#THE PROVERBIAL TRAINING WEIGHTS ARE OFF AND I CAN NOW LOOK INTO OTHER SCHOOLS I ACTUALLY WANNA DO

[d0d0-b0i]

EHEHHEHE IM FREE OF THE CURSED SYSTEM OF WRITING TEXTS >>:DDD

[winterscaptain]

roots.

Aaron Hotchner x Fem!Reader a joyful future fic

a/n: another one from 2026! aaron retires from federal service this year, at 57. 

words: 2.4k warnings: kids!, missing haley hotchner hours, language

summary: “Every day the increasing weight of years admonishes me more and more, that the shade of retirement is as necessary to me as it will be welcome.” ― George Washington, Farewell Address. au!october 2026

masterlist | a joyful future masterlist | ajf faq | requests closed!

SSA Mallory Kagan asks you to outline your career with the FBI - purposefully using your first name instead of using your title. It keeps the students guessing and paying attention. 

Plus, the payoff when they figure out who you are is the best part of the whole lecture. 

“My career at the FBI is more like a big tree than a path or a journey.” 

You look out over the classroom - blue shirts abound - and take a deep breath to center yourself. 

You’re used to giving this lecture with Aaron, but this is your first fall without him, which also means that this is the first academy class who won’t know him in person. 

They’ll only hear tell of the legend SSA Aaron Hotchner was stabbed nine times, lost his wife to a serial killer, and kept going. You know they’ll hear stories about his severity, his general lack of sunniness, hear rumors about the way he laughs with his children, his wife, and nobody else. 

You know the older agents tell stories about you, too. They say you ‘tamed’ Hotch, made him a little nicer. They might even say they’ve seen him smile at you, or they’ve seen you give him hell in public. 

Aaron Hotchner is practically a myth, now, only supported by your reputation, tall tales from academy classes of yesteryear, and his own legacy.

That retired bastard currently sits in your house with your kids, right on his fine behind, very likely falling into boredom-addled insanity. 

“Everything that I am - a parent, a wife, a friend, and an agent - is because of my work with the Behavioral Analysis Unit over the past nineteen years. My unit is my family, and I can’t get rid of them. Just like our own families, we love to hate each other.” 

The room laughs, and you know you have them hooked. 

“Jokes aside, I would encourage you to get to know your colleagues. Each relationship I built within my unit put a root into the ground, made the proverbial tree stronger - to extend the metaphor. I work with very few of the same people I started with, but I feel as steady and supported as I did back when they called us ‘The Elite Eight.’” 

You chuckle a little, clicking through your introductory slide to showcase a photo of the BAU in 2012. You point to each of them as you speak. 

“SSA Emily Prentiss, current unit chief of the Behavior Analysis unit and former head of the Interpol London office, responsible for taking down one of the most prolific international arms dealers in modern history.” 

The room is quiet, a little awestruck, so you add, “She’s a bit of a big deal.” 

They laugh.

“SSA Derek Morgan - you’ll probably hear stories about how he survived the Boston bombing with SSA Gideon in 2005, but don’t worry. He wasn’t there. He was with his momma in Chicago, celebrating her birthday.”

Another laugh. 

You’ve honed this routine over the last five years, knowing what to add, when to pause, what to cut if the students lose interest. 

“That said, SSA Morgan is one of the best profilers I’ve had the pleasure of working with. Today, he’s a consultant for DC Metro SWAT and is otherwise retired.”

Continuing down the line, “SSA Jennifer Jareau - JJ. Former communications liaison for the BAU, State Department, and DoD. She currently serves with the BAU as a profiler. If any of you are interested in PR or media relations, find an opportunity to speak with her about her experience. Her husband, Will, is a detective with the DC Metro Police and has plenty of stories of his own.”

A student raises a hand, and you give her the go-ahead. 

“Sorry for interrupting -“

You stop her. “You didn’t interrupt. You raised your hand. Don’t apologize for taking up space.” 

She smiles a little. “Okay. Um, I’m curious. How many people in your unit are married and/or have children? My understanding is that the work-life balance can be difficult in heavy-travel positions like the BAU.”

“It can absolutely be a challenge.” You look back at the photo. “In the course of my career, six of my colleagues have been or were already married and all of them went on to have children.”

“And you?”

You laugh a little, forgetting you’re alone up here. “Right.” 

The class laughs, and you point yourself out on the slide. 

“I still had my maiden name when this photo was taken, but now I share five children and a last name with SSA Aaron Hotchner.” You throw your thumb at Aaron’s likeness on the screen again for good measure. 

You check in with SSA Kagan to make sure you can share everything you usually do with Aaron present - your marriage was often the punchline of your lectures, letting you toe the line of humor a little farther than you normally would. 

She nods, a little smile on her face. 

“While I wouldn’t necessarily recommend dating your unit chief or marrying your section chief -“ you pause, holding your hands up in surrender to the echo of laughter “- even if they are the same person - you can certainly find the best people without looking too hard.” 

Hands shoot up into the air, but that always happens. It’s around this time people start asking the good questions. The people from their course materials and the people in front of them start to link together. 

They also figure out that you’re Agent Hotchner. That Agent Hotchner - the one married to the Agent Hotchner. 

You look out over the crowd again. “I know you have lots of questions, and I’m happy to confirm or deny any rumors about myself or my family, but,” you pause for dramatic effect. “Hold them for now - you’ll want to know the players before you ask the questions.” 

Hands drop, but pens start moving. You continue down the line, skipping over Aaron. 

“SSA David Rossi, a founding member of the BAU in the late 1980’s. He worked closely with SSA Jason Gideon, developing a database that we use to this day - one that outlines signatures, modus operandi, and victimology of modern serial killers. SSA Rossi is also well-known for his books - ten of them, in fact, that cover what we do in a kind of…” 

You search for a word. 

“Conversational format. He retired a couple of years ago, and is a full-time grandpa to all 16 of the BAU offspring.”

A few scattered chuckles pass through the room. 

“And then we have Dr. Spencer Reid - I could enumerate his degrees, but we don’t have that kind of time. He’s the smartest person I’ve ever met, and remains an asset to the BAU in the field today.” 

You click to another slide - a photo of all of you taken a few weeks ago. 

“SSA Matthew Simmons - retired from the United States Army and former member of the FBI International Response Team, or IRT. He’s been with the BAU for ten years now. Like Dr. Reid and SSA Prentiss, he knows multiple languages - which comes in handy.” You look out and raise your eyebrows. “I hope all of you did well in your Spanish classes in high school - you might need it.” 

Another laugh. 

“SSA Luke Alvez and Technical Analyst Penelope Garcia are another pair that come from, shall we say, nontraditional backgrounds. While Garcia is no longer with the BAU, SSA Alvez is also celebrating his tenth year with us this fall.” 

A student raises his hand, and you call on him. 

“Isn’t Penelope Garcia the hacker known as The Black Queen? I learned about her work when I was at MIT.” 

You snort. “Nice way to slip in you went to MIT, there, bud.” You pause, waiting for the ruckus to die down as the student in question turns bright red. “But yes. Her experience was invaluable to our team. Just to keep up, we stole an analyst from the NSA to replace her - nobody else could cut the mustard.” 

You look back, stepping forward and pacing as you speak.���And finally, Dr. Tara Lewis. Formerly working in the FBI Counsel’s office as a forensic psychologist, she joined our team on cases where specific pathologies were in play before becoming a full-fledged member of our team.

“So, as you can see, there are so many varied qualities we look for in profilers, and your own path will be informed by the skills you develop, your temperament, and your dedication to the work itself. There’s no right way to be an agent, and when you leave the academy in five weeks, the whole world of the bureau will be open to you.” 

Clicking back to your introductory slide, you turn to the front of the classroom. “I know all my colleagues well enough to take any questions you may have about their careers and paths through the bureau. For any questions I can’t answer, I am happy to direct you to them with the understanding they may not get back to you due to our caseload. I’ll take your questions now.” 

Hands shoot up into the air, and you specifically call on the student in the back - the one you know has a question about Aaron. 

“So, when you say SSA Aaron Hotchner, you mean the same one that worked the Boston Reaper case for ten years?”

SSA Kagan checks in with you, ready to shut him down, but you call her off. 

“That’s right. SSAs Jareau, Morgan, Prentiss, Rossi, Dr. Reid, Miss Garcia, and I worked that case in its final year as well.” 

“I have a follow-up if that’s okay.” 

You tacitly give him leave to continue. 

“How do you handle cases that get that… close? I know there were considerable...” He searches for the right word. “...challenges. How did you guys deal with that?”  

Good question. 

Returning to the podium, you lean heavily against it, lacing your fingers in front of you. “You’ve all read the Reaper case file, yes? It’s still included in the MCRT training courses?”

There are nods around the room, but you check in with Kagan anyway. 

“The declassified version is covered,” She says. “They’re familiar with the full scope of the case.” 

“Okay. So, as you all know…”

You remind them what happened, from 1998 to 2009, finally landing where the students want you. “And on November 23rd, 2009, Haley Reneé Hotchner was George Foyet’s 40th and final victim. She was thirty-nine years old. And she was my friend.” 

The room is dead silent, all eyes on you, somber and attentive. 

“The case was personal. It became personal because Foyet forced our hands. He attacked Agent Hotchner in his home and then targeted his family. So, the question is, how do we deal with that? Right?” 

Even Kagan’s watching you closely. It’s the first time you’ve covered this case without the rest of your team. In your joint lectures with Aaron, the case is off-limits for questions. She’s never heard you tell the story in your own words. 

You take a breath. “And the answer is… you don’t.” 

There are some confused faces, so you elaborate. “There isn’t anything you can do to push the case away from you - that’s how people get hurt. In the meantime, you make adjustments. Agent Hotchner placed Agent Morgan in an interim unit chief position until the case was over, for the sake of his health and sanity. We chased down every lead, understanding that the faster we caught Foyet, the faster Haley and Jack, Agent Hotchner’s son, could come home.” 

A young woman in front tentatively raises a hand, and you open a hand to her. “Yes?” 

“What happened, you know, after?” 

“We moved on as best we could. Going back to my original point -” 

You leave the podium and take your place in the center of the floor again. 

“- the trust you have in the people you work with can carry you through a great many things. And not all of you will see horror every day - but some of you will.” 

You pause for a moment, hoping this is the part that really sinks in for them. 

“Always have something to come home to. Always have something or someone that brings you peace, that can take you away from the work.” 

+++

You set your things down and walk through the door, immediately accosted by two almost-eight-year-olds and their over-eager little brother. 

“Momma!” 

You haul Elliot onto your hip and kiss Sophia’s head as Caroline burrows into your side. “Hi, darlings! Did you already have dinner?”

Sophia moves to answer, but Aaron’s voice shoots around the corner. “Yes!” 

With a smile, you seek him out, dragging the girls along with you. Lo and behold, Aaron’s at the sink, washing dishes. Isaac’s supervising - sitting on the counter, swinging his feet. 

Aaron gets a kiss on the cheek from you as you pass and he turns over his shoulder, chasing you until you peck him on the lips, Elliot squished between you. Your son squirms, and you set him on the ground to chase after his sisters. Isaac hops off the counter likely off to investigate the happenings before retreating to his room for the rest of the evening.

For once, you’re left alone. 

“How was your lecture?” 

Your arms free, you wrap around him and rest your full weight against his chest as he backs himself into the counter. “Went well. Missed you, though.” 

The corner of his mouth tips up. “Did they ask about Foyet?” 

“Mhmm. It was a good segue into trusting your team and building each other up, knowing when to step back, etcetera.” 

He nods. “Good way to bring it back around. How’s Kagan?” 

“She’s good, loving it, as always.” 

“Think she’s ever gonna retire?” He asks, tucking into your neck. 

You laugh as he presses kisses to the underside of your jaw. “Probably not.” 

Aaron leans back to look at you, bringing his hand to your face to brush over your cheekbone. “Are you ever gonna retire?” 

“Probably not.” 

“What if,” he says, his hands slipping into your back pockets, “you retired in…” He does the math in his head. “Thirteen-ish years and I make it worth your while.” 

“Oh yeah? Worth my while? And you’ll be, what, a hundred years old?” 

His eyes roll so hard you’re sure he could see his own brain. You pull him down for a kiss, but it doesn’t stop him from mumbling, “Give me a fuckin’ break,” against your mouth. 

“Never.” 

+++

tagging: @writefasttalkevenfaster @quillvine @stxrrywildflower @hurricanejjareau @ughitsbaby @rousethemouse @criminalsmarts @genevievedarcygranger @ssaic-jareau @hotchsflower @hotchslatte @risenfox @mrs-dr-reid @mrs-marcus-moreno @pan-pride-12 @sunshine-em @jdougl-love @dreila03 @forgottenword @aaronhotchnerr @ssa-morgan @tegggeeee @abschaffer2 @ssacandice-ray @ellyhotchner @lotties-journey-abroad @mrs-joel-pimentel-23-25 @mooneylupinblack @ssareidbby @qvid-pro-qvo @mandylove1000 @jeor @wakatoshislover @word-scribbless @bwbatta @capricorngf @missdowntonabbey @averyhotchner @joanofarkansass @popped-weasels @evee87 @nuvoleincielo @ssahotchnerr @this-broken-band-girl @winqhster @reidtomestyles @hotch-meeeeeuppppp @the-falling-in-the-danger @softbibxtch @iconicc @mangoberry43 @andreasworlsboring101 @kerrswriting @mac99martin @itsalwaysb33nyou @baumarvel @messyhairday-me @ssworldofsw @deagibs @crazyshannonigans @moonshinerbynight @jhiddles03 @teamhappyme @mendesmelodies @starsandasteroids @unicorn-bitch @ambicaos​ @itsmytimetoodream @pinkdiamond1016 

[famedroleplayarchive]

HAN JIHAE, better know as JIHAN, is the MAKNAE, MAIN VOCAL, AND LEAD DANCER of ORIGIN under GOLD STAR MEDIA. He was born on OCTOBER 28, 1997. He looks a little like NA JAEMIN OF NCT.

CHARACTER INFORMATION

faceclaim: Na Jaemin, member of NCT

legal name: Han Jihae

stage name: Jihan

pronouns: he/they

birth date: October 28, 1997

hometown: Zurich, Switzerland

position: maknae, main vocal & lead dancer of Origin

claims: ACTING – Seok Hansung in Hwarang (2016-2017) – Hwang Woojoo in SKY Castle (2018-2019) – Jung Seyeon in True Beauty (2020-2021) OST – It’s Definitely You, Hwarang (2016-2017) – How Do You Do, True Beauty (2020-2021)

BIOGRAPHY

triggers: injury (i.) , bullying, eating disorder / bulimia (vi.)

i.

The story starts with scraped knees and a sprained ankle. Han Jihae is seven and this is the fifth time in the last five months their mother has to bring them to the doctor’s office.

An injury is a temporary thing. Their hunger for the world, however, is not and no amount of split lips and aching bones, no pattern of bruises is enough to signal them that it is time to stop. It’s not like they beg for trouble, trouble just happens to be the natural consequence of wandering off the beaten path in the woods, trouble comes when you poke the proverbial hornet’s nest to see what happens. Trouble finds you when you refuse to step back without an answer when the world tells you no.

Jiyong waits back home perched on the windowsill, swaddled in blankets—at six, they share the same face and the same voice and the same charming smile, even if Jiyong is weak and tired where Jihae isn’t.

“I’ll bring you the world,” Jihae vows and presses their newest finding, a smooth, speckled pebble into the palm of Jiyong’s hand. “Just you wait.”

ii.

There is only so much a worried parent can take, watching their offspring run from one pitfall into the next. “Too much energy and no direction,” that’s what their kindergarten teacher says. “He means well, he just doesn’t know how to go about things.” It’s a kind way to put the forceful ways they learn to stand up for others. The road to hell is paved by good intentions, after all.

“Maybe it’s time we find you two a hobby,” Mama suggests, her voice cheerily saccharine. “Maybe,” Jiyong amends. “Try me,” Jihae challenges.

They last six months, until a dance studio opens two streets away and all of the neighbourhood kids are starting classes. Jiyong can’t go, Jiyong is sick and shivering and sleeping his fever off on Papa’s lap.

“Go anyway, Jihae,” Mama tells them softly and pets their hair. “He’d be upset if you missed out on the fun.” “It’s not going to be fun,” they push back vehemently. “It’s never going to be real fun without Jiyong.”

They go. And they dance. And they fall in love.

iii.

Summers in Seoul have always been sweltering and humid, the air heavy and thick with smog. They’re worse in the shoddy dance studio where Jihae’s older cousin Sunhee practices with her dance crew, but right now it’s summer break they’re one member short and Jiyong’s gentle assurance that Jihae can dance, that they’re good still rings in their ears when they shuffle a little closer to the rest.

Jihae feels lonely in the room, a skinny child just shy of twelve standing between a pack of teens. It lasts until they start practice and things fall into place. No one at home ever listens to K-pop, Mama and Papa both grew up abroad themselves already and Swiss radio rarely ever plays anything without English lyrics.

The songs they dance to this afternoon are different, come with choreography and bright and flashy music videos and Jihae and Jiyong stay up late that night, Sunhee squished between them and going through her favourite songs.

“We’re not seriously busking,” Sunhee tells the man with the business card. “We’re just playing around.” Her body feels warm and firm when Jihae hides behind it. “That’s okay,” the man says and crouches down in an attempt to get a better look at them. “How old are you?” “He doesn’t speak Korean–” “Eleven.” Jihae doesn’t mean to disobey Sunhee. But they’ve been asked a question and it’d be rude not to answer, wouldn’t it? “Eleven is a good age,” the man says and hands them a card. “Have you ever wanted to be a star, kid?”

Even Mama knows who Bang Sunyoung is. Papa looks less impressed. “It’d be just to try it out!” Jihae repeats what the man in Hongdae told them. “You’re starting sixth grade back home in two weeks,” Papa points out. “Honey, I didn’t even know Bang Sunyoung has her own company–” “Can we do this later, dear?” “– Sorry.” Jihae frowns up at their father. “Sunhee says it’s because I did well,” they add. “I have no doubt you did. But it’s not this as easy as that, Jihae.”

They throw the business card in the bin that evening, frustrated and angry and humiliated. Come morning, they find it on their clothes from the day before, dog-eared and a little creased. “Try again,” Jiyong’s handwriting tells them.

iv.

It takes the better part of a semester and the promise to bring back top grades and not to fight their teachers for Jihae’s parents to start looking into Gold Star auditions and schools in Seoul. Sunhee’s mother, auntie Hyunjoo, offers them her guest bedroom for Jihae to stay in.

“And if things go bad you come back home right away, yes?” Mama tells them. Worry looks strange on her face. Jihae doesn’t like it.

“Yes, mama,” they tell her, watching the lines in her face fade hesitantly.

Things won’t go bad, they think to themselves, I won’t let them.

v.

Things first go really well and then they go really bad.

Han Jihae is thirteen when they start training under Gold Star Media, all knobby elbows and bruised legs, slowly starting to grow in what one day will be their adult body. Training is excruciating. The coaches don’t care about how much homework they have. Their Korean is more bare bones than they thought it would be. The dorms are cramped and true privacy is a rare luxury. They miss their parents, they miss Jiyong, they miss their youngest sibling, little Jiyeon who is still just six and might forget about them before they even get to debut.

They want to give up.

“But isn’t this what you worked so hard for?” Jiyong asks through the phone. Jihae can’t recall ever hearing their twin brother so heartbroken.

“Well, I want to give up,” they tell him with so much fake bravado, they almost buy it themselves. “Doesn’t mean I’m going to.”

Singing, turns out, is nicer than dancing. Singing is something Jihae is naturally good at, something that is comfortable and fun. When dancing takes their breath it’s through singing that they learn to take it back.

Soon, more than a dancer, Han Jihae turns into a singer.

vi.

Being picked on is infuriating. Being picked on knowing that fighting back isn’t an option—not if they want to avoid future bullying scandals—is excruciating. Jihae is used to being othered but up to this point giving his bullies hell in return has always been a possibility.

Instead, they learn to redirect their anger. Eat your frustrations, purge in embarrassment. Brush their teeth lest they want to lose them, hide the traces lest they want to look like you’re asking for pity. Rinse, repeat. Toe the line of breaking, this is a punishment, this is a reminder that they’re still in control. Their justifications start blurring and contradicting themselves.

They pretend not to see, close their eyes and ignore how every time catharsis slips a little faster through the cracks in their armour, leaving them hungry and hollow and ashamed.

Unexpectedly, it’s the trainee selections for Who’s Next that break the cycle. Being on television is stressful in a way different from what they’re used to so far but the attention they receive reignites their excitement. Their former “coping methods” no longer work and put their voice at risk instead and so they’re left in front of a camera, hands wringing behind their back hoping no one can tell how scared they actually are.

And it pays off. Team A wins and Jihae establishes a base level of affection for being the darling youngest, mischievous and radiant. It’s an act, the person Jihae would like to be so desperately, but it’s okay. They can still grow into their wings as they go, right?

vii.

Turns out that it’s not quite that easy. Debuting is stressful and what follows is the weight of knowing that they’re currently underperforming, their concept just a smidge too niche to really catch on. The anger returns, flaring and all-consuming and this time there’s no more room to purge it so instead, they start bottling it up.

The person Jihae crafts into their public persona seems to become more distant with every comeback and they’re tired to the bone when Origin’s success finally finds them. All they can do is to let the wave sweep them along and gasp for half a breath before they throw themselves back into pretending.

Turns out that pretending for a living—actually so, past the faking of an idolsona—is actually a lot of fun. Their first acting gig they’re offered in late 2016, more a matter of making sure Origin remains fresh in everyone’s perception by shoving them down the public’s throat than anything else, really. Jihae is just around the right age for the role and that’s what everyone else assumes too, that Origin’s sudden spike in fame has made the members, specifically, cocky, that they have no place taking trained actors’ spaces, that they have no value to contribute to South Korea’s acting sphere. Hwarang doesn’t return the money it’s supposed to, either, but to Jihae it’s an opportunity to put on a wig and a fancy costume and pretend not to be themselves for a while and as long as the cameras are running the experience is liberating.

They don’t do as badly as expected and even after an underperforming acting debut they’re approached about an audition again later down the line. It’s while on set for SKY Castle that they realize that in their supporting roles, neither Hwarang nor this opportunity really rest much of their success on Jihae’s shoulders specifically. The responsibility they take on feels lighter when the pressure is split amongst a cast so much bigger than Origin and no amount of vile comments can take that budding sense of relief away from them.

