#the only podcast i really listen to is called spine chill and it's just let's players i like talking abt viddy games

[watermelinoe]

heyyy i'm poking my head in to ask if anyone has podcast recommendations 👉👈

[yuyuswrld]

O Captain, My Captain

Series Intro

characters: various aot boys x reader

genre: SMAU with writing, romance, smut, angst

for my marco fans, there’s a little sneak peak at him at the end :)

notes: this series will be 18+ even though this introduction does not have any smut in it. please do not interact with me if you are under 18. all characters in this series are over the age 18.

You learned that Eren Yeager was a stone wall incredibly quickly. It was a shock to you, considering how popular he was despite being unable to converse with someone he didn’t know well. You’d have steered away from him forever if it had been up to you. However, knowing your luck, you had to see him every day after all your classes were over.

It was a slip of judgment to allow yourself to be recruited as the next manager of the volleyball team. Sure, you had watched a couple of games here and there for school spirit, not to mention copious amounts of alcohol at the after-parties. But when one of your professors approached you on your way out of class, describing a great way to amp up your resume and get all-expenses-paid vacations, becoming a sports team manager was the last thing you expected.

“It’s kind of funny, actually,” Connie starts to explain after you walk into the gym, noting the tasks you'll be in charge of before you commit to the offer. “Our old manager, Hanna, got pregnant with one of my homies. Now she’s off giving birth and whatnot, so we’ve been down a manager.”

“So what does a manager typically do?” You question, shifting the conversation slightly to get to the point. The more you look at the different stereotypical characters running across the courts and the loud smacks that echoed throughout the gym, the more your desire to take the opportunity dwindles. Sure, cute boys and another achievement on your resume are great or whatever, but you really try to avoid getting committed to sports – especially after crashing and burning last time. You shudder as a chill runs down your spine at the thought before Connie starts talking again.

“Oh, um. I won't lie, I honestly have no idea what she did, either.” You stare at Connie in silence, cocking an eyebrow in disbelief.

“Uh, is there someone who does?” You ask. It's getting difficult to ignore your doubts about your decision to come here.

“Yeah, I think so. Let me go grab ‘im.” Connie jogs further down the court, interrupting someone as they finish their current spike. But as your eyes focus in on who was walking closer, you knew you we’re going to have the displeasure of meeting Eren Yeager.

Connie runs over to drag his brown-haired teammate over, who takes his sweet time walking over after sparing you only a glance. He is good looking, sure – but you aren't fooled by appearances, and you've heard far too much about him to even remotely consider him attractive from listening to Petra gossiping about him. She had a big mouth and somehow knew everything about everyone, the good and the bad, but it came in handy when it came to staying in the loop at school. Eren had a nasty habit of cursing out any girl who made an advance on him, citing his career and how a ‘bitch’ would only get in the way of it.

You think back to the memory of Petra sipping her drink, watching Eren walk out of school and head towards his Hellcat in the parking lot. You two had been sitting at the school’s cafe as you enjoyed your “study” date, which had inevitably just turned into a gossip session.

“You see that guy? That’s Eren Yeager. He’s on our volleyball team and he’s a fucking psycho.” She'd rolled her eyes as she recounted the gossip she had gotten from her friend. “Apparently Mina – y’know the one from our bio class? They hooked up at a party and afterwards he accused her of trying to sabotage his volleyball career. He even called her a psycho. That’s not even the only time he’s done it apparently. I know he’s cute, but stay away unless you want to end up on a true crime podcast.”

You brace yourself for the upcoming conversation as he nears.

“You’re going to be the new manager?” Eren says in a monotone voice, as if being forced by his mother to make small talk with a distant aunt. The displeasure of being interrupted is written all over his face.

“No – well –” You start before Eren cuts you off without hesitation.

“Usually Hanna prepares the towels, fills the bottles with water, and mops the gym after practice. Coach Levi's pretty anal about the gym being clean, so pay attention to that. You’ll want to learn about formations and strategies, too; Hanna fucking sucked when it came to game sense. You’ll work with the sports director Erwin to set up practice matches and travel plans. There’s probably more, but that’s your job, not mine.” He jogs back over to do spiking drills without another word. Your jaw slackens, scoffing at the attitude. What a little shit. Connie shrugs at you in an I’m pretty sure that’s right way. You smile at him, politely dismissing yourself before trudging your way back to your professor’s office.

“Absolutely not,” you say, dramatically sighing to emphasize the sheer disappointment you feel from the experience. “I only talked to Connie and Eren, which was already too much. You’d have better luck with a dog trainer or circus clown to manage them.” Your shoulders drop, but you prepare to defend yourself as to why.

“Please,” Professor Hange begs, their eyes beading with desperation. “I was the one who introduced the previous manager to the guy that got her pregnant. On accident, of course, but they’re totally on my tail about getting a new manager to fill the spot!” They spin around haphazardly before collapsing on their standing desk in an unconvincing sadness. “I’ll even see if they’ll pay you as if you were working a normal student job.”

You internally cringe, but are now forced to consider the prospects. Chewing on your lip, you respond. You know if you look back on this moment at any point, you’d want to go back in time and slap yourself.

“If you can make it a paid position, I’ll do it.”

Unsurprisingly, Professor Hange got their way in the end.

next: part 1, reiner x reader

[scribblingfangirl]

WITH LOVE, THE GOSTS | Julie and The Phantoms - Part Three

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Author’s Note: I decided that this fic trilogy occurs a year after the season one final, making Julie and Y/N almost (or already) 17. Also… this part turned out waaay longer than expected. Which is why there is going to be a fourth part because I have one last idea but didn’t want to rush to write it. And to think this all started because of a rushed (haha) 1k Oneshot. I should really start to write more spontaneously, it seems like good things come out of it. Anyway, Enjoy! :D

Songs mentioned in this chapter (in this order): Now or Never & Wake Up by JaTP | Don't Stop Me Now by Queen | Rude by MAGIC! | Don’t Laugh At Me by Mark Wills | Don’t You Worry ’Bout a Thing by Tori Kelly | Still Learning by Halsey | Ayo Technology by 50 Cent | My version of My Name Is Luke by Trevor Wilson | Let’s Forget About It by Lisa Loeb | Let's Just Get Naked Lyrics by Joan Osborne | Hey by Pixies

word count: ~ 3.9k

summary: Even after meeting the boys they still aren’t tired of helping you out and they each have their own little ways to do it.

warnings:  // (english is not my first language, not beta-read)

| PART ONE | PART TWO |

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Knowing that ghosts existed was an absurd feeling (even though you had always believed or hoped that there was more out there than just this world, especially with all those planets that had been discovered by NASA), but knowing that there were three certain ghosts that liked you enough to kindly haunt you, well… that was just plain unimaginable somehow. Yet, still less anxiety awakening than you expected. 

After Julie let you meet the guys for the first time you thought you were prepared to accept that you would not be able to talk to them unless they played something (after all, you had Flynn to groan about that), but the occasional giggle from Julie and her glances into nothing still sent chills down your spine.

So you started to always look around very suspiciously whenever you were over at her house and make obscene hand movements just to be sure that the boys would move before you walked somewhere or sat down (which just earned chuckles from Flynn and annoyed sighs from Julie - “Just because you can’t see them, doesn’t mean they can’t see you. They know where you are, so please stop, or else my dad will call your parents and send you to Dr Turner as well.” The boys found it hilarious and liked to imitate you whenever they came too close to you.) 

The boys also still kept doing little things for you, just not so in secret anymore (though… Reggie was never one for subtlety). Whenever you seemed to have had a bad day (or whenever they just wanted to make you smile) you knew you could count on them having something prepared for you. 

You soon discovered that anything related to food (which sometimes were extremely odd and bizarre combinations) was Luke’s doing (except for pizza and meatballs, according to Julie that was always Reggie). And you knew it was Alex whenever it was something more calm and soothing, yet sometimes a little bit clumsy. And whenever it was blatantly obvious and/or slightly weird (in a good way!) it was Reggie. 

Well, no. Not always in a good way. One time you came back from school and your whole room was filled with glitter and butterflies and a small note with a little ‘Sorry!’ on it was pinned to your desk - cleaning that had been a pain in the a-. But you couldn’t be angry at Reggie, even though you weren’t quite sure what his ultimate goal would have been. 

Speaking of REGGIE...

All those helpful little deeds and nice gestures were always done within the limits of your house (mostly room) or Julie’s house and the studio, which is why you almost let out a loud yelp when suddenly during a math test your pen started to move on his own, filling out the empty space (because yes, you hadn’t been doing very much other than staring helplessly at the paper in front of you). Quickly you grabbed the pen as well (loosely and while trying to ignore the fact that you were practically holding hands with one of the guys) so that nobody would see a floating pen as you did a few weeks ago at Christmas.

From the corners of your eyes, you saw Julie slightly move her head towards you, as if she was listening to you - or rather someone right beside or behind you. ‘Of course. I can’t see them, so the only way to help me is by physically grabbing the pen, but Julie can hear and see them, so they (whoever this is - because let’s be honest, none of the guys really looks like a math genius) only have to tell her the corrects solutions and how to get there. My money’s on Alex.’

You were kind of shocked, and weirdly proud when Julie came up to you after class and said: “Reggie’s not so questionable after all, huh?” (Though… you should’ve guessed it, you did say subtlety wasn’t Reggie’s strong suit.) So you just giggled and shook your head while leaving some of your books in your locker (alongside the fact that Reggie was probably almost (if not!) hugging you from behind - you shuddered at that thought, it’s not like you were already awkward around living boys your age, no need to add ghosts to that list!)

A week later you and Julie entered the studio with blank faces and hanging shoulders. Julie threw a weak little wave towards the piano and sighed while you threw the blankets and snacks you were holding carelessly on the ground and let yourself fall face-first onto the couch, not being able to hide your smile anymore.

“We got our math exams back… yes the one Reggie helped us with.”

You couldn’t see what Julie was doing, but you heard her gasp and whisper “No! Reggie…” after a while. Then she was standing beside you, nudging your shoulder and willing you to sit up, but you didn’t bulge, needing a few more seconds to wipe the smile off your face again.

Faking to disgruntledly accept defeat as Julie’s nudges got stronger (the couch was really comfortable, you totally understood Luke now) you sat up and looked at Julie. “Who’s going to tell them?” you said with a heavy voice and felt how the couch dipped beside you. Raising your eyebrows you quickly glanced to the side (obviously not seeing anybody or anything) and looked back at Julie questioningly. 

She nodded, telling you that it was indeed Reggie and gave you the okay to drop the bomb.

You sighed as you turned back around, facing the wall on the other side of the studio and hoped that Reggie would ignore the fact that you were probably talking to his ear or something. “So Reggie… the help you gave us on the math final? Well…,” you couldn’t keep your face straight any longer and jumped onto the couch, “WE ACED IT! I WOULD HUG YOU IF YOU WEREN’T MADE OUT OF CUTE AIR!” (Okay… maybe there was a little bit too much serotonin involved.)

Julie added smiling, “And I’m happy to announce that due to my good grades my father allowed Julie and The Phantoms to play at the upcoming Summer Music Festival!”

A guitar riff filled the studio, followed by a short drum intro and with a ‘puff!’ the boys appeared in front of you, beaming and glowing at the news. Reggie even threw a wink at you when you smiled back and said: “Thank you!”

