#I just spent way too many years down a rabbit-hole of accidentally finding out MORE BAD STUFF about Greg Weisman

[threewaysdivided]

Hey ! i'm a longtime follower of your blog and I've read a lot of your YJ analysis and why the latter seasons totally flopped. I haven't seen you comment on Young Justice Phantoms, although I guess your opinion remains the same. However I'd love to read it one day.

PS : I do think Greg Weisman is a decent writer, but not that good at characterization and desperatly needs editors and not enablers *sigh*

Hey nonnie!

Glad you’ve found my YJ writing critiques interesting. 

The reason why I haven’t commented on Young Justice: Phantoms (or the final Targets comic) is that I haven’t watched it, haven’t read a synopsis and have no plans to ever do so.  My interest in the series went pretty cold as far back as Invasion but at the time I was willing to give the showrunners good faith on their claims that they had a plan to bring things together and that the problems were mostly production issues.  However, after how bad Outsiders was (and having seen similar awfulness from Greg Weisman in other franchises) I don’t have any good faith or trust left to give them.

I talked at length about how Outsiders left the show with no compelling narrative as part of this big Invasion breakdown (grumpier TL:DR version here), but here are the most relevant sections:

In terms of the Central Conflict, the Light are proved utterly correct: by Outsiders the Original Team are callous, hollow husks of their former selves, who have replicated a worse version of the same status quo the Team originally formed in response to. Dick, Kaldur and M’gann’s Anti-Light are a new upper echelon of older heroes who keep even more secrets from the next generations, who exclude the new generations far more strongly from knowing their plans, who give them even less reason to trust or communicate with them, and who do so for less just, less honest and less narratively justified reasons than their own mentors’ understandable (if condescending) desire to shield the proteges from the parts of the Life they may not yet have been equipped to face. Not only that but their constant lying with the intent to control others, and refusal to hold themselves accountable for those actions goes directly against both the League’s stated heroic ideals of “Truth, Liberty and Justice” and Red Tornado’s conclusion that caring is “the human thing to do”. By the end of Outsiders, even the existence of the Team itself is undone; decommissioned into the exact kind of safe training space that the Season 1 characters were desperate for it never to be. […] With Outsiders, any actual narrative set by Young Justice Season 1 is over. By their own standards the Team have lost, and lost entirely.

The meta-narrative of Young Justice Animated is that of a show that started with a promising initial season and strong sense of narrative identity, only to discard every part of that identity.  With Invasion the show discarded its original characterisations, themes and ideologies; replacing them with contradictory and often antithetical ones.  Outsiders would then shed even the surface trappings of its aesthetic (in favour of the more generic “modern DC” art-style) and mission-based narrative structure.  There is nothing left, save for some superficial proper nouns and call-back references: the textbook definition of an In Name Only Sequel.

I didn’t bother with Phantoms (and am frankly a little artistically insulted by its existence) because I knew it was doomed from the start to be a narrative stillbirth.  Having actively abandoned its original identity, Young Justice was left desperately scrambling to forge a new one, by clawing at the one thing it had left: people’s nostalgic attachment to the Season 1 iterations of the cast.  But this could never work because every season since has been engaged in a performative pretense of not acknowledging the character-breaking contradictions and hypocrisies forced upon the original cast by the poor writing decisions.  Phantoms would have to thread an impossible needle: wanting to be about the “journey” of the original cast for nostalgia reasons, while not being able to acknowledge that the last two seasons (and attaché comics) have resulted in all of them either actively failing or being tragically soft-locked out of their explicit character arcs without breaking that kayfabe of performative ignorance.  And, in trying to tell a story without engaging with that story's content or how broken it had become, what would they have left but to fall back yet again on canonical filler, sidequests and references held loosely together by contrivance? 

It could only ever be a zombie-fic of itself: having long-since concluded or abandoned any remaining character or plot threads, driven forward solely by the stream-of-consciousness compulsive-writing of a production team desperate to remain present, relevant and profitable.  And from the feedback I’ve heard from the general community and fandom friends who kept watching, it seems like Phantoms did indeed pull down the curtain on that empty, directionless, hollow-automaton-filled narrative for a lot of people.

As for Greg Weisman himself, while I agree that he is a particularly poor character-writer, I will respectfully but firmly disagree that he’s otherwise decent.  I think the fact that we have to caveat “he’s a decent writer” with the condition “so long as he’s surrounded by a team of strong editors and directors to keep him from being awful” kind of reveals that he isn’t.   I also don’t really accept the premise that the main fault lies with the people around him for not stopping that.  They certainly haven’t helped but he’s a grown adult who can make his own decisions. Enablers don’t generally induce behaviours; they simply amplify or become complicit in the behaviours that are already there.

In the video Plagiarism and You(tube), Hbomberguy did a great job of laying out the difference between “honest mistakes” – which can be easily cleared up by good-faith apologies and explanations – and “dishonest behaviour” – where the person(s) is aware that what they are doing is not appropriate and falls back on reputation-protecting deflections and “non-apologies” to avoid consequences when caught.  Weisman would not so-frequently disrespect his colleagues’ work with contradictions, or write patterns of misogyny, queerphobia, casual racism/ableism and abuse apologism into his stories if he did not fundamentally feel entitled to do so, was not comfortable and in agreement with those beliefs, or did not think he could get away with it.  And the way he has routinely responded to even gentle, good-faith comments by fans expressing frustration/confusion with inconsistent characterisation/structure indicates someone who knows he has done the wrong thing but resents being questioned or held accountable.  And then we see him continuing the same behaviours.  A “decent writer” should not need an editor to hold their hand and explain why directly contracting explicitly-stated characterisation is bad practice.  A “good ally” should not need someone to tell them that disproportionately subjecting queer/non-white characters to shock-value violence, writing minority characters to be dirty/dangerous/less valid in their identities, erasing/demonising/misgendering AFAB trans and bisexual identities, rewriting strong female characters to need motherhood or men to “tell them who they are”, writing gay men to be secretly misogynistic/racist, and framing victims as being equally responsible for their abuse is offensive.  All of which he has either directly done or tacitly allowed under his lead.  Multiple times.  Across multiple series.

These are not isolated incidents of “good-faith mistakes” from a newcomer learning the ropes (if they were, it wouldn’t bother me like this).  Weisman has had multiple seasons - multiple franchises even - and decades to show himself to be the kind of sincere ally and visionary artist of integrity that myself and his fans wanted him to be… and that he has so benefited from presenting himself as.  He has chosen not to. Say what you want about their stories, but you can’t claim that marginalised creators like ND Stevenson, Rebecca Sugar, Dana Terrace and allies like Neil Gaiman didn’t push back hard against their own publishers and make a lot of careful compromises in order to tell those stories in a way they felt was respectful. Weisman is in a very privileged position, with a resume that carries a decent amount of clout. He could have held himself to the creative standards he publicly expresses; could have worked improve his craft, could have examined his own biases and actually learned from the communities his stories speak about/over.  But he didn’t – because obviously it's easier and more comfortable to keep being lazy, keep relying on his colleagues to carry him, to not question his own biases/privileges and then lie when caught.  And with the money he makes, and all the second chances and new jobs he keeps getting handed, what incentive does he have to change that behaviour? 

So, personally I don’t buy his attempts to position himself as an UwU Nice Guy Ally whose haters are taking him out of context and whose nasty publishers keep forcing him to do incoherent bigotry.  He’s a grown-up, who can own his own behaviour.  And, even with a generous reading, this is at best the behaviour of a fair-weather sell-out who is willing to abandon his principles at the slightest hint of pressure from above.  That is not what respect looks like.  I wanted to give him good faith, but in light of all this, I find I can no longer trust him to keep his word or be honest about his intentions.

This is kind of the other reason why I choose not to support or engage with YJ Phantoms (or the revival in general): on top of being utterly disinterested, I just don’t want to incentivise this kind of creative behaviour with more money or attention.  I also can’t ignore what could be a pattern where Weisman makes grand promises that he likely never has a plan or intent to fulfill, then deliberately leaves holes/timeskips/inconsistencies in his narratives in order to generate ongoing demand for separate-purchase side content which promises to “fill those gaps”… but which never does because there isn’t actually a plan to facilitate that (thus creating an endless cycle of demand and profit).  To me that cuts a little too close to the potential for a privileged creator to be exploiting their clout and the good-faith belief of their fanbase in order to grift those fans out of their time and money.  I don’t find that acceptable.

So, yeah.  Not to deploy the GIF again but:

It'll be a big, fat doughnut on YJ Phantoms content from me 🍩. Sorry!

[a-clockwork-justice]

Everything I Love About Loser Geek Whatever

So, not too long ago, it was the third birthday of Loser Geek Whatever. Yes, I know the single was released on November 30th 2018 and its considered the song’s official birthday, but the 26th July three years ago was the first showing of the 2018 Off-Broadway revival of Be More Chill and the first time Loser Geek Whatever was shown to the world in any capacity. Therefore, I consider that day to be the song’s unoffical birthday and I’ve been waiting to write down everything I love about it so here I am. (This was originally gonna be posted on the 26th July but I can’t make anything concise so it took longer than that).

I’ve gone on and on about what Loser Geek Whatever means to me personally, how a slew of random chance introduce me to it, got me deep into Be More Chill, introduced me to 90% of my current friends, and overall up-ended my whole life, but now it’s time to dissect the song itself and why it’s so great. As much as I adore Loser Geek Whatever, it could’ve easily been any other song that threw me down a rabbit hole and that I could’ve latched onto- no, wait, it couldn’t have been, because Loser Geek Whatever is unique in that way. I did about a year of music at A-Level so I’m gonna delve into some of the technical aspects here too. I’m chronicling this mostly for myself so I am going as deep as I see fit because this song is a treasure hiding yet more treasures. If you happen to love Loser Geek Whatever as much as I do, this’ll be your goldmine.

So, grab a snack my fellow fans, because here’s a comprehensive list of everything to love about Loser Geek Whatever in roughly chronological order. Long post incoming:

The song starts off strong from the first millisecond - I don’t know what instrument(s) they used but just listen to the single version again - that opening chord blares at you like a siren. It calls for your attention, screaming this is incredibly important, and indeed it is. That chord, an F chord, has no indication as to whether it’s major or minor - it’s just the tonic F with its dominant C and another tonic F above it. In other words, it’s unresolved, it hangs in the air. From a narrative standpoint, Jeremy is at a crossroads, torn between giving into the SQUIP or staying loyal to Michael, and the music paints this. It has the same effect on both the single and album versions - I always hold my breath as it holds, it’s the gap in this crucial transition for Jeremy between who he was and him becoming something he isn’t.

To continue the thread of musical painting, the melody line contains the accidental E-flat which doesn’t belong to the key of F major. This once again illustrates Jeremy’s uncertainty, but there’s more - the whole introduction is a slowed-down version of the Apocalypse of the Damned theme from Two Player Game, arguably the point in the show when Michael and Jeremy’s relationship was at its strongest. Jeremy’s recalling everything he had with Michael, but the slowing down of the melody shows hesitancy, along with highlighting the accidental E flat. These latter points of course aren’t unique to Loser Geek Whatever - they’re also in the section of Upgrade that twins with Loser Geek Whatever. I’m just laying out why they work so well. 

I’m glad I waited until after I saw the show in London to finish writing this - I’m something of a Loser Geek Whatever purist, as made clear by my ire at them cutting it in half and tacking the end of Upgrade back on for the London version. I still enjoyed the show in London though and I’m glad I knew about this change ahead of time, because they did change something about the song that I think really worked - they added two notes in the bass to each bar, like heartbeats, which once again signifies Jeremy’s uncertancy and the importance of this major turning point.

It’s been firmly established by this point that Jeremy is a loser and he knows it. He doesn’t want to be a hero, he just wants to survive, but there’s a difference between that and feeling “inconsequential.” Jeremy is basically admitting that, in his eyes, it doesn’t matter to the world or anyone except Michael if he even survives or not. He’s not just a loser, or a geek - he’s a whatever, with no one caring who he is. And he’s felt this way for years - since middle school began. He’s now in his Junior year of high school - that’s five years of being in this state of being unnoticed at best and picked on at worst. He’s “the one who’s left out”. With just one little line, hell, one word, we’re given more layers as to why he so badly wants to change that.

Moving from the first verse to the chorus, we start to see Jeremy’s attitude shift, from being sad to being angry - he’s frustrated, resentful that he’s spent so long in this state (A lot of people have made similar comparisons about Will Roland’s Jeremy as a whole in relation to Will Connolly’s Jeremy and I think this song exemplifies that). He doesn’t deserve to feel this horrible - not now and certainly not for the next two years until he and Michael can be “cool in college.” When you think about it, what options does he really have? He could either give into the SQUIP or reject it and go back to where he was, still miserable and lonely. Yes, he has Michael and Michael is an amazing, kind, loyal best friend, but as many have pointed out, he’s also dismissive of Jeremy’s feelings of inadequacy whether he means to be or not, which only made Jeremy feel more lonely. Should Jeremy just expect to feel better about himself at some point before college? He’s waited for years, why would that happen at any other point?

More layers baby! Second verse, Jeremy rants on about his father’s advice about following his own instincts and how it’s gotten him nowhere he wants to be. Come to think of it, Michael’s advice about staying the same and waiting for their environment to change can be seen as similar - it’s arguably easier for Michael as he has two loving mothers who undoutably give him plenty of positive reinforcement. Meanwhile, Jeremy’s mother has left them, which likely instilled further feelings of not being good enough, and his father has fallen apart to the point where he can’t even put pants on, let alone step up to take care of his son, meaning that Jeremy likely isn’t going to take his advice very seriously, especially after it’s failed him so thoroughly. But to Jeremy, the problem isn’t necessarily the advice itself - it’s that it’s being followed by him. So now he’s going to turn around and put his life and every choice in something else’s hands, even if - no, especially if it goes against his own instincts. It still doesn’t feel quite right, it “feels bizarre”, but it’s getting him somewhere, so it has to be right in the most meaningful capacity, and to Jeremy, the “most meaningful capacity” is any capacity that isn’t his own.

Now the best line - the one about being a “normal, handsome guy”. Let’s get this on the table - Jeremy is trans. Will Roland himself said that he often thinks of the show’s young trans fans when he sings that line. Naturally, societal transphobia plus gender dysphoria would have a pretty catestrophic effect on the self-esteem of any growing teenager, even more so one in Jeremy’s situation for the reasons I’ve just laid out. He’s probably missed out on a lot of things that “normal” guys take for granted, with most girls barely looking in his direction, let alone in any positive manner. Jeremy’s own sexuality aside, it’s mostly society, and the SQUIP by extension, that considers scoring with girls to be a “manly” or masculine activity, and through Brooke treating him as dateable material, Jeremy feels better about fitting into society’s rules of how a man should be and act. This isn’t the only reason he feels good about Brooke finding him attractive, of course, but it’s just another layer that Jeremy sees more value in conforming to how society says he should be rather than in how he actually is.

I know I just said that the last point was about the best line, but honestly, there’s more than one best line in this song. The bridge is where we start to see Jeremy’s language becoming more technologically inclined - “prompt”, “command” and “bandwidth” are all terms used in computing and used to show how Jeremy is likening himself, or his intentions, to a computer, effectivly merging himself and his SQUIP into one entity and Jeremy willingly giving over his own individuality.

And HERE, we get to the kicker. I’ve talked a lot about layers throughout this whole essay, about themes and motifs building on each other. Jeremy is essentially peeling back the layers of his own situation and only finding reason after deeper reason after deeper reason as to why he should follow the SQUIP and not be a loser anymore. Now, he hits the core, the seed, the crux of it all - “The problem has ALWAYS BEEN ME!!” Everything he is, everything that makes Jeremy Heere himself, is and has always been wrong. This line is a gut punch and EVERYONE knows it - the performer always takes a few seconds to let it sink in before continuing.

As an aside, I wanna mention the differences between the single and the album versions of the bridge. The album version starts of quieter after the vocalising of the last chorus, and builds up to the climactic final line, while the single version is loud all the way through but gets even louder and punchier at the end. Both are good, but I personally prefer the single version - the album sounds like Jeremy is broken and desperate and on the verge of tears as he reaches his inevitable but ugly realisation. The single is also desperate, but it’s pleading and all-consuming and a THOUSAND times more powerful, I get chills every time I hear it. (Side note, the London version starts of loud like the single and ends quieter like the album, almost as if Jeremy is reluctant to admit what he truly believes about himself, and it’s easy to see why, it’s a damn harsh condemnation).

“Take a breath and get prepared” - Jeremy sings to both himself and the audience. The first half has been heavy and we need a breather. Yet just before he goes over the brink, he has second thoughts. His conscience, his own voice in his head, breaks through, warning him that his choice will have consequences for other people than himself. People will get hurt - Michael most of all. Not just by Jeremy ditching him; here’s something else - when Jeremy is the “cool dude”, he might end up being a bully to those who are losers just like him, cutting them down just as Rich’s SQUIP made Rich do to him. Who would be the perfect target for Jeremy’s potential future bullying? His former best friend and fellow loser, Michael Mell. It’s pretty damn likely that if the SQUIP hadn’t optic nerve blocked Michael, it would’ve told Jeremy to pick on him, and even though Michael has ostensibly been pretty good at brushing these things off before, the takedowns would hurt a LOT more coming from his former best friend - and we know this because IT ACTUALLY HAPPENS, granted without the SQUIP influencing Jeremy directly (also let’s just clear up that just because the SQUIP wasn’t on doesn’t mean its influence on Jeremy hadn’t disappeared - that’s not how emotional abuse works).

Twelve years of loyal friendship, of borderline unhealthy codependency … can he throw all that away for Christine, a girl he’s thus admired from afar and is only just starting to get to know as a person? Moreover, even if Jeremy gets Christine, what about himself, who he wants to be? He just wants to be something other than himself because he thinks that anything is better but … what? The cool dude, the hero or … whatever. He’ll take anything because he’s that desperate, but what about when he gets it? Will he finally be satisfied? Will it be worth failing his one real friend, an act so scummy that the only way he could possibly stomach it would be to somehow pretend he hadn’t done it?

But none of those questions matter to Jeremy now - he’s fully gaslit into believing that every thought and inclination that comes from himself is wrong and shouldn’t be followed. He needs to sync up with the SQUIP and the rest of the world and mute his own defective inner voice. When you think about it, the relationship between Jeremy and the SQUIP is one of the most intense abusive relationships ever put to fiction - we’ve seen emotional abuse and brainwashing before, but here, Jeremy is literally preventing from THINKING the wrong way because the SQUIP can detect his every thought. See what I mean when I say that doesn’t go away when the SQUIP turns off for a few minutes?!

Throughout all of this is the undercurrent of Jeremy wanting to get better. He’s been trying so hard for so long to have a better life, but nothing has worked. Not listening to his dad, not trying to get closer to Christine through theatre, and certainly not listening to Michael’s advice to wait until college. Why should he resign himself to even more time being miserable with no end in sight? After all, being cool in college isn’t a guarantee. After all he’s been through, it’s his turn to finally be cool, after an eternity of being someone he doesn’t want to be.

Another best line in this song - “I’m Player One.” As mentioned a few times in the show before, like in the Broadway upgrade, Jeremy feels lower even in his friendship with Michael - he’s Player 2 as the more experienced Michael is Player 1. As previously established, Jeremy admits that he’s “not the one who the story’s about.” Now he’s ready to finally take control of his life, be the main character and have good things happen to him, and that means cutting out Michael, the old Player 1. The irony here is that Jeremy is less like Player 1 and more like a video game avatar. In reality, the SQUIP is Player 1, making Jeremy do whatever it demands of him.

More best lines! The slew of insults towards the end serves not just as yet more gut punches for the audience but as a major catharsis for Jeremy - It’s telling that the insults get harsher as his rant goes on, from the “weirdo” to the “weakling freak” to the “failure” to the climactic “please don’t speak”. He’s unloading everything that he’s been carrying over the years, ripping out the bullets that have been embedded in his skin and re-opening all the wounds in the process, but he’s done with the pain and he’ll never ever let himself be hurt like that again, if he follows the SQUIP.

I’ve made a whole post about the significance of the best line “Please Don’t Speak” before so I’ll mostly be repeating a lot of what I said there because it’s been a while since that post and because I want to. Who would’ve said that to Jeremy? Probably not Rich or Chloe, it’s not like them. It had to have come from an adult in a position of authority that could’ve commanded Jeremy not to speak like that - one that apparently did so enough times for him to internalise those words like he did the others. (Even worse if it was more than one adult ...). Out of all of the insults, it’s easy to see how that can easily be the most scarring out of all of them - how would an adult let a child know they’re inadequate? By silencing them. Making it clear that their expression of self not only means nothing, but should be forcibly avoided. Put like that, it makes it much easier to see how and why Jeremy fell under the SQUIP’s influence so easily - telling it was hardly different from authority figures he’s experienced before. In even more sad irony, as Jeremy claims that he’s breaking free and letting go of his past as the “please don’t speak”, he’s just walking right into another, similar trap that he can’t easily escape from. The SQUIP literally vocal cord blocks him during The Play - if that doesn’t say “Please don’t speak,” what does?!

The climax is growing! The music shifts into the relative minor as Jeremy fully gives in to the SQUIP’s evil influence. This is the point of no return, the point where he’s literally being surrounded and overtaken - if you’ve seen this on stage or even just a bootleg, you’ll know what I mean, when the lighting shifts and the circuitry start closing in around him, it’s wonderful. The bass ascends, Jeremy declares once and for all that HE IS NOT THE LOSER, THE GEEK, OR WHATEVER, and he never will be again! As some have pointed out, the sequence of notes on the final “again” is the same as at the end of Be More Chill Part 2, except the last note is different. In BMC part 2, it goes further down by a minor third, but in Loser Geek Whatever, it rises up to the same note it started with. This foreshadows Jeremy’s fate - that he will eventually overcome the SQUIP and that he still has it in him to do so. Man, let me just point out how amazing that last belt is - it lasts for a full 15 seconds in a really high range and takes a LOT of control to bring it back up to the high B without breaking. This song really was written for Will Roland - his voice can pull it off seamlessly, but other actors and understudies have had to find workarounds. No disrespect to them, it’s a damn hard song and it kicks ass all the way through. Scott Folan apparently had trouble with it too, but on the day I happened to see him, he pulled it off without breaking, so props to him!

Overall, Loser Geek Whatever is my favourite song in Be More Chill and not just for its sentimental value to myself. It’s a genuinely deep, complex piece that earned every second of its six minutes. Loser Geek Whatever is definitely the missing piece the show needed - not only is it Jeremy’s solo song, it’s also his “I Want” song and, in a way, his 11 o’clock number all in one, as he’s having a major epiphany after going on a journey, albeit only half of one. It’s easy to see why Joe Iconis dubbed this his anti-Defying Gravity, but it’s also easy to draw parallels to No Good Deed - how both Jeremy and Elphaba vow to become something that society is forcing upon them rather than what they are, even if that society’s will is objectively worse for them. Loser Geek Whatever deserves a thousand times the recognition it has and I still wonder to this day what the fandom reaction would’ve been if it had been in the original soundtrack.

So, that was it. I’m not sorry it was this long.

TL;DR: Loser Geek Whatever is wonderful and anyone who doesn’t think so is wrong.

[weheartchrisevans]

BOSTON — So you're Tim Scott, the Republican senator from South Carolina who opposes Roe v. Wade and wants to repeal the Affordable Care Act, and you get a call from Chris Evans, a Hollywood star and lifelong Democrat who has been blasting President Trump for years. He wants to meet. And film it. And share it on his online platform. Can anybody say "Borat?" “I was very skeptical,” admits Scott. “You can think of the worst-case scenario.”But then Scott heard from other senators. They vouched for Evans, most famous for playing Captain America in a series of films that have grossed more than $1 billion worldwide. The actor also got on the phone with Scott’s staff to make a personal appeal.

It worked. Sometime in 2018, Scott met on camera with Evans in the nation’s capital, and their discussion, which ranged from prison reform to student loans, is one of more than 200 interviews with elected officials published on “A Starting Point,” an online platform the actor helped launch in July. Not long after, Evans appeared on Scott’s Instagram Live. They have plans to do more together.

“While he is a liberal, he was looking to have a real dialogue on important issues,” says Scott. “For me, it’s about wanting to have a conversation with an audience that may not be accustomed to hearing from conservatives and Republicans.”

Evans, actor-director Mark Kassen and entrepreneur Joe Kiani launched “A Starting Point” as a response to what they see as a deeply polarized political climate. They wanted to offer a place for information about issues without a partisan spin. To do that, they knew they needed both parties to participate.

Evans, 39, sat on the patio outside his Boston-area home on a recent afternoon talking about the platform. He wore a black T-shirt and jeans and spent some of the interview chasing around his brown rescue dog. Nearly 100 million people didn’t vote in the 2016 general election, Evans says. That’s more than 40 percent of those who were eligible.He believes the root of this disinterest is the nastiness on both sides of the aisle. Many potential voters simply turn off the news, never mind talking about actual policy.“A Starting Point” is meant to offer a digital home for people to hear from elected officials without having the conversation framed by Tucker Carlson or Rachel Maddow.

“The idea is . . . ‘Listen, you’re in office. I can’t deny the impact you have,’ ” says Evans. “ ‘You can vote on things that affect my life.’ Let this be a landscape of competing ideas, and I’ll sit down with you and I’ll talk with you.”

Or, as Sen. Lisa Murkowski (R-Alaska), who has appeared on the site, puts it, “Sometimes, boring is okay. You’re being presented two sides. Everything doesn’t have to be sensational. Sometimes, it can just be good facts.” Evans wasn’t always active in politics. At Lincoln-Sudbury Regional High School, he focused on theater, not student government. And he moved away from home his senior year, working at a casting agency in New York as he pushed for acting gigs. His uncle, Michael E. Capuano, served as a congressman in Massachusetts for 20 years, but other than volunteering on some of his campaign, Evans wasn’t particularly political.

In recent years, he’s read political philosopher Hannah Arendt and feminist Rebecca Solnit’s “The Mother of All Questions” — ex-girlfriend Jenny Slate gave him the latter — and been increasingly upset by Trump’s policies and behavior. He’s come to believe that he can state his own views without creating a conflict with “A Starting Point.” When he and Scott spoke on Instagram, the president wasn’t mentioned. In contrast, recently Evans and other members of the Avengers cast took part in a virtual fundraiser with Democratic vice-presidential nominee Kamala D. Harris.

“I don’t want to all of a sudden become a blank slate,” says Evans. “But my biggest issue right now is just getting people to vote. If I start saying, ‘vote Biden; f Trump,’ my base will like that. But they were already voting for Biden.”

(In September, Evans accidentally posted an image of presumably his penis online and, after deleting it, tweeted: “Now the I have your attention . . . Vote Nov. 3rd!!!”)

Evans began to contemplate the idea that became “A Starting Point” in 2017. He heard something reported on the news — he can’t remember exactly what — and decided to search out information on the Internet. Instead of finding concrete answers, Evans fell down the rabbit hole of opinions and conflicting claims. He began talking about this with Kassen, a friend since he directed Evans in 2011’s “Puncture.” What if they got the information directly from elected officials and presented it without a spin? Kassen, in turn, introduced Evans to Kiani, who had made his fortune through a medical technology company he founded and, of the three, was the most politically involved.

