#its become a ritual to just doodle them before bed now

[krinklefry87]

my bedtime shizaya doodles

[samwisethewitch]

Magical Journaling

When we think of a witch’s tools, we usually think of cauldrons, brooms, and jars filled with herbs. But for modern witches, one of the most powerful tools available is a blank journal. The journal can be an altar, a workspace, a diary, and a grimoire all in one.

Creating a Magical Journaling Practice

One of the benefits of this type of magic is that it doesn’t require a lot of tools and materials. However, there are a few things you may choose to include:

A journal, notebook, or binder. Having a physical journal for your magical practice can help to ground your magic into the physical world. Find a journal or notebook that speaks to you — this could be a composition book from the dollar store, or an elaborate leather bound journal. I highly recommend using a physical book, but if you are unable to keep a physical journal dedicated to your witchcraft, you can absolutely keep one in a Google Doc, a Microsoft Word document, or the Notes app on your phone.

Colored pens, pencils, or markers. These are a great way to include the magic of color in your journal. (See this post for info on magical color correspondences.) Writing your spells in a color that matches your intention can add an extra layer of power.

Stickers, photos, and drawings. This adds a visual component to your written spells. Just like you add things to a physical ritual based on their magical correspondences, you can use images of those things to add energy to journal spells.

A Daily Intention-Setting Ritual

This method of magical journaling is based on an exercise from Lisa Marie Basile’s book, The Magical Writing Grimoire.

In the morning, before you start your day, write your intention for the day ahead. This should be written in the present tense, and phrased in the positive — it’s about what you are doing, not what you’re stopping or trying to quit. Your intention can be anything, mental, emotional, or physical. (For example: “I am opening myself to love in all its many forms.”)

In the evening, before you go to bed, write down what you worked on that day. This can be anything you did that you feel nourished you, and it may or may not be related to your intention from the morning. (For example: “I used mindfulness meditation to become aware of my own vastness.”)

Living with intention makes you more aware of your actions and can be a form of magic in itself. You daily intentions can become positive affirmations that you can repeat throughout your day, drawing strength from the words.

Using a Journal to Cast Spells

You can cast spells on the page of your journal, with nothing more than a pen and paper.

There are four basic parts to every spell: your will, your intention, focused energy, and a ritual action. All of these components can be brought into a journaling session. Your will is your personal magical and spiritual authority — you use your will simply by being aware of it. Your intention is a clear statement of what you want to get out of your spell — in journal magic, this is typically written on the page. By directing your attention to what you are writing, you are focusing your energy. And finally, a ritual action is any act performed in a ritualistic manner — in this case, that act is writing.

When casting a journal spell, it’s best to do your work in a quiet space where you won’t be disturbed. You might choose to light a candle or burn incense to help set a spiritual/magical mood, or you might not. I recommend meditating on your intention for a few moments before you begin, in order to help focus your energy.

What you actually write is up to you. It could be a simple, straightforward statement of intention, a detailed description of what you want, or even a poem. Feel free to experiment with different methods to see what feels right for you.

Journaling with Sigils and Runes

You can incorporate sigils, runes, and other sacred symbols into your journal, or use them as spells by themselves.

I’ve talked a little bit about runes in a previous post, but here’s a quick refresher: “runes” typically refer to the symbols used in Germanic alphabets before they were replaced by the Latin alphabet. The oldest Germanic rune system, and the one most widely used in magic, is the Elder Futhark. Other Germanic runic alphabets include the Younger Futhark and the Anglo-Saxon runes, which are both descended from the Elder Futhark. There are other alphabets that are used for similar purposes in magic, like the Irish Ogham. The use of these symbols in magic comes from the ancient idea that writing is inherently magical. Both the Germanic runes and the Ogham alphabet were believed to be sacred by the people who originally used them. Because of this, the runes aren’t merely letters — each symbol has a set of spiritual meanings associated with it as well.

The nice thing about runes is that, for the most part, we have a good idea of what they meant — so learning the runes can be as simple as purchasing a book and memorizing meanings. They’re also tied to ancient belief systems, which makes them a potent source of magical power.

You can use the runes in your magical journal in a couple of different ways. You can draw the appropriate runes in the borders around your spell, or write them over your spell in a different colored ink to add their power to your words. You can also use the runes alone as a form of magic. For this, speak or chant the name of the rune as you write it, and then spend a few moment focusing on it, visualizing your goal, and charging the rune with your intent.

Sigils are a little bit different. Unlike runes, sigils are created on the spot, so the meaning of a sigil is usually only known to the person who designed it. This means that, rather than learning established meanings, you’re creating a new magical symbol with a unique meaning every time you draw a new sigil. Because of this, sigils are directly linked to your will, which makes them powerful conductors of magic.

Here’s a common method for designing a sigil: Write a word or phrase that represents your goal or desire. Cross out all the vowels and/or all repeating letters. Now, use the remaining letters (the ones that haven’t been marked out) to create a design, adding artistic flourishes as you see fit. It’s okay to get creative with this, and it’s okay if the shape of the letters isn’t obvious in the final sigil. For example: if I wanted to create a sigil to manifest wealth, I might start with the phrase “I have more money than I know what to do with.” I then cross out all vowels and repeating letters, leaving me with, “v r y k w d.” Using the shape of these letters as a starting point, I create an artistic design that carries the intention of the original statement.

Sigils are usually used on their own to conduct magic. Draw the sigil in a color that matches your intention (for my wealth sigil, I would use green). As you draw, focus on your intent and feel your energy moving through the pen, charging the sigil. You can leave the finished sigil in your journal, tear the page out and place it on your altar, or display it somewhere you’ll see it often.

Sigils are especially useful for witches who need to keep their practice a secret, because they can be disguised as simple doodles.

Resources:

The Magical Writing Grimoire by Lisa Marie Basile

The Way of Fire and Ice by Ryan Smith

Runes by Kylie Holmes

[rosy-cheekx]

Dragged from the Deep

I will update with an AO3 link, two chapters, but I really wanted to get this out!

This is from @voiceless-terror‘s prompt:  “ Been a tough few days. How are you holding up?” with jmart in the safehouse...Not what they expected but I am VERY VERY proud of this!

--

Martin awoke to the sound of Jon mumbling in his sleep. “I took my hand, and I reached down into the darkness.” Jon’s voice is quiet, reverent. Its barely his own; his voice of the Archive.

Really should have heard from Basira by now, Martin thought, trying to tamp down the frustration rising in his chest.

“Down and down,” Jon continued. “Until my whole arm was inside, up to the shoulder. It was damp and cold, with the rough stone sides scraping my skin, but my hand was stretched as far as I could, and it still gripped nothing but empty air. Then the hole began to close, and all at once the spell was broken.”

“Jon, m’dear?” he half-whispered, stroking Jon’s cheek softly. Jon was a light sleeper, but these times were...tricky. “Hey, Jonathan,” he added, voice at a speaking-volume now. “Wake up, it’s not real.”

“I tried to pull my arm out, to get free, but it held me tight. Not quite crushing me but holding me in place. I screamed and cried for help, looking around for anyone who might be able to hear me, but the only people walking by seemed utterly oblivious to what was happening. Then I felt it, something brushing against my hand from below it in the hole. Teeth. Wet, blunt teeth, which quickly gave way to a rough, slender tongue-”[97]

Martin couldn’t bear to hear any more. He hated witnessing Jon like this, possessed by the statements, by his need to feed. Jon’s voice was like marble, smooth and cold and mesmerizing, but it was heavy and would consume Jon if he allowed it.

Martin would not allow it.

“Jon!” He gave him a shake, firm on his shoulders. “Wake up!”

A drowning man suddenly reunited with his lungs; Jonathan Sims gasped for air. His eyes flashed open (there it was, the cursed glint of green that seemed to glow from within) and he clutched a hand to his chest as he began to cough. Martin pulled him into a sitting position, kneeling next to him and resting a hand on Jon’s lower back as he felt the convulsions double his frame. When his hacking had settled, Martin felt safe enough to breathe again himself, lest he had stolen air from the man beside him.

“H-hi,” Jon murmured, voice shaky, drawing his knees to his chest beneath the comforter. “How-how bad was it this time?”

