he’s got.

“Um,” Tony says, approaching, “What.”

Peter looks up and—yeah, he’s lost a lot more blood than Tony had originally thought. His face is fucking drained. “Hey,” he says, offering a jaunty wave before returning his attention to his side. “I got shot.”

“Oh!” Tony nods. “Oh, okay. What the fuck, kiddo?”

“I know, right?” Peter glances up. “Hey, Pepper.”

“Peter,” she returns. “Do you mind if I wash my hands and take a look at that?”

“If you want. It’s kinda gross, though.”

“Believe me, I’ve seen worse.”

Through this exchange Tony was already washing up, and now he dons a pair of gloves and sits on the rolling stool. “Looks like it’s through and through,” he tells Pep over his shoulder. “Could you grab a couple suture kits and, uh, the stuff?”

Pepper makes a face. “The stuff?”

“You know,” Tony says, “The Good Stuff.”

Her eyes widen. “Oh, that stuff.”

Tony feels around the area. “Do you know what kind of gun was used?”

“Looked like your standard nine mil,” Peter replies. His voice is growing a little slurred.

That’s good though, about the gun. Means there’s probably not any bullet fragments to worry about. Tony grabs a load of gauze and presses it against the wound. He checks Peter’s pulse while he’s at it and finds that it’s slowed considerably. “We’re gonna have to get you some blood, too. A neg, right?”

“Yuppers.”

Tony excuses that because after all, the kid is bleeding out on a table. Said kid actually starts to swing his legs back and forth and, yeah, that’s not gonna fly. “Do me a favour and lay back? I’m gonna put this towel right under you for now.”

Peter doesn’t have any arguments, or if he does, he doesn’t vocalise them. Pepper comes back in with the kits and drugs and, because she’s just smarter than him like that, bags of blood.

Tony grabs the vials first and loads up a syringe. Peter is pretty numb to all of it until the needle goes in. Then he frowns. “Why are you injecting me with alien blood?”

Tony rolls his eyes. “It’s not alien blood, it’s a pain killer. A serious one at that, so you’re probably gonna feel a little out of it for a while, okay?”

Peter frowns. “Is it for Steve?”

Tony tenses, but it’s only for a second. “Yes,” he says, somewhat tightly.

“Ugh. What a turd, Mr. Stark. You’re giving me turd vitamins!” Tony scoffs while Pepper laughs. Peter notices. “See? She thinks I’m funny.”

“You’re not helping me here,” Tony says to her.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Here, have some thread.”

Tony sighs. “Just stay still for me, okay?”

Peter does. Pepper passes him various supplies and they work together to sew up both ends of the gunshot wound. By the time they’re done, Peter hasn’t moved once, but his eyes are open and he’s frowning.

“How do you feel?”

“Wired,” he says.

“Seriously? Bruce never said anything about the side-effects, but I figured they’d be like normal pain-killers; make you drowsy and all that.”

“No,” Peter sits up quickly and doesn’t even flinch. “I feel like I just got steroids or something. Are you—are you actually telling me that Captain America’s drugs are infused with a stimulant? What, so he can keep fighting even when he’s in the middle of dying?”

Tony blinks. “Well that was smart of dear Banner.”

“Yeah, or insane.” Peter flexes his hands. “I feel like I need to go for a run, or like, break something.”

“Let’s avoid that,” Tony says, pushing him back down. “You need to heal, not mess yourself up even more, understood?”

Peter stares. “Is it normal to see sounds?”

Pepper bursts out laughing again. “I’m sorry,” she says when Tony glares. “Really, I am, I promise. Peter, honey, how about we get you to a bedroom where you can rest up? We’ll call your aunt and explain everything.”

—

Everything is going fine until May asks, “How did you get to the Tower so quick, then?”

Peter blinks. “Hmm? Pardon?”

“If you were at Ned’s,” May says, “how’d you manage to swing all the way across town?”

Peter opens his mouth and closes it. “I, uh… well, funny story, um… I wasn’t actually at Ned’s?”

There’s a pause over the phone. Pepper, who’s holding it, raises an eyebrow. May says: “You told me you were going to Ned’s, Peter.”

His face feels hot. He hopes it isn’t red. Both Pepper and Tony—from the doorway with his hands stuffed in his sweatpant pockets—are staring. It’s almost as bad as if May were really here.

“Well I was going to Ned’s, but then I changed my mind and went somewhere else and oh—look at the time! I think we’re going through a tunnel—”

“Don’t even try to pull that crap! That’s it, I’m coming over there—”

“May,” Peter says, serious now, “you’re in the middle of a shift, there’s people dying. Just—I’m perfectly fine, I took my Captain America drugs and everything is gonna be okay.”

“But you lied to me.”

“No, I changed my mind.”

“And went where?”

“Irrelevant.”

“Peter.”

“May.”

She groans from the other end of the line and demands to speak to Pepper one on one. Tony’s fiancé grins and switches off speaker, before slipping out with a bright laugh to finish off the conversation. Tony stares expectantly. “So where were you?”

“Oh my god, not you too. You know, on second thought, I actually am completely exhausted and—”

“Uh, nope,” Tony flops down onto the bed. “Fess up.”

Peter sighs. He squirms down and covers his pillow with a head. “No.”

Tony joins him under it. “Tell me.”

Peter scowls. He rolls onto his side so they’re facing one another. “I was with my girlfriend.”

“Oooo—”

“Shush! It’s… it’s really not a big deal and I haven’t told May yet because MJ and I haven’t even really talked about it and it all happened super fast and—” he remembers to breathe, “I just… I always tell May everything, you know? But I kind of just felt like… this was something I had to figure out first on my own. Maybe it’s stupid, but I know she’s gonna be super hurt when she finds out it’s been a month and I haven’t said anything—”

“Kid,” Tony cuts in. “Calm down.”

“I’m calm,” Peter promises, because he is. He’s also just incredibly hyper and stressed.

“It’s a normal instinct to want to figure things out and define them before you start announcing them to the world. I get that. But you’re still a kid, Pete, and even if you don’t want people prying into your love life, we still need to know where you are in case something goes wrong.”

Peter harrumphs as he turns away. “There’s a tracker on my phone and my suit. It would be easier to find me than anything else.”

Tony clicks his tongue. “You got a point there.”

“I just wanted time.”

“I know.”

“But I really like her, okay? Like she’s so smart and she’s got this really dark sense of humour and she’s actually kind of terrifying sometimes—”

“Oh, the scary ones are always fun.”

They stay up talking through the night and, when the sun comes up, Pepper joins them with a tray of freshly made blueberry waffles. May arrives around the same time and, looking too tired to be mad, simply drops onto the bed with them and steals what’s left of his food.

—

4. 

Peter is on patrol when he hears it:

a soft, quiet yelping coming from somewhere down below the rooftop he’s perched on.

At first he figures he’s imagining things, but then his ears perk again. He leans over the building’s edge to find the source of the noise.

In the dark it’s hard to make anything out, so he climbs slowly down the side of the wall, squinting. There’s another yelp and a low whine, almost pained. Peter zeroes in on the sound and creeps toward a set of dumpsters; they’re so full of trash they’re overflowing, and it’s underneath a broken down cardboard box that he finds it... 

A puppy.

Now, Peter is no liar. He’s wanted a dog since he was like, a fetus. The words ‘A dog’ have been on every birthday and Christmas list for as long as he can remember. It’s only recently, in the years since Ben’s death, that he’s pretty much given up—after all, May is so overworked and they can barely afford to feed themselves. How could they afford a pet?

But also…

This is the cutest dog he’s ever seen.

It’s tiny and fluffy and brown and has the biggest, saddest eyes he’s ever seen.

Peter kind of just stands there staring like an idiot for a good few seconds and then slowly kneels down. “Um, hi,” he says, in the gentlest voice he can manage. The puppy, who can’t be older than a few weeks and looks completely starved and exhausted, whines in response.

Peter holds out his hand for the dog to sniff. It lifts its head lazily and leans forward, nose twitching and dry. “You need water, huh? Come on, I know a place.”

—

“Shelob,” Tony greets without looking up from whatever project he’s working on. “What can I do for you at… one in the fucking morning?”

“I need your help with something, but you have to promise you won’t get mad or make me get rid of him—”

“Oh, for God’s sake, what have you done now?”

“He was just so helpless and cold and small and…” Peter swallows and reveals the puppy, presently wrapped up in his hoodie. “Meet Nugget.”

Tony’s face is the epitome of Disappointed Dad. He stares, open-mouthed, and after a second his shoulders fall. “Well, fuck.”

Peter snuggles Nugget against his chest and steps closer, but then Tony holds up a hand to stop him. “Nah-ah! Not until that thing gets a flea bath!”

Hope sparks in Peter’s chest. “You mean we can keep him?”

“I mean there’s no way I’m getting near him until I know I won’t break out in hives.”

“That’s not how fleas work.”

“Do I care? No. Come on, let’s go to the bathroom.”

—

“Why do you have flea shampoo?”

Peter’s inquiry is made tentatively. They both have their hands in the sud-filled sink as they systematically wash Nugget’s fur.

“There was… an incident a while ago. I don’t wanna talk about it.”

Peter stares. Blinks. “Okay. Well, I think he’s clean.”

Nugget barks as if in agreement, and so Peter and Tony lift him out of the basin and set him on a pile of no doubt expensive, fluffy white towels. Tony takes the lead after that. He’s surprisingly gentle and patient with the yapping, impatient puppy—even when Nugget tries to claw at him and shake himself dry, Tony never loses his cool.

A few minutes later they’re sitting on their stomachs watching Nugget stomp around on a blanket. There’s water in a bowl for him at one corner and a plate of chopped up chicken at another.

“I can’t take him home,” Peter says morosely after a few minutes. “May won’t let me keep him.”

Tony raises an eyebrow. “Where does she even think you are right now?”

“...In my bed.”

“Wow,” Tony says, deadpan. “Okay, well, I most certainly can’t keep him either.”

“What?! Why not?!”

Tony sighs. “I’m Iron Man, if you hadn’t noticed, kiddo—”

“Oh, what, so you’re too tough to look after him?”

“No, I’m too busy. I spend like, twenty-three out of twenty-four hours in a day in my shop and the rest of the time I’m on my knees apologising to Pepper and begging for forgiveness. There’s no time in-between to feed the pup, walk the pup—”

“I could come by,” Peter blurts. “Like, once a day, and I could make sure he’s eaten and play with him and stuff. You wouldn’t have to lift a finger—”

“Except to press ‘purchase’ on my shopping cart full of dog food—”

“Tony,” Peter cuts in, pleading, “please? I can’t just drop him off at some kennel so they can—” he covers the dog’s ears, “so they can euthanize him in a week when no one buys him. He deserves so much better, you know?”

Tony frowns, considering it, and Peter waits with his breath caught in his throat until, “God, fine.”

“Yes!”

“But! But! A pet is a serious responsibility, okay? You might as well be adopting a child—”

“What would you know about raising kids?” Peter asks, only jokingly, but Tony just stares and then, for some reason, smiles.

“You have to make sure he’s happy,” Tony says. “You have to be there for him in whatever way he needs, alright? I’ll set up a pen in the penthouse and you can make sure he works off his energy there, and if I have time I’ll even take you both to the park. And if he ever happens to pee on my carpet, I’m counting on you to clean it up.”

“Don’t you have, like, housekeepers for that sort of thing?”

“Yeah, but this is character building stuff.”

“Ugh, fine, I’ll clean up the pee.”

They continue to iron out the details for a while and bicker over whether Nugget’s last name should be Parker or Stark, and it’s only when Pepper walks in—still in her pajamas, bleary eyed and complaining that they woke her up—that they both decide it should be ‘Potts’.

—

5. (+1)

It starts with a headache.

He’s bent over his desk studying for a Calc test when the throbbing begins. It’s not so bad at first, but after a half hour or so his vision is swimming and he keeps having to take breaks to massage his temples and close his eyes. The equations are all blending together and he can’t think straight anymore.

Peter decides to give up right around then. After all, if he’s not gonna retain any of the information, why bother?

May pokes and prods through dinner. Peter tries to fool her by acting like everything is normal and okay and even manages to make her laugh once or twice.

Inside, dread is coiling through his stomach like an irritated snake. He knows what’s coming next; after all, he doesn’t really get sick anymore, so what else could it be?

Peter tries to sleep but ends up tossing and turning for most of the night. He falls into some kind of half-conscious daze at around four in the morning and rouses about twenty minutes later, soaked with sweat and aching everywhere.

Feeling like he’s gonna vomit, Peter kicks off his blankets and strips the sheets off his bed. He takes his shirt off because the fabric is too abrasive against his skin and it’s like he can feel every fibre tickling against it, grating and chafing. He curls up into a tight ball and covers his ears with his hands to block out the now amplified sounds of the city: car alarms, dogs barking, music playing.

Normally Peter loves the way New York is never silent. Now, he just wishes everyone would shut the fuck up for once.

When he stumbles out of his room a little while later, May is already gone. She’d told him the night before that she had an early shift and for once he’s actually grateful. Haltingly, Peter gets ready for school. He’s already skipped three days this month and if he misses this Calc quiz he’s gonna fucking bomb the class.

May would kill him.

It’s better to suffer a little than die.

Brushing his teeth makes his head spin and the minute he wriggles into his clothes he feels like a caged animal about to claw his skin off. Everything takes so much longer than normal. He doesn’t eat because the mere thought of food makes the back of his throat sting with bile.

On the train, he closes his eyes and rests his head against the cool glass of the window, trying to tune out the constant screeching of the rails. One day, on God, he will make it a personal project to oil every fucking line in the subway.

At his fifth stop, an old lady boards and all the seats are taken.

Peter swallows thickly and stands. Black spots dance in his vision and he grabs onto the overhead bar—something he hasn’t actually needed to use since he was a little kid—and tries not to pass out.

He almost misses the stop to get to school, but slips out at the last second, millimetres away from getting his backpack caught in the doors. Peter is hot all over and lightheaded as he makes his way out of the station. It’s even hotter up above, what with summer coming now and all.

Peter is late and he doesn’t need his watch to tell; Flash’s car is already parked out front instead of zooming through the drop off to run him over (which, hey, silver lining), and the majority of the student body is already inside.

Peter has to stop multiple times on his way to Spanish just to breathe. By the time he gets there he’s at least ten minutes late for roll call.

“Mr. Parker,” his teacher greets, unimpressed. “So glad you could join us.”

Peter makes a noise and takes the proffered quiz. He wonders absently why some people choose to teach. What is it, like, some kind of power trip for them?

He has five minutes to finish the quiz but doesn’t make it past the first question. Ned volunteers to collect them and stops at Peter’s desk while Professor Scott outlines today’s lesson plan.

“Dude,” he whisper-hisses, “you look like complete shit. What on Earth are you doing here right now?”

“Test,” Peter mutters dully, resting his cheek on his hand and closing his eyes. “Here you go. Didn’t finish it.”

Ned takes it carefully, holding it with two fingers like it’s covered in disease. “Do you want me to get the nurse or something?”

Peter hums. “No. Just… headache.”

Slowly Ned backs away. “Um—”

“Mr. Leeds!” Professor Scott says, loudly. Ned jumps. “Is there a problem back there?”

Yes, Peter thinks. You’re the human version of nails on a fucking chalk board. Please, for the love of all that is holy, just start on the vocab.

Only he accidentally says all of that out loud.

The whole class is staring. Flash is slack-jawed. Betty Brant’s eyes are the size of small moons.

“Parker,” Scott grits out—and Peter has denominated him to just Scott now out of reciprocation and spite; “You just earned yourself a shiny new detention. I’d like you to take this slip to the principal’s office. Please.”

Oh, thank God. At least it’ll be quiet there.

Peter stands and brushes past Ned and it literally feels like flames of hell are licking against his skin. He almost vomits. This is decidedly not good.

He takes the paper. “Gladly, good sir.”

When he’s gone, there’s an outburst of muttering that his enhancements let him hear. It only makes the overload worse. Peter covers his ears with his hands again and, overcome with a sudden wave of vertigo, ducks into the bathroom.

He barely makes it to the toilet before emptying his stomach of last night’s food.

Peter sags against the wall, panting. He keeps his eyes closed and waits for the world to stop spinning. About ten minutes later, the smell of jasmine shampoo—normally welcome—causes him to lean over and retch again.

MJ pokes her head inside the unlocked stall. “Jesus,” she whispers. The second her hands touch his body he flinches and she immediately retracts them. “Fuck, sorry. Ned said you wigged out in Spanish. I looked for you in the Principal's office but you weren’t there and... What’s—what’s wrong? I thought you couldn’t even get sick.”

