#i dunno how to be less worried about my coworkers and the fact i’m pretty obviously trans

[cyborg-hydra-girl-thing]

mmmm my partner has a bunch of weights

think imma workout when i get off work

[dickwheelie]

heyyyy coming in a few days early with the “expression” prompt for @aspecarchivesweek! just a lil something about jon wearing a shirt he doesn’t like. enjoy!

(also on ao3)

_______________

All of Jon’s clothes are in greyscale.

Well, this isn’t entirely true—some are a very light tan, or a dingy brown. One mothbitten vest is a glaring 70’s orange that Jon deeply dislikes, so it stays at the back of his closet. These are the clothes he inherited from his parents and possibly also his grandparents, which he can’t bring himself to throw away. The rest, however, strictly range from white to black, practical to a fault.

Jon has a working theory that he may be the first person in history with an allergy to clothing stores. Entering one instantly stresses him out, and all he wants is to get what he came for and get out as quickly as possible. Figuring out how to match colors, as he eventually learns by the time he’s in uni, is a waste of time and consideration. Much easier and simpler to only buy clothes in shades that match no matter how you swap them out.

Of course, there are exceptions, and as life goes on in its chaotic and unaccountable way, he acquires items of clothing he wouldn’t otherwise have picked for himself. A colorful sweater from Georgie as a birthday gift. A free T-shirt from a uni event. He keeps these things for their sentimental value, but rarely wears them out of the house.

However, sometimes life is not only chaotic but also utterly unmanageable. And sometimes Jon finds himself with a promotion he doesn’t really know what to do with, an entire archive to organize, and less time than he’s ever had to do laundry.

And, well. One has to wear something to work, doesn’t one.

This is what Jon keeps telling himself as he miserably pulls on the last clean shirt left in his flat. He should know; he’s checked four times, and if he checks a fifth he’ll be late for work. He gives himself a glance in the small, dirty mirror stuck to the inside of his closet door, and looks away almost immediately, strangely embarrassed.

It’s just a long-sleeved, striped T-shirt, which is maybe a bit unprofessional for the workplace, but it’s not as though anybody minds how the people who work in the basement dress. The problem comes from its colors. Well, one of its colors. Three of them—black, grey, white—are perfectly suitable for Jon. But following those, at the bottom of the shirt, is a glaring, bright violet.

The shirt is a casualty of the aforementioned chaos of life. A friend of an acquaintance had given it to Jon to wear to a pride parade several years back, which he had ended up skipping out on anyway. Since then the shirt had been kept out of sight and mind, packed into the back of Jon’s closet for a rainy day that he’d never really expected to arrive.

There’s a first time for everything, Jon thinks, almost reflexively. The words don’t mean much to him, philosophically speaking, but they are a steadying mantra nonetheless. He goes to pull on his coat; by some measure of luck, it’s a cold day out. He plans not to take it off again until he’s safely back in his flat that night.

The trouble is, of course, that wearing one’s coat while making tea in the break room in an adequately-heated basement looks rather conspicuous to one’s coworkers, and leads to questions.

“You feeling alright, boss?” Tim asks, as he retrieves his bagged lunch from the fridge.

“Yes,” Jon says, stiffly. “Perfectly fine. I’m just cold.”

Sasha, who has followed Tim in, says, “Not sick, I hope.”

“I’m fine, don’t worry,” Jon says again, though he is beginning to feel a bit overheated. “It’s just cold in here. You don’t feel cold?”

Tim and Sasha shake their heads, looking concerned.

“I’m fine,” Jon says for the third time in thirty seconds, and promptly flees the break room.

By late afternoon, Jon is sweltering, and has no choice but to take off the coat. He’s careful to close his office door before he does so, resolving to put it back on if he needs to be seen by anyone for the rest of the day.

Though the garish violet stripe in his periphery is distracting at first, he loses himself in his work soon enough, spending an hour or two tearing through a stack of statements that are, by and large, utter nonsense.

He loses himself in his work so much, in fact, that when there’s a knock at his office door, he says “Come in,” without thinking.

“Hey, Jon,” says Tim as he enters, “d’you have a copy of statement zero-one-three-two . . .”

Tim’s voice drifts off, and Jon looks up, irritated. “Zero-one-three-two-what?”

Tim’s staring at him, an eager expression on his face, and Jon’s stomach goes cold. He looks down at the shirt, remembering, and stops himself from groaning. If he doesn’t react, maybe Tim will leave it alone. “What number were you looking for, Tim?” he says instead, very calmly and professionally.

But of course it doesn’t work. Tim’s face breaks into a smile, and he gives Jon a big, showy once-over. Jon rolls his eyes even before the words are out of Tim’s mouth. “Looking good, boss.”

“Tim, I have even less patience for sarcasm than usual, so if you could please—”

“Who said anything about sarcasm? You look good! Casual, ah, Tuesday suits you, Jon.”

Jon puts his elbows up on his desk and massages his temples. “I ran out of laundry.”

“Ah, been there.” Tim seems to have taken Jon’s resignation as an invitation, because he helps himself to the chair opposite Jon’s desk. “Wouldn’t have pegged you for the pride flag type, though. Don’t even think I’ve seen you with laptop stickers.”

“No,” Jon says, “I’m not. Not usually. This is just the only thing I had lying around. It’s from years ago, I never wear it.”

“Aw.” Tim genuinely looks disappointed. Jon wonders if perhaps he’s losing what remains of his tenuous ability to read people. “That’s a shame. You look good in purple.”

Jon has reached a point in his life, he’s fairly certain, where he ought to have heard such a comment before, or at least know the proper response. In actuality, he cannot recall a single instance of someone in his adult life complimenting his choice of fashion. He looks down at the shirt again. It’s the same as it was before: too-bright and obvious. He highly doubts it could look good on him in any shape or form. “Um. Thank you?” he says, sounding more bewildered than grateful.

“Really! It, like, brings out your eyes, or something. I dunno, but I think it’s nice on you. Not sure why you went through all the trouble to hide it all day.”

Jon shifts in his chair. “It’s . . . I mean, it’s very loud, isn’t it. And obvious. It’ll just attract attention.”

Tim looks at him for a moment or two. “Jon,” he says, “is this just about the shirt? Or is it also about the shirt?”

“That makes no sense, Tim.”

“You know what I mean.”

Jon, admittedly, does. One of the things he appreciates most about Tim is that they can be honest with one another, if only after some customary back-and-forth. He sighs deeply. “It’s—it’s just . . . a lot. I know it isn’t, really, in the grand scheme, it’s just you and Sasha, a-and Martin, too, I suppose. And it’s London, no one’s going to—it’s safe. I know that. B-But it’s a lot, being seen with everything—out in the open. By strangers. To know that they know. And even if they don’t know, they’ll . . . they’ll probably be able to guess.” He stares down at the scratched, cheap wood of his desk. Long ago, someone had carved a tiny pentagram on the lip of it. If Jon’s sense of humor weren’t buried under three layers of anxiety at the moment, he’d probably find it funny. “And I know it’s childish, to care what a bunch of strangers would think. But I can’t . . . I can’t stop thinking about it. I can’t just let it go.”

There’s a painfully long pause before Tim speaks up again.

“Well, I’ve got good news for you, Jon.”

Jon looks up at him warily, and finds that Tim is smiling at him. “What?”

He points at Jon’s coat where it hangs off the back of his chair. “You can put that back on.”

Jon blinks at him.

“At five,” Tim goes on, “you can put your coat back on, button it up, and walk out of here, and when you get back to your flat, Jon, you can do your bloody laundry. And you never have to wear that shirt ever again. Problem solved.”

“But . . .” Jon’s voice peters out before he can come up with a real protest.

“If wearing pride colors makes you feel like that,” Tim says, his voice gentler, “then don’t wear them. Simple as that. Not everybody’s got to carry a flag twenty-four-seven. Or ever. Doesn’t make you any less queer. Hell, even I take the pins off my bag sometimes.” Tim squints into the middle distance, muttering, “I can never seem to get the laptop stickers off, though.”

“But—what about what you said about me wearing purple?” He’s grasping at straws, he knows, but Tim’s argument is quite good. And the thought of never wearing this particular shirt again does sound rather appealing.

“So wear an aubergine button-down every once in a while!” Tim shrugs. “Or don’t! It’s none of my business.” He tilts his head to the side. “Actually, please do wear an aubergine button-down sometime. You’d turn some heads down here.” He pauses. “Figuratively, I mean. I’m sure everyone would be very respectful.”

Jon lets out a startled laugh. “Alright,” he says, feeling lighter. He runs a hand through his hair. “Maybe, sometime, I’ll . . . I’ll try it.”

“I know you like your blacks and whites, Jon,” Tim says, “and I’m not here to tell you how to dress. But if you ever need advice, or want to borrow a colorful, strictly nondenominational shirt . . .” He points both thumbs at himself. “I’m your guy.”

“Okay,” Jon says, and is surprised to find that, in this one, specific case, he is.

“And,” Tim adds, pointing a professorial finger in the air, “it’s not childish to care about what other people think of you. Pretty sure it’s the most universal thing there is. Welcome to the human race, Jon. You’re among us peons, now.”

Jon raises an eyebrow. “How unfortunate,” he says, drily, and Tim cackles.

Jon wears his coat home, keeping it carefully buttoned, and when he gets back to his flat he tosses the shirt into the back of his closet from whence it came. He’s not going to throw it away altogether, of course. It has sentimental value. Someday, maybe, he’ll dig it back up, if only just to look at.

For now, Jon does his bloody laundry.

[moonflower-31]

I Won’t Forget You - Spencer Reid x Reader

Masterlist 

Part 9 

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Reader 

Warnings: Just some self doubt. 

