#i studied literature i have read and written about some incredibly fucked up works of fiction

[mirage-coordinator]

post about how censorship is a dangerous thing, and that throwing out “what if a CHILD saw this?” about things you don’t like is parroting conservative rhetoric (because it’s true, some things are going to be uncomfortable, and will make you uncomfortable, but should not be forbidden on the grounds of that discomfort)

it’s some stupid fuckwit covertly arguing that actually, they shouldn’t have to face any criticism for posting their shitty incest fanfic under the guise of a take that any average person would think is perfectly reasonable (they’re idiots who put that shit out in public and are not immune to people pointing out Hey That’s Weird)

[s1utspeare]

y'all i am losing my entire fucking mind

so if you know me like, at all, you know that i am absolutely obsessed with theatre, especially musical theatre, and lately, I've been trying to study foreign musical theatre, especially Asian musical theatre (which is entirely due to the Korean Hamlet rock opera, which i discovered like three years ago and listened to on repeat even though i had no idea what anyone was saying lmao). ANYWAY i've found as of late that Korea has numerous musicals based on Western classic literature, which fucks because 1) musical theatre 2) most of those stories would be made better by being musicals but western musical theatre either won't do them or fucks them up (like there's a Dorian Gray musical??? i've been waiting for one of those for fucking ages???? help)

so today i am going to talk about the Korean musical Frankenstein (프랑켄슈타인 ), which will be opening Nov. 12, 2021, and running through February of 2022 at the Bluesquare Shincard Hall (if you have a chance and can go see it for me, please do) and how fucking GALAXY BRAINED IT IS. NOTE: I am not a Korean speaker, nor do I have any connections to the culture, so if I make an error or say anything offensive, please let me know (My credentials are that I have a degree in theatre and have read Mary Shelley's Frankenstein an unfortunate amount of like four times). Also these are my personal opinions and interpretations of the text, so don't take them as fact, and feel free to discuss your own interpretations!!

The show was first written and directed by Wang Yongbum, with musical composition and direction by Lee Seongjun, in 2016, where it sold out its 23-show run and was given a 3-week performance extension because of how popular it was. It's since been performed 3 times, coming back to the stage in 2021 for a fourth.

As far as my knowledge goes, Korea has a fairly limited musical theatre canon, at least for original Korean musicals. Typically, when they perform musical theatre, they outsource to other countries for shows, or adapt shows from other languages for Korean audiences, which is absolutely fine, but that makes Frankenstein very exciting, because it is an original Korean show, and made by a team that is known for their original shows. They're also known for not casting kidols in productions in order to draw ticket sales, so the fact that this show did as well as it did with odds stacked against it is incredible (also the amount of tech work in this production is??? incredible).

Anyway the songs all slap and the production value is ICONIC and they double-cast every single part, which brings me to my main topic of conversation: the absolutely galaxy brained decision to make this incredibly gay and also good.

so in the original version of frankenstein, victor is a terrible disaster bastard man and i hate him. If i saw him in real life i would punch him in the face. He is gay and homophobic. a terrible person and a terrible scientist. actually the only character i like in this book is Henry, who deserves the world actually.

WHICH IS WHY THIS MUSICAL GOT ME SO HYPE!!! because they MADE HENRY A MAIN CHARACTER!!! and not only that, but they changed the script so that Victor is like, a military general, I think? idk he's tasked with creating like superhuman soldiers for the military, and since his parents died when he was young, he's got some sort of weird notion that he's cursed, so he decides to go PLUS ULTRA and just. make people. and to do this he grabs field surgeon henry dupre and is like "bitch let's make some people" and henry's like "fuck ok"

now, in the novel, victor is obviously. very into men. given the fact that he creates the most perfect man imaginable with the best proportions and all of his kinks as his creature, but then becomes disgusted with him due to his repression. BUT IN THE MUSICAL henry gets accused of murder and sentenced to death, but before he dies, he sings a whole love song to victor and they hold hands through the jail cell bars and he asks victor to use his body for science, to complete their shared goal, which UM. BITCH. THAT'S????? FUCKING ROMANTIC AS SHIT anyway here's the love song bc it's making me go insane i literally started sobbing when i watched it for the first time. not only is it gorgeous, it's also so full of love and lost dreams and the desire to stay with someone even after death? catch me crying in the club. please do yourself a favor and listen to it, it's gorgeous

Edit: I watched a version with dialogue at the beginning and basically Henry takes the fall for a murder Victor did and when victors like “why did you do that when you’ll die?” Henry says, “because you’ll live” 😭😭😭😭

BUT THEN. THEN. VICTOR HONORS HENRY'S WISHES AND USES HIS BODY TO CREATE THE CREATURE, BRINGING HIM BACK TO LIFE. WHICH. FUCK. makes SO much more sense than him just being like "oh fuk big scary monster lol" and freaking out. if he freaks out because that's his lover, the person he cares most for, and he's just sentenced him to a lifetime of being almost-human-not-quite? I'd freak out too. (Also the lab set when he’s making the monster FUCKS HARD)

(anyway then he like??? sells him to a fighting arena?? idk there's this whole dance number with them throwing henry all over the stage and chains and he gets punched a lot. very very fun you know).

i won't spoil the ending but just know that it's WAY better than the book, with like, an actually satisfying ending for both the creature and victor (satisfying plot-wise), and I'm obsessed with the changes they made, and also just how this musical is tonally and everything overall? i'm gonna start learning korean just so i can go watch theatre.

uhhhh this really wasn't that much of a post just??? i needed to scream about this??? also the love song is once again gorgeous, please go watch it if just to see how beautiful the actor playing henry in this version is

if you're interested in watching more of this show, they have a whole performance of the first act songs here. The cast album (with at least half of the songs) is on Spotify.

The writer said that in the future he hopes it could come to Broadway or West End and I fucking hope so too!!! pls cry with me about this show i'm absolutely not okay

[everybodyscupoftea]

chemistry

isaac lahey x reader

isaac needs help in chemistry and you need help in english - the beginning

this is for isaac anon and the few people that wanted this. i’m just dabbling here, so let me know if you guys want more! (i did quite a bit of Research for this and i have ideas)

also let me know, i left it vague, but if i expand i’m probably going to add in scott, stiles, allison, and lydia. would you guys like to keep it supernatural or do full au where they’re just normal college students?

You noticed the boy in your Intro to Academic Writing course, but you didn’t really focus on him, mostly due to freshman year stress, until he sat down next to you in General Chemistry. Stepping into the classroom you’d felt at ease, science was your jam, but the really cute boy put you back on edge. You felt hyperaware of him, his scent, kind of cinnamon-y, fall-esque.

He tapped his fingers on his notebook, and you couldn’t help but notice he wrote in green pen. You glanced every so often to see him doodling in the corner of the page instead of taking notes on the intro lesson on the scientific method that your professor was doing.

The boy rested his chin on his hand and his fingers went from tapping on the notebook to his jaw and you shook your head, trying to focus back on the professor who was talking about your lab groups.

“The people at your table are in your group. Lab is on Wednesday nights, I won’t be the instructor, you’ll have a TA, but you can email me or come to my office hours if you have any questions about what’s going on. I’ll see you all on Thursday.”

You started to pack your stuff and the boy turned to you with a crooked grin, “I’m Isaac.”

Shaking his hand, you introduced yourself and he stood, waiting for you to finish packing your stuff. You zipped your booksack, “You’re in my English class, right?” you asked, faking as if you didn’t notice him as soon as you stepped into the door.

He nodded, “Yeah, with Dr. Terranova.”

“He seems,” you trailed off, looking for the right word, “interesting.”

Isaac grinned, “You mean overwhelmingly picky for an English 101 professor?”

“That’s a great way to put it,” you told him, laughing.

The two of you walked out the door and down the hall together. Isaac shifted his booksack on his shoulders a little and asked, “Do you have any more classes today?”

“Calculus,” you told him and he grimaced.

“Fuck that.”

“You?”

He nodded, “Spanish.”

Unfortunately for you, the buildings were on opposite ends of campus, so you paused just outside the door to the chemistry building. Isaac paused too and smiled, “See you tomorrow night?”

“See you tomorrow, Isaac.”

-

Your lab group was made up of two boys and two girls. Isaac, Andrew, Abigail, and you. Out of the group, you were the only STEM major, and the only one who actually liked chemistry. Isaac patted your shoulder, “Well, that officially makes you team captain then.”

“Thank god,” Abigail added, “I’m an advertising major, my brain noped out of the sciences years ago.”

The other guy, Andrew, said, “I took Chem 2 in high school and didn’t pass the AP exam, chemistry and I have beef.”

You snorted and said, “Cool, well, I’ll try and lead us to the promised land.” They seemed to like that.

-

Your group was really smart, everyone was picking up the labs really easily and you were thrilled, especially when the teacher stood in front of the class after the first test review. She clapped her hands once, “Okay, the lab group with the highest combined test average gets five bonus points added to their test scores. This is me trying to get you guys familiar with study groups, especially if you’re going to be in STEM, which I know some of you are. Study groups got me through school.”

Unfortunately, everyone in your lab group already had stuff going on, so you couldn’t study with them. Fortunately, the test was on intro stuff like the scientific method, conversions, and balancing equations, and your group hadn’t had any issues in any of the lab work, so you weren’t worried.

But when you got the test back, you realized, maybe you should’ve been. Isaac got his handed back first and actually laughed when he looked at the grade. Before you could ask, the professor set yours down on the desk and you started flipping through it, frowning at the little points you’d had taken off for careless mistakes.

“Fuck,” you muttered, “should’ve gotten at least a 97.”

“Wow, can’t believe you fucked it up for the whole group,” Isaac sarcastically responded, nudging you with his elbow, before sliding his test on top of yours. He nudged you again, “As you can see, I’m carrying the team,” and he motioned toward the D written in bright red at the top of his paper.

Your mouth dropped open and you picked the test up, flipping through to see what he’d missed. Eyebrows furrowed, you looked over at him, “You should tell her you accidentally skipped the back page.”

“Oh, it wasn’t an accident, I just didn’t know how to do it.”

“Well,” you stuttered, “it was the same stuff we did in the last lab activity.”

Isaac nodded, “Yes it is, and I didn’t understand it then either.”

“I thought,” you paused, mind racing, “I thought we all did?”

He grinned at you, “Some of us aren’t science brains, my friend.”

“What are you?” you asked as the class started to pack up.

With a soft smile, he threw his booksack over his shoulder, “I’m a literature major.”

-

You didn’t mean to think about it as much as you did, but when 2 a.m. rolled around and you were at your most impulsive you couldn’t stop yourself from sending out a text.

Hey, do you maybe want to meet up and study sometime?

After hitting send you could’ve slammed your head into a wall. You locked your phone and put your head in your hands, “God damnit.” And then your phone dinged.

I’d love that, love to have a STEM genius in my corner.

Your cheeks heated as you read it and your mind raced with your heart. It was beating harder and part of you couldn’t even believe he’d said yes. Taking a breath to steady yourself, you responded.

Idk about genius but I’m not half bad at chem

He responded, even faster than the first time and you grinned, unable to stop it from overtaking your face.

I may not know much about the scientific method or whatever, but all evidence suggests otherwise, genius

-

The next test wasn’t for a few weeks, but Isaac wanted to start studying earlier. He suggested meeting at a coffee shop called The Beanery. Coffee shops weren’t really your jam, you liked the silence of the fourth floor of the library. Go early, get a table, put in head phones, and go to work. But, you were open to try Isaac’s suggestion.

It was brightly lit when you walked in, and he was already there, at a table in the corner, laptop out. Books were spread across the tabletop, and he already had two empty mugs on the table in front of him, leg bouncing as he aimlessly chewed on a pen.

Shaking yourself out of staring, you walked to the counter to order. Isaac smiled up at you when you made it to the table with your coffee.

“Welcome,” he told you, moving some of his books out of the way. Sitting up straighter, Isaac glanced around, “What do you think about this place?”

“It’s nice, definitely a change of pace from my norm.”

“Where’s that then?”

“Library, fourth floor.”

“Quiet up there, huh?”

“Yeah, but I listen to some music for background.”

“I like coffee shops,” Isaac said, closing his laptop, “the vibes are nice and my clothes always smell like coffee afterward which is a fun bonus.”