When they’re first approached about their appearance in True Beauty they don’t anticipate for it to be their tipping point. It’s pride that ultimately makes them accept the role in spite of the reminders of what it entails and it’s pride that leaves them feeling horribly afterwards. Their performance seemingly hits the mark—Jihae wouldn’t know, they never end up watching the show air. But it becomes an unpleasant reminder that they’re not as well-equipped to cope as they like to pretend they are.

viii.

Han Jihae is twenty-three and the world is at their feet. Maybe not theirs specifically, but close enough. The beginning of the new decade marks a shift in pace, a gentle lean into something that feels a little more manageable at last. Maybe they’ve finally started to grow used to the life they wanted and weren’t prepared for, maybe it’s the beginning of the end because apparently if fame doesn’t breed misery it’s not truly fame—who knows.

Whatever it may be, for the first time in eleven years Jihae can finally turn around to look at the one thing they’ve neglected the most: themselves. They don’t quite know what to make of the jagged edges where things have broken and splintered or how to patch the holes they’ve burnt into themselves but for the first time in a long while they feel ready to learn how to heal.

[lepetitebouchon]

AN OPEN LETTER TO MY CURRENT EMPLOYER.

Greetings, Globe Spanning Company That Has Cult-Like Ideas, Language and Behavior (said with love, for those of you who know just how genuinely thankful I am for the job I have today).

I’ve been with you for over four years - 2020 marks entry into my fifth, but I won’t be getting to that milestone. I’m finally spreading my wings. I want to start this off positive: I have always felt thankful, grateful and blessed to have this job. As a company, you really do try to lead by example. You really do try to not treat your employees as numbers. You are generous (at times), inclusive (always), and provide some amazing benefits and perks for all employees.

I joined you at the end of my first career path, hired on precisely because my background was what you needed: an experienced fine dining pastry chef to bring professionalism and class when you all were trying something a little funky with how your company operated at night. I was promoted almost immediately to a supervisor. My management helped me through some of the worst experiences I had in my personal life, your company helped me get back into college, you provided a path to growth and development into upper management.

Even today, despite my grievances, I would recommend people to work with you...although, I will always be honest about the ups and downs I’ve both seen and experienced.

But let me tell you why I’m leaving. No one comes to my blog, so this won’t get far, it’s my own personal catharsis. I’ve tried to air these same thoughts to my current manager and district manager and it’s like talking to a wall. The gloves are now off and language filter switch has been flipped. This is long, so strap in.

When I said my previous career path was “experienced”, I wasn’t fucking joking. I’ve worked a myriad of jobs: I’ve managed millions of dollars for businesses and the professionals that run them as a merchant banker (meaning, I counted their cash, advised when appropriate, and made sure they spoke with the proper team member to further their ventures). I’ve worked in retail for a combined total (past and current) for probably 5-6 years. And more importantly and relevant to your company: I have roughly 8 or 9 years of kitchen experience, most of those as a pastry chef. I have worked as a team and solo, I have designed dessert menus for some locations, and managed small kitchen teams, I’ve worked for celebrity chefs and kitchens ranked in the upper 10 and 5, respectively in their style/region of cooking in the nation.

I graduated within the top percentile at my pastry school of choice, with honors.

With a brief rundown of my resume out of the way, let’s talk about “development”.

My path to upper management has been rocky. When originally approached about having my own store, it stemmed from my involvement in solving two monumental problems in my original store. Sadly, during this time I was going through a major life problem and couldn’t wait in line for my promotion. Our store was training a new store manager, a girl who started at a similar time as I was selected to be trained next, and I would come after her. I needed a pay raise, so I opted for transferring to a team that would be making in house baked goods at your headquarters, guaranteed to pay me a few dollars more, but it was enough for me to survive moving forward.

My background made me eligible for a “leadership” role is this new team. I should have known something was up because I could never get confirmation on my title, no matter how hard I pushed. I was whisked off to corporate as an “assistant” chef. Your company was asking for upwards of 5-8 years of experience for “assistants”. What would I be making, pray tell? Loaf cakes, cookies, tarts, muffins and other basics. Recipes someone with minimal experience could make. I was not in the promised leadership role.

Unhappy and frustrated, I transferred to your storefront when it opened in their version of a supervisor at my initial beginnings. I would be one of a few supervisors in the bakery area and we were not treated as equal to your retail side. Despite being a supervisor I was inexplicably not given keys, a safe code or the ability to problem solve at our own point of sale devices - I had to get a “retail” supervisor. Those in the bakery would ONLY be given these rights if they had “retail” experience - which I had.

I yearned for an assistant manager role, so I worked tirelessly for another six months before broaching that subject.

I was not the only experienced employee there: there were a handful of us with up to ten years of company experience - this detail will be important momentarily.

When I sat down with two of the assistant managers for a “development talk” and told them my story of how I turned down a “core” store manager role to be there due to outside circumstances...they laughed at me. They said that any experience I had before coming to this particular team was irrelevant and I would need to start at the bottom all over again and had “so much to learn” and that my resume “didn’t have weight” and that my prior kitchen management and schooling basically were useless.

I was devastated. I cried. I walked away from that meeting feeling ashamed, embarrassed and it demolished the respect I had for how you as a company have when you boast about how to treat your employees.

The assistant manager role you filled did not go to one of the more experienced employees who had been supevisors or store managers who stepped down to regular retail grunts to be there.

No.

You transferred someone from the opposite coast and stomped on the hopes and dreams of a half dozen hopefuls. So, armed with newfound cash I left to go back to your more traditional storefronts thousands of miles away.

They wanted me to become a store manager as well, but I was facing a surgery with lengthy recovery. They promised as soon as I was back on my feet, they would begin the process of peer review and interviews. However, another horrific speed bump occurred. A major snafu involving my benefits sent me packing back across the country. It was cheaper for me to move back and “reset” my benefits than lose 300 bucks a month in insurance costs over a period of seven months.

Are you still with me? Good, we’re almost there, I promise.

I won’t get into all of the specifics of what happened when I landed in my current location. My initial start was rough, I wasn’t given my full time hours, we were short staffed for a huge chunk of time. It was so bad in the beginning I started looking for new employment in the field I’d been studying at school. By now I was two years into college, it felt right.

At the same time, my manager and I went through a lot of growing pains. Eventually, yes, I was once again put back on my store manager track. I was hesitant - it had never worked out in the past.

Only to be told, again, I had to work on some things. I was willing to put in that hard work, but ultimately, I was given an offer that I couldn’t refuse.

And I’m sorry, corporate, but your stores are NOT that fucking hard to run. My current manager has ZERO food experience. He sold fucking shoes before this (no disrespect, I adore my manager and we have the best time working together).

I would not be looking for other jobs if you as a whole wouldn’t patronize me and other supervisors, and hold your store managers up on some goddamn pedestal.

I have YEARS of retail experience.

I have YEARS of kitchen management experience.

I have YEARS of food service experience.

If I were to apply to this as an “outside” hire, I meet and exceed all of your requirements.

I have admiration, love and respect of every employee I have lead within your company. In EVERY store I’ve been in my store manager and the peers below my level ask me why I don’t have a store. My peers in multiple stores across states have asked me to tell them when I’m promoted because if they’re still with the company they want to work with me.

I help my own manager with decisions. He asks for advice because I’m like a breathing encyclopedia of your companies policies and procedures because I gobbled down every bit of information I could to better my understanding of your stores so I WOULD be prepared some day.

I’m not asking for a promotion now. Or this week. But I think if someone who sold shoes can run a basic cafe, it might be okay to at least offer a mock interview for someone who has a resume shiny enough to get into very respected kitchens in any state I want to go to.

I have bent over backwards and given just about all that I am. Every manager I’ve been with in your company has already told me I could do their job and that I would be an excellent choice.

But no.

I’ve been nothing but loyal and devoted. I’ve asked for opportunities. And this would have been the year, my district manager and store manager were committed to getting me there, finally. I would just need to wait until “later this year”.

But it’s too little too late. I have an opportunity right in front of me, that has acknowledged my skill sets and asked me to join their fold.

It was honestly a hard decision at first. I was thrilled to finally, finally, finally being given the opportunity to lead my team in a much more meaningful way.

I felt like I was going to be betraying my team and my upper leadership.

And then I realized the power of the words, “I’m better than this and I have the track record to prove it”.

Then I packed my proverbial bags.

I’ll miss my store, but I won’t miss you as a company.

Cheers.

[weareallfallengods]

Survival

Writing prompt:

If you’re over 25 and haven’t done something remarkable, you are hunted down and killed. Some people invent things. Some make cures for diseases. Others become established members of their community. You’re pushing 30, and somehow not dead yet, even though you cant think of a single thing you’ve done thats remarkable in any way. Why aren’t you dead?

I write for adults about adult themes with adult language. I try to tag possible triggers (but I know I'm not going to get all of them), so if violence or implied death or cussing bothers you, you'll probably want to find a different author.

********************************************

Somehow, that date came up again. Not quite sure how, but somehow, the number circled on my shitty wall calendar with the coffee splatter on it managed to be today. Again. It's been doing that for 5 years now.

At first I wanted to be a surgeon- save people's lives, make a difference, all that shit. Yeah, I was caught up in the hype for a while too. Just like everyone. Thought I'd make some ground-breaking discovery and change the world. Just like everyone. And then, at 22, I flunked out of med school. That was it. Dream over, kaput, fin.

When I opened my termination letter, it was like reading a death sentence. 10 years of prep and study down the drain. 3 years left. 3 years, and no idea what to do. No clue what I could do to save my own life after all those years learning how to save others.I drank for a solid month. I dont even remember that month now. My only memento from it is an entire skip of liquor bottles. It's a miracle I didn't die from alcohol poisoning. Not that I didn't try.

See, I was afraid. Scared, actually. Terrified would be more accurate, if I'm honest. I knew I only had 3 years left until they came for me. Unless I managed to do something extraordinary within the next 3 years, they'd come for me, and the only thing that would remain is a 2 paragraph obituary in the local paper, followed by a vacancy announcement. When you're suddenly forced to confront your own imminent demise, and see every dream, hope and aspiration you'd had evaporate, right in front of your eyes, its perfectly natural to drown that in a swimming pool of vodka.

But then, after a month of drowning, and a week of curing a hangover that would make Satan shudder, I got angry. Like Bruce Banner angry. As I was leaving an all night diner, the notice board caught my eye. Having nothing better to do with my life, I stood there for a while just reading every single card in detail, every single lost cat, every used car, every 5k charity run. And then I saw it. And I thought, "You know what? Fuck it, why not. I've spent all this time trying to do one thing that I've never actually done just whatever I feel like, had hobbies, anything really. Why the fuck not."

And that's how I ended up 2 days later in some shity warehouse district, rolling around on a mat with some dude I didnt even know, sweating and swearing profusely and having the time of my life. "Sasha's Self Defense" it said on the small, weathered and rusted sign on the brick wall out front, next to a door that looked like it had been transported straight from the proverbial gulag.

I'd naively thought this was going to be one of those Karate Kid knock offs for some reason when I first arrived. Sasha soon disabused me of that notion. In fact, when he saw I'd brought a new gi in a duffle bag, he laughed so hard he had to slap his ass down on a rickety folding chair just to keep breathing. Once he calmed his mirth at my expense, he let me know in a no-nonsense, 'I'm an old-timer and seen some shit in my day' heavily accented tone that this would be a class that focused on survival at all costs. "No bullshit wax on-wax off," were his exact words I believe.

And boy was he right. When I told him I'd set aside my year's tuition for lesson payments, well, wouldn't you know it, I became his most prized pupil; I quickly learned this was not a good thing. It meant 14 hours a day of the most humiliatingly punishing activity ever dreamed up by Moscow's Finest. I couldnt even move the morning after my first day. But somehow I limped my battered frame down to the bus stop and was only an hour late. Ha, only. Sasha seemed to take it as a personal insult. The only thing he hated less than sloppiness was tardiness it seemed. Apparently the 10th Circle of Hell was reserved for those who dared be late. And he made you earn your way out of that circle.

His only saving grace was fairness. If I had to suffer, at least I wasnt alone. Well, at first anyway. The few other students that suffered his wrath along side me doing slavic folk dances with wrist and ankle weights very quickly learned that this wasn't the type of class they had thought it was and soon I was alone with Sasha.

On the days I did well, I got treated to pierogies. Oh man, I lived for those pierogies. They were made by angels and served by someone I can only describe as if Jesus came back as a woman. Who was Russian. And spoke even less english than Sasha, if that was possible. His sister was as completely opposite to that sadistic maniac as it was possible to be and still be a human being. Where he was loud, she was soft. Where he was tough, she was gentle. Where he was strict, she was generous, even indulgent. Blonde to his brunette. Slim to his barrel chest. Cousin by marriage, I think they said. Well, relatives of some kind anyway. And she was the only one who could make him laugh. And when he laughed, the whole block knew! He was just that loud, that boisterous, with everything he did.

But I loved his little Anya. Just like everyone. But like in a wholesome, mom-ish kind of way. I loved her because I got to sit for an hour when she was around. Because she"d always tuck a to-go container of pierogies into my bag. Because she'd chide Sasha for pushing me too hard. In short, she was an angel.

But I have to hand it Sasha- in 4 months, he took a scrawny bookworm into someone who could pose for Men's Health. In 6 months, I could beat Ivan, his partner, in 5/10 sparring matches. In 7 months, I ran a marathon. In 9, he had me enter a triathalon. And I made it into the top 50 out of 500 entrants. Not too bad if I say so myself. In 12 months, I was beating Ivan almost every time.

And that's when the other Ivan showed up. After a year, Sasha decided it was time I learned weaponry. After all, no real fight was fair, he said. And Ivan (another cousin? Sasha had one heck of an extended family) instructed me on everything from broken beer bottles, to knives and pool cues. And my medical training paid off, because more often than not, I was the one stitching myself up if training got a little rough that day.

Eventually, I moved into the gym. Not sure how it happened, but I think I just got too tired to leave one day and never really left. Sasha didnt seem to mind since it meant I wasnt ever late again. Plus the coffee he imported was the best thing ever. Like it was so good that's probably the Extraordinary Thing he did to live as long as he had.

The days just melted together, into one long symphony of beautiful exhaustion and physical torment, as I poured myself into the first activity I could remember doing purely because I wanted to, something that numbed the dread of the finality of my life expectancy.

But then one day, one specific day, the one I'd been dreading in the back of my mind for a year came around.

They found me.

I guess they were a little slow in finding me, not surprising since I'd basically just disappeared from my old life, no forwarding address type thing. It wasnt intentional, it just sort of happened, what with me diving head first into something purely for me, without the thought of doing it for someone else. But they found me. Just like they find everybody.

See, it doesnt matter if you try to run, if you move, or change your name. They always find you eventually. I just hadn't thought about it in a long while. That year was the first time since I was probably 14 that I'm hadn't thought about the Gardeners. I guess that's why it surprised me so much.

Yeah, Gardeners. I dont know who came up with the name, in guess some misguided attempt at a positive PR spin bullshit to pass off squads of government assassins who's only job was to track down the NCs of the world and eliminate them. Sorry, NCs- Non-Contributors; the people who hit their expiration date without doing something noteworthy, something that was deemed to "advance or bolster the Human Condition" to borrow a phrase from the civics classes we had to take every fucking year of school. A cutesy sounding name that was supposed to make the government sound like a benevolent old couple pulling weeds from their garden of humanity. The worst lies always sound the sweetest, dont they?

And I was now 25.

It happened a few weeks after my birthday. Just another routine day for me, going for a light 5k run after my soak in a mineral bath. Light rain, most of the streetlights out, the few lights on in the warehouse district reflected beautifully off the streets. That's why I ran at night, all the colors changed that normally bleak neighborhood into something beautiful. It was just one little thing to balance out the harshness of reality, and I reveled in it.

I don't actually remember what happened exactly. I do recall seeing a suspiciously conspicuous homeless guy huddled under a loading dock awning, and then just a flash of movement from the corner of my eye. I think it happened really quickly; at least that's what Sasha said the next morning as he was making arrangements for me to visit another cousin of his "back in the old country". It could have been. God, after seeing the bodies around me in the aftermath, I hope, for their sake, that it was fast. 5 bodies. All still. I still remember my breath turning to blue fog, blurring the details of them. Helping me to be able to pretend I didn't see the blood mixing with the rain and oil, spreading out over the concrete like a macabre inversion of the cloudy sky above.

I'm glad they wore masks. It's bad enough having that scene burned into my brain forever, without specific people's faces being etched there as well. I'm glad I dont see their faces in my mind every time I close my eyes. I just wish I could still enjoy the rain. They managed to take that from me, even if I'm still breathing, so I guess they didnt completely fail. They just killed a part of my soul instead. But hey, there's plenty of people that don't like the rain, right? But I bet they don't smell blood when it does though.

And that was pretty much it. No sirens, no manhunt, nothing. Before I could process what was happening, I was on a bus, headed for "the old country", which, as near as I could tell, looked an awful lot like Pittsburg. Sasha's 'cousin' met me at the bus depot there, a man of very few words. Not as loud as his cousin, Zhena tended to communicate with looks, grunts and shrugs mostly. Same work ethic though.

And then the cycle repeated- 14 months this time before they caught up with me. Too bad that Zhena got caught up in it, he was a great guy. He and I didn't really become close or buddies or anything, but it still hurt to see what happened to him. To what was left of him anyway. The Gardeners definitely were trying to send a message with that. To quote an old wise man, "I didnt want to know, but now I do, and I'm telling you, you dont want to know." And that's coming from someone who was training to become a surgeon, so just trust me on this one.

This time, they were waiting for me. I think they'd planned on Zhena being enough of a distraction that they'd be able to take me out easily, but since since I woke up the next day on the floor of the sparring ring in a too large pool of blood that wasnt my own, I'd say they failed. The difference this time was I was on my own. No 'cousins' to call in favors from. No family I could call because I didnt want them getting a visit from the Gardeners either. I was alone this time.

Weirdly, I was actually OK with that. I'd been surrounded by family, teachers, advisors, tutors for so long that solitude was actually kind of nice. I could hear myself think my own thoughts for the first time in what seemed like forever.

I'm not ashamed to say that I took what little of value there was from Zhena's gym (I knew him well enough to know that Sasha was his only family) so that I could get a seedy hotel for a while. I did at least have the decency to let Sasha know, and that that would be the last he ever heard from me, to keep him out of trouble. Bad enough that 10 people were already dead, I didn't want Sasha or Anya's name added to that list because of me.

And so I vanished. Completely. Sure I travelled, kept studying and training like I had been, but never staying longer than a few months, never using the same name, copying other random people's habits and patterns so I didnt have one of my own for them to track down. Yeah it was cliche, but hey, I figured my dad watching all those spy flicks when I was young had to be good for something, right?

Sometimes I was a baker, sometimes a delivery driver, even a dock hand. Whatever it took to make a buck so I could eat.

I got really good at other things too. Like disposing of bodies. Not really a skill I ever thought I'd want or need, but Necessity is a harsh and demanding teacher. Sadly, my skill as a surgeon came in handy- bodies are easier to get rid of when they're in smaller pieces. And people are easier to turn into bodies when you know how they're put together intimately. Not what I had in mind for my life, but since it was the choice between this or dying, well, I guess I can put up with it.

I suppose that catches us all up to the present, more or less. OK yeah theres a lot that's gone down between Pittsburg and now, but it was all pretty much the same: lather, rinse, repeat. Literally sometimes. Those were the days it felt like there wasnt enough soap in the world to get all the blood off.

So here I am, I'm my single room in Kandahar, staring at the date that had somehow come up again. Every year, they send someone. Usually a team. And I survive. No matter how they come at me, or when or how many. I survive.

And I'm sitting here, staring at the calendar, steaming cup of espresso, just staring, as a light breeze fluttered the corner of the calendar page, sending the orchids dancing in the vase next to it. All I could think is, "How? How does this keep happening? I'm not even supposed to be here, not supposed to be alive."

As I raised my cup of espresso, something slid under my door. "OK that's weird," I said aloud as I stood.

The chair made an ungodly screech as I pushed it back and made my way over to where a small, cream colored envelope sat on the floor, a couple inches from the bottom of the door. It was heavy for it's size, but not because anything was in it, just the paper was that thick. Probably hand-made. It's odd the little things you notice in times of stress. Heavy, rough paper, no postmark, nothing written on the outside, just the flap tucked in, not even sealed. Reminded me of how my mother used to give out birthday cards. I always thought that was a little weird, but it was just one of her quirks that made her even more endearing to everyone.

I sat down a little heavier than I had planned and felt the chair crack a little. There was a single sheet of paper inside, folded in half; I was right- handmade paper. But that wasnt important, what was important was the heavy, blocky hand-written message it contained.

"We've been looking for you for a long time. It has come to my attention that you may have something unique to contribute after all. We may have been too hasty in judging your Ability to be a Contributor. I believe you do actually have a remarkable Ability to Survive. I'd like to speak to you this afternoon in the plaza outside the Blue Mosque. I will be alone, and you can approach me, so as to allay your justifiable suspicions. I will have a silver coffee set on the table in front of me.

I believe we can help each other, if you're willing to listen to my proposition.

-Soon,

Baddar"

Well, this is interesting.

[primatechnosynthpop]

The broken promise of a broken swordsman

It was a sunny day in the kingdom of Tokyo—maybe a little too sunny for such an important day, when a noble hero and his trusted companion were about to embark on a potentially dangerous mission. Rain would have been more dramatic, or at least some dark clouds. When was there ever an epic tale that began on such a nice, sunny day? It was always a dark and stormy night (as clichéd as it may have been), not a bright and cheerful morning.

At least there was a bit of thematically appropriate shade in the forest where Hiro and Ando were doing a bit of training before embarking on what would be their first proper quest. The last-minute training session had been Ando's idea—a few of his spells still needed a fair bit of work. Hiro, who was currently sitting on a tree stump watching his friend try and fail repeatedly to cast a Thunderbolt spell, swung his stubby gnomish legs back and forth impatiently. It was early in the day, so it wasn't like they had to worry about getting anywhere before sundown, but Hiro still wanted them to get out there as soon as possible. It was just a simple escort mission, anyway—they could handle it!

Besides, Hiro realized, he'd seen Ando cast Thunderbolt successfully plenty of times before. Why was he performing so poorly now all of a sudden?

Hopping off the tree stump, Hiro made his way over to where his friend was charging up another spell. Red sparks of electricity were starting to gather at the end of his wand, but they fizzled out as quickly as they formed. Ando's tail lashed in frustration, but he furrowed his brow and kept on trying.

