#and the worst part is I know even if it was magically cleaned and tidied to perfection tomorrow I wouldn’t be able to keep it that way

[yaminerua]

at this point idk what it is specifically but I don’t think there’s a single neurotypical person living in this house and the state it’s in shows that

if you walked into this place you’d immediately stage an intervention bc clearly none of us are able to get started on what needs fucking done let alone maintain it to an acceptable level jfc

[kindheart525]

Luster was feeling pretty discouraged after her failed attempt at bonding with Marmalade. For once she felt like she had a family member who understood her, who was on her level, only to find out how self-absorbed she was. In hindsight, she should have known when Marm got her the wrong ice cream on purpose, it was a sign.

It was disappointing, but Luster couldn’t say she wasn’t used to it. She wasn’t much of a group-project filly anyway, she actually learned a lot while working alone. And it looked like Marm was the same way…even more so. Group projects never went well when two ponies were fighting to take charge. 

So now Luster kept to herself, opting to spend her time reading and organizing her books in a peaceful but somewhat lonely state of solitude.

“That looks like a good one.”

“Ah!”

Luster nearly jumped out of her skin at the voice, turning to see one of her other cousins, Blackfire Phoenix, also standing at the bookshelf.

“Sorry. I’m not trying to read over your shoulder.”

Blackfire stepped aside a bit, even though she wasn’t close enough to read over Luster’s shoulder to begin with.

“Oh, okay, um…thanks.”

Luster stammered as she tried to gain her composure, though she already appreciated her cousin respecting her space.

“If you’re looking for something I can get out of the way, I’m just organizing.”

“No.”

Her cousin said a bit bluntly, but she was sincere about it.

“Keep organizing if you want. I won’t stop you. Not enough people appreciate the value of tidiness, so be my guest.”

Blackfire smiled a bit at this last part, nodding for Luster to continue what she was doing.

“Well, not enough ponies do either. I’ve even met teachers who can’t keep their desks clean or their lesson plans in order.”

“It’s the worst, isn’t it?”

Blackfire rolled her eyes playfully and they both chuckled together.

“It’s a skill that you develop, it takes a lot of practice. Some don’t want to put in the effort, while some just haven’t been taught how. It’s like Mom always says, self-improvement takes a lot of work but it’s worth the effort.”

“Yeah, that makes sense!”

Luster nodded along, warming up to her cousin but also impressed by her aunt’s wisdom.

“And, well, annoying as it is, I have this one teacher who is actually really smart even if he can’t keep his room clean. He’s really good at making math actually relevant. My Papa…”

Luster almost couldn’t believe she was bringing up either of her parents, and so casually too. She almost stopped herself but ultimately decided to share this memory with her cousin.

“He always told me everypony has their different strengths.”

Blackfire didn’t know her uncle at all, but she could tell that talking about him was hard for Luster. She didn’t want to press her to talk about him more than she wanted to.

“Mmm, he sure had a point.”

She looked over the bookshelf for something to cheer her cousin up.

“What’s yours? I’m seeing a lot of magic books here.”

“Yes!”

Luster lit up a little more, taking some books and starting to flip through them, passing a few to Blackfire so she could focus on one.

“My favorite is light work magic, there’s so much you can do to manipulate light! You can manipulate the colors, the brightness…well, just about anything! It’s actually really fascinating but I don’t want to distract you from something else.

“I have nothing in my schedule. I want to hear more. Go on.”

Luster was practically floored by this, in a good way. It was such a small gesture but it meant a lot to her for somepony else to show genuine interest in her passions. She hadn’t felt this way since…well, in a long time. 

