#but god. It seems like they managed to trick most of the folks who wrote that

[victory-cookies]

my last midterm mark was just released and I looked at it and was like “oof… 89%? I should have done better on that man I’m slipping” and then I checked the overall class scores and I was in the top 5% of scorers. And now I’m like shit they did a really bad job writing that midterm

[ibis-gt]

i made a fairytale au for cam and luther and then wrote nearly 5k words of fic for it?? which is wild bc i am not much of a writer. but. that’s under the cut. content warning for a pretty violent scene towards the end but there’s a happy ending i prommy

Once upon a time, there lived a prince. This prince, Luther by name, lived in a kingdom that was plagued by monsters. His father, the king, had gained his throne by feats of heroism, most notably by slaying a fearsome dragon that had ruled the land for years. The time came for Luther to prove he was worthy of the title of prince by slaying a monster of his own… 

Down in the countryside, farmers have been complaining for weeks of an ogre stealing their cattle and frightening their children. So Luther sets off in a splendid suit of armor, with a sword sheathed on one hip, a quiver of arrows on the other, and his bow slung on his back.

Luther rides his horse down to the village where the ogre was last spotted. He talks with the locals and gets a description of the creature. At least forty feet tall, they say, with greenish-grey skin and dark hair and teeth the length of a man’s forearm. Luther leaves his horse behind with the farmers because he doesn’t want her getting hurt and marches off, following a set of giant footprints left behind by the ogre, sword in hand. He would have to admit that he isn’t the best at sword fighting, and that really he’s never faced a monster on his own. But his father gave him a crucial tip: every monster has a weak point. Find the weak point, exploit it, and you’ll win every time. 

The footprints lead through the plains of grass, past the area where the farmers let their cattle out to graze, and into a dark forest. The sun is going down before he manages to find the ogre, so he sets up a little camp with a little fire and rests his tired bones. His armor isn’t the most comfortable thing in the world, but it takes forever to get on and off even with someone helping him, let alone by himself. He sits with his back to a big boulder so nothing can sneak up behind him and eventually drifts off.

Luther awakens the next morning and groans at how stiff and sore he is. He sits up and pauses, brow furrowed, remembering that he’d gone to bed sitting upright. But just now, he’d been lying on his back. And he’s not the best tracker, but those giant footprints look… disconcertingly fresh. These things add up in his mind. He just about passes out. He crouches down and puts his head between his knees for a moment until he can breathe again and his heart stops pounding quite so hard. He was right next to it! He fell asleep leaning on it! If his father heard about this he’d give him such a beating. How could he not have noticed that the boulder was actually - 

His stomach rumbles, interrupting his panicked thoughts, and Luther remembers that the last time he ate was back in that farming village around two in the afternoon yesterday. He digs out a bit of beef jerky and morosely works at it. His father swears by the stuff, but it just makes his teeth hurt. Luther dreams of the kitchens back home and drools a little.

He gives up on the jerky and manages to take down a couple squirrels with his bow and arrows. He gets his fire blazing again and sets them cooking over it, and sits down to draw in the dirt and form a battle plan. He gets wrapped up in his drawing and loses track of time, but is startled violently back to reality as a deep booming voice from behind him says, “Your squirrel’s burning.”

Luther’s eyes snap up to the fire. He hastily pulls the stick with his squirrels off of it, waving it in the air to put out the bit of squirrel that had caught fire. He blows on it and inspects the damage. Not too bad, a little charred. Still definitely edible. Then realization dawns, and he slowly looks up and over his shoulder.

That’s the ogre. He’s unmistakable. Huge, greyish-green, with shaggy black hair and big tusks that jut out of his mouth. He’s down on one knee looming over Luther, modesty barely preserved by a loincloth stitched together out of the pelts of many different furry animals. Luther wills himself to not faint for the second time that day. 

“You gonna eat that?” The ogre booms. “’Cause I will if you won’t.”

“W-well, yes, I was planning to,” Luther quavers, “But there are two, so, um, you can have one if you want? We can share?”

He takes the non-burned squirrel off the stick and holds it up. His hand only shakes a little. The ogre takes it carefully between thumb and forefinger and tosses it in his mouth. With such a tiny morsel, he’d usually just swallow it whole, but an interesting flavor makes him stop and savor it for a moment. 

“What’d you do to it? Not like any squirrel I’ve eaten. And I’ve eaten a whole army of squirrels.” He slaps a hand on his formidable belly. The sound makes Luther jump. 

“I- I didn’t do much, j-just some seasoning, I-I’m sorry, I d-didn’t mean to, please don’t eat me next." 

"You?” The ogre laughs. “Why would I eat you? You shared your food with me. That’s mighty polite. I’d say that makes us friends now, and I don’t eat friends.” He grunts as he shifts position, sitting down heavily and stretching out his legs. “Bad knees,” he grumbles. “Sat like that too long, but I wanted to see what you were drawing." 

Luther is now horrifically aware that he is directly between the ogre’s legs. He is also horrifically aware that he was drawing himself hitting an ogre with a sword. He hurriedly kicks some dirt over it. 

"Nothing. Nothing interesting. I’m a bad artist anyway.”

“Sure. What’s your name, little tin man? You didn’t seem too talkative when you snuggled up to me last night, but I thought maybe you were just tired. I’m Cam." 

"L-Luther.” Oh god. He was supposed to kill this thing, it - well, no, not ‘it’, he can’t think of Cam as an ‘it’ now he knows his name - he’s terrorizing folks, stealing their livelihoods, he’s supposed to drive him away, save the day, bring peace to the kingdom. Instead he’s sharing his meager breakfast and making friends with the monster. How did it all go so wrong!!

“So, Luther, you made of metal? I thought you were gonna take all that off, looks pretty uncomfortable, but you wore it all night. Unless it’s like… you?" 

"No, no, um, it’s just… it takes a long time to put it on and take it off? And I usually need help.”

 "Well shoot, friend, why didn’t you say so?“ Before Luther can object, a giant hand descends and plucks him up. He panics, struggles in Cam’s grasp, and Cam tsks at him. "I can’t get all that off you if you don’t hold still. Don’t make me squeeze." 

Luther goes still. If Cam squeezes the armor, it’ll stay squeezed. He wouldn’t want to still be in it if that happens. Cam clearly has no idea how to get someone out of armor though. He just pulls at clasps and buckles till they break, then shucks the metal off of Luther like an ear of corn. His helmet comes off first, freeing his dark brown curls.

“Aww,” Cam says, “lookit you. You’re kinda cute for a tin man.” He musses up Luther’s hair with a fingertip. "You’re like a little crab,” Cam chuckles. “Crack open the hard shell to get to the soft stuff underneath.” The food metaphor does not put Luther any more at ease as the rest of his armor is pulled off and tossed aside, piece by piece. Cam even strips the chainmail off of him and dumps it on the ground. This leaves Luther in his shirt and breeches, shaking like a leaf and terrified for his life. 

“Oh, you cold? Here, I gotcha.” Cam sandwiches him between his hands. Luther awaits the pressure and the horrible crunch that will no doubt be the end of his short life, but it never comes. Cam just holds him there, and truth be told his hands are very warm, and it had been a chilly morning. Luther relaxes very slightly.

After a few minutes, Cam lifts one hand a little and peeks at Luther. “Better?" 

"Much better, thank you. Even a little too warm, actually? Can I, um, come out now?" 

Cam laughs and opens his hands like a book, then tilts them so Luther tumbles into the palm of his left hand. "So what’s a fancy little shrimp like you doing all the way out here, with that tough shell and those sharp weapons? You huntin’ something?" 

Luther hesitates. It’s not… technically a lie, just an omission of truth, right? "Yeees…. Hunting.”

Cam laughs out loud, leaning back and slapping his knee with his free hand. “HA! You are just about the worst liar I ever met, Luther. Whew.” He actually wipes a tear from his eye. Luther feels his face heating up with anger and embarrassment.

“I am hunting! I’m hunting you!” As soon as he says it he regrets it. He slaps his hands over his mouth and cowers back as Cam sits up straight again and looks down at him, raising an eyebrow. 

“That so? Huh. Well, you found me, oh mighty hunter. And you fed me, and let me take your armor off you, and left all your sharp things on the ground while you sit in the palm of my hand. So, uh… how’s that goin’ for ya?”

“It… I… um… please don’t kill me?”

Cam grins. It’s not a nice grin anymore. It shows off too many teeth. “Lotsa folks have hunted me, you know. Not a one has succeeded. Most of ‘em can’t find me in the first place, not unless I want them to. Neat little trick we ogres have. We blend in well. The ones who did find me, they regretted it pretty quick. When I heard you clanking along with your silly armor and your little sword, I thought oh boy, here comes another one. But it turns out this one couldn’t find his own ass with both hands and a map, so he ain’t one of them legendary monster hunters lookin’ to claim some bounty. And he’s a little scrawny slip of a thing, too, and he keeps stopping to look at birds. I kinda liked you. And honestly, when you found me, it took me by surprise. Thought I had you pegged all wrong. Then you made your little fire, curled up next to me, and went to sleep, and it took everything I had not to bust my gut laughing right then and there. And now… well, I don’t rightly know what to make of you. Cute little thing, I know that. But cute won’t save you if you wanna tussle with me. So, little hunter… what’re you gonna do now?”

Luther’s nearly in tears. He manages to say, “Then… were you just… toying with me? This whole time? Waiting to see what I’d do?" 

Cam shrugs. "Pretty much.” That does it. The waterworks are in full swing. Luther’s chin trembles, his lower lip wobbles, and then tears are streaming down his face and he’s sobbing. 

“Y- you’re s-so-ho meeeaaaan,” Luther wails. “Y-you’re j-just making f-fun of me, I thought w-we were friends!” 

Cam has absolutely no idea how to respond to this. For some reason he actually feels guilty. “Aw - no - now look, there’s no call for - just… just stop crying, okay? Please?” Luther continues to sob, heedless of Cam’s pleading. “There, there,” Cam tries, patting Luther’s head. “I’m not going to kill you. Okay? How’s that? I’m sorry I called you - well. All those things. I’m sure you’re a great hunter. Look, you got those squirrels. And hey! That one I ate tasted great. You got some real skill there." 

Luther wipes his eyes and looks up, teetering dangerously on the edge of another sobbing fit. His eyes are all watery and a little red-rimmed. "R-really?" 

"Yes! Of course!” Cam clings to the compliment like a life preserver. “I bet you’re like, like the king’s cook or something, right? Cause you’re the best in the land?" 

Luther’s face crumples a little and he looks down, mutters something. 

"What?” Cam holds him up a little closer to his ear. 

“’m his son,” Luther mumbles again. 

“His son? You’re a prince? And you’re all - oh, hell.” Now he’s really put his foot in it. Luther bursts into tears again and curls up in a little ball.

“Okay, okay, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I - oh, ugh, you’re getting my hand all wet.” Cam picks him up between thumb and forefinger and shakes the little tear droplets off his palm. “Now look here,” he says, attempting a sterner approach. “You’re a prince, all right? You can’t be crying and going to pieces just ‘cause some big bad monster was mean to you. You gotta kill big bad monsters, right? So here’s what you’re gonna do.” Cam sets him down gently, picks up his sword and hands it to him. “There you go. You’re gonna take that sword, right, and you’re gonna really let me have it. That’ll make you feel better, won’t it?“ 

Luther purses his lips and looks up at him. "But… all I can hit from here is your foot. That’s no good. I need a shot at something vital." 

"Oh fine, fine, Mr. Picky,” Cam grumbles. He shuffles his legs to the side and leans down til he’s practically laying on his belly. “Face shot. Free one for ya. Go on, hit something good.” Luther considers. Just as Cam realizes how ridiculous this whole thing is, he draws his sword back and plunges it into Cam’s eye.

- Almost plunges it into Cam’s eye. The ogre moves suddenly, turning his head to the side to avoid the blow. Luther makes a deep gash in Cam’s cheek, and Cam roars. “Oh, you sly little shit. Very good, very sneaky. You almost had me there. Fine. We do this the hard way.”

He gets to his feet, draws himself up to his full, impressive height, and looks down at the dirt where Luther was a moment ago. Cam blinks in surprise. “Where’d you… goddammit…” He looks around, trying to catch a glimpse of where Luther could’ve gotten to. 

Luther was not about to let the golden opportunity to run and hide during a big dramatic show of power go to waste. He slides into a patch of underbrush, catches his breath, and takes stock. He has no armor, no food, no bow or arrows. Those are all back at his camp, which is currently ogre territory. He has one sword that he’s okay at using. The ogre has the homefield advantage, and some kind of ability, possibly magical, to hide himself from those who want to find him. Luther shouldn’t let him out of his sight. But he should work on camouflaging himself. He takes a handful of dirt and smears it on his face and shirt. The sword he can’t do much about, he’ll just have to try and keep it from glinting. He glances to his left, away from where Cam still stands, turning in circles and peering around. Luther had only gone a little ways into the woods before he stopped for camp last night. He can almost see the forest’s edge from here. He could dart for the grasslands and try to make it back to the village, but he’d be in plain sight as soon as he’s out of the trees and there’s no guarantee Cam won’t just follow him all the way back. The further he goes into the trees the more firmly he is in Cam’s territory, but the more coverage he has. 

Possibilities begin swirling around in his head. His best bet is trickery rather than a face to face confrontation. He’s got a running list in his mind of Cam’s weak points now. Food, monologuing, emotional outbursts. Although that last one’s probably off the table now. Bursting into tears isn’t going to get him out of a second pinch. Bad knees - if he can trip Cam up, he can get a shot at his face again, maybe cut his throat or get at his soft belly and sides. Cam’s a talker and likes to gloat, maybe if he gets him distracted by looking pathetic he could get him to walk right into a trap of some kind. He likes food… but Luther doesn’t have the resources to make a big feast to distract him or sate him, just a pouchful of seasoning that he never leaves home without. His lip wobbles again as he thinks about how that’s back at his camp… he may never see his precious seasonings again.

Meanwhile, Cam is getting frustrated. “Well, the little shit can’t have gone far,” he grumbles. “Just gotta flush 'im out.” Luther watches, petrified, as Cam lumbers over to a nearby patch of underbrush and without warning stomps down on it hard, twisting his foot and smashing every inch of it. He steps back and leans down to inspect what’s left. Luther bites his lip hard to stifle a whimper. 

“Nope, not there,” Cam announces. “Eeney, meeney, miney…..” Another bunch of bushes are mercilessly ground into the dirt. “Moe. Hmmm. Where are you?”

Luther can’t stay in his hiding place for long. It’s only a matter of time before Cam gets to him. He needs an opening to make a break for it though, if he runs now Cam will spot him right away. As slowly as he dares, he picks up a large, flat rock, then skims it like a frisbee off to his right, where it hits a tree with a satisfying thock. Cam whirls around, and Luther bolts out of the brush. Cam hears the leaves rustling and turns back around, catching sight of him as he flees. 

“There you are! Hold on now, don’t go running off! I just wanna talk, I swear. The whole monster-slaying prince thing not working out for ya? I got a better job offer! You can be my dinner!” Luther keeps sprinting as fast as he can, not even bothering to glance behind him. The last thing he needs is to miss a fallen branch or a groundhog hole and trip.

On flat, open land, the ogre would outpace him easily. But if he can get deeper into the forest where the trees are closer together, that could slow him down enough for Luther to get some distance and hide again, have a moment to breathe and think so he can work on his plan. He’s starting to get an idea of what he’ll need. He needs the element of surprise for sure, and he needs more than just his sword. If he had some rope he could set up a tripwire, maybe. He curses himself for not taking his father’s advice about packing, for letting Cam strip him, for being too weak and scared to do anything when he had the chance, for being born in the first place. His eyes well up with tears and he scrubs at them furiously. He can’t afford to have his sight blurred right now, he needs to keep his head clear and keep moving. He can hear Cam’s thudding footsteps behind him, gaining quickly. He can cover so much more ground in a single step. It’s simply not fair. The little bit of distance he was able to gain with his rock trick is disappearing fast and it won’t be long before he’s in arm’s reach.

Almost as if he can read his thoughts, Cam lunges forward and takes a swipe at him, trying to knock him off his feet. Luther hits the deck and Cam overbalances, stumbling and crashing into a tree. The tree snaps when his weight collides with it, and Cam has to windmill his arms to keep from falling over. Luther scrambles to his feet and keeps running. He even manages to put on an extra burst of speed when he hears Cam roar with frustration behind him. He’s not as fast as he could be because he’s lugging the sword along with him, but he doesn’t dare drop it. It proves its usefulness in the next minute. Cam closes the distance and grabs for him. Luther sees the shadow fall over him and whirls around, lashing out at the reaching hand. He slices across Cam’s palm, and Cam howls with pain and pulls back. Luther dashes away, and Cam stomps his foot in frustration. 

"Hold still, dammit! You’re just making it worse for yourself!” He takes off after Luther again, but his stamina’s flagging. It’s harder for a creature his size to haul himself around and he’s used to running down his prey in the first minutes of the chase. This has dragged on long enough to tire him out, but he’s not willing to give up just yet. “When I get my hands on you, tin man, you’re paste,” he growls. “They’re gonna have to come up with new words for how dead you’re gonna be.”

The trees start getting close enough together that Luther has to dodge around them from time to time. He can hear Cam behind him crashing through them, spluttering as he gets a face full of branches and leaves. Luther smiles to himself. That’s nice, at least. At last he gathers up his nerve and dodges to the side behind a particularly large tree, hoping that Cam’s too busy navigating the foliage to notice. His gamble pays off. A few seconds later, the ogre goes lumbering past him without so much as a sideways glance. Luther waits just a moment more, then bolts in the opposite direction.

He’s got a plan now. He probably won’t be able to find Cam again, but Cam can find him. So he’ll set up an ambush. He circles back around to his camp and grabs his supplies as quickly as he can, his bow and arrow, his helmet, his tinderbox, and most importantly, his seasoning. He hunts for deer, takes down a decent-sized buck, and sets up a new campfire, deep in the woods, where the trees are close. He’s hoping that Cam will think that Luther thinks he’s safe in there, and that the smell of the meat cooking will lure Cam in. He takes off his shirt and fills it with twigs and leaves, sets his helmet up on a stick driven into the ground, and makes a decently convincing decoy Luther that he leans against a log. The helmet tilts at an angle that makes it look like he’s fallen asleep. With that set up, and night closing in, Luther climbs up a nearby tree and waits, sword in hand.

He doesn’t watch the fire. He wants to keep his night vision sharp. And sure enough, before too long here comes Cam, moving surprisingly quietly for his size. He squeezes through the trees with barely a rustling of leaves. Cam’s eyes are fixed on the fire and the silhouette that the decoy makes against it. Cam gets right behind the decoy and slams his foot down on it. He grinds it into the dirt with a relish that makes Luther shudder. Then Cam looks at the deer cooking with that lovely smell rising off it, and his eyes go big and shiny. As Cam bends down to pick it up, Luther chooses his moment. He drops like a stone and buries his sword lengthwise in the back of Cam’s neck. The impact sends a jolt up his arms and he hangs on as tight as he can. Cam lets out a garbled scream of pain and collapses face first on the ground. Luther gets to his feet, pulls his sword out with some difficulty, takes a deep breath, and begins to chop.

It’s messy, horrible work. By the third swing tears are rolling down Luther’s cheeks. By the seventh, he’s sobbing. After the twenty-third cut, Cam’s head is finally severed, and rolls to the side. Luther stumbles back. He’s trembling, covered in blood, panting and crying, but it’s finally done. 

And then Cam’s head says, “Wow, kid. I didn’t think you had it in you.” Luther watches, dumbfounded, as Cam’s body sits up, searches around with its hands, locates his head, and puts it back on his shoulders as the flesh knits together again. Luther drops his sword in disbelief. He falls to his knees. That was it. That was all he had. He can’t even imagine what he could do against a foe who can just reattach his own head. 

“Oh,” he says quietly. “Okay. Um. Make it quick, please?” Cam had been planning to crunch the little shit once he was back on his feet, but he can’t help but feel a pang of guilt at how despondent Luther looks.

“Aw, no, no, don’t give up so quick! Really, you almost had me!” Cam scoops him up and pats him on the head. “Look, it was a good effort. I’m sure if you had known I can’t be killed, you wouldn’t have spent all that time and energy trying to kill me. Just do a little more research next time, yeah?" 

"Next time,” Luther repeats, and gives a hollow laugh. “There isn’t going to be a next time. I’m not welcome as part of the royal family if I can’t kill a monster. Even my sister’s done her first slaying already. A whole nest of vampires! And I can’t kill one measly ogre." 

"Hey, watch who you’re calling measly,” Cam warns, but his heart isn’t in it. “Jeez. You’ve got some issues, kid. Not much of a fighter, I take it?" 

Luther shakes his head and sighs. "I’m just not very good at it." 

"Well they chose one hell of a first mission for you, that’s for sure. Ogres are tricky ones. We’ve got a lot of defense mechanisms.” Cam thinks for a moment. “You know what you are good at, though? You’re a good talker. Very convincing. I mean, you really had me going, with the crying and all? It was a really good ruse." 

Luther bites his lip. "Um…" 

"Okay, so it was for real and not a ruse. But you made the best of a bad situation! That’s also a good skill for a ruler to have. You just gotta show your family that your skills are less conventional, but still effective! Like, okay, why do you have to kill me? What’d I do?" 

“You’re eating all the farmers’ cattle and scaring people." 

"I thought free range meant I had free reign. Eh? Eh?” Cam pokes Luther in the ribs. Luther frowns at him. “Oh, fine, whatever. No sense of humor. You know, that’s pretty important for a king too. Yeah, all right, I’ll leave the cows alone." 

"And the sheep,” Luther says sharply. “And the pigs, and chickens." 

"I haven’t eaten any pigs or chickens,” Cam protests. 

“Not yet. I’m being proactive." 

"There you go!” Cam says, beaming. “There’s that negotiator skill! But seriously, if I can’t eat the cows and sheep I’ve got to eat something. Can you make it worth my while? 'Cause I’m not going back to squirrels." 

"Well…” Luther says slowly. “What if… I hire you?" 

"You… hire me?" 

"Yeah. Like, as a bodyguard or something. Then I’d have to pay you, right? I could pay you in food?” 

