#all you need to do is take a modern teensy and make them wear more interesting clothes really lol

[katiekatdragon27]

I'm so normal about the teensies.

I'm so normal about the teensies that I made a pre-Rayman origin story for the teensies. The teensies built the world lol, idc how inaccurate it is to the lore lol.

It's my interpretation, I get to decide the lore!

(THING TO NOTE: All of their designs are based on already existing teensies, whether it be canon or concept doesn't matter. If you can accurately figure out which teensies inspired who, I will give you a gold star🌟)

General plot synopsis: Polokus made the world. The fairies were also made; however, they were not "sentient" beings yet. All their births were from teeny terraforming of the land but that'll be explained in a later post. Anyways, the teensies were created not only to make sick beats with their noses, but to give the world guides and watchful keepers of order. Once every creature was created, Polokus took his leave, leaving all his "kids" to figure everything out. As one could imagine, that caused a lot of fighting over who's in charge. One teensy in particular knew in his heart he was built to lead. However, due to his short stature and insistence for violence, many did not even lend a passing glance.

When Polokus had a bad dream and a certain first nightmare invades the Glade, death in introduced into the world and no one knows how to deal with it. In a test of leadership and strength. This one teensy beat the odds, uniting every clan of teeny around, recruiting their most powerful fighters, and taking down the nightmare, restoring peace to the Glade.

Despite the win, there were still many rabid creatures running around, so in an attempt to establish order permanently, they "built" the Snoring Tree, the most middle part of the world where every teensy leader (and other creatures if needed) could come to discuss diplomacy and general plans of action (a knights of the round table kind of thing). It is where the Hall of Doors is located along with a direct link to the Livid Dead, which was established just a few years earlier. (After the Snoring Tree was made, that's when the fairies were "born" with Betilla being the first.)

However, his establishment of peace fell on it's face almost immediately due to teensy nature being lowkey selfish lol. The first "generation" of teensies was very good at this "guide and order keeper" job, but as each generation passed, more and more of the teensies' diplomatic mindset was pushed to the wayside in favor of a superiority complex. And when Betilla made Rayman as a protector of the Glade, many teensies lost interest in fighting themselves, leaving them very susceptible to attacks. That's why every creature ever is adamant in sticking these guys in cages. Cuz they're lowkey assholes who can't fight lol.

There are gonna be 10 important people to the plot, but I only got five finished right now. Their bios are below the cut:

_________

Aurthr the Grand Minimus (Fighter):

Aurthr is actually the First King in his prime. He was the first teensy made by Polokus, although he is not the "oldest" (like imagine a creator making ocs of different age ranges but they were all made at the same time). By default, he feels an entitlement to the first throne position in his kingdom, but before he is deemed "king", he has to go though a trial. That trial is ... defeating Jano! Yes, these are gonna be the group of teensies that defeat Jano and create the Livid Dead lol. But in order to do that, he needs to learn to be a leader. Along the way, he also learns that to be a grand leader, he needs to value solutions through diplomacy over violence (something that is lost in later generations *cough cough*).

Orion the Adventurous Ranger:

Orion is Aurthr's childhood best friend who comes from outside the castle walls. Being a Murkin (a clan of teensies that has since disappeared), he is very good at going undetected and just navigating the world outside of civilization in general. Despite his soft-spoken nature and cowardness, he really wants to make a difference for the better in teensy society, and it may just come around by teaching Aurthr to listen first before attacking (along with how to be an amazing Kungfoot player).

And yeah, he has ears. Ears are a recessive gene, but the Murkin were the clan that had that trait the most. (They usually get cropped if they're too big to hide in their hats.)

Sapphie the Beautiful Bard:

Sapphie is a teensy who's primary magic use is of the darker arts (hence her ability to go natural hair). Before being Aurthr's first recruit, she spent most of her days traveling about and doing small thieving jobs. She was a well-know musician, and she performed for money a lot. However, what she loves more than money is adventure. She immediately jumps onboard to Aurthr's crew, leading as healer until a different teensy joins the group later on and giving her the chance to fight. She teaches Aurthr about strength in presentation (and how to play his nose like a musical interment).

Umber the Undead Warlock:

Umber is one of the two mages that Aurthr sought out to help fight Jano. They are the Griskin Chief and trying their best to keep their people safe. This dedication to their people's safety led to a deal with a slumbering spirit, giving up their voice in exchange for power and sanctuary near his den. While constantly struggling to keep their clan quiet, they have been trying to manage the sudden influx in stressed out and scared ghosts showing up and causing a ruckus. Stressed and overwhelmed, it takes more than just some talking to convince them to go with Aurthr. But after helping with some big tasks and beating them in a game of Kungfoot, they decide to assist, and put a stop to whatever is killing everyone from above the bog.

Soria the Stunning Sorceress:

Soria is one of the two mages that Aurthr sought out to help fight Jano. Being part of the Sylkin sorcerers, she was the main protecter of Polokus's resting place high in the mountains. She is incredibly strong for a teensy in terms of magic, making her quite the formidable fighter. However, she would much rather sing and dance, and overall just have fun being alive than perform combat. She decides to help defeat Jano after being bested in music fight with Aurthr and having her eyes open to the destruction occurring down below.

She also has ears. They are long, but since her hat is also long there was no need to crop them.

__________

There are five more characters that will be posted later, but these are the important ones at the beginning of the story. I have a lot of this world thought out with a very solid plotline, so if y'all got any questions, I would be more than happy to answer them. Thank you for your reading all this and have a lovely day ^^

[yoichichi]

Modern!au Hange Zoë Relationship Headcannons

Hange Zoë x reader

a/n: hi!!! This is my first post for aot on this blog! Plspls tell me your thoughts and if you guys like this :) requests aren’t open quite yet but will he soon, I just need to finish some things up in my drafts first :) you can look at WIP page on my pinned post on my blog to see some other aot works I’m working on atm before I open requests :) pls enjoy !!! I luv them on god

gif not mine, credit to owner

Please tell them to go to bed, they have no self regard for their sleeping habits and WILL stay up for 2 days straight

It does not matter if they��re in bed with you either, they will lay with their back against the headboard and you cuddling into their side while they stroke your face until you fall asleep and then IMMEDIATELY start reading

The amount of times you’ve woken up to them still awake in the middle of the night looking at you like 👁👄👁😃 good morning sunshine~~ just go back to bed ~~ maybe you’re dreaming ~~ , cause they KNOW you’ll scold them and they’d like to avoid that at all costs

PLS they definitely wear one of those stupid little head light things so they can read while you sleep

AND IT JUST ADDS TO THE DISORIENTATION YOU FEEL WHEN YOU WAKE UP ABAJSKWJWNA

* 💡

* 👁👄👁

“good morning sleepy head”

I truly feel like they’re a pro at getting you to fall asleep though, not even so they can stay up they just are so good at soothing you

That one spot in between your shoulders thats always sore? They’re hands find it without you even having to mention

The way you have to cuddle laying on your right side and your left? They’re already adjusting themselves on the couch so that can happen

The way you like kisses on the top of your head but not your temple? Check ✅ they’re fingers are resting at your temple to remind them it’s always the top of your head -as if they’d forget-

Expanding on this, they’re just so good at remembering details about you in general???

And of course some of it is the basics like your favorite snack, your favorite candle, the current show your binging, the laundry detergent you always buy, etc.

But some of it you wouldn’t have even asked them to remember?? Like it gets more and more obscure the longer you’re together

Like how you wouldn’t like the leather seats in their car, which you mention once cause the skin on your legs were sticking to them in the summer

And then they’re in the market looking for a new car and this one doesn’t have leather seats, which to yourself you’re like oh cool :)

But then they just bring it up while you’re driving with them one day like

“Isn’t it nice that now when you wear shorts your legs don’t stick? I tried keeping that in mind for you, babe.”

And it’s just??? You’re almost questioning how they even KNOW that until they tell you about the one ☝🏼 time you mentioned it and it was at least a couple years ago and it’s just??? Thank you?!?

But yes, anything you do Hange WILL remember it for better or for worse cause they just see it as a part of getting to know you and love the person you are!

Okok emperor fidgety over here ‼️

WILL talk with their hands so intensely that they’ve knocked over countless drinks, vases, has even flung their fork once

Queue wide eyes and awkward laughing while they blush a little before they rush for a towel to clean up their mess

But will still continue to ramble while they clean, nothing stops their talking

Carpet cleaner is your best friend

Let’s just say when the two of you decided to move into a new place together, hunting for hardwood floors was a must

But BECAUSE this fools always making a mess and needs to just ~lower the chaos a teensy bit ~ they WILL grab onto your hands while they talk

They’d be getting particularly animated and loud and you’d just let out a giggle and nod your head, letting them know you’re listening and they don’t have to be so loud

And they’d just giggle and shush themselves and be like sorry sorry I know with some big stupid smile on their face

They’d reach their hands out and grab yours and clear their throat and raise their eyebrows a little,

“Ok, so, here’s the best part though. Get. This.”

And they’d just go back to ranting but this time they have so much more energy being focused into you rather than combusting out of them

Their eyes are locked onto yours so hard, no longer darting all over the room while they speak

Their hands moving yours only a little, swinging them up and down, squeezing them when they get particularly excited

Their voice is more hushed and deep, their words shooting sharply at you with an intensity vibrating off them making your cheeks burn

Now, when something would normally result in a flying fork, instead it’s a tug on your hands to bring you closer while their voice gets heavier and quiet - almost a whisper - sharing this moment with you and ending it with raised eyebrows and a squeal - sometimes even shaking your arms about if it’s especially exciting news

Speaking of ranting, when you rant you better expect Hange to get JUST as involved as you

You’re frustrated? Yeah Hange is getting heated too, riling you up in the process, it’s their problem now too

You’re happy? Hange is squealing and jumping up and down with you as if they got the promotion ajakskajaja

I feel like the only exception to this would be if you were stressed, upset, or sad

They’re immediately quiet and looking all over your face for any sign of distress with the most sincere eyes

Nodding and responding with little hums of understanding, ready to scoop you into their arms the moment you need them too

The RULER of taking care of their s/o when they’re down or sick

Not only cause they know everything there is to know about your existence lmao

But cause I think they’re smart enough to be able to not be over bearing when they’re taking care of you

They’ll check in a lot for sure, but never smothering you more than you’d like lmao

Their love language is definitely quality time in my opinion

Do you remember how excited they were when Eren agreed to listen to them talk and they talked literally ALL night?? -I miss them like this pls-

Please just spend time with them while they’re doing research at home or reading, they’ll never feel more loved and appreciated

Ok but like :

It’s late, it’s been dark outside for hours now. Your eyes became heavy hours ago but, you don’t have work tomorrow, and you’d hate leaving Hange in here by themselves, so you decided on cuddling up in the living chair in their office - that they definitely put in there for you - on your phone. You were scrolling mindlessly through apps trying to keep your mind stimulated enough when you heard their chair move from the spot they were in for the first time since you’ve been in their. You looked up to see them crack their neck and stretch their arms above their head, they’re shirt riding up just above their belly button.

They sighed deeply and slowly walked over to you, running their hands down the side of your face and cupping your cheeks to turn your head up to face them.

They leaned down at an agonizingly slow pace and pressed a deep kiss on your lips

“Let’s go to bed now, yeah?”

And while you were laying together drifting off to sleep, they’d just kiss your head one more time and tell you how much they love you

Pls you’d mean the world to them

HANGE IS A SEXY DRIVER HANGE IS A SEXY DRIVER HANGE IS A SEXY DRIVER

Like,,, WHEWWW

This isn’t even a relationship HC LMAO

I mean a little -

They’d LOVE to go on roadtrips with you, you can’t tell me otherwise

A fun stupid adventure to buy shitty souvenirs along the way? Meeting strange people and getting all these new stories together? Hange is at peace like this lmao

But more on them driving 👁👅👁

Definitely drives stick, and they’re a FAST driver

Always a little above the speed limit

So good at changing lanes, especially on the freeway

The way they check over their shoulder?? Lawd almighty

Sometimes they’ll check over their shoulder that’s facing you and flick their eyes to your’s for a moment, cause they can feel you staring at them in that brief moment, and they’ll just raise their eyebrows and shoot you a cocky little side smile

And then after they change lanes they reach a hand over and squeeze your thigh before they keep driving

Ok does have bad road rage though LMAO

Not in a dangerous way they just,, swear very loudly in the car and then roll their eyes and apologize that there’s idiots on the road LMAO

Anyways

All in all, Hange is a very attentive and loud partner, so I hope you’re ok with chaos and intensity

———————

a/n: thanks for reading yall!!! Feel free to check out my blog, more aot content coming soon! And I always love to hear from you guys :)

-🐇out

taglist: @plutowrites

[wangxiangiftexchange]

Winter Solstice Gift for journalsofagoddess

Happy Winter Solstice @journalsofagoddess!! <3 I hope you like your gift!! this was so much fun to write! I tried to fit as many of the original prompts/"likes" in as possible, so in here you'll find elements of fluff, h/c, horror, humour, modern au, a sprinkling of family!wangxian...

Title is from a fantastic song by No Resolve that is very wangxian, even if it has nothing at all to do with this fic! concept inspired loosely by fleurmatisse's spooky possession fic, minus some of the spookiness? :D

Warnings: light horror, mentions of injuries.

Read on AO3

*****

dancing with your ghost

The snow is just starting to stick to the pavement by the time Wei Ying makes it home.

The sky outside has been heavy and dark with clouds since the morning, but had only broken open as he left the client’s house. He closes the door on their suddenly white-coated and wet front stoop and takes a minute to shake the melted snow out of his hair.

“Hey,” he calls into the empty hall as he scrapes his boots on the mat, “I’m back!”

He bends down to untie his laces and his wrist gives a sharp twinge. In all of the excitement of the afternoon and the unexpected snowfall, he had almost forgotten that he had crushed it beneath him when he fell. He resigns himself to undoing his boots one-handed to not agitate it any further—it’s probably nothing serious, but between regular injuries and the growing threat of carpal tunnel that comes with age, Wei Ying isn’t sure he needs to take the risk.

Ghosts are always bad, as winter sinks into the city. The short days and cold nights make up the perfect breeding grounds for things that lurk in shadows and feed on melancholy.

Wei Ying doesn’t mind the ghosts, of course: as a self-certified freelance ghost hunter extraordinaire, he has been getting more than enough calls to keep busy. His days are longer, brining him home well after dark, but only ever sweetens the coming home. Lan Zhan disagrees, of course—he would rather Wei Ying be home more often, and not take on so much, but as long as they are still splitting bills half and half, this is the best solution.

The thought of his husband is clearly enough to summon him: Lan Zhan appears at the end of the hall. He’s dressed for a comfortable evening at home. Wei Ying waves, and doesn’t quite manage to hide the wince when his wrist stings again. The small smile that had started to grow at the edges of Lan Zhan’s mouth vanishes beneath a larger frown. His gaze is unerringly focused on Wei Ying’s wrist. Wei Ying doesn’t sigh out loud—he’s fine, really, and it was a stupid injury anyway. Nothing to be fussed over.

Lan Zhan does not get his psychic messaging.

“Wei Ying,” he says. Wei Ying kicks off his boots, giving up on the laces entirely. “You’re hurt.” It’s a question, even if it doesn’t sound like one.

