#i know you’re not from mass but please we’re new england too and the other venue is already sold out PLEASE

[spacetrashpile]

noah kahan keeps posting teasers for the deluxe version of stick season and he’s promising we’re getting it soon and that we’ll “have it all summer” and folks i am no apologizing for who i’ll become when that thing drops

[justalarryblog]

Hey beca! How are you? Do you have any recommendations fic like hl already in relationships, mpreg harry, they struggle to have a baby? Or arranged married? That have 100k words above? Thanks

Hi anon, thanks for the message! I'm doing fine, I hope you are too. :)

The only one I have mpreg!Harry that they struggle to have a baby is this one:

I Hope You Dance by @wickedarcher_08 (83k) | Explicit

Louis and Harry have been struggling with infertility for over a year. After many failed attempts, they decide to seek a specialist, but they end up with more than they ever dreamed.

For mpreg!Harry that is +100k words, I have:

Say Something by @kingsofeverything​​ (105k) | Explicit

At fifty years old and recently divorced, Omega Harry Styles isn’t interested in dating. When his doctor suggests a heat and rut matching service, he signs up out of necessity. It’s the only use he has for an Alpha in his life.

Twenty-eight-year-old Alpha Louis Tomlinson aims to change that.

I also have a tag for Mpreg fics in case you wanna check if there's any other to your liking.

For arranged married, I've read these:

Through Eerie Chaos by @mediawhorefics (102k) | General Audiences

For as long as anyone can remember, Old Hillsbridge Manor has always been believed to be haunted. Everyone in the village agrees and keeps a respectful, fearful, distance. New in town after a bad breakup and an internship that led to disappointment rather than a permanent job, Harry Styles figures taking pictures of the decrepit building could be a great new creative project. Or at least a much-needed distraction while he searches for a job and crashes at his parents’ new house. No one warned him about the apparitions though; about the music, the laughter, the people who flicker and vanish when you call after them, the echoes of a past that should be long gone… Harry has never believed in spirits but even he can admit that there’s something weird going on. What starts as mere curiosity evolves into a full-blown investigation and soon enough, Harry finds himself making friends with an aristocrat from the 1920s and struggling with finding the best way to tell him that he’s dead.

The Ghost Hunter AU where Niall lives to prove ghosts are real, Zayn is a skeptical librarian and Harry gets caught up in a century-old mystery and catches feeling in the process.

Part 1 of Through Eerie Chaos

tastes like summer, smiles like may by @outropeace (47k) | Explicit

“Is this true?” Harry grabbed the beta by the shoulders. “Bryce, where did you hear that?”

“There’s rumors going around the castle,” he smirked. “stories about his beauty and his cold attitude. They know he is an omega only because of his scent, but he has never had a heat.”

“Do you know what this means?”

Bryce smirk grew into a big smile. “He can’t give you an heir.”

A cold prince, an alpha with nothing left to lose and a kingdom with a secret.

Praise the Mutilated World by @creamcoffeelou, @delsicle (106k) | Explicit

It was August when everything changed.

By October, the leaves changed, and so did Louis’ heart.

OR: An enemies to lovers dystopian au where Harry is an elite alpha and Louis is a rebel omega with too much to fight for. Every move made is monitored, and a fertile omega’s purpose in life is one thing: to give children to their alpha.

a dream is a wish your heart makes by orphan_account (22k) |Teen And Up Audiences

Fairytale retelling of Cinderella, where Harry is a servant boy who’s too kind, Louis is a prince in an arranged marriage, Liam is Harry’s step brother, and Niall is Louis’ dutiful grand duke.

Si Pudiera Volar by @softfonds (68k) | Explicit

When Harry’s fiancé leaves him for his cousin, he looks the other way for the sake of his happiness. He’ll do anything to forget about him, including joining a monastery. It isn’t until his cousin’s former lover, a pirate, appears that he realizes everything is not as it appears, and an honest pirate might be the only person worthy of his heart.

Or, a fic loosely based on Corazon Salvaje.

The Murmur of Yearning by @mediawhorefics (93k) | Mature

Four years ago, Harry Styles was forced into a marriage of convenience to enrich and ally both his and his promised’s families. The sudden, and slightly suspicious, death of the Marquess of Haxshire, however, brings great disturbance to Crescentfield Hall and, as his late’s husband’s closest male relative, Harry unexpectedly finds himself the head of a family he never felt he belonged to. Between a meddling distant cousin hellbent on inserting himself in Harry’s life, his wicked and mistrustful mother-in-law and his late husband’s advisors refusing to help or take him seriously, Harry struggles in the fight to keep what he’s earned and make the Estate finally feel like home.

Luckily, he doesn’t stand completely alone and finds himself an unlikely ally in Mr Tomlinson, the elusive Land Stewart who has been taking care of the property in the shadows for years. Louis Tomlinson is caring, patient, and unlike everyone else, he doesn’t seem to think Harry committed a murder.

the sanctity of patience by @scrunchyharry (22k) | Teen And Up Audiences

When young Lord Harry was chosen by King Louis of Bavaria to become his husband and prince consort, Harry thought all of his dreams had come through. His illusions came crashing down when he understood it meant living in isolation in the alpine castle of Neuschwanstein with a husband who turned out to be far from what he had hoped for.

His illusions vanished, Harry will have learn to appreciate what has and even, perhaps, fall in love with his imperfect husband and his castle.

Winter Pines and Ocean Eyes by @binarysunsets (14k) | Teen And Up Audiences

Harry is awoken by the sudden weight of his dog across his chest, and he yawns and stretches his arms above his head, relishing the crack of his back the gesture produces and sending Fen tumbling down onto the bed. There’s a niggling sensation that he has something important to do that day, but in his still-sleepy state he’s struggling to recall what it is. When it hits him, he freezes mid-rub of his eyes, and his hand slowly falls to the furs strewn across the bed. His fingers tangle into the fur and he bites his lip.

Right. It’s that day.

The day he’s meant to travel south.

Or, the arranged marriage au between young viking Harry, son of his clan’s chief, and a certain caesar by the name of Louis, heir to the empire.

Liberté by @larriebane(64k) | Mature

AU. 1647. “Pretending you don’t have a heart is not the best way to not get it broken. It’s just the easiest.”

Or the pirate AU I always wanted to write

Teenage Rebellion Never Worked Out So Well by @panda_bear21 (55k) | Not Rated

“I’m an adult!” He glanced down at Harry, who seemed anything but at the moment, where he was definitely on the brink of a temper tantrum. “We’re both adults!” Jay glanced to Anne again, before breathing out a heavy sigh. “Yes, but you’re both adults that do not have jobs and who live off of our money… Which means, you have to do what we say… or you’ll have to find a new place to live.” “You wouldn’t do that.” Louis dared, hoping his glare was enough to guilt trip his mother into calling the whole thing off. Or to tell them that it had all just been a huge joke and they weren’t actually being forced into marrying a complete stranger. “Oh, but we would.”

Or the super cliché arranged marriage fic where things escalate way too quickly.

infinitely all for me by @swallowsmateforlife (10k)| Explicit

The Alpha Louis’ been betrothed to since he was 14 has finally come of age and Louis’ been delivered to his home.

or: the one where they figure it all out

keep me safe, keep me sane, keep me honest by @hilourry (8k) | Explicit

Louis is the Prince of England. All past omega princes and princesses have been married and pregnant at age 18, so his parents arrange him to be married to Harry Styles, the royal family’s PR guy.

Sail Across Me by @iwillpaintasongforlou (21k) | Explicit

Harry is a prince that is about to be forced into marriage against his will and running away to sea seems like a much better option. Louis is the captain of the infamous pirate ship The Rogue and he has a thing for helping defenseless creatures. Especially when they're as pretty as this one.

London is well worth a mass  by @dolphinaaaa (93k) | Not Rated

Louis is an Omega prince of France. When he is 13, he is betrothed to Harry of England for politics. The wedding will seal the alliance between the two coutries. This is their story.

Please feel free to check my fic tags if you want to search for other fics! Happy reading, anon!

[revengeoftheantichrist]

Such Selfish Prayers

Warnings: Blasphemy, Catholic high school setting, teasing, inappropriate use of a chapel AO3

Friday morning mass had to be the most boring part of the school day. Listening to the priest go on and on about some bullshit parable made you want to run into traffic. You had zoned out until your head of year got up to make an announcement. “Ladies, those of you in Mr. Jones’ theology class are expecting some new students. Due to timetable clashes, some of the boys from Holy Cross will be joining your lesson until your exams. Please do give them a warm Sacred Heart welcome, and do not forget we are good catholic schoolgirls, so behave.” You rolled your eyes and tried not to huff. That was your theology lesson that was about to be invaded. The boys of your brother school were known for their abhorrent behaviour. Of course, the girls in your school weren’t angels, but you knew when you needed to behave; you had a reputation to maintain. You hoped they wouldn’t be too disruptive; you were already re-sitting final year and could not afford any fuck ups. //// Catholic theology; final period. The last hour between you and spending the weekend stoned or drunk, whichever came first. You were stopped by Sister Catherine on your way up to the lesson. “Y/N if I have to tell you one more time to pull your skirt down, that’s two weeks of afterschool detention, you know the rules.” You rolled your eyes and muttered a quick ‘yes sister’ and pulled your skirt down. As you walked into the classroom, you noticed that your friends were sitting in different spaces than usual. Mr Jones explained that he had rearranged the seating plan, to immerse the new boys into the classroom, and prevent a divide. You knew what he meant, you Politics lesson had a clear split between boys and girls, hurling insults at each other across the central aisle. You would be sat one boy and one girl; your seat being in the back corner, just behind your best friend Claire. You sat down and began to chat to the girl in front of you, the lesson couldn’t start without the boys and they were late. 15 Minutes had passed before they decide to show up. “Ah gentlemen, I’m glad you could make it,” said Mr Jones. “We’re sorry we’re so late sir, we got lost,” said the boy. The conversation in the room stopped at hearing his honey like voice. An American accent? Rare in your small English town. There weren’t any official government offices here so he couldn’t have been a diplomat’s son. Strange. His blond hair was perfectly styled, his uniform pressed to perfection. He looked so much more put together than the rest of his peers. You should know, it was the same school your younger brother went to, they never enforced uniform rules. You were surprised the boy wasn’t bullied for how nice it looked. “Well, don’t let it happen again, I can enforce detentions,” finished Mr. Jones. He started reading names and assigning them seats. The American boy was the last one standing and the seat next to you was the only empty one. You knew already he would be difficult; you weren’t here for it. “And finally, Mr. Langdon you will be sitting next to Miss. Y/LN. She just has a resting bitch face but I’m sure shell take good care of you,” said Mr Jones. The boy smirked at you and sauntered over. He sat down and unpacked his bag, taking over almost the whole desk. He finally turned to you, holing out his hand for you to shake. “Michael Langdon, nice to meet you.” You stared at his hand before shaking it, it was surprisingly soft. “Y/N,” you replied, tuning your attention back to the teacher, taking back your half of the desk by pushing his things to the side. You felt him staring at you. This was going to be a long lesson. //// Finally, the lesson was over. Michael had spent the whole time elbowing you and loudly bantering with his peers. If it wasn’t for you being in class, you would have hit him. You began to pack your stuff to leave, Mr Jones mentioning homework for Monday. Fuck, you’d have to see them first thing on Monday too. You resisted the temptation to leap through the window. The boy sat next to Claire turned to you,” your brother said you’d be a colossal bitch.” You furrowed your brows, “I haven’t even said anything to you, where’s this coming from? Also, my brothers in year 10 what the hell are you doing talking to him?” “You’re sat next to boy wonder over here and you haven’t said a word, he can pull conversation out of anyone,” replied the boy. You shook your head, “this is by far the stupidest conversation I’ve had in this classroom. Even stupider than the ‘is the anti-Christ sexy?’ one that we had last week.” It was Michaels turn to speak, “and what was the conclusion of that one.” Claire replied, “okay so, we thought ‘yes’ because he’s supposed to lead people into sin, right? So, you have to be sexy if people are lusting after you. Also, Satan was an angel so there’s that factor too.” “Girls!” shouted Mr Jones, “do not start that debate again we wasted a whole lesson on it already, go home its Friday I have shit to do.” You both laughed and left the classroom, not paying any mind to the boys behind you. //// Monday had arrived; the worst day of the week. To say you were hungover was an understatement. You walked in just before the lesson started, saying your good mornings before taking a seat. “you look like shit,” said the new boy. “I didn’t ask,” you replied. Mr Jones started talking to the class, “as the boys were late last week, we didn’t get to do introductions properly, so turn to your partner and tell them three things about you. Not including your name.” You rolled your eyes. “If you keep rolling your eyes, they’re gonna get stuck to the back of your head.” “again Langdon, I did not ask,” you huffed. She shot you a sarcastic smile, clearly annoyed by your short answers. “well then, what three things do you want to know about me?” “preferably nothing, but to make it go faster, where are you from?” “Los Angeles,” he replied. “ooo, California beach boy, are we? What brings you to this little catholic school in England then?” you asked. “My father sent me here, as for what he does, that’s classified.” “I wasn’t going to ask. Anyway, what’s your favourite food then?” “French toast,” he smiled. These three answers told you nothing about him, you didn’t want to admit it, something made you want to know more. “what do you want to know about me then?” you asked, not really wanting to give him any personal information. “what’s your favourite food?” “fettuccini alfredo.” “here’s what I really want to know,” he started, moving closer to you. “Who shoved that pole up your ass?” You raised your eyebrows and blinked slowly. Who did he think he is? “Why? Do you have something better?” “I might,” he replied, trailing his tongue over his teeth. “sorry. I’m not into blonds,” you finished. Turning back around to face the board. “I’m not finished asking questions,” said Michael. “I’m done answering them.” Mr Jones interrupted the class before he could argue. You hoped the class would fly by. You sat resting your chin on your hand, trying to listen to Mr Jones. Suddenly, your arm was elbowed out from beneath your chin, making you smack your chin off the table. Michael had elbowed you. “What the fuck is wrong with you!” “MISS Y/N!” “Michael elbowed me!” you said. “actually sir, her hand slipped,” Michael interjected. Mr jones looked pissed, “You know what? I really don’t care. Both of you are going to clean the chapel after school on Friday.” You sat there; gob smacked. You really did not want to spend any more time with Michael at all, but this was your final behaviour warning. Michael seemed surprisingly giddy; he was enjoying this far too much. //// Throughout the week, it seemed that Michael was doing anything he could to piss you off. Pushing you in hallways, taking your usual seats at lunch and in the library, even sitting behind you in mass, kicking your seat. “listen here you little blond bimbo bitch, if you don’t stop kicking my seat, I swear to god I’m gonna kill you,” you seethed. “Y/N! turn around were in the middle of mass!” your head of year whispered to you, trying not to disturb the priest. Michael kicked your seat even harder for the duration, even pulling your hair on occasion. How old was he? This wasn’t primary school. //// You were dreading the theology lesson today; it was the beginning of the two hours you would have to spend with the boy wonder. You took a breath to calm your nerves before walking into the classroom. ‘Revelations’ written on the board in red ink. You thought this was the most exciting book in the bible. Michael was already seated, grinning at you as you made eye contact. You moved to the other side of the aisle so he couldn’t attempt to trip you over. “Are you excited Y/N? you get to spend the next two hours with me you lucky thing.” “As soon as I see you outside these school gates it’s on sight mickey,” you replied. “Mickey?” “You look you’re an intellectual property of Disney,” you argued. “so, you think I look like a Disney prince then. I’ll keep that in mind princess.” “More like a prince of darkness, you’d be the villain actually.” He looked at you like you’d told him the funniest joke in the world, “you’re not far off,” he finished. What the hell did he mean by that? You decided not to press any further. “How do we think the world will end? Using biblical references,” Mr Jones’ voice broke through the silence. Michael had a glint in his eye, as if he knew something the rest of us didn’t. “how about Y/N? what’s your answer?” Had God decided that you were going to spend the rest of the year getting picked on? It seemed like it. “Erm well, the revelation about wormwood could easily refer to a nuclear bomb or something, looking at it in a modern context,” you gave your answer. “That’s a really good answer, nice to know your listening,” Mr Jones turned back to the class, leaving you be for the rest of the lesson. //// The lesson had ended. Mr Jones was walking the pair of you to the chapel in the convent that was connected to the school. It was silent. Just before you could walk in, Sister Catherine had spotted you again, “Y/N! SKIRT! PULL IT DOWN!” she shouted at you. You looked her in the eye, and slowly pulled it down, finishing with a smile. “This is a catholic school, I don’t know where you girls got the idea that short skirts were now acceptable,” she huffed, before leaving you alone with Michael and Mr jones. The chapel was beautiful. It was all white marble, stained glass and hardwood pews. Fresh flowers and statues of the virgin decorated little alcoves. Above the alter, the image of the crucifixion. You felt judged under his sombre gaze. Mr Jones handed you both the materials and gave you instructions on the cleaning. He’d be back in an hour. You were left alone with Michael. He made his way to the pews and sat down, putting his feet up and his hands behind his head. You rolled your eyes and got to dusting your side of the chapel, no way in hell were you going to do his work for him. You could feel his gaze on you as you dusted away. You stopped briefly to remove your blazer. You bent over to pick up a prayer card dropped by the alter. The prayer to Saint Michael. Unfortunately, the Michael in the room was anything but. “wow, your skirt really is short,” he said. You tried to get up to pull it down, but he was behind you. “Don’t be a perv and do your tasks!” He pulled you back against his chest, his arm around your waist and you head on his shoulder. “what the fuck Langdon!” you shouted. “You are far too mouthy princess,” he brought his hand around your throat, squeezing as a warning. He started to trail his fingers up from your knee. “You know,” he started. “I never got to ask that third question last week.” His fingers reached the hem of your skirt, slowly making their way underneath, making you shiver. You swallowed. “w-what did you want to know?” He had bunched your skirt up around your hips, exposing your legs. His fingers started to trace the hem of your panties. “I want to know if you’re a virgin y/n? Is he the only man you’ve ever gotten on your knees for?” he asked, nodding to the image of Christ. You had had ‘almosts’, but never the whole nine yards. His palm came across your ass and you squeaked. “Answer the question princess.” “Y -yes,” you replied, your skin heating up. He let go of you and you breathed a sigh of relief; reaching to tug your skirt back down. He gripped your wrists before you could, turning you around to face him. “I’m not finished with you yet.” His face was so close, you could smell the mint gum he liked to chew loudly. Something made you want to lean in a little further and kiss him, but you hesitated. “I’m going to be your new messiah from now on Y/N,” he said, pushing you onto your knees. His thumb stroked your cheek, before putting it in your mouth. “Don’t bite, or there’ll be consequences,” he warned. He ran his thumb along your tongue, before replacing it with two of his fingers; thrusting them in and out your mouth. You were too captivated by his eyes to respond. The low lighting of the chapel illuminating his golden hair like a halo. He finally pulled his fingers out, connecting to your lips with a string of spit. “Keep your mouth open,” he ordered. He reached for his belt, unbuckling in. You started to shift around, the marble hurting your knees and your arousal begging for attention. He said a quick ‘sit still’ before finally pulling his cock out. It was actually really nice to look at. He gripped your jaw, forcing you to open your mouth even further, before slowly sliding it in. He hissed at the sensation of your warm mouth. “This is the best was to shut you up.” He pushed until you gaged, the sensation so foreign to you. “C’mon princess, use your hands, I’m not here to do all the work,” he said. You took the base of his cock in your hands, moving it in time with your mouth. Michaels moans echoed throughout the chapel, adding fuel to your own arousal. You felt him twitch in your mouth. He grabbed your head and pulled you off, panting. You watched his wet cock bob against his clothed abdomen. “Get up” he ordered, so you did. He pushed you back, so you were lying on the alter, looking up at the frescoes on the ceiling. The image of God looking at you in disgust. Michael put his hand around your throat, “Look at me, I’m your god now.” He peeled your panties off, pocketing them. Pervert. His hands held your thighs apart, inspecting the wetness of your folds, before running his finger through. The sensation made you jolt and whine. “Keep quiet or they’ll hear you.” You nodded. He brought his fingers up to show you your arousal, you tried to turn your head away in embarrassment, but he had gripped your throat again. He continued to toy with your clit, bringing little gasps out of you. You cried out as he thrust two fingers inside. It felt so good, his touch was electric. “You’re so tight, I think I might break you,” he grinned. He noticed the prayer card still in your had, getting an idea. “Read that little prayer out while I defile you on the alter, your final prayer to your old god,” he commanded. “I- I can’t,” you managed to squeak out. Tears were welling in your eyes. He pulled his fingers out of you, licking them clean before humming. “You will,” he stated. He lined himself up, looking at you, waiting for you to start. "S-Saint Michael the Archangel, defend us i-in battle.” He pushed in, groaning as he did so. “Be our protection against… against the wickedness and snares of the d-devil.” He began to move, thrusting into you, making you forget your words. “You’re so tight, like you were made for me,” he panted out. “May God rebuke him, we humbly pray,” you managed to get out. Michael squeezed his hand around your throat. “And do thou, O Prince of the H-Heavenly Host.” He gripped your hip hard enough to leave bruises, picking up the pace. “By the power of God,” you couldn’t think anymore. The only thing on your mind was him. He slapped your ass, “by the power of god? Finish it.” He brought his hand down, rubbing circles around your clit, you squeezed around him. “Thrust into hell S-Satan and all evil spirits who wander through the world for the r-ruin of souls.” Michael grinned, his eyes turned black and his skin pale. You were too far gone in your pleasure to scream at his demonic face. He reached under your shirt collar, yanking your gold crucifix off your neck. You could feel your release coming on fast, Michael could too. “Let’s finish the prayer together hmm?” “Amen,” you both moaned at the same time. Your orgasm hitting you like a tidal wave. Michael wasn’t too far behind, coating your insides with his seed. Slowly pulling out of you, watching your mixed fluids drip onto the alter. Coming out of your haze, you finally realised where you were and what you had done. “What are you Michael?” you whispered. “You read about me an hour ago,” he said, tucking himself back in, his face back to its normal state. Your eyes widened, it finally clicked. The Anti-Christ. You looked up to the crucifix above you, the statue crying blood. The faces in the stained glass twisted in sorrow. The statues of the virgin weeping blood. A wave of nausea hit you. Michael pulled you up, putting your skirt back in place. He smirked at you and pulled you in for a kiss, his tongue invading your mouth. He took your hand and placed your necklace in your palm. The cross had been inverted. “I’ll be over tomorrow, just introduce me as your boyfriend. You still have some more repentance to do.” With that he left you in the chapel. Leaving you clean up the mess, alone.

[skia-oura]

Dipper’s Day Around the World

A/N: This is 21k written over the span of like 6 months, so buckle in folks.

ao3

_______________________________________________________________

December 4th, 5:58 AM EST

           Dipper didn’t exactly sleep, anymore, but he was close enough to rest and unconcern with the matters of the rest of the world, sandwiched between Torako and Bentley in their bed, that the sting of the summons—friendly, from a personal circle, not from the standard one that strangers used—startled him into a disgruntled moan. Torako, a lighter sleeper in the morning, the early bird between them, twitched and then hummed an inquiry. “Izza…summons,” Dipper mumbled back before he turned and pressed his face into the crook of her neck.

           “Mmm,” she said. After a while, she asked, “Someone you know?”

           He could hear her voicebox buzzing under the skin at his lips, could feel it vibrating lightly into the cartilage (manifested cartilage, yes, but cartilage as long as he wanted it to be) of his nose. A very dim part of him strengthened by still-waking awareness wanted to open his mouth and bite down into the flesh a little, just to feel it echo more directly into the not-bones of his teeth. The rest of him knew that it was a bad idea and was a sure way to get the heel of her palm slamming into his nose hard enough to break and hurt. It wasn’t even omniscience that told him this, just unfortunate prior experience.

           She still let him close, though, and so he nuzzled in. “Yeah,” he sighed, but he was mostly awake now. “It’s a friends and family circle. Even though it’s at—oh, look, it’s 6 AM,” he said.

           Torako reached over and up and ruffled at his hair. He sat up and smoothed it flat, glowering down at her. The motion dislodged Bentley’s arm from his waist but the Bentley that lived in this house was a deeper sleeper than the Bentley that returned to the apartment he’d been kidnapped from, and so he did nothing but scrunch up his nose (adorable) and sleep-mumble unintelligible noises before relaxing back into deeper sleep. Dipper sighed and relaxed shoulders he hadn’t even realized were tense.

           “Go gettem, Dips,” Torako whispered, eye cracked open in a half-awake smile. “We’re gonna have breakfast bout nine, ok? Ben’n I got busy days planned.”

           “Okay,” Dipper said. He bent down and pressed a kiss to Torako’s forehead. “Let Bentley know where I’ve gone when he wakes up, okay?”

           “Mmmkay,” Torako said, then yawned and snuggled back into the covers. “Later gater.”

           The summons stung him again. Dipper hovered above the bed for a moment, wings spread, then melted from comfortable (but elegant!!) pajamas into a more formal (but somewhat casual) suit before focusing on tracing the summons back to its locus, and slipping from bedroom on the East Coast to elsewhere.

December 4th, 11:01 AM BST

           Elsewhere turned out to be another bedroom, in front of somebody he knew (Soos, no—Olla, her name is Olla) in England. He also knew that her mother would destroy them if she found them together, and it was the middle of the day and wait, what was Olla doing home anyways?

           He blinked down at her. “Why are you even in your dorm? Don’t you have classes?”

           “Alcor,” Olla moaned. Her hair was a mass of messily plaited braids, ribbons bright but askew. “You gotta help me. You’re my only hope of passing this stupid chemistry class I decided to take with my friend but we’re both hopeless—not hopeless, but definitely for sure 100% in over our heads—and for some weird reason most of the people in class aren’t keen on talking to me long enough to do studying or they’re busy or they’re just pain rude, please save me.”

           Dipper sat down on her bed, which was next to the desk she was sitting at. Olla Sussally twisted the chair around in place, leaned forward to heave something up off the floor, then turned back around. In her hands—fingernails painted vivid, somewhat chipped colors that shifted weakly from hue to hue—was a very large tub, and in that tub was the biggest horde of candy Dipper had seen anywhere other than a grocery store. His mouth, despite any efforts to the contrary, began to fill with saliva.

           The memory of Olla’s mother was just terrifying enough to remind him that his skin was actually prickling with discharged magical energy. “Your mom changed the wards again, didn’t she? It’s a shame they didn’t work, but she’ll know you summoned me, she always does, and she’s always so pissed even if I didn’t technically approach you.”

           Olla moaned and tipped her head back for a moment. “I know I know, it’s so dumb and I hate it yet my mum really is the best and I love her n’all, but like, I have got to get this chemistry in the brain space as fast and fully as possible so can we talk about mum later? I have a candy bag per concept and you’re, like, supposed to be super smart, right? You’re supposed to know everything.”

           Dipper cocked his head at her. Olla wasn’t smiling, not even nervously. Well, Dipper thought to himself, Mrs. Sussally couldn’t be too mad if this meant Olla a) was less stressed, and b) passed chemistry.

           “Okay,” he said, sticking his hand out. “Deal.”  

           “Oh gosh oh thank you you’re the best,” Olla breathed out, then reached out and shook his hand vigorously with both of hers. Blue fire bloomed, then sputtered when she whirled around and pulled a textbook towards her—which, considering the fact that Olla was one of the most laid-back and calm people he knew, was concerning. “Okay, so, let’s start with chemical formulas, because hoo my man—my demon? I’ll have to ask you later—but, like, there’s molecular formula, and then there’s empirical formula is sometimes the same but sometimes different, and it has to do with math which is fine but I still don’t get why.”

           Dipper blinked at her, then reached forward and pulled a bag of malted biscuits from Olla’s candy stash. She had swiped several worksheets and class notes up to hover in the air between them. “It’s easier to deal with some chemical equations that way,” he said.　“Look—here, at this problem…”

_______________________________________________________________

           Halfway through explaining the Gillespie-Nyholm theory in regards to double and triple molecular bonds, Olla’s phone rang. Dipper stopped, stared at it. Olla looked down. The display read: ‘Mum <3 <3 <3.’ The hearts twirled in circles and threw off little digital glittery sparks.

           “Aw,” Olla groaned, tipping her head back. “It’s only been, like, an hour. Come on, mum!”

           “Maybe she hasn’t noticed yet?” Dipper ventured. He stuck his fingers in his mouth to lick off the sour sugar particles and eyed the still mostly-full tub of candy. “If she hasn’t, we could definitely get through another few concepts. I’ve only had four bags.” He wanted at least another three. Maybe five. Ten would be best.

           Olla stuck out her tongue at him, took a deep breath, and then answered the phone. “Hey, mum, what’s up, howsit going, what’s on, you at lunch or something, it’s so weird for you to call me now haha you know class just finished!”

           There was a muffled noise, the sound of somebody talking just out of earshot. Dipper tipped his head to the side. Would eavesdropping even be worth it?

           “Woah, that’s weird, the wards are juuuuust fine here!” Olla cast her eyes up at the ceiling. Dipper looked up as well, and winced a little at how almost soggy some of the wards looked, bent out of space from where he’d pushed his way through. Well, their cover was blown. He cast a longing look at the candy bags, and wished for a reality in which he could earn them. “I guess your alert app is just fritzing out again!”

           Silence. Then, several garbled words, Olla’s eyes widening and cutting to him. She laughed a little nervously. “What do you mean, mum? Sure, I wasn’t in Mid-Millenium Literature class, but that’s just because chem is kicking my ass into a sad bit of lumpy dough and I needed to take time—no, no, no tutors, just me and my cute little—wait you’re right outside the building??”

           Dipper froze again. He met Olla’s eyes. As Olla’s mother started talking again, Olla flapped her free hand at him frantically, mouthing go go go!! as she listened.

           If he really wanted to, he could take Olla’s mom. But a) he respected her, b) Olla really loved her, and c) Olla’s mother actually kind of just a little bit intimidated him when he wasn’t hopped up on anxiety and possessiveness and fear for his Mizar’s safety. So Dipper grimaced, lifted a hand in farewell, and blipped out of Olla’s dorm room with the fleeting thought of the next place he could go on such short notice.

 December 4th, 9:29 PM AEST

           It was, perhaps, not the best idea to suddenly appear on the couch right next to Tommy and Filara Hangar—they were a little jumpy—but Dipper wasn’t anything if not dramatic. He slung one leg over the other, slipped into something a little more formal mid-blip, and set his hands on top of his knee so that the fingers were curled a little over the kneecap. “Hello,” he said, pitched just high enough to be heard over the evening news.

           Next to him, Tommy Hangar screeched and nearly scrambled over the back of the couch. Filara Hangar seized a wineglass off the table and flung it at him with incredible accuracy. Taken off-guard, Dipper had only a split second to decide whether to let it land or whether to pluck it out of thin air. He hesitated, and the decision was made for him—the glass smacked into his nose and red wine splashed up and over his face. Blinking, liquid clinging to his eyelashes, Dipper said, “Well, that was rude but I get it, I guess.”

           Tommy wheezed from behind the couch. “What the fuck, you feathering fuckwit,” she said. “Holy shit you can’t do that to us without giving a ring or tapping out a coupla knocks first. I hate it when you do that! It freaks me the fuck out.”

           Filara, on her part, was staring at her outstretched hand, bewilderment blooming all over her aura like morning glories. “I threw a glass of wine at Alcor the Dreambender,” she said, a little faintly.

           “And hit,” Dipper groused. He materialized a stylish handkerchief from out of his vest pocket, snapped it open, and dabbed at his face just to emphasize his point. “You’re lucky that this suit is literally materialized out of the power I possess and isn’t actual fabric, because that would be a bitch to clean.”

           “Die mad about it,” Tommy said. Dipper opened his mouth to respond to that, but Tommy widened her eyes at him and he wisely shut his mouth. She hauled herself back up and over the couch to sit squarely between Dipper and her wife. “We wouldn’t pay for it anyways, it’s your own feckin fault for slipping in here out of thin air at—” she glanced at the news “—9:34 PM, what the hell and why are you even here?”

           Dipper waved the concern aside as though it were a physical thing he could clear the air of. He finished dabbing the wine off his face and snapped the handkerchief again to disperse it from its momentary existence. At the same time, the wine was pulled out of the non-fabric of his clothes and vanished. “My last appointment was cut very abruptly short, and I’d been meaning to check in on you two so I figured that now was as good a time as any. How are you?”

           Filara blinked at him. “I hit Alcor the Dreambender with a half-full glass of wine,” she said, a little glee in her voice and in her eyes.

           “Yes you did, honey,” Tommy said. She patted her wife’s hand and smiled. “It was a hot damn moment of glory and I love you even more than I already did.”

           “Didn’t you throw ice water on him a few months ago?” Filara cocked her head and looked Tommy up and down, lightning bright sparks of realization fading into soft ombre appreciation.

           Dipper frowned. There was no need to rub it in, he totally could have stopped that from happening—both the wine and the water. “Yes she did, and we’ve already covered the wine stuff, how are you?”

           “It’s 9:34 PM,” Tommy drawled, turning her attention away from her wife to glower. “What do you think??”

           “Now, now,” Filara said, rubbing at Tommy’s shoulders from behind. “I know it’s late, but we haven’t seen him in a while and I threw wine on him, so I think that it would only be fair to entertain him with a little conversation, don’t you think? I’m sure he’s a little lonely, aren’t you?”

           Filara smiled at him. She looked nothing like Lionel, but Dipper read him into the quirk at the corner of her mouth that said she was still smugly amused at her unintentional victory over him. The little heartache that came with the thought moved Dipper to look past it and the quite frankly presumptive opinion that he was lonely, he wasn’t lonely. He was fine.

           “No,” he said, “but Bentley and Torako are busy sleeping right now, and I’m awake and out so I wanted to talk to you.” The more he thought about it, though, the more tempting the thought of blipping back home and crawling into bed for snuggles was. He absolutely was not lonely.

           Tommy wrinkled her nose. “That’s right, it is stupid early over there still, isn’t it?”

           “Yeah,” he said, though stupid early was a relative term when it came to individualistic habits and sleep patterns. For some people in the same time zone, it was stupid late.

           Filara leaned over and propped her elbow on Tommy’s shoulder. Her near-invisible lenses flashed a little, and she grinned. “So how are Ms. Gorgeous and Mr. Sigils?”