Cam is quiet for a moment. He brings Luther up closer to his face and scrutinizes him. Luther’s heart is pounding out of his chest. For a moment he thinks he’s made some horrible mistake and offended Cam and it’s all over for him. "You’re serious? Not kidding me, here? That’s your offer?”

“Y-yes? Is that… is it bad?" 

"Bad? Bad? That’s the best offer I’ve ever heard! Pay me in food? HELL yes, kid! That’s what I like to hear!” The force of Cam’s enthusiasm knocks Luther over on his back. He stares at the sky for a moment. His life is so goddamn weird.

~~~~~~~~~

Luther’s father’s dragon slaying days are behind him. He’s an old man now. He has good days and bad days, but even on his best days he frequently needs help getting around. But when he sees that giant ogre enter his royal halls, he reaches for his spear. Luther eases it out of his hand. 

“No, see, it’s okay. I didn’t kill him, but I stopped him terrorizing the countryside, and I kind of… hired him. As my bodyguard. This was easier, and we both benefit, see? Also, um, were you going to tell me ogres are immortal?" 

"You were supposed to figure something out,” his father says. “Since you’re so damned smart." 

"Well, I did figure something out. Just… maybe not what you wanted me to." 

Cam waves lazily. "Hi, Yer Majesty." 

"Cam,” Luther hisses. “We talked about this." 

"Oh, fine, fine,” Cam grumbles, and takes a knee to bow low before the king. “I humbly pledge my service to your son,” he intones, hamming it up just a little. “Please allow me to protect him from all harms, and so on." 

The king glares. His stabbing hand is itching. But he doesn’t currently have a better plan, and this’ll keep the peasants quiet for a bit. "Fine,” he spits, “But you’re taking care of him. Feeding him, walking him, cleaning up after him, whatever. No getting the servants to do it for you. He’s your responsibility now." 

Cam grins at Luther. "So, speaking of feeding… when’s dinner?”

[sleepingrenjun]

unravel | ML

A Spooky Collaboration ϟ Myself and @lucaswithnoshirt​ have taken the term ‘trick or treat’ to a new level with this Halloween special collaboration, with each of us writing about Vampire!Mark Lee and incorporating our own trick or treat twist. Who wrote the trick and who wrote the treat? Well, read on to find out… 

Find @lucaswithnoshirt​ ‘s story here! 

Genre ϟ Vampire x vampire hunter AU. Kinda horror, kinda not. Lots of angst, the usual :)

Length ϟ 11.7k 

Pairing ϟ Mark Lee x reader

Warnings ϟ character death (y’all are used to this by now), violence, blood, murder(??), vampires (is this even a necessary warning…?) making out (it gets a lil suggestive but not rly), swearing and a whole lotta angst!

Playlist ϟ unravel playlist

Summary ϟ You want him dead, so why can’t you kill him?

You’ve been watching him for a few days now. Memorising and mapping his movements one lengthy night after another. You’ve never seen his face in great detail; you don’t dare get close enough to allow for that. Not yet. He’s young, that much you’re certain of. If you had to guess you’d say he was in his early twenties – or rather his mortal body was. His immortal being could well have been several hundred years old, although certain habits of his you’d noticed while observing him made him seem somewhat immature, like he was still trying to figure out how to live with his new needs. It’s a shame really, for his mortal life to have been taken from him when he had so much future ahead of him. You’ve no idea how long it’s been since he was turned. He’s only been feeding in this area for a couple of days and before that he’d been lurking near a darkened park on the far side of the city. You didn’t know where he’d been prior to that. 

The sky was an inky blue up above you, the bright light of the moon and all of its stars the only thing illuminating the street that lay before you. He was leaning with his back against a lamppost, looking perfectly composed as he brought a hand up to wipe away some of the blood that was coating the skin around his lips and dripping down his chin. He was a messy eater, you noted. His slightly scruffy jet-black hair draped down his forehead and almost entirely covered his eyes, which you could just make out were glowing a devilish shade of red. You held your breath from your higher-up position, swiftly ducking your head when you saw him sweeping his gut-wrenching gaze over the area you were watching him from. He hadn’t spotted you, fortunately. This is one of the things that led you to believe he hadn’t been turned too long ago – if he’d been an older vampire, more experienced, he would’ve spotted and ended you in less than a second. 

Ordinarily, you’d have made your move fairly early on, the fresher ones were always the easiest after-all, but for some reason you couldn’t quite bring yourself to drive your wooden stake through his chest just yet. He was intriguing, dangerously so. You’d do it soon though; before you got too attached to the routine you’d made for yourself. 

You watched him closely as he took one last pointed look over his shoulder before disappearing within the blink of an eye.

Vampires repulsed you. Your brother had lost his mortal life to the fangs of a blood-thirsty woman when he was just 19. She’d been clever and unsuspicious, luring him in with temptation and deception before drinking the life out of him one gulp at a time. You were young and naïve when it happened; nothing more than a terrified 15-year-old trying her best to keep her breathing to a minimum so as to not notify the creature of her presence. You wanted to shout, to scream at your brother to fight back, but it was too late. 

Ever since then, you vowed to be the glorious end of every vampire you set your fury-filled eyes on; and this young man was the next on your list. 

-

The next night brings nothing much different to the previous. Hours upon hours of standing around and waiting for him to strike, your eyes growing heavy after his second kill of the evening. The unlucky soul had been a sleezy looking man who had to have been nearing 40; his greasy hair and sagging trousers enough to enlighten you on just the kind of person he most likely was, and some twisted part of you thought he almost deserved it when his neck was snapped painfully as the vampire drunk the colour from his skin. Almost. Perhaps that’s the one thing that was keeping you from approaching him, wooden stake in one hand and extermination in the other. His choice of victims was not what you usually observed from a young-looking vampire. 

After another 20 minutes or so, you pinched some skin between your fingertips to try and wake yourself up from the threatening slumber lurking within you, rendering it useless when you stifled a yawn anyway. You flicked your eyes briefly to your wrist, noting that it was now well past 2am.

Casting one last calculating look over to the young vampire who was completely unaware of your presence, you decided to call it a night and head home. You placed your feet one in front of the other as quietly as you could so as to not draw attention to yourself, the action almost second nature to you now, until you were a safe enough distance away that you felt you could tread normally. The air was crisp, prompting you to lift the hood of your fleecy jacket over your head in an attempt to keep warm while simultaneously picking up your pace. It was late October, still technically Autumn but definitely noticeably colder than you wished it was. Leaves had fallen to the ground in a colourful array of oranges, reds and yellows and it made the world look so beautiful that it was dangerously easy to forget about the monsters lurking in the dark. 

You rounded a sharp corner, your eyes dragging along the near-bare looking trees lining the pavement alongside a row of ornate looking town houses. This was a nice part of town, the pristine condition of the properties indicating it was clearly home to some of the wealthier folk. You thought you might like to live somewhere like this someday, a nice big house with no need to worry about noisy neighbours or unpleasant landlords. But as your building came into sight, you were reminded of your tiny one-bed apartment and the constant shouting that you could hear from the people across the hall. 

You were snapped out of your thoughts by the sound of what you thought were footsteps coming up behind you at an inhuman speed, instantly whipping your head around and grabbing the hilt of the weapon hidden on the inside of your jacket. Nothing. You felt a shiver go down your spine, the situation immediately making you feel uneasy. You’d dealt with vampire attacks before and always managed to come out on top, and usually relatively unscathed. You silently told yourself to get yourself in check before turning your head back around, letting out the breath you were holding in when you didn’t see anything suspicious. This was one of the biggest draw backs of your vampire hunting, the constant paranoia, fear, the never-ending feeling that you were being watched or followed; but at least it had managed to keep you alive so far. 

You started walking forwards again, barely making it two steps before a hand wrapped itself around your mouth and another grabbed you by the throat, dragging you away from the light of the main road. 

You struggled to breathe as the unfamiliar hand tightened its grip on your neck, your own hands quickly raising and digging your nails into their ice-cold skin in an attempt to pry the pain away. You felt yourself go rigid when a low voice spoke in your ear, “stop struggling.”

You allowed yourself a small smile, this was perfect. If you could get this man to believe you were weak, feeble even, then he’d be unsuspecting of you. With any luck, he’d let his guard down just enough, giving you the perfect opportunity to strike. 

You let out a whimper, furrowing your quivering eyebrows and forming tears in your eyes. “Please don’t do this.” You hated how small you sounded, but it’s what you needed the man to hear in order for your plan to work. 

The hairs on the back of your neck stood on end as you stilled automatically, your lip quivering ever so slightly under the stranger’s palm. You carefully dropped your hands to your sides, feeling for the blade that was secured tightly in your jacket, hidden from the outside world. 

Despite having control of yourself, you were still aware of the distinct feeling of fear brewing up under your burning skin. No matter how many times you’d managed to slaughter yourself out of situations like this, there would always be a small chance that you would fail, and that thought made you sick. 

“You’re a pretty thing, aren’t you?” The stranger turned you around so that you were facing him, a sick smile on his face as he gazed down at you, fangs visible and eyes darkening to a beautiful shade of red. 

“Bet you’ll taste real sweet.” He dug his fingertips into the sides of your neck slightly before allowing his tongue to swipe over his lips. Had you not been moments away from your bitter end, you would’ve taken more time to admire his unnatural beauty. His cheekbones were sculpted, his silver scruffy hair framing his intricately carved face with a tender delicacy that you did not think someone of his kind deserved. His brows furrowed as he focused on a particular spot on the side of your neck, right by where his thumb was most likely bruising your tender skin.   

“Please, don’t. Please stop, oh god,” you choked out. 

He started lowering himself towards you, and you grabbed your weapon, ready to plunge the blade into anywhere you could reach from your disadvantaged position. 

Suddenly, a voice called out harshly, cutting through the cool air and causing your attacker to faulter for a short moment, thus giving you the perfect opportunity to throw all your energy into shoving him off you, quickly pushing your knife into the spot just beneath his ribcage, drawing it back almost as quickly as it slides in; you couldn’t risk losing your best blade. He cried out in surprise, eyes growing darker and angrier than they had been before. 

“Get away from her,” the new voice snarled. You could see him getting closer from your peripheral vision, but you didn’t dare take your eyes off the rage-filled creature a few mere feet in front of you, clutching at his side with one bloody hand. 

“Fuck off, this one’s mine,” he growled, locking eyes with you. 

“Like hell I am,” you said through gritted teeth, positioning yourself with your knife in a defensive hold, knees bent and ready to spring forward as and when you needed to. 

Your grip on the handle of your knife was turning your knuckles a ghastly shade of white and you could feel bruises beginning to form on your throbbing neck, but you were too focused on trying to get out of this alive to care. The figure in front of you took a threatening step forward, hand no longer clutching his side. He wore a menacing smile on his face even still, despite having been stabbed and interrupted by a stranger who you still didn’t dare turn towards. 

“I thought I told you to get the hell away from her,” the second man called out once more, this time sounding remarkably calm. Unnervingly so. 

“And I thought I told you she was mine?” The vampire before you allowed himself to snap his neck towards the other in anger, his eyes immediately widening in amusement at what he saw, lips curving upwards as he let out a snicker.

“Oh please, give up kid.” He spoke patronisingly. This piqued your curiosity and you risked a glance to the side to see what he was laughing at. You caught a glimpse of a mop of dark hair that seemed to melt into the sky, his stance seeming somewhat familiar to you, but you didn’t have the time to figure out where you knew it from. 

You were pulled back into reality when you felt a pair of hands seize you again harshly, pushing you up against the wall. You felt the faint outline of some sharp fangs touching the surface of the skin, piercing it briefly before he was ripped away from you. Before he could draw even a drop of blood. You allowed yourself a half-second to focus your thoughts. The two were circling eachother like wolves a few feet from you, hunched over. You noticed two sets of red, gleaming eyes. Two vampires, ready to fight to the death just to have a tase of your crimson blood. 

“Move.” You said to the one who had pulled your attacker off you. You’d deal with him later. He looked at you through angry, hooded eyes. He didn’t seem like he planned on listening to a thing you said, so you opted for pushing past him instead. 

It all happened so quickly, although time felt like it slowed as you jumped into the air, reaching for the stake strapped securely against the skin under your shirt with your free hand. A tangle of limbs and hands, stumbling and scratching and pain before your opponent crumpled to the floor with a gaping, bloody hole through his chest. You pulled back, weapon in your trembling hand. Your vision was tunnelled and your hearing somewhat cloudy and ringing as a result of the adrenaline coursing through your entire being at one hundred miles per hour. You were panting as you watched his lifeless body turn a pale grey before he disintegrated, leaving an ashy pile of death where his body had been. 

You touched your fingertips to your cheek, pulling them back to see blood dripping down to your knuckles. You’d have to deal with your scratched-up form when you eventually got back home. You turned back around to see the other vampire still standing there wearing an entirely unreadable expression. You immediately moved yourself to be in a defensive position, fully expecting him to fill his eyes with the fire in his soul and dive straight for you. When he didn’t move or even speak for a few seconds, you stepped closer to him, knife in one hand and stake in the other. Your hair was falling into your eyes and you could feel blood running from your cheek to your lips to your chin. You wiped at the back of your face with the back of your sleeve. You imagined yourself, you probably looked absolutely feral with your hair out of place, tears in your clothes and blood from yourself and one other smearing along the surface of your bruised skin and your ruined jacket. 

“Woah, woah.” He backed up when you stepped closer threateningly, panicked eyes piercing right through you. 

His back hit the brick wall of the alley you’d been dragged into, and he had the audacity to look frightened for a mere millisecond before he corrected himself and went back to holding an unreadable expression. You drove your hand forwards, letting out a noise of frustration when he caught your wrist with little to no effort in one of his larger hands. You did the same with the other hand since you were holding a weapon in each, but it was to no avail, he caught that one too.

“Why are you trying to kill me? I’m trying to help you!” He sounded genuinely surprised and slightly confused.

“We both know that’s a lie.” Your eyes locked onto his challengingly, you could hardly believe this guy. 

“Seriously! I would never-.” He let out a groan of pain, not having noticed you drawing your blade back before driving it into his arm. He shifted away from you.

“Fuck, what is wrong with you?” He tossed the knife from his wound onto the floor a few feet away, clutching his arm with the opposite hand and hissing as he drew it back to reveal his palm, now sticky with blood. 

“What’s wrong with me!? You’re the one who drinks human blood to stay alive!” You seethed, eyes wide and alert as you stared at him. 

“I’m not drinking yours.”

“That’s because I’m not letting you.”

“I’m not trying to hurt you. Stop looking at me like that.” He sounded exasperated and you almost laughed. You’d never met a vampire quite like this before. Usually they were straight to the point; upfront about their intentions to kill you after they’d finished consuming every last drop of your sweet, sweet blood. But not this one, no, he seemed so dead set on earning your trust and getting you to drop your guard just for long enough. 

You allowed yourself a moment to take him in, since he didn’t seem to be in any particular rush, you figured you might as well take your time too. His unkempt raven hair was slightly parted in the middle, falling over his eyebrows and kissing the tops of his cheekbones. His doe-shaped eyes had calmed down, now a deep, warm brown rather than the intense red they had been earlier. His skin was pale, lifeless, you supposed. Literally. His form seemed strong but not built in the way that some were, if you didn’t know any better you could have easily mistaken him for a university student. 

He took a cautious step towards you and you felt your cheeks warm a little at the thought of him noticing your staring. You stood your ground, not wanting him to think you were weak or giving up your fight. 

“If you take one step closer, I’ll kill you,” you said as coldly as you could muster. 

“I believe you, but please don’t.” He was still clutching at his injured arm with a hand. He was currently at a disadvantage, if you could just use this to your��advantage, if you could somehow get close enough to just-

He disappeared before your eyes and you whipped your head around just in time to witness him snatching the stake from your grip. He shifted again so that he was slightly further back from you, holding your stake behind his back and tilting his head to the side mockingly. 

“You know, for someone who supposedly knows what they’re doing, you seem remarkably off-balance.” He dared a smirk, now and inspecting the wooden weapon in his hands. 

“You-”

“These things are deadly, you know. I really thought you might kill me a moment ago,” he chuckled. 

“It would be my pleasure.” You didn’t see the humour in this the way that he seemed to. You were no longer scared, however, mostly frustrated. 

You took a small step towards him, determined to retrieve your stolen weapon, but acutely aware that you were now completely un-armed. This wasn’t a situation you’d ever been in before so you were unsure of how you should proceed. You couldn’t read his next move whatsoever, his expression told you nothing useful other than that he was clearly enjoying this. 

He looked right at you, his expression suddenly serious, his harsh gaze sending chills down your spine, “go home, y/n.”

You widened your eyes. How did he know your name? You don’t recall saying it aloud even once and the deceased vampire certainly hadn’t known it. 

“How’d you know my name?” You voiced with a slight tremor, it was subtle but definitely noticeable, and you cursed yourself for allowing yourself to feel scared. 

He was walking away from you now, his ebony clad body becoming harder and harder to decipher as he disappeared into darkness. He didn’t answer your question, but he did leave your knife on the floor where he had tossed it earlier. You hurriedly grabbed the weapon, checking your surroundings once more to see if he had come back (he hadn’t), before running home and locking your apartment door as soon as you slammed it closed. 

You slept with a blade under your pillow that night. 

-

You didn’t leave your house for the next two days, no trips to get food, no visits from friends, no nightly vampire-watch. Nothing. Partially because you didn’t want to risk anybody asking any questions about the bruises on your neck and the cuts on your skin, but you couldn’t deny the genuine fear that was keeping you at home. You weren’t really sure why you were so affected by the events that happened a couple of nights prior. You’d like to consider yourself a fairly experienced and extremely competent hunter. You’d never left a vampire you came into contact with alive. Alive, if that’s even what you could call them. And now one of them knew your name, what did that mean? Did he know where you lived? Had he been watching you like you were his prey? 

An unexpected knock at your door snapped you out of the thoughts spinning around in your head. It wasn’t late, but it was dark out. You furrowed your brows as you wondered who could be dropping by at this time. You had a few close friends; Yuta, Jungwoo and Taeyong being the ones most likely to pay you a visit, although they usually made a point of shooting you a warning text first, just in case you weren’t around. Yuta hunted vampires like you did, that’s how you met him. He had a pretty face and a fiery personality to match your own. The two of you clicked instantly, bonding over anything and everything you could think to talk about. He soon introduced you to Jungwoo, a soft boy with long legs and a heart of gold, and Taeyong, a striking guy with sharp features and an adorable laugh. The two latter boys assisted Yuta occasionally when he was dealing with a particularly tough vampire, but you preferred to strike alone, so you always rejected their offers to help. You couldn’t think why any of them would turn up at your door now, though.

You padded over to the door, feet clad in fluffy socks and glasses perched on your nose. You opened the door but were met with the sight of a brown paper bag with your name written on it in black marker. You looked both left and right in confusion, settling your gaze back on the brown bag at your feet when you didn’t see anyone at either end of the hallway. 

You picked it up cautiously against your better judgement and scurried back inside quickly. The rational part of your brain was screaming at you to leave the bag outside and not lay a finger on it, but the curious part was itching to take a look, so that’s what you did. You sat down on the wooden floorboards in your living room, legs crossed and scissors in hand. You cut along the seal of the clear tape that was keeping the bag closed and hesitantly tipped its contents out in front of you. Your body stilled for a long moment, your breathing suddenly shallow and your throat dry. Your stake lay before you, still bloody, but yours, nevertheless. You shivered. The mysterious vampire who you were still tearing your hair out over had taken it with him if you remembered correctly. You were sure that your eyes hadn’t been deceiving you and that your memory wasn’t tricking you. Before you could control your own body, you found yourself at the closest window, looking out on the off chance that you would be able to see whoever had delivered the brown paper bag. You knew the chances were slim to none, but you looked anyway. It had to have been him. He somehow knew your name, so it should’ve been obvious that he knew where you lived.

You didn’t know what to make of it. Any of it. You were truly afraid, so why were you so curious about the raven-haired boy who let you live?

-

You managed to coax yourself outside after another day or so of hiding at your apartment. You felt pathetic, hiding away, you didn’t feel like yourself. It didn’t sit well with you, knowing that you’d let something so simple force you to feel emotions you didn’t want to feel. You usually felt a sort of thrill, a buzz of adrenaline. Not fear, never fear. And never interest. Vampires had always repulsed you, disgusted you. Everything that they stood for was wrong and you were here to make things right. You should’ve just killed him when you first had the chance, but you let him get under your skin, where he remained even still, apparently. 

You’d somehow ended up asking to meet Yuta at your usual spot; an old bench that looked out over the river. You were sat with your legs crossed underneath you on the bench, your head tipped back as you enjoyed the way the cold breeze coming off the water skimmed over the skin of your throat and made you feel a little more alive. It was early evening, but the sun was still up, its golden rays shining through the trees on the bank on the opposite side of the river. 

You used to come here to sit and wallow in your own thoughts after your brother died. You found yourself spending a lot of time on your own back then. Your parents were too busy trying to pick up their own pieces to look at you and the mess you had become. You suppose not a lot has changed since then; you don’t speak to them much since they’re still constantly wrapped up in themselves, and you still enjoy your own company for the most part, even if it was unintentionally forced upon you.

It became ‘your spot’ with Yuta on a late summers night not long after you’d started tracking vampires down. You were sat on the same bench with a bleeding shoulder where you’d been pierced deeply by your target’s fingernails. He’d sat with you and helped clean you up, all the while asking you how it had happened before telling you that he hunted vampires too. You’d stuck by eachother ever since.

You were brought out of your thoughts when a familiar hand ruffled your hair out of place and you moved your head to the side to see Yuta sitting down next to you; his body relaxed against the wood as he looked over at you with a small smile. His hair was a brilliant white that fell in wisps over his eyes and against his bronzed skin, a light pink spread across his nose and cheeks from the chill in the air.  