Tags: @dra-reid, @eevee0722, @ceeellewrites, @anotherr-fine-mess, @ssahoodrathotchner 

~~~~~~~~~~~ 

If you were honest, you didn't sleep much that night. Too much was on your mind. Namely a specific Doctor. 

You stared up at the terrible, obnoxious, and stupidly carpeted ceiling. It was a silly pattern you'd expect to be in a cheap motel that most likely had bed-bugs. Not one that was considered 'decent'. 

You had tossed and you had turned over and over for the past hour. The way Spencer had completely ignored you after the interrogation irked you. You kept getting mixed signals from him. Was he just jealous? Did he just not want to see his friend sexualize herself? Or was it just embarrassment that you were his coworker? No matter how much logic you applied to the situation, the latter seemed to be the truth. And that hurt you to no end.  

Were you really so much in the wrong for Spencer to think badly of you? You'd think he'd be one to understand that people make mistakes. Or that you have to do some things to get to the end goal. And that not all of those things are pretty or something a 'lady' should do. 

But then the other portion of your cerebrum began to ponder whether or not you were just overthinking this. That you had only known each other for two months. Over that even. And you remembered every waking moment. 

After staring into the void that was the ugly ceiling, you sat up with a huff. This was ridiculous. You weren't going to be able to sleep whatsoever if you didn't resolve this. At the very least put the self-doubting part of your mind at ease. 

You stood up from the terribly hard mattress and grabbed your phone. You adjusted your shirt and the way your pajama pants looked before you exited your room on a mission. 

You brought up the memory of Emily giving you your room number and overhearing Spencers. Room 206. 

You locked the motel door behind you and headed towards the door in question. Thankfully his room wasn't too far away from yours. 

You finally reached the door and without fully thinking about the time and whether or not knocking on someone's door at fucking 3 in the morning was going to piss them off, you knocked three times. 

And then that's when the doubt set in. Immediately you began debating on what was the safest escape route. The side of the building was closer to Spencer’s room than your room was. Maybe you could just ditch the doorbell and hide behind a bush like a child. 

But of course, as soon as you had made up your mind, the knob miraculously turned. And a few moments of nervous panting later, he opened the door, giving you a curious, but genuine smile. 

"Hey, (L/N). You need something?" He asks. You narrow your eyes at him. He was asking something so off the obvious elephant of a topic that you knew he was avoiding it. 

"Yeah, I'd think coming to your door at 3:02 am means I need something, Spencer." You tease. He chuckled back and smiled a little easier. 

"I'm listening." He promises, his gaze focused seemingly on your eyes. 

"Heh. Well… first off, why are you even up? And don't give me the excuse that I woke you up. Because you are a dead heavy sleeper." 

"Guess you caught me." He says. His body language was completely different than what his eyes and words were telling you. He was looking at you warmly and greeting you kindly like a friend. But his body language was more hesitant, almost like he was trying to keep himself from doing something. 

"Guess I did." You trailed as you pondered over your newfound observations of the tired Doctor. "So? Why are you up?" 

"I...can't sleep." He admits with a heavy sigh. 

"Really? Well, I guess we're both insomniacs." 

Spencer lets out a gentle laugh and looks down towards the floor. "I suppose we are."

You laugh gently with him for a few more moments, before you both fall back into silence. You look away from him after a build-up of embarrassment just as he turns to look you in the eye. You were both so damn awkward. 

After a couple of seconds, you didn't know where it came from but a strong surge of confidence pushed through your veins. 

"Look�� Spencer…" you begin, looking up at him. His ears seem to perk up at your starting tone, finally looking you in the eyes. As you stare into his hazel eyes, you feel the nervousness of talking to him melt just a little. You could do this. 

You take a deep breath and continue. "I don't know what I did, exactly to warrant you ignoring me yesterday. I get that seeing someone you're close to doing something like what I did, probably was as embarrassing as it was for me to do it knowing you all were watching." The blush on your cheeks brightened and you could feel how warm they were. 

Spencer turned his head slightly to the side, his eyes narrowing as he began to try and understand what you were saying. Before he could say anything in response, you continue your statement. 

"But I don't want our job to drive us apart. Cause… I kind of like this dynamic we have. I like being your friend and I like talking statistics and facts. Especially when we both know that the rest of the team won't understand. It's the best way to mess with them." You begin to laugh as you continue, your eyes never leaving his. 

"I-I do too…" he admits, smiling down at you. He wanted to say so much. So much was on his mind that he wanted to tell you, but he knew you had to say your peace first. Otherwise he'd be talking over you.

"I don't want to lose this. So… let me make it up to you. Let me bring you over to my place this time. I'll let my roommates know not to bother us and I'll show you Voltron or something." You suggest, sighing through the last few words. "Please. Don't push me away. You're the one person I've met in the last five years I haven't wanted to push away so they didn't get too close." 

You immediately realize what you said, causing your rapid inhale to stutter. You desperately hoped he wouldn't take it the wrong way. Even with as much as you wanted to tell him here and now how you truly felt, you knew you couldn't until you dealt with your mother. She had ways of torturing you and the people around you that you didn't want to be used on your newfound family. So for now… you had to keep it on the down low. 

Spencer's gaze got as soft as it could get and he smiled his brightest. "People with abandonment issues, whether being abandoned or doing it themselves tend to have a harder time choosing and keeping friends. So… I'm glad to have made that cut, for you." He expressed. "And… I would gladly have a vol...tron marathon with you. With or without your other friends." He assured you. 

And in that instant you felt as if the entire world was lifted off your shoulders. You had been so nervous that he was going to reject your attempt at making up. Guess that was what you got for assuming of people. 

You smiled and pressed a hand to your chest. "Thank you…" 

Spencer nodded slightly, his smile still present on his lips. After a few moments he widened his eyes and looked around. "Do-" he started, watching as your bare shoulders shivered a bit. "Do you wanna come in? I made coffee." He asks, an extra chipper tone in his voice as he began to prioritize your health. 

You chuckled. "Sure, Spence. I'll come in and have some coffee. As long as you don't start going crazy and bouncing off the walls when you're slap-happy." You couldn't help but tease, nudging his shoulder as he let you in. He grabbed a nearby blanket and wrapped it around you as you did, chuckling to himself as you teased. 

"I never got the idea of 'slap-happy'. The dictionary definition is 'casual or flippant in a cheerful, almost inappropriate way' but in recent years it's been used to describe a lethargic person unwilling to sleep." He asks, pushing the door behind the two of you closed. 

"I dunno where I even got it. I just kept hearing it used like that in my childhood. Guess it stuck." You pondered, taking a seat on the motel sofa. "So, where is this coffee you speak of?" You ask, putting on your most childish smile. Spencer’s gaze never left you, bringing him to a bright smile as he watched you. 

"Heh, I'll go get you a cup. Sugar?" He asks. 

"Three whopping spoonfuls, Spence. No more, definitely no less." You insist in a fake posh voice you definitely didn't make up just now. 

Spencer couldn't help the loud laugh that echoed out his mouth as he went over to the kitchen counter with the coffee maker. "Sure thing my lady." He played along with a chuckle, taking out the coffee pot and a cup to pour it into. 

He couldn't ignore you in hopes these feelings would go away. They weren't going to. He couldn't even get through 6 hours, 37 minutes and 43 seconds without talking to you. Or at least being near you. He couldn't sleep without knowing you were okay. Without seeing you before he went to bed. There was no use in ignoring these feelings. They were there, no matter how much he wished they weren't, for your sake. 

He was glad you took it as him being uncomfortable with what you had to do to get information from the unsub. Sure, it had caused a fire-like jealousy that burned in his chest. But that wasn't why he left. He left because a part of him imagined it was him getting to flirt with you. Getting to see under your skirt if he leaned back in his chair enough. It was perverted, and you didn't deserve that. 

He let out a gentle sigh and added the creamer and the three spoonfuls of sugar to your cup, letting his worries wash away. He had feelings. And sometimes those feelings lead him to the bathroom in hopes he wouldn't give it all away to you when you returned from interrogation. 

"One extra sugar-y coffee for her highness." He says, chuckling as he gave you your cup. You giggle from his own fake-posh voice, taking the cup as he hands it to you. 

"Thank you, Spencer." 

Spencer’s heart could have stopped right in this moment and he wouldn't be happier to see you smile as happily as you were. You trusted him. You wanted to be friends with him. If that's what he could have for now, it's what he would take. 

○●♡●○ 

You were groggy that next day when you got onto the plane and got home. The time you spent filling out the report for the case was mostly full of you and Spencer sending each other psychology memes through email when no one was watching, and waiting for the other's reaction. One you ended up sending him made him laugh so hard he nearly fell out of his chair. So despite feeling groggy, you felt victorious.  

"So… you wanna tell us what happened between you and boy-wonder?" Morgan asked, leaning against the counter in the lounge area of the bullpen as he drank his second coffee of the day. 

"Nothing! We just… talked. And now we're good." You answered vaguely, knowing the hell that would break loose if Morgan or Garcia even knew what you felt last night. Even if it was most definitely platonic, (at least that's what you keep telling yourself.) You couldn't deny how many times you actually thought about kissing him. 

"Nuh-uh, mama. You ain't gonna get away with just a touch and go." He teases. You rolled your eyes playfully, a smile pulling harder onto your face. Morgan grinned. 

"Kid, that face alone tells me something happened. Spill. Or I'll go talk to pretty boy and get my answers from him." He playfully observes and threatens. 

You widen your eyes and gently push against Morgan’s shoulder. "Hush. Nothing happened. We just had a chat at like 3 am over the coffee he made. And I fell asleep on the couch in his motel room, alright?" You giggle as you remember the night. Miraculously, you didn't fall asleep on his shoulder and trap him. You were glad for that. 

"Uhh uh… and I'm a superstar wrestler." Derek teased, taking another sip. 

"Who's a wrestler?" Emily asked, walking into the lounge with an empty coffee cup. 

"Apparently Derek is because he keeps insisting that something happened last night when nothing did. Spencer and I just had a chat. Nothing more, alright?" You insist, hoping Emily would be more on your side. 

"Alright, whatever you say kid." Morgan gave up, drinking the last bit of his coffee before washing it. "Have a good night, (Y/N). See you tomorrow." He bids you farewell. You roll your eyes again and wave him goodbye. 

Soon after Morgan left the doorway, Spencer replaced him, obviously looking for you. Emily looked at you once she realized who you were looking at. She smirked and nudged your shoulder.

"What?" You ask, seeing Spencer coming towards you. 

"You got it bad." She comments, immediately sending your cheeks into a bright red fury. 

"Who's got it bad? Is it allergies?" Spencer asks, making you sigh with relief that he was so innocent in those departments. 

"U-uh…" you start, seeing Emily watch your misery with a smirk on her face. You make a mental note to get back at her for this later. "Yeah, talking about u-uh… allergies. I get them bad." You finally answer, feeling stupid for taking the low-hanging fruit. 

Spencer, thankfully, didn't say anything and instead shrugged. "Well, I hear the over the counter medication Aleeve can help with that." He offers, clutching at the strap of his bag. You smile at how cute he was in his cardigan and tie. Always formal. 

"Yeah, I need to try it. A-anyway… you ready to go?" You ask him, walking away from Emily. You already knew she was giving you a teasing look from behind you. It was best Spencer didn't.  

"Y-yeah, I uh… was coming to get you actually." He says, looking into your eyes with the widest and most adorable fucking smile you'd ever seen. You felt a bit of yourself melt and flashed him a smile in return. 

"Really? Okay then, let's get going to my car. Unless you don't want me to drive to my own place." You tease, reminding him of how insistent he had been when he had offered to take you home. He chuckled, obviously remembering the memory. 

"I think it would be better if you drove. I haven't visited just yet." He answers, beginning to walk with you out of the lounge and out of the bullpen. 

"Good, so at least this time I don't have to worry about rain in my car cause I always keep a small part of my driver side window open for air. " you tease again, walking beside him to the elevator. 

"That… is a terrible idea. There are more opportunities open to people to steal your car than for your car to stay cool from an open window." Spencer expressed, giving you a look of disbelief. 

"Hey, it's a habit." You say, pressing the down button on the elevator. 

After a few minutes, you begin to feel a nervousness build up in your belly. The last time you left together, your mother had greeted you with her fake face and fake cleavage. You couldn't help but feel a little deja vu. 

Spencer looked over to you, having found something else to say. He noticed the gentle indent in your cheek, making him slightly smile at how cute it was. He reached out his hand and rested it on your back once he made sure you knew what he was doing. 

"I doubt she'll be here, (Y/N). The probability of her being here after two months, 1 week and 3 days is very unlikely. If she does, the office has been notified to arrest her on sight." Spencer assured, rubbing your back gently. You sighed again, a smile forming on your face again. You felt strangely assured as you felt the warmth of his hand against your back. It was even better knowing he didn't do this for everyone. This was going to be okay. You were going to be okay. Even if your mother decided to be a bitch and try and come back for you. 

"Thanks Spence." 

Spencer nodded as the elevator doors opened, prompting the two of you to begin your walk to your car. 

"So… tell me about this 'Voltron'..." Spencer prompted as you both entered the parking lot. You giggle and wrap your arms around your sides. 

"Man, you are so behind on the times." You commented, unlocking your car and climbing into the driver's seat. 

Spencer joined you in the car, promptly bumping his head against the ceiling of the car. You gasp softly and fight off the urge to laugh. 

"What are you, a gnome?" He groans, rubbing his head. You finally laugh, leaning over your steering wheel. 

"Try lowering the seat. It's one of the notches on the side." You tease in a mixture of laughter and giggles. 

Spencer smiled at your reaction, putting the seat down and putting his seatbelt on. You pushed through the rest of your giggles and started the car. 

"Oh… uh, just as a fair warning, my roommates they… can be a little much." You turned towards him and warned. He shrugged. 

"I'm sure they aren't that bad, (Y/N). I mean, we hang out with Morgan and Garcia all the time. How much more weird can they be?" He asks. "Considering the probability, not very likely." 

You shook your head and laughed. "Alright, let's see if your theory is correct, Doctor." 

[thetriggeredhappy]

I absolutely love your writing! If you're taking requests, could you maybe do a speeding bullet soulmate au?

thanks a lot pal! and sure thing, i’ve actually had something half-finished in my drafts for soulmate!au for a while. in this AU, it’s the classic “your first words to your soulmate are written on your wrist”, with a minor twist–if your soulmate’s words are on your left hand, that means you will need to speak first. if it’s on the right, then your soulmate is the one who has to speak first before you say your words. this adds a little bit of clarity in-universe, since you can see your phrase is something simple like “how can i help you” and if you’re speaking second you can shoot them back with something buckwild. it can lead to people being more or less extroverted–knowing your line comes second means you can say whatever without being worried that it’ll be written on some poor sap’s skin, and knowing your line comes first means you don’t have that luxury. also limitations like “must be speaking exclusively to that one person” (unless polyamory), “can’t be through a phone or writing”, and “must be identifiable as the person” (do with that what you please). anyways, i like soulmate AUs and put a lot of thought into them.

actual fic is below the cut, and again, you’re very kind

”Are you doing alright, mate?”

To be honest, that wasn’t the worst line that Jeremy could’ve gotten, but fuckin’ seriously.

It wasn’t as bad as his brother Joey, he had “Your shoe’s untied” on the left, and Petey got the nightmare scenario and just got “Hey, how’s your day?” on the right, but the thing that really frustrated him was that it wasn’t even the reaction phrase. That was the opening phrase, meaning they had to say that to him first before he could respond with his own line, and if they were asking if he was doing alright that had to mean something bad was gonna happen and he’d probably look stupid in front of his soulmate and not have a good response or whatever because he’d just, like, fallen in the harbor or something.

Turned out, by the time Jeremy was twelve, he was starting to find out that bad things happening to him was gonna be a consistent issue. He had bad luck, worse than all his brothers combined, and over the course of all that time he got an awful lot of “Are you okay, dude?” and “Are you alright?” from a lot of people. But none of them ever got it exactly right,

missing the crucial few words, nobody ever saying “mate”. Nobody ever asking him that in a voice that felt dark orange.

“Y’know,” his Ma said to him one day when he was sulking, twenty-two and still soulmate-less and with a terrible time at job hunting to boot considering his most recent cast, luckily on his left arm so he could still glare at his mark. “It does have a hint at least.”

“That I’m gonna be a total klutz forever?” Jeremy sulked.

“That your soulmate isn’t gonna be an American, sweetheart,” his Ma corrected gently. “He’s probably gonna be British, or Irish, something like that. They’re the only ones who say “mate”, right?”

“Didn’t you also think my dad was gonna be a Canadian?” he asked suspiciously.

“Honey, I’m not magic, I don’t know everything. I thought it was unrealistic to think it would be someone actually from France,” she said, a little haughty.

She was one of the lucky people to get a really specific phrase, in a language that wasn’t her own no less. It was in French, and when he’d asked as a kid what it said, she’d laughed and said it meant “I promise I had a much more intelligent line to say, but I’m afraid I’ve forgotten it.”

She always said his dad had died, and worn the traditional covering to show that someone’s soulmate was dead, to hide where the words had gone black. But once or twice he’d glimpsed her wrist, and to be honest, the words looked more navy blue.

“Why the heck am I gonna talk to a British person?” Jeremy asked, sulking again.

“World works in mysterious ways, J-Bear,” his Ma shrugged.

She was right. Because a few months later, he was in a particularly terrible situation, and he received a phone call asking if he wanted a job.

-

”I’m seriously, actually, 100% going to murder you.”

It hadn’t shown up until he was four years old, which Mick’s parents had a bloody field day with, and once they were good and tired of dealing with that conundrum they moved right along to address the fact that in reply to whatever their son was going to say, he was going to promptly be threatened.

Great.

He ended up baking under the sun just like everyone else in his god-forsaken country, which only made the bright, cherry-red phrase stand out all the better. His mum tried to be supportive, honest she did, but even getting bullied at school every other day never led to him finding anyone, and she wasn’t all that surprised when at age nineteen he packed up the bare essentials and left home without a word.

He had an idea in his head. He’d heard before of people, terrible people, who used the idea of soulmate to do… bad things. To manipulate people, to make them stay in bad relationships because they thought this one person could and would solve all their problems. And if his soulmate’s first words to him were a threat…

He’d admit if he was asked that he was a lonely person. He didn’t ever seem to fit with anyone. Nobody ever seemed to understand what he meant once he started actually talking, being honest. And he didn’t know if he would have the strength to get out of a bad situation if he was promised up front that this person would understand him. He was pretty sure he would put up with a lot of bad things just for the sake of genuine connection.

So he decided he wouldn’t ever find his soulmate. He’d go off to do hunting and tracking in fuckall nowhere and nobody would ever bother him and he’d never need to deal with a soulmate. He didn’t need one. He’d be fine alone.

When he eventually turned to killing people for money, some part of him deep down wondered if he was just getting too lonely and giving in to what fate had in store for him. If becoming an assassin was the most pathetic, fucked-up bid for someone’s love that had ever happened in history. People did threaten to kill him a lot in that line of work. And more often, people actually tried.

Eventually he got a job offer out in America, more consistent pay and all for the same job, less moving around required, and he took it. He was getting up there in years, and he had a feeling that if he hadn’t found his soulmate by the time he hit thirty, he never would.

-

Jeremy got a new name: Scout. And his new coworkers—“teammates”, as the very pretty lady who unfortunately didn’t ask if he was doing alright had specified to him—were from all over the place. And he’d had high hopes for a minute as he realized one of his teammates was Scottish, but when he spoke face-to-face with the guy he’d instead greeted him with a cheerful “Pleasure to meet you, lad!” and his reply of “Yo, so you’re the Demoman?” had elicited exactly no response, so that was a bust.

He spoke to the Pyro, as briefly as possible since they freaked him out, but they’d similarly not seemed to react to what he first said to them, and neither had any of the rest of the team. Hell, the Heavy had outright brushed him off up front and the Sniper had given him exactly one up-and-down before he’d left entirely.

So cool. Great. New job with people who didn’t care. Nice.

And he found out more and more as time passed that they very much didn’t care. Most of the team could hardly tolerate him for more than ten minutes at a time, Spy he could barely put up with for two sentences, and even though he eventually got to be better friends with Pyro, and Engie eventually started putting up with him more, they still got annoyed with him pretty quickly. Pyro basically ignored him once they reached their limit, and Engie would essentially kick him out of his workshop.

And… to be honest, he didn’t feel totally comfortable talking to them about certain stuff. He felt a little bit like he’d get laughed at. And his once-every-two-weeks phone call home sometimes wasn’t enough to deal with various stresses and he usually was more interested in hearing their news than complaining anyways.

