#limited . the ceiling is also really high for it to be a basement????

[scare-ard--sleigh]

me trying to figure out which denomination joseph christiansen is by looking at the canon pictures of the maple bay church and finding that there are basketball markings on the floor where the youth mixer takes place,,,,, why tf is there a gym in the church which is a VEry small building when looked at from the outside ????? i'm

[korasonata]

So, we are fairly convinced that I in fact live in a haunted house. I’ve lived here for almost 10 months now. We moved mid September in the middle of the fall - an OLD old house with big bay windows, white picket fences, french doors, large yard, private garden, porch, basement, and cheap rent. Seemed a relatively good deal at the time.

I remember the day we saw it for the first time. Or more precisely, I remember the drive home where me and my roommate had poked fun about the house probably being haunted, had joked about burning sage and whatnot. You know, joking around as you do. When I tell you, the kind of shit we put up with from day ONE.

Now, I’ll start off by saying that my house has precisely 2 bedrooms, both of which have had their moments, but I will start off with mine. Now, my bedroom is very small. A tiny little shoebox of a room that has an insanely high ceiling and very limited floor space because my house is still heated by radiators and they are freaking huge. There is one small window that doesn’t open. To the left of this window, on the adjacent wall, is a tiny Coraline esk door, the top of which sits at about waist height from the floor up.

It is iterally bolted to the wall.

I’ve never opened this door, because I’m not daft, but I moved my dresser in front of it to block its entrance and I’ve never had any problems.

Although I should clarify, I’ve never had any problems with the door. The rest of my room however…

The first day we moved in was when we had our first incident. I was in my new room, I had no bed, no shelves, but at the time possessed precisely 1 dresser and a suitcase, which I was unpacking. My roommate was sitting in the living room on the couch just outside my door, reading. I was just folding some clothes and putting them in my dresser when I heard a loud THUNK from behind me, where I promptly turned towards the source of the sound. When I turned around I found a long, white candlestick in the middle of my bedroom floor, half used, and very clearly not mine. Now, I cannot stress enough that this room had no ledges, no shelves, there was literally nowhere this thing could have fallen from. My roommate was still reading on the couch, but she had looked up at the sound too, and she was just as confused and weirded out as I was.

This was just the start.

The second incident happened on my third night there, and also coincidentally my first night alone in the house. This incident moves us to the bathroom, where I had consistently been hearing scratching in the walls late at night. Our house is old enough that is doesn’t have a fan in the bathroom, but instead has a really tiny window which you can open to vent out steam. I’d had the window open because I had showered earlier that night. It was about 12-1:00 in the morning and I had gone into the bathroom to brush my teeth and get ready for bed when I heard even more obnoxious scratching coming from inside the bathtub. I walked over to investigate, thinking maybe an animal was under the pipes or something when I heard something outside the window. The sound of digging, but not like an animal. Like the sounds of a metal shovel scooping up gravel. I’d checked the next morning and nothing looked disturbed. But this was not the last time I heard that sound. The scratching continued nightly for the next 3 months as well.

By week 3 my roommate had started having this recurring dream about her bedroom. Now her bedroom, unlike mine, is actually quite massive. It has the same high ceilings, but it has enough floor space to fit a king sized bed and full bedroom set, bookshelves, grand piano, possibly some couches and entertainment unit. It’s huge. The floor is also spongy as all hell. Every room except the bathroom and kitchen have the same floor - thin hardwood planks that had to have been over 100 years old. You could tell it was rotted underneath just by the feel, but her particular room was sunk down a full foot into the floor, and not by design. Like the supports had just kind of given out and the whole floor space had gone with it. Her room was also always infested with spiders. She hated spiders.

Her first dream reflected this fear. Her dream consisted of her lying in her bed where she recounts that the floor had started to swell. The wooden floorboards had started to expand out into a big bubble and when it popped she had gone to stare into the pit it had created. 2 large, dead, spiders had been thrown out and hit her in the chest, and she recounts that she had woken up suddenly, feeling like there was a weight against her chest. She had this same dream with different iterations of dead animals being thrown from the pit. Mice, rats, possums. Every night she woke up feeling like there had been a weight against her chest. On the final night she says she had found a man. A homeless man at the bottom of the pit, alive, amidst a sea of dead animals - there was a homeless shelter on the next street over. He asked her to let him stay. Begged and pleaded and grovelled with her to let him stay, to which she apologized profusely, saying over and over again that she was sorry but he couldn’t stay there, but she promised to help him find someplace to stay. 2 dead possums were thrown from the pit of their own accord. She once again woke up with a weight on her chest, but she never had the dream again after that.

About a month after that I was away from home. I had gone up to my cottage for the weekend, so she was by herself. I woke up one morning to 5 missed calls from my roommate panicking because the house had been making noises. She was yelling about something being in the walls. She complained about scratching sounds and really loud banging noises that sounded like knocking.

Some time in December I was woken up one night. I had woken up because I had heard voices. I remember sitting there with my eyes closed and hearing this kind of murmuring of voices from somewhere by my wall. At this point I remember feeling so exhausted that I didn’t even care. I remember squinting my eyes shut tighter and trying to ignore them because I was so tired that I just could not even bring myself to care about disembodied voices in my room. I remember feeling frozen in this sort of stasis for a while before the voices spoke again closer to my head. There were 2 female voices, the first of which I did not grasp what was said, only that the phrase spoken sounded like a question, and then the second voice replied “just one more”. Following this there were 3 swift knocks on my wall, as if someone had struck it with an open palm, and I bolted awake suddenly, startled by the sound, and yet feeling very well rested strangely.

These were isolated incidents, but there were several recurring things that happened far more frequently, like the scratching in the walls that occurred nightly like clockwork, or the knocking or banging sounds that sometimes, but not always, accompanied this. There was a night light in my bathroom that had come with the house that had no switches or buttons, that up until the 3rd week of living there we did not realize was actually motion activated because it had just been on all the time. But there were other things.

For the first 5 months, the lights in my kitchen flickered a lot. There was nothing wrong with them, they just seemed to do this whenever we were in the kitchen and had the lights on. It used to freak out any guests we had over a lot, but we had just gotten used to it. Sometime in the middle of winter it just stopped. We haven’t had any issues with the lights since.

Very occasionally I would be doing the dishes and then suddenly the basement door would pop open on its own - a door that had hinges and a latch and was also very difficult to open. It was very stiff, so you had to really heave on this thing to get it open, and yet it would just pop open on its own if we didn’t have it locked. This happened on several occasions, and you could hear when it did if you were in another room - it made this really loud, deep banging sound because it was so stiff and you had to really force it open.

There’s a unit above us as well. We live in the main floor of a house, and someone else rents upstairs, but the upper unit is actually completely separate from us. It has its own entrance around the back and there is no link between the two. They were selling both units when we moved in, but the upper one sat empty for a while - we had about 3 months of the house to ourselves before another tenant moved in. Now, I’ve never been in the upper unit, I don’t know what it looks like, but every night like clockwork a light would come on in the upper left hand window. We heard footsteps above us all the time. Something we heard very frequently was what sounded like heavy furniture being dragged across the floor - this would go on for about an hour and then stop.

It was an empty unit. Nobody lived there.

This happened several times when the new tenant moved in as well, it was just easier to excuse because there was actually someone living there now. The new tenant was a single woman that lived alone. Often we would be sitting in the living room and be hearing all manner of crashing and dragging of furniture for hours and we would go “wtf is she doing up there” only to discover she wasn’t even home.

The latest incident happened just a couple days ago. I hadn’t been home in 3 days, and so the first night I came home I had gone down into the basement to do some laundry. Now, I feel it’s important to note that this took place in the basement for several reasons, the primary one being that none of the above has ever scared me. Floating candlesticks being thrown at me from across the room? That’s fine. Doors that open on their own? Child’s play. Scratching, banging, scraping, dragging, disembodied voices in the walls? None of it has ever scared me.

The basement scares me.

Or I don’t know if scared is the right word, but it definitely makes me uneasy, and for good reason. See, if you thought the rest of the house was a bit decrepit, it doesn’t even hold a candle to the state of my basement. To get there you have to go down this VERY rickety wooden staircase that’s so steep it’s almost completely vertical. There’s holes going into the side of it, pipes that go right through the steps. As you get to the bottom there is a broken window on the left that is so dirty no amount of scrubbing could ever hope to get it clean. There’s holes and cracks in the walls filled with what looks like a dark sludge. Holes in the ceiling with all manner of hanging and severed wires draping down. Rotted insulation. Rotted wood. Spiders everywhere. Cobwebs cover literally every surface that isn’t the floor or the washing machine. Nothing down there is up to building code.

There is also 2 VERY sketchy side wings of this basement.

There is the main area right at the bottom of the stairs that has my washer and dryer, an old utility sink, and a half collapsed, half rotted set of wooden shelves that I use to store my laundry detergent. The light switch at the top of the stairs connects to this area, however the 2 separate side wings do not. It’s a bit difficult to describe, but if you go down the stairs and turn right and walk all the way to the other wall, you hit a sort of T intersection where you can go left or right and go around the wall on either side. Around the right wall is my circuit breaker that is lit with one of those old clicker light switches on strings. It’s a small space, so that side isn’t as bad. The other side however looks straight out of a horror film.

The other side has a bigger space. There’s a machine in there that takes up almost the whole room that I’m going to assume is a water softener but I’m actually not sure because the water softener I had at the house I grew up in looked nothing like this, but I don’t know what else it could possibly be. The foyer of this wing when we moved in was full of old rotted and broken shelves. There’s all manner of cobwebs everywhere - triple the amount of the main room. The wall is also wood here. I’m going to assume this was once the base of a crawl space that has since been very shoddily blocked off. It looks like they patched it with old pieces of wood fence, not even legitimate boards, also rotted because of course they are. It’s literally falling apart.

Some of the fence pieces have fully collapsed, so there is plenty of cracks and gaps, but behind it is just blackness. It’s like the mouth of some weird cave. If I looked in the gaps for too long I always got this weird lingering feeling like something was watching me. And it was cold. This room was cold unlike the rest of the house - I mean the rest of the house was cold, but nothing like this. The entire room is also dark at all times. There is 1 light switch which is on the opposite side of the room. Meaning you have to walk through this entire maze of machine, cobweb infested, freezing void wall encased room to get to the lights - a single lightbulb on a pull string that only lights up about 2 feet around it, so the majority of the room is still pitch black anyway.

We don’t go in this room.

I digress.

Anyway, I hadn’t been home in 3 days. I went down to do some laundry. 2 steps down I noticed something odd - a trail of wet footprints going down to the basement. Now, I didn’t particularly question this at first. My roommate had been home, so I figured she had simply gone down to do some laundry earlier. Nothing overly suspicious. It wasn’t until I went to go back up again that I started to question them. See as I had noted, the trail of footprints I had seen had gone all the way down the stairs, a clear impression on each step.

Down, but not up.

The main laundry area had been empty. We didn’t go into the side wings. It was then that I had the sudden realization that while I had seen my roommates car in the driveway earlier, I had in fact not seen my roommate once since I had gotten home.

I get to the top of the stairs, a little bit concerned. Afraid she was sitting somewhere in the left side wing murdered or something, I was frankly a little bit afraid to look, and was not about to investigate because this is how people die in horror movies. So I texted her. For peace of mind really, just to make sure she wasn’t, you know, dead. Just a quick “hey, you’re upstairs right?” She replied almost instantly with a yes she was just in her room. Relieved, obviously my first reaction is just “oh good, I just saw the trail of wet footprints going down to the basement and just wanted to be sure.”

Her response?

“I haven’t been down to the basement in 2 days.”

[realtorjamier]

Home Renovations that May Help (or Hinder) Resale Value!

Want to get the best bang for your buck when deciding which home projects and renovations will be worth the pay off when it’s time to sell? Choose your projects carefully. Not every home improvement project will boost value – or even get you anywhere near the money you’ve put into it. Some “improvements” may even hinder resale. If you’re looking for a good return on investment (ROI), here’s a breakdown of the most popular renovations and their probable effect on resale value.

Kitchens

Most everyone wants an updated kitchen. Dated decor and older, clearly much-used appliances will turn off prospective buyers. But don’t overdo it. Stick to the basics for a safer return: updated backsplashes and lighting, freshly painted walls. If your kitchen cabinets are scuffed and scratched, a good paint job or fresh varnish and new hardware may suffice. New fixtures and appliances should be replaced if they are clearly dated. Granite and quartz countertops are popular as they don’t seem to ever go out of style.

Bathrooms

Like kitchens, everyone wants an updated bathroom. A fresh coat of paint, updated faucets, a newer model toilet – you really can’t go wrong with these quick fixes. Other ways to make this private but very important room more desirable: adding storage space, improving lighting, upgrading tile, vanity, and countertops. 

Light fixtures

Lighting plays an important role in a home. Good light amplifies a room, creating a more spacious environment. It can even improve mood (think about how a lack of sunlight can lead to seasonal affective disorder). Conversely, dark, shadowy spaces can diminish a room – and your mood.

Also, you may be tempted to replace your dated light fixtures with on-trend lighting. That’s fine if you’ll be selling soon, but if too much time passes, on-trend becomes passé.

Outdoor spaces

Basic landscaping, decks, patios – all are good investments. But you might want to pass on expensive water features and extensive, overly-manicured landscaping that might suggest too much upkeep.

Mechanical and structural home improvements

You should tackle certain major projects IF they are currently problematic. 

HVAC

Roof replacement

Plumbing

Foundation repairs

New gutters and downspouts

Fresh paint

There’s no question that fresh paint is a big draw for prospective buyers. Just make sure it looks professional and is done in neutral colors; this gives buyers a blank canvas that helps them envision the house in their own style.

Flooring

Particularly if you still have carpet in your bathroom or dingy vinyl in the kitchen, new floors will add value to your home. Hardwood is classic and desirable, but engineered hardwood, laminate, luxury vinyl plank, and high-quality tile flooring are also good options.

Finished basements

Finished basements may not be factored into “livable square footage,” but they still tend to offer a great return. You can save money by sticking to mid-caliber materials since people do not expect high-end finishes in basement space.

Adding a bedroom to the basement is easier if this space already has two forms of egress (ways to exit the property). Make sure to also incorporate a closet.

Adding a bathroom to the basement is easier and cheaper if the builder included a rough-in for plumbing. Otherwise, you’ll incur substantial plumbing costs.

Smoothing ceiling texture

If you’ve ever watched a home improvement show, you’ve learned that popcorn ceilings must go. Also known as stippled or acoustic ceilings, these bumpy surfaces have become undesirable and it’s worth the elbow grease to smooth these out. 

Wallpaper

Choosing wallpaper is highly subjective and sets your personal décor style, which may match some buyers’ tastes, but certainly not all. Limiting your audience in this way is never wise. And everyone knows that removing wallpaper is a chore.

Overpersonalization

Continuing with the “highly subjective” theme, very personalized and/or quirky projects should be approached with caution – built-in aquariums, specialized hobby rooms, bold paint/patterns – all will limit your audience and your pool of prospective buyers.

Over-the-top anything

Luxury lighting, bathrooms with all the bells and whistles, kitchens with extremely high-end appliances: people may appreciate these upgrades, but fancifying your home too much probably isn’t going to be worth the cost. Your beautiful Baccarat chandelier just might get replaced with a modern fixture with Edison bulbs.

Hot tubs and pools

For many prospective homebuyers, hot tubs and pools imply work. For others, they may even scream “danger.” Swimming pools tend to appeal to families with a certain age range of children. And while hot tubs will most likely be an appealing addition to a home that will be used as a short-term vacation rental, these additions are typically unlikely to yield a good ROI and will limit your prospective buyer base. 

Repurposing rooms

Be careful if you decide to turn a bedroom into another bathroom or huge closet, make your garage into a home gym, transform your finished basement family room into a wine cellar. As long as you are not rendering the original purpose of these rooms unrecognizable, you’re probably fine. But major modifications might not suit a buyer’s needs and turning them back to how they used to function can take time and money.

Removing bathtubs

Spacious, stand-up showers have become very popular, but it’s wise to keep one bathtub somewhere in your house to accommodate families with children or people who like to lounge in a tub.

Reach out for advice

If you think you’ll be selling your house in the near future, it’s wise to consult with an expert before embarking on expensive home improvements. Not only can they tell you which projects should be done, they can give you a ballpark estimate of costs based on their experiences with other home sellers.

Reach out to an expert real estate agent, like myself, to learn more about selling your home!

[thecitythatdoesntsleep]

I’m the same anon who requested that collar whump and 🙌 it was so good!!!! if you want to go more whumpy I encourage it!!! The only limit I have is please no explicit smut. I’m fine with implied/referenced just not explicit. Otherwise you can go wild!!! I’d totally love to see it!!! thank you so much!! 💞💞💞

Awwh! I'm so super happy that you liked it, that pleases me greatly to know that it was enjoyable! I insist, for your kind words let me treat you to something extra whumpy!

Limits understood! Let's crank up the whump button and keep that 'too familiar' with Whumpee going. Mind if I add a pinch of obsession into that intimate whumper? You know, as a treat because you deserve it anon! Rewinding time a bit, this is before the first post.

(Tags/TW: Collar whump, Intimate Male Whumper, Female Whumpee, Kidnapping, Stalking, Obsession whump, Choking, Hanging, Swinging by neck, Neck whump, Broken bones, Noncon touching, referenced/implied noncon, Hot/Cold Whumper, Hair pulling, Drugging, Cursing/strong language, Vampire whump. )

"You were too naive, you know that?" Whumper stated, hand gripping a flawless face and watching pretty, gemstone eyes roll in their sockets. "You never saw me, all this time, watching you from afar."

"I hoped you'd notice, I really did. I was so messy a couple of times, I ran right into you and somehow you never even saw me." It almost sounded pained, the way Whumper said it. Thick with emotion as his grip on her jaw became more violent and drew her out of the haze.

"I don't know if I should be insulted... Or happy you're so oblivious to the world around you."

As soon as Whumpee made it through the fog, her features pinched in a grimace and the sight before her wasn't one she'd expected. She recognized him but couldn't place him anywhere, her mind telling her she'd definitely seen him before.

"But you're here now... and you're going to be my pet now. No one will ever know I didn't buy you, I made sure of it." The more he rambled, the more infatuated he became with touching her. First her shoulder, now he was holding her hand, bringing it to his lips for a clammy, tacky kiss.

"Y-You're all mine," He was frantic, panicked as if he was both excited and terrified for what he was actually doing. Having kidnapped and tranquilized her thus far.

"Like.. hell I am.." She rasped, watching him fight off a chuckle and lose almost instantly.

"Hah- You're not going to have a choice. I'm your Master and pets obey their masters." Whumper insisted, reaching for a collar that had been already chained up to a pipe in the basement ceiling. "I'm going to teach you how to behave down here first, then w-wh-when you're broken in, yeah? Then.. Then I'll let you upstairs like a real pet."

He grabbed her up by the hair and she flew into fight or flight as soon as she was lifted off the ground. He was big, she'd give him that. Tall, probably 6'4 and he definitely worked out and enjoyed his carbs at the same time.

She was on the shorter side, but she knew how to use her weight and no matter the tension on her hair; she wormed her whole body to wrench away from him. The force was messy, her system still getting used to the hazy, limpness in her limbs.

"Bad!" He growled in resonating anger, using the grip on her scalp to slam her head into the wall. The first obviously dazed her and the second left her stilling. "You're gonna wear your fucking collar! L-Like a good pet!"

She looked at him with stars in her vision and pain seeping from the back of her head, features cracking with lines of hatred. She could smell it, her skin had split open on the poorly constructed brick wall and it stung when it started fusing back together from her healing speed.

She couldn't let him know just how her body worked or she feared the worst of his wrath. He really seemed like a horror movie villain at this point, the way he stuttered and looked at her with such blatant, scrutinizing attention.

"T-Thats too high, take it down and I'll wear it." She tried to reason, feeling one of his hands grab around the front of her neck while the other repositioned in her hair.

"It's not training if it's not painful.. what would you learn from just wearing a collar?" He questioned, tone acidic like she was a moron for even thinking of suggesting such a thing.

Those damned drugs did her in, if only she'd been at full strength when he tried again to wrestle her over and up to the collar he had waiting on her. She could have thrown him across the room, easily, if he hadn't somehow managed to subdue her. Now it was a struggle to keep herself on the ground as the muscular human kept taking her footing away from her.

She kicked and kicked and even when she landed contact with his legs, she knew it wasn't strong enough to even pull a reaction from him. He eventually won, hoisting her up and latching the thick, chain collar around her neck to entrap her with her own weight. It was just in distance to let the tips of her outstretched toes barely brush the ground.

"There, now you can squirm all you want, you'll just go swinging." He mused, giving her a push by her hips and watching her uselessly grip above her in the swing.

She felt like at any moment, her neck would snap, a grinding sound in her bones giving a warning creak when she reached the highest point. Her vocal chords were ruthlessly crushed against the curvature of the chain and she couldn't stop the faux spasms she felt in long-deadened lungs. It felt like she was a human again, drowning or being smothered, only she hadn't needed real air in decades.

Choking gurgles of begging barely registered past how hard he'd started laughing. She was like a chandelier in a living room that a mischievous housemate knocked into. Swinging in whatever pattern or direction gravity took her until she learned that she'd only stop if she went still.

Finally whumper stopped her and grabbed her backside to lift her up against him, holding her face to face with a devious smile across his face. "You're l-like a piñata. It's kind of cute."

Her hands flew up and in a sound clap, cupped his ears in a deafening impact. Immediately his head started to ring and he dropped her with such force she nearly slammed into him again on the downswing.

Whumper covered his ears and shoved fingers in them, anxiously feeling for blood and unable to hear anything but an ambient whine. He was furious and the stunning pain left him staggering back a few paces to let her endure the remaining momentum. The faintest of garbled blubbering could be heard and it was his only hope that he hadn't been completely deafened.

"You stupid bitch.." He roared, louder than he'd realized in his current state. "Y-You just lost your fucking hands!"

A vicious latch onto one of her arms and his opposite hand grabbed her wrist, twisting and wrenching it beyond it's natural pivot. She grabbed onto his wrists, nails dug in but couldn't stop the force he'd held her with.

The crack was agonizing, it popped so many times and she would have vomited if not for the noose around her neck. The limb instantly radiated pain and fell limp, unable to hold upright on the destroyed joint. Muffled cries were distant to him and even though he was looking her in the face, she sounded soft.

She'd stopped swinging when he grabbed her second arm and gave the faintest of tugs back from his menacing grip. Begging, pleading without shaking her head or making a single noise.

He ignored it. Snapping the second joint in a long twist and the satisfaction that he had with the feeling of breaking a bone was maddening. He savored it, giving an extra roll this time and really feeling the damage he'd done inside her skin.

"I bet you'll behave for me now, wont you?" He picked her up once more, this time leaving space between their upper halves in hesitation. When she left her hands at her sides, he was pleased with the progress they'd already made.

"God, even when you're in pain and have spit all down your face, you're still pretty." Whumper praised, taking his hold on her a bit easier now, lifting her up by the backs of her thighs and encouraging them to wrap around his waist for reprieve.

They did, as disgusting as it felt it relieved the tension on her neck and she was almost grateful in just that short time alone.

He pet her head fondly now, pushing down the strands he'd frizzed and upset and he pulled his sleeve over his hand to wipe her mouth. Her lips hung open like she was panting but no breath escaped her, throat desperately trying to clear with small growls and hacks.

"I've never seen you blush until now, I feel special." Whumper pushed her bangs back and returned down her face with a loving sweep while holding her; thumb tracing her lower lip.

"I can't believe you're finally all mine. I get to keep you forever and ever and... You can't escape me anymore." As if his mind was looping through all the times he'd thought about her or thought about kidnapping her, he stared into her eyes blankly.

Even if she didn't remember, he certainly did. Every encounter, every time he'd sent her a drink at the bar and been to shy to say something. When she flat out rejected him for a dance. The time she'd gotten in a taxi with him and he didn't say anything to her. The week he'd paid for her coffee in the drive thru, strategically, every day getting ahead of her in line.

It had all been worth it.

"You can't reject me anymore. You can't hide.. or brush me off or ignore the gifts I get you." The more he rambled, he less he was looking at her and the more he was looking through her. He framed her body, wrapped along her curves with a curious hand. He abandoned the hold and let her support herself when he couldn't handle not touching her with both of them.

"Now.. I can finally love you how you deserve.."

-

Sorry it took me so long to get to this anon! I hope this is respectful of your wishes and not too much towards the descriptive side. I also tried to go with the same tropes you'd requested but just make it more miserable. ; ^ ;

I know there is a very thin border to intimate whump and it can transition beyond the boundaries very easily. So if you have any critiquing or things to avoid that could help in the future, I'd love to know so I can gain some more versatility. I would (ideally) love to be able to cater to all requests in all forms and insight will only help me with that goal.

Another apology for the wait. Had some personal life stuff come up and wasn't in the feelings to write much. But I'm back on the rise and I'm hoping to get to everyone's messages and requests within the next few days.

I will not be doing first come first serve, I'm just doing whatever inspires me with this batch. Sorry if anyone thinks that's unfair, it's just how it is for me as a writer. This is 1 out of 7 asks and I don't even remember which ones came first because I immediately convert them into drafts. : ( But thank you so much for the req! Hope you enjoyed. <3

[mariamermaid]

F.R.I.E.N.D.S

Young Sirius Black x fem Potter!Reader

Summary:  When puberty suddenly hits you and your brother´s best friend realizes his interest in you

Words: 3.8k

Warnings: drinking underaged, mentions of smoking, swearing

A/N: Inspired by Anne-Marie´s song, but not really following the lyrics

 It happened from your summer break to your fifth year in Hogwarts, for your brother James it was his sixth year.

It was, what you would call the perfect summer; You had spent it with your friend Sarah in Spain, her family owned a stunning little cottage near Barcelona. The golden beach and the hot sun brought you back with a stunning tan and even a few freckles decorated your face now. Due to many trips to the mountains and the regular exercise of swimming, playing beachball and evenings dancing on the streets beneath moonlight, you had toned up and lost some body fat. A late, maybe even a drunk decision to get a new haircut and the obsessive amount of the new clothes, that completely reinvented your sense of fashion.

The time abroad away from your family felt like a gasp of freedom to you. You loved your parents and even your brother James, if he wasn´t annoying you, dearly, but that summer you felt grown-up and independent. You found new assets, hobbies, interests and confidence to further follow them. You hadn´t planned it, but your glow up transformation was born.

You came back just a few days before school was starting and somehow, you even looked forward to it. A new found motivation to become the best version of yourself pushed you to new limits. Not even the fact that Sirius Black had moved in with your family, could shatter your positive attitude.

 “Mom, where did Dad put my luggage, I brought a few souvenirs I wanted to give you!”, you asked while looking through your backpack for a hair tie. Your mother, who had already settled back in the kitchen, her natural habitat, to get some iced tea, shrugged.

“I don´t know, darling, didn´t he put them in your room already?”

Nevertheless, it felt good to be home again.

Your father entered the dining and kitchen area from outside, a suitcase of yours in each of his hands. Just as he was about to call your brother for help, James jumped down the staircase and patted your father on the shoulder. “In a second, dad?”

James, who always had been taller than you, eyed your astonished. “Who is that girl in our home? Is that even my sister anymore?” You chuckled as he gave you a quick hug.

“Shut up James, you´re just jealous that you´re still pale like a snow owl!”