Don't look down 'Cause we're still rising Up right now And even if we hit the ground We'll still fly Keep dreaming like we'll live forever But live it like it's now or never!

This allowed LUKE…

The music festival was an experience you would never forget. You were very happy Ray managed to persuade your parents to let you accompany Julie (sadly Flynn had no such luck). Not only did you turn 17 and the boys made sure to have the whole crowd sing ‘Happy Birthday’ to you (as soon as you were back home you would add an extra point to your to-do: ‘find out how to kill ghosts a second time’), but the boys rocked the stage and Julie stood up taller and shined brighter than ever before. 

Gone (yet not forgotten) were the painful shocks and the fear of never performing again and the serenity of the guys was visible. 

It was the last night of the music festival when Julie got the phone call from her father. He would come by to get her the next morning and they would drive directly to visit other family members and spend the rest of the summer holidays there. 

Of course, Julie was excited to see her cousins and aunts and uncles again, but she also felt bad to leave you to drive back alone (you had come with your car jam-packed with all the necessary equipment you needed and that wasn’t provided by the festival).

“Don’t worry! It’s only a four-hour drive! I’ve got good music, podcasts and audiobooks to keep me company and back home Flynn will be waiting. It sadly looks like I’m going to survive without you.” 

Early the next morning Julie and some newfound fans of Julie and The Phantoms helped you load the equipment into your car and you said goodbye to Julie. Expecting the boys to just directly puff back to Los Feliz you didn’t waste any time and entered your car, connected your phone with the stereo and started to blast your favourite Broadway musicals.

You must’ve been on the road for half an hour when suddenly the playlist stopped and ‘Wake Up’ started to play.

So wake that spirit, spirit!

Confused you scrunched up your nose and touched the touch screen displaying the music system, trying to change it back to your playlist. But instead, the music changed yet again.

(Don't stop me now) 'Cause I'm having a good time (Don't stop me now) Yes, I'm havin' a good time I don't want to stop at all

“What the hell?” you muttered, staring at your stereo for a quick second before focusing back on the road, “Why you always going crazy on me dude?”

Once again the music switched.

Why you gotta be so rude? Don't you know I'm human too?

It took you a hot minute to understand what was going on and then you couldn’t stop laughing. 

Don't laugh at me, don't call me names Don't get your pleasure from my pain

“Oh, I’m sorry,” you said mockingly, looking at the empty passenger seat, guessing that that’s where your invisible friend was sitting. “Your pain? I’m not the one who is able to puff wherever and whenever their heart desires and who sneaks up on innocent people.”

Silence. 

“For what it’s worth. I’m sorry. I really am. It’s not like you choose this life, you deserved better than this. But I’m really glad I was able to get to know you. I’m really thankful for the light and happiness you brought back into Julie’s life.”

Don't you worry 'bout a thing

But I'm still learnin' to

using technology

You laughed. “Impressive skills nevertheless. Knowing three fitting songs and then changing them at the right time? Let me guess, Luke? Because I don’t think all of you three would fit into my tiny car full of musical equipment.”

At first, there was no music yet again, but then the slow melody of a (for you) well-known song flooded your car. It was the one Trevor Wilson song you never understood until you met the boys, the one song that was so totally different to his usual rock sound (except for the refrains, which, as you later would find out, were parts of the original lyrics Luke wrote for his version of the song).

I sing to remember the stories that used to be But I don’t write to create what could have been And as I scream words into the darkness around me They come out like a dying whisper

The kindest thing to do is to silence them and let them die To unleash my heartfelt sorrow into the sky  And diminish the will to fight That pulses like fire and screams with pain through my veins

But life’s not always beautiful, it’s rare So I’mma chase it, watch you make it

Don’t need to introduce himself You will want to know his name Pushing your foundations down  He is here to stay

Don’t call him a breeze when he’s a hurricane Don’t call him a tremble when he’s an earthquake Don’t call him an inconvenience Please just say his name

Leaving lyrics in my hands That I swallow like pills Like hurtful words, they rip and claw And press painfully against my chest

But no matter how painful they are I will soak them up, thinking of our hopes and wishes And as each word pushes a new pulse through my veins I keep staring out on the grave of our shared space of mind

Life’s not always beautiful, but it’s rare So I’mma chase it, watch you make it

Don’t need to introduce himself You will want to know his name Pushing your foundations down  He is here to stay

Don’t call him a spark when he’s a lightning bolt Don’t call him a flicker when he’s a raging flame Don’t you dare to underestimate him Please just say his name

But even when the word flood finally comes to an end Fidgeting hands remind me of music never played

I owe him my voice I owe him my sound

So I give him this time I give him this space To sing it out loud To let him declare And let me be proud

What’s his name? (His name is Luke!) What’s his name? (His name is Luke!) What’s his name? (His name is Luke!)

How long do we say his name? (Until we explode!)

My name is Luke! (Tell your friends!)

Tears were rolling down your cheeks, the song now more emotional than ever before. You couldn’t imagine how this song must affect Luke. Thinking that his bandmate abandoned him (which honestly… he kind of did, only mentioning him in one song, not giving any money to their parents and so on) up until he heard the song for the first time.

“Luke…”

Forget about it Let's forget about it

The ensuing silence wasn’t awkward. You hummed along to the music Luke selected, sometimes it were old classics (probably his favourites), other times it seemed to be random newer hits he probably never heard before mixed with some songs from your favourite playlists.

It was nearing midday and your stomach made itself known. As if on cue a road sign hinted at a diner just up ahead. Setting the blinker you pulled into the parking lot a few moments later.

“I hope you don’t mind. I know home’s only like an hour away, but...” you began to trail off, not knowing where to look at and your stomach finished your sentence. And before you were able to grab the door handle it sprung wide open. 

“Uh, what a gentleman. Thank you very much.”

The meal was over in a flash and once more you realised how much the boys actually knew about you without having actually interacted with you (perks of seeing other people without being seen themselves?). 

It’s like Luke could read your wishes just from your facial expressions. Whenever you needed salt or pepper they were right there. Whenever something was too salty or had too much pepper on your drink was being pushed closer to your side. And when you accidentally spilt something and needed more napkins they magically appeared.

When you then spotted a cute little guitar keychain that reminded you of Luke that was being sold as a souvenir at the check-out it was suddenly safely tucked into your back pocket (though that was really really risky, and while you did not condone it you couldn’t really stop a ghost).

Back in your car, you didn’t even bother to turn on the stereo, knowing that Luke would take over as soon as your hands were on the steering wheel again. 

However, a glance to your right presented you with a map of your surroundings, a big x hastily drawn over the Silverwood Lake in San Bernardino, which was basically just around the corner.

“You want to go swimming? We- I just ate! And my bathing suit is somewhere under that mountain of equipment on the backseat.”

Let's just get naked, just for a laugh Let's just get naked It's a trip and a half

You laughed at that, rolling your eyes and shaking your head, before stowing the map away and turning on the car. “I guess catching Reggie in the shower isn’t enough anymore?”

Hey!

“You started making it weird buddy.”

It had started to rain when you finally pulled up in your driveway, but you couldn’t be bothered to rush inside, enjoying the feeling of the cooling wetness on your skin.

“Look at that,” you said to nobody in particular, not knowing if Luke was still around or if he puffed back to the garage, “I didn’t even need to go swimming after all.”

He was. Sitting in the passenger seat, face on his arms while he leaned on the open car window, he watched you dance in the rain with a smile on his face. He was glad he decided to stick around and keep you company on that road trip. You gave him the courage to listen to My Name Is Luke for the first time (and getting to see you smile while showing off his impressive music knowledge was a bonus too). Because without knowing, you were doing little deeds for the boys too.

And made ALEX…

Whoever wrote that “Life isn't about waiting for the storm to pass. It's about learning how to dance in the rain”-quote totally forgot to mention how dangerous small summer storms can be. 

Well sure, it might have been your fault for staying out for too long and deciding to let the sun that came out a little bit later dry you instead of changing into fresh and dry clothes, but whatever happened happened and you got sick. (It’s not like you had anything better to do during the last few days of your summer holidays, right?) 

Flynn had been a great friend and hung out almost daily at your house, playing board games, watching movies or tv or even just discussing upcoming Julie and The Phantoms possibilities with you. But your dearest little helper had been Alex.

The blond drummer had turned into the tall brother you never had but always wanted (focus on tall because the age thing with ghosts is seriously confusing) even if he was invisible to you 100% of the time. You had the same interests and were able to bond without actually having to say any words, little gestures and reciprocations on your side were more than enough.

Julie had come up with an easy solution and had bought you some of those sound buzzers (like the ones that dogs and cats use to communicate with their owners) and recorded some simple words and phrases the boys liked to use on them. Now the boys just had to press them to be able to communicate with you without having to use pen and paper or Julie herself (sure your parents were a little bit weary and confused, but you said it was for a longer school research project and that shut them up).

Now, feeling way better than during the last few days, but still very tired, you were sitting in your bed, not really focused on the tv show (or was it a movie?) that was playing on your computer. You had been contemplating and mentally preparing yourself to get something to eat and to drink for the past 15 minutes, but the thoughts alone were exhausting and binding you to the bed. Just then a tray with a water bottle, meds and a fruit bowl floated into your room. 

Suddenly wide awake and full of energy you clumsily jumped out of your bed and grabbed the tray, throwing a quick glance out of the door to see if your parents were around and slammed the door shut, wincing at the loud sound and hoping that Alex had walked out of the way (not that it would have hurt him, but you know - rude).

“Rude.” 

See? He thought the same. (Julie had to specifically add this word for Alex.) 

“I know, I know. I’m sorry. But I would like not to get murdered or have Sam and Dean Winchester on my back because my parents think I’m possessed and need to be exorcised.”

“Me.”

“You what?”

“Me.”

“Alex… I need more context.”

“I do. Me.”

You just blinked blankly at the sound buzzers, trying to piece together what Alex was trying to say.

“Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. M-”

“THAT’S ENOUGH Y/N! WHATEVER THAT SCHOOL PROJECT IS, TELL IT I HEARD IT AND I DON’T CARE WHAT IT WANTS!” you heard your father's scream come muffled through the door.

The audience laughter from sitcoms filled your room and you groaned, grabbing a pillow and smashing it against your face.

Faintly you heard the telltale sound of a pen scribbling something on paper and when you peeked from behind the pillow a note was floating in the air in front of you. “You mean exorcise ME! You would be the one surviving!” 

“What? Oh my god… yeah okay, YOU get exorcised… same thing. Both aren’t allowed to happen. Forgive my fever brain.”

“No.”

“Fork you, Alex.”

“No.”

“I have Carlos on speed-dial, I’m sure he already came up with other methods to get rid of ghosts other than the salt thing. He already told me that he’s sorry and that he thinks I might get haunted by you too with the amount of time I spend at their house.” 

“No. Food.”

Confused at that topic change it took you a few seconds to answer. “What?” Looking around your gaze landed on the tray that you had deposited on your desk. “Oh right! Boy, I completely forgot how thirsty and hungry I am. Did I say thank you? Fang u!” you mumbled with your mouth full of fruit. 

“No. Food.”