Martin knew about Jon’s hunger, knew that statements were his fuel more than anything organic. The arrangement with Basira had been working relatively well up until now. Every three to four weeks, Basira would call the mobile they kept stashed in the safehouse for that purpose, only her number programmed in and let them know when she was coming, typically within a day or two. She should have called almost ten days ago. Had she let them go, at last, to fend for themselves? Had something happened to her, to the Institute? Things were getting dire.

At first, a little less than a week ago, Martin thought it was the nightmares; that the mumbling had been Jon apologizing to those so unfortunate enough to have him as a feature player in their nightmares. His words were unintelligible, so Martin had hugged him tightly in the night, in the way they had held each other those first days weeks, whispering affirmations of safety and love.

When he asked the poorly-rested Jon about it the next morning, he had frowned. “Ah, no. I mean, I haven’t slept with anyone—ah, more to say, no one has been in the room while I’ve been asleep to confirm for sure besides you, but I don’t think I usually talk in my sleep.” Martin chalked it up as “Weird, But No Too Weird,” and they agreed to keep an eye on it. Every night since, Martin had repeated that ritual, the words too unintelligible to understand, Martin clutching Jon like a life vest, carrying him safe through the morning.

Jon’s flu-like symptoms had cropped up three days ago. He woke weak, hardly able to move, and couldn’t keep any food down. The tea and water Martin literally spooned him were staying down, at least, which helped combat the dehydration Jon was surely suffering from the 40-degree fever he was running. The fever reducers weren’t helping, and Martin had nearly dragged Jon to A&E before he’d been able to explain to him what was happening. He was breaking down, needed the statements or things would get worse. “And, no, Martin-” cut off by a coughing fit. “I don’t know how much worse. Bad.” Whatever role Martin usually played in Jon’s life: roommate, friend, boyfriend maybe?, it didn’t matter. Or, at least, it came to second to Martin’s new role as nurse. Nurse was a role Martin was good at it. Practically a professional home-care assistant. But caring for a starving eldritch demigod was marginally different than caring for his human mum. At least the vomit cleaned the same way.

The statements had become more distinct the first night of the fevers. Words that had typically barely passed his lips were now being told to the night air with an intensity Martin had sorely wished he would never hear again. If Martin strained his ears, he could typically hear the tired hiss of a tape recorder. He tried to smash it that first night, out of anger and exhausted desperation, but Jon had screamed when he had bashed it with a vase, weeping as if it had been his head smashed and not the spinning dials of that cursed thing. Jon’s migraine had lasted through the night and into the afternoon, with Martin unable to do anything but apologize and stroke his hair, reading to him a novel that just wouldn’t be enough.

“Not too bad,” Martin answered, plastering a soft smile over his tired face. “Just scared me was all, I don’t know if it’s better to wake you or not, but it felt weird not to.” Jon was scratching at old worm scars, skin shiny and taut, and Martin took his hands gently, pressing a kiss to his pulse points in turn. God, he felt so hot against his lips.

“M-I’m sorry,” Jon sighs, eyes already fluttering closed again. His face was pale and his muscles slack; Martin hated how hollow his eyes and cheeks seemed, skeletal in the light of the moon.

“Shh, nothing to apologize for,” Martin assured him, reaching across Jon’s side of the bed to click on the lamp, wincing at the sudden light and the clock. 4:15. Too early, even for a morning person like Martin. “Do-do you want me to read to you some more? I can make some tea, chamomile? Milk and honey? Or we can listen to some music, or a podcast?” He knew it was fruitless. It would all be for naught until he got the damn statements from Basira.

Jon had the comforter drawn to his neck, shivering slightly, eyes closed. He nodded vaguely. “The book,” he managed, voice a broken whisper, so unlike the strong and powerful intonation Martin had just heard. Martin nodded, kissing his forehead, clammy and plastered with baby hairs, and stood, passing the book into Jon’s lap, page marked with a flat-barreled pen, something that had been tucked into a journal in the bedside table. (Jon and Martin had agreed that some things are better left unread.) Martin could see Jon’s hands shaking slightly under the blanket.

The walk to the kitchen was cold and dark, and Martin took a moment to himself, while the electric kettle hummed to life, to press his forehead against the cool plastic of the refrigerator, fingers interlaced behind his neck. God, he was so tired. He loved Jon more than anything, that was true, but he was at such a loss. It hurt to know there was nothing he could do to help, short of kidnapping a random neighbor from the town and begging them to tell Jon their story. He would call Basira this afternoon. He had tried the day the fever started and hasn’t received an answer. She was probably chasing down a lead about Daisy; she was known to go off the grid when hunting after her.

The click of the kettle, and Martin is on task again, portioning out tea and honey, chamomile for Jon, English breakfast for himself; he needs the caffeine. Two travel mugs later, Martin was heading back into the dark hallway, up the stairs, and to the dimly let bedroom.

The task had taken no more than five minutes, eight max. This was apparently, long enough for Jon to rifle in the nightstand drawer, retrieve that little notebook they had found, and to begin scribbling in it furiously. Martin could already see a good quarter of the notebook had been filled already, though what measure of that had been used prior to their arrival was unclear.

“Jon? Writing anything interesting?” Jon’s eyes jerked open and he let his gaze fall on the notebook.

“Oh-ah, no. Just doodling,” the words still weak, but the half-smile on his face lifts Martin’s spirits. See? He told himself. He’s still Jon. Jon closed the notebook and tucked it into his lap, reaching for the spill-proof mug with the hand not holding the pen that had been marking the page number. Martin noticed Jon twiddling the pen between his fingers and elected not to say anything. Whatever helped. And it had seemed to help; Jon seemed a little less gaunt than he had, but maybe that was the consequence of sitting up, letting himself focus on other things than his gnawing hunger. “Page 74,” Jon sighed as Martin resumed his position next to him in bed, tucking his head on Martin’s shoulder. “Second paragraph.”

“Creep,” Martin muttered good-naturedly, before settling into the pages and resuming the book, some sort of cop thriller-mystery (because of course that had been Daisy’s preferred reading material).

Martin had been reading for nearly an hour when, while pausing to sip his tea, the scratching of pen on paper had distracted him from the story. They had been at a rather thrilling part of the chase; the detective had just discovered that his wife, who he thought to be dead, was not actually dead and maybe even a part of the mystery. Martin had felt rather invested in giving Jon a good show, throwing himself into the narration maybe a little more than was necessary for the audience of one (1) ill partner (Boyfriend? Love? Patient? Whatever). Jon had remained quiet, save for a periodic coughing fit, but didn’t seem to be asleep from the way Martin could feel The Eye in the room with him, an inescapable feeling now, consequences of his proximity to The Archivist. With the sound of the pen, however, Martin closed the book, flipping it upside down and open. (Usually, Jon would chastise him for such a horrendous act to a book. Martin wished he would.)

Jon’s eyes were cast on the book, but his mind was clearly elsewhere. He was scribbling furiously, writing continuously in the notebook that had once belonged to Daisy. Jon’s handwriting, difficult in the best of circumstances, was positively chicken scratch as Martin tried to parse out the strings of words on the paper, some he could swear weren’t even English.

“Jon?” Martin asked, placing a hand on the journal gently. “Is everything alright?”

“I-ah, yeah,” Jon capitulated, sighing softly, even as it resulted in a series of weak hacks. “I was trying to remember the dream, the statement I was reading in my sleep. I thought maybe writing it down would help.”

“And? Did it help?”

“I…I don’t know.” Jon frowned and scrubbed his hands over his eyes, blinking wearily. “I need to keep trying.”

Martin frowned internally but tried to keep his face neutral. “D’you think it’s…good? To try?”

“I don’t know, Martin.” Martin is suddenly reminded of a paranoid, frantic Jonathan Sims, angry and scared and not knowing who to trust. “But I have to try something! I can’t just sit here, waiting to wither away and die.”

“O-okay then,” Martin took a deep breath. “It was just a question.”

“A stupid one.” He’s sick, Martin reminds himself. He doesn’t know what he’s saying.

“Well,” Martin closed the book properly this time, surreptitiously dog-earing a page. What Jon doesn’t know won’t hurt him. “I’m out of tea. Need any more?”

