#apparently allergy season is hitting us all

[coleblackblood]

Um....

Duo?

What the fuck, my guy?

[visionandthebeast]

Honey, Honey (How he thrills me)

@bucktommypositivityweek round 2, day 1: make your own season 8 opening disaster. Read on ao3.

“How are you still so chipper?” Tommy groaned, trying not to rub any of his bee stings as Evan paused his chatter about every bee fact he had ever memorized in his life to unlock the door to his loft.

“Well, it’s not every day you find yourself facing off against a Bee-nado,” Evan tossed a grin over his shoulder as the door swung open. Lucky bastard only got stung once: on the chin.

"That was not a 'Bee-nado', Evan," Tommy griped as he dropped his bad next to the stairs, "It was a giant swarm. You would need an actual tornado for a bee-nado, and I'm pretty sure the winds would have killed the poor things".

Evan pulled a pair of beers out of the fridge, handing one to Tommy as they settled onto the stools by the island.

"Bee's are pretty good at surviving natural disasters. Though I think a lot of that is how they build their hives." Evan picked at the label on his bottle for a moment, thinking. "I wonder how protected artificial hives are. They're out in the open, right? if a heavy storm or tornado hits…"

"Maybe they have their own storm shelter. Beekeepers are pretty protective of their swarms." Tommy traded an amused grin with Evan, remembering the apiarist practically screaming at them when they recommended more permanent solutions to the giant swarm. Like flamethrowers.

"More likely they just don't have a lot of beekeepers in tornado alley."

"Oh, but imagine if they did. They could get some real bee-nados going," The playful glare Evan shot him at that looked so much like a disgruntled puppy Tommy just had to kiss him. No choice. Would have been a crime not to.

Unfortunately it had been a pretty long day, and the kiss was interrupted by Evan yawning.

"Mmmm. Maybe we should lie down." Evan murmured, resting his head on Tommy's shoulder.

Tommy held Evan for a few moments more, before pulling back, giving him one last peck on the lips.

"Go on, get yourself ready for bed. I'll be right up."

Evan made his way slowly up the stars to his bed. Exhaustion visible in the way he moved, the long day catching up to him now they were home safe. Picking up the beer bottles Tommy quickly dropped them in the recycling before grabbing his sleep shorts and a singlet out of his bag to change into.

Carefully folding his shirts and jeans, leaving them and his shoes downstairs, Tommy following his boyfriend to bed. Climbing underneath the covers he pulled Evan flush against himself, pressing a kiss to the back of his neck.

"Did you know bees actually have four wings? and five eyes." It took Tommy a moment to register the claim, the image conjured in his mind by Evan's words was pretty ridiculous.

"I'm going to need some details on that one, Evan. because what I'm picturing right now does not look like a bee."

"Well, the wings on each side hook together, so they look like one big wing. And the three middle eyes are a lot smaller than the compound eyes. I guess they're for depth perception? I didn't actually look that up."

"I can't believe you know so much about bees. I can't believe there's so much to know about bees." Tommy wondered in amazement.

"I think I'm all out now," Evan chuckled, wrapping his legs around Tommy's. "Apparently repeated bee stings can give you an allergy, even if you didn't have one before. We should probably avoid bees as much as possible from now on."

"Evan, If I see a bee again I'm running in the opposite direction. Allergy or no." Tommy snaked his arms beneath Evan's shirt, gently squeezing his belly. A sly grin bloomed on his face as Tommy thought of something. "I don't think I heard any facts about honey, just the bees themselves."

"Honey is an antibacterial," Evan shot off immediately, "Its used to treat minor burns even today."

"Hmm, I know my Honey is good for stopping burns," Tommy pressed another kiss to Evan's neck.

"Are you going to give me a compliment with every fun fact?" Evan asked.

"Until we fall asleep. Yeah." Curled up against his Evan's warm back, legs entwined and arms wrapped around his boyfriend's tummy, listening to him talk about bees and honey. Tommy couldn't think of a more peaceful place to be.

[sunnywalnut]

One thing I really hate about the "autism is my super power" archetype is that it REALLY makes me feel inadequate when people compare me to these guys.

Like Sheldon Cooper or the guy from The Good Doctor. They're all successful, cishet white men. They've been through college at a young age, and sure. I was gifted in certain classes. But in others? I couldn't concentrate. It was too loud. Or too many people. Or too bright. Or too whatever.

My "superpower" wasn't math or history. It was memorizing dog breeds and calling them out on the street. Or finishing two novels in one day.

But it wasn't recognized as a superpower.

It was "recognized" as me correcting people on the average lifespan of whatever dog I had at the time. Or the things that the breed usually liked versus what somebody else thought they did. Or me sneaking glimpses of my book during class, and reading underneath my desk. It was me ignoring my elementary teacher when she called us for rug time because I was finishing the chapter of my story and couldn't put it down as easily.

And sure. They encouraged my reading. And I've gotten into a couple advanced classes that I otherwise wouldn't have been in.

But in the others I was still struggling.

I had one thing going for me and that one thing wasn't enough to propel me five grades ahead like it "should have."

I was the smart kid. Because I could memorize formulas and definitions in science and math class. Everyone was in awe of my low A's and high B's. But I wasn't a prodigy.

Just because I could memorize things didn't mean it was easy to learn.

Learning was the hard part.

And that's what nobody got.

How could I be struggling, if all this time I was getting near perfect scores?

Even after my diagnosis. I never was allowed out of class to take tests. Even when allergy season hit and I bombed a test because the boy behind me was sniffling up a ruckus. I was told I could retake it. To study next time and do better.

I never really learned how to study.

Studying was overwhelming. So I didn't do it. Nobody cared.

After all. I was getting near perfect scores.

Homework took hours. Four of them, to be exact. I never knew why. It was always so much easier in class.

But now I know it was because I have ADHD. And I was burnt out.

So I barely had free time after school.

Except for art.

Art was always there for me. I could always take the time to do something. And it was easier to put down, even if it was incomplete. Because I knew I could go back to it. I didn't have to pull out and reconstruct everything again, like a puzzle. I could go right back to where I started. And that was wonderful.

So I became good at it.

I became great.

Everyone loved it. The praise, the encouragement, the delight was almost too much to bear. I learned to crave it.

And yet.

Everyone was still surprised.

When I told them I wanted to be an artist.

Because apparently.

Your "superpower" is only good if it makes you money.

And who would invest in art?

Instead of being a doctor?

The answer is me.

It's always me.

I'm the mediocre autistic person with a difficult niche.

I don't have a superpower. Or a college degree. Or baby pictures of me playing the violin.

But I'm autistic.

Isn't that enough?

Where are the people like me in the media?

I can go outside and find at least three different Neurodiverse people like me in my town. But nearly NONE in the media.

Why is that?

Do we not exist to you?

Or are we only tolerable when we've done something "productive"?

I don't have a superpower.

But that shouldn't make me less than.

I don't know why it does.

[ruleroftheimps]

I am still trying to process how the a/b/o idea was so popular lol, but while I procrastinate potentially plot that, another idea popped in my head (Well- It's been floating around in my head and I finally nabbed it to be more accurate.)

Brief emetophobia warning, as this idea does have a few references to that, as well as food allergies, starvation, and what's basically an eating disorder? I'm not sure how to describe it, but I'm putting a read more just because of all that. Well, and because it's pretty long.

It's really just an where Vox has severe allergies to anything that isn't directly from sea food. The reasons why could vary; he had allergies while alive and somebody thought making them worse would be funny, the person in charge of designing their forms just thought it'd be funny in general, or maybe he just had bad luck (I mean, he ended up with a TV for a head-)

Essentially, anything that comes from a land animal or bird causes really bad rashes and hives (Amphibious creatures tend to be hit or miss), and anything that comes from plants results in severe choking, coughing, low blood pressure, vomiting, and eventually (temporary) death. Epipens and stuff like that don't really work if not administered like, a millisecond after he ingests whatever it is, because mechanical shit starts shutting down too, and the medicine doesn't fix that. When Vox first fell into Hell, he ended up quickly deciding 'Oh, you know what? Starving to death and reviving is better than this.' It took him a long to time to find out what would and what would not trigger reactions, and he ended up dying a lot during that time.

I guess a slight difference that is sort of important to mention is in this timeline/alternate universe, the more you die, the faster you regenerate. The cause also affects speed, obviously. So when Vox dies because of an allergy, it initially took him roughly half a day to fix all the stuff that stopped working, but it reached the point where it's now ten minutes at most. This also carried over to when he loses in fights to Alastor, so, at most, it takes him half an hour to get back up. Alastor is understandably annoyed by this, because he can literally rip Vox apart, and then get jumped less than an hour later while he's still recovering, because unlike Vox who's died somewhere upwards of a hundred times, Alastor's never died in Hell. Basically, Vox has the advantage of speed.

While he and Al were friends though (Don't know if you can tell, but my favorite version of Vox is CRT head Vox lol), Alastor would make his 'special' meals, because apparently any sinners that are primarily fish based (Aka, Papermint, who's ONLY exempt from Vox's cannibalism because he's does there taxes) are perfectly fine for him to eat. Alastor would go to Rosie's and basically buy the best cuts, make sure they were from Sinners he was 100% sure would be safe, and then make Vox something that actually tasted good using the limited seasonings he could. He also learned how to make a version of candied salmon for Vox's sweet tooth, and did Vox just break down at being able to eat something that isn't just straight sugar for the first time in years.

Yeah, Alastor claimed it was just because it wasn't amusing if Vox spent an hour coughing up his lungs and then another hour regenerating, but Rosie knew what was up. Love is her specialty after all.

But, sometime after Val fell into Hell, Alastor ended up needing to cut off ties with Vox, because the person he sold his soul to (Let's say... Roo and Eve became one person for this fic) thought he was getting too cozy. So he... may have intentionally slipped something multiple things in Vox's food when he invited him over, and Vox, who trusted him unconditionally, got a pretty nasty shock when Alastor ripped him apart and basically told him how he was good for nothing more than entertainment while he was dying on the floor. When he recovered, he ended up getting very depressed and met Valentino, and the two became fast friends. Vox was hesitant to tell him about his weakness, but Valentino actually was pretty good about it. Okay, maybe he slipped something in his food once, but he regretted it immediately when he saw how bad the reaction was, and then became immensely protective of Vox, who actually got so much better mentally because of this. When Velvette joined the Vees, she became super protective too.

Aaaand that brings us to the modern timeline (Help, this is super long), where the entire season progresses as normal, but, after the battle with the angels, Vox, after literal decades of no reactions, starts mysteriously getting really bad reactions out of seemingly nowhere. After a really bad incident in public, at Val's club, which they barely managed to get out of without being seen due to Val doing an impromptu sale on a night with the dancers (who had thought it was just dancing), they end up realizing somebody's spiking the food. The first thought is obviously Alastor (Alastor has never done anything with Vox's food after the first fight), but after several cases where Val and Velvette actually watch the prep from start to finish while Vox's is stalking watching Alastor, and Vox still has a reaction, they realize, okay, no, it's somebody else.

And then they come up with the bright idea of sending Vox to the hotel because it's the safest place they can think of while Velvette and Valentino try to hunt down the culprit. Charlie, understandably, refuses them when they just appear, especially because of Valentino, but then Vox purposefully eats a brownie or something (He's been craving chocolate for the past 70 years or so, give him a break), much to Alastor's horror, and Charlie decides because of that coupled with the fact that Vox basically stated point blank he will starve himself to death because that is his only other option, maybe he can stay. Angel does get time off too though.

Cue Alastor realizing, okay, maybe he still does care about the insufferable picture box, Roo/Eve appearing repeatedly and threatening to punish him if he doesn't obey and stop hanging out with Vox, who is having an existential crisis, because on one hand, Alastor tried to kill him on multiple occasions, but on the other, he's still kind of hot??? Velvette and Val checking in every once in a while, as well as three new guests who all appear at a suspicious time, and, oh wait, look at that, don't they all have a grudge against the Vees and Vox in particular? Sure hope it's not one of them that's been spiking Vox's food...

[descentintosiblingcon]

Chapter 7: A Passing Shower

Two pin-ups. Both boring. Let's move on.

(And wow, we got translated titles now! Cool.)

It's Fireworks Season (CAN THIS GAME GO A SINGLE DAY WITHOUT A FUCKING EVENT)! Shugo wants to watch a show irl but Rena demands they watch the virtual fireworks because...she has severe allergies that prevent her from going to the beach, I guess. Ouka comes up and Shugo immediately thinks he's gonna see some bikini-clad tits...and Ouka shows up in her dog form in an applauadable troll move.

Ouka comes bringing news about a hidden event. The gag was supposed to meet up with Hotaru later but---GO! GO AND LEAVE A NOTE IMPLYING YOU WERE RAPTURED!

At the Cursed And Deadly Secluded Forest Manor, Shugo and Mireille are ready for some horror. Rena...not so much. She's clearly freaked but puts on a brave face for her brother. Inside, they find a nice manor interior. Rena thinks a suit of armor winks at her somehow. Ouka hits and...it's just a suit of armor. Mireille outright calls her a pussy and Rena denies it. Her proof? Nearly killing her own twin brother over being spooked by Kamiya. Shugo wisely stays in his lane and ignores his twin sister's manslaughter.

Rena proceeds to break off the first rule of being in a haunted house: don't run off by yourself. Chasing her, Shugo and Mireille run into monsters called Invisibles. Shugo chops them down easily and runs off for his sister...surprising Mireille, who remembers that Invisibles are supposed to be pretty tough enemies. Is Shugo getting stronger? His general track record suggests...no.

Rena is still lost by herself, bemoaning how she wanted to keep her fear of spooky stuff a secret from Shugo. First, the insult comes when she walks into a torture chamber. Then the injury...she gets ambushed by a Lich Lord. Shugo jumps in to defend her with Mireille and Ouka in tow. Shugo recognizes the Lich Lord's element as Dark so he commands Mireille to hit it with Thunder spells and tells Ouka to focus on wearing down its HP. He then asks Rena to use her Hunter's Bane to increase all of their attack accuracies because wizard types are notoriously hard to hit. As Ouka and Mireille observes, our boy Shugo is becoming quite the Chad...an RPG Chad. The best kind of Chad. Rena observes that he's truly becoming like Kite.

They defeat the Lich and head back to Town Square, making back in time for the fireworks. Rena asks when Shugo suddenly transitioned from pull-ups to toilet training (i.e. how did he get so strong). Apparently Shugo been grinding offscreen. He's also checked out newsgroups, read the FAQs...all because he didn't want to rely on the bracelet too much. Rena asks why he decided to give a shit all of a sudden. Shugo smiles and says he promised her he'd be a hero. To keep us from experiencing actual pride in our protagonist, Shugo quickly mocks his sister for being afraid of ghosts. Rena brushes it off before reminding Shugo (and informing us) that entrance exams are coming up so their days playing .hack are numbered. Shugo thinks about Aura for a second...before Hotaru shows up to catch the fireworks. Sadly, it looks like there's going to be no fireworks because it's raining. Despite being Emperor of Trolls, long may he reign, it turns out the rain wasn't Balmung's doing. The background music changes too. Everybody hears it...and the chapter ends with everybody seeing Aura.

THOUGHTS:

Finally, a decent chapter again.

Shugo's development feels kinda rushed and forced (in the "let's make this kid strong enough to last against the next enemy without questions being asked" kind of way) but it's nice to see him being allowed to be competent for once. And those are realistic methods to improve in a game in a short time in real life. Plus, nice sibling moment with no incest subtext! I didn't know they knew how to do that.

[lenasai]

this week in blaseball: season 23

MOM COME PICK ME UP I'M SCARED

new weather: a cool saxophone solo

skipping....Good??

the garages had a seeker for about half a season and that was Cool

fifth base hot potato

jazz weather is funny until 🎵bee ski bah Solar Eclipse🎵

mcbaseball clembons got their peanut allergy cured and then faxed out

chorby short super roamed back to the mills, effectively undoing the flowers entire election from s22

the crabs got their pitcher faxed twice in one minute

RETURN OF THE READER

equal sun resulted in an 18-point dinger and subsequent shame

the cactus is backtus

siobhan chark finally switched teams and undid a previous feedback swap

the lovers got shamed, un-shamed, then re-shamed

BLASEBALL WON AN AWARD 🎉

The Breath Mints. won a game that apparently ended in a tie (probably) due to a floating point error

the spies absolutely destroyed the dale and were rewarded by having an og stolen from their shadows

killvaire real... 😔

jon halifax was incinerated...and there was much rejoicing

pudge nakamoto got incinerated again

alto took inspiration from their mentor, kelvin "the great drum solo" drumsolo and played two games by themself!

UMP FIGHT IN THE DISCORD

garages got sniped hard by people who thought edensity was fun at the last minute but all it did was make tot clark punch sharks left and right with a 157-durability ring

the mechs got shamed and un-shamed IN AN ECLIPSE

OH GOD LIQUID FRIEND GOT TURNED INTO COFFEE

hiroto wilcox partied and then swapped with siobhan chark in feedback

spears rogers and famous owens switched teams twice in the same game, which may make the tigers the first team to get fully ship of theseus'd, then un-theseus'd

ortiz lopez ate fire on the mound and partied twice before getting faxed out

neerie mccloud, owner of the elsewhere wlaffle house, has returned! i wonder who runs the wlaffle house now

reader showed up and made everyone go on an unredacting speedrun

night weather broke the site

the garages/thieves series was fairly normal--what's that? BAH GAWD, IT'S RICHARDSON GAMES WITH THE STEEL CHAIR!!!!

what if you wanted to advance to the finals but subtractor said no

we thought the fifth base plan would work...but megan wanted that force field so bad

Rat Mason MVP

CHORBY SOUL HIT A DINGER AGAINST WINNIE HESS

so much weather in the exhibition match and the ONLY EVENT THAT HAPPENED WAS PARKER GETTING SIPPED

lōotcrates dropped a callout on parker's ass, referenced fall guys, among us, and twilight, then peaced out like a coward

grandpa mora blew up the sun(sun)

so basically we're fucked i guess

hyped for season 12!

[thedistrictsleepsalonetonight]

Paper Rings (or Dani and Jamie accidentally adopt a family and also move in together)

Moving in is a process.

A process in italics. A process, underlined. A process emphasized heavily, with quotation marks around it, because Dani isn’t sure of how to describe the two months that have somehow resulted in her apparently having opened her home to a middle-aged couple, a sulky teenager, and child who bursts into the phrase “Perfectly splendid” in intervals, and a lawyer trying her very best to also have a dating life.

“Did you forget your whole entire girlfriend?” Jamie asks her, arms weighed down by a box full of crockeries and Flora who’s hanging on her back.

Oh.

Dani raises a finger like she’s making a point. “I did not,” she says, very slowly, hoping to somehow generate words as she speaks. “I did not mention you, because I didn’t need to. Because you, baby, have always been home for me.”

Hah. Take that, Hannah. To think she was of the opinion Dani couldn’t romance very well.

Jamie stares at her. “You’re so full of shit, Poppins.”

Miles opens his eyes from where he’s been listening to music on the couch for the past half-hour and leans forward, only to say — “Busted”, and Dani is officially done with everything.

*****

Strangely enough, it starts with cream.

Dani remembers it well, because it’s one of the very few argument-esque discussions they’ve had in their year and a half relationship. It’s one of the nights Dani is over at Jamie’s as opposed to it being one of the nights Jamie is over at Dani. They don’t keep track anymore. Most of the evenings, it just comes down to how much in a hurry they are to get to some place and eat and stretch out on the couch in peace.  

(Amongst other activities of course, so most of the time it’s Dani’s place)

So they’re at Jamie’s apartment, on a chilly evening about five months into dating when she jumps into bed after her shower and asks Jamie for her hand cream.

“Oh, that,” Jamie says. She opens her nightstand drawer, takes out a bottle and chucks it in her direction so it lands roughly an inch away from her hand. It also lands with its label upwards, so Dani is reading the words correctly when she says —

“This is a body lotion.”

“Yeah, that’s what you needed, right?”

“No, babe,” she answers Jamie patiently. “I asked for hand cream.”

Jamie frowns. Stares at the bottle. Then back at her. Does that for about two more times before she opens her mouth.

“Um,” she says, picking it up and pointing it to her other hand in an exaggerated motion. “Yes. You do put this on your hands.”

Why would you do that, Dani thinks, with exclamation marks punctuating every word of that. “I use hand cream. You know, it’s like foot cream but for your hands.”

“What’s that?”

(She’s not going to bore everyone with what the whole discussion that occurs then. The words keep coming, the exclamation marks keep increasing, and somehow, they conclude in this absolute gem of an ending that nobody knows how to process.)

“How could you not—”

“—wait, I’m sorry, we didn’t exactly have fancy shit up in prison, you know.”

There is silence. Dani sees her girlfriend’s lips twitching, her eyes betraying the mirth hanging behind her words. She picks up her pillow and throws it in Jamie’s face.

“You cannot keep pulling the prison card every argument we have, you ass.”

“But it works so well!”

“That wasn’t even the point. The point was that hand creams are best for hands and foot creams are best for, you know, feet and—”

“—and somehow,” Jamie tells her, “my hands and my feet are made of skin like the rest of my body. Look at that! What a surprise!”