You swallowed down your food and took a big gulp of water. “Yes Alex, thank you. I am eating. You see? Here I am, here’s the food. The food is here and now whoops - ifs gan!”

You could basically feel the annoyance radiating from the ghost and weren’t really shocked when the pen started to scribble something down again.

“No! Argh!” He really wrote Argh… that dork really wrote Argh! “You can be worse than Reggie sometimes, but you do it on purpose and I’m just sorry for Reggie. A) Carlos thinks he got rid of us by making a french dip and B) You’re awfully lively for a supposedly sick person. I might need to use the buzzers more and see what other reactions I can provoke from your parents.”

Crumbling the note in your hands you thought ‘Challenge accepted’. “You know what? I think I’mma go back on Reggie’s offer and actually let him introduce me to Wilbur. He might know some stuff I could use to blackmail you. And you’re right! I feel much better, just very tired, but that’s nothing a little bit of fresh air can’t fix! Toodles!” 

You left your room, leaving a flabbergasted ghost behind who had lost his snapback with the number of times he had been combing through his hair with his hands. And while angrily pressing a pink buzzer, the buzzer wasn't the only thing that screamed “WILLIAM!” after the girl. (That was another important sound Alex wanted to have recorded.)

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Taglist: @sunsetcurvej​​ @ifilwtmfc​

[astonishinglegends]

Ep 205: Terry Carnation's "Dark Air" and Rich Hatem

“Imagine the universe, compressed on the head of a pin…”

– Scott’s remembrance of a Carl Sagan quote, which, turns out, probably originates from a parody impression of Carl Sagan

Description:

We have a very special guest joining us tonight, metaphysical "astralnaut," philosopher of the liminal, "Pope of the Paranormal," and host of the AM Radio talk show Dark Air, Terry Carnation. Terry first got his start in the paranormal radio genre when unexpectedly thrust into taking over for another show. While working as a late-night rock n' roll Disc Jockey for an FM station in Buffalo, NY, in 1992, Reginald Wilcox, the host of the paranormal call-in show that aired after Terry's slot was mysteriously murdered while Terry was in the bathroom... or so he claims. In his unflappable sense of duty, apparently stronger than his sense of legal obligation, Terry immediately took over the role of consigliere for listeners stupefied by the supernatural. And in Terry's words, "that's how a legend was created." Now, after a three-year hiatus, Terry Carnation returns with a new podcast, also called Dark Air, available starting April 1, 2021, wherever podcasts are given away for free. While you may not have heard of him, there will be something uneasily familiar about his voice and visage. And the audience will come to know his strange power for tearing off the head of disbelief and reaching down deep into our souls to yank out the viscera of our darkest fears and mysteries. Wrapped around our interview with Terry, our good buddy Rich Hatem joins us once again to discuss his latest adventures and projects. We'll also con him into playing our version of a game show, in the spirit of America's NPR radio program Wait Wait... Don't Tell Me! and Britain's Would I Lie to You? We'll tell Rich three outrageous paranormal stories, and he has to guess which one is fake. Please join us for an episode of inscrutable levity.

Reference Links:

Terry Carnation’s website, TerryCarnation.com

Terry Carnation and Dark Air on Audioboom, where you can subscribe to the platform of your choice

Dark Air with Terry Carnation on Apple Podcasts

Follow Terry Carnation on Instagram

Follow Terry Carnation on Twitter

Terry Carnation on Facebook

Where to stream DC Titans

“TERRIBLE FLYING JELLY BAGS aka DOMSTEN BLOBS: (SWEDEN)” by Rob Morphy on cryptopia.us

National Public Radio’s Wait Wait...Don't Tell Me!

The BBC One panel show involving true and false tales, Would I Lie To You?

“The Story Behind The Haunted Donkey Lady Bridge In Texas Will Send Chills Down Your Spine” from OnlyInYourState.com

“South Texas Haunted Folklore: The Tale of the Converse Werewolf” from KSAT.com

On a totally unrelated subject…

Rainn Wilson is best known for playing the role of Dwight Schrute on NBC's The Office. Additional film and television credits include Galaxy Quest, Almost Famous, The Rocker, Super, Six Feet Under, Juno, Backstrom, Star Trek Discovery, Thom Pain, The Meg, Mom, Don't Tell a Soul and Utopia.  He will also be appearing in the forthcoming podcast Dark Air with Terry Carnation. Wilson co-founded SoulPancake, a digital media company, and the Lide Foundation, an educational initiative in rural Haiti that empowers at-risk women and girls through the arts.

Dark Air with Terry Carnation was created by Rainn Wilson and Aaron Lee and is produced by Thom Harp and Chris Kelly. Dark Air with Terry Carnation is a production of Imperial Mammoth, Audioboom and Kelly&Kelly. Theme music by Marcos Moscat

This episode features the voice talents of Jinous Khjadivian and Dana Davis as the two audience callers.

Please help out our good friend Stan Gordon, by purchasing his books on Amazon and Barnes & Noble – you’re gonna love ‘em!

At Barnes & Noble:

Silent Invasion: The Pennsylvania UFO-Bigfoot Casebook

Astonishing Encounters: Pennsylvania’s Unknown Creatures, Casebook 3

Really Mysterious Pennsylvania: UFOs, Bigfoot, and Other Weird Encounters, Casebook 1

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[zwritestuff]

Placebo Effect (One-shot) - Monét/Monique

A/N: Hi! This is a paid commission I did for @derpy-avocado. I did my best to live up to her wishes for this fic, and I hope you all like it too! :D If you’d like a commission, all the information is on my pinned post.

Summary: Monique is sick and asks Monét to take care of him.

1,692 words | on ao3. 

*

Moonique: are u free today?

Monét barely has time to read the text when Bob is pushing him to keep on walking, albeit rather harshly, otherwise they’ll miss the greenlight. He just huffs, haphazardly putting it in his back pocket and adjusting his gym bag, pinching Bob’s arms once they’re on the other side of the street.

“If you wanted to push me in front of the cars, you should’ve just done that,” he jokingly says, and Bob just rolls his eyes.

“I don’t need you as a ghost tugging on my cold feet for the rest of my life, thank you very much,” Bob deadpans, but a chuckle escapes him. Monét just snorts, turning around the corner of the street, heading for their nearest Starbucks.

Summer is on its last stage, leaving space for autumn’s chilly winds and brown leaves. But the temperatures have yet to drop, and Monét isn’t sure why he allows Bob to drag him to the gym on hot days like these—best friend privileges, he supposes.

Between small talk he forgets about Monique’s text, until they get to Starbucks and the line is larger than they anticipated. He turns to Bob to go on with their conversation when he feels his phone buzz, before they hear a moo. Bob cocks a brow in his direction, but Monét is more than used to the ridiculous ringtone Monique set up for himself.

“Mo?”

“‘Nét.” His voice sounds solemn—and nasal. “You ignored my texts, bitch. I’m dying and you ignored me,” he says, as dramatic as Monét knows him to be, and he can’t help to laugh.

“Okay, first, I saw your first text while I was walking, I was going to answer. Second, I’m pretty sure you’re not actually dying.” He hears a whine on the other side of the line and gives a tiny smile, accompanied by a chuckle. Bob purses his lips as if he were to say something, but his mouth stays shut.

“Excuses, excuses.” He can almost see Monique dismissing what he said with a wave of his hand. “I’m sick, think I got a cold or somethin’. ‘M burnin’ up, my nose’s runny, my throat’s sore—and I’m bored outta my mind,” he sighs deeply, to really sell his acting.

Monét cocks a brow, “Pretty sure boredom isn’t part of the symptoms,” he says, amused. Monique groans on the other side of the line.

“Of course it isn’t, you dumbass.” There’s a small pause before he continues, “I just—I want someone to hang out with to not feel so miserable, y’know,” he admits in a whisper, and really, it shouldn’t make Monét’s heart speed up, but it does.

He purses his lips, glancing towards Bob, who seems much more preoccupied with his own phone. He knows they’re supposed to film a video and their podcast, amongst other things—but a day off can’t hurt, can it?

“Alright, I’ll come by. I’m at Starbucks, you want anything?” He asks, though he knows Monique’s usual order by heart. And sure enough, Monique recites it back to him. “I’ll be there in ten, maybe. The door’s locked?”

“I’ll unlock it now,” Monique says simply, and Monét hears some fumbling in the background. “Thanks, Nét,” he mumbles with earnest, making Monét smile lopsidedly.

“Anytime,” he whispers back before hanging up, and when he puts away his phone and goes to meet Bob’s gaze, there’s a questioning glare piercing right through him. “What?”

Bob just stares at him for a solid second before speaking, “It was Monique, wasn’t it? You got that look on your face, you know the one. No wonder you’re abandoning me that easy.” He goes straight to the point, with a shit eating grin. Monét just cocks a brow, trying to not look flustered.

“I have no idea what you mean,” he says, but he knows—it’s just he’d rather not think about it now, not when he’s on his way to see him.

Bob gives him sneaky glances and teases him a fair share until he leaves, and all Monét can do is pretend he doesn’t hear him.

*

Monét arrives to Monique’s apartment in the blink of an eye, with his stupidly complicated order, and unceremoniously lets himself in.

Immediately, he’s greeted by the sound of SZA’s latest song blasting from Monique’s room, and he smiles a little before he makes a beeline for it. The door is wide open, and right away he can see Monique bundled in a bunch of blankets, his eyes are closed, peeking out from under the covers, and he looks so peaceful he’d hate to ruin the moment.

But then again, his coffee is getting cold, and he knows Monique hates cold coffee.

“Wow, you really look like shit,” he jokingly says, making Monique’s eyes snap open.  He kicks off the blanket covering him and makes the motion to stand up from bed, but Monét takes a long stride and makes him settle back down.

“Thanks for coming,” he beams, turning the music just a notch down. He makes space in the bed for Monét, and he gladly settles by his side, and there’s something comforting by the familiarity of the motion. “D’you get my order right?”

“A venti Americano blonde espresso with caramel syrup and almond milk, right?” He asks, knowing the answer, and pride swells in his chest when Monique squeals in excitement, making grabby hands at the drink.

Monét’s own drink is already half empty, so he nibbles on it silently while Monique is cuddled up by his side, telling him about this one gig where he did shots with the host, how he felt sick over the course of the next days, pinning the blame on the host. Monét just listens, amused, unable to wipe the grin off his face whenever he glances to Monique out of the corner of his eye and sees him talking with his hand and making gestures, to really tell a compelling story.

They stay like that for what feels like forever, talking aimlessly about everything and anything, listening to SZA’s second album, and letting a comfortable silence fall when there’s nothing to say, just sipping on their drinks until the last drop. Monét leaves for a moment to use the bathroom, and Monique lets out a long breath.

He’s not sure why his first instinct upon realizing he’s sick was to call Monét instead of seeing a doctor, but he can’t deny his company brings him a sort of peace he only feels when he’s with him. And Monique isn’t stupid, he knows what it is and why he feels like that, but he’d rather protect their friendship a little longer.

He gets up to get a glass of water while Monét is still busy in the bathroom, and he aimlessly stands in the middle of the kitchen, still wrapped up in his comfy blankets, when he hears it—the ice cream truck tune.