“It’s been a while since we met here, something on your mind?” 

Yuta had a way of always being able to tell when something was bothering you, and he always made a point of asking you about it but never pushing you to talk about it if you didn’t want to. He was a good friend in that regard, probably the best you’d ever had. 

“Have you ever been knocked completely off-kilter by an encounter with a vampire?” You asked, not really sure what asking him would achieve but hoping for something to reassure you that your feelings over the past few days could be justified. You looked out across the water as you asked him, your mind half in the conversation and half clouded by something else. 

The way you asked it had Yuta furrowing his brows as he thought about what to say to you. 

“I mean sure, it’s a pretty scary thing, especially when you’re just starting out.” He breathed out, resting his elbows on his knees and his chin in his hands as he followed your gaze to where the soon-to-be-setting sun was reflecting on the water. 

“I’m not just starting out, though,” you said absent minded-ly.

Yuta remained quiet for a moment, like he was unsure how he should proceed. His hands were fumbling with the sleeve-cuffs of his too-large hoodie but keeping them in place to hold his head up. It was a habit of his that you’d noticed he did when he was thinking or concentrating on something; it made him look soft and warm, despite the harsh interior you knew he possessed when needed.

“Y/n, you know it’s okay to be scared, right? That’s what makes you human-” he paused for a second, flitting his eyes towards you as he turned his head ever so slightly, “that’s the difference between them and us.”

You let out a quiet sigh. You did know that, of course you did. But feeling scared made you feel weak, and that’s the one thing you never wanted to feel again. 

You dropped your head to your hands, trying to squeeze the unpleasant feeling out of your skull. 

“I don’t know why it’s bothering me so much.” Your voice sounded muffled to your own ears as you spoke into the fabric of your jumper that was pressing its warmth onto your face. 

Before Yuta arrived, you were in two-minds about telling him about exactly what had happened the other day, but now that he was a breath away, you couldn’t quite bring yourself to do it. A small part of you worried that perhaps he would be disappointed or even angry with you for letting the vampire get away relatively unscathed, just like you were disappointed and angry with yourself.  

“You’ll get through this, just have faith in yourself,” he offered you a comforting pat on the shoulder.

Have faith in yourself. Have faith in your abilities. That’s what you needed to do.

-

The opportunity for you to prove your competency to yourself arose not even two days later. It was sometime after 10pm and you were on your way to the spot you’d spent most nights lurking before the incident. You rounded a corner, bringing the wall you took shelter behind into view. You made your footsteps lighter on instinct, bending your knees slightly to allow you to do so. 

A crunching from behind you sent a familiar thrill running through you to the very tips of your fingers, gripping your wooden weapon with your dominant hand you allowed yourself a split-second to snap your head around to see what had made the sound. You turned your head back when you caught glimpse of a shady figure disappearing at the sight of you turning around. You felt the temperature drop around you as a flurry of dark colours and pale flesh took shape in the form of a sharp-fanged woman with red hair. She snarled at the sight of the weapon in your hand.

“How cute of you to try and defend yourself,” she called as she took a step in your direction.

You laughed, “I must say, nobody in your position has ever called me cute before.”

“Do not mock me, mortal.”

You pouted at her, agitating her some more. You couldn’t help yourself; the female vampires were always the easiest to rile up. And what’s the point of all this if you can’t have a little fun, right?

She lunged at you at great speed, but you were more agile and therefor ever so slightly quicker. You dodged under her arm and turned around. You were circling eachother. 

“Don’t make this more difficult than it needs to be,” she hissed, glowing eyes filled to the brim with a burning hatred. 

You smirked at her agitation. “I could same the same to you, bloodsucker.”

“You’ll regret messing with me.” Her voice was low and biting, though you were barely even paying attention to what she was saying at this point. 

Her fangs glistened as she ran her tongue over them, most likely in an attempt to try and frighten you. But you were now fully immersed in the headspace you were so used to. You found yourself feeling completely at ease and the memory of the vampire who had spared you and sent you into a downward spiral slipped easily to the back of your mind. 

She darted forwards once more, but she was sloppy, and her body language gave away her movements before she’d even made them. You drove your stake through her chest. She made an unpleasant choking sound as she gasped for air, bloody eyes widening and razor-sharp fingernails grazing your skin before she was reduced to nothing more than a pile of dust. 

You crouched down to pick up the weapon that now lay neatly on the ground before you, a sticky scarlet dripping from its tip as you raised it. You wiped it clean with an old cloth from your inside pocket, standing up tall once more as you did so. You slipped both the cloth and the stake back into your jacket once you were satisfied. 

A slow clapping from a small distance in front of you drew your attention away from the now-clean, deadly piece of wood. A dark figure stood a few feet from you, leaning casually against the wall you usually stand by. 

Despite the midnight-blue that painted the sky, the figure was instantly recognisable; it was the same man that claimed he was trying to help you a few nights ago. The same man who did help you, you supposed. You felt uneasy once more. Something about his very presence seemed to command your attention even when you wished it wouldn’t. 

You had been weak last time. You had let him get under your skin and he hadn’t even tried particularly hard. Tonight would be different, you told yourself. Tonight, you would be strong. 

Still on somewhat of a high from your recent kill, you stalked over to him, pulling your favourite knife out of your jacket and keeping a hand close to the stake you had just sheathed. 

“You know, I’m pretty impressed, that was-” he started, eyes trained on yours. 

You held the knife to his neck. Its sharp blade pressed tightly against his skin, enough to hurt but not enough to break the surface. 

“Shut the hell up. Give me one reason not to kill you right here, right now.” You locked your eyes on him challengingly. 

You could feel his shallow breaths on your cheek, and only then did you realise how close you were. Your body was pressed almost entirely on his, but you didn’t dare back down. You needed to stay in control. 

“Why do you want to kill me in the first place?” He breathed out, speaking shallowly so as to not further irritate the knife against his windpipe. 

“Your very existence is reason enough,” you spat against him, eyes holding whirlpools of anger and pain. 

He was quiet for a long moment, as if he was considering what you’d said. His eyes darted between yours and you swore you could see hurt in them for a second, but it was gone in a flash as they glazed over once more. They were impossibly dark when they weren’t painted crimson, you noted. So dark that you felt like it would be easy to fall into them if the circumstances had been different. 

“I really don’t want to hurt you.” He spoke eventually. 

You hadn’t paid close attention to what his hands were doing when you strode up to him, but a slight movement at your side grabbed your attention and you swiftly glanced down. He was bringing both his hands up, but not to hurt you or lay a hand on you. He was raising them in some sort of surrender. 

You furrowed your brows in question as you brought your eyes back to his. He placed his hands against the wall on either side of his head, vulnerable palms open and facing you. 

“What are you-” 

“I told you I’m not trying to start a fight,” he cut in. His words seemed genuine, and his eyes were filled with truth. Your temples felt dizzy with confusion. 

“Why should I believe you?” 

“I wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t, but I swear it’s the truth.” 

Your knife had drawn the tiniest bead of blood as he spoke and you found yourself feeling bad for having cut him, even if only a little. You pulled the blade an inch, waiting to see if he would move. He didn’t. He stayed right where he was, hands up and gaze trained on yours. If he’d wanted to kill you or hurt you in any way, he would have by now. He’d had plenty of opportunities. And yet here you were, completely unharmed and just a breath away from a man who held the same sickly desire as the very ones you loathed. 

You moved your weapon from his neck, still holding it tightly in one hand just in case it was needed. You took a small step backwards to put some space between the two of you. 

“I don’t understand.” You spoke quietly, your eyes flitting between his and your breath shallow. 

“I noticed you watching me,” he said softly, as if afraid to speak too loudly in fear of shattering the momentary truce between you. 

You parted your lips to speak, but he silenced you by explaining further.

“You stood right here, night after night, yet you never so much as took a step closer. Are you afraid of me?” His voice was low and slightly raspy. 

You didn’t make a noise of complaint when he lowered his aching arms from their position on either side of his head. 

It made sense now. He had seemed familiar the night he’d tried to help you, but you were unable to figure out where you’d seen him since you’d never been that close to him before. Seeing him here, under the familiar, dull streetlamps illuminating the darkness that the clouded, late-night sky brought, you wondered why you hadn’t noticed before. 

You pondered for a moment. Were you afraid? 

You were intrigued. Something had held you back all those nights that you should’ve killed him, something. But what? Fear? No. You weren’t scared of him. You were close enough that you could see wisps of his breath as his heat reacted with the cool autumn air, close enough that you could reach over and touch your hand to his skin, close enough that you should be scared; but somehow, you weren’t. 

You were more scared of yourself than you were of him. You were more terrified of how easily you’d let him get to you, how easily he could get under your skin again if he so desired. 

“I don’t want you to be afraid of me, y/n,” he told you in a whisper.

Your eyes were blown wide and frantic. You felt so small all of a sudden as he looked down at you. You took a step back.

“I’m not.”

He let out a breath, his dark eyes matching yours. He hesitated before lifting his hand up to graze your cheekbone slowly, moving his fingers to tuck a stray piece of hair behind your ear, but you flinched away before he could do so. 

“Seems you are a tad scared, little one,” he chuckled softly. He gestured between the two of you, “this position seems to be becoming a bit of a regular thing, perhaps you-”

“Stop it.” You snapped, hating the feeling of vulnerability that he seemed to put you under. Your cheeks felt hot, much to your horror. 

“Stop what?” He frowned.

“Stop getting in my head.” You paused for a split-second to gauge his reaction. “Stop whatever it is you think you’re doing.” 

The boy had the nerve to look taken aback. 

“I’m not doing anything.” He spoke back to you, “but you feel it too, right?”

“What?”

“That’s why you haven’t really tried to hurt me, isn’t it? You know you could if you really wanted to. You’re strong enough.” His gaze was soft now, eyes trained on yours, but he still made sure to keep the distance you’d put between you.  

“I don’t know why I-” The words fell silent from your mouth as he ran his tongue along his bottom lip. “I don’t- I’m not-” you stuttered out, mortified by your sudden inability to string a sentence together. 

He took a hesitant step closer, leaving nowhere near enough space between your bodies, but still not touching you. His breath tickled your cheek and you found yourself unable to tear your eyes away from his. 

“It’s okay, y/n,” he whispered. 

“I don’t even know your name,” you choked out, and you cursed yourself internally for not being in control of your own voice.

“It’s Mark.”

You repeated his name quietly, a strange feeling brewing up inside of you. His dark locks were falling into his eyes and grazing the tops of his sharp cheekbones. He was attractive, painfully so, and you were having a hard time reminding yourself that he wasn’t human. 

You ripped your gaze off him, kicking half-heartedly at the loose gravel underfoot as you pondered. 

“Was it you who left the paper bag outside my door the other day?” You asked, although you already knew the answer, because who else could it have been? 

He nodded, speaking out a quick “yeah” when he realised that you weren’t looking at him. 

“How did you know where I lived? And how do you know my name?” 

“I told you, I know you’ve been watching me,” he said, cocking his head to the side as though it were obvious, eyes following you as you looked back up at him. 

“That doesn’t explain anything, Mark,” you spoke, putting a slight emphasis on his name as if that would make a difference to his answer. 

“Well who’s to say I haven’t been making my own observations, y/n?” He frowned slightly, his deep voice mocking you lazily. 

“So you’ve been stalking me?” You felt your normally steady hands shaking ever so slightly at the thought of him watching you when you thought you were alone. 

“I was intrigued by you.” 

You didn’t know how to respond to that. You could tell him it was creepy, you could tell him that you didn’t want to see him again and you could turn around and go back home and put this all to the back of your mind – but you would be lying through your clenched teeth. You wanted to slap yourself for feeling the same way he did. Every rational part of you was screaming that he was just trying to lure you in and entice you before drinking you dry, but one tiny part of you seemed to be shouting louder and telling you to believe him and trust him when he said he had no malicious intent. 

And the startling truth of it all was that you were intrigued by him too. 

“Cat got your tongue, little one?” He allowed himself a smirk upon seeing the heat rush to your already slightly rosy cheeks. 

You scoffed and began backing away from him, muttering “I’ll see you around, Mark,” before turning on your heel and beginning the walk back to your apartment building. 

-

You only managed to sleep for a couple of hours that night before a rapid series of knocks on your front door woke you. You sat up slowly, letting the bed covers fall away from your body gently as you rubbed your eyes awake with one hand. You slipped out of bed and tip-toed across the cold floorboards, fumbling your way silently out of your unlit room and towards the front door. Your door was chained so that it would only open a few inches when opened without unchaining it, and given the late hour, you decided it would be sensible to keep it that way. The panicked knocking started again just as you opened the door, barely giving you time to unlock the door before it was being pushed towards you, stopping as the chain reached its limit. You froze as you took in the figure through the cracked open door. 

“Y/n.”

“What are you doing here?” You spoke with your slightly raspy, sleep-ridden voice as you stared wide-eyed at the boy you instantly recognised as Mark. 

“Are you okay?” He sounded alert and slightly out of breath, the rise and fall of his chest noticeable under the black of his button-up shirt. 

“Do you know what time it is, Mark?” A quick glance back at your clock told you that it was just past 3am. Your heartbeat had doubled in speed since seeing him on the other side of your door and you weren’t sure if it was from fear or some sick sort of excitement. 

“Can you let me in?” 

You tightened your grip on the side of the door, your fingers surely turning white from the pressure of your pressing on them. You pursed your lips as you looked at him in contemplation. 

“Please, y/n. I’ll explain I promise, but this is serious.” And because of the sheer desperation in his voice, you nodded and slid the chain to the side and ushered him in, checking the corridor for any more unwanted visitors before closing and locking the door behind him. 

He was standing in the middle of the room when you turned to face him, looking somewhat uncomfortable and unsure of what to do with himself now. You stood and looked at eachother and for a moment it felt like time stopped, like you were caught in an alluring trance for what definitely seemed longer than the five seconds that it really was. 

You prised your gaze away from his and brushed past him to flick a lamp on, illuminating the dark space immediately and casting a warm glow onto his smooth, pale skin. You told him he could sit as you gestured to the sofa and asked him if he wanted anything to drink before remembering what he was, causing you to stutter out a quick “never mind.”

You sat at the opposite end of the sofa to keep as much space between you as possible, crossing your legs and leaning your back against the arm of the sofa so you could face him. He sat with his elbows resting on his knees, resting his left cheek on his hands as he looked over at you. You were suddenly very aware of your sleeping attire and all the skin the lightweight t-shirt and shorts wasn’t covering; you felt heat rise to your cheeks, something that seemed to happen far more around Mark than you wanted it to. You still felt weary of him and from the look in his eyes, he understood your hesitancy, however much he wished you wouldn’t feel that way.  

“I’m sorry for barging in,” he offered. 

“Nobody else has been here, right? Giving you trouble?” He continued when you remained silent after his apology. “You’re really okay?”

“No, nobody’s been here. I’m fine, rather tired though.” You quipped, hoping he’d take the hint that you’d been asleep and were irked at having been woken from your slumber. 

“What’s this all about? Do you go knocking on strangers’ doors at this time often? A hobby of yours, perhaps?” You raised an eyebrow in his direction. 

“There are people after you.” 

You frowned at his grave tone. “People? Who?” 

“Vampires. Friends of the one you slayed earlier who are angry and ready to kill.” 

“I-” 

“You can’t let anybody you don’t trust in here. Not a soul, do you understand?” He interrupted as he turned his body slightly to face you, no longer resting his head in his hand. He looked alert and incredibly serious, and if you didn’t know any better, you’d say he looked entirely exhausted. 

“And I’m supposed to trust you?” You would’ve laughed had he not looked so incredibly tense. 

“Yes.”

You hummed in acknowledgement, turning your head away from him and staring at a slightly dusty patch of floor. The two of you lapsed into silence, and you weren’t sure if you found it comfortable or not. You could feel his eyes on you, watching you intently and trying to read the subtleties in your body language. 

Your eyes widened and you inhaled sharply at the sudden but gentle movement of some loose hair being tucked behind your ear. You slowly moved until your eyes locked on Mark, who was now sat just inches away and looking at you with such tenderness in his gaze that you felt like you might break. 

“I don’t know what it is about you, but I can’t seem to get enough.” His words were whispered and said with care. “I know it doesn’t make any sense because we don’t really know eachother, but it’s like there’s this constant pull and I can’t stop it.” Both hands were now cupping your jaw delicately, and you couldn’t resist moving one of your own to rest on his as he touched his forehead to yours. “I can’t help but want to keep you safe.”

You felt hot all over and lacking any control over your own body, because this was so, so wrong, but what he was saying somehow made some sort of sense to you. Because you felt it too, no matter how much you hated it, no matter how much you wished you could hate him. 

Your eyes fluttered closed at his proximity as he glanced down to your lips, before lifting your chin and bringing his lips to yours for a split second. He had half expected you to slap him or push him away at the very least, but when you did neither he pushed forward once more and kissed you again. 

His kisses were slow and his touch soft as his thumbs gently stroked along your cheeks. He parted his lips on yours, bringing your top lip between his own and swiping his tongue across subtly, encouraging you to let him in. You couldn’t resist him. He felt so cold as his skin pressed up against you, yet so painfully right that you couldn’t will yourself to stop him as he licked into your mouth with a rich sort of passion. He tasted like the best kind of sin and he looked so devilishly handsome that you couldn’t even begin to think about how you’d got yourself into such a situation. 

He moved his hands down to grip at your waist, tracing along the subtle curves of your body as he did so and eliciting a barely-there whine from you. He pulled you closer still, leaning his back against the upright of the sofa and dragging you onto his lap in an effort to make you both more comfortable. You had one arm wrapped around the back of his neck while the other held the cup of his jaw as he continued to place long, messily drawn-out kisses onto your newly swollen lips. Your thighs were parted on top of him and you could feel him slowly guiding your hips down onto the bump that was beginning to form beneath you. He let out a small groan from the back of his throat at the sudden friction he was feeling, and you swallowed it with another open-mouthed kiss before pulling back slightly and looking at him through your heavily lidded eyes. You were both out of breath and staring at eachother with heated gazes, entirely unsure of what had just happened, what was currently happening, and yet neither of you moving to pull back further. You traced the outline of his plump lips with your thumb, pushing the skin up slightly and furrowing your brows when you saw the pointed tip of one of his fangs. 

“I don’t understand how this- I-,” you stopped yourself, not even sure if what you were about to say made any sort of sense. 

“How it feels so right?” You nodded, moving your gaze to the side. You could barely even look at him, you felt so ashamed of yourself for letting him draw you in. 

“Me neither. I’m sorry, I wish things were different,” his voice was quiet. He tipped his head forward so that it was resting just above your chest, wrapping his arms around you tightly and engulfing you in an affectionate hug. You hummed in response, whispering a soft me too before burying your face in his neck and holding him against you firmly. 

He stayed with you that night, kissing you some more before carrying you back to your bedroom and pulling you against him once you were in the comfort of your own bed. You fell asleep with his arms wrapped around you and your head pressed against his cold, silent chest. 

-

Mark was gone by the time you woke the next morning, leaving barely a trace save for the messily written note he’d left on the kitchen counter. 

Stay put today, I’ll visit you tonight – M

You spent your day doing all the things you’d neglected over the past few weeks; you picked up the novel that had been sat, unread, on your bedside table for far too long, and you listened to some old records while doing work around the house. It went by rather quickly really as you busied yourself with one thing after another. 

True to his word, Mark showed up at your house sometime after 10pm. You opened the door and your face immediately dropped at how gaunt his face seemed compared to just last night, not to mention the small, slightly bloody scratches that you could see littering one side of his neck alongside a freshly formed bruise. 

“Wha- What happened?” You stuttered out, concern evident in your voice. 

“It doesn’t matter. Can I come in?” You let him in, leading him to your room this time rather than the living room. 

You sat him on the middle of your bed and placed yourself between his legs so you could inspect his injuries. You held his face with both your hands and tilted him so you could see properly, it wasn’t anything serious but that didn’t stop you from wondering why he wasn’t healing. 

“Will you tell me what happened?” He shook his head dismissively, looking to the side and avoiding your eyes.

“It was just a couple of guys, I managed to get away.” He didn’t want to make a big deal out of it, it was something he was used to dealing with by now. 

“Slayers? Were they after you?” You asked as you stroked your thumb along his cheek softly, tenderly.

He let out a small chuckle, taking both of your hands in his and lowering them from his face until they were resting between you. He lay back on your bed until his head hit the pillow, groaning at the comfort of it. 

“You were trying to kill me too until last night, miss y/n, I trust you haven’t forgotten?” He was smiling and he let his eyes flutter shut as he placed his arms behind his head. He looked so handsome lying there, so normal, so human. 

You allowed yourself a small smile, though it soon fell to a frown once more when you looked at his face. 

“Why do you look so-” you paused, unsure of what word to use. “-sick? I suppose pale isn’t the right term since, well, you know. You look unwell, though.” You felt a little awkward as you sat on the bed staring down at Marks resting figure, should you lie with him? Stay where you were? 

“It’s nothing to worry about.” Was all he offered you, his eyes remaining closed. 

You opted for lying down next to him, hoping that at least offering some kind of physical comfort might make him feel better. Your heart sank slightly when he made no effort to pull you closer. You mentally scolded yourself for caring so much; as he’d reminded you, you’d wanted him dead until not long ago. How could you have become so attached so quickly? 

-