“Bad headache,” he mutters, spitting into the toilet. It’s easier than explaining about his freakish mutations and how they sometimes go completely haywire, leaving him on edge and nauseous and irritable.

MJ grabs him some toilet paper to wipe his mouth with. “Did you take anything?”

“Pain meds don’t work on me.”

“Does May know? You should have called in.”

“Couldn’t. Can’t miss my test.”

She sighs. “Your final is like fifty percent of your grade and you could pass it with your eyes closed. You can miss your test, you’re just afraid of getting anything lower than an A.”

Peter is silent. “You got me there.”

MJ’s hand twitches like she wants to touch him but knows she can’t. “You need to go home. Lie down, get some rest.”

“May is working,” Peter says, “and if I have to take the subway again right now I’ll die. I really will. It’s so—the smell and the noise and I can’t sit down and—”

“Give me your phone.”

“What?”

“Just give it.”

She’s holding her hand out for it and giving him a no-nonsense expression that kind of reminds Peter of Pepper Potts on a rampage. He’s seen what happens to Tony when he crosses her, so he fishes his phone out of his pocket and hands it over.

“Hold on.”

She stands and leaves. Peter closes his eyes again. He tunes out her conversation because if he doesn’t, he’s absolutely gonna vomit again and nobody wants that.

MJ slips back inside the stall. “Okay, solved. Do you still feel like you’re gonna vomit?”

Peter thinks about it. “No.”

“Good. We’re gonna go to the nurse, okay?”

“Oh boy.”

—

Tony Stark walks into Peter’s school and finds the hallways empty. The classroom doors are shut and the muted sounds of teachers lecturing are the only signs that anyone is here at all.

He finds Peter in the infirmary, sitting on the examination table with the heels of his palms pressed against his eyes.

He’s at his side in an instant. “Kid?”

It’s surprise that gets Peter’s eyes open, but the little spider baby immediately regrets it. He flinches and sucks in a sharp breath. “Tony,” he whispers, like the name is all he can manage and the questions will have to wait for later.

Tony looks him over. There are no obvious injuries. The girl on the phone had said it was just a headache, but Tony is way more experienced with Peter’s brand of bullshit and knows there’s usually something else going on beneath the surface.

“I’m gonna go talk to the nurse and then get you out of here, okay?”

A nod.

It’s always a bad thing when he doesn’t argue. Peter Parker would start a fight about what kind of pizza to order, even if you suggest the kind he really wants, just to be a stubborn little shit about things.

Tony slips out of the exam room. The nurse looks up when he enters her office. “Oh my—Mr. Stark?!”

“Yes, hello,” Tony takes a cautious step forward as she stands. He doesn’t bother to sit. “I’m here to pick up the little gremlin in there.”

Her face flushes. “I didn’t know you’d been called, I—I figured I would just let him wait it out, you know? He didn’t want to be touched, so it was hard to figure out what was up and—so it’s real? About the internship?”

“Of course. Why would he lie?”

She opens her mouth. Closes it. “Well… you know how kids can be.”

“Do I?”

She doesn’t seem to know what to say to that.

Tony sighs. “Look, Nurse—uh, Timms—Nurse Timms, can I please just sign the kid out and take him home? He’s clearly in pain here.”

She starts rifling through her desk for a form. “I mean, I can admit you to take him home, but I really suggest you talk with the principal first—Peter was given a detention before he was brought to my ward, see, and I was—” she shakes her head. “I thought he might be faking.”

Tony stares without blinking for a whole five seconds and then, “Detention? For what?”

“I heard he bad-mouthed a teacher or something. But to be fair, Professor Scott isn’t exactly what I’d call patient.”

“Well, be that as it may,” Tony takes the form she hands him to sign, “my kid doesn’t fake. He has a condition, see. Gets uh… overloaded. Sounds, smells, it can be too much for him. Probably why he snapped.”

“That… that makes sense.”

“Yes,” he says succinctly, and hands the paper back. “You’d know that if you bothered to ask. Anyway, I’ll be going. Thanks for the help, Nurse Times.”

“Uh, it’s—it’s Timms—”

The door shuts behind him.

—

MJ was forced to go back to class. She’d argued and protested but Nurse Timms was insistent. So, MJ had relented. She’d pressed the lightest of kisses on his forehead and it surprisingly hadn’t felt that bad, and then she’d gone.

Tony Stark had shown up about twenty minutes later and it’s just when Peter’s starting to think it was all just a vivid hallucination that the smell of coffee and motor oil fills his senses again. It’s overwhelming but not debilitating.

“Kiddo,” Tony whispers, “is it okay to touch you?”

Peter cracks an eye. Everything is bright but Tony’s suit is mercifully black, so he focuses on that. “I don’t know. I don’t wanna move.”

“Well I gotta get you outta here somehow.”

“But my detention—”

“I already got you out of it,” Tony says breezily. “Nothing to worry about.”

“Tony,” Peter says, cheeks flushing. “You can’t just bribe my principal into—”

“I didn’t bribe anyone. I just explained the situation and besides, Morita’s an old friend.”

Peter closes his eyes again as he frowns. “You’re friends with my principal?”

“I’m a benefactor for your school, too,” Tony says. “But don’t tell anyone, it’s a secret.”

Something shifts in the air. Tony is sitting now. “Happy’s waiting outside,” he says, “but whenever you’re ready.”

Peter thinks about it for a few seconds and decides it’s gonna have to happen at some point, anyway. Might as well rip the band-aid off now. Slowly he takes a deep breath and manages to sit up with Tony’s help. The older man tries to avoid touching him as much as possible, but surprisingly enough the weight of his hand against Peter’s spine isn’t crushing or aggravating. It doesn’t hurt.

“Baby steps,” Tony says softly. “We’ll take you out the side door, okay?”

Even getting to the door is slow going but Tony doesn’t seem to mind. Right before they open it, Tony stops and pulls his sunglasses off. “Here, try these.”

Peter puts them on. He feels ridiculous because like, they work on Tony who was literally born in the seventies, but Peter really doesn’t dig the groovy shades. Regardless they’re better than nothing and even help a little.

The halls are empty again. Most of the students will be in the gym right about now, or the cafeteria for lunch. They don’t run into anybody on the way out and as soon as they’re in the back of the car, Peter sags against Tony’s side. He feels like he’s just run ten miles.

“Drive, Hogan,” Tony says, and then the partition glides up.

For a few seconds it’s almost completely quiet. Noise suppression tech, Peter realises, and he feels like he could cry from relief. For the first time in hours there’s just… nothing. No traffic, no dozens of students talking at once. The air conditioning unit is filtered, so he’s not being attacked with the smell of body odour and clashing perfume scents and Axe cologne. There’s just Tony and beautiful, amazing, showstopping silence.

Tony shifts a little. “Better?”

Peter nods, figuring it’s still probably not safe to speak.

“We’ll be there soon,” Tony says softly.

—

Peter doesn’t remember much after the car ride. He can vaguely recall protesting getting out of the Audi, and he remembers Tony assuring him that everything would be okay, and the next thing he knows he’s lying on his back in an utterly dark bedroom. The walls are insulated just like the car had been, so there’s just no sound, and the bed sheets probably have the highest thread count of all time.

Something shifts beside Peter and he realises Tony is there, feeling his forehead.

“What—?”

“Oh, hey,” Tony greets. “I think you might’ve blacked out there. All the noise hit you at once when we got out of the car and you just…”

“I fainted?”

Tony snorts softly. “Relax. It happens to the best of us. How do you feel, Webster?”

Peter hums. “Bad.”

“Let’s try a scale of one to ten.”

“Okay,” Peter says. “Ten.” Tony lets out a little grunt at that and so Peter elaborates, “It was at like, a twenty this morning, so.”

“Ah, I see.” Tony’s grip shifts to Peter’s wrist to measure his pulse. “This okay?”

“It’s fine.”

And it really is. He doesn’t feel like burning his skin off or anything. Tony’s hands are just warm.

“Any idea what brought this on?”

Peter shifts a little. “I uh… haven’t been sleeping a lot lately.” He swallows. “Like, at all.”

“And how long’s that been going on for?”

“I don’t know. On and off for a few weeks, I guess.”

“Jesus,” Tony sighs and pulls his hand away. He rakes it through his hair. “Kiddo, what have we said about communication? Does May know?”

“....No?”

There’s a long pause where Tony just kind of sits there thinking, like he wants to say whatever comes next carefully. He massages his temples and then: “Alright, scooch over.”

“What?”

“Make room for me.”

Peter blinks and then, tentatively, scoots over a little to allow Tony room to lie down. The older man does, arching his back a little and grunting in pain because he’s like, ancient. They’re not touching, but very slowly Peter starts inching closer again. Eventually he works up the courage to try resting his head on Tony’s chest, which is terrifying not only because it’s Tony Stark, but also because he’d rather not have his brain implode.

Nothing happens. “Your fabric softener must be like, super expensive,” he whispers, because this is actually better than the sheets.

Tony snorts. “I’ll ask Pep about it.”

Peter makes a noncommittal noise and before he knows it, his eyes are closing. For once they actually feel heavy, and the steady rhythm of Tony’s heart beat is soothing, dependable.

Tony’s hands brush lightly over Peter’s hair and then thread through it. “Too much?”

“No,” Peter promises. “Good.”

And so Tony’s fingers run through his curls over and over, gently, lightly. His thumb sweeps over Peter’s cheek once, too, and then he starts muttering in Italian.

Peter cracks an eye. “Are you telling me your grocery shopping list?”

Tony laughs a little. “My mom used to do it for me,” he says. “Something about just hearing her speak the language made me feel… relaxed, I guess. Didn’t matter what she was saying.”

Peter smiles and wraps an arm around Tony’s torso. “Tell me something else.”

“You wanna hear about the time I almost blew up a Chem lab?”

“Uh, duh.”

So Tony launches into it, speaking in a low voice and absently twisting one of Peter’s curls around his finger. It feels nice and the headache is fading fast.

Peter sleeps. 

[fundielicious-simblr]

💕 Love Day Love Story Series 💕

(AN: These two have my entire heart 🥺 I also deviated from the original question format for this one because it was necessary for storytelling purposes - also, this one is LONGGGGG cause there was a helluva lot of information to tell, hence the deviation from the OG question format.) 

Reece & Stacie

How did you meet?

[Reece] “I was really young when I realised my love of programming after volunteering to help with the A/V team one year at Family Bible Camp, when we got back I enrolled in a programming course through my home church. After certification I was able to take on jobs and help around more at camp, I even became the official family technician with my main job being installing and maintaining different censorship software onto our computers at home. At camp I was also made an official member of the A/V team, and helped out at the different, smaller conferences that my parents travelled to. I first met Stacie at a conference in Windenburg that my parents were speaking at, she was volunteering with both the admin team and the children’s program at the time. For me it definitely was an immediate crush, but I had to focus on my work at the conference meaning that we didn’t get much time to talk during the program itself, but I did snag a chance to meet her parents and introduce myself as they were talking to mine. I think my mother saw right through me, cause on the way home she was ‘informing me’ about the Shelton family; she’d heard that different members of their (very small) home-church and others in the area were praying for the father to get a job so that they wouldn’t be in so much financial distress, for her father to be guided so that he can lead their family back into harmony. Basically, the deal was that the family was struggling quite a bit, but I didn’t want to judge Stacie on her father’s actions since what I saw was all very good, so I convinced my parents to let me ask her dad to court her and they agreed - but if they felt the Lord was leading us elsewhere then they had the power to end it, we were both teenagers at the time so it made sense.”

[Stacie] “So, to be brutally honest, life at home growing up wasn’t so fun. Dad had a horrible gambling problem and so we struggled basically all the time, he wouldn’t allow my mother to get a job so she had to be creative with ways to make money by baking goods to sell, selling things she grew in our garden and other things so that bills (and various loan sharks) could be paid - all while homeschooling us because dad said so. We went to church every sunday where dad would put on this show that made it seem that everything was alright, when in reality he did everything that the pulpit preached against - he drank and smoked in addition to his gambling, and when he wasn’t at the bar he was at home yelling and just being plain mean. My sister and I would always volunteer at church events just so that we could be out of the house, and so when we heard about a conference being hosted by a local church we volunteered right away. I put my name in for the children’s program, but then I heard that the admin team needed help too so I volunteered there too, and that’s where I first met Reece. Whilst it’s probably every girl's dream to get married, if my father was to be the one picking my husband (the way he said he would) then I think I would’ve preferred to remain single, and my father was very big on us and “not besmirching his good name”, so my sister and I had little to no interactions with guys. Reece was so nice, and it definitely was an instant crush for me too, but everyone in the local area already knew about our family so I knew that the Collinses eventually be told, meaning that by the end of the conference Reece would want to have nothing to do with me.”

How did you end up courting?

[Reece] “The hard part was getting my parents to agree, the easy part was asking Stacie’s dad if I could get to know her more. He was all for it, but like my parents, he said that if he didn’t feel right about it then he had the power to veto. On the last day of the conference I got the chance to ask her dad if I could spend more time with her, and he agreed on the condition that there was no physical contact between us - I didn’t mind it, because at least he agreed. Since Windenburg is so far away, we had to really plan out trips to see each other, but we did start emailing each other and writing each other letters right away (which were read by both our parents, and we cc’d them in on the emails) When we did get to see one another (my parents had me pay for half of their airplane tickets), her sister always came as a chaperone meaning I didn’t need to bring my own [laughs]. Since Maggie started courting a bit before I did, we’d double date whenever Shane and Stacie were in town at the same time, which was fun as it gave Stacie a chance to get to know more people.”

[Stacie] “When Reece asked my dad if he could get to know me, my dad was ecstatic - the Collinses are so well known by everyone that he was over the moon to have a chance at being linked with their family. But he’s the kind of person that always needs to feel like he’s in control of the situation, so for the entirety of our courtship we couldn’t have any physical contact. I didn’t mind that though, the fact that Reece was such a nice person and actually wanted to get to know me meant that I’d agree to whatever my dad said (as if I had the option to disagree but anyway) 

Ever since I was young I’ve loved being on the computer, our mother would take us to the library for our homeschool lessons that needed a computer, and every time I was allowed a turn on the computer it was so much fun. Volunteering at the admin office for the conference gave me a chance to use the computer too because we don’t have one at home, Reece telling me about his love of programming was like an answered prayer because then I could pick his brain for information about tech since I had no real way to access it. And what’s even better, is that he wasn’t even annoyed by it! Reece gladly told me everything I wanted to know, but we did have to wait for conversations in person since my dad didn’t think that a girl should be learning “useless things that won’t help you get a husband” - looking back at it, the irony in that statement is not lost on me.”

What was it like when you got engaged?

[R] “Eventually (not that long in reality) I realised that I loved Stacie, and that if we wanted the relationship to progress then the only was was marriage - not that I minded. One day when I was in Windenburg with my sister Zoe as chaperone, I sat down with Mr. Shelton and asked him if I could propose to Stacie, that’s when he told me that in their family, engagement was essentially a ceremony where you asked the girls father in front of everybody and he gave you the go ahead to put the ring on her finger, so we planned for it to happen at a dinner at my house with both of our families there. I had been hoping to propose while in Windenburg, so I had to rethink my plans, but i did manage to make it special for us. Whilst my parents raised me to be obedient to my elders, I realised a few weeks into our courtship that Stacie’s dad didn’t always have what was best for her in mind, she’d mentioned her parents relationship to me and told me that she’d always dreamed of having a proposal rather than the engagement ceremony - so that she could be the one to say yes herself rather than her father. 

So, this next part of the story has a teeny tiny bit of deceit in it. 

Since I was already there, I said bye to Mr Shelton to make him think I’d left and was on my way home, and by this time I already knew his evening schedule, meaning that he’d be heading out to the (what I now know to be) the bar and wouldn’t be back until late. I had Nina come out and light a lamp in their garden to let me know when it was clear to come back inside the house, so I went in and surprised Stacie when she was on the couch reading a book - I was able to propose to her in the way she had always dreamed of, and it was actually a surprise to her which I loved being able to do too. I couldn’t leave her with the ring because that would be a dead giveaway, but we did get to hold hands whilst I did the proposing which is something that we kept as ‘our secret’. Her mother then came in and said that I had to go because Mr Shelton sometimes had his ‘friends’ from the bar watch the house, and she didn’t want anything to jeopardise our relationship. I went home after, but I told my parents about the ‘engagement dinner’ and they were alright with it, so we went ahead and planned it. The dinner turned out okay, her dad gave us a one-off to hold hands in the moment which was great, but we knew we had the ‘real’ proposal to cherish in our hearts. Planning the wedding was done by my mother and sisters in collaboration with Stacie, her mother, and her sister. They did a great job I have to say, but you’ll forgive me if I was focused on something else [laughs]

[S] “Well, I’d explained to Reece the whole ‘engagement ceremony’ and how I wasn’t keen on it - the whole thing started with how my parents met and got married. My dad approached my grandfather (my mother’s father) about courting and then marrying my mother, and my grandpa accepted on her behalf. Whilst I recognised that I was under my father’s authority, I did want to at least be able to say yes to a proposal, which is something I communicated to Reece. What I didn’t know is that he’d actually manage to make it happen. He was in Windenburg for a visit and I thought he’d left to head home after saying his goodbyes to all of us at the house. My usual routine in the evenings when dad is out depends on what work I’m doing at the time, and on this specific night I was sitting on the couch reading a library book as I was trying to finish my schoolwork for winter break, when Reece walked in. I was surprised cause we’d already said bye and everything, so in my head I’m trying to draft the next email I would send him when he walks in and music starts playing in the background, he then sits next to me, and asks me:

“Remember how you said you wanted a proper proposal?”