Jon shook his head, quiet now as he continued to write, eyes glued to his page. “A-alright then,” Martin slid off the bed and frowned, catching a whiff of himself. Yikes. He had lost track of the last time he bathed, so worried had he been about missing a call from Basira. “Would you be okay if I have a shower?”

More silence, the scratching of the cheap pen the only sound in the room. At least there wasn’t a tape running. “Shout if you need me.”

-

It felt good to breathe in the steam and smell of lather, to luxuriate in the hot water rolling over him. Martin has always been a bit generous with his showers, especially as a teen. They had been his designated times to be off the hook from his mother, chores, his jobs, anything that was causing him stress. Martin felt a bit guilty remembering these things. His shower wasn’t long because he wants to avoid Jon, not at all. It’s just. Jon is clearly in a bit of a mood, so it would be good to give him some space without making it seem like he’s upset. Which, he’s not upset! Just. a break is good. Yeah. A break is healthy.

Martin turned off the water when he started to feel a bit dizzy from the heat, wrapped himself in a towel and splashed cold water on his face. There. He was feeling better already.

“Jon!” He called, cracking the door and letting steam roll out around him. “I know it’s a bit early, but I thought maybe I could start on breakfast. Maybe you can stomach down some crackers today?”

After a few beats of silence, Martin called out again. The loo, while not an en suite, was pretty close to the master. “Jon?”

Must be asleep. Martin smiled softly to himself and shook his head, ruffling his curls, more white than auburn anymore, and pulled on a fresh pair of sweatpants. Not like they were going anywhere today.

Tinged pink from the hot shower, Martin rounded the corner into the master bedroom and stopped, momentarily confused. “Oh, did you not hear me?”

Jon was awake. He was still writing, bent over the notebook and scribbling furiously, murmuring to himself, too quiet to hear. He didn’t look up. Martin frowned, shivering as a wave of static rolled over his body like a cool wind. “Jon. Jon, a-are you in there? Are you okay?”

The muttering continued, unceasing. Martin edged forward carefully, hands in front of him like he was buffeting back a storm or trying not to scare a wounded animal. Honestly, Martin wasn’t sure which sentiment was more accurate. He crept his way to Jon’s side of the bed, still apparently unnoticed by the Archivist. There was a bloody tape recorder on the bedside table. Martin knew better than to touch it.  

He bent down, kneeling on the floor and craning his neck to look up into Jon’s face. His shoulders slumped as he gazed up into an emerald glow as Jon’s own eyes, usually a deep brown, lit the page in front of him like a torch, bathing it in harsh light. Jon’s own form was crackling slightly, seemingly more solid than a usual body should, silhouette a little too crisp against the wall behind him.

Martin could hear him now, too, and his voice was the same low, consistent monologue that Martin had first loved, but had grown to hate in his years working in the Archives.

“As I said, it was one of the last boxes I opened on the second day. It was late, and I had already made my way through most of a bottle of wine. The more I think about it, the more I think that opening that box felt no different to any of the others. No hard feelings, no smells, nothing. It was just a box empty of everything except a single typewritten note and an old hand mirror.

It lay inside, utterly innocuous. If it was a trap, there was no way to tell.” [60]

That one sounded familiar. An old statement, it must be. Something about a mirror and seeing things in a reflection? Punching a camera? he wondered. Martin felt another shiver roll through his body; he turned his attention towards the notebook, towards what he knew would be there. Now that he knew what to look for, he could read the handwriting with little trouble. As the Archivist spoke, he wrote the words in Jon’s handwriting, transcribing the statement.

“Jon,” Martin’s voice was soft. “If you can hear me, I’m going to take away your pen now. I think…I think that will let you rest. I’m going to count to three, okay? One. Two. Three.”

As soon as Martin reached for the pen, he felt himself being thrown backwards, as if by a tidal wave. He felt his body hit the wall, heard his skull hit the wall with a sickening thud.

                                        ------Chapter 2------

When Martin woke, he was confused. Last he knew, he had gone to sleep in bed, right? Not on the couch watching telly or drunk in a bathtub. So why was he so stiff—ow. He rolled his neck. And sore. He was on the floor, for one thing, head against the wall and legs splayed in front of him. God his head hurt. Was he hungover? No, he hadn’t drunk anything. Just eaten dinner in bed with Jon, done dishes, read, and fallen asleep.

Oh shit. Jon. It rushed back to Martin in a dizzying spiral; Helen would be proud. The mumbling, the writing, the pen, the eyes. Had Jon pushed him? Not physically, maybe. But hadn’t he heard through the grapevine something about Jon and the delivery man—Breekon? Or maybe Hope? Whichever one hadn’t died in the Unknowing. Something about him shoving him backwards with sheer force of a word? Jon had thought they were exaggerating. But maybe…maybe not.

Martin’s eyes were still closed, he realized. He was afraid to, he realized. He wasn’t sure what he expected to see: maybe a big, unblinking Eye where the body of Jon had been? A torrent of books and pages spinning around Jonathan Sims in a dramatic flourish as he commands them? Hundreds, if not thousands, of tape recorders piling around their bed, drowning them both in magnetic tape and words? Slowly, painfully, Martin opened his eyes.

None of those were there of course. There was just Jon. Sitting in bed, gaunt and frail. Writing and reciting as if nothing happened. That was almost worse, in a way, that he had flung Martin against a wall and continued as if it hadn’t hurt him to do so. The Archivist’s movements were stiff and mechanical as he turned the page and continued to write, voice now in a language Martin couldn’t understand but was probably Chinese.

Stopping the writing was no longer an option, he supposed. But what else could he do? Maybe it could recharge Jon a little, like sucking the marrow from a bone. Only Martin wasn’t sure if the statements or Jon was the bone in that scenario. God, he wished he could Eldritch Google “Eye statement starvation: stages of bad?” Unfortunately, his Eldritch Google was out of service and there was no one else he could ask who wasn’t also trying to actively kill him.

What were his options then? Wait and hope Jon doesn’t die. Call Basira again. Kidnap a stranger and have them read a statement. Well, he wasn’t that desperate. Not yet.

Martin sighed, running a hand through his hair and feeling a lump throbbing gently on the back of his head. He checked the rest of his body for injuries and was grateful to find nothing too bad. Probably just a concussion.

Hauling himself to his feet (using the floor and doorknob to a closet as his supports), Martin teetered his way to the kitchen. He threw open the cupboard beneath the sink and grabbed the small black phone with Basira’s number saved.

Dialing, he slid himself into a chair at the kitchen table, resting his forehead against his free palm and closed his eyes again.

“Hello?” The faint voice Basira Hussain rang out into the air.

“Basira? It’s Martin. Any word on the statements? It’s getting a little dire here.” He could hear the exhaustion in his own voice.

“Dire? How do you mean?” Basira was always a little too direct for Martin’s taste; couldn’t she hear how drained he was?

“He won’t stop repeating and writing old statements. I tried to stop him and he—well. It wasn’t on purpose…But he threw me into a wall.”

“Shit.” Basira was quiet for a moment. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” he bit back. “I would be better if we had the statements.” There wasn’t time for him to feel guilty about his delivery.

“I know, and I’m sorry. I caught wind of Daisy being in Italy, so I’m there now. If I take the first flight out of Rome, I can be at my flat tomorrow and yours the next. Two days, max. Less if I can. Can he make it that long?”

“Better bloody hope so.” The fight drained from him. “Please, Basira,” he added, sighing. “I don’t know what to do. He was sick and feverish and I could handle that but now he’s just…empty.”

“Maybe it’s like a diet.” He could practically hear her mind spinning through the phone. “You know, how when you starve yourself for too long? You start losing weight and all’s dandy. But the longer you wait, your body starts taking nutrients from your own organs?” Martin hummed an affirmation. “Maybe he’s sucking out every bit he can from himself to survive.”

“So…how do I fix that?”

“I mean, when I get you the statements, we can force-feed him. But until then? I dunno. I’m at a loss too. Keep him safe, I think? But don’t let yourself get hurt either.”

Martin nodded, momentarily forgetting he was on the phone. “Oh, yeah. Um, thank you Basira. I’ll do my best. Call me when you’re at the flat?”

“Of course. Call me if you get lo-bored.”

“Please hurry.”

