#this ones already completed and i have a great deal of buffer work to do

[verse-the-comic]

fucker speaks for the first time in ever and its SOLELY to bitch about his coworker. real shit

(real shit as in honest and true not real shit as in bad. sent and then was like "wait that tone is ambiguous ove text isnt it)

We've all had that boss we fuckin' hate. I'll leave it there.

[amikye]

I’ve been watching Elementary for years (finishing tv shows takes me a long time. Leave me alone.) and I got to the last season, where Sherlock is diagnosed with both a TBI and post-concussion syndrome. And it’s giving me some feelings.

I love Sherlock Holmes. He is one of my favorite fictional characters of all time. And that includes the adaptations. I have my criticisms, but I’ll take all the Holmes content I can get. In terms of the most recent/ modern adaptations, for me Elementary’s Sherlock is the closest to the books. I’ve seen some wonderful analysis about how the show is about Sherlock becoming a part of a community, which, along with the focus on his addiction, is one of the best parts of the show. But I digress.

As someone who has had multiple concussions and is still dealing with post-concussion syndrome, seeing a character who I idolized growing up dealing with the same condition is incredible. Is it entirely accurate? No - they definitely hyped up certain symptoms for the drama (hallucinations aren’t really something that happens) - but it is fairly close to my own experiences.

It’s both heart breaking and warming to see the frustration and fear that comes with this type of injury portrayed in a sympathetic way. And Watson’s response? Incredible. I wish I had someone in my life respond in the same way. (I did have sympathetic responses, but no one went out of their way to do research to help me). She is a great support for Sherlock and lets him make the decisions, while acting as a buffer when he needs it. Which is such a great thing for a tv show.

There was a moment in the last episode I watched where Sherlock can’t remember why he’d come into a room and is increasingly frustrated. Joan says that everyone does that and he responds, “not me”. And I felt that in my soul. The amount of things that have changed for me in this way, especially memory-wise, that other people say happen to everyone, when I know it’s because of the concussions is tremendous and terrifying.

Seeing Sherlock express his fears and then Joan take them seriously was healing. The number of people in my life who say “oh but it’ll get better” or “just give it time” when I tell them how I’m worried I’ll never be fully healed is overwhelming. I want someone to be like Joan and say, “you might be right. But that doesn’t mean it’s hopeless”. Because I’ve already accepted that each concussion fundamentally changed my life. But that doesn’t mean I have to give up on my goals and hopes for the future. It just means I have to adapt them in ways that are more accessible to me.

I do hope that the show doesn’t end with Sherlock completely breaking down, as that would be a cop-out ending and would let down all of the fantastic work the show put into it’s complexities. I could see him moving upstate/ retiring to look after his bees, which would not only follow the books, but also give him an outlet for his mind without slipping back into his addiction. That’s the part that is most fascinating: Sherlock is scared because he needs to take a break/ step back from cases, but if he doesn’t keep his mind occupied, he’ll most likely relapse, which scares him because then how will his brain heal? And this complexity is why I love the show. He’s humanized in a way that most people can empathize with/ have compassion for while remaining brilliant. Yes, he definitely comes up with solutions no one else would, but he has the same internal conflicts as everyone else. Which makes the addition of a TBI all the more interesting. For how does Sherlock, someone who is used to having full control and function of his brain, deal with the only thing that could truly put an end to his sleuthing? I think the answer lies in the main theme of the show: by relying on the support of the community around him.

[argothiathedreamer]

Rating: Teen and Up Summary: Tim goes back in time to avert the end of the universe, but things quickly go awry and he's left with an important decision to make: Carry through with the plan as he originally intended; Or make a risky play to change things for the better. Argothia's Notes: Promised myself I'd start posting the Still Breathing Rewrite on my birthday whether I had a massive buffer or a teensy one, as it turns out I've got a decent one. Enjoy!

---

How could things go so bad so quickly?

Twenty-four hours ago everything was business as usual. Twenty-four hours ago, everyone was alive. Now? Now, Tim and Jason are the only ones left. The last of their family hiding out in a derelict building from a Joker who’s somehow become a nearly omnipotent monster. Everyone’s dead. All of them. A thought that’s bringing Tim closer and closer to a complete breakdown with every second that passes. He’s trying to fight it, he doesn’t want to do that to Jason, who’s already at his wits’ end, but…

Dammit, this can’t be happening. Why is this happening?

Tim runs a hand through his hair as he sits down on a crate and just breathes. Forcing down the hysterical sobs that want to rip apart his composure. God, he was just sitting on the couch in the manor with all of them two days ago. He can’t remember what the last thing he said to any of them was. Can’t remember if he gave them a hug before he left. When was the last time he’d told them he loved them? Fuck.

He curls in on himself pulling the jacket Jason had given him that morning closer around his shoulders. How can this be happening? How can they all be… How can he be losing another family like this? It’s all so fucking wrong. This is--

A rustle of fabric and the rattle of a gun makes Tim look up quick and he can only stare in surprise at the sight before him. Jason has one of his guns pointed directly at Klarion’s head. All things considered, Klarion doesn’t seem particularly perturbed by this situation. He just places a finger on the muzzle of the gun and turns it away from his face. “Honestly, I would appreciate you not attempting to shoot at me. After all, I didn’t come here to injure you with your own damned weaponry.”

“Then what the hell are you doing here?” Jason snaps, irritable and tired. So tired. Still he does lower the gun without arguing.

Klarion smirks as Teekl jumps down from his shoulders and slinks over to Tim. “I didn’t come here for you at all. Teekl has something of a fondness for Tim, so we decided to come to the rescue. Think of me as your chaotic savior, here to do all I can to rid us of our mutual problem.”

“Great. Then why don’t you just zap the motherfucker into space and let him die, already?” Jason grumbles, holstering is gun and leaning, sullenly, against the nearest wall.

That only gets him a deeply unimpressed look from Klarion, who responds, “If I could have done that I would have already. You severely overestimate the capabilities of magic and underestimate the power of our foe. Not surprising honestly, he has been taking his sweet time. If anyone else had found that damned thing we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

“What do you mean?” Tim finally finds his voice, hollow and strained as it sounds to his own ear. “Do you know what happened to to Joker?”

With a sharp laugh, Klarion nods. “Oh yes. You would too, but for the nature of the beast.”

“Just cut the cagey shit and fill us in already,” Jason growls, obviously growing short on patience. Tim can’t really blame him. Klarion can be a pain in the ass to deal with on the best of days.

Klarion raises an eyebrow slightly, but deigns to explain nonetheless. “It doesn’t have a name, but it is an immensely powerful and ancient, magic weapon. Supposedly it was created to destroy what it deems to be redundant universes by granting godlike powers to those who meet certain qualifications.”

“And Joker meets those qualifications?” Tim asks.

“Probably.” Klarion shrugs. “I never bothered to learn them for myself. A dead universe wouldn’t be much fun to play in after all. Regardless, thanks to its power, I can’t even begin to use my magic against Joker. That’s why I’m here. To offer my assistance to you.”

“Sounds like there’s not much you can do, blue boy.” Jason pauses, turns to look at Tim with a look on his face that Tim’s not real sure about. “Unless I’m missing something?”

Tim grimaces, allowing himself to absently scratch Teekl behind the ears, which feels a little weird knowing they’re not a real cat, but it’s comforting nonetheless. “There might be one way, but… it’s not exactly a good one.”

“Good isn’t what I do anyhow, so do tell.” The grin that spreads across Klarion’s face is more than a little unnerving.

“We need…” Tim hesitates, glancing at Jason. “We need to go back in time… and kill the Joker.”

“Delightful!” Klarion croons and Teekl lets out a purr that makes Tim’s stomach turn.

Jason is already shaking his head though. “Baby bird, you know I’m always down for killing Joker, but… messing with fucking time travel? That shit never goes the way you want it to.”

“I know.” Tim agrees. He’s well aware of the risks, having met two future versions of himself who were both murderous assholes despite his vows to change that future. “But as it stands I can’t think of any other way to stop this. If Klarion’s right--”

“I am.”

“-- then what are we supposed to do on our own, Jay? Even Clark couldn’t stand up to that monster! He’s just going to keep hunting us down like it’s some sick game until he gets bored and finishes us off. It’s hopeless right now, but… two months ago? When we know where Joker would be? Where we know what to do? We can stop all of this from ever happening.”

“And then what?” Jason gestures, angrily, with on hand. “Bam! Kill the Joker. Then what, kid?”

Tim stares back at Jason, levelly, because they both know what would need to happen after that, but neither of them really want to voice it.

“Besides—” Jason avoids Tim’s gaze. “—Isn’t the universe fucked anyway? Even if we kill Joker, some other fucker will just grab the artifact and that’s it for the universe. If we’re so determined to go back and bust something, why not the damn thing itself? I mean if it’s not even supposed to exist in the world it shouldn’t cause a problem, right? So why don’t we do that?”

That’s Jason for you always asking the exact right questions, but any hope Tim had that Jason could be right disappears when Klarion giggles. “Are you serious? Honestly, don’t make me laugh. It has the power to grant someone all the abilities of a god and you think you can destroy it? You’d never even find it. You already forgot it existed, even though you knew all about it two weeks ago. It doesn’t want you to stop it, as much as an object ‘wants’ anything. It’s a machine that will keep repeating this process until the universe is either destroyed or changed enough to sate it.”

That’s what Tim was afraid of. Klarion had said that the nature of the beast was that people who should know about it, didn’t. Something powerful enough to rewrite the memories of an entire universe wasn’t something easy to destroy or defeat.

“Jesus.” Jason hisses, low and with feeling. “Just how powerful is this thing?”

“Apparently its creation devoured an entire universe of magic users… but that might just be a legend.” Klarion hums as he studies his fingernails. “Sufficed to say, destroying the artifact is not an option. Killing Joker, though, that has distinct possibilities. If nothing else it might make this universe unique and not worth erasing.”

“How the fuck do you even know any of this?” Jason obviously isn’t liking being outnumbered here.

Klarion rolls his eyes. “I do read books after all. Now that that’s solved! Shall we put this plan in motion? Your universe destroyer might be taking his time playing his cat and mouse game, but I don’t fancy a battle with someone who makes my magic look like parlor tricks.”

A shudder runs through Tim’s body as he breathes in. “July twenty-fifth is the last time we knew where Joker was before all this. He was in--”

“You don’t need to tell me all that.” Klarion waves off Tim’s explanation as he walks by on his way to the other side of the room. Teekl leaps up, joining their witch. “Only whichever of you is going needs to know where. I just need to know when.”

Jason scowls. “You can only send one of us?”

“You’re lucky I can do that much.” Klarion kicks a few things out of the way and begins setting up his circle. “That choice is for the two of you to make, but it’s not as if it really matters. Once your mission is complete this instance will cease to be. Probably. Time isn’t really my forte. Chaos is.”

“We know,” Tim mutters, then turns to Jason. “Jay, you should go.”

“Why?” Jason gives him the most incredulous glare Tim has ever gotten in his life.

“Haven’t you always wanted to kill Joker? Here’s your chance. Besides you’re just the better person for the job.” Tim lies. Mostly lies. It’s true Jason, who’s killed before, is more prepared to deal with this job, but that’s not why Tim wants him to go. He’s being selfish. He’s… “It’s just better if it’s you.”

Jason narrows his eyes, like he’s seen straight through Tim’s bullshit and opens his mouth to probably say so, when there’s a loud crash from somewhere else in the building. An eerie giggle echoes through the hallway beyond the room they’re hiding in.

Klarion, now hunched over the circle with his eyes closed, lifts his head slightly and opens one eye. “No more time for chatter, birdies. Let’s go.”

Tim stands up, ignoring the incredibly disturbing sight of Teekl transforming into their more humanoid form. He fishes in the pocket of the jacket for his collapsed bo staff as he starts for the door. “Go, Jay, I’ll hold him off until--”

Jason grabs Tim before he can walk passed him and pulls him into a tight hug. For a moment Tim is half crushed against his brother’s chest and everything is still. Then Jason whispers, his voice cracking with emotion. “I’m sorry, Li’l Red.”

In that second, Tim feels his heart sink into his stomach, but he can’t even speak before the wall of the room comes crashing down, debris falling like a curtain to the floor revealing the figure of Joker grinning at them more wild-eyed than ever before. Jason shoves Tim away and immediately Tim feels something with fur and claws grab him by the arms from behind. Heedless of Teekl’s warning growl, Tim struggles against their grip. “Wait! Jason! Please! Please don’t!”

He doesn’t listen. He never listens. Please this can’t be happening!

Jason pulls his guns out and shots ring out. Bullets stop, seconds before hitting Joker’s head, falling harmlessly to the floor. Jason keeps shooting.

Joker laughs with hysterical glee as a crowbar appears in his hand. “Oh! I nearly forgot that I’d get to kill you all over again! This is going to be such a joy for me, you don't even know!”

“Jason!” Tim screeches as Teekl drags him backwards, their claws digging in deeper and deeper as he struggles to get free.

Vaguely he hears Klarion say something that might be, “Oh that does sound much more interesting!”

But he’s not paying attention, because at that moment Jason runs out of bullets and Joker’s grin widens impossibly. “All done now? Is it my turn already?”

“Fuck you!” Defiant to the end, Jason chucks both guns at Joker’s head. It only buys him a second more. Joker shrugs them off and lunges forward. He grabs Jason’s face and drives him down into the tiled floor. The crowbar falls towards Jason’s skull and Tim wails for his brother. He can’t save him. He can’t save anyone. Angry at the world, at Jason, at himself, Tim screams his throat raw as time slows down.

Abruptly Teekl’s gone. Nothing’s holding Tim in place any longer, but the world around him is rushing by in a blur of color and movement like a video rewinding. Then everything stops so suddenly that Tim’s caught off balance and falls against a crate. Bewildered, he looks around and realization sets in alongside a building dread. He’s nowhere near Gotham. There’s a steady beeping sound coming from a small device in the middle of a dirt floor. A woman sobbing as she fights with a padlock on a pair of iron doors. And a badly beaten teen in the old Robin suit laying on the floor by her feet.

Klarion severely overshot.

Tim breathes. He needs to get out of here right now. Break a window above him and crawl out. Just go. He can still accomplish his goal in this time period, he shouldn’t screw up the timeline any more than he absolutely has to. He can’t know what that will cause.

But… Jason’s right there. He couldn’t save his brother in the future. Couldn’t stop him from dying. Again. But here…

Shaking himself into action, Tim stands upright. He doesn’t have time for this. This building is going to go up in less than two minutes. He needs to act now. Without giving it anymore thought, Tim steps out from behind the stack of crates and heads for the doors.

Sheila jumps at his sudden appearance, looking at him with fear and hope in her eyes, pleading, “Please, help us. Please…”

Tim spares her a brief glance, but doesn’t speak. He ignores the bomb, he knows he can’t disarm it in time, it’s a Joker special. Too convoluted to solve. Instead he takes a lock pick set from his boot – Always, always be prepared – and goes to work on the padlock. It takes longer than he’d like and by the time he finishes the annoying beeping that’s counting down to their doom is getting louder. They don’t have much more time. He looks up at Sheila as he pulls the chain away from the doors. “Get them open, I’ve got Jason.”

Sheila nods, unquestioning, not even seeming to register that this complete stranger knows Robin’s identity. Well so much the better for him. As she pushes the doors open as wide as possible, Tim lifts Jason gently by his less damaged arm, hooking an arm around his back. Jason groans, weakly. “B?”

“No,” Tim answers, softly. “But I’ve got you, Jay. It’ll be okay.”

Sheila returns and supports Jason’s other side. Between the two of them, they manage to put some distance between them and the building. Tim pushes them down behind a rock seconds before the blast sends red hot shrapnel flying past their hiding spot. Holding Sheila’s head down, Tim silently laments that the rock is really too small of a shield, but it does it’s job well enough.

Slowly, the commotion dies down and Sheila, shaking like a leaf, her arms wrapped tight around Jason, looks up at Tim. “I-is it over? Are we really still alive?”

“Yeah.” For better or worse. Tim shakes off the wave of anxieties rising in his chest as he stands up. “Yeah, we’re alive.”

She turns her attention to Jason. “…He tried to save me. Even after…”

“… That’s what Robin does.” Tim coughs to try and hide the sadness in his voice.

There’s a silence between them as Sheila starts patching up Jason’s injuries. Then she glances at Tim again, stops, and stares at him. “Who-Who are you?”