The two of you went through a similar routine for the next few days; you stayed in unless you needed to get food, and he would knock on your door at some time in the night, the time differing slightly each night. He would come in looking tired and a little worse each day, almost always immediately moving to your room to take comfort in the warmth of your bed. You would crawl in beside him, some nights staying on different sides of the bed, and some he would cradle you in his arms and you’d fall asleep like that. He was always gone when you woke up. 

You didn’t do a lot of talking, or rather Mark didn’t seem to want to do a lot of talking. You wondered several times if you’d said something to upset him in some way, but you figured if that was the case, he wouldn’t bother coming to yours night after night as he did. Perhaps he was just a more physical being, finding more warmth in actions than in words. But then why did it seem like he was keeping some kind of distance between you? 

By the fifth night, you’d grown tired of the routine you’d fallen into. You turned in his hold so that you were facing him, letting your eyes drag over his peaceful looking face as he lay with his eyes closed. You whispered his name, touching him gently on his shoulder until he opened his eyes. Now that he was looking at you expectantly, you weren’t really sure what you should say. Your eyes flitted between his as you tried to think of something, anything to break the tension. 

You hesitated for a moment, before leaning into him, closing your eyes and placing your lips on his. It started off slow, and you could tell he was a little taken aback by your sudden urge to kiss him, but he was quick to open his mouth and slip his tongue past your lips, groaning into you when he felt you reciprocate. 

“Shit y/n,” he said breathily.

This is the most you’d had from him since the first night he’d kissed you, and you couldn’t help but feel warm inside at the feeling of his hands on you, his lips on you. He nudged you onto your back, hovering his body over you with one hand by your head and the other rubbing comforting circles on the bare flesh of your stomach where your shirt had ridden up. You kissed until you were both panting heavily, until your lips were bruised, and his hair was roughed-up from your fingers running through it. 

He pulled back, tugging at your bottom lip as he did so, barely even pausing for breath before he was trailing sloppy kisses from your jaw to your neck. You let out a quiet moan at the intimate feeling, curling your legs around his own as he lay between them. You found yourself craving more from him, you were becoming addicted no matter how much you wished you weren’t. It was something you couldn’t seem to control, and you were used to always being in control of your emotions. But Mark was different. He was so hard to resist, so tempting. 

You were brought out of your thoughts by a sharp nip to your neck, followed by a peck to the same spot, and then another nip, harsher than the first. You felt your stomach sink as dread burned its way up your throat. 

“Mark.” You warned, placing your hands on his chest and trying to push him away from your neck. 

“Mark, stop!” He lifted his head suddenly, eyes glowing before he disappeared in a flash and reappeared at the other side of your room. 

“What the fuck was that?” You growled, collecting yourself and standing to the side of the bed in a defensive stance. 

“I’m so sorry.” His eyes had returned to a normal colour, but they were blown wide and he had the nerve to look as shocked as you felt. 

“Fuck, this was a bad idea.” He looked right at you before turning his head in shame. “I should’ve known this would happen.” He was speaking under his breath, but you could still make most of it out. 

You looked down at your hands, which were shaking ever so slightly. He could’ve bitten you. This is why you didn’t ever let your guard down. You should never have been so foolish to truly believe he wasn’t like the others.  

When you looked back to where Mark was, you were met by the sight of him with his head in his hands and his elbows braced against his knees as he sat against the wall. 

“I thought you didn’t want to hurt me?” You snapped, immediately reverting back to the cold demeanour you were so used to, the one that you never should’ve dropped for him. 

“I don’t want to hurt you, y/n.” He raised his voice in frustration, though you didn’t know if he was frustrated with you, or with himself. 

“Then why did you-”

“I thought I could control it,” he was tugging on the ends of his hair, a nervous habit perhaps. “The urges, I mean.”

“Urges?” You questioned.

“You have no idea how hard it is trying to suppress them when I’m around you, y/n. I can hear the blood as it flows through your veins, I can practically feel your heart every time it beats. And God, your scent is utterly divine.” He stood up abruptly to make his way over to you, stopping when he saw your reaction. 

You had backed yourself to the nearest wall, and you had no way of actually defending yourself. If he wanted to, he could overpower you right now. But something about the cautious steps he took told you that he wouldn’t. He didn’t want you to lash out at him, he didn’t want to truly lose you when he’d only just found you. 

You looked closely at his expression. He looked pained, and still scarily gaunt. “What’s wrong with you?” You whispered. 

He remained silent, just staring at you with an unreadable emotion in his deep eyes. 

Your eyes shot up to his when you came to a sudden realisation. “Have you not been feeding? Is that what this is?” 

He froze for a second and took a shallow step back, and then another. He looked nauseous, like he might be sick any minute. You’d hit the nail on the head, it would seem. 

“Answer me, Mark.” Your voice was stern as you made your way towards him, you didn’t want him to back away from this and take the easy way out. 

“Don’t come any closer, please.” He pleaded, his pupils dilated and his eyes hungry. You ignored him and cradled his face in your hands anyway, watching intently as his eyes returned to a devilish shade of crimson. 

“You either fight it or you let me help you.” You instructed him. As much as you wished you could just rid your hands of him like he was any other vampire, you were much too invested now. You cared about him, and you wanted to help him. That had to count for something. 

“You’re torturing me here,” his hands gripped at your wrists and he closed his eyes tightly as a combination of both agony and bliss soared through him. “Y/n, please, this is killing me.” He sounded strained, and you really felt bad for him, but he had to pull through this.

He pressed his forehead against yours and his unblinking, scarlet eyes were filled with a lust you’d not seen from him before, his breathing heavy and uneven. You stood like that for Lord knows how long, staring at eachother. You were feeling too many emotions at once, and you could tell that he was experiencing the same from the subtleties in his body language.  

“I can’t do this.” He shifted away from you once more at an inhuman speed.

You stood for a moment longer before making up your mind and walking to the kitchen, finding a small, sharp knife and carrying it back through to where Mark was. Never in your mortal life did you think you’d find yourself in such a position, and truthfully you were slightly repulsed by what you were about to do, but for the sake of the raven haired boy you’d come to care for so quickly, you’d do it. He looked at the knife in your hand and began backing away, his expression turning to one of confusion when, instead of lunging at him, you brought the knife to your own palm and made a small cut in the centre, letting the blood begin to pool there. 

“No. Stop it.” His tone was firm, but your mind was already made up. 

“It’s yours. Take it.”

“Y/n, I’m serious. Don’t.” He inhaled the metallic scent from across the room, eyes rolling back slightly as the heavenly stench hit him. Nevertheless, his tone remained the same.  

“As am I.” You stood before him, holding your open palm towards him. 

He gulped, and you noticed that his hands were trembling. He looked at you one last time to make sure you weren’t going to try and kill him with the knife you were still holding in your opposite hand, before bringing your blood to his lips. He lapped up each and every drop like he’d never been given something so delightful before, and you had to look away. No matter how much adoration you seemed to hold for the boy, you still hated what he was. He groaned in contentment, squeezing your hand to encourage more blood from the slice you’d made for him. 

You pulled away from him when you thought he’d had enough, and you were beginning to feel ever so slightly lightheaded. He wiped your blood from his lips with the back of his hand. You looked into his eyes, expecting him to say something or perhaps thank you at the very least, but the sight you were met with was not a pretty one. His eyes were reverting back to their normal colour, but he looked furious. 

“You should not have let me do that. Do you have any idea what the fuck you just did?” He raised his voice as he spoke, looking at you like a bull who’d just seen red. 

“It helped didn’t it? You feel better now, don’t you?” You asked. 

“I could’ve killed you, y/n.” You flinched as he loomed over you. “I need to leave.” 

“Wait! Mark, no. We need to talk this out.” You reasoned. Why was he reacting like this after you’d helped him liked that? You’d done the right thing, hadn’t you? You’d stopped him from falling even more ill. 

“Not now. I can’t be near you right now.” He was hurrying through your house to get back to the front door, and you couldn’t deny the hurt that panged painfully in your chest as he spoke. 

“Mark just-”

“I said I need to fucking leave!” He yelled before opening the door and storming out. You stopped momentarily at his outburst, genuinely shocked at his reaction. You had to go after him. If you left this unresolved right now then you might never see him again, and you weren’t sure how you’d cope if it came to that. You followed him out the door, not bothering to lock it behind you, and slipped into a fast jog as you made your way down the stairs of your building to try and catch up with him.

You turned one corner and then another until you saw Yuta standing a few feet from Mark, who had his back to you. 

“Yuta! Don’t hurt him! He’s not like the others.” You shouted over to him swiftly, slightly out of breath from running after Mark. 

He didn’t turn at the sound of your voice. In fact, neither of them moved at all. Yuta was staring at you wide-eyed over Marks shoulder, his empty hands trembling at his sides. 

“Yuta? Mark?” You called, continuing on towards them.

“What’s going-” you stopped yourself short when you got to them, feeling your stomach drop and your knees grow weak. Because stood before you was Mark, clutching at his chest. Or rather, clutching at the bloody stake which was embedded there. 

“No no no no no,” your bottom lip wobbled almost immediately as you took in the sight. “What have you done?” You whispered to no one in particular, though both the boys seemed to hear you. 

Marks legs crumpled and you gripped his arms to try and lower him to the ground more gracefully, falling to the floor with him. You pushed the hair off his forehead and cupped his cheek with one hand, your other immediately moving to apply pressure to the wound without taking the stake out for fear of that making matters worse. 

“Y/n,” he choked out, a little blood falling from his lips as he spoke. 

“I’m here. I’m here, baby” You cooed, tears stinging your eyes as they threatened to fall. He couldn’t leave you like this, not after everything that had happened. “Yuta, do something!” You pleaded, too scared to let your eyes leave the beautiful boy who was bleeding out on the floor. 

“It’s okay, you’re gonna be okay.” You promised him, though it wasn’t really Mark you were trying to reassure. 

“Y/n, thank you,” he sounded pained as he spoke, coughing up a little more blood as you offered him comfort through whispered words and soft touches. “And I’m sorry.” 

Your tears mixed with his as they fell uncontrollably from your eyes. “You have nothing to be sorry for,” you hushed him softly, “I’m the one who should be saying that.” You voiced through your salty tears. 

It didn’t take long after that. It all happened too quickly, really. Mark, the vampire who had managed to prise his way into your icy heart, the boy who had made you feel more in the past week than you’d felt in years; ripped from your grasp at the hands of one of your best friends. 

Within mere seconds he was reduced to nothing more than a shadow of dust once he took his last breath, and your chest hurt in a way you hadn’t experienced since you were a girl, since your brother died. 

“I’m sorry I never got to tell you how much I like you.” You whispered.

[jordanr770-blog]

America Needs Some Talent

 I just needed someplace to write down my thoughts so here we are!

I have been watching America’s Got Talent since season 11 when the ukulele girl won. I personally didn’t vote for her but can understand why she won. Same goes for season 12. I was rooting super hard for Diavolo but can understand why puppet girl won. Season 13 had some of the best acts ever (Shin Lim-winner) and I know a lot of people disliked her, but Courtney Hadwin should have at least  gotten 5th place over sob story “I’m such a good person and I hit my wife” Michael Ketterer. Kodi Lee was the obvious winner of season 14 and I personally thought he deserved it over the other acts. Other people did not think it was well deserved, and that’s ok too.  

Last season we got a spoken word poet in the form of Brandon Leake. I did not enjoy the act AT ALL and was kind of mad that he won, but I will say that even though I did not enjoy him, spoken word poetry is indeed a talent.

Now, you may be thinking that season 16 would be a smidgeon of an improvement over season 15. Talent and reality shows should probably strive to become better every season. But if you thought this show isn’t capable of getting any worse, you haven’t been paying attention because this show will always find ways to disappoint. Last night we were told everyone voted for an INSPIRATIONAL speech giver as the winner. Or I’m sorry, apparently he does magic. His name is Dustin Tavella. But the thing is, he was HORRIBLE at both storytelling AND magic and nowhere near deserved the win. “It was well deserved.” How? How is a kindergarten level “magician” worth a million dollars and a Vegas show? I believe the show in Vegas is about an hour and a half and I am curious as to what is he going to do in that timeframe? Talk about how the folks living in Vegas are living in sin while simultaneously throwing paper in the air MAGICALLY? I’m sure the audience will go wild over that. Or maybe during all of his shows he will adopt a kid a day from different countries and then spend about an hour talking about Little ZimZam’s harsh life and while he’s babbling  he’ll be semi incorporating his poor magic skills into the act in the last minute so the poster stating he’s a magician didn’t TECHNICALLY lie so nobody is getting their money back. I really don’t know. I have a lot of thoughts. 

Plus, his sob story just did nothing for me whatsoever. Good for you for adapting 11 children, unless it has to do with whatever your act is, shut the hell up and do the trick! Not once did this guy impress  or give even the best of a performance of the night. It was always 8+ minutes of “inspiration” and tirades about how we as a society need to be good to one another whilst doing crappy magic. Let me tell you, I know next to nothing about magic but even I could tell he was a less than stellar magician. Even calling him a magician is somewhat laughable. In reality he's a motivational speaker who does terrible magic tricks and  who always somehow manages to suck at said terrible magic but America apparently doesn’t notice him screwing up his terrible magic because he’s too busy telling them to look at a crumpled up piece of paper or a ladder or the new photograph of his adopted son who has an extra eyeball or whatever. It’s stupid.

Last night for his final performance Dustin’s act was, and I kid you not, telling us all to be nice. FOR SEVEN UNNECESSARY MINUTES. And I do believe he started to fake cry. Dude, you’re acting is about as good as Heidi Klum’s. You can't act and you can barely do magic. Why are you here? What is your talent? Did he really join a talent show to become some type of inspirational God of obvious wisdom? If that’s the case, he should have gone and done a Ted Talk, many less victims of mediocrity that way. America somehow  put him in the top 5 with actually talented people? I think not. The act itself was not impressive and he did the same thing every time, just told a different sob story. If you have to rely on a sad story to win, you don’t deserve to win a show where talent is the main objective. 

In case my last few paragraphs were not made abundantly clear, I am not a fan of this dude. At all. I read a comment which stated that a message is not a talent and whoever said that is 100% correct and summed up my feelings pretty accurately. I'm not a fan or boring and basic tricks combined with even worse stories. He's the living embodiment of a motivational meme and anyone who voted for this guy is  gullible and can fight me. Maybe people “voted” for him because he attempted to pull on the heartstrings? But because I sold my heart long ago his act didn’t effect me as much. /s But I swear every year they make it more clear that the entire show is rigged. 

Well, maybe the voting ISN’T rigged entirely and all the boomers  (first time I’ve ever used that term) and antivaxxers and easily swayed by sob story people on Twitter and Facebook voted for him. Doubtful, but you never know. HE WAS SO FREAKING BAD!!!

We are all allowed to have opinions and just because you don’t agree with me that doesn’t mean I am an awful person who deserves DEATH. I keep getting responses and messages on Twitter from angry folk who are calling me heartless because I questioned WHY they voted for him. “Well, IIIII gave Dustin all 10 of my votes!” That’s nice Karen. That is also not an answer and I cannot stress enough how much I do not care that you voted for the phony used cars salesman. Go tell your Prince from Nigeria all about it. Another guy got mad and reported me for “yelling at strangers.” Which is kind of a typical thing people do on Twitter. And I wasn’t even yelling! Lol. 

And another point I’d like to make (about this and  in general) is people really need to stop using the terms “all of us” and the word “we.” I am my own person and you do not get to speak for me. 

“We were all crying when we saw him perform!” - No WE most certainly weren’t. I was seething with anger, yes. Crying? Not even close.

“His magic touched all of our hearts!” WHAT MAGIC? WHERE WAS THE MAGIC IN THIS MANS ENTIRE ACT? I MUST HAVE MISSED IT AFTER I PASSED OUT FROM HIS 7 MINUTE LONG STORY ABOUT HIS BORING LIFE. 

His win was a complete insult.

* I personally voted for Aidan Bryant, but I really wanted Unicircle Flow to win before they got kicked off due to the judges having a tendency to suck at picking during judges choice. *

Edit: I apologize if this wasn’t articulated very well or if it seems I basically said the same thing over and over. To be fair it was 3 am when I wrote this and I was still irritated and questioning everything. Still doesn’t excuse the fact that this guy was lame and doesn’t deserve a Vegas show. My mom told me earlier today that people on the Internet are mad about his win and that it’s not fair to take it out on the guy, which I suppose is kind of true. Not exactly his fault the general public has failed and shown their stupidity yet again. If anyone is to blame it is the people who actually voted for this doofus. And AGT. And yeah, I guess I will blame him as well. But I’m not saying go to his Twitter or Instagram or whatever and call him out for being a con artist and bully him. 

I think the MESSAGE =P I’m trying to display here  is that someone has no business being on a talent show unless they have talent; self explanatory. A message isn’t talent. Being a narcissist isn’t talent. Exploiting your kids and wife isn’t talent. Speaking can be a talent (comedy, that poetry guy, acting, improv, probably a lot of other stuff I’m forgetting about) but one shouldn’t call themselves a magician if one is really a way less cool garage sale version of Talky Tina. Magic IS talent but if you want a million dollars you better have skills that are on par or better than the professionals. 

[ohshitmyship]

Director’s Cut of The Party (Parts I&II) from How to Fake-Date a Pro Hero; A Guide by Dabi and Hawks

“so I wanted to start off by thanking @scarlet99 for asking me to do this commentary. It’s a bit long so I’ll put it below the cut! Also, my fic can be found here!

ok SO first off: I like, had no idea where this party was gonna go when I first started the chapter. Originally, my plan was to have Dabi get bored and get everyone drunk, THEN it was to tell it from his perspective and that would be based off the song “Stuck” by Caro Emerald (a lot of her songs from the album Deleted Scenes from the Cutting Room Floor make me think of this fic)

I have no idea HOW, but I somehow settled on the idea of Ikki creating more drama and I really really liked it

as SOON as I thought about their costumes, I knew it had to be Icarus/Apollo bc y’know. Wings/fire. Dabi’s costume was tough bc he doesn’t like showing too much skin, but Apollo is historically a slut

Also for Miruko’s costume, I really liked her as the White Rabbit from Alice in Wonderland and I was gonna have Remi be dressed up as Alice, but I just kinda forgot to say it and by the time I remembered, I couldn’t find a natural spot for it

OH MY GOD OKAY so I’ve been meaning to talk about this for a while, but it is SO HARD to try and write Dabi and Hawks in character bc this story is so fucking far from canon and they don’t have much spoken dialogue so far in the anime. Like, my trick to keep folks in character is to picture their voices saying the words I write. If I can’t picture it, it’s not in character. But I can’t really do that bc Dabi isn’t a murderous psychopath and Hawks isn’t walking on eggshells so he doesn’t get burnt to death – at least in this universe. Like, Canon Dabi would never go to a party like this, but FakeDate! Dabi would, and it’s really hard to find a balance between fanon and canon

ok rant over

I knew I wanted Natsuo to be Jack Frost, and when I wrote the scene I thought it would be cool if someone’s quirk made them look like Toothiana from Rise of the Guardians, so it just. Happened. I always wanted Natsuo to hook up at the party tho

also I forgot that Natsuo is only 20 so this technically takes place in Year 2 of Canon events, and Hachidori is 23

“We’ll leave you to it” is a Hamilton reference

I LOVE WRITING IKKI IT’S SO MUCH FUN

he’s such a dumbass and so manipulative I just really enjoy writing any conflict involving him. Especially since Dabi is just such a bad match-up for him. Like, Hawks has to watch what he says bc media exposure is a big part of his career, but Dabi is pretty much a nobody and likes it that way, so Ikki can’t hurt him

ok so the end scene where Miruko finds them making out – I was debating on who would walk in: Miruko or Ikki. I almost made it Ikki, but it didn’t make sense narratively speaking so I changed it to Miruko, partially bc it would be hilarious

OK Part II

so when I first started writing Part I, I was debating a staged kiss. One of two things would’ve happened: either Ikki managed to kiss Dabi in front of Hawks and Hawks would be hurt but pissed at Ikki, OR, Ikki would kiss Hawks and Dabi would be pissed at Ikki. However, I couldn’t find a way to write a staged kiss scene without it being annoying, and I kept wondering what I was gonna do. About halfway through Part I, I knew I wanted Dabi and Ikki to get into a fight and for Ikki to throw Dabi off the building, and Hawks would catch him

Ok so I really like Dabi and Natsuo’s relationship.Their whole conversation on the balcony was meant to be a pep-talk / confession. It’s also a way of me kinda explaining how Dabi deals with all the sudden popularity – I always saw him as the kinda guy that didn’t really care if random people liked him. If he liked you and you liked him, then it’s fine.

“I’ll wait as long as it takes for him to meet me at his own pace. He’s worth it.”

I worked so hard on this line and I’m lowkey disappointed that no one seemed to notice it much, but I get why – I mean, I did throw Dabi off the building

I LOVE THE IDEA OF IKKI GENUINELY THINKING DABI IS FLIRTING WITH HIM BC HE’S A DUMBASS ITS SO FUNNY TO ME

also Dabi would not hesitate to start shit if it were ANYONE else’s party. Like idk how clear I made it that Dabi wanted to kick Ikki’s ass, not caring who saw – but he cares enough about Hawks to put his own anger aside, which is like, a huge thing for Dabi

ok so the whole confrontation scene was hard to write but I REALLY enjoyed it bc I felt like it was a good way to expose how Hawks went through life vs Dabi. Like, because Hawks is so high up on the social ladder, he’s gotta perform for everyone and everyone uses him – even other elites. It’s sorta like a farmer marrying royalty, it IMMEDIATELY elevates your status. Hawks can date whomever he wants bc he’s climbed as high as he possibly can; heroes are the pinacle of their society, he’s the second most powerful hero in Japan and the most well-liked. Hawks is basically untouchable, and a great ticket to the top

also, I feel like a lot of people think that Dabi is only dating Hawks for his own personal means because that’s just the world so many of the elites live in, they can’t comprehend true compassion bc their life is just so glamourous

I LOVED WRITING THE FALLING SCENE I HAD BEEN WAITING TO DO THAT

also YES the Icarus imagery is on purpose

I didn’t get a chance to mention this in the fic, but Dabi knew he was staying at Hawks’ overnight (he has his own toothrbush and set of clothes there) and Natsuo was hoping to go home with one of the socialites, and he did

OK THIS WAS POINTED OUT THAT WHEN HAWKS KISSES DABI I FORGOT TO MENTION IT WAS ON THE CHEEK BC DABI JUST PUKED HIS GUTS OUT

So as for the end of the chapter, I knew that I wanted Dabi to be like, head over heels in love with Hawks.When Hawks rescues him and then takes great care to shield him from the rest of the party, I think Dabi realizes how kind at heart Hawks is, and he knows that he could search the world over and never find anyone similar

Ok so I think that’s it!!! Thanks again @scarlet99 for asking me to do this, it was alot of fun!!! I have a lot of other thoughts regarding my chapters lol, so feel free to ask again

[space-blue]

A High Magic

The theme being pure dialogue, I did not bother with tags. This is my 8th competition win.