Monique smiles widely, peeking over at the door of the bathroom. He knows he’s not supposed to go out like that and Monét will chastise him, but Monét can forgive him once he comes back with ice cream for the two. Right?

*

“Do you have any idea of the heart attack you almost gave me?” Monét exclaims, once he finds Monique sitting on the sidewalk, melting ice creams on each hand and a smug smile, still wrapped up in blankets.

“In my defense, you left me unsupervised, and I bought you an ice cream too!” Monique holds his hand out, offering him the sweet, and Monét glares at him, begrudgingly accepting it and kneeling down next to him.

“Girl, you’re a grown ass adult, I left you for one minute to use the bathroom and you disappear!”

“One minute? Seemed like an eternity to me,” Monique says nonchalantly, carelessly licking the ice cream. His tone is jokey, but there’s some truth to his words.

If he sees Monét blush before he looks away and scoops him up in his arms, Monique doesn’t say anything. Monét chastises him on their way back, the ice cream melting before he can finish it, and Monique would be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy their proximity.

Monét vows to not let him out of his sight while he’s there, and proposes they watch something on Netflix, and it totally isn’t Monique’s idea to cover Monét with his own blankets to have him closer. They have a mixed marathon of SpongeBob and Avatar when they can’t settle on just one, and if Monique feels his heart skip when Monét insists he rests his head on his chest, he’ll never admit it.

“Y’know, I think it was always obvious Katara would end up with Aang,” Monét comments out of nowhere, and Monique cocks a brow, silently prompting him to go on. “I mean, just look at the way he looks at her. Don’t tell me you wouldn’t pick up on it if someone looked you that way,” he muses mysteriously, and Monique has to agree.

“Well, yeah, but why are you—” He glances up to meet Monét’s gaze, and the words die in his throat.

It seems planned, the way Monét is looking at him while the show plays on the background, mimicking Aang’s lovey-dovey gaze to Katara. It sends chills right down his spine.

He’s looking at his lips, and it makes him wonder who’ll be the one to make the move. In the end, Monique isn’t thinking straight, blame it on the way her brain shut downs when he’s with Monét or the fever, but the next thing he knows is that he stops holding back and clashes his lips with Monét’s.

It feels childish to say a canyon of butterflies exploded on his stomach, but that’s what happens.

“I think that made me feel better,” Monique confesses sheepishly, once they pull apart, and Monét just chuckles, pulling him closer.

“Oh, yeah? I’m more than glad to be your placebo effect,” he says, “You still need to see a doctor, though.”

Monique rolls his eyes, biting back a smile. “Don’t ruin the moment, bitch.”

[katdvs]

When Riley Matthews was in high school her life changed, now as a professional dancer she’s got a new challenge when she’s paired with professional football player Lucas Friar on the latest season. Can they win the season, or will their past get in the way?

Cross Posted to FFN & AO3

Chapter One:

Ever since she was in the eighth grade, Riley Matthews woke up early in the morning. Before the sun would kiss the sky, Riley would take a modern dance class. It was all her own, she didn’t have to share it with her friends. When things got to be too much, she was able to escape in those early morning hours in the world of dance.

It was her sophomore year of high school that one of her friends discovered her sanctuary, Zay who had always talked about dance showed up one morning for the same class. He was in awe of Riley as she showed off a piece she’d been working on for the recital. It wasn’t long before they became dance partners, and both started taking more classes of different styles.

At the end of the school year there was a talent show, Riley and Zay had decided it was a great chance to show off the piece they had been working on. They had kept their partnership a secret until that night. Everyone else had been busy with their own practices to realize that while they were off getting ready for the city-wide science fair, or football and baseball season, or the art shows, they were dancing, choreographing together.

That night Zay and Riley danced to an old Celine Dion song, not only surprising their friends and family—but also being discovered by a television producer.

Everything changed after that night.

Except that Riley Matthews woke up early in the morning. Now at the age of 27 she woke up in a beach house, in Los Angeles. Instead of sneaking off to early morning dance classes she did Pilates on her deck, with the sound of the waves crashing, before Zay would start the blender going with their morning protein shakes.

Today started like any other day, but both were nervous. “If I get another Disney star, I swear I’ll scream. I hate having to stop for snack time.” Zay poured the protein shakes into their travel cups.

Riley laughed, “Please the last three seasons I’ve gotten the old men. Unless they get me like America’s Favorite TV Dad as a partner, I’m back in the troupe week 4.”

Zay chuckled, it was true, neither had gotten the best partners the last few seasons. They were both due for some actual contenders. “At least when you’re in the troupe you get to choreograph the group numbers.”

“I want to win, I know with the right partner I’ll be able to do it.” Riley shrugged before taking a drink from her shake, “We’ll find out in what, two hours when we meet our new partners.”

“Sure will, but you’ll always be my favorite.” Zay chuckled, just as a dish towel was thrown at him.

“I better be.” Riley laughed as she backed out of the kitchen, “I’ve got to take a shower and run an errand before our call time. I’ll see you at the studio though. I hope you get the up and coming pop star.”

“Well I hope you get the sexy athlete who wants to prove he’s more that someone chasing a ball.” He called out as he heard her feet going up the stairs.

Zay started cleaning up when he saw his phone start to come alive and the picture of his best friend, and Riley’s first love came up on the screen. Quickly he tapped to answer, “Hey Man, what’s going on?”

He stood in his kitchen blinking as he listened to his friend on the other side. “Yeah, um, we’ve got a spare room. I’m sure she’ll be okay with it. Why are you in town?”

Zay laughed, “Fine, don’t tell me. Keep your secrets. What time are you going to be in, because I’ll be honest, I don’t know where Riley put the hide-a-key, and I have to check with her.” He waited for an answer, “Oh, yeah one of us should be home by then. I’m sure she’ll be fine with this. I’ve got to get ready for work though, so I’ll see you tonight.”

#

Riley looked at her phone, she was late. She knew she was late. She’d already called and told them she would be late, and why. Right now, she was waiting for the mechanic to come back with the keys for her rental car while they repaired the heater core in her Jeep.

She’d noticed a leak in the passenger side the night before. She thought it would be an easy fix, she really should’ve googled it first. It would take a few days for it to get repaired.

She had made the mistake of getting a large iced coffee while she was originally waiting, and now the caffeine and sugar were surging through her body. Right now, she should be teaching some former sitcom star the basics of a waltz.

“Here you go.” He came out from the office and dropped a set of keys in her hand, “Sorry it will take a few days.”

“It’s okay, thank you.” Riley finished signing her paperwork before giving him a smile. “Just call me as soon as it’s ready, I love my Jeep.”

“Will do Ms. Matthews, have good rest of the day.” He took the paperwork, watching as she dashed out to the rental car waiting for her.

As soon as Riley was in the driver seat, she texted that she was on her way. She wasn’t too far from the studio but hadn’t been close enough to walk. This wasn’t the way to start a new season. This was not the way to start a season she could win.

She wanted to win.

She needed to win.

Zay had won two seasons before.

Riley had gotten close a few times, she made it to the final three several seasons in a row, but the last few had been relegated to getting the older men as partners, who just no matter how hard they worked, wouldn’t be able to win unless America really fell in love with them, and they hadn’t.

She sighed as she waited in traffic, she could at least keep working on the choreography for that musical the network was producing. Plus, she and Zay were putting together a road show with a few of the other dancers for the summer.

Finally, traffic was moving as she made her way down the familiar streets to the studio, pulling into the lot. Thankful that most of the paparazzi wasn’t aware today was the first day. They at least had a week before the stars were revealed.

She parked in the only free space she could find and quickly moved up the stairs to the entrance. Producers were waiting for her.

“I’m so sorry,” she started as they handed her the mic pack.

“Riley don’t worry. It’s okay. Your partner is in studio 5.” The producer, a woman about her age named Sheryl smiled, “I think you’ll approve of this season’s pairing.”

“Have I ever actually not?” Riley looked to her friend.

Sheryl threw her arm around Riley’s shoulder, “I promise your partner isn’t like the Dad from an old TGIF sitcom. In fact, he might be one of the most sought-after bachelors in America.”

Riley rolled her eyes, “Great, I can’t wait. I can already see the twitter and Instagram messages saying I’m stealing someone’s man.”

They stood outside the studio door, “Actually, I think America is going to love the two of you together. And maybe, if possible, flirt with this guy. Get people thinking something could happen, at the very least it should stir up some fanfare.”

“I’m still doing the cha-cha week one, right?”

“Yes, here’s the music, now go in their and let the sparks fly.” Sheryl insisted.

Riley paused, “If I go in their and it’s some Disney channel ‘tween I’m going to kill you, you know that right?”

“Yes, I promise it’s an adult male, and when you see him, you will drool.” Sheryl was practically drooling herself.

Riley took a deep breath, knowing in a minute she would be on camera for hours while she and someone she didn’t know tried to dance together. She said a silent prayer before she finally opened the door.

Sitting in the middle of the dance floor was a tall man, his back was to the door. His hair short, but a sandy blonde. His shoulders broad, his arms obviously strong, at the very least he probably looked amazing shirtless, that should get them a couple of weeks.

Riley could see the little bit of his wireless earbuds in his ears, maybe he was listening to the music, or a podcast. He was obviously an athlete, not Hockey, baseball maybe, but considering the time of year, most likely football.

She waved to the camera man, motioning for him to not let on she was there as she put her bag down by the door. As she stepped closer to her new partner, she could feel a charge in the air, a wave of nostalgia she couldn’t place considering the setting.

As she moved closer she didn’t see that he had his bag near him, or notice it’s long strap on the floor as for the first time in years, the klutzy Riley of her youth took her over in the blink of an eye she fell into his lap.

Riley was stunned.

This couldn’t be happening.

This couldn’t be real.

This couldn’t be him.

Those green eyes, she would know them anywhere. They were the first eyes she looked into and saw more than friendship. They were the first eyes she had seen heartbroken. They were the first eyes she saw darken with passion.

She smiled, “Hi, I’m Riley Matthews, your new dance partner.”

“Lucas Friar, I’m a football player, not a dancer.”

She felt a chill down her spine, “I’ll make you a dancer.” She stood up, trying to hold her composure while trying to comprehend what was happening.

Of all the men who could end up on this show, of all the men she could be partnered up with, how did Lucas Friar, her first love end up here?

#

Zay came out of his studio laughing, shaking his head. His partner was hilarious, and if she focused, she could make it a few weeks, maybe even further. He saw Sheryl looking at one of the monitors, a smile on her face. “I know, me and Connie, we’ve got it.”

Sheryl swatted him, “Look, I’ve got TV gold this season with who I paired Riley with.”

He looked at the screen, eyes wide, “Is that Lucas Friar, of the New York Giants?”

“It sure is.” Sheryl couldn’t wipe the smile off her face if she had wanted to, “Riley went in there, and Zay I’ve never in all these years seen anything like it. It was a legitimate meet cute like in a rom-com. She tripped over his bag strap and fell in his lap.”

Zay covered his mouth, nodding, hoping he wouldn’t give anything away. So, this was why Lucas was in town, oh Riley was going to probably murder him later tonight. While Sheryl couldn’t see it, he could see the terror, the control in both Riley and Lucas. “You know Riley, she is just friends with anyone she dances with. She’s resisted this all these years.” He joked, but he knew, he could see it, Riley and or Lucas were going to end up heartbroken.