“I’m…” He trails off, uncertain, and just then he hears the sound of a jeep growing closer. He sighs. “Nobody important. Stay here.”

She nods, hesitantly, and Tim steps away from the rock heading back towards the smoldering remains pile of rubble that was once a warehouse. He watches as the jeep slides to a halt and Batman jumps out and runs to the wreckage. Everything about this is a goddamn mess.

“Batman!” Tim yells as he gets close enough to be heard.

Bruce doesn’t seem to hear him.

“Over here! Hey!” Tim tries again, but that doesn’t work either. Dammit. “Bruce!”

That does it. Probably because no one in the area but Jason should know to call him that when he’s in the Batsuit. Bruce whips around and looks straight down at Tim panic turning to suspicion. Looks like he’s about to demand Tim’s identity immediately, Tim ignores it and jerks his head towards Jason and Sheila. The tension bleeds out of Bruce just a bit as he spots the pair. In the end he doesn’t speak to Tim, just rushes past him to where Sheila and Jason are.

Sheila looks up at Bruce as he approaches, saying, with some trepidation, “He needs some serious treatment, but… I-I think he’ll be okay. I hope he will. We can take back to the camp and I’ll treat him there.”

Without really responding, Bruce gathers Jason into his arms with intense care. Tim watches in silence as Sheila runs ahead to the jeep with Robin’s cape spreading it out in the back and climbing in, waiting for Bruce to lay Jason there. His job here is done. It’s time to leave. Jason will be okay. It will all--

“Come on.” Bruce’s voice rumbles beside him.

“I—” Tim starts to shy away, but Bruce, dexterous as ever, manages to grab him by the elbow while still holding Jason firmly.

“You need treatment too.” Bruce indicates Tim’s left arm with a tilt of his head.

Tim looks down and frowns at the blood soaking into his sleeve. Teekl had really dug their claws in it seems. “…Okay.”

Meekly, he follows Bruce back to the jeep, jumping into the passenger seat while Sheila and Bruce situate Jason in the back. Some part of Tim is screaming that he should run. Now. While they’re distracted. Leave. Don’t give Bruce anymore chances to figure him out.

He doesn’t.

He’s tired, drained beyond even his normal capacity, and, Bruce is right, he needs his injuries treated. So he just closes his eyes and leans back as the car starts and they speed away to save the boy who should have died.

[collecting-stories]

Illicit Affairs - Rafe Cameron

Request: can i request a rafe x reader where she is john b's older sister? like they're trying to keep their relationship on the DL, but get tired of it after a year or so?

A/N: Sorry this took so long to get to, just getting back into writing more regularly again. 

The TS Anthology Series | Outer Banks Masterlist

✰ you showed me colors you know I can’t see with anyone else ✰

_ . ◦ ⭐︎:*.☾.*:⭐︎◦∙._

Your brother had left you a text just before the news began cycling their storm watch, warning everyone to stay inside and be careful of Agatha, the incoming hurricane sitting off the coast of the Outer Banks. The text said simply that he and Pope were heading out to surf the surge. You texted back a ‘come back in one piece’ and sent the same sentiment to Pope before leaving the Chateau.  

The hurricane should have warranted a reason to stay inside for both you and John B but you knew better than anyone that your dad’s disappearance had left him restless and grieving. Running into something seemed the only way he knew how to cope, even if that something was a massive hurricane. You were probably running into something too, if you were totally honest with yourself. And it was just as deadly as a category five storm.  

-

A midyear rager at the boneyard, that lacked the usual buffer created by tourons in the spring and summer, meant more kooks, or just more kooks crossing the line onto pogue territory. Nothing that should’ve inspired any real issues, but Rafe Cameron was hovering closer to the keg than you would’ve liked so you took it upon yourself to move him.  

“Don’t you guys have like...a yacht party or something you could go to?” You asked, stepping into the semi-circle Topper, Rafe, and Kelce had seemed to make. All three of them looked at you, Rafe’s eyes travelling over you appraisingly. You grimaced, “if my brother sees you hanging around-”

“What’s he gonna do?” Rafe challenged, “its a free beach.”

“You know the boneyard is on the cut.”

“What are you, beach patrol?” Kelce laughed. “Go bother someone else.”

“Just get off the cut...you aren’t welcome here.” You replied, stepping away from the three of them. You turned, heading away from the group in search of any of your friends, you knew that Rafe was right, you couldn’t actually kick anyone off the beach, but you also knew that John B had been in rare form since your dad died and seeing them would only give him an excuse to get himself into trouble.  

You were practically a yard away from the keg when you felt someone grab the waistband of your shorts. Turning, you jerked away from them and slammed your hand against their wrist.  

“Shit, those self-defense lessons at the club really paid off.” Rafe commented, rubbing his wrist.  

“What do you want Rafe?”  

Ever since you had taken the job at the island club it had become Rafe Cameron’s personal mission to drive you crazy. He seemed hellbent on bothering you on a near constant level. At least away from work you rarely had to see him, this night being a rare and unwelcome exception.  

“Have you thought about-”

“No.” You shook your head, crossing your arms over your chest. In the last two weeks he’d asked you out nearly a dozen times. You always said no but you were all to aware of that split second before the no when you considered saying yes. It was just John B that held you back. If anyone in the world took the pogue/kook shit seriously, it was your brother and his friends. There was no way they would be cool with you dating Rafe Cameron.  

“Just one date...you don’t have to tell anyone. If that’s the issue?” He suggested, as if he could read your mind.

“Maybe the issue is that I don’t like you.” You challenged, watching the way he smiled, knowing that he knew you were bullshitting him. You wanted to wipe the smug grin off his face.  

“Whatever you wanna tell yourself.” He replied.  

You wanted some brilliant comeback to throw back at him but when you opened your mouth the only thing that came out  was, “do you even date?”

“For you I’d make an exception. We could go over to Chapel Hill if you’re worried about your brother.” He offered, always ready with an answer.  

You were worried about John B, he would be livid. He was so consumed with the idea that your dad was out there somewhere, stranded at sea and people should be looking for him. You had been placating him since Peterkin told you that he was lost at sea, presumed dead, but in all honesty, you had moved on already. Maybe it was heartless but you weren’t fooled into believing that the loss of your dad was a tragedy.  

“Let me show you a good time,” Rafe said, hooking a finger through the belt loop of your shorts and moving closer to you.  

“You can try,” you said, pulling away from him, “but I doubt it’ll work.”

-

You should have known then, even as you agreed to the date, that there was no need to try on Rafe’s part. He was an asshole sometimes but you had certainly never been accused of having great taste in guys. That might have been the most surprising thing about Rafe, not that he was exactly the kind of guy you would usually go for on paper, but that off paper, behind closed doors, he was different. Softer. It made sneaking around the island to see him completely worth it.  

And as Agatha bared down on the island, the decision to drive to his house as the hurricane was on the horizon seemed like a good one. It was already raining heavily when you parked your car two houses down from his, walking through the downpour to Tanney Hill. The power on the cut was on its way out, you’d driven passed already dark houses and you were sure the Chateau had lost power by now. The eight seemed to be hanging onto its power and the lights on the patio flickered as you knocked on the door.  

Wheezie, the sole secret keeper of your very secret tryst with Rafe, was the one who opened the door. Though you knew she had a tendency to double cross people, so far, she hadn’t told anyone about the two of you, a possible record in her books, and you couldn’t help being thankful. As much as you hated sneaking around, there was no way John B was going to take this development in your life lightly.  

“My brother’s upstairs.” Wheezie supplied, pushing the door wide enough that you could walk through.  

“Thanks,” you skirted passed her, taking the steps two at a time and heading down the hall to Rafe’s closed door. Wheezie had decorated hers with a wooden sign and Sarah’s had a cork board on it. Rafe’s was always blank though, just a plain white door that blended in with everything else in the hallway.  

You didn’t bother knocking on the door, pushing it open. Rafe was laying on his bed, eyes fixed on his phone, the sound of the stereo playing some R&B song you weren’t entirely familiar with. When the door opened, he turned his head to the side, confused for a split second before sitting up and swinging his legs over the side.  

“Hey, what’re you doing here?” He asked, already reaching his hand out to pull you closer as you walked over to him. He grabbed the zipper of your hoodie and tugged, getting you to step between his legs.  

“John B’s surfing with Pope and JJ’s still at work so I figured I’d sneak out and come over. See how you rich folk are faring in this storm.” You teased.  

He hummed, nodding, as he placed his hands on your hips. “Your concern is overwhelming,” he laughed, tilting his head up so that you would lean forward and kiss him. You complied, placing your hands on the sides of his face as you did. When you pulled away, he smiled, “you should stay over.”

“My brother will freak out if he gets home and I’m gone.” You replied, stepping away from Rafe just so that you could climb on his bed, pushing his phone away to make yourself comfortable.  

Rafe opened his mouth to say something before thinking better of it and shaking his head, going with a simple, “I doubt he’ll notice.”

“That a massive storm is slamming into the coast and his sister is missing from the house at the peak of it? Give my brother a little more credit babe, he’ll notice that I'm gone.” You replied.  

“Then tell him you’re here and you’ll see him in the morning.” Rafe said, turning to face you. He put his hands on your ankles as if he was grounding you there, “You know this sneaking around thing is shit.”  

Whenever Rafe wanted you to do something that you didn’t particularly want to do, like stay the night at his house or go somewhere that someone might see you, he always claimed to think that sneaking around was shit. A circumstance of the relationship that he hated when it was convenient to him, you knew as well as he did that admitting to anyone that you were dating was something neither of you had the luxury of doing.  

“I can’t, he’ll freak out.” You replied, “this is just...a difficult time for him and he doesn’t need any new issues.”

Rafe fell back onto the bed, turning his head to look at you, “he’s 16, he doesn’t need you to hold his hand through every little thing.”

“I’m not ‘holding his hand’ Rafe, he’s my little brother, I’m worried about him.” You reasoned.

“Yeah, maybe, but here you are. Every free moment you get you spend here...this isn’t just an escape when you don’t feel like dealing with your brother and his antics. You know John B and his friends aren’t my favorite people but I’ve kept my mouth shut about them. I think the least you could do is be honest with yourself...I know you want to tell him, you wouldn’t have come here in the middle of the storm-”

“I wanted to see how you guys were doing.”

“Bullshit.” Rafe replied, “you know it’s getting worse out there and there’s no fucking way I’m letting you drive back to the cut in this weather.”  

You sighed, you had known that Rafe wouldn’t let you leave once you got here. They were already advising people to stay inside and not leave the house when you decided to drive to the eight, there was no way it was safe to be out. And there was no way Rafe was going to let you risk your safety driving all over the island because John B might get upset that you weren’t home.  

“I know.”  

“So text him, tell him you’re staying at a friend’s.” Rafe urged, “it doesn’t have to be my house...you can tell him that when you’re ready.” he conceded.  

“I’ll tell him soon. I don’t like sneaking around,” you admitted, pulling your phone from your pocket and texting John B that you had gone to a friend’s house for the night and would be home once the storm passed. You sent a mirrored text to JJ, in case he was already at the Chateau, before laying your phone on the nightstand. “I don’t want us to be a secret...it’s just, complicated.”

“I know, trust me.” Rafe sat up, scooting closer to you on the bed so that he could kiss you. Keeping this secret forever was impossible, you’d have to come clean soon and Rafe was right, you had been handling John B with kid gloves ever since you had found out that your dad was dead. Telling him you were dating a kook, and Rafe at that, was an unavoidable conversation that you had been trying not to have for the past year almost. And every time you stepped out of the house you considered telling him all over again. Eventually you’d give, but it didn’t have to be tonight.  

[silvanable]

Overblot Theory (pt1?)

okay okay all my twst darlings, i bring forward a theory. and please bear with me because this is written in the middle of the night-morning & i am thriving on sleep drugs that aren’t doing their job, so there’s likely a million typos and half of it or more might sound like drunk rambling the irony of never being drunk lol.

also i’m tagging now that this contains spoilers i guess? i haven’t finished chapter 5 ( i’m still fairly early in ) yet but i’m literally going to be talking about everything i’ve seen thus far regarding overblot and those effected by it.

aNYWAYS—

so we all know how overblot works right? nasty emotional build up, using too much magic, and then sNAP!

that’s great and dandy, it seems like a build up that gets to a tipping point and suddenly that last drop cracks the glass and everything comes flooding out— right?

but what if overblot isn’t actually that flood point where they turn? what if the overblot is the whole process, not when they are consumed by the negative energies and black magic that force such a violent change on them?

so in every chapter thus far, there is always a few scenes were were see the ink dripping. gradually as we progress through the chapters, we watch as the character begins to spiral and is consumed by negative emotions. each time we see the ink, it splotches more and more, growing and forming a larger puddle each time.

BUT— each case is slightly different from the others, despite having the same trends with each dorm and the inevitable overblot, each character has a different way of reaching that.

so we have the general order everyone overblots for plot purposes, but in my opinion the fact riddle didn’t overblot sooner was fucking astounding. we’re shown how liberally he used his magic and the super strict and toxic mindset he had which was forced on him since childhood. then after each scene we saw of the ink pooling, riddle would gradually become worse in the chapter, until the moment he snapped and became a homicidal maniac.

leona was similar, except instead of him using his magic, he was consumed by his own emotions more and more. it was his hatred from his brother, his family, and his home that started it. then the issue of being second still in nrc to someone like malleus. many reasons to why leona is a lazy ass but i love him still oof but because he kept these things contained, letting it boil and seep into him, it made these things so much worse than they should have been. so ultimately when his plan fails, after trying so hard and becoming so desperate, there’s a surge and he transforms.

azul goes down a combined path, he uses his magic constantly, even with a buffer like a contract and his crystal, and is consumed by his own self loathing and emotions that send him spiraling. the final straw is the moment when his contracts are stolen and disintegrated by leona. but it was already shown throughout chapter 3 that azul has a moment of breaking, despite his composure, was spiraling the moment yuu started poking around. and being outsmarted did nothing for his barely existing pride to begin with.

jamil, out of all of them, but far hurt me the most because all of his sly tactics and underhanded tricks were really because he was trying to fight so he could be himself. fully heartedly believe if grim and yuu never showed up, he would have never overblotted. granted what jamil does is a big dick move but his entire life he’s been repressed and he has no freedom to himself what so ever— essentially he was forced to be an adult since he was a child and lemme tell you that ain’t fun. the one thing i consider a key part here is not the fact his emotions got the better of him in the end, but the fact he used his unique magic on the entire fucking scarabia dorm.

as for vil, granted i don’t know much, but pride and especially vanity will no doubt play a lot into his overblot all because of his rival neige. he’s already a very strict and disciplined character who holds himself very high and strives for nothing less than perfection... so we all know how that ends.

each one of them showed similar tendencies. all of them have some sort of inferiority complex, repressed emotions, and magic is always involved in small or excessive quantities. what i think is going on is not that suddenly they are overwhelmed— no, the overblot starts before anyone notices. that’s what the ink represents.

let’s assume that everyone, no matter what, always has blot, regardless if their magic crystals are ‘clean’ and ‘clear’. after all, the crystals are supposed to be an extra barrier between the user and magical backlash, but emotions have to play a part in this too. so while the crystals protect from magic blot, emotional is different... they just kind of soak that disgusting ink right up and channels all their magic right through it and the crystals only soak up so much of it.

so everyone has some blot? great. but what’s the point of this? i’ll tell you! it’s that each person handles it differently. our boys here all swallow their complaints, the crap they deal with, disagree with, or have been served, and try to shove it into some deep, dark, forgotten pit to never see again. except it doesn’t work, because the more they use magic the more it warps those feelings, feeding off of it. it uses emotions as a sort of super charge for the magic, which creates more negative magic and amplifies the emotions.

so the overblot had already started by the time yuu and grim show up, just some of the boys had decent wraps of it all and didn’t have a nosy human ruining their fucking plans.

okay, kidding, i don’t believe that yuu and grim play a super major part, as eventually the overblots would happen with our without them. either way, i don’t think there would have been a way to stop it without knowing and solving the problem before the transformed and needing anyone in the near vicinity with ability to beat the shit out of the monster controlled student & knock some sense back into them.

i think that by the time yuu shows up, it’s already too late. that first moment we see the ink drip and gather? that’s the start and there’s no stopping it. why? because that was the overblot, the end of filling up and the beginning of tipping without a way to reverse it.

instead of having their emotions all tucked away, the magic has morphed into something nasty, too strong, and they might not even know it. at this point, it’s less about them actually accumulating blot and more that every negative emotion and burst of magic they let out begins to accelerate the build up attracting every little bit of negativity and magic whether or not they actually feel or do anything. the transformation is not the overblot finally happening, it’s the completion, when all that black magic, blot, and emotions burst free from its cage and utter consumes the host.

now i’m not going into the theory i have about the overblot forms and the shadows, because that’s an entirely different topic for me about possession and the great 7, but what i’m trying to say here is—

the overblot is the whole process, not just the transformation and monstrous shadow lurking behind the newest asshole victim.

the ink forming, the unstable spiral each character falls into, and finally the explosion that transforms them. it’s the magic and emotions that muddled together taking on an intent of its own, a will of nothing but chaos and destruction, taints their magic crystals, and uses the host as a means of executing it by clouding their minds and giving them the power they always wanted and needed.

after all, when you’re drunk on power and fed by trauma, are you really going to listen to reason or do what you want because you finally have the ability to do so? of course you’re going to listen to the little voice that says to destroy and take it all for yourself!