           “Adjusting.” Dipper leaned back into the arm of the couch and twisted a saccharine drink out of nothing to sip at. “We just finished settling into the new house nine days ago. Torako or Bentley might have sent you pictures?”

           Tommy had been frowning at Dipper ever since he pulled out his drink. “Dude,” she said, slowly, “I know you’re a demon and all, but that’s rude, man, just ask for a drink.”

           “Oh, it’s quite all right,” Filara said, patting Tommy’s arm. “If he brings his own drink, that means that there’s more wine for me. And yes, Torako did send me pictures of the house. Bentley didn’t, but he made up for it by sending me updates on how things were going, and I very much appreciate it.”

           With a sigh, Tommy leaned back into the couch and crossed her arms.

           “Did she send you pictures of the tables?” Dipper drawled, swirling his drink around in its glass. “Mine was the best one.”

           “That’s not what she said.” Filara raised her eyebrows. “In fact, she said that you all voted hers the best, and that’s the solid truth there.”

           Dipper sniffed and took a sip of his not-beverage, mentally pulled together his arguments in favor of not Torako winning their unofficial competition, and launched into them with a passion that Bentley would have described as ‘overkill’ and Torako as ‘desperately in denial.’

_______________________________________________________________

December 4th, 8:39 PM PHT

           Dipper only burned through an hour before Tommy had enough and kicked him out during a lull in conversation, citing that she actually wanted to spend time with her wife, not the dude who came around to pick her wife’s brain and engage in furious debate over the most mundane things before turning around and treating the most abstract concepts with the same fervor. He’d relented and accepted a couple drinks—overly sugary and laden with alcohol that couldn’t affect his non-existent metabolism—and found himself having made off with one of the Hangars’ drinking glasses on accident. He shrugged, sent it off to the Mindscape Shack, and figured it would make a good excuse for another visit.

           In the meantime, it was time to visit somebody very new to their current life.

           Dipper closed his eyes and followed one of the faint bonds inside of himself to a small apartment of Cebu—Grand Courtyard Bldg 5, apartment 607, nursery with the window facing north-east—in the evening, when its sole occupant was sleeping soundly, parents in the other room finishing dinner and relaxing before the baby woke up again. There was a personalized cam-monitor in the corner, anti-tamper sigils that reminded Dipper of Bentley (and when he looked at them for more than a split second, he saw Bentley working on them as part of a senior project for undergrad, and how strange, how incredible to think that they’d gone so far from that point, blooming into existence under his fingertips), and Dipper only spared a single thought to artificially looping the input past the anti-tamper sigils (they were Bentley’s, of course he knew how to get around them) before drifting closer to the crib.

           Lloyd Remnit had not lasted long after their visit, after Dipper tore the information from his mind and Fantino had died as a result. Stan had always given everything for family, and it always hurt when he failed to protect them. (many Stans had summoned him over the years. Some paid the ultimate price for their loved ones. Some paid a different price, but it all fell to pieces around them anyways. Others, ones who hadn’t summoned him, had summoned others instead—one had given away her soul to be consumed. Dipper had torn that demon to pieces).

           This time around, given how his last incarnation had ended up at odds with Alcor, he was determined to have Stan on his side. Which meant—this.

           “Hey,” Dipper said softly, breathily. In her crib, María Elena ‘Inyang’ Dimayuga lay on her back, fingers curled into soft fists. He took a moment to take her in—a little on the large side, for a two-month-old, eyelashes dark and soft against her puffy cheeks, baby hair thin clouds across the crown of her skull. “Hey. I’m going to be your Uncle Dipper. Your parents don’t know yet, but they don’t know a lot of things about you yet either, do they? They’re still calling you Aweng. Don’t worry, they’ll figure it out eventually.”

           Inyang shifted in her sleep and scrunched her nose. Dipper stilled, but her eyes didn’t open, and her barely-there, underdeveloped aura didn’t shift suddenly in that telltale breath between sleep and wake that infants tended towards. After a few moments, he slid from stillness into careful motion, chin propped in the heart of his palm, elbows on the edge of the crib, ankles-crossed mid-air. His wings fluttered once or twice. He sighed a little.

           “It’s been a few years since I’ve interacted with somebody so young,” Dipper confessed. “Not since Lata, at least. Nobody’s been stupid enough to summon me with a newborn sacrifice recently, and the chances to meet babies like you are otherwise pretty slim in my line of work.” He laughed a little. Inyang let out a breathy sigh of an exhale. “But you’re family, you know? I should—I should stick around for you.”

           Inyang’s fingers tightened into fists, then relaxed. He looked at her nails. She probably needed them trimmed, soon. Dipper remembered sharp baby nails, and they were a somewhat discordant experience when the rest of them was so soft, so malleable, so easy to swallow—

           Dipper closed his eyes, breathed in and out, and chased the thought down into the deepest, most terrible part of him. Then he opened his eyes and looked back down at Inyang.

           Inyang looked back, dark eyes large in her small face.

           They stared at each other for a few seconds, Inyang frozen by the uncertainty of an unfamiliar face hovering over her, Dipper by the very human instinct of ‘maybe if I don’t move, this very small child will just go back to sleep instead of crying.’ Despite being a dream demon who didn’t need moist eyeballs, Dipper was the one who blinked first.

           Inyang’s aura twisted. She let out the start of a choking cry. Galvanized by memories of caring for babies over the years, Dipper started shushing her, reaching into her crib on reflex. His sharp talons faded into stubby nubs, his gloves melted away to materialized skin. “Hey, hey, no, it’s all right—”

           Footsteps outside the door. Moments before he managed to pick Inyang up, Dipper frantically twisted himself into the shadows under her crib. Seconds later, the door opened.

           “Oh, that’s odd,” the parent said. Dipper blinked, and there it was—Alisha Dimayuga, journalist, wife to Jolan Dimayuga, owner of a small clothing boutique that custom-sized for all its customers. “The camera didn’t pick up on you waking up—hush, hush, sweet little Aweng, here I am, it’s okay. Why don’t we go see your Zaza, hmm? Zi would love to hold you, love to kiss your precious little nose and all the pain away.”

           Dipper stared up at the bottom of the crib, seeing Alisha pick up Inyang and soothe her without physically seeing it. Alisha rocked from side to side with each step, murmuring about how hard it was to be a baby as she slowly made her way out the room, Inyang still crying pitifully in tired-sleepy-pain-overstimulation. She was going through one of her growth spells, Dipper knew suddenly, though he’d always known it. It hurt, to grow so much all at once and not understand anything, and thankfully it was knowledge that faded quickly. Dipper still remembered his second birth, how things changed and ached and felt like fire melting and reforging and melting his bones all at once. The pain of it, over and over, all at once after stretches of nothing.

           He wouldn’t wish that on anyone.

           Dipper considered revealing himself to Alisha and her partner. He thought about introducing himself, but the thought of Alisha’s fear and Jolan’s terror-courage and the rift that would possibly set between him and Inyang made him hesitate, caught between the soft shadows of the nursery and the light spilling in through the open door. He stayed for a few moments, listening to Alisha and Jolan’s soft voices in the other room, hearing Inyang’s cries get quieter and quieter until she was silent.

           Maybe another time, Dipper told himself. He coalesced back into his humanoid form next to the crib, with its whale-patterned sheets and its pale linoliwood bars. He looked out the door, into the sliver of the hall he could see, and remembered other babies over the years that he had raised, or helped raise. Later, he told himself firmly. For sure.

           Dipper closed his eyes, breathed in deep, and blipped—

 December 4th, 8:54 AM EST

           —into his designated seat at the dining table, aka the chair that Torako had snatched for her temporary bedside table and kept falling out of bed for. Dipper might have—in the previous months—maybe on occasion scooted it just far enough out of reach that she would tumble out of the sheets. Just maybe on occasion, though. Not every night. That would just be suspicious.

           “Morning,” he chirped at Torako, who was sipping at a cup of coffee. He eyed it—hazelnut creamer, oof, she was anticipating a Day.

           “Hey,” Torako said. Across the table, Bentley’s forehead was flush against the wood surface. He groaned out something that Dipper interpreted as a greeting.

           “You never jump anymore,” Dipper complained. He crossed his arms and set them on the table, leaning forward. “It’s so disappointing.”

           “Dude, we’ve lived together for, like, eight years, of course I don’t jump anymore,” Torako said. Dipper hummed in absentminded agreement in order to hide the fact that he was as of that moment making plan after plan to startle the snot out of her. “Besides, now I have a Dipper-sensor as long as Bentley’s around—he moaned out something a second before you popped up.”

          Very kind of her to tell him what situation he needed to avoid in order to succeed. Torako really was her own worst enemy, because she should know by know that Dipper wasn’t nearly nice enough to not take advantage of such facts. “I had forgotten about that.” He actually almost had. “Bentley conscious yet?”

           Bentley groaned again. Torako picked up her fork, stabbed a sausage on her plate, and shoved it in her mouth. Dipper squinted his eyes at the remaining sausages and wondered if he could get away with sneaking one off her plate.

           “Kind of. I think he had a rough last hour of sleep; he was really groggy when I finally shook him awake.”

           Half-formed schemes of how he was going to make Torako scream in surprise fell to the back burner as he cast a more appraising eye over Bentley and his aura. Bentley kept saying that he didn’t want them to treat him like something fragile, like those delectable sugar cubes that were 90% air, 9% sugar and 1% flavoring and were so thin they fell apart the moment they touched your tongue, but Bentley was also dealing with PTSD among a host of other problems so Dipper was going to worry. Especially since, you know, exhaustion crept and shifted slow through his aura in a way that Dipper hadn’t seen since last week.

           “Hey, Ben. Looking tired there.”

           Bentley didn’t make a noise. Instead, he lifted his head up just enough to glare at Dipper. Dipper winced, both at the animosity and at the tiredness strung at the corners of his eyes and in the crease of his forehead. Bentley glared even more.

           Torako whistled. “I’m not sure, but it might have actually gotten worse?”

           “Shut up,” Bentley groused. He reached out and nearly knocked his mug of coffee over (and if it weren’t bad enough that he was drinking coffee, it was worse because even all the way across the table, Dipper’s teeth could feel the half-cup of sugar Bentley had poured in) before tugging it close and sipping. It must have tasted awful. Bentley didn’t blink an eye.

           Dipper looked at Torako. Torako glanced at him. They both decided that shuddering was probably not the wisest course of action, with Ben so grumpy. That being said, Torako still opened her mouth. Really, she was her own worst enemy.

           “So you’re…still going to work today?”

           Ben grunted and shifted his gaze to her, narrow-eyed. “I gotta,” he said. “There’s a new sigils company being built here, and there’s a…what’s the word…mandatory, right, there’s a mandatory meeting at 9:30 about it.”

           “What about a teleconference?” Torako speared another sausage. Dipper, momentarily distracted, looked down at her plate and stretched nonchalantly. If his hand was a little closer to her plate than before, well, that was just coincidence.

           Shaking his head, Bentley took another sip of his coffee before saying, “Confidential information. Gotta be in person.”

           Dipper, after a blink and a quick rush of information, thought that it might be more that Bentley was being stubborn about ‘earning his keep’ and less about ‘having to go to the meeting in person.’ Dipper was actually pretty sure that Karl Svinhish would happily come to visit just in order to fill Bentley in on the details. He considered the pros and cons of actually saying that, and decided to keep his mouth shut. Instead, Torako distracted, he set his fingers right at the edge of her plate.

           Torako snorted and pointed her fork at Bentley. “And Karl Svinhish wouldn’t bend over backwards for you, no, no he wouldn’t.”

           Bentley actually hissed at her and bared his teeth. Torako’s face went—not pale, no, but she had the expression of somebody who has just realized that they’re treading right at the edge of too far and should really go back before they’re mauled. She stabbed down for her sausages.

           Dipper, right on the edge of getting himself a tasty salty snack, howled as her fork stabbed right into the back of his hand.

           “Oh fuck,” Torako said, jumping out of her chair. “Oh fuck, how the fuck did your hand get there, what even—”

           Dipper felt torn between cackling and screaming. It really, really hurt in all the best and worst ways. “You stabbed me!”

           Bentley, at some point, had half-pushed himself out of his chair. He lowered himself down into it, lifted his coffee mug, and raised his eyebrows as Torako pulled the fork back out of Dipper’s hand. He sipped.

           “Shut up,” Dipper giggled at him, tears streaming down his face.

           “I’m too tired to be nice,” Bentley muttered. “You were asking for it.”

           Torako blinked. She looked down at her sausages. “Were you—trying to take my breakfast?”

           “No,” Dipper lied. He licked at the puncture holes in the back of his hand, then willed them to go away. His blood tasted almost like copper, today. “Of course not.”

           Torako glowered at him, and pointed the fork. “You were.”

           “Never,” he said. There was a tug somewhere in his gut, and he recognized family—friend—Batoor a split second before he said, “and you can’t prove otherwise, Batoor’s calling, see you guys later bye!”

           Torako threw her fork. He disappeared before it could reach him.

 December 4th, 4:09 PM GMT

             Dipper blipped back into physical space upside-down and in a pretty snazzy pair of electric blue ruffled slacks. He craned his neck back to look Batoor in the eye. “You called?”

           “Someday, I hope you realize how old you sound when you say that,” Batoor complained. He was sitting on his desk, a textbook in his lap and a pencil stuck behind his ear. His curtains were open, the dorm courtyard below empty but for the few students taking advantage of a clear afternoon to get some much-needed sun. Dipper tilted his head and pointed.

           “Is that kid stacking chips on her nose?”

           “Undoubtedly,” Batoor said, not even looking. “It’s a new fad. You wouldn’t understand them, being an old geezer.”

           Sometimes, Dipper regretted introducing Torako to Batoor. He extra regretted that Torako and Batoor had exchanged contact information, and that Batoor was picking up on some bad habits of Torakos, like bullying Dipper with no regard for how impressively powerful he was. No respect these days.

           “I understand fads,” Dipper grumbled.

           Outside, chip-stacking student made it to four chips high. Four chips wouldn’t be nearly so impressive if they weren’t being stacked corner to corner. Dipper was kind of jealous—he wasn’t sure he would be able to do that without taking advantage of his powers.

           “You keep telling yourself that,” Batoor said. “Anyways—I need help with this history paper. You know about history, right?”

           Dipper fancied that, if he’d never become a dream demon caught in the claws of near-eternity (he knew that he wouldn’t last forever, but it may as well be—it basically would be, as far as this universe was concerned, and more than that he couldn’t quite wrap even his demonically-altered brain around), he would have been a scientist, or a mathematician, or an over-qualified pizza store manager (which if it came with free pizza, wouldn’t be a half-bad gig.) At almost-thirteen, he hadn’t been as interested in history beyond conspiracy theories and supernatural stories. Now, though—“My middle name may as well be Historical Record,” Dipper said. He flipped over mid-air. His braid fell over his shoulder as well.

           Batoor blinked at him. “Those pants are…new,” he said, in English. Dipper narrowed his eyes in suspicion.

           “Not really,” he said. “What, you don’t like them?” Mabel had been the one who pestered him into conjuring them for himself in the first place. He’d gotten a whole cheesecake out of that deal, and the mortification of them had barely been enough for his young-demon ego to deal with. Now, though—they were ruffled, and bright, and Mabel’s, and that was enough.

           “And the braid is different,” Batoor said.

           Dipper looked down at it, pulling it further into view with his left hand. He flipped the end of it between his fingers. “ Yeah, I don’t usually go for this style. It’s fun, to change things up.”

           Batoor blinked. The scales around his eyes shimmered. “Yes,” he said, thoughtfully, “I guess so. Anyways, I need help with the history paper. About history. In English. I am older so class is harder? It’s a high-level class.”

           “Okay,” Dipper said, easily enough. It wasn’t like Torako or Bentley would be better company now, and they were going to be busy anyways. “What you got to pay me, then?”

           Grinning, Batoor opened a desk drawer with his foot. Dipper perked up despite himself, shoulders dropping and eyebrows raising. “Candy,” Batoor said, “and snacks. From Kabul.”

           Not as easily obtained as gummy peaches, here in Ireland. “Oh,” Dipper said. “I see what you’re doing. You’ve been talking to Torako.”

           “Of course,” Batoor said, before switching back to Dashto. “She’s the only one that can handle you, other than Bentley, and she’s the one with the Demonology degree. She’s been very helpful in my studies.”

           Dipper stilled. He narrowed his eyes. “I thought you were doing a degree in Community-Building and Inter-Species Relations,” he said, slowly.

           “I am,” Batoor said. He reached inside the desk drawer and picked up a couple packages, one carefully-preserved mini gosh-e fil stuck in stasis, powdered sugar and chopped pistachios kept in place through the power of food-regulation preservation spells, and the other an assorted bag of koloocheh. A few of them were broken despite the spells, and Dipper knew they had to be good. Koloocheh were brittle cookies by nature, after all.

           “Oh,” Dipper said. He couldn’t look away from the treats for a second, then made himself because he could get a major deal out of these if by some small chance Batoor didn’t know any better. “They’re pretty good, but for a whole paper?”

           “And proofreading,” Batoor said. He smiled, as sweet as the sacrifice he was offering. “I know exactly how valuable these are. They’re not only delicious, they’re sentimental. My Oware bought them for my Transfer-Day. I haven’t had gosh-e fil since we left Afghanistan.”

           Oh fuck, Dipper thought. He felt a trickle of unease down the back of his neck a second before the realization hit him and he sunk to standing on the floor like a dumbass. “Oh,” he said again. “You’re doing a specialization in community law and advocacy, aren’t you.”

          Batoor grinned. “Demonology overlaps with law-writing classes a lot, you know. Anyways. For help finding relative articles about my history topic in both English and Dashto, assistance refining my arguments, and thorough proofreading of my English composition, I will give you both of these very valuable, sentimental treats, and maybe we can have some video game time together if my roommate doesn’t come back too early.”

           “That’s a big if,” Dipper said. “Do you have the new Red Rider game? The one that’s set in a magicless urban wasteland that you have to carefully scavenge tools and make intelligent allegiances in order to strategically rise to the top of the crime syndicate that’s taken over the city and make the ultimate choice whether to rule over all with an iron fist or transition to a better societal system?”

           Batoor stared for a moment. “Yes,” he said slowly. “You like that game?”

           “Well,” Dipper said. “I suppose I kind of do, yes, but not too much.” Dipper carefully did not mention that the open-story ending that mimicked the rewards and consequences of living a high-stakes human life scratched the same itch he had tried to, over and over and over in human skins that lasted not long enough. He also didn’t mention that the mathematics that went into calculating story paths from individual choices was jaw-droppingly incredible and he needed to see it in play for himself.

           Batoor nodded. Dipper narrowed his eyebrows in suspicion at the sparks of mirth and slowly unfurling anticipation in his aura.

           “Stop being amused,” Dipper said, pointing his lace-gloved finger at Batoor and scowling. “I kind of like it.”

           “Sure,” Batoor said with a perfectly straight face that was very at odds with the emotions that Dipper was reading. He held out his hand. “Anyways, I do have the game and we can play it if there is enough time. If there isn’t, we’ll play at the next opportunity feasible for both parties. Do we have a deal?”

           Dipper looked at the sweets. He tilted his head and thought about the promise of the game—which he was guaranteed to have a chance to play—and then about the difficulty of the task before him. He didn’t mind proofreading either, especially because English had cast off a bunch of the fiddly rules about punctuation that honestly Dipper thought were still needed. He could make sure that Batoor’s teachers weren’t teaching him too much that was wrong.

           Grinning wide, Dipper reached out and took Batoor’s hand. “Deal,” he said. Blue fire licked up from between their palms briefly, and Dipper felt himself get—sharper, smarter, stronger—for a brief flash as the deal lanced through him. Then he let himself slide into that state of mind where he was—not compelled to do a task, no, but it was similar.

           “Great,” Batoor said, grinning lazily. He leaned back against the desk and looked very self-satisfied. “Because my Red Rider game’s multiplayer option hasn’t been used since the time my roommate agreed to try it out with me.”

           Dipper tipped his head. Something niggled at him. “How long ago was that?”

           “Two months ago,” Batoor said. “The day I got the game.”

           Anticipation tingled up and down Dipper’s arms. He felt himself lift back off the ground. “Oh? Why not? It’s an excellent game.”

           “He said I was too intense.” Batoor picked under his fingernails at imaginary dirt, but Dipper could still see the grin on his face.

           “Oh,” Dipper said again. Then, he said, “Well, we should finish that paper as quickly as possible, shouldn’t we? I doubt that you’re more intense than I can be.”

           “We’ll have to see,” Batoor said, eyebrows raised.

 ________________________________________________________________

             They did not, unfortunately, get a chance to see. Writing papers was harder than Dipper remembered, and Batoor had chosen to write about anti-preter sentiment in Ireland two hundred years ago and the impact of the laws enacted during that time had in the centuries following. There weren’t too many papers on the matter in Dashto, and any articles that they could find were harder to understand the further back they were, so Batoor was stuck with English and translated Gaelic sources.

           Halfway into Presumption of Guilt: How Lawmakers Built a Sinister System in the Absence of Politically Powerful Preternatural Citizens that Resulted in the Summer Riots of 3784, Batoor’s dorm buzzed. They froze.

           “Hey, Batoor!” Dipper heard. He swung his head around to look at Batoor, who met his gaze. “Why you lock the door? You got company?”

           Batoor flushed. “No!” he yelled, voice cracking a little as he flapped his hand at Dipper. “I just was studying!”

           Dipper snatched what remained of the delicious snacks that Batoor had traded and stopped just short of blipping out. “When are we going to play Red Rider?” he hissed quietly in Dashto.

           Apparently Batoor’s roommate had very, very good ears. “Batoor?”

           Batoor leveled the nastiest glare that Dipper had been subject to from him. Dipper threw up his hands in frustration and tried to communicate, with his eyes, that he was just asking, no need to get pissy about it! To which Batoor shook a finger at Dipper, waggled his eyebrows in I-told-you-we’d-get-to-it-when-we-get-to-it, and gestured for Dipper to stay quiet for good measure.

“I was only talking to myself!” Batoor yelled back. “Let me get the door for you—”

           Dipper felt a tug in his gut. Thankfully, he let himself follow the summons, twisting out of existence from Batoor’s Irish University dormroom and—

 December 4th, 9:44 PM EAT

           —into a small bedroom with sparsely decorated walls, a pale tile floor worn right to the edge of minor neglect, and a small child sitting on a patterned rug right at the edge of his circle.

           Dipper swallowed back his customary greeting and instead asked, “What’s up, kiddo?”

           They hugged their knees closer to their chest, squashing what looked to be a very sentimental stuffed manticore. “Sshh,” they said, so quiet that Dipper had to readjust his hearing. “Aunty Adi is asleep.”

           “Oh,” Dipper said. He sat cross-legged a half-inch above the wobbly chalk lines. After a moment, he whispered, “I like your scentless candles.”

           The child ducked their face into their knees and the stuffed manticore’s fuzzy mane. “Thanks,” they said, but then said nothing else for a long time. Their aura shifted between embarrassment and hesitation and quick flashing bursts of smothered pride. Dipper made the decision to wait for them to speak, and instead cast out his senses more to assess his new surroundings. There was a small bed in the corner, third-hand but well maintained, a nice new desk bought at a bargain, temperature-regulated sheets, a little bookshelf that was crammed overfull, a tablet for children open to what seemed to be a digital copy of a centuries-old summoning how-to that had never been legally published but had found its way around anyways. Down the hall to one side there were three other signatures—two more children, one adult, each in separate rooms, and to the other seemed to be a living space complete with kitchen and a harmless little snake that curled up in a hole in the wall, sleeping off its latest meal. The night air was cool in such a way that suggested the previous day had been hot.

           “Are you really a demon?” The kid asked.

           “Yeah,” Dipper said, wiggling his claws at them. Their eyes were big and dark in the candlelight from right over their knees. “Alcor the Dreambender, at your service.”

           Another very long pause. Dipper waited.

           “The book said you were nice,” they said. Dipper tilted his head. The book had been distributed during one of his nicer, more mentally present phases. Fortunately for this child, he’d had over a decade of recent socialization with human beings, so he wasn’t super tempted to take advantage of what the kid thought.

           “Right now I am,” he said. “What you want, then, kiddo? People usually don’t summon me unless they have a deal in mind.”

           They looked away and buried themselves further into themselves. The minutes passed. Outside, bugs sang and small lizards rustled in pursuit. The candles flickered, burned wax into vapor that wafted away, slow and lazy but inevitable. Dipper kept himself breathing, steady.

           “…Aunty Adi doesn’t like me,” they said.

           Dipper blinked. “Oh?” he asked, and looked closer. No broken bones, a bruise on their knee (legitimately tripped and fell), short curly hair (useful for the heat), crooked fingers (an accident when they were two years old), missing tooth (their adult teeth were coming in). Whatever it was, it wasn’t overt physical abuse. Dipper narrowed his eyes. “What does she do? Where are your parents?”

           They shifted one foot over the other. “I act funny,” they said instead. “Mom and Dad are busy working in Lilongwe, so they left me with Aunty Adi.”

           There was a lengthy silence. Dipper had started getting that uneasy prickling along the back of his neck, the one he got when kids weren’t safe and happy, and he had to breathe in deep and out slow to stop himself from getting ‘intense,’ as Torako put it.

           “Other kids don’t like me either,” said the kid. “I don’t get it, I laugh when they want me to and follow all the rules, the ones they don’t say but are there anyways, but they still don’t like me.”

           Lonely crept over them like a purple shroud, heavy and dark and bruiselike. Dipper watched it settle and shift for a few moments, and turned the words over in his head. They waited.

           “Do you want a friend?” Dipper asked, finally.

           A heartbeat, two, and then a nod.

           “Do you want me to be your friend, tonight?”

           A double nod.

           “I’ll need something in exchange,” Dipper said, because it was true (though not really, no, he could totally absorb the backlash that came with spending a night playing with a kid but this wasn’t Mabel) and the kid should know that, but also— “maybe some candy? Kids have candy, right?”

           He’d really, really prefer the manticore. He almost asked for it. Then he thought of what Torako would say and do to him if she found out he’d taken a beloved stuffed animal from a lonely, friendless child and figured that stealing candy was a comparably minor offense.

           Their wide dark eyes stared into his, and then they very slowly nodded, and even more slowly pointed in the direction of their desk. “In the drawer,” they said. “Milk drops.”

           Dipper tilted his head over at the desk and blinked. “Okay,” he said and extended his hand. “Is it a deal?”

           After a short moment, they nodded and extended their hand over the shaky, weak chalk lines of their summoning circle. “Deal,” they said, their hand in his, blue fire flaring up between them for a second before dying down.

           Dipper tilted his head, blinked into something a little softer (more comfortable, something that would set the kid at ease) and asked, “So, kiddo, I’m yours to play with for a while. What you wanna do?”

           The kid didn’t smile, but hesitant happiness spread like frail roots through the heavy purple lonely in their aura. “Well,” they said, quietly, “there’s this—card game, that I got to play once…”

_______________________________________________________________

           It took several hours of very quiet playtime for the kid to finally get tired enough to fall asleep. Dipper tucked them—tucked Pili—into their bed, sang a slightly off-key lullaby until their tired eyes finally blinked shut and their chest rose and fell softly and their grip on their Manticore (Nadine) loosened. He thought for a moment, then summoned a Dream to curl up next to them and a Nightmare to stand guard until Pili woke in the morning.

           “You keep an eye on them, alright?” Dipper said. The dream baa’d and snuggled in close to Pili, who relaxed further. Himmwichlint, the Nightmare, blinked its five eyes independently and huffed out a derisive what, you think I wouldn’t at Dipper. Dipper huffed back and rolled his eyes.

           “I’m not saying you can’t or won’t,” Dipper complained, crossing his arms. He was wearing a very soft sweater that Pili had exclaimed quietly over before stroking for a solid five minutes. “I’m just saying what I want you to do.”

           Himmwichlint rolled its eyes back at him. The effect it had was really similar like those plastic googly ones that Belle had once used to bedazzle a pair of sneakers into a constantly-rustling horror show. She had worn them every day for a month to class. Dipper had ended up making a deal with Lionel to have them disappear.

           “No respect,” Dipper complained. “What is it with everybody in my life refusing to show me respect? I am a very powerful dream demon, you would think people would remember that more.”

           The Nightmare chuffed low in its gizzard, and its wool shook in laughter. Then it turned itself around to lay on the ground at the side of the bed, very purposefully looking away from Dipper.

           Dipper threw up his hands. “Unbelievable,” he whispered, turning around himself to leave the room. “Absolutely unbelievable.”

           He very quietly swung the door open and then stepped into the quiet hallway. Another step, and he shifted from the soft sweater and comfortable sweatpants he’d put on for Pili into a sharp black suit, dark and imposing and shadowy. He didn’t need to close his eyes for more than a few seconds to know that he wanted the room at the very end of the hall. He walked forward on the thin air just a hair off the ground, passing by several pictures on the walls and a totem lodged in an inset shelf near the ceiling. It was supposed to protect the inhabitants, but the spirit that was supposed to be there was missing. It had been missing for years at this point.

           Not that it could have done much of anything if it had been there, Dipper thought to himself with a little grin. It could not have stopped him from having a little chat with Auntie Adi. He doubted that it would have even tried.

           In moments, he reached her door. The insects outside had fallen silent. He pushed the door open, soundless, and entered her room.

           It was dark. A thin sliver of slightly-overcast moonlight drifted through the crack between the curtains. In the middle of the room was a wide bed, thin summer blankets draped over a sleeping figure. When he looked around, the room wasn’t overly different from Pili’s—the same well-cared-for furniture, clothing bought at a bargain and a few priceless treasures (gifts, or inheritances, or simply items loved to the point of powerfully tempting)—but there was something about it that cradled the sleeping figure. There had been a lot of love in this room. There was a lot of love, and care, and fondness. Pili’s room seemed so much emptier by comparison.

           Alcor made his way to the edge of the bed. He flicked out his cane, threaded his hair back into a ribbon-tied ponytail, and then sat down.

           Adi didn’t respond for several moments, still deep in sleep. No matter. He knew that the deep part of her responsible for living, for detecting danger and escaping from it was slowly waking up. With every breath, it was pulled closer and closer to the surface, a buoy rising to the surface of a wide dark sea, dragging consciousness up with it. Her brow started to furrow. The soft lines along the edges of her mouth began to deepen. Her eyes tensed. Inhale, exhale, and her eyes fluttered open.

           It took two breathing cycles for her to register that there was a strange person in her room, sitting on her bed and looking down at her. She jerked into motion, opened her mouth, and screamed.

           Alcor smiled into the silence. He had already borrowed—not stolen, he might still give it back—her voice. “Now, now,” he said, softly. “You shouldn’t disturb the children’s sleep. Let’s be quiet, all right?”

           Her eyes are wide. The sclera is bright against the darkness of the room. Her hand feels at her throat, which is bobbing with fruitless effort to speak.

           “I know this is frightening,” Alcor said. His grin widened. The fear shooting up from Adi in sparks set him on the most wonderful edge. It buzzed against him, just enough to turn his teeth a hair past sharp and blow his pupils a clawtip longer. “But really, this is quite important—can I trust you not to scream?”

           She nodded. What a fool—he already knew he couldn’t. He knew she would scream as loud as she could, and then her children would come in, and then Alcor would have to figure out how to deal with them in non-lethal ways. What a mess that would be. Instead, he chuckled before reaching out and tracing a claw against the bottom of her jaw. Adi froze. Her chest barely moved, quick and light.

           “Don’t worry,” he drawled, leaning in a little. Her eyes darted from his teeth to his eyes and then back down again to his teeth. “I already know I can’t. Anyways, this will be a far more productive conversation if you aren’t doing any of the talking.”

           With a sharp inhale, she clenched her fingers in the blanket pooled at her waist. Alcor tapped her chin. She nodded again, this time short and jerky. Her fear really was quite exhilarating, Alcor thought to himself absentmindedly. He’d have to make sure to milk as much out of her without compromising his position, or Pili’s.

           Ah, yes. Pili’s. A no-name soul that he hadn’t had any meaningful prior relationships with. But children were children, and no-name souls could earn names, couldn’t they? Lionel and Torako and Georgi were all excellent examples. He would have to keep an eye out for Pili—make sure that Adi didn’t do anything unfortunate.

           “I suppose you’re wondering why I’m here,” Alcor said, leaning back a little. Adi exhaled shakily, and nodded again. “Well, it has to do with your nibling. Did you know that they’ve managed to access quite the outdated collection of demonic academia? Their circle was a little wobbly, but it’s supposed to be simple enough for a child to draw with a bit of effort, if they’re desperate enough.”

           Alcor noted the sudden tension in Adi’s shoulders, the sourness of jealousy that rose up among misplaced gangrene anger, the mist-like waft of dark guilt that drifted off as quick as it drifted in.

           “You see,” Alcor said, crossing one leg over the other and wrapping his hands leisurely around his knees, “children have to be desperate enough to draw my circle. That’s not even taking into account the effort many go to in order to get the information needed to draw my circle, and say the incantation, and gather the necessary supplies. Children, you see, don’t often have the resources or freedom an adult does. Please, do me a favor and consider—how desperate must young Pili have been to go to the effort of all that?”

           Adi’s anger flashed and deepened. She lifted her chin, eyes narrowed, and opened her mouth to retort before she tried to speak and remembered exactly who it was she was talking to. Fear drowned out the anger. She curled back in on herself, shifting back on the bedsheets with a near-silent rasp.

           Yes. This was what he deserved. This was the respect he had earned, that he had been deprived of the last few hours. He breathed it in deep.

           “I know you haven’t laid a hand on them,” Alcor drawled. His eyes crinkled in a smile. “Trust me, we would be having a—different conversation at that point. Perhaps off in the desert, where you could scream and I could enjoy it without having to worry about your spawn ruining everything. But that’s also the problem, because—you haven’t laid a hand on them in love, either.”

           Silence. Her aura spoke volumes. He let it balloon up between them, bobbed his foot as she swallowed past a rabbit-quick heartbeat. The pale moonlight coming in through the crack in the curtains glinted off the shiny cap on the toe.