He didn’t know why he went out to the watchtower. Maybe because he was out for a run and it just happened to be in his line of sight. Maybe because it occurred to him that Sniper could keep a secret, wouldn’t tell the guys about whatever he ended up talking about. Maybe because he felt like he didn’t really have any other options.

Anyways, he ended up climbing the watchtower, asking Sniper if it would bug him if Scout sat around and hung out for a while. Sniper didn’t reply, just glancing at Scout over his shoulder briefly before returning to his scope. And then Scout made it exactly three minutes before he started in on talking. “I dunno I just think it’s funny that Spy thinks I’m rude when he’s always the one starting shit for no reason—“

And Sniper didn’t interrupt him, didn’t say anything, didn’t chase him off. He sat there, staring down his scope, occasionally pausing to take a drink of his coffee, for about two hours. Two hours of Scout just talking, thinking out loud.

It was nice. So nice that Scout cut himself off, eventually said goodbye and left the tower again, sure that Sniper would get tired of him and he’d never be allowed back up there again.

It became a weekly thing, every Monday Scout would go up there and talk to Sniper. Talk at Sniper, more like. And Sniper would listen.

One of the days, Scout said something, something he couldn’t even remember, because it was overshadowed by the thing that immediately followed it—Sniper laughing.

He’d never heard Sniper laugh before, he didn’t think. Not in the real way, anyhow. Sniper didn’t talk much. He’d occasionally mention something over the comms, and once or twice Scout heard him cheering along with the rest of the team when they won a match, but overall, he was a man of few words. So getting him to laugh…

He thought about it a lot.

-

Sniper didn’t entirely get why Scout started talking to him.

He tried so hard—so hard—to be left alone. He put on a scowl and wore the brim of his hat low and carried his knife off the clock and didn’t say hello or goodbye. He wanted to be left alone. He deserved to be left alone.

Scout, apparently, didn’t notice. And halfway through Sniper trying to figure out what to say to get the kid to leave, he started telling some story about his brothers back home, and…

He never got around to it. He never… got around to telling him to leave. And once Scout had that foothold, had that… constant nature, that consistency, once Sniper knew to expect him every Monday two hours after the team dinner or half an hour before sunset—whichever came first—he found himself…

God damn it. Enjoying Scout’s company. He liked some of the phrases Scout used. He talked in an interesting way. It was pleasant to listen to. And he was honest, uncomfortably honest at times. He told Sniper about all sorts of things that he figured it was safe to say nobody else knew about.

He talked about his family. His mum. His dad, who died, and then later he corrected himself to say his dad, who disappeared, who probably left, words in navy and not in black. He talked about growing up in the bad part of town, about never being allowed to walk home from school without at least one of his older brothers there until he was eight, when he started carrying a knife on him because sometimes none of his brothers showed up for him, until he was twelve, when he just started running there and back every day after baseball practice to save the trouble. About shoplifting, about getting a job delivering newspapers the second he was legally allowed to, about older brothers going in to work sick and Ma working two jobs to try and support them all when they got too sick for work, too sick for anything for a while. About what he did with his paycheck—he kept some pocket change for himself, to buy records sometimes, or posters, or snack foods for when dinner sucked, or fast food or drinks at the bar when he had time on the weekends. The rest of it—every goddamn penny—went back home. One day, maybe his Ma would never have to work again.

He wanted to tell Scout about his own sad life story. Climbing up the tree outside school and throwing rocks at the bullies who chased him, starting to skip classes and smoke towards the end of his schooling just to try and look a little more intimidating. About his dad scoffing at him when he tended to use a gun to chase off predators from their flock of sheep instead of fighting them hand-to-hand like a good Australian. About running away from all of his problems, and how killing animals, especially people, seemed to be the only thing he was ever any good at, and how sometimes that really did bother him, a lot.

But he didn’t. He couldn’t convince himself that Scout cared, somehow. Visits jumped up to twice a week, Monday and Thursday, same time. It was hot for a while, and he went into town one Sunday to pick up two cases of beer, hauled a cooler up into the watchtower, and left three beers next to where Scout sat and three next to himself about ten minutes before the kid showed up. When it started getting cold at night, he brought up his own quilt like he always did, but brought up the spare as well, left that on what he’d mentally started thinking of as Scout’s Crate. Scout drank the beers, and used the blanket, and would talk for his two hours and then say goodbye and not mention anything to Sniper when they went out to battle the next day.

It…

He didn’t like that he enjoyed it so much. He didn’t like looking forward to it, didn’t like perking up when he heard the ladder rattling, didn’t like hanging on to every word and the increasing frequency at which Scout was making him laugh. He didn’t like how much harder it got every time to bite his lip and hold back from chiming in.

He was a killer, he reminded himself. A hermit from absolutely nowhere Australia who didn’t deserve the company of other people. This was the best thing that could’ve happened to him, and he couldn’t push his luck. If he pushed his luck, then he’d drive Scout away and be left alone again. Scout only talked to him because he was quiet anyways, because he was a mystery. Remove the mystery, and the draw would be gone, and he’d be all alone again. Already this was selfish; he should just shut up and be grateful.

He stared down his scope and drank his coffee and was grateful.

-

A bad day at work, followed by a bad weekend, had Scout hesitating at the base of the watchtower.

Some part of him was rational, and knew he was being ridiculous. But another, stronger part of him couldn’t seem to make his feet move, was repeating a steady mantra to him.

Not wanted.

Sniper didn’t like him. Sniper didn’t want him around. Sniper was just too polite to turn him away, too nice, and was annoyed with his constant talking and wished he would go away but didn’t have the courage, didn’t want to be rude. He wasn’t wanted. Or maybe Sniper just pitied him, maybe Sniper just heard his assorted sob stories and thought, man, poor little idiot kid, might as well set out a blanket for him and let him talk. Maybe Sniper was collecting everything he said for blackmail.

The worst idea to run through his head: maybe Sniper had never been listening to him in the first place.

If Sniper wanted him around, he would’ve said something, right?

Scout didn’t go up into the watchtower that day, or the following Thursday. He didn’t bother looking for Sniper in battle, sure that Sniper would be ignoring him the same way he always did, pretending he didn’t exist the same way he always did.

When he went to the store that weekend, hoping to pick up some chips and soda, he found himself staring at a six-pack of beer. He didn’t even particularly like beer, usually, he preferred other drinks. But he was looking at this six-pack of beer, and he wound up buying it.

It wasn’t some cheap garbage, it was craft beer. It was more expensive.

He drank exactly three of the six and tried not to think about it.

-

Scout was gone. He never showed up. Sniper ended up getting so freaked out about it that he went to check the Medbay, sure that something bad had happened. Medic was there, working on something bloody, but not Scout. And Scout wasn’t in the workshop either, or the workout room, or the rec room. He got a lot of strange looks from his teammates as he asked around. For some, it was the most he’d spoken to them in months.

He was halfway to Scout’s room when he realized he was probably being strange, manic. Scout was allowed to not want to come visit him. He wasn’t offering anything. In all the time—six months, he realized, they’d been doing this for six months—that Scout had visited, all he really had to gain was Sniper occasionally humming or laughing, and exactly three beers on the hotter days and a tobacco-scented blanket in the winter. There was no reason for Sniper to expect him to show up on the little schedule that had been established. He started to feel silly.

Then he didn’t show up on Thursday either, and…

He felt worried, of course he felt worried, obviously he felt worried. One of the only good things to ever happen to him, and it just stopped showing up one day. And he wanted it back. God, he wanted it back. Two days and he already felt more lonely than he ever felt in his life. Maybe having felt even the smallest glimmer of companionship had made him soft, but damn it, he wanted to feel it again.

He made a decision.

-

Scout was lacing up his shoes before battle on Monday when a pair of boots stopped in front of him. This wasn’t strange. What was strange was that it wasn’t the calm amble of Engie, the sturdy stride of Heavy, the confident stomp of Soldier, or the crisp stride of Medic. No, it was an awkward shuffle. A rough clearing of a throat. He looked up, and it was Sniper.

He froze up. “Uh,” he said. “Hi.”

Sniper was looking at him. That was strange. In something like 95% of their interactions, Sniper was facing away from him down a scope, occasionally viewed in profile as he took a sip of beer or coffee, depending on the weather. And the other times were in battle itself, both of them otherwise preoccupied. But now Sniper was looking at him, thumbs shoved in his front pockets. After a second he moved to take off his sunglasses and immediately glanced off to one side, tapping them against his palm.

It looked like a nervous tick. This was strange. Sniper was never like this. Scout was confused.

Sniper glanced towards the rest of the team, all a short ways away, chatting amongst themselves at various volumes. When he spoke, his voice was rough and low and quiet. If Scout had to describe it, he would call it a dark orange.

“Are you doing alright, mate?” he asked, tone hesitant.

Scout remained frozen. Stared. Stared.

“It’s just,” Sniper continued, stumbling awkwardly with his words, unable to make further eye contact with Scout. “You haven’t come around in a while, and I suppose I just got… worried, that something happened—“

Scout got to his feet, whirled around, and angrily started digging through his locker, jaw clenched. He eventually pulled forth a pocket knife and angrily started ripping the grip tape from his right hand. He didn’t say a word.

“I’m sorry,” Sniper said quickly, holding up his hands, taking a step back. “I, I just thought it was odd is all, I didn’t know if—“

Scout silenced him by holding his now-bare wrist directly in Sniper’s line of sight, a few inches from his face, Sniper flinching back minutely at the motion. When he realized what he was looking at, his eyes widened. He looked at Scout. Scout looked at him.

“I’m seriously, actually, 100% going to murder you,” Scout said calmly, matter-of-factly, and Sniper had never thought about it before, but he would absolutely describe Scout’s voice as a bright red. Shaking hands moved to undo his watch, and he held his own wrist, the left, out for Scout to see.

Silence for a few seconds. “I—“ Sniper started to say, but was cut off by Scout.

“I cannot believe that you’ve never once since I’ve met you ever talked one-on-one with me. You’ve never said a fuckin’ word to me, Snipes,” Scout said, more than a little pissed off.

“I didn’t realize,” Sniper defended, a little weakly. “I thought… I thought I had.”

“Man, how many people can say they fuckin’ monologued to their soulmate for hours and hours before meeting them, huh?” Scout asked, hands on his hips now.

“I’m sorry,” was all Sniper could think to say.

“Here’s what we’re gonna do,” Scout declared, glaring at Sniper hard. “I’m gonna meet you after work like usual at the watchtower, and you’re takin’ me to go get pizza, and I’m gonna eat pizza while you talk about yourself. You’ve got about—“

He did some math in his head.

“Somethin’ like sixty hours or so of talkin’ to do to make it even,” he decided. “Got it?”

“Got it,” Sniper agreed weakly. Scout moved to sit down and start lacing his shoes up again, but before he could get to it, Sniper spoke again. “I’m… glad you’re okay.”

Scout looked back up at him. The sudden influx of nervous honesty on Sniper’s face made him feel surprisingly guilty. “Sorry. I just… got all up in my own head. I figured I was probably pissing you off, so I stopped going.” A pause. “I wasn’t pissing you off?”

“No,” Sniper replied. “Not at all. I… liked… having you around.”

Scout fought hard against the smile threatening to take hold. “Good to know,” he finally said.

“And I should’ve said something earlier,” Sniper continued, words flowing forth in a rush. “I should’ve told you, I should’ve—let you know. I really should’ve.”

“Well,” Scout shrugged, and finished tying his laces up, and stood to face Sniper head-on. “Now you told me.”

A pause between them, Sniper clearly working very hard to maintain eye contact.

“It doesn’t have to be pizza,” Scout amended, picking at his remaining hand’s worth of grip tape. “It can be anything. I just wanna hang out, like, away from base.”

“Like a date?” Sniper asked, slowly, hesitantly.

“Sure,” Scout shrugged.

A pause again. “Pizza’s fine,” Sniper seemed to decide.

“Alright,” Scout said, and smiled at him. “Alright. I’ll see you then.”

“Yeah,” Sniper agreed, and took his cue to walk away. He stood off to one side of the rest of the team, moving to take a drink of his coffee. His wrist caught his eye, and he looked over the words again, and for the first time in his life, they didn’t bring him dread. They brought him hope.

[nattikay]

So I don’t typically like making personal posts of this type, as I generally come here to escape all that and relax, but at this point I’m just not really sure where else to go with it, all things considered.

Anyways...I’ve been...stressed lately. No, coronavirus isn’t the root cause of it, but it certainly ain’t helping (as I will explain later).

So the first thing I guess...is my younger sister’s wedding tomorrow. To explain why this is a stressor I first have to reveal a bit about myself, a little deeper than I am usually comfortable doing on the internet, and I know it’s ultimately gonna make me sound like...kinda a selfish butthole.

So...I’ve always greatly valued the concept of marriage and family. It’s a value I hold very dear, I always have, and I’ve always wanted to one day get married and have kids of my own. However, I’ve also always struggled hugely with social anxiety, for pretty much as long as I can remember, and needless to say dating does not come easily to me.

For a while, that was ok because I had other goals to work towards in the meantime...getting into my college of choice...getting into their animation program...doing well in my classes...graduating...getting a job...but now I’ve done all those things, and getting married would be the natural next step in life. 

...if I could actually fall in love with someone. 

So I’m stuck. I feel like I’m just treading water, or running in circles. I feel like I can’t progress and it’s scary. But progressing itself, going out and meeting people, opening myself up like that--is also scary. It’s like I'm caught between a rock and a hard place. A lose-lose situation. 

I did have a sort-of boyfriend towards the end of college, but then I graduated and moved away and, well...things are a bit complicated. I still chat with him online now and then, but we only see each other in-person maybe once or twice a year for conventions. And even though we’re still on good terms in a friendly sorta way, given the time and distance I’m not sure whether or not he’s still interested in pursuing that type of relationship with me, nor am I sure how to bring it up without making him feel awkward.

Sometimes I wonder if maybe I should’ve stayed in Utah after I graduated, found a job there and been able to spend more time with him...but I didn’t...and now a part of me feels like...I dunno....like I missed my chance?

But...all of that’s a tangent...it’s not the only issue...

So anyways...like I said...this is my younger sister’s wedding. For those who don’t know, I’m the oldest sibling in my family. Maybe I wouldn’t feel as stressed if my sister were older than me. But as it is...this is the first time in my life that I haven’t been first to a major life event. And yes, I know, I know it’s not a race, it’s not a competition, etc. etc. etc....I know. But...it’s a reminder.

I’m stuck, and now I’m being “surpassed” and I’m constantly being reminded.

And things seemed to work out so easily for her too. She met this guy less than a year ago and they’re absolutely head-over-heels obsessed with each other. 

and I don’t

understand 

that?

I mean, her fiancé’s a good guy don’t get me wrong, and they’re really happy together and I’m glad of that, but at the same time...watching how they are with each other, how they interact...I don’t...know that I’ve ever felt that? And in my head, I wish I could, it seems like it’d be so nice but...

guys, sometimes I feel like I’m broken.

I feel like I don’t have that capacity to get so excited over a real person the way my sister and her fiancé are about each other.

Not romantically. Not even platonically. 

Except...not quite. I do have some capacity to be all giddy. But...it only ever seems to happen with fictional characters, animals, or plushies.

Never real people. Never real relationships.

and I don’t

understand

why

And quite frankly, I’m terrified, absolutely terrified that that’ll lead me to being forever alone

And yes, I know that some people are perfectly content to live their lives single, and that’s fine and you do you and I’m not gonna judge you or say you’re invalid or whatever; I don’t believe that. But...I don’t think I’m one of those people. Marriage and family is something I hold too dear to my heart to just give up on the idea of having my own.

But...like I said...reminders.

Reminders, reminders, and reminders of one of my weaknesses, one of my struggles, of a concept that utterly frightens me and I have to be around it constantly right now. And when I’m with other people, I have to do it with a smile.

I love my sister, don’t get me wrong. And like I said, her fiancé’s a good guy. I’m glad they’re happy. I don’t want to ruin that for them with my selfish struggles. Just because I’m unhappy right now doesn’t mean I have to drag them down with me. They deserve to have a good time.

But that doesn’t mean I’m not struggling.

So...there. That’s why my sister’s wedding is a stressor for me.

On top of all that...the wedding was supposed to be in April, in Utah. But because of the coronavirus shutdowns, we’ve had to to some last-minute rearrangements, and now it’s tomorrow here in Alabama. This has been extremely stressful on my mom, who really put a lot of dedication into the wedding planning and is bummed that it didn’t work out. She’s been particularly frazzled this past week, constantly scrambling to get all the rearrangements taken care of and terrified that more shutdowns with mess it all up again.

This is why I’m making this post here. Usually I would talk to my mom, or my therapist...but I don’t have another therapy appointment for a few weeks (if it hasn’t been cancelled for the virus) and my mom, well...she has enough of her own problems to deal with right now. I don’t want to burden her with mine.

And then there’s the situation at work. With the whole social distancing thing going on they’re trying to get as many people set up to work remotely as possible. Unfortunately, because of what I do and the way our network works, this entails bringing home my entire computer setup, which is a hassle in itself on merely a physical level. I stuck it out coming into the office longer than most of my coworkers, but my mom texted me today saying that they’re now talking about shutting down all “non-essential” businesses so if I wanted to work at all over the next little bit and not eat up vacation hours I should just bite the bullet and move my setup home. So I did. 

But now there’s another potential problem. I’ve got all the hardware and it should work just fine...but I also need internet connectivity in order to access our pipeline. As we were packing up my stuff, my coworker mentioned that he wasn’t actually sure if the computers had wifi capabilities and that I might have to plug it in directly...which could be a problem, because the internet connection is on the other side of the house from where I’d be working, and even if I moved my setup to that room I’m pretty sure I’d have to unplug the router in order to plug in this computer and then everyone else would lose their wifi...which would really suck with all of us being stuck at home right now, and would be especially detrimental to my dad who is also working from home right now and needs the wifi. 

Granted, I haven’t actually tried to hook it up just yet, so who knows, I might just get lucky and it’ll have wifi capabilities after all...but I don’t know for sure yet.

I mentioned this issue to my mom when I got home today, mostly just to warn her that I might have to make some weird arrangements like a long extensions cord or something (if it doesn’t in fact have wifi). Alas, that turned out to be a mistake...like I said, my mom’s already really stressed with the wedding stuff and a potential work computer problem just added fuel to the fire and then she started stressing about that too even though it’s not really a thing she needs to be worrying about, it’s my problem to figure out...but nonetheless I felt pretty guilty for making her feel even more stressed that she already was.

I don’t know what I’m going to do if I can’t get my work computer connected at home. I guess just bring it back to the office...but that’s assuming people with still be allowed in the building at all come next week. I just...I dunno man. I don’t know.

All this mess has led to me starting to experience certain anxiety symptoms that I haven’t really dealt with since I first went on my medication a few years ago, which means the stress is getting bad enough to...override the meds a bit. I guess. idk, the symptoms haven’t been too severe but the fact that they’re there at all...hng.

If you made it through this whole mess, congrats, I’m impressed

tl;dr

everything’s a mess, everyone’s stressed, I have anxiety and I don’t know who to talk to

not really looking for advice so much as just somewhere to vent and maybe some comfort, idk

Thanks for your time

-NattiKay

[halberdierminister]

July Monthly Goals Check-In

1. Write 250 Words Each Day Well, I started out very faithful to this. But sometime around the middle of the month, I got pretty choppy. I honestly don't know exactly how many days I skipped. I'm gonna try to write a fair amount today when I can and hope that it is enough to make up for it. Which is fine. It has been an otherwise very productive month in many other ways, so I cannot be too upset about it. I may start running a wordpress blog with a friend of mine, and if I do that may keep me more on track with these.. We shall see. We shall see.

2. Read 55 Books This Year I finished reading 55 books in May! Last month I read 10 more books. THIS month, however… I read 31 books. That brings me to a total of 97 books read for the year!!! A lot of them have been VERY short books. Lots of poetry collections, manga volumes, graphic novels, etc etc etc. But not exclusively!! I was hoping to get to 100 books by the time I wrote this but the last couple days, I have not been able to make the magic happen. But that's fine! That's TOTALLY FINE. This will be a very significant get, but I have months to get over that hump. By the time you hear from me on this goals check-in next month, I will undoubtedly be decently well over 100 books, and I can talk about why that personally feels so good then!