You've always known what you wanted to do then, and that's really admirable. In my case at six I wanted to be a vet, as one does, but by eight I'd caught on enough to want to be a firefighter. You know, helping people and stuff. Intervening. At eleven I had made up my mind that I would become a guru. Seemed to me if I were successful, it'd be the best way to have people take proper care of their dead. Change their habits at the root, the core of their convictions.

It wouldn't have changed the way the masses behave. The world is just too big.

Well, I had to believe, right? Plus everything is interconnected these days, word goes round, people follow trends. Could have made my cult all online and reach people everywhere, even abroad.

I suppose... How did that work out?

I never got around to even try. I don't think it would have been that great a success if people knew the origin of my abilities.

Is it so? I find that surprising! Surely it still is impressive no matter what sparks it?

Most people just pitied me. The folks at the evaluation office did too. Listened to me describe all the ghosts, and what I'd come to understand of hauntings, and why the ghosts always ended up following me around in the end, and they nodded and said how it was quite rare to have magic coming out before eight. You know that gramps, don't you? Earliest magics to manifest are the elemental ones–

Fire, air, water...

Yes, and that's 'cause they take no imagination. Anything more complex and the kid needs to have some understanding of higher concepts. It worried my parents a lot, that concept thing. How I got to see ghosts when as far as they knew I didn't know what death was and never did come home with a dead animal and questions. Least of all seen a dead person.

So they just labelled you with a higher, or spiritual magic and left it at that? Surely people saw the value in that at least? Did no one want to investigate?

Not really. Like I said, it spooked people. My assigned magic counsellor drafted a few career paths for me, spiritual re-connector, grief counsellor, Voodoo witch, whathaveyou. He didn't understand! Everyone just assumed I got to see these ghosts if I wanted to. Everybody with magics, small and big, even feral magics, they get to control when they use it. Dead people, they don't work like that. They're there, following their victim of choice, the person they latched on to, and then they notice me seeing them, and that's it! They jump wagon. Because you see, ghosts are just attention seekers! They have to have it! Talking to them is like bacon down a dog's gullet. Makes them follow you loyally. If you see them, and you react to the stuff they do, they're in attention heaven! Some will even just start reciting their entire lives at you, bitch and moan and groan, it's a nightmare.

I guess, you being dead, as everyone around just ignores you... Even the people dear to you, it's quite hard on the mind.

Gramps, do you know how ghosts are made?

Mmmh... Not really? I have my ideas, monks at my temple do too, every culture thought about what happens to the spirit after death. But I'm sure, considering you're the expert...

Right, I don't though. Nobody really does. Here's my educated guess : They're born of people's attention to begin with. People can't get over the death, they rehash it, might have trauma, dreams, they call out to their dead ones, and that makes their essence–whatever ghosts are made of–stick around. They can then coalesce into whatever makes the flavour of ghost they end up as, depending on their own regrets and emotions and drives. They're kept here by that anxious maelstrom of emotion, and form based on their own worst traits. It's a bad mix. So they'd come to me alright, scare the shit out of me and persecute me, right until the day I figured out that you could make them leave!

Hah! How did that happen?

Was at one of my favourite joints. Mikwa kitchen, run by a couple, maybe five tables–didn't matter, food was from heaven's own canteen. Always got the same damn thing, never got tired of it.

I understand. I was the same with corn dogs. Corn dogs never got old, even if I did.

You know what it's like then, long week, tired, tough time at school, girlfriend getting all in my face about my magic being unmanageable... It was a Friday and I was needing my dose of Mikwan to just–

Relax.

Damn right. Anyway. I'm right outside waiting for my take away to be done, and she drops right out of the tree I'm leaning on! Rope around her neck, face all purple, eyes... You get the idea. She starts screaming at me, and man, it was just too much! So I screamed right back at her! "Fuck you, bitch! You don't fucking get to ruin my Mikwan fucking meal. I don't care about your sad shit story, go haunt somebody who gives a shit!"

Ahaha! That's very colourful, young man, but don't yell so–here, let me top up that glass of yours. Go on–what happened?

It worked. She tried to drop out of two more trees on my way back home, walked right past her, cussing but not giving her a glance, and she gave up. Shortest haunting I had had my whole life.

How old were you?

That day? Twenty.

Mmmh, it must have felt like a long time coming. Did you not try to see a soother?

I did. Biggest shock of my life, that.

Did it not work?

That's just the thing! I went a year after the tree lady. I'd managed to find ways to cope by then, but I couldn't believe I struggled this much still with my magic. It just didn't seem worth it, to keep it. So I go to that well recommended soother. With a high cancelling magic. Could erase abilities down flat. Had to save for four months for that appointment. Dude sits me down, grills me about my reasons for being here, and at least he was agreeing with me! Asked if I had consulted with someone to help "master" my magic first. Told him I plain didn't want it. Nothing wrong with having no magic.

Quite true. Never had a shade of ability myself, hasn't stopped me from being happy.

I didn't picture you as magicless somehow, gramps! I thought you'd have a trick like curling up moustaches or something! Hah! Anyway, man puts his hands on me, frowns...

Oh?

Says I don't have a magic at all.

Whaaa–

I know! And he was adamant. Just nothing there for him to remove! He even refused to charge me. It struck me then. In the eval office, they don't touch you. I mean, not for check ups like mine. First they listen to what you can do, or look if you can show. If you fit in a category, that's all there is to it. Only those with big potentials get appointments with staff with abilities. I never saw one. Lady never touched me, she probably had no magic to be able to tell anyway. What I described to her sounded like a pesky magic that would feed a psychiatrist for years, and nothing more. So they never checked. And then you know how it goes: at school, during civic duties, in the army, they ask but unless you make a big splash, nobody sends you to a Senser, or anyone who can tell for sure...

So you spent your whole life thinking you had a higher magic, when in fact you had...

Nothing. Nothing anyone recognised, at least.

That has to have been a shock.

Tell me about it.

But then, what is it?

That soother called a senser friend of his and sent me in for a free appointment. She too said there was nothing there at all. She was fantastic. Marta Balbin, we're still in touch, she's great. Anyway, she tagged with me in search of a ghost we could squeeze for some good intel that their relatives would validate, to prove I did see stuff for real, you know?

Did you show her how cussing at ghosts makes them go away?

Aha, I wish! But no, that's not quite how it works. With tree lady I got lucky. What you need to do is press their buttons, scratch their itch, tell them what they need to hear. Making them leave requires you to interact with them somehow, and I'd spent two decades avoiding that as much as I could.

Ah, I see, each ghost needs their own special interaction in order to be able to move on?

Precisely.

And so she believed you?

Oh yes, and finally helped me meet with a person with answers for me!

How exciting! Pray tell, young lad, tell me what it is!

She introduced me to the high priest of Enmu, in the capital's temple.

The God of the Netherworld? I suppose it makes sense to ask them.

Prepare yourself to be blown away : it turns out I was dead at birth, for two whole minutes the doctors worked on me, and I eventually breathed. Apparently though as a newborn I'd had no sins to weigh and I had already been given a rank in the Great City. So when I was brought back... I was an official of the Great City.

A foot in life and a foot in the Netherworld? Is this even possible?

High priest was the same! All Enmu high priests are! Apparently outside of ceremonies they spend their time putting ghosts at rest.

That is incredible! How can such a secret be so well guarded?

There are only a dozen people like this in the country, so it's not too hard. They'd have found me sooner, if the magics office had done their job properly and not discounted me as a minor seer or medium.

So are you one of them now? A high priest of Enmu? Working for a God?

Precisely.

And you work with ghosts?

What do you think we're doing here, gramps?

I– What?

You're Jeremya Mikkels, an archaeologist deceased at the ripe old age of eighty-eight, you wrote books on ancient civilisations until the bitter end, didn't you? You loved digging up secrets.

Yes–I... I did.

And I just gave you a great secret. A truth you never knew in your living days. Exactly what you'd been craving. You've regretted not digging up more, haven't you? Well, now you can take this very rare knowledge with you to the Great City.

I can? Yes it's... Yes, I suppose I can.

Leave us with no regrets my friend. Times have changed for me too, I enjoyed our chat, a lot more than if I'd met you fifteen years ago!

I would have haunted you...

And I wouldn't have had anything to say to satisfy you. But now, you can go in peace gramps.

Thank you, lad. I can see it and... it means a lot. I'll bring good word of you.

And I'll seek you out in the next life. We shall talk again, and I will bring you more secrets of this world. Now be gone, Jeremya Mikkels. Cross under Enmu's obsidian gate without regrets.

~~ August 2020 – Theme : Pure Dialogue

[redditnosleep]

Two Facts You Should Probably Know

by DoubleDoorBastard

Here are two facts you should probably know:

Fact the first: When a human being is driven into a corner, you should never underestimate the levels of stupid and dangerous they will resort to in order to escape.

Fact the second: If a deal seems too good to be true, it is.

Normally, I wouldn't be the kind of guy you should be taking advice from. If I wrote an autobiography, it'd be called "Jesus Wept." But in this very specific instance, I have some valuable experience. It started, as most tragic stories tend to, with a series of short-sighted mistakes.

About a decade or so back, I was a few years out of college and trying to build a life for myself. I was single, educated, and driven - all the qualities someone needs to succeed in life. Well, not the "single" part, but you get the idea. I had prospects, some real potential - but, like Oscar Wilde once said, I can resist anything except temptation.

Yeah. I was an English major.

I didn't get hooked on meth or porn or anything like that. No, my vice was the thrill of chance. Gambling was the greatest rush I'd ever experienced - just giving up control, letting the gods of probability and randomness decide your fate. I got hooked, kept going to those damn casinos night after night. Looking back, I was naive, I was foolish. It'd take an idiot, blinded by a lust for sensation, to not realise another crucial fact: the house always - I repeat, always - wins.

To make a long, painful story short, at the tender age of 24 the local pit bosses had taken me for all I was worth and then some. As a result, I was indebted to some unsavoury characters who were not all that keen on giving me some leeway on the money I owed them. I managed to pull together just shy of a hundred dollars in a week doing odd jobs, but that was a fraction of a fraction of what I was in for.

At the time, it seemed like a better idea to just piss away what money I had at a local bar rather than carrying on my sad little exercise in futility. So that's exactly what I did, and by virtue of a few gallons of the cheapest spirits you can possibly imagine, I can't remember a great deal of what happened after that.

Next thing I know, I'm waking up in a puddle behind the bar, having been turfed out for making an ass of myself. The electric buzz of the neon signs above my head felt like I was taking a power drill to the frontal lobe, while the cold, filthy water below my face helped to sober me up a smidgen. Just enough to make me aware.

It was right then, in my lowest possible moment, that I met him.

"Hey there, buddy," He said, his voice pleasantly cheerful and melodic, "You look like you need a helping hand. Thankfully, I've got two."

There was a gentle tug on both of my shoulders, pulling me upright. He leaned me against a wall; I could finally take a better look at him.

To begin with, I wondered if I was hallucinating. He seemed so strange, so out of place.

My Good Samaritan was about six and a half feet tall, but he was built like a pack of uncooked spaghetti. A long, lean, string bean of a man. That being said, the black-and-white pinstripe suit he was wearing still somehow managed to be form-fitting, like it was just painted directly onto a featureless body. Above his collar - fastened to the top button and held in place by a large and ugly bow-tie - sat a pale, grinning head with black hair parted in the middle.

Truth be told, my initial thought after properly taking in the sight of him was as follows: holy shit, I died in that puddle, and this is death himself come to collect my pathetic soul. Sadly, that was not the case, I was, in fact, still alive.

"There we are, pal, that's a lot better, isn't it?" He said, kneeling down on his long, rail-thin legs to look me in the eye, "We'll have you feeling like a million bucks in no time. Never fear!"

While back then I just assumed that it was my drunken mind playing tricks on me, I remember his eyes seeming strangely...yellowish. They had a kind of jaundiced sheen to them, like sclera and iris just melted together into a single, formless mass. Eyes like goddamn egg yolks.

"It's always such a shame to catch folks in a pickle, such a shame," He said, largely to himself, I think, "Whatever happened to helping people out, you know? It's a good feeling."

"Who are you?" I managed to choke out.

The kind stranger smiled and turned his sulphuric eyes towards me.

"You're asking the wrong person there, amigo, I'd tell you if I knew. Honest!" He replied with a laugh, "What's your name, though?"

"Nate," I said, wondering if I was about to vomit or not, "Nate Wilson."

"Oh my god, that's such an awesome name!" The stranger said, as the sudden explosion of interest on his face told me that he wasn't faking his misplaced enthusiasm, "Nate Wilson. It has a ring to it, don't you think? God, what a great name. You're a lucky guy, Nate. Lucky to have such a great name."

"Uhh, thanks, I guess."

There was a long, awkward silence after that. I sure as hell didn't know what to say, and the stranger seemed more than content to just stand there and stare at me, grinning like a freak. It felt like it was my responsibility to break that irritating silence.

"Look, I really appreciate you helping me, buddy..." I began.

"Wait, you consider us buddies?" He asked. His tone was, at that stage, ambiguous.

"I mean, you saved me from breathing alley-water, so I guess so, yeah."

This might seem hard to believe, because I definitely didn't believe it at the time, but the stranger literally jumped up into the air and whooped loudly. A grown man, behind a dive bar, doing that. It was like something out of a strange dream that your one boring friend always wants to tell you about.

"This is fantastic!" He said, grinning ear to ear like he'd just won the fucking lottery, "It's so wonderful to make new friends!"

He extended a spindly arm towards me, his hand open and his spidery fingers outstretched.

"Put her there, friendo." He said.

And because that night wasn't weird enough already, you better believe I did.

"That's what I'm talking about," He said with another childish cackle, pulling me to my feet with disarming levels of strength, "Through the power of friendship, anything is possible."

Sure, he may have spoken like his only experience with the outside world was watching Saturday morning cartoons, but he seemed innocent enough. A benign weirdo, just trying to help people along his way. Though I must admit, the fact he was reluctant to tell me his name was somewhat of a red flag for me.

"Now, I'm going to be completely honest with you, Nate," He began, his amber gaze turned downwards in what might have been embarrassment, "There was a reason I followed you out here. It wasn't just a stroke of good luck."

My heart immediately sank. I knew he was too good to be true - this was when he stabbed me, cut me up, wore my skin as a suit and turned the rest of me into a makeshift lasagna. Nobody was ever that happy at that hour of the night if they had all their psychological ducks in a row.

"Well, if you're being honest," I said, swaying on my feet, still too drunk to defend myself, "Would that reason happen to be my murder?"

He seemed shocked at first, then began to laugh.

"Do you think a murderer would be this friendly?" He asked.

"Molestation, then?"

"Jesus, no way, Nate. You're a good-looking guy, don't get me wrong, but you're not really my type."

"Then what does a guy like you have to do with a guy like me?" I asked, the needle on my internal emotive scale creeping from 'curious' to 'irritated.'

"Well..."

He paused again, as though searching for the proper words. He was looking at everything but me.

"The bar," He finally said, "How much of what happened in there do you remember?"

"Somewhere in the margin of nothing, I think." I said, now leaning against the wall for support.

"You were talking to the bartender. Loudly," He said, bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet, "I wasn't eavesdropping, not at all, I just happened to overhear. You were talking about some kind of...money troubles."

I'd almost forgotten about them myself, but the second he said it, all the memories came barreling into me like some nauseating tidal wave. I'd ranted and raved, screamed at the top of my lungs. Debt. Debt. Debt. I got belligerent when I felt they weren't showing me enough sympathy, and when I got belligerent, I was rightly thrown out on my inebriated ass.

"Oh, don't worry about those," I said, my cheeks reddening with shame, "That's not your problem. I'll deal with it."

"But Nate, you didn't sound like you could deal with it."

"What the hell is it to you?" I snapped back.

The stranger stopped talking, and began reaching into his jacket. I got a sudden flash of paranoia that he worked for one of the casinos, and he was going to put a bullet between my eyes.

"You're my best friend, Nate," He said, "And friends are meant to help each other out of sticky situations, aren't they?"

He produced a stack of bills from a pocket inside his suit, and passed it over to me.

"Will this be enough?" He asked.

It was at this point that I was most open to the idea of this all being some crazy dream. With the ferocity of a madman, I quickly counted the money this total stranger, calling me his best friend, had handed to me.

Twenty-fucking-grand. It could bail me out, and then some.

"Holy shit," I said, though I can't remember if it was out loud or in my head, "I...I can't possibly accept this."

"Please do," He said with another ear-to-ear grin, "You need it an awful lot more than I do."

A sober me might have been too proud to indulge him, but - funnily enough - drunk me had a far more realistic take on my level of desperation. I was a desperate, desperate man, trapped in a corner.

Fact the first: When a human being is driven into a corner, you should never underestimate the levels of stupid and dangerous they will resort to in order to escape.

"But why?" Was the only question I could summon.

He smiled and shrugged.

"Because I like you," He said, "And I like helping people."

"But you've only just met me."

"So what? A friend is a friend is a friend. Why overthink it?"

I collapsed back against the wall, holding the stranger's twenty grand. It was a way out of my dire situation.

"I'll pay you back. Every penny, with fucking interest, I swear to god." I said.

The stranger laughed.

"No need. I've got no shortage of money. Just take it and bail yourself out, okay? Then promise me you'll stop gambling."

There were big, swollen tears running down my burning cheeks. The stranger's kindness was baffling, but it was the most beautiful thing I'd ever experienced. He was a true Saint in flesh and blood.

"I'll never gamble another penny." I said.

Without another word, I lunged forward and hugged him. A long, warm, tight embrace. By the end, I could feel his emaciated limbs wrapped across my back.

"Thank you so much." I whispered, my tears dripping onto the shoulder of his suit.

"What are friends for, right?"

When I finally prized myself off of him, I just couldn't stop laughing - it was nerves, probably. The stranger watched me, a kind of eccentric joy burning in his big, yellow eyes. He seemed to like just observing.

"Oh, one more thing," He said, reaching into his jacket again, "A little something I wrote up in the bar, just to help you out."

He passed me a piece of paper, folded into the size of a pamphlet. I didn't even think to check it at the time, I just shoved it into the pocket of my filthy coat and carried on thanking him. I needed that money, lord knows I did, but I couldn't just take it without giving something in return.

"There must be something you want, man," I pleaded, palms open in deference to his generosity, "Anything. I owe you my life, man, you just name your price. I can't thank you enough."

The stranger grinned and stroked his narrow chin in contemplation.

"Now that's an irresistible offer," He said, almost jokingly, "You drive a hard bargain, Mr. Wilson. Leave it with me, okay? I'm sure I'll think of something."

He began walking away after that, whistling - of all things - "Sunshine, Lollipops and Rainbows" as he did so.

Now I was laughing again. Half out of giddiness, half in acknowledgement of the sheer strangeness of the events transpiring around me. Right then, as I sat outside a shitty bar, covered in dirty water, my own tears, and more than a little puke, I was the luckiest human being on the planet,

"What do you give to the man who has everything?" I said aloud.

The stranger looked over his shoulder at me one more time, his odd eyes meeting mine.

"Almost everything, Nate," He corrected, "Almost everything."

And just like that, the stranger was gone. Almost funny, isn't it? How someone like that can have such a profound impact on your life, then just up and disappear just as quickly. Like a comet, just trailing past. You only catch its light for a brief instant, then it's dark again.

Using the stranger's money, I paid off my gambling debts in full, and still had a little left over. I swore to stick to my promise, for my own sake and his. In the ten years that've passed since that day, I haven't gambled a cent.

Once I was all square with the house, I finally took a moment to check the piece of paper that he'd left me with. At first I only sort of skimmed it, and it didn't make a great deal of sense to me: just a list of dates from 2007 to 2017, each accompanied by a sentence fragment. It was only when I sat down and took a long, hard look at what those fragments actually were that I realised the stranger couldn't possibly have been human.

No, he was so much more than that.

It was a list of instructions, specific down to the days, minutes, hours, and seconds. Where to be and what to do in order to maximise success at that given moment. He'd left stock tips for companies that didn't exist, but would come into existence exactly when he'd predicted they would. He'd left exact instructions on which house to buy, and how to get it at the best price. Clothes to wear, jobs to take, friends to make.

Fifth of October, 2009. Go to Starbucks in town. Meet Jessie O'Brien. 3:51:17 PM.

Two years later, Jessie O'Brien became Jessie Wilson. The stranger had even engineered me meeting the love of my goddamn life, precise to the exact second we'd first make eye contact.

I invested in the right stocks and pulled out of the wrong ones, avoiding company deaths and market crashes like some financial Houdini. My capital skyrocketed and my personal wealth just grew greater and greater.

Eighth of June, 2011. Buy House 10 Aspen Way. Don't Rent. 6:14:43 PM.

And so I did. Jessie and I moved into that big, gorgeous house once our honeymoon was over. We were wealthy, healthy, and deeply in love - but something was missing, something the stranger had accounted for, too.

Seventeenth of August, 2012. Conceive child with Jessie. 8:31:19 PM.

Our little girl is called April. The stranger picked it, not me. She's four now, and I love her with all my heart.

The stranger, a man who I'd known for less than an hour, had steered the entire course of my life in the best possible direction, out of nothing more than the kindness of his heart. He'd saved me, he'd saved all of us. Even though it'd been ten years since that day and I was drunk out of my mind at the time, I remember every detail vividly.

That's why, as I was walking down the street this morning - my arms full of grocery bags - when I heard someone singing "Sunshine, Lollipops and Rainbows" a few feet behind me, I recognised the voice instantly.

"Sunshine, lollipops, and rainbows, everything that's wonderful is what I feel when we're together!" His melodic voice sang, his tone screaming joviality, "Brighter than a lucky penny, when you're near the rain just disappears, dear, and I feel so fine!"

Without a moment's hesitation, I turned to face him. It looked like that strange, strange man hadn't aged a day in an entire decade. He even wore that same pinstriped suit that he had on the first night I met him.

"Just to know that you are mine." He finished the verse with a smile, and threw open his arms.

"Jesus Christ," I said, my face cracking into a smile impossible to hide, "It's actually you."

"The one and only, baby," He said with a laugh and a grandiose hand gesture, "How's Jessie, by the way?"

I opened my mouth to answer, but he raised a hand, as though to politely silence me.

"I'm sorry to drop in after - gosh, has it really been ten years? Jeez Louise, time really does tend to get away from me," He said, "Anyway, the reason I'm here is because I finally figured out what I wanted from you."