“Messy job,” Wei Ying tells him with a bright grin. “You wouldn’t believe the stuff these people were just letting lie around in their attic.” It hadn’t been the worst job he’s ever done—surprisingly few dead mice, and no asbestos--but also not exactly what had been described in the email. Part of the reason Wei Ying is back so late tonight were the—“piles and piles of masks, Lan Zhan,” he complains, unwinding his scarf one-handedly, “and not the nice kind. They all had bleeding eyes or human teeth.”

The actual email had just described an old costume collection and some thumps in the night. They hadn’t been wrong, exactly, but Wei Ying spent an hour clearing all of the clothing debris to the edges of the room before he could actually get a sense for the space. It had been a waste of time, and with the woman and her son standing there and watching him without lifting a finger, it had taken much longer than necessary. “It wasn’t even the masks that were haunted,” he complains. “They were just freaky and maybe a little bit cursed.”

He looks up just in time to recognize the beginnings of actual worry in Lan Zhan’s expression. It’s the face he makes when he wants to volunteer to come with Wei Ying on ghost hunts, despite his students, or ask him never to put himself in harm’s way again. Wei Ying is sure he’d prefer that he were in any other line of work than freelance exorcism, when it so often involves Wei Ying jumping in, at least a little underprepared, and dealing with everything from bathtub water ghouls to cat fierce corpses.

So, Wei Ying shuts himself up, pressing a quick kiss to Lan Zhan’s cheek. “Nothing dangerous,” he promises his husband. “I just tripped, I’m not hurt-hurt.”

“Your wrist,” Lan Zhan says, still frowning, the faintest crease marring his forehead.

Wei Ying pats his husband’s chest with the hand that doesn’t hurt, and tells him, “I’ll let you put ice on it, if it’ll make you feel better.”

Lan Zhan looks at him with an expression that says clearly that it should also make Wei Ying feel better, but he ignores it. Today’s job hadn’t even been awful—just weird, and unsuccessful for the most part. He’ll have to go back another day, at least. Just another paycheck.

“You look cold,” Lan Zhan adds as they move to the living room. He offers Wei Ying a hoodie from his collection—not that Lan Zhan wears hoodies, but he owns enough alumnus merch that Wei Ying coopts them for nefarious husband purposes such as lounging around on their couch. Between that and the fact that Lan Zhan has always had a possessive streak that liked seeing Wei Ying in his clothes… well, there’s certainly no reason not to pull it on.

“Nah,” he says, “it started snowing on my way home, though. We might have to shovel tomorrow.”

“Mm,” Lan Zhan hums, “our shovels are in the shed.”

Wei Ying still feels icky with the cloying resentful energy that had swamped the attic. It happens often when the ghosts are particularly resentful: the energy soaks deeper into him—partly his own fault, since he essentially makes himself a conduit, but hardly a pleasant sensation. On his walk home, he usually spends time cleansing himself of the dredges as much as he can, but then it had started to snow…

Lan Zhan presses a quick kiss to his nose, there and gone again. “Come warm up,” he says. “There is dinner, if you are hungry.”

Wei Ying takes stock—he’d had a hot dog from the place around the corner of his make-shift office at lunch, plus a couple of stale cookies the owners of the house had offered him before he started work. They were awful, of course, but you never deal with any hauntings on an empty stomach—that’s just asking to be possessed. His stomach is still turning, though. Probably just resentful residue, but he’s not going to chance it turning into nausea.

“Maybe later,” he says. “I’m going to shower. Choose something for us to watch?”

Lan Zhan smiles—just barely, but it’s definitely there—and Wei Ying leans up to kiss him, barely more than press of his lips against his husbands’. He’s so warm, a furnace, and Wei Ying wants to wrap himself in him and never let go. The resentment soaking him doesn’t like that thought at all-- he can feel it like something oily against his skin, slithering down his spine in distaste or maybe anger. Wei Ying isn’t about to find out, though, so instead, he smiles into the kiss so Lan Zhan can feel it, and pulls away.

Lan Zhan keeps holding his hand, their fingers intertwined. “Not too long,” he says.

“I would never,” Wei Ying jokes, and kisses him again. It’s always a little intoxicating, being in Lan Zhan’s presence, and his love of long showers won’t keep him away.

The resentment starts to slide off in the shower, pretending it was never there. The hot water pounds down on Wei Ying’s skin turning it rosy and wiping away the last bits of lingering fear and anger along with the last of the chill. He can feel his frozen toes again, wiggles them against the porcelain and watches them turn pink. He should probably buy winter boots, he thinks, if his steel-toed ones aren’t going to be warm enough to last through the rest of the winter hunts.

The last of the energy, the cloying bit that hooked its greedy fingers under his skin, swirls away down the drain. It’s invisible to the naked eye at such low concentrations, but Wei Ying can sense it. He can feel the gluiness of these residues, non-Newtonian and sticky, in ways that even most cultivators couldn’t pick out. He’s spent years, after all, figuring out how to manipulate resentful energy as best he can to help other people, and he’s good at what he does, takes pride in it. He knows Lan Zhan is proud of him, too, no matter how worried he gets.

There is a moment after he has toweled off, when he’s pulling on clean boxers and Lan Zhan’s hoodie that he thinks he sees someone in the mirror. It’s the same feeling as when the lights are turned on in a previously dark room, the moment before all the shadows are banished, when eyes can be tricked into believing that there is someone, a figure, standing there and watching you from the corner—

Wei Ying stares at himself carefully, but it doesn’t happen again. His day has been stressful and longer than it should have been-- all that staring into all of those eyeless masks--he’s probably just haunted by the contorted porcelain faces. Besides getting home late, that’s the only other problem that working in the ghost industry brings: a teensy bit of justified paranoia. He towels off his hair and leaves the towel behind.

Lan Zhan is already sitting on the couch, curled comfortably in his corner, though his eyes find Wei Ying as soon has he enters the room. On the TV, the screen is paused on the opening credits of a C-drama that neither of them watch for the plot but is perfect for the kind of night Wei Ying needs. There’s an open box of crackers and some hummus on the table; their massive first aid kit in Lan Zhan’s lap.

Wei Ying isn’t sure he’ll ever stop being struck by just how well Lan Zhan knows him. His husband, his zhiji, has proven time and time again to be the very best thing that has ever happened to Wei Ying, and he will spend the rest of his life thanking him for it. He slides onto the couch next to Lan Zhan, curling into his side, and rests head on Lan Zhan’s shoulder.

Lan Zhan turns the TV on, volume down low, and the opening theme begins to play. Wei Ying lets himself relax.

“Let me wrap your wrist,” Lan Zhan says quietly, pulling a tensor bandage out of the kit.

“Lan Zhan, it’s really not necessary—” Wei Ying starts, even as Lan Zhan lifts his hand onto his lap. He quells his token protests at the look on Lan Zhan’s face. He still looks worried and tense. Wei Ying wonders if they’ll have to talk about it after all. Lan Zhan begins wrapping his wrist.

“You should be more careful,” his husband says.

Wei Ying could protest, as he has many times, that he’s exactly as careful as he can afford to be—that sometimes, sure, he puts his safety to the side, but it’s always for a good reason. They’ve had the argument before, though, and it’s not—they don’t need to have it again, not tonight. Lan Zhan is efficient, wrapping his wrist firmly but not too tightly. He presses a kiss to the bandage afterwards, his eyes warm. Wei Ying can feel his cheeks heat.

“I feel better already,” he says, mostly joking, and gets a kiss to the lips as reward.

Like this, and in many other ways, they fit perfectly together. Lan Zhan’s hand falls on his thigh, a wide swath of warmth against Wei Ying’s bare skin. He pushes up into the kiss, not urgent, just chasing closeness. He laces their fingers together, pulls back momentarily and Lan Zhan sways toward him. In the low light, Lan Zhan’s eyes are almost golden. Wei Ying traces his features with his eyes, and kisses him again.

“Ah, Lan Zhan,” he breathes, moments later. Lan Zhan has dared to bite his lip, albeit gently. “Don’t tease me now. Your husband is too tired.”

Lan Zhan looks skeptical but hums an agreement all the same, pressing one last kiss to his pouting mouth before settling back into the couch. It’s nearing late—Lan Zhan has gotten more flexible, with his sleep schedule, since they got together and since he left his old home behind, but he still starts flagging much earlier in the evening than Wei Ying does. He will probably be asleep by the time two episodes are over. Keeping that in mind, Wei Ying settles more firmly into Lan Zhan’s side, relishing the warmth.

He doesn’t focus on the screen, not really—instead, he spends his time mapping out the well-known lines of Lan Zhan’s palm with his fingertip. Lan Zhan bears this, as he always does, with patience. There is no small amount of fondness in his gaze when Wei Ying looks up at him. There don’t need to be words between them, right now, but Wei Ying asks anyway, “how was your day?”

Lan Zhan hums, glances down at their intertwined fingers, their matching rings. There is a fond look on his face.

“Good,” he answers after a minute. The love theme of the show is playing on screen, but Wei Ying doesn’t look away from Lan Zhan’s face. “Productive.”

“Good,” Wei Ying repeats. It’s been years since they worked together as cultivators—somewhere along the line, maybe when Lan Zhan discovered a passion for teaching only rivalled by his passion for music, or when Wei Ying’s business finally took off, the places where their work lives intersected disappeared. It’s been a long time since work and obligation were the only things they lived for. That’s why he doesn’t press, now, lets the comfort of the end of day settle between them. He presses a quick kiss to Lan Zhan’s cheek, and then his lips, lingering and sweet. Lan Zhan is warm, so warm.

Wei Ying eats a couple of crackers. The characters on the screen reunite, long lingering gazes exchanged as the orchestral version of the love theme soars. Lan Zhan slumps a little against his shoulder, breaths evening out into the first stages of sleep. Outside, snow is still falling. Wei Ying gets distracted from whatever dramatic goings-on happen next—a sibling reunion, maybe? A lost identity, being rediscovered?--watching the flakes fall in the light of the streetlamp out their window. It looks like it’s gearing up to be a proper snowstorm. He might have to postpone his appointments, tomorrow, if it keeps up.

Lan Zhan’s breath puffs out against his shoulder. Wei Ying can see their reflection in the glass: Lan Zhan’s relaxed figure, his own, curling into him. Like this, no time has passed at all—Lan Zhan in sleep is timeless, the two of them could still be undergrads. He spends time tracing the sleep softened lines of Lan Zhan’s face, which is why it takes him a minute to realize that something is wrong with the picture. It’s only when he finally looks at himself that he realizes—

While he is looking at his own reflection, it is still staring down at Lan Zhan.

Wei Ying stills his thumb where it was rubbing gentle circles into Lan Zhan’s arm. In the reflection on the glass, his hand keeps moving, gently swiping across his husband’s bicep. His reflection—though there’s something wrong with it, now, something distorted, something in the eyes that is looking less and less like himself—cocks its head slightly and looks back at him. There is a smile, though not one that Wei Ying has ever worn, on its face.

Masks, Wei Ying thinks. False faces. The mirror in the bathroom earlier, the sense that had dogged him all the way home of being watched, the oily slick resentment that he brought home with him--

Wei Ying’s work bag is across the room. He doesn’t dare take his eyes off of the reflection to go get it. There is adrenaline, sudden and shocking, spurring itself through his veins.

When all else fails, get it talking.

“Good to finally meet you,” he tells it. He can’t be sure it’s actually in his reflection at all—it could be anywhere in the room, choosing only to manifest like this strange echo.

The person in the reflection smiles, but it doesn’t reach their eyes. They’re as hollow as the masks now, just empty void—completely black, not even the snowstorm outside visible behind them. The face is no longer Wei Ying’s at all, rounder and paler with soulless eyes and a bleeding mouth. In the reflection, the blood drips Lan Zhan’s forehead, marring lines on his smooth skin. Wei Ying doesn’t dare look down to check.

The voice is more like a rasp than anything, like the sound of a body being dragged on a hardwood floor. “Give it back,” it says. “It’s not yours.”

Wei Ying casts his memory back desperately. Had he taken anything from the house? Had he left anything behind? He knows better than to do that, he thinks.

“I really don’t think so,” he says, fighting down a sudden eerie chill as the room’s temperature drops, “sorry.”

The shadows in the room are growing, spilling out from everywhere the ceiling light in the hall can’t reach, playing like smoke across the ground. On the screen, in his peripheral vision, the figures are frozen in a loop, jerking like marionettes pulled back and forth. The figure hisses. Wei Ying’s eyes are burning trying to focus—he blinks, and his reflection is his own again. The dread doesn’t leave and none of the shadows recede. They grow darker.

He shakes Lan Zhan awake, gently.

“Sweetheart,” he says, trying not to let his panic run his words together, “we have a—situation.”

“Wei Ying?” Lan Zhan says, a little bit sleep dulled. He blinks his eyes open, slowly focusing. Wei Ying only has a second’s warning when Lan Zhan’s eyes go wide at something behind him before Lan Zhan is pushing him off the couch and onto the floor. “Wei Ying!”

“Sorry!” Wei Ying yelps, scrambling to his feet, “looks like work came home with me!”

There’s no time for regrets, now. He’s not sure what Lan Zhan saw behind him, but he can see and feel the way the shadows in the room are coalescing, turning into something solid, building itself from the ground up. Wei Ying pushes the coffee table away—the crackers go tumbling, but that’s a problem for later, because the two of them need to be standing somewhere without shadows. Whatever this thing is, it’s powerful enough to manifest inside their wards. He thinks bitterly of the lies the woman and her son had told in the emails, how much they minimized the issue, and can only reassure himself that he can charge appropriately. This is more, much more than the measly sounds in the night he went to deal with, and it is growing.

Lan Zhan clearly has the same thought. He is no longer half-asleep, his face stony and serious in a way that makes Wei Ying shiver. He and Wei Ying stand, back to back, in the now clear floor of the living room. Only the hall light and the ghostly jitters of the TV illuminate their positions.

“Give it back,” the faceless shadows hiss. “It’s not yours!”

Wei Ying sees it out of the corner of his eye—a movement on the screen. He drops to the floor just in time for the coalesced fog of dense, dark mist to sweep over him. Its edges are too sharp to truly be vapour, its weight in the air too solid. It disperses like gas, though, sinks back into the shadows around them.

Between one second and the next, the hallway light flickers and turns off with a quiet pop, leaving them with only the flickers from the television. Lan Zhan summons his spiritual guqin—not the one he uses for teaching traditional music, but the one he uses when he night hunts. The chord he strums echoes in the small space and splinters another burst of the coalesced shade before it can attack. Whatever it is building, the shape looks more human now, albeit longer, and still faceless. Probably once an adult male, if Wei Ying had to guess, purely based on the size of all the costumes he had to move out of its room.

Whatever it is—he’s looking forward to the research, once they survive this—its hands are wicked sharp and it has too many elbows. It swipes at them, and it comes from the wrong direction, so Lan Zhan’s next chord goes wide. Wei Ying almost manages to dodge. The sleeve of the sweater is shredded.

Lan Zhan looks grim. He plays a succession of three quick chords which are quickly overtaken as the noise, just a murmur until now, grows into a roar of sound. It sounds like a thousand whispers all layered on top of each other, and it takes Wei Ying a second to figure out what, exactly, it is saying—

“Give it back,” it groans, “give it back, give it back, give it back.”