“That’s a valid point,” Dani says, fingers pinching the bridge of her nose, trying her very best to be a nice and supportive girlfriend. “But that’s like saying that you can wear your underwear on your face since every part of your body has skin on it.”

“Who says I’m even wearing underwear?” Jamie’s right eyebrow is raised, lips pressed flat with the effort to keep from laughing and well—

(In her defense, she does have the sexiest girlfriend in the world and it’s totally understandable that she got distracted)

The next evening, she orders an entire set of creams, with Jamie grumbling in the background somewhere. I’m here most of the time anyways, she says. It’s for the both of us, if that makes you feel any better.

From Jamie’s smile, she thinks it does, and that’s how the idea starts taking root in her mind.

*****

This is how love works. Or so she’s heard. The honeymoon period is but a couple of months, and then real-life hits. After three months is when that bright illusion shatters, of your partner possibly being the most beautiful angel to ever grace this planet, and you start seeing them as who they really are — clueless and flawed individuals who do not know the difference between moisturizer and hand cream.

So she waits, holding her heart carefully in her hands. Waits a month. Two. Four. Five. And it is a couple of days after Owen and Hannah baked them a cake to wish them a ‘Happy 6 months together, y’all’, that Jamie pokes her head out of the bathroom, toothbrush in her mouth.

“Oi nah flick offa,” she says, and Dani blinks.

“I didn’t get that, sweetheart.”

Jamie disappears (to get rid of the foam in her mouth, Dani guesses) then reappears a minute later, face glowing. “I said I’m not sick of you yet.”

Dani smiles at her. “I’m not sick of you either.”

And it is such a strange thought, once articulated out loud. She still wakes up every morning, and stays for a while admiring the way the sunlight hits Jamie’s face, the way it dances with her skin and makes her look like an old Goddess; still wants to cling to Jamie like a panda whenever she sees her after a long time. Her heart still hasn’t gotten used to the most wonderful woman in the world loving her, touching her, kissing her, and she still has to give it a little time to restart every time she makes Jamie smile.  

Six months she’s kept thinking This will go away. Six months and it hasn’t.  

Dani kind of thinks (hopes, dreams) it’s forever.  

Dani kind of knows it’s forever.

Jamie plops onto the bed, arms stretching out across her back and legs finding their place over hers, interrupting her train of thought. It’s when she’s nuzzling into Dani’s shirt that the color of the shirt registers.

“Is that,” Dani says. “Is that my shirt?”

Jamie’s hands are already clutching at the fabric of the oversized lavender shirt as she finishes, as if Dani’s going to take it away from her. As if it doesn’t make Dani’s heart do funny things inside her chest to see her in it. As if she doesn’t want Jamie to only wear her clothes, because she looks so at home in them. Like she is Dani’s, forever.  

Like Dani is hers, forever.

“It’s your place,” Jamie argues. “There’s only a certain number of things I can keep wearing, you know?”

Dani kisses her cheek. Hums.

“I’m keeping it,” Jamie continues.

“Okay,” Dani says, simply, her smile saying the things she’s too embarrassed to say out loud. It’s yours. Whatever I have is yours. My home, my clothes. My heart.

(The next night when she’s over at Jamie’s, she makes Jamie pack an entire drawer full of her clothes into her bag so she can carry it over to her own place for the nights to come. There’s an empty space cleared up in the closet that sings Jamie’s name every time Dani opens the door. It will never be empty again.)

*****

“But Jamie, please,” Flora pleads.

“Yes, Jamie, please,” Dani parrots, highly amused at the vein twitching at the corner of Jamie’s forehead.

Jamie takes one look at them, at Owen and Hannah cozied up on their couch, at Miles who’s reclining against the wall trying to appear supremely disinterested and then finally to the kitten who is sleeping in Rebecca’s arms.

“Absolutely not,” she declares.

“But look at him!” Dani says, pouting. It is unfair, she supposes, for both her and Flora to pout together in the face of Jamie’s reticence but desperate times call for desperate measures.

(And she wants to pet that kitten, desperately)

“He’ll be happy with you, really,” Owen jumps in, just for the satisfaction that Jamie’s annoyance gives him, and immediately gets hit with a deadly look.

“Why don’t you guys keep him, then?”

Hannah tsks. “Oh,” she says, sounding not very sad. “I have that allergy, you know.”

“You haven’t sneezed once in all this time!”

“It’s.... a seasonal thing. A seasonal plus feline thing. I don’t know how to explain it to you, dear.”

“Baby,” Dani says, hands reaching out to hold Jamie’s. “He needs a home. We can give it to him.”

Jamie’s slowly developing a half-crazed look in her eyes, which Dani finds hilarious. “And who is this we you’re referring to? Because I’m pretty sure I’m gonna be the one taking care of the.... the thing.”

“He is a kitten,” Flora emphasizes, indignantly.

“A one-eyed kitten,” Rebecca adds, and after a round of Aws and coos that’s how Cyclops ends up living with them.

“I’m not taking care of it,” Jamie announces, right away, and Dani reminds her of it every day for a month after the day she finds them on the couch with the kitten conked out on a sleeping Jamie’s chest.  

(“We are not calling the poor thing Cyclops,” Dani protests.

Miles simply grins.)

*****

It’s time.

She’s said this to herself every morning when she wakes up in Jamie’s arms, her four pillows strewn around them and with most of the blanket hanging off Jamie’s side. Every evening as they walk back to Dani’s place arguing whether it was Chinese or Indian they were in the mood for, and when they’ve inevitably ended up at Owen’s restaurant, sharing a meal with the rest of their family. Every time they bicker over Jamie’s clothes now taking up more space in her closet than her own dresses. Let’s move in, she thinks, more and more with each passing in. Let’s live together, she almost says when Jamie decides to pop into her own apartment inevitably.

Surprisingly enough, Jamie says it first. They’re watching some reality show that involves a very accomplished woman and twelve idiots trying to win her hand, when Jamie turns to her and asks her if Dani would consider moving in with her.

“Sure,” Dani says, off-handedly, before she chokes on the large gulp of water she’d taken a moment ago. “Wait, what?”

Jamie is very determinedly not looking in her direction, her eyes hyper focused on one spot of the screen. Dani plays with her hair and waits.

“I was.... wondering, if you’d like to move in with me.”

Wondering, as though Dani wouldn’t lay down her life if Jamie asked, Dani thinks. She raises her hand, and nudges at Jamie’s chin until they’re facing each other.

“Have you thought about it?” she asks, carefully.

“I can’t stop thinking about it, which is the problem,” Jamie grumbles, and Dani is endlessly endeared by the adorable frown on her face. “Thinking about how nice it would be to go to sleep and wake up next to you every morning, and how my brother could use my apartment when he’s home from college during the holidays, and me not having to move more and more of my clothes here—”

“—and the stupid cat,” Dani adds.

“—and the stupid cat,” Jamie concludes, glancing once at Cyclops who’s finding great pleasure in chasing the Roomba around.

“Sure you’re not sick of me yet?” Dani asks her, casually, hoping she picks up on what she really means to say.  

Jamie kisses her once, twice. “Never, my love.”

And that’s that.

*****

“Catch,” Owen shouts, before a vase comes sailing through the air and lands perfectly in Miles’ hand, followed by the sound of their combined laughter.

Dani, who’s just gone through the five stages of grief, collapses onto the couch next to Rebecca.

“How did we accidentally adopt a whole bunch of children?”

“Hey!” Rebecca protests. “I am a mature adult who has her whole life in order.”

“You’re just got sent a Wazzup on Tinder by a 40-year-old man who enjoys fishing on the weekends, kid,” Jamie passes by, hand reaching out to mess up Rebecca’s perfectly done hair. “Nobody here has their life in order.”

Rebecca sticks out her tongue. “This is not nice.”

Dani disagrees. This, impromptu lasagna dinners at least thrice every week filled with laughter and ribbing, days full of sunshine and kittens and the prettiest woman at home in her arms, she thinks, is very nice, actually. Love takes effort and work, but somehow it is also easy and beautiful, and so worth it that it’s found a permanent place behind her ribcage, in her lungs, in her limbs, and in her eyes.

“Do you think this is straight?” Hannah asks her, pointing at the photos on the wall.

“Nothing about this is straight,” Miles mumbles.

“That’s very funny, Miles,” Dani snipes at him, but she gets up and stands next to Jamie. Looks up at the photos.

There’s one of her on the street corner, sitting with her typewriter, surrounded by a bunch of clamoring people. One of Jamie and her brother. One of Cyclops perched on top of Miles’ head. One, of the time when Jamie and Dani had been trying to take a romantic photo all day, only to get interrupted by Owen finger-gunning in the background. The photo had ended up including all of them, squashed together on the tiny couch, with Flora half on Jamie’s lap, and half on Hannah’s.

(There’s a last one that Rebecca had snapped in the middle of dinner one night, of Dani and Jamie staring at each other, speaking a language only they knew. Dani’s hand, carrying a spoonful of mashed potatoes, is half-raised, with the spoon almost touching Jamie’s lips. It’s Dani’s favorite. She knows Jamie loves it too.)

This is how love works, she thinks. You build a relationship. Family just sort of forms around you.

“It’s perfect,” she says, head leaning on Jamie’s shoulder.

And it really is.

[bubonickitten]

Summary: Jon goes back to before the world ended and tries to forge a different path.

Previous chapter: AO3 // tumblr

Chapter 17 full text & content warnings below the cut.

CWs for Chapter 17: panic/anxiety symptoms; brief mention of past self-harm (from last chapter); mention of past (canonical) blood/injury; brief allusion to past passive suicidal ideation; brief claustrophobia/Buried themes (in the context of a nightmare); some blink-and-you'll-miss-it internalized ableism re: ADHD (not explicitly stated as such); Jon-typical self-loathing, internalized victim blaming/dehumanization, etc.; discussion of low self-worth, fear of abandonment/rejection, and other Lonely themes; extensive discussion of Jon's statement consumption (so, general warning for restrictive behaviors re: 'eating' and self-hate re: addiction/compulsions); swears. SPOILERS through Season 5.

Chapter 17: Intervention

Even asleep, Jon is a flurry of movement. The muscles in his jaw tense repeatedly as he grinds his teeth; his limbs twitch and jerk and tremble; his fingers curl into his palms, fists clenching and relaxing at random intervals. The quick, erratic motions beneath his closed eyelids are accompanied by gasps and the occasional whimper. Impossibly, he looks even frailer than usual – folded in on himself and shivering despite the thick, oversized jumper engulfing his slight frame.

Martin sits on the floor with his side pressed up against the cot, his arm resting on top of it and his eyes riveted on the few inches of space between Jon and himself. Part of him wants to reach out, to soothe away the varying shades of distress flitting their way across Jon’s face; another part of him, quieter but nonetheless insistent on making its existence known, tugs him in the opposite direction, urging him to widen that handspan of distance between them into a chasm. Something about Jon’s ragged breathing keeps Martin rooted in place, his heart skipping a beat any time the pauses between breaths stretch just a little too long for comfort.

At least he’s breathing at all, Martin thinks with a pang. His hand twitches in an unconscious desire to check for a pulse – some secondary sign to reassure him that Jon really is just sleeping.

At the gentle knock-knock on the doorframe, Martin jumps. The door to Document Storage, already cracked an inch or so, creaks as it swings wider.

“Jon?” Georgie calls softly, peeking through the gap. “You in here? I was just – oh,” she says when she sees Martin. An instant later she notices Jon, tossing and turning on the cot behind him. “What happened? Is he okay?”

“He… well, he’s fine now. I think. Just… sleeping.”

“Wait,” she says, fully entering the room and approaching to watch Jon with genuine astonishment, “you actually got him to sleep?”

“Not really? He was having trouble staying vertical, so I told him he should lie down until the vertigo passed, and…” Martin shrugs. He’s still taken aback by the fact that Jon complied without argument. “I don’t think he was planning on falling asleep, but he was out as soon as his head hit the pillow.” Jon’s fingers spasm, brow wrinkling as he cringes and curls into a tighter ball. Martin sighs. “Doesn’t look very restful, though.”

“Oh, he’s always been a fitful sleeper. Even back in uni. He didn’t used to be that bad, though. Or – he was, but in short bursts. Not… drawn out like this. He’d usually wake himself up after a minute or so of…” She frowns as Jon goes taut in a full-body spasm. “That.”

“I guess the Eye doesn’t want the dream to end,” Martin says quietly. Jon twists his fingers against the sheets, gathering the fabric in a death grip. Martin’s hand twitches again, inching just a bit closer to Jon’s. He resists the urge to uncurl Jon’s fingers, to give him a hand to hold instead.

“Last I checked, the nightmares weren’t as nightmarish anymore,” Georgie says. “I mean, by his own admission, he treated mine and Naomi’s dreams like social calls.”

Martin tears his eyes away from Jon to glance at Georgie, a puzzled expression on his face. “Naomi?”

“Naomi Herne. He said hers was the first statement he took in person.”

“Yeah, back when he was still putting on the skeptic act. And she filed a complaint against him for being…” Martin smiles and shakes his head. “Well, Jon.”

“I’m not surprised,” Georgie says with an amused snort. “They seem pretty friendly now, though.”

“What, seriously?”

“Yeah. They do have a similar sense of humor. She doesn’t seem to scare easy, which probably helps. And she has a cat, so…”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“Jon… has trouble initiating when it comes to having a social life,” Georgie says slowly. “Just wanting to talk doesn’t strike him as a good enough reason to start a conversation. He worries he’ll just be an annoyance. It’s like he needs to come up with some concrete justification for reaching out. But Naomi is always excited to talk about the Duchess – that’s her cat – which means Jon is less likely to feel like he’s bothering her. Which also makes him less likely to talk himself out of sending a text. Plus, it’s a safe, normal thing to talk about, and he loves cats, so…” She shrugs. “It’s good for him.”

“Huh.”

“Yeah. Gives her an excuse to stay in touch, too, I think.” Georgie gives Martin a significant look. “Lonely, you know?”

“I…” Martin rubs the back of his neck, not meeting her eye. “Yeah.”

“Anyway, I thought… well, he said the nightmares weren’t as bad as they used to be.” Georgie frowns as she watches Jon’s lips twist, his teeth bared as he sucks in a sharp breath. “I don’t know. At least he’s actually sleeping. I don’t think he’s slept for more than forty minutes at a time since he got out of the hospital.”

“That was nearly a month ago.” Martin gapes at her, horrified. “How has he even been able to function with that level of sleep deprivation?”

“The same way he survived for six months without a heartbeat. And why he has to consciously remind himself to breathe sometimes, and has a tendency to forget to blink, and doesn’t have much of an appetite for normal food anymore. He’s not fully human –”

Georgie must sense Martin preparing to go on the offensive, because she holds up both hands palms-out, placating.

“I’m not saying that he’s inhuman, either. He might be convinced that he’s more monster than human, but he’s still a person. He’s just… different now, and he’s resigned to that, but he hasn’t yet gotten it through his head that there are people who will accept him regardless.” She sighs. “My original point was that he doesn’t have the same physiological needs that most people do. But he still does need to sleep from time to time. Sleep deprivation clearly takes a toll on him.”

“Figures,” Martin huffs, blowing hair out of his eyes. “He’s always treated sleep as optional.”

“Yeah,” Georgie says with a laugh. “He’s operated on a bare minimum of sleep for as long as I’ve known him. Part casual self-neglect, part allergy to the general concept of resting, and part legitimate insomnia. I told him more than once he should get evaluated for a sleep disorder, but… well, you know Jon. And now that he really does need less sleep than the average person, of course he’s pushing the limits even further.”

Martin looks down at Jon and thinks, as he has countless times before: He really does make it so damn difficult to take care of him.

It’s simultaneously heartbreaking and frustrating, even irritating at times – but somehow, whenever Jon doubles down, it only makes Martin do the same. It’s become such a familiar dance, a challenge even, and more often than not, Martin wins those contests of will: badger Jon persistently enough, strike just the right balance between expressing worry and wagging a finger, and eventually he’ll agree to take care of himself. In the beginning, he would grump and roll his eyes and drag his feet; as time went on, though, he became more receptive to it. Some days, he even seemed to enjoy – albeit in a guarded, almost shy way – being cajoled into sharing lunch or tea or conversation.

Unthinkingly, Martin brushes a lock of hair away from Jon’s forehead, damp with cold sweat. Wishes he could smooth the tension away as easily.

“Did you two talk about things?” Georgie asks.

“Some of it.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“I…” Martin bites his lip. “I feel like I shouldn’t want to, but I – I sort of do?”

“Well. I have some time to listen.” Georgie takes a seat towards the foot of the cot. “How’d it go? Bearing in mind this isn’t the tunnels.”

“It’s… a lot.”

“Mm. I can imagine.”

“I mean, he…” Martin runs a hand through his hair with a disbelieving, nervous chuckle. “He told me he wants to grow old with me?”

“He said that?” Georgie laughs outright. “God, he’s gotten even more saccharine than I thought.”

“It’s just – not something I would have ever imagined him saying? To anyone, let alone me.” Martin can feel his palms sweating now; he rubs them on his trousers, hoping to dispel some of the clamminess. “He just seems so… changed.”

“He is, but… maybe not as drastically as it might seem. Rather, this is him, just – without all the walls.” Georgie chuckles, shaking her head. “And less of a filter, apparently. Sorry.”

“Sorry?” Martin repeats, perplexed.

“He’s dumping a lot on you all at once. I can talk to him, if you want. Tell him to slow down, give you some space to process it all.”

“I… I don’t…” Martin pauses, coming up against an invisible wall between a daunting realization and the explicit acknowledgment thereof. He makes several abortive attempts at speech before he manages to voice the confession: “I don’t think I want him to?”

Left to himself for too long, Martin can feel himself start to come unmoored. The truth the Lonely is so loathe to have him accept, let alone speak aloud, is this: he doesn’t want that to happen. Not anymore. Being in the presence of others, actively taking part in a conversation, seeking comfort in touch – all of these things still feel grating, unnatural even, but a return to solitude frightens him in a way it hasn’t for months. It’s an old terror, one that he had become numb to since accepting the Lonely’s embrace. Now, it seems to have returned with a vengeance. The lingering, ambient discomfort that comes with human connection is quickly becoming preferable to that looming fear of absence.

Still, though…

“It feels like – going against my nature, every minute I spend talking to him, to you, to… anyone, really. I think I just… forgot how not to be alone?”

On some level, Martin wonders whether he ever knew in the first place. He’s had friends, certainly, but every relationship, no matter how ostensibly reciprocal, has been laced with an undercurrent of insecurity: a loud, nagging voice in the back of his mind, reminding him of the consequences should he allow himself to be too much or not enough. Always primed for rejection, he strove to make himself pleasant, to make himself useful, to make himself accommodating and unobtrusive and easy. Sometimes, he felt like an impostor, fooling people into believing that he was worth keeping around. He was always counting down the moments until someone would see through the façade to the inadequacy within, realize he wasn’t worth the trouble, and leave him behind.

“The Lonely… I don’t think I want it anymore,” he says, “but it feels – wrong, to leave it behind. Not me, somehow.”

“Hmm.” Georgie drums her fingers against her chin. “I can understand that. Isolation can become so habitual that it starts to feel like home, and anything trying to break through feels like an invasion. You start to feel safer alone, and you deny those moments when you catch yourself wishing things were different, because loneliness has become such a part of you that you don’t know who you would be without it.”

“I… yeah,” Martin says, taken aback by having it laid out so succinctly.

“In my experience, it helps to remind yourself that your brain is lying to you when it tells you you’d be better off alone. In your case, I guess it’s your brain and a supernatural fear god or whatever, but… unless you’re keen to fight a god, it might be best to start with your brain. That’s something you actually can exert some control over, with enough practice. And I think it might make it harder for the fear to get to you if you’re not trapped in the kind of mindset it thrives on.”

“I guess,” Martin says, looking off to the side. Once again, he rests his arm on the cot, his hand mere inches away from Jon’s, sheet still clenched tightly in his fist.

“But you don’t have to take it on all at once,” Georgie says. “If you have to set boundaries, Jon will understand. And even if he didn’t, you still have a right to enforce them. Not to sound cliché, but you shouldn’t set yourself on fire to keep others warm.”

The problem is, of course, that the concept of putting himself first is as alien to Martin as the idea of being… well, not lonely.

“I can hear the cogs turning,” Georgie says with a gentle smile. “Look, it’s easier to accept a concept intellectually than it is to actually apply it to yourself. There’s a learning curve. But it’s a lesson worth learning. Took me way too long to learn it myself. If it helps, start with – to use another cliché – ‘put your own oxygen mask on before helping others with theirs.’ Then you can move onto practicing self-care without feeling guilty.”

“What are you, a therapist?”

“Nope. I’ve just had several years of experience being on the receiving end.”

“O-oh. Uh, sorry –”

“Don’t be. It’s not something to be ashamed of. Anyway, at this point, I could probably fill out CBT worksheets in my sleep. With enough practice, it does start to become intuitive.” She shrugs. “Anyway, you can’t fix Jon, and I don’t think he expects you to. You can support him, you can care about him, but you can’t make him better. That’s true in any relationship, but… well, obviously it’s – a bit more complicated in this case.”