Kiani has donated to dozens of Democratic candidates across the country and earlier this year contributed $750,000 to Unite the Country, a super PAC meant to support Joe Biden. But he appreciated the idea of focusing on something larger than a single race or party initiative. He, Kassen and Evans would fund “A Starting Point,” which has about 18 people on staff.

“There’s no longer ABC, NBC and CBS,” Kiani says. “There’s Fox News and MSNBC. What that means is that we are no longer being censored. We’re self-censoring ourselves. And people go to their own echo chamber and they don’t get any wiser. If you allow both parties to speak, for the same amount of time, without goading them to go on into hyperbole, when people look at both sides’ point of view of both topics, we think most of the time they’ll come to a reasonable conclusion.”

“What people do too often is they get in their silos and they only watch and listen and read what they agree with,” says John Kasich, the former Ohio governor and onetime Republican presidential candidate. “If you go to Chris’s website, you can’t bury yourself in your silo. You get to see the other point of view.” As much as some like to blame Trump for all the conflicts in Washington, Sen. Christopher A. Coons (D-Del.) says he’s watched the tone shifting for decades. He appreciated sitting down with Evans and making regular submissions to “Daily Points,” a place on the platform for commentary no longer than two minutes. During the Supreme Court confirmation hearings, Coons recorded a comment on Judge Amy Coney Barrett and the Affordable Care Act.“ ‘A Starting Point�� needs to be a sustained resource,” Coons says. “Chris often talks about it being ‘Schoolhouse Rock’ for adults.”

It’s not by chance that Evans has personally conducted all of the 200-plus interviews on “A Starting Point” during trips to D.C. Celebrities often try to mobilize the public, whether it’s Eva Longoria, Tracee Ellis Ross and Julia Louis-Dreyfus hosting the Democratic National Convention or Jon Voight recording video clips to praise Trump. But in this case, Evans is using his status in a different way, to entice even the most hesitant Republican to sit down for an even-toned chat. And he’s willing to pose with anyone, even if it means explaining himself on “The Daily Show” after Republican Sen. Ted Cruz of Texas posted a selfie with Evans. (Two attempts to interview Trump brought no response.) Murkowski remembers when Evans came to Capitol Hill for the first time in 2018. She admits she didn’t actually know who he was — she hadn’t yet seen any Marvel movies. She was in the minority.“We meet interesting and important people but, man, when Captain America was in the Senate, it was all the buzz,” she says. “And people were like, ‘Did you get your picture taken?’ I said, ‘Yeah, I sat down and did the interview.’ ‘You did an interview? How did you get an interview with him?’ ”What impressed Murkowski wasn’t his star power. It was the way Evans conducted the interview.“It was relaxing,” she says. “You didn’t feel like you were in front of a reporter who was just waiting for you to say something you would get caught on later. It was a dialogue . . . and we need more dialogue and less gotcha.”

“Starting Points” offers two-minute answers by elected officials in eight topic areas, including education, the environment and the economy. This is where the interviews Evans conducted can be found. “Daily Points” has featured a steady flow of Republicans and Democrats. A third area, “Counterpoints,” hosts short debates between officials on particular subjects. Eric Swalwell, a Democrat from California, debated mail-in voting with Dusty Johnson, the Republican congressman from South Dakota.

“Most Americans can’t name more than five members of the United States House,” says Johnson. “ ‘A Starting Point’ allows thoughtful members to talk to a broader audience than we would normally have.”

The platform’s social media team pushes out potentially newsworthy clips, whether it’s Sen. Mike Lee (R-Utah) discussing his meeting with Barrett just before he tested positive for the coronavirus, or Angus King, the independent senator from Maine, criticizing Trump for his comments on a potential peaceful transfer of power after November’s election. Kassen notes that the King clip was viewed more than 175,000 times on “A Starting Point’s” Twitter account, compared with the 10,000 who caught in on CNN’s social media platform.

“Because it’s short-form media, we’re engineered to be social,” says Kassen. “As a result, when something catches hold, it’s passed around our audience pretty well.”

The key is to use modern tools to push out content that’s tonally different from what you might find on modern cable news. Or on social media. Which is what Evans hopes leads to more engagement. He’s particularly proud that more than 10,000 people have registered to vote through “A Starting Point” since it went online.

“If the downstream impact or the byproduct of this site is some sort of unity between the parties, great,” says Evans. “But if nobody’s still voting, it doesn’t work. We need people involved.”

[renjuseyo]

pinwheel (2) ; woozi

group: seventeen

pairing: lee jihoon / reader (gender-neutral)

synopsis: even if you get lost and it takes you a while, come round and round back to me.

genre: angst with a happy ending

warnings: explicit language, mentions of alcohol

part one got good feedback so here’s part two written in jihoon’s pov :) it’s almost one am where i am so this hasn’t been proof read quite yet! but as always, feedback would be greatly appreciated! <3 you can find part one here

title inspiration: pinwheel by seventeen other songs: i wish by seventeen

there is a time, always, when jihoon closes his eyes and sees you in the center of his world.

when you two were in a relationship, thinking about each other was a given. wondering if the other had eaten yet or what they were up to was practically second nature, though in jihoon’s case, these thoughts were accompanied by his adoration for you. sometimes he’ll catch himself picturing you beside him, laughing so loudly that you’re snorting. it isn’t anything romantic; if he’s being honest, you have one of the weirdest laughs he’s ever heard. but as weird as it is, it’s both endearing and contagious, because it never fails to brighten his day a little more.

or he’ll picture you nagging at him, probably because he’s failed to take care of himself once again, whether it be because he accidentally skipped a meal or spent more time working on a project instead of sleeping. even if you may act like a parent more than a lover sometimes, you’re really taking care of jihoon, and in some ways, you’re the best one to do it. it brings him a sense of comfort, being able to shut his eyes and make you out so vividly in his head.

now, every time he thinks of you, pictures your boisterous laugh or your nagging lectures, all he can feel is hurt. he can’t hear your laugh without hearing your cries, nor can he see you nagging without picturing your painstaking silence. he knows it’s not right, not after he left you crying in your apartment, not even sparing a glance back. he doesn’t deserve to, anyways.

not many things can change all at once, he realizes, even if it’s already been two years. he still wonders how you are doing, sometimes if you’ve moved on, even. today is one of those days, it seems, because he’s supposed to be composing a piece for a project due a week from now. but instead of pumping out poetic verse after verse like the machine he is, he’s laying in bed, staring at the plastic glow-in-the-dark stars sprinkled against the ceiling as he goes down the inevitable spiral thoughts of you bring along. he isn’t quite sure why he hasn’t taken them down, considering how memories are drenched up just by staring at them for too long. even if they provide a dim glow amidst the pitch darkness, it doesn’t make things less lonely.

when he was dating you, he was an absolute workaholic, constantly pouring his all into his projects. ironically enough, now that you’re gone, he spends his days doing nothing instead of working to distract himself. he still goes about his day as usual, but he doesn’t put work above himself anymore.

he sighs, rolling to his side. time helps some and hurts others, but he finds himself somewhere in between in a grey area. he hasn’t quite moved on from the events yet, but the bitterness he felt is replaced with a subtle dullness in his head. it’s a blank feeling, almost as if it isn’t there.

but it is, to his dismay, and he’s reminded of it every time he stares at a blank space for a little too long. jihoon isn’t one to ponder on falling outs for a long time - “everything happens for a reason,” he always says. yet here he is, in the dullest area he’s ever known, being the most unproductive he’s ever been. his friends had long given up on him; even his friend jeonghan, who might be the stubbornest person he’s ever met, has stopped pushing him to hang out with their friends now. wonwoo still tries every now and then, but that’s because he feels a sense of duty as his best friend. besides, he probably has made more progress with you than him, if seeing him drop off coffee at your place each time is anything to go by.

the thought of you and wonwoo together creeps into his mind before he can do anything about it. he doesn’t have the right to feel jealous or uncomfortable - if anything, he’s a much better fit for you than he will ever be, even if it hurts to admit. wonwoo won’t break your heart like he did, and he’s thoughtful and observant, so you won’t have to worry about expressing your thoughts. jihoon knows you could care less about physical appearance, but wonwoo is undoubtedly one of the most attractive people he’s ever met, so that’s a bonus, too. you deserve someone that brilliantly shines like the sun, like wonwoo. not someone who cowers in the darkness like the moon, like him.

but even if wonwoo isn’t the perfect match for you, he knows you’ll eventually find someone who does, because you’re just magnetic like that.

(he isn’t quite sure how long he’s spent wallowing his insecurities. but by the time he comes out of his head, he seats himself at his desk with newfound inspiration, writing i wish at the top of a new page.)

the four years jihoon spent dating you, and the several he spent as your best friend, has undoubtedly been the best years he’s spent. it isn’t like there’s a new adventure every day, because truthfully, you two spend more time being couch potatoes together than going out and exploring the world. but the sense of comfort and security he feels with you, the one that reminds him so dearly of home, is reason enough for him to spend each day contently.

if someone asked you how your relationship worked out as well as it did, he would say it’s because of your mutual respect for each other, and the confidence you had in your love for each other. your respect probably stems from your differences; if you’re loud and energetic, jihoon is quiet and reserved. when you relish in physical touch, jihoon resorts to subtle actions. some may even say you two are complete opposites, baffled at your compatibility, though others might argue that it’s these traits that made things just... work. truthfully, jihoon would argue that there couldn’t possibly be a more compatible pair that just got each other.

with such a perfect fit, how could you two have possibly fallen apart, some might wonder? he wonders this every now and then, too, though the answer to him is clear as day. and who else is there to blame except for himself?

having faith in each others’ love is the pillar to every relationship, and by doubting his, jihoon inevitably slipped down a rabbit hole of insecurities and what-ifs. and with these came the thought of you deserving much better than what he can offer, which eventually led to the mess that was two years ago.

now, if someone asked jihoon if he loves you, he would answer yes, in a heartbeat. but if someone also asked if he had any regrets, he would answer no, in the exact same time span. you deserve someone who won’t fall down said rabbit hole, even if it hurts him to think of you with someone new. love is a powerful motivator, anyways.

(jihoon’s perched on a stool by the bar, a glass of beer in his hand. moments later, wonwoo slides himself beside him, holding a new bottle. he raises an eyebrow in questioning. “bartender said it’s for you, from the girl in the blue dress.”

he scans the crowd until his eyes drift onto someone matching that description. she holds up her own glass in acknowledgement, sending him a flirty smile. he’s a little surprised considering how he rarely stands out like this. unsure of what to do, he sends her a polite smile before looking back at wonwoo. “no thanks.”

wonwoo shrugs, taking a swig of his own bottle. “suit yourself.” the bar is densely packed with people among their own cliques, eagerly engaged in conversation. it’s loud and reeks of alcohol, but jihoon feels like he’s in his own little bubble, save for wonwoo by his side. they both silently drink their respective beverages, taking in the crowd behind them, until wonwoo turns to face him. “care to tell me why you’re here, drinking your sorrows away?”

he rolls his eyes. “i’m not depressed, if that’s what you’re asking.”

he shrugs, holding up his hands defensively. “sorry. forgot you’re all sunshine and rainbows.” there’s a quick pause, and jihoon can tell he has something to say. “you know,” he begins, swirling his drink around, “(name) asked me how you’ve been.”

jihoon can feels his lungs contracting together, but he ignores the feeling, instead intensely staring at his drink. wonwoo continues, “i said you were doing okay.” he turns his head to give him a look of confusion, since wonwoo has experienced firsthand just how “okay” he’s really been. “well, you’re doing better than (name) is,” he explains. “i just thought you might want to know.”

he looks back at his drink, biting his lip. he supposes wonwoo does have a point, because he hasn’t turned into a sobbing mess like people had thought he would be. but then again, jihoon seldom cries, and he isn’t the most expressive, so no one is really surprised. he chooses to think of you instead. did you ask to see if he was still affected? did you ask to see if he was doing better?

his thoughts are running several miles per hour, but thankfully, wonwoo has known him long enough to read his thoughts, and he almost always gets them right. “(name)’s doing better compared to a year ago, but not much has changed.” he pauses to gauge jihoon’s reaction. “you know, i don’t understand why you don’t go back. you still love (name)-”

“no.”

it’s a simple response, really, but from the sudden edge in his voice wonwoo knows better than to pry. he knows it’s because of jihoon’s insecurities and because it would be a complete dick move to ask for your forgiveness two years later. not after he recklessly split your heart in two. you deserve better than a jerk like him, anyways.

jihoon knows this, and he knows wonwoo is only asking because he’s your friend as much as he’s his. he never gets less defensive, though.)

for someone who claims to be laid back, wonwoo sure is stubborn.

jihoon knows this, having known him since high school, yet the observation dawns to him every now and then. now is one of those moments, he notes, having been dragged out of their dorms to the supermarket. he knows fully well that wonwoo is very capable of bringing those groceries in by himself; he’s personally seen him carry two bags loaded with groceries inside without even breaking a sweat. but suddenly wonwoo, who enjoys being by himself more than normal, suddenly craves company from the very person who’s tried to stay indoors more.

“stop frowning, jihoon. you’ll get wrinkles that way,” wonwoo tells him, browsing through the shelves of cereal. “have you seen the honey bunches of oats, by the way? the almond ones.”

jihoon’s still brooding, arms tightly folded across his chest. “you wouldn’t even have to look at my face if i could’ve just stayed home,” he snaps. “and they’re to the right. you missed them a while ago.

he heads to the right as told and makes a noise of satisfaction upon finding what he needed. “come on, jihoon, you need to get some vitamin d in you. staying inside all of the time is bad for you.” wonwoo holds up a box of cereal, grinning. “see? if you weren’t here, i wouldn’t have even found it.”

"it’s night time, and your eyes can’t be that bad,” jihoon snorts, shuffling towards him. he unfolds his arms and shoves them in his pockets instead.

wonwoo rolls his eyes. “you’ve seen me run into a wall because i didn’t have my glasses. i think that itself proves a point.” touche. “anyways, i think we’ve gotten just about everything. is there anything you need?” he asks.

jihoon pauses to think of things they need. “we’re out of ramen,” he answers.

and with that, the two start pushing their cart towards the aisle of asian foods. it’s not surprising to see the shelves of ramen covered by people their age - after all, ramen is practically a necessity for college students. they make their way through the throngs of people when suddenly, one person’s cart abruptly runs into a shelf. packs of ramen fall from the shelves, and they can see someone who seems very embarrassed, bending down to pick up the fallen items as fast as possible. there are people looking at the scene, though apparently none are helpful enough to help.

jihoon makes his way towards the person, helping scoop up the variety of ramen. his eye catches sight of a six-pack of samyang ramen, and he can’t help the bittersweet smile that rests on his lips. you used to compare him to the chicken, and it was funny at the time. now it just reminds him of memories he doesn’t want to recall.

“oh my god, i’m so sorry,” he hears someone mumble beside him.

he scoops an armful of ramen from the floor and sends you a reassuring smile. “don’t apologize, you’re all right.”

the stranger turns their head so fast that it startles him, when he looks up, he decides there and then the universe really might be out to get him. like some romantic drama, his eyes connect with your wide ones, and your initial nerves seems to intensify more. his smile falls, and he’s staring at you, trying his hardest to remove any signs of emotions on his face. it seems it’s working, because he sees you look away at an impossible speed.

(he hopes you didn’t stare long enough to notice the bags under his eyes, the number of sleepless nights he’s had because of you.)

before he can say anything, you hastily throw the fallen items onto the shelf, even throwing some into your cart. you throw out a quick thank-you before grabbing your cart and zooming down the aisle at an inhumane speed. he’s left alone, crouched on the floor of the ramen aisle, probably looking like a fool with his arms full of ramen staring at an empty space with wide eyes.

as soon as the pile on the floor has been cleared, wonwoo slowly rolls his cart towards jihoon. “was that...” he glances at him to see his reaction. jihoon must have some grief stricken look on his face, because for all of his stubbornness, wonwoo drops the question like hot iron.

they roll their cart towards the cash register, silence lingering in the air. thankfully, wonwoo doesn’t question it, only asking if he’s gotten everything he needed.

he also doesn’t question the six-pack of samyang ramen that had miraculously matieralized in the cart, inserting his card into the card reader. and for all of his frugality, wonwoo doesn’t tell jihoon to pay him back, either.

when they slide into wonwoo’s car after throwing their groceries into the trunk, jihoon turns to glance at him, who’s connecting his phone to the car. “hey, wonwoo?”

he turns to face him, raising an eyebrow in acknowledgement. “yes?”

inhale on five... exhale on ten... and repeat. now that’s not something he’s had to do in a while. he isn’t sure why he feels so nervous - it’s wonwoo of all people. he’s seen jihoon through his worst moments and even lives to tell the tale about it. shutting his eyes, he sighs. “thanks.” he awkwardly rubs his thighs, eyes trained everywhere but at him. now that he thinks about it, he has a lot to thank wonwoo for. for the times he helped him get through his breakup, for the times he’s checked up on you, for the times he forced him out of their apartment, for the times he bought food and groceries for jihoon even though he didn’t need to, for the times he brought coffee to your apartment. for not giving up on him.

wonwoo shrugs, turning the keys in the ignition. “i’d rather not deal with a zombie in my apartment. you still need to pay rent, anyways.”

jihoon’s evening is supposed to look like this: buy groceries for wonwoo and two large bottles of coke-cola for himself, order pizza for the two of them, and spend at least an hour working on his latest project. he’s gotten one of the three parts down, having just come home from the supermarket.

he has two large bottles of coke-cola on the dining table, and if he’s being honest, they’re the only things he’s looking forward to tonight. he’s in the middle of putting carton of milk and fruits in their refrigerator when he hears soft knocks on his door. huh, weird. he sure wasn’t expecting anyone, and wonwoo has keys to their apartment.

he shuts the fridge and starts walking towards their entryway until the soft knocks are suddenly replaced with urgent rapping. he jumps and pauses in stunned silence, before quickening his pace towards the door. when he peeks through the peephole, he’s relieved to see it’s only his neighbor, lee dokyeom, and not a serial killer. he’s in the year below him and is a nice underclassman - nicer than the ones he knows, anyways. sweet, patient guy. definitely not the type to knock on doors so urgently.

jihoon cracks the door open in confusion. “is there something you need?”

dokyeom nervously looks left and right as if he fears something. so perhaps the possibility of a serial killer isn’t thrown out the window, he decides. “i saw someone on the first floor who was looking for you, and they looked really aggravated. just- be careful, okay?” he whispers. before he can say anything, dokyeom scurries away and darts back into his own home.

well he’ll be damned. he supposes this does add a little zest to his mundane routine, and what screams zest quite like an aggravated person looking for him? he shuts the door and locks it before contemplating the events that could have possibly led to this. looks like pizza and his project will have to wait.

a few minutes later, jihoon hears footsteps stoming outside of his apartment. before he can ready a weapon, loud knocks echo throughout his apartment, though they’re much louder and much more aggressive than dokyeom’s. unsure of what to do, he hesitantly peeks through the peephole. when he does, he fully expects to see someone that screams serial killer material. perhaps someone with a gun or a knife, or someone wearing all black with murderous eyes. saying he’s surprised to see you standing outside of his door, angrily clutching onto a sheet of paper, is an understatement.

wait... sheet of paper?

perhaps the potential of a serial killer is better than what he’ll soon face, he decides.

mustering all of the courage in him, jihoon nervously unlocks the door and cracks it open. you’re standing before him, eyes narrowed; if looks could kill, he would be a very dead man. if he’s being honest, this is definitely not how he expected seeing you again. the fates are a funny thing.

“is there-”

“lee. ji. hoon,” you growl, grabbing the collar of his sweater. you drag him into his apartment and kick the door close before pushing him into a wall. under normal circumstances, jihoon would be very flustered. a little turned on, maybe.

but in these circumstances, he’s very nervous and a little afraid. “yes?” he squeaks.

you glare at him, pointing a finger at the sheet of paper in your hands. “what the fuck is this?” so much for small talk. he doesn’t have time to answer, because then you shove the paper in his face. it’s his final song dedicated to you, the one he had written after breaking your heart as a desperate attempt to get over you.

it didn’t work.

“funny that you should ask,” jihoon nervously laughs. “because-”

“don’t act like a smartass right now. you-” you inhale on five... exhale on ten... and repeat. “you wrote me a song like this and a letter on the back trying to justify leaving me without any answers and expect me to just take it?”

looking back, he does realize it is kind of a horrible move. just more reason why he should never get back together with you, because as much as he yearns it, he doesn’t deserve to. “no, i suppose not.”

his nerves quickly disappear when he sees the look of hurt that washes over your face, all traces of anger gone. now he just feels his heart dropping all the way down to his toes. “i thought you left because you didn’t love me anymore.” your voice is quieter, a stark contrast from your yelling, though it’s the way your voice wobbles, the way it sounds so fragile that stands out to jihoon. he can feel the two years of grief hitting him in all directions, seeing you so hurt. “you just disappeared from the face of earth. why?”

you know the answer, having read his letter and analyzing the lyrics of his song. but you’d take the words out of his mouth than on paper any day, no matter how unreliable. jihoon can only give you his guiltiest look, though it can’t even begin to compare to the guilt eating at his heart. he doesn’t respond immediately, frozen in place. the silence hangs heavy between them, and he swears this is all a dream. because you aren’t real, standing before him, begging him for answers.

but the sharp inhale that leaves your mouth is a harsh reminder that this is reality. he’s the one who hurt you as you struggle to keep your composure.

“i’m not good enough for you,” he begins. “i don’t...” inhale on five... exhale on ten... and repeat. “i don’t love the way you do, with your need to touch and for constant assurance. i can’t easily hold your hand or easily tell you i love you, because as blunt as i am, it’s so, so hard for me to just go out and say it. you fall into step with people like soonyoung so easily, because they don’t shy away from touch like i do. and you both can say you love each other without batting an eye and still be genuine about it. but i can’t do any of those things.”

he doesn’t give you a chance to speak. he’s already spiraling down a rabbit hole, too deep to come back out. his secret’s already out, so there’s no stopping it. “i’m not good at expressing how i feel, a complete contrast from you considering how you practically wear your heart on your sleeve. you deserve someone who’s love comes in the form of warm touches and firm affirmations, the same way you love people. i don’t want you to adjust the way you express love just because i can’t.” he doesn’t realize he’s crying until he feels something wet roll down his cheeks. you’re just as surprised as he is, because he rarely cries. “you deserve better.”

his final words have some sort of domino effect on you, because as soon as he says them, you march straight up to him and squish his cheeks together as hard as you can. he makes a muffled noise of confusion, staring at you with startled eyes.

“you...” you’re already shedding tears, but it’s the fierce look in your eyes that catches his attention. “you stupid, fucking, dumb idiot!”

you’ve always had a colorful vocabulary. “who are you to decide who’s good for me and who isn’t? mind you, i’m only a month younger than you, and i’m quite capable of making my own decisions!”

you continue, “i’m not dumb, jihoon! i was your best friend before your lover, you dumbass! i know better than anyone how much you hate physical touch and how hard it is for you to put your feelings into words! do you think i jumped into this relationship completely forgetting that?” you don’t even try to hide the way your voice cracks anymore. “i’m in love with you because of how stupidly organized you are. i’m in love with you because you feel emotions more deeply than others. but what really made me decide to pursue you is the fact that you never tried to change yourself for anyone! so what happened?” you sob, loosening your hold.

jihoon’s heart clenches. “i thought... having to adjust to fit what i felt comfortable with discomforted you. i thought you would’ve been happier-”

“YOU MADE ME THE HAPPIEST, YOU DUMBASS!!” you yell. “do you not realize that this whole time, these are all things you thought? because you never once tried to talk to me about how you felt?” you let go of him and walk away, turning your back on him. “the only way we can ever resolve issues like these is if we talk things out. i know you don’t like to, jihoon, but look what the alternative did to us.” you gesture at the state you two are in: crying, guilty messes, letting lack of communication completely derail your relationship.

perhaps this was what wonwoo had been trying to tell him all along: communication is key. he realizes this too late, now standing in his apartment with your heart in his hands, and his in yours. the guilt of taking the initiative all by himself without consulting you and the fact that even after everything, you can still confidently say that you love him, is so overwhelming that his knees buckle and he slides onto the ground, tears silently falling down his cheeks. you really were right when you called him a stupid idiot and more. he deserves all of those names and tenfold for doing this to you.

a silence hangs in the air, and he wonders if you’ve gone, too afraid to look up. a part of him wants you to stay, though he can understand if you left. you deserve that much. but then you slide onto the ground before him with matching tear stains, and you cup his cheeks. it’s a silent question of consent, and he closes his eyes, letting himself sink into your hands.

you lean in and rest your forehead against his. it’s warm and makes him feel a fuzzy feeling he hasn’t felt in a long time. “you’re really fucking stupid,” you murmur. “what were you thinking?”

“of you,” he whispers. he can feel your breath fanning against his face.

“obviously not, if we had to take a detour to get to where we are now,” you respond. “you’re lucky i love you.”

at this, jihoon opens his eyes and removes your hands from his face, standing up. even after unnecessarily breaking your heart, even after making these decisions himself?

you’ve known jihoon long enough to read him, even if he prides himself in being a closed book. “i’m still very pissed, and i’m not stupid enough to just jump into a relationship and forget everything that’s happened. but...” you stand up and take a step closer to him. it’s careful and precise, like how you’ve always taken care of him. “you jump, i jump?”

it’s something you two always say when you’re about to do something stupid. you and jihoon are an inseparable pair; even if jihoon is the logical one of you two, he’ll still find himself being roped into another one of your reckless shenanigans. he can still remember the one time in middle school you were trying to get a very scared jihoon to ride a newly opened roller coaster at the amusement park you two had gone on for a field trip.

“i would rather keep my remains, thanks,” he remembers saying.

but you’re stubborn personified, and you’re very firm on having your partner-in-crime beside you. “you jump, i jump?” you had asked.

he knew you wouldn’t push him if you really knew he couldn’t do it, but apparently you just know what things he can do, given the right push. that push comes in the form of that phrase, because then he finds himself climbing onto one of the seats, nervously clutching onto your hand.

but this isn’t middle school anymore, and jihoon knows even with these cleared up misunderstandings, it’s going to take a while for both you and him to assimilate yourself into a proper relationship.

yet he’s never wanted anything so badly anymore. he’s yearned for your smile, your laugh... you, for too long, and he would be a fool to give up this second chance. he takes a step towards you and laces your fingers together. he seldom touches anyone like this, and he can tell you’ve missed it, tightening your grip. “you jump, i jump,” he repeats with more confidence.

everything’s a little blurry, probably because of the tears in both of your eyes, but the one thing that’s clear to him is when you dive into his arms, burying your head in his chest. the last time you had done this, he left with your heart in his hands.

jihoon wraps his arms around you. “i’m so sorry,” he mumbles, burying his head on top of yours. “i got a little lost on my way here.” it’s supposed to be a lighthearted joke, though he can hear you sniffle.

“you came back to me,” you quietly laugh, a little unable to believe that you’re in his arms again and that this isn’t just a dream. your voice is wet and raw from crying and yelling, but jihoon’s never heard a prettier sound. “that’s all that matters.”

[deoovat]

Do you have any Knuxadow headcannons?

 Ψ(｀▽´)Ψ🔥ohhhh BABY DO I EVERRR🔥

okok imma chill. This is a long as list but its only like 15% of my headcanons but WE DONT NEED TO BE HERE ALL DAY SO HERE.