At his comment, you looked down at his clothes. You were a little surprised to see that he was dressed just like during the week: jeans, a nicer t-shirt, and a cardigan. You’d wondered, deep down, if he dressed nicer for class, but it didn’t seem the case. Isaac cleared his throat and your eyes snapped to his face, ears burning when you saw him staring at you in amusement.

Coughing quietly, you reached for your booksack, “So, chemistry. Do you understand what we’ve been going over?”

“I know they’re called Bohr models but I don’t know anything else about them.”

“Right, so,” you paused a minute, trying to figure out where to start, “it’s a way to draw an atom and it’s kind of like a planet.”

Isaac leaned forward through your explanation, resting most of his weight on his elbows, and tapped the green pen against his lower lip. Every so often he’d ask a question, shift a little and write something down in his notebook by whatever he’d scribbled in class. His questions were shockingly insightful, and you eagerly answered them all.

By the time you’d gotten through the basics of thermodynamics, he’d added a whole page of notes, and you could tell he was starting to lose interest. Shutting your notebook, you told him, earnestly, “I hope this helped a little.”

“I promise,” he looked you straight in the eye, “it makes sense. This all looked like a foreign language before we met up.”

“Good,” you nodded, “this is my jam.”

“Keep on spreading it,” he joked and you couldn’t help but laugh.

“Well,” you admitted, “you may not be good at chem but you’d kick my ass into next week in English.”

“How’s your paper going?” Isaac asked, leaning back and crossing his arms, looking genuinely interested.

“It’s…going.”

He snorted, “That doesn’t sound promising.”

“Yeah neither does my thesis.”

“Do you have your laptop?”

“Yeah.”

“Let me have a look,” he suggested.

Pulling up the word doc, you passed your laptop over, staring down at your hands, twiddling your thumbs, a little nervously, as he read through your rough draft.

“What did Dr. Terranova have to say in your conference?” he asked, pushing your laptop away.

You sighed, “He was less than complimentary.”

Isaac laughed, “It’s not that bad, but it could use some polishing. I can help of course.”

Relief washed over you and you felt a weight off your shoulders, “That would be incredible actually.”

“There, now we’re even. You tutor me in chemistry and I’ll make sure you pass English, starting with this rough, and emphasis on rough, draft.”

Reaching across the table, you shoved at his hand, “Be gentle.”

“I’m going to get another chai,” he said, standing to stretch a bit, “and you pick out what sentence exactly you think is your thesis. We’ll start there.”

Biting your lip to conceal a grin, you nodded, waking your laptop back up.

[a-jumped-up-pantry-boy]

Please excuse this thing, I decided that I should write something while running low on sleep and high on caffeine, and this was the substandard result: Remus and Sirius being Library Boys (because I like books and why not) in a few thousand words. (Also @onlydreamofmysoul kind of inspired this because your dedication with ficmas made me want to write, so I’m blaming you for this disaster) His tea is far too hot, but he gulps down mouthfuls anyway, knowing he’ll need the sugar to have even the smallest chance of actually staying awake during his library shift tonight; the night shifts are his favourite, because he’s usually free to just stack books without being interrupted, but on nights like this, he can barely stay awake. Inputting yet another barcode into the aging computer, a repetitive task that needs no brain power whatsoever, he internally groans when someone walks over to the desk. 

“Hi, I’m wondering if you can find me the worst book in here?” Remus doesn’t startle at the request, doesn’t even lift his eyes from the list he’s reading. 

“My autobiography might fill that category for you. It’s called “Why My Parents Should Have Left Me By A Motorway”, and it - oh. Fuck.” It’s only then that he remembers that people can hear what he says, and that most of his internal monologue shouldn’t be heard by other people. 

“And on what shelf would I find that book?” The guy is smiling, thank God, and Remus is sure he recognises him from a class. Probably a language, he thinks. The man opposite him definitely seems like a language kind of guy. He also seems like a very, very attractive kind of guy, but that’s neither here nor there. 

“Actually, it’s still in publication - there’s still more stuff they can add to the book, you know, since my life keeps getting worse - but maybe you’d like a classic instead?” 

“I read enough classics as it is, but maybe-” It’s at this moment Lily, who’s at the end of her shift and is putting her mug back in the sink, walks by and decides to get involved. 

“Just so you know, children’s abridged versions don’t count as reading classics. Not when you’re in your twenties,” she says, grinning far too energetically for midnight. 

“Fuck off, Evans. I just want a really shit book. We’re talking My Immortal kind of shit, but published.” Remus wonders where Lily knows the guy from, and then remembers her once telling him about a strange, yet endearing, man who was obsessed with her and his best friend, and presumes the man opposite him is one of the two. 

“I’m not sure books like that generally get published, and if they do we probably don’t have them here.” Remus stares curiously at him, taking in the messy, yet somehow still perfect, hair and the tattoo - because of course he has a tattoo, all hot guys have tattoos, it seems - peeking out from the back of his shirt. “What do you want with the worst written book anyway?” 

“I’m glad you asked.” He waves his arm, gesturing to the library, and sinks into one of the chairs. “I’m doing an experiment. Both my brothers are literature nerds, and they’re becoming too poncy for me. So I’m gonna really hype this book up, make it look like everyone loves it, and then give them a shit - really, really shit - book, and see what they say.”

“Too poncy? I can practically smell the wealth coming off you, and yet you’re not poncy?” Remus sometimes thinks that maybe he should consider the things he says, and now is one of the times he regrets not being slightly more sensitive. Or, like, polite. The stranger looks shocked for a second, then smirks and hoists himself off the chair.

“That’s fair. But, they both study Classics, so they’re automatically poncier than me.” Lily walks past again as the man speaks, and stops to glare at him. 

“Are you calling me poncy? I had to work day and night to be accepted here, and I didn’t have a family name getting me in, and there was no using money to-”

“Lils,” Remus says, interrupting her before she can go on a well intentioned, but unnecessary, tirade. “He’s talking about his brothers. Don’t worry, nobody’s accusing you of swimming in bribery-money.”

“Bribery money? Is that a thing?” The man goes to take a square of Remus’ chocolate, and he all but slaps his hand away. 

“You tell us. You’re the one with all the insider knowledge of ponces and Tories.”

“Okay, I can excuse being called poncy, but a Tory? That’s too far, even for me.” Remus has the decency to pretend to be sorry, even though he’s one step away from crying with laughter; a man who sounds like he wouldn’t be out of place at Buckingham Palace, getting offended at being associated with Tories. Luckily, he doesn’t have to pretend to be remorseful for long, because Lily lets out a burst of laughter before he can apologise. 

“I wouldn’t be surprised if you came out wearing a blue pin button and cheering on Margaret Thatcher. You might not be a Tory, but don’t try and tell us your family has been voting Labour for years. You can’t blame us for assumptions.”

“Actually, I came out wearing a rainbow pin, not a blue one. But, I guess I get it. The majority of ponces here are Tories.” Remus feels his heart speed up - if he said that to Lily, she’d definitely start making notes to check he wasn’t having a heart attack, the dramatic woman - at the mention of the man’s gayness. He could have a chance. A small chance, admittedly, but a chance. Lily finally decides to leave, and Remus waves her goodbye as he leads the man down a pathway of bookshelves, on the hunt for the worst book ever published. 

“So, what’s your name? And what’re you studying, if not Classics?” Remus asks, inspecting the shelves for something, anything that hints at a terrible book. 

“Erm, don’t laugh, but my name’s Sirius. And I’m studying Philosophy and Modern Languages.” Remus looks up from the bookshelf, not even trying not to giggle. 

“Sirius? But no, you’re not poncy at all. I’m kidding, I’m kidding. So, modern languages? That’s where I recognise you from.”

“Recognise me? Have you been stalking the University buildings, searching for my pretty face?” 

“No, you dolt, we take several classes together. I’m doing English and Modern Languages, hence the sharing of classes.” 

“Oh, we take basically the same degree then.”

“We definitely don’t. I’d never be caught dead taking philosophy - I hate my life already, and now I’ve got to come up with bullshit theories of why?” Sirius - Remus can’t get over the name, even though his is equally as ridiculous - opens his mouth, about to protest, and then closes it again. 

“Actually, that basically is what we do. How come you’re making me evaluate all my life choices in the span of five minutes?” 

“I don’t know, maybe you should consult a philosopher to find out why. That’s what they do, right?” Although his tone is meant to be teasing, the same kind of jokes he makes with Lily, instead it comes out as flirting, though he can’t imagine Sirius minds much, because he’s smirking at him and looking like he wants to kiss him. 

“Take that back, and say my degree is perfectly valid.” Sirius takes a small step towards him, and he doesn’t step back, instead looking him square in the eye and raising his eyebrows. 

“Make me, philosophy boy.” He takes another step towards him, and Remus is certain he could feel Sirius’ heartbeat against his chest, if he tried hard enough to sense it. Instead he winks, and says, “Or don’t, and go ask why you’re searching for validation from some random boy you met in the library fifteen minutes ago.”

“In my defence, the library boy is incredibly hot.” They’re touching all over now, chest to chest, their noses rubbing against each other. Remus’ back hits the bookshelf as their mouths crash together, and he hears the distinct noise of books falling to the floor. Later on, when he’s restacking all the books, he’ll regret snogging someone right up against the bookshelf, but right now he runs his hand through Sirius’ hair and smiles against his mouth. He likes the night shift even more now. 

[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.

[sourbat]

top 6 writing influences?

This is a long one, so here's the short answer (in no particular order):

1. Exploitation Films

2. Reoccurring trauma

3. Literature by POC

4. Socialism

5. The Beats

6. Traditional Horror

And if you want the longer version, read more underneath.

Exploitations Films- So before I went and majored in literature, I wanted to direct film. More specifically, I wanted to direct exploitation films that centered on extreme violence and government oppression. I was majorly influenced by the “Torture Porn” era of exploitation films (early-mid 2000s- early 2010s), but since delving into the world of SAW I’ve taken the plunge into other works such as Pasolini’s Salo, or Greenaway’s The Cook, the Thief, His Wife, and Her Lover and looked at the hidden meaning behind these messages. I quickly learned that these obscene and extreme films all had some underlying message: that violence is justifiable in certain circumstances (ex: if you’re wealthy). I wanted to make films that discussed these “justifiable” excuses, reasons that we as a society make up. I used to write more of these satires, but since then have taken the next step to theorizing solutions, or means to subvert our oppressors.

Reoccurring Violence/Trauma- I mean this was my whole MA career right here. I studies films, games, and other media centered on violence and past traumas. This is sorta where I gained a real appreciation for intergenerational trauma, and when I started to discuss and explore my own. Again, much of my older works discuss the trauma to an extreme extent, whereas these days it’s less about the suffering, and more about finding the root cause and beginning to heal. I wanna give a shout out to my girl Slyvia Plath, whose works still haunt me to this day. You were done dirty, girl, and you deserve to be taught in public school to help those who need it. (and before you ask; yes, my own trauma does fall under this category. but that's a more private conversation)

Literature written by non-white, POC writers, scholars, etc.-It was my second year of college when I was finally met with such narratives as “white people did not colonize the Americas and Hawaii. They invaded these lands, and still are to this day.” I finally had names of well established writers who LOOKED like me. Who grew up Catholic like me, and felt lied and betrayed like me. You never realize how bad you needed to read a book where the only people who are described are white (making them the outlier), and all the defaults are brown, like me. Like anyone whose read some of my wordier stories seem to presume I got my influences from writers like Shelley, Dickens and or King (and to some extent, they’re right), but it’s actually Viramontes, Diaz and Alexie that inspired me to keep on trucking with my writing.

Socialism/Socialist Theorists -I’m not gonna delve to deep into this one since I’d rather not raise a discussion on politics on this website. If you’re curious to know more, you can ask me personally how this affected my writing/viewpoints. I can say that many early modern writers (especially black) were socialists… you just don’t get the pleasure of learning about it until much, much later….

The Beat movement- The best way to describe this movement is “transcendentalism+ modernism and naturalism, mixed with all the worst drugs). This does partially tie with the socialist portion (though more communist if we look at our writers). Admittedly, I got into these guys thanks to Naked Lunch, a text I would only recommend to hardcore enthusiast, and the Beat movement is heavily saturated with mentally ill, drug addicted white men. There are some lesser known female writers, but I can’t name any off the top of my head. That said, a lot of the works are incredibly sardonic, sarcastic and designed to enact discomfort (gee, sound familiar). If you are curious to know and learn more, hit me up. I can recommend some of the less controversial writers of that time (or the big baddies if you wanna explore assholery at its worse).