Martin hung up and dropped his head to the table unceremoniously, wincing as the impact rattled the back of his skull. Now what? He didn’t want to sit in the room while the Archivist worked, but he was afraid to leave him alone. He hated how it felt to be in the room, the low wave static and the feeling of being known permeating every pore. He was afraid what staying in there would do, if Jon would Know him too well after he came back. Looking around, Martin grabbed the egg timer Jon used when he cooked and spun it to an hour. If he checked in every hour, that would be fine, right? He could let the Archivist have the bedroom; he’d stay downstairs, and check in every hour.

The first few hours crept by, but each ding of the egg timer was much too soon for Martin’s liking. He iced his head, wincing again when he realized it was the late morning and he had been unconscious for quite a while. He made himself an unassuming brunch, cheese toasty and curry left over from dinner a few days ago. Made some more tea, obviously, and took some acetaminophen to reduce the swollen goose-egg on his head. Read, watched an old DVD of some American TV show Daisy must have liked. Tried to keep his mind off whatever had taken over his boyfriend in the upstairs bedroom.

Each time the timer went off, Martin would repeat the same process. He would ascend the stairs, knock on the doorframe of the bedroom, tell Jon he was coming over to check on him, and would watch and listen to him for almost a minute. Some of the statements he recognized, some he didn’t. His eyes were always that throbbing, blinding green, staring into nothing, his face hollow and gaunt. Around two in the afternoon, Martin went in to see that Jon had moved from the bed. The notebook lay abandoned, filled to the last page. The Archivist was standing, in baggy sleep boxers, facing the wall, still intoning the fears and terrors of those who had contributed their stories to the Institute. Their stories were stark when written against the robin blue pant. Martin left the room before he could Know he was crying.

Afternoon turned to evening, and Martin continued his ministrations. The egg timer ran his day and he got little done, managing maybe half of a book from the meager shelf downstairs. He wasn’t even sure what it was about; he had to keep rereading the same pages over and over. The writing had grown to cover half the wall in Jon’s slanted script. Martin wasn’t sure he wanted to find out what would happen if he tried to smudge it. Between checking up on The Archivist, he half-heartedly ate scrambled eggs and chugged some wine; he figured he’d earned it. It was weird to feel strangely like an Archival Assistant again; knowing things were bad for the man he desperately wanted to be there but not knowing how to help.

KRRRRRRRRRRG!

Time to check on him again. Martin trudged up the stairs for what felt like the hundredth time that day. The Archivist was in a different position this time. He was kneeling, head bowed. Martin could have sworn he was praying; the monotony of words slipping from his lips as easily as the nuns Martin had seen growing up. Martin paused. It was…almost beautiful, in a way. The slight form of a man paying his service to a god to whom he was so completely indebted. The green light reflecting off the wall, covered in his scripture, casting a glow on his skin and through his curls, mussed from fever.

Would’ve been, anyways, if Martin hadn’t seen the drop of blood snaking its way down Jon’s thigh, creasing where his leg was folded along the calf. All at once, the beauty he had been caught up in was gone and all he saw was a helpless, broken man, compelled to write the words of the desperate, the lost, the broken. Martin shook a pillowcase from the bed, letting the pillow fall unceremoniously, and cautiously moved to the Archivist. As worried as he was, he needed to know what was going on before he could help.

The sight made him slightly sick. Jon was bent over his thigh, holding the pen as if it were a dagger, and was using the ballpoint tip to carve words into the meat of his leg. He hadn’t gotten far, apparently the effort took more out than the body of a weakened Jon could take.

“a fac-” [54]

Confused, Martin looked up to the wall where he had been writing and figured out the problem. The pen had run out of ink. The words got paler and less distinct until they were barely readable. Judging from the smears, the Archivist had tried to use Jon’s blood to write, using the pen as a quill. It clearly hadn’t worked, judging by the thin, weak curves of red and brown. Jon was still mumbling the statement, eyes blank and voice even, but the lines of his face seemed frustrated and dark.

The letters on his skin were weeping dark red now and Martin could see his hands weren’t the only ones shaking. He was afraid to touch him, afraid that trying to press a cloth to his wounds could quite literally be both of their deaths.

The more he stared, trapped in indecision, he watched as the decision was made for him. Jon had been ill, dehydrated and fever-laden, and the assault to his body was more than he could handle. His face, an ashen brown-grey-green from the glow of his eyes, went slack and as the emerald lights went out, Jon slumped, falling into Martin’s lap and shoulder as his body gave up. As soon as their skin touched, Martin’s mind snapped into focus. Fix this. You have to fix this.

Martin was immediately comforted by the fact that Jon was breathing. He hadn’t run out of fuel, not yet. Martin pressed a kiss to his hair (still hot) as he gently laid Jon flat, tearing open the sealed end of the pillowcase clutched in his fist so he could slip it up Jon’s leg and press it down, trying to stem the blood flow. You need something better, he thought, mind racing. It was oozing, not squirting, so Jon hadn’t hit an artery. That was good. Thank god Mum’s hospital soaps were worth something in the end. He needed a thicker fabric; the sheet wasn’t doing any good. Martin scoured the room, looking for any sort of thick fabric.

His towel from his shower. Thank fuck for his laziness. In less than ten steps, he had retrieved the towel from where it was haphazardly abandoned by the dresser and brought it back, folding and pressing it to his thigh, exchanging it for the thin white pillowcase. Sorry, Daisy.

Kneeled beside Jon, Martin lent most of his upper body weight to pressing down on the towel, keeping a cautious eye on Jon’s face and his chest, each shallow breath another blessing. He’s not sure how long he sits there in, that position, whispering platitudes to the pallid-faced man laid in front of him. Maybe an hour? Maybe three? Maybe twenty minutes? Time is blurry, intangible to him.

It’s dark when Martin felt okay to cautiously lift the towel and examine the letters carved in his leg. They’re starting to clot, he nodded to himself, feeling safe enough to leave Jon there on the floor to get the first aid kit from the lav. Carefully, lovingly, Martin pulled the ace bandage tight around the cotton pads on his leg, freshly doused and swabbed with cleansing alcohol. Daisy was nothing if not prepared for injuries.

Satisfied with his care, he gently pulls Jon into his arms and takes him downstairs. He didn’t want Jon to wake up and see the room like this—bloody and covered in the writings of the Archivist. Between the carpet and walls, it would take a while to clean anyways. The couch was certainly big enough to hold the man he held in his arms (and god he was way too light).

One Jon was laid on the couch, Martin made a fresh cup of tea, black tea with as much caffeine as he could stomach and pulled a cold compress from the freezer. Lifting his shoulders carefully, Martin situated himself to act as a headrest for the unconscious Jon, a cold compress acting as a barrier between them to hopefully aid the fever. One hand in Jon’s curls, the other holding a book open (still, no idea what it was about), Martin settled into the evening, saying a prayer to anything that was out there that Basira would hurry the hell up.

Martin read aloud to Jon all night, trying in vain to keep himself awake. Apparently, the book was a romance novel, some trashy erotica about a woman and a werewolf. Martin was just graceful it wasn’t sci-fi and horror. He annotated it as he read, giving Jon his stream of consciousness thoughts. “You know, I haven’t done that,” he chuckled to himself, brushing Jon’s hair from his face. “Especially not with a woman, but I don’t really think it’s anatomically possible.”

His eyes were starting to droop around three or four in the morning, the adrenaline draining out of him. Resting a hand on Jon’s neck, he felt for his pulse point and, after finding it, light and shallow as it was after the coma, let his eyes close, comforted in feeling the life fluttering beneath his fingers.

-

Martin woke up to a pounding on the door and he snapped awake like the knock had been a gunshot. The care he took to lay Jon’s head back down was deeply contrasted by the way he bolted to the door, unlocking it with haste and resisting the urge to throw his arms around Basira, wincing at the bright daylight that streamed inside.

“Woah—Martin,” Basira took a step back involuntarily. “Is there a reason your hands are covered in blood?”

“What? Oh-yeah, I’ll tell you about it. Things were bad. It’s fine now. It’s-It’s not my blood.” Martin swung the door open, letting Basira in. “What time is it? How did you get here so fast?”

“It’s quarter-three; I may or may not have found a plane that wasn’t on the official flight plans. And there’s more than one way to get in the Institute besides a key.” Martin shook his head and decided it wasn’t worth asking about. He beckoned her to the couch, where Jon lay, limbs limp.