Wei Ying knows he didn’t take anything from the creepy attic, much less the house. There was nothing there to take, for one—stale cookies and awful tea, moth-eaten robes and rancid makeup, a hundred masks without eyes--but that’s not what this ghost is after. Wei Ying’s heart is pounding. He needs his exorcism stuff—at the very least his flute, or some chalk for an array.

First, liberate, second, suppress, third, eliminate, he thinks and almost wants to laugh. Too late for liberation, since it’s clearly already as free as can be-- he’d make the joke if the situation weren’t so dire. Ideally, this would be the time to offer it what it wants, but since he has no clue, suppression is the best option. He doesn’t even have talisman paper on him, since he’s still wearing Lan Zhan’s sweater.

He’s wearing Lan Zhan’s sweater.

Costumes. All of the masks. Faces beneath faces, bodies under clothes, the makeup chest and the mirrors.

Wei Ying wonders how he didn’t see it before. He should have burned all of his clothes the minute he stepped in the door because if he brought this with him, wearing him like a second skin—

He rips off the sweater, ignoring how it catches on his earring sending it tumbling to the floor—he throws it at the memory of the person, now just a mass of resentment and terror—and the sweater bursts into flames.

It’s a brief fire, but enough to light every corner of the room. As one, the shadows disperse, melting away and sinking into the floor, flying out the window. The figure, at the centre of the bright light, vanishes completely, leaving only an afterimage on Wei Ying’s eyelids. The smoke alarm wails.

Wei Ying’s heart is still beating too fast in his chest, adrenaline still racing through his veins. There is a burn mark on the carpet, to the left of the couch, a large black charred piece, that smells vaguely of burnt plastic. It’s the only sign, besides the burnt-out hall light, that anything strange happened at all. Even the reflections in the windows are normal again.

Wei Ying jumps when the C-drama starts playing behind him.

Lan Zhan doesn’t. He banishes his spiritual weapon with a wave of his hand and moves to the kitchen where he disables the alarm. The apartment is silent, and still.

“What the fuck,” Wei Ying manages. He drags his hands over his face, digging the heels of his palms into his eyes. He’s standing in the middle of their living room, wearing only boxers, because the ghost that followed him home didn’t, what, like him dressing in someone else’s clothes? This has to make top twenty, no, top ten weirdest ghost revenge plots he has ever had to deal with. He looks at Lan Zhan, who is staring back at him across the small expanse of their living-slash-dining room, face blank. “I’m so sorry,” he tells Lan Zhan, “I can’t believe—it followed me home—I should have known—”

“Wei Ying,” Lan Zhan interrupts. Wei Ying stops talking immediately, looks up at his husband. “There is no need for sorry, between us.”

“I mean,” Wei Ying says, staring at the mark in the rug, “usually I’d agree, but I think this kind of warrants an apology.” He digs at the mark with his toe. It’s not even warm anymore, just charred. “I destroyed the rug, Lan Zhan.”

Lan Zhan shakes his head and flips on the electric kettle. “I disagree,” he says calmly, as though Wei Ying hadn’t just accidentally invited in a clothing-obsessed ghost and also destroyed one of Lan Zhan’s hoodies. Sure, he has never worn them, but the point stands.

He gapes at his husband. “You were worried, before,” he blusters, “Why-- how aren’t you more freaked out about the ghost in our house?”

Lan Zhan takes two mugs out of the cupboard, and the marshmallows-in hot chocolate tin, too. There is the edge of a smile playing on his lips when he looks at Wei Ying again, made soft under the light.

He says, “this is an opportune time to rearrange the living room.”

Wei Ying laughs. It’s the last of the adrenaline—he’ll be crashing quickly after this—but suddenly it’s hysterical. He laughs until he can’t breathe, and keeps laughing.

“Lan Zhan,” he manages, still laughing, and stumbles into his husband’s waiting arms. They will definitely be having a conversation about the wards on their house, and possibly about Wei Ying’s safety—but that can happen tomorrow. Wei Ying muffles his giggles in Lan Zhan’s shoulder, waits until they subside. He looks up at his husband, keeping his arms hooked loosely around the back of his neck. Lan Zhan’s warm hands are on his waist.

“I love you so much,” Wei Ying admits.

“Mn,” Lan Zhan hums, “and I, you.”

[bookandcranny]

Stone Heart Gambit

Part 1 - Chapter 5

It starts with clothes. Wearing rags might have worked for Adami when he was made of stone, but not so much now that he’s walking around. Finding something that would fit his broad, inhuman frame was a challenge, but eventually Soso pins down an online seller who stocks a full range of extra-large sizes and provides fast delivery. Adamantius had looked so confused at the offering, and it occurred to Soso suddenly that he probably wasn’t someone who was used to getting gifts. Thus, since then she’d begun bringing new things with her every visit, to get him accustomed.

It’s little things. Today Nessa, awake and active before nightfall for the first time that Soso has ever seen, indulgently leads her through a beginner’s lesson in baking. It had seemed like a good practical gift, since Surehouser only cooked when he fancied the diversion. There was always plenty of food in his home, but only when he bothered to remember that there should be. Something to do with the passively magical nature of the place, he said, though as always the simple answer was wrapped in a layer of riddles and vaguery.

The result is a batch of cookies so hard and dry that one bite has Nessa diving for the milk. Still, she thinks, not terrible for her first try, and Adami will probably be happy with literally anything she brings him.

The outside of the library is looking well restored from Halloween’s havoc, with the exception of the conspicuously missing statue, although the interior is more chaotic than ever before. After a brief investigation, the events of that night have been officially written off as a large-scale prank. It eases Soso’s nerves a little, knowing that she isn’t about to be interrogated at any given moment, but doesn’t solve the main problem. No amount of new clothes or socialization is going to make Adami able to walk the streets freely looking like he does, and harboring him at the library will only work for so long. Not long at all, if he can’t learn to play nice with his host. The fact that they haven’t been caught yet feels like a miracle.

“Nothing so dramatic,” Surehouser says. “Humans are remarkably good at looking the other way when the truth is inconvenient to them. The unseen bleeds into your world more than you realize. This spot, Ensfield- although it didn’t have a name much less a town at the time- rests on what’s essentially a faultline of wild magic, magic that’s not attached to or being used by anyone. It’s a powerful point of contact between the two worlds. One of a handful scattered all over the globe.”

He had explained some of it to her, though of course not as much as she’d like. You could only keep the human world so distant from its shadow without having some bleed-through. Underhill and Overhill were in many ways mirror images of another, hanging in a precarious balance. In order to keep that balance in check, there were a lot of rules about the way faefolk were to conduct themselves while in Overhill, and breaking them could be met with consequences ranging from a slap on the wrist to being banished from Underhill altogether. The general consensus, it seemed, was that the human’s domain was a fun place to visit but not one anyone wished to stay in.

Soso, who has no basis for comparison, wonders if she should be offended.

“So, out of curiosity,” she says. “Just how much trouble would you be in if your bosses found out about big boy over here?”

He snorts. She likes the man but he has the uncanny ability to make her feel like an idiot whenever she opens her mouth about anything fae-wise. “You assume you’d be exempt.”

“Wouldn’t I?” Uncertainty creeps into her tone. “I mean, this is sort of my turf. Because human?”

“It does muddy things,” he admits. “I can’t say I know what they’d do.”

“Give me a best and worst case scenario.”

“Best case, I lose my position and standing and become the laughing stock of my court for failing a task that was essentially ‘make sure this rock doesn’t move’. Worst case, the library gets a few new lawn ornaments.”

She grimaces. Yeah, that’s pretty bad.

Adamantius comes in from the other room and makes a face that she recognizes as his version of a smile. The mouthful of teeth and tusks don’t lend themselves well to the expression, but the nuances between happy monster and angry monster and bored monster are ones she’s coming to appreciate.

“Lady Willoughby, I was not aware it was you. I’ve been instructed to stay hidden at the sound of the door,” he says. “Then I remembered that I’m not bound to the commands of faeries.”

Surehouser rolls his eyes theatrically and takes a bite of a proffered cookie, wincing at the crunch. “Have some, abomination. Your jaws are probably much more suited.”

Soso’s face heats. They aren’t that bad, are they? Adamantius takes two before she can stop him, rumbling with contentment as he chews, and she wonders if it’s for her sake. He can be remarkably astute when he wants to be.

“You could maybe be a teensy bit more careful about being spotted.” She gestures around her. The quirky but overall neat hideaway in the woods Soso knew has been growing more disorganized by the day. Apparently Adami has been trying to catch up his limited knowledge of modern-day Overhill by tearing through the library’s main collection. She can surmise by the look of the place that his attention span is even more erratic than her own. She can nearly pinpoint the exact moment Surehouser must have given up. “Like, just in case anybody else ever stops by.”

“Let them come. I don’t fear any man.”

“Well, I personally fear lots of men.”

Adami clenches one oversized fist. “I would not let them harm you.”

And that instant leap to violence in my defense is a big part of why. Soso’s trying to think of a gentle way to explain this, when there’s the sound of knock on the door. Surehouser leaps up and ushers him out of the room, much to his annoyance, just as the door cracks open.

“Oh hey, I wasn’t sure you guys were open,” says the visitor. It’s a man, still young but old enough that, upon sighting Soso, his face slips into that condescending smile that every man over twenty-five seems to default to around her. Her height and the softness of her features often paints her as younger than she is. She’ll be getting carded for another ten years at least.

“Yep, the librarian’s just, uh, taking a break.”

“I see. And you’re…?”

“Ah, Soso. I’m… an intern?” She resists the urge to slap herself and appends, “I’m new, sorry.”

She’s relieved that the visitor doesn’t call her bluff. She can feign confidence with the best of them but it doesn’t help matters that this guy is uncannily good looking. He’s dressed like he’s just come from an office job, the crisp white sleeves of his button=up rolled to the elbows and his sandy brown hair ruffled in a way that seems somehow calculated and effortless all at once.

“Nice to meet you, miss intern,” he grins. “Can you help me out with something? See, I’m a reporter doing a story on an incident that was reported in the area a few nights ago. You know what I’m talking about?”

Soso stiffens. “Oh yeah, those crazy kids and their pranks. I hate to ruin your scoop but there really isn’t anything to tell about it.”

The man stalks towards her, his smile never wavering. “Really? Because what I heard was that the culprit still hasn’t been caught.” He gives her a casual once-over. “Culprit, or culprits.”

The insinuation irks her. “What makes you think you’re going to find anything about it here?”

He shrugs. “Sources tell me this library is a common target for ‘pranks’ like these. Maybe you saw something?”

“We were closed that night,” she bites out. Something about this reporter’s cocky attitude sets her on edge.

“Maybe I should talk to your boss. He lives out of this same building, right? Anthony Surehouser?”

Her frown deepens. A lucky guess? An attempt to bluff his way in? That itself seems odd though. Who puts this much effort into sleuthing out a story about a supposed prank on a night notorious for stupid pranks? Something isn’t adding up.

“What did you say your name was?”

“I didn’t, but neither did you.”

“I told you, my name is Soso.”

That actually throws him for a second. “Oh that’s your name. I thought you just had a stutter. My fault.” He puts out his hand. “Jamison D’Leon. Sorry, as a kid my grandma always told me never to give my name to someone who wouldn’t give me theirs first.”

“It’s okay. It’s an unusual name, I know.”

“I’d say unique.” He has the audacity to wink at her as she shakes his hand.

“Mr D’Leon-“

“Call me Jamie, please. I’m not ready to be a Mr D’Leon just yet.”

This guy is too much. “Okay, Jamie, I can tell my boss you came by, but like I said neither of us saw anything, so unless you’re looking for a book or directions to the highway, I can’t help you.”

For the first time, Jamie’s grin falters. “You are a tough one.” He takes a phone out of his pocket and selects the first contact on the list. “Bancroft, my darling, are you still sure this is the place?” A beat. “In that case, I’m gonna need some backup. Mhm, mhm.”

He ends the call and reclines into a lazy lean against the circulation desk. Feeling at a loss, Soso is contemplating calling for some backup of her own when the doors open again. This time the newcomer is a serious looking woman with long dark hair, dark skin, and a dark suit to match.

“Excuse me, who are you?”

The woman adjusts her glasses. She’s looking around at the room, hardly taking notice of Soso, like she’s just a part of the scenery and an uninteresting one at that.

“Agent Dana Bancroft,” she answers.

“Agent?”

“What’s the verdict?” asks Jamie.

“No doubt, this is the place.” She looks at Soso as if her presence has only just registered. “Oh, you need to leave.”

“What are you talking about?”

“This building is a powderkeg of ma-“

Jamie clears his throat loudly. Soso narrows her eyes. She thinks of what Surehouser had said, about faefolk walking unnoticed among common men. These two don’t look like magical creatures in disguise, but then, neither had he. That’s the point.

There must be some sort of tell, she thinks, otherwise how would those in the know recognize one another? She feigns obedience under their intimidating stares and moves to gather her things. She might not know just who or what these two are, but she can still recognize bad news when she sees it.

Rifling through her bag for a way out of this, her hands find her camera. She still carries it around with her as a habit even though she hasn’t used it much lately. Surehouser is averse to having his picture taken, and she finds herself too unsure to ask Adami even if he would most likely agree. That line of thought causes her to consider, would a glamour- the illusory magic the fae use to disguise themselves among humans- show up on camera?

“Hey ‘agents’, say cheese.”

No sooner has the shutter clicked than something like a purple bolt of lightning shoots it from her hands. When she scrambles to pick it back up, the smoldering plastic sparks and she yelps in pain and shock.

“Bancroft, was that necessary?”

“She knows,” the agent says with cool certainty. Her hands are sparkling with that same iridescent energy.

At this point several things happen at once. Bancroft raises her hands, gathering more power to her. Jamie is saying something to her, trying to talk her down or maybe just throwing around ideas about where to hide the body- Soso can’t focus on that either way because she hears heavy footfalls swiftly approaching and seconds later Adamantius bursts into the room, nearly upending several shelves and roaring like a zoo lion past feeding time. He picks up the agent closest to him, Jamie, and tosses him. His partner whirls towards him and sends a blast of that built up energy directly into his chest. The area glows for a moment like iron in a forge, and then fades, the raging man unaffected.

Surehouser comes in hot on his heels, red in the face. She imagines it was a struggle for him to keep him subdued for as long as he had. The woman readies another attack, shaken but not stalled, and Adamantius seizes and encircles her hands with his own, bearing down like he intends to tear them off before giving her the chance.

“Wait!” Soso yells, but he’s too far gone now. He doesn’t seem to even hear her.

The woman cries out in pain and Soso, panicked, lobs a cookie at his head. It crumbles on impact, but it at least gets his attention. While she has an opening, she rushes him head-first. He doesn’t so much as budge as she rails into him with the full force of her weight. He shoves the agent away just long enough to keep her from braining herself, for all the good it does. She swears she can feel her brain bouncing around the inside of her skull.

“Tha’s enough,” she slurs, shaking her head clear.

“I heard you scream,” Adami protests, eyes wide.

She holds up her hands. The one that touched the camera is burned slightly, the skin at the base of fingers turned paler than that surrounding it, but it’s nothing severe. He must come to the same conclusion, although he still doesn’t look happy about it.

“I’m fine,” she insists. “Things got a little crazy there, but we’re gonna sit down and talk it out like adults.”

“No more talking!” he roars. “All you ever want to do is talk! Why will you not allow me to defend you!”