Horror Stories-It all started with me picking up Goosebumps, and went from there. After that, came Scary Stories, spooky 80s choose your own adventures, King, Poe, Radcliffe and more. Gothic Literature gave me a window into women writers, early themes regarding body autonomy, feminisms, exploitation, etc. More importantly, it gave me a real good outlet to explore the women’s voice in literature. But really, let’s all take a moment to thank R. L. Stine for getting kids like me to read in the first place. Also, K. A. Applegate, because although Animorphs was technically Sci-fi, that shit fucked me up as a kid.

[violexides]

fic recs (part 1?)

hi!!! so @n3tn0b0dy sent me an ask about fic recs, and i am stupid so it took me a few mins to like. compose myself and figure out what this is. i am definitely absolutely going to miss a few fics here, which is why it is a part one. i will probably keep this short-ish??? maybe go into more detailed ones later :eyes: 

(i am realizing i am going to write essays for these and for that i am very sorry)

something close to domestic, maybe by @mystxmomo (hi!)

definitely one of my favorite danganronpa fics, currently and (probably) forever. it’s a mature rated kamukoma fic, following an AU in which, instead of the remnants being captured and taken to jabberwock, despair sort of... fizzles out on its own, leaving the remnants of despair-- and the rest of the world-- to sort of heal with it. it’s in a series with another fic, that is in the same universe but following a different narrative with different central characters, and though it only has one chapter rn i highly rec that too. 

i like this fic for many reasons and to avoid prattling on, i will bullet point it.

- easy to follow. there are not overly complex structures-- not that that is inherently a bad thing, i also tend to love that style-- which makes it easy to digest.

- strong emotional impact. this fic has made me cry very, very often.

- really good characterization. mystxmomo is very good with characterization overall, especially with kamukura and servant, and that really shows with this fic.

- a compelling plot that still retains a slice-of-life format. i don’t really know how else to elaborate here.

- an idiosyncratic look into their dynamic. this fic explores kamukoma in the process of them healing, which is pretty distinctively different to a lot of kamukoma fics. obviously, this is not to shade those other fics, but, yeah. i really like it. 

okay sorry for rambling very much there, i really highly recommend it, it is a ongoing multichapter (i should have said that earlier i apologize) and the writer is also very cool. 

--

postscript by zombiekittiez

this is actually a series. it currently has three fics-- one that is fully completed (defy you stars), one that is a completed oneshot (supersonic man outta you), and an ongoing multichapter with pretty frequent updates (prince of a thousand). this follows a post-SDR2 storyline, with a lot of ships and dynamics within it, but heaviest emphasis on komahina. 

more bullet points! yay 

- the characterization is god-fucking-tier. this author is very, very good at characterizing these characters and i will not shut up about it ever actually. they feel real, and distinct, and flawed, and alive, and i love everything about it.

- good exploration of dynamics! i think the latter two fics especially shows this off really well. the friendships and relationships built are all pretty different from each other, but all feel like a pretty natural progression, sticking true to the characters, and feels very... real. which i like a whole hell of a lot.

- there are so many literature references and i am happy about it. there are also sparknotes-ish things at the ending notes of each chapter, which translates the quote, explains the significance within its own text, and applies it to the fanfiction. they are used in ways that make sense, too-- they don’t feel forced.

- the plot and plot building is SO fucking good. prince of a thousand has so many cliffhangers and i am very happy but also dying.

anyway, i really rec this series! be mindful of the tags and the ratings on some of the fics, but they are really, really good reads. 

--

absent mind by galaxyaqua

okay. this is a v3 oneshot rec, exploring pregame rantaro, as well as his relationship with tsumugi shirogane. it’s rated “teen and up audiences”, and. holy shit, okay.

- the writing style of this is GORGEOUS. i don’t know what it is about the writing style, but it feels so much like rantaro is talking, which is so fucking cool, and i love that so fucking much??? i can’t even explain it, but it is seriously super neat. 

- the EMOTIONS. this fic is so fucking emotional, honestly? it shows you this realistic, flawed, you could consider broken, character, shows them finding some hope, and shows the loss that comes with that. it’s so fucking incredible, and the lines have stuck with me even now, and it’s been a bit since i’ve last read. i think about the last couple lines especially a lot.

- these impactful one liners. holy shit. every line means something in this fic, and it’s so fucking cool and incredible, and i just??? holy shit??? i really love this fic???

i will say that this fic is sort of depressing in places, but i highly, and i mean highly, recommend. it is not a super difficult read, and it’s super, super fucking good. so i really recommend it. 

--

this sickness will save us by starrylitme // i believe this is @magioftheseas i am super sorry if it isn’t

okay. super, super fucking big content warning. this fic is a yikes, and the tags can sum it up a LOT better, but yeah. just keep that in mind. 

that being said, this is a really gorgeously written oneshot centered around soulmate au kamukoma, exploring the sort of... unhealthy aspects of their relationship. and i. Wow. okay.

- these fucking one liners. holy SHIT. i remember some of these scenes and lines so very well, and it does live in my head rent free. 

- the tone of this. the tone, and the mood created, is so fucking... i don’t even know how to describe it. terrifying? eerie? super fucking intriguing? it shows this shitty situation in an appropriately terrifying light, and it inflects so much emotion and connotation into the scenes, and holy shit. like, if i wanted to do a case study of incredible tonal work and diction and all, i would absolutely grab this fic.

- the characterization. while kamukura and komaeda are placed in a very interesting predicament, they still manage to stay pretty damn close to being in character, which i personally think is super remarkable. it almost enhances the circumstances too, ngl. 

- their dynamic. their dynamic in this fic is NOT healthy, and that is shown in full “glory”, in a very messy and dysfunctional and terrifying way, and i absolutely love it. it has a kind of realism to it, almost a cautionary tale but not quite, a sort of “this isn’t very good but it still feels grounded in realism”. and wow. Wow. it’s so fucking good.

mind the tags, but definitely rec this one. 

-- 

some scattered accounts i will gush about and if they have a tumblr account i will do my best to tag it. 

@kidcarma, same name on ao3. 

- okay, cam is just super fucking talented with characterization, and i adore all of their fics so fucking much? the way they characterize komaeda, kamukura, and hinata resonate super hard, and i just. really love their stuff. they are also absolutely wonderful so please support them do it why aren’t you doing it just kidding haha unle

@celestial-nova, celestial_nova on ao3

- nova is my best friend and i fucking love her, also her writing is fucking art. does a lot of naegiri and some stuff out of this fandom, but i seriously recommend her stuff. she’s really fucking talented and absolutely incredible and i adore her so very much. 

sinnohremaker on ao3

- their stuff is MAJORLY cathartic to me and they are also super sweet, love them a lot.

shutupnerd on ao3

- SHE IS REALLY TALENTED, I LOVE HER WORKS!! they are also super cool and i just appreciate her a lot fksdc,mxv, her fic “an account of events” is really good

@whatsupscythia, hinataisnothim on ao3

- i fucking love her writing, does some really good hinata prose, highly recommend it

----

i am ABSOLUTELY forgetting people, i am ABSOLUTELY forgetting fics, and i am ABSOLUTELY going to bash my head into a wall when i realize i have forgotten people, but uhm here is an impromptu list. i hope this was good? idk how to do fic recs. uhm yes support all these people they are dope

[tiesandtea]

THE LONDON SUEDE - interview with Simon Gilbert (1997)

Interview Featuring Drummer Simon Gilbert, Who Is Actually a Nice Guy Unspoiled by Success

By Daiv Whaley, MOO Mag. Archived here.

One of MOO's many mottos: "When you can't interview the main member of the band, grab the drummer. He's always starved for attention." Daiv Whaley talks with The London Suede’s beatmaster Simon Gilbert.

MOO: Alright, so Suede has returned to the airwaves after a two-year absence with Coming Up. What's different about this one? Simon: Well, it's a lot more direct and easier to listen to than, certainly, Dog Man Star; a lot more rhythm-based ... MOO: Which is great for a drummer! Simon: Oh yeah, it's great for me -- we spent about six weeks just doing the drum tracks; we took a lot more time than we normally do. Plus, it's got a lot of keyboards on it cuz we've got a new keyboard player, Neil, who's my cousin. MOO: Um ... was that a riddle? Or an interview question? I don't know who your cousin is -- I'm supposed to be asking the questions! Simon: No, Neil is my cousin.

Hugely entertaining, 20/10. Full interview under the cut.

When British upstarts-with-attitude Suede first burst onto the fertile London music scene in the early 90s, they were note only performing and recording a statement against the tranced and lethargic shoegazer scene (remember My Bloody Valentine, all you mod listeners?), but also fueling frontman Brett Anderson's love-affair with all things glam-rockish; i.e. Bowie, T-Rex, leather posturings, androgyny, ass-shaking audience flirtation, and potent pop rock. Melody Maker, the "Big Ben" of English music culture, even named them "best new band" of 1992. Then, they changed their name to the London Suede due to technicalities, got all arty on Dog Man Star, and performed a submarine dive from public view as Oasis and Brit-pop rose to the surface of the toilet ... er ... the pond of the microcosm which is the British rock scene, though several critics credit Suede as being the forerunners of Brit-pop, anyway. Now it's 1997, and the London Suede have risen again to deliver their third full release, Coming Up. Whether the "coming up" refers to Suede's bank account figures or a vomitous reaction from their fans at their new sound is a subject MOO's Daiv Whaley tries to discover, oh-so-politely, as he chats with drummer Simon Gilbert, all the way from the gray shores of England.

MOO: Alright, so Suede has returned to the airwaves after a two-year absence with Coming Up. What's different about this one?

Simon: Well, it's a lot more direct and easier to listen to than, certainly, Dog Man Star; a lot more rhythm-based ...

MOO: Which is great for a drummer!

Simon: Oh yeah, it's great for me -- we spent about six weeks just doing the drum tracks; we took a lot more time than we normally do. Plus, it's got a lot of keyboards on it cuz we've got a new keyboard player, Neil, who's my cousin.

MOO: Um ... was that a riddle? Or an interview question? I don't know who your cousin is -- I'm supposed to be asking the questions!

Simon: No, Neil is my cousin.

MOO: Oh, sorry.

Simon: So, we have some very good pop songs on it -- there's going to be five singles, and we could have done seven or eight, to be honest. It's just a much more accessible album, and it's opening people's ears who haven't been listening to Suede before, particularly in Europe and Britain. We're selling a lot more records than we ever have before.

MOO: That's riffing.

Simon: Yes, it is riffing.

MOO: So then, is Suede a pop band or a rock band?

Simon: We're a prock band!

MOO: My fave songs on your discs are always the audio-experimenia ones, like "Dandy's Speeding," "Introducing the Band" or "Moving" ...

Simon: That's one of the first tunes we ever recorded! We don't play it live anymore -- the drum bit's too fast for me nowadays.

MOO: Well, those types of songs really seem to distance you from the more plebeian, predictable, 90s-modrock types of bands. Are those kinds of songs written with that type of production in mind?

Simon: Well, "Introducing the Band" certainly was -- it was one of the last tracks we recorded for Dog Man Star, and after we heard it, we just thought, "What was that?" But it was intentional to make it a bit weird.

MOO: Did Brian Eno approach the band about doing an incredibly long version of the tune ...

Simon: That incredibly long, incredibly boring version? No, we approached him for some bizarre reason, I don't know why. I'm not criticizing the bloke -- he does amazing work, but at the end of the day, all we were left with was the reverb; he took everything else out but the echo ... I was expecting a little bit more of the original version -- I bet there's not one person in the fucking country who's played the whole thing all the way through. I know I haven't!

MOO: Yuk yuk. Your former guitarist and co-songwriter Bernard Butler ...

Simon: Bernard Buttocks!

MOO: ... exited Suede after recording Dog Man Star and has been replaced by the very young Richard Oakes. What, is he 19 now?

Simon: No, he's actually 20 now and getting up in the double digits!

MOO: This is the first disc he's done with Suede. Was he up to the task?

Simon: More so than we'd ever expected, to be honest. We did a few demos before the album and after three or four, it was just no problem with him at all. Easy peasey! For someone so young and so inexperienced, I don't know how he did it, but he did.