Basira handed him the first statement on the pile and opened one for herself. “Ready?”

“Statements begin.”

-

Jon’s first thought was how wet his neck felt. His second was why he heard so many words. His brain floated between living dolls and a message in a bottle, washed up on the beaches of Greece. His teeth were chattering and he felt so cold. He grasped his hands out, reaching desperately for the comforter. Martin must have stolen it, he smiled to himself. Oh, that’s Martin. Martin’s voice.

“Hmm…Mm’tin,” he murmured, shifting towards the sound of his voice. Martin’s voice continued, telling him a story about a doll with painted lips and angry eyes. A hand reached out and cupped his face. Jon leant into the touch hungrily, grateful for the heat on his skin. He let Martin’s words carry him away again.

-

When Jon woke again, he felt more alive than he had in days. If his illness recently had been him submerged, he finally felt like he was breaking through the surface. The Choke released him, and he felt oxygen return to his lungs. But he was not in the Buried, he was on the couch. He was not drowning, he was breathing sweet air and felt it wafting over him in the drafty house that felt like a home when he was with Martin. Martin. God, he could hear his voice and he didn’t think he had heard anything so sweet than Martin speaking and reading to him. He was reading, yes, and Jon knew immediately what it was: the statement of Herbert Conklin, an Irishman who watched his son turn to plastic before his eyes, piece by piece. Jon’s eyes flew open and he craned his neck to find Martin’s face. His eyes were cast down on the statement in his lap, but his hand was folded in Jon’s, running his fingertips over the smaller man’s knuckles gently.

Jon felt paralyzed, unable to move as he let the statement wash over him, hating how good it made him feel to hear the statement, lavishing in the words. He felt a sharp pain in his leg throb to dull ache as the healing words flowed through him. As Martin uttered those forsaken words: “Statement Ends,” he brought his eyes to meet Jon’s, a pale smile ghosting his face before it solidified into something more real, more Martin.

“Hi love. Been a tough few days. How are you holding up?”

Jon was lost for words for a moment, gaping like a fish before he brought Martin’s clasped hand to his lips. Kissing it, he pressed the words into his skin, begging them to impress themselves there forever.

“Better that you’re here.” His memory was a blank, sure, but he knew it must be true and didn’t need to ask the Eye to confirm. Martin was here. All would be well.

[aliwept]

WARNING :     MASSIVE TOKOYAMI HC DUMP AHEAD !  part one of ..... many sldkfjds i gotta transfer a lot from old blogs

triggers:  body talk,  religions mentions,  mentions of binding, self hatred and transitioning.

BELIEFS / MOTIVATION:

tokoyami looks at becoming a hero the “wrong” way — or rather, in a way that cripples his success.he doesn’t want to become a hero in and of itself, but to help as many people as he can.

this is usually a good thing, but it is motivated by his extreme guilt and self doubt rather than pure desire, believing that that is the only way to pay for his “sins.” (i.e., the destruction or potential destruction his quirk as/could cause(d).)

he holds himself up to an extremely high standard, (it is impossible to have a totally “pure” motivation,) one of being perfect and disciplined in every way, but he consistently fails to reach that (as any human being would), making it so that he falls deeper into a circle of self-doubt and pity.

he also tends to idealize his friends for their faults, and when those difficult traits show up he gets extremely bothered, then angry at himself for his idealization, then angry for bothering them, & it escalates until he’s simply angry at himself for being what he believes to be a burden.

this is an extremely deeply rooted process, one that even daily actions contribute to, & while the source isn’t completely his parents, it is certainly reinforced by his mother’s abuse & his guilt relating to his father’s death.

PHYSICAL:

he’s not particularly muscled — well, compared to his more muscular classmates. most of his muscle is in his legs & stomach. he does not have a particular training regimen, typically unmotivated unless prompted.

unlike the majority of his classmates, because a lot of his fighting is done with dark shadow moving him (so that it’s harder to predict movements, as well as going from a large range), the majority of the time he’s not challenged physically.

against close attacks, both attacking which he uses his sword for (seen in his dorm room), when allowed. he inherited that sword from his father after his death. he also feels fatigue easily, not so much due to muscles but because of his exhaustion that is his “normal” state, given that dark shadow is nocturnal. (this & his low work ethic. he works a lot harder when training with friends.)

he doesn’t feel the need to bind more than not, given his skinny physique, with his hips being only a little bit wider than the average cis man’s.most of his scars are on his arms, self inflicted from his talons cutting into his skin. parts of his skin are covered in a gel like skin, clear to see the feathers that poke out from them, going much like arm hair down his sides. these are mostly around his shoulders.

most of the feather is underneath skin (though the skin & the feather both have no nerves), visible with the skin being mostly clear (no muscles adding color, only the natural dark pigment) with the rest of the feaher poking out at a low angle to his arm.

HABITS:

he has a diary that he writes in religiously. it’s kept in a hat box under his bed when he returns to the dorm, along with a collection he’s had since he had been able to write.

at times, in nostalgia, he’ll read through his earlier books. he also tends to doodle his classmates in them ! he’s an incredibly private person — especially because his mother ignored his privacy, refusing to let him keep secrets of any kind in ‘fear that he was hiding something’ — but also enjoys putting his thoughts into words.         

PAST:               

tokoyami was bullied due to his appearance / personality. for someone who was already uncomfortable with his body (not knowing what being trans was at that point) this became the root of deep insecurity regarding his appearance, whether it was as simple as hesitation.

he is autistic !! he stims a lot with his hands, though usually it’s in his hoodie / under his cloak, because he’s very self conscious about it.  he also has adhd: inattentive type, bpd, depression & anxiety!

fantasy verse:  he’s a witch & i will fight you on this fact. my boy loves the occult. he’s also. in generally he tends to be superstitious, & more than that enjoys different rituals! it probably won’t show up in my rp cause i honestly don’t know much about that type of thing but ! he absolutely adores things like that, not necessarily because he fully believes them but because they’re interesting & he believes that they probably stem if only in part from fact.

now im gonna add some notes here.  while he is obviously pretty strong,  he has problems with control, considering that not only does he have to react, he has to communicate those thoughts with dark shadow. speed / offense / defense obviously are enhanced w dark shadow, as well as his own abilities (he would still be able to hold his own if he couldn’t use his quirk).

as well, a lot of his stats are basically his stats + dark shadow, which obv makes them higher than they otherwise would be. he also has really high stamina and working out for a long time doesn’t really. make him tired, nor dark shadow, because dark shadow doesn’t get tired & he’s not the one doing a lot of the actual physical stuff. he’s not good w weapons tho in general. note that these are basically during the daytime w/o a huge light source so things change when it’s darker/lighter.

parents:   tokoyami’s mother had the ability to call spirits of the dead to her and talk to them, & his father’s was to house things, as in objects, so he cld like. store things inside of his body. it’s real wild.

a quirk that combined with another in tokoyami’s lineage, so one of his ancestors had the ability to shapeshift, specifically with birds & banged w someone who has a quirk similar to aizawa’s, where it basically ‘stills’ the action of .someone’s quirk, if that makes sense? so down the line people wld inherit a birds’ features, but it would switch. in his dad’s case, he got a raptors ‘arms’ & eyes.

i am here to inform you that not only is he really short, he’s also chubby! espcially as a child. while he now has muscle! :tm: ive made earlier posts about how he doesn’t have a good. regimen & shit so. yeah. just like deku, while he may be muscled, (though he’s less muscled than. most of his classmates) he still is v chubby on other parts of his body.

also ! he’s trans & he has. a large bust, which he does not bind most of the time due to fear of asphyxiation. being demiboy, he is bothered at it at times, but dislikes tight clothes as a whole (like binders). this is because he is easily overstimulated by excessive contact with his body, causing sensory overload.the exception is his neck, which his choker is a source of comfort. (though, warning, there are scars underneath that the large choker hides!)

tokoyami. will say/do something & then become embarrassed by it, after the act has already been done. he’ll fuckin melt on the spot.

tokoyami is absolutely someone to leave ppl on read. or respond w several paragraphs w ‘K.’ like. that’s just how it is. he’s lowkey an asshole in that way but he just. he has to think a lot before having a response but he gets distracted & just leaves it.

he has dark fucking brown skin !!!!! people who draw tokoyami w light skin cause he’s a ‘pale goth uwu !!!!’ are weak & will be weeded out by natural selection.

people he trains with most are ,,,  mostly kirishima, kaminari, aoyama and momo when they’re available

he’s mix of japanese, native american, and indian!

self knowledge questions:  neediness, independence, shyness.