3. Get A Full Time Job I did not get a full time job this month. BUT. I applied to 38 full time jobs. Got a bunch of rejections. HOWEVER, I have scheduled EXACTLY ONE JOB INTERVIEW so far so that is good news! And that would be a VERY good job if I were to get it! Some of these jobs are actually pretty exciting things and I feel confident for the first time in a while that I might actually find a good job IN MY CAREER PLAN!!!! Also I almost lost my part time job but the library director was able to convince the village to let me stay on as a substitute, and it has paid off surprisingly well. I've been working two to three shifts a week on that, which is more than any of us expected. So I guess what I'm saying is I am making good progress again and I hope I can have something positive to report by the time I'm thirty. Eugh.

4. Move Out Speaking of being almost thirty. I really do not want to be here. If I get the job I interview for, I would be able to move in with my friends in Milwaukee just about as soon as possible. So that is good news. Every day it gets more tempting to just say "screw it" and live down there. But that won't help me find a job. And the job really is the important thing.

5. Drink Less Soda I mean yeah. Occasionally, I drink-a the soda. But not too much. I am good at drinking less soda than I did last year or the years before that. That's because I would have several sodas each day, to the point where it worried some of the people I know.

6. Get Something Published Just found out that I'm getting something else published today! So that is one new poem published this month! I also had my fic in the Lalonde Zine come out, but it turns out that the Lalonde Zine was more of a shared Google Drive folder than an actual zine. Maybe I should offer to compile the zine into one document? I should do that. That would be a good thing to do and it would give me a lot of experience with doing that, something I haven't really done in a while. So the practice would do me good! And then I would feel better saying that I got published there too. But yes so besides the Lalonde fic, I have had two poems published in zines, one poem published in an online literary journal, and one fic published in an online fanzine this year! If you include the articles I wrote for school newspapers, I have gotten at least one thing published every year for the past fifteen years. If you don't count the articles (or the Lalonde fic yet), I have had 30 pieces of fiction and poetry published since 2005! That's pretty neat! I want even more though!!!!!! I found a publisher's website that accepts unsolicited manuscripts. I'm going to try to put together an honest to god actual collection of my poetry, one bigger than either of the two digital chapbooks I have made. I have a friend who is a professional editor -- not of poetry, mind you, but I might be able to convince her to give it a shot -- and I would honestly hire her at full price to take a look at it. I actually will need to seek a lot of feedback from a lot of people, so if you want to read a document full of a bunch of my poetry, lemme know and I will show you what I've got when I've got something.

7. Finish Writing A Legitimate Businessman Finished in April! No new news. But just because I completed this goal doesn't mean that is the end of it! I do still have the sequel to work on, even though I haven't done any of that this month. And one of these days I am going to get around to sitting down with the printed copy and a pen and editing the shit out of it so that I can write draft #2! I think I'll probably throw draft #2 up on wattpad (why not?? I've been curious about that website and know absolutely nothing about it) and maybe I'll make a nice looking e-book out of it that I can distribute on noisetrade or itchio or something! I wonder if I could get it printed on demand or something. Obviously not for profit. But like, maybe I have friends I want to send a nice printed copy to.

8. Write More The Revelation of Takaya According to Jin Finished in Februrary! No new news. A friend of mine has offered to bind a copy of it when he has access to the materials, and I think that'd be dope as hell. I ought to work on compiling it into a nice document. I don't know if that's what he would need. He would probably want to do that work himself. Sometimes I think about the concept of making an illustration for it? I don't know. I can't draw. But I might not need to draw for the thing I have in mind. Really I should be consulting with him on that. Ah well. Either way, I hope that ends up happening. That would be so friggin cool.

MINOR GOALS

9. Finish Playthroughs Of 1. The Legend of Zelda Breath of the Wild: Finished in January! 2. Persona 1 Main Quest Good Ending: I didn't do anything on this whooooops. Getting into the second half of the year without once having touched it. I ought to get back to this. 3. Pokemon Sword: Finished in March! 4. Pokemon Let's Go Eevee: Finished in February and March! 5. Persona Q2: I have finished the fourth dungeon and gotten to The Twist!!! It's weak. This really is the kids' version of a Persona game. Minus like… the fact that it's still rated M for partial nudity. There was exactly one moment of horror and even that was like… just a bit scarier than The Nightmare Before Christmas. But I did some of the side quests and those are actually decently fun. So I have the final dungeon left. I just wanna sort of power through this. I'll worry about completion when I do new game plus, whenever that might be.

10. Record More Ukulele Videos I did not do this. I want a new microphone. These are not inherently related things, as I do have a microphone already. I have everything I need to do this. I just haven't done this. And I would like a new microphone. Also, an amp for the uke would be nice. I should text my old coworker, see if he still has one to sell.

11. Record Let's Plays Neither did I do this. How could I? My parents think video gaming is the Devil's Lettuce. And they are always home. They would notice if they heard me talking to my computer. And that is assuming that I had something I could play on my computer that anyone would want to watch. I need a better computer. A gaming computer. An editing computer. I'm lucky that these are the same thing.

12. Duolingo? I was SUPER gung ho in the end of June and the beginning of July, but before too long I petered out. I've used a couple streak freezes and have really been doing mostly the bare minimum to not drop out of the emerald league. But I've got a streak of about 208 days, and that is nothing to sneeze at! Do I feel like I'm learning? I dunno. But I am at least interacting with Spanish just about every day so that… that's got to be helpful, right? right?

This was over one thousand five hundred words. Wait! Sixteen hundred exactly.

[sweatersarecomfyy]

Fancy Brain (Spencer Reid x Reader)

Summary: Reader likes Spencer but doesn’t want to tell him in fear of ruining their friendship. It’s super cute and fluffly, no warnings. Ya. 

My first Spencer fic, I love him so much.

He was in the conference room still trying to figure out something from the case. He was sitting on the floor surrounded by papers and books, but I could tell he was taking a break, sipping some coffee as he looked out the window momentarily. It was beautiful to watch him work.

I walked in and sat down at one of the chairs, he turned and gave me that goofy grin before turning back to his coffee. I did some more research as he tried to line up some sort of code that the unsub had left us. Often, I would just look over at him with his furrowed brow, and his fingers scanning the pages of book after book. I wasn’t getting much work done due to being distracted by him.

“It must be hard to be you.” I blurted out.

“Hmm?” He turned slightly.

I felt my face getting hot “I-I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to say that.”

He sat at one of the chairs and turned toward me. He didn’t look offended. “What do you mean?”

I was really embarrassed. “I just. I don’t know. Your brain works in a way that most people can’t even comprehend, and because of that you don’t quite understand how other people work. I mean, you do in the technical sense, but you know…” I took a deep breath “And you probably got made fun of a lot…I’m sorry. I don’t really have a filter.”

He laughed slightly. “I guess it was hard to be this way, but I’ve pretty much gotten used to it. Luckily, I don’t really notice when people make fun of me. I have good friends, and I wouldn’t change anything.” He smiled and nodded.

I smiled back.

“Is it hard being new?” He asked. “I think you might be projecting your worries.”

I nodded. “I mean, everyone’s great, but they all have so much more experience and years, and I feel, I dunno, different, weird.”

“How about we be different and weird together?” He asked kindly. “Because I’m definitely both of those things.”

My heart warmed at the kind gesture. “That would be great.”

He turned back to the board “How much experience do you have with decoding?”

 *****

“Yes, and so the introduction of Christmas trees, wreaths, and other things we think of as traditional Christmas decorations are actually pagan in origin, introduced when the Christians were trying to get more people to convert.” He rattled off.

I nodded. “Why were the Christians so set on converting so many people? I mean I get that they really believed it but as far as I know their God didn’t teach violence as a form of proselyting.”

“Actually…”

His mind was such a brilliant place, every time I talked to him I learned more and found myself trying to look up information that I didn’t know so that I could have these conversations with him. I found that if I started talking about facts from the myths and legends I specialized in he would immediately supplement it with more. If I kept asking him questions he would keep answering. I was hooked. Other people seemed annoyed when he babbled some random facts and they would roll their eyes even more when I continued to have a conversation off of that topic.

“Two nerds in a pod.” That’s what Garcia said whenever she saw us talking like that, like she wasn’t a nerd at all.

“I would define myself as more of an egghead.” I would reply to her.

Spencer would always laugh at that. He told me that the term originated in 1952 with some presidential candidate I could never remember the name of.

“Thank you.”

I snapped out of my reverie. “For what?”

“For always listening to me.”

I furrowed my brow “Of course.”

“I say that because you actually listen, and then reply. People usually don’t do that to me.”

“Oh. Well you are the most fascinating person I’ve ever met. I could listen to you for hours.” I smiled.

I saw his cheeks redden a little. “You have.”

We both chuckled.

*****

I don’t quite know if my feelings for this man started the day I saw him, or later on, if they came all at once, or if they built up over time, all I knew is that one day I realized I was fully head over heels in love with my best friend and coworker Spencer Reid.

Unfortunately, this meant that I lost all my chill whenever I was around him. Sometimes he would walk into a room and I would walk straight out so that he wouldn’t see how flustered I got. Instead of making meaningful glances at each other whenever someone made a significant factual or grammatical error I would stare straight ahead. I even avoided the coffee shop where we both always ended up getting our morning meal and walking to work together. One day he seemed to be around me so much that I went to hide in a broom closet during lunch. I really didn’t want him to know. I was younger than him, definitely not as smart, and nothing that he deserved looks-wise, and he was smart enough to figure out my feelings.

So I just avoided him.

Being the genius he is, he still found me, in the broom closet, eating my peanut butter and jelly sandwich like some sort of outcast in high school.

“What are you doing in here?” He peeked through the door.

I felt my eyes widening. “Um, eating?”

He looked around. “Well can I eat in here with you? I feel like we haven’t talked in a while.”

“I actually, have to leave soon, I need to run an errand…” I stopped when I saw the hurt look on his face.

There was a pause.

“Why have you been avoiding me?” He looked at the ground, the door clicking closed behind him.

“I haven’t.”

“Yes you have, don’t deny it.” He sat down opposite me. “We’re friends. I want to know if something’s wrong. If I’ve done something wrong.”

My heart seized and I almost cried. “No Spencer, you’ve done nothing wrong.” I covered his hand in mine, realized what I was doing and folded my arms back up. There was so much more I wanted to say but it started coming out as tears instead. “I’m sorry. I’m such a wimp.” I wiped my eyes and managed a weak laugh.

“I don’t think you’re a wimp.” He pulled a tissue box from the supply shelf and handed me a tissue. “I just want to help. What’s wrong?”

I looked at his sincere brown eyes, he was leaning toward me and he set a hand on my shoulder. I needed to be honest with him.

“Ok. I need to tell you something.”

He nodded, looking slightly concerned.

“Please don’t think any less of me, and please still be my friend afterwards, I can get over it.”

He now just looked confused. “Get over what?”

I covered my face and gave a rather unattractive sniffle. “I have a huge crush on you, but it’s ok, because we can still be friends, right? I can get over it. I know I’m weird, and young, and you probably don’t have interest in me, I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” I took a breath. “I’ll just go.”

I tried to get up, but he took my hand and pulled me back down. “That’s why you’ve been avoiding me?”

I nodded, not daring to look him in the face. “I’m sorry.”

“Stop apologizing, you have nothing to apologize for.”

“Spence, you’re my best friend, and I didn’t want to jeopardize that, and I’m really sorry.”

He didn’t say anything so I glanced up at him only to see him staring at me.

“What?” I wiped my eyes. My heart beat faster afraid of what he was going to say next.

Before I knew what was happening his lips were on mine and his arms were wrapped around me, pulling me closer. I was shocked for a second before I relaxed into him and put my arms around his shoulders. My brain still wasn’t processing what was happening when it was all over and I was looking at him again.

“What?” I said again, this time slightly out of breath.

He smiled. “Um, I probably should have given you some warning.” His arms were still around me.

I just blinked.

“I hope you don’t mind not being friends anymore, I was thinking we could be something more.”

The smooth bugger with his big fancy brain. My brain still hadn’t caught up. “That was exceptionally smooth Spencer.” Was all I could get out.

He chuckled. “So?”

I smiled finally, and cupped his face with my hand. “Let’s be weird together?”

“That would be great.”

“Spencer?”

“Yes?”

My words failed me as I looked into the face of the man that I love. There were still so many things I wanted to say. Instead, I pulled him into a hug.

“Don’t worry, I’m not going anywhere.” He said. “You’re stuck with me for a long time.”

And that was all I needed to hear.

[reddielibrary]

prompt: both work at the coffee shop and talk sometimes but that's enough to make each of them fall for each other. one day business is slow so richie and eddie get some coffee and have a mini date in their own job!! boom then they're rlly in love and they all live happily ever after - for anonymous

written by: Alexis | @quixoticquest

read on AO3

“I’m sorry ma’am, the peppermint bark latte is a seasonal drink. We don’t serve it until December.”

“What? Are you kidding me?” The woman across the counter levelled an incredulous glare at Eddie, as if he had spit in her face instead of reporting something he thought to be very reasonable. “I drove all the way here and you don’t have it?”

“We don’t. It’s a holiday drink,” Eddie answered, clinging to the scripted explanations that usually worked on perfectly rational customers. Who the fuck wanted a hot mint chocolate coffee in the summer anyway?

This woman, however, was anything but rational. “Can’t you just grab some syrup from the back, or whatever the hell you use to make it? It’s not that hard to flavor a latte.”

“We don’t have what we use to flavor it, ma’am. Since it’s, y’know, June?”

“Don’t get fresh with me! I know what month it is!”

“Then you should know we don’t have any fuc-”

“Whoa there, amigo.” The edge in Eddie’s voice died off as his coworker sidled up next to him - as if there was any room in front of the POS for two. “That’s no way to talk to a customer as lovely as any other.” Smooth as you like, Richie took over, laying it on thick. “No worries, ma’am, we might not have peppermint bark, but I’ll tell you what we do have - mint, and mocha. I’ll whip you up a latte with both and you won’t even know the difference. We don’t have the peppermint flakes to sprinkle on top but I can do chocolate shavings. Whaddaya say?”

For a tense moment, they glared between the three of them, The Good, the Bad and the Ugly style. Eddie wasn’t sure where he and Richie fell but he was pretty damn certain this nuisance customer was decidedly the Ugly.

“I guess that’s fine,” she finally grumbled, leaving Eddie to wonder where that grudging acceptance had been when he was dishing out facts.

“Awesome! Eds here’ll ring you up for that. You want any whipped cream?”

“Just to melt into the latte? No thank you.”

The awful woman passed over a wad of bills and moved on to the pickup counter without even dropping her change in the tip jar. When no one came through the dinky door at the front of the shop, and no one to the register, Eddie took up the flimsy plastic sleeve of hot cups Richie had been using to stock up, before he swooped in to save the day.

“I could have handled that,” he mumbled next to Richie as he shoved cups into the rack, unable to use his normal volume with the Peppermint Bark Bitch within earshot.

“You could have,” Richie exclaimed, nodding enthusiastically, squirting equal parts mocha and mint into the steaming cup in his hand. “You would have cursed her out and it would have been glorious. I might weep hot tears of joy just thinking about it. But also, like, you probably would have gotten fired, which isn’t so glorious, ya know? ‘Specially since I’d be so lost without you.”

Richie winked, and topped the dumb latte off with a sprinkle of the aforementioned chocolate shavings, before passing it down to the pickup counter. Eddie stood there, hands planted on his hips, frowning - doing a very good impression of someone who didn’t get flustered at the mercy of one stupid wink.

With that awful woman on her merry stupid way, the rest of the shop appeared exceedingly empty. Four o’clock on a weekday in the summer wasn’t the most prolific hour for a small town coffee shop, with lunchtime passed and the morning rush long over - which meant all they could really do before their shift was over, was clean and restock until someone else came in.

When it came to maintenance, Eddie always worked faster than Richie, wiping down the machines and filling the cups and lids like a champ - while the dumb brunet spent ten minutes at a time with a rag in the pastry case. Depending on how long they had been there, he may or may not start whining too. Whatever the reason for Richie’s shitty cleaning ethic, though, he made up for it in spades with his customer service. How he got through the full five or six hours without throwing a piping hot cup of coffee in some asshole’s face, Eddie would never know.

“This is boring,” Richie huffed, already whining as he crossed his arms leaning over the counter, where the orange afternoon sun set all the muted browns in the wood and his hair and apron to sepia. “I dunno why mid shift has to do this. Night shift does a whole fucking sweep of the place and God knows only the truckers and drunks are gonna be in here then.”

“Maybe food service isn’t for you,” Eddie mentioned, just barely managing to keep the smile from curling in the corner of his mouth.

“You’re right.” The four-eyed brunet sighed as if he had the weight of the world on his shoulders (he didn’t), spinning to perch the other way, with his elbows balanced on the counter. His voice took on a soulful southern twang. “Mama always told me to get outta this one horse town. That I was born for the stage. That we’re all born superstars. She’d roll my hair, and put my lipstick on, in the glass of her boud-”

He got a face full of coffee-soaked rag, courtesy of Eddie. “Those are the lyrics to Born This Way!”

He didn’t realize he was staring until Richie transitioned entirely, hauling himself up to stand straight, for once.

“You don’t belong here either,” he mentioned, pointing a finger toward Eddie’s chest. “I’d peg you for a lawyer, but I’m not sure that mouth of yours would fly with the judge.”

“You’re one to talk,” Eddie retorted. Truthfully, he didn’t know what he wanted, or where he wanted to be. Just that this job payed a little better than minimum wage, included tips, and would hopefully get him somewhere better, someday.

He could think of one thing he might want though, glancing sidelong at Richie, aimlessly tidying the display next to the counter. And he didn’t even have to pay for it at all.

“I can’t really think of anything else to straighten up,” Eddie admitted eventually, rubbing his teeth over his bottom lip as his gaze trailed around the service area.

“You know what that means. Break time!” Spinning on the heels of his worn-out Chuck Taylors, Richie yanked a plastic cup from the stand - indication enough that he was going for his usual frozen favorite. “I’m making myself a drink.”

Suddenly, spurred by his presumption, an absurd idea came over Eddie. Without really thinking, he came forward and snatched the cup out of Richie’s hand, with all the gusto of someone following through with a concise course of action. This, however, was anything but.

“I know how you take yours,” he finally said, his mouth working at the same speed as his brain. “Bet I can make it perfectly.”

Richie blinked for a way too long second, long enough that Eddie’s blood started rushing with the weight of how stupid he was being. But finally, the idiot’s face took on a look of mock judgement, and he crossed his arms with put-upon petulance.

“Alright, Edspresso, do your worst.”

Calm again, and set to task, Eddie set the cup down on the prep counter and got to work. “A large caramel mocha frappe, no espresso,” he explained, narrating his actions with a dramatic roll of his eyes as he shovelled ice, milk and syrup into the blender. For a few seconds the tiny coffee shop filled with the buzz of the spinning blades, and Eddie remained silent until the noise settled, along with the thick concoction.

“Caramel drizzle around the cup,” he continued, demonstrating just so (with expert drizzling skill, if he did say so himself). He poured the frappe mixture into the cup, and darted away to grab the whipped cream can out of the ice bin. “Extra extra extra whipped cream, and to top it all off, caramel and chocolate drizzle.”

When all was said and done, with the dome lid capped over a mountain of whipped cream shooting out the hole in the middle, Eddie presented drink and straw to Richie, smiling rather smugly.

“In short, a diabetic coma waiting to happen.”

That familiar, toothy grin split onto Richie’s face, and he slow clapped for Eddie (a ridiculous gesture that definitely didn’t have him several sorts of secretly flattered).

“Well how ‘bout that.” The frappe passed from Eddie’s hands into Richie’s and he took a sip off the straw, indulging a few lip-smacks, wafting the cup under his nose as if it were wine. “Not bad, Eds, not bad. Your top drizzle is a little sloppy but I know the nozzle on the chocolate is fucked. Solid nine and a half.”

“Oh buzz off, Richie.” Eddie made to jab the idiot in the ribs but Richie was too fast, side-stepping with all the grace of a gangly newborn horse. The idiot then set his frozen confection on the counter, and plucked out another plastic cup.

“Now for you.” Winking again, Richie bopped the cup against Eddie’s nose, but was gone before the shorter brunet could protest - and the potential of Richie knowing how he took his coffee was just too great to resist, and so he clammed up.

“Medium iced hazelnut,” Richie began easily, with the tone and air of a proper English butler whilst shovelling ice and squirting flavoring. “Little less ice. Two sugars, two skim, two shots of espresso - which is probably why you’re so wound up all the time, but that’s none of my business.”

A sprinkle of sugar here and a spot of milk there and he filled the rest of the cup with coffee, gave it a good mix, and snapped a lid on before finally offering the drink to Eddie. “Short and sweet, just like you.”

“Wow, thanks,” Eddie mentioned, almost tightly as he took the coffee out of Richie’s hands, lips twitching as he fought yet another smile. Judging by Richie, who couldn’t resist a smile, he probably thought he had done a fantastic job. And to some extent, he had.

“But this is my morning order,” Eddie declared, closing his lips over the straw for a sip anyway.

Richie’s face fell. “What?!”