While the two of you started your casual process of sibling bickering, Sirius carefully stepped down the stairs as well. From the back, he observed your figure.

All those years, you had been James´s sister or the younger Potter, but for the first time, you didn´t perish next to James. Actually, you overshone him. James, who was athletic due to the Quidditch practice, still had a crooked and flabby posture. It didn´t help that he was used to swagger through the halls of Hogwarts. But you? You remained with your head held high, your shoulders relaxed and your tanned skin freshly glowing.

“Y/n.”

You turned to find Sirius starring at you; you couldn´t point his look, but you gave him a polite, regardless smile. “Sirius”, you greeted him. Your voice wasn´t rude or cold, still it didn´t match the voice you´d use to talk to James. “Or should I call you brother number two?”

A painfully small grin was brought to his lips. Over the course of years, the two of you barely exchanged words. But yet, you were a constant part of his life. Yes, he had spent many Christmas holidays with your family. He most definitely spent more time with James than you. You were his best friend’s sister, right?

But why did it suddenly bother him, that you called him brother?

“Y/n, Sirius is staying in the guest room from now on. We didn´t use the room anyway, did we?”

The Potter residency had an altogether combined number of four floors; the basement with storage and washing area. The main floor with kitchen, dining and living room, leading to the outdoor terrace and garden and your parent´s bedroom. The second floor with James´s bedroom, your father´s study room and of course, the guest bedroom, which now belonged to Sirius. Last but not least the attic, which was renovated to your room. A point which had caused James and you to argue for several years; the attic was an amazing room and much larger than other bedrooms in the house. James lost the argument due to very weak points. To quote your mother, James spent more time outside doing mischief than actually staying in his room.

You were more relieved than ever to have not only your own room, but basically your own floor. You didn´t mind Sirius, but you needed your space and you didn´t wanted to be involved with their pranks.

“James, help me with my suitcase, will you?” You exclaimed, but your brother already made his way to the kitchen. By his moving pattern, you knew he was up to no good.

“Mom, don´t you and Dad usually spent the weekend at Cindy´s?” You couldn´t help but rolling your eyes at his comment. The last weekend before school begins; James´s house party.

Your parents knew he´d like to bring friends over at that weekend, they didn´t know about half of the school coming and the amount of beer and fire whisky.

“James?” You sighed, but your brother was pursuing his own goals.

“I´ll help you”, Sirius suddenly spoke up and hurried next to you. He took the suitcases without much effort and immediately started carrying them upstairs. On the stairs, you passed the Black boy to open the door to your room for him. Sirius noticed your swift movement and was reminded of James playing Quidditch. Clearly you both inherited that gene. Sirius put down the luggage and couldn´t help but eye your room with growing eyes. The high wooden ceiling, which was decorated with fairy lights and pictures and painting on the walls. You had a secret talent to be good at drawing and detailed sketches of plants, you had learned about in school, hung over your desk. Pictures of you and James at the age of toddlers and family portraits from Christmas. In one of them was even Sirius. You realized how he didn´t leave your room and eyed him warry as he starred at the pictures.

“I´ve never been to your room.”

“Don´t get used to it.” You heaved your suitcase up on your bed to start the sorting out process and Sirius turned away from the pictures, raising his eyebrow. “It´s my room.”

His eyes glided over the silk sheets of your bed and he couldn´t help but wonder, how you looked when waking up in the morning by rays of sunshine falling through the windows. Have you watched him playing Quidditch with James from those windows? Ever so slightly he shook his head to get rid of that thought. You´re James´s sister, he reminded himself.

There weren´t really rumors about you in school, unlike James´s reputation. But there was one thing Sirius knew all too well; you were not to mess with. What your brother inherited in talent, was put together with an almost deadly preciseness. He saw you battling a student in his year once, you won without even breaking a sweat.

“The new hair suits you”, he suddenly added before leaving your room and closing the door behind him. Your mother had pin pointed every single detail that had changed about you, but you´d never guessed that heartbreaker Sirius Black would comment on it…

 James Potter was awfully good at talking people into doing what he desired. And James Potter desired a more memorable house party each year, thanks his ego. Previously, you had spent the weekend at Sarah´s, but after an entire summer, you were left home as well. Against your own anticipation, you didn´t mind. Was it the fact, that you had partied and danced more the entire summer than anyone could imagine? Maybe.

“Y/n, you look out for James, don´t let him do stupid things!” Like a house party? Lingered on your tongue, but you smiled bitter sweet. “It´s hard to look out for somebody as stupid as James.”

Your mother wrinkled her eyebrows, but your dad let out a laughing grunt. “They´ll be fine”, he reassured your mother, before kissing you on top of your head and heading out.

“It´s hard to look out for somebody as stupid as James”, James voice filled the air while he imitated you. He and Sirius came down to the living room, a box of somewhat decorations in their hands.

James was everything but stupid, even though there were times, where you questioned his IQ. He took out old wine bottles with candles in them and packed away your mom´s favorite cutlery and vase. One thing less to worry.

“Tell me, Y/n, do the Spain kiss good?” He continued to mock you.

“Better than the British”, you answered sweetly. A sour taste spread in Sirius mouth, but James pressed his jaw together. He hadn´t expected the answer from you, his sweet innocent little sister.

“Should I worry about you tonight?” He asked a little more serious now, but you ruffled through his precious locks. “Why? Afraid I´ll crash your party?”

“Who are you and what have you done to my baby sister?” He yelled after you, while you left the room to go upstairs, chuckling.

The marauders were first to arrive; Moony, Wormtail and obviously Padfoot and Prongs himself. Remus also brought Lily Evans, your brother´s secret, not so secretly girlfriend. You watched as they arrived one by one from the window at your desk. The golden boy and his gang, all complete.

The past few days, you had taken your time to do whatever you pleased. Your mother didn´t force any of you to have breakfast or lunch together, due to the fact that you all had different sleeping patterns. You had spent it at your desk, getting ready for school, journaling about your holidays, sorting out pictures and old clothes. In the garden helping your mother put together bouquets of flowers or riding your bike around your favorite trails and sceneries. Really you hadn´t seen much of your brother or Sirius.

You took your time getting ready, the Marauder´s already starting off with drinking. You had invited Sarah and when you saw her and her older sister, who was in James´s year, arriving, you finally made your way downstairs. James, Sirius and Remus were grouped around the kitchen aisle, debating sport games with three more guys from Gryffindor. Matt Atkins, Hogwarts second bad boy after Sirius, eyes suddenly grew big as he ran dry. His remarkably sharp jaw fell down and his mouth open. “Who is she?”

You casually strolled down the stairs, even wearing some strapped heels together with a new dress from Spain. A rather hard punch let Matt yelp, James annoyed eyes bringing him to his knees. “That´s my sister”, he muttered with his teeth grinding.

The golden boy was about to be pushed from his throne by his own sister.

You gave the group of boys a knowing smirk before welcoming Sarah, who was glowing with the same tan as you. “Seems like Spain has been muy beneficioso per nos.”

Your laughter filled the air, as not only the marauder but also several other male creatures watched the two of you chat. “How´s Gabriel?” You asked her instead and Sarah blushed. Her apparent summer fling had made it clear, that his feelings were a little stronger than just a fling.

“He wrote me a letter with a poem”, she blushed. Before continuing the topic, a boy joined the two of you. “Ladies, can I get you something to drink?”

James was quick to appear next to you, a sudden wave of protectiveness had overcome him. “She´s my sister and she doesn´t drink.”

“Yes, yes she does.”

Lily, who had joined her boyfriend, snickered at your response. James watched you wide eyed, as did the boy, walking to the kitchen with Sarah after dropping the comment; “Not from you though.”

Sirius, who´s blood alcohol level was already high enough, started smirking as you approached. The feelings he had pushed back and buried, arose in him.

“Y/n, care for a drink?” “Yes, Black, I do.”

As he fished two cups for you and Sarah, the group starred at you. Matt Atkins was first to speak up again. His initial shock about Sirius approaching you, was put back after he remembered that he lived with you and James now. Remus and Peter watched the scene, secretly exchanging a bet of how quickly you would decline Atkins.

“So, Y/n, tell me how was Spain?”

You leaned on the counter top, a trick that had earned you free drinks in bars before, and smiled.

“Hot.”

Sirius passed you the cups and you nodded thanking. His senses tingled, an explosion rushing through his veins. He wasn´t to construe it the past few days, but drunk words are sober thoughts and Sirius´s attraction towards you, grew with each second. Peter slid the money to Remus, Matt Atkins had no chance.

The party continued into the evening and quickly into the night. You were sure that at least 50 people were there, with a few outside maybe more. James, who didn´t enjoy himself as much as he´d like to, was also too stubborn to admit it. You didn´t like how he watched, almost babysitted you, lingering ready to scare away any potential boy flirting. It was until Lily finally swept in and took his mind off you.

Outside remained a small bonfire, which was coming to an end, but you still decided to catch some fresh air. You had more cups than your brother knew about, but he was kissing Lily in the corner and didn´t realize your slight staggering.

James wasn´t stupid, but stupid enough to completely miss the fact that his own best friend was falling in love with you. And he was following you outside.

“Y/n Potter, you surprise me.” Sirius voice was low and a little rough, which was explained as he pulled out a cigarette. You took another sip of who knew what mixture and smiled innocently at him. “Why´s that, Black?”

You never called him Black before, until this summer. An unconscious defense mechanism.

It had taken Sirius five days after your initial arrival to realize that he´d liked you way more than he should and now there was no turning back. He was acting on pure instinct now and so did you. But your instinct told you, that Sirius Black was a heartbreaker.

“What do want, Black?” You asked whispering as he slowly came closer, his hand reaching up to tuck back strands of your hair. This was dangerous, but you liked playing with fire. “You.”

Your laugh was bitter.

“We're nothing more than friends. You're not my lover, more like a brother. I´ve known you since we were like ten.”

You left him behind in the approaching cold from the night and the dying fire. Sirius cursed at himself and ruffled through his hand. “Fuck!”

How could he have been so stupid? You were his best friend´s sister! You were James´s sister! Of course, you didn´t see him in any romantic way and now he not only embarrassed himself to the bone, but probably ruined any kind of friendship with you. He threw the leftover cigarette into the fire, there was only one solution left; alcohol.

 Don't mess it up, talking that shit

Only gonna push me away, that's it!

When you say you love me, that make me crazy

Here we go again

 Sirius Black was astonishing good in hiding feelings and even better at drowning them. At least for the next hour or so. That was until the music box suddenly played a Spanish song with a typical reggae beat and laughing, you pulled Sarah onto the dancefloor in the middle of the living room. Oh, how you had learned to swing your hips at the rhythm.

James was burning in fury and he wanted to punch every single pair of eyes laying on your figure. Luckily, he couldn´t and much too quick for your dismay, the song ended. The room echoed in applause and howlers, and giggling you left the stage with Sarah. The two of you were used to being drunk together and lazily you found your seat on the bathroom floor.

“James isss going to kill youuuu”, Sarah laughed as she not so gracefully, kneeled onto the floor. It didn´t help that after you sat down at the brim of the bathtub, fell over crackling.

“Oh my god!” Sarah suddenly exclaimed startled. You leaned forward surprised, legs still hanging over the brim. “What?”

“We don´t have anything to drink anymoreeee! I´ll be back in a second, just stay here!”

You leaned back, head against the wall, softly humming in response. “I don´t even think I´m able to leave, I´ll wait!” For a few seconds, you closed your eyes; enjoying the buzz of the liquor and the music in the background. You heard the door open and close again.

“Merlin Sarah, you´re flying when it comes to-.“ It wasn´t Sarah, it was Sirius. You eyed him with furrowed brows. “Did you at least get me something to drink?”

He had a cup in his hands and eyed it, pondering to give it to you, or drink it himself. But you leaned forward, grabbing his arm and then snatching the drink from his fingers. He found himself starring into your big eyes, not wanting to look away.

“Don´t you have enough boys outside to bring you drinks?” He asked and you shrugged while taking a big sip. “But you´re here, aren´t you?” The sentence made his heart beat quicker.

“Don't go look at me with that look in your eye”, you then added and avoided his glance again.

“Why not?”

“You know why, but apparently you really ain't going away without a fight.”

He suddenly turned to you, pushing one of his hands against the wall, the other one trailing down to your neck. His fingers brushed against your skin and you felt goosebumps crawling down your spin. He was leaning, yes hovering above you and his eyes wandered back and forth from your eyes to your lips. Stubbornly, you looked up to him.

“You can't be reasoned with, I'm done being polite. Haven't I made it obvious?” You pushed yourself a little up from the bathtub, your face only inches away. But the look on your face was stern and certain. “Haven't I made it clear? Want me to spell it out for you?

F-R-I-E-N-D-S”

Sarah pushed open the door and rolled her eyes, she had obviously noticed the boy´s attention towards you. “Back off, Black.”

Sirius was caught off guard by her, which gave you space and time to pull yourself out of the tub, leaving him sitting there.

 The night only slowly continued after your clashing in the bathroom. Remus watched his friend with plaintive eyes. He had realized the silence and even more oblivious, his sad stares into your direction. It wasn´t hard to guess really, but he understood his reticent mood. You were his best friends’ little sister and he knew, James would kill for you. If anyone were to break your heart and if that anyone was Sirius, the friendship could be over.

On the other hand, there was one thing Remus knew, Sirius had never acted like this around a girl.

“You shouldn’t give up yet.” Sirius glanced back at him and rolled his eyes.

“She´s sees me as a friend, I´m like a brother to her.”

“You don´t dance like this in front of your friend. Y/n and James both know how to get the things they want. It´s probably a family disorder”, Remus chuckled. But he became stern again, laying a hand on his friend´s back. “She´s playing with you, you know it. And I have to admit, she plays better than you, Padfoot. You liked this girl way before, before the summer, before she started flirting with you today.”

“I didn´t-“

“Yes, you did. Or why did you stress out about getting her a Christmas and birthday gift every year since knowing James? Why did it bother both you and James, about Kevin making that remark last year? You broke his nose, in case you forgot.”

Remus was right, he was way too often for Sirius taste. He liked you more than a friend from the second he laid eyes on you. He swore himself to protect you, but now he was the endangerment of hurting you and it scared him.

People left the party; it was past 3.a.m. and Lily started putting away empty cups. He knew Sarah would sleep at the Potter house tonight and just in second, he caught sight of you carrying a blanket upstairs. “You´re the best, Moony and I hate you for it.”

He hurried up the stairs and caught you just in front of your room.

“Y/n, wait!”

You sighed heavily. “Sirius, I´m tired and Sarah´s laying on my bathroom floor throwing up.”

He tried to remember every formal etiquette ever taught to him while establishing and taking together his bravery. Hundreds, yes thousands of pranks and yet, he never had been this nervous. You eyed him wary. “Have you got no shame? You looking insane. Here we go again.”

“I´m sorry for acting like a dick.”

The apology took you a step back, surprised.

“Don't go look at me with that look in your eye.”

His tongue brushed against his lip. “Why not, Y/n? Afraid to admit it?”

“For Merlin´s Sake, get that shit inside your head, Sirius! We´re just friends.”

His hand lingered on the wall to your back. It was the second time he had encircled you, but this time around, you didn´t see an outlet. Maybe you didn´t want one either. You felt his breath tingling against your skin and against your anticipation, the scene felt intimate and fragile to you.

“I like you, Y/n. I´ve liked you for a while now and I suppressed it. You´re right, I´m heartbreaker, and I knew, if I was to break yours, I wouldn´t be able to live with myself.”

You felt your shaky breathing, the dim light coming from downstairs barely gave enough away.

“You made it obvious. You made it very clear. But I wanted- needed you to know this; you were and never will be just a friend to me.” He gulped, lowering his glance.

“And I´m sorry, if that´s going to push you away.”

You dropped the blanket to the ground, throwing your hands around his neck and pulling him down. The kiss was passionate, but dripping like honey; sweet and slowly. His hands grabbed your waist and you inhaled his deep musky scent.

You leaned away from him with caution, sighing. “Sarah´s vomiting and I´m making out, I´m a terrible friend.” Sirius chuckled lowly, his nose brushing against yours again.

“I´m glad we´re more than friends then.”

[thekillerssluts]

My Relationship to Performance Has Changed

A great rock-and-roll show means openness, confrontation, and a kind of danger, and those ideas right now feel too heavy to lift.

Last October, before the second pandemic wave took off in New York City, I had one last band practice in my backyard in South Brooklyn. Five of us were working on songs from my new solo record. Normally we’d play in the basement, but it’s pretty low-ceilinged, and we’d read Zeynep Tufekci’s recent Atlantic article on viral spread, so we were all hyper-focused on air circulation. My bandmate Sara had contracted COVID-19—and recovered—in March, but the rest of us had no immunity. Besides, we suspected that we were in for a long winter and might as well hang out outdoors.

It was warm in the sun. After hauling the drums, keyboards, keyboard stands, guitars, and amps outside and plugging everything in, I hadn’t wanted to bother setting up microphones, so we had to play softly to hear ourselves harmonize. When we paused for lunch, someone leaned out of a fourth-story window in the apartment building next door and yelled: “Are you done or are you just taking a break? I have things to do, but I really miss live music!” “Me too, man!” I called back. “Should be just a break.”

Six months and a difficult winter later, the break is ending. I’m seeing more and more Instagram posts for shows that aren’t just wishful thinking. Low-capacity indoor shows are popping up in New York. Outdoor—maybe even full-capacity indoor—concerts are coming this summer. Am I ready to play? Ask me every other day and the answer changes. I’m torn. I’m desperate for sound engineers to get back behind the board and bartenders to start earning tips. I want venues to thrive again, both as places for art in neighborhoods and for the sake of the network that keeps music culture alive in America. I want my booking agent to feel excited again; he loves music so much. And I want musicians to make a living. So many people have been so screwed by the past year. I guess I just want everyone to get paid.

But the actual performance; the rebuilding of the sonic cathedral, as Dave Grohl wrote last spring; communally reaching for rock-and-roll transcendance? I’m not there yet. I’m not concerned that I’ll get sick. I received my second vaccine shot at the end of March and am ready to high-five strangers on the subway. My hesitance has an element of crowd-shyness, which we’ll all get over. But in my own performance, I don’t know how to meet this moment. A great rock-and-roll show means openness, confrontation, and a kind of danger, and those ideas right now feel too heavy to lift.

I used to think of performance in purely aesthetic terms. In the movie La Strada, a clown wearing angel wings does a high-wire act across a crowded piazza. For his finale, he brings out a table on the wire and, while balancing, tries to sit and eat a full plate of spaghetti. The heroine of the movie watches him with an almost religious ecstasy. When I first started performing, I strove for transcendence and stupidity, high concept and low art. My focus was on keeping myself in the air.

When my band Arcade Fire was playing mostly to people who hadn’t heard us before, we felt that the best way to get them to open up was to blow the windows and doors out. At an early show in Lawrence, Kansas, my brother, Win, bashed Styrofoam tiles out of the venue’s ceiling with his mic stand. We pushed as hard for an audience of six people (two of them my parents) upstairs at AS220 in Providence, Rhode Island, as we did in front of tens of thousands in the desert at our first Coachella show (during which I accidentally cut Win’s guitar cable in half by repeatedly smashing a cymbal into the ground).

At a certain point, as people got to know our music, my relationship to performance changed. The energy from the crowd was greater than anything coming from the giant speaker stacks. The audience wasn’t a challenge to overcome, or an opponent to conquer. We became a team. Not in an abstract, lovey way but how a sports team operates—pushing one another to do better, sometimes failing, sometimes frustrating one another, sometimes just joking around.The high-wire act of live performance—Will the music come together?—was still there. I’ve even sometimes tried to make the metaphor real, climbing arena scaffolding with a drumstick in my teeth and a drum strapped over my shoulder to play 30 feet in the air. Some of our crew members hate it—“Will! You have children now!”—but climbing up there doesn’t actually feel that dangerous, and a little nervousness is good. I’m reaching for primate simplicity and catharsis: The crowd needs tension to experience release.But now I have no desire to make tension. I want people to feel safe and comfortable, and I wonder whether creating a feeling of danger and openness is antithetical to that. I know that cultivating a perception of safety and actually making people safe are different. On tour, in a big venue, every night our management and local security have a briefing. It’s partly to set a vibe—People are here for music. Everybody be chill. If some teenager sneaks into a closer section, please let them. But the briefing is also serious—where the medics are located, what the escape routes are. Most of the time, these safety measures are invisible. I worry that post-pandemic precautions, as welcome and necessary as they are, will be depressingly visible. Some elements, such as temperature checks, will be inane. Some, such as requiring vaccination, will be important. Regardless, they will also set a tone—not You are entering a place for music, but You are entering a secure location. Dancing is hard when you’re looking at your feet; singing is hard when you’re thinking about everybody else’s breath. I bet the crowd could get over this. I’m not confident I could. With limited capacities and tight procedures, I worry that the stage will feel like the VIP section of the VIP room at a members-only club. Sterile, lonely, all of us chillingly aware that we are part of a ticketed event.

I have another concern that’s hard to shake. After this pandemic year, I’m more aware of the responsibility I have not only to the people who buy tickets, but to the driver making deliveries to the show and to the family of the woman working arena concessions, people who really don’t care about what I’m doing onstage. Vaccination numbers will grow, and the pandemic will end, God willing. I’m not worried about the spread of the coronavirus in particular. But these links of responsibility remain. The analytical part of my brain turns off when touring starts. Before scrambling back to normalcy, I want to make sure that this sense of connection becomes embedded in how I think. I would really love to just be a musician—but I’m also an employer and a player in an industry that has chewed up and spit out plenty of people, especially in this past year.

My hesitations are all about shows, though, not music. Over the past year, I’ve rarely played music with others—a few practices and filmed performances; work on the new Arcade Fire record in November; a handful of Zooms with bandmates to help a school’s PTA fundraiser or support a candidate in the city-comptroller race. But in all of those instances, I’ve experienced an ease, a rightness to the communication—not through the screen with whoever was listening, necessarily, but the people I was playing with. That connection felt restorative, like having a night of deep sleep that repairs parts of yourself you don’t know how to access.

I know people are ready for live music, ready to forget themselves in a wash of sound, ready to loudly talk with their friends over the song they don’t like that much. And so, for heaven’s sake, go to Neumos in Seattle when shows come back. Go to the Hideout in Chicago. See your favorite band, or somebody new. Plenty of artists don’t share my nervousness. I don’t want to add worry to the world; I’m just figuring out my new relationship to performance.

The magnolias are out in New York, and some of the apple trees are blossoming. Temperatures are creeping past 60. The vaccines keep rolling out. The future seems more possible. If I miss an emotion from live shows, it’s not any moment of transcendence. I miss the time just after, when, dazed and excited, you still feel the reach of some universal gesture, but the only thing concrete is the people around you.

https://www.theatlantic.com/ideas/archive/2021/04/world-changed-what-makes-live-show-successful-didnt-arcade-fire/618625/

[honeydots]

127 with shuake would be good.

"My hands are not clean, and maybe they never will be, but they can still carry you home when you're ready to sleep."

once again. didnt forget abt these. im working thru em. 

Summary: Goro wakes up one day in a hospital bed with only a bullet wound to keep him company, and not a single memory of who he used to be. 

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(ao3 link)

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He was almost certain the last few weeks had been a dream. 

Or maybe, several long and white coated dreams. The kinds with bright lights at an arm's length, and ill-fitting clothes, and men coming in waves carrying their clipboards as flags. With deep voices all at once whispering, echoing, “what is your name?” 

Maybe he was in a hospital. 

His first day of full consciousness was slow and lonely. His second day too, time spent wiggling his toes and counting ceiling spots. Day three he asked for a glass of water and scared a nurse out of her skin, and his week was kickstarted. Which only really meant an actual doctor came in and declared retrograde amnesia the only explanation for his condition.

His “condition” was quite the word to use. Which condition? They could play bingo. Was it his memory loss (obvious, weak narrative), or could it have been the state of comatose he’d been in (intriguing), or even the bullet wound (now here was a mystery, what a plotline) he’d heard remarkably little about? Amnesia, the fickle bastard, was the type to bring one answer to dinner, and disappear by morning. 

But what did he know? 

Well, he knew that this was a pretty shitty hospital.  As far as how he assumed they should be managed, this one was on a low tier. And according to the nurse, as was their police station. Incompetent, and uncaring of his case, which had apparently been made. 

It’d been a week now. He could get up. Limited, with his IV, but he could. The nurse said later that maybe the police would listen to him now, since he was conscious, basically up and kicking. ‘Listen to him now,’ was also an interesting phrase, because he hadn’t been speaking in the first place. 

He wasn’t injured. His vitals were fine, the nurses had told him, and commented he was taking up an unnecessary bed. Not that he could actually make any kind of sound argument, which was frustrating enough on its own, but this didn’t seem like proper procedure. 

He was, once again, very alone in his room. He thought about going to the police station. Incompetent as they may be, there would be no answers here. There was no one here to help him; some healthy boy in a hospital bed. 

He got up. His IV was stuck in poorly, the tape just barely holding on. They’d disconnected him from all sorts of machines. Nothing was roping him down except for saline solution and his own two feet. 

And, he was already standing. 

It wasn’t hard to pull out. 

His hospital gown was tied all the way down, falling just past his knees. He had odd socks on, their texture was weird, and they were several sizes too big. They were thick and patterned, maybe slip proof? But shoeless as he was, they would do.  

The hallway was very empty. He was on the ground floor, but he wasn’t sure there were other stories. Maybe one, or a basement. It didn’t matter much. There just wasn’t anyone around. His concern was in that he didn’t know how long their absence would last. 

There was a glass door at the end of the hallway.

To the police he’d go. A medical bill dodging amnesiac would probably get him some attention. Enough to get a name? 

The door was not locked. That was probably good, for a hospital, and not a security breach, which is where his mind had initially gone. 

Doors are meant to be opened, he thought. There really isn’t anything wrong with that. 

It was just a little bright outside. The sun was up but not too far. He was in the parking lot, and it was almost entirely devoid of cars. Small, small hospital. 

He didn’t exactly have a map, and no nurse was around to give him any condescending directions. He’d might as well go forward, then. He started walking, and thought to himself how odd his feet felt on the concrete. 

No one was out. He hesitated to call it deserted, just maybe a bit early. He kept walking, nerves high, still worried he might get mauled by a stray doctor.

It seemed like this was a very small town, going by his surroundings. Lots of trees, and cracked roads, and old buildings. He didn’t think much of taking it all in. He’d have time for sightseeing when he remembered his initials. 

A bit farther ahead was a woman, leaning on a car parked on the side of the road. She was glaring down at her phone. She looked— maybe irritated? Or tired. He wondered if he could ask her for directions. An aimless stroll through town wouldn’t take him to where he was going, after all. 

“Excuse me,” he called, “Ma’am? Do you know the way to the police station?” He approached her with just enough caution to call it looking out for himself, ignoring the sorry state he was already in. 

She glanced up from her phone. Her hair was short, and dark, and it bobbed around her face. She registered him for a moment, and her eyes went big. 

“Holy shit.” 

He knew enough to know that wasn’t the answer he was looking for. “I need to go to the police, please.” 

The woman kept staring at him. “You—” she stuttered, “are you Goro Akechi? You are, aren’t you?” 

This encounter was already going awry. Did she know him? “Do you know me?” 

“Uh…I mean, no, we’ve never met.” She pushed herself off her car, and slowly put her phone back into her pocket. 