           “Your nibling summoned me because they were desperate for a friend,” Dipper said, very very quietly. “They wanted somebody to play with. To love them, even if that love wasn’t as real as what they really needed. Even just for a night. You, as their guardian, have failed them. You have neglected them, for terrible, petty reasons that have nothing to do with who Pili is, and have everything to do with who somebody else is—one of their parents, I’m assuming.”

           Adi bristled again, shoulders drawing up and back in indignation. Her sleeping cap shifted, exposing some of the kinked hair it was protecting. Alcor reached over. She stilled, heartrate jack-knifing as he pulled the cap back into place.

           “You don’t have to be their friend,” Alcor said. He smiled. “But it would be such a shame if you didn’t learn how to be kind to them and how to be supportive of them. Such a shame indeed. There are always…repercussions, you see, for these kinds of actions.” He leaned over, resting his chin in one palm, fingers curled in a precisely calculated mimicry of danger. Adi trembled, swallowed. Sweat tricked down her brow and along the lines of her slender neck. Dipper watched it drip down, and felt her terror spike.

           “What a shame indeed,” he said. He glanced up, still smiling, and caught her eye. The shallow inhale she was taking hitched. Her pupils shrunk despite the darkness. Alcor tilted his head to make sure the light glinted across his sharp teeth. Then, he drew back.

           “But I suppose it would be better for Pili and your other children if I actually gave you the chance to learn,” he said offhandedly, and looked at his claws. The next exhale broke out of her, ragged and loud in the silence. “I’m trying to be a better person, you see, and I suppose you haven’t done anything egregiously worthy of…such harsh retribution.”

           Alcor stood. He picked imaginary lint off his shoulder, pulled his eight-ball cane back into the physical realm, and leaned on it. “I don’t suppose I have to inform you that if things don’t get better, I will know,” he drawled. Adi’s hands were clutching at the fabric over her heart. “But, for the purpose of all transparency…if they don’t, I will know. I doubt you’ll enjoy what happens afterwards.”

           With a grin that was satisfyingly wide, Alcor bowed and faded out of sight. A moment later, he released his hold on Adi. He watched her place trembling hands over her mouth and hyperventilate for several minutes. She eventually calmed enough to slide out of bed and stand on shaking legs, though it took her a few tries to be steady enough to walk on her own. She checked her eldest son’s room, then her daughter’s, and then finally –with no little hesitation—her nibling’s.

           Alcor grinned as she stifled a gurgling scream at the sight of Himmwichlint curled up in front of Pili’s bed. Himmwichlint lifted its head, blinked its five eyes at Adi, and then yawned on purpose to show off its incomprehensible but terrifying teeth and its two whipcord tongues. Adi whimpered and stumbled back. Alcor, upside-down on the ceiling, hummed and grinned wider.

           Himmwichlint tilted its head up, made eye contact with him, and huffed.

           Alcor rolled his eyes back at Himmwichlint. He did not need to get out of here, not when this woman’s reactions were absolutely hilarious. He hadn’t been front-row seats to a horror show with so little blood in ages.

           Himmwichlint snorted, looked back at the woman, and nestled itself back in. On the bed, Pili sighed and snuggled the dream closer. The dream obliged.

           Aunt Adi dropped her fist, just a little. She stared at her nibling, eyebrows furrowing. Soft surprise echoed out in the spaces between her terror and horror. If he looked closely, he could see the beginnings of wonder peeking out from behind the residual film of jealousy and anger.

           Oh, he thought. Maybe she would learn. What a disappointment, almost to the point he was the slightest bit mad about it. He’d been looking forward to eking out some more terror from her, maybe indulging in snacking on a finger or two, possibly a kidney, nothing life-threatening. Her actually cleaning her act up was going to ruin things for him.

           Oh, he thought after another moment. Maybe—maybe he did need to go somewhere—else. Dipper closed his eyes and as quietly as possible, tessered into the mindscape, lay in the grass among his Nightmares and Dreams, and simply was.

________________________________________________________________

§¢ɷʘϠϰѬ  ҈۝†‡₰  ʯ͚:ͼǂ  Nightmare Realm

             It was nice, for an indeterminable amount of time, to let the manic buzzing energy and self-righteous anger and the hunger for justice (revenge, the kind that benefited him and him alone) seep out of the front of his mind and down into the back. A couple Dreams nestled up to his sides, and one had decided that his chest was the best place to curl up on. It chewed on his lapel absentmindedly. Dipper would have minded more if it a) wasn’t easy to fix, being made of thought, and b) weren’t the case that the Dream was in the top tenth percentile of cute Dreams—which were altogether adorable as it was.

           The Nightmare taking advantage of the situation to snuffle into his hair was another thing entirely.

           “Erschie,” Dipper said, eyes closed but eyebrows furrowed down. “What are you doing.”

           A pause, then Erschie snorted warm sulfuric air directly into Dippers mostly-made-up scalp. Dipper waited a few seconds for something else to happen, then opened his eyes. The moment he did, he felt Erschie’s fangs and sharp front teeth start to scrape at the top of his head.

         “Gross,” Dipper said, even as he felt the skin slice open just a little. “Disgusting.”

           Erschie paused, then withdrew. Dipper blinked. Erschie then licked at Dipper’s hair with all the gross slobber in Erschie’s dumb gross mouth.

           Dipper bolted upright, the Dream on his chest now in his arms and the other two left to flop into the grass and baa irately over the sudden lack of support. “ERSCHIE!” Dipper screeched. His hair stood up on end. He could feel the slobber starting to trickle down the back of his neck. “WHAT THE FUCK.”

           Erschie blinked up at him, closed its eyes, and then let out a wool-rustle throat-croak hoof-stomp that Dipper knew to indicate Erschie’s general amusement at being a nuisance in Dipper’s life. The Dream snuggled into Dipper’s arms. This, unfortunately, limited what response Dipper could take.

           In order to demonstrate to Erschie that he was a dangerous, serious, terrifying dream demon, Dipper opened his mouth, displayed all his rows of teeth, and hissed at Erschie. For some reason, that just made the Nightmare express Amusement more exuberantly.

           “You’ve been conniving with Himmie, haven’t you,” Dipper said. He resisted the urge to stamp his foot. “You’re both out to show me as much disrespect as possible.”

           Erschie clacked its teeth together and flicked its ears.

           “What do you mean it’s not hard?? I am Alcor the Dreambender, Devourer of Souls and Lord of Nightmares, King of Darkness, Destroyer of Light, the Infernal Star! I’m literally the Scourge of All Beings Living and Dead and you say it’s not hard to disrespect me??”

           With an exaggerated snort, Erschie dipped its head down and up twice before flicking its ears in succession.

           “I do not embarrass myself!!” Dipper howled, throwing his arms up in the air. The Dream previously occupying them fell to the grass with a disgruntled bleat, and glared up at him as ferociously as it could manage. Dipper looked down at the Dream and winced.

           Erschie performed its most vigorous Amusement dance yet.

           Dipper pointed at Erschie and glowered. “Shut up,” he said.

           Predictably, but disappointingly, Erschie did not listen. Erschie continued to do its best to convey its Amusement at Dipper, adding insult to injury by throwing in a mirthful head-shake.

           “Can’t get any respect around here,” Dipper grumbled, squatting down and papping the Dream to show his remorse as was only appropriate. “They’re all out to get me. But you won’t be like that if you ever become a Nightmare, will you? You’ll be appropriately respectful, unlike that ungrateful troll over there. Yes, I could eat it, but no, I am merciful and abstain like a good demon. And this is the thanks I get.”

           The dream looked up at him and blinked. It turned its head to take in Erschie, who was now turning around in a circle as it continued to mock Dipper. Then the dream looked back up at Dipper and flicked its ears just like Erschie was.

           Dipper stood and put his hands on his hips. “Wow,” he said. “The rebellion really does start early. I can see I’m not welcome here, in my own Realm.”

           Erschie blew a raspberry. All three Dreams watched Erschie in clear curiosity, then turned around to Dipper and did the same.

           “Rude,” Dipper growled, and pulled himself away into another place chosen on a whim.

________________________________________________________________

December 5th, 1:58 AM, AZT

             Dipper found himself outside a small home with a bright blue door. The outer walls were made of corrugated metal that had also been painted blue, and a birdhouse had been set between two of the windows. It was cold. Dipper breathed out, then in, then suffused heat into his next exhale just to see the condensation rise and dissipate into the air.

           He turned around, looked down the footpath that meandered down the slope the house was set into. There were more houses, roofs illuminated by moonlight, windows largely unlit. It was 2 AM in this small town of Laza, after all. There wasn’t very much to do, unless he really wanted to terrorize the inhabitants by tap-dancing on their ceilings or whispering traumatizing thoughts into their dreams. He thought maybe that might just possibly be a not great thing that Bentley would get quiet and frustrated with him over, though. Instead, maybe he could just eat some of the goats that one of the houses kept down below. Dipper hummed and tapped his finger on his chin.

           Eating goats was probably something he would get in trouble for, on second thought. He could just terrorize the goats. That was still fun, but didn’t hurt any people. Actually, Torako would get a kick out of some selfies, he could do that. Tempt her into another passport-less road trip, for the fun of it. They could take Bentley too, this time. It would be much lower stakes. Yes, a picture would be good. Dipper took a step forward, absentmindedly casting his mind around to count the souls in the vicinity, and then froze.

           He turned back around, looked at the blue house with the blue door and the birdhouse set into the side of it. A gust of wind blew through him, then around him as he made himself just a little more solid. In turn, he stared through the house and at the soul on a couch. The soul had dozed off while watching the news, which had turned off automatically an hour ago. Dipper stared, then—because he really didn’t have anything better to do—blipped from outside to just in the living room.

           She had become an old, old man, this time, Dipper realized. A very well-groomed and well-dressed old man, even in sleep. She didn’t seem rich this time, he thought to himself, taking in the heirloom table and the rugs worn with age and use, but then again, Pacifica tended to bounce up and down the economic scale from life to life.

           Dipper took a seat in the thin air above the table, on which there was a lone, empty cup that had held coffee at some point. He tilted his head at the old man, watched him breathe in (a little raspy) and then out (almost a snore) for several minutes. Dipper closed his eyes, and saw Pacifica’s death—

           Tunar, in a hospital bed, age 146, seven weeks and two days before his birthday. He breathes in, and then out, and then in, slower and shallower each time. The heartbeat monitor chimes weakly, but steadily. His nephew holds his hand, an old man himself, and his great-great-grandniece is smoothing down the sparse hair on Tunar’s head.

           Tunar does not open his eyes. He has already said goodbye, said it in the hour he was awake before he slept, said goodbye the same way he always did before falling asleep—with a soft ‘I love you,’ a kiss on the forehead or on the hand or on the cheek, and a small little sigh as he set his head into the pillows and closed his eyes again. His other grandnibling has gone with the rest of their family to get something to eat and bring food back for the two who stayed behind. This is probably for the best—there are nineteen of them, you see, because Tunar had loved well and was well-loved in turn.

           His death is slow, as easy as death is capable of being. Medicine has brought the human body far, but there will never be immortality. There never is immortality, not for humankind, not for the dayflies who are born at dawn and die at dusk, not for the oldest of vampires or the fairest of dragons or the coldest of yukionna. All things die, eventually. All things pass.

           Tunar takes a slow, slow breath in, lets it out, and does not inhale again.

—and opened them only to see that the old man had woken up, 137, still nine years left to him, and was looking right at Dipper.

           Dipper startled a little, but didn’t move. The old man did not startle, but instead stretched after a moment in the way that old people do to get stiff muscles to cooperate again.

           “Ah, I fell asleep on the couch again,” Tunar muttered. His hands shook a little as he clapped them once. The lights came on, dim. “I really should stop doing that, it’s very bad for my back and for my sleeping schedule. This face isn’t getting any younger, you know.”

           Dipper cocked his head. “Do you want it to?” he asked.

           Tunar scoffed and pushed himself to sit up straight before reaching for an elegant white cane. His hands, wrinkled and adorned with liver spots, wrapped thin fingers around the gently curved top of the cane. “You think you’re so smooth,” he said, narrowing thick eyebrows at Dipper. “I know better than to make a deal with you, Soul-Devourer.”

          After a brief pause that stretched on to the edge between acceptable and too long, Dipper said, “Actually, it was mostly curiosity.”

           “Mostly,” Tunar drawled, leaning back into the cushions and looking down his nose at Dipper. Dipper was reminded almost viciously of Pacifica and how she would stare at him, unimpressed, after whatever shenanigan he’d pulled recently that pissed her off. It froze Dipper for several long seconds, his heart in his throat as he couldn’t stop seeing her face over Tunar’s. Then Tunar sighed, and the spell was broken.

         “I suppose you’re not actually here to reap my soul for whatever reason, though.” Tunar tilted his head and raised an eyebrow. “I know you caused a big hullabaloo a few countries over several months ago, but they’re saying that the river is purified and that there were minimal casualties, which really is quite surprising.”

           “Well, old man,” Dipper drawled, leaning over, “what makes you think that would stop me from taking what I want?”

           Tunar blinked, looked closely at Dipper, and said nothing for a long time. His eyes were dark, if a little clouded, but piercing in a way that had Dipper twitching his foot. The light buzzed overhead. The clock in the other room slid nearly-silently to the next minute. Outside, Dipper could hear grass rustling in the wind if he concentrated enough, or too little.

           A hum brought his attention back to the Pacifica in front of him. Tunar had leaned forward, placing his face and throat closer to Dipper, close enough he could reach out or lunge if he really wanted to.

           “Well then,” Tunar said, smiling, his prosthetic teeth shining somewhat brighter than the few natural ones he had left, “seems to me that you don’t want to eat me.”

           That wasn’t completely accurate—it never was—but it was accurate enough that Dipper found himself flushing. He withdrew and hunched his shoulders, looking at the pictures set into the wall as though he’d never seen anything like them before. Fingers wrapped around his knee, he managed to respond, “Says who?”

           Torako would have gleefully needled the truth out of him. Bentley would have stared at him, arched an eyebrow, and said “Says me,” with the slyest little grin on his face. Pacifica would have lifted fingers to her mouth and chuckled, eyes half-lowered in a kind of superiority-fueled amusement.

           Tunar snorted, eyebrows shooting up higher, and leaned back. “Can’t believe I thought you were some kind of suave, smooth-talking master-villain,” he said. “You’re a dumbass.”

           Dipper scowled at Tunar. Tunar grinned unapologetically, sharp at the edges. “You suck,” Dipper said, finally.

           With a cackle, Tunar finally lay his cane across the top of his legs. “I’m thirsty,” he said, finally. “Make me some coffee.”

           “Make—you have a demon in your living room, and you’re telling him to make coffee??” Dipper said, voice momentarily going shrill.

           “That’s right,” Tunar said, eyes creased in a self-satisfied smile.

           “I could—I’ve manufactured deaths for less offense,” Dipper said, even though it wasn’t much of an offense.

           “I’m a hundred and thirty seven years old,” Tunar said, archly. “Even if I thought you would do that, I wouldn’t be frightened. I’ve lived a long time.”

           Dipper stared. “Unbelievable,” he finally said. “I can’t believe it. I’ve been dealing with this kind of disrespect all day. You don’t even know me.”

           “You just have that kind of face.” Tunar reached out with his cane and poked Dipper in the arm. Dipper’s jaw fell open. “Now. Coffee. I like mine with heavy cream and a scant spoonful of cane sugar. Get to it.”

           It took Dipper several moments to get his jaw closed. Then, he stood up, feet firmly on the rug below the coffee table, and walked into the kitchen to do as Tunar said. He was never, he thought to himself, introducing Tunar to Torako or Bentley. Never.

________________________________________________________________

           In the middle of a story about the time that an acquaintance, unaware of the fact that Tunar wasn’t particularly interested in romantic or sexual entanglements, tried to set Tunar up with xir grandchild ten years Tunar’s senior when Tunar was 23, Dipper’s phone rang. The lyrics to Dancing Queen blared in the air between them before Dipper could answer it.

           Tunar tilted his head. “You have a phone?”

           Dipper sent a glower at Tunar, then answered the phone. “Yes?” he asked, in an approximation of what passed for English these days.

           “Oh, thank goodness you answered,” the voice on the other end of the line said. Dipper blinked and took a second to place the voice—Reynash, right. “Listen, Lata’s sitter dropped out on us again, he was supposed to pick him up from school today but we just got the call that he didn’t, could you—”

           “Yeah, yeah, no, give me five, ten minutes,” Dipper said, tipping his head and calculating the closest point to Lata’s new school that he could feasibly tesser to and remain anonymous. “I’d teleport right to him but that might be a bit—”

           Reynash laughed, a little too tight to be completely sincere. “Ahaha, yeah, no, we would appreciate—no, thank you, I’ll let the school know that Lata’s Uncle Tyrone will be coming to get him.”

           “Sounds good,” Dipper said. “I’ll message when I pick him up, okay?”

           “Thank you again,” Reynash said. “I’ll be home after five, maybe five-thirty, so if you could keep him company until then—”

           “Yeah, no problem at all!”

           “You’re a lifesaver,” Reynash said. “Thanks again, see you.”

           “See—” Dipper only managed to get out one word before the dial tone sounded. He looked down at the phone, and then said, “Well then, he really is busy I guess.”

           “Alcor the Dreambender has a mundane social life?” Tunar said, droll. Dipper relaxed, purposefully, then tilted his head at Pacifica’s latest incarnation. He looked at Tunar through half-lidded eyes, Stan held in the back of his mind—Pacifica did like her fame, he remembered absently. She liked being the center of attention, and what better way to be the center of attention than to have a juicy news scoop to sell to the highest bidding news agency?

           Tunar took one look at Dipper, humphed, and then smacked Dipper in the knee with his cane.

           “Hey!” Dipper protested. “What the fuck?”

           “Don’t you get snippy at me,” Tunar said, wagging a finger in Dipper’s face. Dipper was seized by the childish urge to snap his teeth at it. “I could see you getting all paranoid on me. On me! After I’ve spent the last unbelievable amount of time talking to you about my life and all the personal details in it. I even let you slide on reciprocating. The least you could do is let me have this.”

           Dipper narrowed his eyes at Tunar. “You going to tell anybody?”

           Tunar snorted. “Tell people that Alcor the Dreambender came by for coffee and a chat and ended up taking a phone call in my presence? I’d either end up with terrified Demonologists tearing up my house or being prescribed a variety of medication for hallucinations and fits of fantasy. Perhaps I would have been tempted in my youth, but these old bones are done with all that drama.”

           He watched Tunar’s aura, saw it peppered with the lightest of lies—Tunar was plenty tempted now—but it was enough that Dipper leaned back into the couch and took a final sip of his coffee. “Okay,” he said.

         There was a beat of silence. “So,” Tunar said, “you have to leave, I’m supposing.”

           “Yes,” Dipper said. He leaned forward, set the cup in its saucer with a light a clink as he could manage, and stood up. “My apologies for intruding.”

           With rolled eyes, Tunar set his cup on its saucer as well with far less care than Dipper had taken. “Bah, you’re not sorry. I expect to see you here next week—though possibly at a more reasonable hour. My Doctor says that I really need to keep myself on a better sleep pattern.”

           Dipper’s hands stuttered over where they were needlessly straightening out his collar. “Next…week?”

           “Of course,” Tunar said. He stood with the help of his cane and grunted with the effort. “What, you think I started that story with the intention of leaving it unfinished? No, you will be back next week. And—you have a phone. Call me before you come so that I am ready for company.”

           Dipper could only blink. “But I don’t know—”

           “It’s written on the stasis fridge, top left corner. Take a look at it when you bring the cups in to the dishwasher.”

           Spluttering, Dipper said, “I—you expect me to wash the cups?!”

           “And you can let yourself out, I assume,” Tunar said. He turned a genial grin on Dipper, but Dipper was savvy enough to see the slyness in the corners of it. Also, the amusement in his aura helped matters a lot. “Seeing as you let yourself in.”

           “...I am an all powerful demon, and you expect me to wash your cups for—”

           “That just means I am all the more assured you are capable of such a simple task,” Tunar said. He reached out a slightly shaking hand, patted Dipper on the shoulder, and then said, “Well, I am off to bed. Again, I expect you next week. Do try not to show up in the middle of the night again, it’s not good for my heart.”

           With that, Dipper watched Tunar shuffle off around the coffee table and down the hall beyond the other side of the television screen. He blinked a little, completely blindsided—though he probably shouldn’t be. Pacifica also had a tendency of bulldozing through most of her social interactions.

           Sighing, Dipper reached down, gathered up the teacups, gave them a little rinse with the sink tap before setting them in the washer, and entered Tunar’s number into his phone. He looked down at it, displaying up at him with deceptive innocence, and furrowed his eyebrows. Then, he saw the time, said, “Oh, crap,” and blipped out of the darkened kitchen.

December 4th, 4:13 pm, PDT

             Lata screeched with joy as he barreled into Dipper with all the force of an exuberant six year old, face pressed into Dipper’s waist and arms flung around Dipper’s legs. Dipper, dressed up in his nicest, most disarming and charming human persona, grinned down at Lata.

           “Hey buddy,” he said. “How are you doing?”

           “I was so bored,” Lata said, nearly yelling the last two words. “But now you’re here so I’m not! Can we go get ice cream?”

           “Ah,” Dipper said, before deciding fuck it and nodding his head. “Yeah, sure, but I have to sign you out first and let your dad know we got you, okay?”

           Lata appeared to have stopped listening after ‘sure,’ and released Dipper to go have a good old jump-and-punch-the-air-in-victory dance. Dipper re-evaluated the intelligence of giving this already hyper child more sugar, then shrugged because he wouldn’t have to deal with the fallout, would he?

           “Uncle Tyrone, I presume,” the secretary said, grinning a little. At first glance, she looked like an older middle-aged woman, but Dipper saw the fangs and the sunglasses and thought vampire. She tapped a few buttons, and a screen lit up in front of her window for Dipper. “Please verify your identity with this security question chosen by the child’s guardians and then sign.”

           Dipper peered down at the question. What did you suddenly yell at Reynash Pines that one time that had him scream, launch a full package of Choco Piecies into the air, and tumble back over his home office chair which meant he had to go to the hospital and get three stitches behind his right ear?

           He blinked, then toggled the keyboard to input, What U Cravin. The system thought for a moment, then blinked green before showing him the field to write in his signature. Dipper took hold of the stylus it materialized for him, signed, and then said goodbye to the secretary.

           Lata had, in the meantime, decided that he needed to be crawling around on his feet and hands like some kind of humpbacked bear cub. “Are you done?” Lata asked, turning around in a circle, still not standing. There was dirt on his hands. Dipper resolved to get Lata to wash them as soon as they could find a public restroom.

           “Yes, I’m done,” Dipper said. “You wanna ditch this lame joint?”

           “It’s not lame,” Lata said, twisting his head to look at Dipper in such a way that Dipper wondered how he wasn’t snapping his own neck. “School is really really awesome, it’s just that everybody’s already gone home and I could only just wait for people to come pick me up, and waiting is boring.”

           “That tracks,” Dipper said after a pause. Lata looked back down at the ground and then started walking forward, down to where the entryway doors were. “You gonna keep walking like that buddy?”

           “Yeah,” Lata said. “This is the bear walk! We learned it today in Activities. We also learned the frog leap –though I already knew it—and the lizard crawl, and the earthworm, and the kangaroo hop. Nobody believed me when I said I went to Australia to see the kangaroos, though. They said that you can’t just go to Australia, because there are big spiders.”

           Dipper paused a moment to take in that information. He opened the door for Lata, watched him crawl down the front step and onto the rougher—colder—pavement. Lata frowned at the ground, but kept going. “Your…teacher said this?”

           “No,” Lata said in his best are you stupid voice. Dipper felt affronted that he was turning it on Dipper, his most favorite Uncle Tyrone. “You and Mom and Dad all said not to tell any adults, so I didn’t! But kids don’t count, so I told them. And they didn’t even believe me!”

           Letting the door close behind him, Dipper politely ignored the person walking their dog that stopped in their tracks to first stare at Lata, then turn away with their hand over their mouth and their aura splashed all over with viridian amusement. “Well, maybe that’s a good thing,” Dipper said. “You don’t even have a passport yet.”

           “What’s a passport?” Lata asked. His steps forward were far more ginger than they were earlier, inside on the tile flooring of the hallway.

           “It’s, uh,” Dipper said, looking down at Lata’s animal-print backpack. It had shifted over entirely to one side of Lata’s back, unbalancing him a little. He reached down, adjusted it, and continued. “Well, it’s a special document—like a little book, I think, though maybe that’s changed—that they scan at Ports when you go from one country to another country.”

           “Huh,” Lata said. He took another step, stopped, and then stood up. At the sight of his hands, Dipper moved hand-washing even further up the list of priorities. If he’d thought inside was bad, it was nothing compared to the brief jaunt down the path up to the school. “Do you have a passport?”

           “No,” Dipper said.

           Lata looked up at him, tilted his head so that the leaves on his antlers bobbed a little. “But you have to, to go to another country, right?”

           “Most people have to,” Dipper amended. “It’s expected.”

           They passed by a couple arm-in-arm, a single long scarf wrapped across both their necks. Dipper looked down at Lata. “Where’s your scarf?”

           “In my bag,” Lata said, like that was the best place for it on a chilly December afternoon.

           “And your gloves?”

           “In my bag, duh,” Lata said, rolling his eyes.

           “Hey,” Dipper said. “You really want to pull an attitude with somebody who said they’d get you ice cream in such cold weather?”

           Lata hummed, his finger on his chin in thought. A cold breeze had him shivering a little before he answered, “Maybe?”

           Dipper sighed. “Well,” he said, really elongating the word in a way that immediately caught Lata’s attention. “Maybe we don’t need ice cream after all. It’s about 3 degrees Celcius right now, after all.”

           Lata gasped. “No, you can’t take it back! No take-backs! You said we’d go for ice cream!”

           They were now by the public bathroom that Dipper had initially blipped into. “Let’s wash our hands then,” he said, pointing, “in preparation for ice cream.”

           Lata screeched in victory, did a little dance, and then started running towards the bathroom. “First one there gets to eat as much as they want!”

           Reynash would demolish him if Dipper let Lata eat as much ice cream as he wanted. Dipper burst into a very graceless, very hasty run, and didn’t really consider that he wasn’t beholden to any deal he hadn’t verbally agreed to.

________________________________________________________________

           “I cannot believe I let you get all that ice cream,” Dipper said, having blipped them to a nice ice cream place down in New California before bringing Lata and their spoils to the Pines home.

           Lata giggled and stuck his spoon into his Custom Mouse Sundae, complete with five scoops of ice cream molded into the shape of a mouse and topped off with two round waffle cookies that made the mouse’s ears. He dug out the piece of chocolate that made up the eye and stuck it in his mouth, kicking his legs.

           “I would’ve beat you if you hadn’t used your superpowers,” Lata said, trying to pout but failing in the face of the massive, self-satisfied grin that kept breaking through. “You had to be nice to me. It’s only fair.”

           “Your parents would hate it if I had let you eat the Turtle Family Sundae, the Spaghetti Ice Cream Set, and the Mouse Sundae,” Dipper said, pointing his spoon at Lata from across the table. He had gotten a custom ice cream Mega Bowl, and had filled it with a variety of ice creams and toppings. Lata kept glancing at it with unashamed interest.

           Lata leaned back in his seat—Dipper reached across and pulled the chair back onto all four legs with his foot—and groaned. “But it would have been so delicious,” he said. “So worth it. It’s not like they can do anything to you! They can’t ground you, or take away TV privileges, or game privileges, or have you write letters of Recon-ciliation to exchange with each other.”

           Dipper blinked. “Letters of Reconciliation?”

           Lata carefully carved the tip of the mouse’s nose, cherry and all, off from the rest of the ice cream. “Yeah,” he said, before taking a break to stuff his mouth.

             “What’s that?”                

           “It’s when we have a disagreement, and I write a letter saying what I thought and how I felt about the thing, and Mom and Dad write a letter saying what they thought and felt about the thing, and we give them to each other and read them and then talk about it. It’s so boring.”

           Rain tapped against the roof and windows—rain might be a bit of a misnomer for the half-rain, half-ice slush that was falling from the sky, but nevertheless Dipper was glad they hadn’t been caught out in it before heading down to NewCal. That would have been super messy, and cold, and gross. Dipper scooped up a bit of ice cream, swallowed it almost immediately, and then responded. “That doesn’t sound so bad,” he said.

           “Ugh, you’re such an adult,” Lata whined. He leaned down and pulled one of the cookie ears out of the mouse with his mouth. When he bit down, the part of the cookie that wasn’t in his mouth fell onto the ice cream below, which was starting to melt a bit.

           “You’ve gotten sassy since entering Kindergarten,” Dipper said, narrowing his eyes at Lata. “Where’s the little monster that kept saying things like ‘rawr’ and ‘I’m a nibble monster’ and all? Also, I’ll have you know that I am essentially eternally twelve. That’s not an adult.”

           “But it’s still old!” Lata yelled, suddenly. He leaned back on the rear legs of his chair. Dipper reached out with his foot and pulled his chair back down with an ease that was somewhat frightening after so many years of not parenting. “You’re old! I asked Dad how old you were and he said you were thousands of years old! That’s so many years. I watched him write out all the zeros, and then we counted out rice and it was so much rice and took so long.”

           Dipper scowled and crossed his arms. “I bought you ice cream, and this is how you repay me?”

           “I’m just saying the truth,” Lata retorted. “It’s the truth, so you can’t be mad about it.”

           Dipper snorted. “Now that’s not how things work,” he said. “Plenty of people get mad about the truth. They do it all the time.”

           Lata blinked at him. “But why? It’s the truth. You can’t get mad at something that’s true. Hans told me so.”

           As Lata began licking the ice cream, hands fisted on either side of his take-out bowl, Dipper hummed and tapped the flat of his spoon against his own ice cream. He cycled through the examples in his head—everything died, but plenty of people sought immortality—it was true that if you caught a knife to the throat, you would not last long but people got so upset about that—people worshipped or didn’t worship in many ways, and yet there were those who decided that those ways were wrong and got mad—kids grew up, and there were some dumbasses who resented how those children grew up into their own skins with their own experiences and opinions instead of staying malleable, agreeable, naïve—preternatural citizens existed, and yet—governments weren’t perfect, but—and finally hit upon one he thought Lata would understand.

           “Well,” he said, slowly, “have you ever watched something on TV and gotten mad about it?”

           Lata maintained eye-contact while licking across the ice-cream-mouse’s head. Savage. “Mom says that we have to look up stuff that they put on the TV sometimes, because it’s not always right, and when it’s not right then of course I’m allowed to be mad about it. Because it’s not right.”

           Right then, maybe not that. Perhaps he ought to take a different approach here, let Lata provide the basic scenario. “Okay, buddy, how about you tell me all the things that make you mad.”

           With a hum, Lata took a huge bite right out of the scoop of Fudge Mountain Caramel Surprise in front of his mouth. Dipper watched and wondered how effective that technique actually could be. “Um,” he said, completely ignorant of the melted ice cream smeared over his nose and lips and even chin, “well, I guess I get mad whenever Ri-Ri lies to me about the places she goes with her parents. And when Toma writes on my papers when I tell zir not to. Or when the lady on International Animal Discovery Channel is absent and her coworker comes in and covers for her, because he’s stupid and gets stuff wrong all the time. And when I have to go to bed at eight thirty, even though all my friends get to go to bed later. It’s so stupid! Why do I have to go to bed earlier? It can’t just be because it’s good for me because I’m a kid, because if it was my friends would go to bed earlier too! And also when Mom says she can’t come pick me up at school because she has an emergency meeting, like today, because she goes to work before I go to school and I don’t get to see her until I get out of school. And—”  

           Dipper swallowed the entire scoop of classic mint before holding up his hand and waving it. “Okay, okay, I think I have enough to work with there, thank you. Let’s talk about bedtime, okay? You’re mad because you have to go to bed earlier than your friends, right?”

           Lata slumped and poked his ice cream with his index finger. “Yeah,” he mumbled, before sticking his finger in his mouth and sucking the melted ice cream off of it. “I guess.”

           “Right,” Dipper said. He paused, suddenly doubting that he was the right person to tell Lata about this part of life. This seemed like a very—very parent-to-child conversation, not an Uncle-to-nibling conversation. It was kind of heavy.

           He paused too long. “So?” Lata said. Dipper looked up to see that Lata had resorted to grabbing the ice cream with his full hand and was licking it out of his palm. What a mood, Dipper thought, but instead narrowed his eyes at Lata.

           “Hey, use your spoon, not your hands,” he said. “And actually—here, use this napkin to clean your hand off. If you put your hands on something, it’ll get dirty and then we’ll both have to deal with the consequences, aka your parents.”

           “Okay,” Lata said, reaching with his dirty hand to take the napkin Dipper had pulled out from the 100% biodegradable takeout bag he’d gotten at the ice cream shop.

           “Probably should get the ice cream on your nose and chin while you’re at it,” Dipper said absentmindedly, watching Lata scrub at his hand with the paper napkin. Lata was a good kid, Dipper thought to himself. Lata would understand what Dipper was trying to say. This wouldn’t be too hard.

           Lata wrinkled his nose, but got most of the ice cream off his face. Good enough, Dipper thought, and then he launched into his little speech.

            “Right, so, it is true the kids need a lot of sleep, because they’re still developing their brains and bodies. The reason that babies sleep so much is that they’re growing and learning so much, and everything is new, so it’s exhausting. You’re still learning a lot of new stuff, and your brain is,” Dipper squinted at Lata and tilted his head, “currently, it’s learning how to handle complex and somewhat abstract concepts such as time, numbers, is expanding its capacity for vocabulary, and is beginning to develop the pathways needed to understand things such as life and death and your place in the cycle. You already have a very good grasp on concentration and a decent awareness of places existing outside of your home and school, though, that’s pretty impressive at your age.”

           Lata’s eyes went a little unfocused. Dipper dialed it back. “Point is, your brain is working hard, and it needs that sleep to recharge, refresh, and retain—keep—all the information that you’ve been learning. Your friends should probably be going to sleep around the same time you are if they’re waking up when you are, though every kid is different and every family is different.”

           Slowly, Lata tilted his head at Dipper. “What?”