“Two espresso shots in the afternoon? Are you fucking nuts? My heart’ll give out.” Eddie rolled his eyes and scoffed. “If I get iced coffee later in the day I ditch the espresso and go one skim. I might even get a small too.”

“Well that’s not my fault! Sorry I don’t know the inner workings of your complicated coffee regimen!”

“Shut up, you dumbass,” Eddie griped. Before his lips could stretch too much, he took another sip, effectively quelling any inclination to smile. No way he was going to let himself finish the entire caffeine-pumped drink, though. “Besides, you were technically right anyways.”

Richie seemed satisfied with that at least, taking a moment to lick off the whipped cream puffing out over his cup. Eddie watched him for a moment, out of the corner of his eye. Even if his coffee hadn’t been completely right, there was something sort of delightful, knowing Richie had noticed enough to get his usual order down like that. All those mornings on the way to class, when Richie was scheduled and Eddie wasn’t. Busy with the regulars, and still managing to remember all those details.

Eddie could only wonder if Richie remembered them for all the same reasons.

“Hey, can I try?” Richie asked all of a sudden. “I’ve never had hazelnut before.”

“I thought you didn’t like espres-” Without warning, Richie’s head loomed down and close, and just when Eddie thought he might steal a sip from the straw, he shifted forward instead, slotting their lips together.

Richie’s mouth was cold from his frappe, and his breath tasted like mocha more than it tasted like caramel. Eddie blinked for a few endless seconds, heat creeping up into his ears and cheeks, until his friend and coworker finally slipped away - still bent at eye-level.

“Well hey,” Richie murmured, voice low as his dark eyes glinted behind his thick glasses. “Hazelnut tastes pretty good.”

Eddie shoved his hand up into Richie’s face, heart pounding as the idiot yelped and stumbled back. They calmed down just in time for the bell to tinkle over the door, and work and routine resumed in the little coffee shop once again.

Tagging: @princesass-theresa @r-u-reddie @stellarbisexual 

[grumpyglosoli]

Had a really difficult weekend mental-health wise and am finding that the times that I’m most in need of being able to perform self-care are the times that it’s also the most difficult for me to perform self-care. If I’m feeling especially low or dark, there’s a good chance that I don’t have the energy/executive function/compassion for myself that’s necessary to move forward with helpful or productive tasks. It’s frustrating. I keep thinking that I need to learn to truly be in my own corner, to be my own biggest ally, to vouch for myself. I need to be emotionally self-sufficient so that my emotions are less reliant on the actions and reactions of other people around me. I need to be able to perform self-care when I’m struggling. Who else is going to help me out of this if not myself?

I need to learn to be alone and to be lonely. To some degree I’ve been trying to lean into the feelings of loneliness and accept them as something that feels necessary and valid but I’m not there yet, and I think leaning in to loneliness sometimes feels destructive rather than productive. 

I don’t LIKE the feeling, it’s scary and it’s isolating, and there are times I feel more alone than I’ve ever been, even though I know there are still people out there who more or less enjoy me as a person and care about my well-being. In spite of disliking the feeling, part of me thinks that letting myself feel it is important. I think feeling alone may be required for me to become more self-sufficient and more of an advocate for myself and my well-being. I’m not sure how else I’m going to get through this and change into a stronger/better/different person.

Still, the acceptance of being alone and feeling lonely is probably a ways off. People help to ground me and I feed off of positive social interactions, in spite of being shy and socially awkward. For most of my life I’ve considered myself an introvert, but the more recent definitions have me pinned as more of an extrovert. 

So, being without that kind of social energy should force me to figure out where to come up with similar energy and motivation from within (maybe? hopefully).

Sometimes (like Saturday night) in spite of my best efforts I end up in a pit of feeling shitty & hopeless. I had a REALLY hard time getting myself to do anything beyond scroll social media while lying in bed, which ended up being mildly triggering due to a friend on Facebook posting pictures that reminded me of...the current situation. I had this immediate reaction where I was like “well, maybe I should unfollow/unfriend them on Facebook”, but the person posting the pictures doesn’t...actually have much to do with the situation, so. Might be overkill.

I will also say that the Holly/Projared shit was pretty awful to read about for similar reasons. I always considered myself a fan of Holly, so...reading what she did was SO, so fucking disappointing. That’s kind of how I feel about people in general right now though lmao

Dunno. Don’t know where I’m going with this. It was a tough weekend. The week should be a bit better because I’ll be at work, and my coworkers are good people, so I’ll have some basic day-to-day social stuff to keep myself occupied.  I was thinking of taking an extra day off for Memorial Day weekend & making it a four day weekend, because I need...a break, but work has also been a place that’s comforted and grounded me lately. So...I’m rethinking it. I want a break from work because it’s also been monotonous and I’m burned out and tired, but I’m not sure that four days of doing nothing would be good for me right now. 

To clarify, I guess, the actual work I do is not particularly positive or exciting. It’s the social environment that helps, and the fact that it’s something so low-stress and routine, and it may even help to get out into Seattle and have a change of scenery.

Similarly, been wanting to ramp down on my SSRI meds, but that in itself is difficult so I don’t know if now is the time. I want it to be the time! I’ve been on these meds for too long and right now feels like a time of change in general. Part of me thinks that because everything is changing I should bite the bullet and ramp down my dose, but. I’m worried it’d compound the difficult things I’ve been dealing with.

In more positive news:

Stretched ears up to 2g successfully. Hurt a bit the first day, but have been feeling fine since. I’m not totally sure what my goal size is yet, but probably 0g or 00g. I’m telling myself I won’t buy any of the pricier plugs/tunnels until I’m at my goal size. Saw Detective Pikachu with...myself (lmao see above), but it was really cute and had some clever writing. Most of the realistic pokemon designs were really good imo.

?????? having trouble coming up w/anything else that’s positive at the moment but I’m gonna go make myself exercise

[wrassleslashlibraryarchive]

🎃💀👻You’re wearing the same costume as my friend and I’m sorry for sneaking up on you like that I didn’t meant to scare you so badly/tacklehug you…oh my god, please don’t cry/hit me…🎃💀👻

Relationship: Dean Ambrose/Seth Rollins

Title: Moon of My Life

WSL Prompt Contest Entry number: S1

Summary: none provided by author

Dean’s probably had one too many to drink, but he’s been stuck at this party for hours, waiting for Roman to finally arrive, and waiting is fucking boring, okay? There’s only so much waiting a guy can do when he knows no one, and one drink turned into two turned into four, and he feels good, loose and relaxed and mellow, just enough beer in his system for a pleasant buzz.

The party is some Halloween shindig Roman was invited to, and because he didn’t want to go alone to a party where he’d only know his coworkers, he’d begged and pleaded until Dean finally caved and agreed to tag along.

Who throws parties on a Sunday, Dean wants to know, because if it were a Friday or a Saturday, Dean would be at home, babysitting for Roman so that Roman could be here, with his wife.

Roman had said he’d be late, that he had to make a stop before he’d arrive, some shit about the finishing touches on his costume or whatever, Dean doesn’t remember, but that was hours ago. Hours and hours and he should’ve been here already, but Dean’s looked everywhere, and there’s only so much solo drinking Dean can do before he starts to feel like a pathetic loser, standing off to the side like a fucking loner.

He meanders back into the kitchen, anyway, the cup in his hand once again empty. Might as well grab another beer since it doesn’t look like Roman plans on showing up anytime soon. The rooms are all packed, hazy with smoke, and everyone is dressed in some kind of costume or another.

Dean? Dean doesn’t do costumes, is wearing his usual beat up boots, jeans with a rip in the knee, a plain white t-shirt, and his leather jacket.

But here? There’s everything from Superman to Batman, Minnie Mouse to Cinderella, firemen to doctors to nurses, in all states of dress and undress..

There’s a group of people crowding around the keg, and Dean grins, because Roman is finally here, that late ass shithead. He stumbles a little as he moves forward, too many people to walk through without tripping or stumbling over someone’s foot, slings an arm around Roman’s shoulder and scrubs a hand through his hair, knowing Roman will curse him to hell and back for ruining the neat braid he has it pulled back in.

Only, it’s not Roman who turns to look at him. It’s someone Dean’s never seen before, with big brown eyes, a neatly trimmed beard, and an irritated look on his face.

”Sorry,” Dean says quickly, removing his arm and shoving his hand into his pocket. He’s been hit for a lot less, and this guy looks like he’s seriously thinking about throwing a punch. “Thought you were someone else, sorry.”

The guy’s irritated expression rapidly changes into one of amusement, however, and he claps a hand to Dean’s chest, says, “Don’t worry about it, man.”

”S’just, my friend Roman, said he’d be wearin’ somethin’ like that. You kinda look like him,” Dean explains, though he’s not quite sure why. Probably all the beer he’s had. Or the fact that Roman is eight thousand fucking hours late, and Dean’s bored, in dire need of someone–anyone–to talk to.

”Khal Drogo?” the guy asks, “from Game of Thrones?”

Dean nods. He’s pretty sure that’s what Roman had said he was going to be dressed as. Dean’s never seen an episode in his life, so he has no idea who or what Khal Drogo is, only that the costume involves not a whole lot of clothing, because the guy standing in front of him is shirtless, some kind of leather-like corset thing around his waist, and a pair of mud-stained khakis that are rolled up past his ankles, his feet bare.

”Think so, yeah,” Dean says.

”What about you?” the guy asks, gesturing wildly with the hand that’s not holding his drink. “Who’re you s’posed to be? It’s a pretty cool costume.”

Dean laughs, shakes his head. “Costume? This ain’t a costume. I dress like this every day, man.”

The guy looks at him with wide, brown eyes, his mouth dropped open a little. “Oh.”

There are a thousand and one things that float through Dean’s head at once, but the one that sticks is jesus, what a fuckin’ pretty mouth, and that he wouldn’t mind getting infinitely more intimate with it.

There’s already a bolt of want that settles and simmers low in his belly at the sight of a pink tongue swiping over that bottom lip, and Dean’s had just enough to drink that the idea of wrapping his hand around this guy’s wrist and hauling him off to the closest empty room is sounding better and better with each second that passes.

Beer makes Dean horny, whatever, sue him.

An arm around his shoulders stops him from moving forward, however, halting his plans for the moment.

”Yo, Deano, where you been?” Roman’s ruffling Dean’s hair, and he somehow has a cup filled with beer, though Dean hasn’t seen him in the kitchen once in the hours he’s been here. “Seth, c’mon, I thought we agreed you’d wear somethin’ different.”

Who the fuck is Seth, Dean wants to ask, but then the guy dressed just like Roman starts talking, and oh, oh, that’s Seth. Seth, alright, okay.

”Nah, man,” Seth says with a shake of his head. “We didn’t agree on anything.”

Dean looks back and forth between Roman and Seth, wondering how the fuck Roman knows him, and why the hell he kept him hidden from Dean. That’s–that’s unacceptable, really.

”No, you said you’d just wear somethin’ different because you didn’t wanna look like a lame knock-off when I look just fuckin’ like Jason Momoa.” Roman sounds legitimately pissed off, and it’s more than a little amusing to Dean, because Roman is fucking unflappable even in the most stressful of situations.

”I’m the one who got you into Game of Thrones in the first place!” Seth exclaims, waving his hands a little enthusiastically, whatever’s in his cup sloshing over the rim.

Dean blinks slowly, then finally says, “It’s a fuckin’ costume, holy shit. I’m sure there are eighty thousand other people dressed as Khal fuckin’ whatever. Unbunch your underwear, and move the fuck on.”

”At least we bothered to dress up,” Roman mumbles, and Dean turns to look at him with narrowed eyes.

”I dunno,” Seth says, drawing Dean’s attention back to him. He’s licking his lips again, his eyes moving up and down Dean’s body like a touch Dean can feel. “He could pass for a grungy hipster, or what’s his face, y’know, the guy from Grease?”

”Danny fuckin’ Zuko?” Dean says through gritted teeth. He kind of wants to punch himself in the face for even knowing who Seth’s talking about. Fuck.

Roman snorts out a laugh, leaning his head against Dean’s shoulder. “I see that, man. Holy shit, I never noticed that.”

Dean shrugs Roman off and away. Fucking asshole best friend. First he keeps Seth from him, then they yuck it up like he’s some fucking greaser singing some dumbass songs about summer loving or whatever the fuck.

”I need another drink,” Dean says, heading back to the keg. Roman and Seth and their fuckin’ Grease bullshit. There isn’t enough beer on the planet for that. He fills his cup and takes a long swallow, filling it once again before moving back to where Roman and Seth are standing. “So, how do you two know each other?”

”Pretty sure I’ve mentioned that we work together, Dean,” Roman says, rolling his eyes.

Well, fucking sue Dean, it’s not his fault he doesn’t pay attention to 95% of the shit Roman says about work. It’s all the same thing, anyway, bitching about how someone in some department couldn’t find his ass with a map if you paid him to.

Dean takes another drink, watching Seth over the rim of his cup. Maybe if Roman would’ve said Seth looks like this, he would’ve bothered to pay attention.

”Dude,” Roman says, shaking his head. He looks like he’s trying really hard not to laugh.

Seth’s looking a little pink, and oh, Dean apparently said that out loud. Whatever. Like Seth hasn’t been checking him out for the last however many minutes.

Dean shrugs. “I said what I said.”

”Alright, Casanova, finish your damn drink. You gotta open the garage tomorrow, remember?”

That’s a fucking buzzkill. He’s seen Roman for all of five minutes, because the fucker was hiding somewhere, he couldn’t drink as much as he wanted, and he can’t stay and talk to Seth. This is bullshit.

”I didn’t, til you reminded me,” Dean says, frowning. He doesn’t want to leave now, wants to stay right where he is, sneaking glances at Seth as long as he can get away with, before pulling him somewhere and kissing the breath from his lungs.

”Which garage?” Seth asks. His eyes seem to be glued to Dean’s hands, and Dean has to fight down a smirk. He knows how good his hands are, knows the things they’re capable of, the way his palms are rough with calluses, and how there’s always engine grease caked beneath his nails, in the dips and whorls of his skin no matter how hard he scrubs them clean.

”Uhhh, Ambrose Auto Repair,” Dean says, fighting back a grin. He’s owned the business for years, has had his name emblazoned on the building for just as long, but it will never not send a jolt of satisfaction through him, how he came from nothing to being here now, owning and running a successful garage with more money than he knows what to do with.

”You any good at what you do?” Seth asks, equal parts genuinely curious and flirtatious.

Dean smirks, raises an eyebrow. “Sure hope so,” he says teasingly, “seein’ as I own the place.”

”Deano’s the best,” Roman cuts in, wrapping an arm around Dean’s shoulder again. “There ain’t any car he can’t fix.”

Dean blames the beer for the way his face flushes.

”I’ll remember that,” says Seth.

Dean finishes the last of his beer, setting the cup down on the counter where there are other cups littering the surface. A glance at his watch tells him it’s nearing one in the morning, and when the fuck did it get so late? Where the fuck was Roman all night?

”You gonna have time to stop by for lunch tomorrow?” Dean asks Roman quietly. It’s routine, Roman stopping by every Monday and Friday for lunch, unless there’s something urgent that keeps him at work.

”You know it.” Roman knocks their foreheads together gently, scrubs his hand through Dean’s hair again, then shoos him out.

”It was nice meetin’ you, Seth,” Dean says, holding out a hand for Seth to shake. Seth does, and Dean’s pleased to find out that Seth’s hand is just as callused–from what, he can’t wait to find out, because Roman works in a fucking architecture firm, and fits perfectly in his own. “You should stop by some time.”

Seth nods slowly, looking a little eager, a little confused. “Yeah, I might,” he says, letting his hand fall from Dean’s. It’s hard to ignore the frissons of heat zooming up Dean’s spine at the touch of Seth’s skin against his own, but he does, putting one foot in front of another, making his way out of the haze-filled house.

He’s grateful he lives close by since he chose not to drive, and the walk home helps dissipate the buzz a little, helps get rid of some of the stagnant smoke smell clinging to his clothes and skin.

He still showers, however, scrubbing himself from head to toe, setting his alarm for a too early 6:00 am, dreaming of pink lips and big brown eyes and a gap-toothed smile.

--

It’s a little later than Dean had hoped to make it into the garage, but the lights are already on, and Sasha is already in, standing behind the front desk with her back to Dean, on her tip-toes as she switches out the Halloween-themed banner for one with turkeys and leaves.

”You’re here early,” Dean says, laughing softly to himself at the way Sasha jumps, a hand clapped to her chest as she turns around to face him with wide eyes.

”Jesus, Dean, what’s wrong with you?”

Dean shrugs. “What’re you doin’ here so early?”

”Just wanted to get all the decorations swapped over,” Sasha explains, “since Halloween is pretty much over, y’know? Don’t think too many people are gonna be having parties on a Tuesday night, right? And besides, Thanksgiving, Dean, Thanksgiving. That means it’s almost Christmas.”

”Have any packages come in yet?” Dean asks, choosing not to focus on any of the holiday stuff. He enjoys Thanksgiving and Christmas, yeah, but not when they’re being shoved down his throat weeks and months ahead of time.

”They’re on your desk, boss,” Sasha says, “and the invoice forms are on top of them.”

Sure enough, there are a few boxes sitting on top of Dean’s desk, and a stack of papers on top of them.

Time to get down to business, then.

--

Dean’s elbow deep under the hood of a 2004 Chevy Malibu, trying to find the remaining pieces of a snapped belt. The first few vehicles were all easy enough, quick oil changes and brake pad replacements that took him no time at all to finish, ahead of the heavy workload he, Antonio, and Sami have when they come in later.

The mornings are Dean’s quiet time, his decompression time, where he’s the only one in the shop aside from Sasha. He likes to come in a little earlier than the rest of his employees to get the easier jobs done, to breathe and relax and settle before the hustle and bustle of the day really starts.

”Hey, Boss-man,” Sasha says, startling Dean enough that he jumps, banging his wrist on the engine. “Shit, sorry.”

Dean blows out a breath. “Not your fault. You know how I get,” he says, pulling the rag from his back pocket and half-heartedly wiping his hands. Dean is in his element when he’s buried beneath a hood. There’s nothing and no one else that exists, focused solely on evaluating, diagnosing, and repairing.

”You’ve uh–you’ve got a visitor?” Sasha sounds a little confused, and the tone of her voice makes Dean’s brow furrow. Roman’s early, and he’s never bothered to stop in and tell Sasha he’s here, choosing instead to walk around like he owns the place. Dean’s pretty confused, too.

Dean shoves the rag back into his pocket, follows behind Sasha to the reception area, and almost face-plants on the carpeted floor.

Seth is running his fingers along the edge of the counter. His hair is pulled back into a neat bun at the base of his neck instead of the braid it was pulled into last night, and gone is the costume, replaced by a fitted pair of slacks that hug every curve of Seth’s legs and ass, and a crisp, white button-down that stretches enticingly across his back and shoulders, highlighting the width and breadth of them.

”Seth?” Dean says, after clearing his throat. He feels completely underdressed, in his ripped and stained jeans, his oil-stained t-shirt with the sleeves cut off, but this is who he is, and he’s not going to pretend to be something other than that for anyone.

Seth turns to Dean with a smile on his face. “Wasn’t expectin’ much from a garage, but this place is actually pretty nice,” he says, waving a hand around to encompass the space surrounding him.

Dean isn’t sure whether to take offense, or to take it as the compliment Seth probably meant it as. Considering it’s Dean’s baby, he’s leaning more toward taking offense.

”That’s a backhanded compliment if I ever heard one,” Dean says, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jeans.

Seth grimaces, says, “Shit, sorry, I didn’t mean it like that,” but Dean just shakes his head, waving it off.

”S’cool,” Dean says, moving a little closer. “Pretty much was just junk and clutter everywhere ‘til Sasha started workin’ here. She’s the one who made it look all nice and shit. Pretty sure she’s the boss, even though I own the place.”

”And don’t you forget it,” Sasha chimes in, grinning and sticking her tongue out at Dean. She’s back at the front counter, rummaging through the stack of papers she has sorted, until she finds what she’s looking for. She hands it to Dean, says, “You’ve got that Cruiser coming in for the water pump and the timing belt in a half hour,” then disappears to the lounge, presumably to give Dean and Seth some kind of privacy.

Dean barely suppresses a groan. He loves working with his hands, loves his shop and working on cars, but fuck does he hate water pumps and timing belts. The amount of hours he has to put into that is so many. Maybe he’ll see if Antonio or Sami wants to take it.

”No time to grab a coffee or something?” Seth asks, looking put out. His hands are in the pockets of his slacks, and he looks so out of place in his clean slacks and button-down, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet, but fuck does Dean want to make a mess of him in the best of ways.

”That’s the nice thing about being your own boss,” Dean says with a grin, “you can do whatever you want.”

Seth grins, and Dean’s heart beats a little faster at the tiny little gap between his teeth.

”Roman’s not gonna mind?” Seth asks, making Dean’s brow furrow in confusion.

”Why would Roman mind?” If Seth means what Dean thinks he means, he’s going to laugh, really hard, then question what kind of person Seth actually is.

”You’re not–you two aren’t…?” Seth trails off, his face flushed.

Dean snorts, laughs. “Jesus, no. He’s my brother,” he says, shaking his head. “I mean, I’m sure he’ll end up sayin’ somethin’, ‘cause that’s just how Rome is, but seriously, man, even you thinkin’ he and I were together wasn’t enough to stop you from comin’ here?”

Seth looks taken aback at being called out, and he opens and closes his mouth half a dozen times before he says, “I wasn’t positive if you were, and on the off-chance that you weren’t, I figured why not?”

”But what if we were, though?” Dean probes. Roman’s married, which makes Dean laugh, because has Seth never seen the pictures Roman has on his desk of his wife and daughter?

”I would’ve turned back around and left,” says Seth with a shrug. “I’m not about that breakin’ people up shit.”

Dean nods. He doesn’t know how much of that he believes, since he doesn’t really know Seth at all, but he’s willing to give Seth the benefit of the doubt, for now.