"Can we go soon?" Hiro asked for probably about the twelfth time that morning. "Our client is going to be departing soon, and if we're not ready by then, they'll find somebody else to escort them. And I really want to go on this mission," he added with a little pout.

"Soon, soon... just let me try one more time to get this spell right," Ando said, also definitely not for the first time that day. "If we get attacked on the way and I'm not able to defend the client—"

"...Then I'll protect the both of you," Hiro reminded him, shifting his weight to draw attention to the katana strapped to his back. Since the sword was fashioned to be held by a human or similar-sized creature—in fact, it was rumoured to have once been used by the legendary elven warrior Takezo Kensei—the weapon in question was a little unwieldly in Hiro's hands, but he was a skilled enough fighter to put it to good use. "That's what I became a protection fighter for, remember? To make sure you stay safe if your spells fail!"

Ando sighed, but a smile crept onto his face nonetheless. "Yeah, and I became a wizard so that I could stop you from rushing into combat alone," he recalled. He leaned down to ruffle Hiro's hair, which prompted Hiro's ears to perk up like those of a dog being petted. Hiro's cheeks coloured at the involuntary reaction. He figured elves must have had it even worse, since their ears were about twice as long and pointed as those of a gnome.

"Seriously, though," Hiro said, lowering Ando's hand from his head and giving it a reaffirming squeeze. "You know I'll always protect you, right?"

It was his job as a protection fighter and the so-called "tank" of the "team" which consisted of only the two of them, but more so than that, it was the right thing to do. The two of them had been together since childhood, and Ando had always been such an integral part of Hiro's life that Hiro couldn't even imagine life without him. Because of that, he had to keep Ando safe whenever they got into a dangerous situation—losing him was something too awful to even think about.

-FIVE YEARS LATER-

A flurry of arrows filled the sky overhead as the ragtag gang of battle-hardened adventurers ran for cover in the thick of the woods. Those with dull eyes may not have been able to make them out against the blackness of the night, as they all donned black and dark gray garments to blend in. While their attackers, who were perched up in the trees and each armed with bows and a plentiful supply of arrows, focused on the group running below them, they failed to notice the diminutive figure approaching from behind, leaping from tree to tree with their blade at the ready. The archers wore silver-blue cloaks emblazoned with the crest of the Petrelli clan—most of them probably thought that the ruler of the land truly was the half-elven warlock Nathan Petrelli.

As he crept up behind one of these clueless men clad in the colours of a long-gone kingdom, the sword-bearing figure almost wanted to laugh at the sheer idiocy of it all. Nathan had been slain long ago; if these fools knew the true identity of the man they swore allegiance to, they'd have despised him as much as any of these "terrorists" they were now firing at.

Well, whatever these goons knew or didn't know about their precious king, the only thing that mattered was that they were on the enemy side. Without hesitation, the swordsman brought his blade down on the nearest archer, killing him before he could see what hit him. As the first slumped over lifelessly, one of his companions jerked her head up in alarm and glanced around frantically, scanning the trees for someone she'd never find. He was already gone, reappearing behind a cluster of three other archers who he made equally quick work of.

Now he'd gotten the attention of the whole lot. Good, he thought with a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. Exactly according to plan. Picking off a few archers provided a distraction which would buy his allies time to get away, and he didn't have to worry about getting caught.

After all, Hiro was a hard gnome to catch.

Back on the ground, the magical barrier which had been protecting the group fizzled out. No sooner had the protection dropped than a well-aimed arrow found its mark in the back of a young halfling girl. She stumbled but kept running until a second arrow hit her in the back of the head. The halfling tumbled to the ground, where she clearly wouldn't be getting up from again. In the lead of the group, a half-elf with hair that hung over his eyes glanced over his shoulder with a grimace and stopped running for a second. He looked like he wanted to go back for the dead halfling, but an orc woman with long blonde hair grabbed his wrist and tugged him along.

"Peter, c'mon," she growled when the half-elf resisted. "You know she'll be fine."

"...Right." Swallowing and steadying his gaze ahead of him, Peter held out a tattered, bloodstained bible and shouted, "I cast Shield of Faith!"

A moment later, the shield which had been protecting the group returned, just as a spectral figure rose from the fallen halfling's body. The figure, clad in a robe resembling a high school cheerleader's outfit, shook its head as though to let down its spectral hair.

"All right," Claire said, her skull-like features stretching into a grin. "Now that that's over with, I may as well get a couple hits in."

Rising through a sea of arrows which passed through her lich form like she was mist, Claire grabbed a dagger off her dead physical body and prepared to throw it at the nearest attacker. Her lich form crackled with bolts of bright red electricity. At the sight of the red lightning—though he'd seen it many times before—Hiro suppressed a shudder. It was so reminiscent of the spells he used to cast... No. Hiro shook his head, tightening his grip on the hilt of his sword. This was no time to get sentimental about the past. He had to focus on getting himself and his compatriots out of the literal and proverbial woods alive—or, in Claire's case, undead.

However, when she threw her dagger, her target—a dragonborn man who it was hard to believe had once been a paladin—caught the dagger in the air. His eyes narrowed into slits and he tilted his head in concentration, tightening his grip around the long wooden staff in his right hand. A moment later, he spun around to where Hiro was preparing to strike again. Hiro brought his sword down, but the dragonborn blocked it with his staff and pushed him back a couple centimetres.

The dragonborn (what was the name again—Parkman?) bared his fangs. "You know I don't want to do this, Hiro," he said. "They're forcing me to work for them. They'll kill my mate and offspring if I don't."

"None of us have a choice," Hiro told him. "You have no more excuse than the rest of us."

Drawing his blade back, he slashed Matt across the leg and lifted his blade to the dragonborn's throat. However, before he could make the kill, a bright white beam shot up from the ground, knocking Hiro's blade out of his hand. Hiro glanced down to find that the caster was none other than the drow alchemist Mohinder, who was holding out his wand with a trembling hand.

"I—I'm sorry," Mohinder said when Hiro fixed him with an incredulous glare. "Just... please let that one live, will you? I..."

Hissing, Matt retreated into the canopy; Mohinder sighed and turned to rejoin the pack of renegades. They were nearly out of the archers' range now, and if the shield of faith held up for just a minute longer, they'd be home safe.

Unfortunately, Peter's spell was wavering again. The cleric's brow furrowed in concentration and effort, hand hovering over the pages of his bible, as he ran. By his side, the orc—Niki—was caught in the shoulder by a stray arrow that found its way through a gap in the shield. Roaring, Niki ripped the arrow out of her shoulder and snapped it in two, picking up the pace of her already impressive charge. When Peter continued to slow down, she circled back, grabbed him in a sort of clumsy bridal carry, and kept running forward, taking up the lead of the group.

"Th—thanks," Peter huffed. Placing his hand on Niki's shoulder where the arrow had hit her, he asked, "D...do you want me to heal that?"

"It can wait," Niki said, shrugging off Peter's hand. "Look, I can almost see the edge of the woods from here."

The edge of the woods in question was a very sudden transition from twisting, ancient oaks to a few younger trees—all of them, of course, from five years ago or less—mixed with the charred remains of other old trees. From then it was still all ash; ash as far as the eye could see save for the memorial up on the hill where the royalty and nobility of New York had once resided. Well, that wasn't entirely true—they were starting to rebuild New York City now, starting what had once been the kingdom’s most prosperous city over from scratch. Hiro didn't see the point to any of it. No matter how many buildings and streets were reconstructed, it wouldn't bring back any of the lives that had been lost.

It certainly wouldn't bring back that particular person, who Hiro tried so hard not to think about for fear that he'd break down crying, but who kept slipping back into his thoughts anyway. Every time Hiro met a tiefling, he froze up for just a second, his breath catching in his throat—to say nothing of if the tiefling in question happened to be a wizard. It was stupid to keep fooling himself like that, he knew. No matter how many tiefling wizards he crossed paths with, none of them were Ando. It would never, could never be Ando.

*

Once he had taken care of a few more archers for good measure—the fewer left to report back to the king (who wasn't really Nathan) the better—Hiro joined up with his fellow renegades in their stronghold: a cave at the edges of the ruins of New York City where a bard named Isaac had once lived. There, his companions were recuperating from their narrow escape and discussing what to do next.

"We've got to go back into the forest and collect my body," Claire was saying, glancing down at her lich form disdainfully. "If Nathan's men get ahold of it, who knows what they'll do."

"Not Nathan's men," Peter reminded her. "We don't know who the king really is yet, but it's not my brother."

"Whoever the ruler is, if we can all agree it's not Nathan, we should try to kill him," Niki said. "I can sneak into the palace as a servant and win his affections, and then assassinate him when he lets his guard down."

Peter, who was currently dressing the arrow wound Niki had sustained on her shoulder, bit his lip and gave his head a slight shake. "I couldn't put you at risk like that," he said. "Besides, the nobility knows who we are—you know that."

"We do need to kill him," Hiro affirmed. "But it won't be easy."

(He didn't want to admit it here, but he had tried a couple times himself to singlehandedly kill the man masquerading as Nathan Petrelli. He'd been met with an onslaught of spells that he'd barely been able to dodge, even with his Teleport spell.)

"You're right; I do know." Sighing, Niki drew her knees up to her chest and leaned her head back against the cave wall. The wall glistened with moisture, reflecting Niki's image back at her; the reflection did not move any differently from herself. "I just want him dead so badly—I want everyone who was responsible for this dead."

"You know who I want dead?" Claire put in. "Not me, that's freaking who! I am so sick of getting killed all the time!"

In the corner of the cave, a human man by the name of Noah Bennet let out a long sigh. He took off his pair of horn-rimmed glasses, which were enchanted to give the wearer Truesight, to rub his temples, before sliding them back on.

"None of us enjoy it," he said. "I can't tell you how much I hate seeing you as a lich. I’m just glad you are one so I don’t have to permanently lose you.”

Just then, Mohinder stepped out from a tunnel which led down to his father's underground laboratory. He'd dug the tunnel out himself to give himself easy access to the lab when he needed to use his alchemy for something. "Good news, Claire," he said, wiping his hands off on his lab coat. "Your new body will be ready in just under a fortnight."

"How many extra bodies for me have you got on the go?" Peter asked—he was a lich as well, and he and his niece both died on such a regular basis that Mohinder was constantly being forced to clone new bodies for them.

"None at the moment," Mohinder admitted. "But I still have a sample of your DNA that I can use left over from the last time."

As he watched from his cross-legged perch on a jutting rock shelf, Hiro harrumphed slightly at Mohinder's nonchalance. They all owed a lot to the alchemist, so it was best not to get on his bad side—if a bad side was even something he had—but Hiro couldn't quell his annoyance at Mohinder for letting Matt get away. He knew they'd been close once, so it was perfectly understandable that it would be difficult, but it hadn't even been the first time. Really, Mohinder was the only one in their group who hadn't suffered any great losses since the destruction of New York, so many moons ago.

Some of us, Hiro thought with a pang of envy, have lost everything. He thought again of his old travelling companion; of bright red sparks crackling at the ends of slender, clawed fingertips. He knew it wasn't healthy to be so lost in the past, but... Massaging his temples, Hiro sighed and slumped down a bit. He just couldn't let go, not now, not ever. He had promised Ando, on the day of their first mission, to protect him. He had failed. Every unlawful action he took now, every life he took without thought, seemed to pale in comparison to that grave wrongdoing.

"Excuse me," he spoke up, hopping off his ledge. "I'd like to be alone for a bit, if you don't mind."

"Oh, go ahead," Peter said with an understanding nod. He was really the only member of the group who really tried to be "close" with any of the others; it was something that everyone else could appreciate, even if it sometimes seemed like an act he put on to seem more like his former self. "I think we can all use a bit of rest after that raid."

At least the raid had been successful this time, he didn't say, but it was a thought that hung heavy in the room enough for anyone to know he was thinking it. There had been so many raids before which had ended only in misery with no gain to show for it. This time, they had successfully located Sylar's phylactery—an old snowglobe—although the dark mage himself remained in hiding. Destroying it would be another question, but for now nobody wanted anything other than to relax for as long as they could before somebody inevitably came after them.

Shaking his head to clear his thoughts, Hiro squeezed his eyes shut and cast Blink. When he reopened his eyes, the world was monochrome, and he knew he'd just gone invisible to everyone else on his particular plane of existence. This was what he meant when he said he wanted to be alone, even though his Teleport spell could take him anywhere. Being truly isolated was a dangerous move for an infamous outlaw—not that he prided himself in that status; no, his past self would have been positively ashamed and he knew it. However, the fact remained that every individual with extraordinary abilities had a price on their collective heads, and there were more wanted posters tacked up in taverns and on trees of Hiro than of anyone else. The safest way to be alone with his thoughts for a while was to simply go to another plane, and while that may have been pitiable to some, it couldn't have been further from the saddest thing about his existence.

Hiro paced back and forth along the innermost wall of the cave, passing through the black-and-white outlines of his compatriots as though they were all spectral. The floor of the cave was littered with yellowed pages of music notes. Some of them had lyrics—lyrics which spoke of now all-too-familiar events. His lip curled at the sight of a yellowed scrap of parchment with a couple passages which carried with them memories of a lighter time:

"On a quest/ With his best friend/ And they won't rest/ And it won't end/ They know they can't turn away from this fight!

It's how they roll/ But soon things go/ Out of control/ But still they know/ They're always gonna be alright!"

It was an insipid little ditty that had kept his spirits up on the road when the going had gotten tough, and he really had believed that last line. There was magic in a bard's song, and Hiro had known that, even back in the days when he'd been nothing more than a protection fighter with no clue how to cast a spell. Hell, the only reason he was a spellcaster now was because he'd inherited an old wand which was still in good condition—that he'd kept in good condition, because he had to keep it in good condition, because it was all he had left of its former user.

While he paced the far wall of the cave, obscured by shadows even though he'd already be invisible to those outside his plane, he could have sworn he heard footsteps coming from outside. Maybe he'd just been imagining it, but—no, he could hear voices now, which meant that either he was finally losing his grip on reality or he wasn't alone. Ears pricking in alarm, Hiro placed a hand on the hilt of his sword and kept it at the ready. He didn't think that any of the king's men could use Blink, but it wasn't impossible, and if someone had found him... Well, if that was the case, then that person would shortly reappear on the prime material plane as a dead body.

However, when he drew his blade and stepped out of the shadows to face the potential threat, he did not find people clad in silver-blue robes, with their own weapons drawn and at the ready. Instead, what he saw were two men clad in well-kempt adventuring gear—too well-kempt for somebody living in these parts. They each looked to be—at least in human terms—in their twenties. They were slightly obscured by the murk of the cave, and they looked so incredibly out-of-place that it took Hiro a moment to recognize them even when he stepped into the light. When he did, all three of them froze in place, exchanging glances of shock and astonishment.

One of them, who had gone far more overboard on the adventuring gear, was a gnome carrying a sword strapped to his back. Save for a few nicks and a bit of lost sheen, it was the exact same sword that Hiro held now. His hair hung over his pointed ears, which were flattened against his head as he clung at the leg of his companion—a tiefling, whose wizard hat had two holes on either side to accommodate for his long red horns.

They were faces which Hiro had not been expecting to see again in his lifetime, and for seeing them now, he wasn't sure whether to bless the gods or curse whatever demon was responsible for this.

"You," he hissed, tightening his grip on his katana as he stared down his former self.

The target of his icy stare returned the gaze with wide, disbelieving eyes. "...Me?"

[dococonutsmigrate]

Self Care

Big breath, now let it all the way out.  Okay.  Caring for yourself is hopefully something you can come to with kindness and gentleness towards yourself and learning to do these things, and is something to learn to do without pressure or worry.  This is just for you, and just for you to make your life easier, and to help you feel better.

A few brief words about selfishness: You might be thinking that some, or even all, of the things on this list look selfish. That's probably because they are. But that doesn't mean there's anything wrong with doing them, that it's not okay to do them and take care of yourself, or that only you benefit from self-care. Taking care of ourselves, being selfish in that respect is essential to our health and well-being. Self-care and self-indulgence aren't the same things (but we feel like the latter is also okay, too). And if and when we don't take care of ourselves, and either neglect self-care, or set our lives up so that we only look to others to care for us, we can't be self-reliant and independent, we don't tend to do very well, especially through some of the harder parts of life, and it's also nigh unto impossible to have healthy relationships, too. So, this stuff? It's for you, and your life. Your life that is about you, but also your life that includes other people and relationships with them which are far richer and more multi-dimensional than someone being your caretaker or nursemaid.

Some self-care ideas and standbys:

Movement or exercise (the kind you enjoy and feels good, not something solely with the aim of weight loss or changing appearance or which you only do because you feel you should: think dancing like your pants are on fire vs. situps, or a mellow bike ride on a nice day rather than a trainer yelling at you in an air-conditioned gym)

Cooking or baking; eating things that are good for you, but also tasty

Doing something creative, like making music, writing, cooking, painting: you don't have to be an expert at it, you just need to pick something where you enjoy the process

Baths or showers (singing like you were at karaoke in the shower is often a good touch: pick a song that's a guilty pleasure for bonus happymaking points)

Getting outside/out of doors

Meditation or prayer

Watching a favorite movie, reading a good book (or a crappy one if that makes you feel better), listening to music

Slowing your breathing

Visiting a museum

Getting a haircut or getting your hair washed

Talking to friends or family you know you can trust and who are good to you

Hanging out with friends, family or other community for a distraction

Journaling

Turning off your phone ringer. Better yet, leaving the phone behind for a while, period.

Leaving love letters to yourself on the mirror with post-it notes

Gardening, growing or planting something

Take a day trip somewhere, by car, bus or bike: you can even be like a tourist in your own town or city, checking out things you wouldn't as a resident, but visitors usually want to see or do

Masturbation (Partnered sex tends to be a poor choice when we need self-care, since a) it's not just about ourselves and can add stress and b) tends to be a particularly bad fit when not with a partner well-known to us and in a sexual relationship that's going very well. And, of course, if sex is stressing you out, as with any of these things were they stressors, it'd be a truly poor choice for self-care.)

Counseling or support groups

Change up your transportation if it's stressful: if you drive, see about public transit, walking, biking or skating.  If public transit is making you anxious, look into carpooling

Clean up, spruce up or rearrange your room or apartment

Spending as much time as you want at the library or a bookstore

Sitting somewhere comfortable and relaxing. Seriously, just plain sitting.

Watch silly videos online. Like this one. Or this. Or this. Or this. And most certainly these or these. Or, you can watch some music videos from the 80's, which we thought were awesome, but you'll probably find painfully hilarious.

Visualizing something awesome

Making sure to leave school or work on time, rather than overworking or overachieving

Create a new Tumblr feed or blog about something that is fun for you, and is a way to play and relax (once when I needed some extra self-care charge, I made one called Something Small and Beautiful which was about nothing but small, simple things that made me happy)

Playing with toys, or do something else playful and child-like, like futzing with playdough, spending time playing on a playground, coloring in a coloring book (we strongly endorse Unicorns are Jerks) or with chalk on a sidewalk, or reading a favorite book from when you were a child.

Letting yourself cry, especially if you're a bottler

Doing something simple or small that gets you closer to a goal or dream

Volunteering

Scrapbooking (it's so not just for grannies anymore)

Saying nice things about yourself to yourself

Taking time to do something deeply silly or really frivolous

Playing with pets

Learning to do something you have always wanted to do: try something new

Window shopping, or cruising through Pinterest

Finding somewhere you can yell your head off and yelling like there's no tomorrow

Making a playlist of songs you know either cheer you up, soothe you or help you feel the things you're feeling

Having a picnic: can even be all by yourself

Manicures or pedicures

Make a space for yourself in your room that's dedicated to self-care

Taking a minute to recognize and acknowledge your strengths, talents or achievements

Saying no to someone or something: setting a limit

Helping other people in small ways that feel good, not stressful

Doing a face masque (extra bonus, this also ticks the "do something silly" box because everyone looks a fool with a face masque on)

Going to bed early or letting yourself sleep in for a change

Forgiving other people or letting go of anger or upset you have with someone, or more than one someone

Dressing in clothing that makes you feel comfortable, handsome, beautiful, sexy or all of the above!

Having a pillow fight

Massage (self-massage or a massage from someone else)

Daydreaming

Disappearing in the good way: leave your cell at home, unplug from the net, and go get yourself lost and quiet, all by yourself, somewhere you feel safe where no demands will be made of you

Taking yourself out to dinner or lunch

Insisting on self-care time and space with others as needed; insisting on self-care to yourself

When I do well with self-care for myself, I find one reason why is because I'm mixing up the kinds of self-care I'm doing, rather than only caring for one part of myself, or caring for myself in only one way. Your mileage may vary, but I find it works well to think about something I can do -- in a day, or even within the whole of a week -- with my body, a thing I can do for my body, a way I can be playful, a way I can really sit with and feel all my feelings, something I can do that's creative, something I can do to get outside, and something I can do socially. Of course, sometimes you can do something that combines a few of these -- like taking a photo walk with a camera, where you get to get outside, move your body and do something creative. Or, if it helps you to pare this down even more, see if you can't, in a day, do one thing for your body, one thing for your head, and one thing for your heart or spirit.

When we're freaking out, stressed out, or otherwise challenged and at loose ends, one of the ways we can do self-care is to simplify or relax our lives in some ways that we're able. It's probably obvious that when our proverbial load feels to heavy, lightening it tends to help.

Some ways you can lighten your burden and travel through life more lightly:

Do only one thing at a time when you can, rather than multitasking

If a courseload at school feels too tough to manage, see if you can't drop one of your classes, take an incomplete or audit instead

Get rid of stuff you don't need: sometimes clearing your space can help you clear your heart and head

If you're being super strict or rigorous about something you don't absolutely have to be -- like eating, exercise or a training schedule, studying -- see if you can't relax those things at least some. It's mighty stressful living with a drill sargeant

Taking things off your to-do list or out of your life you really don't need to be doing, can delegate to someone else, or can set aside and do later

Do what you can to take steps to move away from or leave from relationships that have gotten very stale, rarely make you happy, or which are controlling, manipulative, abusive or otherwise dysfunctional. Even if you aren't able to, or don't yet feel able to, leave them full-stop just yet, see if you can't start taking some steps to get there. And by all means, don't go to those relationships, or hang with those people, when you need self-care

Spend less time online, unless you limit yourself to sites and spaces you know are 100% good for your emotional well-being. (If nothing else, at least stop reading blog or article comments.)

Reassess your goals: if you're reaching for too much all at once, pare back, sticking with one or two goals at a time.