->Shadow at first thinks Knuckles fuckin stinks. Not like in a sense of having body odor or what have you, but he thinks Knuckles stinks because his chaos energy is so inactive and dormant that it smells and feels sour.Knuckles has spent the long years of his life surrounded by the Master Emerald. Knuckles has more chaos energy in his body than Shadow and Sonic combined. But the echidna never uses it, so all it does is continue piling and piling and piling and it makes his nose itch. 

->All that unused sour energy reeks to Shadow (who is the only person who can actually scent it because he’s basically made up of it) so when he first instigates the echidna into fighting him, in a way, the hedgehog wants to help him. Forcing him to use all that power on someone who can actually take it. 

->Shadow is really attracted by the fact that Knuckles can absolutely over-power him but doesn’t brag about it. He enjoys fighting him way too much. It sends him on an adrenaline high he can’t get anywhere else. However, he doesn't like the fact the Guardian hides his actual strength because he’s afraid of hurting or killing someone. It’s an understandable fear but still, it irks him. 

->Shadow is the only one that knows Knuckles is a l o t fucking stronger than he lets on. 

->Shadow is also the only one who knows Knuckles true age has been lost to time. 

->Knuckles has a strange way of comforting people but he never hesitated to remind Shadow that he’s just as much a part of this world as anyone else is, regardless of how he got there. 

-> There’s a reason Knuckles doesn’t hug people. Its because when he does if he doesn’t check his own strength he could quite literally break someone's ribs. Shadow knows this alllll too well. The first time Knuckles hugged him, forgetting to have any restraint from just how relieved he was to see him he accidentally broke 2 of Shadows ribs. Knuckles was horrified but Shadow found the entire situation hilarious. Even if they did heal within a week or two with the help of him and the Master Emerald.

-> There’s something genuinely disturbing about the fact that the first time the echidna pulled a genuine full-body laugh from his boyfriend is when he accidentally broke his ribs. Needless to say, Knuckles thinks Shadow has a weird sense of humor. 

-> SONIC IS ABSOLUTELY TO BLAME FOR THEM BEING TOGETHER AND HE’S SO SMUG ABOUT IT. Sonic has deemed himself a matchmaker and no one is safe. He’s to damn proud of himself too, that he’s the one who nudged the two together in his own sneaky way.

->Knuckles has been teaching Shadow words and phrases in one of the languages of his tribe. Shadows the only person Knuckles trusts enough to share this with. It’s a very touchy subject and dear and close to his heart. He doesn’t have anyone to share his unfortunately dead culture with and was prepared to take it to the grave with him (whenever he actually fuckin dies).

->Shadow loves spicy food but Knuckles can’t handle it. Like at all. Spice fucks him up. So does sweets, which Shadow also loves. Knuckles prefers foods like spinach puffs and soups. HE FUCKIN LOVES BREAD THO. GET HIM BREAD AND HE’S THE HAPPIEST GUY ALIVE.

-> He’ll never admit it, but the tough guy, Knuckles, likes when Shadow is protective. Like really likes it. Not at first, because Knuckles can fight his own damn battles but after being together for a long time, Knuckles can say now he finds it damn cute. 

-> Sometimes when the echidna is seriously stressed or frustrated his eyes will start tearing and he doesn’t even know it half the time. Shadow hates seeing Knuckles cry. It makes him feel like someone just threw a brick at his stomach. But Shadow has learned not to panic or point it out to him, but just slowly calm him down and wipe the tears away before Knuckles notices they’re falling. 

-> Shadow is most definitely a top and Knuckles is most definitely a bottom, but they like to switch from time to time depending on their mood. It doesn’t truly matter to them who’s in what position in a sense. Knuckles just enjoys being taken care of for once in his life and Shadow enjoys being trusted enough to take care of the person he loves, especially when they’re at their most vulnerable.

-> Shadow often bites Knuckles for no fucking reason at all and Knuckles is exasperated every time. They could just be laying in the grass together and Shadow would chomp on his shoulder out of nowhere, cueing Knuckles going ‘gotdammit, again?! Knock it off!’ But he doesn’t really complain. Mostly because it usually means the hedgehog is in a good mood and is being playful. Plus his snickering sometimes sounds to close to a giggle and Knuckles finds that absolutely adorable.

-> There is absolutely no end to the colorful vocabulary Shadow knows and uses to embarrass his boyfriend. If he calls Knuckles beautiful so much that the word drys up, no need to worry! He has at least 21 other synonyms memorized just to make his boyfriend turn beet fucking red. He reeds to many books. 60% of it is gross romance. Did I mention that Shadows a bookworm? 

-> Shadows a bookworm. Noone knows but Knuckles, Rouge and Omega. Shadow doesn’t know how to function in a relationship when they first get together so you know what he does? He reads a bunch of romance novels to get an idea. Not even the good ones. It was the worst decision of his fucking life. Knuckles still laughs at him about it till this day. 

-> Also, he loves Knuckles eyes. It’s his favorite part of him (next comes his toothy grins) To him, they’re the prettiest eyes he’s ever seen. He can stare at them for hours. Knuckles would punch him for it though. 

god there's so much more BUT IMMA END IT THERE because this rabbit hole is honest to god, bottomless.

[theonceoverthinker]

Friday the Flirteenth (1/?)

Summary: Qrow likes to avoid others on Friday the Thirteenth. He claims he’s doing it for everyone else’s sake, and that they’re better off if he spends the day alone in his room. Clover’s not having any of his self-loathing bullshit -- not today, and not ever, if he has anything to say about it.

AO3

A/N: You ever come up with an AMAZING pun and then find a way to write a fic around that? Well, that’s happened here! I’ve wanted to release this for SO long, and finally, I can...at least release part 1! Yeah, illnesses have made this a hard fic to finish, but fortunately, I have enough here to release a respectable first chapter to what will hopefully be a respectable MC! I hope you enjoy it! Tagging @fair-game-week!

BIG thanks to my beta, @skybird13. Sky, you’re the best, and I hope you understand that. Coordinating with you with my works makes me feel so confident in them. I want you to know more than anything how much I value your help and support, not just in this fic, but in everything, and I hope we’re friends for a long time to come!!!!

()()()()()()()()

Chapter One: Fourteen Hours, and A Whole Lot of Peanuts

Qrow Branwen liked peanuts. 

They were cheap, could be found just about anywhere in Remnant, had a pleasantly salty taste, and served as the perfect snack on days where he had no intention of stepping so much as a toe outside of his room.

So, in anticipation for Friday the Thirteenth, Qrow bought a LOT of peanuts.

When one had a semblance like his, a day dedicated to the very concept of bad luck was one that couldn’t be dismissed without some burden on their conscience. In fact, Friday the Thirteenth more than most any other day put extra responsibilities upon Qrow’s shoulders -- a responsibility to not cause any more trouble than necessary, a responsibility to stay away from anyone who he might accidentally harm, and a responsibility to keep the other two responsibilities secret from all who might try to intervene on his behalf.

And, just as he usually did, Qrow accepted those responsibilities and kept himself at a distance from all.

Fourteen hours. He just had to stay in his room alone for fourteen hours. 

He’d lasted a lot longer on his own many times before.

It wasn’t that big of a problem, at least not in previous years. Thanks to a lifetime’s worth of practice, Qrow knew the most secluded spots in all of Remnant to hide in on occasions like this, and the fastest routes to get to them from pretty much anywhere. And with no one but enemies on his trail, there was little risk that the day provided to anyone, or at least, anyone who didn’t deserve it.

But things weren’t so simple this year.

This year, he had his nieces and a gaggle of kids as traveling companions.

This year, he resided in an Atlesian military base, one that restricted access to any type of real seclusion further than the privacy of his own room.

This year, he despised the man he had formerly dedicated his life to.

This year, things were complicated, and his semblance always loved running amok when things were complicated.

But, as he reminded himself, some of those complications ended up turning into triumphs.

Sure, it was the first year without the hope Ozpin provided. But it was also the first year where  Qrow had a different kind of hope to keep him going. It was a kind of hope that made itself tangible through his nieces’ determination, his own efforts to fight off the allure of alcohol, and as of late, an encouraging smile and a flirty wink from a kind man with a semblance that seemingly counteracted his own…

Clover…

Clover...

Well, in a life of complications, Clover stood out as one of the biggest he’d ever faced. His very presence complicated everything in Qrow’s headspace all over again.

Still, that wasn’t a bad thing.

At least, Qrow was pretty sure it wasn’t.

Clover...Clover was really something else…

If someone were to ask Qrow to describe Clover after their disastrous first meeting, he’d have more than a couple of choice words for them -- cocky, pedantic, narcissistic. But things changed once they started working together, and as he learned more about Clover, while all of those descriptors were still true, the words themselves took on an entirely new shape for Qrow. What was cockiness just days before was now self assuredness, what was pedantic was revealed to really be caution on behalf of those he worked with and for, and what was narcissistic was actually a confidence that he created for himself, a confidence based in real pride in who he was and how that pride amounted to far more than just his semblance.

Additionally, a new word came to mind, too -- warm. It was a genuine warmth that flowed through each and every one of Clover’s words, and accompanying that warmth was a trust in those fortunate enough to be on the receiving end of them. It was hard not to return that trust in kind with some of his own, and for the first time in a while, Qrow felt no need to resist doing just that. 

It surprised Qrow sometimes just how much he had already divulged to Clover. Part of the reason for that came out of a desire to put his best foot forward for their assigned partnership. Part of it was a warning in the interest of Clover’s safety. But some things couldn’t be explained away so easily, and could only be attributed to a real sense of trust.

Frankly, it was nice having something like that again with someone. 

And it wasn’t even just Clover’s personality that painted the portrait that was Clover Ebi. Looking at Clover was like looking at a cloudless sky on a spring day. He was bright, bold -- brilliant, even. His smile was caked in charm -- true charm -- and his brow was shaped with a resolve to keep promises Qrow knew he probably could, promises he likely made to himself, Ironwood, and his country. 

Maybe there was even a promise to Qrow somewhere in that mix. 

No -- there was no maybe. He was sure there was.

But there was a coolness in Clover’s being too, both in his demeanor and his personality. There was an untold story in his eyes, one uncared for by his teammates, and only allowed to exist through fleeting expressions here and there during moments where he let his guard fall down. And that same jaw that held his charm like a jug held water held tension there too, as if there was an entire book’s worth of things he wanted to say, but for whatever reason didn’t. It was enough to make anyone who saw those things pretty curious about what hidden depths might be underneath that veil of job-dictated professionalism.

Qrow spent far more time thinking about all that he had left to uncover about Clover than he would ever admit.

After all, there was a lot to ask about what went on in that man’s mind, especially when it led him to befriend him, of all people.

But that wink Clover gave him on their first mission together made Qrow wonder if befriending him was all Clover wanted to do.

And regardless of how he felt in return, Qrow had to wonder whether or not he should try to stop him before Clover jumped further down the rabbit hole that was his life.

Qrow was bad news.

Then again, just about everything having to do with Clover was good news, and perhaps the exact thing that rabbit hole of his could use in its life was a lucky rabbit’s foot to help fill it up.

Wow...that was sappy.

Even on his worst days, Clover seemed able to bring out a little bit of sappiness in him. Go figure.

But, whatever fate had in store for him and Clover could wait to be further unearthed until tomorrow. Hell, he might even have time to muse on what that might be today, because for the next fourteen hours, it would be just himself, his room, and an overabundance of peanuts fighting against the slowly whiling hours of time.

Jeez...greater good or not, even Qrow could admit just how sad that was...

Maybe his abandonment of his morning coffee would at least grant him a nap and make the day go by faster…

He’d certainly prefer it that way.

Before he could even attempt to take advantage of his coffee’s absence, two knocks hit his door.

Perhaps it was foolish to think no one would bother him today -- after all, in Atlas, there was always something going on -- but he had a day off of Huntsmen duties while most everyone else he knew didn’t. He’d hoped against hope that meant that he’d be left in peace for the day.

Apparently, it didn’t.

Just his luck…

“Hello?” Qrow called out, reluctantly standing up.

“Qrow?”

Immediately, he recognized the voice, the voice that had burned itself into his memory within a matter of weeks and now had a summer cottage nestled somewhere between his brain and heart.

And there he was, letting that sappiness invade his thoughts again…

Of course the one person responsible for inspiring it was the one visiting him on the absolute worst day to do so.

Qrow approached and opened the door.

Just as he suspected, it was Clover who stood on the other side, as chipper as ever. After willing himself to hold back a grimace at the unexpectedness of his or anyone’s visit, Qrow noticed two cups of coffee in his hands. 

“You missed your morning cup,” Clover stated, offering one of the ones in his hand to Qrow. “I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

Despite himself and everything the day represented for him, Qrow let down his guard ever so slightly at the awkward way Clover explained himself. He wasn’t thrilled about someone showing up on his doorstep, but that’s not to say it wasn’t nice to see a friendly face at all, especially in the face of the rest of his sure-to-be lonely day.

“Thanks,” he said, accepting the cup with a light smile he allowed to surface.

“So,” Clover said, elongating the vowel for a few seconds as he expectantly stared at Qrow.

“So?” Qrow repeated, matching Clover’s delivery and adding in a bit of confusion. 

“IS everything okay?” 

“Yeah,” Qrow said, shrugging.

Clover quirked his brow. He didn’t look convinced, and unwilling to give Qrow so much as the chance to rectify that. 

“It’s not, though, is it?”

Qrow fought the urge to bit his cheek, but paid the cost of that with a tremor in his voice.

“W-what do you mean?”

“You not coming down for coffee is strange on its own,” Clover elaborated, “but you haven’t even left your room and it’s nearly ten. Usually, even on your lazy days, you’re out and about by half past eight, at the latest.”

“So I slept in a bit,” Qrow defended, shrugging in what he hoped would be a casual enough manner. “What’s the big deal?”

“It wouldn’t be a big deal at all if it wasn’t Friday the Thirteenth.”

Qrow blinked, flustered even more so than when Clover had started pressing him. Clover merely looked at him expectantly. 

How did he-?

Sure, Clover had a calendar, but why would he-?

Damnit, Clover...

“It’s a day for bad luck,” Qrow explained, his mood dark out of instinct more than malice. “Given my semblance --”

“It’s a day for superstitions,” Clover insisted.

“You seem to like yours just fine.” Qrow made a circle with his finger that encompassed the various lucky charms on Clover’s outfit.

Clover smiled as if he saw the rebuttal coming from a mile away.

“These are just here to make the uniform pop,” he said, laughter bubbling underneath him, as if Qrow had just walked into a trap. “And judging by how you clearly seemed to take notice of them, it looks like they’ve done their jobs quite nicely.” 

Just as he finished speaking, Clover winked right at Qrow, something that was very quickly becoming a habit of his when they were around each other. Fria must’ve imbued that wink with some of her magic or something because it always felt just a bit overpowering.

Qrow made a noise that would’ve sounded more at home in his bird form than the form that actually delivered it.

“Okay, but even still,” Qrow said, quickly pushing to make Clover forget about that sound, “you know what kind of things are out there in this world. Magic exists, fairy tale maidens and Grimm are running amok -- who's to say something like Friday the Thirteenth isn’t real, too? What reason do I have to trust that my semblance won’t go haywire on a day devoted to it?”

“If you stay in your room,” Clover countered, just as quickly as Qrow had with him, “you’re making things worse for yourself. Come on,” he said, his tone brightening alongside a fresh, new smile. “We can go get an early lunch. There’s a fantastic sushi restaurant just on the outskirts of the academy that you’ll love. Their rolls put the ‘ah’ in ‘tuna.’”

Now it was Qrow’s turn to quirk his brow. “And if I leave my room, I’ll risk making things worse for everyone else. I’m not leaving. Maybe we can go to that restaurant tomorrow.”

Qrow expected Clover to keep pushing back with yet another comment, but instead, he just took a patient, deep breath.

He then shrugged.

“And I was so excited to take you there, too,” Clover lamented. “But, oh well. Have it your way, then.”

Without giving Qrow so much as a second to respond, Clover gently pushed him to the side, walked inside his room, and sat down on one of the chairs across from his bed. Qrow was stuck somewhere between being utterly stunned by the action, and not at all. After all, this was pretty standard Clover Ebi behavior in that it was utterly unpredictable.

That’s not to say it was necessarily welcome -- or that Qrow would admit it even if it was.

And this morning, he was feeling particularly stubborn in his quest for solitude.

“That wasn’t an invitation to join me,” Qrow snipped.

Clover simply lounged back into the plush chair, easing his knees as his legs spread forward. “Well, if you won’t come out with me, then I’ll simply have to come in with you.” He then pulled something out of his pocket, something that instantly brought another grimace to Qrow’s face, all the while smiling. 

“Up for some cards?”

Qrow groaned.

He knew it when he woke up, and he was even more sure of it now: This was gonna be a long, long fourteen hours.

[gaycrouton]

I love your writing! Any chance will do more of Mulder sex therapist?

HELL YEAH MY DUDE!! I’ve been saving this ask for so long, but here we go!! I will update this story every time there is a new season of Sex Education. So lets all hope I have a chance to write more! As always, thank you to @admiralty-xfd for the beta!

Here’s the link to chapter one

For the first time in seven years, Dana Scully had no idea where her vibrator was. The pink, compact friend that had been tucked in an easy-to-reach location at all times, all over the U.S, was missing. 

And she didn’t care.

She was certain her little buddy had gotten lost sometime during her initial ‘therapy session’ with Mulder two weeks ago, but she didn’t have the slightest urge to find it. Mulder offered to look for it, but she told him it didn’t matter anymore.

“I hope you don’t think you need to stop masturbating on my account,” he’d reassured. “In fact I encourage it.”

But it wasn’t that. She’d spent years coming with that toy. Scully remembered vividly all the fantasies she’d enacted using it, pretending it was Mulder’s hand touching her, nuzzling into the pillows around her as if the firmness against her back or underneath her pelvis was actually Mulder’s body, desperate to push into her own. She still loved her vibrator, but she had years of human-induced orgasms to catch up on.

She had an inkling Mulder felt the same because she’d never come so much in her entire life as she did with him. His fingers, his palms, his mouth, his cock, even that one time with his knee. She was surprised she could even walk right anymore. She’d never had a lover so in-tune with her body, so responsive to her needs; you’d think they were his own. 

Scully just wished he’d let her reciprocate in kind.

Mulder was satisfied, of that she had no doubt. She’d never seen him as happy or carefree as he was nowadays. But for every instance of him going above and beyond to pleasure her, she was met with a ‘that’s okay’ or ‘wait, I want to try something with you’. Sometimes he’d relent if she told him how much she wanted to focus on him for a moment, but she could see behind his haze of pleasure that he was focusing on whether or not she was comfortable and when he’d be able to return to lavishing her. Her body appreciated it, but there was so much she wanted to do to him. So much he deserved to have done to him.

She didn’t understand why he was so reluctant to just enjoy himself without worrying about her. Well, it was kind of in character for Mulder. Maybe she was reading it wrong, but that’s how it felt. Did he think she was going to leave him? Or that this was conditional based on their first time having revolved around her issues? It made her uncomfortable to think that he was worried she’d up and leave if he wasn’t doing enough.

Maybe it was his hyperfixation. She’d seen it in play many times, and it usually held this much intensity. Was her pleasure his newest fascination? Probably. Maybe he was just always like this with other lovers. But why?

“Penny for your thoughts?” he asked from the opposite side of the couch, pulling her out of her mental contemplations.

Lately they were usually at one of their apartments or the other. They were a bit like teenagers when it came to their excitement at their newfound intimacy. Sneaking around, stealing kisses, part of her wanted to roll her eyes at the juvenility of it all, but she was enjoying it far too much. 

One of her favorite recent developments was the game they’d play. Pretending all day like they weren’t going to go home together until one of them caved and asked. Asking was a role usually taken on by Mulder, as he found a lot of enjoyment in finding new ways to ask her. Asking her to come over through a crossword puzzle he’d made was a little silly, but it was cute nonetheless.

Tonight they were at his place, and she’d spent the whole time mentally formulating a way to bring up the question of ‘why won’t you accept my love as easily as you give me yours?’ She didn’t want to scare him; Mulder had the tendency to be as unnecessarily self-deprecating as possible and she didn’t want to give him any reason to go down that rabbit hole.

She turned to him, the Shiner bottle in her hands clammy with neglect. “I was just thinking of our first time,” she replied.

A familiar thousand-watt smile beamed at her as he waggled his eyebrows. “Oh?” he prompted.

“Mhm,” she nodded, slipping a leg underneath herself as she turned to face him on the couch. “I still can’t believe I didn’t know you were an underground sex therapist for so many years,” she mused.

“I’m a man of many secrets,” he joked.

“You tell me everything,” she retorted.

He nodded in agreement. “That’s true. In my defense, you accidentally found one of Frohike’s porn tapes in the office in your third month of working with me. I didn’t want you to think I was a total pervert.”

She rolled her eyes goodnaturedly and teased, “Does Frohike know he has a stash of sex tapes and nudie mags in your office and your home?”

He gasped lightly in mock-offense and replied, “Scully, you snooped?”

“Looking for towels in your hallway closet was not snooping. It was an awful hiding place, Mulder.”

“That’s fair,” he conceded with a smile. “Does it bother you?”

“No, me being mad at your tapes would be-” she started.

“No. I mean, that I didn’t tell you,” he interrupted.

She shook her head immediately. “Not at all. I just think it’s interesting. I’d never talked that candidly about my sexual history as I had then,” she answered.

He smiled, inevitably remembering all of the embarrassing things she’d confessed. “Did you find it helpful at all?” he asked, grabbing the remote and turning the TV down a bit so there could be more focus on the conversation.

“What do you think?” she laughed, looking at him playfully. He smiled back at her bashfully, and she made her move. “Have you ever done it?”

“Done what?” he asked, unsure of her meaning.

“You were the sex therapist, but have you ever talked as openly about yourself as your ‘patients’ have?” she clarified.

He looked down at his pants shyly and she knew her answer before he even spoke. “Uh, not really. I never really had anything substantial to say,” he shrugged.

“I doubt that, Mulder,” she chastised. He shrugged again as if to dismiss the topic, but she wasn’t done. “I want to hear your answers.”

“To what questions?” he prompted.

“Well, like the ones you asked me,” she answered.

“But, Scully,” he started lowly, leaning into her as if confessing something. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m very sexually happy as of late. I don’t need therapy.”

She grinned at his words, but pressed again. “But I want to know more about that aspect of yourself, Mulder. You got to hear about me defiling my childhood teddy bear for the sake of getting off. It’s only fair,” she replied.

He nodded thoughtfully at that and leaned back comfortably against the couch cushion. “So you want to be the doctor today, Dr. Scully?” he asked with a playfully sensual emphasis on her title.

“I do,” she nodded, excited he was taking her up on this.

“So, what would you like to know?” he prompted, turning to face her.

She thought for a moment, trying to think of the phrasing of the first question he’d asked her when the situation was reversed. “Describe your first orgasm, in as much detail as you can.” 

“It was similar to yours, actually,” he began. “A sensation I didn’t understand, but was curious about. As I’m sure you know, Doctor Scully, when I was really young I had some dry orgasms because my body wasn’t mature enough. It was never really ‘masturbation’ though. It was just me rubbing myself all around my bed until I shivered.”

“Shivered?” she chuckled.

He laughed with her and nodded his head. “Yeah, I had no idea. Then a few years later I decided to try and jack off. I knew the basic concept, but I’d never executed it myself.”

“What did you masturbate to?” she asked. “I’m presuming you didn’t have your tapes back then?”

“Don’t laugh,” he warned.

“No promises.”

“Mrs. Brady,” he admitted sheepishly.

Her mouth dropped open in amused shock, bust she kept in the laugh that threatened to escape. “Really? I took you as more of a Farrah Fawcett red swimsuit poster type of guy.”

“Well, that was definitely a heavy feature of my masturbation sessions in my later years, but my first love was Mrs. Brady,” he laughed.

“Was it the Hawaii episode?” she asked.

“It was that episode where the kids tried to scare Alice after having a battle between themselves, but the subplot was Mrs. Brady making a bust of Mr. Brady’s head out of clay to submit for an art competition,” he explained.

“I didn’t know you were such a fan of the arts,” she deadpanned.

“Ha. Ha. I don’t know what it was. Hell, she was in a green smock for most of the episode, but there was something so loving about her. One minute I was watching it, the next my extremely attractive 70s neon short-shorts were tented up to my belly button,” he shrugged.

She made a mental note to ask him for embarrassing photos of those shorts, but in the meantime, “Then what?”

He shifted in his seat and looked chagrined at the idea of finishing the story. “I went to my room and did the deed.”

“No, no. Mulder. Details. What aren’t you telling me?” she asked with a smile.

“It’s so embarrassing,” he laughed. She took pity on him, remembering a similar situation where he’d extended her that kindness. “It’s okay if you don’t want to answer. I don’t want to make you feel bad if it’s-”

But much to the relief of her curiosity, he shook his head with a meek smile. “No, it’s okay. Just bear in mind that I was young with no brothers or friends to give me advice. I was clueless.” 

“No judgement here,” she stated honestly.

“So I went into my room, locked the doors, laid in my bed, and took it out,” he stated, almost becoming entranced by the scene he was setting up. “I just played with it with my fingers and my palm, moving the skin up and down. I could tell something was different because it was wetter than usual.”

“Precum?” she asked.

“Precum,” he confirmed. “It also felt like it had a heartbeat, which was really freaky to me.” He licked his lips and took in a deep breath and she had a feeling the embarrassing part was coming up. Then, from out of the blue, he asked, “Do you know what edging is?”

“Almost bringing yourself to orgasm but stopping right before so you can cool down and build yourself back up. Some say it creates a more intense orgasm while prolonging foreplay,” she answered.

“Exactly,” he nodded. “I didn’t know that’s what I was doing, and I didn’t really even mean to be doing it. I just didn’t understand what was coming with the orgasm. No pun intended.”

“What do you mean?” 

“It was my first real time. The only thing I could compare the sensation to was having to pee. Every time I was about to come, I thought I was going to piss myself. So for a good hour I was just edging,” he laughed awkwardly.

“Holy shit,” she balked. “As a kid?”

“Yeah.”

“Damn. Why didn’t you go to the bathroom?”

He pursed his lips a little bit before nodding slowly. “Well… I did. But the reason I didn’t was because the only bathroom was connected to my parents’ room.”

“Oh no…” she cringed.

“So I all but ran in, locked both bathroom doors, and went to the toilet, where luckily a Diner’s Club Magazine was there with a nice looking woman on the cover,” he laughed. “So I ran the water and resumed touching myself and within a few pumps of allowing myself to release, I came.”

“That wasn’t embarrassing, Mulder. We’ve all masturbated to things we’re not proud of,” she reassured, squeezing his hand. She saw his face cringe and she knew there was more. “What?”

“I didn’t know about the ejaculation portion of an orgasm since all of mine had been dry. It was a lot, and I was so scared by the come and the power of my orgasm that I thought I was dying and I just screamed. Not words like you, just an ugly, guttural scream,” he admitted. “My dad burst down the door before I had a chance to even realize I was still on this mortal coil.”

Scully’s face turned into a mask of sympathetic horror. “I’m so sorry.”

“What made it worse was that the page of the magazine had turned so I came all over a McDonald’s ad,” he admitted honestly, but not able to hold in his laughter at the ridiculousness of the situation.

“Not Ronald!” she gasped in mock offense.

“Ronald, The Hamburglar, Grimace, all of them,” he laughed. “My mom never let us eat there again.”

