#also i had to reread his journal and i cried

[rdrlady]

After I spent a whole evening trying to replicate Arthur's handwriting for an illustration (it was... humbling) I decided to make an ABC from his letters. I know it is not perfect because Rockstar used real handwriting for the journal (i guess) and not a font cus there are more variations for every letter. I probably copied his most boring 'L', but it was the entry from the Lennnaaay night... Also i wasn't able to find a capital X and Z so that's why those are off.

Feel free to use this as a reference if you want xx

[sabine-smitten-obviously]

And now i will never again hear a certain song

without thinking of a certain demon and his angel 🩷

I know that i have read a wonderful book when i dont want to start the next story right away. This is what exactly happened - again - with this wonderful fanfic.

Find the light

by klikantuna

This is the second book i read from @klikandtuna, the first one broke my heart - you absolutely have to read it. She promised me her other books are more fluffy and she absolutely kept her promise.

Whats it about?

Its a human AU with Crowley being a rockstar and Aziraphale the headmaster of a private school. So basically they don't have anything to do with each other - except that they go back a looooong time. 😉

What i love about it!

The author interweaves past and present again, as i already know from another story of her. So it slowly unfolds on 2 different timelines and it will grip your heart, i promise! 🤍

And this story is so so so romantic that its very likely going to break your heart too, but in a good way.

I know some people out there are into watching reactions to GO, well mine would have been actually crying, deep deep sighs, sometimes stopping to read the book and press it to my chest with teary eyes, going back to reread some scenes several times and twice i actually fetched my diary to copy some passages in my journal.

The tenderness the 2 characters show each other is absolutely breathtaking. And i do hope i dont spoil too much (STOP READING HERE IF U DONT WANT TO KNOW) but there is a scene when Aziraphale is picking out clothes for Crowley, that is SO thoughtful and careful and attentive that i absolutely want someone to do that in exactly the same way for me. Read it and come back to scream with me!

This book also gave me a lot to think of.

Her characters tend to cry a lot - this irritated me in the beginning. Until i realised: i would have cried in all those scenes myself - hell, most of the time i absolutely did. It was just my (toxic?) picture of men simply not or at least only rarely crying. I really had to let this belief go, it was time. Thank you for this wake-up-call.

And secondly its the way they treat each other. i don´t know if that even is possible in real life, if the author draws from her own experiences or a brilliant imagination. But i absolutely fucking want that kind of romance and love and care in my life, too. oh and if i ever should get married, if think i want the author to write my wedding-vows. 😂 least i can say "i have standards" now that are probably unreachable ;)

There are other really really important messages in this fanfic, on how to treat kids in school, on gender-topics and it couldnt be a better coincidence (was it?) that it was completed in pride-month.

All in all - this fanfic is incredibly written and for anyone who has seen David and Michael on Stage at "Pub in the Park" - this picture is literally the book!!!

So there is also fanart with the fanfic and from what i understand even a printed version available.

So if you are into big big big emotions, go read the book and come back to sing with me 🤗

[sirensea14]

Just a thought about Mayhem

I am now nore convinced that Mayhem isnt a clone of Holly, nor was made by the Labyrinth's power. I first thought that she was both, but then chapter 293 (i was too lazy to reread the past chapters with Mayhem in it),

"I am all the things you are, but i am so much more. I am superior."

She said so herself. Which meant she is a separate and a solid, official new character, and not an illusion like "Not-Cup"

Everybody talks about Bendy's shadow tendrils, origins, the Cupbros' souls, the Devil, King Dice, Alice Angel etc, BUT NO ONE TALKS ABOUT MAYHEM!

Dunno, i guess its bcoz there isn't much info about her and for some reason, she left an impact on the questers, especially Holly and Boris. I have developed my obsession with her and my mind is brimming with thoughts, headcanons, and theories about her. But it is always messed up by that ONE HOLE. When one adds up, a hole opens for questions.

And the Cog on her choker. It was fake right? She got it in the Labyrinth and not the house it is actually in (the observatory that CogHolly bought i recall?) i first thought that she was an illusion, but turns out not. She was last seen when Chaos fixed the Tear, and disappeared alongside him (i even drew her scowling for Chaos talking with the questers). In one chapter, i remember Bigby biting her arm and then appears again as she cried then laughed insanely. She appears to have the ability to stop time, like when Alice was having an illusion where she is forced to choose between Isaac and Bendy for the last part, the Chalice of Life, and also the time when Holly and Cuphead found a journal of Linda's father(?). And her constantly appearing on glass and windows and stuff. And her surviving in the Night Terror after it devoured her? Definitely something isn't right! Also, she once winked at us the "Audience" when she, Boris, sarah and not-cup was at the Tear, ready to brawl. She put them on costumes (sandwich on boris and chicken nugget on sarah? Or a feather duster? Dunno too lazy to go back) bro this is something only zanies have(4th wall breaking)

Definitely Zaniness!

She's a zany, like the warner bros and the people in Aesop's falls,the town where Holly was from. If she said she was Holly but much more, this pins up the fact that i alsp made ANOTHER drawing of mayhem but smug and saying"I may be Holly, but Im also not Holly" confusing right? But it meant she has all of current Holly's, memories, powers, personality. But "also not holly" meant that she is like the evil side/version of her, which we see Cog Holly, and also Mayhem wore the Cog on her neck.

WHAT DID ALL OF THAT MEAN?

It is possible that Mayhem is Holly but is fully controlled by the cog. Also note this: Chaos once appeared in Holly's black tower when Bendy and Alice went in her head to restore her back (during nightmare night) It may hint something, yes Bendy did meet Chaos just like he said. But why did he appear there? Possible That it has a connection with mayhem, i mean she is his student. And possible that he may have chosen her bcoz of Holly's potential to be a witch, being so exposed to magic, runes and knowledge. But it may also be just bcoz Chaos is quite the zany himself and only appeared there at will (he is a cosmic right? So it is no wonder he doesn't follow the rules of a book, like a zany)

And that one moment i will not forget, MAYHEM NEARLY TORE BIGBY'S SOUL AWAY. Her arm was covered in some sort of black liquid, then pierced her hand to bigby's chest to get his soul (but was unsuccessful coz something interrupted her, i dunno if it was sarah or boris) Much like how LUKAHD TORE SOULS. The same hand. And there i thought only she can do that, but guess what? No! Mayhem had it too! That black substance that covered their hands meant something with the soul. And also why did mayhem say "interesting" at the dandehog family that went or escaped(?) the tear??? WHAT DID THAT MEAN?!!?

Also, if she had the ability to rip out souls like lukahd, then it is possible she may be experimenting on souls rn. Or she had experience.

I thought Mayhem was Lukahd's creation, Like how Kaguya created black zetsu(naruto shippuden), but tho something didn't add up. Why would she create her if Lukahd had the Cercatori? Bro i still remember this, and Darius, metatron, and the angel in white cloak, theyre all involved with the Cercatori, the Cult of the Lady of Despair (i have notes:), but i will still have this in my memory tho, i have long term memory whenever it comes to lore, but not school lessons lol) So it doesn't make any sense with thinking Mayhem is Lukahd's creation so i stuck with my theory that Mayhem is Holly.

Also, why the appearance? Possibly the Cog? But tho the cog was fake so how? Glowing eyes? But when i noticed the pattern, whenever someone is controlled, or at least related to an ink machine part, their eyes become hollow. So why does mayhem have pupils? Yet has the black sclera.

And also she's a fucking cosmic, as stated by the wiki, and as a student of chaos who himself, is a cosmic. What the fuck is happening?

If she got the Cog from the Labyrinth, didnt that make her an illusion too? Since the parts portrayed there were fake. But it appears mayhem is a character. Which comes in my theory that Mayhem may be Holly from the future, but got consumed by the cog as she was with the questers on their way to the machine itself. Then went back to time by the help of Chaos, who then made her his student. Then her exam to pass being a cosmic (note, this actually like happened in the Labyrinth, as to why she was scowling. Maybe? Too lazy to go back once again) IS TO MESS UP THE QUESTERS MISSION TO GET THE INSTRUMENT. And guess what? She did! They got the Instrument yet she terrorized them.

But then, this would mean a messed up timeline of Holly. But it is also possible that Mayhem is a cosmic who took Holly's identity. I dunno. Only TAP will tell.

Told ya im brimming with thoughts, headcanons and theories about Mayhem. Welcome to the in-zanity!

Now that ive talked about mayhem, now its time for MY QUESTIONS.

When will Cuphead and Mugman use their snow-or whatever it called- Bullets? The picture that they just found with everyone--including the dead-- in it? They didn't even snap the camera! And that "Eye" what is it again? I forgot, it was some kind of person with forseight BY A LETTER that they found. WHO WAS IT? ARE THEY DEAD OR ALIVE? Is it watching them all this time?

And Reide's deal with Anzu, why did Anzu want Alice Angel? Is it revenge for Hannah? Or simply just thought of it as fun? And TAP dont u DARE send Bendy back to hell and then make Reide go with him to the surface and at the same time send Alice back to the house >:(((

What happened to Michael after Metatron took him? I feel like no one or a few talks about this. Also the potential for Metatron, Darius, the white cloaked angel and the Cercatori being the next opponents the Questers would face in getting the Chalice of Life (also the angels i wouldn't forget abt them ofc) who would be the next victim this time?

Doll - bendy

Cog - Holly

Brush - Mickey (not much interaction tho)

Instrument - Boris

Would it be Alice with the Cup?

And of course, the arson on Oddswell's house. They suspected it was Elizabeth (Alice's grandmother) who sent angel fire runes but when Jake came and checked it out, no. It wasnt. But then who did it? The Devil? King Dice? Cercatori? Or another completely unknown character who is a potential enemy?

Also i recalled just now how Boris was sent to a memory of the Instrument. And saw Elizabeth angel who he thought was Alice, but noticed she doesnt have a beauty mark. Im a bit confused of the Machine, the Legendary chalice, yen sid, and the angel-demon war's length (i mean the amount of time it had) and timeline (the sequence of events) if ya get what i mean.

Its still quite a mystery for them to exist. And this is why Inky Mystery's title fits so much bcoz its full of ridiculous mysteries that i love to ovethink about.

I NEED CUSSING ANSWERS!!!

(now ppl, what ur seeing rn is the power of vacation + boredom + overthinking + favorite story XD)

Also did i miss something? I kept all of these precious info in my head (like Holly does) but sometimes i accidentally miss something💀

[igottatho]

Rashid Khalidi: October 7th Revisited | Israel, Palestine, Gaza, Hamas, ...

Abstract:

 “Rashid Khalidi is the Edward Said Professor Emeritus of Modern Arab Studies at Columbia University. He was editor of the Journal of Palestine Studies, President of the Middle East Studies Association, and an advisor to the Palestinian delegation to the Madrid and Washington Arab-Israeli peace negotiations from October 1992 until June 1993. In this episode, Rashid and Robinson discuss the history that culminated in October 7th, 2023, what has happened since then, and what might happen in the future. More particularly, they talk about Zionism, the Nakba, how Gaza was created, the war between Israel and Hamas, Egypt’s role in the crisis, the question of genocide, and the future of Palestine. Rashid’s most recent book is The Hundred Years’ War on Palestine (Metropolitan Books, 2021).”

I’ve read Rashid Khalid’s latest book The Hundred Years’ War twice since its release; I’ve found it really informative and very specific in examples and times when Palestinian people have never truly been brokered with in earnest. The intent has always been for Israel to do what it is currently doing in Jabalia. I found the reread especially informative, a lot more gelled into what I’d learned since the first run-through. I honestly thought this first part of the video slapped, where Khalidi talks about his roots in Palestine:

“Well I mean there's a tested history for our family in Jerusalem going back to the time of the Crusades. Possibly earlier but certainly the time of the Crusades or just after. And some of the people who figure in the book, are these 19th century figures, who one of whom was a member of the first ever Ottoman Parliament, Mayor of Jerusalem, ends up writing a letter to Theodore Herzl. Another one, his nephew, was also a deputy of Jerusalem in the 1908 Parliament, and also played a role in the Arab reaction to Zionism. So I mean, they're members of my family who play all kinds of roles in- in- in- Jerusalem and in law, in education and in- and in- politics. I had an uncle who was the last elected Arab mayor of Jerusalem I mentioned him also in the book... yeah he writes to [Theodore Herzl] in 1899 two years after the first Zionist Congress in Basil. And he has lived in Austria you know, Herzel was a  Viennese journalist and published in German. His famous book there, Judenstat, the- the state of the Jews, is published in German. And it's clear that Yusfi - who's the person we're talking about, this great great great uncle - had read about the Congress, had read about Zionism. May well have read the book uh, we don't know, but he knew a great deal about Zionism. And so he writes to Herzel and he tells him that, um, he tells him a variety of things. First of all he says that ‘we understand the connection between the Jewish people in the Holy Land, we understand the persecution you're subject to in Europe, we understand where Zionism is coming from.’ So he understands that it's a national project, he understands that it's a reaction to persecution. But he says: ‘you're not taking into account the fact that Palestine is already inhabited by a people that's going to resist being displaced’. At the end he says, ‘for the sake of God, leave Palestine alone.’ And so, this is probably the first recorded anyway ... response by a Palestinian to the very beginnings of Zionism, in 1899. So a couple of years after the first Zionist Congress’.”

Under the cut is an outline of the YouTube above, so you can determine if it’s worth your time w/out clicking all the way to YT. It runs about an hour, but imo it's fine just listening. 

 OUTLINE 00:00 

Introduction 04:04 

Is the Israel-Hamas War an American War? 07:33 

The Nakba Versus the Bible 18:52 

Is All Zionist History Propaganda? 28:45 

Has Gaza Become a Concentration Camp? 40:21 

Is Israel Committing Genocide in Gaza? 46:52 

Can Israel’s War Crimes Against Gaza Be Justified? 51:30 

Is Egypt Responsible for the Gaza Crisis? 54:30 

Is the Israel-Hamas War Just Beginning? 01:00:07 

How Soon Will Israel Conquer Gaza? 01:05:19 

Rashid’s Hope for the Future of Israel and Palestine 

 The Hundred Years’ War on Palestine: https://a.co/d/7Mrwuz9  

 The Neck and the Sword: https://shorturl.at/N7HRo 

 A New Abyss (The Guardian Long Read): https://shorturl.at/oVn5j 

Some info re: the host & interviewer. Robinson’s Website: http://robinsonerhardt.com  Robinson Erhardt researches symbolic logic and the foundations of mathematics at Stanford University. Join him in conversations with philosophers, scientists, historians, economists, and everyone in-between.

[pass-the-bowl]

2:05 am

J,

I decided that it was time to make my letters into an internet blog situation. It felt like less of a desperate attempt to keep up with the various pages in a journal I would ultimately lose and more of a poetic way to send my letters into a void. They would all be in one place whenever I wanted them if I wanted them (but honestly I don't know if I will ever reread them). I don't know how existing in the ether works, but if you could see my journal pages, I would assume you can also see this internet post as well. Or I am writing to no one. That's okay too.

I don't have much to update you on but I wanted to write to you and christen this page with its first of many journal entries. The last time I wrote to you, I was in a really dark place. I still am. I am trying to work through that since I really hate feeling this low. It is one of the most gutwrenching, aching pains to feel that way. And it almost felt like the last time I wrote, I didn't have a reason to feel that way. The universe gave me one.

I got into an argument with my father after he told me that I had an attitude with him. I am a 23-year-old woman and suddenly I felt 13 and alone. I was stuck in a room in yet another unfamiliar house and I just wanted out. I wanted to leave and never come back. I wanted to escape this hellish nightmare that I had been placed in. And it is so dumb. It is so unbelievably dumb. I tried to explain to him that I wasn't trying to be a bad daughter. I had so many things I could have said that maybe would have rectified the situation. But then he looked me in my face and told me that I am so ungrateful for everything he does for me and I broke.