“Lucas Friar is considered one of the most eligible bachelors in the country. He’s sexy, smart, charming, a real Gentleman.”

“Well he always has been.” Zay slipped, “From what I’ve read.”

Sheryl looked at the dancer, “Shouldn’t you get back to Connie, I think you two have what the foxtrot for week 1?”

“We do, I was just going to grab us some waters. She’s not used to this sort of thing, but I think she’s got real potential.”

“She does, and I truly believe that you’re the best pro to bring it out in her. Just like, I think Riley was the right choice for Mr. Friar here.”

“I hope you’re right.” Zay told her before going to the fridge nearby for water, “I really hope so.”

#

Riley and Lucas were stretching on the floor, she’d gone over many basic moves throughout the morning. This was a quiet time she usually took to get to know her new partners. She’d held herself together for the most part today. She just had to get through a few more hours. “So, why do you want to learn to dance?” she asked everyone the same question—it was expected of her from the viewers.

“I don’t want to make a fool out of my Mom at her wedding” he looked up with a small smile on her face. “She wants to have a Mother and Son dance, and at the very least I want to make it, so I don’t step on her toes. Dancing was never my strong suit, but I swear since college I’ve been even worse on the dance floor.”

His mom was getting married? His parents weren’t together anymore? At one point in her life they knew just about everything about each other, now they were strangers thrown together my television producers.

She couldn’t wait for Zay to find out about this. Did they still talk?

“I promise, at the very least we’ll get it so you and your mom have a beautiful dance together at her wedding.” She stood up, moving across the studio floor to pick up the takeout bag of lunches that had been delivered. “But I also think if you do have the focus, and determination you could win this. I think you just have to believe it.”

Lucas watched Riley moving across the room. Years ago he’d been so bitter about her secret love of dancing, the fact that she took off with Zay on some dance tour, missing homecoming, Prom, the City Championship game that got him recruited to a big college. It wasn’t until his Junior year of college that he saw Riley and Zay on TV, performing together that he finally saw that it was her passion. “You think I could get you the trophy?”

“I think I can get you the trophy.” She smiled, wishing the cameras weren’t here. She just wanted this day over. Her mind wasn’t able to wrap around the idea that Lucas was seriously her partner, she anticipated that she would wake up any moment from this dream, as she always did.

Riley pressed play on a remote, music filled the room. It was the song they would be dancing to. As she sat down, with her food she realized what the song was. The Shoop Shoop Song wrapped around them, this was a nightmare, it had to be. “This is going to be an interesting Cha-Cha.” She laughed as she looked to the camera.

#

Zay rushed home, he was afraid of what Riley might say if she saw him at the studio. He also wasn’t sure he should really let Lucas stay at the house now. It had never occurred to him that Lucas would be on the show.

But of course, they would pair him with Riley. Put those two in each other’s orbit, and they would immediately be drawn to each other one way or the other. It would forever be out of their hands.

In all honesty, he wasn’t sure how Riley was going to react to being near him, or vice versa. He didn’t know who carried what animosity towards the other. He could remember how heartbroken Riley had been when Lucas broke up with her, how she’d tried to pretend that it didn’t hurt when she saw the picture on Instagram when Lucas and Maya won Prom King and Queen during their senior year of high school. He could also remember the sound of her crying in her bunk on the tour bus later that night.

“You are so lucky!” Riley’s voice called out from the garage door.

She didn’t sound murderous, so yeah for now he was lucky. He went towards the voice, gathering the grocery bags she carried, “Why am I lucky?”

“Because, you don’t have a past with your partner for the season.” Riley dropped a bag on the kitchen counter a moment later.

Zay knew he couldn’t play dumb, not when Lucas could arrive at any minute. “Who’d you get, Lucas?” he laughed, hoping she didn’t realize he knew.

“Yes.” She sighed, “And it gets better.”

Zay watched as she put food away in the fridge, “How?”

“I landed in his fucking lap.” Riley shook her head, “And the song we’re dancing to, The Shoop Shoop Song.”

Zay began unpacking a grocery bag as a sudden chill swept through his body, he knew he had to tell her. “So, speaking of Lucas. He called me this morning, he asked if he could stay here while in town and I told him yes.”

Riley slammed the fridge door closed as she pirouetted around to face him. “You what?”

“I told Lucas he could stay with us. I didn’t know he was going to be on the show. He didn’t tell me.” He defended as he waved an eggplant at her, “We’re 27 years old. It’s been like ten years since your breakup. Besides I figured you would barely see him because you would go into season mode.”

“Season mode?” She crossed her arms over her chest.

“So, you tend to shut down in a way when you spend all day dancing with someone that’s not me.” He shrugged as he put some items away, “Like you still get up super early, do your morning routine, go to the studio, but when you come home you basically have dinner, and disappear into your room for hours on end. I figured if Lucas was here for a week or something shooting a TV commercial, you might run into him like once or twice, and that was it.”

“Zay, no one wants to be around their ex, how would you feel if I said, ‘Sure Claud, you can come stay with us.’ You would be pissed.”

“Yeah that was a year ago.” Zay rolled his eyes, “Not a decade. I mean it’s not like you fell in Lucas’ lap and still felt whatever it was you felt back in the day.”

“I need to lay down.” Riley sighed, “It’s been a long day, and I just need alone time.”

“Riley, can he stay here?”

She stopped at the staircase, “Fine, just can we keep all of this between us. I’m meaning, please don’t mention our past to Sheryl. The last thing anyone needs is to have them exploit the past.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t tell Sheryl a thing okay. If I was going to, I would’ve when she was gushing over how America is going to fall in love with you and Lucas together this season since you fell in his lap.”

Riley spun to him again, “Wait, you knew before I told you that Lucas was my partner?”

“Yeah, I came out to grab waters today and Sheryl was watching you and Lucas on the screen. I kept my mouth shut. I was stunned. I never in a million years thought that Lucas would ever do this show. The man showed no interest in dance at all, so why would he give a damn now?”

“His Mom is getting married, and he doesn’t want to embarrass her at the wedding.” Riley shrugged.

“That makes sense.” Zay, could hear a little voice at the back of his head already sure that wasn’t the reason, “His parents have been divorced since he was in college.”

“I didn’t know you two still talked.” Riley didn’t really feel betrayed, maybe if she found out he still spoke to Maya—but that was a different story.

Zay took a step towards her, wrapping his arms around her, “Not all the time. He’s been my friend since we were riding sheep.”

Riley chuckled, “I know, I just, I guess I thought they were all behind us.”

The doorbell chimed throughout the house. Zay could feel Riley stiffen. “Go upstairs, take a shower. I’ll get him set up in the guestroom. I’m sure he’ll be ready to crash, I know how you work your partners to exhaustion.”

“Thank you,” she gave him a kiss on the cheek before rushing up the stairs.

Zay crossed the first floor, opening the door to Lucas looking half exhausted with his duffle bag over his shoulder. The grin on Zay’s face couldn’t be hidden for two reasons. The joy of seeing his best friend, also seeing how his ex-girlfriend had run him ragged during their first rehearsal. “Dude, what’s wrong?”

Lucas shook his head, “Had a crazy idea of going on a reality show, and pretty sure my partner is out to kill me in the first week.”

Zay chuckled, “Riley always works her partners hard.”

“You know?” Lucas came in the house, taking it all in. The sleek furniture, the crisp white walls, the glass doors leading out to the back-yard pool. “This is amazing, this is nicer than my penthouse.”

“It’s home.” Zay smiled as he walked to the stairs, “Kitchen is here, help yourself. Just if we’re low on the Apricot La Croix, leave it. It’s Riley’s go to after a long day.”

“Good to know.” Lucas followed Zay up the stairs, he could hear the ocean from an open window somewhere.

“Riley’s room is there, I’m down here, and you my dear oldest friend in the world are in here. I had the housekeeper put fresh sheets on the bed for you.” Zay found himself hovering near the door, “What was it like to see her again after all this time?”

“It was nerve-racking. She landed in my lap, and suddenly I was thirteen years old on a subway again.” Lucas released a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding in, “I just, I don’t know what I was expecting, what I wasn’t.”

“Its been a long time Lucas, just, please remember that.” Zay had a feeling the next few weeks were going to be very awkward and tense. “Hey, why aren’t you staying in a hotel, or at one of Farkle’s houses?”

“Farkle and I are not on speaking terms.” Lucas confessed as he tossed the duffle bag on the bed, “And I’m trying to stay away from the paparazzi. They’re everywhere, and well a certain artist in New York is trying to stir up rumors we’re dating.”

Zay took a few steps into the room, closing the door. “Wait, Maya?”

Lucas sighed, his eyes closed and it looked like he was partially holding back tears, “Yes, she saw a spike in sales after a picture of her, me, and Farkle made it to page six. We’d all been at a fundraiser auction for the Minkus Foundation. Farkle thinks I’m leading her on, Maya thinks we’re actually together, and I’m like no way in hell. We never were together, and we never will be.”

“You guys dated senior year of high school.” Zay reminded him.

“No, I was single.” Lucas stared at his friend, “I dated Chloe in college for like a semester, but that was really it. I’ve been focused on Football all this time.”

Zay took a few more steps towards his friend, “I was with Riley, the phone was on speaker when Maya broke the news to her. I heard it myself.”

“That bitch.” Lucas groaned, “I don’t even know. Its like Riley went on tour with you and no one was around to guide her. It was like she released her inner Regina George.”

Nodding Zay looked to Lucas, “I can see that. She always sort of had that essence brewing inside of her.”

“You two left, and it was, it was awful Zay.” Lucas sighed as he looked out at the view, “Farkle and Smackle ended up barely even at the school since they were in college level courses. Maya, she was always making assumptions about us. It was like we were back in that damn triangle again, I pulled away. I hung out with the football team, I went to parties on weekends. After Riley and I broke up, yeah, I made out with a few girls here and there, but it was never anything more.”

“Like I said Lucas, it’s been a long time. You’re not the same, Riley’s not the same, I’m not the same.” He shrugged, “Maybe this is a chance for Riley and you, me and you, to all become friends again. As who we are, not who we were.”

“For now, I just have to focus on Riley not murdering me during practice.”

“It’s only the Cha-Cha, just wait until Foxtrot, Jive, or Modern. She comes alive during Modern.”

“Why Modern?”

Zay opened the door, looking back at his old friend, “When it’s time, ask her.”

Lucas could only nod as Zay left him alone. He forced himself to get up, going into the sleek bathroom and turning on the shower. His body he hadn’t felt this exhausted since his rookie year playing for the Giants. He stripped out of his clothes, the steam already building up as he stepped into the glass enclosure.

He could finally breathe, relax for a moment. He knew he would see Riley again by being on the show. He just didn’t know that she would be his partner. He had hoped it would be her. Scrubbing his body he couldn’t remember the last time a shower had felt this deserved, this needed in years. He hadn’t worked as hard at anything in a while, not that he didn’t work hard at football, but it was different now.

Rinsing off he grabbed the towel to dry off. He pulled on his pajama pants and grabbed his phone before going out to the balcony. He took a snapshot of the view, the sun setting over the ocean. He thought about posting it on Instagram, but decided it wasn’t worth dealing with Farkle or Maya calling him. If he could stay off the grid for a little bit longer here, it would be better.