[chaoticpuff17]

Something Wicked

part 8

masterlist

She woke up the next morning to roses. Red roses sat on her bedside table. They were beautiful, but the sight of them made her want to vomit. Her entire body ached from the treatment Jin had given it the day before.

He’d made her stay in bed the rest of the day cooing and fussing over her. He’d brought her meals in bed, sat beside her keeping her curled into his side as he played sappy romantic movies on the tv. The entire time he’d trailed sweet kisses up and down her neck when he wasn’t running his fingers through her hair. She wanted to chop all of it off. The entirety of her being felt tainted. Since she couldn’t escape, she wanted to at least soak in a bath so scalding it would sear the memory of his touch off her skin, but Jin wouldn’t allow that. He hadn’t left her side since the beating. Instead she had to live with the phantom feeling of the whip against her skin. It didn’t help that the welts left behind were throbbing. Every time she moved she was hit with a new wave of pain.

But Jin didn’t seem to care about that. He sat beside her, cooing over her as though she were a small child. Maybe in his eyes she was. The way he had called her poor and stupid on multiple occasions had not escaped her notice. Jin was an arrogant man though. He always had been. Making her seem small and insignificant fed his ego. He was the great Kim Seokjin after all. No one was as great as him, not in his eyes at least. And at this moment, she felt small. She felt insignificant. It was made all the worse by the way she allowed herself to be moved around and cooed over like a doll by Jin. She hated herself. She hated him.

And he was still beside her now. It was a terrible continuation of the day before except with the addition of roses and breakfast in bed. Jin still hadn’t allowed her out of bed for more than a few minutes to use the bathroom, under his strict supervision, of course. He wasn’t letting her out of his sight, though he had been kind enough to reapply the ointment to the welts that covered the entire length of her body.

She wanted to rip his arms off of her. She wanted to gouge his eyes out, but she couldn’t do either of those things. Jin was bigger than her. He was faster than her, and he held all the cards. She was woefully ill prepared to deal with this version of him. There were no buffers here. There was no place to hide. There was only Jin and his deluded version of love.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the sharp sound of Jin’s phone ringing. It startled them both, but Jin shushed her tucking her head back against his chest as he reached for the device.

“What?” He barked into the device clearly displeased by the interruption. He was on leave. The office knew not to interrupt him unless the world was ending.

“What?” His tone was sharper now, his eyes flashing dangerously as he stiffened under her. “You idiots.” He snapped, and she jumped against him still jittery and skittish from the day before. “No. Don’t touch anything.” He seethed breathing out a deep sigh. “You imbeciles will just fuck it up. I’ll deal with it.”

He ended the call running a hand through his hair before turning to her with a sweet smile. “I have to take care of a problem at the office.”

She perked up at that. “You’re leaving?” She tried her best to keep the hope out of her voice not wanting to upset him.

He pulled her close placing a soft kiss to her lips. “Just for a little while, darling. I’ll be back before you know it.” He promised feeling almost incandescently happy. She was concerned for him. She cared for him. He knew she did. She had just needed a little push to settle in.

“You’ll be a good girl while I’m gone, won’t you?” He asked tilting her chin up so that he was staring straight into her eyes.

“Yes, sir.” She whispered mind already running through all the ways she could try to get out while he was away. It would be the first time in days she hadn’t had his oppressive presence hanging over her like a dark cloud, her first breath of freedom.

“That’s my girl.” He smiled kissing her again before slipping out of bed to go put on work attire. As comfortable as he was in bed with his darling, he couldn’t show up to work in sweats and a hoodie.

When he was properly attired in his suit and tie he returned to the bedroom to find he sitting just as he left her propped against the pillows looking so small and fragile in his clothes.

“Stay in bed.” He ordered placing a kiss against her forehead. God, he loved kissing her. She was addictive, his own personal drug, his angel. “I’ll be back soon. Get some rest, darling.”

She nodded her understanding practically buzzing with anticipation of him leaving.

She waited after he left, just to be sure that she was alone before she moved. She didn’t want Jin to find her disregarding his request. She didn’t need any more trouble than she already had.

Once she was sure he was gone, she practically jumped out of bed, completely disregarding the way her body protested the movement. She tried the door first. She had failed the first time she had tried it, but she had been panicked then. It was worth another shot. Maybe there was a combination she had missed before.

As it turned out, there was not. Each time she tried, the keypad flashed red a glaring reminder of her failure. If she couldn’t figure out what number Jin had set he keypad to, who could? She had been at Jin’s beck and calls for years. She knew him best out of perhaps anyone, but she couldn’t figure out what he had programmed the damned lock to.

Her next move was to wander the penthouse looking for anything she had missed the hundreds of times she had been there before. Maybe there was something she had missed, another way out, somewhere to hide. Jin’s office was locked. She hadn’t expected it to be unlocked, but it was worth a try. She knew that Jin had a computer in there, as well as a work phone, of course he’d keep it locked. He couldn’t risk her having access to those.

An hour of searching the apartment had turned up nothing, a depressing amount of nothing. She was tired. She was battered, and she was beginning to feel hopeless. How had he had managed to make the penthouse such an effective prison? How long had he been planning this? It was all way to well thought out to have been a spur of the moment decision.

She dragged herself to the kitchen to make herself some tea. Nothing seemed so bad after a nice cup of tea, and Jin had stocked the kitchen with a lovely assortment of them.

It was the kitchen that turned out to be her saving grace. How had she missed it all the other times she had been in the kitchen? There, situated against the wall, was a phone, a beautiful little phone. She could have sobbed in relief as she made her way to it.

She picked it up dialing 119, bouncing on her heels as she waited for someone to pick up.

“Hello, darling.”  A voice cooed from the other end of the line sending her heart straight into her stomach. “Did you miss me that much, my darling? It’s only been an hour.” He chuckled completely unaware of her horror.

“I’ll be home soon.” He promised, and she could hear the smirk in his voice.

“I…I…” She didn’t know what to say. She hadn’t expected Jin to be on the other side of the line. How was he at the other end of the line?

“Unless of course you weren’t trying to call me, darling.” She froze hearing the warning in his tone. “But that’s impossible.” He cooed. “My darling would never.” She was trembling, and he wasn’t even there. “No matter.” He hummed. “The house phone only calls me.”

Damn it. She wanted to scream to the heavens in frustration. Of course the phone only called Jin. Of course he had thought of that already. What hadn’t he thought of?

“I had the phone specially programmed to only call me. I wanted you to have a way to reach me if you ever needed me when I was out or at work.”

She choked back tears as she tried to keep her composure. She couldn’t let him know she was upset. She couldn’t risk him knowing she had been trying to call for help. He probably already knew, but she needed to keep up the pretense.  

He thought they were in love. If she could make him believe that she was docile and sweet and utterly in love with him, there was a chance, however slim, that he would drop his guard. She could play along. She could bide her time. And with any luck, one day she would be able to escape.

“What can I do for you, my love?” He purred. “Is there anything wrong?”

“No, nothing.” She replied as breezily as she could. “I was wondering when you were going to be home. I was going to cook for us tonight, and I was wondering if you could stop by the store when you were done at the office.”

“Cook?” She could hear the smile in his voice, the smug bastard. “Sure, darling. What would you like me to pick up from the store?”

She breathed out a sigh of relief before rattling off a list of bullshit ingredients for the first recipe that came to mind. If it made Jin happy to think of her as the sweet little wife, she would be the sweet little wife, if only to survive. That was how she had dealt with Jin before. Play into his wishes, be what he expects, and he’s not quite as much of an asshole as he could be. She just needed to cater to him in a new way now. She could feed the delusion to keep herself safe until she could find a way out.

The key would be to keep up her mask. She could never let it slip if she wanted to pull this off. Jin was perceptive, arrogant, but perceptive. She would have to be flawless if she wanted this to work. He had to believe that she was really in love, really settling in. Lord help her if he figured out she was lying to him. She had a feeling that it would be worse for her than the night before. He wasn’t exactly a forgiving man. He never had been.

She had had a few hours to stew in her anxiety before Jin came home. It was early afternoon when she heard the door open. She jumped up to greet him almost scared of the reaction she would get. He had to have known she was lying when she said she had called about dinner, but she was praying that he would let it slide, just this once.

She was ready to face Jin’s wrath, but she was not expecting to be bowled over by eighty pounds of fluff in canine form.

“Jinnie?” She asked excitedly pushing the dog off her so she could sit up and take a proper look at him.

The dog was wagging his tail excitedly giving her a doggy grin as he did his best to reach her face to give her more doggy kisses.

“Hi, handsome boy.” She couldn’t help the happy tears that escaped her as she checked over the dog making sure he didn’t have any injuries. He had a tendency to escape when he was anxious, and he had a tendency to get into trouble with other strays. But he seemed alright. She couldn’t find any traces of blood on him. He was dirty, and he needed a good brushing, but he was alright.

She looked up at the human Jin, happy but confused. She had never expected him to bring her her dog. She’d been expecting an angry Jin, not her dog.

“How?”

“I thought he would make you happy.” He shrugged leaning against the wall giving the dog a wide berth. It had been hell trying to get the animal into the car. “Filthy creature.” He wrinkled his nose in distaste. He had considered finding her a nice purebred, but she seemed to like this obnoxious creature. Her phone was full of pictures of the two of them.

“Thank you.” She choked out before turning her attention back to Jinnie getting him to sit down so she could check him over again.

“He needs a groom.” Jin pointed out the distaste clear on his face. “You could use a spa day as well.” Her head shot up as she looked at him in confusion. “I can’t have either of you looking shabby, darling. I’ll call someone to come by.”

“Alright.” She agreed slowly rising from the floor keeping her fingers knotted in the fur around Jinnie’s neck. “Where are the groceries?”

Jin smiled pushing off the wall to approach her ignoring the way the dog growled at him. He pulled her close managing to give her a quick kiss before the dog pushed his way between them.

“I don’t appreciate being lied to, darling.” She froze trembling as he smiled at her. “Next time, I won’t be so generous.”  

part 9

[psalloacappella]

SSM21 Day 2. Festival

Pairing:  SasuSaku  Prompt: Festival  Title:  sparks will fly, they ignite our bones Tags:  AU - Modern Setting; First Dates; Wooing Lips burning against his, mouthing soft words in the detonation din.

(In which Sakura has the better aim.)

Ao3 | twt | full series link | @ssskmonth

“It’sa real date this time.” Each word’s punctuated by Naruto’s fist punching his opposite palm, driving home the importance of this. This being:  Street stall smells rich and piquant, a smoky-savory blend; lights flickering in kaleidoscopic, neurotic brilliance; children wild as free foals escaping their parents, weaving in and out of adults’ legs clutching cheap prizes and sparklers —

and him, Sasuke, on an actual fucking date with a woman with cotton-candy-colored locks who has been besting him every game and measure of skill imaginable, and his dumb plus-one buffer, the best friend, now droning on about how he needs to win her something.

“Anything!” Naruto throws his arms up, dramatic and exasperated, the only gearsetting he seems to have. “Teddy bear, ugly fish, keychain — literally any shitty prize to show her yer not a complete waste of time.”

“Sasuke!” Both men snap to, pretending to have been watching the whole time as Sakura jumps up and down, pumping a fist in the air. “I won again!”

With shiny, wide eyes, she places both her palms out in giddy anticipation to receive a stuffed bear donning a baseball cap of the local (terrible) team from a surly booth operator with a permanent frown.

“She’s comin’ this way!”

“I can see that,” Sasuke hisses. “You useless idiot.”

“Did I hear ‘charming wingman?’ ‘Kay, I’m gonna find some food. Give you two some time—”

“Don’t say it—”

“Alone.” Some strange tone aiming for sensual manifests as choking pigeon, and Naruto skips away as Sakura bounds up to Sasuke, smiling so wide he can see every perfect tooth.

“Did you see?” So proud of herself, arms laden with prizes. Some she’s already given away to cute children passing by, perhaps the sole supplier of noisemakers and soft bears. For a doctor in pediatrics, the urge to make smiles comes second nature. “Where’s he going?”

“Food, or something,” Sasuke murmurs, trying not to look as constipated and irritated as he had ten minutes prior — another gem from Naruto’s unasked-for criticism. “He’s left us alone.”

“Finally.” Definitely slipped out by accident, and Sakura grumbles over her mistake, red prickling her cheeks and chest. “Not that I dislike him, of course—”

“I do,” Sasuke says, absolutely deadpan. It takes her a moment.

“Uchiha Sasuke, did you just make your first joke?”

Ears burning in the cool night air, it’s his turn to smother his embarrassment. In lieu of further slip ups, he awkwardly gathers the items in her arms, a mishmash of unidentified thingamajigs and whatnots that you only find in curio shops or carnivals, and gallantly takes on their burden.

“Walk with me?”

So sure his voicebox just sustained a hairline crack; he hates himself for being nervous.

Eyes, hers, brighter than all the psychedelic frenzy swirling around them both, caught up in the haze; she has the uncanny ability to fade the rest to black, toss the entirety of the world’s existence aside.

Seeking to link her arm with his amid the mess of wares won, she succeeds and presses closer.

“I thought I’d die waiting,” she whispers into his sleeve. “I’ve been wanting you to notice me properly all night.”

Meandering, conjoined, down the main road; carved out for the celebration, buffeted by snack scents and other couples, groups of friends, and plenty of pairs pretending they’re still just and only that. Along the way she unloads her many winnings, surreptitious, in part kindly trying to relieve his burden but also calculating the space in her single occupancy apartment.

She watches people and lights, and he watches her.

Sakura’s gaze snags on a particular booth, more specifically a particular prize. Of the stuffed variety.

“Did . . .  something catch your eye?” he asks. Immediately thinks he sounds like an idiot. You know how to woo ‘em, and why does his inner voice sound like Naruto’s on this date, goddamn it —

Burying her cheek into his shoulder, she giggles and it threads beautiful, stringed tension in his throat and spine, symphonic, testing its own flex to see if she can orchestrate the rest of him. He wishes he could spin her around, lift her high in some filmesque climax, kiss her in the closing credits.

“Don’t laugh,” she says, “but I love slugs. Adore them, really. Gross, I know!” She raises her free hand and points directly at a giant stuffed slug on a high shelf behind the booth’s counter. “And honestly, I’d likely keep it in my office; the kids would love it.”

Sasuke knows, from what she’s disclosed, that these are sick kids, too. This ancient, gendered mating ritual is unavoidable and he’ll have to rise to the challenge. He must provide. Stupid, because she outstrips his earnings and likely will the rest of their life.

Says it like a throwaway, like no big deal:  “I’ll have to win it for you, then.”

The game? Aim. Darts. Doable if he’s sober and with equally (un)talented friends; ranging from Shino the sharpshooter to drunk and stumbling Suigetsu, he’s decidedly somewhere in the middle, but it should be enough raw talent to beat a festival game.

Sakura’s eyes are on him, excited. She dances a little from foot to foot, ready to cheer him on.

Dropping the rest of the prizes on the ground and shoving a fistful of coins at the booth operator, he smirks. Born ready, all those forced childhood sports camps and instrument lessons finessing his hand-eye coordination finally stepping up to the plate.

Imagine failing miserably three rounds in a row, the last one bouncing off the dartboard so violently it narrowly misses the sleepy booth operator. Sasuke grinds his teeth, jaw tight, wishing it’d met its mark.

To Sakura’s credit, she’s completely unperturbed. Almost makes it worse.

She pecks him on the cheek, scoring him through hot and fevered where her lips touch.

“Performance anxiety,” she quips, but her smile isn’t unkind. “Let me give it a try.”