           “Your parents are right,” Dipper said after a short but deep inhale, “that you should go to bed at 8:30. Your friends also need the amount of sleep that you do. It’s the truth. Are you still mad at it?”

           Lata thought for a moment. “Kind of,” he mumbled.

           “Why?”

           Lata grumbled, “This is worse than Reconciliation Letters.”

           “Why thank you,” Dipper said, grinning a little, “So? What’s got you so mad then? It can’t be that your friends are right and your parents are wrong for sending you to bed early, right?”

           “I think you’re like all the wrong people on the TV,” Lata said, frowning, not meeting Dippers’s eyes. “I think if I look it up you’re going to be wrong.”

           “I’m an all-powerful omni—I mean, all-knowing demon,” Dipper drawled, quirking an eyebrow at Lata. “I know things that Ping never would, and I know all the things that Ping is wrong about. Wanna try again?”

           For a long time, Lata stayed quiet. He kicked his legs under the table and glowered at his ice cream. Resentment breathed slow, auburn in his aura, and frustration sparkled at the edges like dew on stinging nettle. Dipper sat on the urge to interject what he wanted Lata to learn, and waited.

           After a whole six minutes, twenty-three seconds and four-hundred ninety-eights of a millisecond, Lata said, “’Cause I wanna watch Seawitch Adventures like Ri-Ri and all the others get to.”

           Dipper had not known about Seawitch Adventures, but it made sense. He translated, “Because you don’t like it. It goes against what you want the world to be like.”

           Lata tilted their head in a shrug and papped at the dining table surface with their hands. There was still a residue of ice cream lingering on the one hand, but Dipper decided that was whatever and Reynash or Kanti could deal with it later. He was doing awesome at this conversation thing.

           “People don’t get mad when things are factually wrong. They get mad when things aren’t the way they want them to be. And that’s okay!” Dipper said, after a length of time. “Everybody does it. The problem is when you choose to take that anger out on other people, people who don’t deserve it.”

           Lata paused, and looked up. “Do you do it? Take it out on other people.”

           Dipper felt his heart stutter in his chest. “…Sometimes.”

           “Is that why Daddy and Mommy were afraid of you?”

           Dipper held a desperate lie against the back of his many teeth before closing his eyes and letting it melt away, unheard. “…yes.”

           “Don’t you know it’s a problem, though?” Lata asked.

         Dipper shies away from that truth. He gives a not-quite-lie. “I forget, sometimes.”

           Rain splashed against the roof, the windows. The stasis fridge hummed in the kitchen. Lata had stopped drumming against the table. Dipper felt almost compelled to pick it up in his stead.

           “…what did you do?”

           “A lot of things,” Dipper said, quietly. He opened his eyes. “A lot of very bad things that I forgot were bad.”

           Lata stared at him. His dik-dik horns, so much smaller than Henry’s, than Paloma’s, seemed to embody all of Dipper’s regrets and failures for a brief moment. Dipper felt the phantom slide of a soul down his throat. He swallowed, met Lata’s gaze and tried to push the feeling away. Lata’s eyes looked right into Dipper’s until Dipper looked away, a little scared of what Lata was reading in them. Scared, maybe, that Lata might just see his own soul between Dipper’s teeth, even though that was impossible. Anyways, the only soul Dipper had between his metaphorical teeth was—

           “Even now?” Lata asked, again.

           “No, no, now is better. I forget…less,” Dipper said after a beat. Thoughts of souls faded to the back of his mind. They never really left, though. The temptation was always there, like the background hum of a generator, or the near silent slide of the second hand of an analogue clock. “Now is—I can control how mad I am. I remember that it’s not right to take my anger out on innocent people. I understand that sometimes I’m mad at the wrong thing. Usually I can pull myself back. I never remember to pull myself back when I’m…when I’m like what your parents learned about.”

           “Oh,” Lata said. They were quiet for a long time, the two of them. The ice cream in their bowls continued to melt. Dipper stared at his, watched the strawzzleberry cheesecake ooze into the peanut butter fudge scoop.

           “I yelled at Mama when she made me go to bed,” Lata said, in a quiet voice. “I said I hated her.”

           Dipper winced. That had always hurt—his children, his sister, his niblings saying they hated him in fits of anger. He’d known they didn’t mean it, usually, but it still hurt. Sometimes it hurt more than others. Sometimes he’d lashed out in response. And sometimes, a very few sometimes, he had hurt them far more than they had.

           He shied away from the thought. “How—what did your Mama think of that?”

           Lata shrugged, poked his ice-cream soup with his spoon. “She frowned at me and said I was going to bed no matter that I hated her.”

           Dipper remembered putting on a strong front. He worried lightly on his bottom lip. “Ah,” he said.

           After a few moments, Lata looked up at him. “Do you think I hurt her?” he asked. He shifted in his seat, but kept looking Dipper right in the eye.

           Dipper opened his mouth to say yes, because he’d always been hurt (even if just a little bit), but Lata looked so small and worried, undertones of dark guilt hovering around his shoulders. He swallowed the yes, then said, “Maybe. Maybe not. You—you have to ask her.”

           “Oh. Okay,” Lata said.

           They sat in silence. Rain hit the window, the roof. Dipper stared at his own ice cream soup for a while, colors having swirled into a muddy mess. He passed his spoon through it once, twice, a few more times, before sticking it in his mouth with a sigh. In his periphery, he saw Lata blink at him. Incredulity lanced over his head. Dipper stifled a grin and set down the spoon on the table with a light clack. Hyperaware of Lata staring at him, he sighed in exaggeration before picking up the ice cream cup and pouring the contents down his throat.

           “Ew, gross,” said Lata.

           Dipper swallowed and licked his lips, glancing up at Lata. “What? It’d be a waste to throw it out. You don’t want your own sugar soup? I’ll drink it for you.”

           Lata screwed up his nose at Dipper, then pushed the cup at him. His guilt was still present, but disgust and also amusement were sliding over it, burying it from the moment. Soon it would be nothing more than an aftertaste, something Dipper would have to concentrate to be able to sense. “All the flavors are mixed now, it’s so gross.”

           “Excellent,” Dipper said, before taking the ice cream and swallowing that, too. There are soggy chunks of cookie in it. It’s not particularly appetizing, but it’s also not a rule breaker, and the mixed flavor is a mystery on his tongue. He closes his eyes and tilts his head, swishing the last of the mixture around in his mouth to try to figure out what was in it.

           “Ewwww, what are you doing,” Lata said, giggling. “It’s not mouthwash!”

           Dipper swallowed. “Definitely Raspberry Crunch and Honeyed Alfalfa,” he said. “You got something chocolaty in there, right? Some kind of—fudge, fudge something, oh! Fudge Mountain Caramel Surprise, right?”

           “You can’t taste everything,” Lata accused.

           “If I work hard enough I can,” Dipper said, opening his eyes and smirking. There’s a tug at his navel that means summons, but honestly this is more important (and probably more fun). “Five scoops, right? And I’ve already figured out three of them.”

           Lata pushed himself to kneel on the seat of his chair, semi-sticky hands flat on the table and eyes wide. “You can’t,” he breathed.

           “Can so.” Dipper hummed and thought to himself. “There was a nutty kind of flavor in there, nutty and a little salty, but it wasn’t cashew, it was a little less fatty, it was—right, I remember you pointing to the Wonderful Salted Walnut.”

           “Noooo!” Lata leaned forward even further. Dipper cast an absentminded eye at the pressure that was placing on the front legs of the chair and whether they were likely to tip and smash Lata’s face into the table. It was pretty low, only 28%, so he let it be. “That’s still not all! There’s still one left!”

           Dipper cackled and spun the empty ice cream carton on one talon. With a nudge from his mind, it balanced perfectly and continued to spin unnaturally fast. The summons tugged again at his stomach, but he smothered it. It wasn’t anybody he knew. It wasn’t important. “I think you mean only one.”

           He closed his eyes to focus on the last flavor, and that can be the only reason that he only realized they weren’t alone when he heard, “And what are—did you have ice cream??”

           “Oh shit,” Dipper said without thinking, eyes flying open.

           Lata said, with the absolute worst timing known only to children under the age of ten, “Oh shit! Welcome home, Papa!”

           Reynash Pines leveled him with the most incredulous glare he’d seen in a while. “Ice cream and swearing?”

           Suddenly, the importance of the summons skyrocketed from rock bottom to very near the top of his priority list. Dipper dropped the carton on the floor. “Oh, hey, Reynash, buddy, how’s it hanging, uh, sorry to skip out but I actually just got a summons, you know how they are haha, can’t help that work life, on call twenty-four-seven, see you later hope you’re not mad byeeeee!”

           Reynash spluttered. Water dripped off his bangs and onto his forehead. “No, you can’t just bail on—Dipper!”

           But Dipper had already clenched the connection to the summons in one metaphorical hand, had tugged, and was gone.

 _______________________________________________________________

December 4th, 9:39 PM BRL

             The first thing Dipper noticed was that the candles were scentless. He billowed up from nothing in the most dramatic smoke he could think of, pulled the reverb in his throat to mild extremes, and said, “Who presumes to call upon Alcor the Dreambender?” into the dark of the blue-lit room.

           The second thing Dipper noticed were the chalk lines—exact angles, minimal differences in stroke width, painstakingly duplicated symbols. Its perfection was mathematically precise, and there were even three layers of binding spells woven into the circle. Dipper casually pulled his cane out of thin air, coalesced his top hat from residual smoke curling into the space above his head, and smiled to himself. Binding spells weren’t much more than a nuisance to deal with.

           The third thing Dipper noticed were the people in the room—elegantly dressed adults in formal suits and skirts, beautifully crafted silver masks over their faces, hair coiffed and pressed and sprayed. Their arms were uplifted, frozen in the moment they’d succeeded in summoning him. There were nine of them. Dipper glanced over them, saw their determination and hard-edged stubbornness and solid righteousness in their auras, the colors subtly different for each person.

           “Lord Alcor,” one of them said. Dipper blinked, and knew they were he. “We come to offer you an exchange: a solution to our troubles for a worthy sacrifice.”

           Dipper hummed, leaned on his cane, and didn’t let them in on the fact that he’d already surreptitiously snapped one of the binding circles. “Oh?” he drawled, a lazy little grin curled into the corners of his lips. “Tell me, what are your troubles?”

           “Our beloved country,” the Speaker said, “is being cast into ruin and shadows by those currently in charge. We seek only to remove the…obstacles facing our country’s future.”

           “I see,” said Dipper, and then he really did. He was in Brazil, in New Fortaleza, and the government was currently making social reforms that benefited those in the lowest economic tier. There were many people pushing for those reforms from places of influence—born into and risen up to alike. He raised his eyebrows. “And…what would your idea of a fair exchange be?”

           The Speaker turned his head and nodded to the woman next to him. She nodded back, then turned around to head away from the circle and towards the stairs at the edge of the wide space they had chosen for his summoning. Dipper watched her go, and did not blink. Absentmindedly, he slid his power around and under the second barrier spell. This one would be a little trickier—raw power would only alert them to its failure, so he would have to play a subtler hand.

           One of the summoning group shifted xir weight almost imperceptibly. Dipper blinked to look xir way. Xi made eye contact through the mask and flinched.

           “Be steady,” the Speaker said. “Lord Alcor, it would not go unappreciated were you to…refrain from any posturing or intimidation tactics.”

           Dipper chuckled, refocused back on the Speaker. “Condolences,” he murmured, pitching the tone so that it echoed off the far walls regardless of the volume. “I cannot control how much terror your…acquaintances feel. I am a demon. Instilling fear in those who look upon us is an unavoidable part and parcel of this existence, you understand.”  

           The Speaker said nothing, but swallowed. Dipper counted that as a victory in and of himself—he was getting the sense that this man enjoyed talking, and enjoyed even more than that the chance to hear himself talk.

           The soft whir-click-swoosh of a door being unlocked and opened echoed through the empty room. It whispered off the walls. Dipper watched the Speaker’s aura twist in uncertainty before determination smoothed it out, hot shmellow oozing over dirty blue-green until it was smothered. He held the Speaker’s gaze until the footsteps started echoing around the room too—the steady tread of the woman’s shoes, followed by a hesitant, uneven, sometimes scraping cacophony of quiet noise. The breath halted in Dipper’s useless lungs. Nobody seemed to notice; his chest had hardly been rising and falling anyways.

           Nine children followed the woman. He could hear their shallow breaths, their hitching hiccups, barely restrained tears. He could smell the acrid-sweet scent of fear, the way it spiked and swelled when he leaned back on thin air. The second barrier snapped, and he was just barely aware enough to stop it from flickering with bright thunder. He wanted this. He hated this.

           The Speaker waited for Alcor’s attention to shift to the children, but when he didn’t comply, he swept an arm out to call attention to the newcomers. “Nine lives, from nine of us, for nine whose lives must be cut short to prevent ruin to our country. We have learned that you…like…children, and their lives would be yours to do what you see fit with.”

           It was strange that these types always learned all the wrong lessons about children, he thought absentmindedly, almost vapidly. It was strange that they always dismissed the possibility of more ethical sacrifices, like candy or sentimental items or factories worth of ice cream. Dipper cast his gaze over the children, his face frozen in that way it was when he felt like he was on the cusp of something terrible. They were cleaned—recently, from the faint hint of chemically-recreated pomegranate on the air—but some of them had clearly had better care than others. He skipped from terrified face to terrified face. The youngest of them was—six, dark curly hair, bought from desperate parents like human lives were commodities, teeth digging into a bottom lip and eyes welling with tears. Then there was—seven and petit, ten and too tall for her age, eleven and barely scared enough the fear drowned out the anger, two eight-year-old twins with vitiligo on their palms (and no, Bentley didn’t have vitiligo, but the splotchy color difference was enough to make him burn colder, right in his chest), nine and born blind, six-and-a-half and missing a finger, and a twelve year old on the cusp of turning thirteen. Tomorrow was xir birthday.

           The Speaker’s voice turned soft. “Jamilla, come.”

           The twelve year old inhaled sharp and quiet, but went. Xir hands twisted in xir gold shift. Blue fingernail polish flashed in the light, like all the other children’s. Dressed up pretty, their individualism smoothed away as best as possible, for the very ends of their lives. “Papa?”

           The Speaker waited for Jamilla to come to him. Alcor kept his eyes on Jamilla every step of the way. He watched how xi quivered, how xi glanced over at him over and over. He thought about thirteenth birthdays and never reaching them, thought about his puffy blue vest and that stupid pine-tree hat that he had loved with all his heart, and how it was hard to even think about wearing things that casual for very long. His power rolled over to the third barrier and began to eat at it.

           “This is my own child,” the Speaker said, setting his hands on Jamilla’s shoulders. “Xi knows how important the future of our country is, and was willing to sacrifice xirself for it. While most of the children here are orphans, or as good as, this is a token of my dedication, of my seriousness.”

           “…I see,” said Dipper. He tilted his head. Jamilla shivered and averted xir gaze, but did not move otherwise. “Dedicated indeed, to sacrifice somebody you love. Very powerful.”

           He cast his eye, slowly and deliberately, over the other children. He tried to catch their gazes where he could. Everything around him felt—slow, almost. He stared into the eyes of the angry-scared eleven year old, whose name was Leilani and whose ambition was to become a child caretaker because children deserved people who protected them and nurtured them and loved them, whose anger had left silvery scars between her knuckles from how many times she’d split them over on somebody else’s face or gut or kidney, whose eyes were dark, furious brown and who could have lived to forty-one, dying young and tragic but not as young and tragic as this.

           “Indeed,” the Speaker said. “Now, do you agree to the terms laid out?”

           Dipper held Leilani’s gaze a moment longer, before breaking away to fix his attention on the Speaker and his child, his poor, youngest child (who had been loved and cherished but raised with the knowledge that this may happen someday, who had been prepared and taught to step into xir own death of xir own fledgling, undeveloped will). Dipper smiled.

           “Nine lives, from the nine of you, for nine whose lives must be cut short to prevent ruin to your beloved country, correct?” Alcor passed a whisper of blue flame between his fingers as he spoke.

           The Speaker waited a moment. His hands tensed over his child’s shoulders as he thought the words over. “The nine lives we offer you, to do with as you please, for the lives of those on this list.”

           Alcor looked down on the list. Two career politicians who had slowly turned over new leaves, a charismatic rabble-rouser, three underpaid and overworked lawyers with a talent for defending their wrongly-accused clients, a university professor whose lectures were widely distributed and widely influential, an old farmer with a penchant for speaking up loud and proud in defense of reforestation and traditional farming methods, and a janitor who had convinced their coworkers to unionize and strike for better wages. Influential in all the ways the Speaker and his cohorts disapproved of.

           As few as twenty years ago, Alcor would have taken advantage of the situation to cause as much carnage as possible while keeping the children safe. He would have gotten 18 souls and probably an additional nine life-debts from the children, to cash in as he pleased, when he pleased. Ten years ago, he would have settled for 9 souls, 9 bodies, and 9 traumatized children placed at the nearest orphanage.

           Today, Alcor remembered being angry, and terrified, and determined in the face of the world ending. He remembered the terror of being watched, the nightmares about rearranged faces and deer teeth. He remembered dying.

           “Like I said,” Alcor drawled, eyebrow raised. “Nine lives, from the nine of you, for nine whose lives must be cut short to prevent ruin to your beloved country. Or, if you want me to be a little more transparent, nine souls in here for nine lives out there and a whole lot of chaos thrown in.”

           The Speaker hesitated. “Chaos?”

           Alcor laughed, leaned on his cane a little more. The third barrier dissolved under his power at last with a flicker that he disguised by flaring his flames just a bit higher. Fury burned colder and deeper in his chest, at the very core of him. “What do you think nine people dying suddenly is going to cause?! Especially nine people as influential and high-profile as the ones on your list, and all at the same time! It’s going to be unbelievably chaotic. You might have a little trouble controlling the investigation that follows, but I’m sure you can squash things like freedom of the press and the people’s right to assemble in a jiffy, what with your very powerful positions. I’m all here for that, props to you!”

           “You’re taking their souls?” One of the other politicians said, a quiver of trepidation in their voice. Hesitation and guilt began to seep through their aura, dark and damp and almost physically heavy. “But I thought…”

          “Young souls are the best,” Alcor said. He had—he shied away from the thought, comforted himself with the many many times that other demons had spouted the same things he was now. “They’re very soft, not nearly as entrenched in their fleshvessels. Absolutely delicious.” He swallowed the drool that had begun to pool at the back corners of his mouth.

           “I…”

           “Enough,” the Speaker snapped, hands tightening on his child’s shoulders again. Xi was beginning to have terrified second thoughts. The only thing keeping xir where xi stood was xir father’s presence behind xir and years of conditioning convincing xir that this was the right thing to do. “Alcor the Dreambender, do we have a deal?”

           Alcor grinned, extended a hand that arched in a graceful, almost indolent line in the air. “I thought you’d never ask,” he purred.

           The Speaker flushed with a victorious, vicious kind of pride, then reached out to shake Alcor’s hand. The flames licked up between their palms, and Alcor grinned even wider.

           “It’s a deal,” Dipper said, before he took a step forward and plunged his hand down the Speaker’s throat and hooked his claws into the soul nestled at the base of the man’s neck, cradled in the hollow of his clavicle. As the others in the room started screaming, as fear saturated the air around them within seconds, Dipper looked into the Speaker’s confused and angry and terrified, determined eyes, lifted the soul up to his lips, and sunk his teeth into it.

           The Speaker screamed, physically, metaphysically, and collapsed as though suddenly boneless. His child screamed and went down with him, panic and terror readily apparent even if Dipper had been unable to see xir aura. The other children stumbled back, one twin tripping and scraping his palms against the ground, the eleven year old stepping in front of the seven year old with an angry snarl on her face. Dipper paid them no mind. He was too busy licking his fingers to catch any residual soul energy that had leaked out when he had bit down. After he had finished cleaning them off, he looked up to see that some of the summoners were making for the opposite door. He cocked his head. Energy thrummed through him. He laughed, high and maybe a little unhinged, before following.

           He had eight more souls to collect here before he could get to work, after all, and they’d gone to all the trouble of summoning him to fix their country in the first place! It would be—disrespectful, he considered as he tore open the ribcage of the closest summoner for no other reason than he could, if he wasn’t as diligent as possible.

________________________________________________________________

December 4th, 11:12 PM EST

           Dipper blipped into bed and shifted into elegant pajamas in one smooth motion, still a little buzzed from all the souls he had eaten and all the life debts he had collected over the past hour and a half. Finding the children suitable homes had been—difficult enough that he had burned off a lot of the energy gained from the deal, but he was still twitchy and half-guilty over how he had acted in the basement. Right after he had lectured Lata about acting out of anger! Lata was never finding out about what happened.

           Next to him, Bentley shifted from half-asleep to half-awake. “Huh? Dipper?”

           Dipper hummed. He wiggled so that he was curled up against Bentley, set a still-clawed hand against Bentley’s sleep sweater (he wore sleep sweaters now, it was terrifying that he kept being so cold even when he should be warm) and curled it so that the fabric was in his loose grasp. He had to fight to keep it loose. Everything was—too bright, too sharp, and he felt like he was balancing on the edge of that precipice again, that if he fell it would be too easy to go back to him half a century ago.

           “Dipper, you okay?”

           He felt an arm reach over him, a hand rub at his back. On Bentley’s other side, Torako snuffled in her sleep, snorted, but didn’t wake up. Dipper pressed his face into Bentley’s chest and nuzzled the fabric without giving a solid answer. The world dulled down to something almost manageable.  

           Bentley’s chest expanded and then contracted with a sigh. He wiggled down just enough that Dipper’s head fit under his chin. Something seemed—off, in that moment, because Dipper could swear that his feet should be below Bentley’s in this position, but when he reached out with his toes they brushed Bentley’s shins.

           “All right,” Bentley said, the sound of his voice reverberating against Dipper’s forehead. “All right, not tonight. It’s—it’s late anyways. You can tell me what happened tomorrow, okay?”

           Several moments passed before Dipper felt relaxed enough to nod. All the while, Bentley’s hand rubbed up and down his back.

           “Okay,” Bentley breathed out. Dipper didn’t want to see the relief in his aura, so he kept his eyes shut and just focused on the warmth surrounding him. Then, Bentley said, “You wanna sleep between me and Torako tonight? I can move you if it’s too much trouble.”

           There was something weird about that statement too, because Bentley was strong but it could be awkward for him to haul something larger over his own body, but Dipper thought about how nice it would be to be sandwiched between two souls he loved (one was his, the other may as well have been but he would never, ever, ever take it, because look at what happened to Henry even though he loved Henry?) and the weirdness of the situation melted away. He nodded again.

           “Right then,” Bentley murmured. Dipper felt him wriggle his left arm under Dipper’s chest to wrap around his back. There was a pressure at the spot right above the space between his wings, and then they were turning over, Dipper’s legs pinned lightly between Bentley’s. Seconds later, Dipper’s back was to Torako’s front, and his face was still smooshed up against Bentley’s chest. Dipper hadn’t even had to open his eyes. He let out a soft breath. His hand unclenched from Bentley’s sweater to curl up against it instead, knuckles brushing wool.

           “There we go,” Bentley said. He pressed a kiss to the top of Dipper’s head. There was a rustle, Bentley’s body shifting against his, and then he heard Torako groan a little before she was flush up against his back, breath fanning the back of his head. She was snoring lightly, and Dipper couldn’t help but smile a little.

           “There we go,” Bentley said again, a little quieter. He rubbed his hand up and down Dipper’s back for a long time before he finally fell asleep.

           Dipper listened to them. He took in a deep breath, let it out, and let himself be home.

[moonice20408]

The Curious Disappearance of C. Cullen

Word Count: 3818

Read on Ao3 Read on FF.net

“This week on Buzzfeed Unsolved we’re investigating the disappearance of C. Cullen, as part of our new investigation!”

“New investigation?”

“Are vampires real?”

Shane groaned. “Oh no. No no no. Absolutely not. Nope.”

Ryan let out a laugh. “What, you don’t believe in vampires?”

“No Ryan, I do not.” Shane shook his head. “And you know what, I think I might believe in them even less than ghosts!”

“Oh wow.” Ryan laughed again. “Why are vampires so much more unbelievable than ghosts?”

“Because Ryan. They’re stupid! That’s why!” He slammed his hand onto the desk with some force. “If vampires were real, we’d know about it.”

“Well what if it’s like in the movies and they’re all just living in secret?”

“Oh, c’mon. There are cameras everywhere nowadays. You don’t think we’d have caught some guy just munching on another guys neck till he drops dead at some point? Then turn into a bat and fly away.”

“Well you’d just say it was fake if we did.”

Shane paused for a second then shrugged. “Yeah, that’s probably true.”

Ryan shook his head, then faced the camera. “So, this episode of Supernatural is a going to be a little different.”

“How so Ryan?”

“Well… we’re not going anywhere. There’s no location footage this week guys.”

“Yeah, this week we just thought, ‘you know what, not feeling it.’” Shane relaxed back in his chair. “We’re gonna sit back and take it easy.”

Ryan ignored him. “The reason being, well two reasons actually. One being that, at least I figure, if they were real, vampires aren’t, err… trapped, shall we say, to one place. Therefore, if they were real, they’d still be free to leave a place. So, we’d get there-”

“And we’d be talking to no one.” Shane interrupted.

“Exactly.”

“Imagine that.” Shane continued. “Going to a supernatural hotspot, just talking to the air…”

“Would you-”

“Wouldn’t want that! Would we?” He threw his hands up in the air. Ryan just stared forward, looking into the camera with an unimpressed look. “Wouldn’t we just look dumb! Just yelling into an empty room, expecting a response.”

“Erm, excuse me, we’ve gotten plenty of responses!” Ryan defended.

“Pffft.” Shane waved his hand.

“You know what, I’m just going to continue.” Ryan said matter-of-factly.

“Please.”

“The other reason we’re staying here, is that this case is from England. And we just couldn’t find time that worked for us, as well as crew members to do a quick trip to another country.” Shane nodded with Ryan. “I did look around the location, y’know on Google, and err, it’s just a bunch of offices now, so…”

“Not as exciting as our last trip there.” Both of them shook their heads.

“Now,” Ryan straightened out the file in front of him, before looking to the camera. “I am going to admit, right off the bat…” He quickly peered to Shane. “See what I did there?”

Shane nodded.

“Vampire… Bat…”

“No, I got it Ryan. That was a good one.”

“Thank you.” Ryan smiled while Shane rolled his eyes. “Anyway, I have to admit, I, err… I’m already prepared for some… criticism, shall we say.”

“What, because vampires aren’t real?” Shane said sarcastically.

“No. Well, I guess that’s part of the debate isn’t it?”

Shane sighed and shook his head, looking straight to the camera.

Ryan continued. “What I mean is, that this is case we’re investigating, is one of the oldest cases we will have covered so far on the show.”

“Oh really? Interesting.” Shane said, genuinely intrigued. “What’s the oldest so far? Witch trials right, gotta be.”

“Err, well that’s the oldest full episode, I think. But there’s some of the ancient alien stuff we looked at-”

“Oh right, yeah.”

“But the Salem witch trials were 1690s. But the case today dates back, roughly, to the 1640s.”

“Wow. That’s pretty old Ryan.”

“Yeah, which is part of the problem. Because it’s as old as it is, the erm, documentation of it is… It’s not great.”

Shane let out a small laugh. “So, what you’re saying is, you’ve got shit.”

“No! No… It’s just we, meaning our tremendous research team, we’re usually able to get multiple accounts on stuff, and can cross reference information, you know, so we can put together a more valid case.”

“So, you’re telling me, that before the videos even started, this case has no credibility and is crumbling through your fingers as we speak?”

Ryan sighed. “Look, I feel that what we have is defiantly something. I just want to make it clear; it’s just not as backed up as our usual content. You know we try to keep it as honest as we can here. So, I figured, I’d be upfront about this, before people start yelling at me through the comments. Obviously, I’m not going to put together an episode if there’s absolutely nothing, cause that’s… that’s just telling a made-up story off the internet isn’t it?”

“Hmm,” Shane nodded. “Okay. Alright. I will reserve my judgement for the end.”

Ryan laughed. “I doubt that, but anyway, let’s get into it.

- - -

“Legends of vampires can be dated back millennia, and stories told of them are found globally. Many ancient cultures had tales centred around the nocturnal undead, reanimated corpses spreading disease to the living, or blood drinking spirits all that hold similar characteristics to the modern idea of what a vampire is.

The idea of blood drinking became very ingrained into the lore of vampires. It was once believed that the blood of a living person, contained that person’s life force, and to drink it would allow another creature to absorb that life force. Some even thought that by drinking a person’s blood, that the drinker would also gain the characteristics of that person, allowing the vampire to better disguise themselves amongst the rest of society.

The word ‘vampire’ itself only came into use in the mid-18th century, from fast spreading tales told in Transylvania, and was later further popularised due to Bram Stoker’s novel Dracula, which was published in 1897. It’s Stoker who is credited for defining the modern vampire, after combining multiple myths together for his book.

In most folklores, vampires were believed to be the revenants of evil beings, or an unrested deceased person who had committed unforgivable sins in their life, but it became a common belief that a living person themselves could become a vampire by being bitten. The belief in some parts of the world became to extensive that it led to mass hysteria, which resulted in many people being sentenced to death, usually by burning.”

- - -

“What’s interesting to me,” Shane started.

“Yeah?”

“Is just how wholeheartedly people, back in the day, believed in this stuff!”

“Yeah. I did come across something, and can I just say, the historical research in this case was very interesting… Like, go look up vampire history guys.” Ryan pointed at the camera. “But anyway, in, err, Greece I think it was, was that after three years, they would dig up dead bodies and they’d be examined.”

“To see if they’d become vampires?”

“Basically.” Ryan nodded. “And if they hadn’t decayed to standard, or whatever, then they’d be ‘dealt with accordingly’” He said, adding air quotations.

“Who decides,” Shane snickered. “Who decides what a suitable decomposition is?” They both laughed. “Were they just like, ‘hmm, no, too much meat left on ‘im’”

“‘toss him in the fire!’” Ryan added.

“‘Into the pit’,” Shane mimicked throwing something over his shoulder. “‘Bring in the next decayed body!’”

“It’s like a line at the doctor’s office.” They both chuckled.

- - -

“Now, back to the case at hand. In early the 1950s, construction workers in London were working to fix up a number of buildings that were destroyed by bombs during World War Two. In one particular location, the damage caused actually led to the discovery of a basement-like room, that had been previously built over, remaining hidden for centuries. Upon further investigation, it was determined that this room was originally part of an Anglican church that was destroyed during the Great Fire in 1666, and was never rebuild.

Inside this room, many historical artefacts were found, but some of the most interesting, at least to me, were a journal and a stack of documents, that belonged to a previous pastor of the church. It is worth noting that the year 1640 is written on the first page of this journal, but it is up for debate for how long this journal was kept. The documents that were recovered, have been since entitled the ‘Crusades of Evil’.

Unfortunately, over time a lot of the writing on these pages has become too faded to accurately read. But enough can be made out to get a good sense of what they’re about. In short, the pastor of the church would lead hunts for all manner of unholy creatures. Almost all of them resulting in the execution of people who were thought to be these creatures. These documents contain the information about the accused, which was essentially just a name and location, if that, as well as what they were accused of doing/being, and the method of execution. Most of the documents found were signed a S.C. Cullen. But, thanks to the journal that was found with these papers, we know that the man in question was named Samuel Cullen.”

- - -

 “No middle name?” Shane asked.

“Err, no this guy didn’t write his whole name. Unfortunately.”

“And am I correct in assuming that the unknown ‘C’ initial is perhaps the same as our missing person’s?”

“It is certainly believed that the initials do come from the same name, yes.”

“Interesting…” Shane paused for a moment. “You know… just to switch subjects here,” He huffed a laugh, “And I want this on record, this guy already seems like an asshole… I’m very against the whole idea of burning innocent people to death…”

“Oh good, I’m glad.” Ryan said sarcastically.

“But, I gotta say… Crusades Against Evil! Sounds like a badass movie!”

Ryan chuckled. “To be honest, when I first read that… I did think it sounded like some kind of shooter video game.”

“Oh! Like Doom! You ever play that?” He mimed holding up a gun, and pointing it around the room. “Vampires just popping up, like bangbangbangbangbang!” He ‘aimed’ at Ryan. “Kaboom.”

Ryan just raised his eye brow. “You done?”

“Yeah.” Shane sighed, smiling to himself.

- - -

“Not much is known about Samuel Cullen, other than the fact he was the church pastor during the 1630s and early 1640s at the very least, according to the papers found. And the journal that was found, was unfortunately in an even worse condition than the documents. That being said, one legible section did make reference to a son, and if you were paying attention, you’d have noticed I said most of the documents were signed by Samuel. Some however, were signed C. Cullen. Which has led many conclude that this C. Cullen was the pastor’s son. But when efforts were made to find out more about this man, researchers came up empty handed, and found almost nothing. Not even a first name.”

- - -

“Not even a name?” Shane said loudly.

“I know.”

“So I take it that it was Samuel naming his son after himself?”

“Err, yeah. At least that’s what most people think. Which, honestly, I think is a fair conclusion to make.”

Shane nodded in agreement. “That’s kind of sad, that we’ll never know this guy’s name.” Ryan hummed in agreement, and there was a brief moment of silence. “I bet it was Clive.”

Ryan laughed. “Clive?”

“I dunno man, first name I thought of.” Shane shrugged.

“You thought of Clive before, like, Christopher? A much more common name.”

“Aaa, this is an uncommon guy though, Ryan.”

Ryan shook his head, not commenting.

- - -

“As I said, Samuel seemed to be very enthusiastic about the hunts he led, given the number of documents signed by him. His son however, only seemed to have taken charge in two of these crusades. And if it is to be assumed that the documents were kept in any sort of order, then that would mean, these two accounts from the son were much further apart in time, than that of Samuel’s. It’s also worth mentioning, that C. Cullen’s papers were noticeably longer in length, even if too faded to fully read. But this does suggest the man was, perhaps, more detailed in his telling of what happened, or even maybe had more compelling evidence of what he believed to be a supernatural creature. Researches involved believe the most likely scenario is that Samuel put his son in charge of the church and of the hunts, when he was old enough, as the son’s involvement doesn’t seem to be much later. But that his son was much more hesitant at doing the job at hand. Therefore, leading Samuel to decide to take over once again, possibly to save his own or his family’s reputation.