And in my head I’m still trying to comprehend the fact that he was still here, so it took me a while to answer; he then grabs by hands (queue internal shrieking for joy), repeats it again and he says:

“Stacie, I asked your dad if I could marry you earlier today, but I wanted to ask you now before we meet at my house for dinner. So, Stacie Shelton, will you marry me?”

I turned to look around trying to confirm if I was seeing things, but when my mother and sister started mouthing at me to say yes is when I came back down to earth and said yes! I was so overwhelmed with emotion that I was speechless for a bit after; he put the ring on my finger to let me see how it looked (and whether it fit) but he obviously had to take it back with him so he could ‘officially’ give it to me later on. I couldn’t tell you what happened between that night and the engagement dinner, but I was riding an emotional high that nothing could phase me - I couldn’t show all my emotion though because I didn’t want to give away our secret to my dad. After the dinner we dove headfirst into getting me all done with school and wedding planning, and boy was it stressful. Even though went to a home-church, and have churches in our area that we could have used, my father saw this as his chance at the spotlight, so he insisted on us having the ceremony at this massive church in the (what I call) ‘rich people neighbourhood’. Reece’s dad knew people on the board for the church, so we were graciously allowed to use it, my dad was annoyingly determined to be involved with the wedding planning to add his own demands that it took everything in me not to melt into a puddle - but if it got me to the end of the aisle with a ring on my finger, I tried not to dwell on it too much. Our wedding was a magical day, even though a blizzard happened to rip through the city meaning that we couldn’t take any pictures outside, everything was a dream from beginning to end.”

How’s married life?

[Reece] “Well, it’s pretty different for the both of us. I work as a freelance programmer, so we moved to the city to be closer to job opportunities. It's great for us as we get to go to the same church as my aunt Harley and her husband, as well as Shane and Maggie, so we aren't lonely. When we were still courting, the subject of children came up, and we said that we’d be open to any that the Lord felt necessary to bless us with, but when we didn’t have children for the first year or so we decided to not wait around and be productive with our time. Stacie had mentioned always wanting to properly learn how to program, so she enrolled in a course and loved it. We were married for a while before Stacie got pregnant with Liam, so we got some time to ourselves before we expanded our family. It was when she got pregnant that we learnt that she needed injections twice a day, for every day of her pregnancy - it was definitely a steep learning curve as I learnt how to give her the shots she needed. Since the pregnancy was high risk I also evolved to become her nursemaid, I didn’t mind it though, gave us even more bonding time before the baby came and changed everything. I definitely didn’t think that this was going to be my future, but now all I can do is thank the Lord for his goodness and for my determination. I don’t even mind the bumps in the road, I’d do it all over again if it meant that I could marry Stacie at the end.”

[Stacie] “Everyday I wake up and thank the Lord for everything he’s done in my life, growing up we didn’t have much money to travel but now I live in the city and have seen more of the world, and I realise that I would never have this if Reece hadn’t thought to take a chance on me against all oddswhen I wasn’t even willing to give myself a chance. A while after we got married, I guess my father kept doing his thing - the drinking, smoking, gambling - and he wasn’t careful one night when walking home and fell into a frozen lake windenburg one night, and was unable to save himself. Whilst it’s sad that he’s gone, I won’t pretend that the lives of my mother and sister haven’t changed. Now that my mother doesn’t have to homeschool the both of us, she has so much more time for baking, and since we own our house she only needs to pay the mortgage and utilities, which is easier for her now that she doesn’t have several loans of my fathers’ to pay back. In the first few years of our marriage, Reece was gracious enough to pay for me to do a programming course, so I was able to do projects and send that money home to help them out. My sister Nina was able to save up and go to college, so she’s now working as a teacher at a local preschool after getting her degree in education. Getting pregnant with Liam revealed the need for daily injections, which were painful but I appreciated because they kept him safe and healthy whilst he was in my belly. The pregnancy also made me fall in love with Reece all over again, he was so eager to learn how to give me my shots, and basically banned me from doing any work that required me lifting more than a plate [laughs] He’d talk to me belly sometimes early in the morning when he didn’t think I was awake, and he was the one to bug me when it came time to decorate the nursery [giggles] He carved time out of his day to make sure I got the recommended amount of exercise every other day, and seeing him as a father shows me everyday that I am so blessed. I can’t wait to see what the rest of my life brings, as long as I’m with my boys I don’t think I’ll mind too much.”

[bow-woahh]

Catradora 79 and 96

Demons hiding underneath 

Summary:

She kept plummeting deeper and deeper into the once beautiful blue abyss. And the further down she got, the more Adora realised it was closer to darkness than blue. It seemed she would continue falling, falling into the darkness until—

“Adora?”

—

They may be running away, escaping from their problems, but that doesn’t mean Adora can avoid her own too.

Words: 3339

Notes: 

Warning for some vague references to graphic violence (they are pretty vague but better safe then sorry ^_^)(Ao3 link above or read below)

Gasping. Gasping for air, but it felt like she was suffocating. Voices, some warm and soothing, some cold and callous, all blurring into one. And then, a dull pang, nothing more than a prick, however the feeling got sharper, and the pang was no longer just that. It was a stab—no maybe a press—whatever it was, it was agonising, excruciating, a torturous feeling.

Adora woke up on the floor whimpering, her whole body aching. From what exactly, she wasn't too sure, or maybe it was easier to convince herself that in her current state. It’s entirely possible it was solely the fall, but she knew there was more to it than that. Especially when there’s that ache on her lower back which always throbbed after that kind of dream. Nightmare.

She tried to push herself up off the floor, despite barely having enough energy to open her eyes. Unsurprisingly, she failed, hardly getting a foot off the carpet beneath her. It was if her whole body had given up, shut down, like an old computer that had been collecting dust in a garage. Only, she wasn’t ready to power down and clog with dirt just yet.

Once more, she pushed, attempting to lift herself up, this time however, the throbbing ache turned sharp, just like before, and she hit the ground with a thud. Her breath hitched, and she let out a silent scream as if she were underwater, nowhere near the surface.

Was this what drowning felt like?

Blackness surrounded her (though it could have been because she was still half asleep, but Adora couldn’t be sure, especially not when the only thing she could feel was the stab stab stab on her back, and her heart rate accelerating at the speed of light). Overtaken by the pain, Adora felt her eyes begin to shut fully again, the fight to keep them open or scream one last plea being futile. The last thought that flashed through her mind, other than the relief of being unconscious, was:

Catra.

——

It must have been close to morning when Catra staggered back to their motel, still concealed by the dark of the early hours of the day, yet still sticking out like a sore thumb as she clambered back to their room, with a suspicious looking duffel bag on hand and hood obscuring her face. Digging into her pocket to find the keys, she fumbled with the lock of the door —expectedly jammed— before creeping into the room as quietly as possible, as not to wake Adora. She needed the rest.

Getting away from both the Rebellion and the Horde had not been an easy feat. Especially not for Adora, because while the Horde was used to defects (Adora being one of them) the Rebellion clearly wasn’t, not with their overzealous front.

In actuality, they were overbearing and manipulative, like most gangs were, maybe more so than usual. With what they nearly put Adora through — someone they had supposedly called ‘their own’ — it was undoubtedly more than usual.

Catra expected to see her peacefully and soundlessly asleep, a comforting sight, one she’d seen many times in the past, especially before she’d left. Now that they’d been brought back to each other, even if it was under the worst possible circumstances, Catra would be blessed with that reassuring sight much more often.

So when she shut the door, and peered over to the bed, taking her hood down and turning on her phone flashlight, she hadn’t expected to see a limp body on the floor, a face fixed with discomfort. Instantly, she dropped the bag and rushed to Adora’s side, mouth wide open, and eyes filling fast with water.

“Adora?” Catra whispered, refusing to assume the worst.

Switching on the lamp on the bedside table to examine her more closely, she noticed that the sliver of skin peeking out from under Adora’s top was red, not the normal red she’d seen thousands of times before from the blush on her face, but a hurt, angry, agitated red.

From then it was easy to assume.

Squeezing her eyes shut as if to force the tears back into her system, Catra took a deep breath before contemplating what to do next. First, she checked her pulse. Fine. She was fine—or, at least not dead. Then, with great care, she picked Adora up, placing her back on the bed. She willed herself not to panic, to jump to conclusions. But seeing her disgruntled face—seeing her like this was too much too soon. Lava seemed to bubble inside her, threatening to spill out and burn everything in its path. She was supposed to have protected her.

And now—

Shaking her head, Catra fought back against the onslaught of guilt plaguing her. As she sat down next to Adora, heart aching and head pounding, swirling with an amalgamation of ambivalence, she let herself brush the strand of hair falling on Adora’s face. Thoughts still convoluted and jumbled, the one which prevailed through it all was:

Why her?

——

Waking up again was like reaching the surface Adora had so badly missed. What once seemed so alluring and peaceful was now uncovered (not for the first time) as a sea of regret, torment and misery, rather than treasure, joy, contentment.

This had been one of the worst.

Her mind had looped in an infinite cycle of agony replaying the moment: the false words of comfort; the searing pain; her screams; hands holding her down; arms around her she didn’t want. Pain. Humiliation. Pain. More humiliation. Her emotions switched between the two often enough for them to become interchangeable. She kept plummeting deeper and deeper into the once beautiful blue abyss. And the further down she got, the more Adora realised it was closer to darkness than blue. It seemed she would continue falling, falling into the darkness until—

“Adora?”

There it was. Tender and comforting. Hard to place, yet as familiar as home once was. The voice radiated a warmth, a light even, creating cracks through the impenetrable walls of her mind, calling out to her. The surface began to look clearer again.

Unlike before, she wasn’t met with darkness, nor with the pain she dreaded to feel again. Instead, she was met with the dim, sensuously lit motel room, curtains shutting her off from the outside world. Having gotten a better look at it, Adora knew this is probably the place they would have sent her to, under a false guise that what she was doing was significant but – her lower back still ached – it never was. Contrasting that thought was Catra, laying down next to her, eyes shut. That’s when she realised…

Catra wasn’t there when she—and she had—did Catra find her on the floor?

Despite the protests of her body, Adora sat up, still sore, as she gripped the sheets, and whispered, “shit…”

“I’m awake, y’know.”

Adora swivelled around to face Catra, whose eyes were still closed but she was evidently not asleep.

Sitting up now, her face was fairly neutral, until she said:

“And from your reaction, I’m guessing that there was no sicko who broke in and fucked you up, so... what the fuck Adora?”

Adora resisted the urge to curse again, knowing that it would only serve to make Catra more agitated. Instead, she sat there, looking down at the blanket rather than meeting Catra’s gaze. Although, it seemed like no matter what she did it’d infuriate Catra, as it had only been seconds of silence before she practically erupted.

Letting out a bitter laugh, she said, “I come back after a really shitty night, expecting everything to be fine—or at least for you to be fine, but instead—” she scoffed, shaking her head, “I find you passed out on the fucking floor, and I’m scared shitless that they’ve found us, got to you, and I’m waiting for you to wake up to see if you’re okay, and the first thing that comes out of your mouth is ‘shit’?”

She rose off the bed, facing away from Adora for a brief second before turning back and saying, “So please, enlighten me, as to what the fuck happened while I was gone princess.” Her jaw was clenched, and her stare unyielding. It was clear Adora wouldn’t be able to bullshit her way out of it.

Running a hand through her hair (it ceased to be down except when she went to bed) Adora couldn’t help but sigh. Not out of exasperation, but rather out of defeat. There was no more point in hiding the truth. She just wished it was under better circumstances.

“Catra…” she said, voice full of apprehension as she addressed her for the time since she’d woken up.

“What?” Catra replied, arms crossed waiting for an explanation expectantly.

“I–” Adora took another breath before, “it was a nightmare.”

Oddly enough, despite how close the pair were, one thing Adora had omitted for quite some time now was the onslaught of nightmares haunting her through most nights. Especially once she had left the Horde (and security of Catra) they had gotten increasingly worse, happening several times a week. They were at their worst when she and Catra had their major fallout, and even after the revelation that the Rebellion was in some ways worse than the Horde had brought them even closer than before, back to each other again, her brain still continued to torment her night after night. It seemed they only ceased when she had the presence of Catra there (just like when they were still blissfully innocent kids) keeping her safe. Fending off the dark. Her light.

They’d been on the run for only a couple days now, and it had all been going fairly smooth until Catra had spotted one of the Rebellion’s many cronies, and decided they needed to move on quickly so as not to get caught. Hence why she’d gone in the middle of the night to get more ‘supplies’ for one they hit the road. That meant leaving Adora however, who had come out of their – hopefully – last fight with Horde and Rebellion pretty worse for wear. Needless to say, she should have seen the dream coming. Maybe she should have told Catra, but appearing as weak seemed worse than all her worst dreams combined, because even when she considered telling her, her conclusion would always be — She’d think less of me.  

As Adora said the four words she’d been avoiding saying for months now, Catra sunk back down onto the bed slowly, then said, “Oh. I have them too y’know. It’s fine.”

All the tension in Adora’s body drained and she could practically hear herself saying I told you so. That didn’t change the fact the conversation hardly seemed to be finished however.

“But…” Catra started, “that doesn’t explain why you were on the floor. What happened, Adora?”

That question was what made Adora’s heart pound incessantly faster, was what caused her palms to sweat and throat to clog with seemingly nothing and all the words she’d been dying to say yet dreading simultaneously. Gulping down the excess saliva in her mouth (it was always in moments like these where her throat would get so dry and rough) she tried to form some sort of sentence to explain the convoluted mess in her mind.

Adora felt a hand on her knee, thumb running up and down in a comforting motion. Softer this time, Catra said, “Start with the dream.”

“Well...it was something that happened back when I was still with the Rebellion. Recently, they’ve all been about that, but this time, it was painful—what happened in the dream—it was terrible Catra, I could—I couldn’t breath and then—” Adora hadn’t realised there were tears streaming down her eyes, until Catra was wiping them, until she was pulling her into her arms; it was easy to cry then, to sob into the crevice of her neck, to let out everything she’d been keeping in.

“Shhh...it’s okay, it’s okay Adora, I’m here now, I’m here for you princess.” Catra said, words gentle, as if she was trying to cast all of Adora’s ailments away. Although she couldn’t exactly succeed in that, she did her best to keep Adora afloat, stopping her from sinking to the bottom of that devastating sea of doubts and fears, from suffocating completely.

“I’m sorry,” Adora said through sniffles, “I’m so so sorry Catra…”

At that, Catra pulled away from her, and for a split second Adora was sure she’d done something wrong; but she was still gripping her arms tightly, looking at her as though she were a god cradling her precious moon.

“What do you have to be sorry for?” She asked, eyes full with concern and expression far too distressed for Adora’s liking. Catra was usually much more composed.

“For not telling you, not being honest,” she said, feeling lighter as the words came out, but oddly still incapable of looking at Catra’s face.

Bringing Adora closer, Catra shook her head and leaned in close, close enough to feel the heat of her breath. “Adora, don’t ever apologise for something like that. You hear?” She said, tone stern and gaze unwavering.

Adora hardly had time to reply before Catra insisted once more, “it wasn’t your fault, and you had no obligation to tell me. I know how rough that shit is, how it can make you feel, so don’t be sorry, okay?”

This time, Catra gave her enough time to respond, nodding with a quiet “okay.”

Being enveloped into another hug, Adora felt much more at ease compared to when she first saw the look on Catra’s face, and was relieved she’d finally told her the truth.

However, that relief was instantly shattered as her mind dwelled on the fact that technically that hadn’t been the whole truth. Mind fixated on that thought, Adora’s back began to throb once more.