The last thing Lucas needed right now was Maya and Farkle invading his life. He was just trying to live his life, support a good cause, and yet was getting dragged into the gossip columns thanks to Maya. It drove him crazy that anytime they were at an event she would start planting seeds they were together. He thought she’d been over it after the triangle, after he and Riley got together.

He felt his phone vibrate as he looked down at the caller id, his Mom. “Hi Mom.”

“Hey Lucas, how did the first day go?”

“I’m exhausted, haven’t been like this since my rookie year.” He told her as he sat in the wicker chair near the door.

“That’s good. Did you call Zay?”

“I did Mom.”

“And Riley, have you seen her?”

Lucas sighed, his eyes catching the light from Riley’s room turn on, “Yeah, she’s gorgeous Mom.”

His mother chuckled, “Did she slap you?”

“No, not even close. She fell into my lap again. She’s my dance partner.”

“Oh wow.” His mother’s voice tensed up, “You know Maya and Farkle are trying to find out where you ran off to.”

“I know, and they don’t need to know. I have never once had any interest in Maya Hart, and if Farkle is going to enable her ridiculous ideas, then I can’t talk to them. I came out here to learn how to dance, I want your wedding to be perfect.”

“Honey, that’s sweet of you, but we both know I’m not the reason you’re doing this.”

“I don’t know what your talking about.” He watched as Riley stepped out on her balcony, her dark curls piled on top of her head. She had a can of sparkling water as she walked over to look out at the view.

“Lucas Friar, I’m your Mother, I know that you are trying to find out if your first love is the one. Remember son, you’re different now. You’re not teenagers. You’re a man, she’s a woman. You’ve had other relationships, you’ve had lovers.”

Lucas cringed as he listened to his mother. Watching Riley’s silohette in the sunset.

“I’m just saying Lucas, that you and she need to get to know each other again. You two had such wonderful conversations when you were younger. Start with that, and then see if anything develops. Lucas I’ve got to get going. I have to get to bed, I have an early meeting in the morning. Don’t worry, no one will every hear from me where you are. Love you son.”

“Love you Mom.” Lucas ended the call, seeing Riley turn around when she heard his voice.

“Hi.” She gave him a soft smile, “The shower pressure good for you?”

“Yeah, it was. Thanks for letting me stay. I’m trying to be as off the grid for a little bit.”

“Things okay in New York, and you know you’re going to be revealed as part of the show in like a week.”

“A week off the grid is better than no time. And once it’s revealed I’m on the show the person I’m hiding from won’t have the guts to show up.”

Riley nodded pretending she understood, “Hey, since the cameras aren’t around can I make a request?”

“Anything Riley.” He meant it, more than he expected as the words came out.

Riley knotted her fingers together as she looked up to Lucas, “Can we not bring up our past in front of the cameras, in front of the eventual press. If Sheryl or any of the other producers find out we were High School Sweethearts, they’ll exploit it. I don’t think that’s fair to you.”

“I won’t say a word.” He promised. He knew he should tell her about Maya, but he couldn’t. He didn’t know where they were friendship wise and one thing, he’d promised himself so very long ago was that he would never come between them.

“The kitchen has plenty of food, just please don’t drink the Apricot sparkling waters.”

“Zay warned me. Thank you, Riley.” He started towards the door before looking to her once more. “I promise I’m going to work hard every day we do this.”

“I know you will. Also I swear I’m not usually so klutzy.”

“I guess I bring it out in you.” He gave her a friendly smile, “Goodnight, I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Goodnight Lucas, get some sleep. Today I was easy on you.” She informed him before going to her own door.

Lucas chuckled nervously, but he knew it was true.

[aroworlds]

The Vampire Conundrum, Part Two

When Rowan Ross is pressured into placing an aromantic pride mug on his desk, he doesn't know how to react when his co-workers don't notice it. Don't they realise he spent a weekend rehearsing answers for questions unasked? Then again, if nobody knows what aromanticism is, can't he display a growing collection of pride merch without a repeat of his coming out as trans? Be visible with impunity through their ignorance?

He can endure their thinking him a fan of archery, comic-book superheroes and glittery vampire movies. It's not like anyone in the office is an archer. (Are they?) But when a patch on his bag results in a massive misconception, correcting it means doing the one thing he most fears: making a scene.

After all, his name isn't Aro.

Contains: One trans, bisexual frayromantic alongside an office of well-meaning cis co-workers who think they're being supportive and inclusive.

Content Advisory: This story hinges on the way most cishet alloromantic people know nothing about aromanticism and the ways many trans-accepting cis people fail to best communicate their acceptance. In other words, expect a series of queer, trans and aro microaggressions. There are no depictions or mentions of sexual attraction beyond the words "allosexual" and "bisexual", but there are non-detailed references to Rowan's previous experiences with romance.

Length: 3, 737 words (part two of two).

Note: Posted for @aggressivelyarospec‘s AggressivelyArospectacular 2019.

Romance, too, feels like one of the mechanisms by which a dangerous trans body can be rendered more acceptable to cis folks.

“His name’s Aro,” Melanie says after lunch, showing a new volunteer around the office. She pats Rowan on the shoulder as she walks behind his chair, startling him enough that the clipping path he’s making around a photo of Damien’s head goes veering off to the side. “He does our website, our flyers and the information guides we send out. Aro like from the Twilight movies!”

Introductions once only encompassed Melanie’s habit of overly-stressing pronouns when referencing him—a dysphoria-triggering reminder that she doesn’t think him masculine enough for people to assume it. Isn’t that bad enough without her also getting his name wrong?

He sighs, frustrated. Complaining about this, when trans people are in desperate want of a working environment free of outright antagonism and discrimination, feels unreasonable. Hell, Rowan knows aromantics who’ll revel in being named “Aro”, so isn’t his hurt just pettiness? Isn’t this why he’s no longer welcome at home, a man too intolerant of his family’s mistakes? How many times did they tell him that his harping on about little things demonstrates a concerning lack of gratitude for their acceptance?

His co-workers do seem to believe in Rowan’s masculinity; he shouldn’t take that for granted.

Instead, he feels like he’s failing at being both transgender and aromantic.

After a fair amount of editing, he places Damien’s image in the brochure mock-up and exports to PDF. The office will make suggestions, some useful, some ignorant and some so absurd that Rowan will laugh with his friends later on, but that’s fine. He can’t expect otherwise in a workplace where everyone considers him possessed of unknowable ability with computers. They’re good people, in the main, and they care about their work.

It’s just complicated, and Rowan hates the feeling that complicated is the best cis people will let him get to a normalised acceptance.

“Aro? An Arrow fan called Aro? Really? Do you like comics or are you one of those people only into DC TV?”

Rowan looks up from attaching his PDF to an email to find the volunteer sitting on a creaking office chair and crab-walking it over to Rowan’s desk. “Comics?”

“Oh, good.” The volunteer sighs as if in relief. “I mean, the TV show? It isn’t terrible—better than most of DC’s movies, at least—but I’m so tired of people who call themselves fans but have never touched a comic book.”

Rowan glances at his journal cover, ponders its possible similarity to the show’s motif and nearly bursts out laughing. He’s never read a comic and doesn’t plan on doing so. He prefers indie podcasts and audiobooks on account of increased representation and greater ability to sew and cook while listening. “I’m not an Arrow fan. Sorry.”

Another show about cis people possessed of everyone-should-pair-up amatonormativity?

Hard pass.

“You’re not?” The volunteer gapes, waving his hand towards Rowan’s cluster of pride mugs. Three, now. Only one contains coffee, which feels like a terrible oversight. “Is this a joke, then? Are they getting you arrow stuff because of your name? Like some office thing?”

Aro.

His name is not Aro.

Rowan once thought the concept of snapping a mere storytelling device, something as ludicrous or impossible as “glittering eyes” or “romantic interest that lasts after getting to know someone”. At best an experience had by people without a brain that doesn’t devote most of its time to screaming alerts at the prospect of anything dangerous. Absurd, irrational, void of any real-life relevance.

Not even with his family has he felt this chilling, all-encompassing moment of enough.

He looks back at his computer, attaches a second PDF file to his email and, before he considers pesky things like consequences, clicks send. Then Rowan climbs up on his office chair, steps up onto the desk and whistles like a country boy who owned a border collie prone to sneaking off the property and rounding up the neighbour’s sheep.

Everyone in the office gapes up at him with a motley assortment of parted lips, unblinking eyes and, in Melanie’s case, the pointing of a long, vermillion-polished fingernail.

Up high, the room reeks of nesting rodents and the popcorn ceiling desperately wants refinishing.

Now Rowan’s brain tells his limbs to shake and his chest to heave; of course, he thinks as he shoves his hands behind his back, anxiety kicks in after he’s neck-deep in it! “My … my name is Rowan. I chose it.” He looks at the vent on the opposite wall, fighting to sound collected. Is that black mould? “Dad told me if I rejected my deadname, I was rejecting them. That I was being cruel and selfish. I earnt my name!” He stops, gasping for breath like a hooked fish—which, given his terror, feels far too appropriate a simile. “My identity is aro, short for aromantic, like being queer—one way of my being queer. So ... there’s a PDF booklet in your inbox about aromanticism. Read it! I’m proud of being aro, but you need to call me by the name I chose! It’s Rowan!”

He jumps down off the desk. The creaking laminate and the thud of his dress shoes, a little too large for Rowan’s feet, sound abominably loud in the sepulchrally-quiet room. Heading past giddy into faint, but pushed on by a heedlessness of the “this can’t possibly get worse because I’m going to be fired” variety, Rowan snatches up his satchel and reaches into the side pocket to pull out his handful of print leaflets. He drops one in the lap of the gaping volunteer, tosses the rest on an empty desk for luddites who prefer paper, and returns to his chair.

Seven sets of speechless eyes bore holes through his skull, shoulders and spine.

Rowan jams on his headphones, opens his no-romance metal playlist and turns his music up to a volume just short of deafening before queuing new posts to the project’s website.

When he invented the God of Trans Men as flippant rhetoric to cope with Melanie’s questions, is it right to pray to him?

***

Two hours later, doing his best to radiate an aura of do not disturb on pain of your bloody death, Rowan fights to pay attention to the last event write-up. Leaving early means asking permission and walking down the row of desks, risking stares and comments; he instead corrects Melanie’s idiosyncratic punctuation. Didn’t Melanie go to school at a time when they taught more than English comprehension? How doesn’t she know when not to use an apostrophe?

There’ll be consequences. Warnings? A formal discussion in the private office the supervisors only use for interviews? A request that he undergo counselling? A strong recommendation for psychiatric assessment? Firing? It isn’t like they can’t throw a rock and hit thousands of people under the age of forty with general computer skills and design ability who aren’t prone to standing on desks to make unwanted announcements.

No. Focus on the damn comma splices.

Should he ask his psychiatrist for the soonest possible appointment? New meds?

A tap on the shoulder makes Rowan’s head threaten to brush the probably-asbestos-riddled ceiling; he gasps and yanks off his headphones, trembling.

Melanie stands beside his chair, holding out her phone in its glossy pink case. “Those words that are underlined? Can I click on them to find out what they mean, like on a website? Like ... al-lo-sexual?”