One document in particular sparked interest, when upon further inspection, it appeared to be written by both Samuel and his son. When comparing the handwriting, it was concluded that it was mostly written by the son. Starting with what seemed to be a description on a group of people living underground. This most likely meaning the sewage system at the time. Bible verses can also be found, such as Leviticus 17:10-14, which quotes ‘And whatsoever man there be of the house of Israel, or of the strangers that sojourn among you, that eateth any manner of blood; I will even set my face against that soul that eateth blood, and will cut him off from among his people.’. But the account of the raid itself, as well as what is assumed to be the execution details, was written, and signed by Samuel. And no evidence of C. Cullen can be found after this point in time.

Which begs the question, what happened during this crusade that meant C. Cullen was unable to complete his own documentation? Was it a conscious decision to leave for good? And, what became of him?

- - -

“See,” Shane started, “I know where you’re going with that that question…”

“Yeah?”

“And I don’t like it…” He sighed.

- - -

“One theory as to why he vanished, is that it during this aforementioned raid, someone fought back against him, and he was killed in self-defence. As mentioned, this attack was written to be on a group of people. Consequently, it seems pretty likely that this group would fight back, given the chance. So perhaps C. Cullen met his match, and ultimate end in this way. Similarly, could it be that he was killed accidentally? Many historians agree that these types of hunts for supernatural beings, would have involved a large number of people. Could it be, that in amidst the chaos and disorder of the crowds, undoubtedly fuelled by fear, that C. Cullen was killed. Perhaps being trampled, or being mistaken for someone else.”

- - -

“Personally,” Ryan started, “I’m not sure I think that’s likely.”

“Of course you don’t, it’s a logical assumption.”

“Oh what, you don’t think, if we were in some crazed mob, I wouldn’t recognise you?” Ryan raised an eyebrow. “And I’d just accidentally kill you cause I was so caught up in the madness?”

“Okay one, you couldn’t kill me no matter how hard you tried.” Ryan made a sound to interrupt, but Shane continued before he could. “And two, hysteria does things to people man. You’re not thinking straight.”

“I just think that the leader of this raid, would be the most recognisable person out of everyone there. I imagine they’d have had him up on a little stage while they all crowded round for instructions before they set off. They’d all of had a pretty good look at the guy, and I’m sure he’d have just been a well-known guy at the time. The trampling, or self-defence I could kinda understand, but I can’t see how someone could’ve just like, grabbed him, and I don’t know, beat him to death or whatever.”

Shane just shrugged.

“Plus, again, he’s probably the most relevant person there.” Ryan added. “So, you’d like to think someone would have noticed his death and there’d be evidence of that.”

“It’s the 1600s, Ryan! What kind of evidence do you want? It’s not like they were running round taking photos or anything.”

“Well, there could be some sort of documentation of it. Newspaper article perhaps?” Ryan suggested.

“I don’t think many newspapers would’ve survived that long… Were newspapers even a thing at this point?”

“You know, honestly I don’t know.”

“And this is the 1600s, how many people were reading?”

“Hmm…” Ryan sighed. “Okay, you got me with that one.”

- - -

“The most commonly accepted theory is that C. Cullen simply ran away. As I said, it is widely believed that he was more hesitant about conducting these crusades in the first place, so is it possible that he used the attack as a cover to escape? Many believe so. Perhaps being in charge of the crusade in question granted him more protection in the event, and perhaps he wasn’t involved in the attack at all. He was simply waiting for news on whether it was successful or not. Is it possible that he hung back, and made his escape while the crowds fought without him? And that no one realised he was gone until afterwards. That being said, some have their doubts about this. Afterall, if C. Cullen was indeed so much more humane than his father, would he really cause an attack on other people, just for his own benefit? And would he be one to watch from the side-lines, while others risked their own life?”

- - -

“Okay…” Shane said.

“What?”

“I mean, obviously, I don’t believe for a second that there were actually vampires involved in any of this… But back in the day, people did quite truly believe that they were real. So, I can’t imagine it would have been difficult to get a crowd all riled up, and then send them off. Especially if the leader of it all also truly believed in the… in the cause, I guess. And I think, that if this guy did use the attack as a cover, and if he was as good of a person as everyone thinks, then he at least thought they were really vampires.”

“That’s fair.” Ryan agreed. “And if you think about it, bible verses were only found in his accounts. So that leads me to think that he at least had like, I dunno, God in mind or whatever.”

“It’s kinda strange to, like, imagine yourself living like that. If you’re taking the bible that seriously, and know it well enough to quote like that, it’s gonna be hard, cause it has a lot of contrasting points. I mean, I can’t say I’ve read the bible, but just from what I’ve seen online. It seems like it’s a bit all over the place!”

“Oh yeah, I agree. I mean, this quote again,” Ryan shuffled through his papers, “I will even set my face against that soul that eateth blood, and will cut him off from among his people’. I can understand that perhaps that could be interpreted to mean killing vampires is okay… But then in the same book you have ‘thou shall not kill’.”

“You know Ryan, I like it when we argee on this stuff.”

Ryan laughed. “Well, we’ll see what you’re saying after this last theory.”

Shane let out a loud sign.

- - -

“I’m sure you all can guess what this final theory is. But some people actually entertain the idea that C. Cullen was correct in his quest. And that he truly found a coven of vampires living underground in London. He was attacked, and transformed into a vampire himself, and he is still out there today.”

- - -

Shane let out a long and loud groan. Leaning back on his chair, and covering his eyes with his hands.

Ryan giggled. “What, you don’t like this one?”

“No.” Shane replied in pained voice.

“Well you’ll be glad to know, neither do I.”

“Oh really. I’d of thought this one was right up your street.”

“What? You seriously think I’d believe in vampires?”

Shane shook his head. “You are so genuinely terrified of ghosts, it’s really not so outlandish to think you’d believe in anything like this.”

“No, no. I’m gonna put vampires in the same category as I put witches. I think a lot of innocent people were unnecessarily killed. And in all honestly, I think Samuel Cullen here, knew what he was doing. I think it was a case of him wanting to maintain a reputation, and as with the second theory, his son just took off and left to live an honest life somewhere.” Ryan nodded.

“I dunno…”

Ryan exaggerated a gasp. “Do you think it was vampires?” He laughed.

Shane chuckled. “Absolutely not. But I mean, I’ll put the whole vampire thing down to mass hysteria, you know, like those people in France!”

Ryan rolled his eyes. “I was so desperately trying to avoid you bringing that up.” He muttered.

“They danced till they died Ryan!” He looked to the camera. “Look it up! Anyway… Mass hysteria, plus, like I think I said this about the witches, but, general boredom can cause a lot of crazy behaviour. But with this C. Cullen guy… he probably just died. It’s not like they were medically advanced. People would get some sort of disease and the local doctor would give them cocaine or some shit. And it’s just a case of crappy documentation.”

Ryan laughed. “You don’t think he managed to get away and just move somewhere else? Probably chance his name?”

“I mean, that’s a possibility.”

“I just… I think there’s something just not sitting well with me, that this guys own father, never seems to mention a death. And that he just seemed to vanish and no one noticed.”

“Well maybe he did mention it, it’s just part of the journal that was unreadable.”

“Maybe…” Ryan said, unsatisfied.

“I guess we’ll never know…”

Ryan sighed. “I hate it when you say that.”

“I know…” Shane nodded, chuckling slightly. “I’m not gonna lose any sleep over it. It was four hundred years ago, he’s defiantly dead now anyway.”

Ryan nodded and hummed. “Well on that note!” The two laughed. “Hey, do you think if a vampire died, that it could still become a ghost?”

“Okay…” Shane stood up and walked off camera.

“Where are you going?”

“Away from you!”

“It was just a question.”

Thanks for reading, and hope you enjoyed it. Please let me know what you think!

[yourdeepestfathoms]

No Use Crying Over Spilled- MOO!

In which Aragon cowsits her daughter-figure’s pet calf

——————

Aragon’s mouth settles into a frown as she felt her not-daughter’s burning forehead. The poor girl was still on fire with a fever. She placed a cool, wet flannel back onto her aching head and was about to go start making some soup when there was a mumble from below her.

“Elizabeth?”

“Mmmm... Catalina....”

Aragon perches back onto the side of the bed, taking one of Bessie’s hands in her own and squeezing comfortingly. For a moment, she thought she just imagined the voice, but then Bessie pried open her hot, heavy eyelids and looked up at her.

“Hello, sleepyhead,” Aragon cooed, smiling softly and gently brushing the girl’s flushed, clammy cheek with a finger.

“Catalina...” Bessie mumbled, struggling to keep her eyes open.

“Yes, it’s me, honey. It’s just me.” Aragon said.

“Wh-what...” Bessie’s voice broke off into unintelligible mumbling.

“You’re sick, Elizabeth,” Aragon told her, “You’re running a fever. Do you remember?”

Bessie stares dazedly up at her, blinking blearily. Then, she’s trying to push herself up on her weak, heavy-as-lead arms.

“Woah, hey, what are you doing?” Aragon grabbed her forearms to steady her when she started to sway.

“H-Hyde...” Bessie stammered. She’s starting to shiver- the chills must be back. “I-I gotta...she...” Her words morph into a soft whine, but she didn’t have the energy or awareness to be embarrassed about it.

“Shh, shh,” Aragon eases her back down onto the bed. “I’ll take care of her, alright? I’ll babysit Hyde.”

“Cowsit,” Bessie giggled- her fever was making her delirious.

Aragon chuckled. “Yes. I’ll cowsit Hyde while you rest.”

Bessie, now looking at Aragon through glassy, half open eyes, nodded weakly. She coughs for a moment, worrying the queen, but settles quickly to speak again.

“H-her bottle...you have to...”

“Elizabeth, darling, I have nursed a baby before. A calf can’t be any different.” Aragon said.

“Please don’t breastfeed my cow...” Bessie groaned, barely awake at this point.

Aragon laughs and gently swats her arm. The action doesn’t even rouse the bassist from her daze.

“I wasn’t planning on it,” She said.

“She’ll bite your nipple off...”

“I wish I was recording you.”

Finally, Bessie slips off into complete unconsciousness. After a loving shake of her head and a soft kiss pressed to the bassist’s sweaty hairline, Aragon steps quietly out of the room.

There, in the hallway, her new challenge awaits her.

Hyde is laying down right beside the door after she was exiled from the bedroom (Aragon believed the calf would make Bessie even sicker- having to explain that to the both of them was disastrous). When Aragon comes out, she scrambled to her hooves, almost slipping on the hardwood because she shot up so fast. A soft, hopeful moo emits from her little snout.

“Hush, beast.” Aragon said, not missing the way she was talking to this heifer like she was a dragon. “Elizabeth is resting. I’ll be taking care of you.”

Hyde stared up at her with big amber eyes. Then, she tries to shove her way to the door, but Aragon pushes her back.

“No,” She scolded. “Come on. Downstairs.”

She walked to the staircase and Hyde reluctantly followed. However, upon reaching the bottom step, Aragon found that the calf was still at the top, pacing back and forth and mooing in distress.

“What?”

Hyde moos.

“Don’t tell me you don’t know how to walk down the stairs.”

Hyde moos louder.

Sighing, Aragon hikes back up the staircase, lifts the mass of orange fur, and carried her down. She swore the thing was made up of 99% hair (the other 1% would go to what Anne would call “Absolute Baby Energy”) because she could barely see over the calf’s body. And when she sat her down, dozens of orange strands cling to her shirt.

“Thank you for that.” Aragon grumbled, trying to get the hair off, but it was fruitless.

Hyde mooed and then trotted gleefully into the kitchen. Aragon follows her to go get the soup ready, only to find that the ingredients she needed weren’t there.

“Well-” She sighed, running a hand through her hair. She could go run by the nearest grocery store to pick up the necessary items, but what would she do about Hyde? “Alright, beast.”

Hyde looks up from where she was sniffing around on the floor.

“Don’t cause a ruckus while I’m gone. I won’t be long.”

As she’s walking towards the front door, Aragon gets the back of her legs rammed into with so much force that she nearly collapses when her knees buckled. She whirled around to find Hyde mooing excitedly, bouncing on her hooves and seemingly wagging her tail like an eager dog would.

“What did you-?! What was that for?!” Aragon barked.

Hyde just moos again and scrambled for the half open door. She gets her snout our before Aragon pushes her back in.

“No! You’re not-”

It was then that Aragon noticed the halter hanging up on the key rack beside the door. She stared at it with her mouth hanging open.

“Oh, Elizabeth does not.”

Hyde snatched the halter off of its hook with her teeth and stared up at Aragon with big, sparkling eyes.

“Oh, Elizabeth does too.” Her gaze seemed to say.

That was how Catherine of Aragon, the first wife of King Henry the VIII, the powerful queen of England, ended up walking a cow on the sidewalks of London.

Or, rather, the cow walked her.

Hyde was bounding eagerly down the street, practically dragging Aragon along behind her. The rope her halter was made of cut uncomfortably into the queen’s hands, rubbing the skin raw with each tug of her movements.

Now Aragon understood why there were blisters in the inside of Bessie’s fingers.

“Slow down! Hyde!” Aragon hissed. She pulled on the halter and, finally, the calf stopped. “My lord...” She sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose with the hand she wasn’t using to wrangle up the heifer. “You need to calm down, young lady. You don’t even know where we’re going!”

Hyde blinks up at her.

It is then that Aragon realizes that she was talking to a cow on the street.

“Let’s go.”

Aragon continued walking and, this time, Hyde actually kept her pace. She eased up a little now that she wasn’t being dragged around like a sack of potatoes and actually kind of enjoyed the little stroll.

However, upon reaching the nearest store, a small bolt of anxiety shot through her. She glanced at the storefront, then at Hyde, then at a nearby lamppost. She was able to take the risk and tie Hyde up when a worker from the store stepped out and called over to her.

“Hey, ma’am!” She said, “Come in!”

Confused, Aragon walked inside, slightly being yanked by Hyde. The calf seemed eager to see the worker.

“Hi, Hy,” The worker, whose name tag read ‘Kit’, cooed. She pets the cow’s head. “Do you want a strawberry?”

Hyde moos happily.

“Do you...know her?” Aragon asked.

“Hyde? Of course! Bessie comes here all the time to get groceries. Everyone here loves her!” Kit said. She looked around. “Where is Bessie?”

“Home,” Aragon answered, “She’s sick.”

“Ah.” Kit nodded.

After a few more minutes of talking, Aragon branched off to the aisles and began grabbing the ingredients she needed for the soup. As she was doing so, she could hear Hyde’s happy little moos from the front counter.

She hadn’t realized that the calf had fans. She actually found herself laughing at that strange revelation, but was happy that Bessie wasn’t seen as a complete nut job when she was out with her pet.

Once she had grabbed everything she needed, Aragon went to pay and found that a small crowd of workers had accumulated around the calf, petting and doting on her. She looked like she was in heaven.

“I see she has a fan club,” Aragon chuckled.

“Louis would be the president, then,” Kit said, pointing to a young man ruffling Hyde’s bangs. “Duckie...probably vice president.” She nods at the worker scratching behind the calf’s ear.

Aragon smiles and paid. The workers hesitantly dispersed after a flurry of goodbye’s are said to the pair (mainly to Hyde, though).

“You got more attention than I usually do when I go out,” Aragon laughed as they began their walk home. Hyde peers up at her with her big, baby eyes. “I didn’t even get asked for a single picture!”

Hyde moos, and Aragon swore it had a cocky hum to it.

“I am not jealous of you, if that’s what you’re thinking.” Aragon said, “Don’t flatter yourself, beast...and I’m talking to a cow again.”

Soon, they arrived back at the lady in waiting house and Aragon puts the halter on its hook before going to the kitchen. She gets fifteen minutes into cooking when Hyde starts to pull on her shirt.

“What? I’m busy, beast.”

Hyde moos.

“I don’t speak cow.”

Hyde snorts and Aragon wrinkled her nose, reaching down to wipe the residue off of her leg. She watched the calf pad over to the fridge and paw it with her hoof. She makes a tiny noise.

“Oh. You’re hungry.”

Seemingly understanding, Hyde moos loudly.

“Okay, okay. Quiet down.” Aragon opened the fridge and grabbed the milk that was used to feed Hyde. She wasn’t sure how long she was supposed to keep it in the microwave, so she had to wing it and hope it wouldn’t burn the calf’s tongue off. By the time the bottle was filled, she was practically being pounced on.

“Calm down!” The queen snapped. She walked over to the couch and sat down, which Hyde must have saw as permission to sling her front legs into her lap and nibble for the bottle. “Hey!”

Pushing did nothing to help- the calf just kept clambering back up. Aragon sighed and finally relented. She lowered the bottle and Hyde was attached to the nipple in an instant, suckling greedily. Aragon watched her eat in amusement.

“You’re a hungry little beast, aren’t you?”

Hyde moos in between sucks.

Aragon chuckles. She watches Hyde for a few more moments, then makes the mistake of taking one hand off of the bottle to pet the calf’s head.

Time seemed to slow down as Hyde yanked the nipple right off of the bottle and spill milk everywhere.

Well, Bessie hadn’t been completely wrong about her fever-fueled statement.

“Hyde!!” Aragon shrieked, leaping up to her feet. Her lap was drenched in milk, as well as parts of the couch and a majority of Hyde’s face. And, unlike her, the calf didn’t seem bothered at all. She was just harmlessly trying to lick the wet parts of her snout. “What have you done?!”

Finally, Hyde looked up at Aragon.

And then she went straight for the queen’s legs with the full intent to suck the milk out of her soaked pants.

“NO-!!”

Aragon swats at the calf until she backs off with a grumpy moo. She swore Hyde even glared at her.

“You are a mess.”

Hyde bobbed her head at Aragon, as if to say, “It takes one to know one!”

Aragon rubbed her forehead with a heavy sigh before checking on the soup and retrieving a rag. When she was walking back to Hyde, the calf moved her hind legs back.

“Don’t you dare run.”

The queen seemed to forget that, like how she couldn’t speak cow, Hyde wasn’t quite fluent in human.

The calf charges right through Aragon’s legs and beelines for the dining room table.

Cow with bangs vs. Queen of England: Who will win? Next up on ESPN! Is what Aragon’s brain helpfully chimed as she chased the cow around the ground floor. It was very queenly to say the least, but she actually found herself laughing as she continually got her ass beat by a cow in a game of cat and mouse. And the moment she was about to win, the match was halted by frantic footsteps from upstairs.

Hyde and Aragon exchange looks for a moment before Aragon is hurrying upstairs.

Bessie isn’t in her room, but she is in the bathroom, coughing into the toilet. Aragon watches her from the doorway for a moment before going to her side, pulling her hair out of the way.

“Oh, honey,” Aragon murmured. “Not feeling any better, huh?”

Bessie shook her head miserably before vomiting again. She stops after a moment, setting her head against the cool porcelain of the toilet seat.

“I-I-...” Her words broke off into an anguished moan.

“Shh,” Aragon hushed her. She began rubbing circles against the bassist’s back.

“C-could you go down a little?” Bessie stuttered shyly.

Aragon moved her hand down to Bessie’s lower waist. “Here?”

Bessie nodded against the toilet seat.

“Does your back hurt?”

Another nod, this time more ashamed.

“Oh, baby girl... I’m sorry.” Aragon murmured. She began to rub her back again.

Bessie doesn’t say anything for a few moments, just trying to collect her bearings after throwing up. When she does eventually raise her head, her eyes are dull, scratched pieces of sapphire in her skull and her cheeks are flushed an angry red.

“...Is that milk on your pants?”

Aragon glanced down at the wet stain on her lap.

“Shh, you’re delirious, my darling,” She cooed, using the rag (which was clean because she hadn’t managed to catch Hyde) she was still holding to wipe the sweat from Bessie’s pale face.

“Yes, I am...but that is definitely milk.”

“No it’s not.”

Bessie giggled softly at Aragon hesitance to admit the truth and managed a weak smile.

“If you say so.”

Just then, she’s hit with another horrid heat flash and screwed her eyes shut, willing the overwhelming warmth to go away. Aragon wraps an arm around her.

“Let’s get you back in bed,” She said. “Can you stand?”

Bessie nodded weakly and, with Aragon’s help, managed to get back to her bed...

...which was being occupied by a milk-covered cow.

“Good lord,” Aragon muttered, making Bessie laugh softly.

“You didn’t hold the bottle with two hands, did you?”

“I didn’t know she would make a mess!”

“I thought it was easy as nursing a baby?”

“Well, my nipple isn’t as easily detachable as that bottle’s nipple!”

More laughter bubbles up from Bessie and, quickly, Aragon is laughing with her.

“Alright, alright, enough nipple talk-” Bessie snorts and Aragon gave her a playfully stern glare. “Into bed with you.”

Bessie obeys and gets back under her blankest, sighing softly at not having to be on the feet anymore. Aragon’s cool hand comes down to rest against her forehead, stroking her sweaty bangs soothingly.

“Thank you,” Bessie whispered as she began to slip off again. “I love you...”

Aragon’s heart absolutely melted.

“I love you too, my darling girl.” She cooed.

She looks up and sees Hyde staring at her through her milk-soaked bangs.

“I tolerate you.”

[avengerscompound]

The Unicorn - Chapter 19

The Unicorn:  A Pepperony Fanfic PREVIOUS

Series Masterlist

Buy me a coffee with Ko-fi Word Count:    1805

Pairing:  Tony Stark x F!Reader x Pepper Potts

Warnings:  pregnancy, sex talk, anxiety

Synopsis:  You, Tony and Pepper go to London to see if you think it might fit.

Chapter 19

“What are you eating now?”  Tony asked as he came into the kitchen to find you and Pepper sitting at the table with a large pile of white grease stained butchers paper laid out in front of you both and the smell of fried food lingering in the air.

“Fish and chips, gov’na,”  You answered putting on a very strong, very bad version of a cockney accent.

He let out a breath and sat down.  The three of you had been in London three days now and you had taken to traditional English food pretty strongly.  It was like, whatever it was about Shepherd's Pies, eggs rolled in sausage meat and pastries filled with ground beef, carrot, and peas, was just hitting all your specific cravings.

“Thank god,”  He said sitting down and grabbing one of the thick fries.  Chips really but he was having trouble thinking of them like that.  Also, chips being called crisps threw him every single time he came to England.  “I thought you were going to be eating black pudding again.”

“Oh, now you mention it,”  You said getting up.  

Pepper caught you by the wrist and pulled you back down into your seat.  “No.  My stomach can't handle you eating blood right now.”

“I thought cured meats were a no-no.”  Tony said.  “I swear that’s what it said in all that paperwork Doctor Singh gave us.”

“I looked it up.  If you cook it it's fine.”  You said starting to assemble a pile of fries onto some buttered white bread.  “Also it's super high in iron so it's good for you.”

“I’m super high in iron.”  Tony joked, nudging you with his elbow.

“Tony!”  Pepper yelped.  “You are so gross.”

Tony chuckled and tore off a piece of the battered fish and then ate it slowly as you added ketchup to your fries, put another piece of bread on top and took a bite.  “Enough carbs for you, dear?”  He asked.

“Barely.  You know how exhausting it is to grow two people?”  You answered with your mouth full.

“Swallow before you speak, for the love of god,”  Pepper said rubbing her temples.  “I’m going to have to look after five kids aren’t I?  Why didn’t I consider that before I got myself into this mess?”

You chewed and swallowed and leaned over and gave Pepper a sloppy kiss on the cheek.   “You love it.”

She rolled her eyes and Tony chuckled grabbing himself a fry.  “Where did this come from anyway?”

“The place two blocks over.”  You answered.

“Did you drive?”

“Walked.”

“Alone?”

You sighed dramatically and sunk into your chair a little.  “I’m an Avengers’ special Agent, Tony.”

“You’re the pregnant girlfriend of two very high profile billionaires, one of whom is a big name in an organization that specifically take out terrorist groups,”  Tony argued.

He wasn’t normally so concerned about the safety of you.  Pepper he worried about, but Pepper didn’t take unnecessary risks.  She took Happy with her when she went out.  She knew she needed security with her.  Besides, he’d seen her in action when she was put in danger, she could handle that shit.

Not that you couldn’t take care of yourself.  Like you said, you were a special agent.  You had the training.  You could kick ass.  You were, however, reckless.  You didn’t really know the worst of what celebrity brought because until recently you’d been protected by both anonymity and being at the Compound where there was a strict no-fly zone and a secure border that press couldn’t cross without invitation.

The paparazzi had gotten very interested in you when they had taken you to the gala to announce the relationship the three of you were in.  You had then returned to the compound where all they could do was dig up photos on social media and speak to friends and family about you.

Public appearances always had the throng of press but that was different.  You went with security.  You were dressed up. You had prepared.  Being at the airport was similar but you flew via private jet so it was easy to be picked up directly from the hanger and to just avoid it.  Otherwise, yeah, when they were in New York looking at houses occasionally they’d get spotted and asked for autographs or photographed from the distance.  It was worse again in LA though easy enough to avoid mass groups of the vultures.  Here… here was different.

Here they gathered around your door and just waited.  They were obsessed with getting photos of you looking anything less than perfect.  They wanted photos of baby bumps since word had gotten out that there was a pregnancy.  The news of ‘expecting a baby’ had been released, but the three of you hadn’t said who was pregnant or how many were due.  It was the subject of a lot of speculation.  It was a sideshow.  No one could step outside the door without flashbulbs going off directly in your face and people yelling out about babies and threesomes.  It worried Tony.  He’d grown up with it so he’d gotten used to it.  You hadn’t.

Not only had you not grown up with it, but you also didn’t seem to get how dangerous it was.  You kept just going out and flipping them off.  You answered their inane questions with ridiculous answers.  Tony might think it was funny, but he was genuinely worried you might actually get hurt.  That worry spiraled out into worry about the children too.  How could he raise children in the heart of this city if it meant that every time they went out they’d be set upon by paparazzi?

“I took Happy, okay?”  You said.

He let out a breath.  “Thank you.”

“We can’t live here can we?”  Pepper asked.

You whined and your head rolled back.  “But I like it.  They have Platform 9 and three quarters.”

Both Pepper and Tony looked at you deadpan.  “And that’s enough reason to subject our kids to that outside?”

You huffed, straightened up and took a large bite out of the sandwich you’d made.  “I guess not.  But what if it doesn’t last?”

“Honey, can you please swallow before you speak.”  Pepper said turning her head.

“And what if it does last?  What if they’re always just hounded all the time?  Do you know what it’s like to grow up with that?  To have the spotlight on you constantly.  To be expected to just be on all the time as a child.  To be expected to be something when all you want to do is play with your new remote controlled car?”  Tony said the pain of the childhood lived under constant scrutiny bubbling up.

You put your sandwich down and took his hand and started gently playing with his fingers.  “I’m sorry, Tony.  I guess I didn’t really think about what it would be like growing up with that.”

“It’s okay.  Why would you?  You got a normal life.  I mean, I guess I shouldn’t complain, money and all that.”  He said, shifting a little in his seat and giving a small half smile.  He always felt that he shouldn’t complain about that part of his life.  It was one thing to tear Howard a new one for his neglectful and often abusive parenting, it was another to complain about the negative trappings of celebrity when he basked in the positive parts of it.  The anxiety of public speaking and being hounded by people was something you smothered.  You put on your Armani and your designer sunglasses and you faked it.

“Hey,”  Pepper said cupping his cheek.  “You lived it.  Just because some aspects of your life are good doesn’t mean you should have to put up with the bad.  Nor does it mean you should want to inflict the bad on your kids.”

Tony leaned in against her and rested his head against Pepper’s chest.  She carded her fingers through his hair and he felt himself relax under her touch.  His hands moved to her stomach almost on autopilot.  She was only barely showing.  That ‘maybe she just had a large meal’ look.  But he loved to touch you both.  He loved thinking about how little there was between him and his kids when he did that.  “Thank you.”  He barely whispered.

“How are we going to protect them from that though?  I mean… I’m not making this as an argument to stay here, but the only place that there is none of that is the compound and we’ve already said we can’t raise them there.”   You asked.  “I know other places aren’t as bad as this, but they are still there. It’s possible this is just bad because of circumstances.  We aren’t here often.  There are baby rumors.  Maybe after they get used to us, they will chill.”

“Maybe.  Maybe they won’t.”  Pepper said.  “The schools here are good.  The city is nice but with how far it is from the Avengers and S.I.’s main base of operations.  It’s not ideal and with the chance that we won’t even be able to go outside with the babies without being swarmed, I think we just have to say London isn’t right for us.”

You sighed and nodded giving Tony’s hand a squeeze.  “I really liked that Townhouse we looked at.”

Tony chuckled.  “It was nice. I could see exactly where I was going to put FRIDAY.”

“We can steal the things we liked though,”  Pepper said.

“Like that walk in.”  You said.

“Like the walk in.”  She agreed.

“Can we still go have morning tea at the Ritz?”  You asked.

Pepper poked your side.  “Absolutely we can.”

“And see The Mousetrap?”

Tony started laughing.  “You are such a tourist.  Yes, we can do that.  Then home I guess.”

Pepper nodded in agreement.  “Just gotta think about where to next.  I love the Windmill.  You think the Hampton’s would be okay?  It’s not exactly near anything.”

Tony pulled back away from Pepper.  “If we’re going to do remote, how about I take you to the place in Australia.”

Pepper tilted her head to the side.  “You’ve never taken me there.  I guess it’s worth a look.  I don’t think it fits any of the criteria though.”

“I know.  But if nothing else, it will be a nice holiday.  I’d like to take you there.  There’s a reason I bought it.”  Tony said.

“Australia it is,”  Pepper said with a nod.  “Why not?”

Tony kissed her softly and then did the same to you.  He thought back to the few times he’d been there, why he’d bought it in the first place.  How good it felt to just be anonymous.  Maybe it wouldn’t be the place to go, but maybe for a while, it could be a place for them to escape how hectic this had all been.

// NEXT

[wewillwriteyou]

Friends Will Be Friends || Chapter 12

A few elements from the main plot: A very special group of friends: early days, drama, laughter, booze, success, rock stars life, girl power, friendship, love, sex, music, misunderstandings, some more drama, family. Pairings in the tags

Summary Chapter 12: Some time’s passed. The concert in Taunton,  December 1973. A new character may or may not appear

Word count: 3K

Warnings: Okay it’s mainly fluff and softness, BUT, you have to watch out the usual curse word or some bad language. Also, some little reference to sex and/or sexy times. It’s really small. You won’t even notice it.

A/N: Hi folks. Sooooo with this chapter, a new segment of our story opens up and it will take… a few chapters to complete. We really hope you’re enjoying this so far and we’d like to hear your honest opinion on it, lovesies 💖😏 So, please, as usual, if you like what you read, comment, like, reblog and share this with others! For everyone who follows and supports this story, thank you guys (you know who you are)! You are real stars! ⭐💗

“Thank you, Taunton!” Freddie’s voice cracked in the mic, as he shouted from the top of his lungs. The stage’s lights were illuminating his skinny silhouette, as he was bowed and nodded like a real diva. Brian approached him and goofily waved at the cheering crowd with a simple nod. On Freddie’s right side, John was bowing too, with a hand on his heart, still astonished by the number of people that were screaming and applauding them. Roger left his drum set, all sweaty and half-naked, and put his arms in the air, before throwing his drumsticks in the crowd.

In a matter of two years, the boys had come a long way; everything had changed after that concert at the Imperial College. A prestigious record producer had seen them perform and had decided to give them a chance. They had already recorded an album and travelled all around England. Every night a different place, the boys were tireless and had become real rock stars.

The four of them were now bowing all together, at the edge of the stage, while the people in the front row were trying to reach them, screaming and stretching their arms towards them.

In the backstage, far away from the spotlight of fame, the girls were applauding too, with their hearts full of love and proudness. Chelsea, Mel and Mary had been by their sides since the start and seeing them gaining the fame they deserved was always something touching and extremely beautiful.

During those two years, they had followed them on tour as much as possible and spent hours listening to their quarrels in the recording studio, on which song should have been put in the album. But everything, every sacrifice, every fight or argument and every sleepless night had been absolutely worth it because now all four of them had finally made their dreams come true.

The boys walked towards the backstage, still waving at the crowd.

“You did amazing, love!” Chelsea said, caressing Freddie’s arm as he was hugging and kissing Mary on the cheek. He didn’t have the time to thank her, because a pair of arms took her hips and lifted her from the ground. Chelsea screamed in amusement and, when her feet touched again the ground, she turned around to find John’s smiley face just a few inches away from her.

“And what about me?” he asked her, pulling her closer to hug her.

“You did amazing too, sweetheart” she chuckled in his arms and then pulled away to admire his outfit.

“What did I tell you, Mel? He looks great in this black and white suit” Chelsea gloated, smiling to her friend, that was now massaging John’s arm.

“I didn’t have doubts” she answered, tilting her head to her boyfriend and lifting an eyebrow in an accusatory way.  John rolled his eyes, but when he opened his mouth to speak, he was cut off by a squeaking, raspy voice, that was coming from Chelsea’s back.

“You have to thank me, for that. It was me that convinced the crew to hire the best stylist I’ve ever met” Roger was approaching them, with a towel behind his neck and his arms open to welcome his girlfriend in his chest.

Chelsea slightly blushed and ran to him, to hug him tight. Roger spun her around, while his arms were settled around her waist. Chelsea cupped his face with her hands and pulled him closer to kiss him softly.

“Actually, darling, I insisted on having this amazing lady as my personal stylist” Freddie stated, approaching the couple with Mary by his side. Roger completely ignored him, slowly pulling away from Chelsea’s lips. He then put his arms behind her shoulders to pull her closer to him.

“Before I got interrupted” John added, walking towards them, while holding hands with Mel “I was trying to say that I had never had doubts on your talent, Chel. I just had doubts about the choice of the clothes, because you know, they are a little bit–”

“They’re perfect my dear!” Freddie cut him off and John shook his head, an entertained smile forming on his face.    

“Well look at you, all cute and sweet. Can someone please help me with all these cables and stuff?” Brian’s voice recalled the attention of the group and they all turned around to see his curly brown hair bouncing, as he was trying to hold a lot of things in his arms.