That wasn’t really what he meant. He needed to persist, here. This could be a lucky hit. “No I— Do you know who I am?” 

Blatant confusion spread across her face. “Uh…  Are you not Goro Akechi?”

“I don’t know,” he answered. 

She stared at him again, almost suspicious. Then she looked him up and down.

“Are you… coming from the hospital?” 

“Yes.” He watched her mouth open just a bit in disbelief. He wondered how this woman knew him. If explaining would get more information out of her, then he’d do it. Privacy only existed when you had something to protect, after all. “I’ve been given an amnesiac diagnosis, you see. I’m going to the police station to see if I can find any sort of lead on myself.” 

She looked shocked. “Amnesia? And you’re going to the cops?” She blinked, and suddenly looked very serious. She grabbed one of his shoulders. “Wait. That’s bad news. Don’t go to the police.” 

He (Goro?) hadn’t expected to hear that.“What? And why shouldn’t I?”  

“You… holy shit, kid, do you actually have amnesia?” She pinched the bridge of her nose. “Listen you need to— oh good god, this is gonna sound like I’m trying to kidnap you— I definitely know who you are. I can tell you but we shouldn’t… here. If someone finds you… ” She exhaled hard, and looked him dead on. It made Goro freeze. “Fuck, okay. The gist of it is— you’re in more danger than you realize. Like, a lot more. Will you come talk with me in my car?” 

Alright. So, a lot to process, and a lot he didn’t know how to. He didn’t even know if he should process it, or if that was the kind of story that should be immediately disregarded. Someone telling you to not go to the police and please get in their car seemed like a textbook stranger-danger red flag. There had been something uneasy about her tone, though. Like genuine concern— not that such a thing couldn’t be perfected and acted, however. 

But she’d given him a name. And it felt almost tangible, the more he thought about it. Less bendable and more sturdy. It was very easy to attach to himself. And it was a lead, wasn’t it? 

“Hey, did you get discharged, or are you just wandering around? Cause they’re gonna be looking for you if they didn’t let you out,” said the woman, jump starting Goro (almost certainly, Goro) out of his head. “And kid, I cannot just let you turn yourself in to the cops.” 

‘Turn myself in,’ he thought to himself. Such particular wording. It made his stomach drop. This woman knew more than him, clearly. And really, for fucks sake, if he died, he died. Obviously he hadn’t left enough of a mark on anyone to warrant not a single visitor during a five year coma. According to the nurses, it was more evident that he’d simply been dumped in town— like someone had already been trying to get rid of him. 

Well, whoever they were, they’d forgotten to bury his bones. 

He straightened himself up. “Okay.” 

She looked surprised, at first. She swallowed around it. “...Yep, okay then. Hop in before you change your mind.” She popped open her car door, and Goro circled around the side and followed suit. 

Her car was messy. It was filled with food wrappers and empty bottles, but papers and notebooks were scattered around, too. So she kept busy, it seemed. He decided he’d consider this a point in the not-about-to-murder-you direction. Too much here that could be used as evidence against her. Too personalized. He was almost envious. 

She adjusted her seat forwards and turned on the ignition. She was a bit jittery, Goro noticed, as she scratched the back of her head vigorously. 

“So, I’m gonna drive us somewhere that isn’t here but I can talk and drive so, just— like,  just a second, okay?” 

He nodded. She drummed her fingers against the steering wheel. “...Goddamn,” she muttered, and then pressed down on the gas, turning her car onto the barren road. 

She kept her eyes forward, but kept true to her promise of talking. She sighed. “Right. So, uh, to start… Okay, first, my name’s Ichiko Ohya, I’m a journalist. Get that cleared away. Next comes you which is a bit more complicated, but you probably wanna know why we’re dodging cops so I’ll start there. Or, as close to there as I can.”

He would take anything he could get from her, actually. The cops situation was undeniably concerning, but right now he was essentially a sentient empty shell, absorbing everything for the first time. A kid in a metaphorical candy store, but the store was a dodgy reporter who still might be kidnapping him and just stalling.  He’d call himself the kid, but it dawned on him he didn’t even know how old he was. Fantastic. More things the hospital staff hadn’t bothered to tell him. 

“Your name’s Goro Akechi. I told you that already but, that’s you. At least I’m like, ninety percent sure.” She spared him a glance. “You do look a bit different but all in all I’m— I’m pretty sure. Just the hair and the stubble, you know.” 

Goro hadn’t exactly looked in a mirror recently, so no, he didn’t know. He knew he had long hair— certainly longer than Ohya’s. He rubbed his jaw and felt the rough and gritty bristles that had prickled onto him. It bothered him that he didn’t know. It bothered him that he didn’t know what he looked like. 

Ohya continued, not letting him dwell for long. “You’re also sort of famous. Well, you were, and it was mainly with teenagers and moms in the city, but you were a popular detective. So, that’s how I know you. And I swear I’m getting to the running from cops part, but you have to know this first first. Oh, shit, it’s right here.” She took a sharp turn into a grocery store, and Goro had to grip the side to keep steady in his seat. 

She didn’t act very sheepish about it. “Sorry, for that. We’re gonna talk in here.” 

She paused her explanation to pull into a spot, which Goro felt a little thankful for because, under his circumstances, that felt like a lot of information to take in. He was well known, but not well known enough that anyone out here knew him. ‘Famous detective’ raised some weird alarms in his head, a position absurd enough that it might be true. It felt unfortunately right, like a disappointing truth. It was different from his name, more unwelcome. But it didn’t click either. Nothing had been clicking at all. 

There was a pit growing in his stomach, like something was in there, chewing down on his insides. But he’d found he didn’t care for ignorance, so he would put up with it for as long as it took. 

Ohya turned her car off, pushed her seat away from the wheel, and got herself comfortable. She faced him, nonchalant but sincere. “So this is where the really juicy stuff comes in, alright? So like, listen up now, if you weren’t.” There was something very serious about her eyes. 

As if he’d have let any of her explanation slip under his radar. “I’m listening.”  

That was a good enough answer for her, it seemed. 

“I’m trying to think of the best way to explain this, honestly,” she started, thumbing the back of her hand. “You… okay, there was this guy. He was a really big politician that you were involved with, and it’s kind of a gray area as far as what you were doing for him, but you and him worked together. Kind of. He was a really shitty guy.” 

She looked like she was considering her words. She turned her focus out the windshield for a moment, and sighed again. “He basically ended up confessing because this group— well, actually, they don’t matter right now. He confessed, and he talked about you. For some of it. It was a long fucking confession. But half of what he said wasn’t even coherent. He was talking about some crazy shit and no one knows what he meant by it. You were part of that whole section.” She paused again, thinking. Goro let the silence sit. He didn’t want to jump to a conclusion until he’d heard her out. Which was proving difficult, truthfully, because this all left a sour taste in his mouth, one that had almost certainly been there before. 

“They wanted to take you in for questioning, but you disappeared. And, to add fuel to the fire, they were having a hard time getting any actual concrete evidence,” she began. “Can’t make an arrest based on a confession alone. He did other things, too, and that's what he ended up being indicted for, but there's still that problem. This whole chunk of confession is still there that technically lines up with his timeline of events, but there’s no way to prove it. That’s why they want you,” Ohya’s expression darkened. “At least, publicly, that’s why they want you.” 

She readjusted in her seat again. She faced him fully. “This guy— Shido’s his name— he’s got goons. Not to mention, he had complete control over the police, and there are other higher up’s who worked with him. Some of those guys got busted with Shido’s confession, but there’s a few where there just isn’t enough evidence to put ‘em away. These are the ones who you need to watch out for.” She took a deep breath, not finished. 

“I’m gonna be frank with you,” she continued. “They want you dead. They don’t want a single loose end, and you’re still dangling. The police are on their side. Are you understanding me?”

Goro tried to let the words sink in. That was more than a lot to think about. The creature in his stomach was grinning now, he could tell. But, this was also no time to get overwhelmed. If her words were true— which, the overwrought familiarity of her explanation compelled him to trust them— he needed to keep his head above the water. 

“So these— subordinates. You’re saying they’re after my life? They can’t be actively hunting me down, if they have the influence you’re implying, or I’d have been found by now,”  Goro said, deciding to ignore the fear creeping up his spine. “So then, what’s my public status? How unlikely was it that I was the egoless comatose patient they were searching for?” 

“Uh…” said Ohya, seeming like she was the stunned one. “Well, you’re right, they don’t really have a manhunt right now. I guess I don’t need to worry about beating around the bush here— you’re presumed dead.”

Interesting. “That doesn’t surprise me,” he said, furrowing his brow. “But, obviously, a body was never found. They’re probably prioritizing morgues then, not hospitals. That does explain why I wasn’t discovered after all this time.” Though, if they’re smart, they’d also keep an eye on cases like his. They probably were, in fact. He’d gotten lucky that the police here were clueless. 

Ohya gave him a very funny look. “You know, it’s almost creepy how well you’re taking this. You were in a coma this whole time?” She shook her head. “I’d have thought you’d be more out of it, honestly.” 

“Is this not what you’d consider a wake-up call? I’ve been ‘out of it’ for a week. It’s common sense that I’d react like this,” he told her. Just going outside had cleared his head. He had a feeling hospitals had never been a fitting place for him. “Yes, I was in a coma,” he added, as an afterthought. “They said I’d been shot.” 

Just as the words left his mouth, he realized the implications that had. 

Ohya noticed just as fast. “You said shot?” 

They’d certainly both had the same assumption— maybe an attempt had already been made after his life. 

But there was something that felt wrong about that scenario, too. “I’m not… entirely sure it’s what you think it is,“ he replied. Maybe wrong wasn’t the correct word but, it wasn’t completely right either. “There’s no benefit to not making my body public. And, if they’re really after me, it seems messy, to say the least, that they didn’t finish the job properly.” He tried to speak confidently. The effort was familiar, too. Part of him wondered when he’d get the chance to do some self-analysis and tear himself apart. 

Ohya caught on very quick, rolling with every punch Goro gave. “Christ, kid. What kind of shady shit were you into? So we’re thinking you’ve got another group after you?” 

“I don’t know.” 

He really didn’t. There were missing pieces, but that was evident. He had no end of missing pieces. If he was supposed to be some detective, then maybe he should get on with acting like it, and figure out whatever the hell this was.

Whatever business he’d wrapped himself into. 

Ohya, again, spoke too quickly for Goro to finish digging through his own head.

“Maaan, I’ve really got myself into something haven’t I?” She rubbed her eyes, like she was already exhausted. “Look, I’m a busy woman. Don’t expect much out of me, but apparently I’ve got a bad habit of adopting puppies. So I’ll see if I can at least point you in the right direction, okay?” 

He didn’t have much of another choice, other than to let himself be killed. He nodded again, not sure whether to call himself pleased or solemn. 

She buzzed her lips and looked at him, obviously thinking. Then she opened her car door. “Well, okay. First things first, you gotta get some clothes, ‘cause you can’t go walking around like that. God, you don’t even have shoes…” She got out and stretched, and then turned back to him for one last comment. “Don’t expect much, okay? I’m not made of money. Don’t you dare go anywhere, either.” 

She slammed the door shut and started walking into the store. 

Goro was glad for the moment of peace. He let his jaw relax, closing his eyes. He hated how familiar the stress felt, and how desperate he was to welcome the feeling. A life or death promise was about as thrilling as one day should get. 

Getting any memory back was his top priority. But he didn’t have an inkling of where to start. He didn’t have a phone, or a computer, and certainly not a home. He guessed he could use a public computer at a library, but just searching himself might raise more questions than answers. They’d be important questions, he was sure, but he wondered about the bias, the assumptions, the fact that it’d be an outside perspective looking in. He didn’t know how delicately he should go about regaining his memories. 

Not to mention, he had only the word of a stranger and a low feeling in his stomach confirming he was even Goro Akechi. And now, with the reputation he’d had, if he even wanted to be him was questionable. Memories of such a life seemed… unpleasurable, at best, but he hadn’t set himself up to be able to just start over. Remembering his past was his best chance at plain old survival. 

He wanted to have some kind of plan before Ohya came back, but he was drawing blanks. What he really needed was someone who knew him personally. Beyond media attention, if there was a single poor soul around who’d actually known him. He found himself doubting such an existence, past anyone who was out for his head. 

He heard the car doors unlock, and he opened his eyes. Ohya was walking back with two bags, and she was on her phone again, barely looking where she was going. Well, there goes him having a plan. Bouncing ideas back and forth was the last thing he wanted to do. It was time wasted and he knew he would get frustrated, but his choices were limited. At least Ohya seemed pretty knowledgeable. It was possible she knew more than she was letting on, too. 

She opened up the car door and tossed the bags onto his lap. “Hey,” she began, setting herself back into place, “I got your stuff but— I remembered something in there that might be a good starting place for you, if I can run that by ya.” 

Or, of course, he could hear Ohya out and avoid idea bouncing all together. Something solid had come by much quicker than he thought. 

*****

Ohya’s plan wasn’t bad at all. 

She’d told him she had a contact from a few years ago, who was in charge of a bundle of self storage units. Apparently a certain “Goro Akechi” had registered himself one a couple months or so after Goro’s public disappearance. They’d told her once they noticed the name, but Ohya hadn’t taken up the lead at the time. When Goro asked why they’d even told her that, she left it at “no reason important,” and kept the topic adamantly off the table. Goro would push the envelope if it weren’t for the fact that his life (a life he didn’t even know he had, for the record, and one that still bothered him) was on the line. 

If this unit did belong to him, there could be a very solid lead on himself in there, and leads on his acquaintances, too. Ohya didn’t know if the garage still existed, though. So she said she’d give them a call and see if they could figure something out. 

Which is what led to Goro sitting in a barber’s chair. After he’d gotten dressed (an ensemble of sweats, a sweatshirt, and tennis shoes) Ohya had commented that he looked like he belonged in a homeless shelter, and “really needed a haircut.”

She said something about how he’d always kept himself looking clean, and Goro believed it. He was already feeling discomfited the way he was. So unkempt and basically filthy. So, she decided that while she was getting her contact all in order, she’d pay for him getting a trim and a shave. 

She was helping him more than he’d expected her to, in ways he didn’t really expect. But he’d take what he could get. He’d hardly had a reason to say no. 

He sat waiting in front of a mirror. He hadn’t gotten a good look at himself until now, but god, she was right, he looked pretty fucking bad. 

The first thought that came to him was sickly. Eyes sunken in, deep bags under his eyes. You wouldn’t expect him to have just been in a permanent state of slumber for the past five years. Or maybe the correct assumption would be, a coma hadn’t been enough sleep for him. 

His hair was just below his shoulders, and he had a very pitiful looking beard. He didn’t recognize himself. He didn’t think that would change much after his haircut, but it made him itch. It was a face that didn’t feel like his. He wanted to rip it off and replace it with a new one, one he knew better. 

Maybe he’d never liked looking at his reflection. 

Ohya had spoken to the barber for him. The one he got either wasn’t the talkative type, or really got his vibe of not wanting to speak to anyone. She went to work in silence, washing his hair with fruity shampoo and dressing him in a long black apron. That was all fine, albeit uncomfortable, but once she started cutting, Goro found he couldn't watch. The snips were loud, and definite, and it left his chest feeling tight. He couldn’t do anything but let his thoughts run blank. 

He wondered if that was hair he’d had before his incident, now falling away. He’d have the same eyes, and organs, and teeth, too. But he felt all wrong in this body. Like it had gone on without him. 

He was thankful when she moved to his beard. Just for a moment, though, because having someone so close to his face made him want to retreat as far back into himself as possible. A blade so close to his throat. He wondered how hard of a push it would take to make a cut. He wondered how deeply he’d have to go to make it bleed. 

 Maybe he’d always hated barbers, too. 

When she’d announced she was finished, and Goro forced himself to look back in the mirror, it actually took him aback. It had taken years off him. She’d styled his bangs, and left no hair on his chin, but most importantly, it was clean. Soft looking. Pleasant. 

It was almost enough to distract him from the discolored scar plastered on his forehead. 

He stared for probably too long. His disheveled bangs had kept it clearly out of view on his first glance, but now that he was fresh and groomed, it pushed its way into the limelight. It was reddish, and almost shiny, and painstakingly circular. 

He could feel dread bubbling up. He tore himself away from the mirror, and found an instant sense of relief when he wasn’t staring anymore. 

Reflections and barbers. More to read into later, he supposed. He was learning he had been quite the hassle. What an annoyance. 

Ohya met him at the entrance. Pure amusement was all over her face. “Shorter than I expected, but you’re looking pretty smart like that.” Her eyes went to his scar, but she made no comment on it. She frowned, but that was all. 

Goro didn’t mind her reluctance on the topic. He raised his eyebrows, and spoke with the silent mutual understanding of  “that is one gnarly goddamn scar” between them. “Ah, and I’m sure the sweatpants add to the look.” 

“Watch it,” she snapped back, sliding into her usual demeanor. “Not like I could get you Levi’s, kid.” 

She paid for his haircut, and out of the shop they went. They walked to the car in anticipating silence. She had her phone out again, texting someone now. Goro didn’t want to get his hopes up. Texting could mean anything, or nothing, or half of one or the other. 

She pushed her seat back getting into the car, and pulled one leg up with her. Goro waited for her to speak, keeping himself tense. He really wouldn’t be able to loosen up if he tried, like a wound up doll who’d gotten stuck. 

Ohya broke the quiet. “It’s still there.” 

Goro sucked in, but didn’t let himself relax. Nothing ended there. It was one check off a list, but not all of them.

 “And can we go in?” 

Ohya blew air out of her mouth. “Well, she said she wants to make sure it's you, because there's only so many privacy laws she wants to break.” She shrugged at him. “But honestly, looking at you now, there's not a doubt in my mind you’re Goro Akechi. So, you can chill about it.” 

He leaned back into his seat. The tensity had not left him. Something was making him lucky today, and he hated it. He would feel much more comfortable in the mitts of misfortune. But he couldn’t help feeling giddy, too. Like something was rubbing circles into his back, easing, but not erasing, bits and pieces of his concerns. It was something to focus on, and a goal to achieve. Above all, that relief made him feel pathetic. 

“I was gonna ask if you wanted to go today or not, but you look more thrilled than I think I’ve ever seen you, so I’m just gonna take that as a yes.” 

He hated the way she worded that. He frowned. “Only if you’re as concerned about my identity as you seemed to be earlier. You’re welcome to take your time, I’m surely not going anywhere.” 

“You’re snarky! I never realized you had an attitude,” Ohya laughed. 

She got the car going, and they were on their way to the unit. Apparently it was quite a ways, and Ohya advised him he’d better buckle in for a long one. 

He could feel his eyelids getting heavy. He had things he wanted to think about, and questions he wanted to ask. Working up a tolerance to being active was not something that could be done in a day, but fuck if he wouldn’t try anyway. 

But, despite how he tried to fight it, Goro fell asleep. 

*****

He woke up when they were about ten minutes from the units. Ohya commented she’d thought it was a little funny that he’d been so exhausted doing just about nothing all day, but admitted too that his body was probably pretty weak, and he really should take it easy. As easy as he could, at least. 

They were both quiet for the remainder of the drive. The sun was getting low now. They were passing by suburbs between grassy fields, driving past exit by exit. He had no idea how long they’d been going for. Ohya had called herself busy, and Goro believed it, so her continual help felt unusual. People weren’t just like this, he was almost sure. 

She also knew things that felt… almost inappropriately relevant to him. The topic of the unit still tingled in the back of his mind. Why had they called her about his storage? And for that matter, why had she even known so much about him? The information she had felt intimate— like the results of a deep investigation. Had this all been yielded from that politician? 

But Ohya had a distinct air of privacy. There could’ve been something personal about her aid, but Goro figured that she wouldn’t crack easily. It might be better to leave it— personal matters tended to yield lasting effects, after all. At least, he assumed so. He really wasn’t sure if that was as big of a plus as it appeared on the surface, though. 

When the centre came into view, Goro let those thoughts ease into the back of his mind. He could focus on Ohya’s MO later. This was leaps and bounds more important to him; if anything was going to last, it was this. He could play detective, just like he was supposed to, and maybe come across some special clue. Perhaps he could test out his muscle memory and flex whatever skills he presumed he’d had. 

They arrived, and it looked extremely closed. Like the only customers they’d been expecting were ghosts. The lights in the windows were off, and the gate guarding the units was shut tight. It wasn’t encouraging. 

Ohya read his expression pretty clearly. She bumped his shoulder with her fist. “She knows we’re coming, my contact’s still here. The front just closes at 6:00. I’ll deal with it, so just stay put for now.” 

And just as she said, after she hopped out of her car and approached the office, the door swiftly opened and a woman joined Ohya outside. The two of them seemed friendly. Goro watched as they talked, noting quizzically to himself that Ohya was someone who talked with her hands. 

Ohya gestured to her car and they both looked over to Goro. He watched them walk over, and obeyed smartly when Ohya signaled him to roll down his window. 

 The woman peeked her head around to look at him, her eyebrows arched high. “Wow,” she said, completely staring now. “I mean, he looks like him, that’s for sure.” 

Ohya grinned. “Sure does. That enough for you to let us in?” She didn’t really say it as a request, more like an expectation. Goro appreciated the tone. 

She fiddled with her bottom lip. “Hmm. You said amnesia? He got any doctor's notes about that?” She asked, giving cue to Ohya’s sour expression. 

“You didn’t say a word about notes 

on the phone, you know.” 

The contact clicked her tongue, and looked back to Goro. She bit the inside of her cheek, and sighed. “Just cause it’s you, Ohya, I’ll take that nasty scar on his forehead as my confirmation.” She rubbed the back of her neck. “Come with me inside, I’ll get his key.” 

Ohya made a haughty noise of achievement, and followed the woman back in. Goro rolled up the window again. 

They were taking a little while. He rubbed at his scar absentmindedly. So obviously a bullet wound, maybe that had been the real reason his barber hadn’t made much conversation. Whoever tried to kill him had shot just where it counted. You don’t fire a warning shot into a head. He wondered if he’d deserved it, and doubted he didn’t.  

Goro removed his hand when Ohya reemerged from the building, and she was looking confident. She slid back into her car and jingled the key to his unit victoriously. “Easy peasy. She’s gonna open the gate for us in a second. Your unit number is 508.” 

They waited for a little while, nerves ever growing, until the automatic gates opened on their own, groaning and creaking until fully extended. Ohya started her car and drove in, squinting at the unit numbers in the low light.

Rows upon rows of garages awaited them. This must’ve been a pretty large lot, by the looks of things. The dirt road was the only uneven piece of scenery, the repetition was endless. He kept a watchful eye on the unit numbers, as well, skipping between the evens and the odds. 

After a few right turns, and one very tight u-turn, they were there. 508 stood wedged between its neighbors, almost at the end of the row, but not quite. Not a thing stood out about it. It was just as gray and worn and untouched as the rest of the facility. Not even the dirt was remarkable. It reminded him of the hospital. 

Ohya held the key out to Goro. 

“I’m assuming you want this to be a ‘just you’ kinda thing?” 

The gesture was something he should’ve expected, but didn’t. It made him hesitate for a moment. 

He took the key. “I appreciate it,” he said. 

“No sweat.” 

He got out of her car, and she drove off to the end of the row. She stayed parked within general sight of the unit. It was essentially pseudo privacy, but neither of them knew how long he’d be in there, and who knows what this could trigger. Ohya also didn’t seem like she knew a thing about amnesia. He wouldn’t look to her for comfort of any sort, but there was reassurance in her being a safe figure. 

He took a deep breath. In through the nose, out through the mouth. This was his step one. He’d gotten himself into some deep shit, his past self hadn’t seemed to have a shred of self preservation in mind. Had he not encountered Ohya, he could’ve been dead by the hands of the crooks that call themselves the police by now. He had a lot more steps to cover, and each one would be riskier than the next. He was much more on his own than he realistically should’ve been. Most people had friends, as far as he knew. But this was seemingly his own fault. He wanted to know why exactly it was his fault. 

One more deep breath. 

He inserted the key into the lock, and grabbed the handle of the metal shutter. He pushed up, and with a squeak of rust and a bang of metal, he opened up his door to more dangerous times. 

And it was nearly empty. 

It was barren concrete. Newly disturbed dust was floating about. It was eerily quiet, and the stale air made his throat itch. Cobwebs stuck in the corners, barely visible in the low light of the setting sun. Though he wouldn’t call it underwhelming. 

In the center of the floor was a cardboard box. About medium sized, without a lid. It matched well with the rest of the room, lined with dust and unaltered. He kneeled in front of it. 

It was its contents that felt much more exciting. There were papers, lots of them. Thick manila envelopes full of information for him to flip through. He scooted back towards the entrance and pulled the box along with, trying to get the last of the light funneling in to help him read. 

It was heavier than he expected, and he didn’t know how much to attribute that to his current lack of strength. He took out the first envelope and it, despite the dust, was clear and candid. When he flipped it around, he noticed with eagerness that there was writing on the front. He tried to make it out as clearly as he could, and in careful handwriting, it read: “05/21/2020— Case No. 1471” 

It was a case file. He pulled out another envelope, and it was similarly marked. His interest was surely piqued. There must’ve been some sort of relevance to these, if they were going to be so pointedly left here. He pulled out a third, and then a fourth, and from the weight he’d expected many more. But, the pile ended there. Instead, what filled the rest of the box was another, smaller, wooden one. 

He took it out delicately, gripping it securely around the sides to ensure he didn’t drop it. This seemed much more… personal. Shiny cherry wood, latched but not locked, just small enough to sit on his lap firmly. A thought that couldn’t help but be excited came to mind. 

This could’ve belonged to me. 

He wasted no time. He undid the latch, and it gave a satisfying click. The hinges creaked just barely as his clammy hands lifted the lid, and pulled all the way back, until it rested hanging by itself. 

Inside sat more papers. Some were crisper than others, some had obviously been crumpled and then flattened out again. But there was consistency in each of them being folded neatly in half, stacked neatly on top of each other. 

He picked up the one from the beginning of the pile, unfolded it, and was surprised to find it had hardly been written on; a simple “To you,” at the top. This was a candidate that had been clearly wadded up and discarded. He set it down carefully, and picked up the next. 

This one hadn’t been written on much, either. It said even less, just “Hello.” 

He picked up another, and another. It was all soft stationary, each topped with slightly different wordings, and some decorated with a couple lines, even. But they were all just about the same, a simple greeting, and then resigning. 

They were letters. Or rather— drafts for one. So he’d learned today that he was indecisive, maybe a bit quick tempered, but potentially also at least organized. He assumed the existence of these drafts meant he’d never gotten around to sending his letter, either. And perhaps he’d never get such a chance, if this visit didn’t convince any muggy memories to creep out of their caves.  

As he pulled out drafts and read his pathetic one-liners, he came across a page that was different. There was actually a fair amount of content on it, over a paragraph's worth. It had obviously also been cast aside, but even a spare scrap could be useful to him, in this state. He used the last of the remaining light to read it. 

“To whom it may concern, 

I would like to skip the inherent shamefulness of writing a letter to you, of all things, in my introduction, and I will title this ambiguously under the assumption that if you believe this does truly not concern you, that you will save me the mortification of reading through it anyways. 

I won’t formally phrase this as a farewell, but you should take it as one. 

Our unknowns are too great to write, and while you were not innocent, neither am I, and there are truths between the two of us that shouldn’t have remained unspoken. I’ve never thought to run from the blame. 

My hands are not clean, and maybe they never will be, but they can still carry you home when you’re ready to sleep. 