“I just… I want him to be okay, and I don’t know how to help –” Martin startles when Jon kicks one leg out violently, entangling himself in the sheets as he pulls it back and curls into himself again. Martin lowers his voice. “He – he was so starving he passed out, Georgie, he wasn’t breathing and it was like the hospital all over again and – and I don’t think I have any other stories I can tell that would count as statements –”

“Wait, you gave him a statement?”

“Y-yeah.”

“I thought he didn’t want –”

“I don’t know if he would have agreed if he was conscious, but he… he wasn’t waking up, and I didn’t know what else to do,” Martin says pleadingly, watching Georgie carefully to gauge her reaction. “He needed a fresh statement. Old statements aren’t enough, and he said new ones cause nightmares regardless of whether he takes them in person or not, so we can’t just give him new written statements that come in, and I – I don’t know what we’re going to do if he gets that bad again.”

Martin remembers the look in Jon’s eyes: glossy, glazed and almost luminous with an alien sort of hunger, but shot through with a terror more devastating than Martin had ever seen from him. The unflinching intent with which he hurt himself; the erratic rhythm of his breathing; the way his dilated pupils swallowed the irises just before he fell unconscious. He was lost to the world in those moments, alert but unresponsive, seemingly unable to hear a word Martin was saying.

And the abject horror on his face when he commanded Martin to stay away…

“He was… he was so scared. Of himself. He doesn’t want to hurt anyone, but he – he can’t think straight when he’s like that.”

“Shit,” Georgie says, pinching the bridge of her nose.

“I think working in the archives gives some immunity? I’ve given a few statements, before we knew how all this works, and he never showed up in my nightmares. Tim’s or Sasha’s, either, as far as I know. And I actually… well, I don’t actually mind giving him statements, to be honest? It’s – hard, to relive it, but it’s… cathartic, too. To get it all out, to be able to actually – describe it in words. Maybe I’d feel differently if I came in off the street – or was approached – and I didn’t know him, and wasn’t protected from the side effects, but – as it is, I would be fine giving him statements when he needs them, and that’s not – that’s not a huge sacrifice on my part, is what I’m saying. But I don’t… I don’t think I have any more stories to give.”

“Okay,” Georgie mutters to herself, rubbing her temples. “Okay. We… we’ll figure something out. Obviously, Jon needs to be part of that conversation. Maybe Daisy, too – Jon seems to trust her.”

“Why would he trust her?” Martin asks, incredulous, almost incensed. “She kidnapped him. She – she slit his throat, she was going to –”

“I know. I don’t really understand it either. But supposedly she’s changed a lot, and she’s an Avatar like he is. I get the feeling he might want her there.”

“Fine,” Martin says in a clipped voice, even though fine seems like a wildly inaccurate descriptor to him. “What about Basira? And Melanie?”

“Melanie… with Jon’s permission, I’ll invite her, just so she’s not out of the loop, but I doubt she’ll take us up on it.” Georgie frowns, rubbing her jaw absently. “As for Basira… I don’t know. Something Jon said…”

“What?”

“I’m…” Georgie pauses, tilting her head from side to side as she deliberates. “Concerned. About how Basira might approach the situation.”

It takes a few seconds for Martin to work out the implication. When he does, he pales, mouth going slack.

“You – you don’t think she’d hurt him?”

“I don’t think so,” Georgie says haltingly, “but there’s a chance she might put the option back on the table if she thinks he’s too dangerous. She wouldn’t like it, but… well, she seems utilitarian. I think she’ll do whatever she thinks she needs to do. And even if she doesn’t threaten him directly, I still…” She sighs. “Jon’s not in a good place right now, mentally. Frankly, I worry about exposing him to anything that might encourage a better-off-dead mindset, even if it’s just… perceived condemnation.”

“God, this…” Martin laughs, high and stressed. “This entire situation is…”

“I know. But we’ll figure something out. And in the meantime, make sure to take care of yourself too, alright?”

“Yeah,” Martin says, only half-listening.

“I mean it. Jon cares about you. He wouldn’t want you to run yourself into the ground on his behalf.”

Before Martin can respond, Jon jumps in his sleep again with a strangled gasp. Flinging one arm out, his hand brushes against Martin and seizes a fistful of his sleeve. Tightening his grip, he tugs on Martin’s arm to bring it closer, practically hugging it in a vice grip. Almost instantly Jon calms, tense muscles relaxing, pained expression going slack, a relieved sigh shuddering out of him as he nuzzles into the crook of Martin’s elbow.

Martin can feel his cheeks burning. He shoots a preemptive glower in Georgie’s direction, daring her to laugh – but she only smiles.

“Well, I’ll leave you to it,” she says, rising to her feet. “Text me when he’s awake, will you?”

“Y-y-yeah,” Martin stammers. “I’ll – I’ll see you later.”

He barely notices her departure, instead staring down at Jon with a vague sense of wonder. Jon holds fast to him like he’s a lifeline, and Martin can feel him breathing warm and steady through the fabric of his sleeve. The cold sweat on his brow seems to be evaporating now. Martin shifts his position to more fully face the cot. As he reaches up with his free hand to brush away the hair clinging to Jon’s forehead, a slow, shy smile begins to spread across Martin’s face.

It won’t be long before Jon succumbs to another fit of tossing and turning, but in the meantime, Martin simply watches him with faint awe and renewed affection. He’s never seen Jon look so at peace, and he takes the opportunity to memorize the sight.

When another shard of the Lonely shatters and crumbles away, Martin is too preoccupied to note its passing.

With a startled yelp, Jon sits bolt upright. Gulping down air in deep, ragged breaths, he looks wildly around the room, not taking anything in: it’s all visual noise, smudges of loud colors and sinister shadows, all of it closing in and bearing down on him.

Something next to him – close too close too close – moves abruptly, rising up and looming over and settling down beside him. Jon cringes away, only to find that his legs are pinned together by something, restricting his movement, and there’s dirt in his mouth, and dirt in his throat, and dirt in his lungs, and he cannot breathe, cannot breathe, cannot breathe, cannot breathe –

“Jon,” comes a voice – somehow both close and far away. “Listen, you’re – you’re okay, you’re safe.”

Trapped in that liminal twilight haze between sleep and waking, Jon gropes blindly for a handhold, an anchor, something real and solid and –

His hand collides with something soft, warm – wool, his mind supplies, and then:

…wool is able to absorb nearly one-third of its weight in water…

He shakes his head to chase away the stray scrap of trivia, digging his fingers into the fabric to ground himself.

“It was just a dream,” says the voice again – a kind voice, a safe voice – and Jon takes a shuddering breath, like a drowning man clawing for air.

Then a hand closes over his, and that light pressure is enough plunge Jon right back below the surface. He thrashes violently, desperate to break away from the throbbing litany of too close cannot move trapped held pinned in place screeching metal crushing in and down and down and down and Karolina beholds her encroaching fate with tranquil acceptance and the Archivist feels her skull crack and her chest cave in and her lungs collapse and still she smiles and she watches as the Archivist flails uselessly for an escape that does not will not cannot exist and the door bulges and splinters and explodes inward and the deluge rushes in and the Archivist is drowning, drowning, drowning –

The hand draws back, the pressure lifts, the train car finally collapses, and the last remnants of hazy sleep begin to disintegrate.

“S-sorry, I didn’t mean to – it’s – it’s just me, Jon.”

“Martin?” Jon chokes out, tightening his grasp on Martin’s jumper – wool, warm, soft, safe – still bunched in one hand. He reaches out his other arm to find a second handhold.

“Yeah. I – I won’t hurt you.”

Safe.

“I know,” Jon says groggily. The tension drains away and he sags against Martin’s side, breathing in slow, deliberate swallows. “’M sorry. Dream.”

The first time he’s slept, truly slept since leaving the hospital, and of course it had to be while Karolina Górka was dreaming. Of course.

“Do you… want to talk about it?”

“Buried,” Jon mumbles, face partially burrowed in Martin’s shoulder. Self-explanatory, he figures.

“Oh,” Martin says in a broken whisper. Jon opens one eye to see an expression of helpless pity on Martin’s face. “That’s…”

“’S okay,” Jon assures. “I’m okay.”

Reluctantly, he releases his hold on Martin and leans away. When he stretches – partly out of habit, partly to reassure himself that he can – there’s still something pinioning his legs. A spark of panic tears through him before he realizes that it’s just the sheets, tangled hopelessly around his lower half. With some difficulty, he manages to extricate himself and kick the blankets away.

“How long was I out?”

“Couple hours.”

“Have you just been sitting here the whole time?” Jon frowns apologetically. “You could’ve woken me.”

“Wake you when you were actually sleeping for once? Uh, no. How are you feeling?”

“Better,” Jon says simply. “I’d like to know how you’re doing.”

“I’m – fine,” Martin says. Jon raises an eyebrow. “Really, I – I am. I’m more worried about –”

“Me, I know. And I’m worried about you. I… don’t think you’re just ‘fine.’” Martin gives a noncommittal grunt. “I really would like to know where you are in all this. How you’re faring. How I can help.”

Martin remains silent, lips pressed tightly together as if to seal them.

“I know I was – distracted, earlier, but I… I really do want to help,” Jon tries again. “Please let me help?”

Something finally gives and Martin slouches with a sigh.

“I’m… still trying to figure it all out,” he says slowly. “I don’t know what I’m feeling most of the time, besides… worried, and…”

“Lonely.”

“Yeah,” Martin says with a wistful smile.

“You don’t have to be,” Jon says quietly.

“I know.”

“I’m not – I’m not trying to –” Jon sighs. “I just… I need you to know.”

“I know,” Martin says again.

Jon bites back the nagging impulse to ask all the questions itching on his tongue: Have you decided what to do about Peter? How Lonely are you now? Do you need closeness or distance? What should I be doing, or not doing? What can I do to take care of you? Where do we stand?

What do you see, when you look at me?

Jon looks away and shuts his eyes.

“I’m sorry you had to see me like that, by the way. It wasn’t my intention to frighten you. Or to…” He swallows, fighting back the nausea rising in him. “To compel you.”

“It’s alright –”

“It’s not,” Jon says brusquely. He makes a conscious effort to soften his tone before he continues. “I don’t want to be the thing that frightens you.”

“You’re not,” Martin says with a bemused frown. “I know you didn’t mean to use your powers on me.”

“You were afraid. I could…” Jon closes his eyes again and forces himself to say the words. “I could taste it.”

And the Archivist in him savored it.

“I wasn’t afraid of you, Jon. I was afraid for you. You looked terrified, and in pain, and you were hurting yourself, and I didn’t know how to help, and then I didn’t know if you were going to wake up, and… that’s what scared me.” Jon’s skepticism must show on his face, because there’s an intensity to the words when Martin reiterates: “Not you. Never you.”

“Never say never,” Jon says with a brittle, self-deprecating smile.

“I’m serious, Jon.”

So am I.

“I… I think we need to talk about where to go from here,” Martin says after a moment, averting his eyes.

“I agree.”

“You do?” Martin looks back to him, blinking in surprise.

“Yes,” Jon says, adjusting his position to sit cross-legged and pivoting to face Martin fully. “The others need to know what happened. I can’t be trusted not to hurt anyone –”

“No, that’s not what I –” Martin sighs. “I’m worried about what could happen if things get that bad again.”

“That’s what I’m saying. I came dangerously close to – to relapsing. We need some plan in place, some way to keep me contained so that I don’t –”

“Stop, stop, stop,” Martin says, holding up a hand. Jon tilts his head, bewildered. “I’m not – I’m not talking about keeping you contained, Jon. I’m worried about you. This goes beyond a compulsion you can beat with enough willpower. You were starving. You… you could have died.”

“We don’t know that.”

“Exactly! We don’t know, and I don’t want to find out.”

“Well, yes, but –”

“No ‘but.’ There has to be some way to keep you fed without hurting anyone. We just need to –”

“Martin, terror and suffering is the entire point. That’s what sustains it. Mine, my victim’s, doesn’t matter as long as it hurts.” Jon laughs, hollow and bitter. “It’s not like there’s an ethical way to – to harvest trauma –”

“We don’t know that for sure,” Martin says fiercely, “and I’m not ready to just give up. I would hope you aren’t, either.”

“I…” Jon busies himself with tucking a flyaway lock of hair behind his ear, using it as an excuse to break eye contact.

“Please, Jon.”

Martin takes his hand, prompting Jon to look up again. A familiar guilt rises up in him, shame at always being the one to put that expression of desperate worry on Martin’s face.

It’s enough to make him agree, albeit in a whisper, “Okay.”

“Right,” Martin says, giving Jon’s hand a brief squeeze. “Georgie and I were talking while you were asleep. She wants to be part of the discussion, so long as you’re alright with it.”

“Of course. We should probably tell Daisy and Basira as well.”

Martin appears to hesitate.

“I was thinking the three of us can meet first,” he says carefully, “and then we can open up the discussion after.”

“Why?” Jon observes the slight concavity that forms as Martin chews the inside of his cheek. “Martin?”

“Georgie’s worried about Basira’s reaction,” Martin says abruptly, “and honestly, so am I.”

“She needs to know.”

“I – I know, it’s just…”

“We have so few allies; we can’t afford secrecy and mistrust. And…”

And of all of them, Basira is the one Jon can trust to do what must be done if things go wrong. If he goes wrong.

“Basira is a strategist,” he says. “She’s good at viewing a problem from multiple angles, considering all the variables, predicting potential solutions and outcomes and then weighing them with a… pragmatic eye.”

“The pragmatism is what worries me.”

“I want her there,” Jon says simply.

“Okay,” Martin says, but Jon can tell he’s not thrilled about it. “What about Daisy?”

“Yes,” Jon says, not missing a beat. At that, Martin somehow manages to look even less thrilled.

“And Melanie?”

“I… I’m alright with her being there, but I don’t want her to feel pressured. She’s dealing with enough as it is.”

“Okay. I can let everyone know, but I think you should get some more rest before –”

“No.”

“Jon –”

“I need to confront this now. While I’m still… in my right mind,” Jon says, plucking absently at his sleeve with his free hand. “Sober.”

For a brief second, Martin looks ready to argue, but then he capitulates with a sigh.

“Okay,” he says, releasing Jon’s hand and standing up. “I’ll… round everyone up, I suppose.”

“Thank you,” Jon murmurs.

Martin glances back several times as he leaves the room. Jon waits until he’s out of sight before he puts his face in his hands, sighs, and tries to brace himself for a conversation he dreads almost as much as the Coffin.

A short time later, the group – minus Melanie – convenes in the tunnels, five chairs arranged in a loose circle with a sixth left empty off to the side. Sitting almost directly across from Jon, Basira watches him with eyes narrowed, arms folded, and mouth pressed into a firm line.

“What do you mean you ‘almost’ relapsed?”

“Martin suggested reading a new statement that came in earlier this evening,” Jon tells her in a straightforward near-monotone. Pushing through the discomfort it brings, he forces himself to meet her eyes when he speaks. “I agreed, without informing him that reading a fresh written statement has the same repercussions that taking a live statement in person does. I was going to feed, knowing that it would hurt an innocent person.”

“But you didn’t,” Martin says emphatically. “You stopped yourself.”

“Only because Helen pointed out the cognitive dissonance. Took a monster to remind me not to be a monster.” Jon scoffs. “Even then, I almost did it anyway.”

“But you didn’t,” Martin repeats.

“What about next time?” Basira asks, unimpressed. “When you get hungry again, what then?”

“That’s what we’re here to discuss,” Georgie says, assuming the role of mediator the moment she notices Martin’s scowl deepen. “We need to find some way to keep things from getting that bad in the first place.”

Thoroughly unnerved, Jon squirms in his seat. Basira has had him pinned under her stare for several minutes now, and she seems unlikely to cut him free any time soon. But what right does he have to object to scrutiny, given what he is?

“What did you do with the statement?” Basira demands. “The one you were going to read?”

“I… asked Martin to burn it.”

Her eyes flick to Martin. “And did you?”

“N-not yet –”

“Burn it. As soon as we’re done here.” She shifts her attention back to Jon. “Is there an alternative to new statements?”

Jon doesn’t miss a beat when he answers, matter-of-fact: “No.”

“Jon,” Martin and Georgie say simultaneously, with the tenor of a reprimand.

“I’m not – I’m not trying to be difficult,” he replies, finally breaking eye contact with Basira to look down at his hands. “It’s just… reality. I’m an Archive dedicated the curation of statements – of fear.”

“You never actually explained what that means,” Basira says. “You being the Archive.”

“It’s… hard to put into words.”

“Try.”

Jon sighs, taking a moment to collect his thoughts.

“The Archive is more than – paper and files and tapes. The reason it needs to be housed in a living mind rather than a mere building is because the statements themselves have a living quality to them.” He crosses his arms, brow furrowing as he struggles with his phrasing. “They need to be immersed in a steady supply of fear. A shelving unit, a filing cabinet, a hard drive, a cassette tape – those can’t provide the ideal habitat that they need to thrive. The Archivist is –”

“– simply a battery, a ready source of constant terror –”

He cuts the Archive off with a frustrated snarl, digging his fingernails into his arms.

“Hey,” Georgie says gently, “you’re alright. Take your time.”

Jon has to spend a few minutes counting breaths before he feels ready to try again.

“What I was –” He cuts himself off preemptively, half-expecting the Archive to intrude again. Once he realizes the words are his own, he clears his throat to recover from the false start. “What I was trying to say is – without a living consciousness to contextualize them, the statements are just… stories. When I consume a statement – read it, hear it, doesn’t matter – I See the events play out through the victim’s eyes. My lived experience of it is essential to the recording and preservation of the story. I need to be able to recall how it feels, not just summarize the major points of interest.” He sighs again. “And… that’s also the point of reliving the events in the nightmares. All of it is to keep the memory fresh. To keep the story – the fear – alive.”

When he looks up to see all four of them staring at him, he begins to rub his arms absently, increasingly self-conscious. He can feel the semicircle grooves leftover from where his fingernails cut into the skin.

“So… yeah,” he finishes awkwardly. “The Archive is defined by the statements and the fear that embodies them. The Beholding always hungers for more, and the Archive is a… a receptacle for all of its knowledge. The continual curation of new statements is what sustains it. Without that, it withers.”

“And dies?” Basira asks.

The question isn’t unkind, per se, simply businesslike: an eagerness to discover an answer heedless of whatever messy emotions it might elicit. Jon understands that impulse all too well. Not for the first time, he wonders whether Jonah had a secondary, hidden motive for recruiting Basira: a backup Archivist, in the event that his first choice be unable to endure the process.

“I still don’t know if it would physically kill me,” he replies, “but the hungrier I get, the more I forget myself. I’m liable to do things that I wouldn’t normally do, monstrous things.” He huffs. “And at the same time, giving in to that hunger will also make me more monstrous over time. It seems like… either way, I – I can’t avoid losing sight of… well, me. The human part of me. Whatever’s left of it.”

And wouldn’t losing himself be a death of sorts?

In a way, Daisy died the moment the Hunt recaptured her. What she became was her, undoubtedly, but only a small piece of her. The creature that Basira eventually killed… it was an echo of all the hated, feared parts of herself that Daisy had tried so hard to starve out. The rest of her – all the things that altogether made her Daisy – had long since been burned away.

If Jon didn’t manage to find a way out of that doomed future, he suspects that his ultimate fate may have been similar: all the fragile scraps of himself that still belonged to him, every sliver of personal identity, every shred of humanity crushed and buried beneath an ever-swelling ocean of dispassionate knowledge. The Archive would have carried on expanding and curating until, one day, it would have either collapsed under its own weight or simply run out of things to catalogue, then to waste away – but by then, it would have borne no resemblance to the original owner of its ravaged vessel.

Some endings play out in merciless increments. Jon has witnessed – has caused – more than his fair share of pointless, drawn out suffering. It would have been only fitting for his end to follow a similar path.

“Well, shit,” Basira mutters.

“What about statements given consensually?” Martin asks tentatively. “The one I gave you seemed to satisfy the Archive, or – or however you want to call it. And in the past when I’ve given you statements, they never gave me nightmares, so…”

“Anyone aligned with the Eye has a measure of protection from the Archivist,” Jon answers. “I was never privy to Tim’s or Sasha’s nightmares, either. Once Melanie and Basira started working here, their dreams were cut off from me as well. And… last time, Daisy ended up signing an employment contract after returning from the Buried. Same result.”

“Is it just the archival staff, or any Institute employee?” Basira asks.

“I… don’t know,” Jon says thoughtfully. “If I had to hazard a guess, I would say that it’s restricted to those most strongly connected with the Eye. Archival assistants, primarily. Possibly the research department, or at least those individuals who are the most… compatible with the Beholding, so to speak, though I’m not positive.”

Now that the question has been posed, Jon craves an answer.

“But – but experimenting isn’t worth the risk,” he says, mostly in an attempt to dissuade himself from pursuing the matter any further. He’s pleasantly surprised to hear the confidence in his own voice.