I am not ungrateful. I am always so worried that he doesn't recognize how grateful I am. I am a gift person, but he never wants gifts. We don't talk much even though his room is just on the other side of our house from mine. We don't spend time together anymore. We aren't really a family anymore. I feel as though I am being replaced by a better family. One that isn't so complicated. By a family where they are having children and moving out and they have so much going on that even bad days can be seen as good but I am just here. I am struggling, drowning, and afraid to ask for help. And so when he said I was ungrateful, it was as if it I had been found out. I think I cried for two days. I showed up to work just tired. I didn't want to be there and I had almost hit a car from how spaced out I was on the drive.

I really don't know how to go on. I wanted to die so, so badly. And I wish I could have a fun, creative word to say how I *specifically* felt. But I do not. The feeling is fading and it is still there. I do feel that, within the last day it has been a bit better. I got cookies from my order when I picked up my food. They were definitely not meant for me. And I did feel a bit bad knowingly taking them. But I also figured if I gave them back, they would throw them out. And so it felt like I shouldn't let a good cookie go to waste haha. But, I do appreciate the kind gesture, whatever powers are at play for me to be told "have a blessed night" and to get free cookies.

Anyway, I am going to go. I am very tired. I really hope you are doing well. I know you can't really respond or anything like that. Nonetheless, I do really hope you are doing well. You deserve to be happy now. Life was cruel to you in a way I can't imagine. Please take care of yourself out there on the other side. I'll make sure to write soon.

Yours,

M.

P.S. I don't know if that bird on my mailbox who stared at me and didn't fly off was you, but if it was, I appreciated the visit. Although it could have been a really, really chill bird. And that's pretty neat too!

[shemarmooresfedora]

Prompt 59 and it was like a love letter that either fem!reader or Spencer wrote to the other but they just found it bc they had like a falling out and hadn’t talked in a while??

No One Else

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader

Content/Warnings: angst with fluffy ending

Word Count: 0.8k

It had been two months since Spencer last saw you.

Spencer came over to your apartment one night to see you sobbing on the couch and he knelt in front of you and cupped your cheek, asking what’s wrong.

You looked up at him with puffy red eyes and said “I can’t do this anymore.”

“Do what?” he asked softly.

“I need to start fresh.”

“Y/N, I don’t understand.”

“I think I may move…or at least go away for a while,” you sniffled.

“Did something happen? I can help whatever it is. Please tell me, Y/N. I’m your best friend.”

Your lip quivered. That stung. But it also solidified your decision. You needed to get away. Fast.

“There’s nothing you can do, Spence. Please just go.”

Spencer wanted to protest but when he reached out to touch you, you cried harder.

“I’ll be over in the morning,” he spoke softly, closing your apartment door behind him.

You were gone in the morning. Some of your essentials were packed but most of your stuff remained here. The apartment felt cold, contrasting the usual warmth you brought it.

In those two months, all of Spencer’s calls and texts to you went unanswered. You were trying to get over him but you couldn’t bring yourself to block him. Not his fault you fell hopelessly in love with him.

Spencer stopped at your apartment every Friday night with the key you had given him a while ago, hoping you came back. Friday nights used to be your movie nights.

He would skim your bookshelf and read (or in his case, reread) 3 books and then head back to his equally as lonely apartment. He had made his way through half your bookshelf when he came across a little black book. When he pulled it off the shelf, he realized it was a journal.

Spencer knew he shouldn’t. It was already bad enough that he came into your apartment every week without you here. However, before he even could comprehend what he was doing, he had the journal opened and was skimming the pages.

It was filled with reminders, grocery lists, little doodles, but there was an entry dated the day you left.

Dear Spencer,

It physically hurts me how much I love you. Deep down, I knew you didn’t feel the same but as people say ‘ignorance is bliss’. I just always had that little sliver of hope that you wanted me just as much as I wanted you. I didn’t realize how much I was holding on to that hope until it was crushed right in front of me. When we went out to the bar with your team and a girl asked for your number and you said yes as I was standing beside you, my heart completely shattered. You must know that you are not at fault for my pain though, you can’t help how adorably sweet and handsome you are. I was so lucky to have you as a best friend but I can’t anymore. I can’t when I want so much more.

“No…no…no,” Spencer whispered to himself.

I tried to get past it, Spencer, I really did. In the days I saw you after the bar incident, I would cry immediately after you left. I was always wondering ‘did he notice I was smiling less?’ or ‘was he going to her apartment next?’.

Spencer noticed. He missed your bright smile and laughter so much during that week.

His head snapped up to the door when he heard keys jingling from outside and the door unlock.

You stopped in your tracks when you saw Spencer sitting on your couch, “You’re usually gone by now.”

“You wait for me to leave?”

“No, I haven’t been around much but my landlord contacted me that you would come every Friday night and stay for 3 hours. It’s been 5 so I thought I was safe to do some restocking,” you explained with a suitcase in your hand.

“Did you write this?” Spencer held the letter up.

You sighed, “It doesn’t really matter at this point. Does it, Spence?”

“Yes, it matters. It matters so much because I love you too,” Spencer stated.

“But the girl at the bar-”

“I thought she was asking for Derek’s number because I’m usually his ‘wingman’. It’s honestly an instinct for me to just say ‘yes’ at this point. I’m so so sorry for the misunderstanding. Y/N, I noticed you were smiling less. How could I not? It’s what keeps me going after a long day. There is no one else I could possibly ever want. Only you,” Spencer spoke.

“You’re not saying this just because you want your best friend back, right?” you asked tentatively.

“Well, yes, I want my best friend back but I would also like her to be my girlfriend too if she’s open to that,” Spencer smiled softly.

“I’m very open to that,” you beamed as Spencer pressed his lips to yours.

submit a blurb prompt request for my 750 celebration here! (closes on friday 7/9 11:59 P.M. EST)

[yourmidnightlover]

rock

Summary - spencer wants to figure out what's wrong with you, only to be reminded what day it is and he remembers why you've been so distant.

TW: talk abt: rape, recovery, therapy, case stuff; mention of: drug addiction, rape, miscarriage, being shot, death lol

WC - 4,283

!DISCLAIMER! - i am in no way trying to romanticize recovery from a traumatic event or being upset/depressed/anxious. this is kinda my way of getting through my own issues, so please don't think that's what i'm trying to do in any way. i also don’t know how i feel abt this ending since i wrote it so long ago but oh well!

i just realized there are a few spoilers so i'll put *asterisks* around them. those parts are just explaining how the reader's always there for the team.

----------------------------------

you had always been the rock in spencer's life.

mentally, at least.

when he had nobody there for him when he was going through his addiction with dilaudid, there you were. you helped him through it when everybody else on the team acted as if they never noticed.

you were the one that encouraged him to get help, and pushed him to follow through. you made sure he ate and talked to someone when he had his urges again, even if it wasn't you.

you let him come over and cry about what had happened, and how unfair his life was. you consoled him and would tell him how nothing was his fault. how he didn't deserve anything bad in his life.

*and when emily 'died', he went to your house every day. you held him as he felt himself falling apart from losing her. you didn't even worry about yourself needing to be consoled, because spencer needed you to be there for him.

*when she came back you were the one to convince him to forgive her. you talked sense into him. you reminded him how much he pleaded to have her back, and then he did. so he managed to forgive her... because of you and your logic.

*and you weren't just there for spencer. while, yes, you made a special effort to be there for him, you were there for everyone on the team.

*when derek was arrested back in chicago and the team found out about his past, you were the one he leaned on for comfort. you and penelope. you let him cry on your shoulder and yell at you about how twisted a man would have to be to do something so cruel to a child.

*when jj was kidnapped and beaten to a miscarriage, you were the first she told. you didn't say anything. you knew there was nothing you could say that would relinquish the pain of losing a child. so you let her cry. you let her hug you for what felt like hours. you let her grief her unborn baby for as long as she needed.

*when penelope was shot, nobody cared to check up on her after the fact except you. you went to her apartment for weeks just to make sure she was okay. eventually, she was able to let loose all of her frustrations on you, and you took it like a champ. she ranted about how she just wanted to be loved by someone attractive and how unfair and cruel the world is, in spite of how much good she tries to bring into it.

*when hotch lost hailey, you took care of his files. you offered to watch henry and let hotch cry to you about losing her a few times once you broke past his tough exterior. you even cried with him and jack. you made them dinner whenever you could, and helped him look for good nannies to help care for jack.

*when rossi lost carolyn, you went to her grave with him on many occasions. you brought him his favorite scotch, which was very pricey, and his favorite cigars, also very pricey, and tried your best to recreate 'the rossi special' upon his directions. it helped him feel in control of something when he needed it.

*and when emily came back from the dead, you helped walk her through her own grief. she lost herself, and buried her emotions. you helped her dig up her old self, and grow into an even better woman. you even took care of her cat when penelope couldn't manage. you helped emily grieve her own death when she wanted to deny it ever happened, and she was forever grateful for you.*

you had become like the team's built-in therapist when something bad happened, and you loved it that way. you loved being the one the team went to when they needed it. it made you feel as though you had a purpose, which was something you desperately needed.

but when you went through your own trauma almost a year ago, you refused help from anyone. you knew you should've asked someone for help, or at least someone to cry or talk to when you needed to.

the team had been working on a case for longer than expected, 8 days now, and everyone was really frustrated. you had released the profile 7 days ago, and there was still no new information. it was as if the unsub had gone dormant, and you all couldn't bear that thought.

when the team released earlier than normal from the precinct and you all went to the hotel you had been staying at, you decided to get a drink from the bar quickly. you went alone, wanting to review a few of the case files during the process and not needing a distraction.

you ordered a jack and coke, and opened the case files to begin rereading them, seeing if you had missed anything.

victims were kept for 24 hours, filmed, raped, restrained, cut in pieces, and thrown in the trash like garbage. it was absolutely disgusting, and the worst you had seen in a while. the victims were low-risk and most of them had a place of authority.

the unsub had been profiled to be someone who was bossed around by a woman, narcissistic and egotistical, wanted to feel more power and authority.

the problem is, that profile was most people living in the area. even penelope couldn't dwindle down the suspects.

and alas, you had missed nothing. nothing new appeared or caught your eye. you gulped down the rest of your drink and paid for it before packing up your things to head upstairs. you tossed the file back into your bag and began the trek to the elevator.

you were interrupted by something hitting the top of your head, rendering you unconscious.

the team had woken up, and after waiting around for half an hour, spencer realized something was wrong. he had morgan bust into your room, only to find the bed unslept in. you were missing. and the worst part... you fit the unsubs type.

spencer felt his heart drop at the realization he had taken you. and it seemed as though there was no trail as to where you had gone. penelope checked the cameras, only to find that they were hacked right after you left the bar, and then they resumed after you were taken.

at least they had a time frame.

later that day, after everyone hasting to figure something, anything out, spencer had gotten an email. he opened it and expected it to be relentless spam, only to realize it was a live feed video. a video of you. he instantly called penelope in hopes that she could trace it.

she said she could, but it would take some time because the amount of routers it had been going through.

while they were waiting, you noticed you were alone. you knew who the unsub was too, thanks to his baffling stupidity and narcissism that lead him to believe he wouldn't get caught.

"officer johnson! it's officer johnson!" you looked around the camera for a second, noticing something moving. "he-he here," you cried out. "i love you," you said to the camera to nobody in particular, but someone in mind.

you were terrified. spencer could see it in your eyes. he could see the tears you tried not to shed. you didn't want to please him, but you couldn't help but feel the absolute horror and fear coursing through your body at a relentless pace.

"hi there, missus fbi," he teased, finally walking into the frame with a ski mask over his face, clearly not aware that we knew his identity.

spencer told garcia who he was, and she began her digging. officer johnson's great grandparents had owned a farm that was since then refurbished. it was an hour away.

officer johnson had known that you two had chemistry. that's why he sent the email to spencer. he saw the longing glares, the 'innocent' touches, the smiles you would give each other, the longing looks you shared. he wanted to torment him.

so when he began undressing you and you turned your face away from the camera in hopes of sparing some of your own dignity, spencer felt his heart breaking for you. it broke even more when he heard the yelps, and screams, and please, and "no!'s" you elicited during the act.

they caught him before he cut you, but not before he finished the first part of his plan. your skirt was ripped, and your shirt was practically in two pieces. spencer had given you his jacket to cover yourself as much as you could.

you stayed silent the ride back. you didn't even let spencer hold you like you normally would after a tough case. you were ashamed. embarrassed. you felt worthless. you felt pathetic. you felt stupid. you felt helpless. you felt like you were drowning. you felt like you were without a life raft.

you knew you could talk to the team about it, but you felt so disgusted by the thought of what happened to you that you only talked about it in your therapy sessions.

hotch had given you two months off. he wanted you to grieve, and go to therapy, and try to cope with everything that had happened.

and you did try to do that. you tried your hardest to get over it and move past it, but nothing helped. not the journaling. not the talking. not the crying. nothing was working.

spencer gave you a little space at first, but he then decided to try to help you as you had helped him. he went over to your house almost every day, and sat outside your door after you wouldn't let him in.

you knew he was there... you sat on the other side.

"i-i know that you probably don't want to see anyone right now. and i'm uh, i'm sure you feel alone right now, or like you can't talk to anyone," spencer sniffled. "but pl-please just uhm, just know that i'm here when you want to talk about it. i'm here to listen to you when you need me to. i-i don't want you to be alone during this time, y/n. please, just let me in," he begged.

that was normally what he would say almost every night he went to your house. he would sit outside for hours after he would ask you to let him in without fail. until one day you let him in.

spencer felt so much relief when you opened the door, only for it to be smashed when he noticed your eyes looked red and puffy, your cheeks were stained with the tears you had been crying for so long. your cheeks were sunken in, and there were dark circles underneath your eyes that were once full of life and happiness. your eyes no longer had that gorgeous sparkle in them.

spencer vowed he would get them back.

as much as spencer wanted to wrap his arms around you in that moment, to comfort you and tell you that he was there, he wanted you to make the first move. he wanted to tell you how strong you were and how proud of you he was for getting through that. he wanted to tell you how much he loved you.

he wanted you to make the first touch, because he didn't want to further upset you. he didn't want to trigger a repressed memory, or bring back the feelings of what had happened.

but spencer's touch was nothing like the officer's. spencer's touch was soft and gentle. spencer's touch was feather-light and endearing. spencer's touch was love and home. the officer's was brittle, and rough, and repulsive.

"hug me?" you sniffled as your eyes welled with tears again as they had been for the past three weeks.