Each dart that lands in the board does so with gusto, embeds itself deep into the sisal cork. As each one hits, Sasuke reflects they might as well be piercing him. The most painful blow is watching her indicate the bluebacked slug, winning it outright without his help, and squeezing it half to death in her arms.

They’re walking again, sans the rest of her prizes — left them for the booth operator, and whatever kids wander his way wanting toys with which to annoy their parents.

“You’ve been so quiet,” she says, shifting her slug under one arm and linking up with him again.  Sasuke shrugs against her. “I’m not sure what’s next with us.”

 He stops, figures it’s better to rip that bandaid off now, give her an out so he can save some face. Of course they’ve stopped on some coquettishly romantic bridge, arched over the still summer pond, a popular viewing spot for the night’s end fireworks.

She watches him expectantly, searching him with her sharp green eyes.

“What do you mean?” Her question is slow, puzzled.

What he means to say is something gentile. Instead he says, “You’re great at darts.”

She seems to sway, a physical manifestation of being caught off guard. Laughs. “Surprised me too! But you gave my arms a rest, so they were ready to win.” Curls her arm to indicate muscle, grinning.

Steps closer, melting through an unseen veil of personal space. Cherry scent; smoke.

“Could be all the shots you administer.”

“I guess we can call jabbing kids with needles a calling.” Mirroring him, she steps in too, and there’s not so much space between them anymore. “Good practice. You could come around sometime, see my work.”

Another tiny shuffle.

It’s time to break this. Sasuke inhales deeply, letting it out in measured beats. “Sakura—”

“If you’re mad you couldn’t win this for me,” she interrupts, “you’re being silly. I don’t care about that, you know.”

He tilts his head, and in spite of himself his hand wanders, brushing a stray strand of pink out of her face. “Hm?”

“I don’t,” she repeats, and sets her slug down on the wooden bridge. Breathes deeply before saying in a low, threaded voice, “What I care about is all the waiting.”

Sasuke feels it all fall into place. Oh. Oh.

“So come on, Sasuke.”

And before she’s even finished saying his name he’s kissing her, the last vibrations of his name caught on their lips, locked, and though the timing is perfect and picturesque, film archetype material as the fireworks charge the air around them, each one set off drawing ripple designs in the water beneath them, this thrill is unmatched, the way she wraps her arm around his neck to taste him deeper, the way he lifts her up to rest him on his hips and there’s nothing, has never been anything, quite like this.

Real fireworks pale in comparison.

Lips burning against his, mouthing soft words in the detonation din.

“The perfect end,” she whispers, “to a festival.”

[coldflame96]

Break My Fall

Summary: An unexpected fall and the terror of being a parent sometimes. 

Rating: T (only for Kyo’s tendency to swear)

Also found on AO3 and FF.net

The anime is in the middle of angst and I made the mistake of reading Another and crying about my faves so here’s some family fluff. 

Hajime loved going to the park. Normally, he would go by himself with some kids he met down the street, but today, he was with his dad and little brother. Mom had gotten called in to work and it was a nice day. They were in summer break so there was a lot more people than normal, lots of kids closer to his brother’s age. 

“Daddy, watch me!” he heard Kazuya call from his perch on top of the tube slide. His dad was sitting on the bench, smiling. “Alright, I’m watching!”

Kazuya slid down the (short and boring in his opinion) slide and then immediately hopped over to their dad like an overeager puppy. “Did I do good?”

Dad chuckled and ruffled his hair. “You did good. I’m proud of you.”

Hajime snorted quietly to himself. Four year olds got so excited over the smallest things. Was he like that when he was four…?

“Daddy, look!” He heard his brother call out again. “Nii-san’s so high!” And then Hajime looked down to see his younger brother waving at him. “Hi, Nii-san!”

He didn’t respond but gave a small little salute. 

His dad narrowed his eyes. “Hajime, what are you doing up there? You know you’re supposed to go down the slide, right?”

“Well, yeah, but going down is boring.” He shrugged. “I like it up here.” He’s always liked being in high places. 

“You need to come down.”

He pouted. “Why?”

“Because I don’t want you to fall and hurt yourself.”

He rolled his eyes. He wasn't a baby. Not like his brother. “I won’t. I come up here all the time with my friends.”

“Stop arguing and come down,” his dad snapped. “You’re setting a bad example.” And then he gestured to Kazuya, who was looking up at him with wide, shining eyes. 

He sighed. “Ugh, fine, geez.” And then he shifted where the first ledge was. “But I'm telling you,” he muttered, “I’m not a baby and I’ve never fallen from here.” Another step. “It’s not even dangerous and-” His foot slipped on the angle and...he was grasping at air. 

And then he hit the ground with a crack, face planting in the grass. 

And just as he was about to try and push himself up, he felt it. The white-hot searing pain through his arm. 

And he started screaming. 

Kyo couldn't even tell you what happened. One second, his eldest was talking back to him while climbing off from the tube slide, the next second, he’s hitting the ground with a sickening thud. And now Hajime is screaming bloody murder and Kyo’s heart is leaping through his chest. 

He practically teleports over to his son, rolling him over gingerly, cupping his cheeks. 

“Hey, hey, hey, look at me” he tries to shush gently. 

“My arm!” Hajime sobs out. “My arm hurts!”

HIs arm was currently covered by his other hand, so Kyo couldn’t get a good look at him. He gently tried to pry the fingers off, but Hajime just screamed louder. “NO IT HURTS!”

“I know but I need to look at it!” Hajime was starting to hyperventilate now, and they were definitely drawing a crowd, much to his annoyance. He grabbed the boy’s cheeks again. “Hey, I need you to calm down, okay? Look at me.”

It took a few seconds, but eventually his son managed to match his breathing with his own, but the tears were still streaming from his brown eyes. 

“Do you trust me?” he asked softly. HIs son nodded. “Okay,” he began slowly. “I need you to move your hand.”

Hajime’s eyes widened in horror. “But it hurts!” 

“I know but I can’t help you until I see what’s wrong.”

Hajime, like a cautious animal, moved his hand from his lower arm, and Kyo winced at the damage. It was already swelling, that wasn’t a good sign. If he had to take a guess from his many accidents as a teenager, it was probably broken. But just to be sure…

“Can you move it?”

“I-” Hajime sniffled, “ I can try.” Kyo watched as he attempted to move it, but then he stiffened in pain, eyes welling up, shaking his head frantically. Not something he could just walk off then..dammit. 

He sighed, “Alright,” he stood up, “let’s get you to the hospital.” And then feeling the eyes boring into his skull, he turned around and glared at the onlookers. “What are you all staring at?!” he growled. “Mind your own business!”

He heard a few women mutter about him being ‘rude’ and rolled his eyes. They were the rude ones, Just watching him and his kid like they were some sort of circus spectacle. 

Hajime was sitting in the grass, still holding his wrist, and Kyo grabbed him from under his armpits. “You can walk, right?” His son nodded. “Alright, then.” He held out his hand to his other son. “C’mon, Kazuya, we gotta take your brother to the hospital.” The younger one grabbed his hand obediently and clung to his shirt as they started walking towards the car. 

“Daddy,” Kazuya asked, looking up at him with those huge puppy dog eyes that he definitely got from Tohru. “Is Nii-san okay?”

He threaded his fingers through the fine, fiery locks. “He’ll be fine. He just hurt his arm, so we have to go to a doctor and make it better.”

The little boy had a dazed look, like he wasn’t quite processing what Kyo was saying, but then like a lightbulb, his eyes lit up and he gave a determined nod. “Good luck, nii-san!”

“Thanks,” Hajime muttered through gritted teeth. 

He helped Hajime in the front seat, careful not to jostle his arm. 

He couldn’t believe he was saying this. But this was one of those times where he wished he still lived with the Sohmas and had Hatori on call. 

They’d been waiting for almost an hour since they got here and he was getting impatient. And hungry. Hajime refused to meet his eyes and Kazuya had attempted to play with both of them, but had seemed to sense the sour mood and was now just sitting quietly next to him, occasionally swinging his feet and humming. For a kid that was basically his clone, he was really nothing like him at all and had a much more carefree attitude like his mother, which Kyo was not so secretly grateful for. With the little stormcloud over Hajime’s head, he was glad for the positivity as a buffer. 

He heard the door open and a friendly, but tired sounding voice call out, “Sohma-san?”

He stood up abruptly, nodding at his two sons. “C’mon, boys.”

She led them down a narrow hallway until she sat them down. “Just have a seat, gentleman, and the doctor will be with you shortly. 

“Great, more waiting,” he heard Hajime mutter irritably and even though he shot him a warning look, he couldn’t help but agree. It was starting to get late and he didn't have lunch. 

He heard a stomach growl that wasn’t his and then a small voice said shyly, “Daddy, I’m hungry.”

Me too, kid. He checked his watch and grimaced. Tohru would be getting off work soon. 

“I have to call your mother,” he mumbled to both boys. 

Hajime got a panicked look. “Is there any way you could not tell her where we are?” He paused. She would probably freak, but he already fucked up enough by letting Hajime get hurt in the first place...

“No, there isn’t,” he said flatly, as the call started to go through.  

“Kyo-kun!” she greeted happily like always and he felt that rush of affection. 

“Hey, Tohru,” he tried to greet casually. 

A pause. “Is something wrong?” He should’ve known he couldn’t get anything past her. Time to bite the bullet. 

“Sweetheart, don’t freak out, but I had to take Hajime to the hospital today and-”

“What?! Hajime-kun’s at the hospital?!”

“He hurt his arm, but he’s fine. I just wanted to tell you so you wouldn’t worry when you got home.”

Another pause. “I’m coming right away.”

He straightened at that. “Wait, Tohru, you don’t have to-” And there was the dial tone. So much for that. 

“Mom’s gonna kill me, isn’t she?” Hajime asked sadly, the first thing he’d really said to him directly since they left the park. 

He rolled his eyes. “Yeah, kill you with love and concern, maybe.”

Hajime huffed. “Why’d you have to tell her? She’s gonna show up now and she’s gonna have that disappointed look and she’s probably gonna cry. I can’t handle it when she gets like that.”

He resisted the urge to snort. That makes two of us. 

But before he could tell his son to ‘suck it up and deal like everyone else’, the doctor walked in. 

“Sohma-san?” they asked to confirm. He nodded and they clapped their hands together. “Ahh, good. So which one of you boys is Hajime-kun?”

Kyo jerked his chin towards the older one who stiffened in his seat as the doctor pulled a chair to sit in front of him at eye level. 

“Hi, Hajime-kun, I’m Doctor Tanaka.”

Hajime mumbled shyly, “Hi, Tanaka-sensei.”

“You’re here because you hurt your arm, is that right? Can I have a look?” They reached for Hajime’s arm gently, but he jerked away. 

“Hajime…” he started to scold, but the doctor put a hand up. 

“It’s alright,” they said, voice soothing. “I promise I’ll be gentle. May I?”

The boy slowly and cautiously uncovered his arm and reached it out, wincing as he did. He watched as Tanaka tutted at the arm, which was completely swollen and bruised now. “You had a bit of a nasty fall, didn’t you? Can you move it at all?”

Hajime shook his head. Tanaka grimaced. “I’m going to apologize ahead of time. I’ll try to be gentle.”

Hajime frowned. “What do you-” and then he got cut off by a hiss of pain as Tanaka squeezed his lower forearm area. Kyo’s protective instincts kicked in at seeing his kid in pain, but he had to tamper them back. Tanaka was a doctor. They were trying to do their job. And what right did he have to question them when he let his kid get hurt in the first place? They paused in the wrist area, and frowned, turning to him. “I’ll need to do an X-ray to get a visual of what sort of injury we’re dealing with.”

“Do whatever you have to,” he responded. 

“Alright then” They smiled gently. “Come along, Hajime-kun. I'm going to show you our laboratory.”

Kyo made to follow, Kazuya holding his hand and when they were halfway down the hall, someone who sounded suspiciously like his wife shouted out, “Hajime-kun!”

They all turned around and saw Tohru only 20 feet away, panting and sweating like she just ran a marathon, face stricken and hair blown wild.  Did she run here?!

Hajime looked panicked though. “Mom, I can explain-”

Tohru was kneeling in front of him, stroking his cheeks. “What happened? Are you okay?” Hajime flinched away as she accidentally bumped his arm and she paused, eyes widening in horror. “Your arm…” she started tearing up. “What happened?”

“I fell.”

“Fell…?” Her eyes somehow managed to get even wider and Kyo knew he should step in before she worked herself up. 

“Oi,” he bonked her on the head gently. “Did you really leave work to come all the way here?”

Her eyes flashed fiercely. “Of course I did! My baby boy got hurt!”

“Mom, please,” Hajime pleaded, cheeks heating up. 

Kyo put his hands on her shoulders, which were stiff with tension. “He’s fine.” No thanks to me. “We were just on his way to get his X-ray taken.”

“X-ray?” she said in a small voice. 

Kazuya let go of his hand and went to go tug on her uniform shirt. “Mommy, I’m hungry.”

That seemed to have done the trick. Like a switch, she went from Panic Mode to Mom Mode and Kyo would never not be impressed by how she did that. She knelt in front of their youngest.. “When’s the last time you ate, Kazu-kun?”

“I dunno. A while.” His tummy rumbled again and Kyo looked away in guilt. 

“We got a bit caught up here.”

She nodded in understanding. 

Tanaka cleared their throat. “If you’d like, there’s a cafeteria down the hall.” They smiled at Kazuya. “No point in keeping the little one waiting.”

He watched Tohru worry her lip between her teeth, looking back and forth between him and Hajime. 

“We’ll be fine. Why don’t you take Kazuya to the cafeteria? And get something to eat for yourself too. You haven’t eaten since breakfast, have you?”

She blushed, which was exactly the reaction he wanted from her and he smirked. 

“But you haven’t either..” she tried to argue feebly, but it had no effect when she resembled a tomato. 

He grabbed her shoulders, forcefully turning her. “I’ll be fine. I’m not even hungry, anyway.”

His stomach chose that moment to grumble in protest and he got four skeptical looks in response. He rolled his eyes. “Just go already. We’re holding up the line!”

She still looked unsure but she finally relented. “Come on, Kazu-kun, let’s get some lunch!”

“Yay!” Kazuya cheered and Kyo slumped in relief. And Tanaka, looking more amused by the interruption than annoyed, plowed forward. 

Hajime had a defeated look and he swallowed down the bile. 

The x-ray didn't hurt at all and had even been kind of cool. Tanaka-sensei brought him and Dad back to the original room, leaving them alone to get the results. He saw how his dad was being so much quieter than normal, jaw clenched, and knew he probably was in trouble. He attempted to lighten the mood. 

“So, uhh,” he started, “Thanks for getting Mom off my back.” He loved his mother of course, she was his favorite person if he had to pick, but it was a bit awkward when she got all sad. Made him feel like he kicked a puppy. 

His dad finally looked at him, stern. “What were you thinking?” 

He huffed. “Well, I didn’t fall on purpose.”

“That’s not what I meant.” He turned to look at him clearly now. “What were you thinking going on top of there in the first place?”

“Well, all the other kids were doing it and-”

“So because someone else’s dumb kids were doing it, you had to?”

He bristled in defense. “I’ve never fallen off before.”

“You fell off today. Why do you think we’re here?”

“Well, that’s-” he blustered, “You distracted me! It was the only time!”

“All it takes is one time, Hajime. What if I hadn’t been there? What would you have done?”

He blinked, unsure. “I-”

“And what if your brother had followed you up there and fallen? Then what?” Hajime felt the shame start to roil in his gut,” his dad continued, “And what if you had broken something else? Like your neck? Then what?!” 

“I-” he breathed and then burst out, “Well, I wasn’t thinking about that!”

“You weren’t thinking at all,” his dad finished off. “You’re 10 years old, you have a little brother who looks up to you, and I can’t watch you 24/7 anymore. You have to think about these things.” And then his voice softened, “If something happened to you, I don’t think I would ever forgive myself.”

The shame was in full force now and for the first time, he noticed his dad’s hands were trembling. 

“Were you…” he hesitated to finish the question, “scared?”

He expected the man to deny it because Hajime didn’t think he’d ever seen him scared of anything before, but he just mumbled softly, “Of course I was.”

Hajime felt his heart leap through his throat. His dad was the strongest guy he knew, and he managed to scare him…

“Dad,” he called out softly. “I-”

Just then the door opened and Tanaka-sensei came in holding some papers. “Alright, gentlemen, I have good news and bad news.” Dad sat up in attention. “The bad news is that Hajime-kun’s wrist is fractured.”