——

Catra was unsure of how exactly to process all that Adora had told her. While it wasn’t necessarily a shock, or something she had no experience with (in fact she was no stranger to the trauma that could come with thoughts generated by one's own subconscious—hers had never been kind to her), it was clear to see that Adora’s inability to speak up about things like this was a problem within itself which she seemed unable to overcome. And it had been that way for as long as she’d know her.

Other than that, niggling at the back of her mind was still the patch of red that peeked from Adora’s shirt when she found her on the floor. Cruelly, her mind began conjuring up scenarios of what it could have been from, of what happened. In these scenarios it was usually her fault, if not directly, then by some indirect involvement. Though, those illogical thoughts were easily replaced with the reality that she had left Adora alone, with night terrors, and that she could possibly be hurt because of the stupid 'errands' she’d been running, errands she desperately wished she hadn’t had to do.

Sitting together on the bed, in a pensive silence, Catra cleared her throat and said, “I’m an idiot.”

Adora, who’d been playing with a loose string of fabric on her t-shirt, looked up at her and shook her head. “You didn’t know, Catra.”

“I know, I know, but that doesn’t make me any less of an idiot—I should have known. I should have known not to leave you.” Catra couldn’t help but tighten her grip on the sheets with one of her hands.  

Instantly, Adora noticed it, and placed her hand over hers, saying, “I don’t blame you, okay? Just like you told me, you have nothing to feel sorry ab—”

“But it’s just—”

“Catra, seriously, you can’t beat yourself up about this—”

“I promised to protect you and—” Catra stopped herself when she heard her voice crack, and her throat begin to tighten.

Adora made soothing circles on the top of Catra’s hand, while she cradled her cheek with her other. “Breathe, okay? Breathe in time with me.” She said.

Catra listened, and then Adora went on.

“Please, don’t ever think this was your fault. Any of it. In fact—you’re the one who makes it better, alright?”        

Nodding, Catra brought her hand up to Adora’s, still on her face, whispering a small 'alright' before they fell back into another oddly tranquil state, comforted by each other, consumed by each other; and maybe it was the early morning madness, but as Adora’s hand fell from her face and her grip on Catra’s still sufficed, as she glanced up at her face like she was truly something special, like she was worth more than the sun, Catra felt something stir inside her.

Then, Adora looked down and noticed the red under her nails (which she could’ve sworn she'd gotten out). Looking closely at Catra’s hands in hers, Adora asked slowly, “Catra…where did you go tonight?”

And fuck. Because Catra knew she was being tested right now, on whether or not she’d lie and break that bond of trust that they had, the bond which kept them shackled together securely whilst they navigated through each and every single wave which tried to subdue them. The last thing she wanted was to sever that. Though, she couldn’t tell her everything just yet, not now. Catra hadn’t intended on it being a secret, but she knew that it was too soon to burden Adora with her actions.

It might have been easier to lie, maybe to someone else, but to Catra it hardly seemed like an option, so she settled for a compromise of sorts.

“You already know that it was to buy more supplies,” she said, and could almost feel Adora debating on whether or not to reel back in disgust at what seemed like a blatant lie. However, she kept her eyes fixed on Adora, cutting through blue ice with mismatched ones, ones that she hoped would convey the truth in the next part.

“But…” she sighed, “there was also something else too, something which I had to do. I didn’t really want to. And I will explain it, soon, it’s just—it’s been a long day and honestly, I’m tired, Adora. I know you are too. So, can we go to bed?”

To Catra’s surprise, Adora didn’t protest or push for answers like she thought she would. Instead, she squeezed her hand and whispered, “yes, we can go to bed Catra.”

Both relieved and slightly delirious, the two exchanged small smiles, despite their current circumstances and the hardships which were bound to come next.

Adora reached to turn off the lamp, and once again they were plunged in darkness, only this time, safe in each other’s arms.

Just as she was slipping into unconsciousness, Adora asked, ��10 AM tomorrow?”

Sleepily, Catra replied into her shoulder, “10 AM tomorrow.”

One thing was clear now: time apart had led to secrets building up, scars being barred that shouldn’t have been. There was nothing Catra could do at that point to change that matter of fact. The wedge between them still existed, only in subtler forms; forms of omission, of withholding information. Neither was to blame. They’d both been put through a lot of pain, together and apart. But that early morning where Catra was holding onto Adora tight, refusing to let go, shutoff from the harsh realities they faced (sometimes they were still reminded of it by each other, having gone through many of the same struggles, that at times only denial and bliss served to help them forget), Catra vowed to herself that not only would she uncover the demons, the scars beneath her all, that not only would she let Adora do the same, but that she’d be there through any storm, through every night no matter how dark it got.

They’d be each other’s light waiting at the surface.

[fandomoneshots-imagines]

Home (Winchesters x Reader)

Summary: What happens when the Winchesters and the reader return to the readers home, after being gone for a very long time, for a case. A case that sounds very familiar to the reader. What happens when the brothers find out why?

Warnings: violence, cussing, magic

This may become a mini-fic. Haven’t decided yet. Also don’t forget to send in a request!

“So get this,” Sam chirped up from behind his computer. I had to hide my smile behind the lore book I was reading. His go to phrase when he found a case. In the two years that I had been working with the Winchesters, I’ve probably heard that phrase several hundred times. I first started working with them when a coven of witches in Montana were killing cheating spouses, thinking themselves as some kind of heroes for all the jaded men and women who were cheated on. Being a witch myself, I had gone “undercover”. I still hate to think about how close I was to being killed.

“The serial killer has been carving smiles into the faces of their victim, after the victim has been completely drained of blood.” Sam said. This news made me quickly raise my head. I remember something very similar to that happened years ago.

“Where was this again?” I asked, closing the book and setting it down.

“New Orleans,” Sam closed his laptop. “Let’s get going.”

“Laytez liz bong tomps roulette,” Dean grinned slapping the table, while absolutely butchering the popular Creole phrase.

“Dean, it’s laissez les bons temps rouler,” I laughed in an attempt to hide my absolute discomfort. 

It’s been quite a few years since I’ve been in New Orleans. I made a promise that I would never return. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to return. It’s that I was forced out of the city and was told I would be killed if I ever came back.

“Let someone else take it guys. Besides, we have to find a way to remove the mark.” I opened my book back up, hiding my face.

“Come on, Y/N. We need you on this. You’re from New Orleans. You can show us around, get us on the inside.” Sam nudged me. I sighed and stood up.

“Fine, but we’re not staying in the city. I know of a place where we can stay.” I sighed standing up. It didn’t take me long to get my things together but I did have to wait for both men. I leaned against baby, still reading the same book as before. A minute later they both came out. We threw our bags in the back of Baby and took off. 

We arrived to New Orleans 17 hours later and in that time there was another murder, “So where is this place we’re staying?” Sam asked. 

“It’s on the other side of the river. Just keep driving.” I sighed looking out at the city I love. 

“I’m stopping and getting some beignets first. Oh, or a po’boy.” Dean jumped up and down in his seat.

“No Dean I can make some for you just please keep driving.” I begged but it was too late. Dean had already stopped and parked in front of a familiar restaurant. Rousseau’s, a very popular bar in the city. Dean jumped out of the car like he was a kid in a candy store. I sighed and slid out as well, whispering a cloaking spell for myself. 

We sat down at one of the tables in the back of the bar, me keeping my back towards the door. The two kept talking about the case and I listened but I mostly listened to the noises around me. I sat up a little straighter at an all too familiar voice. 

“I gotta pee.” I said as softly as I could and quickly walked to the bathroom. I was just about to push the door open when I was spun around and pushed against the wall, a hand squeezing my throat.

“I thought we told you to stay out of the city.” Two dark brown eyes bore into mine, anger very clear. I grabbed onto the man’s wrist, trying to pry it away.

“Marcel, please,” I grasped his wrist. The hand loosened only slightly and his eyes scanned my face. The anger slowly going away. 

“What are you doing back here Y/N?” He asked moving his body slightly closer to mine. 

“Some friends of mine read about the murders online.” I tried to explain and the fury ignited in his eyes again.

“You brought hunters here?” His hold on my neck tightened again.

“I tried to keep them away. I tried to distract them.” I gasped.

“Get them out of this city before Klaus and Elijah find out you’re back.” He snapped and let go of my throat. 

“They’re back?” I rubbed my throat, watching the man I once knew walk away. 

“Klaus has a daughter. The brought her mother here to protect the two of them.” Marcel sighed rubbing his face, “Where are you staying?”

“I was gonna stay in that building on the other side of the river.You remember the one.” I looked up at him. I could see the memories flashing through his mind as a small smirk appeared on his face but quickly disappeared. 

“No good. That’s where I am. I have a group of freshly turned vampires staying there. Unless you want your hunter friends to become food you need to find a new place to stay.” He shook his head. 

“Where the hell am I supposed to stay then Marcel? I can’t stay there. I definitely can’t stay at my home either.” I threw my hands up. I could see Sam and Dean looking around for me, wondering why I’ve been gone for so long.

“I can just compel the hunters,” he started to say but I was already shaking my head. I looked over his shoulder and saw another familiar face, getting a little too friendly to my best friends for my taste. I started to recite a spell, pushing past Marcel, marching up to the table. The blonde’s knees buckled and screamed as she held her head. 

“Everyone I apologize but we’ll be closing a little early today. Please make your way to the exit. All meals are on the house.” An unfamiliar voice spoke up.

“Y/N,” Marcel warned, “It’s not safe to do that here.”

“Oh please, I’m just having a little reunion with my amazing sister.” I growled, she looked up at me black veins running under her eyes turning black, fangs extending down. Dean and Sam pushing their chairs back, drawing knives, “Good you see you again Rebekah.” 

“What the fuck Y/N?” Sam asked, “Is that a demon or a vampire? And what do you mean by sister?”

“Rebekah here is one the first vampires that wasn’t turned by an Alpha but my magic.” I explained pushing my hold on her more, my concentration never breaking, “She is over 1000 years old and yes she is my sister. Our beloved mother changed her and my older brothers into vampires using magic, instead of the alpha vampire.”

“Marcel, is everything ok?” The voice from earlier came over. I turned and saw another blonde woman standing beside my old friend, her hand on his arm. And that’s when my concentration broke. In a flash I was slammed against the wall, a grip that was nearly ten times tighter than Marcel’s held me up against the wall.

“Why aren’t you dead yet?” She snarled in my face making me laugh.

“Oh sister, we always knew Marcel liked me more than you.” I smirked, pissing her off even more. I saw Sam and Dean take a step towards me but a simple shake of my head made them freeze. Rebekah smirked and looked over her shoulder then looked back at me.

“You know, at first I thought they would just be a little tasty snack. But now that I know they’re with you, they’ll die with you.” 

“Everything they’ve been drinking for the past two years has been laced with wolfsbane and vervain. Go ahead.” I spat at her. Before she could say anything else dropped me and held her head in a similar manner as before. Standing in the doorway was a young woman whose lips were moving in a familiar manner and a man standing behind her. 

“Davina Claire, I’ve heard very good things about you.” I breathed heavily. She just gave me a simple nod and her and the man with her left, not saying a word.

“Y/N, you’ve got to tell us. What in the fuck is going on?” Dean yelled. That was his angry voice. 

I nodded and snapped my fingers, breaking Rebekah's neck, making her drop to the ground. The little group crowded around me even though 90% of them knew the story already. 

“My name is not Y/N Y/L/N. It’s Y/N Mikaelson. I am the youngest Mikaelson and before I was born my mother turned my brothers Klaus, Elijah, Finn, and Kol and ever so wonderful Rebekah here into vampires using magic. They weren’t turned with the alpha Eve created, hence the different look. It was over 1000 years ago when it happened. They saw me as nothing but a slave.” I spat at the woman on the floor. “There’s only one thing that can kill them and it’s the wood from a white oak tree. One that they had destroyed soon after they were turned. There are daggers that can keep them in a state of sleep but the dagger must remain or they will wake up. I was tired of how they treated me so about 75 years ago I daggered each of them. The last words Klaus spoke to me was ‘if I ever see you in my city again I will kill you.”

“And that’s why you wanted to stay at the bunker?” Sam asked and I nodded. 

“I’ve seen Klaus before while we traveled. He was in Montana when we met so I knew he was awake, which I’m assuming you did that Marcel after coming back.” I scratched my head. He shrugged confirming I was right.

“Wait, you’re 1000 years old?” Sam asked.

“Actually, I’m 985 but if we’re rounding sure.” I shrugged. I saw Sam’s little nerd brain go crazy on that information.

“So Columbus or Vikings?” Sam asked referring to who discovered North America first. 

I scoffed and rolled my eyes, “Vikings. Columbus was an idiot and an asshole. My family didn’t kill when they...actually never mind they did kill when they got here. But we’ll discuss my adventures another time Sammy.” I winked. 

“Y/N you have to get out of the city.” Marcel looked at me with pleading eyes, “Go to the bayou. The wolves do not have any allegiance to the Mikaelson family.” I nodded and stood up taking Sam and Dean’s hands dragging them to the door. Our friendship was definitely changing after today I could already tell. We were just about to make it to the door when it was shoved open and two nightmares stood in front of me.

“Hello little sister,”

[berrybang97]

[20:11] “Come on, don’t burn, don’t burn,” you whispered, flipping the grilled cheese sandwich onto the other side with the satisfying sound of a sizzle trailing behind you. Placing the spatula down for a second, you rushed to shove the butter and the Cheddar cheese back into the refridgerator before you returned to your task, although haphazardly and with a sudden lack of orientation. As if abruptly shifted into Sims mode, you blinked and stared at the nothingness that lay before your eyes, trying to figure out what was going on; the imaginary diamond that hovered above your head glowed dark orange, signaling exhaustion, and your brain required an unnecessarily long time to process the situation before it hit you.

“OH NO, MY CHEESE SANDWICH,” you exclaimed in horrifying revelation, feet stumbling towards the stove as you armed yourself with your trusted spatula. Switching off the heat, you grabbed the pan and ran with it towards the table, where the plate waited hungrily for the evening snack. You shuffled the flat surface of the utensil under the crunchy exterior of the bread, allowing the sandwich to slide nicely onto the plate.

Only that your tired brain didn't calculate the trajectory of the grilled cheese express, and now you had about half a second to react and catch your meal before it fell onto the floor. Throwing the pan onto the table, your whole body jerked as you managed to save your sandwich from ultimate destruction. A sigh of relief escaped from your lips, but only to be replaced by a shriek of terror.

Oh no.

In your heroic manner of saving your meal from going to waste, you've totally forgotten that, under no god damn circumstance, should you place a hot pan on the table. Your whole body froze as panic injected itself into your veins. The instantaneous fear that washed over you jerked you awake from your state of shock, and you dashed to remove the kitchen utensil from the table.

Upon prying it away, your pupils contracted at the sight of the dip that the heated bottom of your pan created into the vinyl table cloth. “No...” you gulped, breath hitching in the capsule of your lungs. “No, no, no, no.”

Bolting towards the sink to throw the pan under a rush of cold water, you darted back to the table just as fast to inspect the damage. You swallowed even more thickly after you noticed how bent under the overwhelming warmth was the vinyl, and you looked around frantically for something that could help straighten it back to its original form.

In your rush to save what you yourself had damaged, you checked the clock on the wall, only to realise that your boyfriend was soon to come home. A newfound terror spread over your whole being, and you felt your heart thump heavily against your chest as despair boiled in your throbbing head. You burnt his table cloth, one that he picked out himself from an assortment displayed at the supermarket. You ruined it. It was bent, and burnt, and it surely had at least one hole in it. What was he going to say?

“Oh my god,” you gasped for the millionth time, although there was now an undeniable crack in your voice. “He’s going to be furious.”

Feeling the stinging of tears pierce at the back of your eyes, you took hold of the table to stabilise yourself, as a hurricane of guilt swirled in your chest with the heaving consequences of your negligence. The salty droplets of water clouded your vision, and you had to bite your trembling lip to restrain a string of cries that wanted to escape your throat. Although you tried to calm your agitation by intaking long, sharp breaths, you found yourself helpless against the intrusive thoughts that spinned inside your head. You could already imagine the disappointment on his face at the displeasing discovery, his wrathful gaze piercing through your weak being, his tired voice reverberating with rage against the walls of the kitchen. He was going to be so mad, and you didn't know if you could handle it.

Crying with exhaustion and overwhelming feelings, you let your body slide to the floor, back resting against the leg of the table as you sobbed uncontrollably. You felt stupid, so god damn idiotic and irresponsible. How come you haven't noticed what you were doing? Why haven't you realised it sooner? You couldn't find an answer to any of these questions. Your brain was too tired to compute. You've spent your whole day studying for some extremely important exams that you soon had to take, and you've definitely disregarded most of the bodily functions that kept you going. You haven't eaten anything, and you've barely had any water to drink. Hence, your mind was in such a daze while you were trying to cook something for yourself that it became utterly exposed to disasters.