“Is that why you always take us to Wendy’s?” she asked.

He nodded in embarrassment. “I still have shame everytime I see those golden arches.”

This was absolutely not the avenue she thought they’d be exploring when she started this, and while this was a new realization that did inform her on her partner’s eccentricities, she still wanted to get back to her main goal. But she wasn’t really sure how to bounce back from such a story. “Did you masturbate after that? You know, after you realized the Diner’s Club hadn’t killed you?”

“No, Scully. I abstained. I have never touched my penis in two decades. The porn tapes and nudie mags are for decoration,” he deadpanned.

She threw back her head and started laughing and by the time she regrouped she saw him staring at her with mirth in his eyes and a wide smile tugging his lips upwards. “I’m sorry, dumb question. So your shame didn’t keep you from it?”

“No,” he shook his head, still smiling. “I just made sure it was when they weren’t home and learned to suppress my sounds when they were.”

“When did you achieve orgasm by someone else?” she asked before seeing his smirk and adding, “What?”

“Are you copying all of the questions I asked you?” 

“I am,” she nodded playfully, bringing her other leg up onto the couch so she was sitting cross-legged across him. 

“Um…” he contemplated, thinking back. “A school dance when I was fifteen,” he nodded.  “A ball would probably be the more accurate word.”

“You came at a ball?” she asked in shock.

He laughed and waved his hand to dismiss her. “No, the night of the ball. It was a county wide thing. One of those pretentious things to make sure our parent’s children had manners and what not. I went alone, but a girl from a Catholic high school started making moves on me.”

Scully always forgot that Mulder came from money. He never acted like it. His upbringing only ever came out through the polite, chivalrous gestures he’d direct her way. “She kept dancing too close to me. I guess she hadn’t heard to save room for Jesus,” he joked. “I ended up getting a boner and she told me she could help. She took me to some abandoned room and gave me a handjob.”

“The snake handler,” she teased, remembering an offhand joke he’d made a few cases ago.

He nodded his head in affirmation. “Yep. I’d kissed a few girls before that, but my reputation of being the weird kid with the missing sister usually got the better of me and they’d leave before anything happened. That was my first time having a girl touch me like that and I came really fast.”

She frowned at the reminder that his ‘Spooky’ status had been a constant in his life. She couldn’t imagine how hard that type of ridicule would be for a boy who was recently traumatized during one of the most sensitive stages of life. “Did you see her after that?” she asked.

“Uh, no. I didn’t really know how to please a woman, so reciprocity didn’t even dawn on me. I just… I told her thank you and gave her a hug,” he admitted with chagrin.

“Awwh,” Scully beamed. It was embarrassing, but equally endearing.

“Well, she wasn’t thrilled I didn’t return the favor, but she was even more mad that I accidentally came on her dress. She punched me in the face,” he chuckled lightly.

“Oh,” Scully chirped.

“Yeah.”

There was a lull in the conversation before she thought of something to move on with. “Did anything else happen before you became a sex expert at Oxford? Or was that where you flourished?” 

“Well, I wouldn’t call myself a sex expert or say that I flourished per-se, but thank you. But in high school, I only had two other noteworthy experiences. One was another girl from the Catholic school who gave me my first blow job. I accidentally thrust my hips weird and she almost threw up. I felt really bad and she was really mad,” he explained.

Scully had no actual therapist experience, but it was obvious to her that his experiences with girls and getting pleasure in his formative years were marred with shame and guilt. Was that why he wasn’t concerned with handjobs, blowjobs, or any real attention to his body? It evoked the same reaction as whenever he apparently drove past a McDonalds? “What was the other noteworthy one?”

“A girl who lived down the street from me, Millie. Our families were friends and she knew me before Samantha was taken. She was a few years older than me, but one summer day when I was seventeen and she was twenty, she invited me to come to her place for a drink. Her parents were out of town and one thing led to another, but we had sex,” he told her, for the first time this evening he seemed to recall this encounter with a small smile on his face. 

“Was it good?” she asked, eager for him to share a happy memory.

“Well, the very first time wasn’t. Millie had far more experience than I did, and I naturally didn’t last very long. She just… she said I had a lot of potential. She was honest and said I was average, but it was out of ignorance not out of lack of trying,” he stated, leaning forward to grab another beer out of their six pack. 

“Not out of lack of trying?” she repeated.

“I was so scared from the other times that I wanted to to be good for her. But I was just honestly grabbing her chest blindly with no regard to anything, and I just-” he broke off to laugh for a moment before adding, “I wasn’t focusing on the right places at all. I was just kind of groping around and hoping for the best,” he admitted. 

She was about to ask him another question before he continued, “Millie told me to meet her at her place at the same time every week. So of course I did, and each week she’d teach me another thing to do. How to eat a woman out, how to find the g-spot, how to fondle breasts, all of it. I learned so much that summer, and it was her lessons I took with me to Oxford. The few girls I was with afterward seemed to reap the benefits of her guidance.”

“Still are,” she joked in earnest. 

He smiled at her and took a swig of his beer. Mulder really was the best lover she’d ever had. He made her feel things she’d never even felt before. Thanks, Millie. “Do you miss her?” she asked.

“No, I sometimes run into her when I go back home, but we were polar opposites. She’s married to a woman now and I think they intend to move,” he replied.

“Hmm,” she nodded peacefully.

“So,” he prompted, sitting up with a teasing smile. “What’s my prognosis, Doc?” 

“My slightly biased, unbiased opinion?” she asked, waiting for him to agree. “I think your primary focus in sex is always your partner. Which from first hand experience is phenomenal, but I think it comes at the sake of your own enjoyment,” she answered.

“You think I don’t enjoy myself?” he asked, the prior trace of humor in his voice being replaced by concern as his brow furrowed.

She rolled her eyes and rubbed her foot against his leg in a gesture of reassurance. “I know you enjoy yourself, but I don’t think you ever let your own pleasure take centerfield.”

“Keep spouting baseball references and you can see my pleasure in play in no time,” he joked.

“Deflect with jokes all you want, but you know I’m right,” she replied, leaning forward and taking the beer from his hands and taking a swig.

“I’m not sure I understand your point?” he admitted.

Deciding to forego all pretenses of tact, she blurted, “You never let me reciprocate.”

“Wh-yes I do,” he stammered, surprised.

“No, you are always so focused on me that you put yourself second,” she stated firmly.

“But I’m happy, I don’t need anything else but to know you’re enjoying yourself,” he murmured, placing his hand on her calf and rubbing it smoothly.

“Every man enjoys attention, Mulder. I want to make you feel the way you make me feel,” she revealed, her tone coming out a bit more seriously than she’d meant.

He leaned over as best as he could so he could place a loving kiss to her lips. She closed her eyes and kissed him back, enjoying the newness of their open intimacy. After a beat, he pulled back and whispered, “Scully, I don’t even have words to describe the way you make me feel.”

She smiled and felt her face flush under his direct attention. She had no doubt he meant every word he said, but she still felt like nothing was changing. “What if pleasing you is something that turns me on?” she posed.

“Then I suspect that you must be in a constant state of arousal,” he replied. 

She let a little huff of laughter exhale through her nose before leaning forward and pressing another kiss to his lips. He was about to reach his hand around her head before she leaned back, staying close enough that she could feel his breath on her lips. “I want to make love to you,” she whispered.

“I’m all yours,” he replied, leaning in again only to be stopped by her hand on his chest.

“I want you to let me have all the control. Let me be in charge,” she requested.

He stood up slowly, taking caution to avoid knocking her off the couch. He offered her his hand and pulled her to her feet. “I suppose the laws of physics won’t let you carry me to the bedroom?” he joked with feigned disappointment. 

She walked past him, making her way down his hallway to his room. “I have other ways of getting you there,” she teased, whipping her sweater off over her head and tossing it to the ground to reveal her completely bare back to him.

She stepped out of her pants and over the threshold of his room simultaneously, and was pleased when she heard him walk up behind her. Though, as soon as she heard the now-familiar sound of his belt being undone, she spun around and grabbed his hands. 

Mulder paused his motions and looked down at her with a cocked eyebrow. She leaned up on her toes to press an open-mouthed kiss to his lips, throwing her arms around his neck so that her underwear clad body was pressed completely flush to his bare chest. She felt her nipples strain against his coarse chest hair. He extracted his hands from in between them and placed his palms on her bare back, pressing her to him while his hands roamed her skin. 

She smiled into the kiss when she felt his erection twitch against her belly. Leaning back, she watched as his eyes fluttered open slowly, heavy from lust and anticipation. Easing herself back onto her heels, she grabbed his belt and started unbucking it. “I want to do this,” she whispered.

He kept his hands on her while she worked, moving them to her shoulders, then down her biceps. She struggled a bit getting the belt out of the loops, partially glad Mulder’s hands kept her from stumbling back, but he let her do it all by herself. She tossed the belt to the ground carelessly and returned her attention to his fly. She unbuttoned him and pulled down the zipper, feeling a surge of arousal in her core as she felt the heat of him radiating through the fabric of his boxers. 

She hooked her fingers under both waistbands and dragged them down swifty, staying at his feet for an extra moment to help him step out of his socks. When she stood back up, she was met with a smile and Mulder’s hands going straight for the elastic of her underwear. “Wait,” she demanded, grabbing his hands.

Scully felt his hands start to pull away instinctively at the word, a look of worry passing his face as she held his fingers. She looked up at him with a confident smile and stated, “It’s my turn. I want you to just lay back and let me do everything.” She gestured to the bed as she said this, and was glad when he finally took the direction. With a few brief strides, he threw himself on the bed and laid in the middle on his back. 

“This is how I like my Mulder,” she mused with a pleased grin, taking in the sight of him under the dull yellow glow of his lamp. 

He smiled at her praise and squirmed restlessly on the bed. She walked over to the end of the bed, so that she was standing in between his legs and patted the edge. “Come sit here,” she demanded. 

Mulder followed her instructions, scooting himself so his legs were hanging over the edge with her in between them. He absentmindedly raised a hand to her hip and ran his thumb over the skin. She knew she wasn’t being firm in the rules of her own game, but she let him touch her a bit more like that before easing herself to her knees. The hardwood underneath the carpet creaked under her weight as she adjusted herself so that her elbows were on either leg and her breasts were on display. 

She grabbed his swollen erection in her hands and was rewarded with a sharp intake of breath from Mulder. This was one of the first times she’d been able to examine his cock so closely, and while the word struck her as odd for the situation, she couldn’t help but think it was beautiful. He was big, above average by a couple inches, and he had the slightest curve that always felt amazing inside of her. 

She pumped her hand up and down slowly, watching his skin stretch slightly as she did it. He thrust into her hand lightly in reflex and quickly muttered a soft, “Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. You’re so sexy, Mulder,” she replied, looking up at him only to see he was staring down at her with full rapture.

Scully smiled at him sweetly before turning her attention back to the matter at hand. She licked her lips and slowly moved her mouth towards the bottom of his shaft, sticking out her tongue and placing it at his base and dragging it up slowly to his tip. “Fuck,” he murmured reverently as her tongue swirled around his tip.

She was just about to take him in her mouth when she felt his hand on her shoulder. “Scully, you don’t have to-”

The fact that other women had treated this as an obligation was evident in his voice. He didn’t want to sit here and have her do this under the presumption she got nothing out of it. Mulder clearly didn’t understand the power of having a man reduced to nothing but gasps and prayers just by a few well placed licks and a bit of suction. The thought of what she could do to him brought on another wave of arousal. She could feel her own wetness starting to seep through her lips and onto the cotton of her underwear.

She stopped him with a firm look and purred, “But I want to.” To punctuate her sentence, she licked him tip to base and watched as goosebumps erupted on his arms. 

He nodded and placed his hand back onto the bed. Taking the go ahead, she leaned forward, blowing on the wet trail she’d created lightly before plunging her mouth down on him. “Oh my god,” he rasped, tensing beneath her as she bobbed her head up and down. 

Mulder was bigger than any of her prior partners and she could feel him hitting the back of her throat while she still had a few inches left to go. Easing herself higher on her knees, she took a deep breath through her nose and relaxed the back of her throat, resulting in her lips hitting his pubic mound as he went all the way in. “Holy shit,” he moaned, clutching onto the bedspread. 

She could feel tears start to gather on her lashline in reaction to the unnatural sensation, but she ignored it and continued her actions, letting her tongue squirm against him as she deep-throated him. Scully could feel him trying his hardest to keep his hips firmly on the bed to avoid causing her any discomfort and she was grateful.

When she needed to take a breath, she eased up and gasped in a quick lung-full air, her subsequent breaths coming out as shuddered pants. She felt Mulder’s hand come up and brush her hair back behind her ear as he stroked her cheek. While he did this, she continued to play with his tip, running her tongue playfully under his head, causing him to gasp. “Scully,” he whispered, a drop of precum leaking out as he spoke. 

She leaned back up and resumed her prior movements, letting him slide all the way down her throat as she rotated her head, letting his cock brush against every surface. His breathing was shallow and she could hear him moaning with every new movement. 

After a few minutes of alternating between different techniques while Mulder demonstrated his surprisingly enduring stamina, he put his hand on her shoulder again. “Scully,” he said in a shaky breath.

She let him bob out of her mouth, a thick mixture of precum and saliva trailing from him to her mouth in a lewd string before snapping onto her chin. Her face was flushed and she knew her makeup was smudged. “Hmm?” she rasped, catching her breath.

“I won’t be able to hold on for much longer if you keep doing that,” he admitted. She laughed and stood up on shaky legs, using his legs for support. When she was on her feet she heard him whisper “Holy shit,” and she looked at him and saw he was staring at her crotch.

“What?” she panted, leaning over to see before being stopped by a hand on her hip. Mulder brought his other hand up and rubbed the cotton front of her panties, making a shiver run up her spine.

“You’re soaking wet,” he murmured, amazed. “I can see it through your underwear and on your thighs, and I haven’t even touched you.”

She grabbed his face with both of her hands and drew his attention to her face, his hand still idly rubbing her through the dampened fabric. “It turns me on to do this, Mulder. Attention directed towards you doesn’t mean it does nothing for me,” she explained, leaning down to kiss him when she was done. 

She broke apart after a moment and beamed down at him with a predatory gleam in her eye. “Now sit against the headboard.”

Mulder did as he was told and she quickly discarded her underwear down her legs, shivering at the trail of slick wetness she felt rub against her inner thigh. She got on the bed, making eye contact with Mulder as she crawled on all fours to him. The usual self-consciousness she’d felt with other partners when she was this bold and wanton was gone with Mulder. He looked at her like she was giving him the best present he’d ever received by simply loving him. In her heart she knew it was probably true.

Scully didn’t sit in his lap immediately. Instead, she kept her head at chest level and leaned forward to playfully lick one of his nipples before bringing it into her mouth and rolling it between her teeth. She felt the rumblings of laughter in his chest begin before it turned into a moan of pleasure. She attended to the other one while reaching in between her legs and gathering some of her own arousal on her hand, bringing it in between them and coating Mulder’s erection with it. 

“Oh my god, Scully,” he groaned, his hips undulating in their spot while she pumped him a few times. 

She suckled on his neck, enjoying the feeling of his erratic pulse beating under her tongue. “You’re so beautiful,” she murmured as she hoisted her legs on either side of his hips, aligning them for the moment they’d both been waiting for.

She could tell he was about to say something sweet back to her, but the words were stolen from his lungs as she sank down on him, sheathing him inside her. She settled until her ass was firmly on his lap and they were panting a few inches apart from the other, sharing a connection with their gaze as well as their bodies. 

Slowly, she eased herself back up on her knees before sinking back down, creating a steady rhythm while the headboard hit the wall and the bed creaked beneath them. None of that mattered to her, all that mattered was the pleasure smattered across Mulder’s face, the way he was coaxing her with his sensual baritone, and the vice grip he had on her hips. 

Suddenly a thought came to her. It wasn’t something she’d really ever done, but with how many tapes and subscriptions he had, it may be something he liked. Leaning towards his ear, she rasped, “You feel so good inside me, Mulder.”

He responded by closing the gap between them and placing kisses all over the hollow of her throat and the crook of her neck. She wasn’t trying to emulate a porn star. No. She just wanted to tell him what he deserved to hear. What she suspected he liked hearing in those tapes. Validation. 

“You have no idea how much you turn me on,” she murmured on a downward stroke. She kept herself on his lap for a moment and rocked her hips forward, grinding their pubic bones together.

“Fuck, Scully. You feel amazing,” he gasped back, drawing his arms around her and pulling her flush to him so her breasts were against his chest.

She continued riding him the best she could in this position, raising one hand to wipe the sweaty hair back and litter kisses across his face. “I love you,” she gasped, her orgasm hitting her suddenly from the angle of his cock and the friction against her clit.

Scully felt his hips thrust upwards frantically as he came inside her, his hot seed spilling out a little bit from each thrust and adding to the mutual wetness between them. 

When their orgasms had both subsided, she collapsed and fell onto him, resting her head against his neck. He nuzzled his face into her hair, pressing kisses against her scalp as he deftly reached and grabbed a blanket, pulling it up to cover them and tuck her even more into him. She felt his eyes grow heavy as she was comforted by the post-coital smell of him and the feeling of being wrapped in each other’s arms.

“I love you too, Scully,” he murmured, rocking her softly in his arms.

She found the strength to raise her head and kiss his chin. “So? How did you like your therapy session?” she teased.

Her whole body moved with his laughter. “I think you have another career path for you if this doesn’t work,” he teased.

She laughed with him and laid back on his neck. “Thank you,” she beamed.

There was a moment of silence as he continued rubbing circles in her back. Then, in a more serious tone he explained, “I’m sorry I’d been reluctant before. I had just never had someone treat me like I wasn’t an obligation before. I never knew how good it could be when both parties care so much about the other.”

“Well, with me you’ll never forget.”

WATCH SEX EDUCATION ON NETFLIX. STREAMING JANUARY 17TH 2020

[beedaleebjd]

Psssst do you happen to have any tips or beginners links for newbies who are interested in getting in to the BJD hobby? 👀

*SOFT SCREECH* ALICE COME DOWN THE RABBIT HOLE WITH ME... /CLAMBERS FOR

This is a very slap-dash tips post, because a full fledged crash-course would take me much longer than a day to assemble. I think this could get someone started, but I can always answer specific questions if you have them in the future. ❤️

BJD 101: For a rundown of definitions, terminology, and origins of the hobby, I highly recommend checking out the Wikipedia article. (Warning for old vaguely spooky doll photos) I honestly wish I just read this when I got started, haha. It’s not everything, but it’s definitely a start.

Study! Read as much as you possibly can!! Especially terminology and maintenance. I highly recommend watching a bunch of unboxing and review videos- it might seem silly, but they're really helpful to get an idea of scale, how they function/pose, and how they look and feel when handled by a human. I also recommend trying to find owner photos of dolls you’re interested in, because sometimes the store photos are limited!

Join a community! Consider joining a forum like den of angels or a facebook bjd group like BJD Addicts! Exposure to the hobby is really helpful and you learn way faster. It’s fine if you’re shy, you don’t have to interact if you don’t want to- I like lurking DoA for the valuable tutorials and threads on doll brands I'm interested in. Tip: You can view some of DoA’s threads without an account by searching "[subject/doll of choice] den of angels" in google, but i got tired of that pretty fast. Signing up takes a few weeks to get approved but it's worth it for all the knowledge, even old archived stuff.

Window-shop until you drop!! I think the number one regret in the hobby is 'too many dolls, not enough time to love any of them'. So I HIGHLY recommend making wish-lists. These help a lot with avoiding impulse purchases and buyer’s remorse. There are a loooot of dolls out there, so if you've seen a huge majority of them, you'll be more picky.

For me, wishlists include both dream/grail dolls, tentative desires i’m not sure about but want to remember the name of, dolls I could never afford but feel validated writing down somewhere, and also cataloging info- measurements, wig/eye/shoe sizes, resin colors, price, current availability, dealer websites, etc. it becomes such a godsend when you shop for them. you’ll thank me later!!

I spent a lot of time browsing dealer websites like Alice's Collections, Legenddoll, Denver Doll, DOLK Station, etc- I linked some of those here. This is to see what my tastes are. Not EVERY doll company will go through all or any dealers, but it’s a good start!

If you’re the social type, going to conventions or local bjd meetups can help with getting an idea of your preferences! I accidentally walked by one at sakuracon last year and got to hold an MSD and an 11cm tiny, and that was REALLY helpful for me to realize I DID like those sizes. If other doll owners will let you hold theirs, I totally recommend it! (Always ask first, of course! Not everyone is comfortable with it!)

Go!! Slow!!! if you think you're taking it easy, go even slower. i'm so serious. it's so easy to get dazzled, over-eager, or totally overwhelmed by this hobby. especially if you have a habit of hyper focus/special interest tenancies like i do. 

Patience is a virtue anyway: If you’re not buying second-hand or in-stock dolls, you will be waiting a while for your doll. Anywhere from a few months to a year, depending on the company and how backlogged they may be at any given point. Dolls are usually pre-order and take time to be made.

Some people like to just buy sculpts and let a character ‘come to them’, which is absolutely valid so if you wanna just go on a feeling that’s great!! i totally can’t afford that route most of the time, so I spend a lot of time mood-boarding for my potential dolls using pinterest and my own art to see just how in love with an idea i am and highly recommend it. I’ll ramble about this in another post soon.

Budget! They are not very cheap like 10-20$ fashion dolls at wal-mart, so those new to the hobby may be shocked.This hobby is an investment and an indulgence/luxury, as with most Nice Things. But don’t be discouraged! There are affordable dolls out there, a lot of Dealer websites offer layaway plans, and the second-hand market is always circulating things!

Here is a DoA list of dolls that are under 300$. 

Note: Size of dolls often scale with price, so the bigger it is, the more expensive (and HEAVY) it will be. Some videos on BJD sizing here and here, but Flickr is crawling with height comparisons as well.

Craft or Not To Craft: Are you team 'i'm gonna sew/craft stuff/do wigs/eyes/faceups for my doll' or team 'i'm gonna buy clothes/props/faceups/wigs/etc from other artists!'? I know most people end up being a little bit of both, but these things both cost time or money (or both) so you wanna think about that in the overall price when you're considering a doll. It seems intimidating, but really, it’s the responsible thing to do. I’d rather plan for it than have a naked sad doll to feel bad about. Some personal recommendations below helped me get started:

Wigs: Monique Gold Collection wigs are affordable in the 20 dollar range, and have incredibly soft fiber! (You can find a lot of these available through ebay sellers as well)

Eyes: Lemonjellyshoppe and CandyKittenEmporium have some incredible eyes and also do custom orders!

Sewing Patterns: DGRequim on etsy and SproutyDoll have both been very nice to use and easy understand and modify to fit your doll!

When you’re savvy on the sizing of your dolls and if you’re comfy with secondhand sales, Facebook groups like BJD Addicts Sales & Commissions, BJD Lovers Sales, and BJD Adoption has a lot of people selling BJDs and accessories, oftentimes discounted for de-stashing or collection overhauls!

In addition to the other dealer sites I linked before, Dollmore (which also has an ebay shop) has a lot of options on everything! 

Rec@sts and the community- This is a veeery hot button topic, but you’ll probably see a lot of it the more you get into the hobby. I don’t want to talk about it a lot because of the negativity it attracts, but to sum it up: BJDs are essentially commissioned art pieces. They are hand sculpted by an artist or small group of artists, and then cast in resin and refined and strung by hand. There are people that will cast copies of them and sell them for a very cheap profit. To put it simply, it’s theft, and it effects the livelihood of people that make a living of their art. A lot of companies stop making dolls because they can’t compete anymore. Most official doll/art related conventions (LDoll, Resin Rose, etc) ban rec@sted dolls, as well as DoA and several of the facebook groups. Be sure to read all the rules of groups/forums you join them.

A lot of people come into this hobby unaware of this and buy a bootleg doll on sites like Ebay or Aliexpress, and then get turned away from the community without understanding why. There are understandable circumstances that cause someone to end up with a bootleg doll, but it’s also important to respect the artists and creators that share their art with the public.

On that note: Sometimes people will resell 2nd hand dolls as legit when they are not. Be careful about who you buy second-hand dolls from. Also, keeping certificates of authenticity (CoAs), receipts, and original packaging is must if you ever plan to resell your doll!

I... think that’s everything major I can think of... at least enough to get someone started? I know a lot of it is a bit vague, but if you wanted my opinion on a certain brand or size of doll or budgeting tips if money is tight, I’d be happy to give my personal preferences on that separately!! But otherwise, good luck and happy treasure hunting! ヾ(＾-＾)ノ

[hughiecampbelle]

Enable (Klaus Hargreeves Drabble)

Character/s: Klaus

Word Count: 887

Inspired By: king by slenderbodies

Tag List: @dontdowhatisayandnobodygetshurt @hypsiacrobasiphobia @way-obsessed-5

A/N: I wanted to write, but I was really having trouble finding the right words. I'm not really sure about this, but not all writing will be good writing and that's okay. Share it anyways, do better next time, right? Feedback is always appreciated! 💜

Healing. Recovery. Reconnection. Follow the twelve steps, check in and out, overdose, get clean. A vicious cycle he found himself settling for, the kind you lost to. A game of cheaters and deceivers. Cheap dealers, final chances, any means of escape. No singular cause nor push, a collective fall, one foot in the grave. Careless, fearless, a fantastic high you chose to chase down the rabbit hole, discarding, loathing the dreams they'd had for you, all the things they'd planned already. That life was not yours, and it wasn't his,

At first, just partners in crime. Stealing. Simple, a slap on the wrist. Candy, gum, sunglasses, small, cheap, because you were starved of the thrill, the action. As your teenage years progressed, candy turned to keys, cars, breaking and entering. Out of boredom, escalation. Crazed smiles, manic impulses, a bad influence on one another, pushing to the edge.

Drugs. Easy at first. Nothing more, and then too much. The first of many dissapointing hospital stays, the guilt of their worried faces, the craving for more. Drowning in denial. Slowly, then all at once, the crowds in the emergency room waded until there was only him, by your side. He'd always come back. Despite the tear stained cheeks, the shaking and rocking and seizures, he'd always wake up, smiling, laughing, as if the whole thing were one bad trip. Vow to stop using. It was too much to risk, a first in your life, to plan things through, think of a future instead of blow it away. You wouldn't face that again. The flat line, the code blue, the doctors, the faces. He'd always come back, he'd giggle, but you wouldn't.

Ruled accidental. Of course it was. Of all the ways to go, this was last on your list. Tragic, sad, the kind no one brought up at funerals, the kind used to warn others. Instead, there were words about your childhood, the few times you'd come home, grown and sober, for what seemed like the infinite time you were starting fresh. A new life everyday. Laughter of missing teeth, of haircuts you gave to yourself, of holidays and birthdays that seemed to grow thinner the older they went. Restart. A baby again, the day you were born. No mention of your life after fifteen. No mention of him, your best friend, or him, your worst enabler. No mention of your death, or the years leading up to it. The dissapearences. The stealing. The mass amounts of money put into hospitals, rehabs, therapists, counselors. All of it, buried in the coffin with the rest of you.

That was a while ago. He was making amends, step after step to sobriety. Showing up on the front steps of your parents house. Behind them a shrine in your image, no pictures older than the age of ten. As quickly as the door ipened it slammed shut. No explination, no reason. He knew they didn't like him, but it was you he'd wanted to talk to. They'd never denied him thay, not since you found your own voice.