“What’s the good news?” Dad asked cautiously. 

Tanaka-sensei grinned. “Well, it’s a nice clean break, so it should heal up with no trouble at all so long as Hajime-kun behaves himself.”

They set the pictures down on the desk and sat in front of him again, looking very serious. “I have to set your wrist before I can put your cast on. I’m sorry but it’s not going to feel very good.”

Dad reached out his hand. “Squeeze me as hard as you need to. It’ll be over soon.”

After a painful process which consisted of a lot of gritted teeth and squeezing his dad’s hand until it was white, his wrist was sitting comfortably in a sling. 

“So how long do I have to wear this thing?” he asked curiously, already put out. 

“So long as you don’t attempt to do anything strenuous, your wrist should be healed enough in about 6 to 8 weeks. Until then, you should keep it in the cast and sling as much as possible.”

He frowned. He was only gonna have one arm? “How am I supposed to like get dressed and stuff?”

They gave him a sympathetic look. “It will be a challenge, but I’m sure your parents would be willing to help you.” They looked at Dad who nodded. 

He felt his cheeks heat up. They would have to dress him? “I can’t do that!” he argued, “That’s so embarrassing!”

“Too bad,” his dad said flatly. “You should’ve thought about that before being an idiot.”

He looked away in embarrassment. 

His mother chose that moment to come back, Kazuya in tow, and she squeaked a bit when she saw his sling. 

“Oh, your poor arm,” she put her hand on her chest. 

Dad grabbed her wrist gently. “Did you eat?”

“A little,” she said, “I wasn’t that hungry.” And then she perked up. “Kazu-kun ate a bunch though!” Her eyes twinkled. “He really takes after you.”

Dad rolled his eyes, bringing her closer to him. 

Kazuya, bored by their parents' antics, came running to him. “Nii-san, what is this thing?” And then he poked the cast. 

“Oi, don’t touch,” he scolded. Kazuya cocked his head. 

Tanaka-sensei clapped their hands. “Great, you’re both here! That makes this easier. I just need to go over a few things with you if you don’t mind.”

Hajime thudded his head lightly against the chair. He just wanted to get out of here. He was so hungry!

Tohru put the pot on a low simmer. She ended up starting dinner later than usual because of Hajime-kun’s accident so she settled for making a curry instead. 

Today has been a bit of a rollercoaster. She was glad Hajime-kun was okay, of course, that was her pride and joy, but Kyo-kun had seemed...tense. She’d noticed it the minute she’d found them in the hospital. He’d made himself a bit scarce since they got home, maybe she should check on him. 

Satisfied that her pot wouldn’t boil over, she popped the lid on and made her way to their shared room. 

She half expected her husband to be taking a nap (old habits died hard), but he was just sitting on their shared bed staring off into space, which was never a good sign. 

“Kyo-kun?” she called, making sure not to spook him. She watched as his sharp eyes flitted to her, and she deemed it safe to sit next to him, immediately getting a strong arm slung around her waist to pull her in against his side. 

“Everything alright?” she tried to gently coax him, which sometimes was all it took. 

“Hmm? Oh yeah, I’m just thinking..” he said absently. This time it wasn’t. She had a hunch she knew what he was thinking about though. 

“Hajime-kun told me what happened,” she said innocently. “He said he’s really glad you were there.”

Something flashed on Kyo’s face and he slumped and she knew she said the right thing. “He only fell because I distracted him.”

She knew that tone. That was the tone he used when he was blaming himself. “It was an accident, Kyo-kun. No one could’ve predicted what would’ve happened. Maybe he still would’ve fallen even if he wasn’t talking to you or maybe he would’ve.”

“It’s just-” he sighed, “Maybe if I’d noticed sooner he was up there, it wouldn’t have happened.”

“And maybe it would’ve anyway.” She played with his fingers around her waist. “You shouldn’t blame yourself for something you don’t have control over.” And she rested her head on his arm.  “You were there and that’s what matters, right?” 

She felt a kiss to the top of her head and he grumbled, “Would’ve been cool if I could’ve caught him before he landed.”

She giggled. “You’d be like a superhero.” He stiffened and she looked up to see him lost in thought. “Kyo-kun?”

He blinked. “Oh, sorry.” He chuckled. “I was just reminded of something someone said to me a long time ago.” And then he got a flat look. “I’d be a pretty lame superhero.”

“Well, you’re already the perfect one to me,” she said sweetly. 

To her delight, he got a light dusting of pink on his cheeks. He was still so shy sometimes and it was adorable. 

She felt a light rap to her temple. “Don’t you get tired of saying sappy crap like that?”

She grinned. “Nope! Never! I mean every word.”

“Of course you do,” he mumbled. 

She snuggled in to him. “You’re my hero and Hajime-kun’s and Kazu-kun’s and we’re all so lucky to have you.”

He looked genuinely touched at that and she knew it was the right thing to say. He leaned down to kiss her, just like they’d done millions of times before and it never got old. 

“I don’t know what I did to deserve you,” he sighed out, his gaze making her melt and he kissed her forehead sweetly. She noticed something out of the corner of her eye and she smiled. 

“I think someone wants to talk to you,” she pointed towards the door, where an embarrassed, blushing Hajime-kun stood.

“Um, Dad?”

Kyo-kun cocked his head in interest and Hajime-kun blushed deeper, avoiding their eyes. 

“I’m sorry. I ruined everyone’s day and caused problems because of my own clumsiness. I was being an idiot and it won’t happen again.” Tohru frowned. She wanted to protest to that because of course her son wasn’t an idiot, but it was probably for the best if she didn’t. Hajime-kun clenched his uninjured fist and his face got pinched like he was trying not to cry. “When I fell, I-” he said in a tight tone, “I was really scared. I’m really glad you were there.” He finally looked up, eyes watery. “You have every right to be mad at me.”

Kyo-kun’s face, which had been neutral but open before, softened into unabashed fondness. 

“C’mere,” he patted the spot on the bed next to his other side and Hajime-kun wasted no time sitting next to him and burying his head in his dad’s shoulder. 

Kyo-kun squeezed him tighter and kissed the top of his hair. “You know I love you, right?” Hajime-kun nodded mutely, giving a small sniffle to imply that he was more emotional than he wanted her to know about. She smiled gently, wrapping her arms around both of her boys, careful not to jostle her son's sling. 

“Mommy?” she heard a small curious voice chirp from the doorway. Not wanting her youngest to feel left out of the cuddlefest, she reached out a hand and he gasped, practically jumping on top of both her and Kyo-kun in his excitement. 

“Oi,” Kyo-kun grunted, “You’re heavy.”

Kazu-kun looked sheepish. “I’m sorry, Daddy. Did I hurt you?

A flash of something playful crossed Kyo-kun’s features. And then he grabbed his chest dramatically, falling back on the bed with a thump. “Ahh, I’m hurt! Can’t believe this..my own flesh and blood!”

Kazu-kun’s eyes were so wide and innocent, which he did not get from her and she had the baby pictures of her husband to prove it, courtesy of Shishou.

“Hang in there, Daddy!” Kazu-kun said with complete sincerity. “I didn’t realize I was so strong. Can I help?”

Kyo-kun peeked from under his arm. “You wanna help?”

Kazu-kun nodded earnestly, and Tohru bit her cheek in amusement. She knew what was coming….

“Come closer,” her husband whispered.

Kazu-kun, the sweet, innocent boy that he was, listened and Kyo-kun pounced, tickling his sides and tackling him down, both of their laughter ringing like beautiful bells in her head. 

Hajime-kun rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t hide how his lips twitched as he scooted closer to her. 

“When was dinner supposed to be ready? I never got to eat lunch.”

She put an arm around her boy. “Oh, don’t worry! Dinner should be ready in-” and then she jolted as she remembered. 

She jumped up, shouting in alarm, “Oh no, the pot!”

And then she ran out, almost tripping on her way to the kitchen as she turned off the stove, giving a huge sigh of relief that her curry didn’t boil over (it was really close though). Hajime-kun had followed her cautiously. 

“Can I help with anything?”

She felt a rush of affection. Like herself and Kyo-kun, Hajime-kun seemed to enjoy cooking, and he already was so good at it at such a young age. 

“That’s okay!” She rejected him gently. “You’re hurt and I don’t want you to strain yourself.”

He frowned in displeasure and she felt just a little guilty. She certainly didn’t want him to feel bad for getting injured, but there really wasn’t much he could do with only one arm. 

“Why don’t you go check on your brother? Make sure your father didn’t wear him out too much?” He didn’t look completely satisfied with that, but he was a good boy, so he nodded and left. 

No sooner than he was around the corner, Kazu-kun came running, a flash of orange and then went between her and the counter. 

“Kazu-kun? What’s going on?”

“Don’t think hiding behind her will protect you,” Kyo-kun stomped in, eyes blazing, and Kazu-kun squeaked in fear. 

Briefly she wondered if Kazu-kun got into trouble, but she saw the way Kyo-kun seemed to be holding back a laugh and relaxed. 

“Kazu-kun~” she said sweetly to the boy hiding in her legs. “Dinner’s ready. Why don’t you go sit at the table?”

That did the trick as Kyo-kun turned his attention to her instead while their son scurried off. “Do you need help carrying anything?”

Curry was a really easy meal and didn’t really require much. She wanted to dismiss him gently like she did with Hajime-kun, but...he was just standing there, always so handsome and looking at her like she was the only person to exist. They’d been married for over a decade but she still sometimes marveled at how this was her life. She wrapped her arms around his waist and relished in how he immediately wrapped his strong arms around her in response. 

She pressed her head to his chest, listening to his steady heartbeat and not for the first time, was so incredibly grateful that she was able to hold him like this. For her first two years of knowing him, it wasn’t possible. 

Kyo-kun stroked her hair. “Something wrong?” Like always, he seemed to know when she was getting lost in her thoughts. 

She shook her head. “I just love you.” He hummed in response, and she forced herself to let go. “Help me with the plates?”

A quick peck to her hair. “Sure.”

And she watched with increasing love as Hajime-kun tried to fight off Kazu-kun

“Nii-san’s hurt!” He tried to grab Hajime-kun’s spoon, “Let me help!”

Hajime-kun put a hand on the younger boy’s forehead to hold him in place. “I don’t need help. I can eat on my own.”

Kyo-kun smirked and grabbed a spoonful, holding it up. “Here, open wide.”

Hajime-kun bristled. “I’m not a baby!”

She giggled at their antics. They were a rowdy bunch, but she really loved them. With all her heart. 

She put a hand on top of her stomach. She had been planning on telling them today...

“Mommy?” Kazu-kun asked. “Are you coming?”

She saw three pairs of eyes looking at her with concern. 

“Of course!” And took her spot next to her husband, who gave her a soft smile. 

She loved them all so much. 

Maybe she could tell them tomorrow...

[4ragon]

Thoughts on Athena? She’s my favorite and I feel that she’s so underrated :/

Oh I love Athena so much and DD and SoJ did her so dirty.

I keep saying this, but I really do feel like there needed to be SOME kind of buffer between AJ and DD. They needed something else before introducing such a fun, bright, wonderful new character to the cast, because by DD we now have 3 main characters competing for the spotlight and it’s clearly so much of a struggle for the writers to juggle them. One of them always gets shafted, and a lot of the times it is Athena!

And also, I feel like so many of the times she does get the chance to shine, they do have someone undercut it. She’s the lead of 2.5 cases total! In one, she gets overwhelmed and Phoenix steps in to take over. In one, she gets overwhelmed and Simon has to jump in and help her. Like, don’t get me wrong, that case with Athena and Simon is really great in terms of their character dynamic, but Athena is a competent young woman and deserves the chance to truly show off without having to have someone step in and help her. She deserves that. 

If AA7 doesn’t let her take a fucking starring role, I will riot. “Oh but she’s already completed her character arc” So did Phoenix by the end of AA1!!!! You can have multiple arcs!!! I don’t need her to get the Apollo 20 Backstories treatment but she needs more time!! She deserves more time!! Capcom you are a coward!!! Give me the girl!!! Wipe away the debt!!!

Anyway.

On that note, I absolutely love Athena and everything she brings to the cast. She’s feisty and competitive and deeply empathetic. I know I really super connect with Apollo as a character, but I feel like I can really get Athena’s whole deal a lot too. She’s very sensitive to the emotions of the people around her, and I feel like she’s kind of a compulsive fixer, if you know what I mean? Not always a great trait to have, but she cares so deeply about the people around her. She’s a flawed individual and I enjoy watching her develop and grow.

She’s very charming, and I love the dynamics that she builds with every single character she interacts with. Plus she’s fun! She’s a lot more active and upbeat than Apollo, Phoenix and Edgeworth are, which is new for a POV character. She still has that snark of the other main characters though which I appreciate.

Athena. She’s tough and she’s fun and I need more of her in my life.

I fucking HATED the Mood Matrix though like??? I think I’ve gotten used to it and come to appreciate it but “Oh I can hear the SOUNDS of people’s HEARTS” what are you talking about??? I don’t know, I love using it when writing fic about her because it adds a really interesting layer to her interactions but for a while I just. What does that mean?? Fuck off. Like I know it’s more grounded in reality than the Magatama but still. 

Ah well, at least it makes for some good drama, and it’s a really interesting concept if I could just figure out how it works????? Like I understand how people can fool the Magatama, and I understand how people can fool Apollo’s bracelet, but the fact that Athena can go for MONTHS and not pick up on the Phantom’s schtick is so weird to me? How does it work??? Tell me Capcom!!!

[backtothestart02]

Hot to the Touch - 7/? | westallen fanfiction

A/N: Fake dating trope, anyone? Here it comes! (Only one chap left of this story!)

Commissioned by @andie1223

Also for @izzyllewis for our fics-for-icons arrangement.

...

Chapter 7 -

Another couple months passed, and with the change in season came a shift in Barry and Iris’ relationship. Barry never initiated these changes, because he was afraid he might lose her if he tried to change anything that might solidify them as more of a couple than an ongoing booty call. It was hard not to get excited though when she made changes.

He was quiet about his reaction to her suggestions every time, just taking it in stride as what she wanted to do. He was a complete doormat when it came to her, and maybe that was a bad thing, but so far he couldn’t see any downside to the way their dynamic was progressing.

First, it was little things. Like, Iris would suggest meeting up earlier in the day too on occasion. She’d say it was because she was extra horny that day, but in truth it wasn’t just that. She missed him. Barry was immediately okay with that, as she suspected he might be, and when he didn’t press for a relationship, she started bringing lunch with her to their afternoon trysts. They’d usually start getting it on halfway through the meal, but that was fine with both of them. They seemed stuck in the honeymoon phase of whatever relationship this was, and they found no problem with that.

Next, and this was kind of a big one, Iris started talking to Barry about his day. At first it was just to see if Becky had made another appearance, and if she should be doing something to combat whatever she was throwing at Barry. But after it became clear that Barry hadn’t had that many more interactions with his ex – all which were flops on Becky’s end – Iris found she genuinely liked knowing what the rest of his life was about other than just how good he could fuck her. Eventually, Barry returned the favor and started asking Iris about her days too. She found she liked the attention and fully opened herself up to gushing and venting about any and everything going on with her.

By the time Thanksgiving break arrived, they were so close and connected, it felt agonizing to be apart for even a weekend.

“So, what are your Thanksgiving plans?” Barry asked her, as she watched her button up her blouse from his recent face dive between her breasts.

Iris shrugged, smiling as she sensed his stare, almost tempted to unbutton her top again just to see the look on his face.

“Strained,” she admitted, to which Barry frowned.

“Why’s that?”

“Well, my mom and dad split up when I was 13. I told you that. My mom took my little brother, and my dad kept me. Things are tense between them when we see each other on the holidays already, but a few months ago my dad started dating again.”

“Ah. Let me guess. She’s coming to Thanksgiving.”

“Yep.”

“So, both your mom and your dad’s girlfriend will be in the same room?”

“Uh-huh. And my brother is very much a mama’s boy, so he probably won’t be on his best behavior. He’s had some anger issues in school due to the split. The fact that our dad chose to stay divorced and start dating again instead of trying to work things out with our mom hit him hard. And he takes it out on me because he’s afraid to take it out on our dad, afraid of what he’ll do.”

Barry frowned. “What might he do?”

“Well, my dad wouldn’t hurt a fly. He’s been reaching out to Wally for years in fact, but my brother rejects him every time. I don’t know what he expects at this point.”