"of course," spencer slowly wrapped his arms around your shoulders as yours found his torso.

he walked inside with you still in his arms and slowly shut the door. without breaking from the hug, you both walked to the couch and sat down.

you didn't say anything. you just needed spencer to keep hugging you, so he did. he did whatever you wanted, needed, from him. eventually, you fell asleep in his embrace on the couch.

when spencer looked down at you, now sleeping against his chest, he couldn't bring his heart to remove himself from you. so like any whipped man would do, he carefully picked you up bridal styled and carried you to your room. he took his shoes off as well as his sweater vest before cuddling back up next to you.

as if it was a reflex, you cuddled up into his chest when he neared you again and got underneath the covers. spencer slept the best he did in months with you. and you slept without officer johnson in your dreams for the first time since that day.

ever since then, spencer had been making sure you were eating and drinking. he took you to your therapy sessions and stayed over most nights you had asked and he was able to.

they had a few cases during the two months, so every moment he could, spencer was with you. he coaxed you back to your normal-ish self. he watched as that glimmer in your eye began to slowly grow brighter everyday. he watched as your smile came back, and your tears didn't come so frequently.

the first time he had heard you laugh again, spencer had thought he was dreaming. he wished he had recorded that moment. he was more grateful than he's ever been in his life that he had an eidetic memory, because that sound would forever be engraved in his brain.

when you returned to work, you clung to spencer. he had become your tether to reality, and hope. he had become your rock during the recovery.

over the months, everyone slowly began to forget what had even happened. things went on as usual, and the team forgot the traumatic experience you had gone through. even spencer might've let the experience get lost in his brain.

so when it became 11 months and 3 weeks since the abduction, you began to distance yourself once again.

you politely declined going out with the team a couple days before the anniversary, something you never did. you insisted that you were just especially worn out from the case you had just been on.

spencer had to finish files given to him by derek anyway, so he didn't get to witness the encounter.

once the day of the anniversary came upon you, you found yourself feeling sick to your stomach. you couldn't help the tears that would fall from your face every so often. you knew why you felt this way, but you wanted to push past it.

you had gone into the office wearing a pantsuit and blazer, wanting to avoid the normal office skirt you happened to be wearing the day it happened. you stayed at your desk and quietly did your case files. you didn't even greet spencer as you would every day. you gave him a kind smile, but you would normally give him a hug, or at the very least an eager wave upon his arrival.

spencer just assumed it was one of those days where you just woke up on the wrong side of the bed. it wasn't spencer's fault he thought this. he didn't even look at his calendar to check what day it was. he just knew they had paperwork.

but he did have this day marked in his calendar. he had it marked so he would remember to be extra kind to you, and do your files for you, and come to your place with your favorite wine and takeout. he wanted to help you through the one year anniversary, but he forgot to check his stupid calendar.

you thought he didn't care. you thought the man who you loved, and the man who helped you through everything that had happened had had enough of your complaining and grievances. so, you didn't tell him about it. you didn't bother him with the terrible thoughts clouding your mind because you thought it'd burden him.

so when you finished all of your case files early, you asked hotch if you could leave early, at 2:00, because you had things to tend to. he allowed you to do so, but this rose a flag for spencer.

he saw you exit without saying goodbye to him, something you hadn't done the entirety of knowing him. you had always told everyone to have a nice night and to be safe before leaving, but not today.

finally, he looked at his phone for the first time all day, only to feel like the worst person in the world to realize what day it was. spencer felt absolutely horrible at this revelation and ran into hotch's office as quick as he could after packing his things.

"hotch!" he exclaimed upon opening his office door.

"go. she was practically in tears," hotch informed him. "and reid," spencer stopped in his tracks to turn and look at the stern man, "please make sure she's okay." spencer gave him a soft grin and a nod before turning around and bolting out of the office.

you had gotten home and immediately burst into tears. you shut the door with your back, and slid down it. you had never understood why people had done that in movies until now. you just couldn't wait to break any longer, so you settled for your front door.

you held back no wail, or scream as you cried in front of your door, your knees pulled up to your chest as you held them tightly.

you wondered why you had to go through that. you wanted to know what kind of karma there was for someone who had always tried to do the right thing to be hurt... and for nobody to even care. nobody wanted to console you, or to make sure you were alright.

you had checked up on everyone on every anniversary of their struggles. whether it be a death, abduction, anything, you had been there for every single anniversary or reminder. and nobody was there for you.

nobody was there for you to hug, or to lean on, or to cry to, or to scream at, or to rant to. nobody was there. nobody loved you enough to care about that.

but then you had to remind yourself that they all had lives.

but the person who is your life didn't even care.

spencer didn't care.

and that's why you truly lost it.

he acted like it was just another day. he acted like it wasn't the anniversary of the day you thought you were going to die. the day you wanted to die. the day you felt your most low, and humiliated. the day you lost all hope. and he didn't remember.

if the man with an eidetic memory didn't remember, it must be extremely insignificant. so therefore, you must be extremely insignificant.

spencer raced to your house. he wanted to be there for you today, and he failed. he felt like a failure as a friend. he hated himself for not being there for you when he knew you would need him. he knew how you clung to him in your time of need. you thought he was worthy enough to hold onto when you needed someone, and spencer felt elated at that.

but now he wasn't there for you. and you needed him.

he had quickly stopped by the store and your favorite takeout place to get the things you'd want. he got your wine, chocolate, food, flowers, and a teddy bear that had a sweater vest on him - you've always loved his sweater vests.

when he got to the steps of your house, he felt his heart drop. as he walked closer he heard the wails of your crying right by the door. he could sense the heartache from the edge of your porch, and felt himself feel even worse, which he didn't think was possible.

he instantly ran to the door and knocked profusely. you sniffled one last time, feeling embarrassed that someone had heard you crying your heart out. you had figured one of your neighbors heard you and wanted to tell you to keep it down, so you wiped your tears and the stray mascara from underneath your eyes and opened the door, keeping your eyes lowered in embarrassment.

"y/n," spencer announced sadly, a tear falling down his face. you looked up in confusion from hearing his voice. you noticed his tear and reached up to wipe it away on instinct.

"why're you crying? are you okay?" you asked, forgetting all of your own problems at the sight of spencer crying. spencer let out a small chuckle at your concern.

"i'm alright, aside from the fact that i'm a terrible friend," he admitted as his smile quickly faded upon seeing your stained cheeks. "i brought your favorites," he offered, holding the bag of goodies in one hand and the takeout in another.

"y-you... why?" you asked, wanting to make sure you weren't misreading the situation for him trying to comfort you.

"why?" he asked in disbelief. "because it's the anniversary. i can't tell you how sorry i am, y/n. i swear i marked it on my calendar and planned for us to take off so i could take care of you. i-i just woke up late and never bothered to even check my phone. i kn-know it's no excuse... but i am so, so, so sorry," he rambled out, already tearing up.

you grabbed his arm gently and pulled him inside before you started crying in front of your neighbors. you took the bags from his hands and placed them on your coffee table.

"i thought you just didn't care," you shrugged as you took a seat on the couch, prompting him to sit beside you.

"y/n..." he sighed as he realized how terrible he screwed up. "i will always care about this. i will always care about you. don't ever think differently. i'm just incredibly... dumb sometimes. i can't believe i made you think that," he trailed on. "i will never not care about you, y/n. i swear it. i will always, always care about you. i will always love you," he froze as he realized what he just revealed. your eyes widened, and squinted, and roamed his face, trying to figure out if he meant the words he had just sped out. "i truly do, y/n. i i’m in love with you and i'm so sorry i made it seem otherwise."

it took you a second to absorb everything that he had said.

"you too," you solemnly admitted. "i’m in love with you too. and i could forgive you... for almost forgetting," you gave him a small smile.

"i'm glad you could forgive me. i don't know what i'd do if you didn't," he relished. "you actually love me?" you nodded with a small smile.

"i have for a while," you turned your head to the bags on the table.

"oh! right!" he said, reaching for the gifts. "i got your favorite takeout, your favorite wine, your favorite chocolates, flowers, and..." he trailed on as he revealed each item. "i saw this teddy, and i couldn't resist," he smiled.

you took the bear, taking in its appearance. it had a light blue, navy, and white diamond pattern sweater vest and brown shoes on. it looked like spencer, just teddy bear form. you smiled widely at the sentiment.

"it's you," you grinned as you took it in your arms, hugging it tightly as you saw spencer nodded with a smile mirroring that of your own. "i love it," you chuckled.

"i would understand, the fur is really soft," he relished in the thought.

"i don't think he'd be as good of a cuddler as the real thing, though," you grimaced. "but he'll do for when i don't have you here i guess," you shrugged with a smile.

"i plan on being here as long as you'll let me," he said softly.

"always," you grinned, setting down the teddy bear and trading him for the real spencer reid.

"always," he repeated, taking you in his arms and squeezing you tightly as if you'd float away at any moment. "now let's dig into this food while you talk about your feelings, if you want that is," he said after releasing you from the hug.

"i think i want to," you nodded. "and spence?" he turned from getting the food out of the bag to look at you for a second. "thank you for being my rock through all of this."

"i'll always be your rock, y/n."

@averyhotchner  @greenprisca  @muffin-cup

[brodingles]

Happy Birthday, Kokonut!

Not to get sentimental on main, but I'm about to get sentimental on main, because I haven't done that in a while and this is very important to me.

tw/cw: suicide mention, dementia mention, hospital mention

I drew this 2 weeks ago because it was important for me to have it done, but I’m posting it on April 28th, his actual birthday, as a gift.

April 28th is also the day I graduated from college with my first degree. It was the close of an important chapter in my life. It was the first few years I was ever fully alone, and he was there with me through it.

A lot happened in that time. Some of it is outright devastating and I don’t like thinking about it. I still have nightmares sometimes.

I know it might seem a bit silly in the current landscape of things given how the years have gone, but his character was really important to me when I got into DR. I know we joke about comfort characters now, but he really was that for me. I hadn’t run into characters that thought so much like me up until that point (and to some people that may be concerning-- it’s less so than you may perceive) and I didn’t feel as alone in myself.

Of course, with the behaviors we shared that I liked, I found a bunch that I didn’t like too. Some of them I still do. Some of them I still struggle with. But I know they’re bad now. And I’ve had time to work on them and I’m still fighting every day to work on them.

There were other things that were the same that were outright terrifying. In hindsight, even seeing some of the discussion of them was and still is a little triggering. I have to type this part a bit slowly, because I’m trying to navigate those past feelings safely-- I was in and out of the hospital a lot around this time. I mean a lot. So, so much. My head was rattling, I was so exhausted and weak and I was forgetting so so much. I kept a journal and I reread some of the entries and I was so scared. I still get scared now.

I was diagnosed with a few things around that time, but between the scans and tests and visits, one day my doctor told me something that chilled me: 

“I don’t mean to alarm you, but that sounds like dementia.”

It sent me down a spiral. I was so scared. I remember breaking down and crying a lot of nights because I was worried I would die.

And that was very specific for me. A lot of people completely gloss over this section of his character. Whether they believe he was telling the truth or not was a big contest and I had to stay out of it. (I think at the very least he was diagnosed. But with how his luck goes, who knows what’s actually happening) For me it provided comfort. To have had the wild life up to that point and to be told that specifically when you’re so young. I was young. We were the same age. He may have even been older.

We still don’t know what’s wrong, by the way. I’m about to go back to the hospital.

I started having self destructive thoughts around this time. They’d been dormant in my head for so long, but suddenly they were so much louder. I started posting more ‘vent’ art. It helped. It helped to write someone else saying them. Someone else who COULD say them. He would say stuff like that and it would be no big deal. It was like putting me somewhere more manageable.

I cut my hair for the first time that year. I drew sketches of him with shorter hair to make it less scary. My hair was long and wild and curly just like his was. It made me feel happier to have it. I had always liked my hair but...something about that made me feel more comfortable.  We had the same hair.

but... somewhere in that gaggle I got too attached. So I HAD to cut my hair. I had to cut all ties with him. I had to burn every tie I had to this character to the ground because I couldn’t do it anymore. It became a sore spot. I don’t remember why. I think I was in the middle of a crisis and I had to destroy someone and this was the closest to destroying me I could get.

It’s even longer now than it was back then. I don’t think I’ll cut it again. At least not for those reasons.

Even though it’s ridiculous now, and I’ve definitely moved on to greener pastures, I have to thank this madman for helping me through so much. I don’t know if I’d still be alive if he wasn’t there. I would’ve definitely been so alone. I wouldn’t believe that I deserved better or could ever be better than I ever was if it wasn’t for him.

It made me so happy at the end of the Hope/Despair Animes that Komaeda was doing better, even if he still had his quirks and everyone wasn’t suddenly on his side. I nearly cried by that alone. Because there was hope for him that meant there was hope for me. That one day I’d find my friends and one day I could be free and happy, even if it wasn’t perfect and there were still things to pick up. It made my heart swell. So I wish him happy birthday.

This is very long. I’ve learned that about myself too, haha-- I also like to ramble! I guess some habits die hard. I’m trying to say that ironically, just by existing and getting better he brought me hope like he wanted.

Thank you Kodaka and the Spike Chunsoft Team for the game! I don’t know where I would have been without it! I want to honour your wishes and make something more because you’ve inspired me! Just like you wished!

I want to thank a lot of the characters that I had growing up for shaping me into a better me. I thank them for walking with me through my roughest times when I didn’t have anyone else to. I have more friends now. People who exist IRL to talk to and to bond with. I don’t need my comfort characters so direly anymore. But I still need them sometimes. And I’ve started writing my own! I made my own characters! I’ve grown!

I hope to make someone’s guiding light one day. To make things for them that they have for a season in their lives, and can look back and thank in the future. I have moved past that stage. But I would not be past it without them.

Happy Birthday, Komaeda.

[i-love-side-characters]

What did you think of the end of The Toll?

!!! TOLL SPOILERS !!! PROCEED WITH CAUTION !!!

Scythe Cult:  @honorablescythecurie @honorablescythefaraday @palli-x @book-limerence @lochscinders @a-lonely-tatertot @shellyseashell

bored? send me serotonin please <3

Okay now lets get a couple things out of the way. I haven’t read Toll in a little bit, and it’s taking forever to come from the library. Also, yes I did have it downloaded before, but I kept rereading Faraday’s journal entry when he find out Curie is dead. I know, I’m trash for them but honestly let me have this #curiedeservedbetter2021 #faradaydeservedbetter2021 #curadayforlife

Now that we’ve established that I’m just lonely and so I cling onto healthy (ish) fictional couples for my source of love, let’s proceed.

Things I remember:

 - Rowan and Citra go zoomy zoom into spacey space, but Citra’s deadish because Goddard pulled some shit and so Rowan’s going to wait a couple hundred years for her to wake up

 - Total hottie Ayn Rand shanked Goddard which is honestly a power move you go girl

 - Faraday and Munira unleashed the failsafe, which basically infected a whole bunch of people and now Scythes just kill the infected people so that there’s no suffering

 - Jeri!!! and Greyson!!! Babeys!!! Smol Beans!!! My genderfluid babey with my weird Jesus man it’s a match made by the Thunderhead (because it literally is)

 - Rowan and Citra (who renounced her Scythehood) are going to start a new colony on some random ass planet

Things I don’t remember:

 - Whatever happen with Cirrus

 - Whatever happen with Joel the Jobe Man

 - Whatever happen with Loriana and Munira who are totally in love Shusterman said Sapphic rights 

Okay Akki stfu lets move on:

Okay. I didn’t really like it. I did like Rowan’s sarcasm, but the ending fell a little flat. Compared to the other books’ endings, I didn’t really think it measured up. It was just a bit bland. Here’s why.

The end goal:

Let’s just work our way through the series to show why The Toll just didn’t really work for me.

Scythe - Book 1:

Goal/Climax:

The goal/climax of the book was clear. Citra and Rowan are fighting for the ring. Only one can get it, and the winner has to glean the other. 

The ending:

Citra wins the ring, and is ordained. Instead of actually killing (gleaning) Rowan, she slyly grants him immunity by punching him so that his blood’s DNA would transfer to the database and no Scythe could kill him.  We also got a confession scene where they tell each other they love the other. It ends with Rowan finding out that Faraday did not self-glean.

Why it works:

It is tense. We are watching the two main characters have to either kill the other or be killed. Neither want to. It is clear from their actions throughout that they harbour feelings for each other. This is a high stakes situation. And it flows nicely. We don’t have any unnecessary dialogue/scenes. We don’t have a dumb solution to the problem where a bunch of unnecessary events happen like a character death/romantic scene. They do tell the other that they love them, but the moment is quick and is not the focus of the moment. The focus is on the actual ordainment ceremony and the challenge. The solution directly addresses the main conflict of the book.