Try to stop overspending, whether it's money you spend more of than you've got, time or energy. Get a realistic sense of what you've got in these kinds of areas and what your limits are, and try and stay within them.

Pick a bedtime you usually stick to, and walk away from anything that you can that can pose new stresses an hour or two before: the internet, phone calls, television, talks with people who are stressing you out, homework, et cetera

Ask for help.  I know it's hard, believe me.  But just do it anyway. Sooner, rather than later.

On top of the things you can do, there are also some things we know tend to increase or encourage anxiety, depression, or just plain feeling lousy, that you should try and avoid or limit -- that you should try NOT to do -- to best care for yourself.

Some self-care frenemies:

Trying to stop or shut down hard or uncomfortable thoughts or feelings: not only does that not tend to work, and can even make those feelings or thoughts stronger, letting those thoughts or feelings out is really the way to go to best process and sort through them. You need to let those thoughts and feelings be what they are and accept them.

Booze, sugar, caffeine and other things you can put into your body, like junk food, that aren't good for you: when you want to nourish yourself, you've got to nourish yourself. Stimulating, empty or toxic stuff doesn't do that, and also often increases things like anxiety or depression, especially in the long run, so limiting those things when you need self-care is the way to go.

Validating fears: In other words, you are terrified of a thing, and want to find others who are also terrified, in order to basically make your fears seem more reasonable and not be alone in them.  That's all fine well; and good, except for the part where then you end up not just soaking in your own panic or angst, but the panic and angst of everyone else, which most typically will only exponentially increase yours, rather than dialing it down.

Obsessive Googling: Dr. Google is not your friend when you're freaking out. Neither is Yahoo! Answers (which I've started to call Boohoo! Answers, based on how users seem to be feeling when they come to us for help after going there first and how I feel after talking people off a ledge all day who went there then came to me for help after) or other random crowdsourcing sites, medical sites or apps where you punch in a bunch of symptoms and it tells you you might have cancer when, in fact, you just have a bad head cold. If you're going to go to the web when you're in a bad way, pick places you know, for sure, have a history of doing right by you when you're feeling like crap or needing sound information and support. This isn't the time to take chances.

Lazing about: Especially with depression, it can feel like all you should do is what you want to do, which is to lie down and never get up. But while getting enough rest is important, so is getting enough activity. Avoiding sleep or going without sleep is equally problematic. If you're having big troubles with sleep or activity in either direction, a visit to a healthcare provider is a good place to start to get help with that. Messed-up sleep -- way too much or too little -- really, really does a number on a person.

Isolation: It can feel really scary and vulnerable to be in a bad way around other people, especially if you are introverted or have any kind of social anxiety. But totally isolating for long periods of time isn't a sound answer either. See if you can't at least find some ways of being around other people -- even if you're not directly interacting with them -- when you're stressed. On the flip side, do remember the SELF part of self-care: never allowing yourself to be alone, and to care for yourself, by yourself, at all, isn't sage, either.

Stimulating fears or anxieties with things you know trigger those -- like continuing to engage in sex if it's freaking you out, watching movies about things you know scare you or make you upset, etc. One way of treating anxiety does involve exposure, but that is usually done with the help and care of a therapist, and with very specific instructions. DIYing that is rarely a good idea, and only tends to increase your discomfort and trigger more anxiety.

Negative or unsupportive people and, perhaps obviously, abusive, controlling or otherwise big-time unsafe people. P.S. You count. In other words, beating yourself up about things, talking trash about yourself to yourself, and engaging in other kinds of self-harm makes you the negative or unsupportive person. Be kind to you when you're in a bad way.

http://www.scarleteen.com/article/abuse_assault/selfcare_a_la_carte

[overtopsdev]

Getting Over the Hump

The middle of game development kinda sucks. It’s not the honeymoon period, and it’s not the giddy excitement of finishing something, it’s just a lot of hard work.

There’s this idea called “The Gartner Hype Cycle” that was originally conceived as a description of the lifecycle of hype around new technologies, but I honestly believe it maps 1 to 1 to the internal hype you feel when working on a new project as well.

I also just really like the phrase “Trough of Disillusionment”

You may be noticing a common theme through several of these blog posts if you’ve been reading from the beginning. One of the constant uphill battles you will find yourself fighting (that you probably really didn’t expect to) while working on any creative project, but especially something you are doing off your own back (ie, not something that is your day job, or for school or whatever), is not getting lost in the dark (and potentially directionless) middle period of development.

But even then, even when it is your day job, you will still find there is this pattern of extreme enthusiasm (the honeymoon period), followed by huge periods of “what are we doing?”,  “everything is broken”, “what’s the point?”, “this is a waste of time”, etc. Every project (regardless of studio or personal project or whatever) I have ever worked on follows this pattern, and I would venture so far as to suggest that it is probably universal.

The real trick is what do you do with that? How do you overcome that nagging sense that it’s not worth it? If I had a magic incantation to solve that problem, I wouldn’t have a laundry list of side projects that never got finished... I mean... are in various states of progress (but let’s face it, most of them are never going to get finished).

As mentioned a couple of weeks ago in the “Lessons Learnt from Side Projects” post, a huge part of it can come down to extrinsic motivation. But, rather than just rehashing that post again, let’s see what else we can do as well.

(sometimes they are just failed experiments though, like this one)

I should probably start by saying that none of this is easy. Don’t beat yourself up forever if you don’t do all of this perfectly all the time. But, it’s important to honestly identify mistakes you’ve made in the past, and learn from them. If all of this was easy, we’d all be doing it perfectly all the time, and wouldn’t even need to talk about it.

So, as alluded to in the above gif, the first step is kind of identifying if the thing you are working on is even worth finishing or not. Often there will be external factors that decide that for you. If it’s your job, and you are being paid to make X, then you make X, that’s just how it goes (or you won’t have a job for long). But, if you are going to commit a chunk of your life to making something like a video game, then you kind of want to make sure it’s something worth spending that time on right?

Now, this is where things can get real blurry, because an experiment that you decide not to pursue is NOT the same as failing to complete something you DO want to pursue.

(like this one… this is a prototype that went nowhere that I deadset do want to finish one day. This wasn’t a failed experiment, this was a failure to see something through)

You usually get a pretty good sense of this pretty early on. If something is not worth working on or not. However, what I think is probably the major source of what we are talking about here in this post, the need to “get over the hump”, the struggle that comes at the middle of development, I honestly think it comes from most people’s sense of “is it worth working on or not being WAY miscalibrated. Most people have it calibrated to the honeymoon period rather than the actual slog of development. This is especially prevalent in newbies who haven’t yet experienced the slog of development. So, if your metric for if something is worth working on comes from “does it illicit the same excitement you had on day 1 when you first had the idea, or got that one first cool proof of concept going?”, then you are constantly going to be putting things down after a day or two, and NEVER finish anything.

There’s definitely an element of “eating your vegetables” to it. There is a world of difference between what feels good in the moment and what’s good for you long term. This applies to everything in life, and game development/any creative pursuit is no different.

Ok, great, but still, how do we do it? We know we have to do hard graft. It’s not all fun and games, but that’s not an answer.

I think the answer to that is going to some extent be different for each individual, just like we each have different ways to motivate ourselves to exercise, or get out of bed on time, or eat our proverbial vegetables or whatever.

But, that said, I think universally, the first step has to be acknowledging the existence of the problem/phenomena. When you feel like giving up on something, when you start to feel like “this was a stupid thing to start, it’s never going to get finished, why bother”, the first thing you have to do is identify that thought pattern immediately for what it is. You are starting to hit the trough of disillusionment for your own project. Identifying that something is a problem is the first step towards solving it, whatever your solution may be that works for you personally.

For me, it always comes down to answering the question “why am I doing it in the first place?” Which I think is fairly illustrative of which projects I have and haven’t finished in the past. Most projects I start purely for me, and no one else, rarely get finished. The projects I start that get started for the benefit of someone else, I always make sure I see them through (I know that is another extrinsic motivator, but what can I say, that’s just how I work).

(it’s spoop month, so here’s a throwback to last year’s spoop month, and a game that DID in fact get finished and released despite also suffering massively from the trough of disillusionment)

That’s how I know Overt Ops is going to get finished, because it’s not just for me, it’s for other people too. Sure, if I don’t finish it, most people will probably be like “whatever…” or “what game?”, but the point is, it’s enough of a driving force to work through that slog.

And I’ll wrap up here by just saying one last thing about it. This is the main reason projects don’t get finished, that we’ve already established. So just like strengthening your muscles with weight training, or improving your linework by drawing sketchbooks full of circles, this is a skill you can practice and develop. Every time you do it, you get better at it. Every time you fall into that rut and want to give up and stop working on the thing. If you take that opportunity to identify that pattern of behaviour and go “nope, not this time”, it will make it easier next time. Sure, it will often feel like you are doing pointless tasks that are going nowhere, but if you keep the big picture and the finish line in mind, it will make it easier to stick it out.

Then, when you DO make it to the finish line, you will feel elated, and weirdly, you will look back and wonder what all the fuss was about... of course you were going to get it finished.

[svetlanabelikova]

JOURNALING V

content warning:

weight loss/talking about weight

medical/surgical discussions

it has been awhile since i updated anyone casually interested in this part of my life, hasn’t it. 

well, part of that is b/c i’ve been busy. holidays and everything, also i’ve started a work out routine, but i’ll get into that in a moment. also i didn’t have any doctor appointments for like, literally 3 weeks straight, which was nice. much better than speed running it like i had been.

today is 11.11.19, (make a wish if you believe in that sort of thing) and i’ve decided i no longer want surgery.

let me back up here.

so, let me re-read my last post just to remember what i need to fill in... ah yes, the fun i had w/ the x-ray. that feels like it happened months and months ago.

well, since then , i’ve been trying to get my life a lot more organized. i’ve started a (bullet) journal (mostly b/c i love watching the aesthetic set-up videos on youtube) and in it have been tracking my progress by the numbers. for the first few weeks of trying to lose weight, i was weighing myself every other day, sometimes more than that. i became obsessive and felt like the numbers weren’t enough. i wasn’t losing enough and one weekend i had gained back like 1.7 lbs or something. but seeing any increase in the numbers upset me. even though when we are talking about 1 or 2 pounds in someone that’s got over 300 of them, it isn’t the same as if someone is more like a buck fifty. 

being able to put it down somewhere physical and then keep a log so i can see the numbers adding up or going down in a catalog has been very helpful for my mental health. having just the numbers on a paper has allowed me to watch my weight go from 349 in the beginning of october to where it currently is (or was as of 11.6 i only weigh myself every other wednesday. why wednesday and why every other week, i don’t know. it just seemed like more than once a month but less than every week. a good distance between not enough and too much) which is 329 lbs. 

when put to paper, 20 pounds in a month is, i think, great. i know everyone says “oh the first 10-12 pounds comes off so easily!” but not from where i’m standing. i have been working for those 20 pounds. 

speaking of working, let’s dig into that piece of proverbial pie i teased earlier. 

i have a work-out routine. which is the first time i’ve said that in,,, probably ever. i know while in school i technically had one in p.e. class but let’s be honest. i did not give it my all and would take any opportunity to skip if i could. now it is just me, alone w/ my dark synthwave music and the pedometer built into pokemon go.

yeah, i could download a real work-out app that would track this stuff for me, but my phone’s memory is full to bursting and listen, i need to walk my buddy and eggs. i’ve got friends on pokemon go that need gifts and it is already built-in w/ this new adventure sync, so might as well use what i have.

so, i work out every monday, wednesday and friday night. i usually leave the house a little before 9pm and try to be back a little after 10pm. just about an hour. in that hour i walk down my street (which is pretty long imo), around the corner to the pokestop at the park, around the park, back down my street and return home. in the beginning i just walked around my street, or just to the stop (which is 0.7km from my front door) but as i’ve built up stamina, i’ve been able to walk all the way around the park. actually my goal for november, is to start walking around the park twice a night, at least once a week. 

on average it is about 3,400 steps(or roughly 3.5 kms) and an hour of activity, 3 nights a week. i doesn’t seem like a lot but:

1. it is an hour of cardio every other day that i was not doing before, and 2. additional movement that adds up

i walked a combined 40,881 steps in october 2019 while working out. that is on top of whatever else i did while shopping or playing w/ the kids or what have you. 

and i plan to add more. i found a great video on youtube that is all about basic, beginner yoga for curvy people. the instructor talks about doing yoga to your size and abilities and not letting anyone tell you that you can’t do yoga b/c you’re fat. i don’t buy into the idea that yoga can directly help you loose large amounts of weight, but what it will do is help build up muscle in my legs and relieve tension in my back, which will then allow me to walk longer and w/ less pain. after forty minutes or so of fast walking, my knee starts to scream and my back burns. hopefully by adding in this yoga that concentrates on thighs, calves and back, where most big people have issues, it will help me target issue areas, deal w/ them in a low-impact way, then save energy and build up stamina to push myself in other ways.

i also want to eventually start adding weight training into my work-out routine.  gods, it still sounds so bougee to say i have a ‘work out routine’, but there you have it. 

i’ve also begun to overhaul my eating habits. for breakfast, 6 days a week, i have a protein shake. water and soy milk mixed w/ a plant-based protein powder and an additive of instant coffee. sugar free, dairy free. and awful. i hate them. i’ve tried a few different ones and they are all fucking awful, but i drink them anyway. 

i also usually eat a salad or soup for lunch. i’ve been finding a lot of really great salad combinations on top of rediscovering my love of salads. when i first went vegetarian, i was big into salads but eventually, it became easier to buy those premade, frozen veggie-friendly meals. like all that Amys’ food or the MorningStar brand (which still conjures ideas of satan-worshipping vegans, but hey, i can dig it). i’m trying to find pre-paired salad meals. i found this really good asian inspired salad that had friend wonton strips and a wonderful sesame seed sauce. so good. each bag can make 3 lunches for me, so it is great to stretch them out. also did you know that most cans of soup are technically 2 servings? i didn’t.

that was probably my biggest problem w/ food that i’ve addressed: what constitutes an actual serving size? 

before last month, i assumed a serving size was what looked right. like in the case of the soup, i assumed if it all fit in a soup bowl, it was 1 serving. 1 can of soup can fit in 1 soup bowl so it would make sense, right? nope. 1 serving of canned soup is actually about half the can or roughly 1 cup of liquid. which doesn’t seem like a lot. 

so i’ve stuck to salads. 2 and a half cups of salad is like, i don’t know, 35 cal. so, i can go hog wild, prepare a giant ramen bowl full of salad w/ carrots, onions, a sprinkle of slivered almonds, a splash of lite raspberry vinaigrette, and some sliced, uncured ham and that is lunch, baby!

dinner is pretty untouched, other than i eat on children’s plates now. i heard somewhere from some dietian on a show or something that eat on smaller plates, like children’s plates, helps trick your mind that you are eating more than you actually are. your eyes see a plate full up w/ food rather than eating a little food on a large plate, it is the same amount of “little food” but looks more filling on a little plate. i don’t know if it is true, but i feel like it helps me portion food out better. if a helping of potatoes can’t fit in the little sectioned off children’s plates, it is probably too much potatoes. rip

dessert has been downsized, if i have it at all. 3 thin oreos rather than like, a bowl of cereal. a 1/4 of soy ice cream rather than however much i can pile into a small bowl. 

so that is the update: breakfast is a protein shake lunch is soup or salad dinner is served on a child’s plate dessert is 3 thin oreos. 

maybe this week i will start keeping a calorie count, just to get an idea of what my average is compared to the 2,000 cal/day suggestion.

ok, so that was already a lot, but i did mention that i had suddenly taken a large left turn when it came to the surgery. my last journal update was all about how i was excited to blind, no walkthrough, speedrun this so i could get cleared for the surgery on like january 1, 2020. well, ha ha, nevermind. 

this latest class i went to was enlightening. i mean they all have been so far, for different reasons and in different ways. the first class was about what kind of choices we had. did we want to take mediation? did we want to go to food addicts anonymous? did we want surgery? so this new class i went to on 11.7, was a follow-up to the surgical path.

i was already on the fence about disfiguring my insides. the idea of slicing off 2/3 my stomach rearranging my intestines already sounds horrifyingly frankenstineian to me. it sounds like something midevil doctors would come up w/ while snorting morphine or something. but, i was assured that it was the best option, that it was incredibly safe, it was done all the time, it had great success, etc. 

i allowed myself to be talked into it. i relented and bought into the dream they were spinning for me. 

not after this class. the amount of insanity that is involved, even beyond, again, the whole cutting off and throwing away 2/3 of your stomach, there is some buck wild rules you have to abide after the surgery. i wrote them down (which i was the only one that did. in a class of 9-10 people, i was the only person taking notes and the only person horrified by what i was hearing):

- lose hair first 3-9 months (me, a person w/ thin hair: oh yikes) - will need to take as many as 12 vitamins a day (me, a person that hates taking any medication) - will not be able to take any medication other than liquid/pills will pass thru tiny stomach too fast to be effective (me, a person that hates liquid medication w/ a passion), only tylenol allowed; all medication from doctors must be liquid or chewable - 70% of patients need a follow-up surgery (WHAT) - no smoking (that’s fine) no alcohol (hang on....) after surgery. ever - ideal meals after surgery: 60-100g protein, 40-80g produce, no carbs, no sugar (wait...) - eat a meal every 4 hr.s or so (that seems like overkill) - no carbonated drinks, no drinks w/ sugar/cal (but i love my fizzy drinks :c this is bullshit) - chew each bite 20-30 times, every meal should last a half hour (that’s normal for me anyway, i’m a slow eater but idk how i’m supposed to chew soup 20-30 times) - 30 min.s of activity/day (got that covered, chief) - go to support groups (no thanks, don’t wanna listen to other ppl complain and the idea of being open to other ppl,,, in real life, where they can see me? absolutely not, how dare you) - 64oz of liquid/day (is that not normal? i already drink that much, if not more) - only able to drink a shotglass amount of liquid at a time or risk vomiting (WAIT) - drink every 15 min.s, possibly even during the night (HANG ON) - no drinks w/ meals, stop drinking about 30 min.s before meal and don’t resume until 30 min.s after meal otherwise it will wash food away too quickly to be absorbed by tiny stomach (HOLD THE HECKIN’ PHONE)

at w/ that, the instructor ended the class b/c there were no questions. i was in shock. all i wanted to do was be like those tik tok kids that recreate meme images but i wanted to become the living embodiment of this gif:

literally, i looked over at my mom, who was sipping on a soda and scrolling through facebook for most of the class and went “nevermind, i don’t want surgery”.

i think she thought i was joking. she laughed and waved it off, but the... the existential dread i felt in that moment. this,,,, this was what old howard was shooting for when he wrote about all that cosmic horror. this feeling that i was the only one seeing the insanity in that classroom.... i was the only one that realized that it was madness. how would a person drink 64oz od liquid a day, broken down into 1oz at a time, but not w/n an hour of eating and also having to eat every four hours. that means you’d have to somehow shove 64oz, broken down to 4oz an hour, for 3 hours, then not drink anything for an hour, over only 16 hours. you couldn’t drink anything for 4 of those hours while you eat your tiny baby meals for your tiny baby stomach. i’m not great at math but it doesn’t seem physically possible to me and yet everyone in the class were just nodding their heads like “yes, of course old chap. perfectly reasonable.”

i’d rather continue to starve myself, and work-out. theoretically, if i continue to lose about 20 pounds a month, i will lose my goal weight by may 2020. sure it would be faster w/ surgery. it might be technically easier w/ surgery but everything in my mind tells me that the surgery is wrong. that it isn’t sustainable. i don’t want this surgery and i certainly don’t want the second stage of this surgery 10 yr.s down the road. if you think cutting 2/3 of your stomach out is upsetting, the image of the second step surgery in which they take that rough banana shape of a stomach and stretch it out into what is effectively, A STRAW. 

A STRAW.

and once more: A STRAW!!

i could get behind having a banana-shaped stomach, but a straw in which the food literally just,,, falls through you is grotesque. 

gonna be a big, fatty NOPE from me, chief. hard pass. 

[iamwhelmed]

For Whom the Bell Tolls: Chapter 7

Also on AO3 and Fanfiction.net!

Summary: When monsters start to invade Mayview, the morality of the connection between a medium and their spirit comes into question. Is killing a spirit any different from taking the life of another human? Relationships between club members become strained, and if Max thought the club was coming apart before, it certainly is now.

Saturday

Suzy wasn’t one to leave the clubroom unless absolutely necessary, meaning, barring classes and interviews, she was the journalism club’s gatekeeper and defender, the proverbial judge and jury. That was why Dimitri had to wait to act until the weekend, when even Suzy wasn’t hanging back-- not for lack of trying, actually; she’d been kicked out of the school by an on-duty school deputy more than the school would probably admit. Next time meant suspension, and suspension for Suzy meant no weekly paper, not that anybody read it in the first place.

Dimitri ducked around the corner leading into the hallway, leaning forward to see where the lingering school deputy would head. He was an old man, not quite the age of the school nurse, but certainly getting there. He scratched at his bald head, unintentionally inching his working hat as far back as it could go without tipping off.

“Eh, coulda sworn I’d heard somethin’.”

He readjusted the hat and turned to walk to the other end of the hall-- away from the clubroom.

Dimitri turned the corner and padded over to the door, an ever-watchful eye following the officer down the hall as far as he could see him. He set one hand on the knob and turned it, sliding the door open one centimeter at a time. The lock on the door to their clubroom had broken somewhere in their sixth grade year and, courtesy of their inattentive club leader, was still yet to be fixed. It drove Suzy up the wall, and was also why she put her chore money up to pay for the lock on the filing cabinet-- Dimitri’s current obstacle.

He slid the door shut behind him.

“Let’s see if I still remember how to do this…”

He reached into his pocket, pulling out the bobby pin he’d stashed away before he left the house. Suzy had taught him the ins and outs of lock picking at some point when he first joined, and though he’d paid attention, it wasn’t like he went out and actively rummaged through people’s things the way she expected him and Collin to. He would have looked for the key, but he knew Suzy too well-- if she hadn’t taken it home with her, she’d hidden it somewhere even he would never think to search. Picking the lock was the simplest solution-- quickest, mostly painless, and effective.

He inched the bobby pin into the slot and went to work unlatching the chain.

Sorry about this, Suzy, but you started keeping secrets first.

There was a small snap, and the lock fell loose in his hands. Perfect. “Now to find out what you two were hiding from me.”