Agent Bancroft, holding herself up by means of shaking legs and sheer will, opens her suit jacket to reveal an ornate patch stitched into the lining. At a glance it looks like a family crest, split into quarters with each section containing a discreet, delicately embroidered symbol.

“Oh fuck,” sighs Mr Surehouser, so abruptly that Soso almost laughs. “It’s the goddamn feds.”

“Federation of Magical Affairs,” she corrects in between labored breaths. “May I sit down?”

He pulls out a chair. Several rows down, the other agent picks himself up off the floor and limps over.

“Knew I shouldn’t’ve left my sword in the car,” he grumbles.

“Lady Willoughby,” Adami is all but pleading with her now. “Please let me remove the intruders. They are a threat to your safety.”

“Oh we’re a threat!” Jamie scoffs. “You-! You are getting such a citation, mister.”

“I think I’ll be fine,” says Soso.

“Can we agree on a temporary truce?” Bancroft asks. “I think there’s been some confusion. Jamison and I are agents of the FMA assigned to investigate reports of an incident that signaled a potential rogue element. You,” She looks to the librarian. “You’re the watcher assigned to this area, going by the name Anthony Surehouser? We’ve been trying to contact you. You’re running late on your annual report.”

He looks caught. “The date must’ve gotten away from me.”

Jamie says, “We were told to look for a lone building past the woods with a big gargoyle out front. Well we found the building, and now I guess we’ve found the gargoyle too.” He glares at Adamantius, cradling his injured arm. “What is this? Some kind of botched animation spell?”

He growls warningly.

“Adami,” Soso says, trying for a calming tone but landing somewhere closer to tired. “Will you get me some ice for my hand? And for our, er, guest’s arm?”

“Leave you alone with them? The woman reeks of magic.”

Said woman is looking more intrigued by the second. “What did you just call it?” she asks Soso.

A protective impulse flares in her chest despite it all. “His name is Adamantius.”

“The son of man,” she finishes, her eyes alight with wonder. “A feat of magic and science combined, leagues beyond anything created before or since. I thought he was a myth.”

A tense quiet falls over the room.

“For pity’s sake,” Surehouser pipes up at last. “I’ll get the ice.”

 --

 An involuntary hiss escapes her as Soso nurses her burnt hand.

“I could heal that for you,” offers Bancroft. She’s currently checking her partner’s arm for breaks, a soft light emanating from her fingertips, smoothing out the lines of tension on his brow by degrees.

Soso would like to accept, but Adami looks like he’s about a wayward glance away from snapping again and she’d rather not push her luck. His eyes are locked on the sorceress’ hands, even as the violet glow dims to nothing.

“Is it always so… sparkly?” Soso asks, and immediately feels foolish for it.

Either she doesn’t mind the question or she is very good at faking it. “Not always. Spellcasting doesn’t necessarily need a visual aspect, but healing isn’t my foremost specialty so it’s good to be able to see what I’m doing. Wouldn’t want to accidentally fuse any joints together.”

“Again,” Jamie mutters.

“Hush.”

When they aren’t being all secretive and posturing, or throwing balls of lightning around, these so-called agents aren’t bad company, Soso thinks. Though she would wager she’s alone in that sentiment. Adami is still... Adami, and Surehouser seems to be waiting for the other shoe to drop and someone to announce that he’s headed straight for fae jail, if there is such a thing.

The Federation of Magical Affairs, she learns, is an organization whose purpose is keeping the balance between the two worlds. Underhill has its own governing bodies, its countries and courts and what seems to be an awful lot of political drama, but compared to most human government structures their control over the citizens is fairly lax, which means that those who live on the Overhill side of things, human and otherwise, often have to pick up the slack to make sure the majority of humans don’t find out about the faefolk and wind up setting off another war.

It’s the TMA that conducts the regular check-ins with Surehouser to make sure that the contents of the library-beneath-the-library remain preserved and undisturbed, as they have been for the past several centuries. When word came in that there had been a disturbance in the area, possibly of an inhuman nature, Agents D’Leon and Bancroft were sent to investigate.

“The best in the business!” Jamie boasts. He cuts himself off with a whine as his partner pokes his still tender arm.

“I believe we rank seventy-sixth on the leaderboard right now, actually.”

“That’s not so bad,” says Soso. She figures with a job as important sounding as theirs, there must be hundreds, maybe even thousands of agents.

“Out of ninety-nine.”

Or not. “I feel like I should be offended that some mysterious magical agency thought our town was under attack and only sent out a C-rank team to handle it.”

She shrugs. “It was an isolated incident, no real casualties, plenty of signs pointing to a possible hoax. We’ve investigated a lot of hoaxes recently.”

“But it only takes one real one flying under the radar for this whole thing to fall apart,” argues Jamie. “Isn’t it worth following a few false leads if just once we manage to stop something big?”

Dana levels Soso a conspiratorial look. “Jamison fancies himself a knight in shining armor. In reality, the job’s mostly de-escalating minor incidents and filing a whole lot of paperwork. It’s nothing fancy, but there aren’t many good job opportunities for mages these days so…”

“Well it sounds exciting to me,” Soso says, and means it. She can’t imagine getting so used to a job involving real magic and monsters and mystery that it would become mundane. If only this sort of career track had been offered to her in high school. How does a person even get into this business, she wonders.

There’s a none-too-subtle exasperated sound to her right and she’s brought back to the situation at hand.

“Is there any chance this could be written up as one of those false alarms?”

The agents look at one another. Jamie barks a laugh.

“We can’t just not report something like this. We’d lose our jobs, or worse. Plus, a mythical monster warrior living on the outskirts of a human town does seem like kind of a safety concern.”

“You should be very concerned about your safety shortly,” threatens Adamantius.

Surehouser glances worriedly between them. “Isn’t there any way we could keep this under wraps a bit longer? I’m not ready to return home as a disgrace.” Soso clears her throat. He sighs. “And, while I had my doubts, I must admit the beast has been fairly well-behaved since he was released. Technically speaking, no real harm has been done, and he’s served a long enough sentence. In the days of old it’s said the warrior Adamantius served humanity, now it seems he’s chosen a new master, and one less given to warlike tendencies. That can only be an improvement.”

“I don’t want to be Adami’s master,” Soso argues. “He isn’t my servant or my soldier, he’s- he’s my friend. And I think after a thousand years the least he deserves is a chance.”

She looks up at him, and he at her. There’s a look on his face Soso has yet to identify, but behind all the hardness and fire in his eyes, she sees the face of a good man, a man who is more than the monstrosity assigned to him.

“That’s sweet,” says Jamie. “But I don’t know how well the power of friendship defense is going to hold up before the federation. And I gotta say, after being thrown into a wall, my vote is not with you.”

“He was trying to defend me,” Soso insists. “After you guys blasted my camera to bits.”

“Your camera?”

She shrinks back a bit. “I was trying to see if they were, you know, glamoured to look human by using the camera.”

Surehouser claps his hands together. “Soso. That was smart. That might have actually worked.”

“You don’t have to sound so surprised.”

“I’m trying to pay you a compliment.”

“Well, keep trying, I’m sure you’ll get there eventually.” She rubs her thumb over the burnt skin of her hand, no longer hot to the touch but still tender. She doesn’t even want to look at her poor camera.

Bancroft at least has the decency to look guilty about it. “There is a lot of magical energy in this place, a lot of wild magic. It makes me jumpy.”

Surehouser coughs pointedly. There’s a glimmer in his eyes that even Soso doesn’t all the way trust. “Perhaps I can suggest a compromise?”

Adamantius sneers. “Faeries and their gambits.”

“We’re listening,” says Dana.

Under his breath, Jamie adds, “We are?”

“First let me ask you, how soon does the FMA expect you to be back from your present investigation?”

“Investigations can last anywhere from a few days to a few months depending on the nature of the case. As long as we keep HQ updated, we can be here indefinitely.”

His smile broadens. “Then what I propose is this: collect some more data before you make your final decision. If you close the case now, what do you have? You have a legendary war criminal, a potentially dangerous creature of humanity’s own creation holed up in an unaware human town. That doesn’t sound so good. Doesn’t reflect well on me, on you, on the entire federation. Going back with this story would mean telling the FMA to its face that you’ve all failed your core mission statement.

“They can throw our dear Adamantius in some jail somewhere, call it a day, but when this story gets out, no amount of damage control, no amount of PR is going to cover up the fact that they let this happen, and didn’t so much as send out a response team for days. Anything could have happened in that time! And when they finally do file the paperwork and get a team out here, who arrives? Two agents ranked a hair’s width from the bottom of the barrel. No offense.”

“Harsh, but accurate,” she allows.

“It’s not a good look, I think we can all agree,” he continues. “But if you were to stay, gather more intel, and say, came to the conclusion that a human and a faerie had successfully reformed the biggest bad in Underhill history, why that would be a tremendous success! Proof of the balance- the peace- that the FMA has been working towards since its conception. Don’t you think you owe it to the federation, to yourselves, to give this grand experiment more time. If he fails to live up to expectations, well, at least you tried. And you still get to be the heroes who brought in Adamantius the unbreakable. It’s a wager you can’t lose.”

Unless we’re wrong, Soso adds internally, hoping her worries don’t show. Unless Adami really is violence and rage all the way down. She shakes herself. No, it helps nothing thinking like that.

The agents step away to confer amongst themselves, while Surehouser dabs away a drop of sweat with the cuff of his shirtsleeve. Adamantius is as stoic as Soso’s seen him since he was a statue. On impulse, she reaches out and touches his arm in a way she hopes comes off as reassuring. She’s never been the best at this sort of thing, and she can only guess at what’s going through his mind right now, but she wants him to know he’s not alone.

At length, the pair return to the group to give their verdict.

“We will take you up on your offer,” says Jamie, holding himself so rigid you’d think he was pleading guilty to murder. She almost prefers him smirking and swaggering. “Agent Bancroft and I will stay and survey you until we feel we’ve collected enough information.”

Relief washes over her. It’s not a solution, but it’s the next best thing: time. Still, something nags at her. “You mean you’ll be surveying Adami, right?”

“We’ll be watching all of you,” Bancroft corrects. “As far as we’re concerned, you are all under suspicion for the time being.”

“Suspicion of what?”

“Just under suspicion,” she says. “We’ll be taking notes on everything that goes on here and reporting anything suspect.”

The librarian tenses but keeps his expression carefully neutral. “That’s… fair, I suppose.”

He puts out his hand, and she takes it. A small spark of magic flickers between them upon contact.

“I am bound to my word,” says the sorceress.

“And I mine,” the faerie man replies.

Soso isn’t entirely sure what’s just happened, but the tension in the room is thick as pudding and it’s making her want for an exit.

“Adami,” she says. “Let’s go, uh, over there.”

“Mind if I join?” Jamie chirps gleefully. “Of course you don’t! We’re all going to become real good friends, aren’t we?”

Soso’s stomach drops and Adamantius bites down on a low growl. What have they gotten themselves into?

[poppytheorist]

Me Laughing

must’ve been one hell of a joke

Preamble

So, I was in the middle of writing a piece on [redacted] when Poppy released a 27-minute video of herself laughing. Naturally, that took priority. Sorry for my absence, this post took some time. And by “some time,” I mean “45 hours.”

This may be the best thing I’ve written, but it’s also the most insane thing I’ve written. In fact, I would label this post as ‘maddening.’ It’s possible you won’t be able to look at Poppy the same way again. I know I don’t. You can’t unread this, readers beware, [other dramatic warnings], etc., etc.

Descend when ready.

…

…

…

I thought “Concrete” was pretty #wild, but “Me Laughing” takes the cake. This video is pure lunacy, and I mean that somewhat literally since Poppy does laugh at what appears to be nothing for almost half an hour.

Due to the sheer insanity of “Me Laughing,” I’ve put together a handy little collage to help readers follow along. Behold: my barely passable Paint skills!

the pic for Section 4 basically explains everything

Before we begin, I need to address a few things. There’s at least, like, nine people who read this stuff, and while I can’t say that I envy you, I can say that I appreciate you. Thanks for sticking around.

However, there’s a funny thing that happens when you know you’re writing for an audience. You feel pressured to adapt your style. I feel the need to be a little more careful about some of the things I say, but that’s probably for the best. Hopefully this extra care will result in more coherent posts, but I doubt it.

This post will be long. Partially because “Me Laughing” is long, partially because I’ve padded this out with shaky theory about how the world works. Guess that’s no different than my other posts, but still, feel free to tune that out if you’re just here for the Poppy stuff, though maybe you’ll find some of it interesting.

I tend to write authoritatively, which may be misleading because I’m not always confident about what I’m saying. I simply enjoy taking things to their natural conclusions. Typically, there’s something interesting at the end. Or, at least, a premise insane enough to make writing about it enjoyable. See, for example, my post on “Concrete.” This post won’t be much different, maybe just a little crazier.

Now, I’ve got a funny feeling that some people may think I am “reading too much into this” or that Poppy’s work “isn’t that deep.” Hey, I get it. Those objections are completely understandable. I was once there myself, but now I’ve moved away from thinking that way. I’ll do my best to explain why.

From what I’ve seen, aesthetics (roughly: the study of art) is a total battlefield. Nobody agrees on anything, everybody thinks that only they can ‘properly’ understand art and that everyone else is wrong. There’s people who think beauty is objective, there’s people who think “no, that’s stupid, beauty is obviously subjective,” and there’s even the people who outright deny that aesthetics exists. Recently, we also had the pleasure of witnessing the aesthetics debate become another facet of the everlasting culture war. Think a line from “Play Destroy” sums my thoughts about that up: “oh boy!”

Needless to say, it’s a massive shitshow.

Despite my rather war-torn depiction of modern aesthetics, it might be a good thing that we can never ‘understand’ art. I hear that’s, like, part of the point. If art was ever ‘solved,’ well, we’d be faced with the idea that there is nothing ‘special’ about being human, that we’re just sacks of meat bumbling around with no purpose. Then everybody would, like, die or something. Truth hurts, art heals, let’s stay alive.

Anywho, I mention all this because there’s no rigorous way to determine how ‘deep’ a song (or any piece of art) is. You can’t just take a stick, poke it into some art, and say: “yep, this Poppy song is 75 [metres/fathoms/hands/whatever nonsense unit] deep!” Besides, nobody even agrees what ‘artistic depth’ means, and most attempts to define it flounder. If you listen closely, you can just faintly hear Goodhart laughing.

This is also why people who think they can ‘objectively’ analyze art are dogmatic blowhards. Any amount of rigorous thinking reveals that our standards for what make art ‘good’ or ‘bad’ are entirely baseless. No, seriously, it’s a case of channeling your inner Socrates and repeatedly asking ‘why’ until the other person throws their up their arms, leaves, and stops answering your texts.

We don’t even know what art is, so thinking you can ‘understand’ art and judge its ‘depth’ is pure arrogance. At least, until someone finds a way to math that shit. “Sounds solipsism.” Well, ya gotta start somewhere.

Now, does this mean we should also throw up our arms, say: “screw it” and return to binging Netflix and eating foods that you know aren’t good for you but you eat them anyways because they make you feel good and that’s what you need right now? Well, no, actually.

Even if we aren’t 100% sure what art is, or what we should do with it, there are some theories on art that I would call: “pretty not-terrible.” Some people have spent their entire lives thinking about these things and their insights are fascinating. However, I’m not here to talk theory. If you want to learn more, go pick up a book or something, nerd.