“Hyperlinks in an interactive PDF—the file on your phone—work the same way as on a website,” Rowan says without thinking: in the last three months, he’s been asked this ten times. “If you click on those links, they’ll take you to a glossary at the end of the document with definitions.”

Damien sits facing his usual computer, his head tilted as if watching out the corner of his eye.

Melanie smiles the expression of a woman in an alternate dimension where Rowan doesn’t engage in embarrassing outbursts. “You’re so good at all this stuff, Rowan.” She stresses his name just enough that he can pretend she didn’t. “Where did you learn it all?”

He once tried to explain his philosophy of clicking on things only to realise that while the concept of generational divides requires excessive generalisation, a difference exists in terms of his willingness to fearless experimentation with electronic devices and programs. “School. Uni.”

“You’re so lucky. School was nothing like that when I was a girl. You have so many more opportunities now. And identities.” Melanie sighs and pushes a wisp of grey hair back from her eyebrows. “It’s good, it really is.”

Rowan blinks, startled into silence by a rare glimpse of validation stripped of performance and demonstration.

He hadn’t thought anyone here capable of it.

“It says that some people feel repulsed by romance? Are you like that? Should we do something? Do we need to not talk about romance in the office? Like, if I describe my daughter dating her boyfriend, not that I want to, is that bad? Do we need to hold a meeting? Damien—Damien—”

Damien turns, wearing the blinded look of a rabbit frozen in a spotlight. “Yes...?”

For how long has Damien worked with Melanie? For how long has the office rolled with Melanie’s interruptions and proclamations, her meetings called about the slightest of issues? For how long has the office accepted Shelby’s incessant reminding and Damien’s inability to surrender event photography to someone who knows how to modify their flash settings? Isn’t there a chance that they’ll tolerate Rowan’s occasional moments of desk-blathering?

A trans aro should be able to sew a patch on his bag reading “aro” without provoking cis weirdness. Since when does someone read a new word on his bag and assume that’s now his name? Isn’t that another over-the-top demonstration made by awkward cis people trying to prove their acceptance, something that’s never made Rowan feel safe?

Even when he’s aromantic, he never gets to avoid cissexism.

He slides his hands between the seat and his legs, aware of Melanie’s once again drawing the office’s unbroken attention. “I, personally, don’t care if people talk about their romances,” he says, certain that Damien needn’t answer Melanie about meetings, “but I do care when people assume I must want one. I do care when Sh … some of you just keep asking if I’m dating anyone.”

Rowan long set aside the need to bother with romance. He isn’t aromantic in the way most people first think of the word, as he does fall in love, but it describes his frayromanticism nonetheless. Why put himself through the inevitable messy, angry break-up when his partners don’t understand why what started as romance ends up to him as a friendship? When dating isn’t without trans-related challenges, why force himself into a type of relationship that he knows won’t last?

Romance, too, feels like one of the mechanisms by which a dangerous trans body can be rendered more acceptable to cis folks, in the same way it sanitises his equally-threatening bisexuality. If queers are holding hands and exchanging rings, just like cis and heterosexual couples, they’re safe.

He wants to be normal, but not that normal.

Melanie surprises him again by nodding. Opaque red only colours the corners of her lips; the worn centres reveal the brownish-pink beneath. “Like how we now don’t assume everyone’s—what’s the fancy word you use for not being you?”

“Cis. Yeah.”

“At my first job, I never dared yeah my elders. Can I ask what’s this a-sexual thing? Not-sexual? That’s a thing that can go with your a-ro-manti-cism? Am I saying it right? Is that something people can be?” Melanie grabs the volunteer’s vacated chair and wheels herself up to Rowan’s desk. “Tell me about this. Please.”

Damien gives a theatrically deep sigh, winks at Rowan and turns back to his keyboard.

Rowan’s tangle of feelings bewilders him too much to be simple relief, but he doesn’t appear to be at immediate risk of losing his job.

***

“We need to have a meeting!” Melanie announces ten days later, striding up to where Damien peers over Rowan’s shoulder to approve the touch-ups on a series of scanned photos. Rowan grasps the want to have a section on the website showcasing past events, but surely Damien’s film-camera predecessors weren’t all unable to take decent pictures? “Today. Perhaps before lunch?”

“Do we?” Damien doesn’t bother to turn his head. “What’s the number on the urgency scale, remembering that whiteboard markers aren’t a five?”

“I’m aro-ace.” Melanie stresses the words, beaming with the confidence of a child presenting a new finger-painted masterpiece. “I didn’t know, but I definitely am. I’m aromantic and asexual.”

“I’m glad for you.” Now Damien faces her, scratching his shock of unruly brown hair. “I don’t know why this needs a meeting? Do you want something addressed?”

Rowan leans back in his chair, too startled to do anything but watch. Melanie’s interrogation of him about all things a-spec over the last few days left him certain that she was questioning, but he didn’t expect this announcement—or Damien’s reaction to it.

“I’ve been reading, and I sent around a list of links everyone else should read, too. We must do something about our website. And, of course, everyone should know I’m aro-ace, and then let people ask any questions. Then we should consider changes to our submission forms, and then...”

Already, Melanie has done more to integrate her identity into the office and its projects than Rowan ever dared risk. Why, then, does he feel as though he’s being pressed inside a metal suit three sizes too small? Shouldn’t the end result be worth enduring a staff meeting in which she announces she’s aro-ace? Melanie being Melanie, she’ll gladly answer questions about aromanticism. Doesn’t that give Rowan everything he wanted—ability to be out as aromantic but someone else’s dealing with allo nonsense?

Matt’s right.

Rowan’s just a coward.

Damien nods at Rowan. “What do you think about that?”

“Uh...” Rowan draws a delaying breath, fighting against a brain too bewildered to be useful in forming comprehensible speech. “Uh … you’d have to run form changes past someone higher up, wouldn’t you? We have to ask about everything else? But...”

He doesn’t name Melanie a friend, but fellow aromantics aren’t common enough that Rowan will reject a companion—even if they’re cis and have subjected him to half a year’s discomfort, anxiety and alienation. He slides his restless hands under his legs, biting his lip against the sickening realisation. Melanie’s enthusiastic fearlessness may make this office and program better for him as an aro, but how can it answer all the attitudes that made Rowan fear coming out in the first place?

If he’s a coward, doesn’t he have reason?

“We do need a meeting,” he says slowly, his heart pounding in his chest like blast beats in death metal. “On better integrating marginalised people into our office. Because the way you emphasise my pronouns, Melanie, or the way Shelby reassures me five times that I can correct her … that doesn’t make me feel safe. It makes me feel reminded. Different. Too visible. And that’s why...”

“You ended up standing on a desk?” Damien asks with the gruffness of a middle-aged cis man trying to sound gentle.

“Yeah,” Rowan mutters. “That.”

Melanie clasps her fingers to her lips. “Oh! I didn’t mean anything by it! I just wanted people to get it right!”

How many times has he suffered through well-meaning people explaining that in response to his saying that they made him uncomfortable? How many times has he heard people justify their actions as though good intent always mitigates bad impact?

“You’re … you’re still making this about you! The only answer I want or need from you is thanks for telling me, Rowan, I won’t do it again! That’s all! Not your reasoning, not this effort to justify! I want to know that you hear me, that you’ll acknowledge that your intent however good still made me come home crying from dysphoria, and that you’ll stop because I don’t want to put up with it anymore! That’s all!”

For the second time in less than a fortnight, a chilling silence envelops the office.

“We need a meeting,” Rowan says breathlessly, reminding himself that at least this time he isn’t standing on his desk, “discussing how to include marginalised people in our office. Discussing all the microaggressions. Maybe you need to find … educators, trainers who come in and do this. I don’t know. I’m just so tired of never feeling safe or normal, never feeling like I can say anything because this isn’t hate and at least you’re not my parents! Like I don’t ever get to have anything better!”

He stands up, unsure what to do past fetching himself a distracting cup of coffee.

Maybe, then, he’ll be able to survive the way Melanie looks at him—as though he just ran over her puppy.

She just came out, and he did run right over it.

“I’m sorry.” Rowan sags onto his chair, leaning forwards to grab his satchel despite the unpleasant giddiness. “I’m sorry. It’s wonderful, Melanie, that you now know who you are and that you can come out. And it’s amazing that you’re doing things already, when I needed like six months just to get used to my knowing I’m aro. I just...” He reaches inside the satchel and pulls out a rough oblong shape wrapped in white tissue paper. “Here. I’m sorry.”

He, an allo-aro man, screwed up an aro-ace woman’s coming out. Shouldn’t he know better? He wants to laugh, wants to cry, wants to curl up in a ball and hide under his desk. Even now, when he’s trying to get what he needs as a trans man, he’s being the worst kind of aromantic!

Her lips pinched, Melanie takes the present in her hands, worrying at the top piece of tape with her long, pink nails.

“We’ll have a meeting.” Damien runs his hand through his hair as though he doesn’t quite know what to do with himself. “I’ll talk to the heads about … sensitivity training, I suppose this also is. Would you be willing to write me an email outlining some of these behaviours and any ways we can make this office safer for you? Is that an appropriate thing to ask of you?”

“I don’t mind,” Rowan says. As long as he doesn’t go ignored, he’ll send a few emails—and he already has a few blog posts on which to draw. “Thank you.”

“Do you … want anything, now? To talk privately to me or anyone else? Or to a senior supervisor? Or someone with the government body? Can I do or arrange anything else?”

“Coffee. Please. And … and then to go back to fixing photos as though absolutely nothing happened because I don’t … do this sort of thing.” Rowan heaves a shaking sigh, pushing aside the thought that nobody can have failed to observe this. “Thank—thank you. I’m sorry. Thank you.”

He notices Damien gesturing at Melanie, notices that Rowan’s aro flag mug leaves with both and returns a few minutes later—now distracting from the office’s musty odour with its rich bitterness. He takes a few sips, but only by throwing himself into his work can he survive the gibbering, chattering thoughts building into a crushing tsunami of what the hell. Why did he do that? Why—no. Photos.

The soft clunk of crockery hitting laminate makes him look up.

Melanie leans against the edge of Rowan’s desk, her hand resting atop her new orange, yellow, white and blue aro-ace flag mug. “I’m sorry. Thanks for telling me.” She draws a deep breath, tapping her nails against the rim. “I didn’t know I could … that there’s an explanation, until I read your booklet. It described me. Things I didn’t realise about me! Things I’d been feeling! But … I’ve been learning about things like micro-aggressions. I didn’t know I’d been doing them myself. I’m sorry. I’ll keep learning. And thank you for my cup.”

“I know,” Rowan says softly, thinking back to the day when he realised the words “aromantic” and “frayromantic” describe him. A belated voicing of confusion and alienation; the naming of a constant sense of difference from the world. Revelation, understanding, explanation. “I know. I’m sorry, too. I don’t like … scenes. Or asking people things. I’m an anxious coward. So it just...”

He waves his hands, trying to mime an explosion.

Melanie, wide-eyed, jerks her head. “I couldn’t have said anything if you hadn’t done it first—and I wouldn’t have known to say anything if you hadn’t! And you’re asking us to do things knowing that we don’t understand, which must be frightening at least. You’re brave. And you shouldn’t be sorry.”