The top drawer was usually empty, save for a few sticky notes with information Suzy was still convinced was relevant, like phone numbers and names with vague summaries below about why they should be covered. Some dulled pencils could usually be found rolling around in there, alongside some clippings from more legitimate newspapers, like The Mayview Times.

Sitting atop all of that were the papers he’d seen Suzy lock away. Dimitri ignored the CONFIDENTIAL stamp on the front and stripped the first page off the stack.

He read the first few sentences, then had to repeat them to himself again to be sure that’s what he was actually seeing. Then again, and again. He read them until each word sank in, and the harsh reality of Suzy’s latest scoop washed over him like an ice bath, like a tsunami of water so freezing it left him numb and paralyzed, standing there, holding reality in shaking hands.

The bathroom smelled like aftershave. The living room smelled like aftershave. Heck, the whole flipping house smelled like an Abercrombie and Fitch model came in and took a bath in a tub full of cologne! Max was practically gagging, and he knew even Zoe had to smell it from her room, and her door had been closed all day!

“I’m leaving to finally get all this extra hair trimmed off!” His dad paused at the stairs, raising a hand to fluff the ends of his hair. “Should I keep it a little longer, or go a little shorter?”

Max lingered by the dip in their family room floor, contemplating whether to sit on the couch or stand around until his dad left so he could get back to his bedroom quicker. He wasn’t in the mood to watch TV, but his bedroom was even closer to the bathroom than the living room, and if the smell of “Blue Thunder” got any stronger, he was sure he’d asphyxiate. Max shrugged. “I wouldn’t cut off too much. Can’t have her thinking you’re a well put-together business man, can you?” He was trying to get laughs, and usually that was something his dad might have chuckled at, but a quick glance in Dad’s direction and he knew where his father’s mind was.

He was staring past Max, down the hallway where Zoe’s room was. Her door was locked and she hadn’t answered anyone all day.

“She’ll come around.” His dad was focused on him again, looking startled; he’d probably interrupted a train of thought. Max turned away, looking to the floor, nearly hoping Pj would come fading in at any second and he could escape the awkward conversation-- or at least push it to a later date, but Pj was somewhere else, wandering in the house in a room that Max wasn’t in. Figured. The one time Max wanted him to pop out of nowhere and scare the pants off of him and he wasn’t around to. “She’s your kid, right? She’ll get used to the idea eventually.” That was the least mushy way he could figure to word it.

His dad crossed the room just to steal his cap and ruffle his hair. Max winced, but the familiar sensation of a smile was crawling across his lips. “I’ll be home by eleven o’clock tonight, son. Be good!” He ducked out of the room before Max could even raise a hand to wave.

Meditation, though rewarding, was a trial all on its own. Instead of blank thoughts, Ed found his mind wandering to places that were dangerous, places that made him lose all concentration.

The way her hair hit his face on her way by.

The way she didn’t acknowledge him-- no look, no word, no wave-- like he didn’t even exist.

He toppled over. One of the other students cracked open an eye. He waved an apology and got back up on the slab of wood to begin again.

It was over. He’d lost her. Before he even had a chance to fix things, to fix himself, she was gone. He hadn’t even tried to speak to her when he came home last night; he couldn’t handle a repeat, couldn’t handle her ignoring him again because if it happened twice it was real and he wasn’t just imagining it. But he knew. She was replacing him, setting Max on the pedestal where he once stood, knocking his statue off and watching his bust shatter into thousands of jagged pieces. And why would she try to clean it all up? She’d only stab herself, and he wasn’t worth the effort.

They weren’t worth the effort.

He nearly fell off again, leaning too much weight on the front of his legs, but caught himself at the last second, straightening up.

He was almost jealous of Max, but the truth kept logic saddled on his mind; Max was the better friend for her. He wasn’t some baby that ran away when she needed him, or some lazy coward who spent all his time messing around with video games instead of training to better himself as a man.

He fell backwards instead of forwards this time, bumping his head on the floor before the rest of him even hit the ground. Grunting, he got back up and tried again.

He was stupid! So, so, stupid!

And now she was gone, and all he could do was watch Max take his place, watch him be the better man… and it was already killing him.

Things would be better for her when he left. She could forget him entirely, and maybe he’d find a new best friend, too, though he already knew none would quite compare. She’d follow him around forever in his wimpy little heart, and it just hurt that he wouldn’t be in hers.

He fell over again, and this time, something hard knocked him upside the head. “Ow!” A pair of slippers padded over to stand in front of him. “Hey, who did that?” His eyes trailed up the length of his foot before hitting the robe, and from there on, Ed already knew who he was looking at. He set his chin on the mat and gave his master his most pathetic pout.

Master Hashimoto frowned and looked from Ed to the thin wood he expected every student to balance on when meditating-- something Ed still clearly wasn’t the best at. “I am impressed you keep getting back up, child, but I am less impressed that you must keep trying. Why can you not concentrate?”

“Just...” Ed rubbed the back of his head where, what he was now sure was, Master Hashimoto’s staff had left a small bruise. “I’m just tired is all.” He forced himself to sit back up, moving to set his butt on the small plank of wood, thick and wide enough to stand on, hard to balance on-- apparently. He presumed correct posture, crossing his legs and closing his eyes.

Hashimoto sighed, and was gone without so much as a drift in the air.

The clock hit 11:00 only seconds before Max heard his dad coming up the stairs. The first few steps were long between, like he’d been taking two steps at a time, and then the sounds of shoes against wood came faster, and he was coming up to the top in seconds. “Max! My son!”

He was sitting up from his place on the couch slowly, inching the bucket of popcorn off his lap (it’d been the only thing strong enough to cover up the smells of “Blue Thunder”). One hand reached over tentatively to pause the horror movie he’d been watching, heart beating a mile per minute.

It went horrible. It went terrible? She said she never wants to see me again?

His father opened his arms wide, then swung around on his heel with the widest grin he’d had in five years plastered on his face. Unlike the others, not that he hadn’t been genuinely ecstatic to move back to his hometown, it was real and it reached his eyes and Max could feel it radiating sunshine in the dead of night from across the living room. “It went great! She was amazing!”

Max’s hand froze before one finger ever set on the remote.

“... Oh?”

“She’s got her own collection of Star Wars lightsabers-- even one of the real models used in the first movie! How awesome is that?”

Max chuckled and raised one butter-covered hand to the back of his neck, wincing even when he tried to smile. “That’s-- that’s great, dad.”

His father started jumping up and down like a little kid, balled hands up to his chest, wide and toothy smile inching larger by the second. “And she was so beautiful! Blue hair, blue eyes! I could have sworn I was dating a mermaid!”

“Cool…”

“And you made the right call! She apparently” and here he reached a hand to twirl some strand of hair around his finger “loooves the men with some volume.”

He was starting to feel sick. Every bit of his stomach that might have been peckish, every part that might have once wanted some of that popcorn-- it was all disgusting. His insides churned, and he very nearly clapped a hand to his mouth to hold back the pound of vomit inching up his throat. It stung, and so did his eyes. The woman in the movie being brutally murdered, via axe-wielding serial killer, shrieked and wept, and Max chewed on the inside of his bottom lip.

He swallowed it all down. “Glad to hear it, Dad.”

“It’s all because of you, mine loinfruit!”

He didn’t even have the energy to correct him, because it was a stupid joke and he didn’t much feel like joking at all; in fact he wanted to throw a fit. He wanted to pick up his popcorn and throw it into his dad’s face, because his mom’s picture was sitting right there on the end table and how could he even think about another woman when her face was right there, right freaking there! It was wrong! It was demeaning! It was cruel and how could he say something like that about another woman?

Max slid off the couch and mumbled some excuse about being tired and not knowing how late it was, but the hour would be carved into his mind for a good while. He didn’t even bother to shut the TV off; he was sure his dad would take it over when he went to his room.

He shut the door softly when he wanted to slam it, then rested against the wood and slid down until his rear hit the floor. He heard his dad start the movie over-- he was in the clear.

Max rested his head against the door, then brought it up and slammed it back down four times, maybe five, trying to get the stinging in his eyes to go away. He wasn’t some teary-eyed brat, he couldn’t just cry over something so stupid!

He couldn’t cry because his dad was happy…

He choked on air.

… even if it was with another woman.

He didn’t want his dad to move on. He didn’t want some stranger coming in, trying to be his mom, trying to play a part that never should have been open to begin with! He knew she made him happy, but that didn’t mean she should! He tucked his knees to his chest and set his head against them, fingers clawing at the carpet on either side.

How am I supposed to even tell him?

[lovehaswonangelnumbers]

New Post has been published on https://lovehaswonangelnumbers.org/prepare-for-turbulence/

Prepare for Turbulence 

Prepare for Turbulence

By A Gift From Gaia

Please fasten your seatbelts and prepare for some turbulence.

Or perhaps it’s more like…

Buckle up and scream if you wanna go faster

I guess that’s all dependent on you and how you are perceiving these shifts but the next few days may feel a little…bipolar?

We have highs and we have …some…..”oh yeah alright, we’ll just see about that shall we”

Hey I can’t write “lows” when I’m fully aware they don’t exist, what is a low anyway? A refusal of truth? Well that’s a choice, albeit a rather blinded one.

So we have highs and I’ll observe and take action…that’s far more fitting.

Word spells are something of a favourite of mine at the moment and we can think about this for a second.

Many get the words contradicted, mostly because at first they don’t know, and that’s the safest place to be if you wish to stay oblivious and continuing your life unaware…sleep is one of my most favourite places so I understand how the simplicity of the complexity suits.

However when you are aware and waking yourself up to know and yet not do is nothing short of….well, lining up a whole bunch of life experiences to teach you.

Let’s look….

Dark night of the Soul – is a breakthrough for growth Anxiety – Avoidance of Self truth, experienced for the purpose of growth Anger – disconnection from self, lack of self…experienced for growth Depressed – Self avoidance, disconnection from reality, avoidance of growth

We can go on….but can we see how the subconscious mind, which only matures to the approximate age of 12 and has very limited understanding, it works in binary…at first, yes no, on off, high low…can you see how the contradiction begins within just by the mix up and the spells in your words.

Of course as we move through these phases and release attachment, this includes our language, but it’s also a reason why you find keyholders bringing in new words to use in explanations as the words create a whole new vibrational message to the receiver, it ensures a direct shift as there can not be any distorted attachment to a word created for the purpose of the experience, which, when delivered by a light worker is in fact filled with a very high and impacting light code or feeling.

It often also brings a giggle, which encapsulates the new word in a even higher frequency.

Too many words have been diluted or changed, one of the favourites to use in the spiritual arena is narcissist, it’s everywhere but it’s now used so freely, an empath gets upset because a truth is delivered and all of a sudden the truth bearer is a narcissist.

From a psychology point of view I find it all very interesting especially with the ability to feel the words, and see behind the words, the fluff, the distortions and the smile to your face and yet the dagger in the back.

Pay attention now it’s come to light in this transmission because today will be a mighty fine day to observe Self within your reality and the reflections you are about to see.

The next few days are going to feel like a shake, as the universal proverbial rug is set to ripple…nope not strong enough word…FLAP…yes that’s it, it’s going to Flap like Aladdin’s rug in a hurricane.

Or not…

That depends on you entirely.

We have had a blast of Solar Winds reaching G1 storm levels, it has subsided for now and I’ll keep you posted.  Not just this but we have tiny sun spots from the NEW solar cycle which will give this movement a forward future focus, as though something inside is telling you this is essential for the future and you won’t be wrong.

To WEIGHT will highlight your experience that to wait is to be weighted…self sacrifice. And yet to action will bring instant realisations, instant manifestations and instant opportunity.

Why…

Because firstly our Sun has been pumped up and aligned to our Great Central Sun Sirius.  Fully charged and ready to apply masses of coded light, in the form of truth, is now aligned with our North Node, which brings in either what you require to clear in order for the new, or for those already aware and working through, it brings the dues, it’s time to reap.

And whilst this transits the North we have the opposition to the South, which provides the release of the old, making space for the North to bring in the winds of change.

Providing the work has been ticked off and dissolved…otherwise those glittery timeline loops that look all sparkly, exciting and new…..just turn out to be that same old same old of old, those looping patterns, that most have been highly trained to accept as life.

These solar blasts are now rare in comparison to what we are generally used to, during a solar maximum it’s the cosmic rays that feel all different, now we are in a solar minimum the solar rays can feel a little to high.

How you experience in your physical just depends on your frequency.

So those still muddling will experience all the typical ascension symptoms. Aches, pains, emotions, tension, aggression, headaches. Realities get loud people get grumpy BUT you see that’s because light activates and it allows you to SEE what we choose to ignore.

Higher octaves get super productive and surf the realisations and movements like a pro.

It’s easy, it’s fun, it’s creative BUT and here is another big BUTT we are in the midst of some powerful energies, some super DNA upgrades and I suggest to take this slow and steady regardless.

Sun is also trine Neptune bringing in more heightened awareness, more quantum codes, more dreamy and yet tangible data enters for us to ground in and INjoy the new sacred space.

Now…I mentioned bumps…shakes and rugs…

Mars is hitting a square with Uranus….whilst trine to Chiron so we could be seeing some very quick turn around, quick explosive presentations but the softness of the trine has the opportunity to bring gentle closure and healing to this masculine wounding we all hold.

The collective field has had no rest for weeks….let’s see how this manifests.

Hearts wide open Release all to fall away that no longer resonates Zero point everything within

And remember….we are working in the energetic field…all is completed from within

It’s simple 💙💙💙

*****

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[lolcat76]

Folie A Deux, part 8

If you need a refresher, here’s part 7: http://lolcat76.tumblr.com/post/158990942790/folie-a-deux-pt-7 When last we left our intrepid heroes, Laura had just invited Bill over for dinner. A continuation for the prompt from @okaynextcrisis that will never die. 

Grace had dropped her bowl in the sink and decamped for her room long before Bill showed up. Whether she was trying to give them privacy, or just didn’t want Bill to know that she dared to eat a meal, Laura wasn’t sure, but it left the two of them sitting across from each other at her mother’s scarred kitchen table.

It should have been strange, having Bill sitting in her house, eating out of the bowls she and her sisters fought over when they were children, but it was...nice. Natural, even. He was just rough enough around the edges, even after years of classical training and kissing donor ass, to fit perfectly in her shabby old house.

If she were in the mood to overthink things, that would keep her up tonight, but she was in the mood to eat. She picked through her bowl of soup, pushing tomatoes aside to dig out the chunks of avocado.

“You still do that,” he said.

Her hand froze, her spoon halfway to her mouth. “Do what?”

“Pick out the parts you like best to eat first.”

Did she do that? “I don’t do that.”

He grinned at her, then slurped a mouthful of black beans. She looked down into her own bowl at the tomato chunks shoved to the side. Oh lord, she did do that.

“Didn’t anyone ever tell you to save the best for last?” he asked mildly, not bothering to meet her eyes as he took another swig of beer.

“Didn’t anyone ever tell you it was rude to comment on a lady’s eating habits?”

He wiped his mouth with his napkin, then grinned at her. “Yep. You did. Several times.”

She snorted. “As I recall, it wasn’t my eating habits you commented on. It was my cooking.”

His spoon scraped the bottom of the bowl. “Well, I’m happy to see that your skills have improved.”

She rolled her eyes. Bill had the palette of a five-year-old, so a compliment on her improving cooking skills was hardly worth registering. “Grace couldn’t fend for herself if I burned dinner. You could. I guess you could say I had incentive to improve.”

“Funny how fast kids change everything.”

Just like that, she remembered why she’d invited him for dinner in the first place. She flushed a little bit, feeling like a heel that she’d completely forgotten about Zak and Lee going home today and leaving Bill alone in his apartment. “And what about you, Dad? Do you cut the crusts off sandwiches?”

“I’ll have you know that my grilled cheese sandwiches are perfect equilateral triangles.”

Laura laughed at the mental picture of Bill, protractor in hand, carefully slicing through toasted bread and melted cheese. “In that case, next time, you’re making dinner.”

“Next time,” he agreed. “Any time.”

She pushed the tomatoes in her bowl around with her spoon, caught off-guard at the idea of next time. Or any time. What was she doing? Playing with fire. He was comfortable in her kitchen. He was the person she called when she was frustrated with work. He was the voice of reason when it came to Grace refusing to eat bread.

He was the person she relied on. Again. And she’d fallen into it so easily that she hadn’t even realized how much she’d started to depend on his steady presence in her life and his calm voice in her ear.

She didn’t want to need him. She didn’t want to need anyone, not ever again, but here he was in her kitchen, watching her and waiting for a response.

“You done?” she asked, reaching for his empty bowl. He didn’t say a word, didn’t move from his seat, just watched her as she dropped the bowls in the sink and rinsed them before throwing them into the dishwasher. She could feel his eyes boring into the back of her head as she dug through the cabinet for dish soap.

Starting the dishwasher and wiping down the countertops would only buy her so much time, and she knew when she was done setting the kitchen to rights, he’d still be in that chair watching her. Dammit, Laura, what were you thinking?

“I should go,” he said, when he finally realized that she could easily spend the rest of the night picking crumbs off the countertop rather than turning around and talking to him. “Thanks for dinner.”

“Any time,” she responded automatically.

“I think that’s my line,” he said with a chuckle.

“It’s getting late. You have company class tomorrow, and I have a beginning yoga class at 10. And I have to check Grace’s homework before she goes to bed.” And wash my hair and paint my toenails and take out the trash and scrub the grout, and anything else that will get you out of my house and out of my head.

“Right, company class. You know, you’re welcome in company class. Might be good for you.”

“I have my day job,” she reminded him.

He raised an eyebrow. “Yoga.”

“Yes, yoga. Yoga pays the bills. Yoga pays for Grace’s tuition to that very expensive ballet school. Yoga pays for the food you just ate. Yoga kept us in this house when I had absolutely nothing to my name after eight years at ABT. I’m sorry if it’s not classy enough for you, Bill, but it’s kept us alive and afloat, so maybe shove it with the judgment a little bit?”

He threw up his hands and backed away from the table. “Fair enough. Thanks for dinner.”

Before she could apologize for her temper, he was gone.

If her mother were here, she’d be horrified. A lady doesn’t chase away a guest for daring to enjoy himself at her table. It was probably for the best that Grace has been in her room for the better part of an hour; Laura certainly hoped that her niece didn’t take her cues on how to deal with the opposite sex from her pathetic aunt.

She shook her head and resumed scrubbing at a scorch mark on the counter that had been burned into the formica since she was six years old. She could get rid of it, finally, if she just tried hard enough. She could erase all her mistakes if she just scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed and ignored the tears dripping onto the sponge.

***

Tory was in a mood, that was easy to see. Then again, Tory was always in a mood these days. She hadn’t been the most pleasant person to deal with when Laura had one job; now that she was trying to balance the yoga studio and her rehearsal schedule at the ballet, Tory was downright surly.

“You’re late,” she said, not bothering to look up as she keyed in credit card numbers. “Class is starting.”

Laura was late, but she wasn’t going to apologize - again - for not being able to sleep the night before. Tory would just have to suck it up, or find a new job.

She wouldn’t cry too many tears if Tory did just that. For someone as bossy and demanding as she was, Laura was shocked that Tory condescended to working for hourly pay that was just above minimum wage. Tory should be running a corporation or a political campaign, not wasting her talents on a second-rate yoga studio in a third-rate city.

She smiled and handed Tory a cup of coffee and a muffin, the best bribe she could offer. Tory’s talents may be wasted, but she made sure Laura was where she needed to be when she needed to be there, and that made her worth her weight in gold.

“Blueberry,” Tory muttered with a grimace and shoved the muffin to the edge of the reception desk. Well, she was better than nothing. Laura ignored the muffin that was perched precariously above the trash can and swept into the studio with her yoga mat and her bottle of lavendar essential oils.

“Good morning, class,” she said. She laid out her yoga mat and dimmed the lights. Morning weekday classes were usually light on attendance, mostly retirees and homemakers. She seated herself at the edge of her mat and surveyed the class, smiling at the familiar faces who smiled back at her.

Familiar faces and Bill Adama, front and center on one of the studio’s borrowed mats, grinning like the proverbial cat with a mouthful of canary.

Bill fucking Adama, invading her space, yet again. He was supposed to be teaching company class; why the hell was he here?

She took in a few deep breaths and let out several long exhales. He was here, like it or not, but she had a class to teach. “Sit at the edge of your mats,” she said, “and take deep breaths in through your nose and out through your mouths. Let your exhales echo through your body.”

Most of the class kept their eyes closed as they practiced their breathing, but Bill stared at Laura as he let go of his exhale, reminding her of just how well she knew the sound of his breath leaving him. Damn him.

“Mountain pose,” she said, digging her toes into the edge of her mat. “We’ll start with sun salutations.”

He followed along as best as he could, and she had to bite the soft tissue of her cheeks to keep from laughing at him as she nudged his feet out of turnout. Maybe it was unfair, but she used him as an example to her class of the proper way to center their core over their standing legs. “Toes, balls and heels anchored to the floor.”

He laughed as she helped him shift his hips into parallel position. “Balls?” he asked softly.

“Shut up or get out,” she muttered.

He didn’t say another word after that, and she was more than a little gratified to watch him struggle to find the right body position through the rest of the class. This must have been what little Billy Adama was like in his first ballet classes, trying so hard to follow along, molding his sturdy frame and slightly bow-legged knees into fifth position. His brow was knit in concentration as he followed along with her instruction, forcing a body that had spent 30 years in ballet class to unlearn everything he’d ever known.

“Savasana,” she said. “Corpse pose. Close  your eyes and breathe deep, and let the energy flow through you and depart.” She edged her way across the room, spritzing a little bit of lavendar oil over each of her students. Yoga taught mindfulness, yet she moved automatically until she found herself at Bill’s mat. She touched his shoulders briefly, just as she had done with the rest of her students, but he surprised her by reaching up to tangle his fingers in hers.

“Corpse pose,” she hissed at him. His eyes opened, and he grinned at her.

“Not dead yet.”

If her Yelp reviews ever got wind of the fact that she sprayed lavendar essential oil directly in the face of one of her new students, she’d be sunk.

***

He was waiting for her when she came out of the back office, eyes a little bit red, but looking none the worse for wear.

“So that’s what you do all day.”

Laura hummed in agreement. “That’s what I do all day.”

He handed the beat-up mat to Tory. “I always knew you were a good teacher.”

Of course he did. “I never needed you to tell me I was a good teacher. And you need to work on your breathing.”

Oh good lord, did she just say that out loud?

“Tell you what, I’ll work on my breathing if you’ll work on your port des bras. Your shoulders are a little weak. Come to my class, and I’ll come to yours.”