He searched every place he could remember, called the name of every dealer and ex-con the two of you had ever crossed paths with. You couldn't hide in this city, not with the kind of reputation you two had. He found you in his room, tracing the words he'd written on his walls. Nonsense. Jibberish. The kind of stuff that used to make sense. Sober a while, a new feeling. No detox, no symptoms, one perk of it all.

Klaus apologized. For all the things he'd said, and done. All the times he'd scared you, run off without a word, for all the years you spent separated, for pushing you into doing all the things that ruined your lives. For the crimes, the nights spent in jail, all the things you did to get your fix.

And, he apologized for being a bad best friend. Friends don't abandon friends. You didn't, not after everything, and yet when you collected your pieces long enough to regain the trust of your loved ones, to find a job, and a place to stay he vanished, wanting nothing more than something to smoke. It wasn't the life he wanted, could handle, not yet, but you had it, you were so close. He was right, you were so close you could almost feel it, the person your parents envisioned. The child they believe in, the kind they brought up at funerals with full lives instead of stunted childhoods, as if you never truly grew up.

He left and you crumbled. Quit your job, lost all sense and grasp of everything. A rock bottom you found yourself clinging to. A call, pawned family heirlooms, none of that mattered. He was gone. Without him, there seemed to be no purpose. The one who'd been there for you through it all found a way out, left the way they all did. A binge. A bender. The kind of days you thought you'd left behind. It's all it took. Accidental. He was somewhere else. It would be months, the finale to a year long separation, the longest of the many breaks you two would have.

You were so close.

And now, you were dead.

Another thing he had to be sorry for.

[ladylynse]

Down the Rabbit Hole [FF | AO3] - a crossover fic featuring Over the Garden Wall, Trollhunters, Gravity Falls, and Danny Phantom 

Wirt had heard a lot of stories about college, but somehow, he still wasn’t prepared for one of his roommate’s crazy friends to smuggle a hatchet into their dorm room. Future fic/college AU (technically)

Hi, folks; if this looks familiar, it’s because it originated from a fic title ask--albeit now it’s expanded to a fourth fandom, which will become more important in the second part. Written into a full story for @lumanae. Happy New Year, everyone! 

Wirt stared.

It was his first week of college. His first week on campus, really, as he’d only moved in the day before term began. (He still had a couple of boxes on his desk to unpack.) He’d heard plenty of crazy stories, but that was to be expected. He’d already learned not to believe everything that came out of his roommate Toby’s mouth, just as he’d learned that he was to call Toby’s grandmother Nana whenever Toby honoured her request to drag him down for a weekend visit so she could get to know him.

Some classes had given general overviews for their first lecture, and the others had jumped right into it and he felt like he was already scrambling to catch up. Sometimes, he thought it was lucky he’d managed to make it to class on time, especially since he’d already gotten lost in the basement of the chemistry building looking for the place his biology lab would be held next week. Frankly, he was lucky that Toby had taken pity on him and given him the rundown on the best places on campus to get food and caffeine, not to mention showing him a couple of underground shortcuts he hadn’t even realized existed.

It had been a crash course, but he’d learned the ropes.

At least, he’d thought he had.

But that was before Toby’s friend Wendy ‘straight out of the wilds of Oregon’ Corduroy had smuggled an axe into their dorm room.

“That’s…that’s an actual axe,” Wirt said. He knew the door was closed, knew it was locked, knew no one could possibly walk in on them, but he managed to tear his eyes off the axe just long enough to check again anyway.

Wendy snorted. She was perched on Toby’s desk, already reaching into her pocket for a stick of gum. “It’s a hatchet, squirt. Which means it’s smaller and lighter than what you’re thinking of.”

“He’s not technically wrong, though,” Toby said. Wendy stuck her tongue out at him before popping the gum into her mouth.

Maybe he’d accidentally ended up bunking with a psychopath.

Toby picked up the hatchet and examined it. “It seems to be weighted well.”

Maybe he could ask for a room reassignment.

“Of course it’s weighted well. You met my family on moving day, Domzalski. I’d be disowned if I couldn’t pick out the best of the bunch.”

This was insane. That was a weapon. It wasn’t allowed. How had she even—!

“I’ll teach you guys how to throw it this weekend,” Wendy said. “It’ll take you a while to get the hang of it.”

“Eh, I figure I’ll pick it up quick,” Toby said with a smirk. “Wirt’s the one who’ll need to figure out the balance when throwing.”

He had no idea how he’d even gotten to be a part of this. Why had they involved him? This would make him an accomplice! Could he even report this without getting into trouble?

Did he want to risk it when his roommate had a hatchet and figured he already knew how to throw it? When he had a friend who definitely did know how to throw it?

“I…I don’t know if I really need to,” Wirt said slowly. “I mean, I’ve already gotten a bunch of readings and assignments—”

“Hey.” Wendy pointed at him. “Neither of you look like you could survive the apocalypse, okay? I just want to make sure my friends are safe if it happens.”

Toby laughed. “I don’t think zombies are what we need to worry about.”

Wendy shrugged. “I never said anything about zombies. But this stays between us. Meet me at my place Saturday morning. We’ll go out to the country for practice, just the three of us.”

“Um.” Wirt swallowed. “What about your roommate?”

“Jazz? I’m not worried about her. She might not look it, but that girl can handle herself. She just doesn’t know how to hide her weapons. You two, on the other hand….”

“Oh, come on, don’t lump me in with him,” Toby said, jabbing a thumb in Wirt’s direction. “I’d be way better in a fight.”

Even Jazz had weapons? That weren’t Wendy’s? He’d only met her for a few minutes when Toby had introduced him to Wendy, barely remembered what she looked like beyond the red hair, but she’d seemed nice. Stable. Unlike the people he was currently with.

“I’ll be the judge of that on Saturday.” Wendy hopped off the desk. “In the meantime, find a good hiding spot. Concealed but accessible. Sorry I’ve gotta cut and run, but I’m gonna be late for a library study session with my grade-obsessed roomie. Give it three weeks, and then it’ll get to her.” She unlocked the door and tossed a two-fingered salute at them over her shoulder. “Later.”

Wirt slowly sunk down onto his bed even as Toby crossed the floor to lock the door behind Wendy. “What…what are we going to do with that?”

Toby eyed the hatchet for a moment. “Drive some nails into the wall and hide it behind a poster between our beds?”

“You’re kidding.”

“It’s better than behind the dresser. Or under a bed or in one of the desk drawers. When you’re attacked, they don’t really give you time to grab your stuff.”

“Welcome to college, Wirt,” Wirt muttered. Louder, he said, “I don’t even have a hammer.”

Toby grinned. “Don’t worry, I’ve got us covered.”

XXXXXX

Saturday was a disaster.

Wendy had had her truck packed by the time they got there, and by ten, Wirt had no idea where they were. After the hour drive and half hour hike, Wendy was setting up targets and Toby had the audacity to start humming.

Things got worse once Wendy’s lessons began.

Wirt couldn’t seem to hit a target. Any target. No matter how close he was. Well, fine, if he was really close, sometimes he could hit the target, but he couldn’t get anything to stick. Even if the hatchet miraculously hit blade first, he couldn’t get the angle right.

It took him six hours (not including their picnic lunch, courtesy of Wendy) to chip the corner of Wendy’s wooden target. His arm had been aching since the first hour, even when he’d started switching between his throwing arms and taking copious breaks. None of Wendy’s advice helped.

Toby, on the other hand, stuck a bullseye on his third try.

And then he just got more consistent.

“How are you good at this?” Wirt asked at one point.

Toby smirked. “I have many hidden talents.”

Somehow, that wasn’t comforting.

Wendy wound up giving Toby a passing grade, but on the drive home, she informed Wirt that he was slated for extra lessons. “You’re not dying on me,” she said when he tried to protest.

“Funny, I’d believe that more if you weren’t trying to kill me.”

She laughed. “Trust me, I’m not there yet.”

Yet?

“C’mon, I’ll train you,” Toby piped up, nudging him in the shoulder. The truck was only a three-seater, and Wirt was trapped in the middle. “We’ll get a dartboard or something and at least work on your aim. Totally innocuous stuff.”

“I see why you two get on so well,” Wirt grumbled. He had a feeling they wouldn’t let this drop. If that were a possibility, they wouldn’t have gone so far away to train. Or spent most of the daylight doing it.

He didn’t know why, but whatever this was, it wasn’t just some fad for them. Wendy seemed to genuinely believe she was helping, and Toby was too good to just be in it for kicks. He wouldn’t have minded the training, but it couldn’t just be for survival training. Actual survival training would involve more than how to throw a hatchet into a homemade target. He could handle the sewing part, but scavenging? He was little better than he’d been in the Unknown. He was better at playing a musical instrument than crafting something useful. He didn’t—

Seriously. Why were they both so chill about this whole apocalypse thing? Did they think it was a joke?

Maybe they were hazing him or something. That was a thing in college, wasn’t it? Something people did before you were officially accepted into whatever it was?

Maybe they hadn’t just met, either. Maybe they were actually long-time friends and saw him as a gullible target. And he couldn’t blame them. He’d fallen for a lot over the years.

But…this was kinda elaborate for a prank, wasn’t it?

It had to be a practical joke, though. There weren’t any other options. How could it not be a joke? This was the real world, not…whatever the Unknown had been. The apocalypse wasn’t actually going to happen. Not in his lifetime. Not unless the Powers that Be decided to fight each other, and he was pretty sure everyone valued their own lives too much for that to happen.

It was possible his new friends were conspiracy theorists, but….

No. More likely, he had an overactive imagination.

Way more likely.

An overactive imagination, and two new friends who were jokers.

Whatever. Greg would have an idea to get them back. He was better at that sort of thing. For now, Wirt was better off sitting back and trying to enjoy the ride.

XXXXXXXX

Wirt had no idea how Wendy had gotten a key to their place, but she wasn’t shy about using it.

To be fair, he hadn’t asked Toby if he knew, but he hadn’t wanted to in case he didn’t like the answer. He wasn’t entirely confident that Toby had procured it for her. He’d made the mistake of asking Wendy how she’d gotten it once, and she’d just smirked.

Ignorance seemed safer.

So when she waltzed in when he was trying to wrap his head around his calculus assignment, all he said was, “Toby’s in a bio lab till four and I don’t have time for extra practice.” It wasn’t worth commenting on the fact that he’d locked himself in in an effort to focus.

A futile one, apparently.

Wendy leaned against the edge of his desk. “You’re getting better, Wirt, but you’re not getting that much better. Do you and Toby even use that dartboard he bought?”

“He does,” Wirt mumbled.

Wendy hummed and picked up one of his assignments and started flipping through it. A month of telling her to stop hadn’t quelled her habit of snooping. Wirt figured it wasn’t worth fighting, that she probably would stop if she knew he was anything more than mildly annoyed, but— “Did you ever have to do derivatives?”

“I’m not here to crunch numbers,” Wendy said without looking up. She was frowning. “Wirt, is this an analogy for death?”

“Is what what?”

“This Unknown place you wrote about.”

Wirt froze. His creative writing assignment. He hadn’t realized that’s what she was looking at. He’d had a few assignments in the last few days that required him to hand in hard copies, but that—

“It’s pretty detailed. I didn’t know you could write like this.” The papers were tossed on top of his math book. “So, spill. Death? Limbo? Purgatory? Or just, like, a coming-of-age story dealing with responsibility and struggles and accepting certain things about yourself and whatever?”

There was a note in her voice he hadn’t heard before. Not desperation, nothing like that, but not joking, either. Not like he’d expect. But it was more than just curiosity. Harder. Like a command lay beneath it.

Wirt carefully flipped the papers back over and moved the assignment off to the side. “Honestly, I don’t even know,” he said. “I just wrote. And tried to stick a bunch of themes in there. It’s probably all of that stuff.”

She stared at him. Pursed her lips. Moved her gaze down to his math work. And then tapped the question he was working on in the textbook and said, “You copied that down wrong. It’s f double prime, not f prime. I’ll catch up with you guys later.”

She was gone before he had a chance to ask her why she’d come in the first place.

XXXXXXX

Wirt was almost asleep when he heard, “So what’s the Unknown?”

He groaned. “I turned that assignment in two weeks ago. Can’t you guys give it a rest?”

“Maybe if you give me an answer. So sue me. Wendy’s got me curious.”

“I’d rather slug you,” Wirt muttered into his pillow, pulling his spare over his head. “Do we have to do this now?”

“It was pretty detailed. How’d you think of it?”

“I have a good imagination.”

A snort. “Huh, and here I thought you might’ve wandered into another dimension.”

Wirt was too tired to laugh. Too tired to pretend to laugh. “You done yet?”

“Almost. One of my friends is on break next week. They’ve got a reading week. She’s coming to visit. She can’t crash here, obviously, but Wendy and Jazz have a couch they said she could call home, so she’ll be around. A lot.”

“Great.”

“I just figured I should warn you.”

“Why would you need to warn me?” A heads up was fine, expected even, but warning? Toby didn’t use that word lightly.  

Toby didn’t answer, just mumbled a goodnight before creaking springs and rustling blankets meant he was rolling over and planning on not talking anymore.

Unfortunately, Wirt was already awake.

XXXXXXXX

When Wirt met Toby’s friend Claire, he understood why Toby got along so well with Wendy.

“Nice to meet you,” she said, very politely shaking his hand. And then, without missing a beat, she turned to Toby. “Why the hatchet behind the movie poster?”

She’d been in their dorm room a grand total of two and a half minutes, tops. Just long enough to finish the introductions. It’s not like the hatchet was that visible; it had taken them forever to hide it beneath the poster so that it couldn’t be seen, and no one else who had stopped by their room had ever commented on it. So how come she’d managed to spot it so quickly?

She wouldn’t be asking Toby about the hatchet if she’d known where it was, not unless he’d been putting her off until she came in person, but what kind of sense did that make?

Toby grinned. “Insurance,” he said. “Y’know. In case of monsters.”

Claire’s eyebrows rose, and her eyes flicked towards Toby’s desk and then to Wirt before finding Toby again. “Monsters,” she repeated. “Right.”

She didn’t sound skeptical, like a normal person. She…she almost sounded resigned.

“Does it at least have good balance? It’s weighted well?”

Really, it made instant sense that Toby was friends with Claire and Wendy.

Maybe Toby had at least told her to look for something hidden in their room, if not that it was a hatchet. Or maybe he hadn’t told her where it was, just that they had a hatchet in the first place. Maybe she hadn’t just walked in and spotted their secret instantly, without even knowing they were hiding one.

Toby made an exaggerated gesture towards the hidden hatchet. “See for yourself, señorita.”

Claire’s exclamation of delight as she handled the weapon—and, more to the point, the ease with which she wielded it—made Wirt think Toby’s warning hadn’t been entirely unfounded.

XXXXXXXX

Toby and Claire didn’t spend much time in the dorm room after all, but Wirt didn’t have to be a genius to figure out that the two kept talking about something and didn’t want to say too much around him. All he understood was that it involved someone else named Jim—likely as not, the third in the high school photo Toby had taped above his desk. Considering the only others up there was one of his nana with her cat and one of him with Wirt and Wendy, it seemed a safe enough bet.

They talked about a few other people, but most of those were by some nickname. More to the point, they were nicknames he didn’t recognize, so even if Toby had told him about these people, he couldn’t piece it together. (Though he had no idea how someone got to be named Blinky, Not-Enrique had to be some inside joke. Maybe he looked like someone named Enrique and kept getting mistaken for him by people who only knew Enrique?) Anyway, it was too hard to keep them straight when he wasn’t supposed to be eavesdropping in the first place.

It wasn’t until Claire was actually gone that Wirt finally worked up the courage to ask Toby about the stuff he’d heard. “Is your friend in trouble?”

“Claire?” Toby spun his desk chair around to face Wirt, who was sitting on his bed. “She’s always in trouble. Mostly because she’s helping other people out of it.”

“No, the other one. Jim. I heard you guys talk about him, and you sounded worried.”

Toby blew out a breath. “That’s complicated. Claire’s going to keep me posted. Right now, it’s nothing you need to worry about.”

Wirt smirked. “So not the start of the apocalypse?”

“Not yet, anyway.”

“Great. Means I can actually focus on my last couple of midterms.” He knew Toby’s were over—at least, his first round was; he had a few classes that had two midterms—which was probably the only reason he’d survived Claire’s visit when most others were studying.

It was funny, though. He’d have figured, if Claire’s college did have a reading week in the fall, that it would be after midterms, but this was the middle of October. It was prime midterm season.

“Hey, uh, where’s Claire study, anyway? I don’t remember.”

“She’s in New Jersey. Small place. You won’t have heard of it. I never had.”

“You sure?”

“Definitely.”

“Try me.”

Toby rolled his eyes. “Heartstone. Happy? Anyway, since you apparently don’t acknowledge your text messages, Wendy said to give you a heads up that she’s got a couple friends coming to town for a few days, too. High schoolers scouting out potential colleges, including our stomping ground. She wants to know if we can meet them for supper at some point.”

Toby was right—he hadn’t heard of Heartstone—but the subject change gave Wirt pause. Toby was usually happy to talk about his other friends. Honestly, he was usually happy to talk about anything. Especially when it was an excuse to procrastinate on his homework.

Wirt decided to ignore it for now and gave a shrug. “Any day should work for me. Next week’s pretty open. Mostly just writing papers.”

“Awesome. It should be good. From what she tells me about them, you’ll love them.”

“I’m sure I will.”

XXXXXXXX

The Pines twins didn’t fit Wirt’s idea of normal, either. He was beginning to doubt that anyone his roommate (or his friends) knew ever would. It wasn’t Mabel’s love of homemade sweaters or the way Dipper almost immediately asked him about the Unknown (why had Wendy told him about an old assignment, anyway?) when they met up at the restaurant just off campus. It wasn’t the way they sometimes finished each other’s sentences, either, because judging by their grins, they were hamming it up for his and Toby’s sake. It was more….

Well, it was the fact that when the subject somehow turned to cryptozoology, they knew a lot.

Even Toby looked surprised, though in all fairness, he looked happy about it. And some of his questions were…oddly specific. The twins looked delighted. Wendy was just smirking as if this was going exactly as she’d expected.

Wirt had hoped the conversation would change when Jazz joined them for dessert, but it just made things worse. She wasn’t so much skeptical of their stories as she was analytical. Like she wanted to learn as much as possible even though none of it was real. She kept asking questions. And no matter what she asked, they had answers—Dipper especially.

Wendy had given him a playful nudge when she’d finally interrupted to bring up demons. Dipper’s face darkened, like he wished she’d left well enough alone, but he and Mabel were able to spin yet another tale. Jazz looked delighted. Wirt couldn’t remember if she’d brought up alternate dimensions or if it had been Toby, but that had easily been a half hour tangent. Wirt had no idea how they came up with these things. Sure, the Unknown had been real, or at least as real as it could be, but it’s not like pocket dimensions or doors to other worlds existed all over the place. The twins’ stories were obviously fabrications even if they purposefully didn’t frame them like that, and Toby and Jazz and Wendy loved playing along—to the point that they’d keep asking his opinion on things even when he didn’t try to join the conversation.

But seriously. If gnomes were actually real, they wouldn’t vomit rainbows. That just…. It didn’t make sense. Rainbows were just light broken into the visible spectrum. If that light had no reason to refract and disperse in the first place—

He was thinking too much about this.

Just like he had about things in the Unknown.

At least these things were just stories.

XXXXXX

Wirt found the sheets detailing exorcisms—both ghostly and demonic—mixed in with his schoolwork that night. He didn’t recognize the handwriting—any of the handwriting, since it looked to be done by three different people—but the top piece of paper was addressed to him. Wirt, hope this helps. It was in the same hand as the majority of the notes.

Dipper’s, maybe. He’d talked more details than Mabel. And Wendy could’ve easily slipped the papers into his room since she had a key. He wasn’t sure about the third hand. Mabel had mentioned their grunkles, but he’d gotten the impression they were travelling somewhere. But considering the tiny, careful details that supplemented the first set of notes on the ghost section….

Was this why Jazz had had weapons?

Was it actually possible that Wendy had managed to wind up rooming with someone as crazy as she was in her own way? Someone who believed whatever story Wendy had fed her and didn’t find it weird to be asked to write up what was very likely pseudoscience at best? He’d thought Jazz’s major was something like psychology, but maybe….

Wirt flipped through the pages. One of them was definitely written mostly in Latin. Another was covered in a language he didn’t recognize at all, which is probably why the phonetic pronunciation was written in brackets behind every sentence. Another was English but filled with words he didn’t know.

He wondered what the heck he’d gotten himself into.

Maybe he should transfer somewhere else. Or at least put in for a different roommate for next term. Distance would help, wouldn’t it?

Except, insane as it sounded, insane as the situation was, it seemed like his friends were just trying to help him. Maybe Wendy really had realized the truth of what he’d written up for his English assignment. Maybe that’s why she wouldn’t let him get away with waving it off.

But if she didn’t just believe it was real because she apparently seemed to believe everything like it was real, what was her story? And Toby’s, since he was the same way? Claire’s? Mabel and Dipper’s? Even Jazz’s?

“They have to have just been telling stories,” Wirt said aloud.

But Toby wasn’t around to reassure him, and he couldn’t quite convince himself.

XXXXX

It was past midnight some weeks later when Wirt saw the…creature.

He woke shivering, pulling the blankets around him, and then he realized that the draft from the window above his bed was stronger than usual. It wasn’t whistling like it did when the wind was from the north, and it wasn’t like Toby to accidentally leave it open.

He was about to sit up to double check when something moved, momentarily blocking the light as it squeezed inside.

Wirt was too terrified to breathe. He knew it couldn’t be the Beast; if nothing else, it was far too small to be the Beast if it could fit through the window so easily. It could have torn through the screen, but he hadn’t heard breaking glass. It must be dexterous enough to have pried the window open.

It was too dark to make out details when the thing moved so fast. It was small. Dark and muddied in the dim light—green, maybe, or blue or brown or even grey—but either with distinct markings or wearing something a little bit lighter, too. Whatever it was, it scampered across the wall on all fours, not seeming to see him. At least, if it did, and if it noticed he was awake, it didn’t do anything. It just dropped something on Toby’s bed, on the pillow he hadn’t drooled all over, and then let out something that was either an honest-to-goodness laugh or a freaky, growling call. It dropped the floor between their beds but was gone when Wirt blinked again, before he ever got a better look at it.

The light was blocked off again.

He heard a snap.

Then a creak.

Then the light was back, illuminating what might be…paper? A note? If it hadn’t still been on Toby’s pillow, Wirt would have thought it was a dream.

That morning, Wirt pretended not to see Toby scoop up the crumpled note without a word. Toby didn’t read it, didn’t even acknowledge its existence, and Wirt wondered if this had happened before. If he’d just never noticed until now.

If this wasn’t the first time, what else had he never noticed before?

When Toby headed off to class, Wirt stayed behind. He was supposed to be in English right now, but he couldn’t….

That wasn’t important right now.

One missed class wouldn’t ruin his grade.

Whatever this was, on the other hand….

The screen on the window hadn’t been torn; the frame was a little bent, but it was hardly noticeable. There were no telltale gouges or anything of the sort. The window, as per usual, didn’t quite close, but honestly, Wirt couldn’t remember if it ever had. Now, he was left wondering if this was why.

Wirt pulled down one of the notebooks from the shelf mounted above his desk, pulled out the loose-leaf sheets he’d stuffed inside, took a closer look at the notes on exorcisms he hadn’t thrown out like he should have.

Next or see more fics

[auroraphilealis]

9 Years

9 Years | Dan writes a letter to Phil on their anniversary, and it might be a little bit sappy (but shh, don’t tell anyone because Dan’s still an edge lord). | Phan | Teen and Up | Depression | 811 words

Written for day two of the @phanfichallenge week of writing challenge. Weirdly inspired by an episode of queer eye. Not going to elaborate becasue this didn’t end up at all how i planned.

(ao3 link)

**

Phil,

I feel like we’ve had this conversation before (or, like, half a million times really) but sometimes when I wake up, I still can’t believe I ever got to meet you. It’s sort of surreal, you know? Like a nobody somehow finding a celebrities secret tumblr and chatting with them until they fell in love. Sounds ridiculous, right? Like a reader insert fanfiction or celebrityXyou (ynh) text post (the fact that people actually right real life fanfiction about us and I’ve accidentally read too many ynh posts about you kind of proves my point here).

But no matter how many times we have this conversation, I don’t think it will ever cease being true. You know how much I hate being sappy (like, not at all, but shh don’t tell our viewers that, I’ve got an edge lord persona to protect, you know?), but you’re kind of my own little miracle. And I know what you’re going to say - Dan you’re the one who stalked me into talking to you, I’m not sure that counts as a miracle - but the thing is, it still is. Remember what I said about the celebrity thing? Yeah, why you ever decided to message me back I’ll never know, but you did.

You did.

And that… well, it changed my life. I know you already know all this, but let me just be sappy for a moment, okay? It is our anniversary after all (thank fuck the fangirls don’t know about this one, cause I’m kind of glad we have some kind of special day just for us).

Anyway. I know you’re always telling me that I’m the one who beat my depression, but you’re kind of a key reason why. I’m not saying that I wouldn’t have been able to do it myself, or any of that lame crap about how you saved me or whatever, but, you made me want to get better. You made me want to be better. You made me want to keep trying, to keep pushing myself, and even on my darkest days, you were there tucking me into bed and allowing me to mope just long enough before you kicked my ass back into shape.

I might have been the one doing the fighting, but you’re the one who supported me and gave me a light at the end of the tunnel to look forward too. You were the one who made sure I ate and drank and went to therapy when I couldn’t be bothered to get out bed, and you were the one who gave me the strength to see that I was the one who had to fight this. For myself. And for you.

That’s something I can never thank you enough for.

But more than that… you just make me happy. I’ve never met another person who matched me quite like you do. I mean, look at our fanbase - they see it just as clearly as we do. You’re like the literal Yin to my Yang. Our fucking star signs align.

If I were one to believe in fate, I’d call you my soulmate.

But as it is… well, let’s just call you the love of my life instead. Or my partner in crime (tbh the second one sounds way cooler).

We’ve spent the last 9 years at each others sides. All of my proudest moments, and all of my lowest, have been with you. All of my greatest achievements have either been with you or because of you, because of this life we share and the strength and support you give me to go out there and chase my dreams. All of the times I’ve said this is the happiest I’ve ever been have been shared with you, and when I look back on my life… I realize that while I might have been just as happy on my own, or had just as many grand adventures by myself… I’m glad I got to share all of these with you.

Because you, Phil Lester, make every moment feel special - whether it be sitting on our sofa at 3am going down a YouTube rabbit hole together, or sweating in a too hot bed ten feet apart (cause we’re not gay) cause touching each other feels like lighing on fire.

Living with my best friend, being in love with my best friend? It’s more than I ever could have hoped for when I first turned 18.

And now here I am, 27 years old, and I don’t think I’d have my life any other way.

So I guess what I’m trying to say is:

Come downstairs already you lazy bum i’ve been sat on one knee in front of the fireplace for at least an hour by now, and i’m expecting a fucking yes or I’m going to throw myself off the balcony.