”You said somethin’ about coffee?” Dean lets the subject go. Seth answered his questions, and without knowing Seth better, there’s not much more Dean can do. He could turn Seth down, send him on his way, but he really wants to see where this goes, if it goes anywhere.

”There’s a coffee shop not too far from here,” Seth suggests, a thumb hooked back over his shoulder.

”Gimme a sec,” Dean says, quickly disappearing back onto the shop floor. He scrubs his hands clean as best as he can, though he knows there will still be grease caked beneath his nails, in the lines of his knuckles.

Seth is still patiently waiting when Dean gets back out, and he smiles softly at Dean in a way that warms Dean down to his toes. “Ready?” he asks.

Dean nods and follows Seth out the door.

--

One Year Later

--

”Dean, hurry up,” Seth calls out, making Dean sigh. He’s been standing in front of the mirror for the last twenty minutes, making faces at himself, because he can’t bring himself to leave the solitude of the bathroom.

”Gimme a minute,” Dean shouts back, gripping the edge of the counter. This was such a stupid fucking idea. Why did he let Seth talk him into this, into wearing this ridiculous costume, into going to his work’s Halloween party, again?

Oh. Yeah. Because Seth was mouthing down the line of his hip, words smeared into the stretch of skin there, and all Dean could do was agree to everything Seth was saying.

Now he’s stuck here, looking like a complete tool, barely resisting the urge to strip off his costume and put his jeans and t-shirt back on.

Dean loves Batman, he does. But he loves Batman as Batman, as Michael Keaton, George Clooney, Cristian Bale, even Ben fucking Affleck, playing Batman, not him dressed as Batman, looking like a fucking total moron.

Seth? Seth looks like sex on legs, in his leather, skin-tight Catwoman suit, every inch of fabric molded to the curves and dips of muscle, the mask on his face making his big, brown eyes seem that much more mesmerizing.

Dean really just wants to take him to bed.

But no, he’s stuck in this fucking costume, looking like a complete idiot because he will never be able to fill out a Batman costume the way it’s meant to be, while Seth gets to look like the hottest thing to ever walk the planet, all because he can’t say no to Seth and his devious, wicked mouth.

”Dean, c’mon,” says Seth, appearing in the bathroom doorway. His mask is hanging around his neck, and his hair is pulled back into a loose bun. Dean can’t stop himself from doing a slow, thorough once over, because jesus, the sight of Seth in all that form-fitting leather will never not make Dean want to rip it off him.

”You done?” Seth asks, an eyebrow raised, looking like he’s trying to fight back a grin.

Dean shrugs. “Turn around,” he says, sticks his tongue out teasingly.

”Incorrigible,” Seth says fondly with a shake of his head. “You look great, Dean, I swear. Can we go now? We’re going to be late.”

Dean sighs, smooths his hands down the front of his costume. “C’mere,” he says, pulls Seth in with a hand around his wrist, until Seth’s back is plastered to his front, so Dean can look into Seth’s eyes in the mirror.

Dean, Batman, and Seth, his Catwoman. Even with how stupid Dean thinks he looks on his own, with Seth standing beside him, they look fucking amazing.

”Alright,” Dean says, “let’s do this.”

[therewillalwaysbeapril]

Chapter 4: Sixteen Hours

6:30 AM The alarm rang abruptly in the stillness of the morning, a rude shrill noise, splintering our warm, nocturnal embrace and throwing us both into the coldness of the day. 

“April, we gotta get up”, I said, mumbling as I shook off the last remnants of sleep. She groaned softly, rolling over and pulling the covers away. “Hey, get up. Geee-tta UGH-PUUUU! Get TU DA CHOPPAH!” I did my terrible Arnold Schwarzenegger impression loudly and poorly, adding in a loud grunt for full effect. 

“Argh, I need muh clothes, my boots, my motorcykalll”, she said, in the same bad Austrian accent without opening her eyes. “Come ONN, do it. Do it Nah-OW!”

Stumbling out of bed, vision still blurry, and nearly tripping over the corner of the blanket now fallen to the floor, I reached over and grabbed from the basket the first item of clothing on the pile of clean laundry that we neglected to fold from the previous night. I pulled open the top drawer of her dresser and felt around for a bra. I threw both toward the bed as I made my way to the bathroom. April put on her top as she stood up. Hair a mess and eyes barely open, April exuded a dreamy, other-worldly quality as she floated from the bed to the sink wearing the dark red floral patterned shirt dress I had bought for her the weekend before. I blow dried my hair into a more presentable state and shaved as she washed her face and finished combing her hair. 

I packed April’s belongings into her backpack for her, the both of us hurrying downstairs to my car. After stopping by a McDonald’s drive-thru on the way, we ate Egg McMuffins sitting in the early traffic heading toward Downtown LA. I looked at her as she opened a ketchup packet.

 “Don’t worry, I’ll be careful!” she said, laughing as she carefully squirted the ketchup onto her hashbrown.

 Briskly walking up the parking lot escalators and half-skipping across Pershing Square, April got to the bus stop just in time as the vehicle screeched to a halt. “WESTWOOD/SANTA MONICA” said the display. A quick kiss goodbye and she was off to class.

8:00 AM The office was dark as I stepped out of the elevator. Walking toward my desk, I was greeted by lights flickering on as motion sensors began to stir. Fresh cup of coffee in hand, I left the kitchen for the far side of the floor toward my favorite viewing spot. 

The Los Angeles morning was peaceful when viewed from high above. Cars moved slowly down Broadway; I could hear their distant honking noises in the early rush hour. Construction workers below near Third Street walked carrying their equipment, passing by the shops just beginning to open in Grand Central Market. From my hawk’s nest I saw a cyclist zipping down Grand Avenue past the Museum of Contemporary Art, in front of which a food truck was beginning to set up shop. My breath and the steam from my coffee fogged the glass as I stepped closer to look at the crowd of people gathering by the Broad. The early light bathed my city in a warm amber glow, thawing its sleepy commuters as a new workday began. Flecks of gold and saffron twinkled as the dawn bounced from the stirring skyscrapers and automobiles, blinding me. I, too, was beginning to wake as I finished my coffee. 

With my headphones on, back at my desk, I continued sketching out the wireframe concepts from the day before. Wireframes are the foundation of plotting out designs for interactive products such as apps and websites. They are a high level way of designing ways in which someone can use a product and the organization for which types of information and interaction appears on which screen, before a designer has to focus on the finer details such as animations, visual appearances, and the style of smaller items such as buttons. Even though the other designers created wireframes in programs I was also familiar with such as Adobe XD or Sketch, I always took great care in sketching out early ideas neatly on paper. I felt there was a purity in shaping ideas away from a computer, a kind of humility in making things with my hands.

8:30 AM The office is still dim as I make myself a second cup of coffee. This was one of those sluggish days; I felt slow to start, and was glad to still be the only person in the office. There was less pressure this way. I returned to my desk and cleaned up my lines with an eraser, reinforcing others with a Sharpie. Boxes with crisscrosses represented images, various other shapes representing icons and call-to-actions. Simple line patterns signified text, clearly showing the underlying grid to the layout. Adding final touches, I drew an outline of an iPhone over all of the screens before using a green colored pen to create the markings that showed how a user interacted and navigated from screen to screen. I felt pride for the cleanliness of my draft, as I never knew whether the second draft in the computer would be made by myself or a different designer. Finished, and satisfied with my work, I walked over to the simple Kanban board on the far wall and moved the task’s corresponding post-it note from the column labeled “in work” to the column labeled “done”.

Aside from a few coworkers from accounting, the floor was still mostly deserted. Sitting back and listening to the rest of Bach’s Goldberg Variations on my headphones, I fidgeted at my desk for a while. Impatient, I walked back over to the job board and grabbed one of the tasks from the column labeled “backlog” and moved it to “in work”. This should keep me occupied, I thought.

10:00 AM Standup was always kind of fun. Normally I have always preferred to work alone, with headphones on, lost in thought as I built designs and mockups, in an almost-meditative state of flow. However, I liked my coworkers very much, and it was also nice to see everyone at the beginning of the day and update one another on our work progress in the morning as we created the pieces of our product together. I enjoyed this kind of organized interaction that afforded me boundaries and space to create.

 <Walalala..>, texted April. It was her way of greeting. Warm and cheerful, albeit at times a little silly, it was a greeting that I had come to love. It would also be a salutation I would receive less and less over time until I would not see it at all. <What you doing?>, she added.

<Designing more apps. What about you?>

<Nothing bored in class>

<Lol. You should pay attention! I’m pretty tired too. I don’t think I woke up yet>

<I miss you.>

<Haha, I miss you a little too.>

<Only a little bit? Fine! Text me when u miss me a lot!>

<Ok I miss you alot>

<Pfft, you still need me to remind you?>

<Ha, you should pay attention in class. Your mom will kill me if you fail because of me>

<Well you can always quit and go to engineering or med school!>

<YOU can go to med school. I’ll make more apps!>

<Too hard~ And I’m so tired today I don’t want to do anything. Head hurt.>

11:00 AM Sketches spread out on the table before me, I began to create the second round of digital wireframes. As much as I enjoyed sketching, this step was also one of my favorite things to do. The useful aspect having hand sketches was their looseness — from a high level perspective, during this stage there were still so many possibilities. Creating the first digital wireframe versions, despite their inherent roughness, narrowed down those possibilities. To do so felt like taking a camera lens and turning it slowly into focus. At this stage, it was not a crisp focus, but much more recognizable as a coherent direction. The process was therapeutic as it was methodical; moving through it step by step, there was room to make improvements on the fly, perfecting each idea. However, today, my process of refinement would be interrupted by a different task.

There needed to be a version of our project for a new client, said marketing. A simple mockup of our app must be made in the style of our new client, a baseball team. The refinement of the new screen designs would have to wait. Grumbling to myself a little, I closed the program and neatly piled the sketches into my drawer.

<Heyyy, why u ignoring me?>

<Sorry, some other stuff came up at work>

<So sad but it’s okay. I feel so sleepy and tired>

<Maybe have some coffee? I’m on my second cup already>

<I dunno. Stomach hurt a bit too>

<I’m sorry. Would you feel better if you ate something? What are you gonna get for lunch?>

<Expensive grass, haha>. “Expensive grass” was April’s name for salad. They always cost more than they should, she would remark.

<btw…>

<what’s wrong?> Nothing good ever happened when April said “by the way”.

<If I go back to Taiwan after graduation, can we still be friends?>

<We’re not breaking up. We can make this work>

<I mean, if. Can we please stay friends? I can’t imagine a day without you, even if we’re only friends>

<I want you to stay though. We can figure this out>

<I don’t know…>

12:00 PM It is lunchtime. Mood now sour, I didn’t feel like leaving the building. After informing my deskmates that I was taking my lunch break, I grabbed a stale bagel from the kitchen and microwaved it with a slice of cheese. Taking that and a diet soda from the fridge, I returned to my viewing corner.

We had only recently moved into the forty fourth floor of the building from six floors above. The company had now grown bigger and the fiftieth floor was not enough space. However, it was only the design, marketing, and accounting teams on this floor, leaving most of it empty. In fact, we only occupied one corner, leaving the other three quiet and deserted. I enjoyed taking walks around the empty areas, sometimes even bringing my cello to work and practicing in one of the empty rooms during breaks. Today though, I only wanted to look outside and think.

Now midday there was visible smog in the Los Angeles air.  Protestors were forming on Grand Avenue. I looked closer, curious as to the reason for this group. I could not make out the writing on their signs. A car accident was visible further down on the 2nd Street intersection, blocking it off. The authorities closed off one of the lanes, backing up traffic. A bus awkwardly took up both lanes as it attempted to merge into the available space. An adjacent driver made a rude hand gesture out of his window. I sighed, feeling exhausted as I learned against the wall near the window. I sat on the floor as I drank my soda and looked out of the floor to ceiling window, thinking. The conversation I thought of was not with April, but one with someone else, from a different day, in a different language.

•••

<Your girlfriend is really pretty! I saw the pictures you posted to WeChat yesterday>

<Yeah, I took her to the airplane museum the other day.>

<Do you spend everyday with her?>

<Well, she kept asking me to stay over, and then I had to stay with her after she crashed her car. Lately though, she tells me she just doesn’t like it when I’m away. It feels weird, but I’m really happy with her and I love her, so I guess I’m not complaining. She’s been coming to work with me and taking the bus to school too>

<Hey, you should pace yourself. All couples need their space from time to time.>

<Maybe? Sometimes I go to work and five minutes after I leave she texts me that she misses me. I think she’s very sweet.>

<Okay, I’m just looking out for you. What if she turns out to be one of those possessive types?>

<She told me she gets jealous easily. A lot of my female friends came to my birthday party and she told me she felt weird about it. ‘I’m very jealous’, she said.>

<Hey! I knew it!! Is that why you didn’t answer any of my calls or texts last winter in China?>

<Sorry. I guess it’s just weird, what happened between us.>

<Why would you tell her that…>

<She had someone else she was trying to get over and I was trying to comfort her.>

<Well, nothing happened between us!>

<I know! Well, I don’t know. You are one of my best friends, and what happened affected me very deeply. It may have been nothing to you, but it was definitely something to me.

<I’m sorry about that. I really am. I was as confused as you too. I never meant to be cruel. I hurt you, and I ended up hurting myself too.>

<I’m glad we’ve moved past it and we’re still friends>

<How long have we been friends? I was still ten or eleven years old I think? We’ve been best friends for so long even though we are in two different countries. Don’t you think this is a friendship worth keeping?>

<I know! I’m trying to figure this out>

<You promised not to throw this friendship away after you meet some girl remember? You made me a promise.>

<Yes, I remember. And I will keep my word. I just need to figure this out. She’ll come around eventually. I really think the two of you would become great friends.>

<Well, you gotta figure it out eventually, because this is just awkward what you’re doing>

<I just need time…>

••• 

1:00 PM I snapped back to reality as my phone alarm went off. It was time to go back to work.

The caffeine was beginning to wear off. Still debating whether or not I should have a third cup of coffee, I flipped through the Android Material Design Guidelines online, pondering what visual branding treatments were acceptable within Google’s design parameters. Writing down the correct color hex values on a notepad, I began to change colors on app elements in Photoshop, reskinning the interface. The phone beeped again, as another text message arrived from April.

 <I’m sorry. I want to stay with you too. But I’m so worried>

<About what?>, I answered.

 <What if it doesn’t work out between us? In a year? In five?>

<Why are you worried about this now? April, I love you and I’m perfectly happy with you>

<Yeah, but what if we DO break up eventually? You’re not a doctor and I’m supposed to marry a doctor.>

<Come on, I can’t change that>

I stopped working. Taking off my glasses, I sat back in my chair, rubbing my forehead. I was getting very tired.

<I just wish you could accept me for who I am>, I texted back.

<I do! I really want you to make it. I love who you are I just don’t love what you do>

<There’s nothing wrong with what I do. I am a designer and I’m good at it. I make a decent salary and I like my life>

<It’s different>

<Well that’s just your viewpoint. We’re just different, I guess>. I saved my work and walked to an empty conference room.

 <Why do you even love me?>, I texted. My thumbs began to sweat. Typing was becoming difficult.

<I love you because you are kind. I love you because you value family, like me. My friends ask me why I love someone who is not what I want and why I want to change him knowing how much effort I have to put in>

<The only complaints MY friends have about you is these things you say from time to time! It’s so messed up. Maybe your friends are full of shit. At least I love you for YOU>

<I do too! Doctors are all over the place, especially with my family background it’s easy for me to just marry one, but I can’t find a doctor who is YOU>

<I’m getting back to work>

I stomped back to my desk, angrily chucking my empty soda can into a nearby wastepaper basket. A couple of coworkers stared.

3:00 PM For the next two hours, I tried my best to focus on creating more animations. More interactions. I compared the mockups I made against the Android and Apple guidelines. So far, so good. Sending the finished mockups back to marketing, I went back to the kitchen and made myself the third cup of coffee. 

I chugged the hot beverage, nearly searing my throat. I went back to designing the wireframes. There were only three hours left in the workday, and I originally wanted to have had this perfected at the end of the day. 

<Are you done with class yet?>. There was no answer from April.

Frustrated, I placed my phone face down on the table and returned to the designs. These have to get done, I thought. So little time. Fuming, I angrily threw the boxes together on the computer screen, connecting the button hotspots together as violently as someone could inside a digital space. 

 “Hey are you ok?”. It was Julie, who sat across from me behind my monitor. “I can hear you breathing from here”

“I’m fine”, I said. I sat back in my chair and looked at what I’ve made. It was sloppy and nowhere near the level of detail that I have been known for around the office. 

 “Take a break man. I just got an email that we have until the end of the week for these screens now”

“Oh…”

“Yeah. You can just chill”

“I think I’m gonna take a walk then.”

4:00 PM I looked at my watch as I waited in the elevator. Who does she think she is, I thought. So what if I’m not a doctor? Life can’t only be about status. I was so mad. That is such a shallow way of thinking! And it wasn’t me who started all this. I was just minding my own business working. She was the one who had to bring up Taiwan, and her parents’ crazy expectations for who she should be dating. 

 I walked outside briskly in the shade of the tall buildings. It was much louder now that I left the lobby. A street performer was beating a drum across the intersection. A crazy person was yelling about the end of times on the other corner. Good. Noisy enough that no one could see how angry I was.

And I hated the way she texted. How am I supposed to always be at her beck and call? I have a job to do; I can’t be there to simply answer every time she worries about crazy hypotheticals. I was doing fine today, I should’ve simply not answered. And now that she’s finished ruining my day, she’s stopped texting and has gone back to whatever she’s doing leaving me to pick up the pieces. Every single month, we have to have some fight about something completely stupid like this. Every single month — 

Oh. 

April had complained about being tired. April had experienced stomach pains during class. I counted the days since the last time I remembered similar complaints. There were many things I remembered for her. April could be so forgetful.

“Twenty-seven, twenty-eight….”, I counted in my head. I knew what she was going to need.

I stopped at the Rite Aid on 5th and Broadway. Quickly making my way through the aisles, I picked up a pack of Ibuprofen, a box of what appeared to be feminine pads, and a bottle of water. The cashier handed me the items in a paper bag after I made my purchase. Strolling further south, I began to think about what transpired.

Did she really mean all that she said? Perhaps a deeper question was, WHICH of what she said did she actually mean? You can’t tell someone you love them for who they are but also want to change them, I thought. Girls just say crazy things during their time of month right? I checked my phone.

 Still no answer.

 This is bad, I thought. Perhaps I was too harsh. Her car is in working condition. She chose to take the bus because she genuinely wanted to spend time with me. And now she’s probably on the bus home, in pain. All for me. I’m such a jerk, I thought.

Ducking into Bottega Louie on 7th, I bought a box of half dozen French macarons. They were rather pricey, but came in a beautiful box and were, I had heard, delicious. The small rigid box was not unlike jewelry packaging, with beautiful calligraphy and gold speckles dotted throughout its powder purple surface. It was a small gift that was sure to brighten up anyone who was having a less than perfect day.

6:30 PM The workday was now over as I closed my work laptop and packed away my things. The bus from UCLA arrived as I waited on a bench in Pershing Square.

“Hey what took you so long?”, I asked as I took April’s bag from her. 

“I had the most horrible day!” she said.

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t realize I sounded so mean—

“No, not you! My period started and I forgot to bring pads so I had to use tissues. And my phone died, and then the bus had to take a detour. So I needed to get off and wait for another bus, but I couldn’t use Google Maps and I’m so tired and I just want something to eat”

“Well, first things first I guess”

I handed her the box of macarons and discreetly showed her what was in the paper bag. “Let’s find a bathroom,” I said.

She looked into the paper bag. She looked at me. She started giggling, the happiest I’ve seen her all week.

“What? What is it?”

“Have you never bought pads before?”

“Well, no, but I figured you needed them. Was I right?”

“Those are panty liners, not pads!”

“Oh.”

“It’s okay, I’ll be alright. Cmon, let’s eat”

•••

8:30 PM After April had a chance to change, I took her to a nearby Hong Kong styled cafe. It would be nice to have some porridge, she said. 

As we sat down and waited for our food, by reflex I folded April’s chopstick wrapper into an origami chopstick stand, as I have always done since our first date. I looked out the window into the dark. 

The San Gabriel traffic outside was a lot calmer compared to the city. It was quiet and I could just make out the sounds of crickets. A high school couple walked out of the boba shop across the street, laughing to themselves, carefree. An elderly man picked out a newspaper from a box near the entrance. I felt a soft caress on my forearm.

April handed me a crudely folded flower made from a chopstick holder. 

 “I’m sorry about today. I keep forgetting how to fold that fancy origami, but I want to thank you for taking care of me.”

She smiled the familiar funny smile.

•••

9:30 PM As we walked in the darkness at a nearby park, digesting our meal, I stayed quiet. How can I make all nights like tonight?, I thought.  Is there really an expiration date to our happiness? 

Perhaps reading my mind, April said, “I don’t know what we’ll do if I really have to leave…”

I looked at her and kissed her forehead.

“Whatever”, she added. “If I have to go back to Taiwan, I guess I’ll just get another boyfriend, and it’ll be a doctor this time! HA HA!”