Perhaps a fact I recognized too late.

I do not want to say goodbye, however I—“

It cut off. 

The letter left a lump in Goro’s throat. He read it through once more. He wanted to analyze each sentence down to its core, but the light had died out. But there were bits and pieces, words that suck out in his mind. “Farewell,” “Innocent,” “Unspoken.”

“Too late.”

Goro bit down on his lip hard. The case files— those he understood. With the life he’d allegedly lived and the people he’d known, of course something like that would be predominant. They were fact on paper, ignorant of bias, they’d be full of names and leads. They were important. But, he didn’t understand why these almost-letters had been left here. Out of anything that could’ve been kept. Had there been someone he’d felt so strongly for? To be kept in safety behind lock and key? 

To identify this person— that could be his next goal to achieving his memories. To ignite the fire of their eventual reunion, and perhaps they could know what happened to him. They could come easy, though he suspected that anyone who he’d decided to be so rottenly open with wouldn’t be typical. But, they would also know him, past the media, past the appearances. 

And, though he wasn’t going to admit it, he’d needed something more hopeful to work towards. 

He put the papers back where they belonged, placed the entire case back into the cardboard box, and stacked the case files back atop it. 

There was no telling how old these letters were. They could’ve been from much before his incident. But this set him up for a goal, a big one, that might get him back to whatever meager place he’d left himself in. 

He picked up the box, and prepared himself to head back outside to Ohya. He needed to muster up his resolve, because this was only the first out of two very important clues this visit could provide. 

He positioned the box onto his waist, and took one last look into the dark before closing up his unit. He returned to Ohya’s car, pulling open the door without so much as a greeting, and set the box on the floor in front of his seat. 

Ohya leaned forward, interested. “That a box you got?” 

He wasn’t going to talk about the embarrassing letters he found. Even if he wanted to, his second clue came first. “It’s not that important right now,” he lied. “Is your contact still here?” 

She raised her eyebrows at him, but let the topic drop. “Sure is. She can’t leave ‘till we leave.” 

Good. “I need to speak with her.” 

She hummed in reply, seeming very curious by his idea. They drove back up to the entrance, Ohya not questioning his motives, but still giving him an inquiring side eye every so often. 

They got out of the car together this time, and walked into the front office. The woman was reading behind the counter, almost completely in the dark, with only a desk lamp lighting her work area. 

She glanced up at them, and placed her book upside down. “Hey there. You got that key?” 

“Yes,” Goro replied. He placed it lightly on the counter. She took it without a word, and got up to put it back on its hook. Goro stopped her before she turned. “I have a question for you.” 

She seemed a little surprised. She glanced between him and Ohya, and then put her free hand on her hip. “Okay?”

He hoped he could push his luck just a bit further today. He’d made it this far, after all. 

“Is there any way I can see the documentation that was filed when this unit was made?” he asked. 

The woman pursed her lips. “Ohya?” 

Ohya put her hands up defensively. “Don’t look at me. This is all him.” 

The woman stared at Goro. He stared back. This was arguably the most important part of the visit. He needed to see those papers. Just a single particular part, it was the one factor that needed an explanation. He would not leave until he got that documentation, and if he had to stand his ground and pull her leg a bit to get it, he would. 

After their staring contest lasted just a moment too long, she folded her arms. “Jeez. Only because I feel bad for you, okay?” she huffed, turning on her heel. “And because my niece liked your food blog.” 

She disappeared into the back of the office, leaving Goro feeling just a bit full of himself. He would think about the food blog comment later.

Ohya lightly punched his arm. “Okay, good going. But whatcha going to do with that?” 

“There’s something I need to check,” he replied flatly. It made Ohya grunt unenthusiastically. 

The woman returned with a few papers, all paper clipped together. She tossed them onto the counter. “This is a customer copy, okay? So feel free to keep it.” She glared at Ohya. “And, I’m going home now. So, get out, please.” 

That got a laugh out of Ohya. “I know I can always count on you to bend a couple of rules for me.” 

“Out.” 

They left the building, Ohya waving her last goodbyes while Goro rushed to the car. He needed to get some light on these papers, it was long past sundown now. He slid himself into the car, clicked on one of the lights, and went to work reading, all while Ohya was still walking over. 

Ohya opened her door and stood outside watching him, leaning on the frame. First, it was with interest, but it soon turned into irritation.

“Kid, tell me what you’re looking for. You’ve got your eyeballs all over that thing,” she said. 

He didn’t let their conversation stop him from reading. He kept his eyes glued to the page, checking each word and box before moving on. 

He did owe her an explanation. Getting his thoughts out would help him focus a bit, anyway. 

“These sorts of things— storage units. Wouldn't they be paid for recurrently?” 

Ohya went quiet for a moment. “They are,” she said, and joined him in the car. “Shit. Those funds can’t be coming from you, can they.” 

“Exactly. I’m looking for the responsible billing party.” He turned onto the next page. None of the handwriting matched what he’d seen on his papers and files, which further confirmed to him that this unit hadn’t been one he’d purchased himself. Whoever this was had put all that information in there, those cases, those letters. He suspected they weren’t his mystery recipient, but he could confirm that with them once they’d met.

Why this had been done in his name, though, was beyond him. 

He flipped onto the last page, and found his prize. Big black bolded letters asking for the responsible parties name, and neat penmanship filling in the blank. 

“Sae Niijima,” he read aloud. 

Ohya gawked. 

“‘Sae Niijima?’ Seriously?” she scoffed to herself, and sunk down further in her seat. “She’s an attorney. A damn good one, too.” 

An attorney? He wondered how she could’ve known him. “She’s the one paying, apparently.” 

Ohya tapped long slender fingers onto her steering wheel again. She dropped her head. “Guess that means she’s our next lead, huh?” 

Goro adjusted himself in his seat. “It does.” 

“Ahh, man,” she complained. “You’re really somebody who’s in with the big guns, you know. You better let me have some exclusive with you after all this is done, or something.” 

Goro gave way a hint of a smile. Probably his first since he’d woken up. If this would be the last of his luck, so be it. He hated to rely on something so shifty and mischievous, anyways. This was a start, barely a sprout, to whatever his big picture was. But he’d see himself to the very top. 

Really, he’d already died once. Hardly a way to go but up. 

“We’ll see.” 

[alarawriting]

52 Project #1: The Chicken Story

Every part of this story is true. Even the lies. In fact, especially the lies.

***

Yes, I live in the city and I have chickens, no thanks to city legislature. You’d think that cities would be more supportive of having chickens; they kill rats and they produce eggs, what’s not to like? Well, okay, chicken poop isn’t all that pleasant and they destroy all the plants in their run, but unlike, say, cat or dog poop, chicken poop is useful as fertilizer. The city’s somewhat tolerant of hens, but they’re appallingly sexist toward roosters; I mean, yes, the poor guys are loud, but so are dogs and I don’t see anyone banning dog ownership within city limits. Roosters protect their flock from predators and they can serve as watch animals. They don’t actually crow to tell you it’s dawn, though, that’s a myth. Mostly they crow to tell you “Goddamn, yo, check me out, I’m a rooster.” Or something like that. If roosters could talk they would absolutely perform hip-hop.

Anyway, I have a funny story about those chickens, and roosters, and my son, who’s a ninja. No, I’m not making this up, it’s his superpower. He could be standing right there and I could be looking for him and I wouldn’t see him. He’s not invisible, he’s just… very good at going unnoticed. That was really helpful when we were trying to get our second house.

Oh, yeah, so this place is actually two halves of a duplex, and originally, we owned just one. Then the neighbor overextended himself bricking up all the yards back there. You see the street back there? All the yards behind my house are made of concrete now. Rudest thing you ever saw, because they didn’t put in drainage, so all those yards that used to be soil and dirt ended up flooding, directly into my garage. I had my car floating in it, out to the street. I mean, it was raining pretty heavy and all the cars down at the bottom of the hill were also floating, but I’m halfway up the hill so you wouldn’t expect my car to float, but no, I open my garage, and there it is, bobbing up and down. I loved that car. It floated down the street and ended up in the river – yeah, there’s a river down there, you can’t tell most of the time because it’s so shallow it’s barely a creek, but that day it was overflowing and my car floated right into it and sailed off. Never got it back. Pretty sure it’s in the bay someplace. Now all we have is my wife’s minivan, because she was at her parents’ house with the younger kids that weekend, and I’m really not a fan. Who builds a car large enough to transport drywall but too small to stretch your legs if you’re an adult man? Honda, that’s who. She doesn’t care because she’s short, but I miss my car. It was a Chevy Impala, we called it Vlad because you have to call an Impala Vlad, right? Vlad the Impala? Come on, it’s a Dracula joke.

Right, so anyway, the reason they’re all bricked up is that my neighbor was trying to buy up all the properties there, so he had a business offering people that he’d brick up their yard – no more tickets from the city about high grass and weeds, no more kids sneaking into the back to grow illicit tomatoes, no rats – and a lot of people took him up on it, because they didn’t realize about the flooding. Sure, most of it ended up in my garage, but a lot of it ended up in people’s basements, and no one around here has flood insurance, we’re halfway up a hill. And that dislodged the ghosts. See, most of this city’s built on an ancient burial ground of some kind or other… I don’t think Native American, I think it was one of those colonial cemeteries or something, so when you flood basements, you’re gonna get ghosts. And that meant people trying to sell their properties because they’re haunted. So he figured he’d buy up all the houses on the block cheap, right? Except some investigators came in from a government agency and they figured out that he’d known about the ghosts and that’s why he talked people into letting him pour concrete all over their yards, so there were lawsuits – I considered joining in myself, but at the time, he lived on the other half of my house so I didn’t want to stir things up. And at the end of the lawsuits, he was the one who had to sell his house for cheap in a big hurry or face foreclosure, because he’d had to mortgage his house like three times to pay the lawsuits.

Well, we tried to get it legitimately. My wife’s name isn’t on the title to my house, so she was eligible for an FHA loan. But they absolutely refused to believe that she wanted to buy the house next door to the one she was living in just to live in it. They were convinced she wanted to rent it out. She pointed out that the mortgage payments were like twice what anyone would pay to rent a place around here – yay for gentrification, I guess – but they weren’t convinced. So we rented her an apartment and she was going to live in it for six months so that she could go back and get the FHA loan – I mean, she wasn’t really living in it, she was just storing her books in it, but no one was going to be able to tell she wasn’t living in it because if an auditor came to the house, she had it rigged with cameras and speakers and whatnot so she could talk to people remotely and tell them not to come in because of the books, and if you looked through the windows you could see that you couldn’t see a damn thing because of the piles of books everywhere, like seven-foot-tall stacks of books all over the place. But before she could go back to get the loan, the bank finished foreclosing on the guy and then the house wasn’t available for sale.

Now, see, we knew that sooner or later, the bank was going to sell that house, so we went into action. Here’s where my son being a ninja came in; we had him go over there and steal all the doors inside the house and hide them in the attic. The embarrassing thing is that he forgot where he put them so the entire house still doesn’t have doors. We have to have a curtain up in front of the bathroom, since it’s an old house and the width of the doorjamb doesn’t match the sizes they make doors anymore. The cops came and searched for the doors – I think they were suspicious that we took them, since how many houses have a ninja? But after they went up into the attic and two of them fell through the ceiling and broke their ribs, they decided it wasn’t worth their time. Also, I kept pointing out to them about the lawsuit, and the ghosts, like my family was the only one who’d have motivation to steal the doors? Really?

Then we filled the bathroom with dead rats. I guess this requires a little bit of explanation. We didn’t have the chickens yet, or the assassin cat – did I tell you about my assassin cat? No? Well, let me finish telling you about the house first. So we had a lot of rats, and we were poisoning them, as you do when you’ve got that many rats, and we also had traps, and a giant dollhouse with murder dolls in it. You’ve never used a murder doll on a rat? It’s a doll that’s got a knife in its hand, and when the sensors in its eyes detect that there’s a rat walking by, it starts slashing at it like Jason at camp. My wife dressed them up nice so the rats would be fooled, and changed their clothes every day so they wouldn’t smell like rat blood. They had these frilly Victorian white outfits that she just drowned in bleach to get the dead rat smells out.

So anyway, when you’ve got four dozen dead rats, what do you do with them? If you put them all out in trash bags, the city might condemn your house for having that many rats. Never mind that most of them were swarming over from the other house anyway because it was abandoned. So we piled up the dead rat bodies in the bathroom. Then my son stole their refrigerator and rolled it out in the late evening, strolling along with it, mostly because at the time he wasn’t 18 yet but also because ninja, and we loaded it into my wife’s minivan and drove it to a friend’s house because his wife had gotten drunk on cheap wine and stabbed their refrigerator to death with a knife. Apparently it was a really big knife. Then we took the oven, which was good, because there were rats living in it, and we hid it in our garage, which we didn’t keep cars in anymore because of the risk of the garage flooding and the cars floating away. Since we were cognizant of the cops potentially looking for the oven, I let my wife take all the books back out of the apartment she’d been renting because we couldn’t really use it for what we’d intended anyway, and she stacked them all around the oven, and after she was done not only could you not tell there was an oven in there, but you didn’t want to go anywhere near it because you were afraid of a seven-foot-tall stack of books toppling over on you, and I’ve never met a cop who’s seven feet tall. They never did come by, though. Which was good, because the first time it rained, my wife went out there to retrieve all her books to save them from flooding, and of course then you could see the oven again.

We tried to steal the hot tub, but someone else got to it first, along with my lawnmower and backup generator. I felt really bad about the backup generator because we had some really beefy squirrels in there running the dynamo wheel and I don’t know where I’m going to get squirrels that big and strong again.

Then the bank started showing the house, so we stepped up our game. We played death metal at ridiculous volume when people would come to see the house, until we found out from my youngest son’s friend’s mom that she’d actually come to look at the house and thought the death metal was encouraging, as it suggested neighbors she could get along with. So after that it was endless repetitions of music from Sesame Street and The Song That Doesn’t End and Dora the Explorer. During that time period we all wore headphones; it was kind of unbearable, except for the youngest kids, of course. They didn’t mind.

We put cat food and sardines in the air conditioning vents, and potatoes in the closet so they could rot and turn to mush in the dark, and my oldest daughter, whose room was absolutely full of ghosts, did a séance and an exorcism to get the ghosts to move to the other house, and of course it was full of flies because of all the dead rats, and then we randomly placed mannequin parts in strategic locations. It must have worked, because in the end, no one bought the place and the bank put it up for auction, and my wife’s parents bought it for her. And then, of course, we had to clean up the potatoes, and the flies, and the ghosts, and the cat food – someone had gotten to the dead rats already – and deal with the power company being too scared of the ghosts to come hook us up, and the insurance agency rejecting my wife’s parents’ insurance application because someone came by while my daughter was doing her séance/exorcism and apparently black magic is one of those things they don’t tell you you can’t do in an insured house, but they won’t insure your house if they know you’re doing it.

So after all this, after my son the ninja has busted his butt trying to make this place unliveable so we could get it at auction for cheap enough that my wife’s parents could afford it – they’ve got that kind of professional man and housewife money that only boomers get to have anymore, not rich but sure as heck not as poor as I’d be if my wife didn’t work – he says, he wants chickens. He’s found his spirit animal, or something, and it’s a bird. It doesn’t hurt that I have a new boyfriend – yes, I said it, I have a wife and a boyfriend and they know about each other and we all live in the same house, and if you don’t like it, you know what you can sit and spin on. Anyway, my boyfriend is a wild animal dude from Canada, who, like, communes with animals and has conversations with them and is very possibly actually delusional, but he has all these ideas about how we can convert the two yards into an urban farm. It’s his original idea about the chickens, but my son is thrilled with the idea and I’m not gonna say no to the guy after he helped us get our second house, and I like the idea myself, so we go and get chickens.

First snag. My wife’s parents hate chickens. They hate birds in general. Apparently when my wife was a kid, they had a dog who didn’t believe in birds, and the birds pecked his eyes out, so they’ve got a grudge. I… gotta say, much as I love dogs, any dog who told a bird to its face that he didn’t believe in birds had it coming. You just don’t tell people that they don’t exist while you’re looking straight at them. That’s rude.

Second snag. The city won’t let us have more than 4 chickens per yard, but my boyfriend has acquired eight because he thought we’d be able to use the second yard, and because my wife’s parents hate birds, that isn’t happening. And no one wants to give any of the birds up. We’ve got some amazing chickens. We’ve got a white Silkie who I like to keep on my lap and pet when I’m being a supervillain, because any villain can have a long-furred white cat but it takes a really original guy to have a long-furred white chicken. (Obviously, Silkies don’t really have fur, but their feathers have a consistency like silky fur, hence the name.) We’ve got a Silkie crossbreed who sings dubstep. She’s a tiny little bantam chicken, but because she was raised by my son, who has been taking care of all the chickens since we got them, and they think he’s the alpha hen, she gets to boss all the rest of the chickens around because she’s the daughter of the alpha hen, which I guess makes her Princess Hen or something. We’ve got a big black Cochin with feathers on her feet, and a Naked Neck chicken who wants all the rest of her feathers off too, and a bunch of others. Really exotic chickens. So we’re not giving up any of these chickens for anything. We hide the two bantams – the Silkie and the princess – in the house, which necessitates chicken diapers, about which the less said the better – and we just kind of pretend that we have four outdoor chickens instead of six.

And our chickens are heroes. The cops come by one day looking for an armed robber who’s hiding somewhere. The chickens are all riled up. We think they’re worried about the cops, until eventually, they start pecking at something under their coop, and here comes the robber, crawling out from under the coop shrieking because he’s being pecked by half a dozen birds. The cops give the chickens a medal – one for all of them, they don’t have that many medals lying around, and we have to take it away from them and hang it in the house because they’re fighting over it all the time. And the news decides to do a human interest piece on our hero chickens, and we think the world should know how awesome our chickens are, so we let them.

This turns out to be a mistake. Because we’re not legally allowed to have six chickens. So one cold winter afternoon, while we’re getting ready to spend a weekend in another dimension, Animal Control comes and steals all our chickens, and trumps up charges against us such as “no water” (which is what happens after you tip a waterer over on its side), and “inadequate shelter” because they tore the door off the chicken coop to get at our birds, since naturally we had the coop door locked, and “immoral consecration of chicken souls to Satan” which is just a flat out lie. We’re atheists, not Satanists, and even Satanists don’t actually consecrate chicken souls to Satan. That’s mostly edgy teenagers who were raised Catholic.

Now, I don’t know if you’ve ever gone through a dimensional portal, but the thing is, they are only open for a short period of time, and it can be years before they open again. We couldn’t change our plans; the tickets for the boat were very expensive, since only so many boats were going to be allowed to sail through the portal so it was a really limited thing, and this close to sail time there was no way we could sell our tickets or exchange them. So we had to go on our trip for the weekend, which was great. Really fun. Not as much fun as the time when I was a kid and my family went to the moon and had a barbeque, but do you ever really have as much fun on a vacation when you’re an adult as you did when you were a kid? I keep meaning to take my kids there one of these days – among other things, my family’s barbeque grill is still stuck up there and I want it back – but I’m a little bit afraid that I won’t be able to get the magic back and it’ll be really depressing. While we were sailing out there, we actually got to see the Kraken, at a safe distance away, breaching out in the bay some ways away. My oldest daughter wants to be a marine biologist, so she was telling us all kinds of Kraken facts, and disputing my statement that the fire that burned down the city a century ago was actually caused by the Kraken.

It was carrying a car in its tentacles. I couldn’t be sure – my vision’s not the best even with a telescope – but I could swear the car looked just like Vlad the Impala.

Anyway, when we came back, we found out that the chickens had already been shipped out to a zoo in a different city.

My wife piled us all into the minivan and we drove five hours to go see the chickens at the zoo, and they were doing fine – they were apparently now a traveling exhibit at a petting zoo – but it turns out chickens can see ninjas, particularly ninjas who raised and cared for them. They got so excited when my son snuck into their enclosure to steal them back that they raised a huge ruckus, and even the most talented ninja can’t stay invisible when he’s surrounded by clucking chickens. Then my wife started trying to tell a sob story about stolen chickens, but I’m afraid I got a little angry at the injustice of it all, and it is possible that a zoo employee ended up in a pond, and as a result we were thrown out of the zoo. And then they went to the other side of the country, and we just couldn’t figure out how to smuggle six chickens onto an airplane, and we couldn’t take off enough time from work to go out there with the car… so we basically gave up. The chickens were having a good life at the zoo, and getting them back was going to take way too much effort.

We hardened our premises, securing the run with a locked gate so an animal control officer would have to climb over a six foot fence to get at our chickens, and then protected the fence by getting clematis to grow all over it so it turned into essentially a six foot tall flowering bush, and got a set of eight chicks that we were assured would grow up into hens. Spoiler alert: you can’t tell what sex a chick is. Half of them grew up into roosters. So we ended up with four hens, plus the two bantam hens in the house, to live outside again, but we also ended up with four roosters, and we had to keep the poor guys in the basement. My boyfriend lived in terror of Animal Control, fearing that every time he heard a cop car, it was the cops coming to break into our basement and take our chickens. I’d say he was a little paranoid if not for what happened later; turns out it’s not paranoia if they really are out to get you.

Well, some of our new chickens had a case of wanderlust. We had Raspberry, who really liked to sleep in the bush, and Henry the Eggth, who was something of an escape artist; we kept finding her running down the street, sometimes with my son’s ninja headgear on her body, like she thought that if she just dressed like her ninja Queen Chicken Dad, she could borrow his powers and sneak out unseen.  It didn’t work like that; no matter how hard a chicken trains to be a ninja, she just can’t do it. Not if her goal is to go unseen by humans, anyway. I have no idea whether Henry was able to hide from other chickens or not. The other two, Marie Curie (she got that name because she was a Polish, and Marie Curie was from Poland) and Hen Solo, would sometimes fly up to join Raspberry in the clematis bush. Chickens can’t technically fly, most of the time, because they’re too big for their own wingspan, but Solo was a bantam and Polish are a pretty tiny chicken breed too, so they were both light enough to fly as far as the bush.

Down in the basement, we had Eggy Pop, the sweetest little bantam chick size of an egg you ever saw, who grew up to be an asshole bantam roo, the kind who have a real chip on their shoulders about being bantams, and will try to kick everyone’s ass, including humans; MeToo, a beautiful Silkie who got his name when we thought he was a hen and figured that if anyone was gonna harass a chicken it would be that one; Dr. Tran, whose name I really can’t explain if there are young kids around; and Lyndon LaRoo, who kept trying, and failing, to improve his own position in the pecking order. (Dr. Tran and Lyndon got name changes when we figured out they were roos, as previously they had been named Nightmare Moon and Twilight Chicklet.) We had to keep them boxed in with baby gates, otherwise they’d have escaped through the secret tunnels we’d dug in the basement. (And what a pain those were. Ever try to dig secret tunnels in an area full of ghosts without disturbing anyone’s bones and getting a poltergeist infestation in your house? We had to use the stud finder to find the bones and then avoid them. Must have made the whole project take four times as long.) Upstairs in my son’s room, we have the two bantams, Scootaloo the Silkie crossbreed princess, and Ms. Bigglesworth, the white Silkie.

One day, all the outdoor chickens disappear. Gone, without a trace. This is deeply upsetting to me, my boyfriend and both my sons, so when a neighbor comes by and tells us that there are a lot of chickens running around an empty lot up one of the streets behind my house, we’re very hopeful, and we go into action. We take as many cardboard boxes as we can, the kind my wife uses to store books, and the four of us head up there on foot, since my wife is the only person with a car and she’s taken it and my younger daughter to go visit my oldest daughter in college.

Well, we find there are a lot of chickens up there in that empty lot. We find ours, all right – Raspberry and Henry and Marie and Solo – and a whole lot of others. A Barred Rock rooster, two Orpingtons, a Wyandotte, four random Cornish (these are meat birds, rarely found as pets because of their short life spans, so who knows what they were doing up there), a gamecock and two game hens (couldn’t tell whether they were American Game, Old English Game or some other kind, but they were little and the roo was fierce), an Ameraucana, an Easter Egger, a Brahma, a Rhode Island Red and a Jersey Giant, and then there were the really weird ones – a Sumatra, a Yokohama, a Houdan, a large Oshamo, an Onagadori, two ducks, a baby peacock, and a flamingo. I have no idea what those last guys were doing hanging around chickens.

We’re very worried for these chickens. They’re running around free in an abandoned lot and they’re expensive chickens, a lot of them, that someone is probably looking for… and my experience with Animal Control tells me that if they come along and take the chickens, the families who bought these chickens will never see them again. I have a lot more faith in my boyfriend’s ability to find local chicken owners on Craiglist or various neighborhood sites than I do in Animal Control’s willingness to actually look for owners of the chickens. So I tell my boys, and my boyfriend, that we should grab as many chickens as we can – not just our own, but all of them, so we can repatriate them to their correct homes.

We start boxing chickens. For most breeds you can get two in a box. Little chickens, sometimes three. My ninja son is an experienced chicken wrangler and my younger son is good at making a lot of noise and scaring chickens toward my older son, my boyfriend, or me. We get our own chickens boxed up quickly and start boxing the other chickens.

Then this woman I don’t recognize shows up and starts screaming at me that she’s called Animal Control and I don’t have any right to have any of these chickens. I point out that some of these chickens are mine, but she isn’t having any. She accuses me of being a chicken thief and insists that the chickens have to go to Animal Control. I tell my ninja son to get himself, his brother and my boyfriend out of here with all of the chickens they already have in boxes, and I distract the woman by arguing with her that I have every right to my own chickens and all of these chickens are mine or belong to neighbors of mine that I intend to return them to, and there’s no need to call Animal Control, who will probably ship the chickens off to a petting zoo and the owners will never see them again. She’s not having any. I’m the worst person in the universe for taking chickens that belong to me out of a yard they don’t belong in.

I stand there arguing with her until Animal Control actually shows up, at which point I head back home, hoping my boys have been smart enough to stash the extra chickens somewhere safe. Here’s where there’s a problem. I have a permit for four hens. Not the six hens I actually own, where the bantams live in the house half the year; the city doesn’t let you keep chickens in your house, never mind that bantams have a hard time living through the winter if they live outdoors. And not the four roosters I own, because you’re not allowed to own a roo in the city, and also you’re not allowed to keep chickens in your basement, which would be a reasonable prohibition if not for the prohibition on roosters and the fact that you can’t sex chicks worth a damn.

While Animal Control is gathering up the chickens we didn’t get to, plus the ducks and the baby peacock (the flamingo has flown off by this time), this crazy woman follows me back to my house, continuing to harangue me about stealing chickens and she’s going to have Animal Control inspect my house. I turn back toward her. “Do they have a warrant?”

“I – what? They’re Animal Control, they don’t need a warrant!”

“The only entity that doesn’t need a warrant is Child Protective Services. Everyone else – the cops, the FBI, the Time Police, the SCP Foundation – they’re all required to get a warrant. Why do you think Animal Control would be an exception?”

“Okay, well! We’ll go to a judge and see about getting that warrant!”

“And who’s ‘we’? Unless you work for Animal Control, you’ve got nothing to do with them getting a warrant. All you are is a complainant.”

“You’re a terrible person who mistreats chickens!” she shouts. “Your yard is horrible, your lawn is nothing but weeds all year long, you put construction trash out on your parking pad, and you keep six chickens when you’re only allowed to have four! Four! Four chickens and only four chickens!”