And so the two cousins spent the rest of the afternoon talking about their passions, demonstrating the tricks of the trade and discovering new ways to create a space that brought them joy.

~~~~~~~~~~

Previous: Weird Science Next: Peach Skin

Luster Dawn's cutie mark by Parcly-Taxel

Bookshelf by DayDreamSyndrom

[cambion-companion]

I have to disagree with anon! I think there is good cause for my boy to have major-self esteem issues and bouts of self-loathing. In this essay I will-

Just kidding! But there’s some things that I want to point out. One: he was bullied throughout his entire childhood. Anyone who has been bullied knows that shit will follow you through your whole life, and quite often people with traumatic childhoods hide their pain into adulthood with confidence/coldness (especially Scorpios 😅 he’s a scorpio king through and through).

Next: All of his problems wouldn’t have magically been solved immediately after claiming Vhagar, but the loss of his eye only fuels that. He said it was a fair trade because he gained a dragon, but it’s really not, even if it is the last dragon of the conquest (also, he was a child when he said that, who had no clue the future issues losing an eye would cause him down the line, and wanted to comfort his mother). Losing an eye/having any disability is a big fucking deal in Westeros. It’s a big deal in our world too, don’t get me wrong - but life in Westeros is much crueler than ours. We as readers/viewers sometimes tend to look at this content with a modern lens, which is something we cannot do. In this world, he is lucky to be a prince. He can study and train all he wants, best the greatest swordsmen in all the seven kingdoms, but no matter how incredible he is, all of his potential will always be followed by ‘if only he hadn’t lost that eye’. “Imagine how much greater a warrior he would be if he had both eyes” (even though he beats Cole in the training yard with relative ease). “You have an unmarried son? Oh, but he’s missing an eye” (even though he is very obviously Valyrian and the Valyrians are all certified hotties). I wouldn’t say he’s repulsed by himself, but that the resentment over what happened to him is a big motivator for everything he does and becomes.

It makes perfect sense that he isn’t aware of how handsome he is, but I disagree that he doesn’t think much about how he looks. he is certainly not vain, but he does keep a very tidy appearance. His hair and hands are always clean, his clothes fit him well and he is just extremely well put together, something he probably learned from Alicent (queen of dying on the inside but slaying on the outside). One could argue that he only does this as it is expected of a man of his station, but Aegon exists.

It’s unfortunately realistic for the setting that almost noble ladies would be scared of him. The eyepatch is one thing, but his demeanour is described and shown as quite haunting as an adult (which just makes me EVEN MORE sad because he seemed like a very sweet child). He doesn’t strike me as the kind of man who would make the first move personally either, which would make finding someone to share his life with even more difficult. A lady who is unafraid of him would be rare, and for her to be that way, it’s likely she had been dealt her own cruel hand in life as well (I’m currently writing my own work where this is the case - not trying to self plug but 🤠). Someone who he could melt into in private, share his worst fears and thoughts with, allow them to touch his scars… I feel like he would cherish that greatly and want to protect that part of his life as well as he possibly can.

When he has the confrontation with his brother, where Aegon says he’ll run away so he may have the throne, you can see the cogs turning afterwards. I think he was quite sad in that moment, tormented by the ‘if only’ nature of his life. Yes, he does deserve the throne, but that doesn’t matter. He was not born to rule, Aegon was.

Sorry this was kind of a ramble, but I have a lot of thoughts because he’s such an interesting, beautifully tragic character. Let me know what you think!

Hi, my dear, thank you so much for sharing your thoughts with me! I loved reading them :)

This is in response to this post!

Aemond was absolutely bullied throughout his childhood, he was ganged up on by the other boys and I think the only person his age (who we know of) that wasn't mean to him was Helaena.

He had enough gumption, however, to claim the largest dragon in Westeros. To me, that takes no small amount of self-esteem, like "yeah, I deserve this". He received little to no attention/instruction/guidance from his father, instead I believe Cole filled that role. Aemond knows his prowess in sword fighting and carries himself with confidence accordingly. The man has swagger, I don't think by any means he loathes himself. Absolutely he is made to feel as less of a man because he is missing an eye, but literally everything he does is to make up for that (as you said).

As far as his appearance goes, let me explain better. Aemond takes pride in the traits he inherited that define him as a Targaryen. His silver hair, he takes excellent care of and grows long (like "see I am a legitimate heir") He takes care of himself, of course, but he has been given no reason to see himself as a particularly handsome man. Quite the opposite, as I am sure court whispers speak mainly of his missing eye and what horror may lie beneath the eyepatch. But yes, he does slay just like his mama. He is royalty, after all, and (once again) takes a GREAT amount of pride in his heritage (notice the dragon pins he wears on each of his outfits). Which also speaks to a certain amount of self-confidence.

Note also how Aegon is the opposite, he takes no pride in his appearance (the actor actually pointed this out too haha) or his Targaryen ancestry.

There is much nuance to Aemond's character (especially now with the show), and I certainly agree that he may have feelings of self-doubt, frustration, insecurity, but he uses these emotions to fuel himself to do better, train harder, study more...mold himself into the man he perceives his family needs.

[thewatercolours]

Into Minos's Palace

This ficlet definitely isn't part of the official storyline - I just read the latest installment of @goddessoftechnology's "and icarus fell" fic the other day, and got an idea for this scene.

---

“Nelia. Always a pleasure. You’re looking radiant as ever.”

The greying waystop woman stands in tattered stocking feet, face dappled with sooty fingerprints that ran into streaks, and ash in the creases of her hands. She smells of smoke – dirty, common smoke, not his lovely, curated blends. She reaches out to Odds but keeps an acceptable distance. “Help me.”

“What with?”

“They burned my place down this morning.”

Odds clicks his tongue sympathetically. “Awful. Who’s they? Our boys?”

“Yes.”

“Who precisely?” He pushes his spectacles up by the bridge.

Nelia purses her lips and her eyes dart for a moment as she reaches for some decision. “I didn’t see their faces,” she says at last. “But they came in one of your carts.”

He falls into his wingback chair, chuckling, and swings his legs over the arm rest. “Don’t you love the contradictions of people? They’ll storm in demanding reparations, and at the same time try to shield the people who actually did it.”

“I’m not asking for reparations,” Nelia says softly. “I just need to know why.”

“Oho. I’d think you’d know better than that. Say, be a sweetheart and hand me my pipe. It’s by the fishbowl. Should still have some spark in it.”

Nelia’s face remains impassive as she takes up the pipe by its bowl and gently hands it over. Odds taps it against the wall to stir up the embers, and takes a long, rosy pull that almost immediately quiets his headache, like magic. “Ah,” he sighs dreamily. “Oh yes, you wanted to know why. Nelia, you have a tidy little reputation with us partly because you’ve never cared much about the ‘why’s.’ Pity to break your streak.”

She steps back out his reach carefully. “It would help with moving on, just to know.”

Odds glances carefully at his sister, who stands with her back to the room, staring through the two-way mirror into an empty hallway. She doesn’t move. This is in his court.

He shrugs, as well as he can draped over the chair like this. In all honestly the seat is so narrow and the arm rests so high that this isn’t the most comfortable position, but he hasn’t got the energy to get rise yet. “Then it should help to know that it was as much for your good as anyone’s. Some time back one of our more kleptomaniacal sorts snatched something a bit too valuable while he was out on the hunt. Something traceable. Had it with him when he stopped at your place on the way home. We just had to clean up a little.”

Nelia closes her eyes. “And my house had to burn for that?”

“The waystop which we built,” he corrects her good-humoredly, taking another puff from the pipe. “And yes, it did have to. Can’t be too careful. At the worst extreme, magicians are getting more sophisticated at getting a lock on a thing’s aura. Fire burns out the trails. I’m sure you see.”

She still doesn’t open her eyes. “I can’t come back here again.”

“And yet here you are. The age of miracles isn’t over.”

The woman totters where she stands for a moment, but she opens her eyes and steadies herself against the wall. “I can’t pay your rates. And this isn’t ten years ago. I can’t go crawling through your tiny tunnels with a bucket and rag. I had diphtheria last year. My lungs couldn’t take it.”

Odds raises his brows. “Please don’t touch the wallpaper. Your hands are filthy.” She pulls away, and he nods genially. “Well, Nelia, I hear you’ve become a fair –“ he hums amusedly – “apothecary. When it comes to hunting knock-outs, some of our people even prefer your mixes to our in-house ones. Tell you what. Write out all your recipes in full and put them there on my desk, and I’ll put in a good word for you with Lark down in the distillery. She’s been needing another pair of hands – doesn’t keep ahead of orders the way she used to.”

“Wage?” Nelia asks, not very hopefully.

Odds rolls his eyes. “Sort that out with Lark, not me. I’m doing you a favour even authorizing you to come down here.”

“I’d advise you to remember,” says Evens, not turning found. “No one owes you anything, and no one gets a free ride here.”

“Except our champions, of course.” Odds sniggers. “Don’t suppose you’d care to explore that avenue?”

Nelia approaches the desk cautiously. “Could I have a pen to write them out?”

“Top right drawer,” says Odds, flourishing his fingers grandly in its direction. “Can’t miss it. It’s the only unlocked one. Now, do you have stimulant recipes as well as sedatives? We’ve got plenty, but always on the search for variety, don’t you know? This place is about nothing if not keeping things interesting.”

---

Nelia doesn’t flinch as she dips the pen in the inkwell.

She got in. She groveled suitably. She let this man see that she was so cowed that she didn’t let out a peep of protest and actually came to the people she took all she had for help.  She would not be here longer than she could help.

Just long enough to make them see they couldn’t just burn her little house down.

Something valuable, eh? Interesting.

[just-here-for-the-moment]

Sick Day, Part 3 - Evening

This is Part 3 for my bby @silverwolf319 💖💖💖 Something soft and comforting for the days you don't feel well. Here’s Frankie Morales making you take a sick day.

Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3

Word count: 990+

Rating: soft mature, 18+ only

Outline: Frankie Morales x “You” (gender neutral reader; “blank canvas”/no physical description/no name/no use of “Y/N”)

Warnings: mentions of illness/nausea; food/chicken soup ingredients; tea; the world’s grossest hot drink for sick people (but it works); Frankie being all soft and comforting

You wake up to the music of the end credits of Jurassic Park, and Frankie is nowhere to be seen. There is a note on the coffee table next to your phone that says, “Gone to store. Be right back. DRINK!” You smile and obey orders, sipping down the rest of your lukewarm Gatorade.

You yawn and stretch, and shuffle back to bed. You’re not tired and you can’t sleep any more right now, but maybe a book will do. And when you get into the bedroom you see that Frankie has worked more magic while you were out cold because there are fresh sheets and pillowcases on the bed. You feel a little twinge behind your sternum, but you know it’s not a medical issue, it’s just Frankie and the way that he loves you.

You crawl into bed and pass an hour with a good book, and when Frankie returns you hear him unload all of the groceries before he pops in to see you.

“How you doing, babe?”

You smile, “Better. No more nausea. I finished my Gatorade.”

“Good. I got crackers and stuff to make soup. Do you want some hot tea?”

“Yes please,” you put your book down and reach your arms out to him. “But first I need a hug, baby.”

He sits down on the edge of the bed and wraps one big arm around your shoulders. Now that you’re not nauseated anymore he smells good again, clean and fresh and spicy with his usual deodorant and body wash. He’s warm and safe and Frankie, the smells that you associate with your best memories and experiences.

You let him hold you and envelop you until you’re almost drowsy again. And then he releases you and kisses your forehead, murmuring promises of tea with honey.

He returns in a bit with a big mug of hot, minty tea with just the right amount of honey, and a plate with a small pile of saltines. “Nibble these, sip your tea. I’ll be right back.”

And he goes to get his own book from the living room, and comes back and sits next to you in bed. He’s just right at keeping you company, reading one-handed and rubbing your back, only breaking the silence to ask you how your tummy is handling the crackers and tea. And there’s that twinge again, the little flutter that tells you that your body is in tune with Frankie’s love; and not just when there’s sex or passion or romance happening, but real love, all the time, even when it’s quiet.

And then the sun starts to get low, and your stomach growls, and Frankie laughs and gets up, telling you he got the stuff to make soup, and all you have to do is come out when it’s ready. So you lie down again for a quick nap, and listen to him banging around in the kitchen, chopping chicken breast and celery and carrots, mincing fresh garlic and pouring broth and stirring.

The next thing you know he’s shaking your shoulder gently, and his warm brown eyes are hovering over you, and his soft sweet lips are saying, “Hey, baby. Soup’s ready.” And you stretch and do an inventory of yourself: sore throat, sore muscles from laying around all day, but otherwise fine. You nod sleepily and tell him you’re ready.

And you sit down at the kitchen table to the best soup you’ve ever had, because Frankie’s gone all-out, making his mom’s recipe for chicken noodle soup with fresh garlic and a splash of lemon juice, and you could die right here and feel like you’d gone to heaven. And he smiles at you and asks you, “Is it good?”

And all you can do is moan around a mouthful of broth and egg noodles, and nod vigorously and ask for more pepper. And you don’t know how you’re ever going to repay him for this, for showering you with gentle love all day, on one of the worst-feeling days of your life, when all you wanted to do this morning was crawl into a hole and die. And then you realize you don’t have to “repay” him. All you have to do is accept his love and let it wash over you, let him do his thing and care for you. No repayment needed.

And then dinner is over and he takes the plates away and sets a mug in front of you with strict instructions to, “Drink up. It’s gross but it’s medicine.”

“Cold medicine?”

He tilts his head from side to side. “Kind of. More like folk medicine. It’s hot water, minced garlic, lemon juice, and honey. It’s gross, so you’ll probably hate me until you wake up tomorrow and feel human again.”

You wince and take a cautious sip, but other than the strong garlic it’s just lemony and not too sweet and pretty much just like a weird kind of soup. So you shrug and take a bigger sip and tell him it’s actually not that bad. He grins, happy that you think he’s done a good job.

“Can we watch another movie?”

“Of course, babe.”

He tidies up the kitchen while you fold your legs under you and pick a movie. He brings you a fresh glass of ice water to wash down the garlic-lemon-honey concoction, and you snuggle into his side. You’re warm and full of soup, less achy, less dehydrated, loved and supported and content.

Frankie looks down at you and smiles gently, his eyes crinkling up in the way you love. He tilts his head down for a soft kiss and you stop for a moment. He looks at you with a small frown.

“Garlic breath,” you say.

“I don’t care,” he laughs. “I just won’t breathe through my nose.”

You laugh, and let him lay a gentle, soft kiss on your lips. Then you tuck your head back against his shoulder and sip your ice water.

---

Just-here-for-the-moment’s masterlist

My “all fics” tag list (my only tag list, actually):

@quica-quica-quica

@anaaaispunk @justanotherblonde23 @gracie7209 @nicolethered @honestly-shite @driedgreentomatoes @dihra-vesa @1800-fight-me @the-queen-of-fools @juletheghoul

@kesskirata @honeymandos @silverwolf319 @mourningbirds1 @greeneyedblondie44 @spacedilf @maxwell–lord @anxiousandboujee @cevvie @sherala007 @writeforfandoms @libellule2001 @deadhumourist @mandoalorian

[luninosity]

*wanders by* Look what I worked on today...