"Beg your pardon?"

"Ten years ago, you said you owed me something, anything," He replied, though I almost heard it back in my own voice as he said it, "I couldn't decide at the time, but I think I know now."

"Oh, of course! That's wonderful to hear, man," I said, my heart filled with a sudden trepidation, "So, uh, what is it you want?"

The stranger gave that same ear-to-ear grin that he was wearing back behind the dive bar in 2007.

"Well, I've thought about it for a long time, amigo, and I've finally made my decision," He said, "I know what I want from you, Nate."

He paused to take a step closer to me. His eyes were just as golden in the daylight.

"I want your name, Nate."

I almost laughed to begin with, but I soon realised he wasn't joking. He was deadly serious.

"My name?"

"Yes, Nate, I've always loved your name, it's so wonderful," He said, wringing his hands with glee, "See, I've never had a name myself, and it's always left me feeling a little left out, you know? I've wanted a name for so long, and I decided just recently that the name I want is yours. I think it'll fit me just right."

This man had given me my entire life. He saved me from getting killed by casino sharks back in '07, and every wonderful success I'd had since I owed entirely to his decade-long itinerary. With all this in mind, who was I to turn him down this last batshit crazy request?

If he wanted to go around calling himself Nate Wilson too, what right did I have to stop him?

"Sure thing, buddy." I said with a smile.

He leaned forward and embraced me, almost crushing the groceries against my chest.

"You have no idea how happy you've made me."

"It's the least I can do after all you've done for me." I replied.

The stranger - or rather, Nate Wilson - extended another spidery hand towards me.

"Let's shake on it." He said, his voice elated.

And I did.

We went our separate ways after that. I walked home, and he ran off into the city, singing and cackling with mirth. It brought me some peace of mind to know that my debt to him was finally repaid, and that some simple token gesture was all that I needed to do it.

When I arrived back at 10 Aspen Way, I saw April playing around with her toy lawnmower in the front yard. I smiled and called to her, but she didn't respond. She was too wrapped up in her fictitious duties.

I made my way inside with the groceries. Jessie was in the kitchen, cutting up carrots. Sunshine, Lollipops and Rainbows blasted out of the radio. Today just kept getting weirder and weirder.

"Hey, babe," I called to her, putting the groceries on the kitchen table, "You'll never guess who I ran into this morning."

Jessie didn't respond. She just carried on chopping, and hummed to the tune.

"Babe? Everything okay?" I asked.

Still no response. At this point, I was beginning to get a little...worried.

With a peculiar heaviness to my every movement, I walked over to Jessie, and placed a tentative hand on her shoulder.

It just went straight through. Straight though her goddamn body - like she was a hologram, or I was. I recoiled with a short, sharp yelp, and fell against the kitchen table. Again, no response from Jessie.

What the hell had happened?

"Honey, I'm home!" I heard a familiar voice call from the hallway outside.

Jessie suddenly perked up, turning her head towards the noise.

"Hi, sweetie," She said, "You were a while out there. I was beginning to get worried."

The stranger walked into the kitchen, a smile stretched across his waxen face.

"Sorry about that, honey-bunny," He said, "I met an old friend in town. We had a little catch-up."

As he said that last part, he threw me a sickening wink with one of his piss-yellow peepers.

"Huh," Jessie said, "Anyone I know?"

She leaned forward and gave the stranger a kiss. The kind of kiss she always gave me.

"Nah," The stranger said with a chuckle, "I don't think you've ever met him."

I felt like my mind was going to implode. Nothing going on was making any kind of goddamn sense. The whole world had gone crazy.

April called from outside, something about the grass.

"You mind taking over the carrots for a sec, babe?" Jessie said to the stranger, "I better go check on April."

"No problem, honey." He said, taking the knife from her hand and giving her another kiss.

Jessie left the room, leaving just me and the stranger, all alone. I quietly fumed, and he chopped carrots.

"What the fuck is going on?" I finally asked him, when I'd gained the modicum of composure required to do so, "What have you done, you crazy fucking weirdo?"

He carried on chopping the carrots. His eyes never left the chopping board.

"My name is Nate, stranger," He said, "I'd really appreciate it if you called me by it."

In my state of fury, I tried to grab him by the shoulder and turn him to face me. I could actually touch him, but he wouldn't budge. It was like trying to move a mountain.

"That's my name. This is my house. And that's my wife," I said to him, rage and confusion rendering my voice a crackly mess, "I want you out of here and out my life."

The stranger chuckled.

"See, that's where you're wrong, slick. All that changed hands," He said, "This is Nate Wilson's house. Jessie is Nate Wilson's wife, and this is Nate Wilson's life. And, by the terms of our recent deal, I'm Nate Wilson. And you, good buddy? You're nobody."

"I won't accept that." I yelled, slamming my hand down onto the kitchen countertop.

Without another word, Nate Wilson rammed the knife through my hand. There was no pain, no blood. It just phased through, as though I no longer even existed.

"Word to the wise, stranger, reality marches on regardless of whether you accept it," He said, as I pulled my hand away from the knife, "Everything you have, everything you've tricked yourself into believing you earned, you got from my instructions. You never owned this life, stranger, you just rented it from me, piece by piece. Now, it's mine, and there's not a thing you can do about it."

He stuck the knife into the chopping board and turned around to me.

"Except, of course, leave, and let me, my wife, and my daughter get on with our lives. Do you understand, stranger?"

I stood in crushing silence for a minute or two.

"But can I see them again?"

"Sure you can, you can see them any time you like, but only I can see you. Just like, up until around an hour ago, only you could see me. It doesn't feel good, does it? Being nobody. Being nameless."

The gravity of it all was finally closing in. I fell onto my ass and began to cry.

"God, I was so fucking stupid," I said, "How did I fall for all this?"

Nate Wilson shrugged and ate a piece of carrot.

"Don't blame yourself, buddy," He said, "I was waiting for centuries before I found someone who I could interact with. It isn't your fault you happened to be that person, or that you had such an awesome name at the time."

"My name..."

"You were only going to waste it, friendo. If I wasn't there that night, a heavy would have broken your legs the next day, you'd have gotten into painkillers, and OD'd a few months later. Nate Wilson becomes gravestone fodder. What a waste that would have been, huh?"

"But what do I do now?"

"What I did, stranger," Nate Wilson said, eating another piece of carrot with undue relish, "Ask around, find someone you can talk to. Might be this afternoon, who knows? Sure, could be a week, month, year, decade, century, but I'm an eternal optimist."

"A century?" I said, trying to ebb the stream of tears flowing out of me, "I can't wait that long."

"You'd be surprised, pal. Patience is something you'll learn, being nameless. When you finally do manage to wrangle yourself a name, you'll appreciate it a little more this time. You'll make something of yourself."

Fact the second: If a deal seems too good to be true, it is.

"So is that it?" I asked, "Is that all you have for me?"

Nate Wilson nodded.

"I'm afraid so, good buddy," He said, "But you seem like a nice enough guy. I'm sure you'll figure something out. You can always depend on the kindness of strangers, don't you know."

As the man who had just stolen my entire existence carried on hacking up vegetables, I left the room, walking out of the kitchen, through the hallway, then out of the house entirely. I stole one last look at Jessie and April, my - no, his - family, playing on the lawn, totally carefree. All smiles. They'd never even know that I was gone.

Perhaps it was better that way, no heartache.

I whispered a goodbye that they'd never hear, and closed my eyes in a pointless attempt to shut off the tears I knew would be coming either way. I set off into the city after that, walking alone, in search of something - hell, anything - to call myself.

And that was that. The story of my un-naming. Perhaps Nate was right, perhaps it was his life all along. Maybe he'll live it better, live it kinder. He might be a better father, a better husband, a better Nate.

I don't feel so attached to that name anymore.

But, if you know all this now, that means one good thing: you can read what I'm writing. If you can read my words, perhaps you can hear them? And if you can hear them, perhaps you can reply.

If so, I hope to hear from you soon. We have a lot to talk about, you and I, a lot to discuss. I think I can do some great things for you, dear reader, dear friend. I'll help you out of any bind you need, and I'll barely ask for anything in return.

Barely anything at all...

[yay4hamlet]

Spotlight

Requested by anon: Evan Hansen x reader with a stutter?

Pairing: Evan Hansen x Reader

Word Count: 1648

TW: There is an anxiety attack but that's it.

A/N: Thank you so much for this request, anon! It's definitely a topic close to my heart; I too have struggled with a speech impediment since I was a little girl so I wrote a lot of this from personal experience (especially words with ‘s’ ‘t’ and ‘a’) Hopefully you like this fic! Xx

The thought of public speaking is enough to inspire the utter weight of dread in your heart.

Talking to friends and family is one entirely different subject matter. When completely relaxed, you barely notice your stutter at all and they barely seem to notice it too.

In front of a class of students, however, every single word feels like lead on your tongue. Every person's gaze burns like fire and oh god, if only your hands could stop shaking for just one moment.

English class is the worst fate of all. The heavy weight of anxiety yet again fell on your shoulders last week when your teacher handed you another little slip of paper with the public reading assignment. Reading home alone, aloud in front of your family? Significantly easier. Reading aloud in front of the class?

You barely made it through the last time your teacher asked you to read aloud without giving up halfway through. It was the longest five minutes of your entire life. Why, oh why, did your teacher have to insist on the class reading aloud every single week?

Your only friend at school, Jared Kleinman, always tends to be reassuring when you have to go in front of the class. Maybe it's all his experience with dealing with Evan Hansen, his only other friend.  You've seen Evan before, hanging around with Jared. One time, you tried to say hi to him but Evan flushed deeply, mumbled something and immediately walked away.

"C'mon, Y/N, you'll be ok," Jared tells you as the class files into English class. Swinging his backpack onto the floor at his desk, he reaches inside and pulls out a bottle of water. "You're sweating like you're on the sun."

You gratefully take the water, taking a long sip in attempt to help your dry mouth. Your teacher strides into the classroom, greets you all and pulls out To Kill A Mockingbird. A personal favourite, and it would be even more so if you weren't expected to start reading it to everyone at any second.

Surely your shoes have been filled with cement because every single step feels heavier than the previous one. Your teacher holds out the book to you with a friendly expression, completely unaware of the turmoil spinning inside of your brain. All you can do is stare and quietly accept the book from her. You'd tried to tell to her about this before but she'd dismissed it, insisting that pushing yourself to do more public speaking would be the only way to help.

"Chapter 3, first page," is all she instructs.

In the class, your only ally Jared gives you a sympathetic look. Even Connor Murphy, tucked away in the furthest corner of the room with his feet propped up on the desk, is watching. Evan Hansen is also watching, his eyes filled with...could it be empathy? You can't tell.

For a certainty, your jaw has glue sealing it shut. You open your mouth, can feel the words struggling to form.

The class waits.

Your teacher waits.

They're right there, on the tip of your tongue. On the page in front of you, the words themselves have blurred into an indiscernible pattern of smudges.

It's not happening, I just can't do it.

You want to scream this, at the top of your lungs to the entire world.

Willing yourself, begging yourself, not to begin crying in front of the entire class, you do the only thing you can think of.

Drop the book on the floor and run out of the classroom, hearing only the sound of your heartbeat and choked sobs caught in your throat.

The second your feet pass the threshold, you know that you are screwed.

Everyone, everyone, is going to mock you. Laugh at you. You'll be the main source of the school's relentless taunts for the next eon. No one is going to forget the girl who fled the school like a fugitive.

You get as far as the parking lot when it occurs to you that you don't have your bag, thus you don't have your keys to drive home. If you could just stop crying long enough to think straight, it would be so much easier. Your chest hurts from running and crying while doing the running. Lowering yourself onto the hard, unforgiving concrete parking lot, you resign yourself to the fact that everything is colossally a disaster and you're powerless against it.

"Hey."

Out of all the people you expected to see when you turned your head, Evan Hansen was not nearly what you expected.

"Jared was going to come but...I thought, maybe, I should come instead," Evan says, before adding, "If that's ok."

You manage to nod, quickly drying your face on your sleeves. Drowning in what feels like defeat, you decide to at least try to look decent, even if it's just for Evan. He quietly kneels down next to you, before offering you a tissue. "I know what that's like," he murmurs, "I really do."

"No one..." Words tumble around your mind as you try to find a word that you don't have trouble articulating. "...unders-stands."

Evan bites his lip and brushes your damp hair out of your face in a move that is clearly surprising to both himself and you. Quickly retracting, he indicates for you to keep going, not dropping your gaze for a moment.

And you really, really want to keep going. Express yourself and get it all out. Your brain scans for the shortest but most impactful way to say it. "I'm impossible," you hear yourself blurt out loudly but with a surprising amount of clarity. Words that have ‘s’ in them are always hard but you actually managed to do it. Getting that out is an intense wave of relief, washing over you.

Evan shakes his head. "You are not impossible. No one is." He swallows, before hesitatingly reaching over to take your cold hand in his warm, soft one. His hands are warm. "What if I help you?"

He's so earnest, so deeply rooted in the belief that he can reach you, you relent into willingness to give it a try. What is the worse that can happen?

Not much else.

-

"Y/N, can you come up to the front of the class? We're going to have you start us off with chapter 3, page 39." Your teacher hands you the thick book and expectantly waits. 

Maybe she's waiting for you to run away again.

Not to say that you aren't nervous; you are, more so than you want to be, but as long as Evan is there in the class, a silent support system, you convince yourself to stay put. Even though your legs itch to run away again and your brain screams at you that you can't do it.

It feels like there is a single spotlight on you and you alone.

You tell yourself you can do it, over and over again.

Sucking in a tight breath, you try to remember what Evan practiced with you for the whole month leading up to this reading. One word at a time. Don't rush it. Try not to panic over words that have ‘s’ and ‘t’ in them, just focus on the other letters.

Steadying the book in your shaking hands, you begin, focusing on the words on the page with rapt attention, "'I-ff you ca-an learn...a...s-simple trick...Scout-t...you'll get...a-along a lo-t better with all kinds of...folks'."

Pausing for a breath of air, you see the class is listening. Even Connor Murphy. He's got a strange look on his face, as if he understands exactly what Harper Lee meant when wrote this those years ago.

Most of all, there's Evan Hansen. Always Evan Hansen. Out of all the people in the world, he knows just how much of a struggle it is right now, but is so, so proud of you for doing your best. He's smiling at you encouragingly, a vibrant and shy smile that urges you forward.

The words mean something to you now, more than you thought they did before. Maybe that's what also what propels you forward: "'You never really...unders-tand...a pers-son until you cons-sider...t-things... from his-s point-t of view, until you climb ins-side of his...s-skin...and walk around in it.'."

Relief crashes over you like a tidal wave; it's over. Finally. Exhaling for what feels like the first time in ages, you quietly hand her back the book and focus your gaze on Evan. He's smiling hugely, his shining look of happiness glittering in his eyes so brightly.

Jared grins at you as you sit back down. "Someone is going to want to congratulate you later," he whispers, your warm gaze with Evan not escaping Jared's notice.

Warmth floods your cheeks. “Shh.”

-

Evan comes over to you at once after class, once everyone else has cleared away and it's only you two. "That was perfect."

"No," you correct him but your lips twist upwards. "I did my bes-t though."

Evan nods his head, his blonde locks bouncing. "You're braver than I am, going up there and giving everything a second try."

"You were here every day helping me," you remind him.

There is a split second where it seems like Evan is going to reply but is at a loss for words, gazing at you with such intentness. He abruptly steps forward, taking one of your hands in his, and pecks you on the lips with the lightest, most gentle kiss in the world. Letting go of you, he quickly says, "I'm so sorry, oh my god, that was overstepping major boundaries..."

Still floating, still soaring, you smile and decide to quiet him with another kiss.

[perfectlinnamonroll]

Seeing the Sights [Lin-Manuel & Reader]

Summary: You never thought helping a tourist out would make such an impact on your life.

Word count: 3214

Warnings: a swearword or two, mentions of dragon slaying

Author’s notes: This is a completely platonic piece. No romance. None at all. I wrote it because, as someone eloquently put it, “I just want to be friends with Lin, is that so much to ask?”. This is exactly how my meeting with Lin would go down in a perfect universe. Self-indulgent? You bet. At first I wanted to include a scene where reader tries to teach Lin a bit of their language, but it just didn’t want to fit anywhere. Maybe I’ll post it separately later, since it was pretty hysterical. Polish is a hard language to learn, guys. Also, the reader’s gender neutral! (Just a warning - I’m not a native English speaker, so this might be a little awkward in some places. If you notice any mistakes, please point them out to me!)

“Co podać?” (“How can I serve you?”)

“Miętowe z czekoladą, poproszę” (“Mint and chocolate, please”), you said to the vendor, already excited to taste the sweet treat. It was the nineteenth of May, and that was your first ice cream this year. You always had to be careful about eating frozen food, since you were prone to catching colds, but the air was perfectly warm. An ideal day to enjoy some minty goodness.

You’ve been lucky this semester: no classes on Fridays. At first, you’ve been planning to get some work done, but seeing the pleasant weather outside you decided to get some “you” time. It’s been a while since you’ve taken a break, and your skin was yearning for sunlight.

You strolled down Basztowa Street, observing both people rushing towards the shopping mall and crows hanging around the park on your left. You liked this place; it was right in the heart of Cracow, but it never felt truly crowded, probably thanks to the greenbelt surrounding the Old Town. It was a perfect spot to people watch; something about here made you feel less lonely. Well, at least less than usual.

It was hard, starting university in a whole new city. Even though you were familiar with Cracow before, thanks to many weekend trips, living on your own was still challenging. You found yourself missing your family a lot. Making friends never came easy to you, so most of your free time was spent exploring the city and expanding your Spotify library. Not exactly what you thought life would look like at this point, but it was nice enough. Usually.

You were about to head towards the main square and check out your favourite bookstore when you noticed a man standing nearby and looking around frantically. He was the only stationary person in the smooth flow of pedestrians. That, combined with the lost expression on his face, made him stand out like a sore thumb. Was he lost?

He must have felt you staring, as he caught your eye in a matter of seconds. To your surprise he started walking right towards you. You bristled reflexively; he was definitely older than you, more or less in his mid-thirties. There was no telling what he was about to do.

“Excuse me”, he said, looking at you like you were his last hope. “Do you speak English?”

Oh. Just a tourist, then, you thought, relaxing a bit. It explained why he looked so lost.

“Sure. Can I help you?”

His relief was almost palpable. “Yes, thank you! I’ve been looking for an ATM for like, half an hour already, all those streets look the same and no one I asked was able to guide me…”

His voice sounded vaguely familiar, but you were unable to put your finger on it.

“Oh, okay”, you replied, trying to think of the best way around. “You need to go down this lane,” you gestured to a nearby street, “then turn right, go straight ahead, turn left into the third street you pass, and then the ATM should be right around…”

You stopped, watching the guy. The lost look was back on his face, and you were sure he wouldn’t be able to follow your directions properly. There was no denying that the streets of Cracow could very well be a maze to someone who didn’t know their way around.

“You know what,” you said, “it’ll probably be faster if I just go with you.”

The man brightened at the suggestion.

“Would you? I mean, thank you, but I don’t want to take so much of your time…”

“It’s fine”, you waved your hand. “I don’t really have anything to do right now. Might as well help a guy out.”

You started walking, the guy matching your pace. The silence felt a bit awkward, so you decided to make some small talk on the way.

“So I gather that you’re not from around”, you started. “Just a short visit or are you planning to stay?”

“Nah, I’m only here for a week”, he replied. “A friend invited me. Never been to Eastern Europe before.”

“Do you like it so far?”

“Yes, a lot! It has this… quaint feeling?” He gestured to the tenements around you. “It feels like time travel, a bit. Those buildings are older than my country. It’s incredible.”

“Oh, are you from the US?”, you realised. That’s what his accent suggested, but you weren’t sure before. Most native English speakers sounded more or less the same to your ears, unless they spoke with a heavy drawl.

“Yeah! You ever been there?”

You laughed.

“No, and I don’t think I ever will. Applying for a visa is a pain in the ass.”

The smile on the guy’s face dimmed a little.

“Right, I forgot you guys still have to get visas. That’s a shame.”

You shrugged. “It’s alright. Not really a fan of the US, to be honest.”

“Oh? Why?”

“Well,”, you started, without thinking too much, “your gun laws are ridiculous, for once. You don’t have Kinder Surprise eggs, too, and no paid maternity leave. The country was more or less built on genocide and slavery. Most of your population are kids of immigrants, and yet there’s so much xenophobia and racism. And don’t even get me started on your last elections, that was ridiculous...”

You ended your rant abruptly, realising your mistake a second too late. You didn’t know anything about this guy and you just insulted his home country. In a big way. You knew your inability to shut up would one day put you in big trouble, and it seemed like the day has finally come.

A heartbeat later, however, the man begin to laugh. A wave of relief crashed through you. Thank God he wasn’t offended, or this situation might have become really unpleasant.

“Fair enough”, he said, a trace of laugher still noticeable in his voice. “I can’t say I don’t agree. But there are lots of cool things about America too, you know. Oh, and by the way,” he extended his hand to you, “I’m Lin.”

“Y/N”, you replied, shaking his hand. “Nice to meet you.”

Your little chat was going so well, you didn’t even notice that you managed to arrive at the ATM in the meantime. A part of you was reluctant to leave Lin. You had fun talking to him; it made you feel much less lonely. Still, he was a stranger, and it probably wasn’t like someone more than a decade younger than him would be his ideal company on vacations, anyway.

You accompanied him as he did his withdrawal, making sure he didn’t struggle with operating the ATM. As far as you knew, most of them had the option to switch to English, but they could’ve been different from the US ones.

Things went smoothly, though. As Lin pocketed his cash, you fidgeted a bit.

“So, I guess you’re on your way to check out the rest of the city. Hope you have fun and don’t get lost again”, you said, turning around to leave.

“Wait”, he blurted out. Surprised, you stayed in your spot. “My friend works late tonight, so I’m on my own here, and… would you mind showing me around a bit?”

The request caught you off guard. He actually wanted to spend more time with you? Was this some kind of a trick? He seemed nice, sure, but who knew if he wasn’t actually a thief, or a kidnapper, or just some sort of a creep? Your doubts clashed with the good first impression, and you found yourself unable to find your words.

Lin, noticing your silence, started to fret. “I mean, you don’t know me, and you’re probably busy, it’s fine, I just-“