I’ve just figured out who called animal control on us the first time, when our chickens were confiscated, and I feel sudden rage. “You seem to pay a lot of attention to my house for someone I’ve never seen before,” I say. “You know that stalking is against the law, right? Maybe I need to get a warrant served on you.”

She flounces back toward Animal Control, but now I know that she knows where I live, that she has some kind of long-standing grudge against me, and Animal Control actually listens to her. This could be bad.

So when I get back to the house I find a zoo waiting for me. My sons released all the chickens… into the house. Argh. “You’ve got to get them into the basement,” I tell my oldest. “Use the secret tunnels and get them out of here before Animal Control arrives!”

Animal Control shows up five minutes later when my sons have just finished boxing chickens, and after I’ve just finished texting my wife about what’s going on so she can get back here. They demand to come inside my property because they say I have illegal chickens. I tell them the only chickens I have are the ones I’m permitted to have. They don’t believe me. They tell me they’re going to go and get a warrant. I tell them to have fun with that. They insist they can hear a rooster inside, and my heart sinks, because they absolutely can. The basement roos have set up a cacophony of crowing in response to the sound of all the chickens who my son has just finished boxing up and who were previously running around my house.

Now they’re telling me that if I don’t let them in to get the roosters they can plainly hear, they are authorized to use force. Since when has Animal Control been so hardcore? I can’t afford to let them in; quite aside from the roosters and all the extra chickens, I have an illegal rabbit and none of the cats have licenses. Plus, there’s a tarantula. I can’t remember whether it’s legal to have a tarantula for a pet around here. “Fine,” I snap at them, and with great regret, I go downstairs, I get Dr. Tran and Lyndon, and I hand them over to them to protect the rest.

Meanwhile my sons are in the basement on the other half of the house, the half owned by my in-laws, and they’re using the secret tunnels we dug under the entire street to deliver chickens to every house on our side of the street. My boys managed to recover 16 out of the 24 chickens or so we found running around in that lot, and my older son the ninja dropped 2 or 3 chickens at each house (he kept the game hens and their roo together and left them in our old enemies’ basement. I haven’t talked about our war with the people down the block whose son has always been a terrible person and who always decorate outrageously for the holidays, but you have to hate people who have a 20 foot Frosty the Snowman on their roof all winter long.)

Animal Control leaves. The woman, who is hanging back in the yard watching Animal Control, leaves. My wife arrives. Now the thing you need to know about my wife is that, at heart, she longs to be Big Sister – like Big Brother, but just surveilling everybody without actually doing anything about it. Also, she can’t recognize faces. She recognizes me because my hair is distinctive, but she always mistakes my oldest daughter for one of her friends with a similar hair color, mixes up my son and my boyfriend a lot because they have vaguely similar hair, and one time stalked a guy through a shopping center because she thought he might be her brother. There was absolutely no reason to think he might be her brother, to be honest, her brother lives in a different state. So she’s got all this software on her PC that does facial recognition and matches it against databases.

She takes the pictures my youngest son took with his cell phone of the crazy woman, runs them through her databases, and gets a hit. The woman lives on the street behind ours where all the back yards got bricked up. Don’t recognize her name at all, and my boyfriend confirms she is not one of the people he corresponds with online who’s a fellow local chicken owner. So we have no idea what this woman has against us, but my wife doesn’t care.

She goes online to those places that want you to subscribe to three dozen print magazines, and subscribes to them all, in the name of the crazy lady up the street. She orders cheap sex toys and has them shipped there. She signs the crazy lady up for a subscription to monthly snacks in the mail, and Book of the Month Club, and yes I want more information about energy choice, please send an agent to my home. She gets the woman’s phone number out of online databases and requests car insurance quotes, home insurance quotes, quotes on solar panels, quotes on home renovation, quotes on exorcising ghosts, and please send me information on cruises and destination vacations.  She prints the woman’s name on about fifty shipping labels and starts putting moldy VHS tapes of children’s cartoons from the 1990s into envelopes, creates a fake online business so she can buy a Stamps.com account in the name of the fake online business, uses a prepaid Visa card from the drug store to pay for the postage, and mails all the tapes to the woman… one at a time, every day, for two months. She prints fake labels for empty prescription bottles for AIDS anti-virals and really hardcore anti-psychotic drugs and puts them on the prescription bottles, and she’s gonna have my son drop them off in the yards of the neighbors of the woman, but I point out to her that that’s kind of ableist because her entire idea revolves around getting revenge by making the neighbors think the woman is sick, so she shelves that idea.

You don’t mess with my wife.

Animal Control comes back with a warrant the next day. We show them around the house. See? No chickens here. No chickens in our yard, they disappeared. No chickens anywhere in the house! We don’t open any of the doors to the other side of the duplex, so they don’t know that the other side of the house is also ours and therefore they don’t know about the chickens that belong to us that we hid in the basement over there, nor do they know about the secret tunnels we have running under our entire street so they don’t know about the random chickens in the neighbors’ basements. My boyfriend reports that on his neighborhood forums, lots of people are complaining they can hear rooster noises, but they can’t find any roosters, because none of them expect to find roosters in their basements, so they don’t look.

After Animal Control leaves, we go down to the shelter where they drop the confiscated animals, and try to claim four of the eight chickens that got picked up yesterday because if this works, then we’ll find who in the neighborhood lost their chickens and try to get them back to them. We’re told that the confiscated chickens have already been identified as to who they belong to and their owner has picked them up.

Owner, not owners. Remember, you’re only allowed to have 4 chickens per house in this city, but someone managed to get eight.

My son retrieves the various chickens he’d been hiding in people’s basements, we pile them all into the car, and we drive to my boyfriends’ parents’ farm in Canada. Extradite these chickens, assholes. When the heat dies down we can try to find their real owners, we figure. Meanwhile we retrieve our own chickens from the basement on the other side of the house, put four out in the yard and put the two roosters in with the bantam hens, then think better of it and remove MeToo and make him a house rooster. He wears a chicken diaper well enough and he never crows anyway, and Eggy bullies the crap out of him so it’s best he doesn’t stay in an enclosed environment with him.

Then my youngest daughter comes home from school with a story. Apparently there are wild chickens in the woods near our house. What?

I should explain this. We live in a city, but we live close enough to the outskirts and to various parks that there are small patches of nature all over the place. The “woods” is about a block long and four trees deep, hardly what I’d consider woods, but it’s a good place to dump possums when you find them hiding in your laundry room. (Yes. Possums in our laundry room. Lots of them.) So my son and I go back there, and sure as day, yes, there are chickens back there. All of the chickens that got confiscated from that yard, plus additional chickens who have been disappearing from people’s flocks all year. Either somebody has been stealing chickens and then keeping them in a mega-flock in the woods… or the chickens have been escaping, and gathering together.

We leave the chickens where they are; I’m no narc, to rat out chickens who maybe just want to be free. But my son and I do put up wire fencing to keep our chickens from joining them, because one off-leash dog and those chickens could be in a world of hurt. We do notify the other chicken owners in the neighborhood about the woods chickens, and over the next few days, several of the chickens disappear from the woods as they’re retrieved by their owners.

Meanwhile, my wife has continued her vendetta against the crazy lady. She has my son go over in the middle of the night and throw trash into the yard, which she stole from trash cans in the park so there’s nothing that can be tied back to us, and then calls 311 in the morning to report that the woman’s yard is full of trash. She inspects our car every day to make sure no one has slashed the tires, but she uses a ballpeen hammer to break the crazy lady’s headlight because that will get her a ticket. I tell her to let it go. She buys a bale of hay and throws it in the woman’s yard. And she’s still sending moldy videotapes.

A For Sale sign pops up on the woman’s house. We’re currently extending the tunnel network over there so we can sneak in and leave tripe in the air conditioning system and dead rats. It’s not next door to our house, so there’s a very good chance that my wife actually could buy it, this time.

Never found out why she had a grudge against us, but she’s moving out, so who cares.

[okageshadowkingfannovel]

Book 1: Chapter 9

“Oh sure, by all means,” Ari’s father says pleasantly, “I have a feeling this will be interesting.”

He looks up at his son and the Evil King Stan as the Tenel Village Office thunders around them in chaos, more chaos than what is considered normal. Some workers run around frantically with stacks of papers haphazardly clutched in their arms while others hide under their desks, hoping no one will notice them.

“Um … is everything ok here, dad?” Ari asks.

His father pops up from fishing a set of keys out from deep within a severely cluttered desk drawer.

“Oh sure,” he says, his smile never faltering, “everyone’s just excited about the ghost in the Church and the village finding out about it.”

Ari looks again and catches tears running down faces and wails echoing throughout the office. “I don’t think ‘excited’ is the right word.”

“Don’t mind them, son. The town found out about the ghost in the Church and these guys are all panicking that there’s going to be a mob coming after the village office because we’ve been keeping it a secret for weeks. Here you go!”

He hands Ari a ring of keys. King Stan giggles maliciously.

“Perfect. Tell your fellow mortals that their ghost problem is coming to an end …” King Stan lowers his voice so that only Ari can hear him. “… and their Evil King problem is just beginning.”

Ari starts to rethink this strategy.

“Well, I’ll see you later, dad.”

“Be careful, Ari, and on behalf of the village of Tenel, Stan, we’d like to extend our deepest thanks for taking care of our ghost problem.”

“King Stan! KING! KING! KING!”

Ari makes his way out of the village office, stepping over several assistants and secretaries curled over in fetal positions along the way.

“Look at this pathetic rabble, slave,” King Stan murmurs as they make their way outside, “all this crying and panicking over measly ghosts and fellow humans with pitchforks. They have no idea the terror I have in store for them.”

It occurs to Ari that even though taking care of the ghost would be a good thing for Stan to do, he’s not sure if putting the Tenel treasure into the shadow’s clutches is worth it. He has no idea what sort of treasure is in the Church’s basement. If it’s really a thing of great power, Ari might just be dooming Tenel and who knows? Maybe the whole world. Stan has been pretty ridiculous up to this point, but how much would people be laughing if he truly has the power he brags about?

Before Ari knows it, he’s standing before the Church, key in hand. He hesitates.

“Don’t be chicken, slave! Those lesser evil being are nothing in the face of my awesome power! Now, get in there!”

“Oh! Master! Please wait!”

Ari looks over his shoulder just in time to see a ball of lightning appear and burst to result in James the evil butler strolling casually towards them.

“I long to see your evil plans come to fruition, my Master. I cannot wait! However, there is one thing,” James looks squarely at Ari, “you’re a rookie, Ari, and let’s be honest, not so sharp. Try your best to stay out of Master’s way.”

Ari stares at James, unsure if he should be offended or not. Then, he nods.

“Good! Well, good luck, my Master!”

Another ball of lightning appears, bursts, and James is gone.

“Does he always do that? Shows up, says a sentence or two, then poof! He’s gone?”

King Stan shrugs. “That is James’ way, I suppose. Now, slave, no more stalling!”

Before he can second guess himself, Ari steps up to the Church door and unlocks it. The door sticks terribly and only opens with a bit of force. A musty, rotted wood smell, mixed with ancient incense greets Ari as he steps inside. The only light comes from the sun reaching in through the stained glass windows. It’s weak and does little to dispel the darkness.

It’s been ages since Ari’s been in Church and he’s certainly not used to seeing it so empty. The pews are hauntingly dusty. The pulpit at the far end still holds homily notes and announcements.

“Slave, the basement,” King Stan manages to whisper.

The shadow gestures towards a door to one side of the Church. In the dim light, Ari picks out the right key and unlocks it.

This is it … I guess.

Ari’s heart pounds in his chest and it’s only when he removes the key from the lock that he notices his hands are shaking. The door opens with a loud whine that seems ear shattering in the solemn quiet.  Ari is greeted with basement darkness, a familiar phobia of his childhood days.

“I-I can’t see a thing.”

“Hmmm, that is problematic. I can’t exist in a completely dark room.”

“Wait, really?”

“Think carefully, slave. Is it possible to have a shadow in total darkness, where there’s no source of light?”

“Well, no-”

“Exactly! Sheesh! James wasn’t kidding when he said ‘not too sharp.’” King Stan pauses to look around. “Ah! But we can use those!”

Ari follows King Stan’s pointing finger to one of the floor candelabras lining the sides of the Church. Their candles are partially melted from previous use, but have become cold and dusted over.

“Grab one, slave!”

Feeling just a touch sacrilegious, Ari reaches up and plucks out a thick candle from the candelabra’s clutches.

“I don’t have any matches, King Stan.”

“Don’t bother me with your mortal problems, boy,” he grumbles and then whispers, “burning devil …”

Suddenly, black fire spurts from the Evil King’s finger and catches upon the wick of the candle. Ari nearly drops it in surprise.

“Careful, slave!”

“Whoa! What was that?”

“My power! The glorious malevolent flames of all the evil possessed within me!”

“… but it’s so teeny.”

“I was lighting a candle, slave! Not burning the Church down!” King Stan crosses his arms and mumbles, “and anyway, I’m nowhere near back to my full strength. Whatever! Just get on with it!”

Ari swallows all the questions he wants to ask and, raising the candle high, begins his descent into the basement. The stairs are old and rickety, the barest bones of what stairs should be. They tremble and squeal under each of Ari’s steps. It doesn’t help that the Evil King Stan must huddle close to Ari’s back to stay within the candle’s halo, lest he be swallowed up by the black. There’s a cold that crowds the basement. It’s clammy and wet, like the whole room is nervously sweating. And off in the distance, Ari can hear an indistinct noise. In one moment, it sounds like the natural settling of an old foundation, but in the next, it sounds like muffled howling and moaning.

“Look, slave!”

Ari jumps, his ears ringing from the sudden command.

“What?! What is it?!”

“An oil lamp!”

He swings the candle round and as he finally steps down on the floor, the light catches the faint gleam of a bulbous oil lamp dangling by a chain from the center of the ceiling.

“Looks like there’s still some oil in it. Go and light it!”

“Why can’t you light it? You know, with that burning devil trick, spell thing?”

“My powers are limited, slave. I’m not wasting it on every little light fixture we pass!”

Considering there’s still a ghost to deal with, Ari finds that fair. Standing on tiptoe and being extremely careful, he lifts the glass globe to share the candle’s flame with the oil soaked wick. The room floods with a warm, yellow glow.

“Ah, much better!” King Stan stretches out into the light.

If the cold, drippy atmosphere wasn’t a give away on the trip down the stairs, the oil lamp confirms the dungeony atmosphere, revealing muddy grey stone floors and dark stone brick walls. A collection of barrels off in the corner suggests the Church used this mostly for storage, but then Ari also finds a wooden bench and a lion headed fountain. The lion’s mouth is dry and dusty, having gone weeks without water to spit out into the basin below it. Finally, beside the fountain, there is a heavy metal door. When Ari draws closer to it, the room somehow gets even colder and his skin begins to crawl and itch.

“I-I think th-this is it, King Stan,” Ari says through fear and chattering teeth.

“Hmm, yes, I can feel the presence of a lowly being, skulking around in there. This must be where the treasure is!”

Reluctantly, Ari fidgets the still lit candle and the key ring to ready the fitting key.

“And-and you’re sure you got this?” Ari can’t help but ask.

“You doubt my power?!”

“No, not doubt, just … you know, checking in.”

“Open the door, slave!”

Ari takes a deep breath and turns the key in the lock. The mechanism makes a loud thunk which makes him tense up. The door opens and to his surprise, there’s already an oil lamp lit. And the first thing Ari catches in the lamp light is a hulking red cloud of a ghost, aggressively pacing the room. It seems to be muttering to itself, but of course, Ari has no idea what it’s saying.

“Booo, boobah, bah?! Boo boo bah bah!”

(Where am I?! I’ve been lost for ages!)

It doesn’t look like it’s noticed us yet, Ari thinks with a touch of relief.

“So, you’re the third class demon who stands in the way of my ambition!”

Well, that was short lived.

The ghost stops its pacing and spots Ari and King Stan in the doorway.

“Slave, move closer,” he whispers.

With King Stan’s prodding, Ari reluctantly inches further into the room. It has the same dungeon inspired atmosphere of the last room, but amidst the wooden crates and barrels, a giant, thick, rusty pipe snakes from one wall to another. A large valve sticks up out of the pipe and it occurs to Ari that this must be where the water issue is. The ghost puffs up, reclaiming Ari’s attention. Bits of debris supposedly trailed in by the ghost - sticks, leaves, and rocks - tremble on the floor. As the angry yellow eyes fall on him, Ari feels his stomach drop and a gross, clammy sweat breaks out on the back of his neck.

“Booh, baaah!”

(Whoa, what a weird shadow!)

“Ha ha ha! Look at it, slave! This low rank demon, he cowers before my divine dark power!”

Ari watches the ghost and it doesn’t seem at all like it’s cowering, in his opinion anyway. Then again, Ari figures he, himself, doesn’t speak ghost, so he’s probably just missing something.

“Boo bo bo behobooo!”

(Oh boy, this is too funny! What a weird shadow!)

Is the ghost chuckling?

“Ah, I see. You want to pledge allegiance to me?”

“Bubabubaboo …”

(Getting hungry … he’s weak-looking. He’ll do.)

The ghost’s eyes travel up and down Ari’s stature. Then, the big red cloud starts slowly drifting towards Ari and King Stan.

“Uh, K-King Stan?”

“Yes, very good! Once you become my follower, your existence will be devoted to me!”

Then, a terrible, awful thought strikes Ari. It’s so terrible and awful that Ari immediately rejects it in a desperate attempt to hold onto hope in this situation. But …

I don’t think Stan can understand ghost. He’s supposed to be their lord and master - how could he not understand ghost?!

“Booh boo ha!”

(Time to chow!)

The big red cloud charges Ari. Before the boy can move, he is swallowed up by a red mist. It feels awful, like he’s going through a light rain of dirty sink water. Through the red mist, Ari catches sight of three figures.

“What is the meaning of this?!”

“Funny, I was about to ask you something similar!”

Eventually, the mist clears and three monsters stand before boy and shadow, ready to pounce.

“M-monsters? I-inside the ghost?”

“Possessed beasts.”

Two of the three are giant frogs. They sit at half Ari’s height and stare up at the boy with wide, haunted white eyes. Their mouths are unnaturally wide and massive, possessing rows of neatly jagged teeth. The third hovers above the two frogs, swaying back and forth. To Ari’s surprise, it’s another, smaller ghost. This one is white however and looks more like a flying tadpole than a cloud. It wails with a forever open mouth, and long, noodley arms reach out for him.

“Minion! As the one true Evil King and Master of all ghosts, I command you to stop!”

Paying no mind to the talking shadow, the frogs leap forward in unison, mouths aimed for Ari’s legs. He yelps as he springs out of their way. Their mouths make violent snaps in the air where Ari was standing just a second before. He backs up and bumps into a barrel.

“Stan! What’s going on? Why aren’t they listening?!”

“King Stan, and I don’t know, slave! Perhaps my subjects have grown disobedient in my absence.”

The frogs are back on the prowl, inching their way closer to Ari. He thinks he can hear a croaky growl gurgling from deep within their throats. The ghost seems a little slower and more thoughtful with its movements. It floats towards Ari, but stretches its arms out as if to block possible escape routes.

WhatdoIdo?WhatdoIdo?WhatdoIdo?WhatdoIdo?WhatdoIdo?WhatdoIdo?WhatdoIdo?WhatdoIdo?WhatdoIdo?

“Stan! Do something!”

“Pesky frogs and tricky ghost, cease immediately, or I’ll get really angry!”

“BESIDES THAT!!!”

Ari makes another last minute dash, just as the frogs jump and the ghost tries to make a grab for him. He trips in the rush and hits the floor, his head violently smacking the hard stone.

“Slave! Be careful! If you die, I die, remember?!”

Ari sits up, his head pounding and spinning and his thoughts a scramble. His gaze falls on the three monsters again.

I-I can’t keep this up. I-I-I …

Still on the floor, Ari clumsily backs up until his hand touches something other than hard stone. He looks and finds a long, thick branch. He grabs it and brandishes it desperately.

“I’m going to die.”

“You better not!”

“I can’t believe this. I’m actually going to die.”

One of the frogs goes after Ari’s outstretched legs, its teeth sinking into his left calf. Ari screams.

“Burning devil!”

A blast of black flame leaps over Ari’s head and strikes the frog. It releases Ari’s leg with a high-pitched squeal, writhing on the ground. Ari hugs his bleeding, stinging leg and stares as the fires make quick work, dying out once the frog is nothing but a fine, black dust.

“Why didn’t you do that before?!”

“It’s very difficult to do in my current state!”

One frog down, one more and a ghost to go. Watching their amphibious associate perish seemed to make the other two more cautious. They keep their distance, eying Stan warily.

The frog bite burns and Ari hisses at the pain. Looking closer, through the diamond rips in his pant leg, he can see the curved line of punctures, oozing little rivers of blood. It looks nasty, but it’s not very deep. Ari stands up. Stick still in hand, he holds it out like a sword.

“Alright, King Stan, go ahead and toast the other two.”

“I can’t, slave.”

“What do you mean you can’t?”

“I’m in a weakened state, remember? I can only do that once a day!”

“Once a day? You just did it twice!”

“The small one didn’t count!”

“Well, what am I supposed to do, Stan?!”

This time, the ghost comes for him. It swoops at Ari with a wailing roar, its stringy arms clawing at the air. As he watches the ghost come at him, something strange happens in Ari. It’s a surge of energy in his chest. The world suddenly goes slow and blurry.

“Stan?” he calls as the room bleeds more and more into itself, but there is no answer.

The smearing of the room intensifies until nothing around him is discernible. There is no Church basement, no ghost, no frog, not even an Evil King Stan. Even the stick is gone, his hands suddenly empty. It’s just a sea of swirling, messy color. Ari looks around frantically, but otherwise, stays stock-still lest any stray movement cause something even more bizarre to happen. Suddenly, despite the stillness, something even more bizarre does happen.

A shape suddenly makes itself defined out of the blurry mess. It appears before Ari as a dark rust stained iron gear, turning in midair. It’s about the size of a dinner plate with medium sized teeth, interlocked seemingly with nothing at all. It moves so painfully slow that Ari’s not even sure it’s moving. He looks around it, under it, over it, but nothing seems to be holding it up or causing it to rotate except its own gearish will.

Ari reaches out a curious hand and taps a finger against one stubby tooth. He shudders all over with the contact and it briefly occurs to him that this could be some kind of ghostly trick. But something bigger in him, something instinctual, something like a mysterious gut feeling tells him to not just touch it, but to take it.

He reaches up and wraps his hands over the edges. The iron is cold and the rust has roughed up the surface. He starts to pull and twist it in the opposite direction of its turn. If the tap before just produced a shudder, this feels like his whole body is being put through an earthquake. The gear resists, determined to continue its slow turn. Ari grips tighter and throws everything into that contrary twist.

And then the gear shatters.

“Oh,” says Ari stupidly.

The shards fade into nothing, but Ari’s hands adopt a strange, tingling glow.

“SLAVE!!!”

Ari looks up from his hands to find the world returned to high definition, including the ghost coming right at his face. Without thinking, Ari sweeps his hand upward to hit the ghost away, but then, the stick is back in his fist. And more than that, it glows a strange, eerie white. As it connects with the ghost, the white glow releases, turning a swat into a hefty punch. Ari can feel it - the satisfying follow-through of making a really good hit.

The strike sends the balloon like ghost flying across the room until it smacks into a far wall.

Ari stares at the stick still tightly gripped in his hands. The strange white glow hums up and down the length of it from his fists to the few remaining dying leaves on the branch’s tip.

“What was THAT, slave?!” King Stan frets behind him.

“I don’t know,” Ari mutters, partially to himself, “but I don’t think I can count myself as ‘ordinary people’ anymore.”

The simple, if obvious, statement inspires the boy to action. While the ghost and the frog are still stunned by his sudden not-so-ordinary abilities, Ari rushes the frog, the stick drawn back over one shoulder, ready for the strike.

“Overdrive!”

Ari spits the word out without thinking. Later, he’ll try to explain that he just said it in the heat of the moment or that Stan made him believe all strange powers had to have cool names in order to do them. Either way, with the utterance of that word, the white glow flares up into blinding waves rippling up and down the length of the simplistic weapon. Upon reaching the frog, Ari whips the stick in a brilliant arc, striking the monster across the face and scattering its body into a cloud of dust particles.

In a last ditch effort to get itself a bit of lunch, the wobbly, battered ghost picks itself up off the floor and drunkenly makes its way over to Ari, wailing as it goes.

“Destroy it, slave!”

Ari is way ahead of him. He runs towards the ghost and with another mighty, burning swing, he crashes the stick down upon the ghost’s round, tadpole head. Ari obliterates the monster.

All that’s left of the battle in the basement is a few drops of Ari’s blood and several curious piles of dust and ashes. In the silence that follows, the glow in Ari’s hands and in his weapon slowly dies away.

“Phew … that was odd … oh well, never mind! I showed that floor-scrubbing demon what happens when you turn against me!”

Ari looks over his shoulder, saying nothing, but launching a barrage of protest with his eyes. The small motion hits him with a wave of dizziness. His limbs suddenly feel very tired and ‘floaty.’

“Look, slave!”

Stan frantically gestures towards a dark corner of the basement, just behind the giant pipe. Though his vision feels off kilter, Ari can just make out a chest shaped object hidden back there. On numbing legs, Ari walks over and carefully climbs over the snaking pipe. Sure enough, the chest shaped object is in fact a chest.

“This must be the treasure that the old coot was talking about!”

“You’d think they’d be better about hiding something this important. I mean … this thing isn’t even locked.”

Ari kneels and gingerly lifts the lid, the old hinges whining in protest. The inside first strikes Ari as being overwhelmingly disappointing.

“It’s empty?!”

But a lump in the corner of the chest catches Ari’s weary eye.

“No, take a look at this.”

It’s a dusty, velvet black bag that makes a strange jingle and a glass clacking sound when Ari picks it up. Evil King Stan hovers heavily with treasure hungry anticipation.

“Open it, slave. Open it.”

Curious himself, Ari doesn’t hesitate to slip open the drawstring and reach inside.

“Slave, what is it? What new weapon or power has fallen into my terrible grasp?!”

“A glass tube, and … 14 sukel.”

“… what?”

“I think it’s about 14.” Ari flips the bag upside down to be sure. “Yep, 14 sukel and a glass tube. Why would they keep their spare change in here? It’s not even enough to buy a pound of beef from the butcher.”

“Focus, slave! Is the glass tube magical in some way? M-maybe it’s a piece from some horrible, world shattering device?”

Ari holds it up into the light and looks over it, turning it round to get a view of every angle. He even holds it up to his eye like a telescope.

“Pretty sure it’s just a glass tube.”

The evil king trembles in fury. It builds and builds until the paper-like Stan explodes in a gust whipped frenzy of flailing.

“They’ve tricked me! They will all pay for this! My wrath will know no end, boy!!!”

Ari is frankly too tired to be fazed. As the evil king flaps about, he remembers the valve. Ari feels like the string of a tornado caught kite, but with outraged Stan in tow, he makes his way along the pipe to where the valve sits covered in weeks old cobwebs.

Might as well fix this while we’re down here.

Ari grabs the valve and twists it, reminded immediately of the strange floating gear he accidentally shattered.

I suppose I should ask Stan about that … once he’s calmed down.

The valve gives in and begins turning, though it takes quite a bit of strength on Ari’s part.

Maybe it’s a shadow thing?

As the valve turns, Ari can suddenly hear the sounds of rushing water. And with it, comes a sudden rush of exhaustion.