“Hmm. Sounds like you need a buffer.”

She smiled, swooning at his implied suggestion.

“Thanks, but I am the buffer.”

His brows furrowed in confusion.

“There’s a possibility Cecile, my dad’s girlfriend, will bring her daughter, Joanie. She’s about Wally’s age and obviously very protective of her mother. I don’t know what the situation is with the dad in their family, but if she brings her…” She shook her head, overwhelmed.

“Chaos.”

She laughed. “Yes, chaos, exactly.”

“Sounds like you need a distraction at the dinner table.”

Iris gnawed at her bottom lip.

“Well, I was thinking of asking Linda to join me, but then…her family goes up north for the holidays, and I don’t think she has a good excuse to not join them this year. Especially after she’s done so well academically this semester.”

“And where does your family have their holiday get-togethers?”

“At my dad’s house in Central City.” She paused, debating, then asked. “You?”

“My parents’ place in Central City.”

“Anyone difficult coming to yours?”

“Just my granddad probably. He adores my mother and loves that my dad is a doctor, but I don’t think he’s real impressed with my accomplishments so far. He thinks I can do so much more than be a CSI with the brain I’ve got, but I don’t really care. It’s what I want to do.”

Iris was immediately turned on by his confidence.

“You really don’t care?”

“Well, of course it’d be great to get his stamp of approval and have him be proud of me, but I don’t need it. My friends Cisco and Caitlin support me and so do my parents.”

“And so do I,” Iris chimed in, smiling brightly and warming Barry’s tummy.

“Iris West,” he propositioned, looking at her gravely. She was still smiling as if all was right in the world. “Will you be my fake girlfriend for Thanksgiving dinner?”

She thought she’d be mortified. She truly believed it would feel like he was pushing her into something she was not ready for and maybe never would be. But this was fake dating, and only for one night. Surely she could manage that. And it would make their prospective dinners easier to endure by far.

“Barry Allen, I would love to.”

That got her a kiss full on the lips, and she giggled helplessly.

The words I love you floated onto her tongue, but she stopped them before they pushed past her lips. It made her still though, and she fought to come up with an excuse so Barry wouldn’t find her sudden tension too odd or related to his recent request.

“What is it? What’s wrong?”

“Uh…nothing. I just remembered something.”

His furrowed brows told her she better come up with something good, and fast.

“I…have to bake a pie.” She paused. “For Thanksgiving.” She paused again. “Sweet potato pie.”

“Sounds yummy. Can I help?”

She smiled, and they both relaxed again.

“And get a free taste before everyone else?” She shook her head. “Uh-uh. I don’t think so.”

He grinned and pulled her close, wrapping his arms around her waist.

“The only thing I want a free taste of is you.”

He lowered his head and nuzzled her face before swooping in for another kiss. Iris wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him back, moaning against the sweet pressure of his lips.

“You can have that any time,” she mumbled, and deepened the kiss, losing herself in him for a long while until they had to come up for air and go their separate ways.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, boyfriend.”

He grinned like an excited schoolboy caught in a candy store.

“See you tomorrow, girlfriend.”

She laughed at that, waved, and let herself out of the bookstore. A few minutes later, once she was out of sight, he left too.

Iris West was going to be his girlfriend - even if only for one night.

He liked the sound of that.

…

Barry and Iris didn’t meet that night at the bookstore, because they both needed to pack up and drive to their perspective families’ homes. A light snow started to fall within an hour, so the drive to the West and Allen houses took even longer.

Iris was grateful when she finally arrived at her dad’s. She parked in the driveway next to his car, gathered her purse and overnight bags and headed towards the house. She was proud of herself for wearing her fall boots, since the snow was starting to accumulate on the ground. She slipped on her gloves and hat before approaching the house and then knocked lightly on the wooden door. She had to do it a second time and started to worry because of it, but then the door swung open and a bright smile spread across the man before her.

“Baby girl.”

“Hey, Dad.”

She smiled, stepped up into the house and hugged him tightly.

“Oh, I haven’t seen you in ages.” He pulled back to take her in and then stepped aside. “You must be freezing. Come on in. I’ve started a fire in the fireplace. We’ll have you warmed up in no time.”

Shrugging out of her light jacket and other snow-covered items, Iris set her bags at the foot of the stairs and followed her dad into the living room. The place was usually a mess with the man was left there all by himself, but there was not a single speck in sight. The house was immaculate. It had been cleaned with vacuum, broom, and mop, dusted and organized. Iris hadn’t seen it so nice since before her mom moved out.

“Wow, Dad, this looks nice.”

“Thanks.”

He stopped and looked around, as if he hadn’t been responsible for the entire thing.

“I had some extra time on my hands and figured it would be nice for the holidays if my belongings were actually put away and not just stacked in the corner of every room.”

He chuckled lightly, and Iris joined him.

“You thought correct.”

“So, you want to get into something warm and we’ll watch a movie? I’m all set up for tomorrow, so we can just relax tonight.”

“Sounds good…”

“Why do I get the feeling you have something you’re not telling me?”

She laughed a little nervously.

“It’s not much, really. I just, um, I have a boyfriend now?”

His jaw dropped.

“And I was kinda hoping it’d be okay to bring him to dinner tomorrow?”

“When did this happen?” he asked, astonished. “I mean, of course putting one more seat at the table is no big deal, but I thought you would’ve told me you met someone. Especially after what happened with…”

She nodded. “Yeah, I know.”

“I just thought you swore off all relationships for the indefinite future.”

She laughed. “I did, but…”

“This one got under your skin?” He smirked.

She felt herself gasp and realized just how true her dad’s words were.

“Something like that.”

He smiled. “Well, I can’t wait to meet him. What’s his name?”

“Barry,” she said. “Barry Allen.”

“And what’s his five-year plan?” He raised an eyebrow.

“Dad.” She rolled her eyes, and he chuckled.

“I’m kidding of course.” He paused for a moment before asking, “But what’s his major?”

She laughed. “Dad!”

“I can’t help it. Your dad wants to know! Will you tell him?”

She shook her head, her eyes alight with laughter.

“Fine, fine… Well, actually…” She frowned. “I don’t even know what his major is.” She laughed. “Something sciencey though. He wants to be a CSI.”

“Oh…very interesting. We don’t have enough of those around. He’d fit in real nicely at CCPD after he graduates.”

“Daaad.” She rolled her eyes again.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” He held up his hands in surrender. “No more future talk. Why don’t you get in some comfy clothes and I’ll put in a feel-good movie for us for when you get down. Dinner’s almost ready. We can eat that while we’re watching.”

“Sounds like a plan.” She got up and walked towards the stairs, then stopped and faced her dad who was busily searching for a specific movie in the cubby beneath the TV. “Thanks, Dad,” she said, and he lifted his head to look at her.

“For what?”

She shrugged. “For being you.”

He smiled, and she returned it, then headed up the stairs with her bags and put on something warm and comfy for the night ahead.

…

Barry yawned when he woke up in his childhood bed the next morning. He’d had a nice evening with his parents, watching home movies and finishing up some last-minute cleaning in the house. His parents were ecstatic to see him, and even more surprised about his announcement that he was bringing a girlfriend to the house for Thanksgiving dinner. They didn’t mind, of course, and they were excited to see who he was bringing, but he decided to keep it a secret until she showed up. He said he’d be going to her family’s Thanksgiving dinner first and would introduce her properly after that.

As the day waned on, Barry started to feel nervous about his “date” at Iris’. He’d waited months to be on an official date with her. And even if this was just pretend and her whole family would be present with them, it still felt very real.

He wondered then if they should’ve discussed how they met and decided to start dating, what they liked about each other, etc. They most definitely should not include sex as part of the story. On Thanksgiving of all times with other controversial things in play, especially at her dinner, that was simply out of the question.

He needed to call her and sort this out.

He pulled out his phone, selected her name in his contacts list and waited for her to pick up.

“Hello?” came a man’s deep voice, and suddenly he worried that she had a boyfriend back home who wanted to know who this ‘Barry’ was calling his girlfriend.

Chills erupted over him, as well as some slight anger. At himself and borderline at Iris. Why would she have a boyfriend and secretly be sneaking around with him for the past three months? It didn’t make sense. Of course it didn’t. What was he thinking? Why would he jump to that conclusion immediately?

“Dad!” He heard in the background on the phone. “Give it to me.”

The deep voice sounded fainter when Barry heard it again.

“I just want to talk to the young man. Find out his intentions!”

“Dad, no! Give it to me! Not on our- Daaaad!”

And that’s when Barry breathed a sigh of relief. It was her dad.

He smiled.

“Barry?” Iris’ voice came on. “Barry, are you still there?”

“I’m here.” He chuckled, smiling brightly.

“It’s not funny,” she said.

“Eh…it’s a little funny,” he said.

She rolled her eyes and smiled.

“So, what’s up?” she asked, walking into another room. “You aren’t cancelling on me, are you?”

“No, not at all!” he was quick to say. “I was just thinking….um…”

“What?”

“Maybe we should discuss our backstory?”

“Our backstory?” She sounded confused.

“You know, how we met, why we decided to start dating, some cute story the family will want to hear…”

“Oh. Right.”

By the sound of her voice, Barry sensed she hadn’t even thought of it.

“I just thought of it now.”

“Well, I think it’s simple enough.”

“It is?”

“Yeah. I mean, just take the sex out of the equation.”

His laugh was strained. “Meaning?”

She sighed. “Meaning, we met at a bookstore and hit it off at a party.”

“And for a cute story?”

She licked her lips. “Um… I sent a cute text to you in the middle of the open house?”

“A ‘cute’ text, huh?” He smirked.

“Stop!” She laughed. “They don’t need to know the details.”

He laughed harder.

“Barry Allen, I swear, if you don’t-”

But he couldn’t stop laughing. She waited until he was under control.

“Okay, okay, sorry.”

“It’s all right.” There was a smile in her voice. “So, see you later?”

“Five o’clock, sharp.”

“See you then.”

“Goodbye, Iris.”

“Bye, Barry.”

Click.

…

Iris sent Barry the address to her dad’s place half an hour before dinner started. She didn’t know what she expected, but Barry showing up fifteen minutes later with a golden-yellow bouquet of flowers for her certainly hadn’t been it.

“Barry, I take it?” Her dad asked, coming up behind Iris at the front door.

Barry’s eyes bulged at the size of the man, even though they were roughly the same height. He nodded and held out his hand to shake it.

“Mr. West.”

They shook hands.

“Call me Joe,” Iris’ dad said. “I like to keep things casual in this house, especially during the holidays.”

Barry grinned. “Joe.”

“Oh, come on in,” Iris said, grabbing Barry’s arm and pulling him into the house.

She showed him where to take off his shoes, and she took his coat to hang up in the closet at the end of the hall. She gave him a short tour of their home, and as politely as she could, introduced him to her mother, brother, her dad’s girlfriend, and her dad’s girlfriend’s daughter. There were a few other relatives too, but Barry wouldn’t remember their names or their significance later, so Iris only very quickly introduced them before circling back to the fireplace and standing there with Barry until dinner was ready.

“Is that everybody?” Barry joked.

“Everybody here,” Iris said, reaching for his hands to play with his fingers.

Barry lowered his voice and started to lean in.

“I’ve missed you, Iris.”

She caught her breath in her throat.

“It’s only been a day.”

“Still missed you,” he said, and pressed a kiss to her cheek to avoid being scolded.

Apparently it was too far even at that.

“Eww, Gross. PDA,” Wally said in a monotone voice. “Mom, Iris is making out with her boyfriend.”

Barry lifted his head and raised his eyebrows. Wally was playing his Gameboy in his hands, only faintly aware of how close they were and what had actually transpired.

Francine walked over and gave the two of them a look but seemed to understand that her son had exaggerated.

“Put the game away, Wally. We’re with family today.”

“Some family.” He rolled his eyes. But he got up and stuffed his game into his coat pocket in the hallway closet and proceeded to linger in the kitchen, looking for something to eat.

“Iris,” Francine started, but Iris cut in.

“It was a kiss on the cheek, mom. Brief and insignificant,” she said, even though her heart was still racing from the brush of his lips.

Francine nodded, pretty much convinced.

“And what are you majoring in, Barry?”

He smiled lazily, expecting the question.

“I want to be a CSI,” he said. “I like forensics.”

“Oh, very interesting.” She paused, and Barry knew it wasn’t as interesting to her as she had said. Still, it hardly mattered. Iris was beside him holding his hand. “How did you two meet?”

“At a bookstore,” Iris smoothly said. “We bumped into each other in the same section.”

“And what section was that?”

“Mystery-”

“Romance-”

Francine turned with curiosity to her daughter’s boyfriend who had offered up the latter genre.

“Romance, Barry?”

He blushed fiercely.

“Who doesn’t love a good love story?”

She smiled slowly. “Good answer.” Then she walked away.

Iris was on the verge of laughter when Barry finally looked back at her.

“What?”

“Nothing. Nothing at all.”

She looped her arm through his and led him into the dining room. Dinner was just about ready.

…

The rest of the West Thanksgiving dinner went relatively smoothly. Barry and Iris shared the rest of their ‘couple story’ better than they had with Francine, and despite the obvious tension between other members of the family, it appeared that with a non-related member there, they were less inclined to start a full-out brawl in the middle of the dining room table.

Everyone approved of Iris’ last-minute sweet potato pie, and Barry in particular praised it highly.

When it was time for them to go in order to make it for at least part of Barry’s family’s Thanksgiving dinner, everyone was pleasant enough and wished them well as they headed out the door.

“Very good to meet you, Barry,” Joe said, and Barry reached out his hand for him to shake again, but Joe brought him in for a big bear hug instead. “Mind if I call you Bear, for short?”

Barry’s jaw dropped. It was the same name Iris herself had casually called him a time or two.

“Sure,” he said, a lazy smile on his face.

Joe’s grin stretched wide across his face.

“Bye, you two. I’ll see you later, Iris?”

“I’ll bring her back, I promise,” Barry confided, and Iris was just a tiny bit put out. She wanted some time with just the two of them together, but of course she understood. Barry probably wanted time with his family too.

They waved and got in Barry’s car. Within 15 minutes they were at his parents’ house. Only two other cars were in the driveway, one belonging to Barry’s parents and the other to his granddad. There was another vehicle parked across the street, but Barry and Iris didn’t pay it any mind until they walked into the house and found a familiar blonde chatting it up with Barry’s relatives.

“Becky.”

“Oh, Barry, you’re-”

Becky’s voice abruptly stopped. Immediately, Barry knew what had happened. Becky had invited herself over, claiming that she and Barry had gotten back together and had just decided to arrive separately. His parents hadn’t known any differently since he hadn’t given specifics.

Now he really wished he had.

“Who is this?” Barry’s dad asked when he saw Iris standing beside his son.

“This is Iris,” Barry forced himself to say. “My girlfriend.”

Barry’s whole family frowned and then turned to Becky, who was not pulling off being shocked as well as she was trying to.

“But Becky here said-” His granddad started.

“I haven’t seen Becky in two months,” Barry said, deciding to be frank. He was livid over what Becky had been trying to do. “At which point I made it clear to her I was with someone else and not interested in getting back together.”

Iris looked up at him and smiled softly. She’d been so upset at that initial meeting because she didn’t think she could envision herself dating him when that was exactly what Becky was offering. But now she realized her jealousy had been completely unwarranted. Barry really didn’t like Becky, and he really liked her.

Maybe she should consider…

“I think I better go,” Becky mumbled. The rest of the family said nothing as she gathered her things and headed out.

Barry was on the verge of confirming what a great idea that was, but he knew his mom would give him hell for being so bluntly mean, so he kept it to himself.

Once she was gone, the tension increased tenfold. That was until Iris approached the table and took a seat.

“You know, I thought I was stuffed from eating at my dad’s, but this food looks too delicious not to taste. May I have some?”

Barry’s mother brightened immediately.

“Yes, of course, dear. Let me get you a plate.”

Barry came and sat beside her. They held hands under the table and smiled at each other briefly before consuming some of his mother’s food.

To Barry’s great surprise, his granddad seemed more interested in Iris than in belittling his choice of a future career, which made the whole night much more enjoyable than any of them could’ve expected.

As his granddad was leaving about an hour later, he turned to Iris.

“Iris is a much prettier name than Becky,” he said, and lifted her hand to kiss the back of it. “It was good to meet you, Iris.”

Iris felt heat flood her cheeks.

“Th-Thank you, Sir.”