As if satisfied with that answer, Basira gives a tiny nod. Jon doubts it’s meant as a vote of confidence or as approval, but her posture does relax somewhat. He doubts that she trusts him by any stretch of the imagination, but for the moment she seems to have decided that he isn’t an imminent threat, at least.

It feels remarkably, disconcertingly like passing a test he didn’t realize was in progress.

Georgie’s eyes are fixed on the floor, her chin propped in her hand and a contemplative pout on her face. Martin has his lips pressed together, as if biting back an objection. Daisy is the only one looking directly at Jon. She hasn’t said a word since Jon gave his confession, but now her head cocked slightly to the side, as if she's weighing her words.

“I have a lot of stories from my Sectioned days,” she muses. “I could –”

“What would you say if I told you that you should go hunt a few monsters?” Jon says immediately.

“I…” Daisy stalls for a moment, and then gives a resigned sigh, understanding. “I would be worried that I wouldn’t be able to stop at a few,” she says grudgingly. Her shoulders slump as she adds, “Or at monsters.”

“Exactly.”

“But wouldn’t it be different?” she asks, perking up again. “The prey doesn’t consent to the hunt. The fear is taken, not freely given. But a statement – that can be consensual.”

“The Hunt cares about the terror of the prey in the moment. The Eye cares about the terror of the victim in the retelling. The consent aspect is only relevant in terms of whether and how it influences the fear. The fear is all they care about, and I doubt anything benign can come of consuming the fear our patrons want, consensual or no.”

“Do you remember what I said about harm reduction?” Georgie has been sitting quietly with her thoughts for so long, Jon startles at the sound of her voice when she rejoins the conversation. “We need to keep you from getting so hungry that it changes who you are, and new statements are the only way to satisfy that hunger. Correct?”

“Well, yes, but –”

“No ‘but.’ According to you, right now your options are statements or starvation.”

Struck with a fleeting impulse for petulance, Jon has to swallow a biting retort. It’s an old habit, hackles rising at having his own words turned against him – something for which Georgie has always had an aptitude. Between an impressive memory, an analytical nature, and a tolerance for confrontation, she’s never been shy to speculate on what’s really going on in Jon’s head at any given moment. That ability to dissect his motivations and insecurities and cognitive distortions – it used to feel like being flayed alive, all the vulnerable bits of him exposed and shoved under a spotlight.

It’s probably fair to say that his inability to weather that level of scrutiny was a big factor contributing to their eventual breakup: his guarded nature was incompatible with her more straightforward approach to relationships.

“I realize it’s not ideal,” she’s saying now, “but taking statements given with informed consent seems like the most ethical choice.”

“It isn’t just unideal, it’s – it’s –” Jon puts one hand over his eyes, rubbing his forehead and fighting back the urge to shout. “This isn’t a solution.”

It’s still feeding the Eye. It’s still capitalizing on other people’s trauma. And the stories Daisy has to offer… Jon has to wonder how many of them feature Daisy as a victim or a bystander, and whether those outnumber the ones where she herself is the object of fear. He’s taken statements from Avatars before. Some of them were indeed stories of experiencing fear firsthand. Others, though… the fear threaded through the statement came not from the teller, but from their victims.

Jon isn’t keen on siphoning off the secondhand terror of Daisy’s prey. Maybe he can’t afford to be picky, but if there’s one thing he’s learned, it’s that lines have to be drawn somewhere.

“We can keep looking for a better alternative,” Georgie says, “but for now… think of it as a stopgap measure.” Sensing Jon’s continued aversion to the idea, she continues: “If your own wellbeing isn’t enough to convince you, consider how you starving would affect other people.”

“It might make me more dangerous,” Jon says quietly.

“I mean – maybe, I guess? But that’s not what I meant.” At Jon’s blank expression, Georgie sighs. “When you suffer, it hurts more than just you. You have people who care about you. They’re sitting with you right now.”

“Still, I – I can’t ask that of –”

“Oh, come off it, Sims,” Daisy says, rolling her eyes. “You crawled into hell to drag me out when all I’d done was treat you like prey. And even after seeing what it was like, you went back in and brought me back a second time.”

“Yes, but –”

“If I sign a contract to work in the archives, it’ll stop you showing up in my dreams, right?”

“Yes. I’m – I’m sorry, again, about –”

“And it’ll keep new nightmares from cropping up if I give you more statements?”

“Well, yes –”

“Then what’s the problem?”

Jon opens and closes his mouth soundlessly several times.

“I – I – I don’t want you to sign yourself over to the Beholding just so I can – treat your memories like a – like a snack” – Jon flings one arm out in a sweeping gesture, supplementing the disgust with which he says the word – “without facing any consequences!”

He looks around at the others, arm still outstretched in the air, waiting for someone to back him up on this. When no one does, he huffs a bewildered chuckle and withdraws his arm to comb his fingers through his hair instead. Why is he the only one making a fuss about this? He thought he could count on Basira at least to raise an objection, but she’s just staring off to the side, apparently lost in thought.

“I was already considering signing a contract anyway,” Daisy says. “Basira said you had a theory that the Slaughter’s effects on Melanie were slowed by her connection to the Eye, yeah?”

“Yes,” he admits cautiously.

“We were thinking – maybe it’ll do the same for me with the Hunt.”

“Did it help last time?” Basira cuts in, as if she’d never tapped out of the discussion.

“I’m not positive,” Jon hedges. “It was a theory we’d considered, yes, but it’s not like we had much of a sample size to test that hypothesis.”

He wishes he’d thought to ask these kinds of questions after the world ended, when he actually had a chance of getting the answers. In his defense, he had a lot on his mind – and it’s not like he considered the possibility of coming back in time to actually make use of that information.

“And it didn’t entirely silence the call of the Hunt,” he adds, looking back to Daisy. “You still deteriorated the longer you refused to answer it.”

“Hm.” Basira’s contemplative expression returns as she withdraws to commune with her own thoughts again.

“Well, it’s not like I’m going anywhere anyway,” Daisy says with a shrug. “Basira’s trapped here. So are you. And I don’t think I can be trusted to leave here without giving in to the Hunt again. I have nothing to lose by signing a contract, and…”

Her eyes gravitate towards Jon’s throat. Mechanically, he reaches up to adjust the scarf around his neck, to ensure the scar there is covered. At the guilty expression on Daisy’s face, Jon has to look away.

“If it can help,” Daisy continues, “then I think telling some stories is the absolute least I can do after… everything.”

“How many do you have, do you think?” Georgie asks, once again settling into problem-solving mode.

“Don’t know. Several. A couple dozen? Maybe more, depending on how far we can stretch the definition of a statement.”

“I have a handful as well,” Basira says, her tone wholly unreadable. “Not many, but… a few of the things that happened while you were dead should count as statements, I think.”

“I – I couldn’t ask you to –”

“I’m not offering; I’m just inventorying all the options on the table,” Basira says with an air of finality.

Curiously, Martin seems to tense at Basira’s words, shifting restively in his seat and looking askance at her.

“How much time does that buy us, do you think?” he asks, throwing brief, surreptitious glances in Basira’s direction. “How long would a few dozen statements last you?”

“I… I don’t know,” Jon says, still altogether uncomfortable with the idea. “If I ration myself, then – a while, hopefully? Hypothetically? But…”

He’s loathe to elaborate, but when did keeping secrets and denying reality ever help?

“Last time, it kept getting progressively worse. I needed to feed more and more frequently in order to stave off the hunger. The side effects of abstaining grew more severe. I want to hope that it will be different this time. Maybe giving in to the hunger in the first place only encouraged the Archivist’s… evolution. Whet my appetite. It’s possible that refraining from hunting will… I don’t know, slow the process? Maybe? B-but at the same time…”

He trails off, lips parted, unable to say the words.

“Jon?” Martin prompts gently.

“It’s… I’m sorry, but I – I have trouble being optimistic about it. Coming back didn’t… it didn’t reset the Archivist’s progress. I’m the product of what I’ve done up to this point, even if I’m the only one who remembers any of it. I still have all the marks. And… the Archive fledged and thrived in the apocalypse.”

“Meaning?” Basira leans forward, watching him intently.

“The Archive is accustomed to a feast, not a famine. Millions of statements filtering through every moment without pause. Even when humanity started dying off – when there was less and less fear to go around, when even the monsters started to decay in that place – the Archive was still sated, because I could See everything. No matter how few and far between those pockets of terror became, as long as fear was being suffered somewhere, the Archive had a steady source of sustenance.”

It wouldn’t have lasted forever, of course. Everything has an ending. But that had still been a ways off when Jon left that place.

“I probably would have been one of the last things standing, by the end,” he says softly.

“And you think the hunger will be worse this time because you aren’t used to being hungry,” Basira says.

“More or less,” Jon mumbles, shamefaced. “Coming back to the past, to now… there was no transition between plenty and want. I – the Archive – was just… dropped into a – a habitat it was never adapted to survive in. It’s like a… like a non-native species, as far as this reality is concerned. Like taking a fish out of water and expecting it to evolve lungs on the spot.”

“Hm.” Basira cups her chin in one hand, running a thumb slowly over her lips as she thinks.

“I plan to ration myself as strictly as possible, of course. I just want to establish the possibility that things might – escalate, at some point.”

“If it comes to that, we can deal with it then,” Georgie says. “In the meantime, we should just…”

“Take things one crisis at a time?” Jon tries to temper his bitterness with a weak smile, without much success.

“I mean, yeah, basically,” Georgie says. “But in order for this to work, you need to be honest with us.”

“I – I am, I –”

“I’m not accusing you of lying, Jon. I just mean… well, you have a long history of ignoring your own limitations, and –”

“You’re not good at taking care of yourself,” Martin interjects. His cheeks go pink and he tosses an apologetic glance in Georgie’s direction. “S-sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“No worries,” Georgie says. Martin looks uncertain until she grins and, still making eye contact with him, jerks her chin in Jon’s direction. “By all means, go on.”

Emboldened, Martin turns his attention back to Jon, who meets his eyes with no small amount of apprehension. If Martin is intent on compiling a laundry list of examples of Jon’s poor self-care – and judging from that worryingly familiar look on his face, he is – then he has ample material to choose from. Jon barely has time to brace himself before Martin launches into his lecture.

“You used to forget to eat. You never took lunch unless I hassled you. I had to nag you to go home at night.” He’s counting off on his fingers now, Jon notes with dismay. “You went through most days fueled by a maximum of four hours of sleep and frankly alarming amounts of caffeine. You insisted on coming back to work, against medical advice, immediately after almost being eaten alive by worms.”

Jon opens his mouth to speak – and promptly shuts it again when Martin gives him what Jon can (with equal amounts of affection and dread) only refer to as that look.

“You could barely walk. I had to threaten to forcibly remove you from the building before you agreed to go home. You spent the next several weeks sneaking – hell, limping around down here” – Martin makes a sweeping gesture with his arm – “where we found your predecessor’s murdered body, and –”

“Yes, yes, okay,” Jon interrupts, hands flapping anxiously. “I get your point.”

“I also had to threaten to withhold the Admiral from you in order to get you to go to the clinic to have your third-degree burn treated,” Georgie chimes back in. Jon glares at her; she looks far too entertained by the proceedings.

“I was – I was on the lam,” he protests. “I couldn’t exactly go waltzing about in public.”

“But you were perfectly willing to go chasing down Avatars, apparently.”

“I…”

“Oh,” she adds, “and today was the first time you actually slept since you woke up from a coma.”

“I was asleep for six months,” Jon mutters, arms crossed, bouncing one heel against the floor. “I think that more than makes up for –”

“You tried to pass off a stab wound that required five – five!” – Martin holds up five fingers for added (and unnecessary, in Jon’s opinion) emphasis – “stitches as an accident with a – with a bread knife.”

Somehow, Martin manages to sound as indignant now as he did on the day it happened.

“That was several lifetimes ago,” Jon says primly. “At some point you have to let me live it down.”

“It hasn’t even been two years!”

“Seriously, Jon?” Daisy, who has been hiding a smirk behind her hand throughout the entire exchange, finally fails to contain her stifled laughter. “A bread knife?”

“I – I panicked,” Jon says weakly, cheeks burning. “Martin cornered me in the breakroom and it was the first thing I saw, and I just –”

Martin starts in again. “You were actively exsanguinating –”

“Th-that – that’s an exaggeration,” Jon sputters, watching Georgie out of the corner of his eye to gauge her reaction. She’s shaking her head with a faint smile, and Jon… well, Jon supposes that playful scorn is preferable to actual scorn.

“– and you refused to let me take you to the clinic until I threatened to call an ambulance,” Martin finishes.

“I was –” Jon twists a lock of hair around his fingers as he scrambles for some way to save face. “I would have been –”

“I think it’s safe to say you have no sense of self-preservation,” Basira says, and even she has a hint of amusement in her tone now.

“They have a point, Sims.”

“Et tu, Daisy?” Jon says, hoping to garner a laugh – or, failing that, at least halt the relentless bombardment of admonishments. Daisy simply raises her eyebrows and folds her arms, unmoved.

“Do I need to revisit some of the things we discussed in the Coffin?”

“No,” he says sullenly. When no one else speaks, he continues, somewhat irately: “Are we quite finished with the roast session?”

“For now,” Georgie says. “The point is, don’t run yourself into the ground just to test the limits of what you can endure.”

“And don’t let rationing statements turn into just another way to punish yourself,” Martin says sternly. Then he bites his lip, speaking gently now: “You… you deserve better than that.”

I really, really don’t, Jon thinks. Having no desire to unleash another lecture, though, he keeps the contrary comment to himself.

“Besides, letting yourself get that bad probably makes things worse in the long run,” Georgie says. “Like walking on a sprained ankle. Maybe you can endure the pain, but the longer you ignore it, the more likely you are to cause even more damage, and recovery takes longer than it would have if you’d just attended to it in the first place.”

“Speaking from personal experience, are we?” Jon allows a hint of retaliatory smugness slip into his voice.

“Yes,” Georgie says, rolling her eyes. “That ankle is still weak. Which is why you should listen to me. Just… try to care about yourself even a fraction of how much others care about you, alright?

Jon sighs. “Point taken.”

“You can trust us,” Martin says.

“I – I know that. I do trust you. I’m just…” Afraid. “I don’t want you to –”

“– mark me out as something other –”

“– getting used to people making polite excuses not to look at me –”

“– it wears you down to be someone whom nobody wants to see – I called out again and again but nobody came –”

Frantic, he covers his mouth with his hand to halt the recitation; the words continue to pour forth undeterred, albeit muffled and likely – hopefully – too indistinct for the others to understand.

“– I remember shouting, recriminations, and I was abandoned –”

“– no one to blame but my own stupid self – blundering in where I had no right to go –”

A flash flood of restless energy breaks through the dam and then it’s racing through his veins, filling his mouth and his mind with white noise. He kicks one foot out and brings it stomping back down to the ground in a burst of sheer infuriation and near-panic. A crawling sensation travels up and down the length of his spine, a parade of feather-light pinpricks reminiscent of thousands of scuttling spider legs.

The slight whimper that works its way up his throat is thankfully stifled by the hand still pressed to his lips.

“Breathe through it,” Basira tells him.

Irritation flares to life at the reminder, but Jon forcibly snuffs it out before the spark can catch. Basira is only trying to help – and in a way she knows has helped before.

He breathes.

A frustrated noise – something between a snarl and a whine – spills out on his exhale, and he presses another hand atop the first as if it can render him entirely soundless. Before another wave of self-directed fury can take him, Jon coaxes himself to take another breath in through his nose. And another. And another, counting up until the pressure behind his eyes lets up and the static clears from his thoughts – at which point, he’s forced to confront the four pairs of eyes playing patient audience to his outburst.

Like a toddler’s tantrum, he thinks acidly, burning with humiliation.

“Sorry.” Although the scathing edge to the word is reserved solely for himself, he takes another breath before speaking again, lest the others assume the ire is directed at them. “Sorry. I’ll try to control it better.”

“It’s fine, Jon,” Martin says. “We know you aren’t doing it on purpose.”

“Anyway,” Basira says, her peremptory tone indicating a return to the subject at hand, “can we all agree that this is the best strategy for now?”

Jon looks down, tracing the weave of his scarf, focusing wholly on the texture of fabric against fingertips in a vain attempt to distract from the pins and needles still skittering across his skin. It takes a moment before he registers the silence. When he looks up, the others are staring at him. Basira raises an eyebrow, clearly waiting for his response.

“Even if I do agree to this,” Jon says warily, “I still – I know it’s a lot to ask, but I still need to be monitored for any signs of…” Although the question is meant for all of them, Jon shifts his gaze to make direct eye contact with Basira as he asks it. “Can you let me know, truthfully, if I – if it looks like I might… if you think I’m a danger?”

“Jon,” Martin sighs, “you’re not –”

“Yes,” Basira says decisively.

Martin glares at her, his mouth falling open with a combination of shock and protective outrage. Jon recognizes that expression, and he jumps in before Martin can get a word out.

“Thank you, Basira.”

Now Jon is the target of Martin’s glower. He looks offended, betrayed almost, as if Jon took Basira’s side in a dispute between the two of them. Again, though, Martin doesn’t get the chance to scold.

“Alright then,” Daisy says, stretching. “It’s settled. You” – her eyes swivel to Jon, their piercing intensity prompting him to sit up at attention – “come to me when you’re hungry.”

“Before you cross the boundary into ‘starving,’” Martin says, carving out an opportunity to chastise despite the interruption.

“Consider me a vending machine of horror stories,” Daisy quips.

Jon grimaces and rubs the back of his neck. “Do you have to describe it that way?”

“Oh, quit grousing.” With a flash of teeth, a wolfish grin spreads across her face. “What, would you prefer I write up a menu?”

Her expression turns solemn when Jon winces and looks away.

“Sore nerve?” she asks, suddenly and uncharacteristically delicate.

“Are you sure you’re okay with this?” The question is nearly inaudible, Jon’s eyes fixed on the floor.

“I wouldn’t have offered if I wasn’t.”

Fearing his voice might crack if he tries to speak, Jon bites down on his lip and tucks his chin to his chest, letting his hair fall to hide the others from view. He shuts his eyes for good measure and swallows hard, determined to head off the tears threatening to gather.

“Hey.” Daisy stretches out a leg and kicks his foot gently. It’s enough to make him raise his head cautiously. “I was just teasing. Really.”

“I –” It comes out as a croak. Jon clears his throat and blinks several times to dispel the stinging pressure in the corners of his eyes. “I know.”

“It is… so weird to see you two like this,” Basira says with an air of baffled wonder.

Jon notices Martin fidgeting restively out of the corner of his eye. When he looks directly at him, he sees Martin glaring at Daisy with a mixture of worry, suspicion, and resentment.

It isn’t surprising; he never really did forgive Daisy for what she did to Jon. Neither did Jon, for that matter, but… Daisy was so changed after the Buried, it was difficult to see her as the same person who dragged him into the woods. She was, undoubtedly – she was the first to admit that – but she was remorseful and wholly dedicated to changing her behavior, even knowing it might well kill her. She never asked for forgiveness, never denied the harm she’d caused, never tried to justify or shirk responsibility for her actions.

What she later became… there was nothing left of the Daisy who he’d come to see as a friend. For that Daisy, being reclaimed by the Hunt was a fate worse than death. Worse than the Coffin, even. She would have preferred to die as herself, and on her own terms – and the Hunt stole even that ounce of humanity from her. It made her forget that she didn't want to be a Hunter.

Jon dreads watching her waste away again, but not nearly as much as he fears the Hunt devouring her whole.

“People change,” he says, looking from Martin to Basira, hoping those two words can convey all the things he cannot say. They both look unconvinced, albeit in slightly different ways.

The silence drags on uncomfortably long until Georgie claps her hands on her knees.

“You never answered the question, Jon. Are you alright taking statements from Daisy? At least until we can find a better solution?”

“I…”

He glances around the circle, looking at each face in turn, trying to discern their opinions on the matter. Daisy gives him a reassuring nod. Martin has an almost pleading expression on his face, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth and wringing his hands in his lap.

Basira is… entirely inscrutable, much to Jon’s dismay. He didn’t expect otherwise, but he still wishes he could get a read on her, determine exactly how she categorizes him now. Probably not as a trustworthy ally. At best, perhaps she sees him as human enough to be suffered to live, but on thin ice and under probation. At worst, she sees him as an irredeemable monster and is simply keeping her opinion to herself for the time being.

Or – no, the worst might be what he was to her last time. She saw him as a monster, yes, and was fully prepared to put him down – like a rabid animal, he thought when confronted with that wording – if he became too much of a danger. It was comforting to know that Basira wouldn’t let sentiment get in the way if he had to be stopped. Less comforting was how she saw him as an asset: a dangerous tool to be used and then locked away once he’d fulfilled his purpose.

Granted, he gave Basira permission to use him – asked her to, in fact. It would be unfair to resent her for taking him up on an offer that he himself put on the table. If his powers could be used to help for once, he was fully willing to sacrifice his humanity to do so. After all, he was already too far gone, he figured – and everyone else seemed to agree.