Oh … oh, I think that did it.

Once Ari releases the valve, he falls to the ground.

“Slave?!” is the last thing he hears as a sweet, restful darkness overwhelms him.

Chapter 1 • Chapter 2 • Chapter 3 • Chapter 4 • Chapter 5 • Chapter 6 • Chapter 7 • Chapter 8 • Chapter 9 • Chapter 10 • Chapter 11 • Chapter 12 • Chapter 13 • Chapter 14 • Chapter 15 • Chapter 16 - Finale

NOTE: Okage Shadow King is owned by Sony Computer Entertainment and Zener Works. This novelization is purely a fan-work and the writer claims no ownership over the characters, general plot line(s), etc.

[bemybestoy]

Genesis of me

Genesis: becoming me! Hello bitches and kink lovers,This blog shall be an open letter to guide and smooth out  our relationship as I am sick and tired of how a dominatrix and a sub's role are misunderstood. Let me introduce myself, I am Krisztina, a pro domme, in my 30's and I am embracing this role for around 8 years. Meaning I am highly experienced and I tried it all, expect the practices that reach out my limit. Such as permanent damage, I would never put the life and health of a slave of mine in jeopardy not thru my instructions or even just widness(you cannot even imagine thru years how many times I was asked if we can perform a c2c castration  precedure, stabbing with knifes or swords for any amount I can posibly think of asking. I repeate it was about c2c so not bulshit as I would watch all along). When I refused such life threatning session I was offered same only to watch, not to instruct. Answer is still NO everytime. BDSM is not abuse, it is not guided endangerment, it must be sane, sane, consensual and have very clear boundaries of safety. To rewind i started to explore this world in my early 20s ofc and suprise , suprise in real life. Even if i am mostly an online fetish chathost and online domme, I did not know such sections of BDSM exist in camming world, till after a few years i have done dominance in real life. Let me explain! So I had a mid managemnt job after my university in a multinational company, which was and still is top 3 globally in its field and shall always be. There is not even a child all across this world that does not know what company is about when hearing it's name (do not be cretin enough to ask me the name, I will tell NO to your face. Or ask you what info you wish next home adress, Id identification number, blood group or home keys along with an open window in case you do not manage to use the keys:)) ). So i was there around 1 years and half and had a long distance relationship with often travelling . We all know those never lastunless one of the two moves abroad. So I hapilly informed my family and work collegues I wish to move to a different country to move in with my bf/ soon to be fiancee. The question in everyone's head right now was you bf your was Ds relationship? the honest answer is hell no! my bf was alike me a real alpha, one of the strongest man psysical and mental both and definetly would not take attitude from no woman (not even the love of his life, unless he was dick and she was right. To understand you need to picture a man at height 1,95 cm and around 100 kilos all fibers and muscles as he had been a kickboxer and when i met him a trainer for kickboxers at European level. A true montain of a man who yet never felt his manhood threaten if he discussed his feeling with me, his desires, his sensibilities, things i would do or say to hurt his feeling even involuntary a I was busy all the time and moving fast etc). So not only that he was not the submissive type, but even if we were in harmony from time to time he would give me 'attitude'. Now even if I am pleased and happy, even if I amm not the nagging type, no matter who you are and how much I love you, if you cross me I will whoop your ass. After a fe episodes, as chasing him thru the apartment every room with the moop tail pointed a him to kick his ass until he ran out, threating to stab his hand with a fork when he tried to touch my steak after leavig him without one as he made clearly to me he was not a pussy to carry grocery bagsand hence to help and many as suchhe decided I should meet one of his best friend from high school, a lady leaving in a city close. He said we would get along perfectly and the lady and I would get along perfectly. Who would knew I was in for such a big suprise.....(cheshire cat as i recall and type). So I did not know much about her ad what she does for a living when we were instruduced. We had  lovely conversation, then she invited me some day when i am off work to visit her house, met her husband also and spend some more lady time together(I was a manager in one of my bf business a gran coffee shop/ bar it was quite big and had 2 floors one was coffe shop and bar all white with blue lighting surrounding th wide bar and lower floor  couches and tables and ring dance for party rentals such as festivity, anniversieries etc. I done so many things in there: not only i would cash in all the money that being my main, but i would help the other emplyees by making cocktails- I made a course for that- , even cleaning or washing glasses, once out there i was the only personal managing or website, of course PR as even t planning as I was the one who organised every detail of our rental and someone even DJ, a lower floor had DJ booth with pro equipment which i manage to completely fuck up as I had no idea what I was doing and the booked DJ announced last minute he was so coming so my bf said as i am the most modern and tech savvy to give a try to see if i can work it. not only I was not able , but i fucked it up so bad we had to call a tehnician to fix it and he taught me basically how to use it on a minimal level to work it for the party which turned out great. Still cracks me out when i think of my face when i was sure i fucked it up lol. it was a dexter labority moment and his blonde sister deedee: i was like many if i press this and that i will fix it )  I was like well i cannot make it worse :))) Then I decided I need some female eergy without the 'guys' going everyday at my bf gym to do my box training, my krav maga and I gave a call to this lady ask her if I can indeed visit and when It is appropriate to come and suits her schedule.My employees and bf replacing me could manage a day without and i needed a getaway. She invited me in couple or days, my bf drove me to her house and then left to actually replace me. we had an amazing luncheon, laughed, make jokes, just getting to know each other mostly me and her, but also her husband. Then she informed me she had some work to do soon but i can wait with her husband. Unlike I want to come with her. I was like ok I want to come, ut i am not sure whether i disturb you and invite me just to be polite or if it is really ok. i mean i got the best manners you could witnes both on and out of my job. She said she would actually like to share what she does with me as she likes me and she is quite sure having such a strong and open personality  would not make me freak out. I was within my mind ' what should i freak out about?!'. but still acted al casual as i liked her myslf, it only made me very curious. I have a feline personality so curiosity is in my nature, though it is pure and observatory, not the gossip, lame and weak as usual women are. So..... she said she will be busy with work for around 2 hours and if i wanted to stay aside as she cannot pay attention to me. i was like ok... She then invited me at the basement where she said she would met at her 'office' a person whom she expects, as her work space has direct access from garage. Then we would both go downstairs. Well probably telling all cluess made you suspect or realise it was a full dungeon downstairs. a pro dungeon.you should have seen my face when i noticedall the tools, device,suspension systems and the rest of the toys. She looked at me patient and confident, without a care in her mind that i might judge or something.... let me soak it all in... then she asked: You still want to stay or do you want to go upstairs with my husband to keep him company thru soccer game was on tv? " . She was so calm as if she shown me a bush of pants in her garder:)) Then my first outspoken reaction to her it was one of a morron: my first words after what i have seen, my first question asked was if her husband knew about all these(as they do not share a house for more then 10 years). She said yes, but he does not interfer with her work, comes down sometimes, but participates rare and very dismissive toward whom she works with. So I gotten more curious. I obviously suspected what will happen soon, but never withness something alike.Well I done so many sessions and you remember even if having a perfect memory the big lines of the majority. The first one I had only as a peeper I remember in smallest little details. Bitch parked and had a hoody on. he knoecked and when was invited, he went down on his knees down on all stairs. He looked like a maggot or miriapod with his head down to do not cascade over stairs as he was not standing. She then informed her she had a guest which will attend, but will not participate. Not giving a fuck of his reaction. I;ve seen chain suspection bondage, over all punishment and esp cbt along with huge strapon penetration. Shge is quite tall1.80 and she really was at perfect level as he bitch even if him hanging from the ceiling without touch the floor or be close to it even. i was amazed and intrigued. So as soon everything was done and he left ofc i asked so many questions. She answered all with patience even if i must have been annoying like a child and not  take the time to put together the smarters questions. After i while I was blablabla in a hyper manner about what she does as a professional domina I was like wait! does my bf know about this? She smilled and said ofc. He sometimes rarely when visiting me participates even as a master helping mewith pain or bootlicking or stuff. He joins more then my husbnd who when bored and coming down to see when i finish at most lets his shoes licked by my slaves then goes upstairs. I found all these fascinaint and so alternative so ofc I wanted to see more.So often I would visit her as watch her sessions with her slaves. After several mouth a slave of hers made her after session a big financial tribute offer that i participate too and i can second her domining. She asked me if it is something I consider. I did want it, but felt like I would be clueless as per what to do. Even if you watch many times that does not mean you feel suddly like you can replicate that certainty in action. She said not to worry as bitch knows it is my first time and this and following her lead is exactly what it is excites him. So i mus not overthink, just try to have some fun. And damn! It was so much fun! the hormones, the excitment, the laughter from humiliation talk, the driven crazy look on the bitches' face, the overall experience. it was like wow! it is hard to paint it in words, with all lexicon richness or ability to play with words. it is pure extasy! :D:DAfter he felt she made sure he had a chit chat with a glass of wine, making sure i am good with all, she said how great i was as she does not like other lady dommes in general. What was the goodbye part when my bf arrved to pick me up in car she actually did give me my own tribute. how much money! like lots! Then she invited me often to participate in the session in which slave got excited about 2 lady dommes. I accepted that one per week as i was busy with my own line of work. I had so much fun more then a year. Seen lots, done lots.Then a night I was speaking to him in our bed, holding hands, after2-3 rounds of sex and many orgasms. My realtionships are very intimate and I always go for an open man, who is super smart so besides sex and comfy routine I would have a late night conversation till 4-5 am even if we had to bed up and work in couple hours. there is just something that it is most meaninful ina relationship, to communicate ina deep way and to enjoy it lots both of you. and get into each other soul, emotions and deepest needs.So I did ask him : what made you think she would like me and would like her? what made you believe i would enjoy all these as you know we do not do anything as such? He then said he met thru his life many type of women: brainy, prude, whores, dommes, swingerseven submissive lil fmale toys. And he said a true dominant is never made into one. Ofc you can be good if you copy and get exposured to it or at least satisfactory to a slave. But the best dominant are born, not made. It is in their nature and personalities. They give out clues all the time, no matter the random they do.It made me wonder lots. After a couple moment of silence with my head on his chest, lips against his neck and hand holded all thru our talk, just enjoying the thinking of each, the meaninful silence, i asked if he does not feel bothered about that facti enjoy myself playing with slaves when not only he do not do anything alike, but he is not playing with others either. I mean it is a vast emoions i fell which exclude him fully. he said ofc not, as our love life is something i need more then my alternative fun, thta he knows i can live without that experience, but i would be heartbroken if i was without us (you need to understand jealousy cannot be an issue here. Real pro dommes in dungeon do facesitting all dressed up thru latex or leather and it has got a suffocating breath control purpose. i will explain you why: first of all a n evelated domme cares about personal hygiene and she know there are many scat lovers visiting dommes. so to have one licking your pussy it is not quite sanitary. also ass worship is done thru leggings. the most expensive, best dommes will never allow a slave licking. that is just some vanilla crap made up buy hookers selling sex and bdsm aswell. a well respected professional odoes not indulge in that. I am not saing to use a slave for self sexual satisfaction makes you a bad, poorly skilled mistress. But you do that as a lifestyle domme.Meaning you have a domestic relatinship with your slave who is your life patner. Never in a pro dungeon relationship oral for a slave would be allowed or accepted). Drinking champagne straight from mistress soource yes, but without wiping after. You may have it fromshort distance her controlling her debit makeing her slave do not miss anything unless they agree before on a facial champagne game. But when you go to a pro domme you cannot expect her to enjoy licking pussy and ass. Not to mention licks or even nudity just because it arrouses you. so my bf knew my sex life involved only him, in vanilla terms we all know.And he was ok with my alternative fun. We were even if a modern couple a very faithful one. So our orgasms were only and strictly dedicated to one another, exclusively.He wasgreat in bed so i would have every single day more then ten orgams within couple of hours(we had wakeup sex, luch break sex and couple turns before bed, many squirty orgams, clit or vaginal without squirt). The most sexual gesture i seenin the pro domme who introduced me to this world is just around 3 times within one year to milk cock with latex gloves, but with ruin orgasm. she took hand of when she felt he would come load was shoot without touching he would lick after she pull gloved off and glove was washed after. More often she would make the bitch wank himself while she instructs him closeby. her husband accepted her line as he accepted and love everything about her, but he was like my ex fiancee: hear pussy, ass, breast, orgams, real sexual intimacy are for your pratner. Not for everyone. That is a hooker thing to do. To gave all that just just random everyones. One after the other.That is not what a real dmme is made off. Her strenght and charm comes out because he in full intimacy is hard to get if not impossible. And by all means a slave shoould be use till u reach full sexual satisfaction. But only for your chosen one or ones. I fyou are a lifestyle domme and have a slave as life partner or few slaves as toys as open relationship is ok. But you cannot expect same from a real pro domme! That is something builtand leveled up!PS Hmmm now to breath a lil as I poured everything  so fast. deep inhales and exhales. light a cigg after and build this disclaimer. my spelling is awful as you know me i type like a motherfucker in full speed. Ignore all errors and consider the essence of my phrases. I do not believe in going back to spellcheck unless you publich a book or something editorial. I did that during university in an non paid internship, both as corrector and publisher. But it was a publication spread and shippd on a national evel. And in both roles i learned that the first message and thought till publishing as you go back several times are worlds apart. So much changes. And since I do not publish something wanting to be of intellectual value I wish a very spontaneous, fast writing. It is the most sincere, no filters and even if shifting thoughts without a bridge causing some lack of coherency now and then it is more powerful as the first reactions are.  So yes a blog! why a blog? i do not do social media. it is lame, tacky and became brainless. i miss books or blogs at least. and i do not like at all media unless i do exposure over it from bitches craving for begging and tribute me for it. These reasons and that I cannot stand screens after 8-10 hours of online being available to sessions. I like to look in eyes of someone I talk to and they looking back at me. Instead of both or all dinner participants looking non stop at phone while we pretend to be together. Meanwhile no one is present as they focused on media and other stuffs over their phone .That is not only lame and un natural  , but also impolite. Themost important ask from people around me is manners first of all. One lack of manners become my refusal to have this creature close to me even silent, simply unacceptable.  In addition, if i must have my eyes after work on something i prefer a good movie or a book. Actual human contact is important to me as little as we have it nowadays with global situation. so NO, unless i will have video call activated which i will seldom have I do NOT exist until i am online the next day I feel the need to have people at my feet :) I am literary out of this world. I do not exist for anyone online. And enjoy it every minute !

[perditaalottachocolate-blog]

Felinotherapy

Summary: A new member of the Agreste household takes her job very seriously; she’s here to fix things and she won’t stop until she does. She’s going to better Adrien’s mood, take care of Gabriel’s solitude and Hawkmoth’s shoelaces. She’ll even acquire a nap buddy. And, she’ll do it all with feline style! Did I mention that she’s a cat?

A sequel to “New Kitty On The Block"

A birthday gift for Remasa. Be careful what you dream of.

A sincere and gigantic thank you to @kellarhi, who beta-read this story for me.

Read it on AO3 / fanfiction.net

*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*

"AAAAAAdrieeeeen!" 

An angry wail broke the silence of the mansion, booming with a powerful echo over the cavernous rooms and halls. Oh, paws. For human that was normally so quiet, this person could be loud when he wanted. And easily annoyed, surprisingly. 

She would have raced out of the room if it wasn’t for the fact that she was currently dangling high in the air. The tall man that people called "Sir" or "Gabriel" or "Father" (why did humans need so many names anyway?) had just grabbed her by the scruff of her neck and now held her as if she was the most disgusting animal he’d ever seen.

"AAAAAAdrieeeeeeen! Take this mangy creature away from me!" 

He wouldn’t stop yelling until the blond head of the smaller human appeared at the door.

"Sorry, father," the boy said sheepishly. "What has my Lady done this time?"

The adult sighed and rolled his eyes. "I can’t believe you call her that now."

"She’s mine and she’s a Lady after all," Adrien chuckled, taking her into his arms. He ran his fingers over her multi-colored black and reddish fur.

She slowly blinked at him, squinting her lime green eyes. The cheese aroma she had come to associate with the boy surrounded her, and she started purring her lungs out. He scratched her neck absentmindedly, revealing an elegant collar with a glittery name fixed in curvy letters.

Lady Noir, it read.

“Who’s the pretty kitty?" Adrien cooed with a smile. 

She tilted her head into his palm for more pets and enthusiastically kneaded his forearm. 

Gabriel pointed to the leather chair. Scratches marked its backrest in two parallel lines. In hindsight, not her smartest move, but she had been practising leaps and her aim still lacked precision.

"I thought I told you to trim her claws," the man scowled accusingly. 

Adrien rubbed his chin over Lady Noir’s head, right where the entirely dark left half met the reddish right half creating an illusion of a red and black mask that was split in the middle— the pattern that, according to the boy, had earned her the name. 

"It must have slipped my mind," he said.

Her ears twitched at a new sound. Was she the only one who could hear the snickers coming from Adrien’s shirt? 

xxx

Lady Noir hadn’t been used to luxury prior to being adopted. The Agreste mansion was definitely a place where a cat could spread her wings. Metaphorically of course. Cats do not have wings, although… among the inhabitants of the house, there was one that could fly regardless.

She wasn’t certain if Plagg really should be referred to as a cat, but he was the closest thing to the idea of a cat: the master of lazing about, with a knack for causing trouble; curious, gluttonous, cheeky and mischievous. In short, he was her idol, and guide to all things feline. Just like her, he had his own ways, but inside he was just a big softie with a heart of gold—or possibly cheese, as he basically inhaled the stuff in enormous quantities. Lady Noir tried his camembert thing once. The experience could be summed up in a single word: Yuck! Plagg was outraged when she took several baths to get rid of the foul smell afterwards.

Although Plagg’s interests seemed to be limited to dairy products, he never failed to remind Adrien to restock on her treats when asking for more camembert for himself. She could go through her stash of snacks almost as quickly as Plagg went through a block of cheddar. It wasn’t hard to do, considering she stayed in the boy’s room most of the time.

Lady Noir prided herself on being a very observant cat, and recognized immediately that Adrien needed her company the most. Besides, she knew she’d been brought into the house explicitly to become his cat. Which, in Feline, meant that the blond boy belonged to her now so she supposed it was her duty to meet his needs the way he’d been meeting hers.

He didn’t need much. Just a little bit of distraction when he was tiredly bending over his textbooks, or a kneading session when he was exhausted after one practise or another. Some nuzzles and nibbles to wake him up. Lady Noir also made sure to keep him company at night. Together with Plagg, they made sure no nightmare could reach him—purring was the key to their success.

She was the model of contentment, and only got miffed when they left her and went outside through the window. Adrien seemed to really enjoy those outings, when he put on a black suit that made him look a bit like a cat. Lady Noir loved to play with the long tail or swat at the golden bell, but those were rare occasions. Usually Plagg vanished somewhere when the boy changed into his black cat-like gear. He always left in a rush only to come back much later, tired but happy, and smelling like luck for some reason. The flying cat then appeared again as if nothing happened and demanded his cheese.

Lady Noir would gladly go out with them, were she invited. Unfortunately, there was little entertainment to be found in the huge empty house when Adrien left for school or his cat job. Boredom eventually drove her to explore it once she was done with the boy’s room.

xxx

It would have been nice to have company when Adrien was out, but Plagg always went where her boy did. His father became the next obvious choice, as the only other permanent resident. Unlike the boy, he didn’t smell of cheese, but of butterflies and passion fruit, which intrigued her to no end, as he never left the house and was rarely seen out of his room. 

They hadn’t started their acquaintance on friendly terms, which admittedly was partly her fault. She decided to make amends in a typically feline way—by bringing him offerings. And what better gift could a cat bring to a person who smelled of butterflies? The house was full of them if one knew where to look. And she was a very clever kitty. No butterfly could hide away from her for long. She caught them expertly and brought them to Gabriel’s desk whenever she could. He must have liked them, because they disappeared very quickly. 

xxx

And then one day when she came to his room with fresh prey in her mouth, there was a new smell around. It was damp, cold and heavy—metallic, with a hint of algae, old stone, and moss. A little bit of sniffing allowed her to find the hidden door and after some paw work she was able to push it enough for a slim cat to slip inside a dark corridor. 

Maybe she’d find some mice or rats in here? It was ages since she got any decent prey and maybe Gabriel would prefer a fresh, fat rat over those flimsy butterflies? She knew she would. 

But she found no rats as she explored, just another huge chamber, with faint light seeping through a ceiling window on the other end. It shone over a strange tall tube. Lady Noir knew tubes. There were plenty of them in the house in various sizes and they made for very nice scratching posts. Much better than those generic things from the pet shop. No self respecting cat would scratch those when they had a perfectly good tube, chair, or drape right under their noses. 

Lady Noir arched her back, wiggled her tail and reached for her newest scratching post. There was a metallic clank and the tube hummed softly. Then the upper part of it rose up revealing its contents.

She sniffed once, twice. The air smelled a bit like Adrien, minus the cheese overtones. She looked around and hopped onto the tube. There was a woman, tall and blonde, asleep inside. What a novel idea! This was the perfect place for a nap, sun beam and all. It looked like Lady Noir finally had found a nap buddy for her long days!

Up close she could tell there was something off with the woman’s scent. Something she couldn’t quite put her claw on that felt like weakness or illness. But Lady Noir wasn’t afraid; she prided herself on being an excellent feline doctor. After all, whenever Adrien was sick she stayed with him, drawing the bad vibes away. 

Happy with her newly discovered friend, she curled up on the woman’s belly and dozed off. 

xxx

Plagg wasn’t happy when he saw Lady Noir after her first basement nap. He hissed at her and grumbled something about dark magic. Admittedly she did feel rather strange, but she blamed it on the salmon pâte that must have been a bit on a stale side. However, the flying cat would have none of that. He dragged her into the upper level of Adrien’s room and licked her clean—she was definitely feeling out of it if he was allowed to do that. 

She did feel better afterwards, right up to the point when it turned out Plagg was no gentleman at all. He coughed a hairball right in front of her, the weirdest hairball she’d ever seen. Part of it consisted of her own hair and Plagg’s saliva, but there were also purple strings present: streaks of something Plagg called “bad energy" tangled with the rest of the hairball. He said it had ‘no place in our home’, so he put his paw to it and whispered something under his breath. The thing turned to ash with a quiet buzz. The room seemed brighter after that. 

Lady Noir thought that would be the end of it, but the sprite proceeded to talk her ears off about “bad energy", forbidding her to go near its source again. So of course the first thing she did when Adrien and Plagg left for school the next day was go back to her nap buddy. 

Every time the flying cat returned home to find her “feeling off", he would holler, lick and cleanse her fur, and then turn the “bad energy" into ash.

“I swear, Spots," he grumbled, stuffing himself with camembert to get rid of the bad taste, “I don’t know what you do to get all tangled in that mess."

She could only shrug to his complaints. After all, the napping lady was her secret and one did not betray their buddies.

xxx

Lady Noir kept going back to the basement, but since the only entrance led through Gabriel’s room, she had to sneak her way around him. Sometimes he would visit the sleeping woman, although most times he sat at his desk and worked, casting longing looks to the enormous painting that covered the whole wall from floor to ceiling. Lady Noir knew very little about art, but she thought the person in that painting looked a bit like what her nap buddy would have looked like, if she was younger and awake.

It usually took hours for Lady Noir to get an opportunity to sneak to the underground level of the mansion, so inevitably she started to keep the man company as well. He turned out to be as sad and lonely as his son, but he seemed more desperate and anxious than the boy. There was always an aura of deep grief and heartache around him. No self respecting cat would allow it. That’s how Lady Noir decided to include Gabriel in her daily routine. Between the sleeping lady and Adrien she still had plenty of time, which she could put to good use, if only the man would allow it.

Since the butterfly strategy hadn’t worked, she had to come up with a new plan to get his attention. Laying on his tablet seemed to annoy him. Stretching on his sketches irked him. Pushing his pencils off the desk usually got a growl out of him. 

A few times he grumbled under his breath, but Adrien wasn’t home to take her away. So after a while, the man accepted her presence; however, he moved her away from his things, which allowed for her to lounge on the unoccupied part of his desk. 

One day she must have dozed off, because when she woke up he was nowhere to be seen. Yet, as his scent lingered in the air, he couldn’t have actually left. Her nose led her to the painting and then to a spot on the floor. She thumped it with her paw and was rewarded with a deep echo as if the space below was empty. Another hidden passage?

She sat beside it and meowed experimentally.

There was a hollow clank, then part of the floor moved and revealed a smooth silver head with eyes hidden behind a mask. The man who appeared in the passage smelled like Gabriel but he didn’t look like him. He was wearing a single-color suit—not Gabriel’s usual clothes. He cast her an exasperated look and sighed deeply. 

“Stop it," he said and returned to the tunnel.

Of course she didn’t stop. As soon as the trap door closed behind him, she let out a wail of sorrow only a cat is capable of. 

“I’m serious. Cut it out!" Gabriel’s voice, albeit muffled, replied from under the floor.

“Meeeeooooooowrrrr," she lamented.

“Oh, for the love of—" 

The silver head emerged from the passage again. Cold blue eyes pierced her. The man’s lips, the only thing visible from under his silver mask, were pressed into a thin line.

“Meow?" She mewled tilting her head. Her tail curled attentively into a question mark.

“Fine," he rolled his eyes. “But you had better behave."

A dark glove caught her scruff, and the next thing she knew she was sliding through a tunnel in the man’s arms. 

There was a large chamber on the other end, similar to what she had found in the basement, but this place must have been somewhere high up, judging by the plethora of light from the round window. And there were butterflies. Every flat surface was covered in them. She had never seen so many before.

She wondered if she could catch a few for Gabriel, but the man raised a warning finger.

“Don’t even think about it," he said, depositing her on the ground.

He tapped his foot and the butterflies took flight. She halfheartedly swatted at them, but where was the challenge when there were so many? She lost interest in an instant and decided to explore the chamber, leaving the silver-headed man to his own devices.

He called her when he returned to the trap door; it was then that she discovered Plagg wasn’t the only flying creature in the house. The man murmured something under his breath and suddenly he was no longer wearing a silver mask or a strange suit. Gabriel stood in his place and a violet sprite hovered next to him.

“Nooroo," the man said, “This is Lady Noir, Adrien’s cat."

xxx

Nooroo was a good friend. He was appointed with the task of keeping her busy when Gabriel needed to focus on his work. She chased after the sprite, eliciting quiet chuckles from Adrien’s father, when he thought they couldn’t hear him. They played their own version of hide and seek, with the cat tracking the violet creature’s hideouts all over the room. He drew her away from Gabriel’s sketches and his tablet. In reward, he usually got a generous helping of passion fruit that the man kept hidden in his desk. After some time, she discovered that one of the drawers got filled with her favorite snacks so that, after a wild run over the room, she could feast alongside Nooroo. A few times she caught Gabriel gazing at them, while a shadow of a smile danced on his lips.

He kept disappearing into the tunnel, though. At first Lady Noir sat next to the trap door and meowed incessantly, but he rarely returned for her. Once, she spied that, before entering the passage, he pressed parts of the enormous painting. Oh! Well, cats could also press things when they felt like it. After a few days of practice and careful aiming,  she managed to figure out how to leap from the desk to land on the canvas in a way that would allow her to open the trap door.

She proudly strutted into his secret room. Emboldened by her trick, she viciously attacked his shoelaces to draw his attention away from the window and to cut off his monologuing. 

To say that Gabriel was surprised when she showed up in his chamber wouldn’t say half of it.  He yelped, and jumped half a meter in the air. Lady Noir was sure that if he had a tail, or any hair on that smooth silver head, it would have bristled like an angry hedgehog. 