Warnings for…NOT actual self-harm, but Jason spotting a scar on one of Colby’s hands, a scar he doesn’t know the story of, and briefly considering that possibility. (The actual story is much more of a cooking-related accident!) Plus general warnings for brief mention of Colby’s Awful Exes and family, & related emotional abuse.

#

“How’s this?” Jason waited, fingers resting over Colby’s hands in his. The hotel room wrapped comfort around them; it’d begun as nondescript, but had welcomed Colby’s rainbow cascade of scarves and Jason’s tidy unpacking. It was their home now, for these next two weeks of filming on location. “Helping?”

 “Very much helping, thank you.” Colby obediently didn’t move, holding both hands out. They were sitting on the bed, having changed into pajama pants and t-shirts—Colby’d borrowed one of Jason’s shirts, too large but in a cuddly flattering way—and the day had been long. They’d been filming into the evening, because Jill had wanted the specific light, dwindling away as Colby’s young and brilliant magician character got imprisoned and bound by iron and tortured, refusing to give up and lead the villains to Jason’s hero.

 The chains and cuffs had been fake, of course. Hollywood movie-making magic. A vast leap from real iron.

 But that didn’t mean they were soft or forgiving. They’d had hard edges, angled in spots, heavy, with no real padding. He’d had to struggle against them. He’d had to kneel while the villains shoved his hands to the floor and—cautiously, weight judged for performance—stepped upon them, pretending to shatter bones. The floor, and the impact, hadn’t been soft either.

 The bruises and scrapes and cuts were all too real. Colby winced as Jason spread healing salve across a tender spot. “Ow. Sorry, sorry, I know you’re being careful, I’m not complaining.”

 “Tell me if it’s hurting too much.” He tapped a finger over the back of Colby’s wrist. “And don’t apologize for it. Are you sure you don’t want me to get the medical people to check you out?”

 “They did, right after. I know you know; you were there. It’s fine, it’s not—ow—serious. It’ll heal.”

 “Might need some wrapping, though.” Jason eyed the bruises, the nicks. They shuffled purple and red across Colby’s skin, shame-faced. He didn’t like them existing, though he knew they weren’t anyone’s fault. “Just for tonight, to keep all this on. Not too tight.”

 “Whatever you think works best,” Colby agreed. “You’d know better than I would, as far as stunts and injuries. Ow, oh, drat, that one hurts a bit more.”

 That one was probably the worst, Jason judged: scraped raw, layers exposed, across Colby’s left wrist. The edge of that cuff had been both rough and sharp. And obviously his touch hadn’t been careful enough. “Shit. Sorry. Love you. Is the numbing part working, at all? It’s supposed to be helping.”

 “Oh yes,” Colby said, obligingly. “It’s already better. Thank you for doing this.”

 Jason sighed.

 “It’s true,” Colby protested. “I honestly do feel better. I’d tell you if not.” Hair tumbling to his shoulders in loose dark waves—not a wig, but extensions, left in for fantastical mystical effect—he was elfin and pretty and earnest, wearing Jason’s too-large shirt, eyes huge and blue and searching Jason’s face.

 “I know you would. But I also want to know if it’s not helping enough, okay?”

 “Yes,” Colby said meekly. “I’ll say so if it’s not working, I promise.”

 “Okay, then. Just checking.” He tried to make his touch as gentle as possible. He tried to be as soothing as he could: a protective bulk, not a threatening one. Hands offering care, not more harm. Weight and breadth positioned harmlessly on the bed, no demands.

 He knew Colby trusted him. He felt a small glow of pride that Colby did: enough to admit to being in pain, to wanting care. He loved Colby and would care for Colby with all his heart, all his strength, all his soul; not a question, not ever.

 He still hated seeing Colby in pain. Always had, always would.

 That’d be true for anyone he loved, of course. He’d had some discussions with their therapist about that, about grief and loss and Charlie and Jason’s own desperate need to save people, to be strong. He knew that about himself. But it was worse, it was the worst it could be, when the person in pain was Colby.

 Colby was the other half of his heart. The brightest piece of his life, the piece that’d dived in and reminded him how to swim and that he liked baking, the piece that’d made him laugh and drawn him into whimsical chattering conversations about wizards and dragons and romance and coffee. The piece that liked pink shirts with sequins on the sleeves, and anchovies on pizza, and history and stories and words that could steal an audience’s breath away.

 And Colby had been hurt before, so very badly, for so very long. Inside and out, physical and emotional bruises, day after day. Jason hadn’t been there then, hadn’t known him for the worst of it. But he knew now, at least as much as anyone could, after the fact.

 He’d seen Colby flinch from an unexpected touch, get wide-eyed at a large body hugging too tightly at a convention, and—the scariest of all—go silent and someplace else, someplace not present, at a drift of familiar cologne and a flash-flood of memory in the air. He knew what Colby had told him, which was enough to make Jason carefully store up a lot of emotions and then go down to the gym and beat the hell out of a punching bag for long enough to get his reactions under control.

 He knew about Colby’s family, too. The layers of those bruises—not physical, but emotional, a slow brutal evisceration of Colby’s sense of self and self-worth—went back decades. They were working on it; their therapist said that Jason being here, not leaving, not making Colby earn any crumb of affection, was the exact best thing he could do. Jason hoped so.

 He wished he could do more. He wished he could fight all of Colby’s demons. Like his character in this film, raising a sword. Lifting a shield. Fighting for a cause.

 He knew Colby’s hands pretty well, by now. He knew the way those slim graceful fingers felt in his, on his body—in his body, and oh that was always fun, Colby teasing him open and stroking him and pressing inside him. He knew Colby’s gestures on and off camera, the weight and shape of his palms, the backs of his hands, the old scars from period-piece swordfighting lessons and some small-scale stunt work, comedy pratfalls and in-role clumsiness. He knew about the short jagged line on the outside of Colby’s little finger on the right hand, from hopping a fence while filming a scene for that high-school coming-of-age comedy.

 He knew he didn’t know every smallest detail—he didn’t have a photographic memory—but he had a decent idea of Colby’s hands, he thought.

 Which was why his fingers slowed and came to a stop, as they felt something—as his gaze landed on something—that he didn’t recognize.

 Thin. White. Just above the heel of Colby’s left hand, across his palm. Long-healed—no texture at all, only noticeable if someone was paying extremely close attention, but enough to’ve left a line. Liam, Jason thought first, with a shock of anger like scarlet blood—but no, this was older than a handful of years, older than any injuries at Colby’s ex’s hands. Clearly so.

 Colby hadn’t seemed to notice—he’d been looking at Jason’s other hand, which had scooped up more salve—but he noticed the pause now. His eyes came up to find Jason’s, huge and flower-blue.

 Jason turned Colby’s hand more upward. Touched the line, very very lightly. His fingers shook.

 “Oh,” Colby said, soft with love, wry in the way of someone realizing, “no, it’s not what you’re thinking, and don’t say you weren’t thinking of at least two possibilities. It’s not either of those. I, er…well, I was about eleven years old and I’d been trying to prepare dinner for myself and I had absolutely nonexistent knife skills with regard to chopping carrots. And my father’s chef kept his knives very sharp.”

 “You were making dinner…for yourself?” He touched Colby’s palm again, traced the scar above the heel. It had plainly been a clean cut, straight, but deep enough to leave a mark once healed.

 Colby did that familiar nose-scrunch at him, the one that meant you won’t like this story. “You won’t like this story. But it wasn’t that bad.”

 “Tell me? If you want,” he amended. Not an order, not a demand. The freckle near Colby’s collarbone winked at him, playing peek-a-boo with the loose neck of Jason’s shirt.

 “Oh, of course. It’s hardly a secret.” Colby wiggled salve-smeared fingers at him. “So we were living in Paris then—Dad having been appointed as an ambassador and all, you know…”

 The storied instrument of his voice became, for an instant, more American than anything else, on the word Dad; Howard Kent personified the type of United States politician who embodied privilege, money, and self-interest above everything, including his marriage and his son.

 “…and my parents, being, er, my parents, did tend to do things like go on holiday without remembering that I existed, which meant the staff also generally forgot I existed, or took their cues from my parents, or assumed someone else had made some arrangements somewhere. So I was eleven and a bit, and I’d got used to making sandwiches and things, but I thought perhaps I’d try to cook, because I was trying to learn, you know, so I wouldn’t have to bother anyone.”

 Jason opened his mouth. Shut it.

 Colby lifted both eyebrows, inviting and amused. “Yes, go on, say it.”

 “You know everything I’m gonna say.”

 “I do. It’s all right; I’ve got you now.” Colby leaned against him, on the bed: easy contact, unremarkable, except for how it was remarkable, it was a marvel, given everything Jason knew.

 He wanted to cry for the boy Colby’d been, precocious and shy and so very alone.

 He held Colby’s hand. “I’m here. I’m always here. I’ll chop all your carrots if you need me to.”

 “You would, if I asked, wouldn’t you? Well, in any case, I managed to slice my hand open, as you might expect under the circumstances, and then I very nearly passed out from the sheer shock of it, and then after a few minutes I pulled myself together and found a first-aid kit and tried to patch it up, though it didn’t work terribly well because I was trying to do it one-handed.”

 “Jesus, Colby.” He could’ve demanded, why didn’t you call someone, a member of the security team, the household staff, a doctor, an emergency number, your parents? He didn’t.

 He knew why Colby wouldn’t. Not causing a fuss, not giving anyone a reason to disapprove or to not want him, not believing anyone would come or answer or care…

  His heart cracked open and bled more. Like younger Colby, huddled on a kitchen floor with a first-aid kit. “What happened?”

[death-selfie]

Put Your Head On My Shoulder

Chapter 3: Just a Kiss Goodnight

For the rest of the night, Gerard and I walked the streets of Belleville. We took a walk into town and pretended to window shop like it was midday. We even looked over the closed flower shop and maybe stole a flower or two. Outside of town, we skipped down a trail together, hand in hand. Our little journey ended at the Passaic River. Across the water, we could see the lights of Arlington. About a mile to our left was the bascule bridge. We could have gone there, but it was late and I'm sure Gerard didn't have the energy to go climb up a bridge with me.

We sat in the tall grass together on a small hill overlooking the river. Most of our chatter has been replaced by a comfortable silence by now. Exhaustion has got the best of us.

"Thank you for tonight, Frankie," Gerard murmured. This broke our silence. I shifted my gaze over to him. This exact moment brought me back to when I first met this man. The moonlight softly highlighted every sharp feature from his browline to his chin. I think I'm falling in love again.

"Of course," I replied. Oh, before I forget... I dug into the pocket of my jacket and produced the second corsage I purchased for Gerard. I took his hand so that I could slide on the corsage. It fit pretty well to my surprise.

"Oh, you-- you bought one!" He seemed genuinely surprised. He lifted his wrist slightly to view it better. I hope he noticed the flower I picked.

"I picked out the pansy," I explained. "It was the flower you liked, right?"

I never got an answer. Gerard was moved to tears at this point, but why? Was the gesture too nice?

"Gerard?"

Still no answer. Instead, I received a tiny cry.

"No one has ever been this nice to me."

Those words struck my heart. No one? I moved closer to him and took his hand into mine. As I laced our fingers together, he brought his gaze onto me. "I've lived the cliche unpopular high school life. I wasn't like the other guys, you know? I liked art, I liked music, I liked fashion. To this old-school town, I was just some weird kid, some outsider. I never felt like I belonged. On top of that, I could never find any friends. My only friend was my brother. He's younger than me, about 3 years. Only he understood me and liked the things I liked. And since I never had friends, I never got a girlfriend. I had thought girls never liked me, so maybe...maybe boys did. That was a mistake on my part," He frowned now and looked away. "Those idiotic jocks...you don't want to know what they did." His brows knit together. Whatever they did, it must've been an awful experience. I squeezed Gerard's hand. "It's why I dropped out early and became the mess I am today. I mean...look at me—" He gestured over himself with a disgusted look. "I'm wearing a skirt! Only girls wear skirts."

As soon as those words left his mouth, I shook my head. "We can wear skirts too," I said calmly. "Besides, I think it fits you. You look stunning." Gerard looked me in the eye again. This time something completely new was on his face. Was that love?

"I can't possibly look great," He muttered. Oh, what will it take to get through his thick skull? I was done with the "attempts" and the questioning. I wanted to feel something new. I'm sick of the doubt and worry that always held me back. This time I'm going all in. I gave Gerard's hand another squeeze as I leaned over to plant a soft kiss on those lips I had always stared at.

Kissing another man was different than I'd imagine. I always thought it would be the same as kissing a woman, but boy was I wrong. It almost felt as if I were kissing myself. Gerard wasn't just any normal man though. His lips felt soft yet a little on the wetter side. It's like they've never seen a chapped day. The only strange part about this was that it felt completely natural. I thought that if I gave in, the Heavens would open above us and the angels would smite us for a homosexual act. However, that never happened.

I parted our kiss now, and as I sat back, I noticed Gerard has been moved to tears. He was happy though. He wore a thin, curved smile at me, and it felt genuine. At that moment, I felt as if my feelings have finally been reciprocated.

"Where have you been my entire life?" He whispered. "I wish I knew you before..."

"Me too." My answer surprised me. For some reason, I did wish I had met Gerard before all of this. Though tonight was magical, I wished we had more time together.

Gerard let my hand go so that he could cup the side of my face. He still wore that thin smile. His eyes glanced over every feature of me. "You're always saying I'm beautiful, but I think you're the beautiful one, Frankie. You don't give yourself enough credit."

"Neither do you."

He laughed softly. "Oh, there's nothing to like about me," He said. Now his eyes focused on mine. "If only I could draw you right now. I think you'd see how beautiful you are then."

How I wish we could stay in this moment forever. I would be happy to escape the daily hustle and bustle of my everyday life to live a more carefree life with Gerard.

"Do you have a place?"

"Of course I do!" Gerard laughed at my question. "Do you think I just roam the streets like a homeless person?"

I blushed, embarrassed. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to offend you." Gerard waved me off as if to dismiss my apology. He stood up now, but our hands were still holding one another. Not a word escaped his lips as he led me back into the heart of Belleville. We took all sorts of twists and turns on the streets before coming across a small, rundown neighborhood. Although its appearance wasn't the best, it also wasn't the worst neighborhood in Belleville. It was livable, and that was all that could be said about this part of town.

Alas, we reached the place Gerard has been leading me too. Appearance-wise, I could tell it was in a much better condition than the other homes we passed. It had a new coat of paint on its siding and front porch. The roof looked reshingled as well. I took notice that the lawn was freshly mowed too. At least some people had some decency.

I followed Gerard up to the porch. Before we stepped inside though, I took a hold of Gerard's arm. "Is anyone else staying here?" I needed to ask in case I had to introduce myself.

"Yeah, just my brother," He assured. "I'm sure he's just sleeping right now though." With those words hanging in the air now, he stepped into the house and led me through the hallway to his room. Once inside, I closed the door behind me as softly as I could. Near the bed, Gerard shimmied off his skirt and grabbed a pair of raggedy jeans off his bed. There was an assortment of different clothes scattered on his bed. Something about it was more artistic than messy.

"Sorry for the mess," Gerard said quietly. "I'm not really tidy."

"Me neither," I smiled. An effort to reassure him. I took a seat next to him on the bed and took a glance around the room. His room isn't really that bad. I think it's comfortable. Of course, it could use some cleaning. I rested my gaze on Gerard now and gave him a smile again. 