Her shoulders were just fine, thank you, after years of downward dog. “And what’s in it for me?”

He looked at her, truly looked at her, with her rapidly fraying yoga pants and her hair tossed messily into a ponytail. “You get to make me look like an ass in front of your yoga class. And I get to make you look like a dancer in front of mine.”

“I’m not a dancer, Bill,” she reminded him.

“You’re not a liar either, Laura. Try to remember that.” He picked up his bag and hefted it over his shoulder. “Next time, bring your pointe shoes.”

Pointe shoes. Her calluses were gone, and her pedicure couldn’t survive a class en pointe. “I’m not a dancer, Bill,” she called after him.

“You’ve been a dancer since the day you were born.” He stopped to thank Tory, and damn her if she didn’t smile at him. “You owe me. Tomorrow at nine am.”

Tomorrow at nine am she should be getting ready to teach another beginning class, but if Tory’s smile was anything to go by, now was the time to ask for a favor.

Pointe shoes. Bad enough to ask Tory to cover for her, but to ask Tory to teach a class so that she could rip the skin on her feet open over and over again?

She flexed her toes, almost feeling the gel padding shielding her feet from the paste and canvas and hard wings of her shoes.

If he could suffer through her class, she could soldier through his. “Tory,” she said, “what are you doing tomorrow morning?”

***

It was just like riding a bike, if riding a bike meant ripping of the skin of her toes and watching as her feet bled through the pale peach satin of the last pair of pointe shoes she’d owned. Frankly, she’d rather crash into a tree head-first than try another pirouette at this pointe, but Bill was watching her, and she’d be damned if she went down without a fight.

Skin would heal, and toenails would grow back, but Sharon Agathon would never stop smirking at her f she didn’t do the fouette combination.

Who was she kidding? Sharon wouldn’t wipe that smug look off her face regardless, but Laura had her pride, even if she didn’t have the top layers of skin on her toes. How did she ever think this was fun?

She positioned herself for the combination and dropped into a low fourth, ready to start her turn combination. Easy physics, centrifugal force and a mathematical equation. Whip the leg around, tuck in the arms, pray for death and hope for the best. She was far too old for this.

And yet, she was still turning, still refusing to back down, when the music stopped. She dropped into a clean ending pose, despite the fact that her quads were burning and she could no longer feel her feet. God, she was going to have to soak her feet in ice just to lead the Chocolate rehearsal, but her neck was long and her hips were in perfect alignment.

“Grande allegro,” Bill called.

Really? No praise? Nopat on the back? No acknowledgement that at 35, she could still do four eight-counts of fouette turns?

He walked through the grande allegro combination and she pantomimed the steps with her arms, trying to look engaged in the class but wishing desperately she had her spray bottle of lavendar oil.

He was trying to get the best of her. Maybe she should have been kinder to his sons (how much kinder could she be?) Maybe she shouldn’t have mocked his yoga skills. Maybe she shouldn’t have invited him over for dinner in the first place.

Maybe she should throw her bag over her shoulder and sneak out of the studio. Maybe she should admit defeat while she could still walk.

Maybe she could make him eat his words. She leaned into the combination, tombe, pas de bourree, glissade, pas de chat and contretemps. Back and forth, until she was dancing almost against the mirror. She took another couple of steps out of the way and leaned against the barre, her chest heaving.

Damn him, she did miss this. Yoga was great for mindfulness, but nothing could compare to a grande allegro, to those precious few minutes when she felt like she was flying with each jump. Even as she struggled to catch her breath, she couldn’t deny that she felt...good. Strong. Alive.

Her toes cramped in her pointe shoe, and she struggled to walk it off. Alive, yes, and in pain. Whoever made the point about suffering for art wasn’t kidding. She shook her foot, trying to ignore the joints seizing up, and took her place for reverence.

“Good work, class. Rehearsals start in 20,” Bill said, bowing to the company. She lowered herself into the deepest curtsey her aching quads would allow and nodded to the teacher. When she looked up, he was watching her, waiting for her to acknowledge him. And that bastard winked at her. “Good work,” he repeated.

She was slowly peeling the tape off of her bleeding toes when he sat next to her in the hallway. Bill held up a familiar small brown bottle. “Nu-skin? Oh, hell no,” she muttered.

He tugged at her feet, dropping them into his lap before unscrewing the cap. “If you’d used it before class, you wouldn’t be bleeding all over my floors now.” He brushed the thick liquid on her oozing feet, and she braced herself for the sharp sting of antiseptic.

“Dammit, Bill! That hurts!”

“You didn’t used to be such a wimp, Roslin.” He waved his hand over her feet to help the liquid bandage dry. When she finally relaxed enough for him to guess that the initial sting had mellowed, he dug his fingers into the balls of her feet, working out her earlier cramp.

“Did you guilt me into coming to class just so you could watch me suffer?” she asked, but her words lacked bite. Hard to be mad at a man who was rubbing her aching feet.

“No, I guilted you into coming to class because I like to look at your legs in tights. The suffering was just a bonus.”

“You’re funny,” she muttered.

Bill shrugged. “I am funny. But you’ve still got the best legs I’ve ever seen.”

There it was again, the compliment. She tugged her feet out of his lap and tucked them beneath her. “Bill, what am I doing here?”

“Bleeding all over my carpet. I thought we established that?”

She couldn’t help but laugh. “I mean, besides that. Taking class, leading rehearsals. What’s the point?”

A shadow crossed his face. “Don’t you like it? I thought you were enjoying it.”

That was the problem. She was enjoying it, far more than she had any right to, given her abrupt retirement years ago. She was enjoying it so much that it was making her doubt every decision she’d made eight years ago, and she had no room in her life right now for that kind of second-guessing. “I am enjoying it. But where is it going? I can take class, but I’m never going to be on stage again, so I guess I’m just wondering...what’s the point?”

The hallways were filling up again, dancers skirting past each other to make it to their rehearsal studios. Karl leaned down to whisper a quick “Good job today” in Laura’s ear before Sharon could tug him away. She watched them make their way down the hall, envying their youth and strength while she dug the heel of her hands into her aching muscles.

“You should be spending your time on them,” she said, nodding to the couple as they disappeared into the main studio. “Not wasting it on me.”

“Laura, I never considered time spent with you wasted.”

She ignored the heavy meaning in his words. She was exhausted, and she could feel a bruise starting to throb under her big toenail. She wasn’t up for yet another discussion about their relationship, past or present. “Come on, I’m old and washed up. You have a job here, to guide the next generation of dancers. You should be doing that.”

He raised his eyebrows at her. “You think I can’t do both?”

“I think I don’t know why you want to.”

Bill shifted until he was sitting shoulder-to-shoulder with Laura, his back braced against the wall. “You know, I didn’t want to retire. I thought I was still in my prime, but the roles I used to dance kept going to other people. Instead of Prince Albrecht in Giselle, I was cast as the king.” He shook his head. “You know what the king does? He stands upstage and waves his arms a lot. And I guess I couldn’t complain, because it happened to Baryshnikov. It happened to Stiefel. It happens to all of us. We get old and we’re put out to pasture.” He picked up her hand, toying with her fingers while he thought out his next words. “But I wasn’t done yet. I knew I wasn’t done. I might never be done, because this is all I’ve ever known, and I don’t want to walk away from it. So I’m not onstage anymore. That doesn’t mean I don’t still love to dance. It just means I have to do it a different way now.”

“Bill,” she said softly. “That’s your story, not mine.”

He stopped tugging at her fingers and laced them through his. “Isn’t it? You left before you were ready to quit. I just thought you might like a second chance. Even if it isn’t dancing Giselle at the Met, you can still dance. You can still have this in your life. You can still have me in your life, if you want it. It doesn’t have to be the way it was, but it can still be good.”

He leaned over and pressed a quick kiss to her lips. Just enough to remind her how good it was when he was in her life. He pulled back and got to his feet. “Dreams change, Laura. I know that now. But you shouldn’t give up dreaming them.” He stole a quick glance at his watch. “I have to be in rehearsal. Dinner tonight? Bring Grace. I’ll even cut the crusts off your sandwiches.”

She nodded without thinking and watched as he strode down the hallway.

Dreams changed, she knew that better than anyone. Laura Roslin eight years ago dreamed of dancing Giselle. This Laura Roslin, soaked in sweat and worrying about making it to her studio in time to teach a 1pm restorative yoga class, dreamed of nothing so grand as applause and roses. Right now, she was dreaming about a tube of Icy Hot, a quick nap after her 1pm, and grilled cheese with Grace and Bill Adama.

Maybe her dreams were smaller now, but maybe they were still worth dreaming.

[allthingsfantasy]

Blog Tour ~ Day Moon ~ Excerpt

Blog Tour ~ Day Moon

Author: Brett Armstrong

Genre: Science Fiction/ Fantasy

Dates:29th of May ~ 9th of June

Hosted by: Ultimate Fantasy Book Tours

Blurb:

In A.D. 2039, a prodigious seventeen year old, Elliott, is assigned to work on a global soft-ware initiative his deceased grandfather helped found. Project Alexandria is intended to provide the entire world secure and equal access to all accumulated human knowledge. All forms of print are destroyed in good faith, to ensure everyone has equal footing, and Elliott knows he must soon part with his final treasure: a book of Shakespeare’s complete works gifted him by his grandfather. Before it is destroyed, Elliott notices something is amiss with the book, or rather Project Alexandria. The two do not match, including an extra sonnet titled “Day Moon”. When Elliott investigates, he uncovers far more than he bargained for. There are sinister forces backing Project Alexandria who have no intention of using it for its public purpose. Elliott soon finds himself on the run from federal authorities and facing betrayals and deceit from those closest to him. Following clues left by his grandfather, with agents close at hand, Elliott desperately hopes to find a way to stop Project Alexandria. All of history past and yet to be depend on it.

 Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/34722838-day-moon

Buy Links:

 Amazon.com ~ https://www.amazon.com/dp/B06XWDM49Z

   Author Bio:

 From an early age, Brett Armstrong had a love for literature and history. At age nine, he combined the two for his first time in a short story set in the last days of the Aztec Empire. After that, writing’s role in his life waxed and waned periodically, always a dream on the horizon, till he reached college. At West Virginia University, he entered the Computer Engineering program and spent two years pursuing that degree before an opportunity to take a creative writing class, for fun, came along. It was so enjoyable, he took another and in that course he discovered two things. The first was the plot for a short story called Destitutio Quod Remissio, which the others students really seemed to love. The second, he realized he absolutely loved writing. For him, it was like the proverbial light bulb coming on. In the years since, describing that epiphany has been difficult for him, but he found the words of 1924 Olympian Eric Liddell are the most eloquent expression for it: “God made me fast. And when I run, I feel His pleasure.” God gave Brett a passion for writing, and so feels His pleasure when writing. After a few years passed, Brett got his Computer Engineering degree, but also completed a minor in each of his real passions: history and creative writing. In 2013, he began graduate school to earn an MA in Creative Writing. During that time he completed the novelization of Destitutio Quod Remissio and entered the 2013-2014 CrossBooks Writing Contest, which won the contest's grand prize. As of March 2015, Brett completed his MA and is presently employed in the West Virginia Division of Infectious Disease Epidemiology as a programmer analyst. Brett lives in Saint Albans, West Virginia, with his beautiful wife, Shelly. In the summer the pair gardens together, and each day Brett continues writing his next novel.

Visit him at:

 Website: http://www.brettarmstrong.net/

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/brettarmstrongwv

Twitter: http://www.twitter.com/BArmstrongWV

Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/-/e/B00TGQ8ULK

Excerpt:

 Chapter Seven – The Storm

 “Alas, the storm is come again!”

The Tempest, Act II, scene 2, line 38

  The door to the creative arts hall swung shut behind Elliott, ushering him into the building with a rush of wind that startled him. He glanced back at the huge glass entry doors and swallowed back the wave of anxiety that rose up. Professor Alsworth’s e-mail was so vague it was hard to fathom what this meeting was to be about. It definitely wasn’t the start to a Monday he would choose.

Only a few other students were out and about on the campus. Columbus Day kept most of the other students in bed till well after noon. Elliott had been up for several hours now.

Each footstep echoed off the tiles of the hall. Through the low lit corridor were arranged a variety of art pieces. The hall wasn’t like those on the downtown campus. It was completely new and its interior reflected the subject matter taught within its enclosure. The walls were a gradient of dark and light tones that drew their inspiration from the school colors. Along the wall were crisscrossing metal beams that intersected at various angles and arched around light fixtures and show pieces. Many of the latter were produced by students or faculty. A long entry hall gave way to an open atrium where the metal wall accentuations soared up and twisted into the next several floors.lit corridor were arranged a variety of art pieces. The hall wasn’t like those on the downtown campus. It was completely new and its interior reflected the subject matter taught within its enclosure. The walls were a gradient of dark and light tones that drew their inspiration from the school colors. Along the wall were crisscrossing metal beams that intersected at various angles and arched around light fixtures and show pieces. Many of the latter were produced by students or faculty. A long entry hall gave way to an open atrium where the metal wall accentuations soared up and twisted into the next several floors.

At the back of this huge open area was a coffee bar, surrounded by stools and automated dispensing machines. The room’s centerpiece was a square pond where the water was almost precisely at the lip of its container. Long plush benches were arrayed around it and the lights played off the barely stirred surface. The entire effect of this place with its wide acoustic halls and edgy architecture was to evoke the spirit of creativity in sight and sound. Elliott liked coming here, most days.

Instructor offices were on different floors, based on the department, but Professor Alsworth’s happened to be on ground level. Nearing the office, Elliott felt his pulse quickening. A variety of scenarios, good and bad, ran through his mind, most too extreme in one direction or the other to be likely.

A few steps shy of the door to the office, Elliott could hear voices. Both spoke in hushed tones, and he did his best to not focus on the conversation. That another student was meeting with Professor Alsworth meant that this should not be a visit of any concern.

Dropping down onto a hard plastic chair in the hall, Elliott folded his hands together and rested his chin on them. In the hall were a number of paintings. The two closest were abstract, with a wide array of colors, strokes, and seemingly erratic design. One was probably on display for the subtle use of hues and even texture in the painting. It didn’t interest Elliott much. He preferred some level of realism in his work. Even so, one of them caught his eye. It was darker than the other and reminded Elliott of a stormy night.

Inside the office the conversation was cut short, and footsteps could be heard approaching the door at a quick clip. The door swung open with surprising speed and Elliott jumped to his feet to avoid its path. Entering the hall was a girl, whose sniffling Elliott perceived before his eyes reached the dark hair and pallid skin. “Lara?” he asked after the retreating form of the downcast student.

She turned and looked at him. Lara’s eyes glistened with tears and her primrose lips were twisted with a sorrow he had never seen. Without answering him, she turned around and hurried down the hall away from him.

Elliott took a few steps toward her, but hesitated. Lara hadn’t told him that she had an appointment today as well…

Another figure emerged into the hall: Professor Alsworth. His eyes were trained on Lara, his face impassive, but his posture slightly hunched as though he carried a weight that bore down hard on him. His blue eyes flicked to Elliott after a few seconds and he said, “Hello, Elliott. You can come on inside and sit down. I’m going to go get some coffee.”

Nodding to his teacher, Elliott shuffled inside as Professor Alsworth stalked down the corridor toward the atrium. Inside Alsworth’s office it was much brighter than out in the hall. He kept it pristine, without a single paper of his inbox out of sorts in its stack or bit of clutter to be found. Walking slowly toward the large, L-shaped desk roughly a third of the way from the back wall, Elliott could see the display of his professor’s Mac still alight, left on the last thing his teacher had viewed before stepping out into the hall.

Unable to resist his curious nature, he leaned across the desk to get a good view of it. On the screen was an image from an art gallery’s website. The piece he was looking at was titled Dia de la Luna. It was a painting and it looked eerily similar to the drawing he had submitted just last week.

[diamondsareapearlsbestfriend]

Sans/Toriel 30 Day OTP Challenge: Day Six

On AO3 | Day One | Day Two | Day Three | Day Four | Day Five

day six: new to the family

prompt: “Each member of your OTP meeting the other’s family for the first time. Does each family approve of the one dating the other? What sorts of shenanigans do they get into?”

"So...finally meeting the family, huh? Seems like things are getting pretty serious between you guys, am I right?"

"...Kid." Sans couldn't help but be amused, if a little puzzled, by Frisk's 'so what exactly are your intentions with my mother' routine as they smirked across the sofa at him. "We've known each other for how long now? Unless I'm missing something here, I feel like maybe that ship's sailed."

"I'm not talking about me." They were definitely up to something, a worryingly familiar determined glint in their eye as they turned to Toriel, tugging on her sleeve as she sat with her hands folded in her lap. "There's someone else we thought should join us for a nice family dinner tonight. Right, Mom?"

"Ah...in a sense, I suppose, yes." Toriel seemed much more reluctant, only offering Sans an apologetic smile when he looked to her for an explanation. "Dear, are you quite sure this is a good idea? He does tend to be rather...how should I put this..."

"Mom, don't worry," Frisk assured her, patting her hand. "I feel like we've been making real progress on the whole, um...attitude problem. Anyway, he's got to find out about you guys sometime, right?"

"I suppose, but..."

"We'll be right down!"

Frisk scurried eagerly off upstairs before she could object any further, and Toriel sighed before turning back to Sans, placing a hand gently on his patella. "Sans, I...do apologise in advance for this evening. I did hope we might be able to enjoy a nice, peaceful dinner, but you know how Frisk can be..."

Well, that wasn't ominous at all, but he smiled back anyway to reassure her, linking their fingers together. "Tori, don't sweat it. How bad can it really –" 

"Hey, watch the stem!" A disturbingly familiar squeaky voice pierced the air, interrupting him as they both turned towards the stairs. "Why are we doing this? You know I don't actually need to eat – there's this thing called photosynthesis? That's pretty basic science, Frisk – golly, don't they teach you anything in school? Your mom must be so..."

The contents of the offending flower pot wisely fell silent as he met Toriel's steely gaze, a stark contrast with Frisk's determinedly cheerful smile as they reached the bottom of the stairs and placed the pot carefully on the coffee table.

"Sans, Flowey – you guys, um, remember each other, don't you?"

"How could I forget?" Sans gritted his teeth, hoping his resting smile masked his instinctive unease as he met the flower's belligerently unimpressed stare – he could still feel the vines tightening around him, scratchy and suffocating, remember looking over at Papyrus, at everyone helplessly ensnared around him and only thinking, as the energy drained out of his soul, that he'd seriously screwed up this time..."Hey, buddy. Steal any good souls lately?"

Flowey ignored him entirely, turning his head indignantly back towards Frisk. "Is this some 'cruel and unusual punishment' kinda thing? 'Cause if so, I'm actually..." His eyes widened to comical proportions as the proverbial penny dropped, darting from Frisk to Sans to Toriel and back again. "Wait, is this a – no. No way. You're dating him?!" He dissolved into hysterical, high-pitched giggles, doubling over at the stem. "That's too rich! M – Toriel, I know you're getting a little over the hill, but gosh – even you must be able to find someone better than some...bag of bones?"

Frisk winced; Sans just smirked, because honestly it was kind of cute if Flowey thought that was going to get to him, like he didn't already know he was punching way above his weight with Toriel.

"Heh – little harsh, but you're not entirely –"

"Actually, I think you'll find you are very much mistaken," Toriel cut him off, her voice sharp and cool as a knife, but Sans could tell from the pink spots rising on her pristine white cheeks that she was pissed, unforgiving eyes trained on Flowey like a laser, "for there is, in fact, no one – nobody I would sooner be with, tonight or any other." 

Flowey gulped, wilting back against his pot despite himself, and it was probably one of the most satisfying moments of any timeline, especially when Sans caught Toriel's eye and her mouth twitched at their old corny joke. "Anyway," she continued pleasantly, the fire fizzling out almost as soon as it had appeared as she smoothed down her dress, "I had better get started on dinner. You three..." She narrowed her eyes, a watchful, teacher's gaze over Sans, Frisk and Flowey in turn. "Do try and play nicely, won't you?"

"He's not...always like this," Frisk spoke up after their mother had returned to the kitchen, shuffling their feet guiltily while shooting Flowey a reproachful look. "Sometimes he's nice. Well, kinda. To me, anyway."

"I tolerate you," Flowey corrected them, rolling his beady little eyes. "There's a difference."

Sans glanced longingly back at the closed door, tempted to make an excuse about helping Toriel with dinner, but Frisk was looking increasingly uncomfortable, fidgeting in the silence that followed, and he couldn't help feeling for the kid – they really wanted him and Flowey to be friends, and even if Sans had a pretty good idea of how that was going to work out, he figured he owed it to them to at least try and be nice to the little weed.

"Well, hey, that's progress, right?" he offered. "Good job, buddy. Sounds like you're really...turning over a new leaf."

At least that got a smile out of Frisk, who stifled a giggle behind their hand as Flowey let out a loud groan, drooping dramatically over the edge of his pot.

"Oh, sure, you're real funny bones. Never heard that one before. You know, if you insist on hanging around, the least you could've done is brought your brother along. Now he's much more fun."

Sans frowned, instantly not liking where this was going. "You know my brother?"

Flowey nodded, suddenly lighting up with a sunny smile Sans didn't trust one bit. "Oh boy, we go way back! We had some entertaining little chats back in the day – golly, that one was gullible. He believed anything any old flower told him. Hey, Sans, here's a fun puzzle – how many times do you think I could've killed him? Because, let me tell you, he sure couldn't have made it any easier for me. Seriously – what kind of Royal Guard member leaves himself open and vulnerable to a strange flower like that? When you think about it, I was doing you all a favour when I –"

"But all that was in the past!" Frisk interrupted, desperately lunging forward and clamping both hands across Flowey's mouth before he could finish. "And now you wouldn't ever...new leaf, remember? That whole murdery phase is over – that's what you told me, remember, Flowey? Right...?"

Sans saw their face twist in concern as it faded away, edges bleeding away to black before his eyes as he clenched his fist, struggling to block out the images – he'd tried his hardest to forget those timelines, but sometimes he still got flashes; dust scattering in the wind, bright red scarf garish as blood in the snow as it slipped through his fingers, grabbing for whatever was left; a retreating shadow, sometimes, but he never saw a face. He didn't want to give Flowey the satisfaction, but he could already feel it burning in his soul, white hot rage like nothing he'd felt in a long time, blazing through his bones and creeping up through his socket until Frisk and his surroundings all faded and there was only Flowey, illuminated in a cold blue glow as he took a step forward off the couch.

"Listen. You better stay away from Papyrus, or..."