Georgie certainly seemed to think so. Melanie told him outright that he came back wrong. He had likewise interpreted Martin’s avoidance as a comment on his having changed for the worst, at least initially. And he knew from the moment he woke up that Basira saw him as something other, as something more akin to the monsters they were fighting rather than an ally. He understood why they all felt that way, agreed with their assessments even, but it was soul-crushing nonetheless.

But even if he couldn’t have – didn’t deserve – trust or companionship, he still needed a reason, something to justify choosing not to die. If being wanted wasn’t an option, the least he could do is avoid being a burden. An annoyance. If approval wasn’t on the table, at least he could convince people that he was worth keeping around. And hadn’t that approach always been second nature to him? In a way, he didn’t tend to seek affection so much as try to avoid rejection.

Ultimately, though, pursuing that strategy started to feel sickeningly familiar. It wasn’t until much later that he realized why: between Jonah and the Beholding – and in all likelihood the Web as well – he’d grown accustomed to being seen as a means to an end, and that made it all the more difficult to see himself as a who rather than as a what. It’s a distinction he still struggles with – particularly during those times when the Archive makes its presence known.

He might not have much right to ask for trust or approval, but that doesn’t change the fact that he craves it – perhaps from Basira most of all. If even her opinion of him can change… well, it would go a long way in helping him to believe that he really does have a chance.

“Jon,” Basira says, snapping him back to attention.

Shit. How long has he been staring?

“We need an answer,” she continues.

Jon can’t help but wonder if this is another test. If he agrees, will she see it as further proof of his inhumanity, as evidence that he isn’t trying to resist? If he refuses, will it make her suspicious, lead her to believe he plans on going hunting instead? He’s never been skilled at reading between the lines, at interpreting social cues, at deconstructing the unspoken. The best he can do is ask questions and guess blindly as to the right way to respond – and agonize over the repercussions should he get it wrong. Basira has a way of making that already difficult process even more intimidating.

“Jon,” Basira repeats herself, growing impatient now.

“O-okay,” he says quietly. “It’s… worth a try, I suppose.”

She gives a curt nod. As always, it gives him no insight into her thoughts. He has no time resume brooding, though, as Martin draws his attention with an audible sigh of relief. When Jon glances at him, Martin graces him with a smile – small, almost shy, but genuine. Jon tries and fails to mirror it.

Apparently finished with Jon for the moment, Basira turns her attention to Daisy.

“Come on,” she says, rising to her feet and tapping Daisy on the shoulder. “It’s time for your exercises.”

Obediently, Daisy starts to stand, only for her knees to buckle beneath her. Basira is there to catch her.

“Been sitting too long,” Daisy grunts, embarrassment coloring her cheeks.

“Can you manage the ladder?” Daisy shakes her head, flushing darker. “That’s fine,” Basira says, though Jon thinks he can detect a hint of fear – maybe even melancholy – in her tone now. “Let’s just… walk for now. Wake your legs up.”

The two of them start off down the tunnel, Basira supporting half of Daisy’s weight as she staggers forward.

“Jon?” Georgie says softly.

“Hm.”

“Try to cut yourself some slack, yeah?”

Jon really can’t afford to do that, but saying so will only start them talking in circles again. Martin leans closer and places a hand on Jon’s knee.

“Hey,” he says, looking Jon in the eye with overwhelming sincerity. “We’ve got this, alright?”

“Alright,” Jon responds, and wills himself to believe it.

The three of them exit the tunnel in silence. It isn’t until Jon hoists himself through the trapdoor – Martin assisting in pulling him to his feet – that one of them speaks.

“Oh,” Georgie says, looking at Jon, “by the way…”

“Yes?” Jon says, apprehensive.

“Melanie asked me to tell you that she’s ready to talk, whenever you are.”

“O-oh.”

“I know it's not a great time –”

“No, I – I think I…” Jon nods. “I think I’m ready, too.”

“It doesn’t have to be tonight,” Georgie says hurriedly.

“I really am okay to –”

Martin looks ready to object, but Georgie gets there first.

“Okay, correction: it won’t be tonight,” she interrupts, fixing him with a stern look now. “You’ve had hardly any rest since coming out of the Coffin. I think you should get some actual sleep tonight. If – if – you’re feeling up to it tomorrow, we can arrange something then.”

“Fine,” Jon sighs. He knows better than to argue with the combined tenacity of Georgie and Martin.

And he has to admit, he is rather tired.

A little over a half-hour later, Martin and Jon are back in Document Storage.

When he suggests Jon go to bed, Martin is prepared for a protracted argument. Jon acquiesces surprisingly quickly, though, his only condition being that Martin get some sleep as well. It takes slightly longer to convince Jon to take the cot. Martin pulls up a chair and sits at the bedside, refusing to budge as Jon makes his counterarguments. Eventually, though, Jon starts nodding off mid-protest. It’s only a matter of time before he begrudgingly gives in – but not before demanding that Martin take the better blanket. With an amused shake of his head, Martin agrees to the compromise.

Jon slips between the sheets, Martin leans back in his chair, and for a long moment the two of them watch each other in silence. Jon’s hand rests near the pillow, fingers crooked loosely, palm turned up like an invitation. Martin has the sudden urge to reach out and take it.

Another minute passes before Martin realizes that… well, that’s a thing he can do now, isn’t it? What’s stopping him?

Slowly, tentatively, he extends his hand, lets it hover uncertainly above Jon’s, fingertips barely brushing. He applies the slightest pressure, giving Jon every opportunity to pull back. He doesn’t. Jon interlocks their fingers, curling them over in a firm grasp, and peers up at Martin through his lashes with mingled uncertainty and hope.

“Is this okay?” Martin asks quietly.

As answer, Jon lets out a contented sigh, eyelids fluttering closed as a sleepy smile spreads across his face.

“'Course,” he mumbles, already drifting off. “Always will.”

Martin will follow not long after, slumping precariously to the side, head lolling onto his shoulder, and hand still held fast in a warm, sure grip. It’s a posture that will undoubtedly leave him sore by the time he wakes up, but that discomfort will be overshadowed by the way he feels in these shared, quiet moments: seen, accepted, wanted, embraced.

Anchored, he thinks – and for the first time in months, no thoughts of Loneliness shadow him as he falls to sleep.

End Notes:

Jon: *feels safe for the first time in a literally unmeasurable amount of time and promptly passes right back tf out* Martin: oh no he’s cute

Jon's gotten a SNACK and a NAP now. I hope you're all happy. :P  (Just kidding. Every time someone tells me to let Jon have a nap, I am also @ing myself - and Jonny Sims - with the exact same demand.)

(On that note, I find it funny that as I was writing this chapter and finally giving Jon the nap he deserves, he was ALSO finally getting the nap he deserves in canon.)

Citations for Jon’s Archive-speak are as follows: MAG 135; 130/067/066; 032/037.

Next chapter: Melanie gets some actual screentime again!!

[fuckyeahalexedler]

Under the toughest minutes of his career, Alex Edler is quietly having his best defensive season yet

Wine, allergies, blue jeans, and Alexander Edler.

As cliché as it sounds, some things really do get better with age.

These past two seasons, at ages 32 and 33, Edler posted 34 and 33 points in 56 and 59 games, respectively. Extrapolate those totals over a full 82-game schedule, and they’re Edler’s second and third-best offensive seasons ever, and his best since 2008/09.

All the while, however, Edler’s defensive numbers took a nosedive under the strain of shouldering more responsibility on a blueline in flux.

Now in 2021, Edler has posted a scant four points in 19 games, but no one is complaining. That’s because he’s also facing the toughest minutes of his career, and yet somehow responding with defensive metrics that blow his last couple of seasons out of the cellar — and might just constitute his best overall performance as a Canuck thus far.

And all at the age of 34.

Where other defenders might be winding down toward retirement, Edler finds himself on the upswing.

Edler’s 2021 deployment: quality over quantity

Though the Canucks’ blueline arguably improved in the 2020 offseason via the addition of Nate Schmidt, Edler’s job hasn’t gotten any easier, mostly because he’s been stapled to Schmidt for the bulk of the season, eating up the team’s toughest minutes.

It’s true that Edler’s current TOI average of 20:19 per game is the lowest since his rookie campaign; but when it comes to deployment, Edler’s 2021 has been all about quality over quantity — as in top-quality opponents in low-quality situations, and all with high-quality results.

No regular Vancouver defender has started more of their shifts in their own end than Edler, who sports a not-so-nice 69% defensive zone-start rate, significantly higher than his 49.9% career average.

As per Micah Blake McCurdy of HockeyViz, Edler has also faced the toughest competition of any Vancouver defender, consistently being thrown out against top lines and whatever elite talent the opposition can muster up.

Both his quality of linemates and PDO of 95.9 — lowest among regular defenders — suggest that Edler isn’t getting quite as much support as he could from other skaters and his goalies when he’s on the ice.

Brutal zone-starts, the strongest competition, and a lack of support from linemates. Sounds like a recipe for defensive disaster, right?

And, yet…

Edler by the numbers

Pick a fancy stat, any fancy stat, and you’ll probably find that Edler leads the 2021 Vancouver blueline in it.

Corsi? Check. Control of scoring chances, and specifically high-danger scoring chances? Oh yeah. Fenwick and Expected Goals? Edler doesn’t just lead the D-corps in those categories, he’s ahead of anyone not named Justin Bailey.

Again, it bears serious mentioning that Edler is accomplishing all this despite the toughest deployment of his career, because these numbers also rank quite well when it comes to comparing them to the Edlers of years past.

In every major defensive metric, Edler is either beating or right in line with his career bests, most of which were recorded during the heyday of the 2011 Stanley Cup Finals run. Obviously, Edler is surrounded by a significantly worse Canucks roster today than he was back then, and yet somehow, he’s still finding the same success.

Let’s not mince words here. Edler isn’t just past his physical prime, he’s probably close to a decade past his physical prime. But here he is being asked to do a much more difficult job than he did in those prime years, and he’s performing just as well, if not better.

Truly, it defies all sense and reasonable explanation. Edler, as it turns out, is equally adept at defending against age-related hockey conventions as he is top-flight on-ice competition.

As far as coach Travis Green, who spoke to our own David Quadrelli on Friday, is concerned, there’s no real secret to Edler’s renewed success, aside from the reduced ice-time. To Green, Edler is the same ol’ Steady Eddie he’s been for the majority of his career in Vancouver.

“I think he’s just playing well,” said Green. “Eddie, he’s been a great defenceman for us for a long time. You know, I think he’s used to getting those tough assignments. We’ve tried to keep his minutes a little bit down by not putting him on the power play. And he looks fresh, he’s smart, he’s been physical. He’s having a good year.”

And lower minutes may go a long way toward explaining Edler’s personal renaissance, but he’s also performing better than before in those areas in which his duties haven’t been reduced, namely, the penalty kill.

Penalty killer queen

As of this writing, the Vancouver Canucks have the tenth-ranked penalty kill in the league at 82.3%, a sizeable jump on their 16th-ranked 80.5% of last year.

As was the case in 2019/20, Edler ranks second on the team in shorthanded minutes per game. He trailed just Chris Tanev last season, and just Travis Hamonic this year — the same Hamonic who has only played five games thus far.

In other words, if you’re going to give a single player credit for the Canucks’ improvement on the PK, you’re going to have to give it to Edler. That’s backed up by the fact that Edler has allowed just 0.32 high-danger chances per shorthanded minute, one of the best rates among regular penalty killers and way, way better than he put up in 2019/20. This is, again, despite being put out there against the other team’s top unit on most occasions.

The Nate Schmidt factor

By this point, we know what you’re all thinking, and it’s almost impressive that we’ve made it this far with only one mention of Nate Schmidt.

Yes, in terms of defensive partners, Edler has a big upgrade in Schmidt — with whom he’s shared the ice approximately 44.5% of the time in 2021 — over Chris Tanev and Troy Stecher, with whom he split the 2019/20 season.

Obviously, Schmidt’s presence alone goes a long way toward explaining Edler’s sudden defensive resurgence. But to suggest that Schmidt is the sole reason for Edler’s stellar performance is to not give the veteran defender his full due.

Both Edler and Schmidt have been significantly better together than they have been apart, and both see their metrics drop drastically with other partners — but more so for Schmidt than Edler.

When he’s not partnered with Schmidt, Edler has spent most of his time alongside rookie Jalen Chatfield. When not with Edler, Schmidt has spent most of his time alongside Tyler Myers.

Despite that time apart, their chemistry has been apparent from the get-go.

“We tried [the Edler/Schmidt pairing] originally at the beginning of the year,” said coach Green. “It wasn’t that we didn’t like it, we just wanted to get Chatfield into some games, and with the hand combos, we had to change the pairings. But that pairing’s been good for us.”

It appears then, that the benefits Schmidt has brought to Edler’s game are, at the very least, somewhat mutual, and that’s something that coach Green certainly agrees with.

“I think it goes hand-in-hand, whenever you have a partnership that you like and that is playing well together,” said Green, “It’s usually because both partners are bringing something to the table. I think they’ve had real good communication, they like playing with each other…they like the assignments they’ve had.”

The eye-test, intangibles, and head coach all agree

Though the numbers definitely look good, they’re perhaps not even the best indicator of Edler’s true excellence. In past seasons, most Vancouver fans would agree that the “eye-test” served Edler better than the fancy statline, and that he’s generally seemed to overperform the expectations of the analytics crowd.

And such is the case in 2021, too, even with a boffo set of stats.

Edler has been noticeably more mobile this year, roving up into the play in a way he hasn’t done since his earliest days in the league. He’s yet to score, but he’s come close on a couple of net-front chances, which says a lot about how active his offence has been.

He’s also hitting — if not exactly as zealously as he used to — with the sort of ferocity Vancouverites haven’t seen in years. His hits-per-60 might be down slightly, but the quality of those hits has increased by board-rattling magnitudes. Edler has made a real habit out of obliterating Calgary Flames this season, and he was one of the few players to stay consistently ornery during that dreadful six-game losing streak — one of the few who seemed genuinely angry to be losing so much. He elbowed Elias Lindholm, decked Rasmus Andersson, and even managed to turn Matthew Tkachuk into an agitatee, rather than an agitator, for once.

If Edler’s stern and silent brand of leadership wasn’t apparent enough during that losing streak, it was key in helping the team get out of it and over it. In fact, Edler’s quiet, steady alternate captaincy has been arguably more important in 2021, with the offseason departures of key leaders Tanev and Jacob Markstrom, than it ever has been before.

So, to summarize, Edler’s ice-time and offensive production may be down, but everything else is up, up, and away. The Canucks’ own man of steely glares has faced the toughest zone-starts and competition of his career and responded with the best defensive statline he’s ever put together, all the while increasing his physicality and playing a vital role in maintaining team culture as the last holdout of the Sedin era.

All of which goes to show, one should always respect their elders — and their Edlers, too.

And one should never count them out.

(Feb. 20, 2021)

[paper-mirio]

let the world turn without you tonight

Kirishima Eijirou x Reader, Platonic!Class 1-A x Reader

College AU

Words: 4,966

Summary: You’re the resident assistant for floor 1-A in a dorm building at U.A. University. You have many responsibilities that come with this position, yet you still have to maintain your grades on top of this. You’ve been able to handle things so far, but the stress of university life creeps up slowly on you. How long will you be able to keep saying that everything’s fine?

Warnings: light angst, negative thoughts, anxiety, imposter syndrome, mentions of fire

  The clock read 11:43 pm. It was a Saturday night, and it had been three hours since the last time Bakugou was heard yelling at someone in the halls. Kaminari had apparently brought snacks to the floor’s lounge to share with everyone, including peanut butter cookies. Peanuts, of course, were banned from the lounge due to Yaoyorozu’s severe allergies, and this was the fourth time this semester Kaminari forgot that particular rule. You supposed you should thank Bakugou for resolving the situation quickly. The last thing you needed was to write up a report on why a student had to be sent to the emergency room while you were on duty. Still, it would've been nice for him to be a bit quieter during midterm season.

Your eyes tore away from the clock, looking back down to the textbook in front of you. You took a few moments to try and blink the sleep out of your eyes, yawning as you did so. Your midterm wasn't for another week, but you knew there wouldn't be enough time for you to cram in the days before. With planning for the floor’s retreat, writing up funding proposals, and making sure nobody started a third fire this month, you knew you would have been far too busy in the days before the exam. Besides, wasn't this a more effective way of studying?

As you moved your hand to write down the answer to a problem you were working on, you stopped, noticing the pencil had gone missing from your hand. And the paper had gone missing from your desk. And the clock now read 12:25 am.

Oh, right, you thought. I was packing up for the night.

You closed your textbook and set it aside, avoiding the pile of notebooks that was dangerously close to toppling over. You stood and stretched, letting out a squeak upon hearing a multitude of cracks and snaps in your spine. I really need to work on my posture, you thought as you reached up to turn off your desk lamp.

You made a brief glance at your phone to check the notifications. Other than a few reminders you'd set and some memes in the group chat from Ashido, there was no new activity. You plugged your phone in and set it down, feeling a bit relieved. It was earlier than you'd normally go to bed, but nobody on the floor seemed to need anything tonight, and you were especially exhausted. You shuffled across the room to your bed and threw yourself across it. As the soft mattress hit your back, you let out a soft moan at the comfort. After sitting hunched at your desk for hours, either studying or doing work, it was a relief to lie back and let yourself rest. You sank into the mattress, leaned back against your pillow, and closed your eyes, letting yourself drift off into sleep.

---

It's 2:15 am, not even two hours later, when you're woken up by a loud screech and white flashing lights. A crackling sound came from your intercom, and you heard the prerecorded voice begin to give instructions. Standard procedure for a fire alarm being set off. You turned over in bed, burying your face into your pillow, and let out a strangled sob.

It’s fine, you thought, stumbling out of bed to slip on your shoes. I’m fine, as you shrugged on your uniform jacket. Everything’s fine, as you stepped out of your room and into the hallway, finding a few of the residents standing in the doorways to their rooms. You closed your eyes, inhale slow and deep, and let out a sigh. Fine.

You walked over to Uraraka, Hagakure, Sero, and Kirishima, whose rooms were closest to yours and were already standing outside. Uraraka rubbed her eyes, a pout on her face. “Ugh, another one already?” she whined. “(Y/N), I thought you said we were only gonna have one drill this semester. This is, like, the fourth one!”

“I know, I know, but you know the drill by now,” you started. “Get to the stairs, head down and out. Get away from the building. I'll meet you all there.”

Sero and Uraraka nodded, moving to leave. Hagakure stayed put and appeared to gesture to the rest of the hall. “I can wake everyone else up!” she offered. You smiled, noting that she was oddly cheery and energetic for someone woken up so early in the morning, before shaking your head.

“As much as I’d appreciate the help, I need you to evacuate with everyone else. Get to safety. Let me handle this.” When you finished telling her this, she made a movement you could only assume was a nod before heading toward the staircase, a spring in her step. You watched her leave with a smile on your face. At least she seems unbothered by this.

You turned back around to wake up the rest of the hall, only to be faced with Kirishima. He was still standing outside his door and didn't seem to have moved at all. You let out a sigh—you were already going to have to deal with a bunch of other 19 year-olds waking up, and you did not want to have to repeat the same directions to your boyfriend of all people.

“Listen, Eijirou, that applies to you too. I need you to leave with everyone else,” you stated, moving to walk around him only to stop as he grabbed your shoulder. You looked back at him to see his eyebrows furrowed and a frown on his face. He seemed cautious, as his grip on you was light. He opened his mouth a few times to say something, only to shut it, changing his mind. Finally, he seemed to gather himself as he looked you in the eyes.

“(Y/N),” he began, “are you sure you're alright?”

I’m fine. Everything's fine. You gave him a strained smile, placing your hand over his. “I will be once you're out of the building safely. We can talk later, okay?”

His frown deepened, and you felt his grip on your arm tighten briefly before letting go. His arm dropped to his side, and he turned to walk toward the staircase without another word.

As you watched him leave, you felt an uneasy feeling set in your chest. The way he'd frowned at you, how he didn't respond to you, his posture—all of it told you something was wrong. You replayed the interaction in your head, trying to think of something you'd said to upset him, only to come up with nothing. You were fine, and you wanted him to be safe, so everything should be fine, right?

A harsh shove met your side, knocking you out of your thoughts and into the wall next to you. Your head and shoulder took the brunt of the impact, and your hands caught the wall to prevent yourself from toppling onto the ground.

After getting yourself back upright, you looked ahead, slightly dazed, to see two hooded figures running towards the staircase. You squinted at them in annoyance. Nobody ever pays attention to the instructions...

“Hey!” you shouted at them, before wincing at how loud your voice sounded. “No running! Walk out of the building in an orderly fashion!” Your head throbbed from hitting the wall, the blaring alarm and the volume you had to use to be heard only worsening the pain. You decided you'd need to send out a message to everyone later letting them know what “orderly” meant.

At your instruction, the two slowed their pace, but not by much. As the two speed-walked towards the exit, one of them turned their head around to glance back at you. Midoriya, as you could now tell, smiled sheepishly. “Sorry, (Y/N)!” he laughed, before turning back and continuing to walk.

The second person ducked their head and pulled their hood further down, as if they didn't want to be seen. Despite this, you caught a glimpse of red and white hair peeking out from underneath. You let out an annoyed sigh.