And there you were now, living one big calamity.

Your whole body jerked when you heard the key turn into the lock of the front door, but you were too spent to shift from your current spot on the floor. Your heart throbbed faster against your ribcage as you heard Minho discard of his shoes and approach the kitchen door, announcing his arrival.

“Hey, princess, I'm ho–,” he stopped dead in his tracks when the first sight after he swung the door open was you crouched on the floor, staring back at him with tears still trailing down your cheeks as the echos of your sobs burned within your throat.

Dropping his duffel bag to the floor, he rushed over to where you were sat, kneeling in front of you so he could mantain an equal eye level. His warm hands placed themselves onto your arms, gently pulling you away from the table.

“God, Y/N, what happened?” he asked, his voice thick with panic. “Why are you crying?”

Biting your lip, you stared at your boyfriend through a film of tears, brows furrowing at how distressed he looked. His own thick eyebrows sported a deep frown, his forehead creasing to accentuate his worry as rather quick breaths left his parted mouth. And with that, you couldn't help but feel even guiltier, a new wave of hurt glossing your eyes as quiet whimpers escaped your lips.

Your shoulders began to shake as another round of sobs took over your being, and this time you sought refuge in your boyfriend, arms holding onto his back as you muffled your hiccups into his chest.

Quick to accept your embrace, Minho's hands carressed your back soothingly as he whispered words of appeasement into your hair, sighing occasionally at the hurt he himself was feeling deep in his chest. What kind of atrocity could have bestowed upon you that made you cry so hard? And how could he fix it as fast as humanly possible?

Pulling away just slightly, Minho tilted your chin upwards with the pad of his forefinger, making you look at him. He bit his lip at how wounded you looked, and he wished to wipe all the pain away. “Could you please tell me what happened, princess?” he spoke calmly, making sure not to cause you any more distress.

Blinking away part of your tears, you exhaled shakingly before explaining everything that happened in great detail. You were sure not to let out the actions that led you to lack your usual attentiveness, and your heart sank when he sighed in what you deduced was frustration.

He noticed your panic and was quick to shake his head. “No, no, no. Don’t mistake my feelings, princess,” he added, cupping your tear-stained face into his hands. “I’m not mad about the table cloth, I’m just upset that you disregarded your own health for the sake of some stupid exams.”

“T-They’re not stupid,” you muttered, voice weak and shaky.

“I know. I know they’re not,” he responded with a nod. “But you know what I mean.”

You merely shrugged, gaze setting on any object or shape that wasn’t him. You still felt pretty bad and clumsy, and it was hard to face your boyfriend at the very moment.

“Look at me, princess,” he inquired gingerly, thumbs wiping the remnants of your tears. Doing as told, you locked gazes with Minho, and you instantly felt a rush of tranquil wash over you. Your shoulders relaxed under his touch, and there was no fear left in your eyes. Your breath slowed down, and your hands lost their tremble. You couldn’t understand how he had done it, but he managed to soothe your alarm with a simple, loving look.

“Don’t you ever think I'd get mad at you for something so unimportant, Y/N,” he implied, brushing off a few strands of hair that stuck to your face due to the dampness of your cheeks. “I don’t care about a stupid table cloth, I can always buy another one.”

Listening to his words, your hands fumbled with the sleeves of your blouse. Noticing it, Minho took hold of them, interwining your fingers with his before he placed a chaste kiss atop the back of your palm.

“But I can never get a girlfriend as amazing as you,” he stated with a tone so honest that it made your heart flutter. “So that’s why I’d prefer if you took care of yourself, princess. Not for my sake, but for your own.”

[destiel-love-forever]

The Statue

Prompt: King John discovers his son Dean is part Demon destined to be married to Lord of Hell. Unwilling to let that happen he turns Dean into a statue. Centuries later a young explorer by the name of Cas finds the statue and accidentally frees Dean. So it's like marriage will go through the only problem is Dean has had his heart stolen by the cute explorer.

- @longkissgoodnightbatmanandtwofac

Read Below or on AO3: The Statue

The Statue

Castiel checks his compass for the fourth time, then squints at his map. He marks the spot he’s at with the red marker and decides to stay there for the night, putting his equipment away. After he pitches his tent, Castiel goes looking for firewood. He’s hoping to make a fire, eat a quick dinner, and get to bed early. If all goes well, he can finish his exploration tomorrow.

Two minutes later, things are already off track. Castiel has found something tangled in the branches of an overgrown bush. He hacks away at it, his explorer curiosity getting the best of him. Once it’s uncovered, Castiel steps back and looks at the mystery object. It’s a statue. A statue of what looks like a man, about the same height and size as Castiel, with a crown on his head.

It’s not strange to find old statues as an explorer. Castiel has found plenty of artifacts since he started doing this. What is strange? The fact that this doesn’t look as dated as it should. The last documented civilization to exist in this area was 200 B.C, before the rainforest began to take over and no one could sustain life long term. This statue can’t be more than a few centuries old.

Castiel leans forward, noticing that there’s a green jewel over the man’s heart. Around it is a script. Latin. He rests his fingertips on the stone and whispers the words, his brain translating it into a broken english. Before he has enough time to fully comprehend what he’s saying, the statue is vibrating.

“What the-” Castiel stumbles back, eyes going wide.

The stone seems to melt away, leaving behind nothing but flesh and bone. The man gasps and stumbles forward, straight into Castiel’s arms.

“No!” he screams, fighting against Castiel immediately. “You can’t do this! You can’t-”

The man stops yelling, eyes blinking a few times as he realizes the person in front of him is not his father’s magician, but a stranger. He stares at the young man in shock. His clothes are… rather strange. The pants look as if they’re the same material as a heavy canvas tent, and the same color too. His shoes are weirdly shaped, almost like the boots of a soldier, and seem to have leather on them in uncommon places. He’s wearing a hooded coat and a shirt beneath it that seems to be missing it’s neck and chest. A strange purse like bag is on the man. And the thing on his head? It looks like the hats the princesses wear to the tea parties.

Castiel isn’t even able to care about the man-that-was-the-statue’s clothing. He’s more concerned about the fact that this statue just turned into a damn man. A statue. Rock. Covered in vines and leaves. Now a man. A man who yells and gasps and has freckles and muscles and blushing cheeks and the most gorgeous green eyes.

“My apologies,” the strange statue-man says in a steady voice. “I’m afraid I’m not aware of your name.”

“My - my name?” Castiel looks around, waiting for some TV crew to come say this is a joke. Then he looks back at the statue-man. “I’m - uh… I’m Castiel.”

“Castiel? That’s it?”

“I guess?” Castiel takes a step back, feeling uneasy. “What’s your name?”

The statue-man mumbles ‘he guesses?’ under his breath, then states in a normal voice, “My name is Dean Winchester the Third, First son of John, Prince of Campbell.”

Castiel squints at him. Campbell. Winchester. That’s the name of the civilization and prominent ruling family that was located nearly 300 miles away from this location.

Dean.

Prince Dean Winchester. Of Campbell. Why does that sound so damn familiar?

“My apologies,” the statue-man - well, Dean -  says again. “Do you have information on the whereabouts of Gabriel?”

“Gabriel?”

“Gabriel, yes.” When Castiel continues to just stare at him, Dean clarifies. “The royal magician. Gabriel. Surely you know Gabriel.”

Giving Dean a strange look, Castiel says, “Magician’s aren’t real.”

Dean huffs. He’s not in the mood for this strange man and his idiocy. “Magic is well-known in Campbell. The royal family has allowed it for generations now, Castiel. I do not have time for this nonsense. Tell me what you did with the magician Gabriel, or I will have you sequestered.”

“Oh boy.” Castiel rubs his forehead. Maybe magic is real. He did just see a statue turn into a man. A man that’s now talking to him. Interacting with him. Speaking to him like he’s from another time and place. “Okay, Dean. What’s the last thing you remember?”

“Gabriel and I arguing. He was - he was attempting to harm me, upon my father’s orders, but I had been speaking with him. Reasoning with him.”

“And then?”

“And then this. You touching me.”

Castiel takes a deep breath. “And when was that? The argument with Gabriel.”

“Today? Perhaps yesterday? There’s a chance I lost consciousness and-”

“No, the date. The date on your calendar. What was the date. The year?”

Dean looks at him as if he’s crazy. “1509.”

“Wow. I - wow. Okay. Yeah. That - that makes sense.” Castiel puts his hands on his hips and stares at the ground. He came here to explore the area for an ancient underground temple that documents say should be here somewhere. Not to find a statue that turns into a man that’s really the prince of the royal family of Campbell, a civilization that crumbled in 1511 over 300 miles from this very spot.

“What year is it now?” Dean asks, for the first time looking afraid instead of just confused and annoyed.

“2019.”

“20- no. Certainly - no. That cannot be.”

“I mean, you’re the one that says magic is real. From what I’m gathering, Gabriel turned you into a statue and left you here. For, well, 510 years.”

Dean stumbles back, hand going to his mouth. “But - but then - my father. My mother. Sam. Is Sam - no, he must - oh my gods.”

Feeling guilty, and hating that he’s the one to deliver this news, Castiel rips the band-aid off. “Your family all died in 1511. Your brother murdered your father after accusing him of killing you. Campbell split into two factions, one in support of Sam Winchester and the other in support of your dead father. By the end of the year, the entire civilization had crumbled.”

A rough growl tears from Dean’s chest. Then he grabs the shiny gold crown from his head and swings his arm, chucking it as far as he can throw. He screams. Kicks a tree. Falls to his knees and tugs at his hair. Then he bangs his fists on the ground and yells at the grass, “You bastard! You ruined it all! You ruined everything!”

“Woah! What’s - who are you talking to?” Castiel tries to put a hand on Dean’s shoulder, but he shrugs him off. After Dean is finished pounding at the ground, Castiel tries once more, without touching him this time. “You must be hungry. Come with me and I’ll take care of you. We can figure this out.”

On shaking legs, Dean stands. He avoids looking at Castiel in case the rules of men crying are still the same in 2019. It’s not his father that he’s grieving, though he had always looked up to the man in a way, but his mother and brother. Sammy especially. Sammy had defended him. Died defending him.

“Yes,” Dean mumbles, wiping at his face before turning to give Castiel a false smile. “Food. Food would be great.”

----

“Sir! Sir!” the demon Crowley nearly falls over himself, waving his hands frantically as he approaches Lucifer.

Lucifer sneers. “What?”

“Dean Winchester! The prince! He’s on the radar again. He’s - he’s no longer missing!”

Sitting up in his seat, Lucifer demands, “Tell me where he is.”

Crowley gulps. “We - we aren’t sure yet, sire. But soon. We will find him soon. His presence was sensed, and that’s a - it’s a start. We just need to find him now. It won’t take long at all. I swear, sire.”

“You have one week to find my boy, Crowley. Or I’ll eat your soul for a bedtime snack.” Lucifer stands, hovering over him with a glare of literal fire. “Do I make myself clear?”

----

Having no idea what else to do with a 500 year old prince who spent his life as a statue, Castiel brings him home. Immediately. They’re back in America by the next morning. Dean is terrified of all things. The computer. The phone. The airplane. The airport. The taxi. The apartment complex. The TV. The fridge. The bathroom. The only thing Dean feels comfortable with is the four poster canopy bed that Castiel has in the bedroom. It’s where he is at almost all of the time. Just sitting there, staring at the floor. It takes Castiel four hours to get Dean to drink some tea and talk. It takes him six to convince Dean to take a bath and change into some of Castiel’s clothes. It takes him nine to get him to sleep.

Dean says the only way he’ll sleep is if Castiel promises to stay by his side. He’s afraid, but he won’t tell Castiel of what. It doesn’t matter. Castiel promises to be there the whole night. And he keeps that promise. For seven perfect hours, Castiel lays by Dean’s side and just watches the man sleep. Breathe. Mumble under his breath. Shift under the blankets.

Then Castiel falls asleep himself, unable to fight the exhaustion any longer. He rests his hand over Dean’s, tangling their fingers together on the mattress between them. It feels right.

----

When Dean wakes up, he’s feeling well rested and better about his situation. Especially when he finds Castiel’s hand in his. He slowly turns to his side and studies the man beside him. He’s gorgeous. If it had been allowed in his time, Dean would have married this man. Absolutely. The moment he set eyes on him, he knew he would have. But Dean was supposed to marry a woman.

Well, according to destiny, Dean was actually supposed to marry the Lord of Hell Lucifer. Hence his father’s hatred for him. His father’s plan to turn him into a damn statue. Not only was he supposed to marry a man - a huge no-no - but the man was a demon. The king of the demons. Add on the fact that this all meant Dean was part demon? That his mother had cheated on his father with a demon, making Dean both illegitimate as well as a constant reminder of Mary’s infidelity? Of course his father didn’t want him around anymore. John Winchester would have murdered him and been done with it, but then Dean’s soul would have gone to hell. Straight to Lucifer. He needed a different plan. Gabriel and his stupid green jewel was the solution.

Now, 500 years later, Dean is alive. Fatherless. Living in a world where he saw seventeen different same sex couples openly, safely loving each other between where the statue was held and this place Castiel lives.

Seventeen.

Eighteen, perhaps, if Castiel is willing to try.

Dean needs to stay away from Lucifer. Stay hidden. He’s hoping the charm is still working somehow, because otherwise Lucifer would have him already, wouldn’t he? Maybe Gabriel’s spell did something. Or maybe Lucifer has been killed and someone else is king. Someone who has no interest in Dean as a husband.

Slipping out of the bed, Dean goes to the kitchen. He pokes at the thing Castiel called the stove a few times, trying to figure it out. When he turns a knob, flames erupt around black metal spokes. Dean yelps and steps back, but the flames dim until they’re small and low. Manageable.

Carefully, Dean places a pan on it, just as he would over a normal fire in his home. Next, he looks in the fridge. There are eggs - though they are in a strange insect shaped container. Dean ignores that, taking the eggs out and cracking them into the pan, smiling when they sizzle just as they would in his day.

As he stirs them, he gets ambitious. There is bread and butter. Once he has figured out how to spread the butter onto the two slices of bread, Dean wants to warm them. Usually Dean, or his servants if he didn’t feel like cooking, would place the bread over a flat metal plate that would hover over the fire. Just until the butter got melty and the bread crisped.

Since there’s none of that here, Dean turns knobs until another fire appears, and places the bread on the weird black metal over the flames. He looks for a second, then shrugs. Turning away, Dean focuses back on the eggs.

Moments later, a terribly loud noise fills Dean’s ears. He stumbles back, knocking over a vase full of flowers, and looks up to find smoke filling the room. Then Castiel is running by in a blur, carrying something large and red in his hand. Dean gasps when the red thing starts spurting white foam over the flames. He watches in amazement as the fire goes out.

Castiel turns back to him, clothes crumpled and hair a complete mess. He looks at Dean with wide blue eyes and laughs. “First day and you start a fire.”

“My apologies, Castiel. I was attempting to cook you breakfast.”

“Really? Me?” Castiel perks up, grinning. “You were cooking for me?”

Dean frowns. “I was attempting to. Yes.”

After looking at the burned to ash bread and the overcooked eggs with wisps of foam on them, Castiel has to bite back a laugh. He turns his back to Dean so he doesn’t hurt his feelings by whatever his expression is. “I really appreciate this, Dean. This makes me really happy.”

“I ruined it.”

“That doesn’t matter.” Castiel turns again, giving Dean a goofy smile. “Want to try again? I could teach you.”

Dean’s frown turns to a beautiful smile. “Yes. I’d love that.”

----

On their second full day together, Castiel brings Dean to the ocean. He had never seen it - the kingdom of Campbell too far away from any sea and without any technology to reach one - and the look on Dean’s face when he sees the body of water is worth the two-hour drive.

After explaining beaches, sand, swimsuits, sandcastles, motorboats, jetskis, surfers, and life guards, Castiel sits in silence on the beach blanket and just watches Dean. He’s like a small child as he plays in the sand, using a bucket of water they brought to make mud so he can build structures near Castiel. From time to time, they talk about nothing important, but mostly they just enjoy the sounds of the beach together.

They stay until the sun sets.

“It’s still just as beautiful,” Dean tells Castiel as he sits beside him, their shoulders pressed firmly together.

“So are you.” Castiel reaches into his pocket and pulls out a picture he printed offline. He unfolds it and hands it to Dean. “I thought maybe you’d like to have this.”

Dean smiles softly as he brushes the pad of his thumb across the photo of the scanned family painting. It pauses over Sam Winchester’s face. The sadness that washes over Dean is obvious.