MOO: Did you just say "easy peasey"? Never mind, what about this new keyboardist? Some cynics say that when a guitar band takes on a keyboardist, the band's death knell has begun, and now your own cousin, Neil Codling, is an official Suedester. "Codling," what a great last name.

Simon: Yeah, Codling, like in "molly codling." Have you heard that expression?

MOO: Yes, I studied English literature, with a minor in advanced cybernetic design.

Simon: Hmmnn. But about those cynics, they're wrong, at least in Suede's case -- Neil has done nothing but improve upon what we can do and the limits we can reach on our albums. Also, live, our sound is so much fuller. And we can still fuckin' rock out as well. Now, if we got a brass section, that might kill a band.

MOO: I've heard that Bowie is a fan? Has the band had any dealings with him as of yet?

Simon: Yes, he is. Um, we played with him last summer, in Spain, in the Pyrenees Mountains. He requested we play and we opened for him and he watched the whole gig from the sidestage, which was a bit nerve-racking. But yes, he's a big fan and he's fifty years old now.

MOO: Rockstar, painter, actor and Suede fan ... What more can you ask?

Simon: Not very much!

MOO: Speaking of playing live, you guys toured America for Dog Man Star -- how would you say a US audience compares to a British crowd?

Simon: Well, it really depends. I couldn't really generalize that much, because in L.A. or someplace like San Francisco, they're probably wilder than a British audience, but then you look at some place in Texas ... they sort of spit on us, they don't really like us there. It's a bit different in America, but there are some parts of it where it feels like you could be in London.

MOO: So, I take it while you're almost worshipped in Britain, America really hasn't caught on yet?

Simon: Hasn't caught on yet ... we're not saying we're giving up on it at all, but we're just playing it by ear. I believe that's the expression for it. We're gonna come over and do 10 dates and see how the album is received, but there's no real point in banging your head against a brick wall. If America on the whole doesn't get it, then fair enough, but I really hope they do, cuz it's a great album, a lot more America-friendly as well.

MOO: I've read Brett describe the band as being "political." I know Suede had been involved in the animal rights movement, and gay rights, and freedom issues. Do you find American music to be more or less politically-motivated on the whole than British stuff?

Simon: Well, I'd say that quote was probably taken out of context ... We're a political band in a human sense, not in a government politics kind of way. Yeah, we'll stand up in the House of Parliament and say, "This is wrong and blah blah blah," and we'll protest like that, but in the songs, there's no political manifesto of any kind -- it's purely human "politics" in our music. As for American bands, I really can't say ... I'm very stuck in the 60s and 70s in terms of music, and I don't really ask myself if this or that band is American or British, but rather, are they good or bad bands?

MOO: There's been a bit of a buzz in the US over the Brit-pop scene -- particularly Oasis and Blur. Where does Suede seem to fit into that whole genre, anyway?

Simon: Blur? They're shitty. Oasis is actually pretty good. Suede doesn't really fit into that scene at all; it was lucky we were away when it sort of kicked-off, and luckily we weren't lumped into that whole thing, cuz now the scene is dead, there's no such thing as Brit-pop anymore in England, and when a scene dies off, all the bands die off with it. So America, don't bother with it. It's really just the media sticking another tag on some scene -- it's useless crap, really.

MOO: Okay, how about the whole androgyny/bisexuality slant of a lot of Suede's songs -- if it's not just image-mongering to get attention ...

Simon: No, it's not.

MOO: So, why is Suede so revelatory about their sexual preferences?

Simon: Because the people we hang around with ... we hang around with each other, we're all friends, and the other people who come from lots of different areas of society, and at the end of the day everyone's aware of sexuality and the different types of sexuality, and consequently Brett writes about the people we hang around with and the way we live. It's just about being open and honest, really.

MOO: Right -- skinstorms together and all that.

Simon: Exactly; singing about things that other people don't sing about -- we don't sing about birds and flowers and the sky and things like that.

MOO: Speaking about singing -- there's lots of stories and rumors about your Brett Anderson. He seems like a real character.

Simon: All the stories are probably true!

MOO: Considering he'll probably never see this interview, what do you have to say about Mr. Anderson?

Simon: About Mr. Anderson? He's become one of my best friends; he's perceived as being aloof and stuff like that, but at the end of the day, he's one of the most genuine people I know. He's a lovely bloke, that's my honest opinion, and make sure he doesn't see that or I'll become really embarrassed.

MOO: Last question. Before '92, critics and clubs seemed to hate you. Then, you end up on the cover of Melody Maker, your disc goes to number one and beats out Depeche Mode, and you're big-time rock stars. What happened?

Simon: Well, that Melody Maker cover did help, let's be honest.

MOO: The power of the press!

Simon: Yeah. But even before that ... I don't know what happened. We played at this place called the Falcon in Camden, which is a famous sort of indie hangout. We played there one weekend to, like, eight people. Then the next weekend we played there again and the place was packed. All these stars came down there, people like Morrissey, and things just started to happen. I really don't know what happened -- I think people really got bored with the scene at the time, there was a lot of techno and shoegazey stuff going on and the indie scene was boring. We kind of laid that stuff to rest when we got going. There were people who I think were bored with not seeing real entertainers up on stage, and we were a band that was entertaining, which might have been why people didn't like us at the time -- they were so used to seeing the shoegazing stuff going on.

MOO: Yeah, let's look at our sneakers for an hour and play guitars!

Simon: Right, how entertaining is that? Might as well just sit at home and listen to their records.

MOO: And the rest is history, as they say.

Simon: Yeah, something like that.

[weltonreject]

[[MORE]]

08.17.20

re: trying new things (a la journaling!)- i've been watching a lot of like, morning routine/aesthetic montage of coffee drinking @ 5:30am/ peaceful definitely idealized and intentionally scenic daily life videos a lot recently. and it's definitely inspiring (?) as i creep closer to moving out, esp in contract to the dark academia and study/"productivity" posts i keep feeding myself in order to picture how i want to have my days look, and go into my new home with intention.

i'm personally, um, not doing very well at this particular moment (hence the inconsistent writing, answering, and posting) and living alone has not seemed like the best idea. but watching these videos and getting advice for journaling (which I'll respond to more directly asap thank you for all the tips btw love y'all xo) has been both incredibly intimidating to a part of me that needs things to be Perfect or Else, but also encouraging for me to not sabotage myself before i even get TO my own living space where i can craft a morning routine or budget or diet or Self.

i want to pick out ways to decorate my room in the most pretentious & DA way because why not? i want to start a morning routine of note taking and reading and tea! i want to learn a third language and fold that into my routine! i want to take back learning and care and independence without a grade over me.

but i also know that this excitement is very reactionary. i'm not well. and it's weird to say. and weird to look at these DA aes posts and have them be a... "positive" (???) example of things i can "do" if i get help and get better. i can include those kind of studying/learning (out of school)/gloomy autumnal Vibez into my life if i take care of it enough to actually have energy to shape it.

DA is obviously not the end all be all and should not be a priority to anyone's life purpose/self/identity etc. like. we know this. but in living alone i am getting the chance to indulge in all that stupidly and wonderfully pretentious things we all love about our favorite books and characters and films-- and frankly, each other! it's exciting to think i'll be able to read in all my free time at work and not have a grade to dictate the notes or research i do (or why i'm doing it at 3am...) or i can try new teas and coffees with my morning routine of peace and quiet (and my new habit of piano-based film scores). i feel inspired to be excited and excited to be excited...

i guess this counts as beginning steps to daily journaling, but i'm saying it here because... i don't know, there's something about the performative nature of seeing Aesthetic Journaling that has actually come full circle and gotten me to ACTUALLY do it, rather than fret over perfection. and do it in a way that keeps me accountable? like, i know i am not doing well-- but i didn't want to just write about that (here) and enforce that Poor Coping Mechanisms Hype. i also didn't want it to slip past myself, as it would by staying in a more private place (bc i know myself, not bc i think all feelings should be public instead), that i am feeling slightly energized to... frankly, save my own life.

i want to bookmark that i do want to make a very brooding (and healthy) little slice of post-undergrad, grad school life for myself in the coming months. i want to... feel good enough about my situation to buy myself some fucking furniture? and to plan on literally purchasing groceries as a regular habit? and take care of my life, even if i want it "follow" a certain Energy that's all about academia and being a nitwit in a tweed coat yellin' about homoerotic subtext in "classic" literature...

i want to say this, mostly for my dumb ass, to remind myself that bitch you are excited. there are things to look forward to creating, even if you feel anxious about it needing to be perfect. this is also a way to have things pre-written when i, eventually, need to call my own self out to my friends and say that i need some help. a little support and supervision to this new life i have complete free reign over; if my excitement is reactionary, my destructive behavior can be the same way.

this is already way too long. this was literally just supposed to be about watching a "my 5:30am routine" and feeling like i want to make a very mindful and unplugged routine to read and make my own coffee every day. that was it. but then i remembered... that there's a lot more i have to do before i can even consider making "morning ritual✨" content and posts and videos or whatever to share with y'all (bc if I get into this grad school i do want to start sharing stuff that relates to my new reading lists and study habits and writing methods blah blah blah we get it Mitchell you want to engage with people who have your interests SHH). before i can do that, i have to like. be healthy enough to have any of that be healthy, and not just an avoidance technique. or literally a way to make myself worse (and i mean d**d, technically).

so, somehow, still writing. needing to shut up. but, i wanted to say something for myself, but in a way that can be pointed to like "hey, mitchell, you uhhhh work on this at all, or are you just Politely Not Seeing It??" (providing i get to a worse place in which i am not communicating these thoughts to my irl friends i am moving closer to... although no one here is obligated to look after me. at all. to be clear.)

life is cool, man. i really like filling it with depressing and sorrowful literature and theory because it's interesting, but it's cool. it's cool to be alive for, ya know? life is worth being alive for to shape and create to your own liking. that's literally the point. and i forget thag. constantly.

hope life is cool to you. i think you're very cool for being here, alive today. sending you my warmest regards (or maybe coolest bc summer & motifs)...

sto lat.

mitchell k.

[megalodont]

11, 21, 34, 36, 47? <3

11.  Books and/or authors who influenced you the most

gosh that is hard! ohh, i don’t know who influenced my style bc i don’t know what my style even is..i can’t see it from the outside. whichever author i read at a formative age who uses an unfortunate number of em dashes must be my biggest influence ^^;; but in terms of other aspects of writing....the kate daniels series by ilona andrews was the first series to make me really care about action scenes, from a writing stand point, and it is probably at least partially responsible for my obsession with dialogue. it’s not a specific author (although if i had to pick one, idk. loretta chase?) but i think i can still see the echoes of my youthful love affair with regency romance in my writing; when i am writing modern dialogue, or just anything that’s firmly entrenched in the pov of a modern character, i often find myself rewording my instinctual phrasing of things bc they are so old timey. so if you ever read a sentence that is a bit formal and archaic, that’s me being unfiltered! hahaha

21.  Who is/are your favourite character(s) to write?

hmm, who is my favourite. well, my favourite to torture with horrible plot ideas while trying to sleep is jc, but actually writing him is tough bc everything i want to write about him involves Emotions and his Internal Experience and doing Character Study, and i am both lazy. and baby. wwx, on the other tentacle, is incredibly easy to write, i could write him all day, i could write 6k of him right now, but..ehhhh he doesn’t exactly fascinate me. not an indictment on him, there are just heaps of other characters who personally grab me more. nhs is pretty easy and ofc i love him. hmm, of the characters i’ve written i have to say....probably jingyi is my favourite to write! he’s got an easy “voice” and i’m rabid about him. but just for fun i’ll make a prediction; (for some unearthly reason even i cannot understand) i haven’t written any xue yang yet, but i suspect he will end up being a favourite. he seems like he would be easy to pick up the “voice” for, and we all know. that i am utter trash for him. to my chagrin and his delight, i am sure. 

34.  What was the hardest scene you ever had to write?

ooh, hmm. possibly the smut in i do it so it feels like hell? smut is always either super easy to write or super hard. also any action scene i’ve written, aside from the ones in The World Is Not Enough (i’ll save ya a click cap; it’s captain america fanfiction) which just worked for me and consequently are my best. 