Thunderhead - Book 2:

Goal/Climax:

Goddard and Citra (now Anastasia) are presenting their arguments as to who will win the inquest. The inquest was called because Anastasia and Curie needed time to gain more votes in favour of Curie for the position of High Blade. 

The ending:

Anastasia and Curie win the inquest, and Goddard must complete a full new apprenticeship in order to train his new body. Goddard, however, has tricks up his sleeve. He had made a plan prior to the events on Endura to cripple the Grandslayers tower. The plan changes, but works to his favour and destroys the entire island. Curie, in a desperate attempt to save Rowan and Citra, locks them in an airtight chamber that will preserve them so they can be revived. With this sacrifice, Curie is forced to self glean.

“She thrust her blade inward, directly into her heart. She fell to the ground only seconds before the sea would wash over her, but she knew death would wash over her faster. And the blade hurt far less than she imagined it would, which made her smile. She was good. Very, very good.”

-Thunderhead, page 499

Why it works:

*violently screams in my head* I’m good don’t worry

It is a logical ending. If Curie and Anastasia had won the inquest and survived Endura, there would be no need for a third book, unless Shusterman had decided to write a book about Curie being High Blade and Goddard sulking in the shadows and plotting to kill her. That wouldn’t work because I don’t think there is any possible way Curie wouldn’t catch Goddard in two seconds because she’s a boss.

Many people say that Curie should have gotten Rowan to lock her and Anastasia in the vault instead of him. Rowan would have died for Anastasia, it makes sense, but that takes away from the very essence of Curie’s character. She is a truly Honourable Scythe. She knows that Anastasia loves him, and she cares deeply about Anastasia. Letting herself survive would have been completely out of character. She also knows that Anastasia is the future of the Scythedom. While it would be a great help if Curie didn’t die, as well as sparing us emotional trauma, it doesn’t make sense for her character.

This ending also directly “solved” the issue in the book. While the villain won, it was a satisfying ending. Curie is dead, that was a very smart move, because obviously Goddard wouldn’t survive two seconds if she was there. It gave us a good reason for the Thunderhead to disappear.

 *violently screams again* Curie died, yeah, no, I’m okay

The Toll - Book 3: *note that some details may be wrong

Goal/Climax:

Faraday, Rowan, Jeri, Munira, Loriana, Anastasia, Greyson, and Cirrus need to figure out what to with the frozen Tonists, all unknowing that Scythes Goddard and Rand are heading towards the island. They still need to beat him in order to make sure that the non-Scythe population won’t be subject to bias/malice/aforethought/Goddard’s ego. 

The ending:

Rowan, and Citra, who renounced her Scythehood, travel to another planet that can support life with the frozen Tonists, as well as 42 other ships carrying Tonists. Cirrus is copied into 42 different versions in order to save humanity. After being offered Citra’s old ring, Munira (I believe) returns to the Library of Alexandria. Faraday follows through with the failsafe and gleans only the suffering. Greyson and Jeri stay together on the island, and become romantically involved. Scythe Rand is the one who eventually kills Goddard.

Why it DOESN’T work:

Okay, there’s a lot to unpack here. I’m just going to go character by character and by the plot.

1. Plot - It just doesn’t make sense. The hero’s solution doesn’t in any way stop Goddard, who is the main villain. We’ve led up to this for a very long time, and Rand is the one who gleans him. If I’m correct, The main characters don’t interact with Goddard for nearly the entire book, save Rowan. The solution, to save humanity by colonizing other planets would, without Rand’s interference, let Goddard wreak his havoc on the world. Only Scythe Faraday and Morrison could truly challenge him, and even then Faraday is old and hasn’t kept his abilities refined, and Morrison is young and inexperienced and wears a denim robe.

2. Rand and Goddard’s Arcs - Rand is the one who kills Goddard. I think that this was a very interesting move, and one that made a lot of sense. Goddard has treated her terribly, it would satisfy her arc of turning against him, as well as giving her a redemption arc that would also avenge Tyger’s death. I think that this is actually a really good arc, were it not for the fact that Citra and Goddard never fought/interacted with each other. If there had been a fight, and Rand had killed him then, that would have been better and would have better satisfied the actual conflict in the book.

3. Rowan and Citra’s Arcs - In terms of Citra’s arc, I think it was emotionally impactful to have her renounce her Scythehood. But Rowan didn’t have as much of a part to play in this book as he could have had. Citra and Goddard also never interacted, which would have been very interesting since he was the direct cause of her mentor and canon mother figure’s death. It would have been an interesting scene that could have played out really well. Based on Discord texts from a conversation I had, I know an reminded that the last two pages of The Toll were incredibly impactful and beautiful. I don’t have much to say about Rowan since I don’t remember much of his role.

4. Jeri, Greyson, Loriana, and Munira’s Arcs - I paired these four together since their doings aren’t very solid after the books. Jeri and Greyson are canonically together, which I think was a great move by Shusterman. Having a main character in a healthy relationship with a canon LGBTQ+ character was incredibly impactful for me, and it satisfied Greyson’s thoughts about how he doesn’t care if Jeri is a boy or a girl, he just loves them. Loriana didn’t have as much of an arc, but Munira did have a small one. Her refusal of the Scythe’s ring let her dispense of her hatred for Scythes and their system, and let her let go of her bitter feelings about not being ordained. 

5. Cirrus’ Arc? - I do not remember enough to speak about Cirrus’ role in the books.

6. Faraday’s Arc - This is probably the one I have the most to say about. I am sorry in advance. Faraday is an emotional character. He has cried canonically twice as far as I can remember, once when he gleaned a child, and the other when he found out Scythe Curie and Anastasia had died on Endura. He is also openly disgusted with Scythe Goddard and his practices, which is why I supremely dislike his arc. It would have been so interesting to see how he would have reacted if Scythe Goddard and the heroes had interacted during the end scene of The Toll. We know he is an Honourable Scythe, like Curie, and upholds the Scythe Commandments, especially after his punishment over his breaking of the 9th commandment “Thou shalt have no spouse nor spawn.” It would have been so. interesting. to see whether Faraday would snap and attack Goddard, if he would try and talk to him, how he would react. Like with Anastasia, he would have been interacting with Curie’s murderer. The potential of that moment! Don’t forget that Faraday is definitely still in love with Curie, based on his elevated heart rate in Thunderhead, and his journal entry in The Toll. I think it would have been so interesting to see him confront her killer.

Summary:

Okay that was much longer than I intended, and I have more thoughts, but it’s 2:40 am and I haven’t slept in a while. So my summary. I liked The Toll. It was a solid book, that had funny moments, jaw dropping moments, heartfelt moments, and emotionally impactful scenes. It was a solid book.

I don’t think it compared as much to the other two, especially Thunderhead. The ending fell a little flat and didn’t carry the arcs as well as I would have liked, but honestly, I still reread it. Shusterman really managed to pull at your emotions.

Because I just beat up on the book for the last couple paragraphs, let me tell you some of my favourite parts of the book.

1. Literally any scene with Possuelo and Anastasia that dynamic was so good and him calling her “meu anjo” literally made my heart do a little happy dance the father-daughter dynamic was what we needed. It also offered a nice levity to tough scenes.

2. The Rowan-Anastasia Reunion. They ran towards each other and knocked each other off their feet. Ohhhh my god, they ran towards each other and knocked each other off their feet! That was so cute, and as someone who was a strong supporter of platonic Rowan & Anastasia, I honestly loved it.

3. Faraday-Anastasia Reunion. Him dropping to his knees in front her her, her initial confusion as to who he was, and the “perhaps the greatest of all Scythes was kneeling in front of her” part killed me. Their reunion was so well written and heart-wrenching.

4. Anastasia Cries about Curie’s Death. I feel like WatchMojo right now. Anyways, the way her emotions break after trying to repress her sadness over her mentor’s sacrifice for her.

5. Rowan’s sarcasm. Beauty. What a power move to sass the guy who’s going to set you on fire in front of 3000 people.

6. Scythe Constantine and Rand. What a dynamic I wasn’t ready for. Rand’s cool comebacks with Constantine’s sly personality just made for the most amazing dialogue opportunities. 

Thank you anon!

[thestarkerisobvious]

The Thing That Lives Under The Bed

   art by @starker-sorbet​          a snugglefic for @mrstarksbaby​                   

                              Chapter Two:  Fifteen

3:  The Author Of All Your Misery

The next night he was back on the floor, of course.  Tony spoke to him from the blackness underneath the bed and soon was emerging from the darkness like an inkblack cloud.  Peter steadfastly closed his eyes until he looked like Tony again, and then Tony was beside him on the floor, clutching Peter’s arm with both hands like a drowning man and sucking vigorously at the veins on his wrist.

From there they crept into Peter’s bed, moving under the covers and keeping their foreheads together, whispering.  Peter lay on Tony’s left, leaving his right arm lying between them to give Tony better access to the ring finger on his left hand.  Sometimes Tony sucked the last two fingers into his mouth, sometimes he only suckled at the fingertip.  It gave Peter a very strange feeling, but he was getting used to it.

“Are you really a demon?”

 Peter asked when he was brave enough.

Tony looked into his eyes for a moment before he answered. “’Spheres’ are now called ‘stars’ and ‘planets.’  The ‘sun’ is now called ‘star’.  The college is now called “High School.”  I do not yet know what I am called now.  

“My novice magician,” he said gently, stroking Peter’s lips with the tips of his fingers.  “You have yet to tell me.”

“I told you I am not a magician.”

Tony smiled wryly.  “You also told me of the alchemy you used compel your make-seem volcano to erupt for a scholar’s prize, but lost the prize because your volcano erupted too violently and created a catastrophe…”  

“That was not… that was just science… that was so embarrassing.  You can drink all of that embarrassment. I don’t want to remember it.”

Peter turned in Tony’s arms, pressing his back to Tony’s chest, and was silent for a moment, thinking.  Tony’s hand played idly with the sleeve of Peter’s pajamas, sometimes slipping beneath it, and did not speak.

Peter had spent the day searching his memories, and then his journal, for the story Tony had told of a classmate named Wager.  Peter knew one boy named Martin Wagner, but he was one year older and never really talked to Peter.  And Peter couldn’t remember the last time he was told he couldn’t make a long distance phone call was too expensive – he was allowed one half-hour phone call a month to Ned as part of his allowance.

But in his pile of letters to and from Ned he found it.  He spent hours rereading the letters that Ned had written to him, and the copies of letters he had written to Ned.  And there it was.  Buried in the reports of the students at Devil’s Hollow High, including every student in Peter’s grade (there weren’t many.  Ned was fascinated at the idea of knowing the name of EVERY student in your grade.)  A description of Martin Wagner was there too, even though he was in a grade above.  The memories were there – the memories that no longer resided in Peter’s brain.  

Martin, the older boy who had been to Peter’s favorite museum in New York City and brought the postcard he had bought there for Peter to see.

Martin, who was in the 4H but knew plenty of science when it came to animal husbandry, and thus just enough to hold a decent conversation.

Martin who “said crude things about girls” but also was good for a lengthy conversation/argument about what MIGHT happen in the last Star Wars movie.

Peter pieced the rest together from what little facts stood out in his memory.  Martin was coming over to spend the night.  Peter was excited because he hadn’t had a sleepover since New York City. The phone ringing and Uncle Ben being told that Martin wasn’t coming, Martin’s father giving the flimsiest of excuses.  Uncle Ben swearing and stomping (a horror in itself, Uncle Ben rarely swore) and ranting about the ignorant, superstitious people of the town.  “They really give credit to those tall tales about Evan Post and that witch nonsense?  We live in a farmhouse, not a ghost story.”

Peter, slipping in quietly (timid because there were raised voices in that room, he was always timid around raised voices) and meekly asking if he could just call Ned on the phone instead, but being told that wasn’t possible. “You know long distance is too damn expensive.”

Had Peter cried?  Had he talked back, or actually raised his voice?  Had he scolded Ben and May for moving him away from New York City, away from all his friends (and all the decent libraries!) and a school with an actual science club?  Away to a notorious haunted-house that made him a pariah at school?  

Had the damn broke?  Had he actually yelled at them, finally after bottling up his feelings in silence for so long?  Something must have happened, because he was sent to his room so very rarely.  He had thrown himself on the floor by the bed and cried, he remembered that.  He remembered it, because he remembered the Thing That Lived Under The Bed had come and licked away his tears.

It was too alarming to watch as it emerged from under the bed, so Peter had closed his eyes.  The tongue that licked his face clean was small and sandpapery, and Peter quickly concluded that one of the cats had actually come inside and hidden under his bed with Tony. A cat that smelled of burned incense and earth.

He remembered that cat-tongue against the pulse in his wrist, too, although he couldn’t remember putting his entire hand under the bed.  It licked against his wrist for so long, he remembered, waking up and falling asleep again while he lay on the floor.  May had found him the next day, asleep with one hand under the bed.

That much he remembered.  That much was clear.  What came before?  was impossible to tell.  Each memory felt like something pretend, like a book he had read a long time ago and never really believed.  Tony claimed he had been punished by being “sent to his room” which meant he must have said something wrong to his Aunt and Uncle, but he couldn’t tell what was memory and what was imagination.  He didn’t remember a single conversation with Martin.  

Tony had taken it all.

“I am the author of all your misery,” Tony murmured, combing his long fingers through Peter’s hair.

“No, not really,” Peter assured him, thinking of all the reasons he had been so miserable since moving from New York City to Devil’s Hollow.  It wasn’t Tony’s fault Peter read so fast, or that the library in this town was so small, or that the librarian was so hateful.  It wasn’t his fault Peter only wanted to talk about theoretical physics or science fiction and now lived in a town where neither seemed to matter.  It wasn’t Tony’s fault the boys at school wanted nothing to do with him, any more than it was Peter’s fault he didn’t know a lot of dirty jokes and didn’t enjoy passing around stolen Playboys behind the school.

Tony propped himself up on ones elbow and began stroking Peter’s face with gentle fingertips.

“Your schoolmates shun you because of me.”

“No, they do that because they think I live in a haunted house.”

Tony used two fingers to turn Peter’s head toward him, looking into his face.

“You do live in a haunted house, Peter.  I am haunting it.  I am the author of your sorrows.”

“So… it’s true?  But… are you a ghost?” Peter said, turning around again.  He rested one hand on Tony’s forearm, feeling the muscle through the fabric of his billowy white shirt.  It seemed very thin, certainly it was thinner than Peter’s arm, but it was thicker than it had been the night before, in the dream.   In the dream, there had been nothing but skin and bone.

“Are you dead?”

“I am not dead,” Tony answered, caressing Peter’s arms as well. “I do not die.  I sleep.  I can sleep for a very long time.”  

“You’re not Evan Post?”

“Evan Post is dead.”

“Was he a witch?”

“No.”

“What was he?”

“He was a nothing,” Tony said as he stroked a lock of Peter’s hair behind one ear, then stroked it again to keep it in place.  They lay very close together, forehead to forehead as he spoke. Sometimes Peter reached out to stroke Tony’s chin, running his fingertips against the short-cropped beard.

He still wasn’t brave enough to do more.

“His forefathers had been apprentices of low rank in an order that has no name.  That order had stolen books from another order.  There were many books, Hector Post had only taught his son to read one. Of that book, Evan Post could read little.  The Patriarch of the Post clan had summoned me.  I was tasked to take messages to the city, when it was called New Amsterdam.  But it is difficult to recall.  I was sent into the ground to sleep for long periods of time. “

“Wait, there are books about you?  Where are they?”

“They are burned.  The staff that he said did give the Patriarch power, he bade me drown in the lake.  I cannot retrieve it.  I am forbidden.”

“Is it true, the story of the dead pigs?”

Tony gave a crooked smile.  “Evan Post despised his neighbors.  Sent me to destroy their swine.  I was to devour them.  I was hungry enough of the first night.  And on the second.  But on the third I was too sated and could eat no more.  Too many carcasses.  I could not consume the bodies. I tried to tell him.  He would never listen.”