“Just get to the evacuation zone safely. And Todoroki, please watch where you're going,” you called after them, watching them exit through the door to the staircase.

You marked the two of them off on a mental checklist, noting that they'd left the building. That made six who'd left already, three who were off-campus or in other buildings, and six who were visiting their families for the weekend. As you counted off in your head, you saw the last few unaccounted for students make their ways to the exit, stumbling in a sleepy haze. You smiled to yourself, glad that everyone would be safe and accounted for.

You walked behind them toward the staircase, ready to exit. As you walked, however, a faint smell reached you, causing you to falter in your steps. You inhaled sharply in surprise, and the smell became stronger, causing you to cover your nose with your sleeve.

Shit, you thought. Something’s actually burning...

---

It was dark out, save for the flashing lights of the fire alarm in the building behind you and a few street lamps. You stood at the entrance of the building, having just turned away a seventh student who tried to enter despite it clearly being evacuated. A harsh breeze hit your face and you flinched, shrinking in on yourself to try and hide your face in the thin jacket you wore. Your hands trembled, and you cursed under your breath. The firefighters normally didn't take this long to resolve the issue.

You looked over to the parking lot across the street, where the residents of your floor had gathered. They were scattered across the lot, some on their phones, and some others talking with students living in building B, who had come out to see what the commotion was about. Some, like Koda and his emotional support rabbit, tried to escape the cold by entering the B building, with the residents being kind enough to allow entry. Ojiro and Tsuyu were both leaned against a wall, asleep already, while Tokoyami seemed more awake and alert than normal.

As you looked across the lot, verifying that everyone had evacuated for the tenth time since you left the building, you couldn't help the dread building in you. The firefighters still hadn't left the building yet, and you'd started to worry that this may be something serious. Had this been a larger fire? Was this something more dangerous? Different possibilities occurred to you suddenly, and each one made your stomach flip and your heart drop. Shaky breaths came out your mouth, forming visible clouds in the cold air. Maybe I should check on everyone one last time, just to be sure, you thought. So you looked across the lot for the eleventh time.

“Excuse me?” called out a voice behind you. “You're (Y/N), right? The resident assistant on floor 1-A?”

You turned to see a fireman standing in the doorway to the building. He had a grimace on his face and was holding something charred, black, and annoyingly familiar in his hands.

“Yeah, that’s me,” you started, the worry starting the fade and irritation quickly taking its place. “Is everything alright? Is the fire taken care of?”

“It's all fine now. Just try to make sure this doesn't happen again,” he scolded, before turning and walking away, muttering something about a damn smell and annoying kids.

You closed your eyes and inhaled deeply, counting to five before letting out the breath. It’s fine.

After heading to the parking lot and informing everyone that they could return to their rooms, you did a quick headcount to yourself to make sure nobody who had fallen asleep was left behind in the parking lot. Once you verified that everyone was making their way inside, you searched the crowd for your two targets. Spotting the two blondes about to enter an elevator, you glared and rushed forward, sticking your arm in before the elevator could close completely. “Fuck,” you muttered as the elevator doors opened, rubbing your arm.

“Oh, hey (Y/N)!” Kaminari laughed. “Sorry, didn't see you there. Would've held the door open if I did. Guess I'm still kinda tired, heh.” You rolled your eyes, teeth gritting at his nonchalance, and stepped into the elevator, letting the doors shut behind you.

Bakugou remained silent and rubbed his eyes, clearly exhausted. When he saw you glaring at him, however, he frowned. “The fuck is your problem?”

You crossed your arms, not looking away. “My problem,” you hissed, “is that I have told both of you on multiple occasions that using your quirks to make popcorn is not only stupid, but incredibly dangerous. This is the third time we’ve had to evacuate because of this.”

Both blondes blinked in confusion, taking in your accusation.

“Wait, you think we did this?” Kaminari asked. “Why?”

You stared at him, raising an eyebrow. “History. You've done it before. I don't doubt you did it again.” You let out a deep sigh, shaking your head. “I don't have proof it was you two, so nothing’s gonna happen. Just, please, don't do this again. Especially this late.”

The elevator jolted to a stop as you reached your floor. The doors slid open, and the three of you exited together.

Bakugou growled, turning and stomping in the direction of his room. “Whatever,” he grumbled. “Too fucking late to be blamed for this shit...” Kaminari followed him with a shrug.

You rolled your eyes at the two, before turning and heading in the direction of your room. You looked down at your watch. 3:20 am. That gives me...three more hours of sleep? Maybe I can fit in 20 extra minutes if I run to class.

Once in your room, you pondered over how much sleep you could get while still having time for breakfast and coffee. Slipping back into bed, you attempted to make the calculations in your head. Hindered by your sleep deprivation, you had lost 20 minutes of potential sleep time by the time you gave up on trying to figure it out. You turned off your light, collapsed on your bed, and finally returned to sleep. Tomorrow’s gonna be fine. Better than today.

---

It took all your willpower to resist slamming your laptop shut and hurling it out the window, though you doubt you would've had the strength to even lift it at this point. Your eyes burned as you continued to stare at the bright screen, hoping to somehow change what you’ve read. Your vision blurred, making the results illegible to you as tears ran down your face. The numbers were etched firmly into your mind, however, impossible to ignore.

All of that time spent studying, stressing, just to receive a 53% on the midterm. It was pathetic. You choked down a sob and frantically tried to scrub the tears from your eyes. Pathetic. You were an adult, sitting in your room and crying like a child over a bad grade. It happens to everyone. Everyone, that is, except the students at U.A., known for its prestige and academic excellence.

Yet here you were, failing. You should've known this would happen. You felt lucky enough to be accepted that you tricked yourself into getting comfortable, believing that luck would carry over the entire time you spent here. But no, it was just luck. That's all it had to be, if all of your efforts resulted in failure anyway.

You let these thoughts fill your head as your face was buried into your hands. You attempted to steady your breathing, but hearing how shaky your voice sounded only distressed you further.

I’m fine, you tried. I’m okay.

Because failing was fine, right? You only wasted money and time on this school when somebody else more deserving could easily have taken your place. Fine. Pathetic.

You were pulled out of your thoughts by the sound of your door opening. You cursed under your breath, suddenly regretting the open door policy you had with your residents.

“Woah, it's so dark in here,” Kirishima muttered, causing you to flinch. Of all people to walk in right now, why did it have to be him? “Hey, (Y/N), are you busy right now? Because there's something going on in the lounge and I think—“ he cut himself off, suddenly taking in the sight of you curled up in front of your laptop, face buried into your arms.

Great, now he’s worried about me. You took in a deep breath before removing your hands from your face, wiping your eyes as you do so. You turned to smile at him, trying to convince him nothing is wrong. Because you were fine.

Judging by the frown on his face, he wasn't convinced. He shut the door behind him and locked it before making his way over to stand behind the chair you were curled up in. He leaned over, wrapping his arms around you and pressing a kiss to your cheek.

“(Y/N), honey, what's wrong?”

You sat in silence, wondering if you should tell him. You didn't want to bother him with your own failures. But, you thought, he cares. He wouldn't want me to keep this to myself. You open your mouth to speak, then shut it, remembering how your voice sounded earlier. You didn't want it to be any more obvious that you were crying, if he couldn't already tell. Instead, you gestured wordlessly to the screen in front of you, still displaying your grades.

Kirishima looked to the screen at your direction, only to inhale sharply through his teeth upon reading the score. You deflated hearing that, shame pooling in your stomach. See? It's bad, and he knows it.

“Yikes,” he muttered. “I see the problem, now...” You frown, nodding silently. The problem, of course, being the solid dent in your GPA.

You sniffed, reaching up to rub at your eyes. “It’s just, I studied so hard for this,” you whispered, still not quite trusting your voice. “It feels like it was all for nothing, now.”

“You’ve got Aizawa-sensei for this course, right? Yeah, his exams are always like that.”

Wait, what?

“Like...that?” you muttered. You turned your head away from the screen to look at him, eyebrows furrowed.

“Yeah, I had him last semester. His exams are always this difficult, full of trick questions and so long hardly anyone can complete them in time.” Kirishima chuckled, leaning to rest his chin on your shoulder as he stared at the screen. “The highest I've ever heard anyone getting on his exams was 65%, and I'm pretty sure that person cheated.”

You blinked, trying to process this information. “But, if everyone scores low, how do they pass?” you questioned, trying to make sense of it.

Kirishima looked at you and gave a toothy grin. “His exams are tough as hell, but Aizawa-sensei’s a fair teacher. Those scores are just for us to use as a reference point for what we need to focus on moving forward, but he doesn't actually grade by percentage. If he thinks you know the material well enough, you pass the course.” He lifted a hand to point at your screen. “And 53%? Is pretty damn great, all things considered. I never got anything higher than 40% in his class and I still made it out with a B.”

His grin turned to a soft smile as he watched you try to process this. While you sat in shock, he reached over to shut your laptop closed. “Let’s not worry about that anymore,” he muttered, before reaching down to scoop you into his arms. “C’mere, let's lay down a minute.”

He carried you over to your bed before gently laying you down on your back. He slid in next to you, lazily wrapping an arm around your middle and resting his head on top of yours. You leaned into his embrace, face still scrunched up in confusion.

“So...I didn't fail?” you asked.

He laughed and gently pressed a kiss to the top of your head. “I thought I said let's not worry about that, hm? But no, (Y/N), you didn't fail.” He hummed softly, using his arm to pull you closer. “You're actually doing great. Not that I'm surprised, of course. I've got the smartest partner in the whole world.” He laughed again before leaning down to pepper soft kisses on your neck. “I'm so lucky...”

Your face heated up, and you laughed nervously. “Eiji, stop...” You gasped, feeling his hand begin to slide up under your shirt, but made no move to stop him. “Somebody could walk in!”

Kirishima shook his head. “Nah, I made sure I locked it this time.” He shifted himself until he was on top of you, legs straddling your waist. He gave you a goofy grin that caused you to laugh.

“That's what you said last time,” you giggled. “Then Mina walked in. I mean, it's probably the most embarrassing thing that's happened to me, but the look on her face!” You burst into laughter, clutching your sides.

Kirishima laughed above you. “True, but seriously! I did lock it this time!” His laughter died down while you continued to giggle. He smiled warmly before leaning down to peck at your lips, effectively cutting off your laughter. “There's that smile,” he murmured. “You've been so stressed lately, I missed seeing it on you.”

You blushed, smiling up at him. “Well, I can't help but laugh when my boyfriend’s this much of a dork.” He let out a snort at that. “But still, I guess it does help that I love you.”

He leaned his forehead against yours, moving a hand to your cheek to gently caress it. “I love you too, (Y/N).” He then pressed his lips to yours.

As you get lost in the sensation of kissing your boyfriend, you feel yourself relax under him. The feeling was strange, unfamiliar, like a weight had been lifted off your shoulders and you couldn't remember a time without it. You lifted a hand to run through Kirishima’s hair, trying to bring him closer somehow. He hummed, pressing his body into yours.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. You tried not to let it distract you.

You thought about how long it had been since the two of you really kissed like this, or even just had a moment to yourselves. You had been far too busy lately with work and classes, and you'd spent so long stressing over both that you hadn't had much time to just relax with your boyfriend. You thought about all the times he'd asked if you were okay or looked at you with worry, and you'd just brushed it off, saying you'd talk later. Did you ever talk with him? You couldn't remember.

Kirishima broke the kiss, pulling you out of your thoughts. “You're overthinking again,” he stated.

You sighed, leaning your head back against the mattress. “Sorry,” you muttered. “I was just thinking how long it's been since we were able to just...do this. Be alone. Kiss. Hell, even just talk to each other.” You frowned, turning your head to the side. “I've been busy lately, but I still could've made time for this. For us. I'm sorry.”

Kirishima shook his head, using his hand on your cheek to turn you to look at him. “(Y/N), all of that was out of your control. You had all of these responsibilities before we got together, so I knew what I was getting into.” His phone buzzes again, making him pause and roll his eyes. He continued, ignoring it. “I'm just worried about you. You push yourself too hard sometimes, and I know it gets overwhelming. I don't want to see you cry the way you were when I first walked in.”

He pecked your cheek. “Let's enjoy this time we have now, alright? No more worrying about anything else.” He gave you a gentle smile, and you couldn't help but return it. He always seemed to know just what to say. He leaned back in to kiss you again.

Kirishima’s phone buzzed repeatedly in his pocket, causing both of you to let out load groans.

“Who the hell is texting me this late?” he questioned, exasperated. His phone buzzed again, making Kirishima sigh and roll off of you.

“It might be important,” you said, giving an awkward smile. You rolled onto your side to face him. “You should probably check it, just to be sure.”

He hummed in acknowledgment. He pulled his phone out of his pocket and read the notifications. His eyes widened, and he jolted upright in the bed. You startled, slowly sitting up next to him.

“Shit!”

“What?” you asked. “Is something wrong?”

“Completely forgot the reason I came in here in the first place!” he exclaimed, smacking his forehead with his palm.

“The reason you came in here?” You thought about what that could mean, then suddenly you remembered his words upon entering. You sucked in a gasp. “Wait, you said something was going on in the lounge? Is it bad?” Without waiting for an answer, you bolted out of bed. You hurriedly put on your shoes and scrambled to get your jacket.

“Wait, (Y/N), calm down for a moment, it's nothing that serious!” Kirishima got up after you, alarmed by your sudden panic.

“But you said something was happening and wanted me to come check it out. What if it is serious by now?” You shook your head, heading towards the door. “I'm heading over just to be sure.” You opened the door and walked out into the hall, walking swiftly towards the lounge.

Kirishima let out a deep sigh, burying his face into his hands. “Nice going, dumbass. Couldn't find an excuse that wouldn't make them panic...” He shook his head before following after you, doing his best to keep up with your pace.

You reached the door to the lounge. You braced yourself for what chaos you might find inside. I just hope nobody started another fight over the TV. That's the last thing we need right now, you thought, before turning the knob and opening the door.

“Finally! Took you long enough to get them, Kirishima,” Ashido exclaimed. The occupants startled, turning towards the door. It seemed everyone on the floor was inside. They all beamed upon seeing you, before simultaneously shouting, “Surprise!”

You stood in the doorway in shock. Rather than chaos and potential damage reports you'd need to write, the room was decorated and relatively clean. There was a table full of food and snacks, many of which were your favorites. The TV was hooked up to a console, one you assumed belonged to Kaminari, and it seemed they were in the middle of a Mario Kart match before pausing it when you walked in.

“What's all of this?” you asked, not quite understanding what was happening. Your birthday wasn't for a few more months, and Kirishima’s had been last semester. You couldn't recall anything happening recently worth celebrating, but the surprise seemed to be meant for you.

“Well, we had this party set up for you, and it would've started half an hour ago, but someone got distracted when sent to retrieve the guest of honor,” Hagakure explained. Ashido looked to Kirishima with a raised eyebrow and a smirk, to which Kirishima blushed and rubbed the back of his neck.

“Ok,” you replied. “Why, though?”

“To thank you, of course!” Midoriya smiled. “For being the best resident assistant we could've asked for!”

“Yes! You've been fair at enforcing the rules while also going above and beyond to ensure our safety!” Iida exclaimed, gesturing from you to everyone else.

“Not to mention the fact that you were able to get Mineta kicked out after the school wouldn't listen to our complaints,” Jirou smirked, giving a thumbs up. “We still owe you for that one.”

As the others began to speak up with more praise and thanks, you felt your face heating up from having this much attention on you. You'd never really thought about how they'd feel about the work you did. They really did all of this for me?

“So, to show our appreciation, we set up this party! Because even though you're technically the boss of us now, we’re still all your friends!” Uraraka said. “We got Satou to make these sweets, and Aoyama and Yaoyorozu helped us with the decorations, and Shoji helped us hang them up, and Kaminari and Sero told us what your favorite games were, and—“ she rambled on, listing every detail of the party and exactly how every person on the floor was able to contribute. “Even Bakugou pitched in and was able to tell us what times you were busy, based on when you tell him to stop yelling!”

Kirishima wrapped his arms around you from behind. “You’ve done a lot for us this past year. Let us take care of you tonight, okay?” He pressed a kiss to your cheek. “All of this is for you.”

You looked to Kirishima, who had a large grin on his face. You glanced around the room at everyone, noticing how happy they all looked. A warm feeling blossomed in your chest, and you felt tears well up in your eyes. A few managed to escape and fall down your cheek.

Hagakure jumped, panicking. “Oh no, we made them cry!”

“Everything alright, (Y/N)?” Kirishima asked softly.

You laughed, reaching up to wipe away your tears. Everything was fine, right? No, you thought, not fine. You gave everyone a large grin.

“Yeah, everything’s great!”

[darkmindsthinktwistedthoughts]

TLC

Fandom: Ikemen Sengoku

Pairing: Hideyoshi Toyotomi x Naiya (female OC) x Masamune Date

Word count: 4,507

Warning: Pampering, Fluff and sprinkle of spice.

Written by: darkmindsthinktwistedthoughts

Tagging @umbralaperture​ for this commissioned piece.

Masterlist 

---

TLC

This was getting beyond a joke. Every breath was agony, something clawing at her throat and pulling on her lungs like they were a set of bagpipes. Lack of oxygen meant every minor ache and pain suddenly sparked throughout her body a thousand times worse.

She tried to move only to be hit with a blinding pressure pain buried somewhere behind her eyes making her wonder who planted an axe there. Sleep was desired and never came. Endless exhaustion added to the melee of things that now just made up a list as long as she was tall for what was wrong.

Duvets, blankets and pillows clung around her like a nest. Somehow, she had managed to crawl into bed. Medication hadn’t worked the way it should, it hadn’t worked at all. She groaned against the faint light creeping into the bedroom from the curtains and became aware of something loud enough to shake the gates of Hell.

“Ugh… not now.” She grumbled and tried to bunch the pillows up around her ears but the hammering didn’t stop. “Fine, not like I can sleep anyway.”

She peeled back the layers of comfort and dragged her body as close to vertical as she could muster. Using the wall to steady herself, as well as any furniture along the way, she slowly made it to the front door. Her fingers fumbled against the lock. The bolt slid back and the door cracked open.

“This had better be good. I put off dying to be here.” Before she could even focus on who had come to call on her, the door was pushed wide. A set of strong arms wrapped her up in a bone-crushing hug driving what little air she had in her body out along with her ability to stand under her own strength. “Oof!”

“Naiya! Thank god you answered I was this close to kicking in the door.” The familiar comforting voice of one of her usually level-headed boyfriends sounded muffled from her position against his broad chest.

“Yoshi mate, you might want to ease up on the whole bear hug before you really have a need to worry.” Masa reached out with one hand ruffling her hair as he reminded Hideyoshi of a human’s requirement to breathe. “Sorry Lass. I brought food.”

Masa held up two bags he had in his free hand giving them a light shake before brushing past her and Hideyoshi to get into the house.

“I can see that. I thought you guys had a key for here anyway?” She couldn’t really focus on what was happening but was really trying to follow along.

“We do but someone left it in the bowl back at ours.” Masa called out from the kitchen. She could hear the bags being emptied along with the thud and clink of produce being laid out on the counter.

“If you hadn't distracted me before we left, I wouldn’t have forgotten to grab it from the bowl in the first place.” Hideyoshi grumbled his arms releasing their tight hold as he chided Masa.

“How was I distracting you? I was trying to think of things to get from the store on the way over. It was your idea to get the key bowl anyway.” Masa appeared again a teasing grin on his face before changing his voice to give his best impersonation of Hideyoshi. “Can’t just have keys hanging around we need some order in the place.”

“You kept asking if I thought today was a cheat day or not. And I do not sound like that!” Hideyoshi sounded exasperated and a little embarrassed. He was normally the reliable one so forgetting something like the key to their girlfriend’s house proved he was worried.

“Well, it makes a difference to Kitten.” Masa chirped back.

“Hey guys as much as I enjoy the Saturday night live experience, I’m just gonna let you do your things and crawl back into my pit.” She tried to remove herself from the loud, all be it amusing, interaction. It was taking a lot more strength than first imagined to remain upright and she didn’t want to worry them anymore.

“Hold up.” Hideyoshi reached out and grabbed her as she swayed on her feet. Apparently urging herself to try to move forward had failed. His attention left Masa and was now completely focused on her. One of his large hands swept back her bangs as he inspected her. “I knew it, you’re sick.”

“I’m not sick. I am perfectly healthy for a bag of infested, cursed… you know what? I can’t even be bothered finishing that.” Hideyoshi’s hand felt cool against her face which was enough to tell her she was probably running a slight temperature. Great if there was one thing I don’t need right now; it’s my whole system shutting down with some weird bug.

Naiya silently hoped that whatever was happening was just a result of her failed meds. A nasty side effect from inhalers or something not clearing her airways.

“You really look pale, Lass.” Masa came to join them. His piercing blue eye peered out from under his hair and began to rove over every inch of exposed skin she had.

Hideyoshi’s inspection was one thing. It made you feel like you were being wrapped up as he softly moved over you. Masa’s inspection was just as caring but wilder in its execution. If one man was good at making her feel bound, the other was good at making her feel exposed. Between one kind of smothering and the other, it was impossible to hide anything from these two.