He smiled, nodded, then waved to the rest of the family and was on his way out.

Barry and Iris sat with his parents by their fireplace for a while longer before Iris mentioned that she should probably be heading back. Barry’s parents shared how much they enjoyed her company and how they hoped to see her again, and how sorry they were for Becky’s deceit in their absence.

Iris brushed it aside, smiled and hugged them both before heading out the door with Barry and riding with him back to her dad’s place.

“Well, tonight went well,” Barry said, once he had parked in the driveway.

“I thought so,” Iris chimed in. “Better than expected anyway.”

“Both our families like us.”

“Which is an important thing.” She chuckled.

He leaned his head back on his headrest.

“I’m so glad you were with me tonight, Iris – at my parents’ place. I don’t know how I would’ve gotten Becky to leave if I hadn’t had you with me as proof that she wasn’t actually my girlfriend.”

“Happy to be of service.” She smiled prettily. “And, you know, if you ever need me to fake being your girlfriend again for the sake of getting rid of Becky, I am at your disposal.”

He chuckled. “Thanks. Same for you…if you need a boyfriend at a family function for whatever reason.”

She grinned. “’Kay. Thanks.”

He stared deep into her eyes and cupped her face. Just as he started to lean in, Iris interjected.

“My dad-”

Barry lifted his head, but he couldn’t see Joe West in any window on the front of the house.

“I think we’re in the clear,” he said, grinning as he looked down at her.

Relieved that there’d been confirmation of no onlookers, Iris grabbed a hold of her fake boyfriend’s face and pulled it down to her, kissing him soundly.

“Oh, thank God.”

Barry moaned. “You can say that again.”

“It feels like ages since I’ve kissed you.”

“And to think we’ll have to wait any longer until-”

“It’ll just make the reunion all the more special.”

“Or you could sneak away and we could hook up at my parents’ house tomorrow.”

She pulled back, her eyes wide.

“Barry Allen!” She smacked his chest.

“What? They’ll both be away!”

Iris opened the door and stepped onto the pavement.

“I cannot believe you. In your parents’ house?”

“Unless you want to do it here?” he offered. “Your dad works tomorrow, doesn’t he?”

She laughed. “You are…unbelievable.”

“So…see you tomorrow?” he asked, stepping out of the car to get her answer.

She rolled her eyes and shook her head.

“Iris!”

She spun around.

“Maybe.”

He grinned wide.

“But not at our parents’ houses!”

He laughed.

“Okay, okay, you choose.”

She rolled her eyes again.

“Goodnight, Barry.”

His laugh lessened into a smile.

“Goodnight, Iris,” he said softly, then watched her walk into her dad’s house before getting back into the car and driving himself home.

...

*will be posted on AO3 and FFnet when beta’d.

[crowleyellestair]

Hello, how are you? Are taking requests? If so, could you please write a Lambert blurb? I read you Eskel one and I love it! Thank yoooou

AN// Thank you! I’m glad you liked my other one <3 I wrote this, then realised you wanted a blurb. This is a little longer, but I will get to writing a shorter thing for ya. Requests are always open!

  Kaer Morhen was a wrecked fortress, with rubble rolling over every lick of the mountain it was built into. Only ghosts and the remaining witchers tread through the demolished halls, unless bringing on a willed companion. Geralt was the only wone who ever brought people with, though they were growing less welcome by the person. Yennefer, Triss Ciri and Dandelion had taken the trail and had spent winters within the walls. Though, after Triss, the White Wolf was warned by the youngest witcher that compliancy with new people was quickly dwindling.

It had made sense. Yennefer was known to have her talons embedded in the wolf’s fur, which never really gave anyone hope for any other sorceress from the Lodge. The Merigold had come along, chestnut hair bouncing in the wind, her nose held high. Lambert hadn’t taken too kindly to what she preached, as she hadn’t spent every winter in the keep- everything she saw and spoke down upon were things the men were well aware of. He swore, that if the woman ever spoke poorly of his manners again, he’d show her just how ‘savage’ he could really be.

Luckily, this winter was looking up. The men usually informed the others of any companions they were bringing, but there was no word from Geralt. Yennefer had made a large fuss after Triss had apparently tattled, so the young Lion Cub would be spending winter with her and the Lodge. While Lambert would begrudgingly admit he’d miss the little spitfire, being alone also sounded like a nice difference. It been a rough year for him and the public, and despite hating being alone with his own ghosts, he wasn’t sure he could handle more people.

When his medallion started to vibrate against his chest, every hair on his body stood on end. He clutched the powdered dimeritium closer to his chest, ready to start a war. He had warned Geralt, and he wasn’t one to joke when it came to disrespect and people associated with it. Geralt strolled through the front door, and a younger female gasp was heard behind him. Eskel was quick to evaluate Lambert’s reaction, but decided to greet the two.

“Brother, glad you made it.” The two wolves’ arms fell around each other in a familiar yet rare embrace. The brunette pulled away to ask his friend, “And who is this?” The subject of the question turned from the pile of supplies she was looking over to show a bright smile. Her hand jabbed towards him through the air, excitement seeming to be her driving force.

“Hello! Y/n, mage consultant of Dorian. Thank you for being kind enough to allow me to stay here, it’s an honor.” The hand not meeting her shake went up to brush over his scar, and landing behind his neck. He gave a small, dubious smile, trying to cover up Lambert’s loud scoff with a response. Despite being across the large hall, it was clear as day what type of anger and disgust that dripped from the young witcher.

“Eskel. I don’t know about honor coming with it, but you are welcome. We aren’t entirely sure the reasoning behind your stay, but you’re here now.” Y/n’s smile faltered when their hands dropped.

“Oh, my apologies. I helped Yennefer and Ciri out of a large scuffle, but some people are after me now.” Lambert had left his spot on the table to come to the group. Shoulder’s squared, he threw on a sarcastic smirk.

“What type of people does a sorceress need to worry about?” Sorceress was spoken with a fake worshiping tone, with hand gestures in the air to allude to him seeing them as overpowered deities. The woman’s smile fell completely at the new character’s entrance. Both Eskel and Geralt watched as her chest popped out as well, and her eyes followed Lamberts purposely. Though, it was clear it wasn’t a struggle for dominance, but for respect.

“I’m actually a simple mage. Human. Aging and all. That’s why Geralt offered to help,” her tone became stronger through her finishing statement. “And why it was so surprising I was any help in the first place.” Eskel’s eyes widened, looking to his younger brother. No one had approached his berating with that tactic. How can one bully someone who already bullies themselves- and with such confidence and bravado? Eskel stepped in, his shoulder barley overlapping Lambert’s, giving a small buffer between the two.

“This is Lambert. He’s always this way, but he is kind.” The man in question rolled his eyes before folding his arms over his chest. His glare flickered to Geralt, and snarled out,

“I told you after Merigold that I’m not dealing with this horse shit.” Every consonant was hit with a certain venom that reminded the other two of the Viper school. Grealt had huffed, folding his arms as well while it was the mage’s turn to scoff.

“Triss? I wouldn’t say I’m in league with her.” Wide eyes flew to her, but she gave a nonchalant shrug. Her eyes wandered over everything but them, her attention easily being taken by the new location. “I might have a great knowledge of alchemy and chemistry, but she was never fond of how I conducted my experiments. You need to take risks for breakthroughs, even if it’s yourself that’s at risk.” Her eyes finally met everyone else’s. “I know she didn’t want me to hurt myself, but discovery is harnessing the unknown. I know the risks. She certainly could have laid it on nicer though.”

Vesemir’s entrance back into the great hall had taken a weight off of the White Wolf’s shoulders. He had mentioned the tension she might face, but he hadn’t been too worried. Though her introduction was kind, he wasn’t confident that it would deter the young man. He wasn’t one to let go of grudges, especially since they are his main bedfellows.

A week had gone by, and the men hadn’t really seen the mage outside of mealtimes. While it was understandable as they were really only focused on three other things: Training lounging, and rebuilding the ruin. As far as Lambert was concerned, that’s how it should be. This was his time, and she was Geralt’s guest. If she stayed away and was only summoned for meals, so be it. Though, this fake paradise was short lived once Vesemir asked him to escort her through the mountain to the old watchtower.

He didn’t bother knocking on the library door when he pushed it open as it was his home. There was a certain strut he had to him, but his grand, sassy entrance was wasted as the mage was leaned over the large table that had been pushed to the side years ago. Lambert stopped just next to her, leaning over her shoulder to find multiple books spread over a large map. Penciled in circles scattered over its surface, and she had a finger running over a book’s text before adding another circle.

There was no attention afforded to the man yet, and he was able to finally get a clear look at her. Her frame was covered in thicker layers that still had lighter colors despite the norm having otherwise. Light blues painted the clothes with white furs lining it. He was glad to see she wore trousers, dreading to have to carry a woman through the mountain if she strips over the skirt of a dress. Her skin looked soft- too soft to be found in the fort. Even Triss and Yen, with their perfect skin, had a specific hardness to them. Weathered skin, while it can look flawless, has a texture. There were burns and cuts that littered Y/n’s hands and wrists, likely from the experiments she had mentioned when she first arrived. Despite those blemishes, Lambert was sure that he would only feel a silk or velvet like thing- he wasn’t familiar with either textures, so the fluffy words were things he must have picked up in passing with Dandelion. If he were to reach out, he was sure she would fit snuggly in his arms.

The young witcher was lost in his observations, so when she abruptly stood straight, he had to work double to make sure she didn’t touch him. She turned; a bright smile that had the sun reflected in her eyes beamed at him. The map was being rolled in her hands and was shoved into a satchel that was hastily thrown over her shoulder.

“Thanks for doing this, Lambert. I think I’ll find the herb at the watchtower, but if not, there are three other places it might be. Of course, if you don’t want to, we could go out a different day if the tower is a bust.” His arms crossed over his chest, trying to shield himself from the onslaught of positivity.

“Well, let’s not get ahead of ourselves. ‘We’ could easily turn into a ‘you and someone else’. I was volunteered, and I doubt I’ll be as willing to waste my precious minutes next time.” He gave a smile that was tainted with sarcasm. Despite this, her hand had somehow made its way to his upper arm, and gave a light squeeze. Her smile faltered, telling him something hit home, but she put up a strong front.

“I’m sure you’ll be happy to know that this herb will help in covering my magic footprint. Therefore, we find this now, you won’t have to see me later. Volunteered or not, I’m sure you’ll find some joy from today’s journey somehow.” The feigned joy that radiated from her statement threw the man through the wringer again. The deflection by self-destruction in their first meeting had obliterated the jesting wall around his heart. It had defenses- it had to. One of the main defenses it had was what some would call bullying, but he usually never meant any jest he tossed. But it was like he threw a bomb at her, and by her using aard against herself, it blew the bomb back at his wall by getting caught in the gust. And again, he was taken back. He was familiar with the tactic, but only because it was something he used to do before the trials. If you bully yourself, no one else can find joy in doing it. He saw himself in that moment, and it made him wonder, what happened to her?

Lambert nodded, moving to give a grandiose wave of the arm.

“Lead the way.” With that, the two headed towards the tower. Luckily, there were trails leading to it, but unluckily for them, they met trouble. The mountains were crawling with bears, and while both Lambert and Y/n were fine with it, it seemed the bears weren’t fond of them. A smaller, yet fair size bear walked in the way of the path, though it looked to be alone.

Lambert was quick to pull his steel, but he stiffened when he felt the mage’s hand clamp around his that gripped the sword. His eyes glared towards her for a moment, but her eyes were still on the bear. She was completely still, which made Lambert roll his eyes. Then, her voice came out stiff, lips unmoving.

“Stay very still.” His eyes rolled, but decided not to move. He couldn’t smell any fear, but anxiety still came off in soft waves.

“That doesn’t really work. If someone from the School of the Bear heard that, they’d laugh at you.” He watched as her body shifted slowly, and only when she couldn’t see the bear’s eyes. After a minute of the standoff, she was behind him completely. The young bear looked baffled when she was gone, and started to move quickly towards them. Lambert brought his sword in front of him, but he heard a small, ‘get ready’ in his ear. His form broke when Y/n jumped onto his back. His hands automatically fell under her legs, and shifted her up. Despite catching her, he remained confused until he heard her make something between a roar and a scream. It was loud and full, but to him it sounded as if a kitten were impersonating a lion. The bear, who looked as though he was going to stand on his hind legs and strike, quickly fled. Lambert let her fall from his arms before picking up his discarded sword.

“That shouldn’t have worked.” He looked to her, who was smiling and looking quite pleased. She turned to face him, throwing her hands over her head, while curling her fingers to make fake claws.

“Well, we make quite the feral beast.” Lambert’s head was thrown back at the loud and powerful laugh that raked through him. He felt his shoulders quake, and his eyes close, but the other half of their ‘feral beast’ stood there blushing. Her hands fell back down by her sides, and she simply stood. When his laughing died down, and she still simply stood, he sensed her. He noticed the elevated heartrate and turned, hand on hilt, making sure another bear didn’t appear. When there was nothing, he turned back.

“What?” Her blush grew, and she bent to fix her boots and fiddle with her satchel. When everything seemed in order, she turned to start walking toward the tower again. The witcher followed, and after a moment, she looked to him.

“You have a beautiful laugh, is all.” Lambert immediately stiffened, but when he listened to her heart, he found she was telling the truth. It was still elevated, but the flush that was still spread overhear cheeks and neck was the reasoning for it. His brows still furrowed as they continued to the destroyed building.

It didn’t make sense. People don’t like Lambert. He was brash and blunt, neither attribute highly sought after. Brutal honesty is what he gave because the other option was lying. Lying by sprinkling in a kindness that he knew didn’t exist in the world. There was little positivity that he gave because there was never any shown back to him. He knew that it wasn’t too fair, as he gave up looking for it. There were always moments when he would be shown that sun, but every other day was grey. And being a witcher at the core was the nail in the coffin. People didn’t want to interact with a mutated monstrosity, let alone like them. Or find their laugh beautiful.

The young witcher agreed with himself in putting up extra defenses. This random mage who was on the run wouldn’t get any closer to that fortress he called his heart. He tried to forget the multiple smiles she has thrown his way over the past week. The multiple times she received the bread bowl, and asked if he wanted any before taking some. The short, passing statements that showed a valley of pain behind the mountains of kindness. Forget those bright eyes that show no judgement for anything but herself.

Disappointment was obvious when they made it to the tower, and she couldn’t find it. Lambert stood by the entrance, watching with crossed arms and a dismissive look as her shoulders fell. His golden eyes fluttered over their surroundings for a moment, looking for wraiths or bears. He looked back to where Y/n had just been, but ran in when she was gone. He found her halfway up a tattered latter, a look of determination obvious.

“What are you doing? If Vesemir- hell, if Geralt sees me carrying you back to the fort with broken bones, it’ll be my ass on the chopping block. Get down.” While he was telling the truth, and his tone was harsh, he did feel worried. He is her escort, and he can’t have her getting hurt on his watch. If a strong witcher can’t protect her on a simple scavenger hunt, what would she think of him once she was better? Would she still smile at him? He doubted it, and the way he covered up his real reasonings didn’t matter. She didn’t know he needed her safe to see her smile at him willingly. Y/n turned, pointing up somewhere towards the remaining top of the turret. He could see her red, cold fingertips due to the fingerless gloves she decided to wear. While it was just frost and light snow that covered everything, the chances of her fall was too high.

“There’s a platform up there, and I’m gonna check.”

“No.”

“What?” He shook his head, putting his hands on her hips. He lifts her easily and places her softly back on the ground.

“I’ll go. What does it look like?” Again, Y/n simply stood there. She shook her head, while quickly going for her satchel.

“Uh, yeah, yeah. The herb. Give me a moment.” Lambert dropped his hands from her hips when she had to maneuver her bag over his arm. The mage pulled the book from her back, opening to the page with a small purple bud. “They’re hard to spot. If it’s open, don’t touch it. If it’s closed, give it a pinch. It should be hard to the touch despite its gentle looking exterior.” He nodded, and turned to the latter. It didn’t take too long to scale the rubble, finding the small buds. He did as she asked, and gathered a handful before jumping and flipping back down. When he landed, and presented the buds, her eyes sparkled much like they did when she first arrived.

“Are you going to take them, or did I do all of that for nothing?” Again, she shook herself back to reality, tearing her eyes from his face. He didn’t feel it happen, but a small smile crept onto his face. He wasn’t even trying to impress, much like he would in the courtyard. Her fingertips brushed the heel of his hand as she gathered the buds, and he felt a yearning he hadn’t felt before. He was right; her skin was soft. Cold, but soft. He wanted those fingertips to brush over him again. One of the tips felt rough, likely from the same place those burns came from. But it was a pleasant difference, and something he’d love to explore.