36.  Last sentence you wrote

i’ll take this to mean the last sentence i wrote for fun haha, otherwise it would be VERY boring and also get me fired and/or sued. it...it might have been for Trick honestly, i have be so tired i haven’t done any writing this week, but i’ll take it to mean for a wip so that would be:

“They were for children.”

i wonder if you can guess the context? i suspect so

47.  Best way to procrastinate

the boring answer is tumblr lol, but the answers get more interesting the more desperate i am to distracted myself (ie the closer my [even self-imposed] deadline is): watching fashion history videos, diving deep into my folders to find unpublished wips and story ideas from years ago, looking up increasingly specific peer reviewed literature on google scholar, falling into the rabbithole of wiki articles on obscure conlangs, going outside to take a breath of fresh air and feel the grass under my toes--i’m fucking with you this one isn’t real i haven’t been outside in eleven years

anyway thank you for messaging me this link on discord bc tumblr is nonfunctional tagging me, it was fun! now i’m going to go read your responses! <3

[janiedean]

After joining tumblr, my dream of becoming a published writer is forever broken and ruined. It may be drastic but I cannot imagine a future in which I'm a happy writer, knowing that what a large amount of people think is that you can't write about a gay character if you're not gay yourself, you cannot have a poc character if you're not poc yourself etc. It's frustrating and sad. That's what tumblr taught, along with simultaneously complaining all the day about the lack of rep

anon, let me tell you something first and foremost: tumblr is not a good audience when it comes to original fiction and if that’s what you want to do, delete tumblr from your perspectives.

now, I’ll go and say a lot of unpopular things before addressing your concerns, but here we go:

people on tumblr don’t read. or better: either they read fanfic which then they decide to consider the same thing as published writing, and like... while there’s a lot of fic that’s better than some published writing technically, the fact that they say it about classics or stuff they’re supposed to study in school shows that they have no idea of the basic difference in between the two media... or they read YA that gets hailed as the Next Best Thing In Literature when at most it’s a good YA and at worst it’s mediocre stuff that looks revolutionary because they haven’t read the fifteen other things that YA has taken inspiration from. at most they read harry potter when they were kids and never moved on from it, as showed by the fact that it’s 2019 and I still have to see people arguing about sn/ape being BAD OR GOOD when he’s the standard gray archetype, and if you can only think of sn/ape when you think about a gray character and you still haven’t made sense of his moralities or lack thereof, then you haven’t read anything else; (never mind that once I read writing advice like SORT YOUR CHARACTERS INTO HOGWARTS HOUSES LIKE FFS SOME OF US HAVEN’T READ HP THAT’S NOT A UNIVERSAL ADVICE FOR CREATING A CHARACTER’S BACKGROUND)

as people on tumblr don’t read, their understanding of how you write or anything else related to the craft is pretty much useless - like, the only thing each single writing manual agrees on is that if you want to be a writer you have to read a lot, because how are you going to deconstruct tropes (to say one) if you don’t know how those tropes work? or how are you going to play into them if you don’t know how they work regardless? I can’t write a tolkien deconstruction if I haven’t read all of tolkien’s writings back to back ten times at least, I can’t write a good novel about vietnam veterans in the early eighties if I don’t read all the history books on the topic I can find and at least ten tomes about how war-related ptsd in veterans works and possibly a lot of books written by vets themselves. I can’t write a stephen king deconstruction if I haven’t read stephen king back to back ten times either. which shows they think original novels are like fanfic - like, I personally have researched the shit out of things for fanfic, but I wouldn’t ask anyone to do it for a thing they do for free. like, if I see badly researched italian reinassance AU fic I won’t gaf if the author just wrote it based on the anglosaxon tv shows about the borgias around because I can’t expect them to read ten books about the topic to write a thing they don’t get paid for and that just people in fandom most likely will touch, but if it’s a published author that gets paid for it I’ll expect that at least they’ll do some research if they want to write stuff somewhat realistically. people on tumblr think that writing a novel requires the same effort as fanfic, as in, not much when it comes to background work, which is ridiculous, because that’s the difference - with fanfic, unless I write a detailed AU or smth, the author already did that work for me. I just have to expand on it and trying to understand the characters. like, it’s nowhere near the same thing;

which means that people have gone with this concept that ‘you can’t write X if you’re not X’, which is honestly ridiculous and counter-productive because it shoots down any chance that you, as an author, might actually understand what people who aren’t from your background feel like. also, I personally think that if you want to do that and you want to be good at it you need to a) find a way to relate to your characters that goes beyond your differences, b) talk to people from the category you don’t belong to. now, if I had to write a 50k short romance novel about two guys falling for each other at a record shop without too much drama happening, I’d probably just write it myself, some people who are actually guys into guys, ask them to read it, tell me if I fucked it up, get them to explain me how I fucked it up and run it by them until I’m done, but admittedly I don’t need research to find out how people run a record shop. if I had to write a story set in europe but idk there’s a zombie plague and one of the protagonists is a black american tourist I’d go ask someone who is black and american and possibly from the area I decided that person is from to give me background info on how I could write this person etc. and then run it by them after I’m done. if another of the protagonists is idk polish (because there’s not many polish people in mainstream european fiction outside of polish authors), I’d find a polish person to do the same thing and run it by them etc., because I’m not a black american nor a polish person but I still want to write those characters etc. but I mean, let’s say it’s the zombie apocalypse - can I make sure people connect with both of them because they’re surrounded by zombies and as all human beings in existence they don’t want to die? most likely I can. meanwhile I’ll have learned a lot of things about both categories because I talked to people belonging to them;

or, let’s say I want to write some story with a large cast where I decide that for the purposes of it straight character falls for a trans character and it ends well because fuck that I want people to be happy. I’m not trans, but I do know people who are. I’ll definitely talk to them running stuff and ask if thing X is offensive or not etc. because of course I’m not so I can’t know for sure, maybe I’ll stick with the straight POV or maybe not but I’ll definitely run it by them to make sure the thing is actually well-planned/not in poor taste, and meanwhile I’ll have learned a lot about the topic that I might not have known before, which is good because it means I know more about experiences I don’t have which is, guess what, how the entire point of writing stories is. you want people to empathize and feel for characters that might be not the same as them, that’s exactly your damned job, but if you don’t do it yourself first how do you assume others will?

all these people who think you can’t write a gay character if you’re not gay are the same people who think that if you’re a straight woman you can’t write about two men being in love/fucking but you should be able to do it about f/f pairings because since you’re a woman then you have to guess how that works out of that, which shows that they have no idea of how anything works - like I argued with half of tumblr on this topic so whatever, but as a straight woman I think I have more aesthetic tastes in common with a gay man since we both want to fuck men and we both are familiar with handling that equipment, so I’d find it easier to write about that rather than about the contrary as I don’t generally find women attractive in that sense except for like two very specific people who are not a very common aesthetic in general. but like, assuming that in virtue of being a woman then you have to know how it feels to be attracted to women while you can’t possibly do 2+2 about how gay men are into each other when technically you’re into men yourself shows exactly how these people have No Idea Whatsoever of how attraction works, never mind how empathizing with someone else works, never mind of how writing things with research behind it goes;

also, assuming that if you’re X then you can’t understand Y is extremely damaging because it means you can never understand other people’s struggles and that’s......... worrying? I mean, it’s an incredibly dangerous (and calvinist) position to say that if someone is X and so doesn’t know how it feels to have a specific kind of issue then they can’t get it not even intellectually. idk, I’m straight so I can’t possibly understand or relate to why would lgbt+ people want to marry and adopt kids/have their children recognized/have the same rights as I do? are we serious? so if idk I wanted to try and change some bigot’s mind about it when I see that they’re just parroting bullshit and they haven’t thought about it I shouldn’t even try because they’re a bigot and they’ll never understand or change their mind? so people who used to be bigots, then found out their kids or their kids’s friends were lgbt+, listened to them, realized they were bigots and are now allies/supporters couldn’t have done that because at some point they used to be bigots? how the hell do you want people to change or to be an activist or change the world if you don’t believe that people can change themselves or worse that you don’t believe that people coming from any background can’t understand people coming from another background? that’s not how it works. I mean guys ffs I read a bunch of nonfiction lately about endemic poverty in the center of the US out of personal interest and I’m as far from the US and any of those situations as it goes (I’m not a veteran, I never was not taught to read and write even if I finished high school, I never lost 90% of what I had after getting sick, I never needed to hop on a train illegally to go places, I never had to sell my own plasma to buy lunch, I never needed to live in a tent when I was going to middle school after my parents had to move to a totally different state and I never had to go live in a trailer after my house was sold by a bank before I couldn’t pay off my loan, I don’t have a five year old child that won’t be insured because she was born with a pre-existing medical condition), and like... I cried while reading some of them? because I could envision it and I felt like the system failed them and I hate reading about people being failed by a system that should support them, and I swear I’m not a US person who comes from that background whatsoever. I could probably write you a full novel about how immigrants in Italy have it like shit whether they’re legal or not because I worked in the field for two years and one of my oldest friends has immigrant parents and she was born here and she can’t use her ID to travel in europe only because she still doesn’t have a citizenship and she’s been waiting for years to get it. I’m not an immigrant in italy but I’ve known enough, seen enough and heard enough from them that I could most likely do it and it wouldn’t be badly researched. like, you can’t tell people to not tell stories if they want to do it with respect and not wanting to make it about themselves only. that’s bad writing. but if you care about the people you’re giving rep to then you should try imvho;

now: I suppose that you’re belonging to categories that are Not Minorities given how the ask is worded. (same as me more or less unless you consider atheists a minority but nvm that.) there’s a lot of writers around that are Not Minorities and most get published more than people who are actually minorities. people saying that you can’t write X if you’re not X and X = minority are pretty much telling you that you shouldn’t use your spotlight to give people rep when you could and you could do it reasonably well if you do your research and talk to those minorities. so they’re basically going against everyone’s interests because you could learn things and become a better person and make sure your readers empathize with your characters and more rep is always good esp. if well-done. I personally think that people should write about what they want - there’s topics I wouldn’t feel comfortable touching because idk if I could do that well and things I really wouldn’t want to write about so I most likely never will -, but that they should also go for what they want if it’s what they believe they can do. so if you feel like you want to write gay characters or whatever go for it and then find yourself a sensitivity reader or ten before you send your book around instead of worrying about what kids on tumblr who are still arguing about snape’s morality and think that writing the divine comedy is the same as self-insert fanfic think, because they will never create shit for anyone, you might. and you’ll have automatically done more than people who complain about everything but wouldn’t produce one single piece of fiction themselves and wouldn’t most likely waste ten minutes of their life researching the fiction they want to write.

tldr: if you want to write professionally, influence people and give the world good stories, don’t give a fuck about what tumblr says because it’s people who most likely will never read your books anyway unless you want to write the next YA saga that has the same six archetypes of characters in which then the only slightly problematic white cishet dude will be without further ado compared to sn/ape and everyone is going to get sorted into hogwarts houses and people will fight about that rather than giving a damn about whatever message you wanted to pass. don’t give a damn about tumblr and do your thing anon, no one deserves to have any perspective ruined because of this hellsite’s opinions on anything. ;) 

[laurasauras]

i took my time reading the epilogue and i’m gonna read it again (a lot) because i want to get nice and deep in some of the very cool symbolism that was going on there, but here are my takes so far:

candy

i read candy first and i think that was a good call, mostly because the stuff that alt!calliope said about narrative voice was explicit and fresh in my mind for meat

johnrezi was touching as fuck, especially in candy where i felt they had a very meaningful kismesissitude

they did an excellent job of making gamzee repulsive. like, a really good job. it reminded me of how writers will sometimes make “protagonists” in horror movies unlikeable to a) make people lean into the bloodlust and b) criticise how far people would go to punish someone who is unpalatable

my friend dave said this, which made me laugh out loud:  “ JOHN: vriska caliborn egbert, you were named after two of the bravest people i ever knew. “

my heart broke time and time again for how dave and karkat were on the precipice of finding each other so many times and they were so miserable without that closure

john assigning vriska as (vriska) was fucking hilarious to me ... and her moment of revelation with vriska was beautiful. very tidy, thematically

john feeling guilty about authoring a child just for them to suffer is, like all the epilogue, working on multiple levels and i can’t wait to get into deeper analysis of this later—it ties very nicely into a lot of the meat themes which are that the reader is the one responsible for the action because they are witnessing it. there’s interplay there and i will write an essay on the subject when i have more time/spoons

dream obama gives the best advice. i’m so glad dave got to meet him. that coming out was a long time coming.

aradia and alt!calliope’s discussion on stories is retroactively the reason i decided to go back to university and study literature.

meat

jakes intelligence continually being disparaged just makes me very sure that he’s hiding again, he sees a lot more than he’s given credit for

john realising that he has depression is really important—it was very obvious to me that he was throughout candy, almost as if they were going down the list of symptoms, but he couldn’t confront it because he thought it was all because the world was pointless. this is very common.

i think that the Point might be that thinking in terms of "villain" or even "antagonist" is counter-productive—once upon a time in homestuck the bad guys were monstrous aliens and larger than life and evil for the sake of being evil, but that’s not how it usually goes in the real world. people who cause harm in this world we live in have friends and family, they think they’re doing the right thing and they are blind to their privilege. growing up does not always mean growing to be good, though we like to pretend that we outgrow our flaws as we age. 