I did not laugh.

I let go of her hand and walked a few paces ahead, sullen.

 “I’m kidding!” April grabbed my arm. “I really do love you, alright?”

[visualnoveldiscourse]

Amnesia: Memories- Kent Route, Day 11

Oh boy, we get to work for three days.  Orion is considerate enough to check in with us to make sure we’re ready for the day.  That was sweet.  I think we’re ready!  We haven’t forgotten everything we’ve learned, have we?  

That sounds fun!  Most of our colleagues aren’t totally awful.  In fact, they all seem pretty cool!  It could be lots of fun!  

Oh, oh, fireworks?  Sweet!  This is the literal first time we have heard about the fireworks show, so, uh.  I dunno.  Are we going with Kent?  Kent hasn’t said anything.  Maybe we aren’t going?  That would suck.  We would miss out on hanging out with Kent and on fireworks.  

But then again, Kent was a massive dick yesterday.  Maybe we should boycott him out of protest.  But for the sake of my own personal enjoyment of the game for now, I’m going to ignore the fact that Kent lost his temper and hurt us.  

Oh.  Oops.  We were supposed to know that.  Did Kent forget or is he expecting us to remember without him mentioning it? What if Mine hadn’t said anything at all?  Kent would have been hurt.  

Mine suggested that we all go as a coworkers, but the manager had other plans and couldn’t come, so that outing won’t be happening tomorrow night.  That’s too bad.  Mine sweetly tells us to go and have a good time at the fireworks.  We will do our best, Mine!  

Oh.  Well.  I guess Mine didn’t actually mean that in a friendly way.  Clearly I am good at reading social cues.  I guess it makes sense for her to be jealous when we have a date and she doesn’t and she really wants to have one.  Orion’s brief moment of sympathy for Mine lasted about a second before he says that we need to be worrying about ourselves.  He says we need to find out what our plans were for the fireworks show tomorrow.  That makes sense.  You know what else would make sense?  For us to just ask Kent.  

Oh, or we could use the resources we have on hand!  That works, too! Clever thinking, Orion.  So we have a date with Kent tomorrow at the fireworks show and we’re meeting at the train station.  Orion comments that Kent never even mentioned it.  He’s pretty busy, Orion.  Maybe we should remind him? Oh goodie!  Orion agrees with me! 

And off to work we go.  We have a great day, which is a great feeling.  But then, our manager gets our attention.  Just like me in real life, Orion assumes that we are in so much trouble. But thankfully, this is not the case.  And yet, the manager looks pretty angry with us.  Talk about stressful!

It’s our friendly neighborhood boyfriend!  He compliments us on our work ethic.

Wow, who asked you? I certainly didn’t ask.  Wow, you really can’t give a girl a compliment without making it a backhanded insult, can you? .... And Orion agrees with him, what a pair of assholes.  This is your fault, Orion, I don’t even want to hear it.  

Maybe I’m the one looking to start a fight now.  Anyway, Orion comments on our our old emotions for Kent are coming back.  That’s great news!  And Kent tells us, albeit in a more reserved manner, that our uniform makes us look hot!  Yuss!

Dude, Kent, you are hopeless.  HOPELESS. But at least you are listening to decent dating advice.  Kent reassures us that he wasn’t lying about our appearance and such.  That’s good to know.  Orion politely gets out of our way.  

Kent!  You are SO forgiven, come here, you precious adorable dork of an asshole that I love.  And he’s brought us a present!  Not just any present...  A HALF-MONTH ANNIVERSARY PRESENT!  This dude is so adorable and dumb and precious and i need twenty.  

And then we get our first (and only) option for the day!  Our options are “Thank you...” and “It is a surprise...” and I went with the second one because the walkthroughs on the internet tell me that that’s how to get the best ending.  Kent is glad that we were surprised and that we like the gift.  Kent also expresses that he worries about not meeting our expectations.  He reassures us that he will do anything he can to meet our expectations next and I just can’t with this guy, okay? 

He concludes with a statement that he just wants us to be happy and my heart is just.  Melting.  Kent also promises to walk us home after work.  Awesome!  Waka the manager reminds us that there is a refrigerator in the back for us to store our cake in and also silently approves of our .... work performance?  Because we got a gift from a customer.  Mine is jealous.  

Orion reflects on our dating experience and waxes poetic about stuff I really do not care about.  Blah blah blah, same phone carrier for less charges while flirting blah blah blaaah.  And that boring note is the one we end our 11th day on.  

[messy-multifandom-blog1]

Fanfic : No rain, No flower. (#1)

Disclaimer : I don’t own Criminal Minds (if I do, I would make Spencer happy for once, and no one would never die in the team ! XD) I just own the plot of the story.

Warnings : Moreid (Morgan x Reid : Dont like, don’t read). Angst. Drugs. Torture. Love. Mentions of Rape. Camera. Humiliation. Good Friendships. Depression. Beating Mentions. Lot of tears. Happy End (not sure okay?). Dunno about Smut, maybe, maybe not. Maybe R-18 if I decide to make one.

Author’s Notes : I hope you guys will like it. Hope I didn’t do too much mistakes, I said that before, but English is not my fisrt language and I’m just learning it so hope it’s okay. Oh, and, the first chapter is a bit slow but don’t worry the next one, or maybe the number 3 would become really much good ! Good reading ♥ 

Ps : There’s a little music at the start, listen to if you want, I would change it every chapter. I think this one fit really with what would think Spencer if he really was in love with Morgan. “You’re so fucking special. I wish I was special. But I’m  creep, I’m a weirdo.” Honestly, I feel like the lyrics are write for him every time I heard it ! ♫♥

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DuK4kFE4npE

(Talk & Thoughts)

Oh god. This day gonna be a very long day for him. He hate morning like that. Because he know that during all the case that they would take, he would have to seem totally normal, when in fact, he is internally dying. Well, he can't blame anyone but him. If at least, he was normal, he would be able to have sleep, and not be that tired this morning. But honestly. Everyone know that Spencer Reid is everything but normal, in fact. Sometime, he really think that being awkward is really exhausting. Come on, he don't really have the choice. With that, he try to convince himself to prepare, before going to the BAU. Hope no one gonna realise and tell him : "Wha, you look like a zombie, are you okay ?". This time, Hotch seem a bit concerned by the case they got, when he call Reid. But he didn't say anything but "Get up and meet at nine.". And when, at 09:15, Reid enter the meeting room, everyone was here. Baaad. That’s bad. Good job, Reid, you can be sure they will talk to you later... If he is the last one to arrive, he know they would be suspiscious, considering the fact he is always, like.... ? Like always be in time or with advance. Well, when they don't come together, ordinary, Morgan is the last one. When he take a seat, he just try to look like he always is. By luck, Garcia enter the room at this moment, saving Spencer of a long discussion about "You know, sleep is important for your health, ...". Like I don't know this.

When pictures came out, and they start describe the scene, he already understand why they seem all so tense. That's the sort of case, after case with childrens, that are the more intense. The people are slow about accept that, and it's not so rare that these couple are hated by a lot. But when crime are comitted because of homophobic people who can't accept difference, that's always a bit hard to manage. All the members of their team are very open mind, and they always had a very hard time when it come to the part they should talk to the murderer and saying things like "we understand you" or "yeah, a girl liking a girl, what a disgusting thing, come on, put down this gun". And that's even more difficult for Reid. Mostly because he is, himself, gay, even if he really don't admit it to anyone but him. And, maybe because he never learn of to control his emotions in situations of that style, too. Like this time, when they had the bullying case, he was just so pissed off, his mind was making joke to him by remember all the pain he felt when he was a child, and he was really lost in his feelings that time. Now, he always fear that this happen again. Today more than others days, because he have to be sure that he will stay normal, he don't want his team to know his feelings about men. But, that's their work. They are, all, profilers. And that what afraid him the most.

"- So, last week, two bodies were found, two girls : Alice Perkins and Molly Homson. They had a lot of bruises, and by the state of their body, we can already know that the unsub is probably a sadist. Two of them were attached by their cuffs at a tree in a park, during the night."

Spencer don't really understand the rest of the details because he was gone into his reflections. He look at the photography of the scene, and of the corpse. Poor girls. They were young. They had only nineteen years old. He is sure they had a sadist, and someone who is an extrem homophobic without even heard the last part of Hotch's announce talk.

"- And yesterday, two new body were found, two men, thirsty two years old. The scene is exactly the same, but in a different park. What do you guys think ?

- Are the victims all homosexual couples ?" ask Emily, looking at her folder

Hotch answer that, yes, they are. Then, they talk about how it can be someone sure that he is justice, or even god himself, by looking at the state of the body. They were very mutilated, and if the girls were not, one of the two men was rape. That don't suit the thing. Not a guy. A guy who is an extrem homophobic wouldn't have rape another guy. That would be totally contradictory. They finally said they have to talk more about it on the crime scene. When they were on the jet, Rossi ask them to not think to much and just sleep a bit during the road, because that would be like always a pretty rought case. Well, Reid almost want to hug him for said that. I just NEED to sleep a bit. Or I think I will became totally mad. But however how many time he try, he just can't sleep. Not there, not with all the team right beside him. He don't want to admit it but, he fear that something happen during he sleep, and god, that would be too embarassing. He really don't want to experiment the same things than others nights in front of them. That was already so embarassing to be wake up by a problem in your pant cause by a wet dream about one of your coworker. One of your MAN coworker. God seem to really hate me lately. Like I need that. His feelings was already hard to take.

Unconsciously, he stare at Morgan, two second just because he don't want him to realise that he was looking. God, he is hot. Even snoring, with his headphone and music in his hear, he look so freacking hot. Reid give himself a mental kick for thinking that of his best friend. Feelings are so hard to explain and to pass by. He want he can just tell him like "hey Morgan, I want to tell you I want you so badly, I love you since the first day !". But he can't. That's not him, he can't do that, that's not possible. He would ruin their friendship, and Morgan is the only best friend he always had, he can't just tell him he love him when the chocolate thunder of Garcia consider the genius like his little brother. Honestly, I don’t even know what is better between friendzone and brotherzone. And he knwo that Morgan see him just like... Yeah, just like a kid. A kid that can't being on his own. A kid that don't grown. He would never be able to think to the genius like a potential lover. That's impossible. In fact, Spencer doesn't even have an idea if Dereck was bisexual or not. So it's a bit complicated.

He sighed and turn his head to the window of the jet. That would be a long difficult case for him. After some minutes, he start to feel really boring and he try to think at something to do. He can't even try to open the folder of the case, Rossi would immediately take it from him and forced him to sleep. He don't really want to read or talk to someone at that moment. Finally, he take his bag and grab a little blue notebook. The one he always had on him. He had two notebooks with him, all the time, wherever he go. The red, that one is the one that retrace his life and his feelings between 5 and 20 years. The blue is the one where he write his actual life. He like having secret diary, even if it feel a bit girly. That relax him and distressed him from all the things he can't tell to anyone, but he can write on a paper. Like loving and wet-dreaming about Morgan. He can't tell, but he can write. And that's pretty relaxing for him. Like that, I can manage to not finish in a psychiatric hospital. Well, not for the moment.

He write what he was thinking in his diary for almost the entire second hour of the road to the crime scene. The case, His friends on the team, his mother who he talk to yesterday at phone, his thoughts, his feelings, ... Many subjects that always fill the pages of his privates notes. At least, he is a bit less tired than he was before. Writing and read always got me awake. Strange, no ? Actually, the statistics I know about that subject is that 84% of people read before sleeping. Hm, don't matter, anyway. When they are out of the jet, they were finally designed by groups of two to do different things. Spencer would have to talk to the family of every victims with JJ and he is perfectly happy with that. If he had to choose, he prefer talk to the family than see the corpses, and he prefer do it with JJ than anyone else, actually. If he had to talk to someone about what stress him, it would probably her, or maybe Garcia. He don't really know why. Maybe just because they are girls. Stop, Spencer. Stop thinking about anything but the case. Keep your mind on the case and JUST on the case.

When he enter the house and see all the victim's family, his heart skip a beat. They all seem so sad, so broken. And that understandable. He look at JJ who look as saddened than him, and both took a deep breath before walking towards them.

[gyanpoint]

Distributed teams are rewriting the rules of office(less) politics

When we think about designing our dream home, we don’t think of having a thousand roommates in the same room with no doors or walls. Yet in today’s workplace where we spend most of our day, the purveyors of corporate office design insist that tearing down walls and bringing more people closer together in the same physical space will help foster better collaboration while dissolving the friction of traditional hierarchy and office politics.

But what happens when there is no office at all?

This is the reality for Jason Fried, Founder and CEO of Basecamp, and Matt Mullenweg, Founder and CEO of Automattic (makers of WordPress), who both run teams that are 100% distributed across six continents and many time zones. Fried and Mullenweg are the founding fathers of a movement that has inspired at least a dozen other companies to follow suit, including Zapier, Github, and Buffer. Both have either written a book, or have had a book written about them on the topic.

For all of the discussions about how to hire, fire, coordinate, motivate, and retain remote teams though, what is strangely missing is a discussion about how office politics changes when there is no office at all. To that end, I wanted to seek out the experience of these companies and ask: does remote work propagate, mitigate, or change the experience of office politics? What tactics are startups using to combat office politics, and are any of them effective?

“Can we take a step back here?”

Office politics is best described by a simple example. There is a project, with its goals, metrics, and timeline, and then there’s who gets to decide how it’s run, who gets to work on it, and who gets credit for it. The process for deciding this is a messy human one. While we all want to believe that these decisions are merit-based, data-driven, and objective, we all know the reality is very different. As a flood of research shows, they come with the baggage of human bias in perceptions, heuristics, and privilege.

Office politics is the internal maneuvering and positioning to shape these biases and perceptions to achieve a goal or influence a decision. When incentives are aligned, these goals point in same direction as the company. When they don’t, dysfunction ensues.

Perhaps this sounds too Darwinian, but it is a natural and inevitable outcome of being part of any organization where humans make the decisions. There is your work, and then there’s the management of your coworker’s and boss’s perception of your work.

There is no section in your employee handbook that will tell you how to navigate office politics. These are the tacit, unofficial rules that aren’t documented. This could include reworking your wardrobe to match your boss’s style (if you don’t believe me, ask how many people at Facebook own a pair of Nike Frees). Or making time to go to weekly happy hour not because you want to, but because it’s what you were told you needed to do to get ahead.

One of my favorite memes about workplace culture is Sarah Cooper’s “10 Tricks to Appear Smart in Meetings,” which includes…

Encouraging everyone to “take a step back” and ask “what problem are we really trying to solve”

Nodding continuously while appearing to take notes

Stepping out to take an “important phone call”

Jumping out of your seat to draw a Venn diagram on the whiteboard

Sarah Cooper, The Cooper Review

These cues and signals used in physical workplaces to shape and influence perceptions do not map onto the remote workplace, which gives us a unique opportunity to study how office politics can be different through the lens of the officeless.

Friends without benefits

For employees, the analogy that coworkers are like family is true in one sense — they are the roommates that we never got to choose. Learning to work together is difficult enough, but the physical office layers on the additional challenge of learning to live together. Contrast this with remote workplaces, which Mullenweg of Automattic believes helps alleviate the “cohabitation annoyances” that come with sharing the same space, allowing employees to focus on how to best work with each other, versus how their neighbor “talks too loud on the phone, listens to bad music, or eats smelly food.”

Additionally, remote workplaces free us of the tyranny of the tacit expectations and norms that might not have anything to do with work itself. At an investment bank, everyone knows that analysts come in before the managing director does, and leave after they do. This signals that you’re working hard.

Basecamp’s Fried calls this the “presence prison,” the need to be constantly aware of where your coworkers are and what they are doing at all times, both physically and virtually. And he’s waging a crusade against it, even to the point of removing the green dot on Basecamp’s product. “As a general rule, nobody at Basecamp really knows where anyone else is at any given moment. Are they working? Dunno. Are they taking a break? Dunno. Are they at lunch? Dunno. Are they picking up their kid from school? Dunno. Don’t care.”

There is credible basis for this practice. A study of factory workers by Harvard Business School showed that workers were 10% to 15% more productive when managers weren’t watching. This increase was attributed to giving workers the space and freedom to experiment with different approaches before explaining to managers, versus the control group which tended to follow prescribed instructions under the leery watch of their managers.

Remote workplaces experience a similar phenomenon, but by coincidence. “Working hard” can’t be observed physically so it has to be explained, documented, measured, and shared across the company. Cultural norms are not left to chance, or steered by fear or pressure, which should give individuals the autonomy to focus on the work itself, versus how their work is perceived.

Lastly, while physical workplaces can be the source of meaningful friendships and community, recent research by the Wharton School of Business is just beginning to unravel the complexities behind workplace friendships, which can be fraught with tensions from obligations, reciprocity and allegiances. When conflicts arise, you need to choose between what’s best for the company, and what’s best for your relationship with that person or group. You’re not going to help Bob because your best friend Sally used to date him and he was a dick. Or you’re willing to do anything for Jim because he coaches your kid’s soccer team, and vouched for you to get that promotion.

In remote workplaces, you don’t share the same neighborhood, your kids don’t go to the same school, and you don’t have to worry about which coworkers to invite to dinner parties. Your physical/personal and work communities don’t overlap, which means you (and your company) unintentionally avoid many of the hazards of toxic workplace relationships.

On the other hand, these same relationships can be important to overall employee engagement and well-being. This is evidenced by one of the findings in Buffer’s 2018 State of Remote Work Report, which surveyed over 1900 remote workers around the world. It found that next to collaborating and communicating, loneliness was the biggest struggle for remote workers.

Graph by Buffer (State of Remote Work 2018)

So while you may be able to feel like your own boss and avoid playing office politics in your home office, ultimately being alone may be more challenging than putting on a pair of pants and going to work.

Feature, not a bug?

Physical offices can have workers butting heads with each other. Image by UpperCut Images via Getty Images.

For organizations, the single biggest difference between remote and physical teams is the greater dependence on writing to establish the permanence and portability of organizational culture, norms and habits. Writing is different than speaking because it forces concision, deliberation, and structure, and this impacts how politics plays out in remote teams.

Writing changes the politics of meetings. Every Friday, Zapier employees send out a bulletin with: (1) things I said I’d do this week and their results, (2) other issues that came up, (3) things I’m doing next week. Everyone spends the first 10 minutes of the meeting in silence reading everyone’s updates.

Remote teams practice this context setting out of necessity, but it also provides positive auxiliary benefits of “hearing” from everyone around the table, and not letting meetings default to the loudest or most senior in the room. This practice can be adopted by companies with physical workplaces as well (in fact, Zapier CEO Wade Foster borrowed this from Amazon), but it takes discipline and leadership to change behavior, particularly when it is much easier for everyone to just show up like they’re used to.

Writing changes the politics of information sharing and transparency. At Basecamp, there are no all-hands or town hall meetings. All updates, decisions, and subsequent discussions are posted publicly to the entire company. For companies, this is pretty bold. It’s like having a Facebook wall with all your friends chiming in on your questionable decisions of the distant past that you can’t erase. But the beauty is that there is now a body of written decisions and discussions that serves as a rich and permanent artifact of institutional knowledge, accessible to anyone in the company. Documenting major decisions in writing depoliticizes access to information.

Remote workplaces are not without their challenges. Even though communication can be asynchronous through writing, leadership is not. Maintaining an apolitical culture (or any culture) requires a real-time feedback loop of not only what is said, but what is done, and how it’s done. Leaders lead by example in how they speak, act, and make decisions. This is much harder in a remote setting.

A designer from WordPress notes the interpersonal challenges of leading a remote team. “I can’t always see my teammates’ faces when I deliver instructions, feedback, or design criticism. I can’t always tell how they feel. It’s difficult to know if someone is having a bad day or a bad week.”