Chelsea immediately reached him, when she saw he was about to make everything fall on the ground. She stretched her arms towards him and helped him, taking away from his hands a tangle of cables. Brian’s warm smile thanked Chelsea, who smiled back.

“You don’t have to be jealous, mate. I’m sure out there there’s a girl that’s waiting for you to come and tell her all about the physics stuff you so very much adore” Roger joked, giving Brian a pat on his shoulder. He rolled his eyes as an answer, used to Roger’s sense of humour.  

“I’ll help him with this. You can wait for me in the tour bus, baby” Chelsea said, turning to Roger. He smirked and leaned down to kiss her again. Brian looked away and Chelsea could tell he was visibly embarrassed by that moment, so she pulled away and winked at Roger.

“Okay, see you later, honey” he replied, giving her a soft slap on her butt as she turned around. Chelsea let out a tiny squeak and heard Roger’s giggle as he walked away with the rest of the band and the girls.

She followed Brian through some doors and corridors, elbowing between the people of the crew and she thanked the enormous mass of curly hair he had, because, if it wasn’t for that, she could have easily got lost in the confusion. They finally entered a little room and Brian pointed a dusty shelf; Chelsea put down the cables and helped him tiding up some pedals and other strings he still had in his hands.

“You know, letting grow your hair free and natural was the best decision of your life! I would’ve lost myself in this labyrinth if it hadn’t been for them” Chelsea stated, turning around to look at Brian while they left the room.

“Yeah, it doesn’t matter if I look like a poodle” he replied, making her laugh and shake her head.

“He’s treating you well, right?” Brian asked, as they stepped out of the little room and started to walk down the hallway. Chelsea looked up to him, as the height difference between them was more than evident, smiling for the cute question.

Brian had never been really talkative - not as much as Freddie or Roger anyway - but Chelsea had the chance to get to know him well during the last two years and she indeed enjoyed his company. They liked to walk together, going anywhere, sometimes without saying a word, just appreciating the comfortable silence that was always surrounding them.

Chelsea was usually the first to hear Brian’s new songs or riffs because he was convinced that she had a great ear with these things, as he used to say. And Chelsea never complained about that, on the contrary, she loved seeing him getting experimental in front of her, with his concentrated face as he made his guitar sing.

“Yes, you’d be impressed to see the gentleman he has become” Chelsea replied, always with a smile on her face. Brian noticed her dreamy expression and chuckled softly.

“Roger Taylor a gentleman? Are you sure we’re talking about the same Roger Taylor?” he teased to see her reaction. She raised an eyebrow and let out a sigh between the laughter.

“Yes, we are. He’s always so caring and sweet and…” Brian cut her off.

“And he’s always ready for a good sex-session I guess, am I wrong? You two are like bunnies” he joked, but Chelsea wasn’t expecting such a comment coming from Brian’s mouth, so she gasped in surprise.

“Mr May, I find this comment very inappropriate!” she joked back “and it’s none of your business. Although, I can’t say you’re wrong. But he’s a great boyfriend, I swear” Brian chuckled, seeing how her eyes always shined when she talked about him.  

“I can tell this. You look so in love” Chelsea flushed at those words.

“Is that so evident?” she asked him and Brian raised an eyebrow. Then nodded, closing his eyes to give more pathos to his non-verbal answer. Chelsea friendly pushed him, putting her hand on his shoulder and making him laugh a little.

“But hey, I’m sure it’s mutual because I’ve never seen Roger like that. With any girl” Brian widely smiled and looked down at Chelsea, who was still blushing. He noticed her pleased face and he put his long skinny arm behind her shoulder and Chelsea leaned her head on him, putting her arm behind his waist, as they kept walking.

They were about to leave the arena and reach the others in the tour bus when a female voice called them. They turned around and saw a girl running after them.

“Excuse me” she was breathless when she reached them, so she tried to recompose herself, putting a string of her hair behind her ear “I don’t want to be or sound obtrusive, but you are the guitarist of Queen, right?” she shyly asked, as a soft red colour started to expand on her cheeks.

When Chelsea didn’t hear any response from Brian, she looked up at his face to find him with his mouth slightly open and his eyes locked with the girl’s.

Brian was sure she was the most beautiful girl he had ever seen; she had wavy hair, that had a strange and rare colour between brown and red. Her light blue eyes were staring at Brian and he felt his knees trembling. He knew he was being obvious, but he couldn’t help himself: she was gorgeous. The girl noticed the gaze he was giving her and she looked at the ground, clearly happy to receive his attention.

Chelsea felt like the third wheel of the situation, so seeing that Brian was still admiring her without saying a word, she gave him a little push and then replied.

“Yes, he’s the guitarist. The big Brian May” she smiled as she said this, receiving a deadly gaze from the tall boy.

“You were great before!” the girl complimented him “I’m Chrissie by the way” Chelsea tried to reach for her hand, but Brian pushed her away. He shook her hand, without breaking eye-contact. The girl understood that the entire situation was starting to get a little bit awkward, so she cleared her throat, before speaking again.

“I would like to know if it’s possible to meet the rest of the band”

“I’m so sorry, they’re already on the tour bus now” Brian finally spoke, but Chrissie seemed disappointed.

“Oh, okay. I just made everything that I could to be here tonight to meet the band, but hey, it seems like I’m always late. Thank you anyway, it was a pleasure meeting you two” she turned on her heels and started to walk away.

“Invite her to the after party!” Chelsea said between her teeth.

“What? I don’t even know her!” Brian replied, with his whole face red and blushed. Chelsea rolled her eyes.

“Listen to me, do you want to lose the chance to get to know this girl? I don’t think so! So tell her that tomorrow you have a concert in Peterborough and that after it there’s an amazing Christmas party! Be the man Brian!”

“I’m a man!” Brian shouted back.

“Then prove it!” Chelsea replied, crossing her arms on her chest. Brian looked over her shoulder and, after giving her one last gaze, he started to ran to reach Chrissie. Chelsea looked at him with a proud expression on her face, as he stopped her by the arm and started to talk with her. She nodded and left the arena, to give them a little bit of privacy.

She quickly walked in the parking lot, covering her face with the collar of her jacket. When she reached the tour bus she ran inside, feeling her nose already cold and surely red. Everything was dark and quiet, just a couple of peaceful, sleepy breaths was filling the air.

When her eyes got used to the dim light that surrounded her, Chelsea noticed that Freddie and Mary were sleeping, hugged into each other’s arms, on the not so comfy kind of sofa, how Fred himself used to call it, that was on her left. On the opposite side, there was the same kind of seats, arranged in a kind of semicircle, with a little table on the middle, where the guys used to play scrabble. And there she saw John, with his feet stretched over the end of the seat because he was too tall to properly lay there; on the top of him, with her head on his chest, Mel was sleeping peacefully.

Chelsea smiled when she walked over the little (and empty) cot that was near the tiny bathroom, because she already knew that Roger had probably argued with everyone to have the double sized bed that was situated in the back of the bus. When she slowly pushed aside the see-through curtains that gave a little privacy to the only “bedroom” of that mini house on four wheels, Chelsea saw her boyfriend already asleep.

She stopped there to look at him for a minute. He was sleeping shirtless, as usual, with his mouth open. He was laying on his tummy and Chelsea could see his back muscles relaxing under the blanket. She fondly smiled when she noticed that he had left on her pillow one of the shirts, knowing how she loved to sleep snuggling in his clothes. She was about to join him when she heard the door of the bus opening, followed by Brian’s voice, who was talking with the driver.

Chelsea turned around and, while she was approaching the curly boy curious as hell, the bus started to move and she almost fell on the ground. Brian heard her cuss and let out a soft laugh. When she looked up to him, he pointed at the cot and Chelsea nodded, already knowing what he was about to ask.

“Will it ever be my turn to sleep in that bed or…?” he asked, while he leaned down to take a beer from the little fridge in front of his crib. He offered one to Chelsea too and she accepted it, sitting beside him on the little cot.

“So? Are you going to tell me what happened with the girl of your dreams or do I have to beg you?” Chelsea questioned, lifting her bottle in the air. Brian shook his head and raised his beer to meet hers.

“Cheers,” he said after the toast and then they both took a long sip from the green glass bottle.

“I invited her to come to our concert tomorrow and then to the party in the hotel” Brian finally said, turning around to look at Chelsea in the eyes. She noticed that he still had flushed cheeks and a stupid smile on his face.

“…and?” she asked, but he scrolled his shoulders, making her pout “Oh c’mon Bri, not even a little kiss?”

“No. I like taking things slow” he replied with a touchy tone. Chelsea rolled her eyes and left her head fall against the window behind her. She sighed and took another sip of beer.

“At least did you discover something about her?”

“Just that she works as a hairdresser because she told me that she doesn’t know if she can come tomorrow because Peterborough is far from where she lives and she has to work. But nothing else” Chelsea looked him with a disappointed face.

“What?” he asked, wrapping his lips against the neck of the bottle, finishing the beer.

“You should have told her something! Flirt a little bit!” she replied. He rolled his eyes and shut her up with a movement of his hand. Chelsea chuckled noticing how pissed he looked, so she stretched her arm to put it behind his back.

“Hey, I’m sorry okay. The world would be a better place if there were more gentle and kind men like you around” she sincerely smiled to him and Brian returned the gesture, fondly grateful for her words. He was about to reply when a voice in the dark recalled their attention.

“After this philosophic statement, can you come to sleep and cuddle with your gentle and kind man? I didn’t almost throw hands with Freddie for that fucking bed for nothing” Roger was keeping the curtains open, standing in between with only his boxers on.

“You could have put on something” Brian commented, pointing at his half-naked body, while Chelsea was approaching him.

“I’m sure that someone here thinks differently from you” Roger replied, looking to Chelsea in a flirty way. She smirked in response and kissed him. She teasingly pulled away and walked past him, already taking off her clothes. Roger bit his lip and turned around to look at Brian with a proud expression on his face.

“You see. She’s such a bad girl” he said, pointing at her. Brian rolled his eyes and when he opened his mouth to say something, Chelsea’s bra flew in the air, hitting Roger’s face. Soon the panties appeared on the ground at his feet.

“You two are disgusting!” Brian almost shouted while he was laying on the cot when Roger quickly disappeared behind the curtains and the sound of Chelsea’s giggles filled the air.

“We know that” they replied in unison. Brian shook his head and hide it under the pillow when he started to hear more chuckles and not so subtle sounds coming from the ‘bedroom’. He sighed knowing it would have been a long journey.    

Chapters: ⤎ previous | next ⤏

A/N: Hello again! Hope you enjoyed this one 💗 we’re gonna tag the lovely people who read, liked and commented the previous chapters. If you want to be tagged in the next one, comment under this one or leave us a message. Our inboxes are always open for you beautiful people

Tag list: @littledarlingwellaway @its-a-metephor-brian@bohemiandelilah @onevisionliz@misshystericalqueen @loki-lover095@deakysgurl @inthelapofthe39 @starsoflovingness-wq@minetticatinwonderland @cairdes20 @friendswillbefriendsblog@o-holynight @trash-record-collection @please-stop-me-now@theappleofmybri @marvelsbunch

Cheers, folks! ✌

[the-blomster]

Jello Biafra VS the Forces of Corruption 5

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction and all relation to real individuals is purely coincidental. I am not associated with any of the people named in this work of fiction and this is not intended to reflect negatively upon anyone.

Chapter 5: Jello Tears Down the British Monarchy

Here we find Jello, sitting around NMCDF headquarters, waiting for orders to be given out. He was told that being mayor meant a lot more responsibilities, but it sure doesn’t feel like it. It’s been days since he won the election, and for what? To allow himself no responsibility, to be a puppet of the NMCDF? Prince! Come give Jello his mission before this story gets bland!

Prince stepped into the room. “Jello!” Prince looked down at his colleague. “I know you’ve just become mayor of San Francisco, but news has come up elsewhere.”

“What?” Jello questioned. “I finally become mayor just to get shipped off to some distant place? Where is it you’re disposing of me anyway?”

Prince explained, “We have gotten news of PMRC activity all around England.” He turned to show Jello a computer screen, on which was a sky blue outline of England. The map was dotted in several places where there had presumably been PMRC activity. “We’re sending you on a mission to England to take down their branch of the PMRC and save England from their fatile grasp. You’ll be meeting with an NMCDF associate later today and you two will go to our England branch to investigate.”

“It feels like you’re just trying to get rid of me so that you can run San Francisco with no opposition.” The blue light of the screen echoed off of their faces within the dark corridors.

“Jello, I understand that we may have had a few breaches of trust recently, but I assure you that every action the NMCDF takes is done with only the best intentions.”

“Well… ok, I guess I can trust you just this once.

“Good! Pack your things! Your meeting with our associate is in a few hours.”

Several hours later…

We find Jello on a street corner. Standing next to him is one familiar face and one unfamiliar face. That familiar one would be Prince, and that unfamiliar one would be a spikey-haired fellow, whose name is unknown to us. He wore a sleeveless shirt and skinny jeans with a chain on their side. He seemed a true, dignified punk-rocker.

“Hello,” said Jello, “My name is Jello Biafra, I do not believe I have made your acquaintance before, but I am pleased to make it.”

“I am John Lyndon, but most people know me as Johnny Rotten, it is a pleasure to meet you.” The most noticeable thing about Johnny Rotten was his voice. He sported a thick British accent, but unlike the average British accent, which came off as upper class and dignified, his accent gave off an air of raw power. The unfiltered nature of his voice fit his aesthetic to a tee.

“Good,” Prince interjected, “Now that our introductions are complete, let’s go over the plan. You two will fly to London, but you must pose as non-NMCDF forces, since PMRC agents are crawling all over the airports. Once you’re in London, you’ll rendezvous with NMCDF agents who will take you to England headquarters. You got all that?”

Johnny and Jello nodded their heads.

“Good,” Prince replied, “Here are your fake passports. If anyone at that airport finds out you are punk rock musicians you’ll get arrested immediately. Be careful!”

In a few hours, Johnny and Jello found themselves on a plane, headed to London, breeding ground for pro-censorship pricks like the PMRC.

Jello breathed a sigh of relief. “I’m really glad we made it onto the plane without much trouble.”

Johnny chuckled. “Once you’ve made this trip as many times as I have you kinda forget how dangerous it is.”

“Really?” Jello questioned. “How many times have you travelled between London and San Francisco?”

“Hmm…” Johnny rubbed his chin. “I’d say about ten. Probably more.”

“Wow. What inspired you to pursue such a dangerous line of work?”

“I am a man who is bound to his ideals,” Johnny explained, “If I did not fight for the things I believed in then I would see no purpose in living.

“And what would those ideals be?”

“Well, growing up in a society like England, a society whose basis is a long history of classicism, I believed strongly that all people should be treated as equals, and that no class structure, whether intentional or unintentional, should exist. England is also a very pro-censorship place. They want everything to be all clean and they want to ignore all the bad stuff in this world. It’s a detriment being raised in a place like that, and if the PMRC gets a hold of England, then all that stuff can only get worse.”

“How inspiring,” Jello replied.

“What about you?” Johnny asked, “What inspired you to join the NMCDF?”

“Well…” Jello took a few moments to think. “I’m not really sure I ever made the decision to join the NMCDF. I just kinda got sucked into it. You know… One day I’m jamming out to some punk rock and then the next day I’m in Alcatraz. The NMCDF was the only way out for me. I have my regrets about joining, I have my disagreements with Prince, and I often question the exclusivity of the filthy fifteen, but at the end of the day I don’t think I regret a thing.”

“I think most NMCDF members can relate to that sentiment in some form or another. Oh look.” Johnny turned his attention to the window. “It looks like it’s almost time for us to land. We’re making a connection so when we’re off of the plane we have to extra careful.”

Much of the time spent during their connection passed without event, but, an hour or so before their next flight was supposed to leave, Jello attempted to order a twenty piece chicken mcnugget from McDonalds, but he accidently gave them his personal credit card. As he handed his card to the cashier, he recognized his mistake, but it was already too late, the PMRC had been alerted to his location.

Instantly, all of the lights in airport turned red and loud sirens wailed from every conceivable direction. Secret passageways opened up in the floors and walls opened up, revealing hundreds, if not thousands of PMRC agents clad in riot gear began pouring forth into the corridors.

Jello and Johnny immediately regrouped as the agents closed in on them.

“What are we going to do?” Jello asked.

“We just have to fight them off!” Johnny replied.

At that moment, an agent came running towards the two, but before he could reach them, Johnny did his signature Rotten Roundhouse Kick, sending the agent flying backwards, knocking out other PMRC agents like bowling pins. Eventually, the agent crashed through the viewing window, giving the two a clear path to the runway.

“Now’s our chance!” Johnny shouted.

The two made a mad dash towards the runway. Just as the two were about to leap down onto the concrete a member of the PMRC hoard latched onto Johnny’s leg. Jello stared in horror as his friend slowly became consumed by the mass of PMRC agents.

“Run!” Johnny shouted, “Save yourself!” Jello clenched his fists. “No! I will not cower in fear to the PMRC!” He straightened his hands and committed several hundred supersonic jabs against dozens of opponents in mere seconds. A large circle of safety was spread around the two, giving them just enough time to escape. They ran to one of the many planes surrounding them, and resumed their flight to London.

It’s not how they expected to be getting to London, but now Johnny Rotten and Jello Biafra are flying themselves to England. How will they land without encountering the PMRC in England? Who is heading the PMRC branch in England? How powerful are the foes they will face? Find out in the next chapter of Jello Biafra VS the Forces of Corruption!

[nish-s-random-writing]

*looks around* Could I get some fluffy FRUKUS on Christmas morning??? Please?? If not, then I'm perfectly fine with getting UKUS

a/n: I’ve had so much fun writing this! Thanks for the request~

WARNINGS: France x UK x US, polyamorous relationship, implied sexual themes, overwhelming sappity-sap-sap, christmas fluff is christmas fluff

Waking Up to You (FRUKUS Christmas one-shot)

There was a certain comfortable haze to waking up in theearly morning.

No, not the type where one is blasted in the ear by ablaring alarm for work, nor the type where one crawls out of bed all lazy andsluggish on weekend mornings. No, this was the well-rested,eight-hours-of-sleep, wrapped-up-in-warmth type of waking up. It was Alfred’sabsolute favorite.

Coming to consciousness but not quite opening his eyes yet,Alfred was well aware of the cool December air around his bare legs, but at thesame time, the nice, radiating warmth that wrapped around his shoulder andpressed against his side.

He tucked his legs into the comforter he knew he was underand snuggled further into the comfortable warm mass. His hands began to slowlyroam, touching broad skin and soon, smooth, silky strands.

Ah, that would be Francis.

America smiled quietly to himself, letting out a low hum ashe let his hands explore. The Frenchman was still asleep, but he knew he couldthread his fingers through those golden curls all day long if he wanted. Aftera while of letting his hands drift around the familiar skin, his mind wasalerted to the missing presence of another warm bundle that should’ve beenbehind him.

Alfred threw his arm back and frowned at the lack of contactwith anything that wasn’t cold bed. He let his hand creep forward, past Franciswho was now slowly stirring, and was disappointed to find no one on the otherside either.

This was where he opened his eyes and lifted his head. Asexpected, he was greeted with the adorable sight of half-asleep Francis, butwith no England to be found.

“America,” Francis groaned, his voice still scratchy withsleep. “Mon amour, what is wrong?”

In the back of his mind, America felt an important thoughttingling at his consciousness. Something he knew he couldn’t forget. But England’spresence—or lack thereof—was immediately pushed to the forefront of histhoughts and he decided to make his distress evident.

“Where’s Arthur?” He asked, looking up at his Frenchman.

Francis gave him a questioning glance, which was then easilytaken-over by a soft smile. This immediately made Alfred’s nerves quell alittle. “Ah, do you not remember? It’s Christmas, Alfred. Hah, Arthur isprobably up early making preparations, no?”

Alfred sighed, relieved at the satisfactory answer, and buriedhis face into the warmth of his boyfriend’s chest once again. “Heh, yeah, you’reright. Sorry for getting paranoid.” He hummed in contentment, before thethought occurred to him.

“Hey, merry Christmas, Francis.” Alfred said, looking up.

“Merry Christmas to you too, amour.”

And they shared a kiss, quiet and content, both feelingsatisfied yet wishing for the contact of another.

“What do you think Arthur’s up to?” Alfred asked afterpulling away.

“Hmm…probably wrapping up gifts, or perhaps taking some out.Perhaps he has another special-something planned.”

“Better not interrupt him then. Remember last time?”

“Oho! Yes, that was entertaining. Ruining his surprises getshim in an awfully foul mood. Not good for Christmas.”

“Heh, just like his cooking.”

They shared a laugh, then Alfred went quiet.

“I mean… you don’t think he could be cooking, right? Orbaking or something?”

They then shared a look—a panicked one. Their eyes hadwidened in unison and they nodded in agreement, before scrambling out of bed ina naked mess to barrel out the door, into the hallway, and towards the kitchenpraying to god that things wouldn’t be on fire yet.

To their amazement, they were greeted not by a plume ofthick smoke, but by the pleasant scent of gingerbread. Granted, they smelt abit overdone, but not quite horribly burnt yet.

The two rounded the corner, coming into view of the openkitchen doorway. The Christmas tree twinkled merrily behind the sofa whichrested in front of America’s penthouse windows. Opposite the couch were thecoffee table, decorated with a Christmas-embroidered table runner, and the TV hangingon the opposite wall. On the other wall was a slow-burning fireplace, rightnext to the kitchen, and there inside was England, humming merrily to himselfwhile he fixed-up something in a tray on the countertop.

The two astonished nations watched as the smaller Englishmanflipped open the oven and pulled out a tray of what seemed to be well-cookedcookies, judging by the miraculously delectable aroma.

He startled a bit as he looked up, but then settled himselfinto a small smile. “I was wondering when you two were going to wake up.”

America was the first to rush over and examine the cookiesup-close. They were simple round gingerbread cookies, laid neatly on the tray.They looked plain and simple enough, but made up for that in their overwhelmingsmell.

“H-how… England, this smells delicious!” America beamed,plucking one out of the tray and with a small nod of affirmation from the Brit,took a tentative bite. His eyes widened, impossibly blue, then proceeded totake another bite.

Francis was in a little more disbelief. “Angleterre, I loveyou, but what sort of dark magic have you sacrificed your soul to have achievedthis?”

“Bastard! I made them for you,” England sniffed, but he hada small, pleased smile on his face. “I told you I’d learn how to do this right,and ha ha! Here you are! The only thing I’ve sacrificed was a week’s worth ofeveryday cooking lessons at Italy’s place.”

“You sir, are getting quite good at baking,” America said,self-satisfied with taking bite after bite of each cookie.

“Oi, hold your horses,” Arthur said, turning his tray to setdown on the counter. “These are for both of you, but I want to have some too,alright? Now go and set up the living room. We’re spending indoors today.”

“Cuddle on the couch all day long? Just you two and cookies?”America mused, a lazy grin on his face. “I don’t know about you, but Best.Christmas. Ever.”

Francis hummed in agreement. “Ah, yes. Sounds wonderful. Andin addition, this indoor-cuddling might not be the only thing we’ll be doing onthe couch tonight, hmm?”

America snorted at him. “We broke the last couch, and I don’twant to buy a new one. Bed or floor, Francis. No couch.”

“Ah, you broke thelast couch, mi amour. As long as you don’t top, we’ll be fine.”

“You sure about that? Me not topping? You’ll be fine?”America gave France a sly grin.

France was ready to stutter out a reply when Arthur cut himoff. “I’ll buy you a new couch. For now, both of you put on some clothes and we’llstart watching those sitcoms I’m sure Alfred has prepared.”

“Wait, you-“

“Go on or no cookies for either of you!”

Alfred laughed, then pulled in Arthur for a quick kiss. “Alright,merry Christmas, babe.”

Francis let out his own laugh as well and stole his own kissfrom the Englishman. “Oui, I look forward to your cookies.”

And thus, the other two shuffled into the living room,leaving behind a very pleased England setting his cookies neatly into a bowl.This was bound to be a very pleasant Christmas with a very promising start,even if they did end up breaking the couch later that night.

[indecent-lemon]

Back with the Blackthorns S01E01 “Pilot”

This is my gift for my lovely friend Becca aka @thepurplewarlock || One day while we were talking I said that she could have an entire sitcom based off of her quirkiness and it lead to this || I’m not sure if I’ll write more about this so don’t get your hopes up too high(if you have hopes lol)

Rebecca heaved her luggage to the front door of the Los Angeles Institute. It was two PM; sweltering hot and she had gotten off her eight-hour flight. Usually, shadowhunters used portals to get around but it only took one look at that swirling mass of warped space and time to say NOPE. But right then she was wondering if she had made the right choice.

She wandered aimlessly on the beach, searching for a huge church. Five people had asked her if she was lost. She was tempted to say yes but how would she explain it? Yeah, I’m looking for some super attractive, demon-fighting people with cool tattoos and they live in an invisible church. Well, invisible to you. Have you seen them? And even her eyes hadn’t fully adjusted to the Sight yet. But when they finally did it slapped her in the face.

The Institute loomed over her. The cement was cracked, there were dents in the walls, and the backyard was abuzz with life; impressions made in the dirt and trees. People live in that old house, alright. Her people.

She reached the front door and rang the doorbell, which seemed newly installed like the large windows. It did little good to the weathered place. She heard shuffling and harsh whispering from the inside and then the door opened to reveal a tall, teenage boy with sea-green eyes that held distrust.

She felt a tad dazed but composed herself quickly. She beamed.

The boy shook his head, “You must be confused. Wherever you need to be, it’s not here. There’s a phone booth near the beach.”

Becca pushed up her sleeve to uncover the rune of angelic power on her wrist. The whispering stopped and suddenly people were crowding the door. She saw a beautiful blonde girl mutter, “I bet you five bucks she’s a lost Herondale, Kit”, to a smaller blond boy who looked as if he had too many tricks up his sleeve. Kit answered, “No way, Emma. She doesn’t look sarcastic enough.”

Becca thought of the name Herondale, she’d heard it being thrown around in Alicante with both negative and positive connotations.

“I’m not a lost Herondale”, she said, “I’m a recently ascended mundane from England as you can tell by my accent. I have chosen the name Rebecca Blackthorn.” She smiled shyly and quickly added, “But you guys can call me Becca.” Emma grumbled as she slipped green bills into Kit’s fingers—which held money with a certain familiarity of a con man but his eyes said no such thing.

The boy who opened the door was taken aback, “You don’t want that name. I’m ninety percent sure it’s cursed. Don’t use Herondale either.”

“Or Dearborn”, Emma growled. Somehow, his frown was etched even deeper into his tanned face.

“You guys can’t be so bad. You seem like a nice family.”

“That’s how we’re supposed to seem. Now please, go back to Alicante and change your name.”

Becca stammered, “B-but why don’t you want me here? You don’t even know me. I’d like to help.”

A cute, chubby girl who embodied her siblings’ traits asked, “Yeah, why Julian? I’ve only met like three people who don’t live in this house. She’s new.”

Julian replied, “It’s not that we don’t want you it’s just that we have a lot of emotional baggage and we need to be able to trust you completely.”

A brooding faerie glared under periwinkle locks, “I suggest we give her a test to assess her loyalty.”

Julian crossed him arms, “Kieran, loyalty takes time to build. You can’t just—”

“Okay. Here’s the test; Do you like lamps?”, queried a man with two-colored irises. One solid, the other metallic like the faerie’s. He practically bounced off the walls with his bubbly energy.

Becca decided to ignore the oddity of the question, “Lamps are nice. I like them.”

“That settles it. She’s a Blackthorn.”

Julian sighed, “Come on in, Becca.”

A girl volunteered, “Let me help you with that. I’m Livvy”, and grabbed the luggage.

Becca exclaimed, “Careful! I have precious cargo…” Mugs spilled from a hole in the pack. Twenty mugs along with a hundred tea bags. Eyes bored into her head.

A gray-eyed, obsidian-haired boy pondered, “Why are you smuggling tea of all things? There’s much more profit in the illegal drug industry. Unless… they’re vintage?”

Julian chided, “Ty! Don’t give her ideas.”

***

Becca was a bit embarrassed about her excessive mug collection but pride still filled her heart. And tea was currently filling her stomach. The warm cinnamon taste relieved her headache and near heat stroke. She thought, Why must California be so hot?

She missed her mundane family and friends in England. She had told them she was going to the U.S. to study. It was abrupt and questionable because she was so happy with her job and life but they wished her luck. She hoped she could go visit soon. Until then she was stuck in a room that lacked personality but it wasn’t all bad.

Earlier that day, Diana, the tutor had shown her around the place. Although, it didn’t keep the new shadowhunter from getting confused. She felt like leaving a trail of bread crumbs or more so—tea bags. Diana had also went through some training sessions—mental and physical— which left her bones and brain feeling like mush. She could hardly hold up her mug and sleep threatened to come but she wanted to stay up. To observe what vibes her new home gave off at night.

Here are the things she figured out during that day:

Everyone’s names

Everyone loves each other very much(almost frighteningly)

Mark is affiliated with multiple lamps?

Julian is the mom

Emma’s the fun uncle

Julian and Emma are in love with each other

Livvy, Kit, and Ty have a friend group together

Dru is slightly allergic to babysitting

Kieran has no idea what’s going on

Tavvy is a pure soul

Cristina needs a hug

THE KITCHEN IS THE MOST IMPORTANT PIECE OF INFRASTRUCTURE IN THIS HOUSEHOLD(as mentioned by Julian. He didn’t yell it but the undertone was clear)

Diana seems to be the only one with complete sanity(although with these kids it might disappear soon)

You may think that’s a lot to find out but Becca knew it was just the tip of the iceberg. She dozed off during dusk and awoke to yelling two hours later. She almost put on her gear until she realized the yelling sounded as if it came from arguing children. From the kitchen! The same kitchen where she kept her mugs. She scurried downstairs and took in the scene.

There was a cake, except it was now frosting-down on the floor. Livvy and Dru were going at it. They both claimed the other dropped the cake and Julian was trying to reason with the two. Kit and Ty were off in a corner, immersed in a card game that Ty was definitely winning. Cristina attempted to read a book but couldn’t stop herself from sneaking peeks at the drama. Diana simply gave everyone the “I taught you better than this” scowl. Then she saw it. Her mugs lay despairingly on the floor. She could see the cracks from a mile away. Kieran’s hair was cobalt as he was extremely annoyed. He stalked off outside.

In fact, everybody was annoyed. “What happened?”, Becca asked. She ran to her broken mugs.

Mark explained, “We made a cake to welcome you and apologize for our rudeness earlier. But one of the girls slipped over frosting and accidentally opened the cabinet leaving for a mug genocide. That action triggered another one of the girls to accidentally drop the cake. It was amazing but it’s gone now. Sorry, Rebecca.”

She glanced around the room as a chorus of “sorrys” was said. They were all sincere. Livvy and Dru calmed down; agreeing to share the blame. Becca left the kitchen with a million thoughts running through her mind. They destroyed my mug collection… but out of an act of friendship, she thought.

She went outside to take a breather. She met Kieran on the porch and queried, “How were you supposed to get back in if you can’t open the door?”

He stared at the stars and laughed without humor, “I guess I wasn’t going back in.”

“What’s got you so down?”

“I made up the idea and it backfired. You Nephilim can be so much sometimes.”

She didn’t answer.

“I’m sorry. I really am. I wanted this place to feel more warmer.”

She smiled, “This place is warmer. Partly because it’s California and partly because you are a really loving family.”

Kieran scanned her face, “How can you say that when we murdered your mugs?”

She grimaced at that thought but simply shook her head. “I can get new mugs. But I can’t replace memories. One day I’ll look back at this and laugh.”

Kieran nodded and gazed wistfully at the stars.

She sat next to him in one of those old-timey rocking chairs and decided to break the silence. “I feel as if I’m in a western film. All I need is a cowgirl hat and a southern accent. I’ve actually been working on one.”

Kieran raised a brow.

In an atrocious Southern accent she said, “There’s a snake in my boot.”

Both she and Kieran burst out laughing. Mark approached them, guffawing also. Between breaths he said, “That’s not a Western. That’s Toy Story.”

Becca mocked offense, “Are you telling me that you deny the existence of the most toy-based, action-packed, Western, Space-thriller animation ever created?”

Smugly he retorted, “Well maybe I am.”

Kit called from inside, “You’re both a disgrace to Disney!”

It only made the three go into another fit of laughter. When it finally died down, Mark handed Rebecca an unbroken mug, salvaged from the wreckage, full of hot, cinnamon tea. In the cool air her heart swelled and Kieran had a small smile play on his face.

Before she could thank him, Mark added, “Emma went to buy some donuts to make up for the cake. Again, we apologize.”

She exclaimed, “Well quit apologizing! What’s done is done. I’ll get over it.”

His eyes widened, “So you’re not mad? You don’t want to leave?”

“Of course not. Tonight was entertaining. I’d like to see more.”

Mark beamed and sat with the two. They talked that entire night, nothing too personal, just fun stuff. And when the donuts arrived you can bet that they let Becca have the first pick.

“What a marvelous excuse to eat junk food”, Julian teased.

Becca nudged him, “Marvelous indeed.”

But Diana constantly reminded that it wasn’t an everyday thing but she too wouldn’t miss out on the sugary deliciousness that was donuts.

[doomedandstoned]

Elder Druid, Barbarian Hermit, Satlan, and Slowbro Play Coventry

~By Reek of STOOM~

Photos by Luke Orchard

Friday, November 29th, at The Phoenix in Coventry, England

On the coldest night of the year so far, we ventured into the frost and made our way to the well-renowned Phoenix venue in the heart of Coventry to witness a four-band spectacle organised by Heathen Mirth Promotions out of London, UK. The venue itself is impressive and inviting: traditional pub downstairs with the live area above and an expansive beer garden.

SLOWBRO

Split (With Those Amongst Us Are Wolves) by Slowbro

First up on the bill were SLOWBRO, a three-piece local band who I hadn't encountered before and who surprised us with their dexterity and musicianship: A Stoner/Doom/Progressive crossover with heaps of energy and enthusiasm that won over the small but rapidly-filling room. After their set, I caught up with the members, James, Sam and Zeke for a quick chat.

Hi guys, you're new to the Doomed & Stoned radar, please tell us a little about yourselves.