Rowan stares at her, unsure what to say in response. Never has anyone in his life freely offered such a sentiment. Never has anyone offered him something so generous without subsequent critique of Rowan’s intolerance for and impatience with their struggles to deal with him, praise softening the following reproval.

Brave.

His throat tightens and his eyes blur.

“Would you work with me on a proposal to put together for the submission forms? Damien insisted that I work with you, if you want to.”

“Uh … yeah?”

Melanie grabs a stack of papers from her desk and a chair. “I’ve gone through the old forms and highlighted passages. Do you want to read through and see if there’s anything I’ve missed or anything that should be left?”

He nods and takes the papers. Is this an alternate universe, the world flung upside down? Or, if people possess a minimum of decency, can he make needed change by addressing his problems instead of letting everyone talk over him? Can he build a world where he doesn’t endure cis or allo microaggressions by believing that their inconveniences aren’t worth more than his discomfort?

If his co-workers doesn’t object to correction, if they’re willing to make changes and investigate training, is the problem one of Rowan’s overreaction?

Does that mean he can talk to Matt the way he spoke to Melanie and Damien?

“Is something wrong?” Melanie asks, frowning.

Rowan shakes his head and plucks a pen from his frayro mug. “No.”

For the first time in a long time, that’s mostly true.

[cactibarber]

Chapter 2 of my TMA x MBMBAM crack fic is up! (Chapter 1) Thanks so much to everyone who’s read it so far!

---

Justin cleared his throat and began. “Well, we were thinking about going on vacation, so we were waiting until we had some free time-“

“Not that we work hard,” Travis interrupted. “Not like you guys with your files and- are those tape recorders?”

“And we then we all got sick for like two weeks, so we figured we needed a break,” Justin finished. “So we wanted to go to Europe-“

“Gotta get out of the states, you know. It’s uhhh not great right now,” Griffin said. “And-“

“And we decided on London. You know, to- tae sae Bahg Baen,” Justin said, in what Jon guessed was an atrocious attempt at a Scottish accent. The voice didn’t go unnoticed, however, as the two brothers pounced immediately.

“No, no, no it’s Boig Boin-“

“Bae Baen-“

“Beyblades? Are you talking about fucking Beyblades, Travis?”

Jon rubbed his temples and resisted the urge to shout down the hall for Martin- hell, maybe Daisy or Basira could help scare them into giving a proper statement. He had to admit, he was a bit confused with what was going on- usually when people gave a statement, it was in a more listenable way, getting rid of all the feelings (and trauma) that clouded the statement. But these brothers sat in front of him, seemingly rambling about some thing that had happened to them, and they didn’t seem to care at all.

Jon attempted to focus back in to the conversation. The brothers seemed to be arguing about whether the Dick Van Dyke accent from Mary Poppins counted as a real English accent.

“-and the whole movie takes place in London, Griffin, so what I don’t know why you would think that it didn’t count-”

“Oh, just because the movie takes place in London, huh Travis? So if I started talking about ‘puttin it on the barbie’ in Niu Yawk-”

“Gross, Griffin, what are you putting on the barbie?”

“Yeah, c’mon Griff.”

“Gentlemen,” Jon said firmly, a faint crackle of compulsion in his voice. The McElroys sat up straight, as if shocked by lightning. “Please. Continue.”

Justin’s eyes narrowed slightly, and he started speaking again. “Well, the point is that we ended up taking a trip to London town-”

“Something no-one but our dad says,” Griffin muttered under his breath.

“-and we were out at one of the pubs here, having some drinks after our flight landed.”

“It ended up just being us three, since our wives decided to stay in the states because of all the traveling we’ve been doing recently. My wife, Teresa, in particular-”

Jon stubbornly ignored the chorus of “My wife” that erupted around the room. Justin’s face was beet red from trying not to laugh at his own joke, while Griffin looked at him, stonefaced and shrugging. Jon was surprised that his compulsion seemed to be wearing off almost immediately. At this point, he was wondering if he was going to be more hungry after this statement than he was before it.

“Anyway it’s just us in London right now. So we were in a bar-”

“Pub-”

“And we were leaving around 1 AM? We were pretty, uhh, out of it-” “Drunk- we don’t have to leave a good impression on this guy, Justin, we’re just telling him about how we saw Daz,” Griffin corrected.

“I’m getting to it,” Justin said, glaring at Griffin. He turned to Jon, holding his hands out in a “see-what-I’m-dealing-with” position. “Daz is, well, I mean, I’m getting to it.”

“We were leaving the pub-bar, and we were slightly stumbling to the street. Not like falling down drunk, but definitely tripping every few steps drunk,” Justin continued. “Travis was the worst off since he tried to drink a cocktail with a pie slice on top of it-”

“It was definitely worth it,” Travis said, pulling out his phone. “Let me show you a picture-”

“And when we were outside of the bar-pub, we heard someone ask if we had a cigarette.”

“Was he in the alley?” Jon asked, startled. This story was starting to sound shockingly familiar. If the angler-fish was active again, then it mean that the Stranger had already recovered from their attempted Unknowing.

“Yeah!” Griffin chimed in. “He was leaning against the wall like a gangster from the 60s. Have you seen Grease? Because he looked like-”

“Griffin, I swear to god, if you are going to say that Daz looks like John Travolta from Grease,” Justin exasperatedly interrupted. “Then I will be forced to-”

“I meant his posture, Juice,” Griffin said, rolling his eyes. “Y’know, one leg up like a fuckin’ cool guy.”

“Yeah, that’s what makes someone cool, Griff,” Travis laughed. “One leg up means a fuckin’ cooooool guy.”

Justin raised his voice over Griffin and Travis’ laughter. “The guy in the alley was in the shadows at first, so we couldn’t see him. None of us had any little, uh, smoke sticks on us, so we said no and were about to walk away.”

Griffin and Travis erupted into another round of laughter at Justin’s choice of words. When he was sure all three of them were distracted, Jon allowed himself a little smile.

“But the guy didn’t give up,” Justin continued, getting a little solemn. “He stepped a little out of the shadows and we were able to see him a little more clearly.”

“He looked like a normal dude at first. Like anyone you would see on the street,” Travis said, picking up where his brother had left off. “But as he kept getting closer, he felt, ummm, I guess off is the best way to put it?”

Griffin let out a bark of laughter. “Really, Trav? Is that the best you, a New York Times best-selling author can do?” Griffin put on a voice that Jon guessed was one crafted and honed over many years with a singular purpose of annoying his brothers. “Oh yeah, man he felt like, off I guess? I dunno, I haven’t learned anything past o in the alphabet.”

Justin burst into laughter as Travis pouted. “You describe him then, Griffin! Sorry I wasn’t trying to be all poetic and shit like in one of your cutscenes-”

“Hey, my cutscenes aren’t just poetic. They’re masterpieces in literature.”

Travis rolled his eyes at that and flipped Griffin off, which Griffin responded to by sticking his tongue out. Jon Saw™ a brief flash of hours upon hours of family dinners, many of which had gone the same way, and felt the chill in the back of his spine start to dissipate.

“I’ll give it a crack, though,” Griffin said. “I thought it was pretty clear why he looked off. He was too smooth.”

Jon took a bit longer than it should have to process that statement. “Excuse me?”

“I mean, I guess specifically his face was too smooth,” Griffin explained. “Like it would have been as if he did one of those Korean face mask treatments, but every day, since he was a baby.”

“How would you even put one of those on a baby?” Justin mused, leaning back in his chair.

“I bet you’d have to cut one of them up,” Travis answered. “Unless-”

“Unless-” Justin and Griffin answered back, almost immediately. Jon felt like he was watching a play at this point.

“Unless that’s our next business idea for when we get back! Baby face masks!” The three of them laughed heartily, only stopping to chant in unison, “TM TM TM.”

“But that’s what I meant!” Griffin said, trying to get back on track. “His nose was slightly crooked, but his skin was so smooth, it looked like it was merging back into his face. His mouth was stretched out until it was like the width of his face, and, it wasn’t like it was in the wrong place, it looked like it was supposed to be there. He had these black spots all over his face, but they didn’t look like birthmarks or anything, it was like those parts of his face were, I don’t know, sunken, but still, they were so smooth. Everything about his face was so rubbery and plasticky, I mean it was like-”

“Like he wasn’t a real person,” Jon finished. There was a silence in the office that hadn’t been there since the McElroys had walked in.

“Yeah,” Justin said, breaking the awkwardness.

“How did you know he was, what was the phrase you used, a video game monster?” Jon asked curiously.

“Well, we do this Youtube series called Monster Factory,” Justin explained. “And by me, I mean me and Griffin, because Travis is too busy trying to get into Supernatural or whatever-”

“It’s going to happen!”

“And one of the monsters we made was based off of late great character actor Dennis Farina.”

“Who-”

“Don’t worry about it,” Griffin said hurriedly. “I didn’t know who he was either, and I was in the video with him.”

“Well we took a facescan of Dennis Farina in some golf game and we really messed him up. I mean like, really rogered him right up. Actually,” Justin pulled out his phone and showed Jon a picture of a video game character mid-golf swing that did look “real rogered up”.

“So when he came up to us and asked us for a cigarette again, we got a better look at him in the light. His hair stood out too- it was all blocky instead of smooth like his skin. Like it was low-res,” Griffin said.

“And everyone knows, your hair doesn’t look like your skin,” Travis told Jon, in a faux-educational voice.

“And,” Griffin said pointedly, “his head was moving.”

“Moving?”

“Like he was- like he was breathing through his head. It was pulsing, like really slowly, but I definitely saw it.” Griffin shuddered. “Honestly- one of the top ten grossest things I’ve ever seen.”

“What about what happened today with the bugs and Slime-” Justin asked.

“Top ten means that there are other events on there,” Griffin said. “The use of the number ten instead of-”

“How did you get away?” Jon interrupted. This didn’t sound too much like the anglerfish since it could move around, but it still gave off hints of the Stranger. And if it was-

Travis muttered something under his breath, and Griffin elbowed his side. “I said, I yartzed on him,” Travis said reluctlantly, as Griffin stifled some laughter.

Jon shook his head slightly, as if trying to dislodge some rocks from his ear. “I’m sorry?”

“I yartzed! I threw up on his shoes, and we kind of just ran. We would’ve paid him for his shoes-”

“You would’ve,” Justin said, crossing his arms.

“But we were all kinda drunk, and he was really, really creepy. Y’know. Off.”

Jon sat up a little straighter, running a hand through his hair. “You… threw up. On the shoes of something that you don’t even think was human.”

“I mean, we didn’t say that yet,” Griffin said, jumping in. “Butttttt yeah. That’s pretty much what happened.”

“Things were pretty buckwild that night,” Justin said brightly. “But I mean that’s nothing compared to what happened earlier today.”

“Today- what do you mean today?” Jon said, confused. “Did something else happen?”

The McElroys looked at each other, each mentally telling the other to speak. Travis lost, sighing and saying, “Yeah, we saw another one of them today. And-and that’s why we’re here! Because-”

“Well, we want to stop seeing them, for one,” Griffin said. “But also, if this is some sort of weird nightmare hell realm pattern thing, where we keep seeing them, there’s one character we reallly, really don’t want to run into.”

Jon gripped the table, as he Saw™. “The Final Pam.”