NEEDINESS: being affirmed & nurtured by others is a central requirement for you to feel safe. this means you can be slow to warm up to other people, which is difficult because what you most need from them is their warmth. yet you know how to be vulnerable: to let down your defenses and accept that you need another person. this lack of pretense is a valuable trait, and ultimately more endearing than the macho efforts others make to deny their childlike sides.

INDEPENDENCE: you don’t set out to be different for its own sake; you are more easily guided by what interests & moves you. you are more concerned about what is right for you than about the pressure to fit in. you know the value of selective irresponsibility, of forgetting occasionally about being ‘good’.

SHYNESS: part of you is gripped by the fear that you’ll launch into something and completely mess it up. the upside of this is wise caution: people are indeed often too rash, whereas you know, by instinct, that holding back can save you. probably, you feel shame and self-disgust a bit too much. but when you do feel in your element, you act with a wisdom and sensitivity never found in people with thicker skins.

there’s an au where he’s tamaki’s half brother tamakis hmu

more ramblings cause i lov him so anw. i figure that like. if he had to have a motivator it would be an outside force but basically he’s riding on the fact that he has more physical ability because he doesn’t perform very well in studies. ( bird brain …… )

getting 14th place out of the class on midterms, he’s aware that he’s not motivated & as well as his migraines & other mental illnesses ( adhd, executive dysfunction, etc. ) this means that he doesn’t really reach his “full potential.”

he’s aware of this, though, which causes him to train physically. physically training also allows him to ( a ) feel proud of himself, something that he struggles with ( b ) help him generally, esp with dysphoria ( c ) get his mind off of other things / points of stress.

i still don’t think he’s like. as buff as shouji for example, though part of that is that he’s naturally lean ! & he has trouble motivating himself sometimes but when he stays up late ( due to dark shadow ) it basically wrecks his sleeping patterns, so this gives him something beneficial to do while also exhausting himself, which he hopes will help him fall asleep.

like i know that i said that . . he was skinny / not v muscled ( when compared to his buffer classmates, rather ) but i guess i’ve been proven wrong because it took both Buff McFuck mina and hagakure 2 push him out of the way ( not tht it took that long but that was w them straining / time skips )

so @ this point i Just Don’t Know. he got 9 in the practical which means he’s obv like ?? p good but that was the entrance exam. ( he got 10 rescue my baby !!!! im so proud of him ) & then w aizawa’s exams he started off at 5 & im tryna find the other thing what it ended up as but @ this point i’m just , pretty divided cause i’m not seeing much reason for him to learn to train w/o proper training ( & we kno that he’s not someone who was trained specially like todoroki / momo tho tht doesnt mean it’s not possible & at this point im just ) ya. he’s gotta be able but from what we know he’s not v motivated ? ausdjkfdsfjk we’ll see ig.

tokoyami is a mix of shinto (where his hero epithet comes from), taoist (due to the values), & hindu (again, values). i think for now it’s going to be some mix of that, though i’m going to do some research on shinto values since i don’t know much about it !!!!!

generally, he’s pretty superstitious, just because he knows many myths are based on facts, & the idea of ‘it doesn’t hurt to watch out for them.’ he prefers to avoid possible things that would make him have bad luck.

[doomednarrative]

Odd numbered questions

Since you didn’t give me a character, I answered them all for Rhys. (This is really really long so every question after the first is under a read more.)

1. What does their bedroom look like?

Post Helios crashing, all of the Handsome Jack posters have been removed and torn up. I like to think that Rhys has his own room in the Helios remains camp so that he can visit Vaughn and the others whenever he wants to, and I think this room would actually be kinda bare, if only because of the lack of resources available to decorate with. If they’re able to find any paint maybe he’d paint it the Altas colors since he’s now the Atlas CEO, but other than that there’s not much there besides a bed and nightstand and a closet for his clothes. (Later down the line in my vision for post game story, he basically just moves into Vaughn’s room and that’s a bit more decorated.)

3. Do they exercise, and if so, what do they do? How often?

Rhys is definitely Not the exercise type (despite Vaughn’s best effort to get his twig of a best friend/boyfriend to put on some muscle), but he’s at least taken to going on daily walks when he can either around the camp or outside of it for a bit. Keeps the fresh ideas flowing and at least keeps him on guard.

5. Cleanliness habits (personal, workspace, etc.)

It depends on his mental health most days honestly. For appearances alone if he’s got a day full of important CEO duties, he’ll always make the effort to get dressed up and look very presentable for the time that he’s at work. When he gets home tho, if it’s a bad mental health day, that all goes out the door when he steps foot in his room and can decompress. If he’s Really bad mentally, sometimes Vaughn has to step in and remind Rhys to do some things so he doesn’t fall into bad habits permanently.

7. Favorite way to waste time and feelings surrounding wasting time

I feel like Rhys is the type who would probably enjoy drawing in his spare time. He doesn’t get to do  it often since he’s a CEO with a lot of duties there and he likes hanging out with his friends a lot, but when he does get to, its more loose doodling and more often than not used as a stress relief. He might have some negative thoughts about wasting time when there’s more important things to do, but he also knows that sometimes he Has to separate himself from his work, both for his own mental health and because Vaughn or Fiona will Make Him take some time off if he won’t do it himself.

9. Makeup?

Considering I headcanon Rhys as trans, I’m gonna say that makeup isn’t really his thing. Though he has been known to wear just a bit of eyeliner from time to time when the mood strikes. (He sucks at applying it tho and asks Fiona to help him whenever he does wear it.)

11. Intellectual pursuits?

After pulling out all his cybernetics on his own and fucking up some stuff internally by doing so, Rhys started collecting as much reading material in any and all forms about cybernetics and how to build and maintain and install them as he could. He’s become a lot more knowledgeable about the topic since having to do so to save his own arm and eye, and he plans to use that knowledge to help out the people of Pandora later on in the future through the use of Atlas tech. (His own cybernetics still aren’t the best because he jury-rigged them in the beginning when he was kinda desperate and not at full mental capacity, and his fine motor control suffers because of this, but he’s constantly working on the tech to improve it. He’s no expert in the field, at least when it comes to self application, but he’s trying his best.)

13. Sexual Orientation? And, regardless of own orientation, thoughts on sexual orientation in general?

If he had to put a label on it, Rhys would probably say that he’s pansexual, leaning more towards men. In terms of what he thinks in general about orientations though? He really couldn’t give two shits. People are who they are and like who they like and he’s not one to judge for any of that. It’s honestly one of the furthest things from his mind a lot of the time.

15. Biggest and smallest short term goal?

(This one I actually don’t have an answer for, but when I think of one, I will post it.)

17. Preferred mode of dress and rituals surrounding dress

Rhys has two modes of dress: Fully suited kickass CEO, or oversized shirts with the sleeve possibly ripped off for his cybernetic arm with baggy sweatpants. He’s either at the top of his fashion game or he gives no two shits either way.

19. What do they think about before falling asleep at night?

Depends when you’re asking. Pre him and Vaughn getting together, probably about all the shit he regrets with Jack and Helios crashing and all the people he’s killed and horrible things he did in the name of his job on Hyperion. Post him and Vaughn getting together when they start sharing a room and sleeping in the same bed? He tries to focus more on the now, on being lucky that he’s still alive after Jack tried to kill him and that he still has his friends and that they’re here together.

21. Turn-ons? Turn-offs?

Honestly, people being nice to him and not calling him a dumbass is his major turn on. Turn offs is a longer list but the top of that list is people degrading him and only seeing him as a klutz and not someone they can take seriously.

23. How organized are they? How does this organization/disorganization manifest in their everyday life?

Rhys is chaotically organized, much to his friends and potential future employee’s dismay. I headcanon him as having ADHD, so some of it definitely comes from that. The other part though comes from the fact that he just has his own ways of doing things that don’t make sense to anyone except him (and sometimes Vaughn.) He’s never lost any important documents or the like, but he’s more prone to losing certain articles of clothing (except for his socks, he’s careful with those) and other more personal items. He can’t count the number of times he’s misplaced his stun baton when he really needed it.