"Oooh, or what? Let me guess – you're going to kill me?" Flowey's smile grew increasingly menacing, mouth stretching into a grotesque grimace as he wriggled free of Frisk's grip and leaned forward, stem stretching out until he was right up in Sans' space, eyes glittering with malice. "And what will your precious Toriel think of that, when she finds out you're just like all the others?" Suddenly, his face shifted, flickering like a TV set into an unsettlingly accurate imitation of Toriel's, her white fur and big, sorrowful eyes gazing out. "Oh, Sans, how could you? To think, I truly thought I could trust you – that I could love you – but now I see how foolish I was –"

"You guys, cut it out!" Suddenly, Frisk's voice cut through the darkness as they pushed their way between them, forcing them apart so that Sans stumbled and collapsed back onto the sofa, his vision fading back to normal in time to see Flowey shrinking back into his pot. "Just...stop with all the creepy face stuff, okay? Both of you," they added sternly, turning back towards Sans; he lifted a hand to his cheekbone and saw the magic still pulsating there, rising to the surface instinctively even though he wasn't intending to do anything with it. He shook his skull to let it settle, but as his vision cleared all he could see was the disappointment in Frisk's eyes. "You know, I really thought maybe we were..." They shook their head, silence hanging heavy in the atmosphere between the three of them as they turned away, back towards the door. "Forget it. I'm going to go help Mom with dinner."

"Kid, wait –"

But they were gone before Sans had a chance to defend himself, and he let out a sigh, glancing out of the corner of his socket at Flowey.

"That wasn't very nice, y'know."

"Your face isn't very nice," Flowey replied sulkily; Sans let out a quiet snort of laughter, tempted to come back with something even more childish, but then he remembered the look on Frisk's face, and yeah, that didn't feel too great. It looked like it was up to him to be the responsible one this time, which, welp – this was gonna be interesting.

"I don't care what you think about me," he continued, seriously, "but Frisk really wants us to be friends – yeah, I know, but would it kill you to at least try to pretend to play nice for a while? You know, it might not be so bad."

"Frisk wants everyone to be friends." Flowey laughed bitterly, the words dripping with derision. "That's their thing, right? That's why they had to drag me all the way up here, instead of killing me when they had the chance. I mean, gosh – I came so close to destroying everything in the Underground, and now they want to let me loose on the surface? They'd really risk your happy ending for some...idiotic hero complex, 'cause they just had to prove they could save everyone?" His squeaky voice rose with frustration as he cocked his head to one side, widening his eyes in fake concern. "Well, gee – when you put it like that, sounds pretty messed up. Don't you think, buddy?"

"Sure. I get that." Sans glanced back at the closed door to the kitchen before lowering his voice, leaning forward to rest his humerus on his patellas. "But what I'm wondering is, if you hate it here so much...why didn't you reset?"

In an instant, Flowey's theatrical shock shifted into the real deal, his stem stiffening in indignation. "You – how'd you know about –"

"Did some research," Sans replied with a shrug, as Flowey squinted suspiciously at him before breaking out into a smirk.

"Golly, isn't today just full of surprises! Alright, I admit it – that's a new one. I guess maybe I didn't explore every single possibility, after all." Flowey leaned forward again, vines creeping out of the bottom of his pot to anchor him in place as he sprouted two leaves and rested his head on them, mimicking Sans' pose. "Well...who says I'm not thinking about it, hmm?" His eyes grew bigger and blacker, voice becoming more distorted like he was speaking through static. "Maybe I'm just biding my time...waiting 'til you all think you're finally safe, free from the nightmares of the past. I could do it, you know. Anytime I wanted, I can turn it all back. Any...moment..."

Flowey kept inching forward, grinning into Sans' unblinking sockets like they were locked in a staring contest – until finally he couldn't hold it in any more and started to laugh, soft snickers turning to full-blown guffaws as Flowey jerked back in surprise.

"Whoa, dude, that's intense," he eventually managed to get out. "A+ for effort, gotta give you that, but – pfffft – you thought we were safe up here? Buddy, lemme tell you, I don't even remember being safe from all of this. You. Frisk. The others...heh, that's a good one.” Sans' laughter slowly petered out as he counted them off on his fingers. “There's a lot we didn't figure out, but we knew we were never safe – so hate to break it to ya, but you're really nothing new.”

"What...?" Flowey's nightmare face slowly faded away into something almost inadvertently adorable as he shook his petals, tilting his head in confusion. "And you're saying that doesn't...scare you? Hanging out with the kid who has the power to take everything from you – from Papyrus, from Toriel? Everything you've all worked so hard for and suffered so much, and knowing you could still end up right back where you started? Not even a little bit?"

"Nah," Sans shrugged, leaning back and kicking his feet up on the sofa. "Not any more. You wanna know why?"

"Why should I care about your idiotic –"

"I trust Frisk," he continued anyway. "They wouldn't do it, not now. I know it's not their first time – maybe they didn't always get it perfect, heh, who does? But they're a good kid, and I...believe in them." Sans felt a warmth growing deep in his chest – in his soul – and he never realised just how good it felt to be able to say that – to feel it. "Sure, they could reset any time – hell if there's anything I can do about it. All I know is, I spent a long time not trusting, not believing in anyone, and sometimes...sometimes you just gotta appreciate what you have, you know? If I didn't let myself trust Frisk, that they'd come through and do the right thing in the end – even for those who, some would say, really didn't deserve it – we wouldn't have any of this. And I wouldn't have Tori."

"Golly, isn't that just swell for you," Flowey retorted sarcastically, but there was a glimmer of curiosity in his eyes that wasn't there before. "Frisk sparing me didn't change anything. It doesn't matter what they want – we'll never be friends, not like they are with all of you. Not like it was with..." For a second, he almost looked sad, expression softening as he gazed somewhere into the distance, to timelines past, although it was gone in a flash when he caught Sans' sockets and glared defensively. "It's not like I haven't thought about resetting. I could still do it. I just...I'm just tired of it all." Flowey let out a bitter, world-weary chuckle, and yeah, Sans definitely recognised that feeling. "I'd seen everything down there. Nothing was fun any more, not when I already knew what everyone was going to do, right down to the pitch of their screams. I didn't have anything to stick around for – I just wanted Frisk to finish me off. But they were just too...too nice."

Sans had to laugh at the way Flowey screwed up his face in disgust at the word, nodding in solidarity. "Yup, sounds about right. Kid's pretty damn persistent."

"Gosh, it's sickening, really. I had to go along because they just wouldn't quit." Flowey rolled his eyes, but not with quite so much vitriol as before. "I still don't get it, but I guess this place is..." He lifted his head, looking around at Toriel's cute, cosy house. "At least it's new. I'll probably get bored of the surface soon, too, but for now – it's not the worst I've ever had it, I guess." He smirked again, but it looked more like a mischievous kid than a being of ultimate evil. "Although who knew there's a timeline where Toriel gets desperate enough to date you? Golly, even I almost feel sorry for her, and I literally have no soul!"

Sans just chuckled; he hated to admit it, but Flowey was trying so hard to be intimidating, he was almost starting to find it endearing. “Thanks, bud. I'm sure she'd be real touched to hear that.”

“Heh – you're, um...” Flowey's smile wavered, eyes darting around the room nervously like he suspected Toriel might have been hiding behind the couch all along , “not actually going to tell her I said that, are you?”

“Soup's on!” Frisk burst through the door before Sans even had a chance to consider all the ways he might be able to leverage this newly exposed weak spot. “Hey, you didn't kill each other,” they added brightly. “Good job! If you're lucky, Mom might even give you a sticker.”

Flowey groaned as Sans grinned, reaching out to tap the edge of his flowerpot as he slid off the sofa. “Now you're talking. You need a lift there, buddy?”

Flowey grimaced, but apparently even he wasn't immune to Frisk's hopeful smile at this indication that maybe they'd bonded, or something.

“You know I don't have to stay in the pot,” he grumbled, as Sans picked him up and followed Frisk through to the kitchen. “It's just easier, is all. You better not drop me.”

Tempting as it was, Sans thought, it had nothing on the way Toriel's face lit up as he walked in carrying Flowey, her smile simultaneously astonished, relieved and proud.

 “Oh my goodness – flowers, for me?” she exclaimed, clasping her hands together in mock surprise. "Why, Sans, you shouldn't have!"

“Actually, Tori, I might just have to hang onto this one,” he replied, setting Flowey down on top of the pile of books Toriel had thoughtfully placed on his chair. “What can I say – this guy, he really grows on you.”

“Ugggghhhh.” Flowey buried his head in his petals as Toriel snorted with delight and Frisk giggled guiltily. “Are they always like this? How have you not – uhhh...” He faltered as his pot mysteriously wobbled, just as Sans' foot collided with his chair leg under the table. “I mean – how do you stand it?”

“Pretty much,” Frisk sighed sympathetically, reaching out to ruffle his petals. “You just kinda get used to it.”

“Well, don't get used to this, 'cause I'm not hanging around waiting for you losers,” Flowey muttered, flinching away from their hands, but his face immediately brightened when Frisk slid a perfectly sized, snail-patterned watering can across the table. Sans grinned, unable to resist winking as he caught his eye; Flowey stuck his tongue out in retaliation, but somehow he didn't seem quite as threatening.

Frisk beamed and shot Sans a double thumbs-up while Flowey was happily drenching himself; Toriel smiled indulgently, and, psychotic flower sort-of family and all, Sans was starting to feel like this was definitely something he could get used to.

"Your Majesty! Dinner...is served!"

"Papyrus, my dear, you know you do not have to call me that," Toriel answered as he knelt extravagantly at her feet, smiling as she took in the impressive spread laid out before her; granted, it was only spaghetti, but everything was beautifully arranged and garnished, the three places set impeccably and cutlery polished to perfection. “This is far from the first time I have had the pleasure of your company, is it not?”

“I know,” Papyrus rose to his feet, sockets shining as he met her eyes with a bright, hopeful smile, “but it's been my dream to cook for the queen ever since...Well, ever since I found out we had a queen! Plus...” He cupped a gloved hand to Toriel's ear in a stage whisper, “my brother, finally bringing home a date?! Now that hardly happens every day!"

“Goodness, is that so?” Toriel feigned shock, pressing a hand to her chest and biting back a giggle as she caught Sans' socket as he sat at the table, nonchalantly munching on a breadstick. “Why, I would have imagined the eligible young monsters of Snowdin would be lining up outside your door.”

Papyrus let out a cackling nyeh heh heh, clutching his ribs as though it were the funniest thing he'd ever heard. “For the Great Papyrus, naturally – but Sans?! I didn't think he could even find a pair in his sock collection.”

"Alright, bro, take it easy," Sans finally interjected, grinning along despite the hint of blue colouring his cheekbones as Toriel laughed guiltily, both of them turning to look at him. "Ever think maybe you're not the only skeleton around here with high standards?"

Toriel smiled back, bushing a little herself as she turned back to Papyrus with a conspiratorial wink. “Ah, but you see, he is a fast learner. Impressive, what one can achieve with the help of a good teacher, is it not?”

Papyrus nodded thoughtfully as though appraising Sans' performance, before clapping his hands together, positively glowing with pride. “Congratulations, brother – your dating power is way higher than I thought! If you keep it up, who knows – one day, maybe you'll even be as strong as Frisk!”

“Hmm, I am not sure I would go that far just yet; there is always room for improvement,” Toriel quipped, before deciding to follow her child's example and show Sans some mercy by changing the subject, as much as she enjoyed teasing him just a little. “But I digress – surely the greatest significance of this occasion is that I finally have the honour of sampling the Great Papyrus' world-famous spaghetti!”

Papyrus' chest puffed up with pride as he gestured excitedly for her to sit down. “Of course – sit, eat, enjoy! Cooked to perfection just for you, Your – Toriel, if I say so myself. Bone appetit!"

Toriel grinned as she took her place opposite Sans. "Do my ears deceive me, or was that a pun?"

“A pun?! Obviously not!” Papyrus wrinkled his nasal cavity as though it were the worst thing imaginable. “It was a...sophisticated play on words.” “Otherwise known as a pun.”

"Sans, would you just – just stop flapping your mandible for a moment and let the queen enjoy her dinner in peace."

Shaking her head fondly at their squabbling, Toriel lifted a forkful of spaghetti to her mouth. Having been extensively warned that Papyrus' cooking was something of an acquired taste, to put it mildly, she was pleasantly surprised – it was perhaps a little undercooked, but the sauce was thick and rich with a good, strong flavour.

Swallowing, she was just about to pay her compliments to the chef when it hit – a searing heat burning through her throat like nothing she had experienced before. Toriel heard her fork clatter to the floor as her mouth fell open of its own accord and she found herself unable to do anything but pant helplessly, as though her tongue was trying its best to escape the cavern of burning hellfire.

"Tori? Tori, you okay? Stay with me here." Sans' concerned face blurred into an indecipherable white blob as her eyes stung with hot tears and he turned accusingly to his brother. “Pap – what the hell did you put in there?”

"Well – I – you said it was too cold! So I just added some more chili before –"

"How much chili?"

"A few...um...cups?"

Sans hissed something under his breath Toriel would not have approved of under normal circumstances, but for now she could only gasp, thumping the table in a wordless plea for help. “Well, get her some water or something!”

“Water! Yes!” Toriel could just about make out Papyrus frantically searching the fridge, various food items flying through the air. “Oh my god, Sans, what if we've killed the queen?!”

“We?”

“Just hold on, Your Majesty! I'm coming to your aid!”

Before Toriel or Sans could respond, Papyrus hurled himself across the table, plates of spaghetti and salad splattering on the floor as he thrust an unidentified bottle in her face; Toriel was so desperate she seized upon it like a long lost lover, gasping with relief as cool, creamy milk hit her throat, soothing the burning sensation. She kept gulping straight from the bottle, draining every last drop until no more remained. Blinking the last of the tears from her sore eyes, she took in the scene of disarray surrounding her: food splattered everywhere, Papyrus still splayed out across the table like a trophy rug and Sans wearing half of his dinner across his skull like an unconvincing wig.

“Toriel! I'm so sorry!” Papyrus was the first to break the silence, sockets drooping as though he might be about to cry next; Toriel was about to reassure him, but he grabbed her face, squeezing her cheeks together inelegantly to prevent her from speaking. “Sssh, no – you must protect the royal tongue! I'm afraid the Great Papyrus has been foiled, once again, by his own lofty ambitions. I just wanted tonight to be...” He sighed, sliding surprisingly gracefully off the table and back onto his feet, only taking a few salad dressings with him, “special.”

“Pfff – Papyrus,” Toriel eventually managed to say, finally prising his hand from her jaw and setting it gently but firmly back on the table, “my dear, please do not worry yourself over this! I am quite all right – in my time, I have attended many more disastrous dinner parties, and none quite so entertaining.” She smiled at him, squeezing his hand in hers in what she hoped was a soothing manner. “In any case, I would even say you have succeeded – for this is certainly one of the most...memorable evenings I have spent, possibly ever. And I would not have it any other way.”

“She's right, bro.” Sans joined in, leaning over to pat his brother on the back. “Don't be upsetti over spicy spaghetti – that's how it goes, right?” Papyrus smiled and nodded, looking more like his usual self as Sans rolled up his tomato-splattered sleeves, uncharacteristically motivated. “Now throw me a bone here and let's get this place cleaned up for dessert.”

“Oh yes, of course – dessert!” Toriel clasped her hands together, trying to conceal her excitement as she caught the knowing glint in his sockets – she had almost forgotten it in all the commotion. Papyrus' brow bone shot up in suspicion, but he was soon smiling again as the three of them set to work, wiping spaghetti from the walls and plucking strands out of places they should not be – most frequently between bones – until the kitchen was once again in an acceptable state to reveal what Toriel hoped would still be the jewel in the crown of their evening.

“Now, this is just a little something I cooked up,” she announced, placing the covered pie down on the table, “in honour of the Great Papyrus' many, many wonderful achievements and services to our kingdom! Though, I confess – such a fitting tribute would not have been possible without the help of your brother here.”

“Pretty sure it would have,” Sans shrugged off the compliment, but slipped his arm around her waist with an affectionate squeeze as he grinned up at her, both barely able to restrain their glee. “Tori just likes to pretend I can be helpful sometimes.”

Despite his modesty, Toriel knew without a doubt as she lifted the cover that her own hands could never have so skilfully crafted the extra special decoration that adorned the top of her usual recipe – or, for that matter, have elicited quite such a perfect reaction, as Papyrus' sockets bulged almost right out of his skull, hands pressed to his cheekbones as a wonderful, seemingly contradictory yet uniquely beautiful symphony of utter rage and unbridled joy played out across his face.

“Oh my god, Sans! Toriel! It's...You...I...”

“What's the matter, bro,” Sans asked innocently as he took his seat, “don't you like our Papierus?”

"Like it?! I...I love it! It's awful! And yet perfect!" Papyrus clutched at his skull in anguish, but it was a broad smile, as warm and dazzling as the sun, that broke out across his face – an even more satisfying sight to behold than his pastry likeness on top of the pie, as he cut carefully around his own image. “Quite an ingenious ruse, Your Majesty,” he conceded, around a mouthful of butterscotch and cinnamon, “even the Great Papyrus must admit – sometimes puns can be palatable, when presented in pie form!”

“Really?” Sans' voice was casual, but Toriel already recognised the sparkle in his sockets at being handed such a golden opportunity. “Well, that's all I kneaded to dough.”

Toriel burst out laughing, unconcerned about the crumbs spraying her dress – it was already liberally stained with spaghetti, anyway, and there were far more important things, like the pride in Sans' smile as he dropped the punchline before joining in with her laughter, or for that matter Papyrus' strangled groan as he shook his skull in despair at the two of them before speaking up again.

“Actually, Toriel – there's one more thing I forgot to give you.”

“Oh?” Toriel inclined her head in curiosity as she set her fork down, praying that it would not be more food – she didn't know if her poor stomach could survive another round. “How sweet – but there is no need, you really do not have to give me anythi–”

Before she could finish her sentence, Papyrus had already produced a sturdy contraption of wood and metal seemingly out of nowhere, presenting it to her with a flourish as she blinked in surprise. “Oh! It's a...”

“A shovel!” he beamed, enthusiastically if a touch unnecessarily. “I read it on the internet – it's a surface tradition!” He cleared his throat, as if reciting from memory. “When someone starts dating your close friend or family member, you're supposed to give them a 'shovel talk'. Except I'm...not really sure what I'm supposed to talk about,” he admitted with a shrug. “But anyway – now you have a shovel, just in case dating Sans ever gets too stressful and you need to go away and plant some flowers!”

“Ah...of course.” Toriel smiled, suppressing her laughter as she glanced slyly over at Sans, whose expression was somewhere between amused, bemused and perhaps even a touch offended. “What a lovely tradition, and a thoughtful gift! I shall treasure it – thank you, my dear Papyrus. As the children say...I dig it.”

She was unable to help herself, a snort escaping as Sans chuckled and Papyrus, for once, did not voice his displeasure as his left socket twitched a few times. “It's...going to be like this all the time now, isn't it?”

“'Fraid so, bro,” Sans replied with a shrug, his grin becoming just a little more bashful as he caught Toriel's eye and added, “I, uh...really hope so, anyway. Sorry about that."

"No, you're not." But Papyrus was undeniably smiling, fondly exasperated, a sentiment Toriel was coming to recognise all too well. “But I forgive you, because the Great Papyrus is nothing if not selfless. And...” His voice became quieter, more serious, glancing between Sans and Toriel as the sharp lines of his skull appeared to soften for a moment, “it's a small price to pay, to have my brother back. Sans, I used to...worry about you, you know, back in the Underground. I knew something was wrong, but I just didn't know how to...”

“Pap,” Sans interrupted, his voice catching on the single syllable as he laid a hand on his brother's arm; Toriel bit her lip, an ache in her chest at the rare glimpse of raw emotion that  flashed across his face, just for a second, before he ducked his head, letting out a soft chuckle. “Don't you worry your great and powerful head about me, okay? I'm doing great.” Toriel knew he meant it, smile smaller but genuine when he glanced back up at her, then at Papyrus. “Never been better.”

“Thanks to her!” Papyrus reached out over his head and grabbed Toriel's hand, holding it in the air like a prize fighter. “Toriel! Despite your...equally questionable sense of humour, I'm honoured to pledge my loyalty to you both as former member of the Royal Guard and current mascot of monsterkind – but, mostly, as someone to share the considerable responsibility of looking out for my brother.”

"Oh!" Toriel found herself unexpectedly emotional at the sincerity of Papyrus' words, the warmth shining in his sockets – Sans was indeed lucky, as he had always said, to have such a cool guy looking out for him, and, as she squeezed his hand gratefully in return, Toriel knew that she was, too. “From the Great Papyrus himself, it is indeed an honour and a privilege. Rest assured, between the two of us, I trust we will not find the task so...punishing.”

“Okay, guys,” Sans interjected, evidently trying and failing to appear annoyed at this assessment of his character, “that's sweet and all, but seriously, what am I here? A skeledog?”

Toriel and Papyrus glanced at each other, a telepathic understanding passing between them, and without a word they reached out and grabbed him, each hooking an arm around his ribs to pull him up into a three-way hug. Sans let out a yelp of half surprise, half laughter as he was effortlessly lifted off the ground and firmly sandwiched between them, but Toriel knew he had no desire to escape even if they had any intention of letting him. Papyrus leaned in to bump his skull affectionately against his brother's as they clung together, and Toriel felt a surge of tenderness as she held onto both of them, at once familiar yet renewed – the need to nurture and protect, to preserve the love she felt so strongly in this moment, enveloping all three of them and warming her through to her soul.

“I know dinner didn't exactly go according to plan, guys, – but I gotta say, this has been really uplifting.”

“I could still drop you,” Papyrus threatened, but he was still smiling, as genuine as it was reluctant as Toriel giggled, leaning in to steal a quick nuzzle against Sans' cheekbone.

"I do not think he will.”

“I know,” Sans replied, running his fingers through the fur on the back of Toriel's neck while reaching out to pat Papyrus' skull with his other arm, somehow maintaining a perfect balance between the two – until he wobbled, almost bringing them all crashing down before they caught him, laughing, stronger together. "I think I got a pretty good thing going on here."

[fluffystring-blog]

local conman harbors crush for co-worker-- what happens next will warm your heart

Pairing: SeriRei

Notes: It's 3 A.M. and I just powered through this fic from start to finish because the idea's been in my mind for over a month, but I couldn't figure out how to write it for the life of me. I apologize if the characterization if off at all. This is my first time writing for Serizawa and my first time writing something extra long with Reigen in it.