Dan

[catboyrights]

Silent fury for the writing thing

this… maybe got long and might get longer bit blame good worlds i can make terrible people for. Enjoy what is now just a weird Garland+Vaughan snippet

Garland doesn’t have any leads, and she needs this so badly she doesn’t hesitate to drag herself straight to the damn source. Told her it would be huge–career making huge, breaking out of the tabloid hellhole huge–and exclusively hers. It’s a desperate bargain, but if two years confined to imaginary couplings and falsified claims of pseudo-celebrity misdeeds didn’t call for a Hail Mary move nothing did.

He strides in–late, she might add–takes his time to make his way over to the booth she’s stowed herself away. Lucky he’s giving her intel, because she already wants to throttle him and they haven’t even spoken.

“Miss Murphy?” he says, pauses giving her a less than subtle once over. Prick. Looked exactly like she said she would down to the scowl. “Expected someone a little more… professional.” He gestures at the whole of her–the fountain of blonde curls flowing from the crown of her head, the trendy shift she slipped into before leaving.

“Well,” he says, languorously spilling himself into the seat across from her, “that’s neither here nor there. Suits fine, the end is the same regardless. You’ll have time to learn the ins and outs of looking acceptable once you’ve made it big, won’t you?”

She stabs her cigarette into the ashtray, imagines it’s his eye with a smile. She could show him unprofessional if that’s what he truly wanted, but she holds her tongue and lets him belittle her because he holds the power in this. “Are you going to insult my taste in drink next Hirsch, or are you going to get the point of our little meeting? Wouldn’t want to keep you stuck here with me for much longer if you really have such a problem.”

“I suppose you’ve got me there. Cutting right to the heart of the matter, aren’t we? No nonsense, perhaps there’s a place for you at the top yet.” He smirks at her, seeping a sardonic hatred that makes her cringe, as he moves to the bag at his side. “And my will this ever shoot you to the top my dear. Go ahead, take a look!” He hails a waitress, tossing a loose file of documents her way. “Suppose I should order before things get good, no?”

She’s ready, practically salivating at the possibilities, ripping into the folder like her life was on line. Not too far off considering the pay at stake here. Too engrossed by the thought she won’t have to write for Adonis this month to notice the way he stares with a sadistic glee.

“You’re fuckin’ with me Hirsch,” she says, mouth agape. “Where in the hell did you find this?” A forgotten child of Caesar, the dead bastard, alive and kicking with the Followers. A goddamn heir accidentally stumbling through life like dear old dad. It’s almost cliché how poetic a turn this is. Following in daddy’s footsteps so perfectly in line no one could fault Garland for stirring up the idea that maybe a big, take back the Mojave style Legion resurgence was in the making. Fear is money.

“Lets just say a skillful tongue is hardly out of place stumbling wherever they please.” He is dripping with pride, and for the first time this evening, Garland gets it. The waitress drops his drink–a whiskey sour, suits him–and he takes a prim sip without breaking his state. “Go on, see just how real this scoop is, how deep the proverbial rabbit hole goes.” He watches her pour through the pages, little regard to him, for what seems like ages before she speaks.

“No, this is good. Who gives a shit about the proof? This is the type of thing I can’t make up,” she says, takes a hard pull off her Pink Lady. “I could kiss you this is so damn good.”

He chuckles, quirks a curious brow. “Propositioning me? Well anything to get a story, I won’t judge.” He sets a hand on hers admiring the well-kept manicure she’d spent far too many caps on, tries his hardest to smoulder at her but she can’t keep a straight face at how ill fitting it seems.

“No, I have to start writing now. I can’t let this shit have even a chance of coming out before Underwraps prints. God I love you so damn much right now.” She swipes his hand away, clutching the file to tight in her hand as she moves to make her exit. She had a story to write–God, it felt good to be able to say that with meaning again.

“And I you, Miss Garland Murphy. Would be such a shame to let this slip through your fingers. Have such a head on those little shoulders of yours.” He smiles again, a knife against her throat she hardly notices. “Do come to see me when you’re done. I think this is the start of a beautiful partnership for the two of us.”

And so she leaves, never noticing the way that wolfish glare never leaves her.

–

She is a fucking idiot, a goddamn Grade-A fuck up. He was a slimy piece of shit and if she saw him again she would slit his worthless throat. Today was Underwraps day to print–always Sunday because the rest of the rags went out Monday and they had to compete here–and what the fuck does she walk up to? Every goddamn one of them with same damn headline front and center, pretty as a fucking picture.

Exclusive her ass. Son of a goddamn bitch probably had it planned from the start and she didn’t see it. Hates him almost as much as she pities herself.

So she sits at the bar, soothing her rage and wounded ego with cheap, pink drinks she hopes someone would be dumb enough to pay for. Was her right as she poured over every page about her story, each the same with a new twist.

“Ah, so you’ve seen the good news then haven’t you darling?” She nearly breaks her glass at the sing-songy trill. “Awful easy find for someone who tries to keep themselves hidden.” He places a hand on her shoulder sliding into the free seat beside her. “Let’s not be too hasty either, shall we? Would be a shame for you to fall to such a base reaction. Not big-time reporter behaviour is it?”

She bites back the urge to slap him, throw her drink, anything to deal with the bubbling fury coursing through her being. So she doesn’t do anything at all. He doesn’t deserve acknowledgement now, he was fucking dead to her.

“Now Ms. Murphy, that’s hardly the way to treat your informer. Had to assume something when I didn’t ask for payment up front. You don’t just get something for nothing, you know this.” He traces his fingers, still firm on her shoulder, up her neck. “This is mine.”

[lady-divine-writes]

Klaine fic - “Underneath the Magic” (Rated PG13)

Kurt, a tree demon, runs a magical, supernatural circus that, unfortunately, is in the red. Trying to come up with a way to keep them afloat, his right hand man ... uh, goblin ... convinces Kurt to hire some new acts. Kurt reluctantly agrees, as long as that new act isn't human.

Enter Blaine - the human conman who's about to try and change Kurt's mind. (10511 words)

So, this started life in a number of different ways. I wanted to write some stuff for @sunshineoptimismandangels, for her birthday, and at the time, I had started writing this as an original piece, inspired by @vampireisabitstrong's "Graveyard Book au" which I was also writing at the time. But after a while, I had to come to grips with the fact that I was writing Glee characters. The character of Puck, in particular, was inspired in part by sunshine's character of Felix from her amazing story Heartstone (whom she's reluctant to admit is a goblin, but I know better xD) Also, Kurt is a Spriggan, but I added hints of Kapre as a nod to Darren's Filipino heritage. I hope you all enjoy. Please let me know. And no, if you're curious, I wasn't smoking anything when I wrote this xD

For @sunshineoptimismandangels . I know I’m writing a ton of stuff for you but look! Something shiny!! <3

Read on AO3.

On the farthest outskirts of town.

Past the dead end streets and the no trespassing signs.

In a place with no light, artificial or otherwise. Where the full moon fails to penetrate.

In the center of a deep, dark forest.

In a clearing where no grass grows, no animals graze, no water flows.

Where the still air settles dry and musty, like the breath of death, and even the spirits of the wicked dare not tread.

The perfect place for a satanic ritual, to cast a spell …

… or perform a sacrifice.

Or hold a circus.

But not just any circus. Here there be no clowns, no acrobats, no elephants, no loud emcee dressed in a sparkly red coat and tall top hat.

Spriggan and Company’s Supernatural Circus - where the freaks control the show and the straights wind up in cages.

It is a commonly accepted belief in the earthen realm that the modern circus originated in the late 18th century, but Spriggan’s circus (and this particular Spriggan preferred to be called “Kurt”, derived from the Old High German Kuonrat and meaning wise counsel) has been around for far longer. For those few who know of Kurt and his past, it is rumored that he and his circus have performed for every type of creature that has ever walked the planet Earth – human, vampire, werewolf, cryptid, in every station imaginable from Neanderthal to Czar.

But that doesn’t necessarily mean that his circus is easy to come by.

One can find it only if they truly believe, if they possess a heart of darkness (of their own or in a box - either way works as long as it doesn’t leak), or if they can stare into the abyss and fear not what they may see. But if none of that applies to you personally, there are gigantic possessed road signs set up every few miles to help guide you on your journey. They flash in a dazzling array of colors, sing opera, and even dance the polka. They might scream at you if you ignore them for too long before you reach the turnpike, helpfully directing you back to the exit you accidentally missed because every person, demon, beast, warlock, and road sign in those parts knows that if you have gone this way, Kurt’s circus is the only place you intend on ending up.

Come one, come all! Don’t delay! Come now! the signs cry, luring pedestrians and motorists alike to behold the most spectacular feats of magic and wonderment ever known to man or Gorgon. (The older signs scream obscenities in cryptic forgotten languages, but you have to forgive them. After several centuries, there’s no changing their ways.)

And like all respectable circuses, this one takes place beneath a “Big Top”. The tent they use, however, is actually a bigger than big top, made of thick, heavy canvas woven by the gnarled hands of Stygian witches, with long, vertical stripes running from peak to the hem. The stripes are pink and white if you’re a Virgo, black and purple if you’re a Scorpio, green and gold if you’re a Taurus, and just plain red if you’re an Aries. If you happen to be a Capricorn, it’s something else entirely, like an antique greenhouse with fogged glass panes or an old abandoned inn whose lavish furnishings have faded with age.

Aquarians, however, don’t come here. It’s nothing personal (cough-cough). It just kind of is.

But regardless of its dreary and gothic portend, none of it is meant to hurt, frighten, or offend. It is all the work of a master trickster who has spent the long millennia offering unique entertainment open and accessible to beings of all ages, races, genders, sexual orientations, religions, political affiliations, etc. (except for Aquarians - refer back to the above), and promises to be vegan friendly, as well as gluten- and cruelty-free.

Behind the main tent, cloaked to mortal eyes, lies the encampment where the performers live during their time in the human realm, each tent enchanted to match the personality of its inhabitant – moss covered tombs for the vampires, veiled by an eternal darkness; bogs for the swamp monsters, shrouded with twisted, overgrown vines, their tepid waters slick with a layer of putrid algae; a stable for the unicorns, where inside an illusion of the forests of their world stretches, blue shimmering skies and silver lined clouds above, rolling green hills and fragrant wild flowers below, and filled with rabbits, eagles, deer, and all of the other animals they have sworn to protect (which unfortunately escape every so often and run amok, as evidenced by the Australian rabbit pandemic of the past 150 years).

Beyond those tents grows a thicket of trees not native to these woods – stunning mangoes, thorny acacias, dense bamboo, and brooding banyans. Travel through their maze and you might stumble across the ruins of an old plantation house, it’s once proud, whitewashed walls slowly being reclaimed by Mother Earth, devoured by the softly swelling ground beneath it. Follow the branches that break through its foundation, compelled to grow by the power within, and you will find him. Here, apart from the others, dwells the founder of this folly, the creator of this circus, the manager of this mélange.

In short, the guy in charge.

In the midst of this ruin, hidden by scores of overhanging branches, Kurt sits, red eyes glowing in the descending mists of twilight, fingers drumming his knees, deeply troubled as he counts and re-counts his take. A rap on the door doesn’t distract nor disturb him. He knew what was coming. He smelled him on the evening breeze, sensed his arrival in his bones. He felt his footsteps disturb the ground, and the trees surrounding him warned of his approach. In his heart, though he hopes for good news, Kurt already knows this intruder doesn’t bode well.

The door swings open, hinges creaking like the tortured gasps of a hanging man, and the foul thing walks in – long, hooked nose preceding him by about half a foot; hunched over as if pressed down upon by an invisible burden; favoring one leg while the other hits the boards beneath him with a resounding clunk, his slow march tapping out the foreboding cadence of a funeral dirge. His skin glows slightly in this absence of light, lending an eerie cast of unnatural grey to the room. Cracked, thin lips outline a mouth of yellowing, rectangular teeth, gapped in the center while the rest hang askew like dominoes forever falling. The creature smiles. It splits his face almost entirely in two. He’s dressed in the humblest of clothes – a shirt made of burlap that continuously irritates his skin, which sloughs from his shoulders and back in sheets and leaves a ghastly trail behind; and pants fashioned by the very same witches whose arthritic fingers stitched together the tents. His pants in particular are two sizes too loose at the waist, tied around his torso with a piece of rough twine; and three sizes too long at the legs so that the bulk of their length drags behind him, his feet sticking out of two ragged holes where everyday use has worn them through.

“My Lord,” the detestable creature rasps, hobbling toward the tree demon, who towers the approaching goblin even while reclining, “I bring to you the book of holding, ripe for your approval. Snoooort!” He sucks in through his nose what sounds like a century’s worth of phlegm, then bows his head in reverence as he offers Kurt the book.

Kurt stares at the ancient, leathery object, held aloft by an even more ancient, leathery creature. He sits up in his chair created by the twining tree roots of two mighty banyans, straightens to an even loftier height, and with a disapproval wrought by hundreds of years of monotony, rolls his flaming red eyes, and says, “Can’t you just call it a ledger, Puck? For crying out loud! You do this every … single … night!”

The goblin huffs and stands upright. He glares indignantly at his friend and Master, but to Kurt, it looks more like he’s pouting. “Where’s your flair for the dramatic, old man? Or your sense of humor?”

“It’s gone on vacation with the petty cash.” Kurt sighs, rubbing his pinched brow with woody fingers. “It’ll return when we clear a profit. So, how did we do?” Kurt extends sharp nails to take the smallish ledger from his goblin companion. “My cash box here’s a little light.”

“Not as good as you had hoped, I’m afraid.”

Kurt flips through the pages carefully to keep from slicing them to bits, mulling over the less-than-impressive numbers. “Hmm. How many performances do we have left in this realm?”

“Only three,” the goblin says regretfully. “Then we move on.”

“Ugh!” Kurt slams the book shut in his hand, squeezing so hard he nearly drives his fingers straight through it. “If we could only sneak five more in before the next full moon!”

“I don’t see how that’s possible. Not with the portal to our next destination opening soon. And it’s a good thing, too. The glamour shielding the meadow is already starting to peel … and it’s gettin’ kinda gross,” Puck remarks, recalling the trail of mushy magic he’d had to sidestep just to get to Kurt’s sanctuary. He’s pretty certain that, despite his best efforts, he still managed to drag the hems of his pants through it. There’s a stain that’s impossible to get out, and it’ll smell like raw eggs and rotting swordfish given enough time. He grimaces just thinking about it.

Kurt grimaces, too. Not at Puck’s mention of “peeling glamour”, but at the avalanche of skin flakes that tumble from the goblin’s body when he shivers. Kurt would never outright tell his friend this, but he’d much prefer stepping in a pool of mushy, decaying magic than another pile of desiccated goblin skin.

But back to the real issue …

They’d discussed this before. There’s no use repeating and rehashing it, and yet, every time they start this discussion, they both hope for a better outcome.

The definition of insanity, Einstein would say, which is exactly why Kurt doesn’t speak to him anymore, the insufferable old fool.

“I don’t see how, either,” Kurt admits. “I’d like to leave this plane without any red marks in our ledger, but it seems to be nothing but red lately.” Kurt peeks through the pages of the book one last time, looking for something that will prove him wrong, a page full of pluses instead of minuses that he had read incorrectly. When he doesn’t come across one, he raises a hopeful eyebrow at his shifty friend. “No chance you were balancing the books while eating your lunch again, and that’s blood on these pages in place of ink?”

“I wish,” Puck snorts. “But no. I’m using a ballpoint pen nowadays. You know that.”

“Yeah, I know that,” Kurt grumbles.

“We have to face facts. The crowds have been thinner lately,” Puck points out as if Kurt didn’t already know – as if the whole company, stressed out over incidentals day after day, hasn’t realized it. “Believe it or don’t, many humans are choosing to go see Cirque du Soleil over our vastly more phenomenal circus. Human acrobats are a bigger draw than supernatural ones, ironically.”

Kurt stands and paces the room. He’d noticed that also, how those human equivalents of tree frogs outperform his circus almost ten to one. Meanwhile, they have a pair of Siamese twins who can switch heads, but meh. That’s old hat compared to a woman who can spin inside a metal ring.

“There’s also the matter of us being stuck in this dreary ass meadow in the middle of nowhere,” Puck continues. “You might consider springing for a few weeks at the convention center - center of town, free advertising, lots of parking and bus access, a handicap ramp …” Kurt nods as Puck counts off the pros on his fingers, giving this option more thought than he had in decades. Kurt can be stubborn, set in his ways. He’s very much an “if it isn’t broke, don’t fix it” kind of demon. His decision to set up camp in meadows like this one wasn’t simply a matter of personal preference, or even safety for his performers. They could always camp in a remote location and teleport to their performance venue – that wasn’t the issue. It was about ambiance, the air of authenticity that holding their circus out in a spooky forest lent to their shtick. Kurt thought that that was one of the things that set them apart from other circuses. It made them special.

But apparently the definition of special had changed over the past three hundred years.

“Also … uh … you could start letting Aquarians in again,” Puck adds under his breath. “I hear they make up a good portion of the population.”

“You know how I feel about that, Puck,” Kurt grumps. “Inconsiderate little dung beetles, the lot of them.”

“Their money spends just like everyone else’s!”

“No Aquarians! That’s not negotiable!” Kurt declares, dropping a period on the end of the discussion.

“Anyway …” Puck sighs. Demons and their egos. There was no way around them. They were the experts at holding a grudge. And once they found one, they latched onto it tight and never let go. Puck knows he’s not going to win. He might as well let that one lie. Besides, he has other suggestions, ones that Kurt might object to more than the inclusion of Aquarians.

“You could always start smoking your magical pipe again. The one that attracts the humans’ attention? You can lure them here that way.”

Kurt curls his lip and pulls a face, one that would be more effective if, at the moment, he weren’t a giant tree. “You know the stigma that surrounds smoking in this century. These mortals are headstrong, more so than their 12th century ancestors, especially when it comes to their health. This mindset of “drugs evil, weed bad” kind of counteracts the effect of the smoke. And not just smoking either. Alcohol, gambling, it’s apparently all a no-no to them. These 21st century humans,” Kurt huffs, as if the mention of them put a bad taste in his mouth. “All they want to do is sip wheat grass, do yoga, and have heated arguments with strangers about something called smashing the patriarchy.” He digs the toe of his trunk-like foot into the dirt, mourning the end of an era. “They don’t know how to have fun anymore.”

Kurt actually used to enjoy coming to Earth a decade or so ago. It was one of the few places where he could indulge in a good, old-fashioned, PG13-rated vice without accidentally declaring war on an indigenous culture.

Not anymore.

“Well, you could at least try it with the pipe for our last three shows, couldn’t you?” Puck suggests, exasperation draining his crooked body. “Or maybe just closing night.”

Kurt shifts from foot to foot, negotiating with himself. He tries his best not to interfere with the humans anymore, not the way the Spriggan used to, which included putting them “under the influence”, causing them to do things against their will. Though, to be fair, refraining from using his pipe goes against his nature, bred from a morality that he’s acquired, not one he’s been taught.

Among Spriggan, Kurt’s the exception, not the rule.

It’s more of a guideline. He doesn’t have to break it. He could just bend it a little, for the holiday crowd, who will more than likely be drinking their heads off anyway. If he lures them to his circus, they’ll all be in one place, bound by protection spells. They won’t be driving while intoxicated. They’ll be safe. Kurt would be doing a public service.

And there he had it! Loopholes! They were amazing things!

“I guess I could do that,” he decides, feeling good about this decision. “I’ll break out the old pipe, smoke some green, and we’ll have a packed house once again.”

“Yeah,” Puck says, a bit uneasy with the direction he was about to take their conversation. Maybe he shouldn’t mention it. He should just let it drop. Kurt finally looked relaxed after the long, hard weeks of constant worry. The problem was that Kurt’s pipe only worked on humans. They were having similar difficulties gathering crowds in other realms they went to, and for a number of reasons. They didn’t just need Band-Aid solutions.

Something else needed to change.

Puck shifts his gaze to the ground, scratches his abnormally large ears with his abnormally longer fingers. “And … maybe … we might consider … um … hiring some new acts?”

Kurt turns on Puck so quickly, the goblin hears the demon’s torso crack, splintered bark breaking from his body and dropping to the earth.

“Puck!” Kurt roars. “We’ve discussed this! There’s nothing wrong with the acts! Bringing new ones on board isn’t the answer!”

“Kurt! We can’t keep slogging along with the old acts if they’re not bringing anybody in! I know you’ve gotten used to our little troupe the way it is. So have I! You know I have trust issues! It took about seven centuries before I could relate to any of them! What does a Pukwudgie have in common with a half-angel, half-dragonfly nomad princess? I’ll tell you what, Kurt! A big fat nothing, that’s what!”

“And yet you still managed to get her pregnant,” Kurt grumbles bitterly recalling the talented, silvery-voiced, platinum-haired enchantress they’d had to send back to her home realm because Puck couldn’t keep his fetid dick in his drooping trousers. Though, on the other hand, Princess Quinn slept with him, so Kurt had to question her life choices.

“But you have to think of the good of the show! You’re working our old acts to death! All of those performers out there that bust their butts every night? You owe them, Kurt! They don’t have to stick it out with us for another millennia. They could transport back to their own dimensions, every last one of them, and then where would we be?”

“I know, I know, you’re right,” Kurt agrees, knocking on his wooden head with wooden fists.

This was another argument they’d been having for longer than Puck could remember. The difference was that on this subject, they strenuously disagreed, to the point of a deadlock, and Kurt didn’t foresee things changing in this instance. Puck argued that they wouldn’t be getting rid of any of their old acts, so there was no reason to be so pigheaded about finding new blood. Kurt countered that their group worked best with the acts already in it. Getting more would be adding unnecessary stress and strain on their already thinly-stretched resources. As far as Kurt was concerned, his circus ran like a well-oiled machine. Adding new acts meant advertising, interviews, auditions, negotiations - things that Kurt couldn’t stand but which would fall on him since he was the owner and all.

On the other hand, it might be nice gong out of his way to meet new beings, for pleasure as well as for work. Bouncing back and forth for centuries has been the death of Kurt’s social life. He’s not looking to settle down or get married. He never wanted to have spawn. He doesn’t even want to date really. He just wants someone nice to go to dinner with every once in a while, tell Dark Age jokes to, share an offering with once in a while.

Not a human. Kurt has been very careful not to become attached to humans. Spriggan as a species can develop a sentimental skin where it comes to humans. If they find one that they consider an equitable match, either as a friend or more, Spriggan will follow that human for the rest of their days.

Ha! Kurt thinks. No, thank you.

But as for everything else, was that too much to ask?

He’s spent his entire existence making others happy – humans, deities, sirens, and banshees galore. Doesn’t he deserve a little happiness, too?

“Okay,” Kurt says, a crumb of reluctance clinging stubbornly to his acquiescence. “We’ll find some new blood. One act, but that’s all.”

It’d better be one hell of an act, he thinks. Kurt hadn’t come across anything in all the infinite realms of the universe that tickled his fancy, nothing that even came close to fitting the bill.

Who was he going to find that would make any sort of a difference in their lives?

“Great!” a cheerful, new voice intervenes. “That’s excellent news! I’d hoped you were hiring.”

Both demon and goblin fall gravely silent.

Kurt looks at Puck.

Puck looks at Kurt.

They turn a full circle, unable to see, at first, the man dressed in head to toe black, standing in the center of their meeting room. But when Kurt sets his red eyes on him, his surprise, which makes his eyes glow like hot coals, pins the man to his spot.

“What the …?” Kurt growls. “Who are you!? How did you get in here!?”

“It wasn’t easy, I’ll tell you that! I had to sneak past your guard at the front door,” the man admits proudly, as if he thinks thwarting their security would win him points.

Of course, considering the fact that their guard is a giant, two-headed, man-eating, spectral spider, it might …

Kurt appraises the man with an unimpressed demeanor. He knows enough about human aesthetic preferences to know that this man – with his tan, unblemished skin; his clean-shaven face; dark hair slicked back; and golden hazel eyes – is handsome by their standards. By demon standards, he would be considered more appetizing than most, and that’s a compliment. And yet, if Kurt had to choose between devouring this human and his usual offering of mangoes and papayas, he’d pick the fruit.

It’s at that moment that Kurt remembers he hasn’t had a decent offering in weeks.

Great. Now his stomach’s growling.

Kurt takes a subconscious breath in and catches a whiff of the man’s cologne – an appetizing blend of cinnamon, cardamom, black pepper, and hibiscus. Those happen to be four of Kurt’s favorite scents in the universe. They remind him of his childhood, of family and friends he knew growing up that have come and gone.

They remind him of his home, a place he hasn’t been to in forever no matter how many times he visits Earth. He can’t. It holds too many memories, and has too much narrow-minded prejudice to make setting up their circus there worth their time.

Damn. Now his stomach’s not only growling, it’s churning like a church fire.

When Kurt snuffs that fire out and shoves the ashes of that nostalgic b.s. aside, he smells power - low levels of it, not nearly enough that it should interest him.

But for some reason, it does interest him.

“Maybe.” Kurt puts his hands on his hips. “And you are …?”

“The name’s Kevin,” the man says, thrusting out an arm, hand open, ready to shake. “Kevin Fitzpatrick at your service, kind sir.”

Kurt looks at the hand presented to him, a blank expression on his face. Kurt doesn’t shake hands. He doesn’t touch other beings if he can help it. He has a thing about germs, especially human ones. It’s not a speciesism issue. It’s a preservation issue. Humans are notorious for their tendency towards self-destruction. Everything that they need to live a long and healthy life, they destroy – their air, their water, their animals, their planet, themselves.

Kurt tilts his head and quirks a brow. “That’s not your real name,” he says, ignoring the man’s hand altogether. For the moment, he’s guessing. It’s part of his mantra. He tries not to invade human minds when he doesn’t have to. They tend to be chaotic, cluttered, unnecessarily confusing, even among the exceptional ones. Humans as a whole don’t know how to think straight. They can’t seem to set their minds on one road and follow it, finish a single task before launching into the next. From all outward appearances – this man’s skin, hair, and eye color, his bushy eyebrows, his stature, average for adult males – he doesn’t seem like he should own such a name. But it’s the way his eyes dart left and right, imperceptible to humans but obvious to a demon, that truly gives him away.

The man’s smile loses some of its strength but none of its luster. He drops his hand to his side, feeling foolish for keeping it extended after several long seconds of Kurt refusing to shake it.

“No, it isn’t,” he admits, sounding like he genuinely wishes it were. “But I thought a traditional Irish name might go over better with you traveling folk.”

Kurt and Puck exchange a pointed look.

“That’s racist,” Kurt says.

“Says the demon. One who looks like a giant tree, I might add.” The man gestures down Kurt’s body with inexplicable confusion.

“Still racist,” Kurt insists.

“By the way, how do you do that?” the man asks. It’s not an offhanded question, which makes it a difficult one for Kurt to comprehend. This man is standing in the middle of a circus made up entirely of supernatural creatures and beings from other worlds. Why should what Kurt looks like be a concern to him?

And yet, it’s significant because it has always been a concern to Kurt. Spriggan traditionally are stocky, big-headed, and short – the ghosts of giants, but really only a shadow. Kurt, on the other hand, is lithe, fair, and tall (by comparison) – traits that set him apart from other Spriggan by a mile.

He’s his father’s son, but in looks, he belongs solely to his mother.

“How do I do what?” Kurt asks.

“Look like a tree. I thought Spriggan were supposed to look similar to men. Or like … woody Big Foot.”

“He compared you to a Sasquatch,” Puck sniggers. “What a noob.”

But Kurt lets the insult go.