25. How do they see themselves 5 years from today?

Married to Vaughn while being a successful CEO for Atlas and actually making decent strides at improving life on Pandora for All it’s inhabitants and basically doing the Opposite of what he would have been doing on Helios if he were still there.

27. What is their biggest regret?

He has a Lot of regrets that plague his conscious constantly for a long time, but plugging that goddamn ID Drive of Nakayama’s into his data port is one of the Biggest ones. So much shit wouldn’t have happened if he had never done that and hadn’t let Jack get deep into his systems.

29. Reaction to sudden extrapersonal disaster (eg The house is on fire! What do they do?)

Rhys is the one who runs around screaming (most times) until someone gives him instructions on what to do. He does have times though if he’s able to be level headed enough that he can make a solid plan to solve the problem as well.

31. Most prized possession?

The ECHOeye implant where Jack’s AI is held captive. (if you had him keep it and not destroy it that is, which I did.) It’s not prized for the fact that it’s important to him or that he misses Jack or anything like that. It’s prized because he knows if He has the implant, no one else can get ahold of Jack but him. And keeping Jack in the implant means that he’s suffering alone in there by himself which Rhys feels is what he deserves. (He keeps the implant in a bio-encrypted lock deep down in his office’s vaults at Atlas. No one except him knows that it’s even stored there.)

33. Concept of home and family?

His friends are his family. Vaughn, Fiona, Sasha, LB, Gortys, heck even Athena and Janey and August, he considers them all his family to some degree, with Vaughn being the closest out of all of them. And as far as a home goes, that’s just wherever they all happen to be together in his mind.

35. What activities do they enjoy, but consider to be a waste of time?

As mentioned earlier, Rhys enjoys doodling at times but sometimes considers it a waste when he knows he has more important things he could be doing with his time.

37. Are they more analytical or more emotional in their decision-making?

Absolutely more emotional. He goes with whatever his heart tells him is right every single time, which doesn’t always have the best results.

39. What recharges them when they’re feeling drained?

Rhys used to play guitar a bit in college, but once he got to Hyperion that hobby died very quickly. Somehow, Fiona found out this fact (most likely through Vaughn since Rhys never talks about it) and gave Rhys a slightly used guitar she was able to pawn off of someone one day as a gift. She claims it was just to get him out of everyones hair but really, it was just her being nice. Rhys has since then been slowly learning how to play again and likes to pull it out and play by himself when he’s too low on energy to be social. (If he’s too drained for even that, then a nap will normally suffice for a recharge as well. Preferably one with Vaughn, but those are few and far between since he’s got people to look after.)

41. How misanthropic are they?

Rhys is normally a pretty social person and generally enjoys society, but at times, he does tend to withdraw from people and isolate himself after the Helios incident. It’s not for the fact of hating people or society in general, it’s more the fact that he spent so much time alone after defeating Jack and while rebuilding Atlas that sometimes, being around people is just too much and he needs some time alone. He gets better with this as the years go by, but in the beginning he’ll sometimes go two or three days alone before interacting with people again. (His friends worry the first few times this happens, especially Vaughn, but they come to understand his reasoning after he actually takes the time to explain his absences to them. Vaughn is sometimes allowed to see him during those times though because he’s Vaughn and he knows how to just be around Rhys naturally and do his own work without making Rhys talk or interact much.)

43.How far did they get in formal education? What are their views on formal education vs self-education?

It’s canon that Rhys went to college, but as far as actually finishing and what degrees he got, I’d say he got his bachelors and no further than that, unless he was doing his own independent studying on his own, which he might have done to push himself forward at Hyperion. Rhys is all for self education, he’s constantly doing that himself when it comes to running Atlas and learning what he needs to do to be a successful CEO there.

45. Superstitions or views on the occult?

Don’t think Rhys is much for superstitions or the occult. He doesn’t really Need to be when things like Vault Monsters exist in real life for him.

47. If they were to fall in love, who (or what) is their ideal?

Vaughn is definitely his ideal person. He compliments Rhys in a lot of different ways, they have a lot of history from being best friends for so long, and they get each other on a deeper level. Vaughn has always been important to Rhys throughout their whole journey from college to Hyperion to the now. And after seeing how Vaughn grew as a person during the time they were separated, he really came to appreciate him as he was and is. Vaughns is his best bro after all, and bros gotta stick together.

49. If this person were to get into a fist fight, what is their fighting style like?

If he remembers to use his robotic arm to fight, then Rhys might actually stand a chance at least to not be knocked out during a fist fight. But if not, he’s extremely weak and will be beat to shit. He really has no style for physical fights other than “Throw my fist and see if it hurts them.”

[captusmomentum]

Excessively detailed asks: 1-19 odds only for Inan, 20-38 evens only for Tace plz :D

fuck me running this is a lot OKAY HERE WE GOOOOOO

INANALLAS

(heads up the pronouns are gonna jump around here bc inan uses they//them and she/her so hopefully doesn’t get too confusing rip)

1. What does their bedroom look like?

Surprisingly Clean. They’re exactly the type you’d expect to be super messy but thanks to living in such small spaces like aravals all their life they’re very good about keeping things in come kind of order. This stands even for modern verses, they’re very good about it. In verses they’re inquisitor they actually rearrange the room a lot, putting their bed on the balcony and making the main floor more of an office/living room as well as creating panels to help block out some of that sun bc HOLY SHIT WINDOWS, they also have a panel set to block the view of the bed which is really just wedged between it and the railing. The little bed alcove is very cozy and the main floor is much more functional and better for have friends up :D In modern aus, like say amd, they’re one of those people who’re like ‘ live in an apartment that’s only 90ft big :D’ and when they show you how it’s like part science miracle and part acrobatics bonanza. Like look at any tiny home or tiny apartment type show/place/thing and thats’ how they Roll. Mainly bc they’re fucking Broke AF, creative/innovative and well trained by dalish life for it. So bedrooms are usually like, lofts and shit like that which can mean it’s not much more than the essentials of Snoozing. 

3. Do they exercise, and if so, what do they do? How often?They do! Inan works out pm everyday in pm every verse. Their style of magic is very, very very physical so it requires a lot of working out and training even in verses where they’re not constantly murdering ppl like canon ones they gotta get diesel for magic. In most verses they primarily do a variety of martial arts (or just one elf/dalish one? depends on how deep into worldbuilding you wanna get here honestly) and then things like running, weight lifting general kinda fitness exercise things. I imagine in modern verses and such (maybe more canon ones too tf do i know) that places like Arlathvhen’s there’s like, a sort of pow wow/olympics type event that goes on and clans have people representing them and Lath was disqualified for cheating bc she’s Weak in the temptation of Victory so Inan is the Obligatory Contender in at least some of the mage events, usually like, dueling bc it’s ironically her specialty. So she really does have to stay sharp when in verses where there’s no fighting bc she’s gotta bring home gold for clan Lavellan. 

(if u wanna get a sense of how inan fights it’s a LOT like pm anyone from avatar the last airbender/Legend of Korra especially Korra and Katara(atla) )(apologies about the katara vid and that shit music there’s So Little out there sobs)5. Cleanliness habits (personal, workspace, etc.)

Inan isn’t the most organized or together person which is combined w/ their dalish upbringing is why they’re Hyper Organized. Things have places and they go there ALWAYS otherwise they’ll never be found again ever. Also lots of labels. Their own living spaces are more organized than their work spaces, generally bc other ppl touch things or put things on their desk. Every time someone touches their things they have a small heart attack bc it means that something CRITICAL might have been moved and will never be found again. Seriously they are held together only by the power of their aesthetically pleasing organization and labeling. So school is Really Fun in modern aus (read: i’ve considered having them be a high school dropout for Various Reasons).7. Favorite way to waste time and feelings surrounding wasting time

They Dream of wasting time. They Long to waste time. Everyday they pray they can waste time. Usually a lot of her time goes into things like Clan Stuff, Magic Stuff and Work Stuff so any chance they get to dick off they do. They fave method in modern verses is tv or youtube but in canon-y verses its Tavern w/ Bull or Tavern w/ Sera, the 2 people most likely 2 not call her out for Ditching Shit. Drinking w/ Dorian and/or Varric is very high on the list in all verses.9.Makeup?