"Did you wanna sleep?" He blushed, his head ducking slightly. I could tell he felt awkward, and honestly, I did too. "Sure," I said. "I can sleep on the floor if you want."

"No, it's fine," He blurted. "I mean, my bed's big enough anyway." He got himself situated underneath the bed covers. His eyes met mine afterward, and he raised a brow. Taking the cue, I shrugged off my jacket and untied my tie. When I felt I was comfortable enough, I crawled over to the other side of the bed and laid down. We were both turned on our sides to where we were looking at each other. There was silence for about a good minute until he spoke up.

"I wonder how Mikey's gonna react to you," He said with a growing smile. 

I shrugged my shoulder and I gave him a slight smile. "I don't know, maybe he'll like me."

"Heh, well, he's shy, so talk carefully." 

I nodded. We fell into another silence but it was more comfortable than awkward. I wasn't sure when I dozed off...

[yamithediaperdork]

A simple misunderstanding (Harry potter)

In many ways what happened on may 19th, the one year anniversary of Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter having started dating could of been avoided.

Had either of them ever admitted they're full fetishes is just one example. If Harry hadn't of just gotten too curious to see what was the big surprise and snuck into Draco's room while the latter was out to snoop was anther example. (the boys had a bedroom they shared but each had their own study/room for just themselves that the other technically wasn't suppose to enter..But Harry had never really been one for staying out of trouble.)

Of course If Draco hadn't mentioned a big surprise and then went tip lipped about it then harry might not of been prone to trying to snoop, but sadly Draco just loved how childish harry could act when he wasn't in the know.

In any case, what follows was above all else.. a simple misunderstanding that somehow escalated.

Harry knew he had to be fast, Draco had only gone out for a pint with some of his old friends from slytherin and wouldn't be gone for too long since he wasn't much of a drinker.

He wasn't worried about triggering any of the detection spells or minor traps Draco had put up in his private room due to having to dispel much worse and much stronger at his own job.

In comparison to his own study, Draco's was tidy and clean though Harry suspected a house elf was behind it while his own was tidy and had papers and books stacked everywhere.

The house elf wasn't around though so Harry didn't worry about that and figured his best bet for finding Draco's surprise was a chest that had almost perfectly been covered up with a active invisible cloak. But as muggles say: Almost only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades.

One small spot on the left front bottom corner was showing and so Harry tugged the cloak off and after studying the locks for all of 12 seconds, used a simple spell and the tap of his wand to unlock the chest.

He had mulled over what the present could be, Knowing Draco wasn't found of muggle electronic gaming devices and the chest wasn't big enough for new broomsticks. what was in the chest brought a blush then a smile to Harry's face.

"How the bloody hell did he find out I'm a daddy dom?!" Harry asked softly, looking in the chest that was stuffed with baby powder, wipes, bottles, dummy's, stuffies and lots and lots of DIAPERS!

Harry had gotten into to teasing and babying other boys after his first time coming to the Wesley household where all the boys were still in nappies when home. It was Mrs.Wesley's way of helping them relax and the twins took took it with delight while Percy had declined that year, and Ron had tried to beg off in front of Harry.

Harry himself was offered nappies but expressed more of a interest in helping with the babying and well from then on he was hooked. He had never even hinted at those feelings with Draco, having figured there was no way his blond prince would ever wanna be a helpless little guy.

'He must of gone to Ron for help with a gift idea! Heh.. Can't say I mind....For the most part.' Harry mused mentally, noting that the nappies were all plastic disposable ones while he was more of a fan of terrycloth and rubber pants. 'Still, I'd have to be a awful git to refuse to put him in them since he's gone to all this trouble'

Closing the lid and resetting the locks for now, Harry adjusted the cloak back to where it had been exactly and made his leave of the room.

'I wonder if he's a full on big baby, a diaper boy or just trying this out for me? that was a awful lot of nappies for just a trial phase.' Harry mused, never once thinking there could of been anther explanation.

Draco chuckled as he made his way back from the market. After all this time and Potter could still be fooled with such a dumb lie. Draco would of never gone down to a pub for a pint, if he was going to drink it would be something more to his standards and taste. Still, it was a good go to lie and Harry fell for it every time and if it wasn't broke, don't fix it.

under his one arm was a larger then normal self assembling high chair that would have restraints built in and be big enough for Harry or himself for that matter,

He had of course known all about the Wesley's being nappy boys, and a normally vengeful Ginny had been delighted to till Draco all about how much Harry loved being a big baby.

'Heh, she likely thought it would scare me off.. still pining for him.' Draco thought.

No, if anything, finding out Harry like to be teased and humiliated in nappies just made Draco love him even more, he had after all inflicted more then a few cases of nappy humiliation on students at Hogwarts. (ironically Raven Claw made the best blushing and submissive big babies, hufflepuff's just made it clear they'd report you since they didn't have anything to lose, being in the worst of the four houses.)

Still having a boyfriend with a great job, a awesome house and was a rocket in the sack that he could also tease and dominate in nappies? Uh, yes please!

the thought that Ginny might of been lying to him never crossed Draco's mind and he made use of a magic breath mint to give him breath a touch of ale on it as he came home.

"Hey luv, I'm back." He called, not seeing Harry in their shared living room or the kitchen, taking the chance to stash the box in the closet.

"Already? Harry called, then appeared as he came into view from the hallway that lead to the studies. "What happened, Crab started chugging beers again? I know how uncomfortable that makes you." Harry added, coming over and wrapping his arms around Draco.

"Someone's in a good mood." Draco chuckle, then returned the hug and added a smooch on Harry's lips, making the more strait edge wizard pull back a little.

"Brush your teeth then get a nap in luv, I have a feeling it's gonna be a long night~"Harry coo'ed.

'Heh, you don't know the half of it~' Draco thought but then out loud gave a little pout. "Awww, a nap? alone? sure you don't wanna join me?"

"..That can be arranged, but first, your teeth. I think I'm getting a buzz off your breath." Harry said and pulled away, and then slapped Draco's butt.

The slimmer blond blushed, but didn't say anything and headed for the washroom.

After a little something to tired them both out the pair of wizards conked out in each others arms, a alarm set for 5 pm sharp which meant they would have in theory a 3 hour nap.

Of course in practice it was actually Harry who would wake up first with use of a little charm he had cast on himself to wake him up 20 minutes sooner and as he slide out of bed he both shut off the alarm and used a sleeping sleep to keep Draco dead to the world.Leaving Draco sprawled out in the bed Harry went and gathered up their clothes they had left on the floor before the love making and found to his amusement a recite from a bondage shop in town for a high chair.

"Oh my, you don't do anything half ass do you my love?" Harry chuckled, though the only response he got was a soft snore from the snoozing blond.

Moving from the bedroom after donning his clothes Harry's first move was to check in the closet by the door, the only place that Draco could of hidden the high chair and grinned ear to ear as he found it and removed the pieces from the box.

Apparently whoever gave the command for the high chair to set up would retain the control over it, control only shifting if it was ordered to dismantle again.

"Simple enough. Set up time." Harry said and watched with mild amusement as the white wooden pieces quickly fitted themselves together. "Blimey, I'll have to see if they got a crib.. this kind of magic would save A LOT of time."

Setting the chair up by the dinning room table, Harry made his way back towards Draco's study and once again let himself in with ease as he went over to the chest.

Peering inside and tapping his chin he had a bit of unexpected trouble..Draco had chosen so many cute outfit's Harry was having a hard time picking what to put him in.

"Well I suppose a pair of those locking booties and mittens, a nappy and bib will work for now. we are gonna eat right away and little guys are SO messy when they munch." Harry said, fishing the items out and chuckling softly then noticing a pacifier gag. "Oh Draco, you ARE a kinky one~"

Coming back into the room and setting down a pair of green mitten and booties with dark gold frilly trim on the ankles and wrist and a bib with the same color scheme plus a cartoon snake on the front forming a S, harry still had the thick white nappy with a nursery print and the paci gag in his hands when he looked at Draco and almost squealed.

the little blond cutie pie was nursing away on his thumb and had a line of drool going down his chin! the only thing keeping him from replacing the thumb at that very moment with Draco's paci is once he did that he would of wanted to get him fully dressed, and Harry still had to get the baby food in the chest out and get a ba-ba of formula ready.

"Truly, Heavy is the burden I bare."

Draco was dreaming about spanking Harry with him over his lap, till the boy who survived was bawling like a baby and had tinkled all over Draco's lap.

Draco was in the middle of scolding Harry in his dream then suddenly his mouth stopped working right, his words muffled! Looking down Draco saw that a dummy had been popped in his mouth and it was Harry now who had him on a giant changing table and was dressing him!

the more dream Draco tried to fight this attack off the bigger dream harry got till he towered over Draco as if he was just a real 2 year old and one solid swat to his rump stopped his fighting in a instant.

'No! this is just a dream! wake up!' Draco willed to himself, and poof!

His eyes were opened, and he went to relax..only to find his mouth was still gagged.

"Mmmmph!?" Draco tried to asked what, but the fat nipple of the dummy filled his mouth even as he looked at Harry in shock.

"Welcome back to the land of the living little guy!" Harry chuckled and leaned down kissing Draco's forehead. "I was getting worried my sleeping charm was too strong."

Draco felt himself being picked up and stood up on his feet and knew even before he was stood in front of a mirror what he would see, his face going crimson as he heard the crinkle, felt the bulk between his legs and could feel his hands and feet encased in the soft cotton of the mitten's and booties.

"Aww is somebody all shy? It's ok Draco, Daddy is SO happy you decided to be his widdle guy for our special night!" Harry was saying and then kissed his cheek.

Draco opened his eyes, turning his head to glare at harry but then caught his reflection and stared in shock. He want's JUST in a nappy, from the looks of it Harry had gone and put in at LEAST 3 of them! he hadn't felt the bib before and naturally couldn't of known which of the booties and mittens Harry had picked out but now he could tell and assumed it was because of the green dummy in his mouth, with the dark gold straps that went around his head to hold them in.

He turn his head fully to Harry know and tried to tell him off, but all it did was make him mumble and drool flow down his chin.

"Hmm, what's wrong buddy?" Harry asked, raising a eyebrow then smiled. "Ohhh I see."

'Thank god, the stupid git figured it out! I'm the da-' Draco was thinking but Harry interrupted his thoughts.

"Your mad because you wanted to surprise me. I get it. Daddy WAS a bit of a bad boy huh?" Harry chuckled.

'...Fuck my life.' Draco mentally groaned as harry droned on.

"Welll I just couldn't help myself from looking around , and I just couldn't believe you found out how much of a daddy dom I am, and you were willing to play along. I never pegged you as a little so wasn't gonna bring it up."

'...Mistakes have been made.' Draco thought and suckled fast.

Clearly Ginny HAD been telling half truths,and with Harry being the snoop he is Draco was paying for it BIG time.

"I know I got carried away with the nappies too, but I just love a thickly diapered baby boy..Plus when I found those poopie pills in the chest as well.. your gonna be making me a BIG present soon and I didn't wanna leak a leak."

"MMMPFFFH!?" Draco cried out into his gag, eyes going wide as they could.

there HAD been a dull pain in his backside but Harry had been highly spirited during their love making and just figured that had been it. He could even feel them starting to work now, a cramping starting up and Draco whimpered and shook his head no over and over.

"ah ah ah, you were gonna be my little stinker anyways, I'm just making it happen sooner. what can I say, I love feeding a smelly boi~" Harry chuckled and kissed Draco's cheek then scooped him up, carrying him with Draco's front to Harry front as the unwilling big baby tried to think of a escape.

Sadly, without his wand he was pretty much SOL.

Harry was loving how much Draco was playing the unwilling baby when they both knew the truth. Like, why else would of Draco had all of this ready to go?

truth be told Ron had been his favorite big baby out of the Wesley boys because of how embarrassed and unwilling he was to have Harry babying him and if anything this cemented that Ron had clued Draco in.

'I'll have to send him a thank you basket.' Harry mentally chuckled.

Patting Draco's bottom he knew any second now his amazing boyfriend would be loading his nappies to the brim.The packaging on the pills had claimed one was enough, but harry wasn't going to chance it and had used three of the large pills, musing how easily they had slid into his love's backside.

Coming into the dinning room/kitchen, Draco took one look at the high chair and then looked back to harry and shook his head no over and over again, which was just frankly ADORABLE!

"Now now, your the one who brought it, I'm just helping out." Harry said, getting ready to set Draco in the high chair when Draco's struggles managed to get the blond big baby free of Harry's arms.

of course this just meant that Draco fell on his rump on the floor, though with all the padding he had on Harry wasn't too concerned.

"Well what are you gonna do now? you can't get that outfit off yourself, and your free to run out into the yard dressed like that." Harry said, stepping back and crossing his arms. "I'm sure we'll be the talk of the street."

Draco whined and glared up, then turned pail, a ominous rumbling coming from his tummy.

"Oh Present time already?" Harry asked.

The cramps had been getting worse and worse, but what Draco knew that harry didn't was the highchair had a unadvertised extra feature in it. Anyone who was restrained in it was looking at a HOUR minimum stuck in it!

It had been Draco's own little added feature and he was about to get to enjoy the fruits of it, unless he could SOMEHOW get out of this, or failing at that..convince Harry to change him before being strapped in.

He knew there was no way in hell he could get to his feet and waddle to his study, when he MIGHT be able to write out a message to Harry...But maybe if he swallowed just a smidge more pride he could maybe avoid much much worse.

Getting on all fours he had the idea to crawl to his study but the act involved basically presenting his puffy nappy clad rear to Harry who was chuckling in amusement.

Operation: crawl for freedom also died right then and there as the movement had pushed his cramps to the limit, Making him push his forehead to the push and jut out his butt as all hell broke loose.

As the contents of his bowels (and a few bones and/or internal organs from what it felt like to him) pushed out into the seat of his diapers Draco suddenly realized why all those Raven claw students had broken down crying.Filling a nappy to the brine didn't exactly feel all that nice if you weren't into it.

'Karma is a fucking bitch!'

On a scale of 1 to 10, Draco was a total 100 at playing the big stinky nappy bitch game, and despite the horrid smell that filled the house Harry had little hearts in his eyes.

the nappies had to of been enchanted, there was simply no way they would of held up THIS well as the back of the diapers ballooned out like you'd see in a cartoon.

'I'll have to get the brand name from him I can totally see this happening more and more often.' Harry cheerfully thought, then chuckled. 'Good thing I didn't put him in a onesie though.. the buttons would of flown off and might of taken out a eye!'

when he judged the mess to be over after about 15 minutes (mostly from Draco just laying there panting, eyes glazed and and beads of sweat dripping off of him, Harry helped the stinker up.

He was going to wait to remove the dummy gag until he got the big baby in the chair, but with such a cute display he just couldn't wait.