“You haven’t been looking after yourself, have you? I told you not to work too hard.” Hideyoshi huffed, the furrow of his brow becoming deeper as if he were the one suffering a splitting headache and not her.

Sensing the start of one of the dreaded lectures on observing better self-care Naiya wriggled in Hideyoshi’s grip freeing herself. She then attempted to sidestep Masa who had moved in a pincer movement to keep her in place without touching.

“It’s not a question of working too hard Yoshi. Its allergy season and my damn meds are useless. With everything going on I can’t go into work, I got told to rest.” In her flurry of explanations designed to defend herself, she could feel whatever little energy she had failing her with every word.

The room felt like it was spinning and she ended up finding herself steadied with a strong arm from Masa as he wrapped it around her waist.

“So naturally you didn’t.” Masamune was still smiling but she could tell by his tone even he was concerned. His gaze really was stripping away at her masks. As fast as she put one in place, he was there to remove it piece by piece.

“Hey what is this gang up on the sick person?” She batted at Masa’s chest that was ever so slightly visible under his black shirt. In a moment of clearer breathing, the smell of his own natural scent mixed with the spices and soap he used at work hit her stronger than they normally would.

“You just said you weren’t sick.” Hideyoshi pointed out the flaw in her exasperated argument.

“I’m changing my mind if it means I got two fussing mother types crowding me.” She didn’t so much manage to break free of Masa’s grip as he backed her up against the sofa and allowed gravity to work its magic. Her legs gave out with very little effort and she bounced on the cushioned seating feeling the lurch of her body reacting in a sickening wake up call.

“Right here’s how its gonna work Kitten.” Masa said as he crouched down at her side and held her hand. Making sure she was focused on what he was about to say before continuing. “I’m gonna go in the kitchen and cook dinner for three. You are gonna eat however much of it you can and I’ll turn the leftovers into meals you can eat over the next few days. I’ll even make a big pot of chicken soup for you.”

“With dumplings?” She knew she sounded like a child right now but dammit if someone else cooking meals for her and preparing them so she just had to reheat them later didn’t sound like a slice of Heaven.

“Sure, with dumplings if that’s what you want.” Masamune chuckled and began to ruffle up her hair. She hated to think how bad it looked but it felt nice to feel his touch.

“While that is happening. I’m going to run you a nice refreshing bath and you will soak in there while I tidy up a bit.” Hideyoshi said as he bent down to pick something up off the floor and she could already tell from the way he was looking around the room that he was silently appraising the lack of housekeeping.

“Hey just so you know I haven’t been home much and—”

“You said you weren’t going into work!” Hideyoshi pivoted on the spot, discarded magazines and papers in hand making him look like he had begun to sprout wings.

“Oops.” She became defensive and inadvertently put her foot right in it.

“Don’t ‘Oops’ me, Madam. I was right to be worried about you. When we hadn’t heard from you in the last couple of days I just knew --.”

“Hahaha, you tell her Bud.” Masa applauded with a slow clap as he laughed.

Masa had been practically vibrating attempting to hold back the laughter while watching Hideyoshi as he flapped around. It didn’t take a genius to work out why. The papers in his arms really did look like feathers when he moved.

“Masa you are not helpful.” Naiya was struggling to hold back a fit of giggles as well. His laughter was contagious and it didn’t help that Hideyoshi seemed to have transformed into the mother hen he was always teased of being.

“Little kittens that are as weak as you at the minute can’t complain. Now go along with Yoshi and his mothering while I go sort out food. I’ll even help with the housework while it's heating up.” Masa dragged her forward on the sofa so he could plant a loud kiss on her forehead before leaving the room again to vanish into the kitchen.

“Fine.”

*

It took the entire time the bath was running for Hideyoshi to finally calm down enough to take in what had been happening without butting in with ‘I told you so’ or ‘Why didn’t you call me?’. He checked the meds she had taken and called someone who sounded grumpy enough to be Ieyasu.

Steam, taking time out and sleep. That was what he ordered alongside the bath to get cleaned up and generally try to relax in. It wasn’t anything she hadn’t already heard from others and sleep was harder to come by than they all made it sound. Logically she knew they were right, if she could sleep some of what she felt would clear but her lungs we against it.

The water was just the right temperature with clusters of candles lit around the bathroom and fragrant bubbles popping against her skin. Too bad her nose was so blocked in the humid atmosphere she couldn’t really enjoy the whole sensory experience.

Laying there submerged in the hot water she heard the two men moving around her home. She wasn’t worried they were both so good at domestic stuff it put her to shame more often than not. She was only feeling guilty that she had caused them to worry so much.

As she breathed in and out, she willed her lungs to stop that rasping rattle she had come to associate with trying to live. Asthma, allergies… what were you supposed to do if most of the environment you lived it was hell-bent on killing you?

After about 10 minutes soaking it felt like some humanity had started to return to her. She wasn’t magically fixed but the warmth of the water had managed to regulate her own internal thermostat and she was at least a normal temperature again.

She slipped down so her shoulders went under the waterline and tilted her head back to get her hair wet. While her head was under the water, her ears picked up a muffled noise and pulled herself up just in time to see a panicked Hideyoshi rushing to her side from the now open bathroom door.

“Naiya, are you alright? I knew I shouldn’t have left you for so long in the bath when you are not well.” His hands brushed back her wet hair from her face and she was thankful for the bubbles in the tub giving her a veil of decency.

“I’m fine. I was just getting my hair wet.”

As she scrambled to grab the bottle of shampoo it was plucked from her wet grip.

“I’ll wash it for you.” Hideyoshi didn’t sound as if he were treating this like a chore. Still, it felt a little strange to have this happening and she found herself naturally trying to decline the offer.

“You don’t have too I’m fine.”

“You just gave me a mini heart attack. Let me.”

The cap popping open felt like it was echoing in the room. She watched the viscous liquid pour from the bottle and coat his hands.  His hands softly covered the crown of her head and she closed her eyes against the heavenly sensation of his fingers working in circles and patterns over her scalp. The sound of foam squelched near her ears sending a tingle up her spine.

Callused fingers, softened by the warm water, brushed softly over the shell of her ears. Following her hairline to her nape and then returning back up to the crown again. He lightly rinsed his hands in the water before easing her lower, carefully supporting her head on one arm as he rinsed her hair free of the soap with a small jug.

Naiya’s eyes opened to see her dreamy, blissed-out expression reflected in his soft caramel gaze.

“There now all better?” He asked while kneeling at the side of the bath. The last of the suds from her hair ran freely over his bare arms highlighting the lines of toned muscle.

“Y-yes.” She stuttered. She had been sure her temperature had returned to normal until her overactive imagination began to take over. Drawing lines and connections in a game of dot to dot with little encouragement that only served to fuel a fire in her cheeks.

“That’s my girl. I left your towels here but if you want, I can help you get out?” He got up and paused at the door waiting for her reply.

“No, I should be fine.” The bubbles in the bath were nearly depleted as they fought against the soap of the shampoo. She was becoming aware again of her own vulnerability.

“Ok. I’ll just be the other side of the door so don’t struggle if you can’t manage.” He was still worrying.

“I’m feeling a bit better I can…” She trailed off. Acting tough was not going to work when he had already seen her looking rough as hell. She forced herself to meet his eyes and nod. “Fine, I’ll call if I need you.”

“Good girl. Take your time.” Hideyoshi either didn’t notice the budding embarrassment or he was being too much of a gentleman to call her on it.

She was thankful to the bath for giving her skin an all-over flush, masking a lot of her give away blushing response to him. The door shut and she could hear Masamune shout up the stairs.

“Grubs up!”

*

She pushed herself a little too much to get dressed quickly so as not to keep them both waiting. When she returned downstairs. She was wheezing and trying to hide the fact she was once more in pain with her lungs rattling in her ears.

“Here Lass sit down before you fall down.” Masa joked but he was clearly trying to care for her without making it into a big thing.

Her back sunk into the sofa cushions as her eyes fell on the spread of food that was laid out on the coffee table. She hated her nose right now because if looks were anything to go by the food would have smelt divine.

“What is all this?”

“Breakfast, Lunch, Dinner… Supper.” Masa indicated all the different dishes like he was on a game show before giving a shrug as if to say it was all no big deal.

“If you were gonna cook all this why bother asking if today was a cheat day or not?” Hideyoshi came in carrying a big jug of water, slices of orange and lemon floating under a layer of ice. Placing it on a side table where some glasses were and took a seat next to her on the sofa.

“Hey, Cheat days are Cheat days only when you are healthy enough to be on a diet. When you are sick you should eat whatever you can and whatever you feel like so you can get strong again and continue to fight those pesky calorie demons.” Masa defended his cooking taking a seat on the other side of her.

“Haha, I like your logic there, Master Chef.” She giggled even more at Masa’s comments because of the huffy look that was now gracing Hideyoshi’s face. She shouldn’t take joy in him being put out but she didn’t have the energy to tell herself that.

“Why thank you.” Masa bumped shoulders with her grinning.

She once more found her mind wandering in a fog of fantasy as she registered the fact, she was the filling to this comforting boyfriend sandwich. As distractions from ill-health went it could have been a lot worse.

“However flawed it may be.” A tall tumbler of iced water appeared like a cold wedge between them as Hideyoshi passed out drinks.

“Yeah well, I’m sure the whole idea of wrapping Kitten up in bubble wrap thing is also a flawless plan.” Masa accepted the glass giving a teasing side-eye to the sandy-haired worrywart.

“Alright enough of that. Let’s eat before all this good stuff goes to waste eh?” Aware that something was about to kick off Naiya raised her voice to prevent Hideyoshi snapping back with what was no doubt going to be the start of something very witty that meant the friendly disagreement would continue till all the food was stone cold.

She regretted her words quickly as now both men had shut up and started a silent war. They pressed closer to her than necessary the feeling of being in a comfortable sandwich was becoming a distant memory. She wasn’t allowed to plate anything for herself and found her own dish filling up with bits of everything as the silent battle of caregiving continued.

Her body objected to the sudden influx of food and her stomach lurched. Eyes should not be allowed to pass judgement on what you put in your belly. As hungry as she had been it was also a while since she had eaten anything in this volume. She wanted to curse her upbringing for conditioning her to the fact that it was both rude to the cook and a waste of food to call it quits in the middle of a meal.

Sensing something was wrong with her both men stopped serving more of the dishes. Their intonations of ‘if you eat that you have to have this with it’ and ‘a balanced meal is important if you wish to get healthy’ died as they both exchanged glances over her.

“You alright Kitten?” Masa quietly asked his hand touching hers.

“Yeah.” Naiya nodded and regretted moving her head at all. She slipped her hand from Masa’s and without sparing the men a glance she left the room headed straight for the bathroom.

*

Naiya returned to the living room after freshening up. The harshness of the mint in the toothpaste felt a little sharp against her tongue but it was better than leaving things as they were.

The room had been completely cleared of any signs of the meal. Candles had been lit which meant the bright light from any lightbulbs was not going to cause her any issues. The DVD player had also been set up to play a movie.

All of the cushions had been dragged from the sofa to the floor making it look like a mattress had landed on the rug.  The coffee table was missing but it did look like all her blankets and duvet had been artfully arranged so her previous nest now looked like a luxurious retreat.

“You’re back.” Hideyoshi came in carrying two cups with Masa trailing close at his heels with a third cup of steaming liquid and a plate of something sweet.

“Here Lass try sipping this it will help.” The warmth of ginger spread through her mouth rounded out by calming honey. “Sorry kinda went a little far before.”

He didn’t avoid her eyes but the sincerity in his voice warmed her more than the drink.

“It’s fine I should have said no but I just couldn’t when everything was so good.”

“Careful there Kitten, you’re gonna start giving a fella ideas talking all seductive like.” Masa’s voice was a low purr against her ear, his wild chestnut brown hair brushed against her cheek igniting her blush further.

He brought one of the sweet treats from the plate to her mouth the softness of the dough melted against her tongue replacing the mint and ginger with a buttery sugar spice.

“Churros?”

“Masa we agreed.” Hideyoshi reprimanded.

Masa pulled back with a playful smile as he licked his own lips. He had a way of looking like a hungry predator ready to pounce and nothing seemed to trigger that more than watching her enjoying his food.  

“Yeah, Yeah. C’mere Kitten we got something special for you.” He took her by the hand leading her to the spread of cushions carefully taking her cup from her while she settled into position and then handed it back.

“You have a way of making things sound dirty even if they aren’t. I do wonder if you haven’t been hanging around a certain white-haired friend too long.” She smirked taking another sip of her drink.

Her spirited tease had a thrill that was short-lived. She could feel Hideyoshi move in behind her and sit on the frame of the cushionless sofa.  Her shoulders became encased in the space between his legs as he planted a foot either side of her.

Before she could ask what he was doing, his hands wrapped over her shoulders his fingers moving in circles. The flexing pressure of his grip as the heel of his hand came into play smoothing out the knots, he found almost had her drop her cup.

“Oops! Careful there Kitten, you are already sick you don’t want to get burnt on top of all that.”

The cup was once more liberated from her failing grip while soft sighs and little moans crept out of her mouth. Masa positioned himself at her feet taking one in his hands and began copying Hideyoshi’s movements as he focused on massaging her feet.

Every now and then her leg was raised just enough to let Masa’s fingers travel past the point of her ankle and find the tension trapped in her legs. Every time she felt the release of the stressful tension, he brought his lips to the spot and trailed kisses along it.

She gasped each time he did this. His upturned blue eye was dilated to the point of stormy and his chuckle left vibrations against her skin. The pressure on her shoulders and neck tightened in her response. Hideyoshi was not to be outdone or ignored at times like this. His gentleness could be torture when used correctly and this man was a master at that.

Hideyoshi’s hands slipped to her arms before moving back to her neck and travelling down her spine until they found that sweet spot in her lower back. The one that caused her to arch against his palm as her body reacted instinctively to the pleasure of his touch.

Attacked from two sides at once the little moans became louder as she felt her body begin to hum with affection being lavished on her. Tension, aches, pains they all seemed to melt right out of her as her body temperature rose to a comfortable heat.

They only stopped when she looked as if she were on the verge of breathlessness. It felt like she had just been the victim of a huge tease but it was clear that this was the line neither men were going to cross until she was stronger.

Her body became the filling once more in a boyfriend sandwich. Masa’s arm draped around her shoulders his hand landing on Hideyoshi’s shoulder where it began to play with the gap between his shirt and bare flesh. Hideyoshi cast a glance his way but said nothing to put an end to it.

Dropping her head onto Hideyoshi’s chest Naiya could hear his heartbeat pattering out a private salsa in his body. She smiled knowing that the two guys had made up after their silly little spat.

“Ready for the movie now Princess?” Hideyoshi clicked play on the remote and the opening sequence for Nightmare Before Christmas started.

“Oh my—you got me another copy!?” Naiya snapped back up between the two men eyes sparkling as she watched the screen.

Whether she knew it or not she was moving her body ever so slightly in time with the music which only made her boyfriends chuckle behind her.

“Couldn’t have you without your beloved movie, now could we?” Masa smiled as his hand was removed from Hideyoshi’s neck.

“If we couldn’t do at least this much we aren’t really living up to the title of your men, now are we?” Hideyoshi laced his fingers with Masa's, planting a biting kiss to the back of his hand before releasing it.

The teasing going on behind her did little to break her concentration on the movie. Each man reached out with one hand to drag her back down into the space between them.

Hideyoshi’s long legs stretched out on the cushions, his feet wrapping with Masamune’s while her shorter legs balanced over the top of both of them.

It wasn’t a miraculous cure and she knew that all she had been feeling would at some point find her again. Right now though she was content. Wrapped up in the arms of two of her greatest loves, Naiya’s eyes fluttered shut. The warmth from both men seeping into her with the music on the DVD acting as a lullaby. That was when the sleep she craved finally took her.

---

[prorevenge]

Ended MIL's career after she ruined our lives

CONTEXT:

I've posted a bit about my fiance's adoptive mother, "Susan", in the last couple weeks (mostly on justnomil, where I might cross post this to later), but for anyone unfamiliar with Susan, she was my lecturer when I was at university.

Susan hated that I was dating her adopted son (biological nephew) since she found out about us. When we first told her we were dating she tried to kill me via allergy (another story for another day) and after she found out I was pregnant she stalked us, impersonated me, and broke into our flat, and that's just the tip of the iceberg. She made our lives hell, to the extent where we no longer felt safe in our own home, and my fiance and I had to move across the country to escape her.

We've been living in our new place for a little under a week. The baby is due in a couple of months and everything is mostly ready. We've deactivated our social media, created new emails, and changed our numbers. Only a few friends and relatives from the town she lives in (which we left) have our new numbers. We had to leave our entire lives, and everyone we knew and loved behind, while I was 7 months pregnant, because we couldn't trust her around our baby.

​

REVENGE:

On Monday, an email was sent from the dean to Susan's graduating students saying Susan was being considered for a promotion, from lecturer to head of department, and they wanted to hear from her students first. The aim of this was to receive glowing recommendations to give to the board. This was not the result.

As I changed my email, I hadn't seen this. One of my friends who had my new number and was on the course with me did see the email, and on Tuesday he gave my new number to the dean, saying that he would only give her the number in person, on paper, and only if she agreed to ring when she was alone and throw out the paper and erase it from the logs after (if she was calling from a university phone then the number would go on the call logs that were accessible by all members of staff), but he assured her that this was something she'd want to hear before promoting Susan.

So I got this call from the dean on Tuesday. She told me what was going on (my friend hadn't had time to get in touch before she rang), and she asked me why my friend thought I should speak to her.

I told her everything.

I started 2 years ago, when I met Susan's son, the man who would become my fiance and the father of my child.

I told her about Susan poisoning me via allergy after finding out about me and her son, and the epi pen incident.

I told her about the outside of class harassment I received post pregnancy announcement (impersonating me, crashing GP appointments, breaking in, ect).

I told her about the in class harassment (telling me to break up with my fiance, stopping lectures until I left, throwing out my food and drink, trying to reschedule exams, and more).

I told her about the last time I saw Susan in person, when she tried to hit me while I was 7 months pregnant with her grandchild.

I told her about having to move away (I was careful not to give a location or distance) and filing a restraining order to escape Susan. (I thought the uni were made aware of the RO but apparently not)

Fiance then arrived home from work and when I told him what was happening, he was all too eager to chime in with stuff I forgot (copying keys, punching the landlord, cancelling orders, going through our things). He also told the dean about the abuse he got from her growing up.

We also gave the dean the names of people willing to support our story, as well as some dates, times and locations of on campus incidents (I'd made a note of a few of them) so she could pull CCTV from the campus security recordings.

Fiance also told her the story of one of his cousins (Susan's bio kid) who got close with a guy on Susan's course, but the guy was told to break up with her by Susan with a thinly veiled threat against his academic career. We also told the dean about Susan telling me to break up with my fiance and vice versa so she could "better maintain professionalism".

The dean was horrified.

She had me and my fiance record a video, where we said everything all over again, from the top. We made sure the video had nothing to identify location, and we were assured Susan would never see it. We also sent her all the proof we had alongside it. This was all forwarded to the board on Wednesday and Thursday. She asked my friend for the number again and just called me for the second time, telling me that the board unanimously agreed this was grounds for Susan's dismissal.

They said that while the outside of uni events weren't really their business they go towards her character, and the fact that as department head, she would represent the department, whether she was on the clock or not. They said even without this, the events that happened inside of uni alone (stopping lectures, telling me to dump my fiance, telling that other guy to leave her daughter alone, throwing out my stuff, seeking special treatment on grounds of nepotism) were all abuses of power and enough to justify Susan's dismissal.

They asked me why I hadn't filed charges, and I said all I'd gain from filing charges is Susan staying away from me, and the RO and moving away has the same effect. Plus as it's exams season my tutor work is really taking off and I don't have the time to go through a whole court case, and I'll have even less time once the baby arrives. The baby is due in about 8 weeks and Susan has already caused me enough stress.

Tomorrow, in the meeting where Susan is fully expecting to be told she got her promotion, the dean is now going to give her a week to hand in her resignation. If she refuses, she will be fired. If she does not hand in her resignation, she will be fired. She will not be getting a reference. The only reason she is being given the option to resign is that she has worked at this university for nearly a decade, but if she so much as raises her voice in the meeting tomorrow, she will be fired. Security will be present for the meeting, in case she tries anything.

Meanwhile, the friends we left behind aren't hesitating to tell anyone who will listen all about what Susan did during the course of mine and my fiance's relationship. There's not a single soul left in that town who trusts her or will take her side if she tries to fight back, not even her husband, who told us that now all their kids are over 18, he will be initiating divorce proceedings.

​

I don't feel even a little bit bad. I know there's a chance I went too far but I didn't lie, or embellish anything, I just gave the dean the facts as they are. Everything is 100% true and while it was me who told the dean, I see this as Susan's actions having consequences. Susan has more than enough money to pay for herself for the foreseeable future, she owns her home (her husband's name is not on the deed and she bought it before they got married so she will get the house in the divorce as it's not technically a shared asset, or one acquired during their marriage), she will have a roof over her head and money in her bank account, and if she wanted to she could get another job, just probably not one as a lecturer.