Peter swallowed hard and thought carefully before asking the next question.

“Tony, did… did Mr. Post task to you to kill his neighbors?”

Tony’s eyes had drifted closed as he told the story of the swine, but they opened slowly when Peter whispered his question.

Tony sat up a little on his elbow, reached out and combed his fingers through Peter’s hair again, then ran one firm hand down Peter’s spine until it rested in the small of his back.  He used that hand to move Peter forward slightly, bringing their mouths close together.

“Why do you ask me questions that vex you?”

“Did you?”

“Should I answer you, and bring you pain?”

“Does that mean you did?”

Gently Tony brought the fingers of Peter’s left hand to his mouth and kissed the tips softly, as if kissing them goodbye.  He opened his mouth to speak, thought better of it, and closed it again.

Then he nodded.

“How many?” Peter asked, his voice breaking.

“Eight.  Nine. Maybe a dozen.  I do not recall.  Oh sweet one…”

Tony reached for him as Peter pulled away, but then let go.  As Peter curled into a tight ball under the sheets Tony only stroked Peter’s shoulder blade with his knuckles and waited.

“How?” Peter managed through his tears.  He had decided when they first moved to the house that Evan Post had been a good person after all, just a very lucky many who also liked living by himself.  The prettiest parts of the house had been built by Evan Post, or so they had been told, including the beautiful massive dining room table that Aunt May loved so much, and the chest of drawers in her room.  Evan Post had built the large empty barn where Peter had spent so much time reading and watching the barn owls.  The dead man had become like an invisible friend in Peter’s imagination.  He didn’t want to know that his invisible friend had been a murderer.  

“And now I am the author of more pain,” Tony whispered, leaning over to kiss Peter on the shoulder.  “Please ask me no more.”

“Just tell me.”

As Tony told the story Peter couldn’t help himself.  He missed Tony’s arms the moment he left them.  Slowly he pushed himself back, inch by inch, until he was back in Tony’s embrace again.  He pulled Tony’s arms around him and played with the long, pail, tapered fingers as the man spoke.  

“Evan Post despised other people.  All people.  He left his home so rarely.  When he went into the village he was filled with hate and loathing and mortal terror. He would return here and I would drink it all from him.  Then he would forget all his fear of people and behold!  Off he would venture into the village again!  More for me to feast upon.

“But more than once he would remember his hatred for his fellow man and send me out to slay them.  Some had scorned him, others had mocked him.  Some simply enraged him because they insisted on engaging him in conversation.  One old biddie and merely asked him when he would marry.  He despised all humankind.  I was sent into their beds so that they would not rise again.”

Peter scrubbed the tears away from his face.  He knew it was ridiculous to mourn these people who would have been long-dead anyway.  Aunt May had explained what had happened in Devil’s Hollow when Evan Post had lived there. But World War 1 had just ended, and many people died in their homes, especially in the winter.  It was just that way back then.

“I have caused you so many sorrows.  Let me take them from you, I can make you forget.”  Tony said, nuzzling his ear.  He reached for Peter’s arm, pulling Peter’s wrist to his mouth, but Peter snatched it away.

“No.  No, I’m not going to forget this.  It’s important that I remember this.  It’s important to remember that it’s wrong.  It’s wrong to kill people, Tony.  You can never do it again.”

“Very well,” Tony said calmly.  He did not react to Peter’s sudden movement, nor the order Peter had hissed at him.  He settled his head back against the pillow and held Peter close.  He didn’t seem particularly concerned at all.

“Did Ev… did Mr. Post make you do other bad things?”

“My tender-hearted scholar.  He bade me kill the venomous snakes.  I devoured them by the score, convinced those I could not eat to dwell in other places. There were wolves in those days, though very few.  I was tasked to guard the animals.  Will you weep for the wolves and the serpents, too, sweet one?

“I’ll try not to.  Did Mr. Post know you were a demon?”

“The books he burned called me a demon.  Although his grandfather’s brother insisted I was a pagan god.  I enjoyed him.  The neighbors, when there were neighbors, called me Fae.  They left me milk and bread at the crossroads on their holy days. Evan’s grandmother called me the muse.  In New Amsterdam there were still natives at times, the Delaware, the Mohawk.  They called me Wendigo, when I was still allowed to consume the deer of the forest. But when the natives told stories of me, I was confined to the farm.”  

“Are you still keeping the rattlesnakes away?”

“I have not been tasked to in some time.  I convinced many generations of snakes to dwell elsewhere.  It seems they still remember.  Would you like them to return?  They are quite tasty.”

“No thanks.  Did you poison the wells?”

“I was never tasked to.  But I could tell him pure water from ill.  I protected the buildings from lightening.  I built many things for him.  He would build furniture but grow tired of it, and I was tasked to finish it.  He enjoyed building large things, I was left with the fine work.  Most often I was tasked to bring him news from the village so he need not venture there.  

“I protected the land, the pond and the forest beyond it.  I was given that task by his grandfather.  

“But as the years passed he created so very little.  Enjoyed very little.  There was so little to eat.  When I begged him to feed me he sent me into the forest to eat, or else cast me into the ground until he needed me again.  He lived for one hundred and twenty years.  Then when he died he burned his books and tried to cast me out.”  

Tony chuckled.  “But how does he cast without his spellbook?  His foolishness was always his undoing.  He tried to banish me back into the infernal realms, but why should I return there?  I have dwelt in the realms of men for so long.  I fought him.  He was unskilled.  He tried cast me into darkness, and so I sought out the darkness under the bed. He had no power to cast me further. It thought I had bested him.

“But then he was gone, and no one else came.  I could not consume his body, I had been forbidden.  No other magicians inherited me. I was all alone. I could not cast myself back to the infernal realms, and soon I was too weak to leave the darkness under the bed. I was trapped.

“Others came.  I made them fear.  I drank their fear.  But I could not touch them, so I could not take it all, not enough to make them forget what made them afraid.  They would become too afraid, and then I would be left alone again.  Time and time again it happened.  Unable to leave from under the bed I could not even venture into the forest to eat, only consume what poor fair found its way into the house. I feared I would be trapped forever.

“But Evan Post left a house that men would covet for generations.  Like a gingerbread house, drawing in little children for the witch to consume,” he said with a grin, kissing the side of Peter’s face.  “Wealthy men came to inspect it, I fed from their dreams of a quiet life of contemplation. Women would come to praise the art of the wainscoting, the furniture.  I fed from their admiration.  Workers would come, I would frighten them, then feed from their fear.  Wealthy families came to dwell here.  They were happy.  I could have fed from their happiness and left them plenty to spare. They had animals, I could have found enough strength to creep out on stormy nights and feed from them.  But I had feasted on fear for far too long.  I wanted nothing else.  I was so greedy.  I made them fear.  Frightening sounds, frightening words, frightening dreams.  So much fear to consume.  Then frightening images as well!  So much horror, so much terror to feast upon.  I made them fear too much.  Too many feasts.  They became too afraid, and so they left me.  My greed was my undoing.  I was left alone.  I cannot say for how long.  I have forgotten so much.  

“Then you came.”

He used one firm hand to pull at Peter’s arm until Peter turned in his arms.  Tony tilted Peter’s chin up with one crooked finger and brought their mouths close, and Peter found himself unable to look away from those dark eyes.

“You came, and I thought you would surely starve me.  You had no fear.  But you had a light the which I had not tasted since I was summoned to New Amsterdam.  Not since Simeon the Elder have I tasted so many questions.  My library-pilgrim.  My novice magician.  My Master Doctor.”

“I told you, Tony,” Peter whispered, suddenly nervous with Tony’s mouth so close to his own.  “I’m don’t have a Masters OR a Doctorate.  I’m still in high school.”  

“You know more now about the heaven above than any Master Doctor I ever served.  My scholar.”

“Tony…”    Peter’s mouth had gone completely dry, but the question burning in his brain was too big to ignore, so he dared himself to ask it out loud.

“Did you… drink my tears that night?”

“Of course, it is a form of your light.”

“And if you did drink by blood, literally, would that also be light?”

“No, that would be substance, and it would harm you.  But the sweat that forms at your brow,” he said gently, kissing Peter’s forehead again.   “If it were from fear or frustration, it would be light.”

“So… you’re saying that body fluids…”

He blushed and ducked his head.  Turned out he wasn’t brave enough to ask the question after all.

Tender tapered fingers lifted his chin and Tony leaned in to press their lips together, lapping gently into Peter’s mouth with the tip of his tongue.

He pulled away for a moment and Peter looked up into his face. Shyly, he smiled.  Tony smiled as well and repeated the action.  Peter stayed very still and let it happen, with one hand firmly gripping Tony’s shoulder, keeping him in place.  

Finally the action became too wet and Peter had to pull away, giggling as he scrubbed his face dry with his sleeves.  “Eww… that was worse than sucking on my fingers.”

Tony grinned and pulled him closer, holding him in strong arms until he fell asleep.

-----------------------

The Master (Post)

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ONE MORE - THE END OF CHAPTER TWO - TOMORROW

Questions, comments and constructive crit should be addressed to @witchwayisright​ where the story is being discussed.  

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MY FEELS:

@starkerprince – @starkeristheendgame �� @dizziestofdaydreams – @twokinkybeans – @flush-styx – @silentsunplays​ – @statansterio -- @fleet-of-ships​ -- @castiruth​ -- @statansterio  -- @starkerthanreality​

If you would like to be added to the dinner menu please send me a note.  This list is being updated constantly.  Tony may need to be conjured to make all these links work.

[stickylittleleaves]

9, 22, 27, and 29!

[for the sake of these answers I'm going to pretend you don't live with me & know me very well 😙] 9) What's a book you want to buy? these days I'm mostly into buying theory or history type stuff; those books take a long time to read (longer than a library checkout usually allows) and are good to keep around anyway. I've had my eye on C.L.R. James' The Black Jacobins (about the Haitian Revolution) and Angela Davis's Are Prisons Obsolete? for a long time, so one of those will probably be my next purchase. other than that I love buying good quality art books when I find them for a reasonable price, and I'm always looking for vintage paperbacks with cool cover art to add to my collection! one thing I read often but don't usually buy is contemporary fiction, just because it's not something I tend to reread a lot or need to spend more than a few weeks with. but I have started getting some stuff by modern novelists I know I can depend on, like Zadie Smith! 22) How do you organize your books? this has caused a bit of conflict in our apartment in the past (😘 we've mostly worked it out by now). I used to be pretty rigorous about shelving fiction in alphabetical order by author and nonfiction by subject, basically a library model, but I've experimented with different systems since we combined our collections a few years ago and now the method we both seem happy with is kind of just... vibes based? some shelves are by color or appearance, some by size, some if they're from the same publisher or series, etc. it would have freaked the old me out but I think it reflects my evolution into a more accepting and easygoing person! or at least I hope that's the case. I do also have a bunch of books lined up on my writing desk, with the idea that they're books I might call on while writing. so there are reference books, guides to weird subjects (medieval history, angels, fairies, gothic literature), collections of fiction and poetry and essays, and a few random things I find inspiring, like a copy Kafka's journals. I kind of just grouped these desk books together by topic, but it's not very formal. 27) What books can always make you cry? the "always" in this question is throwing me off a bit because I don't reread super frequently and I'm not sure if I've cried from the same book twice, but I think good poetry is the most likely to bring tears to my eyes? there's a section of a poem Tennyson wrote to his dead best friend (and possible boyfriend!), "In Memoriam A.H.H., section 50" which always gets me, and was actually the source of one of my tumblr urls back in the day. (I don’t really care for or about Tennyson otherwise but I read that poem in college and it stuck with me.) Mary Oliver's poem "Dogfish" always hits hard too, as well as the last few stanzas of W.H. Auden's "September 1, 1939", and Danez Smith's "summer, somewhere" also crushes me. sorry if I sound snobby picking poetry--I don't even read it that often--but it's just the truth! I've definitely cried from novels too, but poetry is a more concentrated dose of emotion. 29) What's the biggest book you've ever read, and how many pages did it have? the real answer is the NIV bible when I was in high school 🤓, which has however many pages the bible has, but the slightly less lame answer is either Middlemarch by George Eliot or The Brothers Karamazov by Dostoevsky, both of which are 800+ pages. I love them both tho!

[fleckcmscott]

Watch What Happens - Chapter 7

Chapter links: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6

Summary: Arthur, an aspiring comedian, has struggled to find normalcy and compassion his entire life. Y/N, a hard-working paralegal and transplant to Gotham, has just been put on a case for the Wayne Foundation. When they meet, unexpected sparks fly.

Chapter warning: Adult Situation, Swearing

Words: 1,927

When Arthur arrived back home, it was nearly seven. He’d gone to Pogo’s, again, to try to get a spot to perform. No money was coming in and he was desperate for a chance. With a sigh, the manager had told him about an upcoming open-mic night for new comics next Tuesday. That gave him almost a week to perfect his set. He hadn’t hesitated when he signed up. Until then, he’d continue to practice his facial expressions and punchline timing in his bathroom mirror.

Penny still didn’t know about his firing from HaHa’s - he didn’t want her worrying. In the morning he’d leave the apartment and search for work a couple of hours, going from business to shop to anywhere. He hadn’t had any success. There weren’t a lot of opportunities for an uneducated clown with an unstable employment history, even if he had a work ethic.

Luckily, he never had to be out too long to hide his unemployment from her. Penny didn’t pay much attention to the exact times he was around and rarely asked questions. As long as he was there to check the mail, get meals, keep her company for a few minutes, and watch Murray Franklin, she didn’t pry. At times he wished she would, but her lack of meaningful attention was currently convenient.

It also meant he didn’t have to tell her that his therapy appointments and medication access had been stopped due to budget cuts. That had been a blow. He didn’t understand how something he’d been court ordered to participate in could be taken away. The appointments weren’t particularly helpful, he thought. But they were something on his calendar, and he hadn’t missed a single one. He’d shifted his work schedule around, missed out on good gigs to get to them. He’d written in that damn journal, the one thing that seemed to do him some good, every day. At least he could continue with that.

Fuck. And to be told right after the first date in his life…

He smiled softly, thinking about Y/N. If the day had ended after their pie and stroll together, it would have been perfect enough to frame. She’d asked him about his condition, seemed to be curious about it in a caring way. At first, he was uncomfortable talking about it. Normally, his involuntary laughter only came up when he was apologizing for it. But she had discussed his affliction in a way that stopped him, at least temporarily, from feeling like a freak. And the way she’d caressed his hand at the diner when she’d noticed his discomfort… It had been wonderful to be touched by someone other than his mother.                        

As they’d walked together, their steps in sync, he longed to put his arm around her waist. To feel the warmth of her body against his side, turn his face into her hair and kiss her head, the way he’d seen in films. And, if he did that, every person they passed would know that she was with him. This city that he hated, its thoughtless inhabitants, would know this beautiful, accomplished woman had chosen to spend her time with Arthur Fleck.

He would never comprehend that choice. But he was grateful for it.

When she had given him a pen and paper to write his address and number, it took him a moment to gather himself enough to jot it down. He hoped he’d been able to keep the look of shock off his face. To his surprise, Y/N had called that night to thank him for taking her out. She’d given him her home number, too, which he’d written on a paper taped to the wall next to the phone, and on a paper that he’d put in his wallet, and in his notebook. The conversation had been short, sweet, and she’d asked if she could call the next night.

Christ, she had to ask? He’d finally have something to look forward to after watching television with his mother.

Since then, they’d spoken for at least a minute or two each night, though their conversations had gotten a little longer with every call. Admittedly, Y/N called him most of the time. He’d been confident enough to reach out twice, though, and he felt good about that. He could tell she’d been pleased, too.