You took a deep breath. It’s not as if you were in some sort of deserted place, you figured. There were lots of people around; it was unlikely he would try any funny business. And it wasn’t like you had anything better to do, really.

“Sure”, you said, interrupting him. “I, um, have a day off anyway. Didn’t make any plans. So, yeah, if you want to…”

The look of surprise on his face was quickly replaced with a bright smile. “Thanks! So, where to now?”

  You showed Lin the Old Town, making sure to point out all the famous landmarks. You didn’t know all that much about the city’s history, but Lin didn’t seem to mind. Everything fascinated him – from the Veit Stoss altarpiece, to Wyspiański’s stained glass windows in St. Francis church, to the Wawel Castle. He seemed to enjoy Polish food, too, which you were adamant he tries at least once. In turn, he insisted on buying some grain to feed the pigeons on the main square, laughing as five of them sat on his shoulders.

It should’ve felt weird, hanging out with a much older guy that you barely knew, but you were really enjoying yourself. Making friends with Lin was easy, and you were glad for his company. It gave you an opportunity to hone your English, as well as see the familiar city with new eyes. And he was just fun  - asking interesting questions, constantly joking around, never missing a chance to do something silly and make you laugh.

You were in a souvenir shop, with Lin determined to at least consider buying every tacky thing he laid his eyes upon, when your phone suddenly ringed. “SILENCE! A MESSAGE FROM THE KING!” You reached into your pocket to read your message.

“Nice ringtone”, said Lin in a teasing tone. He was looking at mugs with traditional folk prints, but you could tell his focus suddenly shifted to you for some reason. He looked almost… nervous?

“Thanks”, you said. “It’s my mum’s text notification. Thought it’d be funny. You know Hamilton?”

“Yeah”, he replied somewhat absentmindedly, still eyeing the mugs.

“Well, figures, it’s much more of a thing in the US. Not many people here have heard about it”, you said, pocketing your phone and turning to browse through tote bags.

“So how come you know it?”

“Spotify thought I’d like it, and it was right”, you grinned. “It’s really good. Wish I could see it live.”

“But that’d require travelling to that hated US”, Lin joked.

You shrugged. “Doesn’t matter anyway, I don’t have the cash.”

Lin finally settled on some postcards and a plushie of the Wawel Dragon and you returned to the main square to rest a bit and enjoy the afternoon. It was around six PM, and though there was quite a lot of people, the place didn’t feel crowded. You sat on a fairly secluded bench, watching the horse carriages come and go. The clopping of hooves on the cobblestone was one of your favourite sounds, lulling you into a peaceful state.

You glanced in Lin’s direction, your attention focusing on the green plushie in his bag. It occurred to you that you hadn’t visited the statue on Vistula’s bank. A shame, since it was funny to watch people’s reactions when it started to breathe fire.

“Do you even know the Wawel dragon’s story?”

“There’s a story?”, Lin asked in return, taking the toy out of the bag.

“Oh yeah. Everyone knows it. One of the Polish classics.”

“Well then, would you mind telling me?”

“Okay, so,” you began, “there’s this den under the castle hill, right? In the legendary times of king Krakus, a dragon lived there. It was a nuisance, mostly, setting things on fire, eating livestock, killing people… You know, general dragon-y things. So the king said that whoever killed it would get to marry his daughter. It was a pretty sweet deal, so many valiant knights tried to slay the beast. They all failed, though. By which I mean died.”

Lin giggled.

“Then, one day, instead of another knight, a shoemaker’s apprentice showed up and said he would kill the dragon. He stuffed a sheep skin with sulphur and left it outside the den. The dragon soon found and ate it, and because of the sulphur, it started to feel like it was burning inside. It figured that water should fix this problem, so it went to the Vistula river and started drinking. It drank so much, its belly kept swelling with all the water, and finally it exploded. The apprentice married the king’s daughter and became the next king, and they lived happily ever after.”

“That’s one cool story”, Lin grinned. “Now I’m even more glad I bought the plushie.”

“It’s short and simple, but it’s a good one. And the moral rings true.”

“What moral, exactly? Don’t eat sulphur?”

“Well,” you said, looking at the Sukiennice hall, “Hamilton has basically the same one, doesn’t it? Anyone can become someone, if they’re clever and use their head. A bit cliché, but still relevant.”

You glanced at Lin. He kept staring at the plushie dragon, looking thoughtful.

“Think that’s the message of Hamilton?”

“Well, it’s a complicated story with many possible morals to find, I guess. It’s also about finding your voice, supporting your family, the conflict between patience and drive, about legacy, and knowing when to push on and when to take a break… But the ‘zero to hero’ one seems the most important to me. Hamilton’s story proves that hard work pays off. It says so right in the first verses, right? How does a bastard, orphan… and so on… grow up to be a hero and a scholar? He got a lot farther by working a lot harder, by being a lot smarter, by being a self-starter.”

You started rapping the verses at the end, earning a laugh from Lin. “Hey, that was mean. I know it was probably the whitest rap you’ve ever heard, but I’m trying.”

“No, it was pretty good.”

“I can hear the sarcasm in your voice. Think you can do it better?”

“And what if I can?” Lin’s smirk kept getting bigger.

“Oh, it’s a bet now? Well, I guess I could get you a coffee. But there’s no way you’d do better than my rendition of My Shot.”

“You’re on.”

You got off the bench. The hours you spent rapping along to My Shot were now finally gonna pay off. There was no way you were going to lose this.

You rapped the whole first part, stopping right before Lafayette’s verses. You were quite pleased with yourself: didn’t need to stop for breath, got all the lyrics right… There was free coffee in your near future, and you could almost taste it already.

Lin clapped enthusiastically, grinning at your performance.

“Okay”, you said, sitting down. “Now it’s your turn.”

Lin hesitated for a second. Then he hopped off the bench and stretched his arms, which earned him a laugh. Smirking, he cleared his throat and began rapping, starting at “I imagine death so much it feels more like a memory”.

And your jaw dropped.

He finished after one chorus and looked at you smugly.

You still couldn’t quite believe what your ears were telling you. But there was no mistaking that voice. Now you knew why it sounded familiar from the start.

“So I believe you owe me coffee”, said Lin, still grinning like crazy.

You struggled to find your words.

“That was unfair”, you managed at last.

Lin shrugged. “Never said I was gonna play fair.”

“I can’t believe I didn’t realise earlier.” Now that you knew, it seemed so obvious.

“Can’t believe you listened to it often enough to memorise the lyrics, but never once saw a picture of my face.”

“I was gonna check out a bootleg recording… after my exams.”

“Bootleg? Really?” Lin looked displeased.

“It’s not like I can fly over an ocean to watch it live”, you said defensively.

“Well,” Lin smiled at you. “Why not?”

You stared at him.

“You can’t be serious.”

“I am, though.”

”I still can’t afford the trip, even if you could get me tickets.”

“That’s really not a problem.”

“And why would you do that for me, anyway?” You raised your eyebrows. “I’m just a fan you met at some exotic European country on vacations. And quite a shitty one at that, because I didn’t even recognise you. You’re saying that you’re willing to pay for my plane, a hotel room, my ticket, and then fly me back?”

You couldn’t interpret the look on Lin’s face. Was it… disbelief? Disappointment?

“You’re not just a fan”, he said with a serious voice. “You’re Y/N who helped me find an ATM in this maze. Who agreed to spend their day off with a stranger giving him a tour of their city, free of charge – free of any ulterior motives, in fact. Who showed me all the best places around, fed me great food, told me a local fairytale. Without you, I’d probably waste most of that time on getting lost, and never find half of those amazing things you showed me. So, yeah, I’m willing to fly you to the US. Mostly so I can prove you wrong about that country and make you enjoy your stay as much as I enjoyed today. But also because I’d just like to see you again. I had fun.”

“So… you had fun with a fan?”

Lin groaned. “And they say that rhyming “son” with “sun” was bad.”

“Sorry, I couldn’t help myself”, you grinned. “It’s just… it all seems kinda unreal, you know?”, you gestured in his general direction. “I was just casually enjoying an ice cream this morning, and now Lin-Manuel Miranda is inviting me to the US at his expense. What’s next? Mark Hamill showing up and asking me to be an extra in the new Star Wars?”

Lin laughed.

“Well, if you’d like to, that could be arranged…”

“No”, you interrupted him. “God, no. That’s enough of surreal stuff for one day, thank you very much. Can we… go back to when you were just a nice foreign guy I randomly met? Without all that being famous, my-shows-were-on-Broadway, I-sell-out-theatres stuff?”

Lin’s smile dimmed a little.

“There’s no escaping my celebrity status, eh? Even here, half a globe away.”

You stopped, looking at him. He was right. Even on vacations on a different continent, he had no break from being the Lin-Manuel Miranda.

“I’m sorry”, you said, biting your lip.

Lin shrugged. “Well, it was to be expected. Felt nice, though, being able to be just… Lin. It’s been a long time since I’ve been able to walk around a city and be completely anonymous.”

You fell silent for a moment.

“I’m sorry”, you repeated. “It’s not like you changed in any way in the last twenty minutes. It’s just hard not to look at you differently when I found out you’re the guy I’m listening to on repeat every day. I’ve never met anyone even remotely famous before.”

“It’s fine. If I shut up before and didn’t bring up Hamilton, you probably would never recognise me”, he laughed a little.

“Fair enough. So,” you held out your hand to him. “I suggest we just go back to being Y/N and Lin, unlikely friends bonded by an ATM hunt. What do you think?”

Lin shook your hand with a wide smile.

“Fine by me.”

[kindnessneedsbravery-blog]

Interview

((I’ve had this stuck in my head like all day so take this long ass story I wrote about Kather in an interview and set slightly before and a little during the events of this rp. I’ll probably hate this in the morning but god damn I’m really proud of it rn!))

There’s an interview on the tv. It’s a one on one interview with an heir to two fortunes and an entertainment reporter. One of those interviews that most would only watch because they enjoy the reporter not because they were interested in the person being interviewed.

The reporter has a large grin on her face and appears overjoyed to be there. The heir sitting across from her has a faint smile. The smiles are vastly different yet have two things in common. Both manage to trick the audience into believing they actually want to be there but both smiles are still forced and insincere. The reporters smile screams confidence, charisma and is welcoming. The heir’s smile is smaller, calmer and like one you would receive from a friendly though unexcitable neighbor.

The reporter speaks and her voice is as lively as the bright pink and blue dress she has on. “Good evening ladies and gentlemen and welcome back to Beck Time!” How many times in the past fourteen years had she yelled this? Too many times to count and even though the shows began to blur for her, feeling tedious and dull, the audience still kept coming back for more. Of course she wouldn’t complain. She still loved this job after all and it made her a lot of money.  “I’m your host Beck Bradly!” As a kid she hated her name or more over she hated the way the kids around her said her name. The way they spat it out like they’d just eaten something disgusting, the way they made fun of it and laughed at her about it. But now her name was known all across the United States and while they could make fun of it she was the one who’d be laughing during her season break to the Caribbeans. “And today we have a special guest with us.” That was a lie. Both she and the heir knew it. He was no more special then any of the other people Beck interviewed daily. In fact he was probably one of the least special people she interviewed. “Some of you may recognize him from his earlier interviews in Person’s Magazine as the heir to the Finley fortune please welcome, Katherine Finley!” Beck had to wonder if he got made fun of for his name as much as she did as a child. But of course she couldn’t ask that. That’d go too far off script and at the end of the day she really didn’t care all that much.

Applause erupts through the audience and Kather forces his smile a little bigger, a little more charming, a little more like he wants to be there. He doesn’t though. He hates these interviews, he hates the public face he has to put on, he hates the sound of everyone chattering before and after the show mixed with sounds of yelling and machines working over time to keep up. He hates the overloading feeling that comes from these interviews and the brightly lit tv stations. Then most of all he hates how much he’s judged through each interview. He’s judged by the interviewer, the audience and even by his own parents. All of them just waiting, watching for that little slip up when they can strike and rip him apart limb by limb. Not literally, sadly to him, but metaphorically of course. He won’t give them the chance though, he won’t give them the opportunity to make his parents hate him more then they already do.

He moves through each question with ease and grace dancing around answers and telling the interviewer exactly what his parents want to hear. He plays dumb about the affairs of his family business, he pretends that his family is nothing more then the happy charming thing they claim to be in media and he keeps his facade of a completely normal happy rich boy.

He has to hold back a sigh of relief when Beck moves away from the questions about his family and starts asking more personal questions about him. Asking what does he enjoy doing in his free time. He makes sure to tell her that he enjoys math, fencing and playing the harp. All things his parents would be proud of him for liking. She asks what he’s studying and he mentions all the advanced courses his parents have put him into. She asks what some of his favorites things are and he only slips up once by going off the usual script his parents keep him to for these interviews in order to mention he likes cats. Then she asks something no other reporter has asked before. “What's your home life like?” 

He got too confident, too smooth in his answers, he was moving too quickly and with the same smile, the same calm tone as he answered the other questions he answers this one too. “Tiring.”

It hits him instantly that he said that aloud and it takes all his might not to react outwardly. The only indication that anything could be wrong is that he takes a deep breath through his nose. Outside he’s still smiling like a charming young man, he stills look calm, cool and collected. He still looks like something his parents should be proud of. But inside he feels like no air is getting to his lungs, he feels like everything has just stopped functioning and his eyes glance to the manager that had brought him to the interview. She’s looking at him with the same interested though questioning expression as Beck has.

“Oh? Tiring? How so? Let me guess it’s from counting all your money, right?” a polite laugh at her own joke and the audience laughs along much louder then necessary. Kather closes his eyes and tilts his head to make his smile seem wider like he found the joke funny too but was too cool to actually laugh along. He’s trying to block out the laughter and think on a response. Luckily the response left him before it could even manage to reach his brain for processing.

“I just keep so busy with my studies and my interests. It’s tiring attempting to balance preparing to run a set of ever growing companies and keeping time for my interests. Not to mention keeping an active social life.” A fictional active social life that is. “And helping people less fortunate then me.” He hated saying it like that. It made him feel wrong like he was looking down on people that needed more help financially then he or his parents did. “I’m not complaining of course. I’m just stating a fact. But my parents are so kind and so helpful. They really know how to make things better after a stressful day. I love my parents.” He wanted to start crying then but he couldn’t. He was already going to be in trouble for going off script not once but twice and especially for the ‘Tiring’ comment. He’d get in even more trouble if he started bawling right on national television. 

But he felt horrible lying to everyone like this, he felt horrible for the fact that he had to lie about loving his parents. The truth of the matter was, he wasn’t sure how he felt about his parents. He knew he should love them, they were his parents, they provided for him and they were the only ones that really loved him(though even their love was only fleeting). But he just couldn’t feel that way. He couldn’t love them a part inside of him was stronger then the feeling that he should love them and it made him fear them. The fear he had that one day they might just get tired of him and get rid of him all together trumped any form of love he might have been able to feel for them. He never loved them really, he only ever feared them.

Beck and the audience all make an “Aw” type sound and Beck grins at her audience. “Isn’t that sweet folks? But of course that’s to be expected from a family of philanthropists like the Finley’s! I’m sure their house is just full of love!” 

Kather had to bite his tongue to keep from scoffing. ‘A family of philanthropists. A house full of love’ yeah, right. More like a family of thieves and a house full of liars. But he couldn’t say that. To mention publicly, especially on television, that his family was anything less then perfect would be like painting a target right in the middle of his forehead and begging his father to just shoot him.

So instead he just grinned and nodded like the good little robot he was. The interview went smoothly after that and Kather returned to dancing around questions. Forced laughs were exchanged, strained smiles that were believable to anyone not paying close enough attention and artificial pleasantness returned as though Kather wasn’t going to be heading straight to certain doom after he was done here.

After the interview in the car Kather dug in his pants pocket to pull out his phone along with a green pendant necklace. In the back of the dark car it was harder to see the radiance of the pendant but it still managed to feel warm and soothing in his hands. It almost made him want to keep it. But he already knew who he was going to give it too and he knew he had to deliver quickly. Before his father returned home.

He felt nervous though. He didn’t really know the girl he wanted to give the pendent too all that well and he’d already managed to royally fuck up one thing today. So what he’d probably find a way to ruin this too and scared the poor girl away forever. But he didn’t want to keep the necklace for himself either. He knew Bes and Veasna wouldn’t wear it. Neither girl was very found of jewelry, Sylvia probably wouldn’t even get it if he tried to mail it to her and there was no way in hell he’d turn it over to his mother. Besides he wanted this girl specifically to have it. She seemed like she needed more good luck in her life.

So like any other teenager his age faced with a dilemma of what to do he made a post on the internet about it. Of course what he wasn’t expecting was for the specific girl he indented to give the necklace too to respond. Further more he didn’t expect to have to give it, along with a chocolate bar, as an apology gift. Then most surprising of all he didn’t expect her to be the one he’d be thinking about while attempting to survive the following week locked away in the basement far from the rest of the world.

[aion-rsa]

Loki: Owen Wilson’s Agent Mobius Has Deep Marvel Roots

https://ift.tt/eA8V8J

After an extra month of waiting, we’re finally at the fireworks factory that is Marvel’s Loki. Tom Hiddleston returns, using his time-travel cameo in Avengers: Endgame to sidestep the fact that Loki died a heroic death in Avengers: Infinity War. Despite sneaking away with the Tesseract in a revised version of the first Avengers movie, things don’t work out so well for our easily-annoyed villain.

And now…he’s stuck running suicide missions with the Time Variance Authority. What a way for a god to spend his days.

The show seems to be making its way towards a buddy cop route with the addition of Owen Wilson. It’s the kind of casting that has you saying, “Wait, is this Owen Wilson’s first time in one of these? How has it taken so long for Owen Wilson to get a role in a Marvel movie?”

Personally, I wanted him playing Booster Gold years ago, but I’ll take whatever Owen Wilson time traveling live-action comic book character I can get.

Owen Wilson plays the role of TVA agent Mr. Mobius M. Mobius, faithful to the source by keeping that telltale mustache. But Mobius is more than just a comic character.

The Time Variance Authority was introduced by Walt Simonson in Thor #372 in 1986, but wasn’t fully figured out as a concept until afterwards. Most notably, the group antagonized the Fantastic Four and Dr. Doom in Fantastic Four #352-354. They’re meant to keep time travel under control and prevent paradoxes, but instead of being a rad setup of jacked, soldiers in colorful spandex begging for their own comic series, the TVA is essentially a bunch of boring, cosmic bureaucrats.

While the lowest level employees of the TVA are faceless goons, the middle-management folks are human-looking. In fact, they all look like the same human. More specifically, they’re made to look like Mark Gruenwald, a beloved Marvel writer/artist/editor known for his passion and endless knowledge of detailed Marvel history.

You want to make sense out of the multiverse and timeline malarky? Make a bunch of clones of the guy who can tell you what issue Luke Cage fought Mr. Fish without having to look it up. He was the guy writing The Official Marvel Handbook of the Universe and he was celebrated for being that guy.

Gruenwald was a major asset to Marvel back in the ’80s and ’90s. His lengthy run on Captain America gave us US Agent, Crossbones, Diamondback, and that amazing sequence where Magneto captured Red Skull and left him to die in a bunker. He also wrote Squadron Supreme, where he put together a deconstructing take on Marvel’s Justice League knockoff team, acting as Marvel’s contribution to the Dark Knight Returns and Watchmen vibes growing in ’80s comics.

He also did a 5-year run on Quasar, notably doing a weird issue where – taking place sometime after the events of Crisis on Infinite Earths – a blonde speedster in tattered, red tights showed up in Marvel and could only remember that his name sounded something like “Buried Alien.”

Dude was awesome, is what I’m saying.

Sadly, Gruenwald died in 1996 due to a heart attack. He remains beloved in the industry and lives on whenever the weirdos in the TVA show up to try and put a cage around the chaos. They usually fail, but the effort is there.

Mr. Mobius is just another one of his in-universe clones, but one that got promoted above his genetic equals. Not that he’s the man on top. No, that’s Mr. Alternity, who was based on editor Tom Brevoort.

cnx.cmd.push(function() { cnx({ playerId: "106e33c0-3911-473c-b599-b1426db57530", }).render("0270c398a82f44f49c23c16122516796"); });

Now, as it is right now, there’s only one Mobius. We’ve seen plenty of employees at the TVA and only one of them is Owen Wilson. At least for now.

The thing is, I wouldn’t expect the TVA to be all the same once the season is over. For an organization dedicated to making sure there are no alternate timelines, it’s suspiciously getting a spotlight before we get an animated series about alternate realities, a Spider-Man movie about alternate realities, and a Dr. Strange movie about alternate realities. Not to mention we recently had another Spider-Man movie with the fakeout based around alternate realities.

The TVA comes off as rather callous and may indeed deserve what’s coming to them. Mobius, on the other hand, currently comes off as a pretty good dude. He’s kind to children and he shows compassion to Loki. Maybe, in the end, the answer is to recreate the TVA so we get nothing but Mobius.

Think of it. A full organization of Owen Wilsons. All of them saying, “Wow!” over each other. That’s a Loki trick I can get behind.

LOKI CHARMS GIVEAWAY! Win a Box of Marvel’s Loki Charms Cereal

Marvel’s Loki airs every Wednesday on Disney+.

The post Loki: Owen Wilson’s Agent Mobius Has Deep Marvel Roots appeared first on Den of Geek.

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[the-record-columns]

Nov. 1, 2017: Columns

Confessions of a casual baseball fan...

By KEN WELBORN

Record Publisher

Back in August I wrote a column about getting hooked on the Cleveland Indians baseball team through a random pickup of a late night game on a AM radio station, 1100 AM, the home of Cleveland Clinic sponsored Indians Radio Network.

It kind of caught my ear because I had heard of the Cleveland Clinic from North Wilkesboro's own Mule Ferguson; who had some work done on his heart there by those fine folks, and he couldn't say enough great things about them. An aside, I did get a chance to visit briefly with Mule last week on the day of the Great Tornado Blackout, and he continues to be doing well.

But, back to baseball.

As a little boy in the 50's I used to listen to the New York Yankees and the Brooklyn Dodgers on my mother, Cary's, old Arvin radio, which, I might add, I proudly display at The Record to this day. I was always a bit conflicted as to which team I liked best, especially when the Yankees and the Dodgers had so often ended up against each other in the World Series.

Well, that problem was eliminated when the Brooklyn Dodgers summarily abandoned us all after the 1957 season and moved to Los Angeles, along with, I might add, the New York Giants, leaving me with no problem pulling againstboth of them for all time. As the saying goes, “...you shouldn't forget who brought you to the dance.”