Anyway, one time this German guy said: “without music, life would be a mistake.” He also said that looking at things from multiple perspectives is pretty neat, so that’s what we’re here to do. Turns out art is kinda fun and spending a bit more time thinking about it pays dividends.

See, art just wants to be understood and so does Poppy. I want to give her and Titanic the benefit of the doubt and take them seriously as artists. While I don’t think everything they produce is God’s gift to earth (see: [redacted]), I do enjoy the majority of their work. Plus, the abstract and absurd nature of their content means writing about it is a blast.

Whether I truly believe any of the interpretations I come up with is irrelevant. Hell, I’m not even sure half of what I say even remotely resembles what Poppy and Titanic envisioned. But, that’s not the point. Shallow readings are a dime-a-dozen, see: Genius; I’m here to provide something better. To show that Poppy’s work, or any art, really, can be a whole lot more fun if you spend even just a teensy bit of time analyzing it. Hopefully I can also provide some of the tools to do so.

Enough rambling, let’s get into it.

Intro

At first glance, “Me Laughing” seems like Poppy doing cute ASMR for 27(!!) minutes while simultaneously trolling anyone who expected a video titled “Me Laughing” to be about anything different. Sure, but that reading gets a ‘B’ for ‘Basic.’

Yes, Poppy and Titanic often troll their audience. See: “A live Interview with Poppy.” But the trolling is both part of the delivery of their message and part of the message itself. So while “Me Laughing” looks like a simple ASMR troll video, I’m going to argue that it’s not.

Previously, Poppy released videos like “Delete Your Facebook” and “I’m Poppy.” Fun vids, but they’re made of looped clips. Thirty seconds in and you’ve watched the whole thing. Consider: “Me Laughing” is 27 minutes, but no parts are looped, it’s all original. As always, I’m just here to ask: why?

Since “Me Laughing” is not made up of looped clips, but is instead all original content, there is an inherent progression to the events. Each segment is unique, and when considered sequentially, pieces from each section build on each other to produce an artistic whole.

Yes, that’s a fancy way of saying it has a ‘story.’

Also, if you’ve watched the video, you’ll know that something just feels ‘off.’ If “Me Laughing” was ‘just’ Poppy ASMR, why does she constantly focus on a single point in the distance? What’s with Poppy’s frequent stares into the camera? And why the fuck is she wearing latex?

Clearly, something else is going on.

Detailed Summary

Let’s recall what actually happens in “Me Laughing.” Hopefully this recap will convey a sense of what ‘else’ exactly is going on and make the insane claims later on in the analysis a tad easier to swallow.

“Me Laughing” starts off pretty normally. Sections 1 and 2 are mostly Poppy laughing, as promised. Even in these early sections, however, we can still pick out some peculiar things.

In Section 1, and throughout the video, we see Poppy looking upwards as she laughs, as if she was remembering something funny that happened. Or as if she was thinking about something for a while and suddenly found it hilarious. “Maybe Poppy just looks upward when she laughs.” Doubtful. Try doing it right now. Feels weird, right? Whatever, moving on…

Next oddity: there’s a strange transitioning shot at the start of the video and between Sections 1 and 2 where the camera sweeps over Poppy’s latex-ed body. “Well, maybe Titanic just thought it would be cool to do it like that.” Yes, but why did he think it would be cool? Why that transitioning shot, out of all the possible ones? What purpose does it serve?

Also: Section 1 was a very steady shot, probably filmed using a tripod, or whatever fancy word camera-people use. However, the shot for Section 2 is shaky. Like, weirdly shaky. Maybe even too shaky. And this isn’t the only section filmed this way, half of “Me Laughing” is too. “Well, maybe Titanic can’t hold a camera steady.” No, that doesn’t seem right. We know Titanic can, in fact, hold a camera steady, or, at the very least, he possesses the means to take a steady shot. See: literally all Poppy videos. No, the shaky-cam is intentional. Again, I’m just here to ask: why?

Now, I don’t mean to tip my hand too much here, but to me, the camera’s sway resembles the unsteady gaze of a curious observer. Perhaps one who is timidly stepping around the beheld, drinking in all the angles. Recall my post on “Touch Poppy.” With steady camera shots, it’s easy to forget someone is on the other side, but with unsteady shots, it’s downright impossible to ignore, e.g., “wow, that shaky-cam is really noticeable. What is this, a shitty sequel to the Blair Witch Project?” Perhaps these sections were filmed this way to emphasize the presence of an observer. As for why such a thing would be emphasized—well, we’ll get to that.

Around the 3:30 mark, Poppy shakes her head and clearly utters a, “m-mm,” as in, “nuh-uh, no way.” This gesture is repeated throughout the video. I’ll let you think about that one.

The video continues, and at 3:52 the camera lazily pans down, focusing on Poppy’s body and cutting her head out of the shot for several seconds, similar to the transition shot from Section 1 to 2. Thirty seconds later, the same thing happens. Guess this isn’t just Titanic diversifying the shot composition. It’s also about this point where attempts to pass “Me Laughing” off as anything resembling a ‘normal’ video start to fall apart.

Poppy’s sitting position in Section 3 is both clever and hilarious. It shows her whole get-up, highlighting how absurdly tall her platform shoes are. She also flip-flops her feet back and forth several times as if to further emphasize her mega-shoes. Why would she wear such crazy shoes for a simple video of herself laughing?

That’s not all that’s ‘off’ about Section 3—this is also the first section where Poppy stares at a spot in the distance for a prolonged period of time. In several instances, she quizzically tilts her head to the side, not unlike a faithful dog trying to decipher commands from her master. At 6:23 we also get a clear “huh,” a noise of acknowledgement, of understanding. Further, Section 3 has several stretches of silence where Poppy is no longer laughing. She just sits there while you watch. It’s… unsettling.

Section 4 is shot in a similarly shaky-style to Section 2, but this time with Poppy sitting down. Also, we see instances of Poppy focusing on something off in the distance both when she is laughing and when she is not, as was the case in the previous sections. However, there are some weird things about Section 4 that set it apart from the others and further develop the video.

Around the 8:38 mark, Poppy utters a “mm-mm-mm” sound while shaking her head and staring off into the distance. It’s fairly clear that she is communicating with something off-screen. Perhaps entities that are invisible to us. It wouldn’t be a stretch to say these off-screen entities are the things making her laugh.

We will see more evidence of Poppy supposedly communicating with invisible beings later, however, this is bordering on fetishizing Poppy’s lore as opposed to analyzing her artistic message. If you’re half-learned on Poppy lore (which, you better be, considering the fact that you’re reading this), this would be like focusing on the identity of ‘They’ instead of the significance of ‘They.’ Another example would be focusing on the ‘origin’ of Poppy, e.g., is she an android? Who is her creator? Etc., instead of asking why someone would create the artistic work of Poppy in the first place and/or considering the implications of said work.

If you’ve read anything else I’ve written, perhaps you’ve noticed that I try and stay away from acknowledging that Poppy even has lore. I want to take Poppy seriously, not literally. Or, in “pretentious asshole” terms, to consider her work artistically, not canonically. There are many reasons for this and I didn’t just get here randomly overnight, but that’s for another post.

Edgy ranting aside, there’s another part of Section 4 that I’d like to point out. Before this section, there was only a single instance of Poppy looking into the camera (happened in Section 2), but in Section 4, she frequently looks into the lens, acknowledging that an observer is present. She shoots this observer a flurry of dark and mischievous glances. Then she laughs.

Section 5 features more head shaking, distant staring, etc., but it is also a relatively sad section. Poppy laughs very little, and frequently looks down. Yes, a pun. Poppy has been laughing for most of the video, so why, all of a sudden, does she seem so sad?

Section 6 is shot shakily and close-up. I mean, really close-up. Like, right-in-her-face close-up. To the point where the camera is often out of focus. We’re also given a blatantly voyeuristic sweep over Poppy’s chest as the camera shifts position around her. Further, there are several instances where Poppy looks deep into the camera, with what I refer to as a “model pout,” where she slightly parts her lips and opens her eyes wide. Recall my post on “Computer Boy” where I talked about the fan-idol relationship. That lustful look? It’s for you, except everybody knows it’s not.

Quick note: I will elaborate on this when I talk about “You’re Too Close,” but it’s important to stay mindful and know that despite some uncomfortably voyeuristic shots in “Me Laughing,” it doesn’t necessarily mean that the video, or anyone who worked on it, is, y’know, perverted or something. Depicting the voyeuristic nature of idolism is how we talk about the voyeuristic nature of idolism, the same way that depicting racism is how we talk about racism.

The problem is that nowadays, we are trained to think quickly, not critically. Your initial response (also called your ‘knee-jerk’ response) to Poppy’s work shouldn’t be your final response to it. It’s important to consider context and think carefully. Ask yourself: why would Poppy choose to show you this? What does she want you to think about? What is she trying to tell you?

Section 7 is where things start to get really fucking weird.

Previously, I said that there was something darker lurking in “Me Laughing,” and Section 7 is where this darkness begins to manifest. The segment starts with Poppy having another one of her imaginary conversations with demons or whatever where she nods her head and gives some “mm-hmms” in agreement. Shortly after, she looks right at the camera and laughs in your face. Not only is her laugh absolutely maniacal, but it seems completely sincere too. This section really relates the feeling that you are not in on the ‘joke’—maybe the joke’s about you.

Section 7 also provides a sense of violent foreboding: a creeping feeling that something is going to happen to you, but you don’t know what that ‘something’ is, and you have absolutely no power to stop it. What really drives this sense of helplessness home is the way the scene is shot. At one point, the camera spends a few seconds just looking at Poppy’s hand. This emphasizes your lack of control. You are completely at the mercy of the camera’s whims. You only see what is shown to you. Then, as the scene closes, the camera is put down in front of Poppy, and, after a few tense seconds, she slowly reorients her body and starts crawling towards you. Luckily, the camera is picked up before she reaches it—you were saved, but what if you hadn’t been?

Oh, right, I forgot to mention: Poppy didn’t laugh much in this section.

Section 8 is a more amped-up version of Section 6. We get Poppy staring deep into the camera for almost the entire scene’s duration. Her lustful gaze relates a feeling of vulnerability, like you are spying on a defenseless little girl, but at the same time, it feels like she is giving you one last dose of what you want before she brutally murders you.

Section 9 is fairly straightforward. We have Poppy staring at a fixed point in the distance as if she is receiving orders from her alien overlord. We also get several rapid glances toward the camera, as if her orders somehow involve you, or as if she and someone else are sharing gossip about you right in front of your face.

…

…

…And then Section 10 happens.

Poppy says: “goodbye.”

In Section 10 we have a bit of a climax. No, not that kind of climax. Well, unless this essay is really doing it for you.

The first interpretation of Section 10 is fairly basic, Poppy is waving goodbye because you’re about to die. Obviously, whatever scheme she and her invisible monster friends cooked up is going to be carried out, and it’s probably going to result in the destruction of everything, yourself included. This is sad, probably, but she seems to find it highly amusing. Again, I’m not a fan of obsessing over canon or lore, so I’ll tackle this one slightly differently in the analysis, but I do think this reading of “Me Laughing” is at least semi-faithful to Poppy and Titanic’s vision. This interpretation also serves as a very nice teaser for P3. I mean, if “Do you disagree?” has told us anything, P3 will have a lot of destroying.

The next reading of Section 10 involves the objectifying nature of idolism. Yes, the $5 words are starting to come out, brace yourself. Anyway, in this section, Poppy giggles as she waggles her hands around, back and forth then forth and back, as though she is using her hands for the first time. Almost like a shiny, new automaton discovering its motor functions. It’s cute, but silly. And by silly, I mean overly silly. You have to remember that Poppy is played by a woman in her mid-20s. Reminds me of some lines from “Hard Feelings”: “my arms and my legs are so stiff / Is that the way you wanted it?” Or, rather, is this how you want her to act?

At the end of the section, the camera moves right up to Poppy’s face and she looks at you and just… stares.

…

…

…

And stares…

…

…

…

And stares…

…

…

…

She knows.

Finally, we get to Section 11, which would be my main argument against the totally boring ‘Poppy communicating with demons’ reading. Poppy is seated, again, with her arms wrapped around her thighs. Note again the sense of her smallness and vulnerability transmitted by her sitting position. Also note the way the shot is filmed, with the camera looking down on Poppy and frequently swooping in for close passes.

And then, in the last two seconds, something really bizarre happens. For a brief moment, some foreign object enters the shot, just in the very corner. Now, I’m about to make a weird argument, be wary of it. Other than the random piece of equipment entering the shot, “Me Laughing” does not end off on a noteworthy moment. Just Poppy sitting there, looking up at the camera. Plenty of instances of that. The video could have easily been trimmed by 2 seconds and nothing would have changed. We can also (probably) assume that somebody carefully reviewed this video before it was uploaded.

We’re left the possibility that those last two seconds were left in the video for a reason. And that reason is—

Hey, wait a minute, was that a mirror?

Analysis

“Me Laughing” is a really interesting video, and you can have a lot of fun if you spend some time looking into it, so that’s exactly what we’re going to do. We’ll tackle it from several different angles, watch for the switches.

Quick words of warning here: I’m about to use the words ‘parody,’ ‘satire,’ and ‘sarcasm’ interchangeably, a practice some would refer to as: “really fucking lazy.” Frankly, I don’t give a damn, I’m not a professional, I’m going to type my silly words anyway and you can’t stop me.

As content loses any sense of shame in attempting to draw your attention, nuance withers away and it becomes harder and harder to differentiate parody from parodied. For example, is “Old Town Road” criticizing the state of the music industry or embracing it? Now, I’m positive that Lil Nas X has the self-awareness of my pug when he’s lapping up his own boogers, yet I personally couldn’t write a song that so perfectly encapsulates everything wrong with modern music. So, is “Old Town Road” a parody or not?

This is where someone ripping off Westworld would say: “if you can’t tell, does it matter?” to which I would answer: “yes, yes it does.”

Context may be fleeting, unreliable, and arguably nonexistent, but I still believe it’s possible to differentiate parody from parodied, it just takes a little more effort. See, I think “Me Laughing” is satirical as hell, especially considering its context within Poppy’s body of work and how it compares to mainstream internet content.

First, consider that the frankly-titled video “Me Laughing” was hyped up for three days before it ‘premiered’ on YouTube. Hilarious, but also incisive. Who waits three days to see someone laugh? “Well, I did.” Ah.

The sarcastic nature of the video also shines through in the description, which reads: “A motion picture starring Poppy.” There’s a tired, yet necessary, statement here on the continuing degradation of internet content. What won’t people eat up?

We all know Poppy’s no stranger to sarcasm. See: “Bleach Blonde Baby” or “Poppy loves Politics.” She will often refer to her videos as “high quality internet content,” while uploading videos of herself eating cotton candy or ‘ooo-ing’ at things. With “Me Laughing,” a video where she laughs for 27 minutes, Poppy further questions where the line is regarding what content people will happily consume.

Fun story: I’ve seen people call “Me Laughing” ASMR. In fact, I think I did, at some point. Huh, I should probably change that. This isn’t totally wrong, but know that “Me Laughing” takes so many shots at ASMR you’d think the video shared a set with Sicario. And, if that’s the case, they could have saved some money and just filmed the video in my neighborhood haha… hah… ha… (seriously though I’m in danger)

Considering “Me Laughing” as a genuine ASMR video would obviously be antithetical to Poppy’s entire body of work. Recall lyrics like: “Poppy is an object.” No, “Me Laughing” is much more than simply Poppy recording cute ASMR.