“I’m sorry,” Castiel says quietly. “I thought it’d make you happy to have it.”

“It does. Of course it does. I just miss him. My brother, I mean. He would have laughed so hard yesterday when I burnt that food.” Dean laughs, wiping at his eyes. “And this,” he adds, gesturing to the ocean. “Sammy would have loved this.”

Nodding, Castiel looks out at the ocean. “Dean, can I ask something personal?”

Dean chuckles. “You saved me from being a statue, Cas. Ask whatever you want.”

And that’s when Castiel finds out why Dean was the statue. What had upset his father. The part-demon situation. The issue of Lucifer. All the impending danger lurking.

That’s when Castiel promises Dean that they’ll figure it out. Lucifer won’t touch him. Not if Castiel has anything at all to say about it.

----

“Sire! Sire!” Crowley storms into Lucifer’s chambers with a grin. “We found him! We found the Winchester boy.”

Lucifer gets to his feet, leaving the book he had been reading on the table beside his bed. “Bring him to me immediately.”

“Yes, sire. Unharmed?”

“Yes. Of course.” Lucifer looks at him like he’s an idiot. “He’s to be my husband. Harm him and you’ll wish all I had done is eat your soul.”

Crowley nods. “Y - yes. Of course. Of course, sire. Yes. I - no harm. I swear.”

“As for anyone with him? Don’t spare them.”

“Oh, don’t worry, sire,” Crowley says with a smile. “I won’t.”

----

Castiel’s colleague, and great friend, Chuck Shurley meets with Dean and Castiel on their fourth day together. He’s an occult professor at the local university, and his office shows it. There are three different spots he needs to adjust symbols so that Dean can even be near them, starting with the devil trap beneath the rug in front of his door. Once Dean is finally inside, and everything is safely back in place, the three of them sit together around Chuck’s desk and begin.

There are many options for them, but none are guaranteed. Some have the possibility of trapping Lucifer. Others have the possibility of hiding Dean. There’s one spell that could maybe extract the demonology from Dean’s soul - but the risk is that it would kill him, so Castiel shoots it down immediately. Another choice is to try to trick Lucifer into believing Dean is dead or a statue again, which would involve some magic with Gabriel’s jewel, but Chuck isn’t at all confident about it.

“In my opinion, the best option is this.” Chuck flips the book around, pointing to a symbol with foreign words scrawled below it. As Dean and Castiel lean forward to look, Chuck explains. “It’s a way to close hell temporarily.”

“Close hell?” Castiel asks, frowning. “I feel like if it worked, someone would have done it already.”

“Not many people have the ingredients needed, or the skilled witch, or the willingness to sacrifice what needs to be sacrificed.”

“What needs to be sacrificed?” Dean asks. “And do we have the ingredients and the witch?”

Chuck nods. “I have all the ingredients except one, but I know how to get that. A friend owes me a favor. As for the witch, I know a coven nearby. Their leader is extremely powerful and highly skilled.”

“And the sacrifice?” Castiel prompts, noticing Chuck is conveniently avoiding the fact Dean asked about it.

“Well,” Chuck rubs the back of his neck. “Hear me out.”

“Oh, that sounds like a great start,” Castiel grumbles.

“The person who conducts the spell binds their life to it. That’s why it’s only temporary. When that person dies, the spell is broken, and hell opens up.”

“And let me guess. You want me or Dean to sacrifice ourselves.”

“Yes. You, Castiel. Because Dean isn’t able to with the demon blood in his body.”

“What does that mean, then? My soul will go to hell when I die?”

Chuck looks away from Castiel, which is answer enough. “I know it’s not ideal.”

“Not ideal?” Dean barks. “He is not going to hell. It’s bad enough I’ll be stuck there for eternity. I won’t let-”

“I’ll do it,” Castiel interrupts. “I don’t mind.”

“No!”

“Yes, Dean. I want to do it. It doesn’t matter. My soul will be going where yours goes.”

Dean shakes his head. “You don’t understand. You can still experience things. Feel pain. Be tortured. Lonely. Bored. I - when I go down there, after I die, I’m sure I’ll be miserable. Punished beyond belief. What if they punish you too?”

“Then they do.” Castiel looks away from Dean, dismissing him. He locks eyes with Chuck and says,  “I’m doing it. It’s my choice. What do we do next?”

----

The spell is surprisingly anti-climatic. Ingredients are put together. The witches show up. Castiel is put on a chair in the center of a huge symbol - the same from Chuck’s book - that’s painted on the wooden floor. Words are recited. Castiel’s soul lights up, a bright blue emanating from his body.

When the light fades, Castiel is left looking exhausted and slightly shocked. They all stare at each other for a minute or so. Then, awkwardly, Dean asks, “What now?”

“Nothing. It's done,” the witch Rowena announces.

“But,” Dean looks at Castiel, then at Chuck. “But how do we know it worked?”

“Trust me darling, it worked. I do not fail.” Rowena begins to walk out with her other witches, but she doesn’t leave before throwing over her shoulder at Chuck, “Now we’re even!”

When it’s just the three men again, Chuck assures them, “It worked. You’ll find out in a day or two if it didn’t, but I’m sure of it. It worked.”

Castiel and Dean weren’t exactly convinced, but Chuck never asked for money or anything else that could have made this a scam, so they go home. They wait.

----

“Sire! Sire, please! I don’t - we don’t know how he did it!”

“You should have found him faster!” Lucifer roars, leaning forward and looming over Crowley. The other demons on his staff are in the large room, watching in terrified silence. Crowley already pissed himself. Lucifer doesn’t care. That won’t affect the taste of the useless demon’s soul.

Not that he’ll be eating his soul anytime soon. Lucifer has much better plans. The man who closed Lucifer’s gates is only 25. He has a long life ahead of him. Lucifer will spend every day of it with Crowley on his rack.

----

When a day goes by, Dean feels ready to explode. When two more pass, him and Castiel start to hope. Then a week. Then a month. A year.

It worked.

It actually worked.

Dean struggles with that in a certain way. He breaks down one night in Castiel’s arms as they sit on the couch together. Between sobs, Dean talks about how his father never even looked for something like this. Never tried. His father didn’t care enough to. There was an answer out there somewhere, and his father didn’t look for it. Dean wasn’t worth it.

“Shhh, Dean,” Castiel whispers as he holds Dean’s head to his chest, softly rocking back and forth. “Shhhh.”

“He hated me. It wasn’t my fault - I didn’t - I didn’t even know my mom cheated! It wasn’t my fault. I - hated me but - but it wasn’t my fault!”

“I know, babe. I know.” Castiel strokes Dean’s back. “I have no idea how he hated you. I can’t imagine someone hating you.”

Dean laughs softly. “Stop.”

“I’m serious.” Castiel moves so that he can look Dean in the eye. He cups the man’s face with both hands and wipes his tears away. “Dean Winchester, you are the most kind, compassionate, funny, stubborn, beautiful man I have ever met. Your father was wrong. It wasn’t your fault. None of this was your fault.”

“But-”

“No, Dean.” Castiel presses their foreheads together. “No. I don’t care if it takes the rest of my life. I will prove to you that you are worthy of love.”

Dean gulps. “Like your love?”

“Yes.” Castiel leans forward, their mouths so close Dean can feel the ghost of Castiel’s lips haunting his own. “I love you, Dean Winchester. I am so unbelievably in love with you.”

“Me too. I love you too. I - ngh,” Dean grunts, his words cut off by Castiel’s lips smashing against his. He melts into the kiss and smiles. It’s been centuries since he’s kissed someone - anyone - and he doesn’t mind.

Castiel Novak was so worth the wait.

[mendespideys]

You’ve got some explaining to do | p.p

Pairings: reader x best friend!peter parker

Summary: you and peter decide to play a game of truth and dare. it’s all fun and games until peter dares you to try on one of tony’s iron man suits

Warnings: use of adult words

Words: 2k (i got a little carried away, oops)

a/n: um, yeah, i don’t even know. not really happy with this, but please let me know what you think

masterlist 

“Hm,” Peter hums, cupping his chin with his thumb and index finger for emphasis. “Truth.” 

You purse your lips, not prepared for his answer. You had had an excellent dare in mind for your best friend, knowing that was usually his go-to answer. Having been friends for five years, you knew everything there was to know about him. You knew how his parents had passed, you knew about his first kiss, and most importantly - you knew about his late-night activities. 

You stare at your best friend, ransacking your brain for a question would continue to make the game interesting. Peter looks back at you with curiosity and anticipation. In fear of retaliation, you decide to go with a more humorous question. 

“Where is the strangest place you have peed?” You realize how stupid the question is now that it has been said aloud, but you shrug mentally. Too late now. 

Peter’s eyes widen as soon as your words were spoken, his cheeks puffing as he blows out a string of laughter. He tries his best to choke back his laughter, raising an eyebrow at your choice. You shrug, looking around his almost untouched bedroom. Tony Stark had kindly offered him a room among the other Avengers, but Peter spent most his nights at home with his Aunt May. 

“A flower bed,” Peter states, bringing your attention back to him. You raise a questioning eyebrow. “I was out, you know, saving the little guy, and I hadn’t used the restroom is so long. I just had to go, so I ended up peeing in a flower bed behind a house.” He elaborated, shrugging as if what he said had been the most casual conversation topic in history. 

“My turn,” Peter smirks before you even get the chance to question his confession. “Truth or dare?” 

Fearing an embarrassing question in return, you quickly choose dare. Peter lights up, a devilish grin forming on his face, and you immediately regret your choice. 

“I dare you,” he starts, tracing your movements with your his eyes. You remember him saying it helped him focus. “to try on one of Tony’s suits.” A sly smirk quickly grows on his face. Your breath catches involuntarily, and you cough trying to hide it. 

“Peter, no. I can’t I-”

“You either have to finish the dare, or...” he trailed off with a shrug, knowing you were fully aware what he was talking about. You sigh, defeated. Getting up from the comfort of Peter’s bed, you mutter, 

“I can’t believe I’m about to do this.” 

After a lot of complaining from you and teasing from Peter, you find yourself in Tony’s Hall of Armors. Glancing around, you ponder any possible excuse to get you out of this dare. Peter clears his throat, followed by a chuckle, making you stiffen. 

“Nervous much?” he leans against the wall, crossing his arms across his I Survived My Trip to NYC shirt, which he had ironically kept. “So, what are you waiting for?” 

“Shut up,” you grumble, hesitantly stepping forward. “I will take all the time I need.” 

You can feel his amused gaze following your every move as you walk among the many suits decorating the room. Feeling your heart beat in your chest, you clear your throat and stop in front of a random suit. Might as well get it over with, right?

It was easier said than done to get the suit on. Peter apparently found the whole ordeal hilarious, having to cup his mouth to silence his laughter. You both knew that if looks could kill, he would’ve died about ten minutes ago. 

“Okay, there,” you mutter, throwing your arms up for emphasis. “I put it on. You happy now?”

Peter grins, holding up his finger. He fishes around his pocket for a second before pulling his phone out. You shake your head already before he looks back at you. “No. Nu-uh,” you protest, purposefully digging your eyes into him as a warning. 

“Aw, c’mon,” Peter whines teasingly, “Just one picture.” 

You shake your head. “Peter Parker, if you as much click that shutter one time, I will blast you out of this freaking building.” 

Luckily for you, your best friend was blessed with enhanced senses. Because before you could even comprehend what was about to happen, Peter had dropped his phone to the ground with a thud, shooting his web toward the roof. You watch as he swings hastily, holding on to the dark concrete above you. 

Not even a second later, the red and gold armor around your wrist shoots out an orange burst of energy. The force of it makes you stumble backward, your eyes growing wide at the burnt mark on the wall where your best friend had been just seconds previously. 

“Peter, I-” you begin, quickly looking up at him. He stares back at you, his eyes open from surprise. “I’m sorry! I-I didn’t mean to, I-” 

You’re cut off by a sudden warmth at your feet. Looking down to inspect the sudden change, you gasp in horror. You look pleadingly at Peter for a second, feeling yourself levitate higher. The terror disappeared almost as fast as it came, growing into anger at the sound of Peter’s laugh. 

You look down, vaguely spotting the golden bursts underneath your feet causing you to fly. “Peter Parker shut the fuck up and help me down, or I won’t miss this time.”

Peter chokes on another fit of giggles at your empty threat, knowing you would never blast him. At least not on purpose. You shriek loudly, as the suit flies you even higher. Gulping down the growing lump in your throat, you wobble, desperately trying to find your balance in the air. 

“Peter,” you grit out through your teeth, squealing as you drop down about an inch or two. “Do something! Help me out of this thing before Tony hears or we’re both dead.” 

You glare at him. His shock had passed it seemed, seeing as he was still laughing and looking at you as if this was the best entertainment he could ever dream of. You curse him under your breath, pointing the arm blaster at him once again. 

He stops laughing abruptly, holding his free hand out in front him. “Okay, okay. I’ll help you. Just don’t shoot me.” 

You follow him with your eyes as he drops himself from the floor, gracefully landing into his famous Spider-Man pose. You roll your eyes, still not fully over his sudden athletic abilities. Peter straightens, running a hand through his brown curls. You catch yourself before he notices you staring, and purse your lips in expectation. 

Peter takes a few steps until he’s almost directly under you, holding his arm out toward the feet of the armor that you so regrettably had put on. You watch as the familiar white webbing comes out from his wrist. Feeling the suit move again, you let out yet another involuntary shriek as you hear Peter groan. 

“Y/N,” Peter starts, licking his lips, and you stop yourself before your thoughts go wild at the sight. “You need to stay still.” 

“Easy for you to say, Penis Parker,” you grumble, using the hated nickname Flash had given him when you had started high school. “You’re the dumbass who dared me to do this in the first place.” 

“Yeah, well, I didn’t actually think you’d go through with it,” he shrugs. “You’re usually not the adventurous, daring type.” 

You’re about to scold him, but again, you’re jerked to the side before you get the chance. Peter ducks suddenly, and the force of another blast causes you to wobble. You stare at the black spot you had just decorated the floor with. 

“Y/N, stop shooting that damn thing!” 

“I would if I could, Parker,” you seethe, suddenly not feeling too well. “Shut up and do something.”

Peter nods quickly, not missing with his webs this time. He starts pulling, and you can feel yourself getting closer to the ground. Sighing in relief, you can feel yourself relaxing the muscles you didn’t know you had tensed in the first place. 

“What on earth is going on in here?” You freeze and Peter turns around in surprise, dropping the grip he had on you. You yelp, feeling yourself float higher. “Kid, you better have a good explanation.” 

Tony looks pointedly at Peter. He looks like he is about to scold him, and even though you would love to see that, you figured it had to wait for another time. You squeal, and Tony’s gaze moves to you. 

Peter looks flustered, like a deer caught in the headlights, but follows Tony’s eyes. Tony rolls his eyes, striding over to his computer in the corner. “There is a reason why these suits are here and not being used.” 

You watch helplessly as he starts punching in numbers and letters. Peter looks at you sheepishly, and you know he knows he’s gonna hear it from you later. Your best friend walks closer to Tony, staring at the computer curiously. 

“That suit had a malfunction, hence why it’s not being used,” Tony elaborated. “Couldn’t quite get it to do what I wanted. What are you doing in here anyways, younglings?” 

“Peter dared me to try on one of your suits,” you state simply, smiling innocently as Peter turns to you with wide eyes. 

“Spiderling’s behind this?” Tony turns, raising an eyebrow as he looks at Peter. Peter clears his throat, fumbling with his hands - a nervous habit he had picked up a few years ago. 

“Mr. Stark, I-” 

You cut him off. “Although I would love nothing more than Tony scolding you right now, I would like to get down first. I don’t feel too good.” You mumble, starting to feel kind of oozy. How Tony did this for longer than ten minutes was beyond you. 

“Right,” Tony mumbles, pressing a few more numbers. “There, that should do it.” 

You sigh, suddenly feeling more in control. The control quickly subsides as you feel the energy holding you up give out. You shriek as you shut your eyes, preparing yourself to land on the floor with a clank. It takes a few seconds before you realize that you should have hit the ground by now. 

Opening your eyes one by one, you find yourself looking into Peter’s brown eyes. He grins innocently, but you’re too fixated on his eyes. You could see the slight worry within them, having seen it a few times before. You’re broken out of your trance by Tony clearing his throat. 

Peter drops you almost immediately, although he makes sure you can stand on your own before he removes his arms completely. His cheeks darken, and he rubs the back of his neck as he stares at his shoes. 

“Although that was disgustingly adorable, Tony starts, a slight smirk plastered on his face. “You guys have some explaining to do. Meet me in the common room in five.” 