Draco wasn't even aware as the gag came out, though there was a soft steady mutter of 'da da da da da' escaping from his mouth. wiping his chin with bib, Harry then mouth in and gave Draco a hot kiss, shocking Draco out of his stupor but not fast enough as Harry pushed Draco back into the chair and cried out resistant as he did so.

instantly the tray came up and over Draco's head, sliding in and locking in place and pinning Draco's arms under the tray instead over in the arm restraints though his feet were locked in.

The feeling of landing on his muck butt had stopped whatever Draco was about to say, at least till he was secured in place.

"I'm sorry, you were going to say something?" Harry chuckled, about to turn and get Draco a bowl of baby food.

"POTTER YOU BLOODY GIT!! THIS WAS ALL FOR -YOU- TO WEAR!! I'M A TOP!" Draco bellowed.

Harry froze in his tracks and locked eyes with Draco, it was pretty clear this wasn't big baby regrets.

"Ummm..Oops?" Harry said sheepishly. "I'll um.. just get you free an-"

"I'M STUCK IN HERE FOR A BLOODY HOUR YOU WANKER!" Draco growled and then as he went on ranting, Harry couldn't help but think of two things.

1. He had screwed up BIG time and maybe should stop snooping around and

2. since he was already in the dog house, maybe popping the dummy gag back in till he could release Draco might be a good idea.

The end.

[waywardmartian]

Doing part of a prompt list to keep in practice. And because it is technically more a fic prompt, short fic.

It's more a metaphorical warmth.

Huddling For Warmth ( But they're empty armours animated by magic, they don't have body heat. )

Galatea's element was ice. Fire and lightning left burns, earth broke things, but ice would melt away like it had never been there. It was tidy. Things always seemed more quiet, more peaceful, more still in the cold.

Then Galatea realised ge had no idea how long ge had been staring at the page without reading it, reliving old wounds over and over as if dwelling on them could change the past. Ge reached to turn the page and felt the ice crack between gids joints.

Galatea radiated cold when angry but also when sad, a way to soothe giself and try to bring calm when upset. Freezing over completely ...

Of course I lose control of my magic, the only thing I have ever been good for. I am as useless as they said I am, if I am not in control of my emotions at all times then I am a bad person. Asking for help forces emotional labour on others and being an inconvenience is the worst thing a person can be. I do not deserve help because my problems are stupid ...

Ge became aware of spider-paws drumming on gids gauntlet. "Galatea!" squeaked Akari. "It's never been this bad before. Can you move?"

"Get the Iron King," Galatea ordered before ge shamed giself out of it. He said I may always ask him for help. I do not deserve his kindness, I must not bother him - But Akari was already out the door.

A moment later the Iron King flew in, Akari clinging to his crown. He carefully removed the book from Galatea's hands, then picked gid up, moved the chair back from the desk, and sat in it himself with Galatea on his lap so he could hold gid as if trying to thaw the ice with body heat he didn't have.

He leaned his helm against gids. "You sent Akari to get me. I'm glad that you know you can always ask me for help. Tell me - do you need to talk about what upset you or do you just need company?"

"Company." It was something they had worked out at a time when Galatea was calm, to use gids programming to redirect gids thoughts - Galatea wasn't compelled to answer a question stated as an order, it was just the path of least resistance, making it easier to say what ge needed rather than going into a spiral of 'I don't deserve help.' Galatea felt the ice grind in gids joints as ge tried to curl against him. Ge hadn't realised how much of an automatic response it was to get closer to him until ge was prevented. But wasn't it logical to move towards a source of comfort?

The Iron King noticed the attempt and tightened his embrace. "Don't try to move yet. I'll be here as long as you need. Tell me - do you need me to talk or do you need silence?"

"Talk. Talk about anything."

"Hm. Well, I'd been cleaning the workshop when Akari came to fetch me. I was sweeping up the metal powder and filings from around the grinder - I'll need to melt it down to see how much of it is recoverable metal and how much is dust. I'm not even sure how we get dust in here. But I was cleaning up because I had been going through the broken items in the vault yesterday and had an idea for how to repair that thing that looks like a wire puzzle. You remember - the thing you said had traces of four different spells on it and theorised that the spell changed depending on the configuration. I was looking at the joins on it again and I think I've figured out how they work ..."

Listening to the Iron King talk about his day was a comfort, a proof that Galatea was here, that this was gids life now, that ge was allowed to have this life. The Iron King wanted Galatea to know him, he trusted Galatea with the things he cared about. He would undoubtedly tire of Galatea someday, but for now there was comfort, for now there was belonging, and for now there was hope that someday would be a very long way off.

When Galatea finally thawed enough to lean against him, he paused. "How are you doing?"

"Better. Permit this unit to inspect the wire puzzle again before the Iron King begins repairs - ge believes ge has seen similar shapes two weeks ago in a book of Dwarvish arcana. If these are related, it could be useful to know the shapes the puzzle is likely to take."

He patted gids pauldron before settling back into the embrace. "That's my wizard."

Finally able to move gids helm again, ge looked up at him, then paused. "Akari is still on the Iron King's helm."

"She fell asleep. I can feel her snoring."

"The Iron King knows he is permitted to remove Akari."

"I don't mind."

[bettsfic]

betts, i'm having trouble with letting myself "write badly" (and with coming up with ideas, but mostly the former). how do you do it, how do you teach yourself?

first of all, major props to you for trying the shitty first draft. this past semester it was the #1 thing i wanted my students to take from the class. for those who do not yet know the power of the SFD, i have made a very helpful visual aid:

let’s say you read anne lamott’s “shitty first drafts” (and you absolutely must read anne lamott’s “shitty first drafts”), and you come out of it believing in the three draft method: 

down draft: get it down

up draft: clean it up

dental draft: check every tooth

but you think, potentially, the better your down draft is, the better your up draft will be, and the easier your dental draft will be. perhaps you think, the shittier your first draft, the shittier your final draft, or maybe, the more you’ll have to revise.

NAY. 

i’d like you to turn your attention to my gorgeous and professional graphic which took me a whole 30 seconds to make. i’ve drawn two spectrums which indicate the quality of writing, from :( (awful) to :) (most excellent) based on your own definitions of good/bad writing.

let’s say the top line represents a writer who has written a very decent first draft. the absolute best they can do. they’ve put their all into it. they revise it once and it’s a little bit better. they revise it again, but at this point it’s mostly fixing a typo here and there. they have checked every tooth. but it’s still not great.

the bottom line represents a writer who projectile vomited onto a piece of paper (metaphorically) and then cried for an hour (literally). their first draft is written partially in wingdings for reasons they don’t know. they forgot the word for “wrist” so they wrote “hand ankle.” objectively speaking in the grand history of the universe, according to god, it is in the top 1% of worst things ever written.

then this writer cleans it up a bit. now, it’s about where it would be if the writer had tried to write a clean first draft. it’s something they might be willing to show an extremely tactful friend, or someone with very low standards.

and now, magic happens. they revise again, and the draft is infinitely better than what they knew they could write. i don’t know why this happens! but it does. it’s happened to me. it’s happened to every student who has had the terrible fortune of stepping into my classroom. i promise you it works. 

writing badly is not just about getting your ideas down in a somewhat messy way. it’s about writing intentionally badly. it’s about aiming for the absolute worst of what you’re capable of. to write badly means to identify and define what you think is good writing, because you’re aiming for the opposite. maybe you hate stories that have run-on sentences, or which seem to lack self-awareness. that means your first draft is going to be FULL of run-ons and have no idea what it’s trying to be. but run-ons can be tidied up to create beautiful prose. and mindless nonsense that relies on tropes and cliches can be organized and added upon to be meaningful. but you need to get it down before you even know what the thing you’re writing is. we write as the process of thought, not the product of it. 

which brings me to my next point: *commentator voice* 

THE UNKNOWN

i’ve written before on the interaction between fear, the unknown, and writer’s block. one day i’ll write a big fancy craft essay on it that i’ll try lamely to publish, but for now i’ll be very blunt: 

all writer’s block is fear. all fear is the unknown. to resolve fear, you must make something known. to make something known, you enact a procedure.

this is true of almost everything in life. everything you hesitate to do, everything you procrastinate or put off. every bad attitude you have. it’s all the unknown. if you open yourself to the process of knowing, everything in life becomes less scary. 

how do surgeons perform life-saving surgeries? how do pilots keep a plane from crashing? how did i go to work as a bank teller in a bad part of town, day after day, knowing i would eventually get robbed? we have procedures. if this happens, you do this, this, and this. 

as mary ruefle puts it in her essay “on fear” -- what is the poet’s procedure?

this is, of course, a rhetorical question, but i’ve taught this essay many times, and read it many more, and i am obsessed with the idea of a writer’s procedure. combined with donald barthleme’s essay “not-knowing” which is also about the making things known, we have a foundation for which to understand the process of knowing.

so what is the process?

i have my own process which might work for you, which i adapt from project to project, but you’ll have to make your own. and when you do, you have to trust it. writing badly is easier when you know, like me, you have at least 8 more drafts to do no matter what. no matter how good i think it is, i will do every step of the procedure, every time. i have faith in my process. there is no point where an element of the story is so unknown to me that i am afraid to continue. i know that by the end of the process, i have done my best work, and there’s not much more i can do without the help of the people who have accepted it to be published.

recently i’ve decided i want to start drawing. it’s a daunting endeavor -- i used to draw a lot when i was a teenager, but like many of us, certain creative interests we had when we were younger get shoved to the side for one reason or another. for me, i never got the hang of shading, and i couldn’t handle ruining my lovely line drawings with my hideous attempts at making things look three-dimensional. 

now, i’ve tasked myself with picking it up again, but i’m afraid. i ask myself why i’m afraid. it’s because i don’t know anything about drawing anymore. i don’t know what to draw. i don’t know where to draw. i don’t know what to use to draw. i don’t know when to draw. 

but now, just by acknowledging what i don’t know, i have a list of things i need to make known, one small thing at a time.

what to draw: i take a picture of a fruit basket. i follow some mandala artists on instagram. i look at art blogs. i make a list in google keep/drive of things i want to draw. i keep my mind open to inspiration as it arrives.

where and what to use to draw: i need tools. i’m interested in watercolors, ink drawings, and calligraphy. i go to amazon and i pick out a couple things -- a watercolor notebook, crayola watercolors, micron and brush pens. it’s about $20. enough to get me started at least.

when to draw: i schedule two hours three nights a week to draw. i download the harry potter audiobooks to encourage me to do it. 

when it comes time to draw, the only unknown thing is where to place the first line. there is no risk in it, no fear -- i do it with pencil. it can be erased. there is no way to be wrong. once the first line is down, i move to the next and the next, making the drawing known one line at a time. 

the first step in the process of knowing is naming what you don’t know.

so my advice to you is this: make a list of questions you have for your narrative. if they’re too broad, break them up. make them tiny. then ask yourself, not what are the answers, but “how do i make these things known to me?” 

the response is usually “i don’t fucking know” followed potentially by “well i’ll have to try doing this thing that i know is wrong.” it might be wrong, but it’s known. and so you have to write it down, then trust that it will eventually be right.

thanks for the great question, anon. more on this at the start of the new year, but soon i’ll be launching a ko-fi gold! if you’re interested in getting one-on-one feedback for your writing or would like to buy me a coffee, feel free to follow me on ko-fi!

and here’s my writing advice tag.

[keelywolfe]

FIC: Endurance Trial (PapayaBerry, lemon)

Summary:   Blue's POV after Red leaves his house in the last chapter. His perspective on being Chosen might be a little different than Red's.

Tags: PapayaBerry, Blue/Papyrus, Blue/Sans, Background SpicyHoneyMustard, Established Relationship, Possessive Behavior, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, LEMONY GOODNESS!!, Unhealthy Relationship, Dubious Consent!

Notes and WARNINGS! : Whew, how to warn for this. 

I want to label it dubious consent, because while Guards know what they are getting into when they sign on and no one is forced to become a guard, it still FEELS like dubious consent and some unpleasant sexual content. So be warned.

There's also some description of Blue's injuries, which if you read the last chapter, you know there were plenty. It's not particularly gruesome, but I want to warn. Do I need to warn for Unhealthy Relationships? Yeah, 'cause that's a thing. 

Oh, boys, why do you do this to me?

Sequel to:

Showtime

Secret Garden

A Judicious Amount of Effort

Musically Inclined

Lest You Be Judged

Solo Act

Appealing To Better Judgment

Safety In Numbers

~~*~~

Read Endurance Trial on AO3

or

Read it here!

~~*~~

Blue watched Red silently as he stormed away, around the corner of the house to the car that was surely parked for him by the curb. He stayed there on the porch, watching condensation roll lazily down their half-drunk glasses of lemonade, waiting as he listened to distant tires squealing away.

The sun was hot overhead, even birds often failed to sing in the worst of the afternoon heat. A brief longing for Snowdin jabbed into Blue’s battered soul like a hatpin, memories of cold mounds of snow, of a little brother who was missing his two front teeth and still only came up to Blue’s chin. A brother he hadn’t seen in years aside from pictures and whose letters Blue could no longer open, not since Rus was Chosen as Judge.

They came like clockwork, once a week, a plain envelope with his name written in penmanship that he’d seen over the years go from childish scribbles to tidy letters cramped together so tightly they near fell over each other in an attempt to form his name.

Every week Blue took that letter out of his mailbox and every week he tucked it in with the rest, unopened, filed and sorted by date.

This week’s letter was due in two days’ time and he would retrieve it like he had all the others despite Papyrus offering to get the mail.

Penance always came due and Blue would not shirk accepting his.

By the time Blue stirred again, the ice cubes were dwindled in the glasses. He picked up his and drained it to the last drop. Even with the tartness of the lemonade diluted and watery, it soothed his thirst.

The tray was too difficult to manage with only one hand and on days when he’d spent time on his damaged knees in the garden, Blue needed that hand to hold his cane more than ever. Instead, he set the glasses on the tray, wiping away the smeary puddles of water they left behind with his bandana. Papyrus would be more than happy to clear it away, would be purely delighted if Blue asked him to gather up the wagon and trowel he’d left behind out in the field.

Life was a great deal easier with Papyrus here with him, in so many ways.

When they’d first released Blue from the care of the healers, he’d been grateful to be away, leaving behind the pity that barely hid their disgust. Had Asgore still been alive, they likely would have left him to dust. It would have been a kindness to do so, rather than healing him only to execute him later for his failures.

The Queen was the one who demanded he be cared for and even then, Blue was less grateful than he was confused, expecting any day for his brother to come to him for a last Judgement.