All of this brings us back to Kenny, the casual fan. Through the playoffs I paid hardly any attention to baseball, except for noting that my new favorite team, the Indians, were knocked out by my old favorite team, the Yankees. When it became clear the the 2017 World series was going to be between the Houston Astros, not the Yankees, and the Los Angeles Dodgers, I had no problem about who to pull for. I was going to become a latter-day Astros fan, even knowing that my friend Ray Lowe of Millers Creek travels the world to to watch those two-timing Dodgers.

The World Series began in Los Angeles, and I tuned in for the first game. The Dodgers won, leaving me to commiserate to anyone who would listen, that the Yankees should be playing the Devil Dodgers, because I knew the Yankees had a storied history of beating them when it counted the most. In Game 2, also in L. A., the Astros evened up the series at one game each in a game that featured 8 home runs and went on for 11 innings.

The Series then moved to Houston; they beat the Dodgers in Game 3, and I began to relax—knowing that the Dodgers couldn't beat the Astros at home, because, in the Minute Maid Park, the Astros management turns on all the air conditioning fans toward center field while the Astros are batting, therefore aiding and abetting the Home Run Derby that this series has become. By the way, that last tidbit of conspiracy theory came from a reliable, yea even impeccable source; Ray Lowe the Dodger fan.

In Game 4, the Dodgers woke us all back up with a five-run ninth inning to even the Series at two games each.

Then came game 5, a record setting slug-fest that ran over five hours. Twice during that game, Kenny the casual fan went to bed knowing that the Astros were done for the evening, Twice I could not

go to sleep, and twice I went back out front to the television and ended up staying to the end of a 13-12 Astros win that ran 10 innings, and probably set a gazillion records. Between the Astros and the Dodgers, 14 pitchers appeared in Game 5, seven for each team.

As I write this piece on Tuesday, Oct. 31, Halloween Day, I can only imagine what kind of Trick or Treat ball game(s) we are in for, when the World Series returns to Los Angeles for the last game(s) of this years Fall Classic. Be assured, however, that, at least for this years series, Kenny the casual fan must confess to having become something of a die-hard Astros fan, and will be watching and rooting for them all the way. It has been close to 30 years since the Dodgers have made it to the World Series, and, the 9 year-old Kenny from 1958 just cannot let go of the betrayal of the Dodgers moving to the Left Coast, and hopes it will be 30 more years before they are in the World Series again.

I can only hope that Ray Lowe will forgive me.

  Help, Thanks, WOW!

By LAURA WELBORN

Help, Thanks, WOW! These are the words from Anne LaMont's book that reminds us to be constantly mindful of the situations we are in. I think we all went through all three this past Monday with the tornado.

When I heard the winds rushing through as I was up on the third story of our downtown apartment I was in the HELP mode. When I walked out to my third story deck and saw that the whole roof of our sunroof had blown off I was struck with a terrible sense of loss. Our sunroof came from the old post office and it was my favorite part of the apartment and irreplaceable. I have been reminded over and over (rightly so) to be thankful we were unharmed, but it was hard to give thanks when I was in such a grief mode. As I looked over the deck in search of my roof- I saw the most brilliant rainbow I had ever seen and thought WOW! The phrase "What is God up to right now?" seemed appropriate. How can nature be so destructive and yet so amazing?

So how shall we live? How do we tune into what God is up to? Where is God active in our world? And most important- how can we be a part of it? Do we begin by being in touch with God, with our universe and what is happening there? Monday was like the perfect storm and it took me completely by surprise. I just was not paying attention and when I heard Larry South (the voice of North Wilkesboro) issue a phone warning about the tornado, I have to admit I just didn't respond. To my credit Ken lay on the bed in front of the windows and refused to take cover as I went to the middle of the apartment with my dog when the wind came through. I was warned, but still did not take it seriously- maybe I was just too comfortable in my own world to think anything bad could happen to us in our safe 110-year-old building.

In my search for my roof, we did finally find a mangled mess of metal and broken glass on top of the Ebenezer building's roof next door. But looking out of the front we saw what was left of the roof that had blown off of the Priester building on McElwee's and Michaels Jewelry store front and thought maybe that’s where our roof was. On Wednesday I saw the new owner of the Priester building (it will always be the Priester building in my mind).

  As we offered our condolences to the new owner, Kristie Fon she simply said "it is just a hiccup". She was upbeat and showed me through the apartment where there was the sun shining through the beautiful bead board on the ceiling (which was ruined). She proudly showed me around and remarked on how little damage was done to the renovations. THANKS They were already working on the roof to get it to a place so that more rain would not hurt it. WOW Kristie and her husband plan to make North Wilkesboro their home, as they live in Miami now, and she was impressed with how the community had already come in to HELP.

When I look up from the traffic light in the back of my building and saw how sad my deck looks without its roof, I have to remember Mark Goodman who came up to help take down the remnants said... "but it lets in so much more light now" to quote Ken's mother when Ken and Mark burned down the woods off Hinshaw street in North Wilkesboro. I am trying to be thankful, and I am, but the sadness of knowing the part of history our roof held is gone forever stays with me. I will try and remember that amazing rainbow and look for ways to be a part of where God is active.

Laura Welborn, Mediator and Counselor at DonLIn Counseling. laurawelborn1@gmail.com

   INTERPOL: Political Meddling 

Threatens a Vital Crime-Fighting Institution

By EARL COX

Mahmoud Abbas’ maneuvers to join multiple international organizations is a ploy for legacy, leverage and legitimacy—to boost his bid for statehood, and shore up his tattered political image. When Interpol accepted “Palestine” as a member “state” recently, Abbas crowed he would weaponize it to hamstring longtime political opponent, Mohammad Dahlan.

In more carefully chosen words, PA foreign minister Riyad al-Maliki described the decision as a vote of confidence in Palestinian law enforcement abilities and commitment to Interpol principles, including rejection of “political manipulation.” The disconnect between the two men’s announcements is obvious. Abbas is doubtless familiar with Interpol’s abuse by Iran, Russia, China, Turkey and other states, where lines between policing and politics are blurred.

The abuses center on Interpol red notices—requests for arrests and extraditions that prompt police cooperation among member states. Interpol’s constitution forbids “political, military, religious or racial” action. But in reality, its red notices cross red lines when abusive despots use them to falsely incriminate political opponents. Interpol plays a vital role by coordinating the tracking and apprehension of criminals and terrorists across borders; but the red notices are “notoriously easy to abuse,” said Foreign Policy assistant editor Bethany Allen Ebrahimian. Turkey, China and Russia have issued red notices against dissidents, opposition politicians, human rights activists, journalists and businessmen, she said.

Though most notices are legitimate, they’ve disrupted innocent people’s lives, reputations, jobs, finances and freedoms. Until procedural reforms were introduced last year after input from the nonprofit Fair Trials, it was difficult and time-consuming to get politically motivated red notices removed from Interpol’s hulking secret database of over 10,000 notices. “The rules have been strengthened to prevent abuse,” said Rebecca Shaeffer, a Fair Trials senior legal advisor. They “must now be… enforced to stop countries from misusing this global crime-fighting tool.”

Two critical factors are eroding Interpol’s effectiveness. First, its system is built on trust, Ebrahimian said. Unscrupulous governments probe its system to exploit the trust and take advantage of administrative gaps. For example, a country requesting a politically motivated warrant for a dissident in a second country may pressure that country to get its way. This happened when the Saudis requested an Interpol red notice against a newspaper columnist who had fled to Malaysia. Muslim-majority Malaysia deported the columnist to Saudi Arabia, where he was jailed for two years without trial for violating Islamic blasphemy laws—a religious “crime” that Interpol is restricted from handling. “If Interpol is now being used … to enforce Sharia blasphemy laws, it’s not somebody else's problem. It’s ours,” said Gaffney who is the president of the D.C. based Center for Security Policy.

The notices are not legally binding, and Interpol lacks arrest powers, so countries do not have to cooperate. Nor is it Interpol’s job to verify innocence or guilt when processing red-notice requests, lawyer Michelle Estlund told Foreign Policy. “It’s almost impossible for them to know that,” she said.

A second destabilizing factor is the Arab voting bloc. “The 57-member Organization of Islamic Cooperation plus ‘Palestine’” exert disproportionate influence over the UN,” Gaffney said. It also impacts Interpol—where it swelled the vote for Palestinian membership. Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu is addressing this issue by targeting the anti-Israel voting bloc at the UN. By strengthening Israel’s global relationships across continents, he is chipping away at the “automatic majority.”

Israel had warned before the membership vote that the terror-supporting Palestinians could undermine Interpol. As Abbas tries to reconcile with terrorist group Hamas, there’s more cause for concern—as is the potential for Palestinians to disseminate sensitive information to Interpol members like Iran, Iraq, Hezbollah-controlled Lebanon, Qatar or Turkey. And if Israelis are targeted by spurious Palestinian requests, it could mire officials with red tape.

It’s troubling that an international policing organization whose mission is to arrest and prosecute terrorists and criminals has welcomed a non-state entity that applauds, finances and incites violent terrorism against another member—Israel. And that’s not to mention Iran and other rogue states.

If Interpol is to fulfill its mandate, reforms must address these issues. Interpol must decide if it will uphold the rule of law by evenhandedly advancing the prosecution of terrorists and their advocates, and excluding members who support terrorism. More safeguards are needed to ensure that Interpol remains a tool for advancing, not undermining, international justice.

  World War II – Sergeant Eugene C Deibler – Part One

By CARL WHITE

Life in the Carolinas

I have visited with many veterans over the years, and the diversity of stories and reflections remain exciting and thought-provoking. There are often common threads of brotherhood, patriotism, love of country and the American flag. Based on my interviews and understandably so, some are easy to talk about, and some are not.  

As of late, I have been visiting with World War II veterans who bring their unique perspective. They have served their country, grew up during the great depression and are also now in their 90’s which provides a conversation that has is seasoned with time. They have lived through many historically significant times and developments in American and World history.

While producing a Veterans special, I had the opportunity to visit with Sgt. Eugene C. Deibler a native of Bradford, Penn., who after World War II, made North Carolina home, and yes it was for the love of a woman. He had met Mary Smith before deployment. They fell in love and before leaving he asked Mary to be his wife. She told him she would marry him when he returned from the war.

It all started in August of 1942 when Eugene’s school friend called him and suggested they join the Air Corp and become fighter pilots. Eugene was 17 and had to wait till his birthday in November. After Eugene’s birthday they both enlisted and passed their physicals; however, they both failed their eye test which disqualified them as fighter pilots. They were sent back to the barracks after being told that they would be assigned as radio operators on B-17 bombers. This did not appeal to either of them, and on the way to the barracks they saw the sign “Join the U.S. Paratroopers.”

Neither of them knew anything about paratroopers, so they went in to talk to the recruiter. They liked what they learned, and the fact that they had failed their eye test was not a problem. They were sent back to the barracks and told that as soon as they had 12 committed, they would be sent together to Toccoa, Ga. A few weeks later on Nov. 17, 1942, the 12 were on their way. They were in the newly activated 501 PIR. Basic training was usually 10 weeks; however, they were in 17 weeks. It was strict; you run everywhere. There was a mountain called Currahee, and it was three miles to the top and a run-up and down the mountain was part of the daily activity.

For those who made it through the rigorous basic training, they were sent to Fort Benning for jump training. Eugene was part of the 43 class. Training was started by jumping off towers and then everyone was required to make five qualification jumps to become a paratrooper. The tower jumps went fine for Eugene; however, he broke his ankle on his first qualification jump. It would be six weeks of recovery before he was able to finish and move on to Camp Mackall. Everyone in his group had already moved on, and if cleared by the doctor his remaining four qualification jumps would be with guys he did not know.

Eugene came close to not being allowed to qualify because the doctor thought he would not be able to make the jumps with a weak ankle. However, Eugene demonstrated by performing demanding exercises that his ankle was indeed fully recovered.

Eugene was medically cleared and would move on to have four more qualification jumps.

Next week we will learn about the notable Battles and Campaigns that Sgt. Eugene C. Deibler was involved with.

[viralhottopics]

6 Insane Ways Movies Are Trying To Be Authentic

A great artist knows that the most important details are the ones their audience might not necessarily notice — like the soft clouds in the background of the Mona Lisa, or the surprisingly detailed scribblings in John Doe’s notebook in Se7en, or the recipe for The Antidote that I’ve been hiding in my articles for the past few years. (“Antidote for what?” you might be asking. Don’t worry. All will become clear soon.) This is especially true of movies, that often hide the weirdest and most interesting work in the places nobody bothered to check. For example…

6

Everything In Zootopia Is Moving All The Time

What most people don’t realize about animated movies is that most of the frame isn’t actually animated. There’s usually a single static background with a few animated cells on top of them — this is clear in low-budget TV cartoons, where the moving frames tend to have a slightly different color from the immobile background, but it’s more cleverly hidden in big-budget Disney movies because of that aforementioned big budget. The reason they don’t animate the entire frame is, of course, because that would be insanely fucking time-consuming. It’s way easier to have one still picture while Batman or Scooby-Doo conduct their slapstick antics on an entirely different layer.

Unless you’re making Zootopia, in which case — for the first time in Disney history — absolutely everything is moving. And by “everything” I mean, in fact, “all the things.” Every shadow shimmers. Every car sputters. Every strand of hair twitches and wafts in the wind. All 30,000 leaves on that tree are moving, thanks to technology developed just for this movie.

Part of the reason this is so crazy is, as made clear in the first paragraph of this entry, it’s completely unneeded. As humans, we’re pretty dumb, and aren’t likely to notice that maybe that bush back there doesn’t have an ant crawling on it. But Disney had to push the boundaries, just like they always have, to create a living, breathing, utterly convincing world that is so magical and wondrous that it never even had to get around to explaining what the hell the predators eat in this universe. A fox can’t live on blueberries, guys.

5

John Carpenter Hinted Who The Thing Was With Eye Light

The Thing is a movie about a shape-shifting alien who infiltrates a team of rugged, hairy, stern men. The interstellar beast picks them off one by one, feasting on their sweet, succulent, deeply heterosexual juices, until only the manliest — Kurt Russell and Keith David — are left alive. One of the nerdiest film debates in modern pop culture is about the order in which this happens — The “thing” is indistinguishable from a human once it takes that human’s form, so a lot of the tension comes down to figuring out who can be saved and who needs to be consumed through cleansing fire. It’s sorta like being out to dinner with a bunch of your friends and one of them keeps farting.

Director John Carpenter specifically shot the movie so it’s unclear in what order who gets infected, and whether Russell or David are infected at the end. But it turns out there’s one detail that Carpenter and cinematographer Dean Cundey kept secret until recently, and it has to do with eye light.

“Eye light” is a camera trick that puts a slight gleam in an actor’s eye, giving them slightly more life. You can see it here, with Keith David’s character Childs:

And here with Kurt Russell’s MacReady:

But not with David Clennon’s Palmer — who, in this scene, is revealed to be The Thing.

…Which, again, was intentional. That’s supposed to be the hint. Now, does this completely change the movie? Spoiler alert: Nope. I rewatched it, specifically watching for eye light stuff, and I didn’t notice any great foreshadowing or crazy hints. But it’s quite possible I’m just not smart enough to put the whole picture together. Since this is a whole new tool available for our collective movie-watching, feel free to post your wacky eye-light-based theories on my Facebook wall, after you’ve rewatched the movie of course.

4

Gangs Of New York Has Period-Appropriate Dialects

People love to offer their opinions on whether movie accents are “good” or “bad” because people love to pretend that they’re smarter than they are. A lot of folks ripped apart Charlie Hunnam’s accent in Pacific Rim because he talks like a mush-mouthed victim of a botched neural surgery, apparently not realizing that his real accent also sounds fake (also also that movie is perfect, and none shall dare criticize it before me). Everyone talks weird, and it all sounds insane, so can anyone really say what a “good” accent even sounds like?

Of course, and Tim Monich, the dialect coach for Gangs Of New York, managed to do the impossible by researching dead dialects — that is, ways of speaking that no living person had ever heard with their own ears — and teaching it to modern actors. “But how do you research a dead dialect?” Easily! Well, no, not easily at all — with incredible difficulty, in fact: Monich studied old poems and newspaper articles that were mocking the dialects to try and deduce the way people of the era spoke. Then he forced Liam Neeson and Leonardo DiCaprio to talk that way.

At one point, Neeson’s character called a bunch of his enemies “nancy boys,” only for Monich to clarify that the correct term for the era and location was “Miss Nancies.” Which was a huge relief for all the 19th-century New York hooligans in the audience, who totally would’ve noticed that sort of thing.

That set points to something else pretty cool about the film’s development. Those buildings you see in the background? They haven’t existed in over a hundred years, so Scorsese had most of 1860s New York rebuilt from scratch in Rome, because “had most of 1860s New York rebuilt from scratch in Rome” is the kind of predicate you can be the subject of when your name is Martin Scorsese. I’m allowed to make those kinds of stupid grammar jokes when my entry is about dialects, okay?

Anyway, here he is poking around the place, rambling like a crazy old man. The poor camera operator can’t keep track of what he’s even talking about. That is one of my favorite videos in the world. I honestly like it better than Gangs Of New York.

Oh, and speaking of dialects…

3

Arrival Makes Way More Sense Than It Needs To

Arrival is a sci-fi movie about figuring out an alien language and, spoiler alert, using it to see the future (it’s also one of the best movies I’ve ever seen oh my god go watch it so good). And since I brought it up, I know what you’re thinking: “Wow — did they actually invent a language that I can use to see the future?”

No. But they did do absolutely everything else. You know those weird circles that the aliens use to communicate? Yeah, that functions as a consistent language. You could learn to read and write in it just from watching the movie enough, if you’re that kind of person.

Then, they wrote an actual computer program that could interpret the language they made up. The stuff you see in the movie where a computer analyzes the symbol? That’s not just random, science-looking animations. That’s a program, written just for the movie, interpretting a language that was also written exactly for the movie, in real time. Science consultant Stephen Wolfram even came up with a scientific explanation for how the aliens travel. It involves quantum! All this despite the fact that 99 percent of audiences would’ve been fine with the explanation I just gave (which, if you’ve forgotten, is just the words “It involves quantum!”).

But you see, it really seems like this movie was made for that one percent of geniuses in the theater. There’s even a part later in the movie when Amy Adams is standing in front of a white board covered in physics jargon:

All those equations are relevant to the problems her and Jeremy Renner’s characters are facing in the movie right then, but — here’s the kicker — that wasn’t what was on the board when they shot it. Due to an oversight during shooting, the whiteboard was accidentally covered in high-school level physics, so they had Wolfram come up with a bunch of equations to use and then super-imposed them into that scene with computers (a process made especially difficult because of Amy Adams’ hair).

All so that every physicist who saw this movie could finally enjoy a sci-fi flick without ripping their own hair out in frustration.

2

The Witch: All The Materials And Music Are Authentic For the Time Period

If you haven’t seen The Witch, stop reading this article and go watch it right now. (Then come back and finish reading. I need your click-dollars to finance my underground squirrel-fighting ring.) If you’ve seen The Witch, then oh my god, how good was it? Sorry for fanboying out for this entire column. I promise I’ll get myself under control for next month.

Part of the reason people love The Witch is because it’s so beautiful. Well, there’s a reason for that: Like Kubrick’s Barry Lyndon, it was shot almost entirely with natural light. Which, for indoor scenes, meant they had to use as many candles as possible.

I say “almost” entirely because of one scene involving a crow, which had to use a flickering lightbulb, since fire would’ve scared the crow. If you haven’t seen the movie, I’m not going to spoil the scene with the crow. If you have seen the movie, then there is not a sliver of a chance in hell that you’ve forgotten the scene with the crow.

On top of that, all the music was recorded with period-appropriate instruments, using period-appropriate techniques. Which is not something anybody would ever notice but certainly helps the movie feel unique. Even the story itself — and lots of the dialogue — is based on real accounts of witchcraft and possession from 17th-century Massachusetts. When Caleb is in the throes of a fever/possession, his delirious ranting is word-for-word the rantings of 17th-century children who were, allegedly, possessed by Satan. Making this officially the most metal movie anyone has ever seen. Also I’m going to move on because 400-year-old dead children aren’t very funny.

1

Meryl Streep Can Do Everything

Meryl Streep is so good that it’s become a punchline. People genuinely worry that she’s too burdened by how good she is, and that people expect perfection from her and take it for granted when she delivers. And after some research, I’ve figured out her secret: She’s not actually pretending. Like Stanley Kubrick and Akira Kurosawa, she’s doing all this shit for real.

The first, and most famous, example is her portrayal of Sophie in Sophie’s Choice. First, she learned German. Then she learned Polish. Then she learned to speak German in a Polish accent. Roger Ebert (whose opinions on film are unassailable) described it as “the only accent [he has] ever wanted to hug,” and I don’t even know what that means, but it sounds pretty positive?

But okay, accents are whatever — we’ve seen lots of accents in this article already. Fine! How about the freaking violin? That’s the hardest instrument to learn, according to people who argue about this sort of thing on the internet, and she learned to play in a matter of weeks.

Most recently, for the movie Ricki And The Flash, Streep learned to play guitar… from Neil Young, because that’s who teaches you guitar when you’re Meryl Streep. Jesus, between Streep and Scorsese, it’s becoming increasingly clear to me that rich people just seem to have more opportunities to do cool stuff than people like me. Maybe I should become rich? Anyway, Streep then practiced with a band in a bar for months. By the time she actually got around to shooting the damn movie, she had ripped her fingers open on the strings.

Alright, enough gushing about cool stuff I like. Let’s end this article in the best way any article could ever end: with a video of Neil Young and Meryl Streep jamming out on a stratocaster that probably cost more than my fucking car.

Let’s be real. I drive a Civic.

JF Sargent is a senior editor for Cracked and the only writer you can trust. Follow him on Twitter and Facebook.

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