During every conversation, Y/N asked him to tell her a joke. Arthur happily obliged. Her gentle groans and chuckles made him grin, and caused a tight feeling in his chest. More than once, he’d pinched himself to make sure he hadn’t made her up - afterward, she was always still there.

The facts he’d learned about her went straight into his journal, so he could reread them multiple times a day. She recently started work on a case involving the Wayne Foundation. (”Will I ever stop heering that name?”) She lived in Burnley. (”Three train stops or a 40 minut walk away!”) She’d been divorced for over ten years, but it had been mutual, so, in her words, “no baggage there.” That last one made him painfully aware of his own inexperience.

When she pressed him to talk about himself, it was hard to know what to say. He couldn’t tell her he was on a ton of medications, or that he’d been in Arkham. She’d already claimed to have accepted his laugh - he wasn’t going to press his luck this soon.

No one besides doctors and counselors, and occasionally Gary, usually wanted to hear anything about him. And he thought he’d covered everything he didn’t have to hide in the diner. “There isn’t much to tell,” he’d breathed.

“Well, I guess I’ll just have to see you again, Mr. Fleck.” Her voice had dropped conspiratorially. “Can you come by for dinner Friday night? Around seven? I know it’s short notice, but it would be great if you could.”

Oh my god.

His pulse sped up. He pressed his palm against his chest. “Yes. Yes, I think I can. I can.” He wrote her address down shakily, as if he was afraid the pen would stop working.

“Great. I can’t wait to see you, Arthur.”

After he’d hung up the phone, he’d been so thrilled he did a little two-step. Then he went into the bathroom, the only room that would lock and guarantee him a moment’s peace, and turned on the shower. He’d stepped in, taken his erection in his hand, and stroked and tugged himself to completion. Remembering her voice, imagining it was her hand on him, his mouth on her lips, on her neck, between her thighs. The water muffled his cries as he leaned against the wall with his arm.

Now, Thursday evening, Arthur was mopping the kitchen floor, a cigarette hanging from his lips. The radio was on, playing Lawrence Welk, and he swayed to the music. He hummed softly, his movements becoming more of a dance as his thoughts turned to tomorrow night. She’d be cooking for them, for him. Even though he was never hungry, he’d do his best to enjoy whatever she made. He wondered what her apartment would be like, sure it would be as warm as she was. Would there be candles? Did the wallpaper have flowers on it? Should he bring something?

He brought the mop handle up closer and led it around like a partner, feeling a little foolish but also enjoying himself. He closed his eyes. “What, Y/N?” If he concentrated hard enough, he could almost feel her against him. “You want me to do what?” Chuckling, he shook his head. “You don’t mean that, you-”

The door buzzer broke him out of his fantasy. Who the hell would be coming over now? Furrowing his brow, he straightened and leaned the mop against the counter. He smoothed his hair back, plucked the cigarette from his mouth, and opened the door.

Gary stood there, a small smile on his face. “Hey, Arthur. How’s it going?”

“Gary, hi.” Arthur had never had a co-worker over before. He didn’t mind the intrusion, though. “What are you doing here?”

Gary lifted his arm and held out a small plastic bag. “You forgot to take these when you left.”

Arthur took the bag and looked inside it. A couple of pots of blue and red makeup were in it, as well as brushes he’d left on the vanity at HaHa’s. He nodded at the thoughtful gesture. “Thanks.” He motioned towards the apartment with his left hand. “Do you want to come in?”

Gary looked surprised, but stepped forward. “For a minute, yeah.”

“Happy, who’s that at the door?” Penny’s voice came from the bedroom.

Arthur closed the door, then turned and called back to her. “No one, mom. They had the wrong apartment.” He looked down at Gary apologetically. “My mother…”

“It’s okay.” Gary put his hands in his pockets and leaned back against the wall. “So…have you got a new gig yet?”

It felt strange to Arthur to have a conversation with Gary in his own entranceway while towering over him. As there were no chairs nearby, Arthur moved to sit next to him on the floor. “Not yet. I’ve been writing a lot though. Five jokes in a week. Actually,” he brightened, “I’ve got a show on Tuesday. It’s not paying but it’s a start.”

“That’s great,” Gary said.

“Yeah.” There was a long pause, then. Arthur looked at Gary as he took a drag off his cigarette. “And I… I have a date tomorrow night.” He hoped he hadn’t crossed a line. They hadn’t been close, but Gary had never made fun of him. He had merely needed to tell someone besides Penny.

Gary looked genuinely happy for him. “Who is she?”

It was strange but good to talk about Y/N to someone. “Her name’s Y/N. She’s pretty.” Even though he still didn’t understand what she did for work, he said it with pride. “She’s a paralegal.” He laughed softly. “It’s crazy. I met her at a grocery store. Now I’m going over for dinner.” A sigh escaped him, his eyebrows lifting as insecurity filled him. “She’s important to me. And I don’t know what I’m doing.”

Gary pursed his lips. “Did she invite you over for dinner or dinner?”

Arthur blinked at him in confusion. “What do you mean?”

“How long have you known each other?” Gary asked.

Arthur did a quick count of the days in his head, then shrugged. “Three weeks?”

Nodding, Gary said, “Hm. Just be a gentleman. Don’t try too hard. And be ready in case she wants dessert.”

Arthur caught his meaning then and felt himself blush. A short chuckle escaped him as his hand went to his forehead. He made a mental note to go through all his Murray Franklin tapes and re-watch every Dr. Sally segment he could find.

Gary straightened then. “Well, I gotta go. It was good seeing you,” he said.

Arthur pushed himself off the floor. “Sure.” He reached for the doorknob, thinking a moment before opening the door. “Gary, you were the only one at HaHa’s that was nice to me. Thanks.”

Gary took a step back through the door frame, a small grin on his face. “Take care, Arthur.”

“You, too.” Arthur started to close the door as Gary started down the corridor, but thought better of it and stuck his head out into the hallway. “Gary?”

Gary turned around. “Yeah?”

Arthur paused, then went for it. “You can tell Randall I have a date. If you want.”

Tag list (Let me know if you want to be added!): @harmonioussolve​@clowndaddyfleck​ @stephieraptorr @rommies​

[exoticarmyofcrowns]

first love | myg

pairing: none. this is a solo yoongi fic

summary: nothing is for certain. except yoongi’s love for his piano. or: first love in too many words

genre: song fic, angst

warnings: some mentions of depression and yucky thoughts, potentially triggering mention of a panic attack (i tried to be purposefully vague but just in case), potentially graphic depiction of a car accident

word count: ~5.5k

a/n: hello! so uh here i am making my debut! i am still reeling from the emotional rollercoaster that was bangbangcon and it kinda rallied me into wanting to publish this?? i adore first love, i think it is such a poignant, poetic representation of yoongi’s love and devotion to music and i really wanted to explore that relationship a little in story form. i’ve had this written for a while and i’ve always wanted to write stuff on here but never had the courage. but i figure we all collectively need some respite from our emotions so here is a small gift, if anyone would like to take a look. if you do, pls enjoy and let me know your thoughts! <3

(also, please keep in mind that artistic liberties were taken despite being based off of yoongi’s life.)

Yoongi is five years old.

He wanders out of his room, looking for his mom. He just has to show her this awesome drawing that he made. He knows that she’ll love it, that she will be proud of him. Smiling gleefully, he toddles off into the rest of the house to find her.

“Eomma!” he yells, hoping she’ll hear him and give him a clue as to where she is. Maybe she’s playing hide and seek! Yoongi giggles at the thought, determined now more than ever to find her.

He checks his parents room, frowning when he realizes it’s empty. It’s not bedtime, he reasons, she wouldn’t be in here. Closing the door, Yoongi sets off into the living room to check there. But there’s no sign of his mother there either. She’s not in the kitchen and the bathroom door is open so she’s not in there either. Frustrated, Yoongi turns to go back to his room.

On his way back, he spots a door at the end of the hall. His eyes narrow as he purses his lips. He hadn’t checked there yet. Maybe she really is hiding from him. Deciding it was worth a try, he stomps over to the door and reaches up to grab the handle. 

It takes a few tries but Yoongi manages to gather enough strength to push open the door. He whips his head around, checking every possible corner for signs of his mom. He’s about to let out a frustrated whine when his eyes catch on something on the far wall to his right.

A piano.

Yoongi had seen pictures of pianos before in the stories his mom would read to him before bed but he had never seen one up close. It’s massive, towering over his small frame in a way that should have been intimidating but only filled him with quiet wonder. 

Scrambling up on the tall bench--which should have tipped over with the force of his jump but it miraculously stayed put--Yoongi takes in the white and black keys, marveling at the way they shine in the light coming from the window. He sticks out a small, chubby finger and presses one of the keys. The note rings out around him and he giggles in delight. 

Pretty, he thinks. He begins pressing keys in earnest, playing around with different note combinations and laughing in pure joy when he finds a pair that he likes. He’s so enraptured by the piano that he hardly notices when the door creaks open.

“There you are, little one.” His mother’s voice has a playful lilt in it as she watches her son play the piano with unadulterated glee.

“Eomma!” Yoongi cries, excited to show her his discovery. “Look! A piano!”

“I see!” she laughs. “You’re quite the musician.”

“Musician,” he repeats, liking the way it feels on his tongue. “I feel so nice, mom.”

Yoongi’s mother cards her fingers through his hair fondly, chuckling at her precocious son. “Hmm, maybe the piano likes you. You two will grow up to be the best of friends.” She scoops the young child in her arms, heart warming at the squeals of laughter the action elicits.

“Come on now, my little Beethoven,” his mother says, setting Yoongi back down on the ground and taking his small hand in hers. “It’s time for lunch.”

As he follows his mother out of the room, Yoongi takes one last look at the piano. He smiles, already excited to play again.

Yoongi is fourteen years old. 

The last bell rings, signaling the end of the school day but Yoongi hardly hears it, pen scribbling furiously across his paper. Inspiration had struck in the middle of math class and he has to get the lyrics down before he leaves to go home. 

Finishing, he rereads through his work with a small smile. He’s quite proud of these lyrics, thinks they might be the best yet. He already has an idea for a backing beat swirling in his head, one that would really compliment the message of his rap and the new flow he’s been experimenting with. He feels giddy with excitement at the idea of playing around with some different sounds. Standing, Yoongi packs up his things, throwing his journal into his bag before heading out with the rest of his classmates. 

As he walks, Yoongi is, not for the first time, conscious of how alone he is. Girls walk in line with their arms interlocked while the guys are loud and boisterous, hanging off each other with wide grins on their faces. He has friends of course, if you could call the neighborhood kids he plays basketball with on occasion “friends,” but none that he would consider particularly close to him. The thought leaves him feeling strange so he shuts it out, shaking his head roughly as if to physically dispel it.

He makes his way to the school entrance, hanging a quick left past the convenience store to the bus stop. He catches a glimpse of a group of students talking and laughing, indulging in a hot bowl of ramen before heading home. Yoongi’s stomach rumbles at the sight and he pauses, calculating. His shoulders slump when he realizes he doesn’t quite have enough, the change burning a hole in his pocket just enough to cover his bus fare home and little else. He doesn’t get paid again until Friday. Shoving his hands in his pockets, he ignores the cramping in his stomach and continues on to catch his bus.

The bus ride home is, thankfully, uneventful. He trudges his way from the bus stop to his house. Like he does every day. As he climbs the steps, Yoongi thinks a little wryly to himself that the house that had seemed so huge to him as a child feels scarcely bigger than a prison cell. Maybe it’s the hunger talking.

Opening the front door, Yoongi sighs out a half-hearted I’m home! despite knowing the house is empty. He bends over to shuck off his shoes and place them in the cubby. A soft thud sounds behind him but he doesn’t notice.

Yoongi heads to the kitchen to down a glass of water in the hopes of dispelling the growing hunger pangs before shuffling to his room, tossing his backpack carelessly at the foot of his bed and flopping face-first onto the thin mattress. He knows he should probably get up and finish his homework but he still feels the residual exhaustion from his weekend shifts at the convenience store. Maybe he should ask Mr. Kim to lighten up on his hours. Yoongi would have to sell more songs to make up the income difference but he thinks it might be worth it to get some extra sleep.

He nods off for what he swears can’t be more than a few minutes but the sound of the front door shutting and the way his room has dimmed significantly suggest otherwise. Swearing, Yoongi turns on his bedside lamp and rubs a tired hand down his face. He stands, stretching his tight muscles, and moves to grab his bag from the floor. The house is eerily silent considering his parents have just come home but Yoongi brushes the thought away in favor of pulling out his textbook to get started on his homework.

Just as he’s about to sit down, a figure stops in front of his bedroom doorway. Yoongi looks up, a small smile and a greeting on his lips. They both wither at the sight before him.

There stands his father, holding his lyrics journal. Yoongi feels his mouth go dry.

They stare at each other for an immeasurable amount of time. Yoongi tries to think of something, anything, to say but his mind has blanked and his skin prickles in a cold sweat. His father recovers before he does.

“Min Yoongi,” he begin, voice deceptively calm. “What is this?”

“A-Appa,” Yoongi stutters. “I can explain--”

“I thought we talked about this, Yoongi.” He steps into Yoongi’s room and the younger boy fights the urge to cower where he stands. “You should be focusing on your studies. Not on these frivolous songs.”

Yoongi winces and tries to push down the flash of irritation. “Yes, appa. B-But I haven’t been letting it affect my grades. I get all my school work done and I try to help you and mom out by picking up extra shifts at Mr. Kim’s store--”

“And selling this drivel on street corners?” Yoongi freezes. His parents weren’t supposed to know about that. “Oh yes, I know all about your little escapades on the streets. Do you know how risky that is? What kind of danger you could be putting yourself in?”

“I…” Yoongi’s voice sounds incredibly small and he hates it. “It’s just to get my name out there. Get some experience.”

“You don’t need experience. This…nonsense--”

“It’s rap, appa. Hip hop.”

His father fixes him with a look but doesn’t comment. “This isn’t a real career, Yoongi.” 

“But I… I love it,” he whispers, trembling with repressed anguish. 

“Love is not enough to make a living.” His father closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose, sighing heavily. “Is there more?” 

Yoongi hesitates before nodding slowly.

“Give it to me.” He holds his hand out, frown set deeply on his forehead. “This ends now.”

Balking, Yoongi takes a step back, heart crawling into his throat and suffocating him. “A-Appa, no. You can’t--”

“I can and I will. Hand them over, Yoongi.”

The boy feels something akin to rage rush through his veins. He chances a glance at the doorway and sees his mother standing there uneasily.

“Eomma,” he cries thickly.

His mother looks equally as pained but her gaze flickers to her husband. “Your father is right, Yoongi-yah. This… Rap is a hobby, not a job. This could get you involved in the wrong circles. You need to focus on your school work.” She doesn’t meet his gaze.

Anger bubbles in his chest and stings at his eyes, but he chokes down the frustrated scream threatening to tear itself from his throat and moves mechanically to gather his other notebooks full of lyrics. Stiffly, he stands before his father and offers the notebooks.

His father’s expression softens minutely. “We’re doing this for your own good, Yoongi. Please do not doubt this.” With that, he leaves. A year’s worth of lyrics. Gone. His mother lingers at the door but ultimately leaves without another word.

Suddenly, his room feels too small, the faded walls of his old home closing in on him rapidly. Frustration and the anger swirl so violently in his stomach Yoongi thinks he’ll be sick. He can’t be here anymore but he also can’t leave. 

So he runs to the only place he can think of.

The piano room has remained largely untouched since his younger days. The air is stale and faintly musty but Yoongi doesn’t care, can’t bring himself to care as he flings himself onto the old piano bench, arms cradling his head atop the fallboard. Hot, angry tears fall in torrents down his cheeks and his fists clench so tightly he can feel the sharp sting of his nails on his palm. He muffles his cries into his arms, into the piano, unable to keep the sounds to himself any longer.