Poppy has been questioning the nature of people’s ASMR obsession since her first YouTube video, “Poppy Eats Cotton Candy,” where she had the mic uncomfortably close to her throat so her little gulps and coos were clearly audible. What leads to people wanting to hear these things?

Zoom out: many of Poppy’s videos are about obsession. Forget that and the point will fly right over your head. Let’s now reframe the question: why would people want to hear such intimate sounds from Poppy? Answer that and “Me Laughing” will make a lot more sense.

What I’m about to say next will be very dense because it will outline the thesis of a large part of Poppy’s work. Sorry, hopefully it’s still readable. I’m still developing my interpretations of her work, and I promise to expand and explain them more in the future.

I’m also sure some fans will want to stab me in the neck with a rusty spoon for this post because it’ll appear like I am directly criticizing them. In reality, I am actually insinuating that Poppy is criticizing them, but nuance is dead, knee-jerk reactions reign supreme. Whatever. If you react that way, it means you’re so eyeballs deep in obsession that you fail to realize why Poppy courts your obsession in the first place. Poppy’s work entices fans to obsess over her, but it also berates those who do so.

Note that this is all as a means of criticizing the status-quo. And guess what: fans are part of the status-quo. It stings when you realize your idol’s criticisms are actually about you, but I’m not convinced Poppy is malicious. She wants you to be a better person.

This is my best estimate of her thesis: the nature of the objectification of celebrities is rooted in a sexual obsession—that is, a desire for their bodies. Pun intended. Objectification stems from fantasizing over what the celebrity shows you, which is almost always physical, or at least results in the fantasy manifesting itself as a physical representation.

In other words: “everybody wants to be Poppy.”

Poppy recognizes the inherently sexual obsession with figures in the ASMR community. She wears latex in “Me Laughing” to draw attention to this. It’s as if she was saying: “this is what you’re here for, right?”

Note that obsession is inherently progressive. It grows and grows, eventually leading to fans voyeuristically observing the objectified person’s intimate bodily functions. This culminates in “Me Laughing.” Poppy knows what you want, but as payment, she’s going to leave a nagging feeling in your brain that somehow you have done something wrong. That you shouldn’t really be watching this video, but she knows you are.

Recall Titanic’s comments about making people slightly uncomfortable. Consuming is harder with a lump in your throat. The key to understanding Poppy’s work is to ask why she wants you to feel uncomfortable. What about your behavior does she want you to realize?

Earlier in the post, I mentioned that I’m not a huge fan of the whole ‘Poppy talking to demons about destroying the world’ reading because it comes dangerously close to obsessing over her lore. Lore is like history without the usefulness, so I’m going to ignore it. Regardless, I said I would use that interpretation for something more interesting, so I’d like to ask:

What makes someone want to destroy the world?

Throughout “Me Laughing,” Poppy shoots dark glares at the camera. There’s something sinister in her eyes, something genuinely evil lurking in her gaze. We know she obviously has an immense disdain for the status-quo. What else would lead to lyrics like: “down, let it all burn down / burn it to the ground”?

Preceding any cries of “viva la revolución!” or “apocalypse, now!” is an implicit judgement that what is left of the world is either not able to be saved, or not worth saving. That tearing everything down and beginning anew is preferable to salvaging what remains. To reach such a mindset, one would need to see modern society with such disgust and be so disenchanted with our current world that it no longer appears worth preserving. One would also need to have given up hope on the ability for people to come together and solve their problems. To have lost hope in humanity’s ability to adapt and overcome. To think that perhaps our problems have become too big for us to solve, that perhaps we have finally dug too deep a hole to climb out of.

Again, people don’t reach a hopeless mindset overnight; it takes many steps to descend into the darkness. But, the numpties on r/GetMotivated tell me, “every journey begins with a single step,” so let’s take one together.

In a tweet, I mentioned that “Me Laughing” was also about absurdism. No, that wasn’t a typo for ‘absurdity.’ I may write ridiculously deep-dives into Poppy lyrics and lore, but I try not to waste words.

Anyway, let’s play a game. I call it the “imagine something real quick because I need to prove a point” game.

Imagine being stuck in a system. Yes, it’s cliché to use the word ‘system,’ and any time you do, it carries the connotation that you are some conspiracy nut, e.g., “you can’t trust the system man!” I understand all this, please just bear with me and let me use the word, it’s useful. Anyway, you don’t like the system because a lot of the system is bad and it’s slowly, but surely, getting worse. The cracks are starting to show and the whole thing is poised to come crumbling down. Okay, that’s not good, you want to tell people about this. To warn them. However, in order to obtain a sizable audience for your message, you need to first succeed within the system, and to do that, you need to play by the system’s rules.

Okay, no sweat, you release some pop songs. There’s a couple of them that people really dig. Unfortunately, the songs people like don’t contain much of your message. They have a watered-down version of it at best. That’s a little sad, but oh well, at least you’re getting some sort of message out there. Hey, maybe if you make the music video really weird, people will realize there’s something more going on! Hm, that didn’t seem to work either.

So you release some YouTube videos too. Some of them are pretty biting, especially that one on politics. Should get people thinking, right? Hah, no, wrong. People like them, yes, but not for the reasons you want. They like them because they’re “weird” and “addictive” e.g., “its 3 AM on a school night and I’m still watching Poppy videos why can’t I stop lolol.” Imagining that the videos contain some sort of Illuminati-esque hidden message to decode is preferable to examining the real-world implications of the work. Plus, like, there’s experts for that, right?

Anyway, a couple albums and hundreds of videos later, you have a sizable following, sweet, now you can transition to doing what you’ve always wanted to. Change the persona to something a little truer to yourself. Make your message a little clearer. Finally, you have the power to change the world like you always promised you would.

Uh-oh, Houston, we’ve got a problem. Your audience listened to you for X, but now you’re giving them Y. It’s not a total loss, though. You have a lot of loyal members in your audience, and they like your new stuff too. Doesn’t matter what you make, they’re loyal, they’ll watch/listen/whatever to it. Their dedication has become investment which has become even more dedication. In fact, they’ve been following you since the start, when you were first trying to get big. “Yes, but I was trying to get big because I wanted to spread a message and to do that I had to make compromises to grow an audience so people would liste—“

They also have their own ideas of what you’re saying, plus, like, they make neat art, here, check this out, please give this a listen, look at this, read this, please, please? “Hey, nice article. Wait, the next one is how many words?!” And you keep every piece of fan art because it really does mean a lot to you. “Wow, I appreciate it, that’s beautiful, thank you. Oh, what? There’s even more?” Hey, if you have spare minute, could you give a shout-out to my friend? It’s her birthday. “Sure, hold on…” It’s also my birthday tomorrow, could you give this post a like? “Um, okay, just give me a minut—“ Also, could you answer my DM on Instagram? It’s important. And after that there’s only 100 more to answer! kk thanks! “Wait… one second… whoa!”

Now you’re releasing Z, hopefully that will get your message across…

…

…

…

Wait—what was your message again?

…

…

…

Oh no.

…

…

…

Somewhere along the way, probably between performing [this] and signing [that], the essence of your message was lost. Whatever remains has been drowned out by the noise of the system. If we’re talking decibels, notifications are loud, problems are whispers, and these days everyone’s got ear plugs.

Thinking about problems is hard, thinking about them for too long is sad, being sad is uncomfortable, hey, look, Taylor Swift just dropped a new album, that “Lover” song is dope, let’s look at memes.

So, you want to change the system. But to change the system you need power. To get power, you need an audience. But the only way to get an audience is to make content that gets rewarded by the system. And the content that gets rewarded by the system is that which is easily digestible for a large audience, i.e., devoid of substance. I mean, I don’t know about you, but I don’t think “Turn Down for What” resulted in much positive social change. “Well, maybe the system should reward content that is creative, challenging, and conscientious instead!” Ah, yes, I see what you mean. So, you want to change the system…

Pass the mic, Camus, I’ve got a real knee-slapper for ya. Oh, right, guess I’ll just grab it myself.

These days, we’re faced with a new kind of absurdism, one which involves recognizing that societal systems are getting worse and need changing, while simultaneously recognizing that you are chained by said systems, and thus, powerless to change them.

This new absurdism describes the maddening exercise in doublethink where people wrestle with the knowledge that they should be Making The World A Better Place but also the knowledge that they cannot possibly live in a way that satisfies such capitalized phrases. The end result is a mental tearing fueled by impossible societal expectations and the inevitable guilt of failing to live up to them.

After a while, people stop fighting. They give up. They give in. When enough people throw in the towel, all that’s left is to hold on tight and enjoy the ride, e.g., the trajectory is set, all aboard, no, there aren’t enough seat belts for everyone, must have been one of those damn cost-saving initiatives.

“Yeah, that definitely sounds absurd. So… what do we do about it?”

Well, sometimes all you can do is laugh.

[theofficialcunt]