He debates how much he wants to tell this human. Why Kurt looks the way he does isn’t exactly a secret, but it would still be sharing something that’s part of him, and to a human.

“I’m only half Spriggan,” he confesses, figuring there’s no real harm in letting that tidbit out. The man would probably learn it eventually. There isn’t a single monster in Kurt’s employ that can keep their mouth shut. “I’m High Faye on my mother’s side.”

“You don’t say?”

“A-ha. That’s where I get my magical abilities, my shapeshifting powers … and my short temper.”

The man smiles, pleased with this new information. “Coolness.”

“How do you know what Spriggan look like anyway?”

“I read,” the man says. “I use Google. Which leads me to my next question …”

“If you’re the one applying for a job, how come you’re asking all the questions?”

The man shrugs. “You don’t learn anything by not asking questions. Besides, you don’t have to answer.”

“Fair enough.”

“Why the disguise? I mean, why turn yourself into a tree?”

“Because without it, I’m invisible to the humans,” Kurt says. “And if humans can’t see me, that’s kind of bad for business. Besides, it’s part of the draw. We live in a time where the only way people would believe in a living, breathing tree demon is if they saw something that looked like … well this.” Kurt copies the man’s gesture, sweeping a hand down his body.

The man’s smile dips. “That sucks.”

“Yeah. It does.”

“And there aren’t any other Spriggan in your circus?”

“Nope,” Kurt says. “I’m the only one. To be honest, I haven’t seen one in ages.”

“Must be lonely,” the man decides.

It is, Kurt thinks. It’s not some huge revelation, just an acknowledgment of fact. But what he says is, “Meh. I’m never really alone, so, not so much.”

“Yeah, but there’s a difference between being lonely and being alone.”

That comment silences Kurt. He agrees entirely, even though he’d never thought of it that way. He often felt lonely, even in the center of a crowd. He thought he was weird that way.

He never thought anyone else felt the same.

“Hey! I've seen you!” Puck jumps back into the conversation, pointing at the man with a twisted, accusing finger. “You hang around the crowds. You loiter on our property and swindle for spare change outside our tents!”

“I like to think of it as co-op’ing.”

“And I think of it as dipping in to our profits!” the goblin hisses.

Kurt scowls. He didn’t know this about this man. How come he didn’t know? As a demon who tricks travelers, and who has been known to indulge in a game of poker now and again, Kurt can appreciate a good hustle … but not when it lightens his pockets! And just when he was beginning to not despise this guy.

Thank goodness for Puck. Admiring a human in any small measurement isn’t the kind of complication Kurt needs right now.

The goblin bares his teeth, Kurt grows another foot taller, and suddenly the man feels outnumbered.

“Okay, okay, I see your point,” he says, putting his hands up in defense of his life. He’s not sure how that would help him, exactly, but it’s worth a shot. “B-but, now I'm looking to give back. To help you guys out.”

“Looking to escape, more like it.” Kurt tuts. “Who did you piss off here, human? Hmmm? A local gang? Loan sharks? The police? I know your type. Do you have mafia after you? Because I don’t need that kind of trouble hanging around my circus. I’m not looking to defend anyone.”

“No! I’m not---wait …” The man stops when an absurd thought pops into his brain. “Aren’t Spriggan bodyguards? Fairy bodyguards? I mean, I assume that’s how your dad met your mom, isn’t it?”

“Assume nothing!” Kurt says, appalled at the man’s gall. “You’re not a fairy, and I’m not my father! Plus, that’s beside the point. I like to choose who I call enemy, thank you. I don’t need people I’ve never met mounting a vendetta against me. I don’t want that kind of heat on my tail. The mob has some pretty powerful demons working on their side ... and lawyers.”

The man looks at Kurt and Puck, wide-eyed. Something like a smile tickles the corners of his mouth, something he’s trying hard to suppress. He doesn’t end up smiling, but he does chuckle. “So, lawyers are worse than demons?”

“Yes!” Kurt and Puck answer together.

“Everybody knows that!” Puck says, aghast at the human’s ignorance. “How you can live among them and not know of their treachery is beyond me.”

The man continues to laugh, and Kurt shakes his head.

“This back and forth with you is exhausting me, human. I feel like there’s something you’re not telling us. You’re beating around the bush. Speak plainly!”

“But beating around the bush is something I happen to do exceptionally well,” the man says with a wink. Kurt detects the innuendo and rolls his eyes.

“It’s time to find out who you really are … and what you want.” Kurt strikes quickly, reaching for the man and wrapping slender fingers around his throat. Kurt squeezes slowly, till his twig-like appendages settle into the soft, delicate flesh around the man’s windpipe.

“Uh … wh-what … what are you doing?” the man squeaks, keeping his words to a minimum when it becomes harder for him to breath.

“I’m reading your mind, Kevin,” Kurt says, closing his red eyes.

“D-do you … have to … hold my neck … quite so tightly while you read my mind?” He grabs a hold of Kurt’s arm, but it might as well be made of stone, so rough and so thick, there’s no way to remove it.

“It keeps me calm,” Kurt says, grinding the words out one by one through locked lips. “Be grateful I’m not peeling the skin from you bones.”

“Oh,” the man says. Kurt feels him gulp nervously beneath his palm. “I see. Yes. Thank you for not doing … that.”

“Shh. I need to concentrate.” Kurt takes a deep, cleansing breath, and enters the man’s mind. It’s easier than Kurt remembers, but then again, the man’s not resisting. And that’s a good sign. People often resist when they’re trying to pull something over on you. Kurt sifts through the man’s thoughts to find his more recent memories – name, occupation, address, the basics - trying his best to ignore the ones that go out of their way to reach out to him, the sympathetic ones that long to be revisited, like memories of this man as a child, on vacation with his parents, throwing a ball to his brother, learning how to ride a bike with two wheels, learning how to cook with his great-aunt Teresa, playing video games with a friend that he seemed to hold dear, a friend that Kurt sees no more of after the man reaches thirteen. He stumbles across memories of a terrible fire, of their house burning down … of him burying his mother and his father … of his brother running away and never contacting him again … “Uh … y-your name is Blaine, but your parents called you Coqui?” Kurt asks. He releases his grip, his mighty wooden arm - a thick, unyielding branch - trembling as it returns to his side.

“That’s right,” the man says. His eyes leave Kurt’s face and follows his arm for a second before the conversation continues.

“It doesn’t bother you that you’re nicknamed after the sound a frog makes when it wants to have sex?” Kurt crosses his arms, hiding his trembling in the wrap of his limb around his body, and using that remark to will away the image of this man as a teenager, crying on his knees over a freshly covered grave, negotiating with whatever God he believes in for his parents to return.

“Why in the world would that bother me?” Blaine chuckles. “If you knew me better, that would actually explain a lot.”

“Do I want to know you better?” It seems like a ridiculous question seeing how much Kurt already knows about him. Stupid, unpredictable mindreading. He never could get it quite right. Of course, the fact of the matter is that Kurt, being even half High Faye, wasn’t a thing like his mother in anything other than looks.

Which is why his father raised him.

“You’re the mind reader. You tell me.”

“And you’re the human, so if you want me to let you join our group, you’re going to have to make a more compelling case for me hiring you.”

It shocks Kurt when he hears those words come out of his mouth. He was determined that, no matter what, no human would have a place here. But now here he was, considering this no talent human into inclusion in their troupe, and he had no idea why.

And still, the low level power simmers, humming in Kurt’s ears.

That has to be it. Wherever it’s coming from, that’s the thing that’s causing all of this.

He would ask Puck if he hears it, too, except Puck’s looking at him with the gaping maw of a dying salmon, equally as astonished at what Kurt proposed.

“Certainly,” Blaine says, elated. “Watch carefully.” He puts his hands up, holding them open so Kurt can see that there’s nothing in them. He flips his hands quickly, exposing them front and back. Kurt’s eyes bounce from his right hand to his left. When Kurt sees the right hand again, it’s holding a deck of cards. Blaine fans the cards with one hand. “Pick a card, any card.”

Kurt’s jaw drops.

“What?” Kurt can usually see things before they happen, but he didn’t see that coming. “No! Why?”

“I’m making my case. I’m proving to you that I can be a contributing member of your group. Consider it my audition.”

“I don’t have time for this,” Kurt mutters. He takes Blaine’s empty hand and holds it by the wrist, letting the man’s beating pulse speak to him. It was easier reading his mind at arm’s distance from his brain. That, and Kurt wasn’t convinced he could restrain himself from throttling this man. But Kurt can see from the smile on the man’s face that he’s getting the wrong idea. That wrong idea starts to blossom in Kurt’s mind the longer he holds his hand, and it makes him feel warm inside.

Oh, please, Kurt pleads. This can’t be happening.

Kurt immediately drops the man’s hand.

“Your father was a sorcerer?”

“Yup.” Blaine puffs up his chest as if he had taught the man everything he knew. “One of the finest.”

“And your mother, too.”

“Yes, sir. She was the more powerful of the two by a long shot.”

“Well, do you have any of their skills?” Kurt tries not to get ahead of himself, but he can’t quell his excitement, finally seeing a silver lining to this obnoxious human’s intrusion into his life.

“Oh, no!” Blaine laughs to Kurt’s dismay. “Good God, no! Not an inch! It’d be amazing if I did though! Think of it!”

Kurt had thought of it, for just a brief, glimmering second. But the more he thinks he knows what’s going on with this man, the more questions he has.

The easiest way to sort them out would be to go back into his mind for an extended stay.

But Kurt doesn’t want to. He doesn’t want to see the things his mind wants him to see.

“Okay,” Kurt begins again, feeling like pulling the man’s molars out of his skull would be easier than this. He asks his next question slowly, like he’s addressing a child. “What else do you do?”

“Just this.” Blaine folds up his fan of cards and shuffles them dramatically from hand to hand. “Sleight of hand.”

“You do card tricks,” Kurt mutters like a curse at a power higher than he. “Just card tricks,” he repeats, pulling a card from the pile. This couldn’t be it. With the lineage he’s boasting, this can’t be Blaine’s only talent. What did he do that he missed out on the magic lottery? Did he step on a brownie? Run over a druid with his car? Did he make-out with the wrong virgin sacrifice and get cursed?

Card tricks. That and his charm will maybe get him a cup of coffee.

Maybe.

“Hey. Why you hatin’ on card tricks? They put me through college.” His hands don’t stop moving as he speaks, shuffling his deck, the cards flying from his fingertips faster than Kurt can keep track of. That alone is impressive, but still …

Card tricks?

There has to be something Kurt’s missing.

“Here. Let me show you something.” Kurt takes Blaine by the shoulders and turns him around. With a blink of his red eyes, they’re out of the ruins and standing in the center of the big top, watching as performers bustle around, putting away props and striking equipment. They’ve teleported. They could have just walked. It wasn’t that far, not even as the human walks, but Kurt did it on purpose. The jump through time and space, even though no more than a skip compared to what they’ll be doing when they leave the realm of Earth, was supposed to give Blaine a taste of what dimensional travel would feel like. Most humans puke their guts out immediately after.

Blaine barely seems fazed.

Damn.

And to top it off, his hands have found their way up to Kurt’s, resting over his and holding on gently.

Kurt clears his throat. He removes one of his hands.

Only now that he has, he kind of wants to put it back.

Kurt points past Blaine to a man with radiant wings stretching out in both directions, measuring from tip to tip about the length of a Cessna. He stands ramrod straight and over seven feet, dismantling a large, titanium octagonal cage with a wave of his hands. “Do you see him?” Kurt asks. “He’s a descendent of the god Loki.”

“Ooo,” Blaine marvels, watching as he folds the cage into a small box that he puts in his pocket.

“Ooo is right. He can fracture sunlight and turn its rays into golden snakes. With a single blink of his eyes, he can make you believe that you’re your own mother and compel you to give yourself a spanking.”

Blaine chuckles, picturing himself wearing his mother’s thick, tiger eye framed glasses, her faded yellow housedress, her matching house slippers, and the pink foam curlers she rolled in her hair every night covered by a white hair net, bending himself over a chair and slapping his own bare ass while angrily yelling at himself in his mother’s tongue. It’s an image Kurt glimpses in Blaine’s eyes as the man laughs sadly to himself, and Kurt finds himself wanting to join him. He feels drawn to this man’s easygoing nature. Blaine seems slow to anger, difficult to offend … and impossible to frighten. His sticktoitiveness is admirable, if not misguided. Once he has his mind set on something, he’s not easy to discourage. Kurt will give him that. And Kurt has always found those traits attractive in most beings. A soul that can laugh at itself can weather most storms.

But again – human, and Kurt can’t get attached to a human. Not even one who’s proving to be as … well … what would the word for him be? Bearable as this one. Maybe Kurt could see himself sharing a veggie burger with him while they binge watched Netflix (once they find themselves in a dimension where they can pick up a signal) but that’s as far as he’d take it.

But wasn’t that what Kurt wanted in the first place?

No matter. This is neither the time nor the place for this dilemma. Kurt squares his knotty shoulders and continues.

“And the young lady in that tank?” Kurt takes Blaine by the shoulders and turns him again slightly. Only by, like, seventeen degrees. He won’t admit to himself that it’s an excuse to touch Blaine. No. He’s just trying to be clear with him. Get his point across. “She calls herself Brittany. She’s a river mermaid. I found her sunning herself on the banks of the Mississippi. She’s over three hundred years old.”

“Amazing,” Blaine breathes with the genuine awe of a child seeing a rainbow in the sky for the first time. “She doesn’t look a day over eighteen.”

“She can make rocks and boulders sing,” Kurt explains, trying to come up with anything else she can do that might impress him. “Rumor has it she used to whisper in the ear of Mark Twain as he traveled the river boats so, in essence, she’s the author of most of his more memorable stories.”

“Awesome.”

“Quite.”

Another blink and they return to the ruin of Kurt’s makeshift forest. As soon as the black night surrounds them, Kurt feels cold. There was so much under the big top for Blaine to see.

He teleported them back too soon.

And Blaine, not in the least bit affected by zipping through the fabric of reality, returns to his chipper self.

“Nevertheless,” Blaine says, turning to meet Kurt’s eyes, “can any of them do this?” Blaine tosses his deck in the air and starts juggling individual cards, catching them with his knuckles and then flipping them in the air again until they create a perfect arch. It’s rather intricate, and Kurt questions how a mortal who boasts no particular supernatural powers can accomplish it … but by his circus’s standards, it’s just cute.

“Probably. But here’s what you’re missing – they have power. You have none. And a lot of them aren’t as patient or as congenial as I am. If they get angry with you, or if you get in their way, they will kill you, or worse. They may imprison your soul, shrink your head while it’s still on your body, remove your brain and keep it in a jar.”

“Aww,” Blaine coos. “Are you worried about me?”

Kurt scoffs. “Not in the slightest.”

“Well, don’t be,” Blaine says, ignoring the demon’s last remark. “I can take care of myself.”

“I don’t see how. Tell me, human, what have you been doing with all of your 35 years on earth?”

“This!” Blaine holds up his deck and gives it a shake. “I’m an entertainer! A jester! A magician!” Kurt stares, waiting for the shoe to drop. He knows it’s coming. This man’s whole presentation has been nothing but dropping shoes.

And yet, it’s probably the most fun that Kurt’s known in years.

“But I work the register at a dry cleaners to pay the bills.”

“And there it is,” Kurt says, throwing his arms up in exasperation. “I’m surprised that I’m even surprised. So you have no circus or performance experience of any kind?”

“Yes, I have! I was an ale wench for six months at Medieval Times.”

“An ale … wench?” Puck chortles, wheezing when he pictures Blaine in a corset and a dress. Though, oddly enough, he has to admit, it’s not a bad look for him.

“Oh, and in high school, I was in The Wizard of Oz.”

“As what? A Flying Monkey?”

“No.” Blaine smirks. Then he snickers. “As one of the angry trees.”

Kurt feels his cheeks flush red but not out of anger, and that’s the part that makes him the most livid. “You’re ridiculous! Do you know that?”

“Well, you must like ridiculous.”

“And how do you figure that?”

“It’s been over an hour, and you’re still talking to me.”

“You’d never survive traveling with us,” Kurt says, stomping his feet and raising his voice, furious because, for a second, half a second, less than half so he won’t have to loathe himself for thinking of it, he began to ask himself - could it be that this time around, Kurt doesn’t follow his human love interest for the rest of his days on Earth?

Maybe he takes the love interest with him?

He hears the low hum of power again, tickling in his brain; he sees the barrage of memories that aren’t his; feels the warmth throughout his body that gathers in his stomach, trying to tell him something that he refuses, under pain of dismemberment or death, to supply any credence to.

There is absolutely no way, here or in hell, that he wants to have any attachment to this human! The man’s a hack! A con! A dime-a-dozen trickster out to make a quick buck at Kurt’s expense, and that’s all.

And Kurt’s first priority has to be to make him leave. He’s done entertaining these thoughts any longer. He was right to begin with. They don’t need to add new blood to the mix. New people only cause trouble. This proves it! They’ll figure something out. They’ll find another way. It’s a good plan. A sound plan.

So why does it make him feel emptier inside?

“We cross dimensional portals,” Kurt says in a stern voice. “Humans are soft. If it doesn’t make your blood boil, and if you don’t get torn limb from limb, it’ll turn your stomach inside out.”

Kurt stares at Blaine with an intensity that will turn the man into a candle if Kurt’s not careful. But somewhere in the man’s golden eyes, Kurt sees something click. He’s getting it. He’s finally getting it. He understands. This isn’t the place for him. He doesn’t belong there with him. With them.

With him.

Blaine lifts one shoulder. “That’s okay. I don’t get travel sick.”

Kurt slaps himself in the forehead with his palm.

“He has power,” Puck hisses in a whisper, having warmed to the idea of Blaine’s joining them over the course of the conversation.

Anyone who can get on Kurt’s nerves this badly might be worth keeping around.

“I can smell it. And I know you can smell it, Kurt. He has it in his background. Even if he can’t use it, it’s most likely in his blood. It might be enough to protect him.”

“What are you doing!? I don’t need you taking his side!”

“I’ll bring Dramamine,” Blaine adds. “Just in case. It’ll be good.”

Kurt laughs in vexation, knowing he’s losing this battle. Fine! Whatever! So what if the human comes with? It’s no skin off Kurt’s nose. He’ll just leave the dirty work to Puck, have him clean up the man’s guts when he implodes! Or mop him up when Loki’s great-great-great-great-grandnephew turns him into an oil slick. Or chase him down with a glass jar when Brittany transforms him into notes of music!

Or, Kurt could fit him with a protection spell. Something mild that might boost his power. Kurt hates to admit it, but this is workable.

The only problem is what it might do to him personally if the human stays.

“We pay minimum wage,” Kurt says, his methods of dissuading Blaine getting weaker and weaker.

“I’m fine with that. I was planning on cashing in my 401K anyway.”

“Wait, wait, wait … you work at a dry cleaners as a cashier and you have a 401K?” Puck gasps. “How in the world did you manage that?”

“I was a business minor in college.”

“You don’t say.”

“Yup. I set up a portfolio using eTrade online, diversified early, made a good call on some high risk investments …”

“Guys! We’re getting a little off topic, don’t you think?”

Blaine turns to Kurt. He stares deep into the demon’s eyes, as if he’s about to relate something profound, and says, “Ace of spades.”

Kurt jerks back. “What?”

“Your card.” Blaine points to the card skewered to the palm of Kurt’s hand. “It’s the ace of spades, am I right?”

Kurt looks at the card he’d forgotten he’d been holding, the one he’s been strangling this whole time. “How did you know that?”

“Your eyes give you away,” Blaine says with another of his infuriating winks. Kurt doesn’t like Blaine’s winks. They’re sly and disarming … and they make his stomach wriggle like a mass of earthworms struggling to rise through a thick puddle of mud. But Kurt finds himself grinning over the comment about his eyes until he remembers one thing.

His red eyes are reflective.

Which means Blaine’s just a con-man. A charming, handsome con-man.

But he’s a good one, there’s no denying that. He’s pretty much conned his way into Kurt’s circus, whether Kurt likes it or not. He’s conned Puck into taking his side, though that’s probably not as difficult a feat as Kurt is giving him credit for.

Conning his way into Kurt’s life - that Kurt doesn’t like. But Kurt will find a way around that. If Kurt could tame him up a little, Blaine might be of use to them.

If anything, he might be more qualified to balance their books than Puck, the neutered Pukwudgie.

“Look.” Blaine closes his eyes and exhales, rubbing a hand over his face as if he knows he’s running out of options. And on his face, Kurt catches a look that he’s seen on other humans a thousand times.

He’s even seen it on himself.

I just don’t want to be here. I just don’t want to be alone anymore.

That speaks to Kurt. Here it was, the truth behind the con.

I can’t stay here. There are too many memories here. I’m trying to live, I’m doing the best I can, but there’s nothing for me here anymore. If I have to stay here another week, another month, I won’t be able to take it. I’ll do something rash. Please. You have to take me with you. You have to let me in. I’m so lonely, and I just want a little bit of happiness. It’s been over twenty years. Don’t I deserve that?

Kurt nods at Blaine’s sentiment, the one in Blaine’s head, but that’s not what Blaine says.

What he says is this:

“You guys used to do well here on Earth because witches and warlocks and mermaids and unicorns and …” Blaine looks between Kurt and Puck. He makes a quick decision and points to Puck “… him … were the stuff of fantasies and legends. But now they’re the stuff of movies. Summer blockbusters by the dozens, coming out year after year like clockwork. With modern technology, computers and CGI, humans can create fantasy. Anything they want, even in their own homes. Kids more than half my age are becoming Internet famous with sci-fi movies they film in their basements and upload on YouTube. And that’s bad for you guys. Really bad for you. I’m not going to sugarcoat it. But where you guys are headed, won’t I be the thing of fantasy? The oddity? Won’t I be what draws a crowd, even if all I do are card tricks?” Kurt’s eyes are immediately drawn to the man’s hands, but miraculously, his ever-present deck of cards seems to have disappeared. In fact, dressed in a pocket-less black button down over a black tank top, skin tight jeans, and boat shoes on his feet with no socks, Kurt has no idea where that deck of cards even came from to begin with. The man shouldn’t even be able to wear underwear in those jeans. Where the hell is he hiding a deck of cards? “Maybe you guys can’t break even here, but why not get a head start wherever it is you’re going, and come back here with a better game plan?”

“And I assume that you are going to want to help us with that game plan?”

“It’d make sense, wouldn’t it? I mean, I know what the people here want. I have the inside scoop.”

“I also assume you’ll be expecting a cut,” Puck grouses.

“Not a cut,” Blaine says, that exhausted look evaporating with the arrival of a single, effervescent smile. “An opportunity.”

Kurt’s eyelids narrow. “What opportunity?”

Blaine turns his attention Kurt’s way, and Kurt notices the way Blaine’s eyes light up when he looks at him, the way his face seems to shine when he aims his smile at him.

“Well, now, that remains to be seen.”

Kurt sighs. He doesn’t know what to make of that comment, how to feel about it, but he moves on nonetheless. “Listen,” he says, already regretting what he’s about to say. But Blaine has a point. In other dimensions, he would be the oddity. That might be worth something. “I don’t know that you’ll fit in here, but you can come with. I’ll give you a trial run, so you can figure out if this is really the future you want. And if it’s not, we’ll drop you back off the next time we’re nearby.”

“You have the power to see the future, don’t you?” Blaine says.

“Sometimes,” Kurt replies, though seeing as he hasn’t been able to predict anything that’s happened so far, he might have to scratch that one off of his list of abilities.

“Well, what do you see in mine?”

“Me changing my mind if you don’t get your ass out of here.”

Blaine smiles his megawatt smile, bouncing on the balls of his feet like a golden retriever puppy. “You mean it?”

Kurt’s head tells him to say no. Regardless of if this is a workable idea, it’s still not an advisable one. Bringing a human through time and space may have consequences. But it’s not Blaine’s brilliant con that made Kurt’s mind up for him. It’s not even the warmth that’s been bubbling in Kurt’s heart since Blaine arrived.

It’s that one sentence Blaine uttered without saying a word.

I just want a little bit of happiness.

Kurt has dedicated his life to bringing happiness to others. That’s what his circus has been about. He didn’t create it for wealth or fame. He’s been sidetracked a little bit lately trying to keep their heads afloat, but not out of greed. Out of responsibility. But if he overlooks this man and his gifts simply because he’s human, Kurt will be a hypocrite to the ninth degree.

Besides, maybe helping this man find his happiness will help every one of them in the long run.

Even Kurt.

He’ll have to set the wheels in motion and see how this plays out.

“Yeah, I mean it.” Kurt shrinks a few feet to meet the man’s height. “Go home and pack up your things. Get your affairs in order and say your goodbyes. In a couple of days, we’ll be leaving this dimension, and I don’t know for sure when we’ll be back. Does that sound okay with you? Does it sound like something you can do?”

Kurt holds his breath while he waits for Blaine to answer, not because he’s afraid that Blaine will say yes, but because he’s suddenly afraid that Blaine might say no.

“Yes!” Blaine claps his hands. “Yes! I can! That’s no problem! Absolutely no problem, I …” Blaine rambles as he backs out of the room, planning out loud “I’ll pack up my things, I’ll say my goodbyes, I’ll cash in my accounts, I’ll … thank you!” He rushes over to Puck. He takes the goblin’s sticky hand and pumps it hard. “Thank you! Thank you so much!”

“Don’t thank me, young man,” Puck says, extricating his hand from Blaine’s grasp as if he were shedding himself of a slimier than normal banana slug. “Thank the demon. He’s the one who’ll be vouching for you from now on, so I suggest you don’t mess up.”

“Of course not! Of course I won’t!” Blaine launches himself at Kurt. Kurt reaches for his hand, but Blaine throws his arms around his waist instead, hugging him with all his might. “Thank you,” Blaine says, softer than a whisper. “You won’t regret this.”

“Make sure that I don’t.” Kurt can’t bring himself to hug the man. Not just yet. Not with those painful memories laying siege to Blaine’s mind. So Kurt pats him on the back instead. “Remember that if you piss me off in any way, peeling the skin from your bones is still an option.”

“I’ll remember.” Blaine detaches himself quickly and, with a wave at Kurt and Puck, races from the ruin, presumably heading home to collect his things and bid a fond adieu to his life.

He’ll be back. Kurt knows.

He doesn’t need to be psychic to see it.

“You like him,” Puck sneers, following Kurt’s eyes as the demon watches the human go.

Kurt clicks his tongue with disgust. “No, I don’t.”

“Yes, you do.”

“Don’t be ri---” He’s about to say ridiculous, but he remembers what Blaine said about liking ridiculous. He won’t prove him right. He refuses to use that word “… stupid.”

“A-ha,” Puck says, insulted. He takes one look at Kurt and his eyes grow wide, becoming the size of saucers, outdoing his nose for the most outlandish feature on his face. “Kurt! You---you’re budding!”

Kurt’s face scrunches. “What?”

“Look for yourself! You’re actually growing leaves! And flowers! Gah!” The goblin exclaims in disgust. “Is that … an apple?”

Kurt twists his torso in an attempt to get a better look. He spots his reflection in the filth-covered windows a short distance away and sneers. “It happens,” he says, trying to bat it off his body with his fingers. “It’s almost spring.”

“Don’t give me that!” Puck groans, swiping away Kurt’s excuses with his hand. “You’re wearing a disguise! One that you control! That apple is all you, buddy!”