“Reigen-san, were you just… touching my hair?”

Serizawa’s body stiffened at the sudden sensation of fingers skimming through his hair, unfamiliar fingernails dragging gently across the length of his scalp as russet curls danced and flattened in unison to allow safe passage for the dexterous digits combing their way up and about the unkempt mass that was his head. Something within him seemed to snap to attention, and without thinking Serizawa whipped his head around to pinpoint the perpetrator behind these strange actions.

Except, when curious eyes followed the line of the stranger’s appendage upward and locked with a dull chestnut gaze, the hairs on his neck spiked (along with every other miniscule object in the room, though more so with gradual ease and less detection from the owner of said-objects than he previously anticipated). In spite of the way Reigen’s hand meticulously maneuvered through Serizawa’s hair, the man himself appeared unfocused, almost entranced by whatever silent reverie wove his every train of thought; if Serizawa didn’t know better, he’d assume Reigen had no idea what he was doing.

Nevertheless, Serizawa was quick to brush away the thought with a small shake of the head, swallowing hard before raising his voice amid the proverbial silence enrapturing his employer. “Uh, Reigen-san…? Is something wrong?”

Now, in all his time working alongside Reigen, Serizawa never knew the man to be jumpy, much less frantic and lost in his own little world, but here he was bearing witness to the very thing he never imagined he’d live to see-- Reigen completely vulnerable in his own environment, utterly dismantled and sweating profusely (a lot more than usual, Serizawa couldn’t help but note) as his eyes practically bugged straight out of their sockets and the hand placed on Serizawa’s head twitched and immediately snapped back to his side in rapid fire succession.

Loudly, Reigen cleared his throat, visibly fighting off the downpour of perspiration glimmering on his forehead and the slightest tinge of red dusting across his cheeks.

“Shit, don’t scare me like that! How long have you been sitting there anyways? What time is it? Why is everything so wet--?”

“Reigen-san, were you just… touching my hair?”

If Reigen had been ready to go off on a blind tangent, he’d surely shut himself up now. His mouth opened and closed faster than Serizawa could follow, his lips pulled tight in a forced smile, eyes flickering every which way as if to avoid looking in Serizawa’s general direction.

“Uh, yeah! I, uh, I was just… You see, there was a bug and-- well, you know, I hate bugs, I really do, and, uh, I was trying to…” He trailed off, leaving his jumble of words incomplete but not once daring to meet Serizawa’s probing gaze, lest he find himself even further in trouble than what he already was.

Already, the atmosphere was taut with tension, the nervous wringing of hands threading themselves together only solidifying the obvious discomfort that had befallen Reigen. The air was electric with it. Not even Serizawa’s aura could amount to the weight pressed around them, thick as ice and impossible to cut.

For what felt like an eternity, Reigen and Serizawa sat in silence. While it seemed like Reigen’s mind was leafing through every possible excuse to weasel himself out of this awkward predicament, Serizawa’s mind was scrounging around for ways to bring the topic back into light without driving his skittish employer away; it was plain to see that directly tackling the subject head on wouldn’t work.

So, Serizawa tried a more vague approach. “I trimmed it down myself this time. The hair, I mean; it’s not as good as what you could probably do with it, but I think I did a pretty decent job for a first try.”

To his relief, Reigen seemed to break free of his flustered shell, if only a little. “Oh, really? Huh. I didn’t even notice it grew back again… That’s, uh, wow. Good job; it looks great.”

Serizawa perked up, his hand subconsciously drawn to the top of his head as a smile spread across his visage. “Really?”

Reigen returned the smile before gesticulating wildly, flashing Serizawa a thumb’s up. “Yep! Couldn’t have done it better myself! Good on you, Serizawa. You’re really making your way into society.”

“Thank you,” Serizawa said.

Reigen nodded swiftly in response.

Without another word, Reigen turned his attention away, and Serizawa watched with newfound interest as Reigen cupped his chin and leaned back against the couch cushions, eyelids pressed shut as his nose scrunched up. A deep exhale deflated his chest. Serizawa patiently waited for Reigen to contribute more to their conversation, but received no further indication of the man’s desire to return to it.

Instead, Reigen shot forward and slammed his hands hard on the coffee table, rattling the tea placed upon its surface and startling Serizawa to a rigid stillness.

“Okay! Fine! You caught me! I was touching your hair, okay?!” Reigen exclaimed, his lips moving faster than they could keep up with as he thundered on without a moment’s pause, “But I didn’t know I was doing it until you said something! I wasn’t trying to be weird or anything, if that’s what you’re worried about, but I was doing it without thinking and after I sort of realized it myself I just… I kept going because you didn’t say anything and it didn’t look like you minded.... I mean, you obviously did mind it I guess, if you ended up mentioning it out loud-- b- but that’s beside the point!

“Listen, I’m probably making a bigger deal out of this than it really is, so just take all this with a grain of salt or whatever. I don’t care what you do with it. You can either forget it or keep it to yourself. All I’m doing is clearing things up so it doesn’t get awkward, okay?” Reigen jabbed an almost accusatory finger in Serizawa’s direction. “I’m not a weirdo or anything, alright? So, don’t go blabbing about it to anyone. The last thing I need is for someone to find out about this and think I’m some kind of pervert.”

“Y- yeah... Sure,” Serizawa replied, nodding.

Reigen sighed heavily. At last, his shoulder’s slumped and his expression loosened. “Okay.”

Taking back his place on the couch, Reigen ran a hand through his bangs before breathing out a more quiet sigh, leaning into his palm as his body hunched forward. “Sorry, sorry. I shouldn’t have freaked out like that. I’m sorry.

“It’s not a big deal, but I kinda blew up and dragged you along for the ride anyways, didn’t I? I’m sorry. I just-- I was thinking about how your hair felt the last time I cut it, and I wanted to see if it really felt the way I thought it did.”

“... And?”

Reigen looked up, flushing faintly. “Uh, well, it. It did, I guess. No surprise there. Pretty anti-climatic. Kind of a dumb thing to think about now that I hear myself saying it out loud.”

“No,” Serizawa said. “I mean, what did it feel like to you?”

Reigen was caught off guard, if the stiffness of his figure was anything to go by. He averted his gaze instantaneously and let out a strained laugh. “It felt like hair,,” he replied with forced nonchalance, pinwheeling a hand in the space between them as he went on, “Like I said, it wasn’t really worth the fuss; it felt like how I expected it would, and now we can put this whole thing behind us and pretend it never happened!”

Although Serizawa doubted the legitimacy of his employer’s claims, he decided it was probably best not to press any further on the matter. After all, Reigen was still his boss, albeit them being on rather familiar terms with each other and becoming more along the lines of casual friends than merely coworkers.

Rising to his feet, Serizawa gave Reigen a quick once over before offering a friendly smile and a stammered, “O- okay. Then I guess I should get going now.”

“Oh! Right, right,” Reigen replied, coming to stand alongside his co-worker with a placid grin. Awkwardly, he gave Serizawa a pat on the back. “Wouldn’t want you to be late for night school and all that. It’s time for me to start closing up anyways.”

“Reigen-san?”

“Eh?”

“If you need anything... feel free to call me. I have a free period for study hall that I normally use to get my homework done, but I’d be more than happy to talk to you if you’re not busy with anything.”

Surprise blossomed over Reigen’s face. “Oh. Uh, yeah. Sure. I’ll, uh, I’ll do that then. I guess. Thanks.”

The twinkle in Serizawa’s eyes brightened. “Okay then. Talk to you later.”

Shortly after Serizawa’s departure, Reigen found himself dragging his hands over his face, his back pressed into the door as his body slowly lowered itself to the floor. Sweat was beginning to bead across his skin and roll down in salty rivulets, though the fierce scarlet scorching his cheeks had become more bothersome than the sweat itself, easy to mask but impossible to hide.

With an unsteady breath, Reigen wove clammy fingers around his mouth and swallowed back the elated noise threatening to surface from the fluttering recesses of his chest, his mind racing as blood pumped through his ears.

Fucking Hell… How does he get his hair to feel like that? It’s like petting a dog!

No, there was more to it than that, so much more. Serizawa wanted to call him. He wanted to talk to him over the phone during his free period. He wanted to call him.

Shit. Reigen nearly banged his head against the door out of sheer excitement and frustration. Shitshitfuckingshit! What the Hell is he doing to me...?!

[wayward-wheels-blog]

Where Are My Keys?

She’s My Rider - Chapter III

Words: 3,061

Author’s Note: Am I the only one who sees the scenes in their head first and just tries to write it down? That last one reminded me that I forget to go back, take out the blocking, and add the subtext. Maybe it’s the theater kid in me. 

So … here’s a little more sub with your text.

Read Chapter I and Chapter II

There was no way in hell Dean was sleeping with Baby. Nope. No way. That was entirely too weird. He’d seen that show about taboo stuff where the dude fell in love with his hotrod, and he was not going to be that guy. He felt a little guilty for even thinking about it. A little. Rowena was right about one thing, though. Baby had power. It had been implied every which way from Sunday, and anyway, she wouldn’t be walking around on two legs <i>looking</i> like that if there wasn’t some serious mojo going on there. He went back through what Rowena said on his way back to the motel. Apparently, Sam and Baby had opted to walk.

She’s as powerful as they come, if she wants to be. But it was up to him? How in the hell did that make any kind of sense? Then he remembered that Castiel had flipped out on her the first night they brought her home. If he knew what she was, maybe he knew where to find the on-switch that sparked her power up. Whatever her power was. It was starting to feel futile and his head was starting to hurt. Whether it was from the whiskey or yelling at Baby, he didn’t know.

When he got to the room,  it looked like Sam had just been sitting there, waiting to pounce and scold. “I know,” Dean said before he could start. “I was a dick.” Sam wasn’t entirely sure what to do with that. He was clearly expecting the angry, stubborn version of his brother to walk through the door. “Uh, yeah. You were. And-” “I’ve gotta stop treating her like a child,” Dean cut him off. “I get it.” “Look, I know you’re worried about something happening to her. I’m worried too, but at some point, we’re gonna have to take off the training wheels.” Sam watched his brother pull off his jacket, but he was really watching him grapple with bigger things that had sufficiently worn him out.

“And she’s right,” he said. “She’s been here protecting us this whole time, but she was usually stuck outside when the really bad stuff went down.” That last bit slowed Dean down on his way to the mini-fridge and once he processed it, it stopped him altogether. He’d never considered that and he should have. Damnit. “You know she worries about us as much as we worry about her, right? As much as we worry about each other. B had to sit there, every time we got out of the car, and just … hope that we came back.” Sam bounced his brows at his brother, urging him to really think about that.

It hadn’t gone unnoticed by Dean that Baby thought a little too much like he did. He figured that was appropriate, given what she was, and with that in mind he knew Sam was right. “She’s tired of being on the bench, Dean.” The weight of Baby’s struggle dropped low in his stomach. He, of all people, should have known better. Idling on the curb while his family got bloody would have driven him batshit crazy. “ … Son of a bitch.” “Yeah,” Sam said, but what he really said was, “Now you’re getting it.”

–

Baby combed through the latest news updates looking for anything that sounded remotely hellhound’ish. So far, things had remained quiet for the evening. Maybe the hounds were full … which meant she had to find something else to keep her from brooding about the way Dean had been acting.

Gabriel had given her a body, but no compass to help her figure out what she was supposed to be doing. She only knew that she had a purpose, she had something to contribute, more than just being a proverbial tank. Things had gone so well when she first “woke up,” for lack of a better term. The boys put the world back on its axis, Mary was back, she was there … even Castiel couldn’t help but surrender to it, and to the fact that Baby was clearly family. They started to train her in whatever she didn’t know and she got a tattoo that she was fairly certain half the Midwest would mistake for a pentagram, and her a devil worshiper. The boys started with small hunts for her to cut her teeth on, made sure she knew how to handle herself, before they got back to scouring media the way they always did.   

When Lucifer came back, everything changed. The car was locked away in a shipping container that had every kind of ward you could think of on it, and if over-protective had a gear Sam and Dean kicked it up to fifth. Baby was unaccustomed to being the one who needed protection and she decided immediately that she didn’t like it one bit, but hard as she tried, she couldn’t prove them wrong.   She wanted to tell Dean who he was, to her anyway, but she’d never been able to form cohesive sentences that explained it. There weren’t really words for it, and Baby didn’t think she should tell him that if he died, she would die, or that she was only as limited as he wanted her to be. As far as her existence was concerned, he might as well be the sun.

She surfed through all of the television stations before she gave up and scrolled down to the channels that doubled as radio stations. She chose one that claimed you could “get the blues all day long” to find BB King wailing on Lucille to the tune of “The Thrill is Gone.” It made her nostalgic. God, she missed proper radio stations.

When the knock came, she knew who it was before she opened the door.   He always apologized. Baby pulled the door open to reveal a sheepish looking Dean with his hands tucked into his pockets and his shoulders curled, that quickly turned into a normal looking Dean with weirdly perfect, military posture. She waited, and he finally said, “Can I come in?”

–

The second Dean left the room, Sam lifted his phone back to his ear. “Cas, are you still there?”

“Yes,” came the grumbled reply. “Sam, if these really are Matilda’s hounds and she’s with them? Dean and Baby may very well be the only way to stop them.” Sam was staring at an artistic representation of Matilda and the Cwn Annwn on his laptop and a knowing worry began to creep up that back of his neck. “Why?” “Because,” Castiel sighed. “The hounds are to Matilda what B is to Dean. Hounds represented her lineage. She was one of the greatest hunters who ever lived, and it sounds to me like they’ve been released for a reason.”

Sam slowly lifted to his feet and he had a feeling he wouldn’t like the answer when he asked, “What do you mean?” He heard a scuffle on the other end of the phone and he thought he heard Cas and his mother arguing in reigned in tones before he heard her say, “Give me that.” “To smoke her out, Sam.” Mary said. “Apparently, it hasn’t gone unnoticed that the Impala hasn’t been on the road in a while.” “Wait, what?” “Word’s out that we killed the original vampire, and since almost everyone thinks the colt is gone-” “They think it has something to do with B,” Sam picked up.

“Sam …” Mary’s voice dropped. “Are we sure it doesn’t?” He didn’t have much experience with having a mother, but Sam assumed it was normal when that annoyed irritation shot through him, because he was pretty sure it was a feeling only a mother could produce. “Mom-” “I know what she is,” Mary cut him off. Castiel said her name with a warning in the background. Sam didn’t know what to say. “You and Dean head back to the bunker,” Mary said before she hung up. “I think it’s time for a family meeting.”

–

Baby sighed the way most girls do at insufferable men and stepped back out of Dean’s way. She really was … so human. It was hard now to imagine that she’d ever been made of metal, hard to remember what it felt like when she was … well, a car. He remembered the sense that he was where he belonged and that, however twisted his world got, he could straighten it out as long as he had the Impala. Only he didn’t see his badass car come to life anymore, because now she was made of tender flesh and breakable bones.     When he turned to look at Baby again, he flipped it all in reverse. He tried to see the years in her, the experiences she must have had, the highs and lows that the Winchesters put her through. He tried … and he failed. She just looked so innocent. So young.

“Seventy-seven,” he said.   She wasn’t expecting that one. “What?” “I’m 77 years old,” Dean said. “What felt like four months to you when I was gone was forty years for me, so, technically I’m an old man.” He could see her adding things up in her frown. Gone. <i>Hell.</i> When it clicked, her eyes rounded at him and he felt a little bad for bringing it up.     Dean had the ability to smile without smiling. You could see the muscles twitch with the effort but it was almost like the smile was too heavy. But the intention was there. “Now, correct me if I’m wrong,” he said. “But that gives me almost thirty years on you.”

He wondered if this would cause her to see him the way he saw her, like the cover was pretty but the pages were filled with scary things and uncharted territory. “I know I act like some horny, high school dropout half the time, and I know what I look like, but … I don’t feel like what I look like.” For the first time, maybe ever, she seemed to have no idea what to say to him. “Dean, why are you telling me this?” “Because.” He took a second to gather his thoughts. “Sam reminded me just now that you’ve been you for a lot longer than you’ve been human … and it hit me that I’ve been doing to you what everyone else did to me ten years ago.” Dean stepped back and motioned with his hand, up and down her body. “I look at you and I see some young, twenty-something bombshell that for all intents and purposes should be privy to Victoria’s secrets, not a girl that should be elbow-deep in death and violence with me and Sam.” “But that is where I should be,” Baby said. “It’s where I want to be.” Dean forced a smile that still didn’t quite make it to his eyes. “I know.” “So … you’re gonna let me come with you to talk to Crowley?”

Dean stayed quiet for longer than what he knew Baby thought was appropriate. He couldn’t get past the thought that he’d done some damage here and he should have known better. These were words he needed to get right, and for a man that barked more than he talked, it took a little more time. “Baby, you’re your own woman,” he said. “You don’t need my permission. You don’t need anyone’s permission. Ever. You make your own rules. If anyone tells you otherwise, you point them my way and we’ll have words.”

Silently he cussed at himself when he realized that was a concept she’d never tried to wrap her mind around. You stupid son of a bitch. That was the kind of thing a woman should know. It was the kind of thing that kept pricks like him from taking advantage. Because they would. Somewhere in the flurry of trying to protect her … he’d steered her wrong.

“What if it’s you that tells me that?” Damn, she was quick. She played chess while he played checkers. “I can’t promise you I won’t try to stop you from doing something I think is stupid. But what I think doesn’t matter. If you think you’re right?” Dean shrugged. He already knew she was smarter than he was. “Go with your gut, because you probably are.”

Baby’s features warmed from confusion to gratitude. That was the look he’d been aiming for and it relieved him a little when he got it, selfish as it was, because it meant he was out of the doghouse. “Besides,” he said. “I hear you’re some cosmic badass so, who am I to get in your way?” Her tone almost sounded sorry for him when she said, “You’re the reason I am who I am. You’re the only person that could get in my way.” That part, he definitely knew. That responsibility had been waking him up at night. “Well, I’m stepping off the asphalt. Highway’s yours.”  

One of those silent conversations passed between them again, an unspoken understanding of what and how they’d decided things were going to be. Afterwards, a small but subtly victorious smile lifted Baby’s features. “You can ride shotgun.” Dean grinned the cheshire-cat grin of a man that knew he was still full of surprises. “Sweetheart, if you think I’m gonna shut my cakehole? Believe me. That dog won’t hunt.”

He’d intended to shut the door behind him, but he turned right into Sam’s wide, worried eyes. “We’ve gotta go.”

–

Somewhere in hell, Crowley was slouched down in a miserably uncomfortable throne wondering why he hadn’t changed it out with something softer, and staring off into nowhere tonguing the self-loathing that kept him going. He’d forgotten Lucifer was there until he heard the mutt’s chains rattle when he shifted positions. “I hear you finally found out about the car,” he said.

Crowley tried to fight the curiosity that begged him to look up at the devil. It irritated him that Lucifer had caught his attention. But what if he knew something? He finally lifted his gaze with a slant that said, ‘This had better be good.’

Lucifer smiled like he was happy to see him and they’d just sat down to afternoon tea. “I hear they haven’t seen her on the road in a while.” “What’s it to you?” “Given I’ve been fighting against her for the souls of mankind for millennia?” The devil shrugged like it wasn’t that big of a deal. “Call it nostalgia.” “Come again?” “You think the Winchesters are the first real heroes I’ve seen rise and fall over the ages? They all come with one of her. Matilda had her hounds, Arthur had Excalibur, the Winchesters have a 1967 Chevrolet Impala,” he chuckled. “Times they are a’changing.”

“Oh yeah? Then, tell me, who was the last great hero you saw fall?” “Adolf Hitler.” Crowley rolled his eyes, “You realize he has a special place here …” “What? You didn’t know Hitler was a hunter before he was a dictator? Funny how they always leave that part out.” Something in Crowley bristled briefly, then, very calmly, he lifted to his feet and idled over to where Lucifer was sitting on the floor, moving in close so that when he hiked up the knees of his slacks and squatted down, he was leaning over the angel who’d fallen the furthest. Crowley’s fingers twitched up in the direction of Lucifer’s throat and the devil grunted. “You’re trying my patience, mutt,” he said while Lucifer’s face turned red. “Get to the point.”

When he pushed to his feet, Lucifer gasped and started sucking down air, released from the king’s Vador grip. “Fine!” Lucifer coughed. “Jeez, talk about work-related stress.” He rubbed at his neck and spoke like the information had been pried out of him against his will. Crowley knew it wasn’t. “Before the swastika was a Nazi thing, it was like her, it was a totem. The only thing left of the line because the surnames had changed over the years. Adolf didn’t know that, the poor schmuck was an artist, so he just thought it was something he’d always been inspired by. He had no idea who he was. What IT was. After the war, he was just a decorated soldier turned drifter who’d learned a thing or two and hunted monsters.”

“I’ve heard the poor-me artist to Sieg Heil, thanks,” Crowley said. “This had better be going somewhere.” “The Thule Society. You’ve heard of them …” “Of course,” Crowley said. “Well, they worked with a guy named Dietrich Eckart back in the day, and he knew exactly who Adolf was. All it took was a little mentoring … a little push in the right direction. Turn him away from the truth of what he could be, use his despair over the plight of his people to convince him all the evils, supernatural or otherwise, come from one enemy.” Lucifer shrugged with his chin as if it were simple. “Hero that he was, Adolf jumps in with both feet and designs the banner for the National Socialist German Worker’s Party using his own personal sigil. People start waving that thing in the streets and the more they wave it, the more Hitler talks, and the more Hitler talks, the further the swastika goes and, before you know it?” Lucifer clapped his hands like his favorite team just scored a touchdown. “Global domination, baby!”

“Let me guess,” Crowley said. “You were Eckart?” “Oh no, that was all Azazel,” Lucifer said as if he’d never take someone else’s credit. “Say what you will, but that guy knows how to pick ‘em.” Crowley stared through a barred window, turning these new insights over in his head. “So you let out the one beastie you thought had a chance of catching her, is that it? You think she’s the key to regaining your kingdom?” Crowley turned back on him, looking at Lucifer like he was so … predictable. “It won’t work. You must have learned by now that the one, surefire way to reap the wrath of the Winchesters is to go after one of their women. Those boys will scorch and salt the earth planet-wide before they let anyone get their hands on that girl.”

Lucifer smiled the smile of a demon that still knew he had cards up his sleeve and said, “I guess we’ll see, won’t we?” Just before Crowley twitched his hand and his vertebrae cracked and his eyes were staring behind him.