Simplicité - Chapter 6

Simplicité Saturday ahhh! I can’t believe it’s already been another week. Is it just me or is this year coming to an end really fast? Anyway, this chapter is surprisingly fluffy, other then a few minor details! Thanks to @veronicasanders for always being a quick efficient beta! This story would probably be going nowhere without her ✨TW: Smoking, drinking. Teensy bit of angst. PS: The Biadore is coming 😉 “So you’re probably wondering why I’ve called you in here.” Bianca started, watching Courtney seated across from her. She was nervous, mostly because she felt like a terrible person and Courtney probably wasn’t going to forgive her for what happened between them. Bianca felt so bad that she had toyed with Courtney’s emotions that way, it felt like she was being crushed by it. “I am.” Courtney nodded stiffly. “Am I here to be reprimanded by my boss?” She didn’t know what was about to happen, but whatever Bianca decided she felt would be for the best. “I want to apologize to you, Courtney.” Bianca began, voice barely above a whisper. “I-I’ve been thinking all morning about what you and Bob said to me and it’s really sunk in.” Out of all of the things Courtney was thinking would happen, this was not one of them. She sat up straighter, feigning alertness and trying to hide the fact that she was severely hungover and wearing the backup outfit out of the trunk of her car. “I’m just really sorry I put you through that Court.” Bianca sniffed uncharacteristically. Courtney raised an eyebrow, slightly unsure of how to react to her best friend crumbling right in front of her. Bianca was usually rock solid emotionally, other than these last few months of her grieving. “Bianca-” “If you don’t want to work for me anymore then I understand.” Bianca sighed, shoving a stack of paperwork towards Courtney. “No pressure.” “Bianca, can you just relax? I’m over it,” Courtney said nonchalantly, pushing the paperwork to the side. “W-what?” Bianca stammered, thrown off by her cool response. She was over it? “Just last night you were going on about it-” “Honestly Bianca, I’ve done some thinking too and yes it happened and it sucked, but I just want to move on. You’re my best friend, and it seems like you’ve had some sort of epiphany or something. That’s all the closure I wanted really,” Courtney blurted out. “I just wanted an apology.” Bianca leaned back in her chair and studied Courtney. She seemed to be 100% serious about being over what happened, and she knew better than anyone when she was being honest. Her heart felt lighter now that they seemed to be on the same page, and for the first time in months Bianca almost felt normal again. “That’s it? It’s never that easy,” Bianca muttered in disbelief, still not sure. “Seriously Bianca. I don’t care.” Courtney shrugged. She coughed into her shoulder, holding back the urge to gag. She hadn’t been able to keep anything down today, which had made work very difficult. She gulped, clearing her throat trying to push whatever was about to come up back down. Bianca raised an eyebrow at Courtney, narrowing her eyes in disbelief when she noticed that she didn’t look 100%. Her hair was different and she swore she had seen that outfit somewhere…. “You’re hungover.” Bianca realized incredulously. “You’re wearing your backup outfit and you brushed out your curls from last night!” “I am not!” Courtney shrieked, trying to keep the smile from creeping onto her face. “Oh my god did you get laid?” Bianca teased, letting a long cackle ring out. “I don’t need to discuss my sexual encounters with the likes of you!” Courtney laughed as her cheeks burned red. “Since you aren’t firing me, I’m leaving!” “No, no, no! I’m curious, who had the honor?” Bianca smirked, amused. “It doesn’t matter, she lives in Indianapolis and it was just a one night stand-” “You went to fucking Indie last night?” Bianca roared. “God, no wonder you’re so tired looking. You must’ve driven all night.” “I did,” Courtney admitted. “Her name was odd, I can’t remember it exactly but she went by Will for short. She was pretty hot.” “Oh god.” Bianca chuckled, shaking her head. “Tell you what, go home. You don’t have anything scheduled for the rest of the day, right?” “No, I don’t. Are you sure you want to send me home though? You don’t want help with Adore?” Courtney questioned, standing up from her chair. “Adore is a grown woman, Courtney. I think I can handle it from here. Go home and get some sleep.” Bianca ordered. Courtney nodded as she walked around the desk, tackling Bianca in a tight embrace. Bianca laughed and squeezed her tight, thankful that Courtney forgave her. She was lucky to still have her in her life after everything that they went through. As Courtney squeezed Bianca, she didn’t feel like the usual tortured soul pining that she usually did when she hugged her. Things were different now, she was glad that they could stay friends and not be weird. “Courtney?” “Yes, pussyface?” “I’m glad to see that you’re back out there trying to date.” “Awe, I’m so glad you approve,” Courtney smirked. “Now I can continue my day in peace, knowing that I’ve finally gotten the approval I’ve been waiting for!” “I can’t stand you,” Bianca laughed. ——— Courtney and Bianca chatted for what seemed like forever before they came back upstairs from their meeting. Bianca clapped her hands loudly together as she entered the salon room, startling everyone out of looking down at their phones. Adore looked up at the both of them with wide eyes, wondering what exactly was about to happen to Courtney. “So before you guys start talking shit, I’d like to say that Courtney isn’t being fired. I am however letting her go home early, so Courtney, go home.” Bianca announced, waving her hands towards the front door. “Bye guys.” Courtney waved, scurrying out of the salon like a bat out of hell. Her face seemed calm, which was odd to Adore but hell, maybe things ended up working out between the two of them. She turned her attention back to Bianca, who also seemed at peace after what had happened. “As for the rest of you, shouldn’t you be working? Go practice on the mannequins or something. Or better yet, Valentina go stand out front and hand out brochures.” Bianca ordered. “Yes cousin.” Valentina mumbled, grabbing a pile of brochures before walking out. “Who’s going to answer the phone then?” Farrah asked confused. “Adore needs the phone because she’s about to make some phone calls for me.” Bianca smiled wickedly, brown eyes burning into hers. “I-I am?” Adore stuttered, suddenly feeling nerves infiltrate her stomach. “Yes, so come sit down and I’ll tell you who you need to call.” Adore walked meekly behind the desk, planting her ass on the chic looking chair as Bianca leaned over her. “Okay, so Modern Salon called and wants to set up an interview with me. The only days that work for me are Thursday morning and Friday evening, so see if that works.” Bianca ordered, giving Adore the phone number. Adore stared down at the piece of paper and nodded. “Why aren’t you writing anything down?” Bianca barked. Adore jumped, grabbing a nearby piece of paper and writing down the times swiftly. Bianca rolled her eyes annoyed. “Where the fuck is your notepad?” Bianca asked. “I forgot it! Sorry!” Adore exclaimed flinching slightly. “What else?” “I need you to book the Chicago Spring Fashion Week slot. We’re going to be doing hair and makeup there in about 4 weeks. I need you to book 6 slots: one for you, Courtney, Me, Bob, and Farrah. Oh, I guess that makes 5-” “Bianca, I can’t do makeup.” Adore reminded her. “You’ll be ready by then. Tomorrow you’re spending the day painting everyone’s face. Including mine. Hope you’ve been paying attention to your reading.” Bianca patted her on the back, smiling before turning to Farrah. “Can you go order food from Eureka? I’d like a cuban sandwich and a blood orange scone, Also, a skinny latte from Starbucks would be fabulous.” “Bianca I have no money-” “Take my card.” Bianca reached into her pocket handing her the business card. “Adore, do you want anything?” “Can Eureka make me a grilled cheese?” Adore asked. Bianca rolled her eyes, and Farrah nodded smiling. “Really queen, a fucking grilled cheese?” Bianca asked, shaking her head. “Add on a scone for her too.” “I’ll be back.” Farrah winked before walking out behind Valentina. “You better get going on those calls.” Bianca called as she walked downstairs. Great. ———- “Farrah! What am I getting for you today?” Eureka exclaimed, face lighting up as she walked through the door. “Hey,” Farrah said stiffly. “The usual for Bianca and I, and add on a Grilled Cheese and a scone.” Eureka’s smile faltered at the girl’s unusual mood, and she nodded inputting the total into the cash register. “14.50 please.” Farrah handed over the card, pacing awkwardly in the front of the cash register. It was a cute place, modeled partly after the café’s in France, and partly after the tea rooms in England. It was a weird mix but somehow, it worked. There were a dozen small round white tables, a couple spilled out in front of the quaint shop. It was decorated minimally, doilies littered the table tops and various pastries were on display in the front. “Do you have time today?” Eureka murmured, eyes shifting from side to side making sure no one was around. Eureka was too good to her, which was going to make this even more awkward. She visibly trembled as she realized the dreaded moment was here. “Eureka, there’s something I need to tell you.” Farrah started, voice cracking. Eureka looked up, eyes wide before she continued, “I uh, I don’t know how to say this but I met someone else. And I think we could have something. I know you aren’t ready to come out of the closet yet, and I totally respect that. I just want to kind of play the field a bit-” “It’s fine Farrah.” Eureka said, abruptly cutting her off as her eyes became glassy. “I get it. Let me go fix your food.” She quickly left the cashier area, pressing her lips together tightly to prevent herself from letting out a wail in front of the girl. “Eureka-” Farrah started but it was too late. Eureka was already in the kitchen. Eureka couldn’t really blame her, if she were in Farrah’s position she would probably do the same thing. She just couldn’t come out of the closet, due to her very religious parisian mother. She would probably disown her, and Eureka couldn’t bear to lose her mom. She was in Paris most of the time but her dad was here with her in Chicago, he helped her in the kitchen a couple of days a week. As she got the breads ready for the sandwiches, she sniffled, letting the tears fall onto the smooth quartz countertop. Today the food wouldn’t be made with love, today the food would be made with sorrow. ——– “Okay great, Bianca and I will be there Thursday morning!” Adore exclaimed. “It was nice talking to you too, buh bye.” “You and me?” Bianca asked confused, making Adore jump. “Don’t do that!” Adore laughed, jabbing Bianca playfully in the arm. “Yeah dude, the Modern Salon chick liked my energy so she wants to meet me too.” Bianca was pleased, she didn’t expect Adore to charm the editors just like that but she was learning everyday not to underestimate her. “And the fashion week booking?” Bianca asked. “4 weeks out, all 5 of us are set. We’ll be set up in between MAC and Redken.” Adore beamed. “What?” Bianca asked surprised. “How in the hell did you get us a slot in between those two huge names?!” “Oh, I just really stressed that we needed as many outlets as possible and that you wouldn’t do the show if we weren’t near at least Redken.” Adore shrugged. “On one hand, I’m pissed that you would risk our slot like that.” Bianca started. “But on the other hand, I’m extremely impressed. Nice work.” Adore felt her heart soar at the positive feedback from Bianca. Finally, it was starting to feel like she was getting the hang of things around here. “So I wanted to talk to you about my salary…” Adore trailed off. Bianca nodded in agreement. “Let’s go downstairs and talk about it.” ———– “Here’s your food.” Eureka handed the food to Farrah quickly before going back into the kitchen. “See you around, Farrah.” “Eureka, wait!” Farrah called, panic tainting her voice. She stood there for a few minutes, waiting for her to come back, hoping that a customer would come in so that she would have to come back out. But of course a customer never came, and soon after a defeated Farrah left. ——- “$17 an hour?” Adore asked, shocked, as she stared down at the piece of paper stating her salary. In LA that wasn’t much but here, that stretched a lot further than before. “Your job is very demanding. You haven’t really gotten into the full part of it yet, but once you do you’ll see why you deserve the salary.” Bianca nodded. “I’m open to negotiations if necessary-” “There’s nothing to negotiate.” Adore cut her off. At 40 hours a week, possibly with overtime pay, she’d be bringing anywhere from $2700 to well over $3000 a month. She’d have enough to buy whatever fancy clothes Bianca wanted her to wear. “Okay, sign here then.” Bianca pointed to the line underneath her own signature which was regal and elegant looking. Adore signed her name messily before handing the piece of paper back. “Okay, well I’ll let you study for the rest of the day and then after that we’ll go home and-” “Actually, I’m hanging out with Farrah after work. I’ll probably be back late. Is that cool?” Adore interrupted, tilting her head. “Yeah, that’s fine.” Bianca said through gritted teeth. She didn’t know why their friendship was bugging her so much but alas, she sucked it up. “We’ll talk when you get home.” “Great! Thanks Bianca.” Adore exclaimed happily, walking around the desk to engulf her in a big hug. ——— The rest of the day went pretty quickly, albeit Farrah acting a bit weird after coming back from Eureka’s. Adore waved goodbye to Bianca, who was flat ironing a clients hair as she clung onto Farrah’s arm. Bianca smiled faintly, watching the two girls run out of the salon and onto the street where Farrah’s mini cooper was parked. Bob stared at Bianca, shaking his head at her as he watched her pine for Adore. “Fucking lesbians.” Bob muttered under his breath, shaking his head as he refocused on mixing his color. From a few doors down, Eureka stared at the same scene grimly. The girl Farrah was with was beautiful, with long sleek black hair and on point makeup skills. Of course she would want to drop everything to be with her, she was literally everything that she wasn’t. Tall, skinny, and dark hair. She sighed, running a hand through her long bright blonde hair, hoping that somehow some way, Farrah would make her way back to her one day. Even more importantly, she was hoping one day she would muster up the courage to come out of the closet. Maybe that day would be soon, she thought as she watched Farrah throw her head back in laughter at whatever the raven haired girl had just said. —– Farrah had brought her to a vacant spot in Millennium park, where they were cloaked on a bench under a few trees. Rabbits hopped nearby, and Farrah handed Adore a joint before lighting her own. It took a few tries before it lit, due to all of the crazy wind. “It’s probably not as good as what you’re used to, but hopefully it satisfies.” Farrah winked. Adore took a hit and nodded, tasting the foreign weed for the first time. “I guess what they say is true. California really does have the best weed.” Adore laughed lightheartedly, tasting the sourness on her tongue. “Awe no! It’s not that bad is it?” Farrah whined. Well it wasn’t terrible, Adore thought. It did the job well enough - she thought, as she took another hit. “It’s not bad. Thanks for smoking me out.” Adore smiled, nuzzling her face into her shoulder. Farrah froze, feeling the urge to shrug her off but fighting it. What was wrong with her? Farrah and Eureka were just fuck buddies for a few months and nothing more. Why did she feel so guilty about the way she left things? Furthermore, why couldn’t she enjoy the time she had with Adore, who was fucking smoking hot? Eventually, Farrah relaxed, slumping into the bench, and let herself enjoy the moment as much as she possibly could. They sat there for awhile like that, Adore’s head on Farrah’s shoulder as they smoked their joints together quietly. Adore’s tolerance had already gone down a little, but she knew she still needed something to kick it up a notch. The silence felt awkward, she thought. Farrah also seemed a little bit off, she noticed as she had stiffened originally when she rested her head on her shoulder. The mixed signals. Lifting her head up, she sat up and dug through her purse, finding her bedazzled flask. “Oh my god where did you get that?” Farrah squealed, grabbing the flask. It was encrusted with a ton of swarovski crystals, shimmering in the low light. “Amazon girl. Have some!” Adore gestured. Farrah unscrewed the flask gratefully and tilted her head back, letting a generous amount of vodka swirl down her throat. She chased it with a splash of water, handing it back to Adore. Adore made a mental note that Farrah had basically chugged the better part of the liquid in the flask. She decided that maybe it was just the nerves, and thought nothing of it. They sat in the park, passing the flask back and forth and before they knew it they were off stumbling drunk and around the bean. “Adore,” Farrah slurred. “Look how fucking cute we are.” She grabbed her hand and pointed at their reflections in the giant mirrored bean. Adore smiled, stumbling into Farrah as she watched their reflections. Adore towered over Farrah, but the combination of dark hair and platinum blonde complemented each other. “Let’s take a picture!” Adore exclaimed, pulling out her phone. She pointed the camera at the bean, getting their reflection in it before snapping the photo. She then turned towards Farrah, who was already looking up at her expectantly, pink lips slightly parted. Adore closed the distance between the two of them, cupping Farrah’s chin up into her hand as she kissed her gently. She tasted of cheap vodka and weed, but smelled like a vanilla cupcake. It was confusing to her senses, but it just worked with her. Farrah stood on her tip toes, throwing both arms around Adore’s neck as the kiss deepened. Soon it was becoming violent, and Farrah ended up pushing Adore against the metal bean. Adore groaned, grabbing a fist of Farrah’s hair in her hands. She pulled away gently, before smiling and pushing her away. “That’s gonna be a hot picture.” Farrah finally said. Adore roared with laughter and grabbed Farrah’s hand, moving on as they spent the rest of the day exploring downtown Chicago together.

[cansofpeaches]

Suburbia

In his family, Joel finds a normal life (albeit one full of shenanigans). Modern AU. Also on AO3. And here’s a teensy fanmix of songs that inspired me while I was writing.

This is the final installment in the Home Is Not Places universe! You don't really need to read the other stories before this one, but it might make more sense if you do.

So glad to have finally finished this! Thanks to @raffinit and @anne1marie for bothering me relentlessly about it the encouragement to wrap it up! ;)

All things considered, Joel thought the move had gone pretty well.

That is, until he heard the crashing sound coming from the kitchen.

“Sorry!” Ellie called, her voice echoing from the back of the house to the front door, where Joel stood, nerves on end and shoulders up around his ears from shock. “Sorry, that was me!”

Joel made his way to the kitchen, where Ellie stood red-faced over what had once been a box containing a full set of plates. Joel sighed and rubbed a hand over his face.

“Tess,” he groaned.

“I’ll grab a broom,” Tess said, slipping past him with an apologetic look to go back out to the truck.

“Sorry,” Ellie squeaked again.

Joel leaned heavily on the door frame. “Could be worse. Coulda been our wedding china.”

Even after he spoke them, the words clung sticky to the inside of his mouth.

Wedding china.

Joel Miller with wedding china. If anyone had told him five years ago that one day he’d own anything so fancy, let alone anything so associated with the institution of marriage, he would have laughed in their face.

But that was before Ellie.

Ellie, who, when Joel thought back on it, seemed to have come barrelling into his life out of nowhere, shaking him from ten years of grief, reminding him of all the parts of fatherhood that he had come to love so much.

But of course, Ellie hadn’t come from nowhere. It had been Tess’s idea to foster in the first place, and it was thanks to Tess that they both now had an energetic almost-seventeen-year-old on their hands.

One who was starting college a year early, because she was so damn smart she’d managed to skip a grade long before she’d even had any kind of supportive family environment.

The very thought of shipping his baby girl off to school made Joel nauseous.

“It’s not like she’s going far,” Tess had reminded him last week, as she tucked folded sheets into boxes, readying them for the move. “MIT is maybe a forty-minute drive away from the new house.”

“I’m allowed to worry about my kid, ain’t I?” Joel grumbled, taping another box of winter clothing shut. In a lower voice, he muttered, “Besides, not like it worked out well the last time I sent a kid to school in Boston.”

There was a long silence, filled only with the sounds of Joel ripping tape. After a few moments, he felt Tess’s fingers hesitant on his shoulder, and the gingerness of her touch filled him with shame.

“That wasn’t fair,” he said, sighing and turning to her. Her eyes were wide and brimming. “I’m sorry.”

She shook her head. “No, I am. I shouldn’t have --”

Joel lifted her hand from his arm and kissed her knuckles. “Doesn’t matter, alright?”

She’d nodded, but as she went back to packing, she gnawed on her lip in a way that made Joel’s stomach clench.

Ellie had so far survived orientation, which made Joel feel a bit better, but still, his incessant worrying had not abated. Lost in thought, Joel jumped when Ellie waved a hand in front of his face.

“Earth to Joel,” Ellie said.

He blinked, then rubbed a hand over his eyes. “Sorry, baby girl, did you say something?“

Ellie rolled her eyes at him, but she was giving him a familiar, indulgent smile. One that Sarah used to wear when she thought he was being silly. “I said, do you want me to run to IKEA with you tomorrow to get another set?”

Joel wrinkled his nose. “Ellie, it is one thing to get you dorm shit from there, I’m not gonna --”

“Now you got him all worked up.” Tess came in behind him, shoving him in the small of his back with the end of the broom and making him swear. His wife shook her head as she handed Ellie the broom and dustpan. “Clean.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Ellie said, carefully sweeping the dish shards into the pan.

“Gonna be a lot quieter around here in August,” Joel groused.

Ellie stuck her tongue out at him. “You’re gonna miss me, you know it.”

Joel just sighed heavily, and Tess gave his shoulder a squeeze as she passed.

Joel stretched as he walked in the back door, his joints popping and creaking in protest. Taking the empty pizza boxes out to the curb had more or less done him in for the evening. He shut the door quietly and locked it, smiling with satisfaction as he heard it click. It felt good to be a homeowner again.

In the living room, he heard Tess and Ellie talking in low voices.

“...gonna tell him?” Ellie was saying as he walked into the room.

“Tell me what?” Joel asked as he entered.

Tess, who was standing in front of Ellie with her hands on her hips, paled. Ellie looked like she was biting back a laugh.

“Who says we were talkin’ about you, old man?” Tess said.

Before Joel could reply, Ellie asked, a little too loudly, “What’s Tommy getting here?”

Joel shot Tess a dark look -- This ain’t over. “Friday,” he said. “Close to dinnertime. I figure you and Tess can pick ’em up from the airport while I get somethin’ on the table.”

“Can I drive?” Ellie asked, beaming at Tess.

Tess groaned. “So I can be sick to my stomach when my in-laws get here?”

Ellie’s eyes gleamed mischievously. “You already --”

“Fine!” Tess fairly yelled. “Clearly you need the practice.”

Ellie cackled. “Good night!” she sang as she scampered up the stairs.