(oh god, dirk is acting more like bro and i am baaaaad for finding that hot)

i can't believe i haven't written dirk and rose exchanging rapid fire wikipedia gained philosophy, that’s exactly my speed. maybe i’ll write a version where dirk didn’t wait until rose was literally fighting for consciousness to verbally spar with her. you better believe rose can take him on even a slightly better day than this.

dirk taking over the narrative, calliope fighting him and subtle shit like the font size changing was very sexy. i love experimental fiction.

dirk was working very hard to make it obvious that his taking over the narrative was bad, that his character was bad (because how else would dirk strider ever want to be seen), and i understand that. i understand him. i’m not briefed on what made him think that he needed to gun for the just death, but i can see how this makes sense for his character. alt!calliope is pretending to be completely impartial, but her use of the narration to make john more aware of his feelings felt deeply intrusive to me, especially because she doesn’t seem to be aware that she’s not being impartial. her approach to narration actually reminds me a lot of jane’s approach to politics. plausible innocence and very well intentioned. dirk admits and in fact draws attention to it when he changes a characters thoughts and feelings. but, as my friend dave said, “theres no such thing as a purely objective authorial voice”. i can’t believe i want to bring up plato. it’s no coincidence that dirk was playing the heel in the rap-wrestling scene with jake. 

i liked the acknowledgement that jake is a nymphette (always in the spotlight, incredibly fetishised and looked on with voyeurism but fundamentally pure; sexy and infantalised). there’s an essay there, too.

i don’t disagree with any of the characterisations here, but i would like to see a (jane), even if i have to write her myself.

i have more thoughts but i’m also very tired and there’ll be plenty of time to think about this later. all in all, i loved the epilogues. they were homestuck. they made me feel and think and laugh and grimace. 

[rorybergstrom]

 hello, it’s swamp witch nora again…. hitting u with a tiny baby boy who is also terrible (sometimes).  musical softboi who loves karl marx and hates children dying in cobalt mines to make smart phones. as is tradition, here’s the pinterest board, have a peruse x

「 timothee chalamet. cismale. 」have you seen rory bergström around yet? i hear he’s decided to be in AUDAX for their JUNIOR year as a MUSIC TECHNOLOGY major. the 23 year old SHEEP is known to be fanatical, eccentric, nitpicky and dogmatic. ➨ the muse is written by nora, she/her, 23, gmt.

aesthetics.

bed hair from a permanent state of slumber, calloused fingertips from strumming bass into the early hours and djing into the blacklit night, self-help books thumbed once and thrown beneath your bed, battered copies of choose your own adventure books, spliffs passed half-arsed across rooftops while light pollution obscures low-hanging stars, marxist literature in stacks against your bedroom walls, a burner phone twice-shattered and a stash of replacement sim cards.

tw ocd, anxiety, drugs

half-swedish, half-british. the swedish is on his mother’s side. he’s bilingual but thinks in english. only really speaks swedish around his mother. only child, and kinda put a lot of pressure on himself to be the Perfect Kid when he was young, but his parents are honestly, quite decent? and just want him to have a nice life, they don’t care if he isn’t successful or rich or anything, they’re honestly rather solid. (wow imagine having Nice Parents, a first for all my characters, im literally this meme)

grew up in peckham, a suburb of london. growing up, his mum was a model / actress / waitress who later retrained as a speech therapist and his dad worked in her majesty’s service at buckingham palace. his dad wasn’t allowed to tell his family what his job entailed but rory suspects it’s probably very boring and just involves a lot of…. logistics n security.

was bullied a lot at school. [cole sprouse voice] he didn’t fIT iN AND HE DIDN’T wANT TO fIT iN. unironically wore a trenchcoat to school every day of his life. spent most of his lunchtimes in the library because it was his Safe Space. as a result he knows…. loads of useless information because 30% of his school years were spent reading anthologies on space and the vikings etc. would be good on a game show. obsessively recorded every episode of university challenge as a child.

middle-class and lowkey quite wealthy but rarely talks about money, one of those well-off people who still wears really old shitty shoes and only spends money if they absolutely have to

virgin who can’t drive

into star wars, not into the big bang theory. feminist. can’t watch horror movies

favourite film is where the wild things are. also loves the florida project. thinks kids are the sweetest thing and can’t wait to be a dad to some

has been musical for as long as they can remember. first picked up guitar because he thought it would make this girl esther who he was in love with like him, but he just ended up falling in love with music instead.

formulated several different bands as a kid but ultimately had to give it up cos he was quite controlling and got fixated on making a certain sound so it wasn’t really fun for the others. got into electronic music because it was something he could do basically on his own and keep tweaking until he got it perfect

always drumming their fingers or strumming invisible guitar strings. tends to avoid parties bc he has quite has specific tastes when it comes to music and doesn’t like listening to r&b for eight hours while people throw up into plastic cups.

a techno connoisseur. has been making electronic music since he was about twelve.

after his parents divorce, when he was fourteen, rory & his mother moved to run-down suburban neighbourhood, pittsfield, massachussets.

big into photography. he mostly uses a canon 35mm camera, but occasionally uses disposable ones when he wants that more rustic feel.

moving to the states, their photography became more focused on suburban neighborhoods and are often quite dark and cinematic (think gregory crewsden). here are some shots of pittsfield i really like which rory has on his wall [1] [2] [3]

falls in love 12 times a day. never had a girlfriend or boyfriend. gets sweaty when someone cute looks at him. flirting?? what?? would prefer to idealise them from a distance

gender??? hm. doesn’t really know where he fits yet, sometimes he feels like a guy and sometimes they dont feel like anything at all. isn’t really bothered, cos they think it’s a social construct anyway. uses he/they pronouns interchangeably, but feels like ‘he’ is more fitting. won’t necessarily pull anyone up on it cos he knows having an identity that’s constantly…. in flux.. can be annoying for others … and doesn’t want to be a burden EVEN THO it isn’t at all?? rory internalises guilt

everything is socially constructed. mirrors let you move through time. the whole thing’s a metaphor. he thinks he’s got free will but really he’s trapped in a maze. in a system. all he can do is consume. people think it’s a happy game. it’s not a happy game — it’s a fucking nightmare world, and the worst thing is, it’s real and we live in it

has ocd. tries to let it affect his life as little as possible, but obviously it’s incredibly hard to control a compulsive disorder. was teased for it at school when other kids started to notice. he was obsessed with the number five, would wash his hands five times, count stairs i groups of five, he could only use the corridors in one direction and always had to keep his hands busy. it manifests itself in hyper-fixations (trains when he was a child – specifically steam engines – then later he became obsessed with space and the patterns of constellations, and now he’s obsessed with synthesizers) and repetitive behaviours like counting stairs. doesn’t really affect his social life at all, he can jst get a bit locked-on n hyper-focused sometimes.

has insomnia. barely ever sleeps. finds it hard to switch off from work / writing / gaming / whatever’s preoccupying him in that moment. he’s always awake at 5am and quite often sleeps in through classes but still gets really good grades because he’s very good at his course. rarely attends classes. prefers to work independently. doesn’t really trust his tutors are intelligent enough to be teaching him, and is particularly suspicious of the lockwood tutors. a music snob tbh

secretly a small-scale drug dealer, only does weed n some party pills. rollerskates around campus dealing cos they dnt have a car

long haired, aesthetic is like… timmy in lady bird n beautiful boy

aesthetics: bed hair from a permanent state of slumber, calloused fingertips from strumming bass into the early hours and drumming into blacklit night, self-help books thumbed once and thrown beneath your bed, watching vine compilations until your eyes turn square, battered copies of choose your own adventure books, spliffs passed half-arsed across rooftops while light pollution obscures low-hanging stars

likes: techno, the webpage cats on synthesizers in space, allen ginsberg, vintage gramophones,  floating points, lcd soundsystem, marijuana, soft dogs that let you pet them, late-night strolls talking about the universe, independent films, cigarettes, herbal tea, gallows humour, long showers, brown eyes, tchaikovsky, dr. seuss, constellations, photography, late night jazz, vintage game boys and girls who could rip his still-beating heart out of his chest and use it as an ashtray. dislikes:  weddings, funerals, formality, button-up shirts that people actually button-up, bananas, hot coffee, social media, people who watch and play sports, rap music – especially of the misogynistic variety, indie wankers in wire-framed glasses that play ed sheeran songs at open mic nights.

plot ! with ! me ! i’d say all the usual “exes fwb hookups spiel” but rory… has never hooked up with anyone… i feel like a deer in the headlights of love……. so give me

study buddies,

people who are also into techno and are music snobs about it,

people who love all kinds of music,

people who are in bands that maybe rory’s recorded and produced stuff for,

people he actually jams with (he plays bass and synth),

unrequited crushes!!

someone they met at a knitting club in freshman year and have remained friends with despite no longer going to it

people rory knows from open mic nights and gigs

library girlfriends / boyfriends that he stares at longingly while paging through leatherbound volumes

gamers !!! social recluses !!! hermits !!

people he deals weed to on his rollerskates (why r all my characters obsessed with rollerskates)

skaters. rory is really shit at skateboarding. like really shit. help the smol

[thefloatingstone]

syhraus

In all honesty, i know we can't get something perfect, i do have standards i want to find in a story like characters feeling real, or them not being overpowered just like that, and still having no personality ! (i found one in which Frisk could use the gaster blaster with a bullshit reason of : i got hit by it so i can use it) Those stories i say no You want a powerful character ? Give them a damn personality ! make me feel that they are real.

Also, i forgot to mention it, but if a story isn't up to my standards i will just avoid reading it. 

You are mistaking “quality” for what is considered “Professional”.

In a professional setting, there are certain story setups which are just considered “bad” because they are self indulgent. Not because of HOW they are written, but simply because the concept for the story itself is recognised as having been written for the author to indulge what they themself like.

We often criticise bad Director driven movies as being “self indulgent” but we never compliment director driven movies which are good as “self indulgent”

We call the pod race in Star Wars Episode 1 (why is it always Star Wars?) as “Self indulgent” because George Lucas is a giant fan of Formula 1 racing. But the movie is bad and that sequence is described as overly long (which it is) not serving the plot (which it doesn’t) and for being George Lucas just self indulging.

but when Del Toro makes an ENTIRE MOVIE to be self indulgent about a fish man having a romance with a woman, we don’t CALL it “self indulgent” even though that is 100% what it is. Because when things are “Self indulgent” they are “bad”.

I use to have this as a mindset and in an internalised way still do, that if you write a fanfic just to self indulge yourself you are “doing it wrong”. Because you should NEVER self indulge in anything. When you write fanfics it can only follow examples established by respected literature. No you can’t write a short sickfic about your character getting taken care of. No you can’t write a self insert romance about baking pie with your fave. No you can’t write a p-without-plot smutfic. It has to be GOOD. it has to be SERIOUS.

And this bleeds out into other things;

No, we don’t use 2nd Person in writing any more. That is not professional.

As for art, it puts this idea on you that “Nothing you draw is good enough until it actually starts resembling professional grade illustrations. And anything before that is garbage.” Heaven forbid people draw things even if they’re not professionals in their skill level just because it makes them HAPPY. Heaven forbid people like other people’s art who are below them in skill level because they ENJOY it. No. It has to be PROFESSIONAL or it’s not good enough to exist. And everything on the staircase to BEING “professional” is just a stepping stone and worth nothing but a means to an end.

This is so incredibly self destructive, and actually does not reflect on the QUALITY of the fanwork at all! Only whether it meets these invisible qualifications to be considered Done well worth anything.

As I said, this has been a mindset I’ve internalised thanks to over 10 years on deviantArt, studying at an animation college, and working in the ACTUAL REAL Professional industry.