Blue shivered despite the heat of the sun, struggling against memories that he wished were as blurred as his days of healing. He took his cane in hand, limping into the house and the cooling wash of air conditioning on the sweat dappling his bones left him shivering anew.

The house was tidy as a pin, exactly as Blue preferred it, even if he wasn’t the one who kept it this way. In the kitchen was freshly ground coffee in a container that was easily opened with one hand. Blue turned on the kettle, leaning against the counter as he waited for it to heat.

He didn’t watch it. The polished metal was too likely to cast a distorted reflection back at him and Blue’s face was troublesome enough without it. Broken and healed, as much as it could be.

They’d put him back together as best they could at the Queen’s behest, given him a home to live in, and then left him here alone. They, the ubiquitous they; the Guard, the Monster community, even his brother, though it was quite clear that wasn’t Rus’s choice. The entirety of his world left him here to struggle with the most basic of tasks.

Hoping, perhaps, that if they weren’t allowed to let him die, that he would take care of that for them, by accident or otherwise.

There were days when Blue hoped he would, too. The worst of it was those first weeks with pain still throbbing rawly through his imperfectly healed bones, staring hatefully at his own reflection in the mirror. He’d spit on it once, watched the glob of used magic trailing down the glass, smearing across the shattered image of his face in an unbroken mirror.

Everything hurt back then, his body, his soul, the swollen, too-recent memory of what happened in the throne room. Watching as Sans loomed over them all, his small body brimming with power, overflowing with unearthly rage as they were all of them, even the King, mercilessly Judged. The agony that raked over Blue’s soul like invisible claws as the Judge looked within it, scooping him out until he was hollow and weighing him before all creation. The next he knew, he was lying on the stinking, burnt remains of the golden flowers that once carpeted the throne room, his head ringing, and coated so thickly with dust there were days Blue still thought he could taste it, chalky and bitter on the back of his tongue.

It was…not a good memory.

Things were better now that Papyrus was here. He was the one who removed all the mirrors, saying that if they upset Blue, then why keep them around, a question Blue never once thought to ask himself. Papyrus was the one who rearranged the entire house, moving the bed downstairs into the living room as he laughed that no one cared where they slept in their own home, so why force Blue to climb the stairs every night. Papyrus was the one who cooked, the one who cleaned, who made lemonade and carried it out for Blue so he might have a cold drink while he worked in the gardens. He was the one who took Blue from caretaker to cared for, and the pure gratitude Blue felt towards him for it brought stinging tears to his good socket.

Red simply didn’t understand, and how could he? Rumor had it that those three cavorted like lovers rather than Chosen in the service of the Crown and Angel.

On one hand it was near blasphemous and on the other…Blue hoped Red was right, that his brother was happy and not simply enduring what his body required. Blue wanted that for Rus and if the Angel disapproved, then surely She wouldn't have allowed Edge and Red such liberties.

Red hid his emotions well, but Blue was Chosen for several years. He knew how to see deeper things that others did not, and he could see the depth of affection in Red’s eye lights when he spoke of Rus, the adoration, the purity of love.

The kettle hissed steam and Blue startled, lifting it from the base to pour over the grounds already in the strainer basket. Watched as it dripped through the hourglass shape of the gravity brewer, clear turning to a rich brown. Better coffee, according to Papyrus, and easier for Blue to use than having to mess with filters and pots and whatnot.

When it was finished, Blue took his cup out to the living room where the bed was pushed into one corner and two chairs sat across from it. He chose one of the chairs, sipping from his cup, the coffee hot and black exactly as he liked it and nothing like his brother’s preference for all things sweet.

He wondered how often Red and Edge indulged him, their affection overruling their good sense.

Strange, really. As many years as Blue spent in the guard, he’d felt many things; pride at a duty well done, determination to keep his charge well cared for, yes, even some affection. He’d been fond of Sans and if he weren’t Chosen, if things had been different, Blue might have been happy to call him friend.

He might have anyway, had it not been for that certain part of his duties. Blue had done what was required of him, kept to his vows, and hated every moment of it. If there was one faint, thin silver lining he’d found in his disgrace, it was the shameful relief that duty was over.

No more evenings dreading being called to the Judge’s room to service him. Allowing his body to be used, blanking his mind as he’d been taught while keeping his distaste to himself. It was only another unpleasant chore to be done, like when he'd been an initiate and was sent to scrub toilets with an old toothbrush. Even during his training, he’d disliked those sex acts. Having the other guards pawing at him, fouling him with their fluids, grunting over him and expecting him to do the same.

He'd only swallowed down his disgust and done what was required, learned his lessons quickly, endured until his skills were well-appreciated and occasionally even requested by the others. That he declined; he’d joined the Guard so that he might be Chosen for service to the Judge, not any sweaty initiate who might wish to grab onto his skull and fuck his mouth without care.

Blue sipped his coffee, lost in memory. As much as he’d been grateful that Sans had so many Chosen, lessening the likelihood of him being required, there was always that awful moment in the evening, the terrible anticipation as he waited restlessly to see if he’d be summoned.

In those days, Chosen had their own rooms in the Judge’s wing of the castle and Blue would wait in his, always carefully washed and groomed, bones polished and prepared as he waited to see if the Night guard would come to his room and tell him with formal politeness that the Judge requested his presence. Then he would walk alone to the Judge’s rooms, reciting his vows beneath his breath. It was an honor to serve, an honor to be Chosen, and he would never fail in any of duties before King or Judge.

When it came to the actual act, Blue preferred oral sex; it was far easier to focus on the task at hand and he was skilled enough to bring the Judge off quickly, several times in a row if necessary. Sans seemed to know it and usually didn’t ask him for anything else. Certainly things were a lot better after Sans stopped trying to make him come.

But that was only a small part of being a guard, hastily done and forgotten. His nightly duties might have been distasteful, but during the day protecting the Judge was an incredible honor and he had been very fond of Sans, an affection that Sans seemed to return.

Blue was often the one caring for him after a Judging, cleaning up his frail body, soothing away his shivers and nightmares. Cooking him fragrant broths and holding the cup to Sans’s chattering teeth, gently urging him to drink. Caring for the Judge in every way he could, and if it often ended with him on his back, Sans moving over him, inside him, it was a small price to pay to be a highly sought after Chosen.

In the darkest, bitterest corner of his mind, Blue wondered if it was best that Sans hadn’t survived his last Judging. After enduring that, Blue wasn’t entirely sure he could have allowed Sans to touch him again.

But broken as it was, his body was his own now and giving it was his choice. His time as Chosen was done and the Judge would never touch him again. He shuddered faintly to think of it, of the merest possibility of Sans using his brother’s hands on him, fouling his precious memories of Rus.

No matter Red’s insinuations or his brother’s letters arriving like clockwork, it could not happen. It would not.

The front door opening startled Blue out of his thoughts. He turned to see Papyrus coming in, his arms loaded with grocery bags.

"I'm home!" Papyrus sang out. Blue smiled involuntarily. He didn't smile much these days, it pulled on the cracks in his skull painfully, but it was nearly impossible to resist the urge when faced with Papyrus. He was filled with endless cheer, drawing it from an overflowing well somewhere deep inside himself.

When Papyrus first came here Blue only knew him by reputation, Sans’s younger brother, the guard who washed out so many times. In those days if Blue thought of him at all, he might have supposed Papyrus to be naïve, particularly when it came to what he would be forced to endure if Sans Chose him. As it turned out, it wasn’t the sexual aspect that was the issue. Papyrus couldn’t bring himself to kill and as useless as that was to a guard, it was still a good trait to have in Blue’s opinion.

“Just look at you, drinking coffee while you’re still sweaty, honestly! I know that you’ve been working outside for far too long,” Papyrus went on, in that tone that somehow managed to be both scolding and cheery.

“Do you think so?” Blue asked, teasingly. He set his empty mug aside and limped into the kitchen to help empty the bags. Setting their contents on the countertop, sorting them by dry goods and refrigerator. Papyrus was a whirlwind, moving about as he put things away. He towered over Blue, long, gangly limbs moving in tandem as he sorted out his purchases, muttering beneath his breath at what items would be needed for tonight’s dinner, what might be needed now. Papyrus was a fair cook, partially trained guard that he was, and with Blue’s guidance, he was improving by the day.

So unlike his brother, in so many ways.

“Don’t you always?” Papyrus retorted.

“I suppose I do,” Blue admitted. He set the butter with the rest of the refrigerator items, salted and unsalted, ready for a variety of recipes. “I’ve always had to work hard.”

He bent down to retrieve a bag of apples, stilling as Papyrus came up suddenly behind him and sank down to kneel on the floor. Hands settled on his pelvis, drawing him down into Papyrus’s lap and a chill ran through Blue at the hard pressure on his tailbone.

"Hmmm, but are you a hard worker,” Papyrus murmured, one spidery-slim hand cupping between Blue’s legs. “I was thinking of you at the store. Standing there in the produce section like a fool, remembering how you were last night. I couldn’t seem to help myself." He nuzzled at the back of Blue's skull, his tongue curling around the sensitive place where it joined his spine.

“Did you?” Blue managed. Last night in their shared bed, Blue only lay back on the clean sheets and let Papyrus have him, the same as he had every night since Papyrus came to live with him. Moaning as he’d been taught, playing at enthusiasm and if Papyrus knew his shuddering climax for a joyless sham, he showed no sign of it.

His hands went to the front of Blue's trousers, toying at the fastenings. "Can I?"

Blue closed his sockets. "Of course."

With gentle hands, Papyrus rid him of his trousers and helped him to his uncertain knees. Blue buried his broken face into his arm, focused on his breathing. Papyrus was always gentle, but so damned persistent, he wouldn’t stop until Blue came, reluctantly, shivering with unwanted orgasm. He summoned his cunt already dripping wet, giving the appearance of being desperately aroused, and Papyrus hummed in the delight to discover it, his fingers pushing inside, testing that slipperiness.

There were times that Papyrus drew this out, lingering until Blue snapped at him with impatience disguised as urgency. Today, he must have been too eager, worked up from his imaginings, because he pulled his fingers out quickly. The sound of his zipper was loud in the small room, the rustle of clothing before the tip of his shaft butted up against Blue’s clenching entrance.

Papyrus pushed the heavy length of his cock into Blue's pussy, stretching his lips around that solid girth and the pinch of it make him hiss. Bigger than Sans, so much bigger, and somehow Blue always forgot until it was forcing its way inside him.

He'd thought his days of enduring this were over. The Judge was dead, long live the Judge, and Blue would be alone until he finally dusted, as he should have in the throne room.

Until Papyrus showed up at his front door.

It was quick at least. Papyrus’s pelvis pounded against his own as he grunted with pleasure. The cracks that ran through Blue’s bones sang with pain as Papyrus’s pace quickened and then he stilled, the surging warmth of his cum filling Blue’s aching pussy before he could offer even the pretense of an orgasm. Papyrus slumped over Blue, carefully keeping the bulk of his weight off him, then withdrew, his seed seeping down the inside of Blue’s femurs in a filthy flood.

He rolled Blue gently onto his back and there he lay, staring up at the ceiling as Papyrus buried his face against his cunt to lick at the soft, slick folds. Absently, he decided that they needed to clean again, there was a cobweb in one corner.

Then Blue closed his sockets, shuddering as the clever tongue inside him brought him to a reluctant peak. When he was finished, shivering unpleasantly, Papyrus lifted him into his arms, holding him close. That at least was something to appreciate, and Blue snuggled into the embrace, returning it the best he could with his single arm.

"You always take care of me," Papyrus sighed happily, scattering gentle kisses over his skull. "Just like Sans said you would."

"I always will," Blue promised, dully. It was his duty and he might be shamed, a failed Chosen when it came to protecting his Judge, but he would not fail in this. Penance always came due and he would endure it. The Judge's little brother would be safe with him, for as long as Blue drew breath.

Soon, Papyrus would carry him to the bathroom and wash him clean, and if it roused him, ignited his need again, perhaps he’d be satisfied with Blue’s mouth this time.

It was something to hope for and a small price to pay, really, to keep Papyrus here with him. If only the anticipation wasn’t always so terrible, the waiting, oh, by the Angel, always waiting for this again.

Blue closed his sockets as Papyrus rose with him in his arms, already babbling softly about showers and dinner. He’d know soon enough what else needed to be endured and the wait would be done. For at least a little while.

-finis-

[kinetic-elaboration]

February 9: Mr. Robot 3x10

Finally watched the last episode of Mr. Robot season 3. I was actually on the ball today so I’ve done lots--worked a full 8 hour day, read at lunch, went on a walk, read some fanfic for the first time in literal months--and now I’m exhausted.

So I don’t have too many coherent thoughts.

I remembered a few things from this ep--mostly the Dom part, the Angela and Price reveal, and the very last shot. But there were still a lot of details I forgot, and honestly I think I forgot everything after they leave the barn. I completely forgot all that stuff with the finding the secret magic code keys to undo the hack. I think that’s because it’s actually rather anti-climactic versus a lot of the other stuff that happened. What does restoring the data do? As Grant says, the Dark Army doesn’t care because 5/9 was just a part of the bigger plan that served its purpose. And everything in the past 2 seasons has shown that the Prices and whiteroses of the world will come out on top no matter what, because even tragedy (esp. tragedy) is open to being manipulated. And finally, as the Lady of the Night at the end says, it’s just too simplistic a plan. Just like 5/9 itself. So I mean it’s very IC for Elliot and there’s a certain amount of satisfaction to something, at least, being nice and clean and tidy, but it doesn’t feel like this BIG big moment, especially compared to the earlier scenes. Like the point from the subway on doesn’t match anything from before, where I was so tense my stomach hurt.

I remember finding the Price and Angela story really emotional and surprising the first time I watched it, not because him being her father was so shocking--it’s the sort of twist Esmail does well, where you’re like.. oh DUH and it actually makes more sense now--but because I’d been so willing, in my own naivety, to believe that literally anything, even perhaps time travel itself, was possible-- I mean all the hints! And here he is saying, definitively, no, this is still a realistic universe, in fact probably one of the most realistic universes on tv, and there is absolutely no way we’re suddenly going to become Back to the Future--sometimes people, even/especially ridiculously powerful people, are just out of their minds. The reason was pettiness--it was really that small. There’s something so effectively gut wrenching about that, to me. Such big things, happening for such small reasons.

I felt sort of similarly about Dom being flipped, actually. In some sense, it was a big operation to get her on the side of the Dark Army: a lot of research and so on. But ultimately it was also so simple. She said nothing would make her betray her values and her country and her job, but when they showed her just how far their reach went, how they knew and could find literally her whole family, well that was it. It’s not a complex scheme, is what I’m trying to say, it’s just threats--but it’s also the worst threats imaginable, coupled with some classic emotional manipulation. And so just like that she’s ruined.