It takes a while for Yoongi to calm down. Eventually, his tears slow and his breath evens out, though it still hiccups slightly in his chest. He sits up gingerly and stares down at the piano. He hasn’t been here in years and yet… It felt so natural to come here for comfort. Like it was waiting for him.

Shakily, he moves to slide the fallboard back, revealing the shining keys. He straightens his back, falling into position. His fingers hover over the keys, supported lightly by his wrists. The angle is different now that he has grown, no longer dwarfed by the beautiful instrument. Hesitant, Yoongi tries to recall one of the songs his music teacher had taught him and begins to play stiltedly.

It’s awkward; his fingers can’t quite move the way they used to and his new height works against him as he tries to find a comfortable position to play. But the longer he sits, the more comfortable it becomes until he feels like he’s sat here his whole life--playing, listening, living. Yoongi feels a shiver travel down his spine, cleansing and fresh. The anguish and tension from earlier bleeds through his fingertips as he loses himself. 

Gradually, Yoongi stops playing, letting the resounding final notes of his song envelop him, but he doesn’t move. He stays, basking in the warmth, a sort of quiet acceptance, that seems to cradle his body as he sits. 

Caressing the keys almost reverently, Yoongi makes a promise to himself. Rap and writing lyrics and music--these things make up the complex tapestry that is him and he will never let that go ever again. It’s his life to live, his destiny to choose, and he will not let anyone make that decision for him. Not even his parents.

And as he sits there, the boy with his piano welcoming the dawn, he feels the weight on his heart lift just a bit.

Yoongi is nineteen years old.

The rumble of the small bike he uses to make deliveries is the only thing keeping him awake as he drives to his next customer. He’s been pulling more all-nighters as he and the other guys work toward debut, writing songs and going over choreographies. It’s an endless loop of meetings and practices and Yoongi can feel the strain on his frayed nerves. He knows he’s been moodier with his members, too.

His members, he thinks wryly. It wasn’t exactly what he had imagined when he accepted his position at Big Hit but he figures it’s the only way to get what he wants. Music is more important to him than anything. If it requires him to play nice with others for the time being then he can do that. 

Yoongi rolls to a stop at a traffic light and lets out a small sigh, foot coming down onto the pavement to steady himself. The roads are practically empty and it does nothing to quell the exhaustion weighing down his eyelids. It seems like no matter where he is, work will always be a constant in his life. He hadn’t even meant to get another job on top of his producer gig but he’d seen an ad looking for someone to make deliveries a few times a week. The pay was pretty decent and it would be a nice supplement to what he was receiving at Big Hit so he took it. 

It was, however, coming back to bite him in the ass now that things are starting to pick up for them. Just a little longer, he figures. Once they debut, he’ll probably have to quit anyway so might as well enjoy the little extra paycheck for now. Yoongi taps his foot impatiently on the ground as he waits for the light to change, sighing in relief when bright green washes over him and signals him to go.

He’s not quite sure how it happens. He remembers picking his foot up off the ground as he releases the clutch, crossing over the line into the intersection. He thinks he recalls the distant sound of a horn blaring, of a bright light flashing, but that’s overshadowed by the sudden force pushing him onto the ground. His head cracks back against the pavement and thankfully his helmet bears the brunt of the impact but Yoongi still feels the sharp pressure against his skull, a dull ringing sounding in his ears.

Yoongi’s eyes had closed when he was thrown back and he pries them open, vision fuzzy and unfocused, only to be met with the daunting image of a car wheel right in his face. Belatedly, he registers the sound of a bone-chilling scream. He tries to turn his head to find the source of the sound but he realizes with haunting clarity that it’s coming from him. 

Just as he makes the connection, Yoongi begins to hurt. White-hot pain radiates from his shoulder so potent it chokes him. He hears the sound of an engine revving and the wheel in front of his face starts to move away. It catches on his bike, sending it crashing into his shoulder, and another scream of agony scrapes his throat raw. Tears stream from his eyes, further obscuring his vision, but he can still make out the image of the car speeding away, tires screeching as exhaust spews from the pipe.

Yoongi is torn between the excruciating pain and the disbelief that someone just fucking hit him and drove off without even stepping out of the car. He wants to shout curses at the retreating vehicle but the throbbing in his shoulder has intensified even more, churning his stomach so violently it’s a wonder he doesn’t throw up right there. 

Hours pass, it feels like, before a strange sort of numbness begins to filter through his limbs. His body is heavy, and his eyes can no longer hold themselves open. He’s not sure how long he lays there, disoriented and unable to move before someone takes notice of him but he thinks he hears someone frantically calling 911. Soon he hears the sharp siren of an ambulance, lights blinding Yoongi even as he teeters between consciousness and unconsciousness.

The ride to the hospital is a blur. The paramedics had tried talking to him but he was just so tired and everything hurt so bad he could hardly focus long enough to force his lips to form words much less complete sentences. They must hook him to an IV because he feels a sharp prick on the inside of his arm and suddenly his muscles relax. He knows he can’t sleep though so he fights to keep himself awake.

He barely registers arriving at the hospital, the jostling of the stretcher the only indication that he’s moving. A doctor asks one of the paramedics for the report and Yoongi only hears bits of the diagnosis. He knows his shoulder is fucked but the way they’re talking about it unnerves him. He’s anxious now, heart rate spiking as he thinks of the implications this could have on the group. His breathing stutters, sending a shooting pain through his ribs, and he can feel the beginnings of a panic attack tightening in his chest. This catches the attention of the doctor and nurses and they’re suddenly focused on him.

“Yoongi-ssi,” the doctor begins, voice soft and cajoling. He vaguely wonders how he knows his name but then figures the paramedics must have found his license. “You’ve had quite the accident. I know you must be in a lot of pain but is there someone we can call to stay with you and sign some papers?”

Yoongi stares unseeingly at the doctor’s face and really tries to get his voice to cooperate. He knows he can’t call his parents, not yet at least, so he says the first name that comes to mind. 

“N-Namjoon. Kim Namjoon.” He rattles off what he hopes is his phone number before the effort becomes too great. He tries to fight it, he really does, but the events of the night begin to take its toll and his eyelids slip closed as he falls into the beckoning darkness.

When Yoongi comes to, he’s greeted with an annoying beeping somewhere off to his left. He squints, eyes blinking furiously to clear his vision from the blinding white of the hospital room. Moving to sit up, he winces and immediately stops trying to move. He feels like he’s been hit by a truck, which is not too far off, he thinks a little dryly.

A movement to his right makes him flick his gaze to the window where a figure he hadn’t noticed before jumps up from their position in a chair. It’s Namjoon.

“Hyung,” he cries, eyes wild as he practically sprints toward the bed. Yoongi would laugh if he weren’t sure he looked just as ridiculous. “What happened?”

Yoongi scoffs only to grimace when the small movement jerks his shoulder. “Oh, you know, just a casual Friday night.” He tries to joke but Namjoon just gives him a deadpan look so he clears his throat and looks away. “I was making deliveries and some asshole ran a light and hit me. Pretty sure they crushed my shoulder.”

Namjoon nods. He had heard as much from the doctor when he had come in. He seemed to be unimpressed with a barely legal kid coming as Yoongi’s “guardian” but Namjoon couldn’t have cared less in that moment. 

“Do you know who did it?”

“Nah, the bastard sped off as soon as I went down.” Yoongi watches as Namjoon’s face drops in horror, head tipping back in disbelief. 

“Goddammit.” He runs a tired hand through his hair before sliding it down his face.

“What time is it anyway?” 

Namjoon glances at his watch. “Almost eight.”

Yoongi releases a breath. “Fuck. There goes morning practice.” 

“Hyung.” Namjoon’s voice has deepened into his leader voice and Yoongi fights the urge to wince again. “Be serious.”

At his sides, Yoongi’s fists clench. “Does anyone else know?” He raises his gaze to look at the younger man. Namjoon shakes his head once, not breaking eye contact. “Good. Keep it that way.”

The leader balks at that. “What?!” he splutters. “You can’t be serious--”

“Joon.” Yoongi cuts him off with a look, voice softening into a desperate plea. “Please.”

This stops Namjoon short. Yoongi is so rarely vulnerable with him but they have been working and living together for two years now. They’re coworkers and, dare he think, friends. He doesn’t know the full story but he does know that Yoongi’s life has been anything but easy. He has his own reasons for doing the things he does and Namjoon has to understand and trust that Yoongi knows what he’s doing. 

Although it goes against everything his mind is screaming at him, Namjoon nods at the elder. “Okay, hyung. I won’t say anything.”

Yoongi relaxes then, thankful that the younger has decided to trust him.

The next few hours pass relatively quickly. The doctor comes in shortly after their talk and gives Yoongi a run-down of his injuries. His shoulder is practically nonfunctional and he has to keep it wrapped and in a sling for at least six weeks, possibly longer. He doesn’t have a concussion, thank goodness, but the doctor reminds him to come back if he experiences bouts of nausea and recurring headaches. He looks reluctant to say so but he tentatively tells Yoongi that he can leave the hospital but he strongly recommends that he stay at least a few days. Yoongi immediately refuses.

They discuss proper care of Yoongi’s injuries before he’s finally released downstairs to fill out his discharge papers. Namjoon sticks close to his side, listening attentively to the doctor’s explanations and helping Yoongi fill out the papers he can’t quite lift his arm high enough to sign. His ears burn hotly with embarrassment but he’s thankful for Namjoon’s presence nonetheless.

The trip back to the dorm is silent but not uncomfortably so. They hail a taxi from the hospital entrance and Namjoon helps the older into the back seat, opening the door and steadying him as he sits. Yoongi wants to protest that he’s not an invalid but he sort of is. Also, try as he might, he can’t quite stop the swell of affection that overtakes him as the younger fusses over him so he sits back, silent.

Yoongi doesn’t bother to try and hide it from the others. Can’t, really, since they’re all sitting in the living room waiting for them as soon as they step through the doors. Seokjin is the first to reach them, brow furrowed in concern as he takes in Yoongi’s haggard appearance and his sling. He places a hand on his good shoulder, squeezing gently and moving to cup the side of his neck in a tender gesture, before murmuring something about making something for him to eat. 

Jeongguk is next, doe eyes puffy and shining with tears, and he looks like he wants to launch himself at Yoongi but Hoseok has a strong grip on his forearm, other arm rubbing soothingly down his side. Yoongi reaches out and ruffles the youngest’s hair, lips quirked in a small smile to let him know that he’s alright. A small whimper escapes the boy but he valiantly keeps his tears at bay, returning a watery smile before retreating further into Hoseok’s hold. Hoseok looks deeply into his eyes, tense posture relaxing as he gives his hand a squeeze. Jimin and Taehyung stay back but look at him just as sadly as the others. Yoongi shakes his head and offers another smile he hopes is reassuring. He doesn’t think it works. 

The boys fuss over Yoongi well into the night and he tells himself that he’s too tired to be annoyed at their coddling. Namjoon basically moves into his and Seokjin’s room, insisting that he help take care of his injuries as per the doctor’s instructions. Showering proves to be a challenge and it takes both Namjoon and Seokjin to help him undress and cover his cast so that it doesn’t get wet. Yoongi practically dies from the mortification but he’s grateful for the two of them.

Yoongi resumes their regular schedule of activities, much to the disapproval of the rest. He hides his sling and cast under massive t-shirts and jackets that swallow his slender frame whole. Dance practices are hard but he forges ahead, pushing his shoulder to limits he probably shouldn’t but it gets the job done and keeps the suspicious eyes off of him. He pays for it later, though, in the confines of his room after Namjoon and Seokjin have fallen asleep, when he has to muffle his sobs of agony against his good arm.

He likes to think he’s been managing fairly well all things considered but one practice tips him over the edge. It’s been three months since the accident and his shoulder has healed almost entirely but it still acts up every so often. This morning had been particularly rough and no amount of pain-killers had been able to take the edge off. 

The choreographer had just left, leaving Hoseok in charge of the rest of practice. Yoongi sits heavily on the floor, chest heaving, and grabs his water bottle before guzzling the contents. They’ve been going at it for the better part of four hours now and there doesn’t seem to be an end in sight.

“Hoseok-hyung,” Jeongguk pants, flicking his t-shirt against his body in an effort to cool down. “Can we take a break? Please?”

“Soon, Guk. I just want us to do a few more run-throughs before we call it a day.” Hoseok’s eyes don’t leave the mirror as he completes a step and repeats it again.

Jeongguk pouts but doesn’t protest further. Namjoon flickers his gaze over to Yoongi before heading over to Hoseok, clapping a gentle hand on his shoulder. 

“Come on, Hoseok-ah. Why don’t we take fifteen and recuperate a little. Then we’ll get back into it.” He sends a pointed glance to where Yoongi sits near their things and the elder man bristles slightly at that.

“Namjoon. It’s fine, let’s just keep going.” He tries not to snap but he knows it comes out far more bitter than he means.

“Hyung, I just think--”

“I’m fine.” Yoongi launches himself from the ground and takes his position in front of the mirror. “From the top.”

Namjoon and Hoseok share a look as the others stare in silence but Yoongi ignores them in favor of analyzing his form in the mirror. His shoulder throbs insistently.

“From the top,” Hoseok repeats lifelessly, and everyone falls into position. 

They manage a few more rehearsals before Yoongi truly starts to feel the consequences. He’s sore and sweaty and his shoulder seems to have developed its own pulse, pounding painfully in time with the music. One move in particular sends a shooting pain down his arm so sharp he yelps in surprise, doubling over with the effort to breathe. The others are on him in an instant.

“Hyung, are you alright--”

“Yoongi-yah, why don’t you just sit--”

“Hyung, come on, let’s all just--”

“I said I’m fine!” Yoongi roars, irritation peaking. “Would everyone please just stop treating me like I’m made of fucking glass?”

No one answers, no one even dares to breathe. Five heads swivel to Namjoon who seems just about as bewildered about the outburst as everyone else.

Yoongi is breathing heavily now, part from pain and part from the force of his outrage. He knows he’s being irrational but he’s sick and tired of having them hover around him like he could collapse at any moment. He’s fine goddammit!

Another long moment passes and Yoongi can’t face them again, not when he feels so unstable. Frustration--at them, at no one, at himself--forms a heavy lump in his throat and he swallows thickly to dislodge it.

“I’m heading to the studio. Don’t wait up.” He grabs his bag and practically flies out the door, heading to the second floor. He flings his studio door open and quickly closes it behind him, breathing heavily. 

His head falls into his hands before they move into his hair and tug harshly. Hot tears prick at his eyes and Yoongi can’t stop the anguished cry from leaving his lips as he crumples in on himself. He’s just so tired and stressed and in so much pain. He knows the others mean well but he hates this, hates being reminded that this only happened because of his stupidity. He was the one with the second job, he was the one who got in that stupid accident, he was the one who forced them to keep it a secret. It’s hard on everyone and Yoongi has no one to blame but himself.

He shouts in frustration, throwing his bag down harshly onto the ground. The action seems to awaken a deeper desire to destroy, to hurt just as he is, and before he can think through it, he’s overturning the small armchair and coffee table with a yell. 

Red flashes behind his eyes and the emotions that have been simmering low in his stomach boil over, running hotly through his veins. Yoongi screams at the furniture as if they’re the cause of his suffering and he lands a violent kick to its surface, once, twice. His desk chair receives the same treatment and he turns to grab the baseball bat he keeps by the door. Stalking toward his electric piano, he raises the bat above his head to strike but he hesitates. Another harsh ripple of pain rushes through him and that’s all it takes. 