Tony nods, seemingly happy with his work, and walks toward the door. He shoots you another look, motioning for you to start taking off his suit. You nod quickly. 

“Yes, sir, Mr. Stark, sir.”

“Sure thing.”

As soon as Tony’s out the door, you let out a relieved sigh. He didn’t seem too mad. Definitely nowhere near the amount of anger you feel bubbling inside of you. At the sight of Tony disappearing, Peter lets out a loud laugh. You drop the last piece of armor to the ground. 

The loud clank makes Peter look at you, and his eyes widen, clearly sensing your anger. He shoots you a grin so big that if it had been any other situation, you would have melted right then and there. Peter extends his wrist, quickly catching his phone with his sticky webs and shoving it back into his pocket. He takes off with a loud giggle. 

“Peter Parker, get your ass back here!” You bellow, almost tripping over the heap of metal on the floor. 

[arkenarttechlab]

THE LAST ARTIST - and the cultural desert of Silicon Valley

I’ll remember 2018 as the year the Big Tech industry ultimately turned the area around San Francisco into a cultural desert; a five-star dream for the privileged few. This is a tribute to the lost spirit of art and counterculture - a portrait of one of the last artists.

"What the arts allow us to do is develop the muscle required for discernment, and also strengthen our sense of agency to determine for ourselves how we’re going to tackle a given problem" - MIT TECHNOLOGY REVIEW

Once upon a time, the area around San Francisco was the stronghold of American counterculture. Artists, activists, entrepreneurs, feminists, race and equality activists dreamed of and fought to disrupt capitalism and create new sustainable humanistic strategies. 40 years later, the Big Tech industry has turned it into a five-star dream for the privileged few. The cost of living there is now so high that one in four in the Silicon Valley area is on the poverty line. It has been called The Silicon Valley Paradox – 26.8%, nearly 720,000 people are “food insecure.” Two years ago, The New Yorker wrote “Silicon Valley has an empathy Vacuum.”  And at the end of 2018 one of the most influential artist of the robotic revolution, Kal Spelletich was ousted.

Portrait of one of the last artists 

- Originally published in SCENARIO no. 1, 2014.

Behind a row of rundown warehouses in San Francisco’s Butchertown grows a wonderland of robot constructs, flame throwers and military metal gadgets between eerie iron trees and magical disco balls. This is where Kal Spelletich lives with his six-toed dog.

“Do you want a cup of herbal tea,” he asks in a friendly manner as he invites me inside into an almost post-apocalyptic universe that besides being deadly is his home. It is at once scary and welcoming. There are no boundaries here: art, fire and a spiritual robot that he is currently building. All the projects that Spelletich have been part of seem to point towards a larger cultural shift. One example is Burning Man, which originated in San Francisco in the mid-1980s, and right now it is developments in robot technology. This is a trend born from the co-creation and open source philosophies of digitisation and advanced methods like 3D tools, with popular examples like Google’s autonomous car, iRobot’s development of a 3D robot that can be used in factory production, and not least the entire startup infrastructure with actors like Lemnos Labs, Robot Garden and Robot Launchpad.

Experiments in the borderlands

Where the robot industry in general is situated somewhere in the robot evolution’s refinement of arms and hands with an eye to production and finish, a few frontrunners are experimenting with the robot’s brain. One such is Industrial Perceptions in Palo Alto, which deals with intelligent software and in this connection with subjects like perception, manipulation and control. However, where these point towards commercial breakthroughs, Kal Spelletich goes his own ways with his experiments in the borderlands of robotics. ” I often feel a bit like I am working in a vacuum, even when I’m in the eye of the storm,” he says. It is in the tension field between future product opportunities like intelligent robots and the world of arts that he is most at home. His art grapples with the ambivalent state that human beings were planted in when the machine was invented: we are at one and the same time fascinated and frightened by our own power of creation. “I guess art is a bit like staring directly at your own mortality. The more we people choose to stay at home and just sit in front of a computer, playing games or watching movies – instead of going out and getting real experiences – the more we will be attracted by events or art that remind us that we are mortal; that we are human beings and that things don’t always go the way we expect.” As a part of the exhibition Weird Science, Spelletich has recently built a ‘Space Measurer’ from small mirrors and blue laser lights that can measure the speed of light. New York Times has written about his art: “If the essence of science is the development and testing of theories about reality, then you can’t say that the artists in this unfocused but intriguing show are doing science, weird or otherwise. Where the two domains [art and science] can overlap, though, is in playing with technology.” It is in such playing that Kal Spelletich develops robots that tickle our idea about the unlikely and our perception of ourselves as human beings. “People desire real-life adventures. The more this is taken away from you or denied you, the sicker you become. Personally, I have never been particularly good at passive entertainment. Most people have never loaded a gun, hunted an animal, cleaned it and boiled and eaten it. Yet these are the most basic, simple and early experiences. I don’t say that killing animals is the right thing to do, but it is something that most people no longer experience. I try to give people a cathartic experience while also challenging their prejudices about what art and content can be. The key is to add a story or concept to the aesthetic. Parties, celebrations, substance abuse, alcoholism, violence, sex, the human condition breaks down and pulls itself up again. They reflect all the real things that can shape and change our lives: like a carnival.”

Punk

Besides his artistic vision and his playing with the expressions of technology he is known to be one who defines technological directions and who spits out trends long before they land in the time the rest of us live in. Hence, it is not rare that people come knocking on his door. This might be NASA in need of his take on a new invention, Hollywood film producers – like the idea men behind the movie The Matrix – needing to visualise the future, or ordinary Silicon Valley engineers on the run from corporate desks and constricting suits that miss playing with the electronic universe. Spelletich was born in an elevator and grew up as number seven of a sibling flock of nine in Davenport, Iowa.  “The city has recently been elected the worst place to live in the US,” he says with clear ambivalence about his upbringing: “I got a chemistry set when I was nine and experimented with electricity, fire and fireworks. At the same time, I started working in my dad’s construction firm.” When fifteen, he ran away from home and lived in abandoned buildings and on the street. When punk rock hit the 70s, he saw the light. He felt at home in this noisy and anarchic universe of music. “It was the DIY energy and the anti-authoritarian rebellion that fascinated me – that you could create art while destroying the framework,” he says. Kal Spelledich was in the middle of the crucible, and he still is as part of the collaborative SEEMEN, which throughout its history has developed technological DIY platforms and explored future scenarios with interactive robots and kinetic art. However, you will never get him to mention the icons with whom he in his time has experimented and created art. He evaluates his collaborations by their creative, artistic and anarchic value, not by the names that have become part of the history of art, music and movies. It is almost an insult if you ask him for names. In general it is almost impossible to make him answer questions that have to do with specific projects or products he has taken part in creating. He is the eternal punk soul who disappears when a process becomes too concrete. However, even though the many things hanging from ceilings and on walls and shelves with whimsical inventions in his San Francisco cave hisses ‘fuck the system’, they are also nostalgicn memorabilia from his collaborations with everything from Hollywood blockbusters like Titanic to NASA.

Slacker

One thing he can’t run away from is when he was immortalized in the cult movie Slacker (1991) by Richard Linklater (the man behind e.g. the movie trilogy Before Sunrise, Before Sunset and Before Midnight; ed.). They met each other in Austin in 1988. “I met Kal Spelletich at an art event with all sorts of insane experiments. Even then I knew that he was something special. His head was full of ideas, and his art had this particular physical dimension. I remember him saying something like: ‘The art of painting is a dead genre – I don’t even want to talk about it.’ He had made a backpack from a TV set as a commentary on the industry. When I had to devise the scene in Slacker with this guy in a room full of television sets flickering in an endless river of clips, I thought of Kal and his TV backpack. That he himself was a part of the TV was an incredible sight. And then I had always been mad about Kal’s performance and was sure he would be good on the screen. He is a true pioneer and totally badass! He is guaranteed to always be ahead of the pack, never at the back,” Richard Linklater says. Spelletich’s role in the movie – the TV guy – is a description of a particular type of media user that has stopped looking for the truth in the physical world and instead finds it on TV or in a smartphone. “I wrote about this ten years ago, and it is truer now than ever,” he says. “Most of our reality is shaped by the media. We need live experiences; a digital recording will never replace a real-time event, and I’m not talking about a practiced set or playing timed to a heartbeat. Perhaps there would be an aesthetic or beauty in that, but it always contains a loss of spontaneity, of reality.” And Spelletich keeps working with this attitude. Where the robot industry at the moment sets the boundaries for future commercial possibilities regarding the individual experience through recognition and hence also faith, Kal Spelletich is in the process of proving that robots can be built to have a sixth sense. This may seem a smidgen insane, but this has always been the case with Spelletich’s art. He experiments with possibilities we cannot yet imagine.

Kal Spelletich Kalman Spelletich (b. 1960) grew up in Davenport, Iowa. He ran away from home at the age of 15 and lived as a squatter for many years. In 1980, Spelletich was accepted at the University of Iowa where he took a bachelor’s degree in Interdisciplinary Arts and in his own words “discovered art through the camera”. He later got a master’s degree from the University of Texas. Spelletich is very active on the underground art scene and has since 1994 exhibited in many galleries, almost always with a focus on deconstructing the machine or experimenting with human-machine relations. In 1988, Spelletich was co-founder of the art collective SEEMEN, which is an “interactive machine art performance collective”. The collective specialises in performances and is particularly well known for its great influence on developing the concept of Burning Man. Spelletich has also worked with other art collectives like Survival Research Laboratories, which also works with machine performance art and especially operates with large technical installations. Spelletich has made special effects for several movies, including Titanic and The Matrix, and he has acted in the cult movie Slacker.

Originally published in SCENARIO no. 1, 2014.    

[ciathyzareposts]

Ringworld – Three Stuns and Five Wires

Written by Reiko

Quinn’s Journal #1: “What a strange business this is. First, my old friend Louis Wu disappeared, and managed to see it coming soon enough to alert me, and then I found that his contact Chmeee had also disappeared under unusual circumstances. I had very little time to wonder about this, though, because as soon as I made contact with Chmeee’s son, we were attacked and had to make a run for it.”

Quinn’s main companion introduces himself.

As soon as I manage to do the Kzinti equivalent of ringing their doorbell by breaking the laser beam, a Kzinti appears at the door and asks me what my business is. I’m no solicitor, of course, but I have to have a way to prove that I am who I say I am. Fortunately, Louis Wu thought of that when he sent me his signet ring. The Kzinti recognizes the ring and acknowledges my identity. Introducing himself as “Iacch-Captain, second son of Chmeee,” he invites me inside the home’s courtyard. (By others, he’s always called Iacch-Captain, a distinctly Kzinti-style hybrid name, but I’m just going to call him Iacch for short.)

We briefly get an ominous cut-scene showing that the Patriarch’s centurion has arrived with his task force to wipe out Chmeee’s family. Great timing, guys. Meanwhile, we get to have a conversation with Iacch about how we really don’t know what’s going on, but along with the ring, Louis Wu sent an infodisk with some information about his trip to Ringworld with Chmeee. Iacch reveals that he’s the test pilot for the prototype ship made using the special hyperdrive engine acquired from the Puppeteers. That’s convenient.

No time to grieve; Harrach is probably never mentioned again.

What’s “next time” when you’re already dead?

Immediately after that, another member of the family, who we shortly find out is Iacch’s brother (presumably another son of Chmeee), sounds the alarm and then falls dead out of an upper window overlooking the courtyard, shot by the Patriarch’s people. I regain control of Quinn just as a single assassin enters the courtyard. If I do nothing, the assassin kills us too, and I get a failure message reminding me that Quinn is a mercenary and I should have been more forceful.

So I take out my stunner and shoot the assassin, which is only my third action of the game so far. We’re temporarily safe, although Iacch says more assassins might show up any minute. I don’t stick around to find out: I follow him out into a landing area which seems to be where the assassin team landed their “cycles” (individual flying vehicles). But there are three vehicles and only two of us, so I have to slave the third cycle to mine to make sure that we can’t be followed.

There’s no comment about whether anyone else is in residence at the home: I would imagine that taking all their cycles would at least temporarily strand the assault team there and make it more likely that they’d find and kill anyone else still there. But maybe the two brothers were the only ones there at that time.

Do you really think it’s wise to insult the intelligence of the guy who’s going to help protect you while you escape from assassins?

I take a look at the cycles, but other than setting the third cycle to the slave setting, I can’t figure out what to do with the one I’m going to ride to make it the master cycle. Then Iacch shouts from off-screen about needing the security disk from the assassin. Oh, I didn’t think to check and see if I could get anything from the assassin’s body. I was too busy running away!

I quickly dash back into the courtyard, check the body of the assassin, find the security disk to run the cycle, and dash back to the landing area. I didn’t want to hang around to see if more assassins showed up if you stay there. With the disk, then I can make my cycle the master, and we can escape with all three cycles.

Interesting alien landscape, with what looks like a very large moon in the background.

The next part is a little unclear, but the end result is that we hijack the prototype ship that Iacch knows how to fly. We travel overland in the cycles some distance through a wooded area and arrive at a facility with a guard that recognizes Iacch. I’m not quite sure whether the guard helped us (given a choice between “taking care” of the guard, which might have meant shooting him, or letting Iacch talk to him, I let Iacch talk to him), but Iacch’s plan ended up being to disable a containment field around the ship and then crash through the hangar door with the third cycle.

Hijacking this unique prototype seems entirely too easy, to be honest.

My only responsibility in all of this was to stun one more guard once we got into the ship itself. Once on the bridge, Iacch announces that we must leave orbit immediately to avoid being captured by planetary defense forces. I’ve lost track of what’s going on. Was the hangar in orbit and we somehow used the cycles to get there? Or did we already blast out of the hangar into orbit?

Miranda’s entirely reasonable reaction to our unexpected presence on the ship.

Before we can do that, though, we’re interrupted by a woman yelling at us about starting up the ship while she was doing some maintenance. She turns out to be Miranda Rees, the chief engineer for the hyperdrive.

I don’t think this is much of a threat, actually…

…because our ship is much larger, and we have other things to worry about anyway.

We end up in a bad position because not only do planetary defense forces show up, so does the Patriarch’s centurion in the Destroyer, the twin ship to the one we’re in. On top of that, Miranda disappears and starts dismantling the ship. She thinks we’re the bad guys for trying to steal the ship. (Well, we are stealing the ship, to be fair, but we’re trying to escape assassins and figure out what’s going on with the Ringworld team, so I guess we have license by plot?) I have no choice but to follow Miranda and stun her so she doesn’t do any real damage to the ship.

Five wires is all Miranda managed to disconnect before I caught up to her?

While Iacch takes Miranda to the autodoc to help her recover from the stun (and keep her confined for the time being), I’m tasked with repairing the wire configuration that Miranda pulled apart, which turns out to be copy protection. I just have to connect the wires in the correct sequence, identified by a page number, and then we have a conversation with Miranda in the autodoc.

I think somewhere in all this, the Destroyer defeated or drove off the defense forces, warned Iacch that he was still under the death sentence against the Chmeee family, but then disappeared to follow orders to attack the Puppeteer Fleet of Worlds first. They weren’t supposed to leave any members of the family alive, so that suggests that the ships can’t directly destroy each other. The Destroyer is supposed to be able to destroy whole planets, but I read somewhere that the ship hulls are made of something that’s basically impenetrable to any normal force, so even that weapon wouldn’t work against one.

The Patriarch’s first order given to the centurion.

Quinn explains to Miranda about the Patriarch’s bloodthirsty orders, but she doesn’t believe him and won’t help without proof. Iacch doesn’t have any proof, but I still have the security disk I took from the assassin. I put that in the autodoc’s slot so that Miranda (and us) can read the contents. It’s a copy of the orders from the Patriarch describing the centurion’s three tasks. It’s got the official seal of the Patriarch, so Miranda is convinced and agrees to help.

Iacch’s portrait. Yes, according to lore, the Kzinti really have those odd fan-like ears.

Back on the bridge, we start talking about how to catch up with the Destroyer to prevent it from using its weapon against the Fleet of Worlds. Then Iacch makes what would be a character-defining announcement in a story with more character depth, but we’ve barely known the guy for more than maybe half an hour or so, so it’s not really all that meaningful.

He renounces his name, because it was the Patriarch who gave it to him, and decides to call himself Seeker-of-Vengeance instead. (I’ll just call him Seeker for short, I guess.) He also names the ship, calling it Lance of Truth. (It’s a fully-functioning prototype ship and it didn’t already have a name?)

“That” is a Puppeteer hologram appearing on the bridge.

A clearer image of them from a ship computer I was able to access later on.