The second time she followed him, she decided on a less threatening approach and just rubbed her head into his calves. Her purr of contentment echoed in the cavernous space, amplified by the dome.

After the third time she managed to sneak into the chamber Gabriel gave up and just took her with him, allowing her to lounge in the sun beam from the window, while he did whatever he came to do there. As far as she could tell it mostly consisted of talking, grumbling, hissing, gritting his teeth and stomping angrily. Sometimes waving a fist was involved. One name stuck in her memory, mostly because he mentioned it a lot.

Ladybug.

xxx

Funny thing, Adrien sometimes had a guest who used the window. A guest who smelled like luck—the faint scent the boy sometimes brought with him when he returned from his cat escapades. A guest whose name was Ladybug. 

What was even funnier was the fact that the girl visited him other times, under a different name, in a more regular outfit and used the door. Although she still smelled like luck, in this form she was referred to as Marinette, while another flying creature, a red bug, hid in her purse.

Lady Noir was a young cat and she hadn’t had much experience before she got to the mansion, but it seemed that every human she met was accompanied by a flying friend. She wondered why humans needed them?

It took a while before she discovered that Adrien had no idea that Marinette and Ladybug were the same person. She couldn’t believe it! She knew human senses were weaker than cats’, but the boy would have to be basically noseless not to recognize that scent. She tried everything a cat could think of to show him the error of his ways. She allowed the girl to pet her, hoping Adrien would recognize how familiar Maribug was with his cat and how she always stroked her in the exact same way. She brought the girl a figurine of Adrien in his cat form, wishing he’d understand that the scent he wore came from the girl. A few times, in an act of desperation, she even tried to drag Plagg out of his hiding spot under the sofa; but the sprite refused to show up, even though Marinette had her own bug who could have been Plagg’s sister.

Afterwards she received another one of Plagg’s lectures, but instead of scolding her for the upteenth time about getting the “bad energy" all over herself again, he ranted about how his existence must be kept secret from other humans. She really didn’t see the point, if every other person seemed to have a—what did he call himself? A kwamice. 

xxx

Ladybug in both of her forms seemed to be very fond of Adrien, which didn’t escape Lady Noir’s attention. It soon dawned on the cat that the boy’s feelings for the girl were also stronger than those for a “friend”, as he sometimes called Marinette. She made him happy, and it didn’t even take Lady Noir’s genius to see that. The cat figured a girlfriend—a romantic partner—was exactly what Adrien needed. She doubled her efforts at enlightening him about there being only one person who smelled of luck. Plagg only rolled his eyes at her antics.

“You might as well give up now, Spots," he told her. “I’ve been dropping hints much longer than you, and the kid isn’t really that dense. It’s just the magic of the Miraculous. It won’t allow for him to see that they are the same person unless she shows him herself."

Lady Noir refused to give up. In a typically stubborn feline fashion, she decided she would let Adrien know even if it was the last thing she would do. Painstakingly, she tracked down each and every item in Adrien’s possession that bore the girl’s scent. They were hidden all over his room. Carefully, she moved them to the little red figurine that looked like Ladybug— for good measure, she threw in some pictures Adrien had stacked in one of his trophies. She kept telling herself her plan had to work. After all it was consistent with what Plagg had said—“she” had to show him herself, and the various items he’d collected from her would show who she was. But, Lady Noir reasoned, no one said anything about what would be shown and by whom.

Finally the day came when her display was ready. The bracelet Adrien usually kept on himself was her last loot. The pink piece of paper he had hidden in his desk, the notes he sometimes browsed through, the blue scarf he liked so much—everything she could find was already there.

Satisfied with her work, she dragged Adrien to her collection, rubbing her head against his calves. 

“Really, Spots?" Plagg chuckled from his bin. “You needn't bother."

“Meow," she headbutted the Ladybug figurine. “Mrow," she grabbed the cat boy doll and move it closer. “Purrrr," she took the bracelet in her teeth and laid it on top. Then she sniffed the papers and the scarf ostensibly. 

Adrien gazed politely at her theatrics. He reached for the scarf. She sniffed again. Plagg cackled in the distance.

Sniff. Adrien took a deep breath smelling the scarf. Sniff-sniff, he sniffed the notes. Lady Noir put her nose to the cat boy figurine again.

“That scent…’ Adrien murmured. He closed his eyes, taking each and every item and reverently putting it to his nose. “That scent…" he echoed. The bracelet fell out of his hand. “She’s… that’s… it can’t be, can it?" he mumbled. “Plagg?"

The sprite flew out if his bin and looked over the scattered items and to Adrien. The boy’s eyes were blown wide, his lips opened as he stared at the Ladybug figurine.

“No way," the flying cat drawled. “You have got to be kidding me."

xxx 

After her success, Lady Noir could devote more time to Gabriel’s wellbeing. She decided to spend the day on his desk. She didn’t even notice when a finger started rubbing at the perfect spot between her ears. She cracked one lime green eye open. Adrien’s father was sketching, deep in thought, while absentmindedly scratching her head. His hand slipped under her chin and then moved to the side of her muzzle and to her back. 

Lady Noir purred, nuzzling into his palm. She put her paw over his wrist and clawed gently. Then she dared to nibble on his thumb.

Surprised, Gabriel whipped his head to her, his hand frozen mid-scratch. He stared at her as if seeing her for the first time. She slowly let go of his hand, but he just smiled. Emboldened she rose from the desk and strutted to him. 

“Who’s the pretty kitty?" he cooed lowering his head. 

She headbutted him without thinking twice.

“You are," he hummed, as she proceeded to rub her whiskered cheek against his chin. “You’re the prettiest kitty!"

Slowly, he reached for her and scooped her into his arms. His fingers slid into her fur, scratching and tending. The man’s jacket was quickly covered in a thick layer of additional hair, but he didn’t seem to mind, engrossed in the caress.

Nooroo’s head popped from behind Gabriel’s shoulder and he winked at her. 

“The prettiest, softest kitty," the man babbled. And for the first time his smile reached his eyes.

xxx

The next day she found a toy mouse on Gabriel’s desk in the spot she had claimed as her own. She also smelled a new brand of snacks somewhere near. 

Later, Adrien’s father didn’t go into his butterfly chamber, choosing to take Lady Noir to the sleeping woman instead. He held the cat the whole time, his fingers buried deep in her fur, as he gazed at the glass tube, commenting on how the woman’s skin seemed to have regained some color. Nooroo pursed his lips and cast an anxious look to the woman as if considering something. When they returned to Gabriel’s room, the sprite made sure the door to the passage stayed opened enough for an industrious paw to fit into the crack, making Lady Noir’s visit to her nap buddy much easier.

That day Plagg wasn’t happy. Nor on the days after that. Not even when she brought him the toy mouse.

xxx

Lady Noir quickly got used to Gabriel petting her while he was working. It was now easier to sneak out for a basement nap as the man took on a habit of having lunch with Adrien when he returned home during the day—sometimes in Marinette’s company. Usually Nooroo came with a heads up when the meal was nearing its end, so that she could leave the sleeping lady and return to her spot on the desk. Gabriel couldn’t design without her, claiming she was his new inspiration. And he definitely was on a designing spree these past few days. According to Nooroo this was the first such successful spree since the sprite arrived at the mansion. However, that day Nooroo didn’t come. 

Lady Noir woke up to a finger rubbing behind her ear and another gently stroking her back. The touch wasn’t familiar. 

“Who’s the pretty kitty?" A feminine voice whispered, hoarse and scratchy, as if it hadn’t been used in a while.  

Intrigued, Lady Noir risked a peek at the person petting her. Bright, green eyes looked back at her with kindness and confusion. Eyes so similar to the ones she saw in the painting in Gabriel’s room, so similar to Adrien’s eyes. The sleeping lady had woken up after all those long days and delightful naps! Lady Noir purred in contentment. Another pair of hands to pet her was good news.

Her nap buddy hummed, letting her fingers wander over the cat’s back. “Mmmmm, this is so nice."

Lady Noir couldn’t agree more. All that was missing now was—

A thud sounded in the spacious chamber. Gabriel stood at the entrance, the bouquet he brought scattered on the floor.

“Emilie?" He rasped. “You’re… you… how do you feel?" In just three steps he was at the woman’s side. To Lady Noir’s indignation he took away one of the hands caressing the cat’s back and pressed it to his lips; a single tear rolled down his cheek.

“Well rested," Emilie sighed, her lips stretched in a soft smile. She sniffed experimentally. “And surprisingly not allergic to cats anymore."

Lady Noir’s ears twitched. Nooroo giggled somewhere nearby. Upstairs, a door opened and closed. She heard the faint echo of Adrien and Marinette’s steps as they ran to his room, laughing. Gabriel still held Emilie’s hand, but his breathing sounded shaky. The cat yawned looking between two humans, who stared at each other as if this was their first meeting in a long time. She stood up and squeezed herself between them just in case they’d forgotten she was there as well. A tail in Gabriel’s face and a gentle rub of her head to Emilie’s chin should do the trick. 

“Meowr,” she chirped.

Gabriel chuckled, even though his voice seemed tight. “Who’s the clever kitty?” he cooed scratching behind her ear.

Lady Noir sat attentively, her tail lashing behind her. She definitely was the cleverest kitty. She purred, pleased with herself and the fact that her nap buddy would now be able to pet her as well. Something told her that she would not be the only one getting the much needed attention and affection from Emilie. Just one look to the woman’s smiling face and Gabriel was already putty in her hands. 

There was love here, and where there was love, there was happiness. She could feel it in Gabriel’s heartbeat, she could see it in Emilie’s blush. The aura of grief and melancholy was slowly melting away, replaced with tentative hope and the promise of a happier tomorrow. Things were definitely going to be better around here, and that was perfectly fine with her.

 The End

(Please check out the amazing art by @sinfulpapillon​ to go with this fic)

[codydcampbell1]

“She woke up, and there was a glow.”

This is the first line in Brian Lee O’Malley’s 2014 graphic novel, “Seconds.” The protagonist, Katie, groggily opens her eyes and stares at the ceiling for a moment, disoriented, before realizing that something strange is going on. You can see the first sparks of awareness slowly building into curiosity and alarm, as both she and the reader realize that something out of the ordinary is happening. Then you turn the page, and find a small, unusual looking girl squatting on her dresser. There is no dialogue, only the exchange of panicked expressions as these two notice each other for the first time.

As the author of the Scott Pilgrim series, this isn’t the first time that O’Malley has played with disorientation, confusion and distraction in the perspectives of his characters. He likes the unreliable narrator because he can use them to show us how we lie to ourselves and how our perspectives are often distorted when we are tired, drunk, ashamed or simply not paying attention. We all see ourselves as the narrators of our own stories and many of us “self edit,” either choosing to look at the choices we’ve made from a perspective that makes us look good, or else punishing ourselves by blowing mistakes out of proportion.

Check out these two scenes from Scott Pilgrim. The first is from Volume 2, “Scott Pilgrim Vs. The World.”

This depicts the way Scott remembers battling Simon Lee, a villainous boy from a rival school who had kidnapped Scott’s then friend, Kim Pine, and held her hostage. Now compare it to the way Kim tells the same story in Volume 6, “Scott Pilgrim’s Finest Hour.”

Simon wasn’t the villain Scott wanted him to be. He was actually Kim’s boyfriend at the time and hadn’t done anything wrong. Scott was the aggressor. He then rewrote the story in his mind in order to cast himself as the hero. He needed to be able to think in these terms in order to cope with the guilt because at his core, Scott doesn’t want to be a bad person.

“Seconds” takes this kind of narrative introspection in a slightly different direction however. Instead of focusing on guilt as the main aspect of Katie’s “self editing,” it focuses on regret. That might seem like splitting hairs since guilt can be considered a form of regret, but it’s kind of like how all pinkies are fingers, but not all fingers are pinkies. Katie’s life is a tangled web of missed opportunities, mistakes, and a general sense that she doesn’t feel like she’s living up to her own potential.

Then she’s confronted with something that we’ve all wished for at one point or another, the opportunity for a “re-do.”

At this point I’m going to stop and let everyone know that there are going to be some spoilers ahead. I’m going to try my best to avoid anything that I feel would ruin the story, but you should stop reading now if you haven’t read “Seconds” and want to go into it with a completely blank slate.

OK, everyone want to keep reading? Good!

So here’s a brief overview of the premise.

Katie and a group of friends opened a restaurant called “Seconds” a few years before the story begins. She was the Chef and her food put Seconds on the map, but she wasn’t one of the owners, so it was never really hers. Now she’s finally purchased her dream location, an old rundown building that she plans to convert into a new restaurant and rebrand “Katie’s.”  She’s very excited about her new place, but the renovations keep taking longer and costing more than she’d originally anticipated. This leaves Katie in an awkward sort of limbo between major career shifts. On the one hand, her new place isn’t open yet and so she can’t start working on her new menu or serving customers. On the other, she’s already trained the new Chef to replace her at Seconds, so she doesn’t really have a place in the world.

This is also reflected in how Katie feels about her age.

For a lot of Millennials, our 20s are viewed as a sort of proto-adulthood. It’s a time of experimentation, where it’s OK to not feel like you know you’re life-path. It’s OK to rent a tiny apartment, stay in bed streaming television on your days off and dress like you’re in high school. It’s ok to still call your parents for help with simple things every once in a while, like not knowing how to fix a clogged sink or pay an electric bill. It’s OK to be working a job that pays your rent with a little left over to buy video games or to break up with a long term romantic partner and see what else is out there. You don’t need to have everything together yet. You have time.

30 is a different animal.

I’m not saying this is true at all. Lord knows everyone’s circumstances are different. It takes some of us a lot longer than others to discover our purpose in the world, and still others never do. Arbitrary age limits like this don’t really mean anything, but there is a social pressure that says when you hit the big 3-0, this is where you’re supposed to be a real, honest-to-god, adult now.

Katie denies it, but this sort of terminal anxiety is at the heart of her character. She’s terrified of the incoming change, terrified of the passage of time and fixated on her regrets of everything that brought her to this point.

Enter Lis.

Lis is a house spirit, the embodiment of Seconds, and everything that has ever happened there. (Think Ghost of Christmas Past meets Fairy Godmother.)  When an accident happens in the kitchen, Lis offers Katie a mushroom that will allow her to re-write one of her past mistakes, giving her a second chance. (Seconds! Get it?) This works out well enough, with only some mild side effects, but then Katie uncovers a whole bunch of the mushrooms growing in Seconds’ basement. Despite Lis’s warnings, Katie proceeds to go back and rewrite bigger and bigger events in her own past, trying to perfect her present, but the more she goes back, the more things start to change in unexpected ways.

I won’t go into the details, but the story illustrates brilliantly how doing things differently will still result in just as many unexpected consequences as the way we did them the first time, sometimes causing new problems and new mistakes that you couldn’t have anticipated. It shows us how spending too much time and energy reflecting on how we got to where we are can be detrimental to crafting our future.

You can learn from your past and grow,  but only if you accept your mistakes for what they are… a part of you.

None of this even touches on the adorable and energetically drawn panels, the thoughtfully crafted and deeply expressive characters or the hilariously written dialogue. I could honestly write three or four more blogs just as long as this one on all the other things that make this book great.

In case you couldn’t guess by now, I heartily recommend you give this story a try. It’s cute, funny, smart, thoughtful and nearly every other positive adjective that I’m not clever enough to list without a thesaurus. It’s also considerably shorter than the Scott Pilgrim series at only one volume, so it’s a great way for you to dip your toe into O’Malley’s work if you’re looking to give it a shot, but aren’t sure if you want to commit to starting a six volume series.

But I’m curious to hear what you think. I hope those of you who’ve already read it will leave a comment and let me know your opinions… and I hope those of you who haven’t will let me know if this is the sort of thing that you’d be willing to give a shot.

This is also a new format for my blog, so I’d appreciate any feedback on whether you’d like to see more of these kinds of reviews in the future.

Thanks for reading everyone,

-Cody For other reviews like this one, check out my website at: codydcampbell.com

[babywarg]

ironstrange multipart fic: Settling for a Miracle [4/?]

Chapter Summary: Project Insight happens. Stephen Strange is named as one of the targets. Panic makes someone take drastic measures.

Notes: I FORGOT ABOUT CA:TWS, HOW EMBARRASSING.

I said in my notes in the last chapter that the last scene (with Peter) takes place in 2015. I just realized I skipped ahead in my own plot. So I’m removing the Peter scene from the earlier chapter, and putting it into the NEXT chapter, which deals with 2015. THIS one deals with 2014 only.

For now, I’m keeping my notes for the previous chapter just to remind myself how badly I effed up my own timeline.

The events in this chapter take place around Captain America: The Winter Soldier (2014).

WARNING: not explicit, but not entirely worksafe, either.

Originally on AO3.

***

Three military helicarriers took to the skies over the Triskelion. Shortly afterwards, a massive leak of confidential S.H.I.E.L.D. documents made its way into the Internet. One of the most alarming things about the leak was something called Project Insight. It was an extremely precise way of eliminating potential threats to the US government's global superiority. (The leak also exposed that unsavory elements had infiltrated S.H.I.E.L.D. and conflated "the US government" with "Hydra." That was, in truth, the most alarming thing about it. There would be senate sub-committee hearings about this for months to come, and a touch of paranoia would remain in more vulnerable minds and hearts.) There was a list of 20 million "high-value targets" in Insight's files. Unsurprisingly, a handful of them were high-profile Enhanced personalities - Bruce Banner. Tony Stark. But surprisingly, the overwhelming majority were regular people, with regular occupations. A student. A housewife in Oklahoma. A security guard working for a small bank in Cuba. And Dr. Stephen Strange in New York. Stephen didn't even know about it until a colleague messaged him. He wasn't on social media and had no time for the "Are YOU an Insight target" quizzes that were fast making the rounds. He wasn't inclined to look through all 20 million names on the actual leaked documents for familiar ones, either. You're on the list, the text said. What list? Stephen asked. Page 5342. And so he knew. A number of other people, including Christine, texted him about it, but he ignored them. He dismissed their messages swiftly and irritably, preferring to use his limited time between consultations to stay updated on the events in DC. Then he got a call. It was Tony. "Stephen." He sounded out of breath. "Where are you? Are you safe?" "I'm in my clinic, " Stephen answered. "Tony, what -" "Don't - don't go anywhere." The call was dropped. Very soon afterwards, onlookers reported hearing an explosion in the sky, as Iron Man launched himself from Stark Tower and hit supersonic speed.

Then reporters on the ground in DC with zoom lenses and keen eyes noted that a fight had broken out aboard one of the helicarriers - between Iron Man and two other individuals, who couldn't fly and so mostly stayed out of sight.

The spectacle drew cameras to it. People barely saw the moment when the helicarriers turned their guns on each other and started blasting each other out of existence.

Then, suddenly, metal debris was falling all over the greater metropolitan area. The Triskelion suffered the worst of the rain of hellfire. Everyone scrambled to get to safer ground.

As soon as the fireworks started, Iron Man abandoned whoever he'd been fighting on that carrier. He used his blasters to aid the ground-to-air strikes that broke up the larger pieces of falling debris, if not pulverized them altogether.

Thanks to Iron Man, damage to civilian property, though inevitable, was minimized. People didn't hesitate to thank him for blowing up the helicarriers, too.

It came out later on the news that Iron Man wasn't even around for most of the fight. The heroes credited for exposing Hydra activities in S.H.I.E.L.D., and for dismantling Project Insight, were Captain America, Black Widow and a new player who called himself Falcon.

So, after praising him for saving the world again, a skeptical section of the media started speculating as to why Iron Man was late to the party.

Stephen sighed as he shut off the news feed on his phone. People just couldn't leave heroes well enough alone, could they?

Good thing Stephen wasn't a hero.

Tony didn't contact him for the rest of the day. Understandable. There was chaos from the top down, and he was probably needed for damage control.

The radio silence from Tony didn't stop Stephen from sending his "rest up" reminder text that night, though. Tony probably needed rest more than usual.

***

The following evening, Tony showed up at his clinic.

"Hey," was the chipper greeting. "You busy?

Stephen blinked. "Um." He glanced down at the thick folder of patient files under his arm, which he'd been fully intending to take home. "I was just heading out..."

"That was a rhetorical question. You're not busy. You're coming with me."

There was barely any time for Stephen to put his files back in storage. Tony sideswiped Stephen's questions as they both walked to his car. As soon as they got in, Tony whipped out his proprietary Stark Tech smartphone and focused on it, ignoring Stephen's indignant protests and inquiries.

The car stopped just outside an airstrip. A bewildered Stephen found himself following Tony into a private jet with "Stark Industries" emblazoned on its side.

And very soon after that, he was in a plush leatherette seat that could lean all the way back and having in-flight dinner with Tony.

"Been a while since our last date, right? Sorry, I've had my hands full." He gestured to the meal in front of them. "Hope this makes up for it."

"I'd say this is even overkill," Stephen told him. "The kidnapping was a bit much."

Tony pretended to look hurt. "Kidnapping? Come on, why so dramatic. I was just tired of our usual places and wanted to shake things up a little."

"This isn't just 'a little.' You won't even tell me where we're going."

"I'll let you work it out. This flight is estimated to take four hours and thirty minutes. If we're never leaving US airspace, where do you think we'll end up?"

Stephen frowned. As someone who'd had to fly out to other hospitals in other states for emergency procedures and high-paying patients, he was no stranger to long-distance travel. He could do the math in his head.

"California?"

Tony made a sound of affirmation around a mouthful of filet mignon.

"What's in California, Tony?"

"My house," was the nonchalant answer. "But we can talk about that later. Let's make this a proper dinner, like the ones we have on land. Tell me about your day. Mine was a whopper. Post-DC stuff, as I'm sure you know."

Stephen was, frankly, fed up with asking questions that were clearly never getting answered, so he decided to go with the flow. And dinner with Tony was always a welcome break from everything else, after all.

***

Stephen had expected the Stark residence in Malibu to be grandiose, but he wasn't fully prepared for the level of ostentation that greeted his eyes.

Late at night, the Stark mansion looked like a massive modern sculpture, with tasteful lighting accentuating its futuristic angles and curves. The interior reflected that sleek vibe, with its suede walls, minimalist furniture, ceiling-to-floor windows and wide spaces.

His first coherent thought was Whoa. The next was How can anyone sleep in a place like this?

It was too roomy. Too open. Too isolated. It lacked warmth - something he had grown to appreciate in his cozy one-bedroom in Queens.

"You're not tired yet, are you?" Tony asked him. "If you are, I should show you to your room and we can talk tomorrow."

"My room?"

"There are two master suites," Tony continued. "I just kind of move between one and the other when I feel like it. Take your pick. I'll stick to the one you don't choose."

"I'm not tired," Stephen answered testily. "I'd like to know what I'm doing here."

He had run out of patience. And finally, that became obvious to Tony. He shot Stephen an apologetic look.

"All right," Tony said. "Come with me."

***

He was led to the basement levels, where Tony kept his toys. The first level was the design floor. The two lower ones were called "the garage" and were off limits.

Stephen paid close attention while Tony was talking. He seemed nervous, wired. Like he was gearing up to tell Stephen something he definitely wouldn't like.

From introducing the functions of the design panels, he moved to teaching Stephen how to activate the holographic design tools. As fascinating as it was, Stephen had to speak up.

"Tony...either you tell me what's really going on, or I walk out of here."

Tony fell still.

After a long pause, he faced Stephen with renewed enthusiasm.

"You'll be moving your research here, temporarily," he declared. "I've made backups of all your files from the Midtown lab and configured some of the machines here to give you biometric access. Needless to say, you'll be moving residence, as well. My aide Happy Hogan can help you make the necessary arrangements. You can fly back to New York if any of your patients there will need emergency surgery. All flights courtesy of Stark Industries, of course, just send us the bill."

"Are you insane?" Stephen hoped it wasn't obvious, but he was fighting hard to keep calm.

"It's just temporary!" Tony argued.

"No." Stephen kept his voice level. "You know I can't do that."

"I don't see that you have a choice." Tony folded his arms across his chest. "I'm your investor. I'm pulling rank."

"Pull rank all you want. My contract states that I don't have to do anything I don't want to do. You can't just uproot me on a whim."

"What if it's for your own safety?"

Stephen scowled.

"What are you talking about?"

As upset as Stephen was getting over this conversation, he could see Tony was even more stressed out than he was. Tony scratched his head in annoyance and paced the design room, as he pieced together his response.

Eventually he settled for the simplest possible words: "You were on Project Insight's target list."

"So what?"

" 'So what?' " Tony echoed, incredulous. "Don't tell me that didn't scare you, even a little."

"Sure, a little," Stephen admitted. "But the situation was resolved within a few hours after S.H.I.E.L.D.'s Hydra connection was made public. No more Triskelion. No more Project Insight. And right now, it seems there's barely even a S.H.I.E.L.D. So I don't see why I should stay scared."

Tony looked at him wide-eyed, as if he couldn't believe Stephen could be so dim.

"Hydra scattered to the winds after S.H.I.E.L.D. crumbled," he replied, in a lower, grimmer tone. "They're still out there. And you can bet that the ones who could, ran off with resources they got from the government, including that damn list."

"But targeting people one by one for assassination, without the use of WMDs like the helicarriers? Even people who aren't active threats? That hardly seems like Hydra M.O."

Tony took a deep breath, another long pause.

"I wasn't going to tell you this," he began again, arms still folded across his chest protectively. "But in one of the carriers, there was a Hydra agent called the Winter Soldier. Cap was going to destroy the carriers, but the guy'd shot him in the stomach and was still coming after him. So I covered Cap's ass and attacked the guy. Cap did his thing and blew up the carriers, then he said, 'Go help civilians, Tony, I got this.' So I did, and he went back to fighting the guy hand to hand.

"Long story short, the guy landed Cap in the hospital. Cap's new buddy Falcon said...well, he said Cap knew the guy. He was in the leaked S.H.I.E.L.D. files as a mostly off-the-books asset. They said the Winter Soldier was used for a variety of vague spy missions, including single-target assassinations. And he...didn't die when his ship exploded. He got away."

When Stephen was done processing this new information, he demanded, "You weren't going to tell me that why?"

"I didn't want to freak you out with specifics. I thought I could just show you how concerned I was, and you'd take that in stride and do what I say."

Stephen narrowed his eyes at him. "Following instructions isn't my forte. You knew that from the beginning."

Tony looked away from him. "I know, but seriously - if everyone just listened to me, the world would be a much safer place."

It felt like Tony was withdrawing into himself the longer their argument drew on. Stephen decided to do something about that.

He laid a hand on Tony's arm. Tony stiffened for a second, but let out a breath, some of his tension easing out that way.

"Tony," Stephen began in a soft, reassuring tone, "he won't come after me. I'm not a threat. I'm just a doctor. And I can take care of myself." He withdrew his hand from Tony's arm, and Tony's entire body shifted slightly, as if adjusting to its absence.

Stephen continued, "In Kathmandu, I was trained in...certain disciplines. Including martial arts. My teacher considered elevating the body to be essential to elevating the mind. And my training worked out: I got my hands back. I also learned how to kick ass."

"Yeah, but you didn't see this guy, Stephen." Tony's tone this time was pleading. "I had a hard time with him - and I had guns and could fly. All he had was his metal arm. He might have been on par with Cap, strength-wise - and do you seriously think your lameass kung fu could win you a fight with Captain America?"