Naaaahhhhhhhhhh. Generally too lazy for it and doesn’t like feeling of it on her face. Also it’s a real Bitch bc she’s always got tats on like 70-90% of her face and freckles (which she actually likes) so like foundation’s a Nah but you can’t do things like cover her dark circles w/o foundation otherwise the difference is Too Obvious like it’s just a Disaster. She can be convinced to wear it at special events and things but someone else has gotta do it. 

11. Intellectual pursuits?Some and very disorganized. Generally answering any Burning Mystical Questions they have regardless of worth or importance, debating (fighting) about topics involving analysis in books and things, Fade Stuff, Learning Elvhen. They don’t really actively pursue a lot of things bc they’re doing so much shit normally, they really only pursue it when the interest strikes. Also, proving that the occult is Real and Valid.13.Sexual Orientation? And, regardless of own orientation, thoughts on sexual orientation in general?hoooooooooo boy dksjlgjfdsgfk, pansexual demisexual/grey-asexual is probably the best description. they don’t know they just like people and they don’t think about it they don’t think about Sex Stuff or ppls orientations it’s all W/E IDK and while they’re not prudish or squeamish about it they will run screaming for the hills things get too raunchy. Sex –especially sex involving them– has them looking for the nearest exit, not necessarily bc they’re sex repulsed but they are Extremely Anxious and Scared of interpersonal interaction so kissing is yiKESSSSSSSSSSSSS15.Biggest and smallest short term goal?Hmmmmm that’s really hard. Biggest is usually like: Not Die. Smallest is something like: whatever is next on to do list. They live a life of unnecessary extremes. 17.Preferred mode of dress and rituals surrounding dressGoth mori/strega fashion vibes. Lots of skirts and layers and looking very much like a peasant wizard. Usually they just dress for the weather and put on as many layers as they can to feel safe and protected (and snuggly). There’s a lot of similarities in their logic about it with Uthvir but with miles of soft fabrics instead of spikes. Usually darker colors with an emphasis on blues. There’s not too much in the way of ritual around it since they’ve tailored their wardrobe so they can grab things put them on, and look good w/o any real effort.

 here’s the for inan fashion stuff 

19.What do they think about before falling asleep at night?

Usually they go through a very specific ritual when going to sleep since they’re a dreamer to help keep that shit on lock which involves a lot of emptying of the mind and relaxing and preparing to deal with Fade Shit. If they don’t it’s just existential dread, anxiety and depression shit and panic. So they don’t not do the thing…….

TACE

20.Childhood illnesses? Any interesting stories behind them?Tace wasn’t really sick much more than the normal amount and kinds as a kid and was the kind who conks out the whole time and doesn’t say, try to get up and play. As he got older and his dreamer abilities started to kick in he reacted to it like someone who was very sick, fevers, hot and cold, sweating. slept too much or not enough. He began to have trouble keeping food down and lacking an appetite which he still has problems with to this day along with sleep trouble and exhaustion. 22.Given a blank piece of paper, a pencil, and nothing to do, what would happen?either doodles of dicks and such or a rude, raunchy or somehow unacceptable letter to someone whether he knew them or not he wrote for a laugh with no intention of sending. He’s very mature24.Is there one subject of study that they excel at? Or do they even care about intellectual pursuits at all?He actually excels in a lot of things, he’s a pretty gifted mage. He just Hates the Circle and all that academia type shit so regardless of his skill in them he doesn’t want to do them. He thinks intellectual pursuits are on a whole a waste of time because they’re mainly just there to make people feel more important and fancy.26.Do they have any plans for the future? Any contingency plans if things don’t workout?NOPE. NONE. past maybe ‘consult with that statue of Eleni Zinovia back in Ferelden about what to do w/ my life’ and ‘get a boyfriend’. 28.Who do they see as their best friend? Their worst enemy?hoooooo that’s Rough. Probably Banal though he’s more a father figure. He wasn’t very close to his other mages and hated the templars. Later when he meets Keshet and Shalev I guess they become his best friends which is...... very gay and lame.

Worst Enemy is Cullen and Meredith but Meredith is dead so fuck youuuuuuuu Culllleeennnnnnnn.30.Reaction to sudden intrapersonal disaster (eg close family member suddenly dies)Boy This Sucks [Drinks like a monster even more than usual] 

he’s pretty desensitized to tragedy but also a shambling mess so it’s really just his usual self but like 1000000000000000% worse for a while

32.Thoughts on material possessions in general?

MORE PLEASE. he loves shit give him all the stuff he wants to lounge in a gaudy parlor on a opulent chaise. He never got to have much in the way of possessions in the circle so he lots shit now. also he’s just a material little shit.

34.Thoughts on privacy? (Are they a private person, or are they prone to ‘TMI��?)He doesn’t care about other people’s privacy pretty much at all and loves getting into people’s shit but he’s VERY intense about his own privacy. He’s deeply protective of himself and his things and privacy. So he’s a wildly hypocritical guy.36.What makes them feel guilty?Not fucking much. He occasionally feels bad about how he’s treated someone but it’s not often and he’d never say it out loud. just kinda adds it to the pile of fuel for self-loathing.38.Would they consider themselves a Type A or Type B personality?

He’d be a Type A if it weren’t how his life has gone so I guess he’s like, a burnout Type A. 

[bearerofmen]

Mommy Tings

The chickens are gone. Morning rays of sunlight are slipping through the blinds of our windows. Luring me from a deep sleep. Silence during this time of the morning has shifted to be quite an oddity now that the chickens no longer cocka-doodle us awake during dawn. They were a daily reminder that I have become a New Orleanean.  A benevolently spiritual city that pours the culture of its art, food, and music into the resident’s soul. The chickens roam freely and sometimes seem to be every where. 

I don’t hear our children. Consciously, I decide to fight back the day light and attempt to hold on to the Sandman a bit longer. There is no telling the amount of time that passed by but the sleep I greedily chased was over. I felt them. They slipped into our bed. They wanted breakfast. But they didn’t say anything. Their mother is known to everyone who knows her intimately as Cruella Deville in the mornings. Showing great intelligence, neither one said a word. Wrapping their arms lovingly around me, I sensed their love for me. One at a time they kissed my eyelids until they opened. Just as I did to them when they slept as babies. Once awakened, more hugs and kisses are exchanged. That settled, laughter, and smiles subside. 

Doe eyed as ever, one says to me, “Mommy, I’m hungry.”

I realize I’ve been finessed long before I start cracking eggs for scrambling. I got up and participated in taking care of our boys. Doing what I have only affectionately heard in central Louisiana as a ‘Mommy Ting.’ After all, it’s Saturday morning. The cleaning routine will pick up shortly. 

Half way through the morning, the boys should  be cleaning their rooms but I’m certain I hear a  basketball being dribbled in their toy room. I’m enroute to Banaville because I am 1000% sure that I have asked the boys to stop wrestling, put the balls down, and clean up their room! I’m half way up the stairs and the youngest lets me know that all he want is “hugs and kiss.”

Receiving the stalest of faces, he gets hugs and kisses. 

‘Finessed again,’ I recognize. 

Before we can continue our Saturday morning ritual, I catch a glance of their Father shaking his head with perched lips. He knows they finessed my ass too. I shake off my distractions, turn up the music, and finish what ever is in front of me. 

Fast forward. We have a babysitter. Mommy and Daddy are going on a date night. I spent an hour getting ready for it and looked at myself a million times in the mirror. Was my lipstick smudging; was my bra slipping out and showing in this dress; do I like my hair like this? All questions I asked in my head repeatedly as I headed to check on it again in the mirror.

Both the Terrorist and the Mutineer watched me closely as I checked the mirror constantly. They stared at me for a moment then walk away and amused themselves however they wanted in the next room. 

Finally I figure, ‘it is what it is.’ Mr. Wonderful has been waiting “patiently.”  Making sure I have on the the triple P’s (perfume, purse, and pumps), I left our bedroom to go out with my love. 

I was met with gasps. 

“Wow mom,” mouths agape. “You look like a Queen.”

“You look perfect mommy!”

Damn. I think…Finesse!