And the longer I’m on tumblr and read these “self indulgent” “bad” fanfics that use 2nd person reader inserts to write a hurt/comfort sickfic about the authors fave (using REALLY TECHNICALLY MASTERFUL LANGUAGE AND TECHNIQUES. As in the QUALITY of the actual work is incredibly high) the longer I’m learning how absolutely wrong this idea of “professionalism” in fandom actually is.

And really just like....

I’m reading several SUPER self indulgent fanfics right now, I’m reading a couple of fan-comics (some of which are perhaps below me in terms of skill level although that’s debatable and changes from page to page in all honesty) and I follow several artists who ARE below me in skill level and you know what?

Fuck it.

I have enjoyed some of their work WAY MORE than I have enjoyed a large amount of stories or art made to adhere to this measuring bar of “professional quality”.

My original post I made was me expressing how stifling my own creativity and intake of fandom works by trying to measure up to this is and was, literally, one of the biggest mistakes I’ve ever made.

[rhysand-vs-fenrys]

Hey so à while back someone asked you how to write smut and that post was really helpful but it focused a lot on precautions. Would you mind giving some more advice to someone who has never ever written smut before? Like how to go about it, what is too fast, what is too slow, good things to include etc. Also is 2000 words for a smut scene too much or can I push it to 3000+?

First, to your word count question:

I opened up the document for “A Sweet Treat” (my Feysand smut and what I felt was an average to short smut scene for me. That clocks in overall at just over 7,200 words, with only the smut being 3,400 of that.

My typical length for a smut scene probably runs around 6,300 (that is for “Alone in the Townhouse” not counting the bath smut at the beginning). 

Really it’s when you feel you’ve said what you wanted to say, you move on. So it’s whatever you are comfortable with and whatever you want to convey. I tend to push into the emotional and relationship side of things and that inflates the word count. I never pay attention to word count when writing smut, I just know it will clock in around 15-20 pages (I think that comes from me never reading fanfiction, I’m not used to a system that focuses on word count instead of page count).

What’s too fast and too slow:

There’s no real answer to this one, I’m sorry to say~ 

There is a term in TV and video games (where it is more well known) called “Flow”. When a viewer/player hits flow, they have achieved a certain one-ness with the game/show. They stop noticing time and in terms of readers, you forget you’re even reading a book and not watching everything unfold.

That is what you have to look for in the writing, and it’s a really hard skill to develop. As you re-read it, you have to get a feel for the flow of the story- does it feel to you like it’s going too fast? Does it feel like “and then, and then, and then”, or does it feel like it’s going too slowly and it’s dragging it’s feet?

If the pace feels right to you, then it’s right.

This can be such a hard thing to judge, and my best example of that is my fics “Nessian: The Mating”. I published one version that I was unhappy with but I wanted it off my plate so I’d stop looking at it. That was 25 pages long, the same length as my first smut fic “A Cure for Nightmares”

The flow in “nessian” was terrible though (it was excellent in ACFN). I was racing through everything and it felt to me as a reader like I never got into it before it moved on to the next thing. So I wrote a new draft that had the pacing I liked, I didn’t pressure myself, and just let the story tell itself at a pace that felt natural. It clocked in at 50 pages and I posted it as a 2-parter.

So really it’s a judgement call by you, if it feels too fast or too slow.

Good things to include:

The most important thing to include, and what I make a point of including in every fic, is an emotional component. You can’t forget the love (unless you’re writing a one night stand or something).

I took several media psychology courses in college and I learned something very useful:: The largest consumer of literature-based adult content (smut) are women, and studies show women prefer literature-based to visual because they need/prefer a more emotional connection to the characters whereas men just see the bump and grind. 

When you write smut, tap into that. Bring the emotions more to the forefront, give your characters soul and then make that shine as brightly as the sex. 

How to go about it:

Just start writing.

I was working on my original and a scene came up that I knew was going to be a sex scene. I’d never really written one before (I’d toyed slightly with it in my Avengers fics, but no more than a passing mention or a couple paragraphs at the end of the sex). I was incredibly uncomfortable writing it, and while it was a rather graphic scene for a couple reasons (someone dies violently and suddenly), the biggest reason was that I’d never written one before.

So I finished that and immediately opened up a new notebook (I hand write all smut drafts to remind myself to take my time, I go too fast at the computer). I started “A Cure for Nightmares” then and just took it easy. I didn’t stress over anything, I put it down as often as I needed to recharge my brain, and I think it took about 4 days before I typed it up and posted it (forever for me, most of my fics are written in one sitting).

Initially writing a smut fic was exhausting. Just mentally draining and it takes a lot out of you. You’re worrying over everything, constantly making sure the pacing is what you want, and monitoring the message you’re sending with the sex scene (is it a healthy relationship? How have I shown that recently? Did I use the word ‘pump’ in this paragraph? ‘thrust’?). Eventually you get the feel for writing smut and it isn’t as difficult, but still.

You won’t know what happens until you start writing, and I know you asked that hoping for like a set formula, but that’s really the only advice I can give…

Final thought:

What worked for me when I started writing- and even now if I get stuck- is to ignore the setup entirely. Just write the smut from the point you want to write from and figure out a beginning/end when you’re done. 

“Alone in the Townhouse’ took WEEKS because I wrote the smut and couldn’t figure out the context to put it in. It was hell (and I drove my friend who was beta-reading insane bouncing ideas left and right). I the context you got in that fic was literally me throwing my hands up and saying “fuck it” (and it’s my most popular Maasdom fic ever).

Don’t let the context bog you down. See what you’re writing and how it chooses to end, then figure out a beginning based on that.

I hope I answered all your questions, and I’m sorry I couldn’t give you any really solid layout for planning. I write based on feel- what I feel like reading and what my brain feels like writing. That doesn’t help you much though…

xoxo Good luck!!! xoxo

[star-trekkin-across-theuniverse]

Trust Fund

Word Count: 3868 Tags: @yourtropegirl Tony Stark tags: @shewhorunswithfandoms, @flirtswithdanger, @anyakinamidala @dirajunara @anotherotter @little-study-bug @rampant-salamander @goodnightwife Author’s Note: This is for @yourtropegirl‘s 1000 follower celebration - I took College AU with Tony Stark. 

“Are you sure you won’t come out?” Tabby, your roommate, was doing her best puppy dog eyes at you, trying to convince you to join her at what she claimed was going to be the party of the semester at the Delta Kappa Nu frat.

“Huge exam Monday. I’m gonna hit the lab and make sure I’m on track. I can party later,” you shrugged.

“I somehow doubt there’s a lot of partying in the Engineering set. All you ever seem to do is study,” Tabby snorted.

“Engineering taught Delta Kappa Nu how to party,” you countered, rolling your eyes. “But there’s a time and place, and midterms week is a stupid time to plan for a huge party. Maybe the week after midterms.”

“Long story short, you aren’t coming out,” Tabby sighed.

“True story,” you nodded, collecting your books and heading to the lab.

You dropped your reading glasses on your textbook and rubbed the bridge of your nose, tilting your head from side to side to stretch the crick in your neck. Glancing down at your watch, you were both startled by how late it was, but not the least bit surprised that you had lost track of time. You glanced around the lab and saw only one other desk with a light on at it. You were marginally unsettled to discover it was the engineering department’s shiny star and notorious party boy, Tony Stark, poring over his textbooks. Like he somehow was worried about his grades. In your experience, the guy was a walking textbook. You didn’t think he’d ever studied. Unable to resist the curiosity, you walked toward his desk to check on him. Not that you figured you could help, but because it was so out of character. You’d never seen him in the labs before, and you practically lived in them.

“Hey,” you offered. “Late night? I didn’t think you needed to study.” He looked up, and smirked.

“Y/N, right?” He paused before continuing. “I don’t need to study. Not engineering, anyhow. Literature, however, is another story.” He held up a copy of Emma.

“Jane Austen?” You laughed. “I loved that book. In high school.”

“Ouch!” He feigned hurt by placing a hand over his heart. “You wound me.”

“Someone with a flair for the dramatic like you shouldn’t have any trouble with Jane Austen,” you laughed. He scowled.

“I don’t understand the point,” he admitted. “Like, I understand what I’ve read, blah blah social stations and injustice, but I don’t get the point.”

“That is the point though,” you argued. “Every breath someone takes in those novels is observed, judged and gossiped about. Austen was very subtly making satire. The point was to comment on the strict and rigid nature of society’s rules, and hopefully make it just exaggerated enough that the reader would realize how ridiculous those rules were.”

“I thought you were an engineer,” Tony commented, raising an eyebrow. “That sounds a lot like a humanities student right there.”

“Can’t I be both? Engineering pays better at the end of the day,” you shrugged. “And books will always be there for me.” He looked thoughtful for a moment and nodded.

“I bet Jane Austen would have a hard time exaggerating the stupid around this place,” he finally said. You let out a short huff of laughter and nodded.

“Once she got over the horror of sexual liberation, she might be able to come up with something.” You couldn’t help but defend the writer. Tony smiled again and his eyes crinkled at the corners. You felt a slight thrill, but reminded yourself that of all the party boys at the university, Tony Stark, despite his incredible intelligence, was the worst of them. You looked down at your feet, feeling his gaze linger on you just a little too long, and finally looked up when you felt the blushing was under control.

“I should get some sleep, I’ve gotta be up early to study so I can work tomorrow night,” you excused.

“Work?” He asked.

“I work at the campus pub three nights a week,” you nodded. “Not all of us have trust funds, Tony Stark.” You winked and headed toward the door. He snapped his books shut and scrambled after you.

“It’s after two am, can I walk you home?” He offered. You furrowed your brow in confusion and looked at him.

“I’m just over at Miller,” you returned. He gave you a charming smile and shrugged.

“You know, this is how most bad horror movies start,” he countered. “Let me walk you back to your dorm.”

“Have it your way,” you laughed, secretly delighted that he would be concerned about your welfare.

The pub was slow, which was usual for a Sunday night. What you hadn’t counted on was Tony showing up to sit at the bar and chat with you about Emma some more. There was no artifice to the conversation, and you were under the impression that Tony was just looking for a friend to talk to. You were more than happy to chat with him to while away your shift, and moreso when he pulled out his Engineering textbook and started reading, asking you the occasional question as though he was stuck on something. You knew he was really just helping you study a little more, and appreciated the gesture.

“As much as I’ve enjoyed you polishing your side of the bar there, Tony, I’m gonna have to ask you to head out so I can close down for the night.” You surprised yourself with the honesty of the statement. You had enjoyed his company. He smiled.

“I’ll wait for you outside and walk you back,” he nodded, dropping his books in his backpack and heading for the door. You followed and locked up, quickly cashing out and hurrying through your closing tasks so he wouldn’t be stuck waiting too long.

“You know, I never thought this campus was creepy until you insisted that it was a horror movie waiting to happen,” you laughed as you locked up the pub from the outside. Tony smirked and gave you a wink as you headed toward your dorm.

“You think you’re seeing the shadows of trees, but really, it’s a demon and -”

“That’s enough!” You interrupted. “I need to sleep tonight! I have to maintain and 3.85 or I’ll lose my scholarship!”

“Wait, you have a scholarship? And you work?” Tony stopped and stared at you. You nodded, not bothering to stop walking. He scrambled to keep up.

“Like I said last night, not all of us have trust funds. My scholarship covers tuition and books, but not room and board,” you explained. “Last summer, I had an awesome opportunity to work at a kid’s engineering camp, but the pay wasn’t awesome, so I need to work a couple days a week to make ends meet.”

“I suppose you go to church every Sunday too?” He teased. “And never drink anything stronger than a glass of milk?”

“Excuse me? Are you calling me a nerd?” You laughed. “Last I heard you aren’t failing anything and you probably could have had any scholarship you wanted.”

“I left them all for the poor kids like you,” he winked. You shoved him gently, laughing when he lost balance. He steadied himself as you arrived at your dorm and quickly skirted up the stairs to avoid him trying to get you back. “See you tomorrow at the exam.”

“Thanks for the walk home, Tony,” you smiled and headed into the building. Tabby was checking the mailbox by the front door and looked up when you came in. She leaned to look over your shoulder and raised her eyebrows in question.

“Is that Tony Stark?” She tried to keep her voice down, but it was still shrill with surprise.

“Yeah?” You replied.