"You sound ignorant, don't call it kung fu." Stephen reprimanded. "And maybe not, but I can at least give him a hard time."

Tony shut his eyes and clasped his hands in front of him as if in prayer.

"You're missing. The point." He sounded aggravated again. "You can't ever be in a position where you'll have to engage the Winter Soldier. I can't risk even the slightest chance that he'll come after you. I can't -"

He caught himself, clammed up fast.

Stephen gently prodded, "Can't what?"

Tony didn't answer.

"Tony."

"You're really gonna make me say it." He didn't sound angry. He sounded defeated.

Stephen almost felt sorry for him. But this was a time for answers, and he couldn't let up; the best he could do was to sound non-aggressive.

"If you want me to stay, you have to."

It wasn't an idle threat, either. Tony must have known that. He must have imagined Stephen storming out of the mansion in the dead of night and hitching a ride to get to some godforsaken motel...but Stephen actually had something more efficient in mind. He always carried around his sling ring. If worse came to worse, he could go anywhere.

Either way, Tony wasn't ready for him to leave.

"I can't let anything happen to you," he admitted, not looking Stephen in the eye. "Maybe I can't protect you if aliens come dropping out of the sky again - not right now anyway. But this, this human problem, this is doable. All I have to do is keep you away from danger."

"And you think by keeping me close, you're keeping me safe?" Stephen allowed himself a small, sad smile. "Have you seen danger and how much it loves you?"

"Yeah, okay, the safest thing to do is actually to cut off all ties with me. But the next best thing" - Tony looked at him again - "is to never leave my side."

There was no room for argument in his eyes. It was one or the other.

But to Stephen, leaving Tony was never an option.

He stepped closer to Tony. Tony let him approach. He reached out and laid his palm gently against Tony's cheek.

Stephen was well-trained in recognizing the presence of pain. And with this one gesture, it seemed he released the pain that Tony had been keeping to himself. Helped it reach his face, finally.

Tony closed his eyes and leaned into his touch.

"I wish you knew," he whispered, "how I felt when I saw your name on that list. I wish you knew."

"Hush."

He touched his lips to Tony's, and found no resistance. In fact, Tony's lips sought his out hungrily - which was good, because it was important that the patient was receptive to treatment.

The priority was to take the pain away.

***

Stephen bet neither of them expected that their first time was going to be on the floor of the design room of Tony Stark's personal workshop. But neither of them could wait.

Besides, there were two master suites to choose from, for the next rounds.

It was intense, breathless, electric - all things that Stephen had not anticipated. He wasn't sure why, but he hadn't expected that their easy rapport would translate well into sex. Perhaps it was because they were such different people. But when all bets were off, it was as if they knew each other's bodies well.

One of the books in the Kamar-Taj library explored the concept of soulmates - people shaped from the same astral mold, who were drawn together and instantly connected as soon as they touched. Sometimes, those people were the same in many ways - and sometimes they were completely different.

Stephen always thought it was a load of irrational, inconsistent dreck and was glad he didn't find other titles that spewed the same. But tonight, he found himself thinking back to that book. And wondering if he shouldn't have dismissed it so easily.

He woke slowly close to dawn, to the feeling of an arm draped over his chest. And drifted further out of sleep to realize that because of this he was warm, perhaps the warmest he had ever been in his life. In a house that he had earlier written off as isolated and cold.

He lay awake, listening to Tony's relaxed, steady breathing. Memorizing the feeling of Tony's bare skin against his.

And the feeling of being absolutely safe. The feeling that everything that had led up to now was worth it.

"There were deeper secrets to learn then," a man named Jonathan Pangborn had told him,"but I did not have the strength to receive them. I chose to settle for my miracle, and I came back home."

This was it. This was the miracle Stephen had come home for. Not the recovery of his hands. Not the return to a life of prestige, and all the evils that came with it.

It was this. This moment. This man.

***

When he woke for a second time, he was alone. It was seven o’clock. And the house felt cold again.

There were new clothes laid out for him at the foot of the bed. They were his size exactly. Once more, he decided against overthinking how Tony could have known the size of his clothing. Tony had resources to know more things about other people, than perhaps he should.

In fact, Stephen wouldn’t be surprised if Tony had already bought a bunch of clothes in his size, in anticipation of him moving into the mansion, as requested. He dearly hoped this wasn’t the case, however. He took a shower in the en suite bathroom. As he was putting on the new clothes, he noted that his phone, old clothes, and other personal items had been neatly put together in a corner. That was how he knew someone else was or had been in the house: Tony just didn't strike him as someone who bothered to fold apparel - his own or other people's. He lacked the patience for such mundane things.

Tony must have overseen it, though. At the very top of the pile of personal items was Stephen's sling ring. There was a hastily scrawled note pinned underneath it, which impertinently said "What even IS this??"

He heard Tony’s voice in his head, saying those words. Right after that, he remembered Tony’s brown eyes shining bright with arousal. Tony’s moans coming in faster and louder as he approached climax.

Stephen forcibly brushed the more provocative memories aside, smiled, tucked the note into his pocket along with the ring, and made a mental note to come up with some bullshit story about it being a sentimental souvenir from Kathmandu. He stepped out of the room, and was greeted by a beautiful woman in sharp business wear. Her ginger hair was done up in a youthful ponytail. "Dr. Strange." The woman had a polished, professional smile. "My name is Pepper Potts. Mr. Stark has instructed me to attend to your requests today. Anything you need." The famous Ms. Potts. Tony mentioned her often. He once told Stephen, with naked admiration, that Stark Industries would grind to a halt without her.

She did indeed look competent. And no-nonsense. Stephen marveled at how expertly she balanced forthrightness and a gentle demeanor.

What was more, her face reflected absolutely no judgment. If she considered Stephen a nuisance, or a potential PR nightmare for Stark Industries, she didn’t show it. From where Stephen stood, all she was, was kind.

“Oh...Mr. Stark apologizes, but he has urgent matters to attend to in DC and won’t be able to join you for breakfast. Which, by the way, is waiting for you in the dining room.” She turned to leave. “If you’ll follow me?”

“Ms. Potts.”

She stopped, turned to look at Stephen again.

“Does Tony - Mr. Stark - does he expect me not to leave?”

In short: was he a prisoner? Was he going to have to use his wits to escape, and give Tony hell for it later?

He gambled that he would get an honest answer from someone whom Tony trusted with his life and more.

Ms. Potts’ smile lacked all malice.

“No, Doctor,” she replied. “A private jet is ready and waiting to take you back to New York, at your earliest convenience.” Stephen let out a relieved sigh. He didn’t want to have to portal out of there. That would have been...messy.

“Thank you.” His gratitude was genuine.

“However, Mr. Stark wanted me to tell you that he wishes you would stay. He said you’d know why.”

Stephen recalled Tony in the design room, the torment on his face. I wish you knew.

“Please let Mr. Stark know that I appreciate the invitation,” he said to her, “but I have patients waiting to see me this afternoon. The sooner I’m back in New York, the better.”

She nodded. “Very good. But breakfast first, I hope?”

[thestudentarchitect]

Tips for Existing Conditions Surveys

Tips for Existing Conditions Surveys

By Chelsea Weibust 04/23/2019

Each project is totally different, from the information available, scope of work, schedule, etc. It's important to know the purpose of your site visit before you head out to the site. 

Sometimes when you have a site visit you'll have access to detailed existing drawings. They may be just printed drawing sets or PDF's, or ideally they'd be CAD or Revit drawings. Other times you won't be given any information at all. In the latter case, it's a good idea to check out Google Maps and Tax Assessor information to get an idea of the size, shape, materiality, aesthetic, context, etc. of the building before your visit.

You may need to sketch the plans and elevations on site so be sure to bring a clipboard and graph paper for sketching and notes.

Another consideration is the scope of the project. If the project focus is strictly on interior work then you shouldn’t spend too much time documenting exterior conditions - just stick to the basics. The same is true to strictly exterior projects. If you're working on a deck renovation then documenting a ton of interior information will be a waste of time, unless of course it’s related to the project. [Full disclosure: some of the links below are affiliate links.]

Here are some tips and tricks I’ve picked up from doing existing conditions surveys.

General Survey Information:

Make sure to write the date, location, and project name of the site visit on each sheet in case there's any question in the future about when the existing conditions survey was taken or what project the drawings are from. Also, write what each drawing shows, i.e. first floor plan, exterior dimensions, section through living room, etc. It may also be helpful in some cases to write the names of the people at the site visit for future reference.

Color Coding:

Sometimes existing conditions surveys will have a ridiculous amount of information and it can be tough to decipher between vertical dimensions, horizontal dimensions, opening dimensions, structural elements, etc. For this reason I like to use color and thickness variations for distinctions. For example, I like to switch between a thick black pen/marker* and a multicolored pen* to make it easy to switch between colors quickly. You can color code your notes however you like but you may want to make a legend so anyone who might look at your drawings will understand them. Here’s how I color code my surveys:

Black marker/pen: exterior walls

Black pen: horizontal dimensions, general notes, interior walls, cabinets and fixtures

Green pen: vertical dimensions (heights), spot elevations

Blue pen: window and door types, overall dimensions

Red pen: center line dimensions, mechanical elements, structural elements

Dimensions:

Write dimensions perpendicular to the dimension string in areas where you have a cluster of dimensions so you can fit all of the information.

Units:

Be consistent with how you're writing dimensions and make sure if using a laser measuring* tool that it's set to the same units you've been using. Most of the time I find it's best to write in only inches. Other times I like to write in feet and inches but when I use these units I'm careful not to use ticks for feet and inches (1' - 3 1/2") because the ticks could be mistaken for numbers. Instead, I like to keep it simple and write them like: 1 - 3.5 (0 - 4.75 if no feet) so that there's no confusion with ticks or fractions being misinterpreted.

Vertical Dimensions:

It's easy to remember to take horizontal dimensions to get wall placements and openings but something that can easily be forgotten are vertical dimensions. Ceiling heights, soffits, window sill and header heights, door heights, openings, floors, etc. can easily be overlooked until you're at your desk modeling the building.

Continue reading below

Do you have all of these helpful tools for doing existing conditions surveys?

Sections, Elevations & 3D Views:

Don’t limit yourself to drawing in plan. Some information is better represented in section like roof/ceiling slopes, floor to floor heights, soffit heights, stairs, bump outs, etc. You might also find a quick 3D sketch or elevation can be helpful too.

Storyboard:

If you're short on time or are looking to get a set of dimensions that don't have to be totally accurate you can take a picture of a storyboard to get accurate enough information. To do this, hold the tape measure against whatever it is you want to dimension and take a picture of it. Try to set the camera as parallel to the tape as possible so you don't distort the image.

In the image shown you can see we wanted to quickly get the dimensions of an existing railing on a roof deck. You can see clearly the center lines of the pipes, the diameter of the pipes, and the overall height of the railing.

Topography:

Pay attention to the topography and make note of the elevation of the ground in relation to the bottom of siding material at each corner of the building, at the very least.

Material Dimensions:

Note materials and dimensions - if masonry, measure and make note of the size of the blocks used. If lap siding, shingle siding, etc. make note of the reveal and material. This will be really helpful if you need to figure out heights if you forget to measure something or just want to verify dimensions. Since reveals can vary on each course, a handy tricks is to measure the height of 10 courses and divide that number by 10 to get a more accurate gauge.

You can see from the photo that 10 courses of this siding is 27 1/8” which is roughly a 2 3/4” reveal per course.

Photos:

Often one of my biggest frustrations when reviewing site visit information is not having enough photos. Anytime I'm on a site visit, I'll leave with hundreds of photos and somehow it's still not enough! There's always some wonky condition that I didn't get a great photo of or I needed a picture just 4 inches to the right. Go out of your way to take more photos than you might think you need from different angles, perspectives, and distances. Nowadays we have awesome smartphones that are capable of high quality photos, panoramas, and even videos! Videos can be especially helpful when walking through the building with an owner or consultant (with permission) so you can take note of what was discussed so you don’t have to take as many notes! I personally prefer to use my iPhone or a small point and shoot* that’s not too heavy and can be easily tucked away when not in use. I once had a project where we had to survey hundreds of windows for a renovation project and most windows were totally different conditions. We needed multiple detail photos of each window. This would've been an almost impossible task to keep track of each individual window but luckily I had a Samsung Note phone with a pen so I was able to take a photo of each window, take a screenshot, and make a note on each photo which window it was. I'm not sure what we would've done otherwise but I was so thankful to have that phone at that moment! We also had a google docs spreadsheet open on my iPad to document information about the windows rather than writing it on paper so we wouldn't have to duplicate our work in transferring written notes to the computer. So in short, I guess I'm saying to make the most of your technology!

Locate Photos:

Mark interesting things on your plans that will make it easier for you or someone else to orient themselves while looking through the photos later. Maybe it's a painting on a wall, a red sweatshirt hanging on a pipe, a stain on the ceiling, etc. but it should be something distinct that will help place tricky conditions in photos on the plans. If you're taking detail photos, remember to step back and take context photos so you can locate them later.

The photo below shows a steel rod tied to the roof rafters which was holding up the 2nd floor of a old home. This was both fascinating and terrifying (since the house needed significant repair) but we needed to be sure to mark the locations of these rods on the plans. This picture is great to see the detail of how the tensile system works but doesn’t help at all in telling us where this rod is located. So on the floor plan I made a note on the plan with a star and a cone (<) showing the direction of the photo, saying something like “steel rod tied to roof structure, tension wheel” and this was really helpful because none of the other pictures of the rods showed the wheel or tensile system and now we knew exactly where it was and what direction we were looking.

Locating pictures on plans is really only necessary in tricky areas like basements, attics, eaves, or in monotonous buildings where a lot of spaces look exactly the alike, so try not to go overboard with this.

BONUS: Tips for You

Backpack:

I recommend carrying a small bag with you while on site visits to hold extra tools and whatever else you may have. I suggest using a small backpack* rather than something like a messenger bag since it wont get in the way.

Snacks:

Maybe I'm the only one who thinks about food constantly, but I always find it's a good idea to keep a couple snacks with me on a site visit. Sometimes things take longer than expected and you don't want to be famished, trying to rush through your survey so you can get a bite to eat. It can't hurt to throw a couple granola bars and a water in your bag, right?

Dress Appropriately:

If it's the middle of winter and you're surveying a building without heat, you're going to want to dress in lot's of warm layers. Be sure to check the weather beforehand so you know if it's supposed to rain (and will need rain gear and umbrella), if it's going to be brutally cold (and need hats, gloves, scarves, lots of layers, etc.), if it's going to be windy (and you need a windbreaker and extra clips to attach papers to your clipboard)... you get the idea

Shoes:

Two things you need to consider about footwear are safety and comfort. You should never wear open toed shoes or high heels to a site visit, there are just too many things that could go wrong. You're probably going to be walking around for hours, sometimes crawling around in icky places, and potentially walking on unstable surfaces or trekking through the mud. Opt for comfortable sneakers or boots.

Good luck on future surveys!

- Chelsea

More posts you might like:

[martin87thurston-blog]

Fixing lots Of Damage From A Flood

When you receive back for ones property, resist the urge to go in right released. Look around the exterior for damage and come up with sure initially is structurally sound. Bear in mind flood waters can literally shift a building on its foundation, making it prone to break down. You do n't need to risk the event coming on top folks. The hardest aspect after the flood opt for in which to begin cleaning, as very well as flood damage practically each every matter, all inside the place. Even air we breathe at house may about us really serious well being complications. Humidity and moisture are beginning get trapped inside the dwelling right after the h2o injury, floor, carpets and furnishings. During these kinds of environment it is extremely probably to bacteria and mold grow. Most importantly, efficient water remedy as quickly as possible. The most significant threat following floods humidity, which brings considerable troubles with it's.

Homes which has been high and dry for decades, even centuries, are going to be inundated with water. Rivers swell, drainage fails. it is possible anywhere. Most householders mistakenly believe they are covered regarding your flood their own homeowners policy. Talk to a insurance company before stopping by the dealership. Find out how much it would cost to insure structure of vehicles you are arranging on trying to find. It's in order to factor insurance charges into your car-buying budget because your insurance can skyrocket this buy a brand-new vehicle if you are not careful. If reside in space where flooding is likely, then you may need to keep some of one's appliances (those that fall below the predicted flood line) the equivalent of 12" off the floor. Washers and dryers, furnaces and hot water heaters should be moved to an upper level if in any way possible, an individual can place these on blocks to obtain them location height. Could quite possibly also in order to be install your furnace regarding the ceiling among the basement to help protect that as well. In water damage restoration Dayton West , all houses should to be inspected across the same day, in food with caffeine . way, by well-trained assessors. Many times that in not the usually takes place in the real-world. Often employees don't bother to inspect anything except new construction or insertions. Even when properties are inspected, the examination may be nothing on the drive-by. There simply are not enough trained assessors to advance around, and are also often prevented from going inside by dogs on your property or your neighbor's back garden. If your are performing this, your items are going to covered for only what intensive testing . worth in the time on the water problem. It won't cover the replacement associated with the tools. Some policies will also limit the age of an item can be to be covered. Be sure to ask very specific questions if purchase your policy help make matters sure in which you are covered properly.

[exalok]

Prince!Daud AU, part 9 (repost)

“I still don't know anything about Prince Tristan, my lord,” Lydia said as soon as she saw him heading her way. Corvo shook his head.

“It's not about the Prince's father this time,” he assured her. She hitched the basket of laundry she had been gathering from around the palace higher on her hip. Her mouth was pinched. “It won't take long –” she had probably been running from one end of the palace to the other since the morning, and didn't appreciate a second interruption – “and you can give me the boot if it does.” She loosened, then, breathing a chuckle and her shoulders not so stiff.

“Well, can milord tell me what it is I can help him with on the way to the sub-basement?” she asked, all business. It was a refreshing change from the way most of the servants tended to treat him with something approaching reverence, or fear, like what they might show the Prince. That was probably why Daud had decided to make her senior maid and have her supervise everything else. The palace seemed to run smoothly and efficiently under her care, in any case; a pity that work like hers was least visible when well done.

Corvo nodded, and they headed off down the servants' corridor Corvo had caught up to her in.

“You know... Daud's manservants, don't you?” he asked, carefully tailoring the question. He had cultivated the image of a quiet, reserved man here in the Prince's palace – it fit what people had said of him back in Dunwall, though back there he'd also been the Serkonan savage, uneducated, hardly able to talk – but being so closed-off from the rest of the staff meant he sometimes forgot the role he was supposed to play. The Prince's husband wouldn't called him the Prince, or even Prince Daud – especially not common-born Corvo, whose knowledge of propriety was limited at best – and he wasn't certain anyone outside Daud's closest circle knew the four bodyguards' true purpose.

Lydia inclined her head. “I do.”

“I met most of them – Dodge, Lee, Thomas and–?”

“Kay?” Lydia finished for him.

Corvo nodded. So that was the name of the one with the messed up hands. “Right.”

Lydia shared a cheeky smile. “He doesn't talk much, either.”

Corvo cleared his throat. “Right,” he repeated, hitching up the tails of his long coat as he tucked his hands in the small of his back. “You wouldn't... have any idea why Thomas might have... something against me, would you?”

Lydia didn't stop her brisk pace, but she turned to face him, eyebrows arched in surprise. “No. He's usually polite.”

He shrugged instead of clarifying. “Maybe he'll warm up to me.” Thomas's standoffishness had been needling at him a bit – you'd think three weeks was enough for the (supposed) captain of the Prince's bodyguards to stop seeing the newcomer as a potential threat – but it wasn't his primary concern; bringing it up was mostly a way of easing into what truly held his interest. That was something he'd learned serving in Jessamine's court. Politics were beyond him, and intrigue was a pain in the ass, but some things he absorbed despite himself.

“Well,” Lydia said in a tone that didn't bode well for a certain tall and tattooed bodyguard. “He might not answer to me, but I'll have a word with him if you like.”

“Oh. Uh.” This wasn't exactly– He'd avoided bringing it up with the Prince, in case he might be less lenient with Thomas and the others than he appeared, but Corvo doubted sending Lydia after the man was the better outcome of the two. “That's fine. I mean, you don't need to. He's perfectly professional about it.”

Lydia smiled. It wasn't quite as keenly edged as Daud's smirk, but just as mischievously amused. He retracted his former theory: this was probably why the Prince had decided to keep her on. Birds of a Void-damned feather, indeed.

“Charming and forgiving,” she said, and Corvo couldn't help the smile that pulled at his mouth.

They were coming up on the door leading down to the cellar; Corvo swung it open, and Lydia thanked him with a nod as she started down the steps, the basket still balanced on her hip.

“Do you work with Daud's guardsmen at all?” he asked, pulling the door closed behind them. The lines of whale oil lights didn't continue into this passage; instead, torches flickered in wall sconces, the air near them warm as Corvo and Lydia passed. The senior maid shot him a look over her shoulder, faintly confused. It took Corvo a second to understand why. He'd made exactly the mistake he shouldn't have – there wasn't supposed to be a connection between the Prince's manservants and the guards around the palace.

He was almost certain his pulse was visible at his throat. Still, he kept his face open and interested, like he couldn't see what he'd said wrong.

Lydia closed her half-open mouth, her gaze inquisitive – then dismissed the blunder with a hum.

“Not really,” she said. “We can't help but cross paths, though, especially when they come by the kitchen for a bite.” Her expression was still curious; it was obvious she wanted to know why, but was too well-aware of her position in comparison to his, despite her forwardness, to ask outright.

“I've been hearing about people disappearing here.” The stairway was coming to an end, a wide and well-lit room visible at the bottom. “Guards, I think. Uh... Rapha? Another called Quinn, and– well, you get the idea.”

“Who's been talking about that old business?” Lydia didn't quite look angry, but peeved, maybe – it must have been a pretty disruptive rumor, to get on her nerves like this. “It stopped a few months back, far as I know.”

“I... overheard the– Daud and his mother talking about it, to be honest,” Corvo fumbled. The look he got was sharp, but more curious than suspicious, thank the Void. “They made it sound like the guards had just up and vanished from the palace–”

“Oh, they didn't disappear from here,” Lydia said, and immediately sealed her lips shut like she hadn't meant to say it – or like she knew she shouldn't have. Corvo's eyes darted to her with astute interest.

“They didn't?”

“I'm not sure it's my place to tell you this, my lord, if His Grace our Prince hasn't...” she began, but her gaze followed him like it was searching for something – guilt? curiosity? He tilted his head as they descended the final step. She lifted her chin. “– But I suppose it's all rumor anyway.”

The cellar had been carved straight out of the stone underneath the palace, high on the cliff end so the tides wouldn't flood the rough-hewn chambers; a gated tunnel to the side led to the sub-basement. Cool briny wind flowed up from the passage.

There was a lock on the gate, but Lydia simply pushed it open with a high shrieking sound. “Sorry about the noise – we keep oiling the hinges, but the air down here is terribly hard on metal.”

A few steps down, Corvo asked:

“So, what – you believe they ran off?”

“No,” Lydia said, her certainty absolute. “Maybe if it'd been one, or even three – but ten?”

Corvo didn't stumble, didn't stop, but those two words left him with the distinct impression of a sudden pitched fall into a void. Ten missing? How hadn't he heard of this before? Information like that should have made it all the way to Dunwall at least, but he hadn't seen a word on it in the months before – well, before.

“They went home for a day, or out to Karnaca on an errand, and never came back,” Lydia continued. “I heard some of the other servants talking about leaving, too, before it might happen to them, but it's stopped since. Like I said, this was some months ago.”

He considered this carefully, steadying himself with a hand against the wall. What could have caused this many disappearances, all for it to drop off just as suddenly? And more than that: who could have managed it? Corvo couldn't see Daud watching his men disappear without letting loose the hounds on the perpetrators and hunting them down to the last – but whoever it was must have gotten away. That took skill. Resources, too.

Lydia, as though she could read it on his face, answered his unspoken question. “It's not so surprising this would happen, my lord. Everyone knows our Prince is involved in, uh, shady business, so to speak.”

Well. That put into perspective yesterday's cryptic conversation between Thomas and Daud – and it could explain the spate of disappearances. In eleven years, the gangs he'd known of as a child must have been supplanted by new blood, but the principle didn't change: violence, high risk, and if you were good at it – high gains. If whoever had disappeared those guards was the one with the contract on the Prince's head, Corvo had his work cut out for him.

There was a sound, surging, rising up from the end of the tunnel. Like water. The smell of salt got stronger as they descended. Under his palm, still pressed to the wall in case he slipped – the passage was dark despite the distinct glow of whale oil lamps growing stronger at the bottom (and Lydia went on without even looking down, entirely confident, like she'd taken these steps often enough to know them by heart) – the wall was slightly moist, even slimy in places.

“Does it lead directly to the ocean?” Corvo asked, his curiosity piqued.

Lydia called back over her shoulder: “I was told they just had to dig out the tunnel, the sub-basement cavern was already there.” A cavern – the sound echoed again, a rush and flow, like a wave. It probably was. “There are pools that fill up with ocean water at high tide. The salt's a good disinfectant, so we wash everything there and rinse it all with boiled water in the kitchen.”

The sub-basement was a low but wide cavern, natural rock formations dripping like candle wax from ceiling to floor. Lydia set her basket down by a pair of servants scrubbing sheets in one of the deep, ocean-filled pits, observing their work a moment before nodding and patting the shoulder of one of them in approval.

“To the kitchen now, milord,” she said, already taking the stairs back up. Corvo let himself breathe in the ocean smell one last time before heading after her.

They ascended in silence at first, the whale oil lamps fading behind them while the warm gold-orange flutter of the torches strengthened ahead; Lydia turned to him with a considering look as she reached the cellar, clanging the gate shut after Corvo had passed.

“You know,” she said, the statement half a question in her mouth, “not a one of us thought he would ever marry. The Prince, I mean.”

It sounded like she wanted to head somewhere with it, but she said nothing more as they took the second flight of stairs, only watching him still from the corner of her eye.

Corvo deliberated for a moment. Then he gave in.

“Why's that?” he asked. Lydia sighed like the Prince was a nephew she was fond of but despairing for.

“Well, he's never...” she paused, searching for the words, “shown an interest, if you know what I mean. No flirting – welcome change of pace from my last employer, don't get me wrong – but no courting either, not even a trip to that fancy smoking parlor in Upper Cyria –”

“Smoking parlor?” Corvo asked. What did that have to do with anything?

“I think you call them bathhouses in Dunwall,” Lydia said. “There was this book – Missing Women, Golden Cat? Anyway, there are those times he vanishes Outsider knows where, but I haven't known noblemen to hide that sort of business –”

Corvo hardly had the wherewithal to be offended at being taken for a native Gristolian beyond the sudden, spiking heat in his face. “Uh –”

Lydia turned as violently red as he felt.

“Oh, I – pardon me, milord, I got carried away.”

Corvo swallowed. “That's, uh...” He cleared his throat. “That's fine. It's a political marriage.” It wasn't his business what the Prince did or didn't do – even if he had regularly visited the... smoking parlor, Corvo wouldn't have been bothered. It had nothing to do with why he was really here. Though, he supposed, it might have made the marriage charade a little awkward.

The crimson flush on Lydia's face had gone down to the two warm pink spots high on her cheeks, and she was back to observing him with that unfamiliar look on her face, like she was searching for something she already knew was there – like she only had to turn her head a certain way, and it would appear again. She hummed, the sound not quite noncommital.

“Is it, then?” she asked.

Her expression remained with him long after they parted ways at the door to the kitchens.