The show is just so good at balancing the big and the small, the personal and the organizational and the political. Elliot is just one, often naive, person, and the show doesn’t make him bigger than he is--but it does acknowledge that he’s the protagonist for a reason. So he is good enough to have whiterose’s project moved to the Congo, for example, even though “hundreds of people like” him couldn’t do it. His character and his influence on the world is just... so well calibrated. Big enough to warrant this being HIS show, but not so big as to ruin the realism of a show that’s so much about the puppeteering ability of the rich and powerful.

To circle back to Angela... I haven’t seen S4 but I do know that she dies in 4x01 and I read at least one article that was very unhappy with that narrative decision. I don’t know exactly what I’ll think of it in context yet but I will say... rewatching this season and especially the last couple of episodes, she’s just so damaged, and so lost, it’s hard to see how there could be a redemption or recovery arc for her. I’m talking strictly from a narrative point of view. I do see how the character has come to her end place.

The parallel between Angela and Elliot was so strong. I mean I should have seen it straight off with the way her scene with Price was edited in with his scene at the barn, but like... when Price says “You have to recognize you’ve been conned and learn to live with what you’ve done” I just felt like that could apply to Elliot too. Except Angela’s instinct is to get revenge and Elliot’s is to undo his bad decisions and start again, and Angela is held back from her instincts and Elliot is given free reign. So she ends the season with, essentially, nothing at all, and he ends it with a new purpose (and a new/old antagonist, with Vera coming back....)

So yeah, something here with my Elliot and Angela theory lol... increasingly from the first season on, they’re separated but parallel--like in the scene where he talks to her through the door. They sometimes approach but never quite meet--like when the Cyber Bombings episode ended with them finally face to face, unable to hold both of them together in the frame. They’re so important to each other, but this importance is so often unsaid or out of focus. And I still don’t know what I think... is the love for her that he has located in Elliot or in the Hacker? Or both?

Anyway. I started thinking about how well plotted this show is and how poorly plotted other shows are and now my brain is somewhere else. I need to get ready for bed because I am very tired.

Final thought: I saw you there Ms. Lulu Ferocity!

[mirainawen]

Some headcanons for The Long Road that absolutely nobody asked for

Who’s the messiest one:

Everyone has their places that they are the messiest one in.

dean: when he cooks, he does not clean up the kitchen afterward. he reasons that cleanup is sam's detail, because that splits the work 50-50. most of the time, sam is okay with this because he doesn't particularly enjoy cooking and is tired of takeout. he'll bitch dean out in three circumstances: 1, he hasn't been there (fair), 2, he wanted to eat out (less fair), 3, DID YOU REALLY HAVE TO WRECK THE WHOLE KITCHEN TO BAKE A FRICKIN PIE (least fair).

when it comes to the state of his room, though, dean falls right between sam and adam. it's his space, so he reasons everyone can mind their own business. sometimes he is really on top of it; other stretches of time, he'll let things pile up / get out of place before he'll do something about it.

you so much as leave a to-go cup in Baby, though, and God help you.

sam: between the three of them, sam tends to be the most orderly and tidy. BUT, leave that man alone to his own devices in the library? he's probably fallen asleep atop an entire table of "organized chaos" of open books, pages of notes, a new (unimplemented) filing system, a dozen bookmarked tomes, and a couple dozen pens lost amid the chaos. sam in research mode + cross-referencing & digitizing & organizing the men of letters' archives into a streamlined and interconnected, coherent system is...a lot. just like A Lot. and it Shows. (and sam's loving every minute of it. utterly geeking out in his own head.)

adam: is a disaster child. he'll let shit pile up until he has to deal with it, or is otherwise bitched at enough by (usually) sam. he doesn't have a lot of stuff, so it can't reach actual problem levels in the bunker. but he's totally the kind to be like, "what the hell? how long has this been here? hey, guys, when did we eat at burger king? oh god, we should definitely toss that at the next gas station. what? no i'm not going searching for a trash can right now" about his car.

Who feels the most uncomfortable about PDA:

it is, get this, sam. i know, i know. hear me out. when given the option, adam can and will be affectionate within reason. he's the most uptight and gunshy about it at first, when he just gets out of the cage; tends to withdraw from people getting too close, always on edge; as a survivor of the most Traumatic Thing in the Universe, that is more than fair and expected.

once he's had time to find his footing with sam & dean, however, he'll greet them with a bro-hug, when appropriate, a slap on the back, a nudge of the elbow, lowkey affection like that.

dean came back from purgatory more affectionate than he'd ever been before. much more readily will not only greet with a hug, but say goodbye (even in 'casual' partings) with a hug.

that leaves sam, who used to be considered more mushy than dean by these terms. dean's lowkey affection he's used to. adam's? nah. no. especially in the first 5 years, for the amount of time that adam does it (before shit gets Real Bad). after adam gets out of the institution, he gravitates more towards sam naturally, even when pissed, and sam's kinda lowkey why is he in my personal space??? weird. because it doesn't innately fit the same kind of way it does with dean. post-reintegration, he's more affectionate after they've found their footing again. he tries to make up for the Bad Years with more slaps on the shoulder kind of affection. boy's trying.

Who’s the funniest drunk:

sam is a disaster drunk. he's the biggest lightweight of the three of them, which is funny because he's also the biggest, just like the biggest in general. dean becomes so much fun in unexpectedly different kinds of ways. like, he can be talked into karaoke. or doing some stupid shit he's gonna regret in the morning because odds are it's not gonna end well.

but adam is straight up hilarious. that sharp wit comes out, and all his inhibitions (and image) are gone so he just straight up cracks the worst jokes ever and gets away with it. they land. somehow they land. maybe because sam & dean are also drunk. maybe because he is just that funny. maybe it's that he has a tendency to get blackout-wasted and do stupid shit that makes no sense whatsoever, like shower with his f*ckin socks on and dean is never gonna let that shit die.

Who texts the most:

adam or dean. during large periods of time in the first 5 years, adam will leave dean on read and dean texts because read receipts means he knows when adam is checking his messages and therefore he knows adam is at least alive, if not entirely alright. by that view, dean texts the most.

but for random shit, that would be adam. he'll text dean something like

with either no caption, or something like: this reminds me you need to hit the gym, or looks like you have competition and doesn't give further context. dean doesn't mind because at least it means the kid's not dying in a basement somewhere.

he'll kick his ass for the fat comment later

Who reads the most:

it goes in this order:

sam "i read this entire book in one sitting cause i had the time, and now i am awake at 1am because i can't decide if i want to start another one since i have down time" winchester

adam "does it have cool illustrations? no? fine, at least tell me the lore on boobries is correct" milligan

dean "what job has the least amount of reading?" winchester

Who has the most embarrassing taste in music:

eff. ing. adam. even in his own car (where, hey, the rules are driver picks the music dean!) he's only allowed a certain amount of time for his "whiny teenage garbage music" (thanks dean) before he has to change it to something a little more tolerable (rock, at the very least). heaven help him if he hints at something country with dean around. dean will be like, sit your ass down it's time for REAL music 101 and put on Metallica for the 8th time.

Who’s better with kids:

adam, with dean a very, very close second! so close, they probably tie. adam, early on, isn't good with anyone because fresh-out-of-the-cage (even post-institution for a bit) makes him kind of a hairs-breadth triggered bomb when it comes to people of all ages. but adam a bit more balanced? a natural. he grew up around extended family, friends, wanted kids of his own someday.

sam, however, is the absolute worst. a pure disaster moron in this arena. when adam is de-aged? dean didn't think it was possible for sam to suck so much at something. (don't worry, the boy found his bearings. but oh man...the road to get there, paved with more potholes than road.) BUT when sam really tries? like if he lets himself relax and lowers his inhibitions, he can do pretty well. but he's mostly just Highly Uncomfortable around kids, and like, it Shows.

Who’s the one that fixes things around the house:

dean. put that boy in the garage, under the hood of a car, great. can do it all. put that boy in front of a little home repair? renovation? by god he'll figure it out. and he won't put a hole in the wall shut up sammy. he takes pride in the upkeep of the bunker.

sam, however, is much more content to just be like ah man i wish we had a shelf here. or, oh right we need to remember to do xyz and then sit back and wait for it to Magically Take Care of Itself.

Who’s got the weirdest hobby:

hobby? what the hell is that? a homeless person?

Who cooks and who cleans up:

dean cooks, sam cleans. adam cooks, sam and dean will rock-paper-scissors for cleanup. or leave adam to do it. sam is never allowed to cook. he's a horrible cook. they'd literally rather eat out than let sam cook. sam, of course, is highly insulted, but also like...he knows dean & adam are better cooks. they just are. yes, fine, he'll wash the dishes again.

every now and then he gives it a shot. surprisingly he makes really good pancakes. he'll cook just to force one of the others to have to cleanup when he's tired of being on dish duty. dean & adam are not impressed when he tries to leverage sandwiches for dish duty.

sam, somewhat sloshed on a saturday night will be like, guys! guys! hey why don't i make us food and dean and adam are like, duuuuuude. ...wait, no. sam- and he's like, no, guys, i got this, and brings them microwave burritos. and THEN they're like hey! no! this does NOT mean we're doing dishes!

[flvcr]

ᴡᴇꜱᴛᴍᴇʀᴇ ᴛᴀꜱᴋ ₀₀₁ : ᴄʜᴀʀᴀᴄᴛᴇʀ ꜱᴜʀᴠᴇʏ

𝙬 / 𝙚𝙩𝙞𝙚𝙣𝙣𝙚 𝙛𝙡𝙪𝙤𝙧

ᴀɴꜱᴡᴇʀᴇᴅ ʙʏ ᴇᴛɪᴇɴɴᴇ

when you think of westmere, what’s the first thing that comes to your mind?  

❝ i guess it’s more of a feeling for me ? this sense of warmth. it’s just bits and pieces engrained in my mind of those in town. it’s starting to feel like home for me ? i mean, i’ve moved around a lot, and although i think back on those cities fondly, this is a new one for me. ❞

have you read rw wallace’s books?  if you have, which ones your favorite?

❝  i’ve read through them all, mainly as a result of joining a book club in town - some a couple times more than the others. if i had to choose, i think my favorite one is secret identities. although i’ve marked up corruption and creation a bunch, that one’s pretty solid. i read the first when i moved to new york, and then once i discovered it was inspired by westmere i knew i needed to come visit, and ever since it’s definitely lived up to the hype set in merelake. ❞

what spot is your favorite in town and why?  

❝ favorite ? hm, the gazebo, at night, is a bit surreal. there’s this bit of stillness for a moment that just seems to encompass the entire town, and the very next second the crickets are chirping, it’s almost like you can hear everything yet NOTHING all at the same time. ❞

if you were stranded at night, who’s the first person you’d call and why?

❝ @sebmeier​ . let’s just hope the poor sod isn’t standing beside me this time. oh, cause he’d put the pedal to the vettel. but if he’s with me, @mcttie​ - it’s a given. ❞

how often do you talk to your parents/family?

❝ we text here and there throughout the week, my parents and siblings alike. we have a family group chat, ha, um, but it’s nice. i call my mum on thursdays, we’ll facetime and have a proper meal together. if my siblings are visitng, or dad is around they’ll join too. ❞

how would your best friend describe you?  what about your worst enemy?

❝ probably in the same fashion - an ass that just won’t quit. i’m only kidding. perhaps more along the lines of me being a pain in the ass ? ❞

do you like celebrating birthdays?  what about holidays?

❝ birthdays ? hm, no, well not my own. i do enjoy gift giving though, and writing a card, so i guess i enjoy others birthdays. holidays, eh, it more so depends on the one. i enjoy halloween, that dream-like christmas bubble of time is a bit uncanny, and i’m a proper sucker for valentine’s day. all the others are a bit of a wash. no offense to the easter bunny and what not. ❞

do you believe in ghosts?  aliens?  are you a conspiracy theorist?

❝ ghosts ? definitely. growing up in montpellier, i could’ve sworn there was this girl that used to come and play with me, but a couple years back when i tried to explain her to my parents, they said they had no idea who i was describing. aliens? there’s absolutely no way we’re the highest form of life in this galaxy, if so, that’s awfully depressing. i guess you could say i’m a conspiracy theorist, i mean, i’m not sold on the ideology of lizard people quite yet, but i do often slip into the online void - some of those just ... click, y’know ? ❞

if you won the lottery, what’s the first thing you’d do?

❝ lately i’ve been thinking of designing some type of rec center filled with after school programs and an ice rink, of course. although, i don’t necessarily need to win the lottery to really set it in motion, i suppose. regardless, i think it’d be a bit exciting to develop a program that’d engage with the youth of westmere, it’s a bit shoddy now, but who knows ? maybe one day it’ll come together. ❞

is the glass half full or half empty?

❝ that all depends on what you’re putting into it, hm ? are you taking or giving ?  ❞

are you more at home in a room full of people or being alone?

❝ of course i enjoy spending time with others, but a room FULL of people sounds a bit nightmarish.  i read this thing about how you become the most like the five people you surround yourself with, but it makes me wonder, at what points are you ever truly yourself ? i figure you can only find out when you’re completely alone. ❞

are you someone who follows a routine every day or prefers the spontaneity of life?

❝ a mix of both ? during training and the hockey season, i think a routine is a bit easier to follow. however, knowing i’m out for the season, i’m looking forward to the spontaneity of life here in westmere. ❞

do you want kids someday?  if you already have kids, would you want more?

❝ i haven’t really thought that far ahead. someday, maybe ? i do enjoy spending time with @salingcr​ and his rugrats, so why not ? yes ? ❞

what’s your go to karaoke song?

❝ runnin’ with the devil - van halen.  ❞

what throwback movie are you crossing your fingers that drive on by will show someday?

❝ meet joe black, although i’m not sure if they ever would due to the length of the film. ❞

what’s your favorite ice cream flavor down at ice queen & king?

❝ mint chocolate chip is a classic, but lately i’ve had a hankering for their mocha almond fudge. can never go wrong there. ❞

ᴀɴꜱᴡᴇʀᴇᴅ ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ ᴇᴛɪᴇɴɴᴇ

if your character grew up in town explain what they think of town and why they still live here. 

— n/a.

if your character moved here at one point or another, explain what they were thinking when they moved.  was it their choice?  a parents?  how did they feel about moving? 

— after being gifted the first of rw wallace’s books while living in new york, etienne knew the town depicted in the story was a place that he desired to be a part of. so, once his lease was up, he opted to move to westmere, commuting to new york during hockey and training season. he’s enjoyed it ever since, definitely no regrets.

what is your character’s earliest memory?

— his earliest memory is from halloween when he was about four years of age. still living in montpellier, his parents took him and his siblings from business to business to do a bit of trick-or-treating, popping in and out of different store fronts asking for candy. that year his parents dressed him up as jason voorhes, finding it comical for his age.

is your character’s family big or small?  what is their relationship with their family like?

— etienne has two older siblings, each of them being two years apart. he and his siblings are very close, as well as his parents - they have a family group chat.  he definitely gets along with his mother the most, the two of them having a virtual dinner on a weekly basis.

is your character the type to have a lot of good friends or a few really close ones?