“Oh my god, how do you know him?” Tabby demanded. “He’s super rich! And look how hot he is! Fuck me, I’ve been trying to run into him since last year.”

“Well, if you studied more and partied less, you too could have encountered him in the lab last night,” you shrugged, heading up the stairs. She followed on your heels.

“He was studying? I heard he’s some kind of genius and doesn’t need to study,” Tabby argued.

“He’s weak in Lit, he says,” you offered. Tabby stopped on the stairs and gaped at you before running up ahead of you and stopping to stare you down.

“That’s my major. Hook me up,” she demanded, arms folded across her chest. You smirked.

“Sure, I’ll get right on that.” You couldn’t help but roll your eyes. Tabby didn’t need Tony Stark any more than Tony Stark needed a scholarship. She was beautiful and had a new guy strung along every week. She needed to take Tony’s approach and leave some men for the poor girls. You blushed as you realized you were feeling territorial about the most eligible bachelor on campus and shook your head as you brushed past Tabby into your shared room.

“I’m serious, Y/N. Tony Stark is a stone cold fox, and I want him. Help me snag him!” Tabby whined.

“Right now, my main concern is my Thermodynamics exam in the morning. You can harass me about Tony Stark sometime after that,” you allowed, grabbing your pajamas and heading into the bathroom.

“But you’re working tomorrow afternoon!” Tabby complained through the door. You heard a thud and knew she had slumped against it.

“Even better,” you replied. “Each time you bug me about him, you can tip me at least twenty percent.”

The exam was probably the hardest you’d written in your undergrad so far, which made you dread the final for the course. You were lost in a fog of equations and concepts as you walked to the campus pub, finally shaking yourself out of second-guessing every question when you spilled a beer down your shirt not even five minutes into your shift. Barry, the manager, dug a tank top splashed with a logo of one of the beers on tap out of the bottom of a prize bin and handed it to you so you could go change.

You tied your hair up in a ponytail and pulled the wet shirt over your head, patting dry your bra as much as you could before you pulled the tank top on. When you looked up in the mirror you gasped. It was a low-cut tank top. You rinsed out your tee shirt and rung it out as best as you could, holding it in front of you as you made your way back to the bar.

“Barry!” You hissed from the corner. He turned and looked at you, his brow furrowing. He held up his hands in question. You pulled the tee shirt aside and gestured at your exposed cleavage. “Isn’t there something in that box that’s got a little more fabric to it?”

Barry laughed and nodded, pulling the prize box out again, and rummaging through it. He pulled out a couple more shirts and offered them to you. One was even smaller than the tank top, unbelievably, and the other was about five sizes too big. “Sorry, kiddo,” he chuckled. “I bet you’ll make better tips than usual tonight though.”

“That’s objectification,” you protested sarcastically. He shrugged.

“I thought you were a scholarship kid,” he teased. “Work the tavern wench look, it’ll buy you something more healthy than ramen for a change.”

You shook your head and saw that while you had been talking, a table of Delta Kappa Nu brothers had seated themselves. You grabbed your order pad and headed to them quickly. You hated dealing with them at the best of times, but with the revealing top, you were dreading it even more.

“Hey boys, what’ll it be tonight?” You asked, holding your pencil at the ready.

“Three pitchers of Bud, and one of whatever you’ve got that’ll make you want to come home with me tonight,” one of them ordered, cracking up and looking at his buddies for affirmation that his line was good. You rolled your eyes.

“Coming right up.” You walked back to the bar and drew the pitchers, loading them and some glasses on your tray. As you dropped everything off, you saw Tony enter out of the corner of your eye, and when he knew he’d caught your glance, he waved and sat at the bar. You counted out change for the frat boys, disappointed in their shitty tips, and headed behind the bar to greet him.

“That’s one helluva shirt, Y/N.” He didn’t even try to hide that he was checking out your chest. You placed a finger on his chin and tipped his face up.

“My eyes are up here, Tony,” you laughed, but your cheeks were burning. He caught on to your discomfort instantly, and stood, peeling his jean jacket off. He unbuttoned the plaid flannel shirt he was wearing over his t-shirt and handed it to you. You gave him a confused look, but accepted the shirt, slipping your arms into the sleeves. It was too long, but after you tied it at the waist and buttoned it part-way up, it allowed you to tug the tank top up so that more of your chest was covered. You made quick work of rolling up the sleeves.

“There, much better,” he nodded. “You almost look like a nun again.”

“Ha ha,” you scoffed.

“I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable,” he apologised. You looked up quickly, eyes narrowed. “Looking at, uh - I just hadn’t realized that uh -”

“That I was a girl?” You offered. He laughed suddenly.

“No, I’d noticed that,” he quickly replied. “I guess I wasn’t expecting you, uh. You know, forget it.” He waved his hand to dismiss the thought and you knew better than to pursue it. You took his drink order and realized the frat boys were waving to get your attention. You made your way back to them, and stopped part way as you heard one of them say your name.

“So Y/N was really drunk, right? And she was all over me. She kept telling me she wanted it, and that she wouldn’t regret it. So I took her back to my room, and she is a little hellcat. Clawed the fuck out of my back, was biting me. Seriously best lay I’ve ever had,” one of them was bragging. Your name wasn’t terribly common, but you were sure they couldn’t be talking about you, and you forced yourself to walk up to the table to take their order.

“This Y/N?” One of the other guys pointed at you. “Her?”

“Yeah,” the first one nodded. “Tell the guys how much you loved banging me on Saturday night, Y/N.”

“I don’t know who the fuck you were with on Saturday, but it wasn’t me,” you countered, betrayed by the heat rising in your cheeks. The way you were blushing could condemn you. “Three more pitchers?”

“Aw, come on, baby, don’t be that way. I told you I’d call you after midterms,” he cajoled. You set your jaw and gave him the stoniest glare you could muster.

“Again, not to me. I wasn’t even at your stupid ass party,” you replied, and stalked away. You could feel tears of humiliation burning at the corners of your eyes as you crashed around behind the bar. Tony watched, sipping his drink slowly, not saying a word. You stopped when you dropped a glass, startling yourself into letting the tears fall. Before you could respond any other way, you pushed past Barry to the back room, and sat on a pallet of kegs, head in your hands. You felt a warm arm slip around you, and leaned against him, letting the tears fall. His other arm wrapped around you, rubbing your arm through the flannel shirt Tony had loaned you.

“Shhh,” he murmured and you stilled. The voice was all wrong. It wasn’t Barry you were sobbing against. You pulled away, shocked to see Tony soothing you. “What did those fratholes say?”

“It’s nothing,” you sniffed, wiping your tears with the back of your sleeve.

“It’s not nothing if you’re this upset,” he countered. “Hey, I know we’ve only just become friends, but there has to be something I can do.”

“The dumb-looking blond one? I think his name is Todd? He’s telling all those other guys that we had sex on Saturday night,” you admitted. Tony’s lip curled in distaste.

“Well, there’s no accounting for some people’s taste in men, but you’re not really a nun, right?” He asked.

“What? No? Why?” You asked, confused enough to squint at him.

“Because unless you’re a nun, it’s really no one’s business who you sleep with,” Tony explained. “I mean, it’s pretty déclassé of Todd to brag about it, but it’s a free country and -”

“Tony, I didn’t sleep with him,” you interrupted. “Gross. I didn’t even go to their stupid party on Saturday. I was in the lab all night.”

“Yeah, that’s right. You were there when I got there,” he recollected. “It’ll blow over, Y/N. Don’t worry about it.”

“Comforting. In the meantime, it’s my reputation that suffers,” you complained. Tony shook his head, and helped you to your feet. 

“I’ll stick around tonight. Won’t let anything get out of hand,” he offered. You sighed and walked back out to the bar, Tony following a few steps behind.

The guys were still laughing and making lewd gestures, and you turned to head to the back room again. Tony stopped you.

“He’s talking too big. Someone is going to demand to see the scratching and bruising from his so-called hellcat one night stand. And then what?” Tony winked, and lifted his glass to finish his drink. You poured him another, ignoring the waves from the frat table to go clear another table. Todd stopped you on the way past by reaching out and pulling you into his lap.

“I was waving for you, sweetheart. We need more beer,” he breathed on your neck. You pulled out of his grasp easily and smacked his hand as he reached for you a second time.

“I think you’re pretty much cut off, buddy,” you retorted.

“Why are you denying this chemistry between us, Y/N? Who else are you going to meet on this campus that can meet your needs the way I can? I like it rough. We could be rougher if you want,” he urged. You felt a wave of nausea crash across you and shook your head. Before you could speak, Tony’s arm was around you again.

“Listen, Todd, right?” He paused, waiting for Todd to nod. “It’s cute and a little flattering that you have such a crush on my girl, but you’re barking up the wrong tree.”

“Dude, she was totally cheating on you, if she’s your girl,” Todd slurred. Tony shook his head.

“She really wasn’t. I know for a fact that she wasn’t at the Delta Kappa Nu party,” Tony insisted.

“Yeah? How? It’s her word against mine,” Todd argued. Tony’s arm tightened around you.

“Actually it’s not. She was with me on Saturday. All night. So you’ve obviously got the wrong girl,” Tony forced a smile.

“She probably snuck -”

“No, we were awake. All night,” Tony arched an eyebrow, the words thick with innuendo and you could feel yourself blushing again. Todd looked from Tony to you, and somehow, in his drunken haze, noticed how uncomfortable you looked with the situation.

“I don’t believe you,” he said, sitting up taller. “If you were with her, prove it.”

Tony rolled his eyes. “Unlike you fratholes, I don’t screw and tell.” His tone was dry. “So I won’t be sharing the explicit details. Just trust that she’s got better taste than to bother with you.”

“I don’t believe you,” Todd shrugged. “Or her. She’s just a slut looking for an alibi so her rep isn’t ruined.”

Tony sighed and turned to you. “Do not hit me.” The words whispered across your cheek and suddenly his mouth met yours. You were so surprised that your mouth dropped open, inviting him to deepen the kiss, and without even realizing it, you found yourself responding, drawing your arms around his neck and pulling him closer to you. Your heart rate accelerated and you felt that weird tingly lightheadedness that came with romantic interest. There wasn’t a chance in hell of you hitting Tony Stark.

An unholy screech broke you apart, and you saw Tabby standing at the door of the bar, her jaw slack. “I said help me snag him!” She shrieked from across the room. You cringed and reluctantly pulled out of Tony’s embrace.

“Awkward,” you mumbled as Tabby stormed up to you.

“Is this why you wanted to go study on Saturday night instead of coming to the Delta Kappa Nu party? Is this why you blew me off? Because you’re screwing Tony fucking Stark? Oh my god, you must have been so smug when I said I wanted your help snagging him! Fuck, Y/N, some friend you are!” Tabby punctuated her tirade by smacking your arm with her tiny purse. Tony stepped between you, pushing you behind him. Tabby continued her rant, smacking at him instead, and Tony turned his head to give you a pained look.

“Is your life always this exciting?” He asked.

“Only since you entered it,” you retorted. He laced his fingers in yours and pulled you away from Tabby and Todd and the bar.

“Barry, I’m walking Y/N home,” Tony called. Barry nodded from the far side of the bar, eyes wide from the scene that had erupted. Tony pulled you out into the cool autumn night, and led you in the opposite direction of your dorm.

“Where are we going, Tony? Miller is behind us.” You looked over your shoulder, watching your dorm fade into the shadowy fog.

“I’m in Robertson House,” Tony supplied. You stopped and tilted your head at him in question.

“I thought we just settled that I’m not that kind of girl with the whole Todd thing?” You protested. He smiled and pulled you into another kiss.

“Like I said, I don’t screw and tell.” You felt his smile against your mouth and wanted to smack him when you couldn’t help but smile in response. “So your secret is safe with me, hellkitten.”

“Just for that, I should scratch your back,” you laughed, pushing him away. He giggled and pulled you against him again, kissing your forehead chastely.

“I have a two bedroom suite, and no roommate. You’re welcome to crash as long as you like, or until it starts getting awkward. It’s entirely up to you,” he offered. “No strings.”

“None?” It was too good to be true.

“Well, I might borrow you for a date every so often,” he shrugged.

“I’m expensive,” you teased. “Particularly if all that bullshit just cost me my job.”

“Worth it,” he winked, lacing his fingers in yours and leading you to his residence building. “Did I mention I have a trust fund?”