“Well, what was that with you talking shop with him? About his portfolio?” Kurt counters. “You were practically drooling! It was pathetic!”

“Don’t talk pathetic with me. I’m not the one sprouting fruit. And I’m not fanboying! I’m trying to keep us in the black, Kurt! Remember? I’m not too proud to admit that that young man might know a little more than me in that regard.”

“Stop trying to be hip, Puck. It doesn’t suit you,” Kurt sniffs. “Having a blog on Tumblr doesn’t make you relevant.” Kurt plants his hands on his hips and goes back to pacing, trying to come to grips with these changes, what he did - inviting a human to travel with them, making him part of the troupe.

Possibly flirting with him, and how that made him feel.

How it felt to give in to his nature after so long.

He taps his fingers on his hip as he marks off the many, many mistakes he made in the past two hours. When his finger hits something – or more to the point, the absence of something - he can’t help the grin blossoming on his face among a small patch of moss and a cluster of bluebells. And if a small robin’s nest sprouts somewhere in the vicinity of the new growth behind his left ear, complete with momma bird and a clutch of pale blue eggs, well, he won’t be the one to point it out.

He doesn’t have to. Puck sees it and shakes his head. “So, tell me this, Kurt - if you don’t like him, then why are you blooming? What’s with the smiling? I haven’t seen you this giddy since The Great Emu War.”

Kurt chuckles before he answers, patting down his body once to be doubly sure. He’s been using magic to change his appearance, giving himself a façade that aligns with what the humans believe a “tree demon” should look like. It covers up his vaguely human form, including the clothes he wears (which is a shame because he happens to have amazing fashion sense). It had to have been when Blaine hugged him. Kurt had been caught off his guard. It had happened so quickly, he didn’t even notice.

The sly bastard.

Blaine must have been looking for Kurt’s stone. Of course, he was. Blaine, with even a Google knowledge of Spriggan would know that Kurt might have one. Many a Spriggan does - a beautiful, snow white keepsake - and the Spriggan who loses his is required to grant wishes to the person who finds it. Blaine must have felt it. It’s difficult to miss once you put your hand on it.

Kurt can imagine what Blaine would have wished for if he’d taken it.

But for some reason, he didn’t. The most precious of Kurt’s possessions, and Blaine left it behind.

There is obviously more to this man than meets the eyes.

But that doesn’t mean he left empty handed.

In that same pocket was something else, which has now gone missing, and Kurt smirks thinking about it.

“He stole my wallet.”

[imaginarybird]

We Do What We Do

Rucas Fic Week 2017

Day One: Canon Verse

This takes place not long after GM New World.

Riley has always been an excellent sleeper. Any time, any place, any level of noise…give her two solid minutes with her eyes closed and she can be out like a light.

Usually, anyways.

Her mind has been more restless since eighth grade started. She can’t fall asleep because she can’t stay still. Her thoughts race in her head, bouncing back and forth in every last corner, leading her to toss and turn every night. There are too many changes to process…too many questions to find answers for. There are new classes and friends, new losses to come to terms with…a new Lucas.

It’s a lot.

Riley’s never been good at change to begin with. At age five when her parents had explained that they were going to be moving to a new apartment across town, Riley had spent three days crying and when that hadn’t convinced her parents that moving would be a very bad idea indeed, Riley had gathered up her most cherished possessions, a stash of peanut butter sandwiches, and some juice boxes and attempted to barricade herself in her closet figuring that if her parents couldn’t get her out, they couldn’t make her leave the only home she’d ever known.

Unsurprisingly—at least to everyone who wasn’t five-year-old Riley—this plan didn’t work. Her parents plucked her out of the closet like it was nothing and they moved to their new apartment across town. Their much bigger apartment that lacked all of the clutter and coziness and everything that had made the old apartment home.

It had taken Riley months to stop hating everything about where they lived, start sleeping in her own bed, and realize that it was actually a pretty nice place. Comfortable and less creaky when the wind got blowing hard. Plus, the kids at her new school and her new babysitter were really nice. When she finally told her parents that she liked the place and it would be all right if they stayed, they told her that were proud of her that she stopped zeroing in on every difference for being different, and started to look at the realities of the bigger picture.

With every major change that has rolled through her life since, Riley has tried to remember that lesson, but it’s hard. In her heart of hearts, she’s a details person and when the details of her world change, her security and self-assuredness vanish. She has to figure out every aspect of the change and what it means before she can even start to really accept, adjust, and move on.

That’s not to say she hasn’t gotten better about all of it. It’s not like she actively resists or tries to sabotage change anymore. Very much anyways. Now she just tosses and turns and can’t stop thinking.

Tonight, as with several nights prior, Riley is caught up in the Lucas of it all.

And not just the dark and mysterious past that newcomer Zay had accidentally revealed. That had, of course, been shocking and a little scary, but in the same way that a clap of thunder out of nowhere on a quiet day is; your heart pounds and you panic in the initial moment, but then you take a breath and you realize that while you maybe were surprised by what happened, nothing has actually changed.

Riley knows Lucas. She knows in his heart that he’s a good person, and while she may not like that he’s got some secrets in his past that indicate some not-so-good things, she believes him when he says that it’s not who he is anymore, and trusts that he’ll explain when he’s ready. Riley knows Lucas.

What she doesn’t know is where their new agreement leaves them.

Oh, sure. It had felt right in the moment to say ‘forget everyone else’ and ‘we do what we do’, but then the moment had ended and Riley had realized…she had no idea what any of it meant.

She still doesn’t. Yes, they’re going to move at their own pace—that much she understands—but in the meantime, what does it mean to have an unofficial thing with someone? They’re not boyfriend and girlfriend, but they’re not just friends either. So how do they act with each other? With other people? Where does friendship end and something more—a relationship—begin?

How does Riley know where they stand at any given moment or what behavior is acceptable? They kissed on their date. Does that mean they can kiss now? What about hand holding? Or going on other dates? Or flirting? Is she supposed to flirt now? She doesn’t know how to flirt. She doesn’t know how to do any of it.

She knows how to do friendship.

But now she and Lucas aren’t just friends.

And Riley finds herself worried that she’s going to do the wrong thing and mess everything up.

So Riley can’t sleep. She can think and worry and wonder but she can’t sleep. And just when she thinks her brain has finally calmed down for the night, and she’s finally starting to zone out into the peace and quiet, another thought creeps in and once again her eyes shoot open and the cycle starts all over. She finds herself wishing that someone would just give her a detailed handbook on this sort of thing, or if not a handbook then a few words of advice. Some tips and tricks or even just a cryptic riddle or two. Something to point her in the right direction.

She’s stuck in the same cycle, and it’s just before midnight (so she’s already been in bed for two hours, not that she’s counting) when her phone chimes softly on her bedside table. When she grabs her phone, Lucas’ face is grinning up at her.

Lucas (11:53 PM): Riley?

It takes her a minute to work up the courage to answer; this just feels like one of those things that means something else now that they have an ‘unofficial thing’, which makes it one of those things that she doesn’t understand the rules of.

Riley (11:54 PM): Hi Lucas.

His reply comes a lot faster.

Lucas (11:54 PM): I didn’t wake you up, did I?

Riley (11:55 PM): No. I haven’t been able to fall asleep yet. Are you OK? You’re not usually up this late.

Lucas (11:56 PM): I can’t sleep either. Mind if I call?

Riley glances towards her door, just to make sure it’s closed and her parents won’t hear. She flips her phone to silent, just in case, and sends her reply.

Riley (11:56 PM): Go for it 😊

It takes less than half a minute for her phone to start buzzing in her hand. Riley can’t help but smile as she brings her phone to her ear. “Hey,” she greets, shifting her position to prop herself up on her pillows.

“Hi.” There’s a small nervous chuckle right after Lucas greets her. “I’m…I’m really glad you were still up.” His words come out in a rush.

“Yeah.” Riley nods, even though she knows he can’t see her. “Me too. I mean, I’m glad you were still up too. If I can’t sleep at least I can be talking to you.” The moment she’s done talking, Riley cringes. Can people who have an unofficial thing with each other say things like that? Is that too much like something you’d say to someone you were dating? She hurries to move away from the comment and distract him from that potential rabbit-hole. “Why can’t you sleep?”

“Why can’t you?”

“I asked you first.” Riley fires back. It’s not like she can say ‘I can’t stop thinking about our weirdly defined non-relationship and how we’re supposed to act with each other now’. Not without embarrassing herself and making things weird.

There’s a bit of a pause before Lucas answers her. “I wanted to ask you something. I have for a day or so now but there hasn’t been a chance to talk to you alone at school or anything and I guess I’m worried that I might not get a chance.”

“Oh.” It’s not like that’s an ominous thing or anything. Riley swallows. “Why don’t you ask me now.” She’s thrilled that her voice doesn’t betray her nerves; in reality her heart is pounding and her palms have started sweating. What on earth could Lucas want to talk to her about that he couldn’t do in front of everyone else? Is he having second thoughts about their non-relationship? Does he want to go back to being officially just friends?

Another short pause. “I kinda wanted to do it in person.”

“Well, you can’t come over right now and I don’t think you should be losing sleep over me.” Riley counters, definitely not sure that she actually wants to hear the question at this point but unable to stop herself from prompting it anyways. The moments that it takes for Lucas to speak again are possibly the longest she’s ever experienced.

“Riley, would you go to the movies with me?”

It takes a second for Riley’s brain to catch up with her ears. He wants to go to the movies? “I’m sorry, what?”

Lucas repeats the question. “It’s just… ever since we decided to move at our own pace, we haven’t had any time just for the two of us and I think we should.”

“We can do that?”

Lucas’ chuckle is less nervous this time. “I think as long as we both agree, we can do whatever we want. Isn’t that what we meant? ‘We do what we do’?”

Huh. Well when he puts it like that it almost makes sense.

“I mean,” Lucas continues, “going at our pace wasn’t supposed to mean going back to being just friends, at least I didn’t think so. I thought we would keep spending time together and decide together what that meant, whenever we were ready, so I was hoping we could do that. It doesn’t have to be a movie, if you’d rather do something else. Or—or if you’ve changed your mind and want things to go back to the way they were we can do that too. Whatever you--,”

“I’d love to.” Riley cuts him off, giggling in spite of herself. Lucas still wants to be more than friends. And he seems to understand their agreement, in a way that makes total sense to her. All of her worries seem so…overwrought and silly now. Stop focusing on the details and look at the big picture and suddenly things aren’t so different after all. “Go to the movies that is.”

“Really?”

“Really.” Riley nods. “We can work out the details tomorrow.”

“Great.”

“Yeah.” With that matter solved, they both seem unsure of what to say to one another; even though things are more resolved and infinitely less complicated than they had seemed five minutes ago, it doesn’t erase all of the weirdness. Riley quickly decides that discretion being the better part of valor, they’ll be better off ending the conversation here on a high note, before the awkwardness really returns and gets the better of one of them. “I’ll see you tomorrow before homeroom?”

Lucas agrees that he will, but goes on to ask, “What about you?”

Riley very eloquently replies. “Huh?”

“Well, that took care of what was keeping me up but what about you? Why can’t you sleep?”

“Oh, that!” Between the happy relief of resolving what their unofficial thing really is, and the nice reminder that Lucas listens to and cares about what she’s saying—cares about her, Riley finds her stomach filling with warm, happy, very excited butterflies. She grins and giggles and bites her lip to stop herself from getting too giddy. “I think that took care of what was keeping me up too.”

They spend another minute going over their goodbyes before hanging up the phone. Riley barely manages to get her phone safely back on her bedside table before her elation takes over. She throws herself backwards on the bed, bouncing and thrashing with her mouth open in a silent, joyous scream.

She’s going on a movie date with Lucas.

The hours tick by and Riley still can’t sleep, but this time it’s for entirely happy reasons.

[emouradian]

Grief: 1 Year Later

Well, it’s been a year. I’m all better now. 

I don’t know what I thought was going to happen, as if the one year anniversary of my dad’s passing was really an inordinately-sized, ceremonial switch that was going to flip, once I had succeeded in - what? - surviving the first year without him? Would balloons fall from the sky, and sirens blare, celebrating me as the 1,000,000,000,000th person to have a dad who died a year ago? It seems ludicrous now, standing on the other side of this milestone. To paraphrase Tig Notaro, it was just a day - another day, slightly smaller, because my dad wasn’t in it.

I woke up nervous, like you do when you drink too much the night before. I slowly opened my eyes and took stock of the situation around me: Am I hungover? Did I throw up? Ugh, did I throw up on myself? Are there any clues of another person in here? Wait, am I fine? Wait, no I’m not. Wait, yes, I am.

Bad days, when grieving, have a tendency to sneak up on you like a really good twist from a really great TV show. That lady falls down the elevator shaft, Buffy sacrifices herself, we’re in a flash-forward not a flashback (I called that one, btw, and to date, its my greatest achievement. In life.). It’s not the days that you expect. His birthday, for example, came and went, while my birthday, was a day I was completely overcome, grief washing over me like Robert Redford shampooing Meryl Streep’s hair. My birthday, unexpectedly was a day I fell into that familiar and oddly comforting grief quicksand, where the harder you struggle to get out of it, the further into it you sink. I didn’t see it coming – like finding out we’ve been in the Bad Place all along! – and that shock added to my inability to cope with the day. 

After a weekend in New York celebrating my father and this milestone with friends and family, I ached to be alone.  This, in of itself, is odd, because I live alone, fairly isolated from the bulk of my vast network of support, something I have been homesick for all year, if you can still be homesick at 35 years old (and if ‘homesick’ can be used as an adverb). My cousins, who live nearby, invited me over for dinner, but I declined. My friends called and texted, while I replied with heart emojis saying that I didn’t feel like talking. They were all reminders of why, despite the constant hum, the seemingly endless current of missing my dad, and the distance it has put between me and my life, I am so lucky to have people ready to lift me up. Being alone for me is a choice, a choice many others don’t have. I’m thankful for that. 

I spent the day of the anniversary at the movies. It is an escape I’ve sought out more and more these past few weeks, I suppose a way to be alone, without being completely alone. I saw La La Land, a movie about dreamers and movie magic that I loved despite the current swell of backlash, and Fences, a movie about fathers and sons, so, you know, ouch (But Viola Davis FTW!). I ate McDonald’s for breakfast, like I did when I was a kid going fishing with my dad and cousins, and popcorn for lunch. I got home and went down a pretty deep rabbit hole of Dying Loved One movies: Other People (mother, cancer, dead), One True Thing (Meryl Streep, cancer, dead) and Miss You Already (Toni Collette, best friend, dead). They were all oddly comforting and cathartic in a weird, self-mutilating way. Dazed from so much time spent in the dark, I went to sleep and woke up on the anniversary of the day after my dad died. I FaceTimed with my mom and niece, and agreed that yesterday was just another day. Today would be better, worse, the same - it just wouldn’t be January 24th. 

Years ago, when I first started working with my old boss Jenn, we had a lot of drive time, which is how we forged a bond so strong that I once threatened to drive us both off a cliff in retribution to a piece of feedback she gave me and all we did was laugh about it so hard that I almost did accidentally drive us off a cliff. Once she asked me, maybe a year into working together, if I was close with my parents. I was stunned. I turned to her and stated, simply: We are the Mouradians. It’s kind of like how when people ask me if I like living in Maryland, my answer is a simple: It’s fine, but, I’m from New York. It’s a non-answer that I think is actually the best answer, but, in the end, is the answer that most makes me seem like a dick.

It was shocking to me that someone wouldn’t know that we were close within the first 90 seconds of meeting me. It’s part of my brand - big Armenian family, tight-knit, adorably corpulent. To be fair, I’m not close with my parents in a Lorelai-Rory Gilmore kind of way (Side note: there is a whole dissertation coming on how watching Gilmore Girls: A Year in the Life, with my mom after I had back surgery, was like watching my life unfold on screen), but rather in a Coach/Tami/Julie Taylor way. They are my parents and we are close because they are my parents. I never thought of needing more than that, of that not being enough. Closeness to my parents was about proximity, endless reservoirs of support and love – it’s hard to define and that’s what makes it special, irreplaceable, and as it turns out, unbearable, when missing. 

To that end, as I continued to struggle with the loss of my dad, it was my mother who said to me that she didn’t realized how close I was to my father. And I had to stop, pause for a second and think about what that meant, because I guess, it was something I hadn’t realized either. I didn’t call my dad to talk about the ‘game’, we both would’ve been lost on that front, although sometimes we did that with Survivor;  He loved fishing, I loved reading while he was fishing. In the end, we had more in common, more core traits and similarities than a love of the same things. As it turns out that brought about a closeness that is deafening in his absence because it could only exist once he was gone. I had never made any kind of important decision in my life without talking to my dad, without knowing he was in my corner, without his support.  Without that I feel lost, even unsafe, and untethered. Less so every day, sure, but still there, a part of me, a voice hollow and echoing, rattling around my brain like a movie quote you can’t quite place or a commercial jingle you keep humming. 

There are a lot of things that I’ve learned this year, things I’ve tried to work through with all these essays. Sharing my grief, to a point, felt very selfish. On the one hand, I had too much to say, too much to feel, to keep it all to myself. Here is my gift to you all, share my grief – you’re welcome! I feel confident when I say: people preferred it when my gifts were personalized Christmas stockings. On the other hand, it was an easy way to answer a whole series of questions about how I was doing, without having to answer any of them directly. Mostly, though, it was the easiest way to keep my dad with me – tangibly, literally at my fingertips – for as long as possible. This is perhaps the biggest lesson to learn of all, that for all my might, for all my trying, he will never be as close as I want him to be, which is, of course, here, with me. And each day, I feel him slipping further and further away. And writing this post in particular, finishing this story – A Year’s Worth of Grief – is him finally slipping through my grasp. I am not saying I will forget him, that I won’t think of him, but maybe it won’t be every day, maybe it won’t be as detailed as it has been. How cracked the heels of his feet were compared to how soft his bald head was. I keep a blanket that was my grandmother’s in my guest room closet, but I don’t let anyone use it, because it still smells like her. I don’t remember what my dad smells like anymore; it’s not something I can summon immediately to my mind like a magic trick, as I can his laugh - the peaks and valleys of it, the perfect shades of it. This, in some ways, is a different kind of ending, a different form of loss.

My 12th favorite movie of all-time is Billy Elliot. In the movie, Billy lets his dance teacher read a letter his mother wrote to him before she passed away. Mrs. Wilkinson says: “She must have been an amazing woman.” Billy, only a kid, responds, “She was just my mum.” People say to me all the time, how incredible my dad was or must have been, how proud he surely was of me. My dad wasn’t some super human, I know that; He was funny, and nice and stubborn and far too set in his ways. I wish he was a little more of a fighter because when I give up on something, I think that it’s my worst trait and I wonder if I get it from him. He was averse to risk and might’ve voted Republican in this election but his heart was bursting with love and support and kindness (Well, maybe bursting is the wrong way to put it, considering he died of heart disease, but you get the idea). He was a good friend, a good man, and I know he’s proud of me without anyone having to tell me (although, nice to hear, of course), and that’s the greatest gift he left me with: Just missing him, simply him - no regrets, no deep-seeded issues other than him being gone.  He was just my dad. And that was amazing.

Thank you to those who’ve read these posts, who’ve encouraged me and shared them. It’s been hard, but worth-while, along the way, I hope I helped someone, somewhere. 

[hearsaykrp]

                 Presenting — yoon haejoon as the tern.

— info.

name / yoon haejoon birthday / 930501 pronouns / he/him occupation / freelance video editor

— traits.

( critical, sly, independent, dynamic )

critical – haejoon tends to view things in a negative light, easily finding fault in everything and everyone, himself included (at least internally). and he’s not afraid to share his findings in blunt words, whether his opinion was asked for or not, which can render him off-putting.

sly – though he can be blunt when he wants to, he can just as easily be dishonest and cunning if it’s in his best interest, whether that means cheating systems or tricking people into trusting him or otherwise. in the end, his goal is always selfish as he believes he’s all he’s got.

independent – to a fault, haejoon often relies only on himself. on his thoughts, on his knowledge, on his instincts, on his own beliefs and opinions, and so forth. which, while sometimes preferred and commendable, can also leave him with a blind spot or have him stuck in his own echo chamber.

dynamic – haejoon’s dynamic in that he is energized in a way that’s non-stop and obnoxious. he is always driving towards his goal, and will stop at nothing to get there by any means necessary.

— about.

i.

haejoon’s birth, much like the rest of his life, was inconsequential.

this is what his father’s always led him to believe, anyway, and so it came with no surprise that he’s spent his life trying to disprove it.

an accidental second born to a family already struggling to feed three wasn’t exactly a welcome one, but haejoon has always made his presence hard to ignore. from loud cries to incessant whines of, “mom, look,” to constant calls from his teachers complaining of disruptive behavior and everything in between. he’s never hidden his desperate need for attention, and his mom was happy to give it to him for the first five years of his life. with an old clunky video camera in hand always documenting his growth and a warm smile on her face, haejoon grew attached. perhaps not any more so than most children would, but importantly so. because when his overworked father never viewed him as anything more than an inconvenience, and his older brother was a constant comparison propped up on a pedestal, where else would he get the affection he so needed in that household?

nowhere, he soon found out.

even now he remembers that night so clearly. the loud patter of rain against the window, the knock on the door of their tiny one-bedroom apartment, the way his legs turned to jelly as the police officer told his father the news. a suspected drunk driver hit-and-run accident, and they were trying their best to catch the culprit.

they never did.

and just like that, a five year old haejoon learned of loss and lived with unresolved closure.

ii.

they say there are five stages of grief. but for most of haejoon’s life, there were only two.

denial, which consisted of him begging the police officer to tell him he was joking and to bring his mom back. then anger, which motivated most of his childhood and teenage years.

he started talking back when his dad would yell, instead of begrudgingly accepting and apologizing for things he shouldn’t have had to like his mom always told him. he started picking fights with his brother out of frustration and jealousy and resentment. and soon enough, as he entered high school, phone calls from teachers turned from harmless disruptive behavior calls to something more bloody. bloody knuckles, bloody noses, bruised eyes, cut lips. a scrawny boy with a big mouth and an equally big fake ego unknowingly built out of self-preservation, taking on things twice his size.

his only solace in such a stifling environment was that clunky old video camera, the same one his mom loved dearly and used to capture haejoon through her eyes.

he continued what she started soon after she was gone, recording himself through the years as she might have, even occasionally talking to her through the camera, giving updates on his life. he slowly grew out of it by the time he got to high school, but by then his love for the art of video and film blossomed. he retired his mom’s well-worn camcorder to the safe depths of his drawers, and scraped together money from odd jobs and slipped from his dad’s wallet to buy a more modern camera. it was with that, his first prized possession, that he shot and edited a multitude of stupid skits he thought were masterpieces at the time. all uploaded to video sharing sites and only ever garnering a few hundred hits.

but that didn’t matter then, because in the beginning haejoon just enjoyed the process. enjoyed the fact that it gave him reason to leave the apartment and sneak back in at one in the morning. enjoyed the zone it put him in when he could sit for hours just editing on his second most prized possession, a refurbished laptop, and tune everything else out.

so, when a routine argument with his father came to a boil and ended with his laptop broken into pieces strewn all over the street below their apartment window, it was no surprise that he moved out the moment he could.

iii.

it wasn’t easy, of course. haejoon was a recent high school grad with little money to his name and grades too poor to get into any good universities, after all. but still, he tried. sending applications to many small colleges in cities far from daegu, and impulsively taking the very first to accept him in a town as inconsequential as his birth.

with needing two part-time jobs just to pay for rent and tuition, and his general lack of discipline in school, he took an extra year longer than most to finish. but even after he did, not much changed. the name of his school held zero weight in the industry and his diploma in film was useless for most non-entertainment entry jobs. in the end, he had no choice but to carry along with his part-time jobs busing and delivering food to feed himself.

no setback stopped him, though. the always stubborn, yoon haejoon. he drafted screenplay after screenplay, and shot non-stop to bring them to life, sending them off to film festivals both big and small and getting uniformly rejected year after year. all of which he blamed more on his lack of prestigious background than his lack of talent. his body of work gradually became a graveyard of failed short films and a few commercials shot for small local businesses that pitied him after weeks of constant convincing.

it was only in the past two years that he found small success, if one could call it that. after all, being a freelance video editor for small youtubers and streamers wasn’t the most glamorous of jobs, but it allowed him to quit his soul-sucking customer service jobs. and, more importantly, bought him more time and energy to focus on making his own films once again.

iv.

back at the drawing board and with the rise in the popularity of documentaries, haejoon found himself back at his roots.

of course, six year old haejoon wasn’t shooting any ground-breaking documentaries when filming himself learning how to play the piano like his mom always wanted him to – but, the idea was the same. documenting reality.

or, well, framing reality in a certain way.

it was with this in mind he found ilmyo. after weeks of trawling through news article after news article in all the small towns he could think of, it was the deaths of kim donghyun and choi goeun that reeled him into the rabbit hole that was ilmyo’s mysterious history.

there was little information to be found online and no one seemed to be talking about it outside of town, but that had been a selling point too. no one knew of ilmyo and he would be the first on the scene. the first to shed light on a dark past and help unravel a questionable mystery – and, really, wasn’t that what audiences wanted these days? intrigue and justice?

that had been enough for haejoon, who quickly packed his things and took the first bus to town the following day.

v.

now, haejoon lives in a dinky old motel situated a few blocks away from the supposedly scenic stretch of birch trees. it’s a boring town, a far cry from downtown daegu, but then so was the previous town he called home for several years. and so he’s settled in easily – as easily as a nosy, obnoxious outsider can in these suspicious times.

haejoon hasn’t bothered making his presence a secret. by now, he’s sure almost everyone knows that the outsider is making a documentary on the tragic missing persons cases, whether they like it or not. he’s made sure of it, announcing himself and his purpose to anyone who will listen, and would they care to be interviewed? it’ll be shown in the busan international film festival next year, he’s falsely promised time and again.

he knows none of them believe him, knows that most of them despise him if the glares and groans he gets when he enters a room are anything to go by. but, unsurprisingly, that hasn’t weathered him down any more than the cryptic death threats thrown his way. haejoon’s more than used to being disliked, and it was never part of his plan to stay in ilmyo for long, so who cares if he makes any friends when he’ll burn his bridges soon enough?

hawk and heron are all he cares about being friends with anyway, and it’s only with them he bothers to tone himself down. first by offering a positive light to hawk in his documentary in exchange for insider information. then by attempting to bond with heron, offering to watch each other’s backs in a kind of strange truce to investigate together and share information (albeit selectively from haejoon’s side).

but trust has been slow to build and haejoon’s been growing impatient.

with most reluctant to share anything with him, he’s resorted to taking matters into his own hands. after his own investigation in the matters and his belief in occam’s razor, he’s concluded that magpie and starling are the likely suspects. there’s no smoke without a fire, after all, and magpie and starling have too much smoke surrounding them. as far as he’s concerned, they’re guilty and the police are just too close to everyone in this small town to do anything about it when the proof is all circumstantial.

so, it wouldn’t hurt if he falsified concrete evidence, would it?

if the culprits never paid, what’s the point in all of it?

he would just be giving the closure he never received to the families of the lost ones.

vi.

but there is one thing. if this is going to be his breakout piece, he wants it done without getting his hands too dirty.

for now, haejoon’s biding his time, false evidence lying in wait in a locked safe. only time will tell if he’ll have to use it.