Sam (guitars): "Well, James & I knew each other from the area and we both had guitars gathering dust in our rooms, so we decided to do something with them. We met up in a practice room once every two months or so, found a slot on a gig, came up with a name and just took it from there."

James (guitars) pipes in: "People started asking us to come back. We kept telling them no, but..." and laughs.

So why have you kept such a low profile on social media?

Zeke (drums) replied: "These guys just like to go abroad for three years or so" and laughs. "We're not trying to be the next big thing, just going about it and seeing what happens".

You had a split release out last year. Are there any other releases?

Sam: "Yes we had a full album out in 2018 called 'Nothings,' recorded locally and released on a small local label Creature Lab Records."

Are you signed to a label now?

James: "We're not tied to anyone long-term yet, we're just hoping to make our next album and see if it gets any interest."

Looking ahead to 2020, what plans do you have?

Zeke: "To play outside Coventry."

James: "We want to get our next album recorded - just get back into the studio and put down all the new stuff we've been working on."

You really impressed me with your style, Who are your influences?

Sam: "Sleep, Kyuss, Electric Wizard, first 2 Black Sabbath albums.." James interjects; "Christina Aguilera" and the three of them collapse, laughing. "Old School riffing, classic stuff, you know?"

What's your long-term ambition?

James: "Just to give people something good to listen to and get them to come out and see us."

Final question: What was the last piece of equipment you had to kick to get working again?

Sam creases: "The amp we borrow from Steven Bennett for every gig. We DO take care of it, honest!"

James: "We want to thank you and Doomed and Stoned for all your support. It means a lot."

No problem guys, thanks for talking to me and good luck for next year.

SATLAN

Next up on the bill were SATLAN, a four-piece outfit based in London and fronted by erstwhile Dead Witches vocalist Soozi Chameleone. The band are seriously tight and their drummer is a superstar. Soozi herself was having an off night, but still delivered a powerful performance despite not feeling at her best. Musically, a combination of Dead Witches and Alunah in style, but Satlan have a distinct Sabbath-esque motif generated by guitarist Roy Nadel. I caught up with Roy and bassist Alex after the set.

Firstly, the name Satlan, where did that come from?

Roy: "It's actually Hebrew slang for 'Stoner', someone who is too lazy - it fits our style."

Are you originally an Israeli band?

Alex: "No, we're from all over the place. Roy is Israeli, I'm Russian and Jake (drums) is Malaysian. We all got together in London and just started jamming, so we're an International mix. Roy and I have known each other since we were 16, playing in various bands together in Israel's Punk scene - Roy was actually a drummer in one of our bands! Our current drummer, Jake we found playing in thrash metal band THE BLEEDING and we knew straight away we wanted to work with him. I remember saying I wanna work with this guy!"

Do you have any recordings planned in the near future?

Roy: "We've just recorded an album. it's in the mixing stage right now and it'll be ready sometime in the next couple of months. We also have a gig with Church of the Cosmic Skull coming up in February and we're planning a UK tour, including a few dates in Scotland around April."

Final question: what was the last thing you kicked to get working?

Alex: "My cat." They both laugh.

Roy: "No animals were harmed really - we both have cats and we love them."

BARBARIAN HERMIT

Solitude And Savagery by Barbarian Hermit

BARBARIAN HERMIT are no strangers to us, having been included on our recent England compilation. Manchester's finest took to the stage around 10pm and proceeded to blast the eardrums out of the room with their signature Stoner/Sludge crossover. Compelling frontman Ed Campbell is a madman on stage and the most heroic poser since Bruce Dickinson! The dual guitar assaults from Mike 'Big Daddy Reeg' Reagan and Rob 'Spadge Fafner' Sutcliffe are ferocious and tighter than drainpipe jeans. After a blinding set, I caught up with the lads in the pub's pool room.

Thanks for attending the interview, tell me - how did you hear about the job?

Ed: "Well we had an email from a guy saying he was gonna pay us from a Somali bank account if we played. He said he wasn't a pirate. Seriously though, Heathen Mirth Promotions got us onto this and we've really enjoyed sharing a stage with everybody."

Since the Doomed and Stoned in England appearance, what's been happening?

Mike: "We opened for Bloodstock during the summer, that was a great laugh and we had a mini-tour in Edinburgh, Carlisle and the north with Widows and Drudge in October, then joined up with this lot for the dates we're doing now."

You guys have a new release coming out soon and a new tour next year. In hindsight, is there anything you'd have changed about the process?

Rob: "Phew, fair question that. Working on the details, in a studio when you've got a deadline in the studio and label commitments like "How's it sounding?" and y'know, general pressure to get it finished; it's all in those final little details."

Ed: "At the same time we did some of our greatest work under pressure. My personal favourite on the album is the one we put together right at the last minute, well, not the LAST minute but near."

It's normally always the way. When the pressure's on, some bands do their best stuff.

Mike: "We find that even though been playing these songs for about a year, you pick up little things and think, “Wish I'd done it like that instead,” but it's been great to get people in like Ten Foot Wizard and Boss Keloid to help us out."

ELDER DRUID

Golgotha by Elder Druid

At just after 11pm the monstrous apparition called ELDER DRUID took to the stage and detonated. Massive waves of Doom flood out from the barely-intact cabs as frontman Greg conjures spooky sounds from the Theremin, ghosting over a sea of intense riffing. Mass worship ensued as the congregation got down and dirty at the Druid's altar, the dual guitar assault of Jake and Mikey crushing everything in its wake.

Devastatingly heavy, Elder Druid came to preach The Old Religion and the flock lapped it up like manna from the heavens...pure class! I caught up with them before their set:

Good evening gentlemen. First question: what brought you to Coventry on a freezing cold night?

Greg: "Soozi from Heathen Mirth contacted us and got us onto the bill. We played a different venue last time we were in Coventry, but we heard that The Phoenix was the #1 place so we just had to be here."

Moving on to the new album. You're in the finishing stages now and it's due for release on 17th January. How have you found the recording?

Jake: "Yeah it's been great. Last time we had an engineer record and mix us but this time we've done it entirely by ourselves so it's good to have that freedom so we can get everything organised properly before we went in to record. you get to do it on your own timescale. Then it's good having the time to get all the details together, tinkering as it were."

There's a danger of "over-tinkering," though. Did you fall foul of it?

Mikey: "100% yeah, there is risk of being too critical, but I think we got it right this time. There's a few surprises on the album, Electric Piano and the Theremin to name a couple."

Is there anything you would have changed given the chance?

Greg: "The whole band" and laughs.

Dale (bass): "Better equipment would be nice. When you have the best gear etc it makes a big difference to the sound and inevitably it would be nicer to work with, but what's come out the other end we're really happy with it."

You can always ask Slomatics if you could borrow some of theirs?

Mikey: "Yeah, like can we borrow a riff off you please?" they all crack up.

What's the plan for 2020?

Brien (drums): "The launch day gig will be @ Voodoo in Belfast on the 17th Jan and the day after @ Fibber McGee's in Dublin then we're playing a festival in May over in Antrim, then we're heading over to play at Stonebaked Festival in Leeds, (Formerly BOOM fest) which we're really up for."

What was the last piece of equipment you had to kick to get working?

Mikey: "Greg."

Jake: "Funny you should say that...one of the amps blew up last night, but I managed to sell it on eBay." (laughs)

Any message for the fans?

Brien: "We don't have fans."

Greg:" Anyone out there who likes what we do, thank you!"

Thanks guys, it's been a pleasure!

Jake: "Thank you and thanks to Billy and Doomed and Stoned for looking after us."

[zrtranscripts]

Season 6, Mission 36: Old Friends 4 Sale

In the halls of Valhalla

SAM YAO: Janine, Five's been running through that abandoned city for... well, I haven't kept notes, but for ages. There is literally no one else there. Are we sure we're going in the right direction?

JANINE DE LUCA: As certain as we can be, Mr. Yao. Three residents of Abel suffer from Moonchild syndrome. They have listened to the Ministry broadcasts for us. They say this is where she's telling Runner Five to go.

SAM YAO: Hmm. Yeah. It's a bit weird, this, isn't it? Trying to navigate using subliminal messages sent to someone else. Although - good news, Five - those broadcasts are apparently at max strength, and still no Moonchild in your head. Freddie from sewage says she's got a horrible headache from the broadcast, so you're lucky.

JANINE DE LUCA: Whether it was Kytan's treatment or Moonchild's own decision, the things you've done seem to have worked, Runner Five. You will remain in full control during this operation. But the Minister must think that Moonchild is controlling you. We will remain in contact via your concealed earpiece. The Minister is calling you to that large concrete tower.

SAM YAO: Ah, that one that looks like an ominous, splintered devil church. Yeah, well, to be fair, it looked like that before the apocalypse, too. Brutalist architecture for the fail. Still, not the most fun place to be heading to in the middle of the night.

[speaker squeals]

SIGRID HAKKINEN: Moonchild, so good to see you again. I've placed a red light in the tower. Come home to me. As soon as you're here, we can talk.

SAM YAO: Mm, yeah. Surely she means, "I can monologue at you." Yeah, just a sec. There's no chance she could have put together one of those helmet things that let Moonchild print out thoughts onto a Telex, is there?

JANINE DE LUCA: There's some chance.

SAM YAO: Well, what will Five do then?

JANINE DE LUCA: We'll improvise! Keep going, Five. You can't miss this appointment.

JANINE DE LUCA: Good news for you as you run, Runner Five. Miss McShell is even now working in her lab, replicating the cure, so that we can fight back against the Minister. Her annihilation plans involved bringing her army to Abel through zombie territory. We will now be able to fight back in that very territory.

SAM YAO: Right. Okay, and re: what Sigrid has in store for you, Five, I've talked to Kytan. He says some woman who called herself Voltatronamic nicked off with one of his modified helmets a few days ago. Kytan... Kytan didn't tell anyone about it because he wanted her to learn about the consequences of her actions.

JANINE DE LUCA: The consequences of her actions are probably that the Minister gave her some vials of the cure.

SAM YAO: Yeah, and... [sighs] whatever Sigrid's going to do the Runner Five now. Oh, look. A concrete door in the dark shadows of that Cthulu temple is slowly swinging open. That is not a pleasant sound.

[concrete scrapes]

SIGRID HAKKINEN: Moonchild, welcome. I've waited for this moment for a long time.

JANINE DE LUCA: Five, remember, you have smoke bombs and trank darts. The Minister thinks you're in her power. Her guard will be down. We must learn what we can from her, and you might find a good opportunity for assassination. But above all, leave as soon as you feel unsafe.

SAM YAO: [laughs] To be honest, if I were Five, I'd feel really unsafe right now, but yeah. I guess she's not going to hurt you if she wants to use you.

SIGRID HAKKINEN: It's always been you I wanted, Moonchild. Five is just the vessel.

SAM YAO: Oh. Or that.

SIGRID HAKKINEN: Moonchild, I can see you in Five's eyes. But I need to test your control. Run with me now. If you're still in charge of that body after a run, we'll know you're secure.

JANINE DE LUCA: Run with her, Five. You can do this.

SAM YAO: Oh man, this place is sinister. All those high-ceiling rooms with chinks of light filtering through, and... what are those? Glass cases?

SIGRID HAKKINEN: Look around. This is my museum. A museum to the decadent world we worked together to overturn.

SAM YAO: She's got like, Hello Kitty stuff and McDonald's wrappers in glass cases. What is this for?

SIGRID HAKKINEN: In the future, people might look back at the technology of the pre-apocalypse era and think it was a golden age. That's why this place will be needed. Look, the rampant commercialism of the past laid bare. The 20th and 21st centuries. War and impulse shopping, environmental destruction and beach body diets. Reality TV, where a few poor people competed for trinkets while the elites brayed.

SAM YAO: I mean, fine. Yes, those things were awful. But that wasn't all we had! There was joy, and compassion. We had like, Steven Universe, and Buffy the Vampire Slayer, and Curly Wurlies!

JANINE DE LUCA: And not strong-arming women into getting pregnant to produce anti-zombie serum.

SAM YAO: Yes! And also that. I really miss that.

SIGRID HAKKINEN: Whoever controls history controls the future, Moonchild. I can hardly wait to hear your voice again. I've got something to show you. Come with me, quickly. The sooner the procedure is started, the sooner we'll be done.

SAM YAO: Her voice? The procedure?

JANINE DE LUCA: The only way to find out is to follow. Run with her, Five.

SIGRID HAKKINEN: I've been buying up resources and expertise everywhere I could find it. First, we have this.

SAM YAO: Right. Yup. As we thought, that's the same thing Kytan's people cobbled together from those games consoles. With, yup, the thing she had in that lab in the ship.

JANINE DE LUCA: It won't work, but if Sigrid thinks you're under Moonchild's control, Five, she'll simply presume her equipment has malfunctioned.

SIGRID HAKKINEN: We're alone. Stand here, Moonchild. Let me crown you with glory. Of course, this is the acid test. I know you're in there, Moonchild, but you must be in control. If this works, my dear, I'm going to bring you back. You will take over Five's body. It will be your body. It's going to be a glorious resurrection.

Of course, if this doesn't work, I can't have Runner Five wandering around with the information you have on me. So I'll have to shoot this vessel in the head. [laughs] It is going to work, isn't it?

[signal pulses]

There. Speak to me, Moonchild. There are speakers on the side of the helmet. They will read you. I know fine motor control is more difficult than large muscle groups, but this way, even if you don't have control of the vocal cords, I'll hear you. Moonchild... speak to me.

SAM YAO: Janine! What's the plan?

JANINE DE LUCA: Smoke bombs front and rear, Five. There's a service exit to your left leading to security tunnels.

[cloth rustles, gun clicks]

SIGRID HAKKINEN: Moonchild, speak to me now or return to Gaia, the Wakened Land!

MOONCHILD: Oh, I see. You need me now, do you, Five?

[speaker buzzes]

Took me a moment to get my chakras aligned there, Sigrid. Wonderful to see you. Your work here is incredible! And I can't wait to take over Runner Five's body. Please, show me more of this place, now. I have to see more, right now.

SIGRID HAKKINEN: I'll show you everything. I've missed you so much. Let's run!

SIGRID HAKKINEN: Look. Isn't it beautiful? It's a temple of the Wakened Land. Do you see down there in the atrium?

MOONCHILD: Oh my God, is that a statue of Professor Holloway? It's enormous! Where'd you even get it?

SIGRID HAKKINEN: Had it specially cast. They're coming tomorrow to fix him on his plinth. He's much more use to me as a cast iron figure than he ever was as a living, breathing man.

MOONCHILD: We killed him together, I remember.

SIGRID HAKKINEN: We did. You were always loyal. You knew the meaning of friendship. There have been so many people over the years, Moonchild. They didn't understand my project, but you did.

MOONCHILD: We wanted to make a new Earth.

SIGRID HAKKINEN: I still might be able to. Do you remember Fossey Head?

MOONCHILD: No.

SIGRID HAKKINEN: Oh yes, you did tell me this. Some of your memories would necessarily be fragmented by the transfer. I funded a geothermal well energy project on Fossey Head. My thought at the time was that that little island could become a model for the whole world of how to live in the new way. Fit, efficient, and strong as humans were meant to be. Clean up all the mess, start again.

SAM YAO: Have you ever noticed, Janine, how supervillains seem to split into neat freaks and "want to make lots of mess"?

JANINE DE LUCA: No. And please brush the crumbs off that battery pack. It's smoking.

SIGRID HAKKINEN: After I have excised that abscess in the flesh of England, Abel Township, I might set up a model community on Fossey Head, to demonstrate the right way of living.

MOONCHILD: And how can you destroy Abel? They're heavily armed.

SIGRID HAKKINEN: Oh yes. And fortunately, Runner Five's retina scan will get me into that very useful armory, after we raze the place to the ground. No, no, Abel's destruction is already in place.

MOONCHILD: I'd love you to tell me about it.

SIGRID HAKKINEN: I'll do better. Come with me to the other side of the building. We might be in time to see them fruiting. Come on.

SIGRID HAKKINEN: See it?

MOONCHILD: I see a small organic mass hanging from a tree branch. It looks gelatinous.

SIGRID HAKKINEN: Beautiful, isn't it? The finest work of Xia-Hifa Biologics. Wait. Watch. It's about to fruit!

SAM YAO: Fruit? [mass squelches open] Oh, I see. Oh, because it's opening up, like fruit. That... well, that's not so bad.

JANINE DE LUCA: There's a cloud of microscopic flies in there, Mr. Yao. You can see them as a faint discoloration.

MOONCHILD: Those flies, they're infected with something?

SIGRID HAKKINEN: A fungus. If it lands on your skin, you're dead within 20 minutes. Funnily enough, it works even faster on zombies! Ha!

MOONCHILD: Wow. That is karmically not... I mean, that is precedented. And you've planted one of these fruiting bodies in Abel? On a tree?

SAM YAO: Find it! Burn it!

SIGRID HAKKINEN: Even better. The spheres will survive for months within a living person until the fruiting signal is given. I planted one inside Abel's mole, Selma, before I let her run.

SAM YAO: Oh God.

SIGRID HAKKINEN: Now, Moonchild. It's time for you to take over Runner Five's body forever. The device is just on the other side of the courtyard.

JANINE DE LUCA: We've learned enough. Five, smoke bombs. Get out of there.

MOONCHILD: No! No, I want to see what this is. 

Sure thing, Sigrid. Can't wait! Let's go.

JANINE DE LUCA: Runner Five, detonate your smoke bombs now.

MOONCHILD: I can't do that for you, Five. I've got something else I need.

SAM YAO: Five, this is not the time to let Moonchild take over. Come on, you can do this! Meditation!

MOONCHILD: Just stop there for a moment, Sigrid. By the statue of Professor Holloway. He was an incredible man, don't you think?

SIGRID HAKKINEN: Holloway? Yes, I suppose so. Like many, he didn't really understand the breadth of his own vision. It was for me to fulfill his plan.

MOONCHILD: You always said you'd help me really fulfill my potential.

SIGRID HAKKINEN: And we have. You have defeated death. As the child of the moon, you waned, and now you have waxed. Your control over Runner Five is perfect.

MOONCHILD: Yes. So perfect, I can do this!

[statue falls, SIGRID HAKKINEN shouts]

SAM YAO: Oh my God! Moonchild pushed that massive statue of Holloway over onto Sigrid!

SIGRID HAKKINEN: Moonchild, you must control Five! This isn't you!

MOONCHILD: It is me! I'm different now.

JANINE DE LUCA: Moonchild, if you're there, if you're in control, Runner Five's fourth tranquilizer dart, the one with the blue needle shield, is cyanide. Inject Sigrid now. Let this be over.

MOONCHILD: I think I might be a pascifist now, actually, Janine. I mean, reliving killing Holloway, that was bad. I can't believe what I did. Being part of Five has changed me. Five, we can get out of here, but I can't let you kill her.

SAM YAO: Well, then get out of there.

MOONCHILD: Good plan! And to be honest, controlling this body is exhausting! I quite enjoy being a passenger. It's very freeing. Besides, I had my time on Earth for good or ill. You take the wheel, Five.

SIGRID HAKKINEN: Moonchild! Don't leave me here.

MOONCHILD: I expect I'll see you again.

SAM YAO: Well, maybe. Five, we've found Selma. She's put herself into a hazmat suit. I think she wanted to wander off into the wilderness and get eaten by zoms, actually, but we stopped her. We can fix this, but you need to get back here now!

[robinhoodrevisited]

Triumphant Return

Nottingham Town. (All is quiet and the streets littered with dead bodies. At the castle, the few remaining castle guards stand their posts as the Sheriff walks down the main steps. The sound of hoofbeats can be heard approaching as a triumphant Prince John canters through the town, beaming. As the Prince enters the courtyard through the now raised portcullis, the Sheriff spreads his arms wide in welcome.) Sheriff: "Our saviour has returned!" Prince John: (Smiles brightly:) "My dearest Vaisey. (Dismounts his horse:) How could I ever have doubted you?" Sheriff: "Not at all, Sire. I only apologise that it took so long to accomplish." Prince John: (Playfully pokes the Sheriff on the chest:) "Glorious things happen to those who wait!" Sheriff: (Smiles:) "Indeed, sire." Prince John: (Looks back towards the town:) "Well, it looks like you've had fun?" Sheriff: "Some minor losses, I shall have to replenish the castle guards." Prince John: "No need, no need. I'm arranging for a permanent regiment from my own personal guard to stand a post here in Nottingham. (Turns back to Vaisey:) It is of course going to be England's new seat of power under my rule." Sheriff: (Bows slightly:) "Most gracious of you, sire." Prince John: "Nonsense. After what you've done for your country and your King, it's the very least I can do. Now tell me, is there anyone I should know about amongst the dead?" Sheriff: (Stands tall:) "Gisborne, killed him with my own hand." Prince John: "Excellent. And Hood? Also by your own hand?" Sheriff: "Ah, as much as I would like to claim that scalp... (The Prince's expression sours slightly:) I'm afraid that honour went to Lady Isabella." Prince John: (Brightens again:) "Really? By her own hand? (The Sheriff nods:) Wonderful! Where is the delightful girl, I must speak with her immediately!" Sheriff: (Turns slightly:) "Right this way, your highness." (The Prince turns at the sound of his soldiers arrival then heads into the castle. The Sheriff also takes in the mass of men arriving on horseback before joining the Prince inside.)

Sherwood Forest. (Sat reclined in the hollow of an old tree, Robin smiles up at Marian who cannot help but return it with one of her own.) Djaq: (Standing up:) "Remarkable. You can see the poison receding already." (Nyko, who is knelt beside Robin starts packing away his medical kit.) Nyko: (Gruffly:) "Your friend was lucky. The poisons in my collection are not to be trifled with." Robin: "Thank you again, Nyko. Without you I'd-" Nyko: "You'd be dead now. I have no doubt." (Marian and Robin exchange looks.) Marian: (Brightly:) "We're just lucky you were carrying the correct antidote." Nyko: "Luck has nothing to do with it. I always have every cure, remedy and antidote with me at all times." Djaq: "Not only that, but Nyko is immune to all the poisons in his collection." Robin: (Curious:) "How is that possible?" Nyko: "Courage and patience." (Nyko picks up his medical kit and walks away. Robin barely has time to brace himself before Marian throws herself on top of him. Djaq rolls her eyes and turns away from the jubilant couple.) Across the Way. (Gisborne grimaces as he tries to find a comfortable position in which to stand. Octavia observes him before speaking.) Octavia: "So we're just supposed to trust you now, is that it?" Gisborne: (Looks to her:) "You may think what you like, your Commander trusted me to guard the Princess for her." Octavia: "Lexa hasn't been my Commander since she banished Lincoln and put a kill order on his head. (Looks away:) Not that it matters now." Gisborne: "I'm sorry." Octavia: "What do you care?" Gisborne: "I don't I... (Bites his tongue, sighs and takes a beat:) I just know what it's like to lose someone you care about. To witness their last breath and have them die in your arms." Octavia: (Nods:) "The Gisborne I'd heard of cared only for himself and for power." Gisborne: "Love changes a person. Not just the love you feel for someone but the love they have for you." Octavia: "So you've gone soft. (Points to his wound:) How else would the Sheriff have got the drop on you unless you were weak?" Gisborne: "Softness and weakness are two different things. (Octavia scoffs:) The day I joined Robin's gang I remember seeing you and Lincoln together. That night I asked Marian about you both. She said that you were looking for a fresh start, a chance for a peaceful life." Octavia: "Yeah, well (Looking away:) as you said: Love changes a person." (She walks away leaving Gisborne alone with his thoughts.)

Deeper Into The Woods. (Indra and Marcus stand at the mouth of one of the tunnels dug by the Commander's troops.) Indra: (As the villagers pass them by:) "We dug these tunnels for our warriors. For strategic purposes." Marcus: "And today they're providing shelter from the Prince's men. He'll be at the castle by now. Soon Prince John will send his men to round up the people who stood against him." Indra: (Nods:) "There's more than enough room. These tunnels run the length and breadth of the forest." Marcus: "Good, the soldiers won't find us here, even if they knew where to look." Inside The Tunnel. (Clarke and Abby have been catching up on all the events that have happened since their separation.) Clarke: "And that's why I can't let John take the throne. It'd be the end for England and these people as we know it. We have to make a plan." Abby: "Wait a minute. Just let me look at you." Clarke: "Mom, we'll have plenty of time to catch up once I'm Queen." Abby: "Eleanor, you can't seriously be thinking about staying and ruling England." Clarke: "Of course I am. We don't have any other options." Abby: "You can come home with Marcus and I. Where you'll be safe and out of John's reach for good." Clarke: "I can't abandon my people, mother. (Hesitates:) And I can't allow the man who colluded in my father’s assassination to rule England either." Abby: (Frowns:) "Your father? I don't understand, Eleanor-" Clarke: "My name is Clarke, it’s who I am now. Dad was murdered at sea by allies of Prince John. The perpetrator confessed before he was silenced for good." (Abby gets to her feet and walks a few paces from Clarke. Pulling the chain she wears around her neck out from under her clothes, we see a wedding ring on the end of it.) Abby: (After a long silence:) "If what you say is true then it changes nothing." Clarke: "Mom-" Abby: "No, I already lost your father, I refuse to lose you as well." Clarke: "I will not run!" Marcus: (Stepping into the tunnel:) "Clarke's right, Abby. (Both women turn to look at him:) A man like John cannot become King. We have to stop him, whatever the cost." (Clarke nods her thanks as Abby looks between them, not happy with their decision.)

Nottingham Castle. (Blamire and Isabella stand on the edge of the remaining floor where the large bathing pool once was. Blamire bows his head in silent prayer for the lives of his lost men while Isabella cannot help but lament the loss of her beloved pool. Prince John, with goblet in hand stands beside her and looks down.) Prince John: "Such a tragedy. We shall have it fully restored of course, my dear." (Blamire raises his head and glowers at the pair of them.) Isabella: "Thank you, your highness. Perhaps you could clear something else up for me?" Prince John: "Anything, my dear." Isabella: (Glancing back at the Sheriff:) "Well before you arrived, the sticky subject of who the rightful Sheriff of Nottingham is came up again. And, as you're here, I was wondering if-" Prince John: (Finishing for her:) "I could decide who's to be Sheriff? Of course my dear. (Turns to look over to the man in black:) Vaisey shall be hence forth restored to his position as Sheriff of Nottingham. (As Isabella begins to protest:) For services to the crown that can never truly be paid in full." Sheriff: (Bows:) "Sire is too kind." Prince John: (Grins and turns back to Isabella:) "Besides, I have much more exciting things in mind for you my dear girl. (Offering his elbow:) Come along." (Isabella hesitantly places her hand through the crook of the Prince's arm and allows herself to be led from the room. The Sheriff meanwhile walks over to stand beside Blamire and peers below.) Sheriff: (Grimacing:) "Nasty. (Straightens:) Oh well, one can't grieve forever. Assemble the remaining castle guards to begin clearing away the dead." Blamire: (As the Sheriff turns to leave:) "My lord?" Sheriff: "Yes, Blamire?" Blamire: "How shall we go about replacing your army?" Sheriff: "Ah, well with the King now dead the Black Knights purpose has been fulfilled. (Seeing that Blamire is not pleased with this answer.) I'll tell you what, the Prince is leaving a permanent regiment here in Nottingham, I shall speak to him and make sure you're at the head of it. Hows that, hm?" (The Sheriff leaves without waiting for an answer. Blamire gives his fallen comrades one last look before he too turns and leaves the room.)

Sherwood Forest. Tunnels. (Everyone is now gathered in the tunnels. Several campfires have been lit and everyone is discussion their next move.) Robin: "We’ll have to have two men patrols every two hours for as long as we stay here." Marcus: "I agree but we should be safe here." Will: "And why's that?" Marcus: "Because if the Prince's men tried to enter it'd be suicide. They’re much more likely to try and flush us out." Octavia: "If they find the tunnels to begin with." Marian: "Well can we agree that neither Robin or Guy are a part of these patrols?" Robin: "Marian-" Clarke: (Cutting In:) "She's right, Robin. As far as the Sheriff knows both of you are dead. We need the Prince to believe that for as long as possible." Robin: "I won't sit here and do nothing." Marian: "You won't be. Stopping Prince John from becoming King won’t be easy." Marcus: (To Clarke:) "Which is why, for the time being, you're staying hidden too." Clarke: (Nods:) "He'll definitely have men out searching for me. My uncle won't return to London without me under his control." Allan: "I'm not being funny but, what chance do we have? The King's dead and Prince John is in the castle surrounded by an army." Marian: "We don't know for certain that the King is dead. In fact we only have the Sheriff's word that he's even injured." Allan: "Well something’s keeping him from returning isn’t it?" Clarke: "Dead or not, after last time the Archbishop won't coronate John without a body and even then there's no guarantee he'll do it. We have time, there's still-" Gisborne: (From across the way:) "There's still hundreds of the Prince's forces out there. Castle guards and the Sheriff's army was one thing. The Prince is sure to be riding in at the head of an army three times the size of the one Blamire commanded." (Octavia turns to look over her shoulder at Gisborne at the mention of Blamire's name.) Marian: "Not necessarily, I mean John's army were battling Joan's army just days ago." Robin: "But they still defeated her. Gisborne's right, Marian. The numbers just aren't in our favour." Clarke: "No, but the element of surprise is. If we plan this right I just know we've still got a chance." (Everyone looks around, no one is optimistic.) Djaq: "Robin, what about the villagers? Surely we can't expect them to stay here with us?" Robin: (Shakes his head:) "No. Vaisey as good as said he needs the villagers going forward. If we sneak them out in small groups gradually then they can all return to their villages. With Gisborne and I presumed dead I can only hope the Sheriff's mind will have turned to other things. We need Nottingham to return to as close to normal as possible for our plan to work." Marian: "So you do have a plan then?" Robin: (Stares into the fire, smirking:) "The beginnings of one, yes."

[lady-divine-writes]

Kurtbastian fic - “More than a Tease” (Rated T)

When Quinn takes Kurt to a theme Halloween party, he gets the chance to "face his fear". Since he can't think of one, he writes that his fear is spending an evening alone with Sebastian Smythe. It's a safe thing to say. No one has seen Sebastian since graduation, so there's no fear for Kurt to face.

Kurt has no clue that they'd actually be able to find him. (6481 words)

Written for the @kurtoberfest prompt ‘nightmare’. Warning for mention of B*laine, angst, anxiety, mention of sexual situations, and not particularly Quinn or Rachel friendly.

Read on AO3.

“Soooo, where are we going?” Kurt asks, speed-walking beside Quinn as she leads him past a handful of frat parties already in progress. It’s only going on nine o’clock in the evening, but a bunch of these parties look like they’ve gotten out of hand. Kurt and Quinn have walked by houses with one or more people hanging out of windows, one where a young man was attempting to ski off the roof, and another where a handful of drunk sorority sisters were targeting passersby with shaving cream filled balloons. Seeing as Kurt has personal experience with a variation of one of those – an experience that still haunts him - the further down the line they go, the more anxious he becomes.

“You’ll see,” she says with a self-satisfied quirk to her prim lips. She’s been keeping her answers short and sweet, not giving away a thing.

And it’s peeving Kurt off big time.

When Kurt had decided to accept Quinn’s invitation for a visit to Yale, Halloween weekend was the only time he could get off work. And that was fine. Aside from the prospect of attending the annual costume contest at Callbacks, then getting pelted by eggs on the way home, he had nothing exciting planned. Actually, considering everything that had been going on in his life lately, he’d hoped the change of pace would do him good. He knew that Quinn lived on campus, and that campus life was an alternate universe compared to what he had going for him right now – sharing a loft in Bushwick with Rachel and commuting daily to NYADA – but he definitely had a different idea of what they would be doing. As far as he knew, the students at Yale were the “cream of the crop”. The way his high school guidance counselor talked about Yale, Kurt got the impression that the school teemed with the blue blooded teenagers of America. He figured they’d spend the night handing out candy to the tiny hobgoblins of the New England elite, then maybe go to some upscale party, probably masquerade in nature, where lavish costumes a la the movie Dangerous Liaisons were required.

He didn’t think that what they’d actually be doing was crashing a kegger.

“Well, you didn’t have us get dressed in costume,” Kurt points out, his comment laced with disappointment, “so … oh please tell me we’re not going to one of those Christian redemption house things! Where they try to scare you straight with re-enactments of abortions and drug overdoses!”

“No, it’s nothing like that,” she says, having the nerve to laugh. “Who do you think I am?”

“But is it a haunted house?” Kurt asks, because he isn’t too keen on those either. He never understood the appeal of going somewhere just to get scared out of your wits. Plus, a lot of the more adult aimed haunted houses tend to be “interactive”. He swears, if someone dressed as a ghoul or a zombie gropes him in the dark, he’s reaching for his pepper spray. He doesn’t care what kind of trouble he gets into. But more worrying than that, he doesn’t want to risk getting fake blood on his jeans. That stuff never comes out.

“It’s going to be scary,” Quinn reveals, “just on a different scale.”

“Oh, God,” Kurt groans. “We’re going to do math homework. Or physics. That’s how you smart kids get your kicks, isn’t it? There’s a reason why I didn’t apply to Yale, Quinn!”

“Come along, Kurt.” She grabs his arm and pulls him along, and ow! How did he not realize before now how remarkably strong she is for her stature? “Keep moving. You’re going to enjoy yourself, I promise. And besides, it’s for charity.”

She sings that last part like it’s some huge selling point, but now that Kurt’s out of high school and no longer needs to find ways to pad his college application, he’s become a little less charitable, especially when he needs to pay rent and feed himself on a waiter’s salary.

They make their way to the end of the block, to a house that isn’t as gorily decorated as the others, and where the music is being blasted at a surprisingly reasonable level. There’s no one hanging out of the windows, no couples going at it on the front lawn, no one chucking stuff at them from off the roof.

Kurt approves.

Well, this seems okay, Kurt says to himself, thinking that maybe he should have put more trust in Quinn. This party does look to be more his speed.

“Hey, Peg!” Quinn waves at the smiling strawberry blonde standing by the open front door, greeting guests as they enter.

“Hey, Quinn!” The girl’s green eyes light up when she sees them. “I’m so glad you could make it! Who’s your friend?”

“This” - Quinn shoves Kurt forward one-handed. When did she switch from cheerleading to wrestling? - “is Kurt Hummel. He’s a friend of mine from Lima.”