Then we’re interrupted (again), this time by what looks like a hologram of a Puppeteer. Time to describe these crazy aliens. Intelligent herbivores, their lower half is sort of like a tripedal deer, with two wide-set front legs and just one leg in back, in nearly an equilateral triangle. They can kick very well with that back leg. The body rises into a sort of armored hump, under which is the actual brain. On either side of the hump rises a flexible “neck” or stalk, on the end of which is something that looks kind of like a small head because it has an eye and a mouth-like opening surrounded by short tentacle-like fingers. These act like the creature’s hands, although having the eyes up there make the thing look like a two-headed monstrosity. Given how often I hit my hands on things, I can’t think why you would want an eye on your hand (maybe the eyelids are armored like the brain hump), but you’d have great perspective, I guess.

This Puppeteer identifies himself as the Hindmost, which means he’s the leader. Puppeteers have a very strong self-preservation instinct; the ones that go offworld and deal with other races are officially considered insane by the rest of the species. So the leader is the one that’s best at staying safe in the rear of the pack, hence Hindmost. He informs the group that the Puppeteers want certain things from the Ringworld, so he wants them to go to a certain set of coordinates and bring the things to the Fleet of Worlds, and in exchange, he’ll help them find Louis Wu and Chmeee on the Ringworld.

If they have to make a detour to the Ringworld to get this stuff for the Puppeteers and maybe to rescue Louis Wu and Chmeee, I don’t see how they’re going to catch up to the Destroyer in time to prevent it from attacking the Fleet of Worlds. But Iacch, I mean Seeker, agrees, provided that the Puppeteers can guarantee that the death sentence against his family will be lifted and that the Patriarch will be deposed. So off we go to the Ringworld.

I’m going to pause here to say that this is a really, really plot-heavy game. I was trying to decide whether I’d even taken ten discrete actions (aside from selecting a couple of conversational choices) in this first section, which amounted to not quite an hour of gameplay. I decided I didn’t think I had. Here’s how it breaks down:

Number of people stunned by Quinn: 3 (the assassin, the ship’s guard, and Miranda) Number of actions taken by Quinn other than stunning: 6 (triggering the laser doorbell, showing Iacch the ring, taking the infodisk, slaving the cycle, fixing the wires, putting the infodisk into the autodoc) Number of conversational choices: 4 (two with Iacch near the beginning, one with the guard, and I think I forgot one but maybe there were actually only three?) Number of deaths: 1 (failing to stun the assassin right away)

All the rest of it has been automatic cutscenes or clicking through conversations. It took far longer for me to work through the plot and summarize what happened than it did to actually play through it. We’ll see next time if the game opens up at all once we get to the Ringworld.

Session Time: 50 minutes Total Time: 50 minutes

Note Regarding Spoilers and Companion Assist Points: There’s a set of rules regarding spoilers and companion assist points. Please read it here before making any comments that could be considered a spoiler in any way. The short of it is that no points will be given for hints or spoilers given in advance of me requiring one. Please…try not to spoil any part of the game for me…unless I really obviously need the help…or I specifically request assistance. In this instance, I’ve not made any requests for assistance. Thanks!

source http://reposts.ciathyza.com/ringworld-three-stuns-and-five-wires/

[thebigcitynightsband]

ALMOST AWAKE

We knew from day one that we’d never see fame or anything remotely like it with this endeavor, but in the words of Robert Pollard, “we began making records anyway, just to have them.” That’s right. Just to have them. Lord knows we have nothing else. Doomed to obscurity. Born to bar band.

That’s our old MySpace bio, written in 2007 and remaining unchanged for our entire tenure on MySpace, from Tom to Murdoch.

I’ve talked about how much I miss MySpace on this blog before ( “Her Geography” was originally called “MySpace Memories”), but I suspect that I miss that particular time in my life, not MySpace itself.

I’ve also written about internet nostalgia before and how strange it feels. The architecture of the internet makes the experience of being online feel seamless from day to day because the changes are small and rarely jarring. A feature added here, another feature deleted there. A new interface, a new button. Small novelties are revealed in comfortable increments. But small changes add up to big ones over time, and although the pace of this accumulation might seem glacial, often I glance up at my computer screen and think about how fucking different the internet was ten years ago.

But, as you know if you’ve followed this band for any length of time, my tendency to look back with wistful longing is not reserved for the internet. Nostalgia is the defining condition of my life.

Back in 2011 me and my friend Russell released an album called Brampton Comes Alive under the moniker The Flower City 3, a band we’d been trying to start since I emailed about it in 2006. We tried to enlist Ryan Hacker and make an album about Brampton, but Hacker was less enthusiastic about the idea. Russell and I saw it as a challenge, writing song about Brampton, but Hacker saw it as a constraint. So we told people that Brampton was the third member of the group and made an album. I’m really happy with the finished product, even if the second half gets a little depressing, care of a tune called “Never Gonna Be Back Home” that I wrote. We did the vocals in a room I stayed in briefly on Cecil with a testy roommate who hated noise, so we only had one take to do the song before he came home and told us to stop recording, and I was happy that I got the screams right in the chorus. You can hear the song here: https://theflowercity3.bandcamp.com/track/never-gonna-be-back-home-2 For the packaging, we got Russell’s brother Luke to drive around Brampton and take photos. We chose one of Shopper’s World for the front cover, but the physical record had a booklet with five or six other photographs. The lone review we got for the record, by a blog called iheartmusic, was savage. He said it was the worst record he’d ever heard, which hurt a little, but I was glad that we made it. It was a nostalgic collection of song, to be sure, our mission statement being: this album is dedicated to Brampton, not as it is, or even as it was, but as we remember it, echoing the old maxim that what happens isn’t as significant as how you remember it. 

I thought that finishing and releasing that Flower City 3 record would finally cure me of my nostalgia, but it didn’t. I became more and more introspective, to the point where most of BCN songs are about the loss of friendship or the loss of youth. I don’t just want the band to be a self-therapy vehicle for me, but it’s hard to fight what comes naturally. Metal bands write about ancient medieval battles or zombies climbing mountains. Punk bands write about pizza and girls. And The Big City Nights Band writes songs about nostalgia and friendship. So here we are, with a new record that serves as a callback to the past.

We have an old song on Deep Space Bistro called “Almost Awake,” an off-kilter, shoegazey kind of thing, with a lot of delay on the guitar. The song was recorded in late spring 2008 around the same time I was finishing up the final mixes for A Steamroller Named Desire. I was with Jessica at the time, and I remember meeting her somewhere in Chinatown to grab food. She'd taken the bus down from Brampton while I'd spent the day recording the song. We brought the food back to my attic bedroom and ate while I played her the mix. I tried to get her to sing on it, but she wasn't comfortable with it. Previously she'd been excited to sing on songs, and we did a lot of recording together. Her voice can be found on "Be Mine This Xmas," "Hockey Night In Canada," "Greensong," "Canadian Baseball," "I'm A Skymaker," "Until They Smile," "Between Important Syllables," "Jawbreakers," "Summer Sports," "Carry Me Ontario," "Happy Man," and probably a few more I'm forgetting. But she wasn't down with singing on this one, and it was a turning point in our relationship. After that afternoon, it was much harder to get her to sing on my songs. She was struggling with depression and malaise at the time. She dropped out of school and spent most days in bed watching The Office. We moved in together in September 2009 in an attempt to salvage the relationship but it didn't last long. We broke the lease and went our separate ways in June 2010, a few days before the band released Might Minutes.

Almost Awake is our twenty-first album, meaning our discography could now legally drink at a bar in the States if it were a sentient being. The idea sparks one's imagination. If our discography were a person, it’d be an older man, NOT a gentleman but a bellowing boor lurching down the sidewalk, trying to make friends with people who have their headphones on. Friendly enough, and not a bully, but a guy who has a surplus of things he wants to say and a deficit of sympathetic ears. Enthusiastic, to be sure, yet caustic and poorly dressed to boot. He stands upwind while smoking at the bus stop. He's maddeningly inconsistent to employer and friend alike: no one knows which version of him will show up, the slick professional or the shambling, drug-addicted hustler. Always interesting though not always inviting interest. Loving but not loved. Fetid, not feted. Musical garbage. Gasoline rainbows. Yesterday's slice of pizza. Tomorrow's heartburn. A pile of newspapers in a language lost to the world. Twenty one albums of shambolic, mono, sometimes beautiful, sometimes acerbic, rock 'n roll from the metaphorical garage.

Almost Awake has some rock n roll on it, especially the first half, but it’s got plenty of balladry too. As an album it can stand on its own, but it might need assistance walking. It's helper and brother is High Hopes, our other record that came out in 2016. The two records are bookends that mine similar sonic and lyrical territory. I've been battling a drug problem for a few years now and finally starting to get the upper hand, though there have been falterings here and there. I write a lot of songs regardless, on drugs or off them, drunk or sober. A recurring lyrical themes of the early albums was friendship. I wrote a lot of songs about my friends. 

"Born to Bar Band" is about my friends who were in bands, working all day and week so they could play music at night and on weekends, hence the line "days seem long waiting to sing our songs." "Murray Street" is about Emon. We had a fight summer 2006, so I wrote a song about it. It's not Shakespeare, obviously. I preferred to put it bluntly back then: "Please don't not call me your friend." "Wedding Day" is about a friend of mine who had gotten engaged to another friend of mine. They started acted differently, didn't come out as much, which was fine and understandable, except that when they DID come out, they were awkward and kinda rude to us. It was as if they thought we were all immature losers and they were better than us because they had decided to do something adult while we were still playing in bands and drinking in bars. So I wrote a song about how I was mad about it."Why I Didn't Hate Summer 2003" is another friendship one. "Tell your friends this summer I'm just stuck working.""She Dreams Of Airports" was about my friend M___. Any song on Born to Bar Band that isn't about friendship or hanging out with friends is about love and/or relationship problems. "Bicycle Man," "Waiting," "Mathematics," "Don't Tell Me" and "Don't Fuck With Me," written about my ex-gf D____, "Run Home" and "Big Ears" about my gf at the time, N_____. "Leave Your Man" was directed toward a girl I really liked at the time. "Soda Song" is also about her. 

Later on, starting with Might Minutes I'd say, and in FULL swing by the time we got to Under the Overpass and Gimme Gardens, our songs were about nostalgia, and this nostalgia was brought on by the dissolution of many of my friendships. I'm not saying my friendships had ALL crumbled by 2010, but there had been a fundamental change to each one of them, I still don't know why, that started to drive wedges between me and my friends. These wedges were creating distance between us, inches that grew to canyons, until eventually some people disappeared altogether from each other's lives. Me coming to terms with this has not yet happened. I'm still upset over it, and I still think about it all the time, which is pathetic because I'm 31 years old. I should be married with children by now, instead of living with my parent and yearning for my lost youth.

Ember Nights

Taken from a collection of demos written last summer. The title was "Memba Thenz" for a while but I changed it to something less silly. An ember night could be any night in September, November, or December, take your pick, or a night that burns and glows, which is more poetic I guess. The song, lyrically, is about coming to the end of a long period of debauchery, and your brain is dead and your nerves are shot. The lyric is deliberately dumb, “mind like a DOA,” to match the brain deadness of the subject or something. I dunno. I like the line so I kept it. I like the lead guitar lines too and Kuehn drummed the song well. Love that tapping on the top of the bass drum, which James does sometimes too, often to great effect, as in "In The Street."

Two Packs A Day Also from last summer. This one turned out a LOT faster and punkier than I expected. The vocal is not strong at all, but it has a charm to it. There's a friendship vibe to this one, a territorial one, as in things are like this “round our way."

Summers End Wrote this one last April. Again, turned out way different during the tracking of the drums, so we went with it. There is a vocal melody but, as with "1985," I really liked how punchy and strong it sounds without any singing, so I left it alone. I still might get Ryan to sing on it and put a version with vocals on the next record. We'll see. More & More Mortified Recorded this one with Courtney on vocals. A sad song about dashed expectations and getting older. I love the blend of our voices. My mother loves this song and made me play it for my sister and her boyfriend on Christmas Eve, which was awkward, but my Mom said she still had the song in her head three days later, which is a good sign. When your Mom, who has previously not expressed much interest in your band, has a hook in her head three days after hearing a song, it gives you more confidence in said song. There’s a bit of Twin Peaks vibe.

No Window My first bedroom in Toronto was in a basement and it was windowless. I felt trapped and encumbered. No window = no escape, obviously, but also nothing to look at. Some Glum Alumni

Another song about days gone by. Before Instagram, nobody had photos of the truly good times, because everyone was having too much fun to take photos. In The Dark This is a really old cover of a Paddington song, recorded in Orangeville in 2005 in my Dad's basement. That was the first iteration of Little Ghost Recording Co and I was just learning how to record. I could barely play the drums but I got through this song okay. If it were any longer I surely would have faltered and made mistakes. The drumming as it is, is really tight-fisted on the hi-hat, which was how I played back then. I'm a much better drummer now than I was then, but still not very good. The Paddington album this song is on is called These Monsters That You've Been Chasing, which is a fantastic title. You can hear the (superior) Paddington version, which is a prom date waltz, at the following ancient MySpace page: https://myspace.com/paddingtonband/music/songs Paddington was a cool band I played in for four or five months back in 2004. The bass player Jordan hated me. A year later, frustrated at the glacial pace with which Andrew preferred to rehearse, record, and organize live dates, he organized a coup. Although he claimed that he left the band, along with Lindsay Gibb, the singer/keyboard player and the drummer whose name I forgot, what they really did was kick Andrew out of his own band and reform under the name Bedtime, Sleepyhead, which is BS if you ask me. Lindsay never cared for me much either. I didn't speak much at Paddington practices because the other members had known each other for years and had all the accrued inside jokes and experiences that come with close contact, but anytime I did try to speak or contribute to a conversation, Lindsay would wait a beat and then go: "...well, anyway..." then continue speaking as if I'd never said anything. After a while I stopped speaking entirely. I left the band unceremoniously in July or August 2004. Like The Beekeeper’s Society, another coed indie band with a polite approach to songcraft that I once played in, I never played on any recordings, so my time in those bands is lost to the ages. High Hopes A full band, electric version of the title track of our last record. I prefer the other version, but this one has its moments, particularly the break down when the bass goes for a walk and the whole band smashes back in on the A chord, those three hits, then back in. The harmonies are off kilter, but I didn't have much time to do them, so I just hoped for the best. People & Places I was digging through old demos last year, demos I'd done in autumn 2013 while living at my Dad's in Guelph and attending the University of Waterloo. I found so many forgotten gems in that pile of songs. and this was one of them. Others include "Cocations," which has already been recorded sans vocals and will be on our upcoming double album, and "Throwing Copper," which will also be on Keep It Beautiful. Sad Shitty Supermarket Holds Senior Citizen Day Again, in keeping with the theme of the album, a song about getting older and having one's expectations dashed. One & Only A love song to drugs. Western Sweepstakes This was going to be a demo, part of the collection of songs I did in autumn 2013, but I liked the song enough to dress it up with synth strings and harmonies, the usual BCN fare. I tried to record this one with Ryan Mills when James and Ryan had taken a short break during the Chords for the Bored sessions, but it didn't come out very good, so I kept that song off that album. I knew I was going to use this version on an album eventually, it was just a matter of finding the right fit.

Make It Mine A reviewer of our first album described "She Dreams of Airports" as a "hobo strum" which has "enough brio about it to win you over." He also said the song had a great title. "She Dreams of Airports" was written in a feverish afternoon during a Neutral Milk Hotel phase, so I was trying to ape Jeff Mangum by strumming loudly on an acoustic and trying to jam as many words into the song as I could, using the specific topic of travel. But the whole “hobo strum” thing wasn’t true...I wrote the song in the comfort of the basement of my Dad’s house in Orangeville. “Make it Mine,” however, was written while I was busking at the northwest corner of Queen and University last April, a transient month spent mostly on the street, trying to get enough money to get by. I’d usually make at least $20 if I played for three or four hours. I’d get bored doing CCR and Oasis though, and write my own stuff. I wrote this one on the spot, which is probably why the lyrics are so repetitive. I couldn’t write them down so they had to be basic. There’s another version on High Hopes but it’s not much better. Both version fail to get the essence of the song, which is an authentic “hobo strum,” not an ersatz one like “She Dreams of Airports.” I’d like to try it out with the full band someday soon. One Last Rodeo A song about doing drugs one last time. And doing them again the next day, just one last time. And the next day, one last time, the cycle continuing for months until you're barely alive. Drug users call the last night the "last rodeo," depressingly enough. Big City Nights Radio Report #1 A bunch of demos sewn together and presented as a radio station. A radio station I'd put on my presets, indubitably. Look for more BCN Radio Reports in the future, $2 and #3 and so on. Why not, eh? Some of these songs will be on our upcoming double album, Keep It Beautiful.