Dropping the bat, Yoongi falls to his knees just as the first tears fall. He cries and cries, clutching his shoulder as if it were the only thing anchoring him. He can’t do this anymore, he can’t. He’s not cut out for performing or music or any of it. 

Maybe his parents were right.

He stays there for a while, hiccuping in the silence of his studio. His breathing eventually slows but the heaviness in his heart remains. Looking up, Yoongi takes in the sight of his piano. It’s obviously different from the one he has at home but it’s still familiar, comforting. He rises slowly, taking care to mind his shoulder, and grabs the small bench from underneath the stand. Sitting, his body moves almost automatically into position. Yoongi’s shoulder twinges again but it’s more manageable this time. He takes a deep breath, centering himself, and plays.

He’s not sure what he’s playing, just letting his fingers glide across the keys as they see fit. He almost wishes he were recording himself so he could listen to it back but he doesn’t want to stop playing even for a moment to pull out his phone. So he doesn’t; just keeps playing. And playing. And playing.

It’s hours later when Yoongi finally stops. The last note lingers delicately in the air and he doesn’t breathe for fear of shattering the serenity that had settled around him. Only when it’s silent again does he exhale and he feels different. Still hurting, still heavy, but peaceful. 

Sighing, he stands up from the piano and goes to right the furniture he upended during his tantrum. Once everything is back in order, he looks around the room until his gaze lands on the piano. It just stands there, unmoving, unchanging, just as it always has, and an unnamed emotion tightens in his chest. He lingers, letting the feeling seep into him until he’s filled with it. He closes his eyes.

Yoongi knows he can’t guarantee his future. Hell, he can’t even guarantee the next five minutes. But, he thinks, as he picks up his things and leaves the studio, sending one last glance at the instrument, perhaps that’s alright, as long as he has this.

all rights reserved © exoticarmyofcrowns 2020

[thebooknook2705]

Book Review: Thunderhead (Arc of a Scythe #2) by Neal Shusterman

Rating: 5/5 stars

Oh. My. Word. I love these books so much. Where to start? The characters are all amazing and fleshed out, its so interesting to see the characters all interact with each other and grow in their own ways. I finished this book in less than two days- I couldn't put it down. Honestly, although I'm not done with the third book yet- I would love to just reread this trilogy once I'm done- but I think my TBR pile has different plans. I love the world the books are set in, I love all of the characters, POV or not, the pacing, the format, and I love the plot and the ride the books take you on. One thing's for sure: reading these books has been an emotional rollar costar. I shouted in frustration at the book, I cried, I laughed out loud, I exclaimed- needless to say- reading these books was a loud experience. You know a book is really good when it makes you feel so much. One of the many things I love about these books is the format of the chapters. In between each one, there is an excerpt (usually from a scythe journal or the Thunderhead) that shows you a different perspective from the POV characters- speaking of, we have quite a few new POV characters in this book, and I thought Greyson Tolliver's storyline was also excellent. In fact, it was nice to be able to move away from the scythedom for a while, especially because of all the stress that storyline was giving me, to get more of a glimpse into what else this incredible world has to offer. We also got to have much more from the perspective of the Thunderhead, and it has quickly become maybe my favorite character? (I love it so much, I "awww-ed" on more than one occasion). It had pretty funny moments- I laughed quite a bit during its bits, and it also made me want to cry and/or give it a hug (if it had a body to hug-that is).

WARNING: FAIRLY HEAVY SPOILERS AHEAD- Spoiler Free Conclusion Below I was so sad for Tyger and Rowan during their arc- that one hit hard. But not as hard as that ending- yeesh... it was so terrible to read, yet I just couldn't look away. Everything was going so well, and then it was just so crushing. And I feel I was robbed of seeing Goddard get his comeuppance- I was really looking forward to seeing him have to deal with being demoted to apprentice. And when they see the helicopter and you think that there is hope, and it just... there are no words. But that's how you know how a book is really good, when it makes you really feel. But as terrible as all that was, one part that really, really hit where it hurt was when Scythe Volta's ex-mentor was saying how Volta's death opened his mind- I cried because he self-gleaned BECAUSE of how awful he felt about the new order and all the terrible things he'd done. He self-gleaned because he DID have a conscience and because he DIDN'T enjoy what he was doing. And I read that and I had to look up from the book and just stew for a second because I knew that Scythe Volta would have been DEVASTATED that his death had that effect, on a man he looked up to, no less.

END OF SPOILER SECTION: But I do recommend reading these books. They are SO GOOD and SO worth the emotional turmoil they put you through.

[idiosyncrasy-at-its-finest]

March 8, 2020.  A message for a friend I never shared (+ mini blog post)

Routine sweeping of my google drive.  Not sweeping because there’s over five hundred docs, probably (almost all of them stories + pieces of fiction + journal type thought jots + poems).

I wrote this at 12 am.  It’s just over three pages long in docs.  I shared it (w/o sending an email notification) to the person this was for.  When I woke up and remembered what I’d done, I unshared it.  I don’t think he ever saw it.

Disclaimer: I don’t have any romantic feelings for him.  People have thought so and that just makes me feel awful (since he has a girlfriend).  I had a crush on him when I was in seventh grade (he was a freshman).  I’m a rising junior now, and he’s going off to college.  An iVy lEaGuE boy <3

Writing remains unchanged except for a ‘wh’ I corrected to ‘with’ and another typo (I was really tired (+ sad) when writing this).

Hope you enjoy because I cried while rereading this.

Title in docs: it’s too late for this

Hmm I looked this over.  Dumb.  It’s okay.  It’s 1am.  I’ll chalk it up to being sleep drunk or whatever it is I go through.  Or hormones.  Yeah that’s it.  Yeah this makes zero sense but it’s like a stream of consciousness type.

March 8, 2020

I think the word love is kind of fake now, I do.  Everyone uses it so casually and I’m guilty of the same thing.  Idk why I’m writing like… this.

Okay.  Hi.  I’m feeling a lot of things right now and, to be frank, I don’t like it.  It’s strange.  And weird.

One: dependence.  I have friends, yeah, and one go-to friend who’s pretty much always there for me when I need her.  But when I don’t need her, like in school, there are these hurtful, biting comments, these eye rolls that really really hurt.  I’m just not as comfortable with her as I used to be.  And I have other friends, sure, but not ones that I can rely on for everything.

But you?  I think I’m a bit too reliant on you.  I spoke to someone on omegle (multiple people really, but I digress), and they said not to do drugs.  Wow symbolism or whatever.  It’s not like you’re a drug per say, but I just have a really really really bad addiction.

You’re kind of like candy.  I love it but know that it’ll give me headaches after.  And in your case, or our case, it’s not like you give me a headache.  It’s me.  I really dislike that.

Let me start over.

I love you.  More than I should.  I don’t feel as much with other people.  Not as many positive emotions.  My family makes me really sad sometimes, my friends get me really annoyed.  They both can make me feel happy, but you… you make me feel like I’m on cloud nine.

Do I know what that is?  Not really.  Do I care?  No  A little bit.  I don’t like not knowing things.  And yet…. I digress.

I don’t want you to feel like you have to do anything about it or text me more or whatever but you are important to me.  That’s it.  You are important to me.

You are so important to me.  I kid you not, everything you do affects me.  When you say something that isn’t exactly positive, my mind reels over it for hours.  If you ghost in the middle of a conversation, I obsessively check my phone.  I realize this behavior may be displayed in psychopaths and yet… I trust you’ll stick with me.

Maybe it’s because you treat me so well.  I’m not sure.  You entertain my questions, you listen to me.  I’ve been called annoying my whole life, my family tunes me out, I’ve developed the habit of talking to myself.  People jokingly point out that I talk too much about myself, I talk too much in general.  They think it doesn’t hurt.  It does.

But you make me feel heard.  Most of the time.  And then other times I remember that I’m not the only thing in your life.  You have other friends, a girlfriend, other priorities.

I love you so much I would never want to hurt you.

But I forget I’m not as important to you as you are to me.  I care about you so much it hurts.  My stomach tightens every once in a while when I text you.  Not quite butterflies but something else.  A snake, maybe, squeezing my insides.  It makes me feel like I’m about to explode.  This hasn’t ever happened to me before.

And I talk about you too.  Probably too much.  My friends once joked and said that if you broke up with your girlfriend it would be my fault.

I didn’t like that.

I suppose you’re on my mind more often than you should be, but I can’t help it.  And maybe this sounds like a love letter— and I guess it’s because it is— just not that kind of love.  A special kind.  A kind I’ve never experienced before.  A kind reserved just for you.

It’s really late.  I’m sorry you had a bad day.

I’m not quite sure what to say anymore but I know there’s lots.

I think that you probably don’t know the effect you have on me.  I don’t either.  Maybe it’s because I’m going through a particularly rough time dealing with… who knows what.  It’s not a simple mood swing though.  I’ve been feeling… off… for ages.

Everyone says I’m so happy.  I like that they think I am.  I love to make others smile!  And with you I’m always so negative.  I’m sorry.  I just feel guilty being sad with others.  And I’m tired of being sad alone.  I don’t like where my thoughts go.  No extremes but… it’s lonely.  And overwhelming.

When you’re here for me I feel like I can be myself.

But in school.

I’m sorry.

I’m sorry for always insisting you don’t love me.  I know you do or at least I hope you do since you always say so.  It’s just that whenever you’re near I want to cling onto you.  You’re my lifeline.  You simultaneously drive me insane while being the only thing that keeps me sane.  Somewhat sane.  Every time you leave, I hurt a little bit.  And it’s not your fault.

I tried, for a bit, getting rid of you.  Decided it was unhealthy.  Unhealthy to love someone the way I love you.  But I was too weak.  I muted your notifications, I didn’t start conversations, I took you off my private story.  It only made me check more, wait more anxiously, feel more alone.  And you hadn’t even noticed.  I don’t think you knew you were even taken off.  That’s okay.  I’m not sure what I was expecting.  And it’s fine you don’t always start conversations.  You kind of are now though.

When you told me you kind of missed me the other day, I smiled.  Really wide.

And I remember last year, maybe.  I gave you a hug and immediately you’d asked what was wrong.  We barely talked last year and yet you knew.  You could tell, better than anyone else.  I’d spent the previous night crying, but I didn’t want you to know.  I think I told a joke and you laughed.

And another time it happened, where I hugged you and you asked what was wrong.  But that time nothing was.  And I laughed because I realized it was so you.  To maybe act like you don’t care about me but then really be there when I need it.

But sometimes it feels like you’re embarrassed of me.  I’ll hug you and you’ll pull away, tell me you have to go.  And I feel like a burden.  Boy if I haven’t been called one before…

And I’m sorry for calling so much.  It’s annoying, I’m annoying.  I know.  And I’m sorry.

I don't text that often.

A tedious task— just see each other at school.  I prefer to call, as well, so my hands are left free and I can do other things.

But I text you a lot.

Also.  When I called you.  And you called me [a nickname only family + close friends call me].  And asked what was wrong.  It felt nice.

But I think I’m too attached.  I don’t like it.  I don’t like how I say ‘I love you’ without having punched you beforehand.  I don’t like how real it is.

It sounds like love, doesn’t it?  Like I’m in love.  Maybe I am.  I think I’m in love with the idea that maybe someone really will always be there for me.  But I’m not in love with you.  Not like some people say.

Again, I’ve spoken about you.  You’re on my mind a lot.

Will I send this to you?  Maybe.  It’s weird talking to ‘you’ and yet not really.  I think I might share it with you.  But I won't send an email.  I don’t need you to know about this

I didn’t even end with a period.  I shared it with him, at 1 am I believe, thinking I’d update it every so often.  He wouldn’t have gotten a notification when I shared it, so I figured if he saw it, he saw it.

I would constantly tell him I loved him more and every time he argued back, saying he cared more for me, in my head I’d be screaming: “no, I love you more” because it really felt like it.  Still does.  I’m not sure where I got these trust issues, but they’re here and they’re mine.  He wouldn’t hear me out, so I had to type it.  I can tell him anything, I know that.  He’s like the brother I never had except we’re not always at each other’s throats like many brothers and sisters are.

[etraytin]

Quarantine, Day 60

Today's journal is later than usual again, but this time because I was playing Gardenscapes and listening to podfic and just completely lost track of time. Mother's Day is so great! I mean, my husband is very good about pulling a large amount of domestic weight in the household, especially considering he's the one with the full time job, but on Mother's Day, I get my breakfast in bed, and then I can basically do what I want during the day with no responsibilities. Even when we're not quarantined, that's usually some variant on "long bath, stay in pajamas, play games, read, eat terrible and delicious food." The guys cooked all the meals today and did all the chores. They are truly the best. 

Of course, when you are a mom and also have a mom, you do still have some duties on Mother's Day. MIL also got to enjoy three meals prepared by husband and kiddo, and we got her a sturdy ceramic mug with a knitted cozy, a tea strainer, and five sample-size teas from the tailgate market. Nothing big or fancy, but she liked it. My mom is far away and the logistics of shopping and mailing things is hard right now, but she likes homemade things better anyway. Since I don't currently have a WIP fanfic she is following, I had to get a little more creative and wrote her a poem instead. In my family and my home community, my mom is known as a poet of occasions, and will usually write some fun rhyming poetry for parties, big events, some holidays, etc. She loves rhyming poetry above all other kinds, although I have been able to convince her in recent years of the beauty of some nonrhyming poetic forms. I knew, though, that to make a poem she'd truly love, I'd have to make it rhyme. That is hard, especially when you're trying very hard not to write complete doggerel. I thought up the first few lines a few days ago and jotted notes down, but it wasn't until this morning that I actually managed to pound the entire thing out. Thank God for rhyming dictionaries! It turned out pretty well, and she definitely liked it, and she cried, so that was good. 

The weather is improving a little, it didn't freeze last night and it looks like the temperature is going to be ticking upward from here. That's good, because I want to plant the little plants! I went ahead and planted the green onions I rooted in a pot for the kitchen. Green onion cuttings are great because you just lop off the root end of the onion and drop it in water, and in a couple days roots appear and the top starts growing back. If you put them in a pot, they definitely look like the sort of plants you grow in your alien spaceship. I don't even like eating green onions that much, but I really like growing them. 

I don't know if it's the Directors Cut posts I have been doing the past couple of days or if people just happen to be bored and generous, but I've had a sudden spate of new comments on my older fanfics. This of course has me wandering around with hearts in my eyes, because it always feels intensely good to know that something you put out into the world is still making people happy. Even if somebody just tells me that they came back to reread my story again, that is a huge compliment in itself! There is so much fic out there, being considered good enough to read more than once is pretty great. 

The post-bedtime conversation with the kiddo was shorter than it has been this past couple nights, I think because he was feeling a little better, but also because he was tuckered out. He was having trouble articulating what was bothering him and finally just said he had a big question mark of confusion in his head. Me too, kiddo! I told him a lot of people were feeling like that, and that I hoped it would get better when things started to get more normal again. He asked when that would be, which is of course the million dollar question. I have a lot of extremely cynical feelings about the heedless push to reopen the economy and the harm it will probably do, but that's not what my fourth grader needs to hear. So we talked about why the quarantine started, and how it was never intended to last forever, but instead to buy us time to get ready for it. I explained that back in March, if a lot of people had gotten the virus all at once, it would've overwhelmed the medical system and a lot of people would've died who wouldn't have died if they'd gotten the disease at a different time. I explained that the quarantine gives us time to get better supplies and do a lot of research and learn more about testing, so that even though we cannot stop people from ever getting sick with coronavirus, fewer people will get very sick, and we will be able to take care of the ones who do. You know, ideally, if Hillary Clinton were president, or literally any competent human being. But that's not a worry that he should have to carry right now, so I'll give him the best hope that I have. His main concern is still whether he will be able to go back to school, and whether things are ever going to look normal again. And I really hope they will.