“Hey.” Kurt waves uncomfortable, almost nose to nose with the girl at the door when Quinn pushes him ahead.

“Hey, Kurt.” Peg giggles, bouncing on her feet. She can’t seem to stand still for longer than three seconds at a time. She’s either really excited about the party, Kurt decides, or she’s dipped into the bowl of candy by her side one too many times.

“Why don’t you tell us what’s going on here tonight?” Quinn prompts Peg to give them a “spiel”, and Kurt gets the vague suspicion that he’s been set-up. From a quick glimpse inside, Kurt doesn’t see anyone dressed as ghouls or zombies. It doesn’t even look like anyone’s getting drunk, so that only leaves one other possibility.

They are doing something educational! Quinn! You fiend!

“Okay!” Peg claps her hands together and plants herself on her heels, and Kurt figures out the reason for her undying perkiness.

She’s a cheerleader.

“Well, the theme of tonight’s party is Face Your Fears.” Peg introduces it in a spooky voice and using spirit fingers, as if that’s going to terrify him. This girl is five foot nothing and probably 100 pounds soaking wet. “So, we’re inviting our guests to face their fears.” She thrusts specially printed name tags their way. They’re white with a bloody outline dripping in to the writing space. On the top, printed in black letters (Comic Sans, Kurt notices, and quietly judges), are the words, “My nightmare is …”

“We ask that people keep them small, you know,” Peg says. “Things you can work on locally, and tonight, if possible. Though if you’re afraid of bugs, we have a gentleman here all the way from the Museum of Natural History who’s offered to take four lucky students to the Entomology department to try and work on that. And if you’re afraid of heights, we’re having a drawing later to win a bungee jump adventure for two hosted by Luxergy.”

“Wow.” Kurt’s moderately impressed. “That’s kind of awesome. But, I’m not afraid of bugs. Or heights.”

Her left shoulder pops up in a shrug. “I’m sure you can come up with something.”

“Come on.” Quinn elbows Kurt in the side. “You came all this way. Give it a go. Write something down.”

“Yeah, yeah, alright.” Kurt bats her arm away. “Keep your angular elbows to yourself.”

Kurt looks at the bloody paper, the space inside blank as his mind has gone. He has no idea what to write. He’s only had a handful of fears. A lot of the ones he lived with growing up, he’s conquered – not having the courage to be himself, not having the strength to stand up to bullies, not getting into the college of his choice, not being able to make it on his own.

But his real fears aren’t things he can work on here, at a frat party. They’re things he may never be able to overcome.

That he could have done something to keep his mom from dying, even though he can’t imagine how.

That he’ll never make it on Broadway, no matter how hard he tries.

That Santana was right and Blaine really did move on with Dave because he was tired of him.

Everything else isn’t exactly a fear, per se. Not of nightmare proportions. More like a series of mild apprehensions, daunting though they are. But he isn’t going to open up about them, not at a Halloween party, so he puts down the first stupid thing that pops into his head. Under the heading, “My nightmare is …” Kurt writes, “spending an evening alone with Sebastian Smythe.”

Yeah, Kurt thinks, that works. Not only is it kind of true (he had once or twice wondered what might happen if the two of them ever found themselves at The Lima Bean alone together, or in the bathroom at Scandals), but good luck tracking him down. Last Kurt heard, after Sebastian graduated from Dalton, an hour later, he hopped on the first plane to Paris.

Goodbye, good riddance.

Kurt peels his name tag off its backing and carefully places it on his shirt. He watches Quinn deliberate over her own name tag, ready to poke fun at her for taking too long, when a voice in the crowd calls out, “Quinny! Hey! Quinny!”

“Quinny?” Kurt jeers, but Quinn doesn’t seem to mind the nickname. Kurt watches her pensive expression completely transform. She bites her lower lip, her cheeks pink, and a grin the size of the Holland Tunnel spreads across her face, and Kurt begins to suspect why they’re really here.

Charity, his ass!

“Hey, Quinny!” The man bounds out from the mass of people - literally jumps out of the crowd - landing so close to Kurt, he has to take a step back so as not to get tackled to the ground.

“Hey, Glenn,” Quinn says with a bat of her eyes, putting the man, panting like a puppy, out of his misery. “What’s up?”

“Not much. I’m glad you could make it. I was afraid you weren’t going to show.”

“Well, we had a few other things to do, but we managed to find time to fit you guys in.”

A few other things? Kurt scoffs silently. They’d been sitting in her room watching old show choir videos before they decided to head out, and then came straight here!

“So, have you guys had a chance to finish your name tags?”

“I haven’t,” Quinn says. “But Kurt has.”

“Oh, yeah?” Glenn’s blue eyes zero in on Kurt, glaring for a second, but he seems to determine that Kurt is no threat to him getting with Quinn, and he smiles. “Let me see!”

Glenn reaches for Kurt. Kurt nearly slaps Glenn when he grabs his shirt to take a look at his tag.

“My nightmare is spending an evening alone with Sebastian Smythe.” Glenn chuckles, but his brow wrinkles. “Wait a minute?” Kurt sees Glenn mouth the sentence, trying to put something together. “Aren’t you guys from Ohio?”

“Yeah …” Kurt looks at Quinn, who looks back at him with a confused look on her face.

“Oh, ho!” Glenn crows. “You can’t mean … yo!” Glenn turns to the crowd, cupping a hand to the side of his mouth to help his voice carry. “Seb! Sebastian Smythe! Come here, man!”

“What!?” Kurt’s heart slams to a stop. He feels his insides frost over like the Auglaize River in the dead of winter. “Wait, wait, wait ...” Kurt grabs Glenn by the arm. “No. You don’t mean … Sebastian Smythe goes to Yale?”

“Duh. He’s one of my best bros.” Glenn smiles like a jackal, the way any close friend of Sebastian’s would by default.

Kurt releases Glenn’s arm as if it had suddenly burst into flames and turns on his friend.

“Lucy Quinn Fabray!” Kurt growls. “You did not tell me that Sebastian Smythe attends Yale!”

“I didn’t know!” She laughs nervously. “It’s a big school. You could have been going here and I probably wouldn’t have known unless you outright told me.”

“What is it, Glenn?” a familiar voice - a voice Kurt had never planned on hearing again - calls above the crowd. As it comes closer, Kurt considers ducking into the group of men playing beer pong to the left of them, but he doesn’t commit to that decision quick enough. A pair of green eyes hones in on him. The smile that follows is sly, but surprisingly less predatory than Glenn’s. “Hey! Princess Hummel!” When Kurt finally sees Sebastian’s face, he looks the same as the Sebastian that Kurt remembers, minus the mile-high hair and the overly confident, conniving grin. This Sebastian has a semi-shaved head, and a more mellow demeanor. Whether it’s because he’s slightly tipsy or just slightly changed, Kurt doesn’t know. “You go here?”

“No,” Kurt replies sharply. He decides to stick to one word answers. It seems safer that way.

“Oh, yeah. That’s right. You’re going to that performing arts school. Uh …” Sebastian snaps his fingers, trying to remember the name.

“NYADA,” Kurt supplies when Sebastian’s absently snapping fingers creep closer to his face.

“That’s right. NYADA.” He points, signifying the end of his guessing with his fingernail dangerously close to Kurt’s nose. Sebastian looks around. He peeks over Kurt’s shoulder, then looks questioningly at Quinn. He scrunches his nose. “Aren’t you light about a buck sixty?”

“What?” Kurt glances down his body and puts a hand to his belly, assuming Sebastian is commenting on Kurt finally shedding his baby fat. It would be like Sebastian to pinpoint one of Kurt’s insecurities and find the need to remark about it.

“I think he’s talking about Blaine,” Quinn says helpfully.

“Oh,” Kurt says flatly, relieved, but then immediately offended again. Same diff. And of course Sebastian would be looking for Blaine. Blaine was a large part of Sebastian’s reason for loathing Kurt. Kurt wasn’t good enough for Blaine according to Sebastian, but Sebastian thought he was. “No. We’re not together anymore. I broke up with him.” Kurt adds that last part mainly so that Sebastian doesn’t get the idea that Blaine did the dumping, thus adding credibility to Sebastian’s previously held belief.

Sebastian makes an unexpectedly impressed face. “Good for you.” He punches Kurt lightly on the shoulder as if they’re friends. “I know that I kind of had the hots for him back in high school, but he really was kind of a one-trick pony. I always thought you could do so much better.”

Kurt’s jaw drops unceremoniously to his knees, but before Kurt has the chance to ask what Sebastian means by that, if he’s trying to be nice for once or if this is some new form of torment, Glenn cuts in.

“Hey, Smythe. Check out his name tag. Apparently his biggest fear is spending an evening alone with you.”

Kurt’s eyes bug out of his skull. He raises a hand to cover the tag. He had forgotten for a split second that he’d been wearing the damn thing. That the whole reason he was having this conversation with Sebastian was because of it. Jesus Christ! Couldn’t Kurt have thought up something else? Like Scottish fold kittens? Or cheesecake? If they were going to assault him with something they thought he was afraid of, he should have had the sense to pick something that would have worked in his favor.

“Is that so?” Sebastian coos at Kurt as if he’s fluffy and adorable, like the Scottish fold kitten Kurt should have said he’s afraid of. “Who knew I’d have such a lasting affect?” His eyes sparkle, too reminiscent of the way they did back in high school when he’d come up with some devious plan to manipulate the New Directions into doing whatever he wanted. But instead of getting angry at Sebastian the way Sebastian deserved, Kurt just wanted to get the hell out of there.

“It’s---it’s not that,” Kurt stammers while he considers burrowing into the floor beneath him. With the help of adrenaline, he’s pretty sure he can make it through the wood boards using brute hand strength. It’s the concrete foundation of the house that might prove a bit tricky. “It’s just …”

“So, Sebastian. You gonna help this poor guy out?” Glenn continues the conversation without the go ahead from Kurt, as if he’s on some sort of mission to get Kurt and Sebastian together.

“No!” Kurt yells before Sebastian can answer. “I don’t want to spend the night with him!”

Glenn shoots a look at Sebastian as if Kurt’s reaction just proved the existence of Kurt’s own made-up fear. Kurt wishes Quinn had taken them to a regular old haunted house. Being groped by zombies sounds much more fun than what’s going on presently. He turns pleading eyes on her, hoping for help, but he should have already guessed that he’d have no such luck.

“Come on, Kurt,” she prods with another elbow to his side. But she’s not looking at him. She’s trading goo-goo eyes with Glenn. “It’s for charity.”

But Kurt’s not buying it, and he’s insulted at being used as a flirtation device. “And how does that work exactly? You didn’t tell me to bring my wallet.”

“We operate through a special program called Fraternities for Change,” Glenn explains. “We turn our social status on campus into a power for good. For every person who participates …”

“A dude bro gets their wings?” Kurt finishes, unmoved by their efforts, no matter how sincere, as long as the outcome equals spend an evening alone with Sebastian Smythe.

“No. Our parent organization and the alumni have pledged a donation to the charity of our choice,” Sebastian pitches in. “My parents have promised to match what we make here tonight. A lot of the guys’ folks have.”

“And which charity is that?” Quinn asks, as if she doesn’t already know. Kurt crosses his arms, preparing to remain immune. He doesn’t care what tree-hugging, whale protecting, children feeding, grass roots organization this frat is cutting a check to, Kurt refuses to be a part of it.

“The ACLU.”

Kurt opens his mouth to object sarcastically, but he can’t since the ACLU is one of his all-time favorite organizations. If he was ever going to part with any of his own hard-earned cash in support of a cause, the ACLU would definitely be among his top 5, tied somewhere between the Born this Way Foundation and The Trevor Project.

Damn it.

Kurt sighs. How did a promising Halloween-slash-vacation turn into such a disaster?

Kurt looks from Glenn’s eager face, to Quinn’s superior smile, then finally to Sebastian’s amused but unassuming grin. So, this is what between a rock and a hard place looks like? Kurt thought he’d visited there many times before, but obviously not.

Strange that Sebastian’s expression should be the most sympathetic of the three. He’s the only person staring at Kurt who doesn’t seem to have a hidden agenda.

“Fine,” Kurt concedes. “I’ll do it.”

“Excellent.” Glenn rubs his hands together like an old timey villain. “So, whaddya say, Seb? Ready to help this nice young man conquer his biggest fear?”

“Absolutely.” Sebastian slaps a hand down on Kurt’s shoulder, fixing him with a devilish look to match Glenn’s. “Kurt Hummel? For one whole night, you are mine.”

“Great.” Kurt quickly makes a mental note to re-write his will … and scratch Quinn out of it. “I can’t wait.”

***

Kurt and Sebastian agree to meet at eight o’clock the following evening in Quinn’s room. She has a fairly large suite with a flat screen TV and its own kitchenette, enviable by dorm room standards. If NYADA offered rooms like this one at a price he could afford, Kurt would jump at it in a minute. Living in the loft, even with its massive amount of space, has begun to wear on him. It’s drafty in the winter, hot in the summer, the walls cry when it rains, and the neighborhood keeps him on edge. Besides, it would be nice to live closer to Vogue and to school. He could participate more with the happenings on campus, delve deeper into the college experience, make a few more friends than he has now.

Then maybe he’d have something better to do during his free time than to nurse Rachel’s ego.

Kurt has the room to himself since Quinn doesn’t have a roommate this semester. But also, to smooth the process along, Glenn asked Quinn out on a date, and Quinn accepted, solely for the purpose of helping Kurt out, of course. Kurt was astounded by Quinn’s behavior at the party. She seemed more than happy to toss Kurt to the wolves in an effort to get a date with this man.

What in the heck happened to her between high school and college? Where had their strong, independent, ex-Cheerio who didn’t need a man in her life go?

Well, whatever. One thing’s for certain - see if Kurt ever accepts one of her invitations to Connecticut again.  

The entire day, Kurt considers calling off his and Sebastian’s “date” (if it can be termed that; Kurt is hard pressed to give their arrangement a name), which would be difficult considering he told Sebastian where he was staying, but they didn’t exchange phone numbers or any other contact information. Maybe Kurt should consider not opening the door when Sebastian shows up. Or Kurt could just not be there. He could go down to the dining hall, take a trip to the mall.

Pack up his things and hop on the first train he can find back to New York.

But then there’s the fact that this is a golden (well, more like gold-plated) opportunity to get to know the man who made it his pastime to declare open season on Kurt’s self-esteem for half a year. Kurt had always wanted to know - out of sheer, morbid curiosity – what made Sebastian tick. It didn’t strike Kurt until he went from being apprehensive about Sebastian’s visit to nearly panic stricken that he didn’t know anything about the man other than he’s an ass.

The student body at Dalton spread numerous rumors about Sebastian (far and wide enough that they’d reached Kurt’s ears all the way in Lima) and what he’d been doing in France, including tales of bizarre sexual fetishes, orgies, drinking, and drugs. Then there were the stories of the heartbroken boys he’d conned out of their virginities, one who they claim Sebastian had won in a game of cards - because that kind of thing happens in France.

Kurt had also heard several stories concerning Sebastian’s father, that the man was controlling to the point of being emotionally abusive; that, as a state’s attorney, he was a heartless bastard, grooming his son to be a heartless bastard just like him in the hopes that Sebastian would someday follow in his footsteps.

Kurt had also heard somewhere that Sebastian’s father didn’t care one way or another what his son did as long as he got good grades and didn’t get arrested.

Kurt didn’t know if any of that was true, but here was his chance to get the scoop right from the horse’s mouth.

But did Kurt want it?

Sebastian had never given Kurt any indication that he was anything other than a self-centered asshole, and as Maya Angelou said, "When someone shows you who they are, believe them the first time." Kurt knows Sebastian apologized, and that everything should be water under the bridge. Blaine had accepted Sebastian’s apology with practically no convincing whatsoever, regardless of the incident with the rock salt Slushie and the damage to his eye, but it’s not that simple for Kurt.

Because Blaine wasn’t the one constantly being told he wasn’t good enough for his boyfriend.

Kurt was.

And Blaine wasn’t the one biting his tongue while his boyfriend texted someone who wasn’t only openly belligerent towards him, but vying for his boyfriend’s affection behind his back.

Kurt was.

Would Kurt be a hypocrite for not giving Sebastian a second chance? Kurt was willing to give Dave another chance, and Dave had physically abused him - tossed him into dumpsters, slammed him into lockers, threw Slushies in his face, threatened his life. Sebastian had never done anything along those lines to Kurt. Scheming and blackmailing shouldn’t be counted on the same level as physical assault. Technically, what Dave Karofsky did to Kurt was worse.

Still, there was something a bit more sinister to the way Sebastian bullied Kurt as opposed to the way Dave did. Dave went after Kurt daily, ruthlessly, and for years, but Kurt wasn’t Dave’s real issue. Kurt was an outlet.

Dave hated Kurt as an extension of hating himself. Dave needed help. He needed to be educated.

Sebastian, an out and proud gay teenager who had no problem revealing his sexual orientation to anyone, simply hated Kurt – period.

Kurt sighs. How did he let himself get stuck in this situation? He didn’t have to agree to their terms. He could just as easily have written them a check for $25 and called it a day. Why did he let himself get shoehorned into an evening with Sebastian? If Sebastian was the reformed guy he claimed to be, he would have accepted no for an answer.

Wouldn’t he have?

As the clock ticks closer to eight, Kurt clutches on to the only hope he has - Sebastian could decide not to show up. That’s an option. It could happen. Kurt was never Sebastian’s type anyway. Sebastian could have agreed to this to save face in front of a friend who put him on the spot, with no intention of ever following thru. It’s reasonable. It makes sense. And Kurt wouldn’t hold it against him.

Shave-and-a-haircut tapping on the door at the stroke of eight blows that hope out of the water.

Opening the door and seeing Sebastian standing in the hallway, carrying a backpack over one shoulder, finishes it off, driving it straight into its grave.

Kurt’s stomach drops to his knees.

“Hey,” Sebastian says.

“Hey.”

“Well. I’m here.” Sebastian rolls to the balls of his feet. He looks nervous. It’s kind of … dare Kurt think … cute?

“Yes, you are,” Kurt confirms, but he doesn’t move aside to let Sebastian in. Kurt’s not convinced that Sebastian means to stay. He never struck Kurt as a guy who’d keep his word in a situation that doesn’t directly benefit him.

Sebastian would get nothing out of coming here tonight, unless …

Sebastian doesn’t expect Kurt to sleep with him, does he?

Shit! Kurt hadn’t considered that. But if there is any truth to those Dalton rumors about Sebastian and his infamous one-night stands, it would fit his m.o. Kurt normally doesn’t give weight to rumors. He’s surrounded by too many. But if interning at Vogue has taught him anything about gossip, it’s that if different people repeatedly spread the same rumor, there might be a shred of truth to it.

And Kurt has heard the rumors about Sebastian’s sex-tracurricular activities from a variety of sources.

Including Blaine.

“So …” Sebastian says, waiting patiently for Kurt to do something – either let him in or slam the door in his face.

Kurt does neither.

He looks perpetually confused.

“So … what do we do now?” Kurt asks. He assumes Sebastian will say something like, “Nothing. I showed up. I fulfilled my end of this bargain. It’s been swell, but I have to jet.”

But he doesn’t.

“We agreed that you’re mine for one night.” Sebastian pulls his backpack off his shoulder and unzips it. “So I get to choose.” He opens his bag - a bag Kurt can only imagine is filled with ropes, handcuffs, and painful sex toys.

(Yup, Kurt’s imagination might be running away from him a tad.)

When Sebastian pulls out a fistful of jewel cases, Kurt rolls his eyes. Porn. Great. Couldn’t they stream that off the Internet and save Sebastian the trouble of lugging it around? Or are these vintage?

“Okay. Movie marathon time. I brought over Star Wars, Winter Soldier, The Matrix, and District 9.”

Kurt’s eyebrows shoot up at Sebastian’s movie selection. “Come again?”

“You heard me,” Sebastian says, weeding his way into the room. “Though I kind of have you pegged for a Winter Soldier man. I figure the whole Sebastian Stan smoky eye thing really gets you going.” Sebastian drops his backpack on the floor by Quinn’s futon and starts making himself at home, toeing off his sneakers and tossing off his jacket. The top of Sebastian’s backpack unzipped and hanging open, Kurt tries to sneak a peek at what else might be in there, what instruments of torture. The movies are a prelude, right? A vanilla, false sense of security before the salvo begins? “So, should I make some popcorn or something?”

“Oh, uh … I don’t think Quinn has any …”

“No probs. I brought some.” Sebastian swings back around and grabs his bag, making Kurt, who’d been concentrating on it a little too hard, jump. “I’ll pop it in the microwave, no pun intended, put on a movie … oh, and we can play cards.”

“Cards!?”

“Yeah. I brought an UNO deck. You do know how to play UNO, don’t you?”

“Yes, I do, but …”

“Great!” Sebastian tosses the deck Kurt’s way, chuckling when Kurt flails to catch it. “Let the fun begin!”

Four hours they spend watching movies and playing UNO, but they don’t really carry on a conversation. Sebastian tries. He talks about what he’s been doing since high school, his major in college, the last vacation he took, the last movie he saw. And Kurt listens, but he doesn’t ask questions, doesn’t offer any insights into his own life thus far. Kurt is sort of stunned by this, by him. He’ll acknowledge that, whatever Sebastian believes is going on between them, he’s making a concerted effort to be friendly, but Kurt can’t seem to reciprocate. Then Sebastian says something about Blaine, and Kurt tunes him out the way he usually does at the mention of that name.

Kurt can’t seem to get comfortable with the idea of Sebastian being there, of Sebastian being nice to him, of him and Sebastian having anything in common, which they do. Ironically, they do. Kurt can’t help seeing this whole evening as the precursor to something else, some insidious plot.

He’s waiting for the anvil to drop, because there has to be one hanging overhead somewhere where Sebastian is involved.

The credits roll on District 9 and Sebastian yawns. He rolls his shoulders back, which realigns his spine (evidenced by the loud cracking in his back). He glances down at his phone sitting by his right knee and honestly looks surprised. “Wow! It’s after midnight. Who would have guessed, huh?”

“Yeah,” Kurt agrees, nodding like a bobble head on the dash of a moving car. “I thought Quinn would be back by now, but …”

Sebastian mirrors Kurt’s space-filler nod, but when Kurt doesn’t complete his sentence, Sebastian sighs. It’s a sigh that sounds like Sebastian expected something more, but he’s come to the realization that he’s not going to get it. “Well, it’s getting late. I think I’m going to head out, if that’s alright by you.”

Kurt watches Sebastian collect his stuff, bewildered at how this night is ending. Kurt should feel relieved, right? He expected the worst case scenario, but he has to admit, he got one of the best.

Why does he feel so disappointed?

Maybe because the great Sebastian Smythe didn’t live up to Kurt’s adolescent expectations. He didn’t show up spewing vitriol, but he didn’t ply Kurt with lame pick-up lines or try to force himself on him, either.

What did Kurt want from Sebastian anyway?

“Wait …” Kurt follows Sebastian off the futon. “That’s … that’s it?”

“Yeah,” Sebastian says, buttoning up his jacket. “Why? What were you expecting?”

“I … I don’t know,” Kurt lies, because he sure as hell had a few ideas, some that almost had him searching Quinn’s medicine cabinet, praying he’d stumble across a prescription bottle of valium. Right before Sebastian showed up, some of those ideas involved whips, handcuffs, and cell phone videos Kurt would be paying his entire life not to have uploaded to the Internet. “I didn’t expect you to be a tremendous nerd, for one.”

“Hey” - Sebastian throws his backpack strap over his shoulder - “I’m a geek. Not a nerd. Learn your terminology before you try to insult me. Though ...” He waves a hand in front of his nose “… that cologne you seem to spray on everything did that first. And you said I bathe in CW.”

“Hold---hold on a second. I don’t …”

Sebastian stops at the door with Kurt trailing behind. “Don’t what? Don’t want me to leave. Awww, shucks. I didn’t think you’d be such a softie.”

“No, no, it’s not that. It’s just that I thought …”

“Yeah?” Sebastian raises an eyebrow. A hesitation passes between them. It starts with the expression on Sebastian’s face that stops Kurt’s confession in its tracks, because the way Sebastian is looking at Kurt leads Kurt to believe that the next sentence out of his mouth may hurt Sebastian’s feelings.

“Well, I thought … you were … going to make me have sex with you or something.”

From the way Sebastian’s smile dips, then slides up again, but only in one corner, Kurt knows he was right about hurting Sebastian’s feelings. That smirk is Sebastian’s first line of defense. He’s constructing a wall, and like a master brick layer, he’s had plenty of practice. “You thought I was going to come to your room and perpetrate sexual assault?”

“No,” Kurt answers quickly, horrified with himself for how terrible it sounds because, yes, that’s kind of exactly what he pictured. “I just thought … well, you kind of have a reputation.”

Sebastian’s smirk carves itself deeper into his face. “How do you know my reputation? You didn’t even know I was here.”

“But, that whole thing in high school with Blaine, constantly trying to tear us apart and stuff ...”

“That was high school, and I was kind of an insecure jerk. I’m big enough to admit that. I thought that maybe, of all people, you’d get that.” Sebastian looks down at his shoes, his eyes burning holes in the toes. “Do you think I don’t know how much of a bastard I was to you in high school?” Sebastian runs a hand through his hair, sorting through his thoughts for a better apology. “Well, I do. And I had no idea how in the world I’d be able to make that up to you. I thought you’d never really forgive me.”

“I did forgive you,” Kurt says, but it sounds about as believable as the time he tried to convince everybody that he was straight.

“No, you didn’t,” Sebastian says. “Blaine did, but not you. But after I found out that you forgave that hulking behemoth Dave after everything he did to you, I thought you’d be able to forgive me, too. That maybe we could start at the beginning and become friends, leave the drama of high school behind.” Sebastian sighs. He shakes his head. “You have no idea how hard I’ve tried to get away from Dalton, those rumors, and … and everything.”

Kurt feels like dirt because he does know. He knows exactly what it’s like to try and leave something behind you just to have it show up at your front door when you least expect it. Try as he might to leave Lima and McKinley to the past, they always seem to find a way to drop in on him and scramble his life around, usually in the form of a person that he’d thought he’d never see again.

Santana.

Sue Sylvester.

And now Sebastian.

But where the first two he could do without, he’s finding that he should have given consideration to the third, especially compared to how Sebastian re-entered his life as opposed to the others.

Santana and Sue barged into Kurt’s world, declared residency, then went back to business as usual as if they had never left Ohio.

Sebastian, on the other hand, approached Kurt with a smile on his face and a compliment in his mouth. And yet Kurt accommodated the other two and remained suspicious of Sebastian. Why? Why did he do that?

“I’m sorry,” Kurt says. “I---I shouldn’t have assumed.”

“No,” Sebastian says, raising his eyes to look at Kurt, his face solemn, “you shouldn’t have. Because then you might have enjoyed yourself tonight. But I guess that’s why you were afraid of me, huh?”

“I wasn’t really afraid of you,” Kurt admits. “I just wrote that because I couldn’t think of anything else to write. And I never thought they’d be able to find you.”

“Fair enough. But let me ask you an honest question …”

Kurt braces himself for Sebastian to ask him if he wants to be his friend. Does he want to start at the beginning and get to know him? Because after that confession, his answer is yes. Absolutely.

But, in what’s becoming true Sebastian form, throwing Kurt a curve ball when he’s expecting a fast ball, that’s not what Sebastian asks.

“Do you want to have sex with me?”

Kurt sucks in a breath, but he doesn’t answer right away. Yes? No? How does he answer that question? Has he ever thought about it? Yes, he has. Would he ever act on it? Even for a one-night stand? Possibly. He’s not sure. He never thought he’d ever be confronted with the option, so he never thought it through well enough to come up with an answer.

The one he does come up with sucks ass, and not in a good way.

“I guess. I mean, I was kind of curious what all the fuss was about.”

Sebastian nods, tight jaw tightening more, and inside Kurt’s chest, his lungs freeze, trying its best to strangle him before he says anything else offensive. Because not until that moment does it dawn on Kurt that Sebastian’s question wasn’t meant as an offer. It was a test, Sebastian trying to find out which camp Kurt belongs in – the one with people who want to be his friends, or the one where people get with him on reputation alone.

And, thoughtlessly, Kurt failed that test.

“Ask a stupid question,” Sebastian mutters, opening the front door. “Goodbye, Kurt. I’ll see you around.” Sebastian walks through the door and shuts it behind him, leaving Kurt at a loss for words, especially since Kurt doesn’t go to Yale.

So no, Sebastian won’t be seeing him around.

[benxsamuel]

A lecture by Warren Ellis

My job is just sitting in a room making shit up all day. I’m not complaining.  But the best part is that I get to meet people, all kinds of people, in probably dozens of different fields.  Because I hate silos.  The idea that you find your specialty and stay in it.  I mentioned that I never went on to higher education.  I’m one of those terrifying random auto-didacts you read about, usually in news stories about sudden unexpected axe attacks or bombing campaigns against vending machines.  I’m not even one of those freakish deep-thinking uncontained comprehensivists like Buckminster Fuller, whom some of you will probably have to look up afterwards.  He once taught at MIT, where I spoke just a couple of weeks ago, and his course was called Comprehensive Anticipatory Design Science. Which is probably another way of saying Arts, Design and Computer Science.

Fuller also taught at Black Mountain College, a weird experimental school in North Carolina – it’s near a place called Asheville, close to where I visited on book tour last winter, and we should maybe talk about Asheville one day – it used to be tobacco country, but when other pressures caused the government to remove a crucial financial crutch, the area collapsed back from 1400 acres of tobacco ground to a hundred, killing the local economy and emptying lots and lots of buildings that artists and musicians moved into for pennies – but, Black Mountain College – the point of the place from the start was that it was interdisciplinary. All the departments cross-pollinated each other. 

And that’s kind of how I work and move around the place.  All the time, I talk to directors, musicians of all kinds, artists, designers, coders, security threat modellers, genetic engineers, space doctors, philosophers, actors, writers, actual mad scientists.  I met Ev Williams at dinner when he was still building out Blogger and I was just a bloody comics writer – but I was in the Bay Area to speak onstage at a “future of the web” conference next to a musician called Thomas Dolby and a software engineer called Grady Booch.  Not because I am brilliant or special but because when the opportunity to step outside my perceived silo comes up, I grab it. 

Specialisation worked out pretty interestingly for arts, science and the humanities in the 20th Century, sure.  I mean, unless you were into philosophy, which was completely subsumed by academia and strangled in the dark.  I should apologise to my philosopher friends for that, but they’re aware of it  -- Peter Sjostedt publishes through Psychedelic Press to get his ideas out of the silo.  The 21st Century is going to work a little differently.  Nobody was ready for Bucky Fuller and his comprehensivist geodesic dome bullshit in 1950, and Black Mountain College didn’t last twenty five years, but, this year, if we don’t pay attention to everything and learn from everybody, then we’re probably all screwed. The best bit of my life is that I get to talk to everybody, about everything, and put people from a bunch of different disciplines in the same room, and I get to listen and learn and apply that to whatever I do next.  It’s a full speed life, and it’s riddled with challenges large and small, and I might still go down with arrows in my back, as Bruce Sterling said about me – but it’s entertaining as all hell. 

And the point to this is – this is what the future is going to look like.  Probably needs to look like.  And that’s going to be where you’re living.

But let me start this next bit with something else. 

If I were giving this talk a few years ago, I’d be talking about atemporality, the appearance of a long pause in the culture, the idea of Manufactured Normalcy that gives everything that grey JG Ballard pallor of banality, and Marshall McLuhan’s warnings about seeing everything through the rear view mirror.  But I imagine most if not all of you have the feeling that everything’s gone a bit Mad Max Fury Road.  I know people just a generation or two older than you who are off to learn permaculture farming or buying houseboats that can survive a trip across the North Sea. 

From here, the Nineties look like the bloody Enlightenment.  Back then, we were just a hungover post-imperial nation that was expected only to fuck, take drugs, make art and dance really badly.  Now, the fight for the future is on.  The fight for diverse and conscious voices, the fight for privacy and secure communication and home automation that makes sense, the fight for news and the fight for art that gets to say what it wants and design that looks forward and anything that isn’t just there to please the reactionary forces of xenophobic chinless ex-bankers and the racist daughter of a vicar from Little England and an angry orange pensioner in the thrall of actual fucking Nazis. 

On Sunday night I read a headline including the term “weaponized artificial lifeforms.”  Shit’s gotten weird.  There are people at Brandeis inventing an actual new form of matter called a self-propelling liquid. Dogs can detect cancer by sniffing a bandage.  In the last couple of months, we’ve discovered evidence of two mass extinction events we previously didn’t know about.  As of a week ago, NASA are tracking a star that orbits a black hole every thirty minutes. It’s all strange, and it’s all getting faster and faster, but it’s all also the stories of where we are right now. 

And the cave paintings of Chauvet Pont D’Arc have just turned out to be older than anyone though.  The cave art – the first narrative visual media in the world – is some thirty five thousand years old.  The stories of where we were right then. That’s how long we’ve been doing this. 

I have two great loves.  History and the future.  And I use them both as tools to try and see where I am right now, and to try and describe what I think it looks like.  Which is also the work of journalism.  Reportage and narrative.  See how I connect everything together and make it look like I’m smart, while also clearly making shit up.  I’ve been doing this a long time.  One day you too will be able to bullshit like me. 

But the future is where we’re all living tomorrow, and it’s down to us both to summon it and to look ahead to see what shape it may arrive in. 

Speculative fiction and new forms of art and storytelling and innovations in technology and computing are engaged in the work of mad scientists: testing future ways of living and seeing before they actually arrive.  We are the early warning system for the culture.  We see the future as a weatherfront, a vast mass of possibilities across the horizon, and since we’re not idiots and therefore will not claim to be able to predict exactly where lightning will strike – we take one or more of those possibilities and play them out in our work, to see what might happen.  Imagining them as real things and testing them in the laboratory of our practice – informed by our careful cross-contamination by many and various fields other than our own -- to see what these things do. 

To work with the nature of the future, in media and in tech and in language, is to embrace being mad scientists, and we might as well get good at it. 

—From his opening lecture at York St John University this year. I’m in awe of this man.