Zapier’s Foster is also well aware of these challenges in interpersonal dynamics. In fact, he has written a 200-page manifesto on how to run remote teams, where he has an entire section devoted to coaching teammates on how to meet each other for the first time. “Because we’re wired to look for threats in any new situation… try to limit phone or video calls to 15 minutes.” Or “listen without interrupting or sharing your own stories.” And to “ask short, open ended questions.” For anyone looking for a grade school refresher on how to make new friends, Wade Foster is the Dale Carnegie of the remote workforce.

To office, or not to office

What we learn from companies like Basecamp, Automattic, and Zapier is that closer proximity is not the antidote for office politics, and certainly not the quick fix for a healthy, productive culture.

Maintaining a healthy culture takes work, with deliberate processes and planning. Remote teams have to work harder to design and maintain these processes because they don’t have the luxury of assuming shared context through a physical workspace.

The result is a wealth of new ideas for a healthier, less political culture — being thoughtful about when to bring people together, and when to give people their time apart (ending the presence prison), or when to speak, and when to read and write (to democratize meetings). It seems that remote teams have largely succeeded in turning a bug into a feature. For any company still considering tearing down those office walls and doors, it’s time to pay attention to the lessons of the officeless.

from TechCrunch https://ift.tt/2BoZEik from Blogger https://ift.tt/2L6rkYW

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When we think about designing our dream home, we don’t think of having a thousand roommates in the same room with no doors or walls. Yet in today’s workplace where we spend most of our day, the purveyors of corporate office design insist that tearing down walls and bringing more people closer together in the same physical space will help foster better collaboration while dissolving the friction of traditional hierarchy and office politics.

But what happens when there is no office at all?

This is the reality for Jason Fried, Founder and CEO of Basecamp, and Matt Mullenweg, Founder and CEO of Automattic (makers of WordPress), who both run teams that are 100% distributed across six continents and many time zones. Fried and Mullenweg are the founding fathers of a movement that has inspired at least a dozen other companies to follow suit, including Zapier, Github, and Buffer. Both have either written a book, or have had a book written about them on the topic.

For all of the discussions about how to hire, fire, coordinate, motivate, and retain remote teams though, what is strangely missing is a discussion about how office politics changes when there is no office at all. To that end, I wanted to seek out the experience of these companies and ask: does remote work propagate, mitigate, or change the experience of office politics? What tactics are startups using to combat office politics, and are any of them effective?

“Can we take a step back here?”

Office politics is best described by a simple example. There is a project, with its goals, metrics, and timeline, and then there’s who gets to decide how it’s run, who gets to work on it, and who gets credit for it. The process for deciding this is a messy human one. While we all want to believe that these decisions are merit-based, data-driven, and objective, we all know the reality is very different. As a flood of research shows, they come with the baggage of human bias in perceptions, heuristics, and privilege.

Office politics is the internal maneuvering and positioning to shape these biases and perceptions to achieve a goal or influence a decision. When incentives are aligned, these goals point in same direction as the company. When they don’t, dysfunction ensues.

Perhaps this sounds too Darwinian, but it is a natural and inevitable outcome of being part of any organization where humans make the decisions. There is your work, and then there’s the management of your coworker’s and boss’s perception of your work.

There is no section in your employee handbook that will tell you how to navigate office politics. These are the tacit, unofficial rules that aren’t documented. This could include reworking your wardrobe to match your boss’s style (if you don’t believe me, ask how many people at Facebook own a pair of Nike Frees). Or making time to go to weekly happy hour not because you want to, but because it’s what you were told you needed to do to get ahead.

One of my favorite memes about workplace culture is Sarah Cooper’s “10 Tricks to Appear Smart in Meetings,” which includes…

Encouraging everyone to “take a step back” and ask “what problem are we really trying to solve”

Nodding continuously while appearing to take notes

Stepping out to take an “important phone call”

Jumping out of your seat to draw a Venn diagram on the whiteboard

Sarah Cooper, The Cooper Review

These cues and signals used in physical workplaces to shape and influence perceptions do not map onto the remote workplace, which gives us a unique opportunity to study how office politics can be different through the lens of the officeless.

Friends without benefits

For employees, the analogy that coworkers are like family is true in one sense — they are the roommates that we never got to choose. Learning to work together is difficult enough, but the physical office layers on the additional challenge of learning to live together. Contrast this with remote workplaces, which Mullenweg of Automattic believes helps alleviate the “cohabitation annoyances” that come with sharing the same space, allowing employees to focus on how to best work with each other, versus how their neighbor “talks too loud on the phone, listens to bad music, or eats smelly food.”

Additionally, remote workplaces free us of the tyranny of the tacit expectations and norms that might not have anything to do with work itself. At an investment bank, everyone knows that analysts come in before the managing director does, and leave after they do. This signals that you’re working hard.

Basecamp’s Fried calls this the “presence prison,” the need to be constantly aware of where your coworkers are and what they are doing at all times, both physically and virtually. And he’s waging a crusade against it, even to the point of removing the green dot on Basecamp’s product. “As a general rule, nobody at Basecamp really knows where anyone else is at any given moment. Are they working? Dunno. Are they taking a break? Dunno. Are they at lunch? Dunno. Are they picking up their kid from school? Dunno. Don’t care.”

There is credible basis for this practice. A study of factory workers by Harvard Business School showed that workers were 10% to 15% more productive when managers weren’t watching. This increase was attributed to giving workers the space and freedom to experiment with different approaches before explaining to managers, versus the control group which tended to follow prescribed instructions under the leery watch of their managers.

Remote workplaces experience a similar phenomenon, but by coincidence. “Working hard” can’t be observed physically so it has to be explained, documented, measured, and shared across the company. Cultural norms are not left to chance, or steered by fear or pressure, which should give individuals the autonomy to focus on the work itself, versus how their work is perceived.

Lastly, while physical workplaces can be the source of meaningful friendships and community, recent research by the Wharton School of Business is just beginning to unravel the complexities behind workplace friendships, which can be fraught with tensions from obligations, reciprocity and allegiances. When conflicts arise, you need to choose between what’s best for the company, and what’s best for your relationship with that person or group. You’re not going to help Bob because your best friend Sally used to date him and he was a dick. Or you’re willing to do anything for Jim because he coaches your kid’s soccer team, and vouched for you to get that promotion.

In remote workplaces, you don’t share the same neighborhood, your kids don’t go to the same school, and you don’t have to worry about which coworkers to invite to dinner parties. Your physical/personal and work communities don’t overlap, which means you (and your company) unintentionally avoid many of the hazards of toxic workplace relationships.

On the other hand, these same relationships can be important to overall employee engagement and well-being. This is evidenced by one of the findings in Buffer’s 2018 State of Remote Work Report, which surveyed over 1900 remote workers around the world. It found that next to collaborating and communicating, loneliness was the biggest struggle for remote workers.

Graph by Buffer (State of Remote Work 2018)

So while you may be able to feel like your own boss and avoid playing office politics in your home office, ultimately being alone may be more challenging than putting on a pair of pants and going to work.

Feature, not a bug?

Physical offices can have workers butting heads with each other. Image by UpperCut Images via Getty Images.

For organizations, the single biggest difference between remote and physical teams is the greater dependence on writing to establish the permanence and portability of organizational culture, norms and habits. Writing is different than speaking because it forces concision, deliberation, and structure, and this impacts how politics plays out in remote teams.

Writing changes the politics of meetings. Every Friday, Zapier employees send out a bulletin with: (1) things I said I’d do this week and their results, (2) other issues that came up, (3) things I’m doing next week. Everyone spends the first 10 minutes of the meeting in silence reading everyone’s updates.

Remote teams practice this context setting out of necessity, but it also provides positive auxiliary benefits of “hearing” from everyone around the table, and not letting meetings default to the loudest or most senior in the room. This practice can be adopted by companies with physical workplaces as well (in fact, Zapier CEO Wade Foster borrowed this from Amazon), but it takes discipline and leadership to change behavior, particularly when it is much easier for everyone to just show up like they’re used to.

Writing changes the politics of information sharing and transparency. At Basecamp, there are no all-hands or town hall meetings. All updates, decisions, and subsequent discussions are posted publicly to the entire company. For companies, this is pretty bold. It’s like having a Facebook wall with all your friends chiming in on your questionable decisions of the distant past that you can’t erase. But the beauty is that there is now a body of written decisions and discussions that serves as a rich and permanent artifact of institutional knowledge, accessible to anyone in the company. Documenting major decisions in writing depoliticizes access to information.

Remote workplaces are not without their challenges. Even though communication can be asynchronous through writing, leadership is not. Maintaining an apolitical culture (or any culture) requires a real-time feedback loop of not only what is said, but what is done, and how it’s done. Leaders lead by example in how they speak, act, and make decisions. This is much harder in a remote setting.

A designer from WordPress notes the interpersonal challenges of leading a remote team. “I can’t always see my teammates’ faces when I deliver instructions, feedback, or design criticism. I can’t always tell how they feel. It’s difficult to know if someone is having a bad day or a bad week.”

Zapier’s Foster is also well aware of these challenges in interpersonal dynamics. In fact, he has written a 200-page manifesto on how to run remote teams, where he has an entire section devoted to coaching teammates on how to meet each other for the first time. “Because we’re wired to look for threats in any new situation… try to limit phone or video calls to 15 minutes.” Or “listen without interrupting or sharing your own stories.” And to “ask short, open ended questions.” For anyone looking for a grade school refresher on how to make new friends, Wade Foster is the Dale Carnegie of the remote workforce.

To office, or not to office

What we learn from companies like Basecamp, Automattic, and Zapier is that closer proximity is not the antidote for office politics, and certainly not the quick fix for a healthy, productive culture.

Maintaining a healthy culture takes work, with deliberate processes and planning. Remote teams have to work harder to design and maintain these processes because they don’t have the luxury of assuming shared context through a physical workspace.

The result is a wealth of new ideas for a healthier, less political culture — being thoughtful about when to bring people together, and when to give people their time apart (ending the presence prison), or when to speak, and when to read and write (to democratize meetings). It seems that remote teams have largely succeeded in turning a bug into a feature. For any company still considering tearing down those office walls and doors, it’s time to pay attention to the lessons of the officeless.

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Distributed teams are rewriting the rules of office(less) politics

When we think about designing our dream home, we don’t think of having a thousand roommates in the same room with no doors or walls. Yet in today’s workplace where we spend most of our day, the purveyors of corporate office design insist that tearing down walls and bringing more people closer together in the same physical space will help foster better collaboration while dissolving the friction of traditional hierarchy and office politics.

But what happens when there is no office at all?

This is the reality for Jason Fried, Founder and CEO of Basecamp, and Matt Mullenweg, Founder and CEO of Automattic (makers of WordPress), who both run teams that are 100% distributed across six continents and many time zones. Fried and Mullenweg are the founding fathers of a movement that has inspired at least a dozen other companies to follow suit, including Zapier, Github, and Buffer. Both have either written a book, or have had a book written about them on the topic.

For all of the discussions about how to hire, fire, coordinate, motivate, and retain remote teams though, what is strangely missing is a discussion about how office politics changes when there is no office at all. To that end, I wanted to seek out the experience of these companies and ask: does remote work propagate, mitigate, or change the experience of office politics? What tactics are startups using to combat office politics, and are any of them effective?

“Can we take a step back here?”

Office politics is best described by a simple example. There is a project, with its goals, metrics, and timeline, and then there’s who gets to decide how it’s run, who gets to work on it, and who gets credit for it. The process for deciding this is a messy human one. While we all want to believe that these decisions are merit-based, data-driven, and objective, we all know the reality is very different. As a flood of research shows, they come with the baggage of human bias in perceptions, heuristics, and privilege.

Office politics is the internal maneuvering and positioning to shape these biases and perceptions to achieve a goal or influence a decision. When incentives are aligned, these goals point in same direction as the company. When they don’t, dysfunction ensues.

Perhaps this sounds too Darwinian, but it is a natural and inevitable outcome of being part of any organization where humans make the decisions. There is your work, and then there’s the management of your coworker’s and boss’s perception of your work.

There is no section in your employee handbook that will tell you how to navigate office politics. These are the tacit, unofficial rules that aren’t documented. This could include reworking your wardrobe to match your boss’s style (if you don’t believe me, ask how many people at Facebook own a pair of Nike Frees). Or making time to go to weekly happy hour not because you want to, but because it’s what you were told you needed to do to get ahead.

One of my favorite memes about workplace culture is Sarah Cooper’s “10 Tricks to Appear Smart in Meetings,” which includes…

Encouraging everyone to “take a step back” and ask “what problem are we really trying to solve”

Nodding continuously while appearing to take notes

Stepping out to take an “important phone call”

Jumping out of your seat to draw a Venn diagram on the whiteboard

Sarah Cooper, The Cooper Review

These cues and signals used in physical workplaces to shape and influence perceptions do not map onto the remote workplace, which gives us a unique opportunity to study how office politics can be different through the lens of the officeless.

Friends without benefits

For employees, the analogy that coworkers are like family is true in one sense — they are the roommates that we never got to choose. Learning to work together is difficult enough, but the physical office layers on the additional challenge of learning to live together. Contrast this with remote workplaces, which Mullenweg of Automattic believes helps alleviate the “cohabitation annoyances” that come with sharing the same space, allowing employees to focus on how to best work with each other, versus how their neighbor “talks too loud on the phone, listens to bad music, or eats smelly food.”

Additionally, remote workplaces free us of the tyranny of the tacit expectations and norms that might not have anything to do with work itself. At an investment bank, everyone knows that analysts come in before the managing director does, and leave after they do. This signals that you’re working hard.

Basecamp’s Fried calls this the “presence prison,” the need to be constantly aware of where your coworkers are and what they are doing at all times, both physically and virtually. And he’s waging a crusade against it, even to the point of removing the green dot on Basecamp’s product. “As a general rule, nobody at Basecamp really knows where anyone else is at any given moment. Are they working? Dunno. Are they taking a break? Dunno. Are they at lunch? Dunno. Are they picking up their kid from school? Dunno. Don’t care.”

There is credible basis for this practice. A study of factory workers by Harvard Business School showed that workers were 10% to 15% more productive when managers weren’t watching. This increase was attributed to giving workers the space and freedom to experiment with different approaches before explaining to managers, versus the control group which tended to follow prescribed instructions under the leery watch of their managers.

Remote workplaces experience a similar phenomenon, but by coincidence. “Working hard” can’t be observed physically so it has to be explained, documented, measured, and shared across the company. Cultural norms are not left to chance, or steered by fear or pressure, which should give individuals the autonomy to focus on the work itself, versus how their work is perceived.

Lastly, while physical workplaces can be the source of meaningful friendships and community, recent research by the Wharton School of Business is just beginning to unravel the complexities behind workplace friendships, which can be fraught with tensions from obligations, reciprocity and allegiances. When conflicts arise, you need to choose between what’s best for the company, and what’s best for your relationship with that person or group. You’re not going to help Bob because your best friend Sally used to date him and he was a dick. Or you’re willing to do anything for Jim because he coaches your kid’s soccer team, and vouched for you to get that promotion.

In remote workplaces, you don’t share the same neighborhood, your kids don’t go to the same school, and you don’t have to worry about which coworkers to invite to dinner parties. Your physical/personal and work communities don’t overlap, which means you (and your company) unintentionally avoid many of the hazards of toxic workplace relationships.

On the other hand, these same relationships can be important to overall employee engagement and well-being. This is evidenced by one of the findings in Buffer’s 2018 State of Remote Work Report, which surveyed over 1900 remote workers around the world. It found that next to collaborating and communicating, loneliness was the biggest struggle for remote workers.

Graph by Buffer (State of Remote Work 2018)

So while you may be able to feel like your own boss and avoid playing office politics in your home office, ultimately being alone may be more challenging than putting on a pair of pants and going to work.

Feature, not a bug?

Physical offices can have workers butting heads with each other. Image by UpperCut Images via Getty Images.

For organizations, the single biggest difference between remote and physical teams is the greater dependence on writing to establish the permanence and portability of organizational culture, norms and habits. Writing is different than speaking because it forces concision, deliberation, and structure, and this impacts how politics plays out in remote teams.

Writing changes the politics of meetings. Every Friday, Zapier employees send out a bulletin with: (1) things I said I’d do this week and their results, (2) other issues that came up, (3) things I’m doing next week. Everyone spends the first 10 minutes of the meeting in silence reading everyone’s updates.

Remote teams practice this context setting out of necessity, but it also provides positive auxiliary benefits of “hearing” from everyone around the table, and not letting meetings default to the loudest or most senior in the room. This practice can be adopted by companies with physical workplaces as well (in fact, Zapier CEO Wade Foster borrowed this from Amazon), but it takes discipline and leadership to change behavior, particularly when it is much easier for everyone to just show up like they’re used to.

Writing changes the politics of information sharing and transparency. At Basecamp, there are no all-hands or town hall meetings. All updates, decisions, and subsequent discussions are posted publicly to the entire company. For companies, this is pretty bold. It’s like having a Facebook wall with all your friends chiming in on your questionable decisions of the distant past that you can’t erase. But the beauty is that there is now a body of written decisions and discussions that serves as a rich and permanent artifact of institutional knowledge, accessible to anyone in the company. Documenting major decisions in writing depoliticizes access to information.

Remote workplaces are not without their challenges. Even though communication can be asynchronous through writing, leadership is not. Maintaining an apolitical culture (or any culture) requires a real-time feedback loop of not only what is said, but what is done, and how it’s done. Leaders lead by example in how they speak, act, and make decisions. This is much harder in a remote setting.

A designer from WordPress notes the interpersonal challenges of leading a remote team. “I can’t always see my teammates’ faces when I deliver instructions, feedback, or design criticism. I can’t always tell how they feel. It’s difficult to know if someone is having a bad day or a bad week.”

Zapier’s Foster is also well aware of these challenges in interpersonal dynamics. In fact, he has written a 200-page manifesto on how to run remote teams, where he has an entire section devoted to coaching teammates on how to meet each other for the first time. “Because we’re wired to look for threats in any new situation… try to limit phone or video calls to 15 minutes.” Or “listen without interrupting or sharing your own stories.” And to “ask short, open ended questions.” For anyone looking for a grade school refresher on how to make new friends, Wade Foster is the Dale Carnegie of the remote workforce.

To office, or not to office

What we learn from companies like Basecamp, Automattic, and Zapier is that closer proximity is not the antidote for office politics, and certainly not the quick fix for a healthy, productive culture.

Maintaining a healthy culture takes work, with deliberate processes and planning. Remote teams have to work harder to design and maintain these processes because they don’t have the luxury of assuming shared context through a physical workspace.

The result is a wealth of new ideas for a healthier, less political culture — being thoughtful about when to bring people together, and when to give people their time apart (ending the presence prison), or when to speak, and when to read and write (to democratize meetings). It seems that remote teams have largely succeeded in turning a bug into a feature. For any company still considering tearing down those office walls and doors, it’s time to pay attention to the lessons of the officeless.

Via John Chen https://techcrunch.com