“The hell was that all about?” Joel asked, looking from Tess to the ceiling; above them, Ellie was already banging around the new bathroom, making him wince.

“Nothing,” Tess said. “Let’s go to bed, big guy. I’m exhausted.”

Joel opened his mouth to argue, but the ache in his back told him not to.

Tomorrow, he thought as he slowly climbed up the stairs behind her.

But there just wasn’t time the following day. Joel, Tess, and Ellie spent it unpacking and getting everything in order, and in the middle of the afternoon, Tess remembered that they had no plates and ran out to buy another set. Joel was aching to his very bones by nightfall, and he went to bed as early as he could manage.

The day after that, Friday, was more of the same: Tess and Ellie went out to finally get groceries while Joel put the finishing touches on the house. As soon as they got back and the grocery bags were on the counter, they were gone again -- to get Tommy, Maria, and their daughter, Sofia, from the airport.

Joel sighed as he pulled the ingredients for that night’s salad out of the bags. Later, he thought. He’d find time later. That night, dammit.

An hour later, Joel had steaks sizzling in the pan and greens waiting to be tossed when he heard the front door slam open. He winced as Ellie called out, “They’re heeere!” in a sing-song voice.

"Comin’!” Joel wiped his hands on a towel and then headed into the living room. As soon as he was through the doorframe, a whiz of dark blonde hurtled itself into him.

“Uncle Joel!” his niece chirped happily, wrapping her arms around his middle.

“Hey there, sweet pea -- oof.” Joel had pulled her into a bear hug and then hitched her up on his hip. “You’re gettin’ big,” he said, giving Sofia a noisy kiss on the cheek.

The eight-year-old scrunched up her nose. “Gross!”

Joel laughed and set her back down on the floor. He turned to his sister-in-law next, greeting her with a much more polite peck. “I can’t believe they let you on the plane with that thing,” he said, gesturing toward her middle.

Maria put one protective hand over her rounded abdomen. “The doctor said it was fine.”

“Nah, I think he means I should have put you with the checked luggage,” Tommy said as he pulled away from his own hug from Joel.

Maria gave him a slap on the arm when her daughter wasn’t looking.

“It smells great in here,” Ellie said as she hearded Sofia toward the kitchen.

“Dinner will be ready soon,” Joel said. “Y’all had an okay flight?”

“A little bumpy, but nothing too bad,” Maria said, stooping to pick up her bag. Joel shooed her away.

“C’mon now, you’re pregnant,” Joel said, taking her suitcase from her and heading toward the stairs. “And with twins, no less. I’ve got it.” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Tess giving him a strange, unreadable look, but she said nothing. Joel wished he could have cornered her then and there, but as it was, he had to show his family to the guest bedroom.

By the time everyone had gotten settled, Joel had dinner plated and waiting on the crowded dining table in the kitchen.

“This is a real nice place you got, big brother,” Tommy said as he sank into his seat.

“Better be,” Joel said as he pulled beers out of the fridge and popped off the tops. “Paid a good enough price for it. You want one?” he asked Tess.

“No thanks.” She pushed a lock of sweaty hair off her forehead.

Joel raised an eyebrow. “You sure?”

“I don’t want one,” she said more loudly, her voice pinched.

Joel blinked, then shrugged and came over to the table, passing a bottle over to Tommy.

“Can I have one?” Ellie asked. She was swinging her feet under the table in spite of all the extra people they had sitting around it.

“No,” Joel grumbled. “You’ll get enough of this stuff in college.”

“You ready for school?” Tommy asked her as he helped himself to salad.

“Ready as I’ll ever be,” Ellie said.

“Nervous?” Maria asked.

“Only a little,” said Ellie, flushing slightly.

“I bet Joel’s already threatenin’ to beat the boys off you,” Tommy said, grinning.

Maria snorted. “As if she’s interested. How’s Riley, honey?”

Ellie now blushed right up to the roots of her hair. “Oh. Uh, we’re kind of on a break right now...”

As she and Maria chatted and Sofia looked at them with some interest, Tommy turned back to Joel and Tess. “It’s a nice place,” he said again.

Joel grunted, lifting his beer to his lips.

“Plenty of room, too,” Tommy added. “Now that you’ve finally made Tess an honest woman, you can start thinkin’ about havin’ kids.” He winked at Tess, who blanched. Joel only shook his head at his younger brother.

At the end of the meal, Joel stood to clear the plates.

“You okay?” he asked Tess. She had cut up all her meat, but it looked like she had only picked at her meal.

“I’m fine,” she said. “Just hot, I guess. Makes me lose my appetite.”

“Could’ve had a beer,” he said.

“Stop pestering her,” Maria said, waving a hand at him.

“Yes, ma’am,” Joel said, carrying the stack of plates to the sink. “C’mon, kiddo,” he said to Ellie. “You’re up.”

By the time he and Ellie were done cleaning up after dinner, Tommy was sitting on the couch with Sofia in his lap, both of them fast asleep, while Tess and Maria were speaking in whispers, their heads close together.

Joel put his hands on his hips. “Did I miss anythin’?” he asked.

Tess looked almost sheepish. She’d been uncharacteristically quiet all throughout dinner. Maria, however, looked him dead in the eye, direct as always.

“Tess was just telling me about how she and Ellie need to get some last-minute clothes for school,” Maria said, giving him an easy smile.

“Ain’t you got enough clothes?” Joel asked Ellie.

She shifted from foot to foot. “I mean -- you never know, right?”

“And Tess is pretty tired from making all those trips downtown,” Maria added.

“It’s been a busy summer,” Tess murmured, sitting back against the couch.

“I always loved back-to-school shopping,” Maria said, her blue eyes bright. “I’m doing it for Sofia, of course, but picking out college stuff is a little more exciting than getting a new box of crayons.”

“I was going to grab some stuff next week, but maybe I can do it this week, and you can come with us,” Ellie said brightly.

“Would that I could,” Maria said. “But I have to help watch Sofia.” She bumped Tess’s knee with her own.

Tess cleared her throat audibly. “I could always watch her. Y’know, let you go into the city with Ellie -- let Joel and Tommy catch up a little. The Sox are playing at home tomorrow and they could probably still get tickets.” She was sweating again, the moisture highlighting the sharp angles of her face.

“Are you sure?” Maria reached over and smoothed Sofia’s hair down. “She might not look like it now, but she can be a real handful.”

“Of course I’m sure,” Tess said, giving Maria a wan smile. “You can all get out of the house tomorrow.”

Later that night, as they prepared for bed, Joel put a hand on the small of Tess’s back.

“You okay?” he asked.

“I’m fine,” Tess said. “Shaking off a summer cold or something, I think.”

“You don’t have to babysit Sofia if you don’t feel well.”

Tess shook her head. “I’m fine, don’t worry.”

Joel sighed. “If you say so.”

“I do.” Her tone was a familiar one: This conversation is over.

Tomorrow, Joel thought as he climbed into bed. I’ll ask her what’s goin’ on tomorrow.

“She usually eats lunch right at noon,” Maria was telling Tess, who looked like a deer in the headlights. “She won’t eat anything orange, and that includes things like American cheese --”

“Lay off of her,” Tommy said. He took his wife’s elbow, but he spoke gently. “Sof’s eight, she can tell Tess what she does and doesn’t like.”

Maria took a deep breath and exhaled through her mouth. “Okay. I know. It’ll be fine.”

“It will,” Tommy assured her.

Tess didn’t look too sure. Joel, who’d been standing behind her at the odds-and-ends table they kept between the front door and the stairs and stuffing his wallet in his back pocket, leaned over his wife’s shoulder and lowered his voice. “Alright?” he asked.

Tess jumped, then turned her head toward him. She gave him a thin smile. “You should be asking Maria that.”

Joel put his arms around her waist and pulled her tight to his chest, planting kisses along her neck. “You’ll do fine,” he murmured. After all, he’d never seen Tess find a challenge she wasn’t up to facing.

“At least someone thinks so,” Tess said, a little breathless. Joel knew it was the closest she’d come to admitting her nervousness.

Ellie came crashing down the stairs at that moment. “Gross,” she said cheerfully, poking Joel in the ribs. “Okay, Maria, ready to go?”

By this time, Maria had collected herself, the worry lines in her face smoothing out and her eyes brightening. “All set.”

“Where’s Sofia?” Joel asked.

Ellie shrugged. “Not sure. But the bathroom door was shut, maybe she’s in there?”

Tess twitched under Joel’s hands, and he laced his fingers with hers.

“Wish me luck,” she muttered as Maria waved at them and followed Ellie out the door.

“Good luck,” Joel said, giving her one last kiss on the cheek. Then he stepped away from her and called: “Tommy, are we goin’ or what?”

“I’m comin’,” Tommy said. As he emerged from the kitchen, he shoved a handful of dry cereal into his mouth. “Let’s go,” he said, chewing loudly. He filed past Tess and Joel followed him, giving her one last look as he shut the door.

It was a long, hot, high-summer game, slow-moving and not terribly interesting until the last two innings. By the time the Red Sox lost, Joel and Tommy had been sitting in the sun for almost four hours, and Joel was feeling sleepy from both the heat and the beers he’d drunk.

“Are Maria and Ellie back at home yet?” Joel asked Tommy as he got into the passenger seat of his truck. As usual, Tommy was the designated driver.

“She texted that they’d be out a while more,” Tommy replied, slamming the driver-side door shut. He shook his head. “Damn woman’s gonna come back with three bags of clothes for herself, I just know it,” he muttered, mostly to himself, as he started the car and backed out of the parking space.

The two brothers didn’t say much on the drive home, both lulled into silence by the humidity and the warm air pouring in through their rolled-down windows. Joel was even thinking that he might take a nap when they got home to sleep off the beers.

But when he opened his front door, the house was eerily quiet.

“Tess?” he called. No one responded. He and Tommy stepped inside and Joel shut the door.

As he walked into the house, he began to notice that things were amiss. The throw pillows from the couch were strewn all over the stairs. In the kitchen, Joel found a flood of water and an empty, overturned plastic bucket, which they usually used for mopping. Joel squinted at the kitchen door, not sure if he was seeing things or if --

“Why is the door wet too?” Tommy said, confirming Joel’s thoughts.

Joel just grunted and made his way back to the living room and up the stairs. A number of bottles was spilling out of the bathroom. When he stuck his head in, he found the shower curtain pulled down and, in the tub, his niece was curled up and fast asleep.

Tommy stuck his head into the bathroom, too, looking around Joel to find his daughter. There was a half second of silence, and then Tommy said, loudly, “What in the hell?”

Sofia twitched in her sleep, then yawned. When she saw the two men standing above her, her eyes went wide.

“Are you alright?” Joel asked her.

“Yes,” she said in a small voice.

“Where’s your Auntie Tess?”

Sofia turned an alarming shade of red. “She -- she -- uhh --”

“Sofia Madison Miller,” Tommy said slowly, in a tone of voice Joel had never heard his baby brother use before, “what is goin’ on here?”

Sofia immediately burst into tears.

Joel was torn between drunkenness, confusion, irritation, and pure hysterics. He fought down the urge to laugh at the sight of Sofia sitting in the tub and wailing, or at Tommy’s dumbstruck face. Tommy rubbed at his eyes with both palms.

“Joel, I’m sorry about this mess, I’ll --”

But at that moment, Joel heard his bedroom door open down the hall. Tess was peeking around the door, her eyes bloodshot. “Joel?”

“I’m just gonna let you handle this,” Joel said, pointing at his niece before marching down the hall, going into his bedroom, and shutting the door.

Tess’s hair was falling in locks from the bandana she usually used to tie it up on her days off from work, her shirt and pants stained with substances Joel couldn’t begin to guess. She looked haggard, the planes of her face sharper, dark circles under her eyes.

“What the hell happened?” he asked her.

Tess threw up her hands. “It was a fuckin’ disaster! Joel, from the time you all left the house, she was -- she was -- sticking a bucket on top of the kitchen door frame so it’d fall on me when I went looking for her, she was sledding down the stairs on pillows, she was getting into all the crap under the bathroom sink --”

“Whoa, whoa,” Joel said, putting his arms on her shoulders. “Slow down. Breathe. You’re alright.”

Tess just shook her head and ran her hands through her hair. “I just just so relieved when she finally fell asleep and -- Joel, I can’t even handle an eight-year-old, how the fuck am I supposed to deal with a baby?”

“It’s okay,” Joel said, pulling her in close and smoothing his hand over her hair, shushing her. “Everything’s --” His still-sluggish and half-drunk brain had just arrived at a realization, and now it seemed frozen. Joel jerked Tess away from him so he could look in her face. “Did you say ‘baby’?”

At this, for the second time in twelve years, Joel watched Tess start sobbing.

“I -- was gonna tell you and then -- never the right time and -- didn’t know how you would react -- Ellie leaving and -- Sarah --”

Joel opened and closed his mouth several times. “Tess -- are you -- did you think --”

“I’m so sorry --”

He shook her by the shoulders a little. “Are you pregnant?” he fairly shouted.

“Yes!” she yelled through her tears. “You fuckin’ idiot, of course I’m --“

She kept yelling, but a whole lot of things were sliding into place in Joel’s brain: Tess’s covert conversations, her odd mood swings, her refusal of the beer the night before...

“You’re pregnant,” he said to her in a normal voice. She was still yelling.

“-- didn’t even think I could anymore --”

“Tess,” he said, shaking her again a little bit, “you’re pregnant.”

She finally fell silent. Took a deep breath and let it out. “Yes, Joel, I’m pregnant.”

In a rush, Joel scooped her up, one arm around her shoulders and the other under her knees, and spun her around, whooping.

“Put me down, you drunk lunatic,” she said, but there was no heat behind it. He kissed her so hard their teeth clacked. “Joel --”

And for a little while, they didn’t speak.

Afterward, as Tess settled her sticky cheek over his still-thundering heart, Joel started laughing.

“The fuck is so funny?” she snapped.

“You,” he said, guffawing. He kissed the crown of her head. “Did you think I’d be mad?”

“I didn’t know what to think,” she said. “All the shit with Ellie has been hard enough on you, besides the crap she pulled when we first brought her in. I wasn’t sure if you’d -- want to, y’know? Not again. Not ... from scratch, anyway.” She lapsed into silence, her shoulders tense.

Joel sighed, shaking his head a little. “Oh, sweetheart,” he murmured. “How could I ever be mad at you for this?”

She looked up at him then, her face calmer, relieved. He smoothed his knuckles over her cheek.

“Might be a better fit as somebody’s papaw these days,” he said.

Tess snorted. “Speak for yourself, old man.” But she frowned a little. “Are you sure you’re not upset?”

“I’m not,” Joel said. He put a hand over her middle, still flat, but enough to send a spark of excitement up his spine. “Jesus, how could I be? And you’re gonna be the most amazin’ mother.”

Tess arched an eyebrow. “I highly doubt that, after today. You Millers have demon spawn.”

“It’ll be half Callahan.”

Tess softened almost imperceptibly. “It will,” she allowed.

“I love you,” Joel said. “Of course I’m gonna love our baby.”

“I love you, too.” Tess settled back into his arms. “Tommy’s gonna wonder what’s been going on in here. He’ll give you hell later.”

Joel grinned. “No, he won’t.”

“And why’s that?”

“Because I still have that voicemail saved from when he and Maria were dating and he butt-dialed me while they were fuckin’.”