(source) story by (/u/MundaneLibrary2)

[curious-minx]

A strong Bob’s Burgers flutters its wings of relevancy. The Simpsons get rid of the Simpsons.

“Your parents are what’s wrong with society” - Bob to Linda 

The best thing about the latest season of Bob’s Burgers is that it does not full on embrace the reality of the Pandemic, but finds way to tip around relevant issues. As a viewer my heart’s ache for Louise grows stronger while 2020 concerts being canceled. Gene’s holiday spent in writhing illness induced  agony isolation from his family is more than just an upset stomach. In this latest episode, “The Terminalator II: Terminals of Endearment,”a care-free frolic through an airport terminal becomes a lot more compelling as many of us viewers are wondering if we will ever darken an airport gate ever again.

What hits this weary viewer harder than sickly nostalgia for plastic airport food court offerings or impulse buy stores that look like drug fronts , but Bob’s disdain for seeing his elderly Floridian in-laws. The hackiest, most tired horse in the comedy stable becomes so much more with Quarantine brain.  The question this episode poses is,“Why bother traveling when you can have all the necessary family bonding at the airport?” The episode answers this question by gifting us Veep’s Timothy Simons’ audience surrogate TSA member. The Airport in general gets a pretty good wrap in the Bob’s Burgers verse. The employees working the airport are more or less helpful and patient with this meandering family’s hijinks, none of the sinister heartless bureaucracy seen in Babe Pig in The City. This is the detail that makes the slight nod and wink to Wings work as more than a wink or a nod. Having a fun TSA worker though instead of someone working at one of those airport stores that sell watches or an airport restauranteur would have been fun, but Jon Glaser and Timothy Simons are two thorny gentlemen born to play a genial front service and TSA agents. 

Seen above: Renee Taylor voicing Allen Gregory’s Principal 

Seeing our family over the holidays is often as thoughtless as checking a box, “I’m not a robot, I like to spend time with my family. I’m a good person.” Despite the fact that spending time with our families is often an exhaustive wringing out your brain of passive aggressive needling. For the Belcher’s the elderly are not founts of wisdom but are over grown toddlers too loud, leaky, creaky and confused to be much in the way of fun. They are not hate mongers like many of ours Nanas and Peepaws, Linda’s parents only serve as catalysts for casually paced shenanigans. Linda’s parents Al, voiced by series regular Sam Seder and the iconic Renee Taylor as Gloria are relegated to being flaky from eczema and too loud on the phone. One underlying thread present in this episode is that Linda has a lot in common with her parents making her the perfect Parental pawn. At one point in the episode Louise explicitly drives home how similar Linda and her mom’s voices are. For me this read as the show winking at John Roberts’ performance as Linda being largely indebted to an icon like Renee Taylor. Taylor once vivacious sex pot Eva Braun in the Producers more or less becomes overshadowed by her role as Sylvia Fine in the Nanny. Although I would be remiss to say that Renee Taylor is no stranger to the Fox Animation Domination family previously starring as the Principal in Allen Gregory. 

The episode inspired me to go back and revisit one of John Roberts Brooklyn Mom videos he was performing in the mid 00’s. His video “Mother’s Day” essential serves as a demo reel for Linda and in general a truly fine piece of online comedy video filmmaking. Roberts’ takes what could be a loud and brash stereotype and really takes his beats and delivers an authentic character that provides the foundation for Linda. The pacing and energy of this video is a stark contrast to the modern comedy front-facing camera comedy videos littering Twitter timelines and Tik Toks. The fact that John Roberts still approaches Linda as a sympathetic fully dimensional character which is not often the case in live-action sitcoms. 

The sideplot with Louise dragging her siblings on a campaign for decorative first flyer wings is a succinct and nice addition preventing the episode from being too claustrophobic. The image of an emergency bed bound Teddie as a result of a food allergy is one of those things visuals that once again that lands much differently with Quarantine brain. Regardless I am always grateful for whatever amount of Teddie the show is willing to provide us. 

Overall I give this episode four wings and a broken half wing out of five. A true season 11 highlight!

////

The Simpsons The Road to Cincinnati is one of those rare episodes that gets rid of that pesky Simpsons problem by kicking them out of their show. Instead of the titular nuclear family we get an entire episode based around a Griffin and Stewie styled road trip romp with Principal Skinner and Super Intendant Chalmers. Excuse me, Superintendent Geribaldi Chalmers. A fact I am sure will definitely make official Simpsons Wiki canon and be something referenced in future episodes *eye roll emoji*. 

This episode has some weird pent up old man aggression. Seeing as this is an episode written by Princeton and Harvard grad Jeff Westbrook that is definitely to expected. Apparently the dude really thinks pretty low of cyclists. So much so that the episode comes to a screeching halt when Jeff Westbrook has to pat his own back from coming up with a Biker Bar turning out to be a Cyclist Bar. Also, don’t get Westbrook started on what he thinks about Improv Shakespeare! 

Removing the Simpsons from the Simpsons is an ignoble experiment. I can see the temptation and Chalmers and Skinner are a duo that yields some of the shows more iconic and meme-worthy moments. Plopping them down into an entire episode focusing on them doesn’t prove disastrous, instead it lives up to the late Simpsons business model of underwhelming the hell out of you. 

The episode suffers from a case of “and then…and then… and then” plot structuring. A criticism I have picked up from Chuck Palahniuk’s road trip masterpiece to top all road trips, Invisible Monsters. Things have taken a turn for the worse when I am writing one of these reviews and am searching for anything else to write about. Nothing in this episode is flat out bad and it’s an interesting failed experiment. A rotten piece of Steamed Ham served with a signature smugness typical of an algorithm researcher. :P

Skip. 

[icasttourniquet]

Operation Eve, Part II: Secondary Assessment

Scenario

In Part I, Elyssa determined that her patient Babak, who fell off a cliff, isn’t about to die before her eyes, so now she begins her secondary assessment. First, she palpates his skull; checks behind his ears, under his eyes, and his pupils; and looks up his nose for secretions. Then, she gently presses against every part of his body, squeezing limbs with two hands and rolling a flat palm along all four quadrants of his abdomen.

Next, she takes and writes down his pulse. She checks that he has a radial pulse, which he does, and assumes that means his blood pressure is more or less okay. Finally, she counts how many times he breathes in a minute and writes that down as well.

She guides the friend on top of the cliff down to safety and asks for a SAMPLE history of her patient. When she gets to P, she strikes gold–she knows how she needs to help her patient.

Secondary Assessment

The secondary assessment is composed of three parts: 1) head-to-toe exam, 2) vitals, and 3) SAMPLE history.

Head-to-Toe Exam

During the head-to-toe exam, the responder tries to touch / look at every part of the patient. Your character doesn’t need to be an expert to perform one. They’re looking for some pretty obvious stuff, like, say, a bone sticking out of the body, a limb that’s bent wrong, or the patient yelling “ow ow ow!” when they touch that spot. Your character should also note any crepitus, which is a crunchy feeling when they press on a spot—in the words of Mod N’s instructor: “you’ll know it when you feel it.”

We don’t solve any problems during this stage—we’re not making a splint or anything until we’re finished, although I suppose if you found an arterial bleed at this stage, you’d treat that, but really, you should’ve noticed the growing pool of blood before now. There’s two exceptions to the No Problem Solving rule. One, if something feels weird or hurts, the responder should expose it to skin level. That’s how they can spot things like the bones sticking out or open wounds. Two, if a patient says “ow ow ow!” when you touch a spot, you should—shocker—stop touching that spot. (Spoiler: this includes when reducing dislocations! If your patient doesn’t want you jamming their shoulder around like that, you should stop! I’m looking at you, every movie with a shoulder dislocation in it).

If your character is a little more ~advanced~ they can look for Battle’s sign. Yes, that apostrophe is in the correct spot—some guy had the great fortune of being named Battle and he noticed that people with traumatic brain injuries often show characteristic bruising behind the ears. Not only does your character look like a real pro checking behind the ears, they will sound like a total badass if they start throwing around the phrase “Battle’s sign.” (Indeed, there’s nothing wrong with a character who just talks about Battle’s sign all day long—wait, I’m hearing that apparently there might be something wrong with a character like that… if you’re a coward). Have your responder take a gander at the bags underneath their patient’s eyes too—raccoon eyes can also indicate brain injury.

Since we’re already looking at the eyes, why not check out those pupils—here at ICT we try to support all types of pupils, but if they are differently sized, don’t respond to light, or not round, this is a cause for alarm. Why not have your character throw in a peek into the ears, just to check for any secretions too? Ears, you may have noticed, are generally dry. Seeing any liquid, of any color, leaking out of the ear is what we call a Bad Sign. The two most common ear secretions are blood (not ideal) and cerebrospinal fluid (very bad). If your character sees only red, they cannot breathe a sigh of relief because CSF has no color and almost always comes with blood. So, if you see blood, assume bad.

Vitals

There are three vitals that WFRs care about: pulse, breathing, and brain. Wise readers will see that these line up with our three critical systems from the last post, because for the most part, in the wilderness, we only care about three organ systems: the circulatory system, respiratory system, and nervous system. A doctor can mess around with livers and kidneys later.

Vital signs are the closest thing we have to x-ray vision in the wilderness. We want to know what your three (important) organs are doing and this is the best way to find out.

A normal pulse range is 60 – 90, higher for kids or people who just exercised. In general, we care about trends over time, so if the pulse started at 105 but stayed there for five hours, this isn’t too worrying. At the very least, your patient isn’t getting worse. If the pulse starts at a healthy 60 and then skyrockets to 105 and then plummets to to 20, this indicates the patient is probably dying.

A normal breathing range is 12 – 20 breaths per minute. Regardless of the number of breaths per minute, turning blue is not normal. A top secret trick your character might know if they have some training is to take breaths while keeping your finger on your patient’s pulse. As humans, if we think someone is paying attention to our breathing, we naturally start breathing weird. So, it’s better to let the patient think we’re still getting the pulse while we count breaths.

And for brain, your character can just check in on AVPU every so often to see if the patient is getting worse.

If you are a ~fancy~ WFR, you might also take blood pressure in the field.

Remember: normal is relative. If your character’s pulse is 40, but they say that’s totally normal for them, your responder would probably not be that worried.

SAMPLE History

Most medical problems cannot simply be solved by looking at the body. We need to ask the patient. Information like “I have crushing chest pain and, hey look, my doctor prescribed me nitro for just this eventuality,” or “I have terrible stomach and arm pain and also I am pregnant,” or “I have had many seizures before and this is what I need you to do to feel better” is game-changing, and the patient is the gate-keeper.

Let’s start with the S: Symptoms. This one’s easy: what hurts most? When did that start? Does anything make it better or worse? How would you describe this pain? (Mod N’s favorite question: If you had to make feel the same pain you are, what would you have to to do to me?) Anything else bothering you? Your character might remember what to ask by running through the acronym OPQRST, or they might just go with the flow in the moment.

Allergies. Another easy one: are you allergic to anything? What happens if you come into with that allergen? Is there any chance you came into contact with it recently?

Medication. While it is not the job of the EMT or WFR to keep track of medication interactions or prescribe anything, it’s important to know if your patient has medication that is useful in this situation or recently started or stopped medication. In one particularly embarrassing exercise, I spent about 10 minutes doing what was, in my defense, excellent PROP with someone having an asthma attack without once asking her if, perchance, she had an inhaler nearby. Don’t be like Mod E, folks—always ask if there’s an inhaler nearby.

Past Pertinent History. Has this every happened before? If your patient says yes, boom! We’ve suddenly got a subject matter expert on scene. We also want to hit on the DASH here: Diabetes, Asthma, Seizures or Stroke, and Heart Conditions. It never hurts to know your patient has diabetes. Indeed, if your character is travelling into the wilderness with someone, they may ask about the DASH before setting out.

Last ins and outs. When did you last eat and drink? How much and what? When did you last poop and pee? Was it… pretty normal for you? (Note: there is no non-awkward way to ask a stranger you found in the woods what their last bowel movement looked like).

If you think it’s relevant, when did you last menstruate? And let’s all remember, we don’t have x-ray vision, so the only way to rule out pregnancy is to ask. (Yes, even the guy with the big bushy beard—you can’t see his organs, so you don’t know if he has a uterus. If you can see his organs, what the heck are you taking a SAMPLE history for? You should be on the phone calling in a helicopter stat).

Events leading up to injury. What happened? With follow-up questions as necessary.

Scenario

“He has diabetes?” Elyssa asks Babak’s friend.

“Yeah, and he said he was feeling dizzy and light-headed before he fell.”

Elyssa, a seasoned professional, carries packets of sugar with her for just such a situation. She gently rubs them into Babak’s lips, monitoring his airway to make sure he doesn’t choke. 15 minutes later, Babak is sitting up and talking, and Elyssa can work with him and his friend on an evacuation plan.

[kelleyish]

What’s up, tumblr? I’m still alive, which isn’t an unnecessary platitude these days. I keep intending to make updates, and I’ve started posts like three times in the last week but never managed to finish them, so this time I’m doing it. 

So yes, I continue to live and not be sick so far, I guess? I will say there have been many times over the last couple weeks I’ve felt off due to what is probably seasonal allergies, but my brain sure likes to make me worry I’ve got Corona. Today, in fact, I got cold midday and I was like, “Oh shit, are the chills coming on? Better feel my forehead, is it hot??”

Sigh.

I didn’t get chills, btw, I was just cold. I keep telling myself more than likely if you get it, it hits you the way a flu does where your whole body just immediately feels like shit, and that certainly hasn’t happened. 

All of this has instilled a healthier fear of the virus than I had, for example, a week ago. For the first couple weeks I was leaving the house daily, sometimes to drop off eBay packages at the post office, but mostly as an excuse to stuff my face with food. I was hitting drive thrus and making trips into Walmart just for junk food, trying to be as careful as possible with keeping my hands clean and everything, but still taking unnecessary risks just to eat food I shouldn’t be eating in the first place.

This week I curbed that urge and haven’t been going out nearly as much, but I’m sorry to say I’m still managing to eat junk I shouldn’t be eating. I was good for about two days, but when I had to go to Walmart yesterday I stocked up on more illicit junk. (Also I would like to say that carrot cake flavored Oreos are very disappointing. I rarely enjoy any of the special flavors, and I don’t even like double stuff ones. Original only, dunked into milk until they get soft.)

The gov’t has now given the suggestion for wearing facemasks when going shopping, and I was actually going to Walmart yesterday for supplies for my mom to make some homemade ones, which meant I didn’t have one to wear for the trip. Probably half the people in the store were wearing them though, and I felt kind of bad for not having one. I tried to hold my breath when I passed people in the aisle.

I’d heard some Walmarts were instituting one-way aisles in the store, but our local one only had the entrances and exits separated, the inside of the store was normal. 

My mom finished one mask today and I tried it on. I guess it might make me feel slightly better mentally, but I hate actually wearing masks. They’re so hot. It’s like trying to keep the blanket over your head in bed, breathing recycled hot air, yuck. There’s also a lot of people claiming anything but the actual medical grade surgical facemasks don’t do much anyway, but I will still be wearing one on future shopping trips because it feels better than absolutely nothing, I guess.

Let’s see, what else? Oh, I got an email from the dude I embarrassingly asked out last year, but only as a business marketing thing because the reason I met him is because his company did work on my house. It was just a thing basically asking for referrals and saying they’re still available to do work and can do everything while keeping up the social distancing thing. But it was still an unpleasant reminder of my cringey memory anyway. 

Speaking of cringe, I randomly remembered an incident that must be at least 15 years old when Chip and I were walking through a bookstore, which we used to do all the time, and there was an author sitting at a table for a book signing event. It wasn’t anyone I’d ever heard of, and indeed he must not have been too terribly popular because there was no one else there. Just him, sitting at his table with a pile of books, and the second hand embarrassment still makes me hurt all these years later. I hope at least a few people came to see him.

I had another sex dream about Hyde from That 70s Show a few days ago. I am not like super hot for him generally, but apparently my subconscious is because this isn’t the first such dream I’ve had about him. Weird.

I have continued my Star Wars prequel watches with Attack of the Clones, and I I can report that it, too, also sucks. Bad dialogue, bad line readings, bad characterizations. Anakin and Padme are supposed to fall in love, and yet there’s no chemistry and Anakin is whiny and petulant and I don’t see powerful Senator Padme being attracted to any of it. Also, wtf did the Sand People do to his mom?? I mean, I can guess what they are implying, but... Damn. Also, I hadn’t remembered that the actors they cast as Jango and Boba Fett were from, judging by their accents, New Zealand. It makes sense, as they movies were filmed in Australia. But their accents sound just like Taika Watiti, and it tickled me.

On the other end of the spectrum the Nicole Kidman movie The Others came on tv so I rewatched it, and it’s always a great movie. I think it’s definitely one of my favorite Nicole Kidman movies. In fact, I just took a stroll through her IMDB just now, and I can say my favorite movie featuring Nicole Kidman is Practical Magic, and The Others is number two. It’s a suspense/light horror movie, and the child actors in it are great, too. I checked to see if the girl who plays her daughter had done anything else, and she mostly hasn’t, so that’s kind of sad.

And finally, my parents and I finished watching Tiger King on Netflix, which has taken the country by storm in the last couple weeks. And guess what - I have actually been to that “zoo.” It was just a few months after Chip died almost 6 years ago, and my Dad had heard about it and wanted to go, so my parents, my sister, and I all drove up to Oklahoma and took a tour. Joe was there and when the tour started you went and sat in a small set of stands and he came out with a couple tigers and interacted with them in a big cage in front of the stands. Then everyone walked around the rest of the grounds on a guided tour. They had a few other types of animals, notably a camel, as I remember. They did not do the cub petting as they didn’t have any at the time, but they brought out a huge yellow python you could touch and take pictures with, which is probably the same one featured in a couple scenes of the Netflix show.

Do we feel kinda skeezy now that we went, after seeing the show? Well, I know I do, but what are you gonna do? I do remember seeing all the crazy stuff in the gift shop, like his albums and products like underwear and condoms with his face, etc, and thinking it was super weird at the time.

Okay, I guess this is long enough to count as an update. It’s nearly 2AM and I told myself I was going to try to get to bed earlier tonight (and yes, this represents earlier) so off I go. 

[kennexara]

AND ANOTHER THING every mental health provider says ‘exercise!!! exercise!!!’ until they’re blue in the face but none of them mention it should be exercise you enjoy, in a space you feel comfortable!!!! Maybe it’s supposed to be obvious but it was NOT for me!!!!

I’ve spent six fucking years of my life forcing myself to go on walks outside or to ride a stationary bike at the gym or to do a yoga class. hell for a good month i followed a fucking running program. (had an asthma attack every time for my trouble but i did it.) AND NONE OF IT FUCKING HELPED THE DEPRESSION OR ANXIETY.

the only exercise i’ve ever truly enjoyed is doing just dance games on the wii when my parents weren’t home. i did just dance now (it’s an app to use your phone as the remote and you pull up the website on a computer or tv) a couple times but my old dorms had thin walls and not much spare space. 

but then this fucking covid19 hit and see my apartment has decent walls and space so i started doing the dance game occasionally again since i do like it. and then the new med lady said ‘try exercising regularly’ and this lady not only approved me to keep taking what the (for the first time in my life) good med lady prescribed me that actually works BUT ALSO was like ‘...if anxiety is your main problem you should be on something for that let’s try this’ and it WORKED so i thought i’d try to keep an exercise routine for a little while. just to do right by her like she’s done for me.

and miracle of fucking miracles it does help. not throw out my pills help but i do feel better after a session. not worse like every other god be damned exercise i’ve ever tried. so i’ve been doing it for the last 3 months.

and i get it nobody could tell me exactly what exercise i would enjoy but they could’ve at least told me it wouldn’t help unless i was enjoying it. they could’ve tried to help me figure out what didn’t work about all those other forms of exercise. (going for a walk is Not Pleasant when you live in a small town downwind of hog confinements and you have seasonal allergies. pe was hell with asthma, giant boobs, and being fat and any activity we did in it also is hell by association. just going to a gym is hell when you’ve overweight and been made fun of for it for most of your life. it doesn’t matter if nobody at the gym actually makes a comment, you just feel out of place not seeing anyone that looks like you. same with yoga classes. even when yoga instructors offer pose modifications it doesn’t help when nobody else needs it) 

i personally apparently need to exercise where nobody else can see me and it needs to includes music i enjoy with a routine to follow and scorekeeping(but not against other people, just against myself). for other people it’s less complicated and that’s great but just saying ‘exercise’ without explanation doesn’t fucking help. especially if exercise had never been an activity they enjoyed or did even before depression. 

(oh also for the time period before my reduction i’d like to point out it’s nearly fucking impossible to find a sports bra for M cup or to, in general, feel comfortable in your body when you’re a teenager with a fucking M cup but god forbid anybody take that into account. i’m still convinced i don’t stand right cause of it - i think i put all my weight in my heels to counterbalance what once was an excessively heavy chest.)