— etienne has both ?! a solid amount of good friends, and yet also a tight knit group that he feels that he can be a splash more expressive and vulnerable with when the time comes. he does make a point to insert himself in others’ lives, wanting to be there for truly anyone who may need / want him, but he sometimes finds it difficult for himself to open up to that connection.

what is your character’s life philosophy?  how do they see the world?

— with a deep appreciation and love for  matthew mcconaughey this video here basically is etienne’s philosophy / way he sees the world in a six minute nut shell. BUT taking things from it, etienne is very realistic and straight to the point - will tell you what’s wrong / what the problem even if it’s a little blunt and borders on the rude end of things. he just doesn’t think living in some delusional realm is the right move for any one by any means. he may come off having a superiority complex when one is asking for his advice, but it’s just cause at the end of the day he thinks he’s being honest / right and by all means helpful, even if the other person doesn’t want to acknowledge it. aside from that, he has a deep appreciation for all forms of life, the earth included - just treating peeps with kindness and the like !!

what are some goals that your character has?

— in regards to his hockey career, he’d like to be awarded the nhl foundation award. fingers crossed he’ll be cleared to return in the following season if all goes well with his recovery, bc he really wants to go into the playoffs and win the stanley cup. he is also hoping to attend the winter olympics in beijing in 2022. 

what does a typical day in the life of your character look like?  

— a typical day, as of late, for etienne consists of him waking up a touch on the early side to a freshly made pot of coffee, then followed by taking olive on a walk/run around town. after that he will shower, make a bit of breakfast, perhaps check on seb’s chickens ( just to be safe ) and then spend the day either reading or working in his makeshift studio. he enjoys the throwback days offered down at movie magic, so he’ll drop in to watch whatever film is being shown. otherwise, he’s likely with friends - doing whatever can be done in the day. 

what does your characters house/room look like?  is it messy & cluttered or is it neat & organized?

— for a visual, click here ! his house and room altogether are rather neat and organized. if things are  messy, even in the slightest, it’s an indication that something is wrong. he lives with sebastian, and with seb also being rather tidy, the two never have any issues, nor really any conflicting design ideas throughout the home.

what does your character’s typical wardrobe consist of?

— for an overall visual, click here ! etienne enjoys dressing up, give him a lil sweater vest and he’s beaming - he likes to look sharp, and a bit on the clean cut side. he can be a bit adventurous with his wardrobe, but definitely loves a splash of color. on the other side he his more casual looks are a jeans ( flare, skinny, cord ?! the options are endless ), a fun lil graphic tee to spice things up ( he prefers the more ridiculous ones ), and a jacket ?! he’s looking sharp, def won’t be wearing the same thing twice.

what’s a quote that describes your character?

— “ It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat. ” ― Theodore Roosevelt

why did you choose your character’s song?  

— etienne has wide range of music taste, having bounced around growing up, he’s had various influences and exposures when it comes to what he enjoys listening to when he’s on his own. he really took a nose dive into rock music when he was practicing and developing his hockey skills - enjoy being on the ice and listening to / mentally playing back a power guitar riff doing a game. overall, rock music is the genre that he finds the most “ fun “ and he can be caught, embarrassingly so, doing his own little variations of air guitar. but he really fell in love with eddie van halen and truly believes he’s one of the best guitarists of all time, so van halen is one of his fav karaoke songs - not only to sing, but to simply act out.

[tookandbaggins]

These are the basic guidelines of what I do when dealing with clutter kinds of mess. I like to leave organization for last because it's where I generally get  bogged down and if I do it first I generally end up doing some of it over.  I have it in stages so I can tell myself "I don't have to ____ right now, just focus on this step". I start by picking a spot where collect important things and items I use every day: keys, wallet, phone, meds. When I’m working on a really messy house, I keep a box handy for stuff that isn't trash but doesn't really have a home so that they don't slow me down. If I encounter someone else's things they go in this area, too.

The first stage is a set of focused sweeps through the whole area.

First I pick out the garbage and get rid of it.

The next sweep is for dirty dishes.

Then laundry: a clean pile and a dirty pile. You could stop to do the dishes here or have the laundry running through the next stages, but it throws off my groove. Also, I always seem to miss a mug or some socks.

The place generally looks a lot better at this point. If that took a while, I might take a break here. I might also just do these sweeps and call it a day. Every bit helps and I find if I'm gentle on myself with cleaning, I don't dread it so much.

The second stage is kinda weird because it feels like I'm making more of a mess, but what I’m doing is getting storage areas prepared for stage 3.

I focus on storage areas in a room one by one: desks, closets, dressers, anywhere I'll want to put stuff away, flat surfaces that collect clutter. I'm not organizing, I'm just taking out anything that doesn't live there and setting it in a pile. When my desk only has desk things on it, I move on to the next storage place and do the same thing.

You can either do this to the whole house if you thrive on chaos like me (and won’t drive others up the wall) or you could kind of alternate between 2 and 3 for each room. Whatever works best for you

Stage three is going through each pile and organizing the items into their places.

I save that box of odds and ends for last and I generally have a better idea of what to do with them at that point. Or maybe they actually belonged in the box the whole time and I just didn't know it? Also, I tend to have shallow boxes or baskets around my room to keep things in. I need to be able to see the stuff I use regularly. It’s not as tidy looking as how I was taught was clean, but this works for me.

It’s going to be a lot easier to do things like vacuum, sweep, clean the bathroom, after you’ve done all that de-cluttering.

Sweeping

Always sweep and mop last after you’ve wiped down tables, counters, etc. so that you're not getting stuff on your clean floor. That’s the worst.

Work from the edges of the room towards the middle.

Move furniture chairs and things around, if you can, rather than trying to get the broom under them.

I find that making small sweeping motions, not long swipes is most effective, but you should experiment a bit. When I do longer motions, I generally leave a trail of debris behind.

I find that frequently using the dustpan to gather up the pile that forms is easier than trying to get everything into one big pile and then that into the pan, especially if you’re dealing with a lot of pet fur.

If you are dealing with pet fur and it sticks to your broom, it might make it less effective. Pulling it off from time to time will help.

You might need to go over spots more than once and that's fine! You want to get as much up as you can before you mop, since mops will only push stuff around.

Mopping

Mops are more for getting up dust and stains, I think? Mopping is my weakness, but I’ll tell you what I can

Most of the time I sweep and never get around to mopping

When you mop, try not to step on or put anything on the wet parts. How do you accomplish this?

Before you start, figure out where you want to end up and work towards there from the farthest point so you don't mop yourself into a corner like I always do.

It’s not the end of the world to walk on it, just try to minimize it.

Mopping must be the most reliable summoning spell in the world. When you start mopping it is only a matter of time before someone wants to walk on it. I’m sorry.

Bathroom

In the bathroom, I clear items off the counter so I can spray it and the sink, the shower, and the toilet.

For the toilet, spray both sides of the lid and seat. If you're using all one kind of cleaner spray in around the bowl too. I usually let that sit for a bit while I wipe down the sink. Especially if you’re using one cloth rag, you want to do the toilet last.

Use the scrub brush on the inside of the toilet. There’s a lip right under the seat where the water comes out, and it tends to be one of the more neglected and therefore grosser parts of a toilet, so spend a bit more time scrubbing there.

Optional: If you have rings that build up where the water sits and you can’t scrub them off with the brush, a pumice stone can be use to scrub the rings. Flush first! If you’re not familiar with pumice, it’s a very porous stone that can float in water. It’s also soft enough that it won’t scratch the porcelain. People use them for their feet but definitely have a separate one for your toilet if you do this. (Sometimes they’re sold with cleaning supplies, otherwise look with the shower stuff.)

Frequent cleanings will help the ring from building up or really setting in, but... I would say as long as you’ve given them a good scrubbing with the brush and some cleaner, completely eliminating the rings isn’t necessary.

Mirror

You can use a cleaner, or white vinegar, or possibly just water.  I wouldn’t use an all-purpose cleaner for a mirror, they often leave a residue.

Some people use a wet and a separate dry cloth, but I find paper towel is the easiest way to get rid of the streaks

Spray the mirror with your cleaner or flick water on it, then use your towel to clean of any water stains or spots. Once those are gone, you want your mirror to still be a bit wet.

Then, starting at the top and working down with a dry cloth or paper towel, you want to dry it. This is also an area you should experiment with. I find it works best if I move my cloth is small circles, moving downward but kind of blending back up just a little.

Mirrors took a while for me to get the hang of, so don’t worry if it’s a little streaky.

Your arm will probably be tired.

Things I (or friends) learned the hard way:

don’t use any sort of scrubby on nice stainless steel surfaces, it leaves lots of scratches. If you can’t get something off: just keep spraying the spot, give it time, then scrub away at it with a soft cloth or sponge.

don’t use hot water/rags on cold glass (i.e. inside the fridge); it will shatter

NEVER MIX CLEANERS. There are a lot of different chemicals used in cleaners that can be very bad for you/fatal if you mix them. (I don’t know anyone who did this personally, it’s just good to keep in mind).

I won’t recommend too many products, but magic erasers do feel like magic when dealing with stubborn stains. They’re good for showers and bathroom surfaces as well as kitchen stuff (use a separate one for your kitchen though). Make sure when you’re done cleaning you wring it out and store it somewhere it can dry, otherwise it’ll dissolve.

Final word of encouragement for if you’re new to cleaning and your house is already kind of messy: remember that it’s going to be less work to clean the second time than it was the first time, assuming you clean even just a little more regularly from now on. There will be less build-up and you’re going to have some experience under your belt.

Take breaks, hydrate, and be kind to yourself!

[deamon-castor]

Gah, I'd rather fight armies than grade these papers! And here I thought being a teacher/headmaster would be more fun than this. BY THE GODS THIS IS IMPOSSIBLE, THERE'S STACKS ON THESE STACKS REPORT CARDS! *Ding ding goes the doorbell, that's a bit weird since this apartment didn't have any doorbells, it's even more weird since he wasn't expecting anyone to come by... HOLD UP NO ONE EVEN KNOWS HE'S HERE! Welp guess this is the night someone dies. He gets up and very carefully walks over to the door. Disguising voice to a hire pitch he answered,* Who is it? I already paid last Thursday for the rent.

You probably don't remember me, but I'm the person who spilt coffee on you and you paid for mine, I came by to pay you back. *Well now Demonius is in serious trouble. The one hero that he tried to avoid the most somehow tracked him down and he's in the middle of paperwork for the school he had to think fast and get everything put away.* Come on I know you're here, I've been asking around and they saw you living here the past couple weeks.

*Welp if he's going to clean the place up he's gonna need to do it fast.* Just a minute, I'm uh tidying up a bit. *Demonius summoned a few gremlins and whirlwind demons and ordered them to quickly but quietly put everything in order. They zoomed all around gathering paperwork to put them in filing cabinets, cleaning dishes and sweeping up dust just to blowing them into the trash all while acting like a cleaning tornado. When they were done cleaning the place they disappeared and Demonius brushed himself off to try and look more presentable even though he's just in a white t-shirt and jeans. He unlocked the door and opened it.* Sorry about that, I wasn't expecting any visitors or anyone for that matter. Why'd you come here?

I told you, I came to pay you back for helping me out. *She says as she entered, she looked around and saw the place was allot cleaner than what she expected she could have sworn she heard a tornado pass through this room. She turned around and she asked bluntly.* So, who are you? You're certainly someone that would strike everyone odd, why haven't I seen you before?

Uh... You're a cop or something? *Going with the dumb but a polite smart cover should put her at ease, clearly she actually knows something about him but he's not willing to give up free information without a fight.*

Heh, funny but no. I'm really curious cuz funny enough you've been on my mind ever since I ran into you. *Looks like she's not giving up anything either, she looks at his aura and sees that it's exactly the same as Demonius, black and guarded.* (Gotcha now villain, there's nowhere to run from my truth telling eyes. You tell a lie and your aura will spike.) So can you tell me your name or are you nameless?

(Gods damnit she's just as stubborn, I'm gonna have to tell her something that's technically true) Well if you insist, the name's Deamon Castor. And as you can guess I'm actually new around here (those parts are not lies, I'm actually new around this part of town since I decided to live in an apartment). *His aura didn't spike or move differently than before, that made Skybright curse silently for not being more specific.* Well I gave my name, what's yours stranger?

*she hesitated for a second cuz she knows that she is possibly handing over her secret identity to possibly the most dangerous criminal there is, then again she did confirm that this is his new secret identity even if it's his old name, she steeled her will and said it* My name is Nya, Spelled N Y A pronounced nee-a. Make fun of that and you'll get dropped like a hammer on an anvil.

(Well shit, she has the same name) Then I won't, besides I couldn't really fight girls. Call that a weakness but it's a moral that I try my best to follow.

*that caught her by surprise as that did not make the aura around him spike but instead grow softer. She shook it off and decided to get back to the original subject.* Well here's my number, call me if you need help with anything and here's the $4.99 for the coffee as my thanks.

You don't really need to-

Just take it. I really don't like to owe favors, especially if it's someone with guarded secrets. *She holds them out as if she's giving away some part of her soul to something demonic, but the moment she hands the money and the cellphone number over the feeling vanished and got replaced by a feeling that she just found her old friend.

Well... Thanks, though I doubt that I'll need to call, except to probably chat. Thanks again.

No problem, I'll see you around. *she walks out the door feeling satisfied about accomplishing something for a long time. But then she stops and turns around and said suddenly without thinking.* Try to remember that power and strength alone isn't always the answer to every problem, so try not to be so reckless or you'll lose an arm. *It was Demonius' turn to be caught be surprise even more than Nya was after saying that* I'll uh... I'll see you later. *She hurried out and down the stairs that lead up to the apartment, leaving a very dumbfounded Demonius that sat down hard on a chair.

What did... What did she say? *He says out loud to himself, he couldn't figure out why she would say something like that without a reason, he thought and thought as he tried to reason through every logical explanation (is she stalking me, did she go through my stuff while I was gone!?). He clutches his left arm as his PTSD triggered his memory of almost losing it from an S class quest but thanks to GC from Magnolia, she was using deep personal magic to help him heal his wound and his soul at the same time. Probably the worst experience in his life as he confessed about everything he went through. He snapped back to reality and realized that things are not going to be easier from here on out so he will have to prepare.* Sorry GC, I know you may not like it but I can't easily let things go without fighting straight through my path.