“Perfect, Lambert.” Her voice was soft, and she hadn’t said anything after that. She smiled and turned, jerking her head to beckon him to follow. He did like a lost dog. They made their way back to the keep, Y/n rambling about the importance of the plant. There was an interlude in her speech when she asked, “How do wolves climb? Is that like a special power you have? How high can you climb? Can you do anything else as cool?” A smirk found its way to his face as they entered past the bridge.

“I frequent with people from the School of the Cat. I don’t think the others can do quite what I can. They don’t like when I hang with them, but I think it’s just jealousy. And yeah, I have a whole arsenal of tricks.” He smiled to her during his last statement that earned what he would classify as a giggle.

“Well, it was quite spectacular.” Lambert found his smirk falling, trying to figure out why that statement would be made. They made their way back to the main hall, where his eyes danced over the rest of the men at the table. “I’m going back to the library. Thank you again for the help.” Her hand flew back to his arm, giving another light squeeze. “If you want to show any other cool things from that school, I’d happily watch.” Lambert watched as the blushing mage flew to the stairs. Once they all heard her footsteps disappear, the men at the table start to chuckle. Lambert throws his swords onto the tabletop, falling in place next to Eskel. Before the brunette takes a drink, he jokes,

“No more Merigolds, Geralt. Our guest has to go.” More chuckles stirred around him, but he didn’t react from his hunched position, looking at the table.

That woman should be running from witchers. If she didn’t run from face value, she’d definitely run with a man riddled with rage and a torn past. Even if he wanted to pursue Y/n, there are multiple points in their courting where he knew she would run. He didn’t want to be fixed if she didn’t, and he knew those types. They think they can strut in and try to glue pieces back together. But it’s never right, and he is forced to break down the new image they tried to build. But there’s something more to her that makes him hesitate to brush her off completely. And the warmth he tried to deflect had gotten past those walls that kept his heart.

[clevercatchphrase]

2020 Year Review~

2020. Pretty unique year, don’t you think? It’s the first year since 2002 to have only two different digits in it. After 2022, this won’t happen again until 2111. Yep. Absolutely nothing more interesting than that.

Anyway! It’s time I reflect on my 2020, look back on my yearly goals and rant about things that happened to me this year. I made a post like this last year, where I went over my 2019 goals and talked about what I accomplished and what I didn’t, and it’s only fitting I do the same again this year. Read more under the cut for a random stream of consciousness ramble!

So, first things first, let’s look at my 2019 goals;

Finish paying off that last student loan

Put more stuff on my redbubble

Illustrate my own fan fics

Sew at least one stuffed animal

Make an enamel pin

Read one new book a month

Write one page a day/Complete at least one new fan fic

Learn Python or C# for the game I want to make

Finish fully scripting Ghost Switch

Boost my patreon

 Paying Off My Last Student Loan: Going down the list, I am proud to say that I FINALLY paid off all my student loans! (and not a moment too soon. The last payment I made was literally days before the first quarantine rolled out). It took me roughly 4 years on my part-time paycheck to pay off all my loans, and once I finished, I had no money to my name (literally; I had less than 1k as emergency money in case of car troubles or health issues). Heck, I’m STILL living at home as a save up for a place of my own. Finally paying off all my student loans DID activate my secret 2020 new year’s resolution, which was to adopt a cat! I did this too, literally a week later! She is the best thing that’s happened to me this entire year and I love her so much and she is the snuggliest cuddle bug I’ve ever met. I’m so happy she’s in my life now~

Put More Stuff On My Redbubble: ah ha ha ha… I thought I did this, but then I went and checked, and it turns out-! I did not. I made art I intended to go on my redbubble, but haven’t put there yet. They are all drawings of some OCs from a game I want to make, but because I haven’t progressed on making the game this year, I never got around to putting more stuff related to it on my redbubble. At the time of writing, there are 7 days left in December, so I guess I could go and put it up on my redbubble right now, but without context on where the characters are from, there wouldn’t be much point, now would there?

 Illustrate My Own Fan Fics: Another goal that I was so stoked to actually do… and then just didn’t. Gee, I wonder why I couldn’t find the energy or motivation to do it this year? Truly a conundrum. (Hey, you know what? If Ghost Switch counts as a fan fiction in a visual form, then I am doing GREAT on this goal. 2.5 years in, 1 of ~4 arcs done, and still going steady~)

 Sew At Least One Stuffed Animal: Okay, I have a valid excuse for not doing this one. I even knew which stuffed animal I wanted to make, and had the pattern drawn out and everything, but I had no money for materials because I had just paid off my student loans. And then, by the time I did have enough money again, quarantine was in full effect and I couldn’t go out to the fabric store. I’m still trying my best to stay out of public places even if the rules are laxer now, because I don’t want to catch the plague even if everyone in my goddamn city thinks and acts like the problem is over already. Even if they’re all wearing masks, even if they’re staying 6 feet apart, I still don’t want to risk it. I will stay inside until health experts give the all clear, and when that day comes, then I will buy some fleece and make a plush.

 Make An Enamel Pin: I ACTUALLY DID THIS ONE. TWICE! Halfway through quarantine, I was feeling anxious and depressed about my job and how they were planning to have me work with the public despite climbing infection rates and positive covid cases. I didn’t quit then, but in a desperate move to try and become self-sufficient, I went to madebycooper and made two enamel pins based on some butterfly dragons I drew last year. They’re on my etsy store now! I even went out of my way to open a P.O. box just to start a small business! I haven’t sold a single pin yet, and I’m actually really nervous to sell my first because I don’t trust the efficiency of the postal system thanks to the actions of the GOP that really screwed them over this year! (If you would like to see my enamel pins, click here!)

 Read One Book A Month: I did this! With dragon books I bought a couple years back! In fact, I read FOURTEEN dragon books, and still have more books for next year to read! The 14 books I read this year were:

 The Hive Queen

The Poison Jungle

Wings Of Fire Legends: Dragonslayer

Dealing With Dragons

Searching For Dragons

Calling on Dragons

Talking to Dragons

The Bronze Dragon Codex

The Brass Dragon Codex

The Black Dragon Codex

The Red Dragon Codex

The Silver Dragon Codex

Dragon Strike, and

Hatching Magic

 To be honest, I had read The Red Dragon Codex years ago when it first came out, but completely forgotten what it was about. I remembered liking it, and I knew the reading level was on the lower side, but the whole dragon codex series was pretty good! So far, the Silver dragon codex was my favorite, and black dragon codex was probably the worst! Hatching Magic was also really slow and bad and had plot points that went nowhere, but the book was written in the 80s, so I don’t know what I expected. The Dealing with Dragons series was very charming and great for the most part, save for one line in the last book that really rubbed me the wrong way, and all the Wings of Fire Books go above and beyond in this third arc. The second legends book could be a little tighter, though (sky and wren are the best duo and I want a book solely about them, but I honest to god do not care about leaf and ivy’s stories.)

 Write one Page of any story every day/ complete at least one fic: I… did this? Okay, I kinda cheated near the end of the year. I was keeping up the one page a day thing for the first four months, but then the world went to shit and my schedule and habits got disrupted and I fell off my good track record. I completed 7 out of roughly 12 one-shots I had planned for this year (my goal WAS supposed to be one short a month, but… you know how it happens) I kept trying to catch up on this goal all year, but the days kept piling up…. Until November hit. I managed to write over 250 pages for Nanowrimo, and I consider this goal a win. 365 pages of fiction in total, which averages out to about one a day~. SHUT UP IT COUNTS.

 Learn Python or C# for the game I want to make: Another goal I didn’t have the mental energy to commit to this year. Truly a mystery to where all our willpower went in 2020.

 Fully Finish Scripting Ghost Switch: still haven’t done this one yet! The Snowdin arc is completely planned, but I just haven’t gotten around to getting the other areas. I’m not worried, though. I know all the major plot points I gotta hit, it’s just weaving them together in a way that flows nice is the final task. I’m not too worried though. I don’t expect to finish the Snowdin arc for another year and a half, at the bare minimum.

 And my last goal of 2020, Boost My Patreon. I did this at the beginning of the year, but then very intentionally stopped about a third of the way through. It didn’t sit right with me to tell you guys to donate to me when suddenly EVERYONE was financially strained from layoffs or being furloughed. I told my patrons the same, and if you ever need to stop donating to me to take care of yourself first, then by all means, please do. I would feel much better knowing you’re using your money to see yourself fed and housed instead of given to me (where it is pretty much only used to buy gas for my car, honestly)

 Welp! That was all my goals for 2020! I achieved 4 out of 10 goals plus 1 secret goal! Pretty much the same ratio as last year, but now this time I can blame all my failures on the pandemic! I don’t feel so bad about myself anymore~

 ON TO 2021!

 I have 11 goals for the new year, again some rolled over from this list, and some from even older years. They are, in no particular order;

 Read 12 new books (roughly 1 book a month)

Finish the first draft of 2019’s Nanowrimo project and rewrite it

Script TDV

Finish Scripting Ghost Switch

Build A Comic Buffer

Sew 1 Stuffed Animal

Finish 1 Song Comic

Make another Enamel Pin

Finish 2 short original comics (this one counts as 2 goals)

Finish the 5 remaining one-shot fics

 Now to go into depth on each one, more for my own sake, really. I want to know exactly what I have planned for each goal this year, and sometimes just looking at a short list doesn’t capture all the smaller details.

 1)Read 12 new books. Same as last year! I The only difference is I might not be able to make it all dragon-related books. (I try my hardest not to buy from amazon anymore, but half-price-books doesn’t always have the obscure stuff I’m looking for)

 2)Finish 2019’s nanowrimo project. If you read my 2019 year reflection, you’ll notice I said I wanted to do some original writing. And I did! The story I wrote for nanowrimo back then was a story I’ve been toying with since 2017, but it was only last year I finally got pen to paper. Now, you may find it odd that the keyword says “finish”. You may think, “but isn’t that what you’re supposed to do for nanowrimo?” and to that I say, WRONG! I wrote 50k words for nanowrimo, but the draft was only about halfway complete. I was kinda discouraged about what I had written last year, because I didn’t like how it was coming out, but I did manage to get it half done. Now it’s time for me to bite the bullet and just finish the thing so I can finally revise it and make it into something I DO like. (It’s still gonna be hella long, tho. That’s what I get for trying to write an epic fantasy, I guess.)

 3)Script TDV. TDV is the abbreviation of the game I want to make. I… still need to do so much for this project OTL… In addition to getting the story solidified, I still need to draw art and game assets, and learn how to code for it, both of which are no small task. I keep having some sort of new year’s goal related to this on my list, and every year I just don’t hit this one. Will 2021 be different?

 4)Finish Scripting Ghost Switch. (Or at the very least, get the waterfall arc completely written out). I have a plan to break this down into simpler steps, by focusing on just one arc for a month or two. Every major arc has 2 to 3 parts, broken up by flashbacks, and if I can just finish one section a month, then I should have the entire thing scripted by the end of the year. It’s not a difficult pace, but seeing if I stick with it will be the real challenge, as it is will all my goals it seems.

 5)Build a Comic Buffer: I’m actually working on this one right now! Since I paid off my last loan and got a new job this year, my current Patreon goals are kind of out of date. They had all been centered around me paying off that last loan, and working towards full-time employment, but those are both completed now! So instead, I would love to get to a place where my patrons could read pages at least a week ahead, and to do that, I need to build a buffer. And since I’m working 5 full days a week now, I can’t afford to fall behind. But you can’t fall behind if you constantly stay ahead! I would like to have… a 10 to 12 page buffer. That’s roughly 3 months’ worth of pages to always have on hand in case I get swamped with work, or something. Right now I currently have a buffer of 3, which will cover me for half a January, which is better than not having anything at all, but still not the best. (ultimately, I would love to have a buffer so big, I could queue them up for the whole year. Wouldn’t that be something?)

 6) Sew one stuffed animal: same as last year. ASSUMING the plague gets under control in 2021, I don’t expect to get to this goal until the summer at the earliest.

 7)Finish 1 song comic: I have 7 song comics planned. One is a gift, one possibly for wandersong, one is a collab that’s currently in the works, but I’m waiting on a friend to do their part before I can continue mine, 2 are UT related, and 2 (well, technically 3, but one is the collab) are KH related. It’s one of the UT ones that will probably get finished, if I’m being honest. It’s completely story boarded, and now I just need to ink and color it. I would like to get it done for UT’s 6th birthday, since I made a song comic on the fly for the anniversary this year, and it was fun, and I’d like to do it again! So, look forward to that next september~

 8) Make another enamel pin: I have a dolphin design I’d like to make because dolphins are cute, if not little murder machines. (need to save up some expendable income first, tho. THESE THINGS AIN’T CHEAP TO MAKE.)

 9 and 10) start and finish 2 original short comics: I’ve got some comic ideas I want to do, but I need to get them written out first. I don’t think either would be too long. Each maybe a couple “episode’s” length, if envisioned on a website like webtoons or tapas. They’d both be heavy in allegory, but not overly drawn out (hopefully)

 11)And lastly, Finish the 5 remaining one-shots I had planned for this year but never got around to. I’m going to try to write one every other month. Pure self-indulgent shipping fluff. If I finish these 5, then maybe I’ll ask other people for more prompts and ideas, which I’ve never done before. We’ll see how it goes~

 Also, Like last year, I’d like to look at everything that’s happened to me this year, though to be honest, I’m not sure how much I remember/how accurate it’ll be. God, I don’t even remember what January was like. Who was I back then? Who were we all back then? I guess I’ll start my yearly retrospective in march because, heh, god we ALL know what started happening in march.

 Firstly, I paid off my last student loan! Then a week later on March 18th, I drove half an hour out of my city to adopt a cat and I love her and it was the best day of this year for me. Spring break is just beginning this weekend, but the attendance at the zoo is shockingly low this year. Apparently, a lot of people watch the news, and they’re all taking precautions about social distancing. I wasn’t too disappointed. Fewer people at the zoo, the easier my job is for me. I was looking forward to getting some free overtime on spring break, since I’m broke after paying off that loan, and I’m a cat parent now and have a furry child to feed. Monday rolls around. My manager calls me and tells me that the zoo is going into lockdown until further notice. I worry for the birds I take care of, but understand it’s for everyone’s safety.

 For two months I sleep in and watch way too much YouTube. I join a couple writing discords. I have nightmares about my birds escaping their enclosure and I dreamed one of the security guards I really like at the zoo gets covid and has to go to the ER. I woke up really upset.

 I started and finished BBS for the first time. I also replayed and finished KH2 final mix for the first time. It had been about 5 years since I last played KH2 before my PS2 died, and it was like coming home~ I also finished tearaway, and played and beat Ryme for a second time (which I can’t remember if I did that last year, but it was a fun experience regardless)

 Mid-June, and I’m allowed to start going back to work, be it on reduced hours. The zoo is still closed to the public, but I’m loving it! I get to work with full-time keepers and do full-time keeper things. It’s so much fun not having to deal with the public. August starts to creep up and there’s a rumor that the zoo will be opening to the public again, which I’m not stoked about. I don’t want to go back to standing in one exhibit all day, talking to guests who don’t listen to the rules or to me. 2 of my younger coworkers (who had both only been there a couple of months) get chosen for full-time positions, while I get passed up which really pisses me off. My other 2 coworkers quit when they think we might be reopening because they cannot risk catching the virus due to at-risk family. I am now the last keeper in the interactive bird exhibit.

 I keep working, the zoo slowly opens, but with me as the only interpreter in our interactive bird exhibit, we can’t open because I can’t run the entire exhibit by myself. So my exhibit stays closed. September comes and goes, and then October starts. Now there is more serious talk of opening my exhibit before the end of the year because the zoo expects to bring in larger crowds for the Christmas lights event in November/December. I ask if I get hazard pay or health insurance since I’m doing full-time hours until they hire more staff. They say no.

 I immediately start searching for a new job feeling incredibly indignant/hurt/slighted/insulted/used/abused/ALL the negative feelings at my job. I had been there for 4 years, but never got a chance to work full time, while the two newest hires who had only been there 2 months both got moved up. I can’t help but feel they were holding one mistake I made two years ago against me and never wanted to give me a chance. (that, or they knew I was reliable when it came to showing up for work in such a volatile position that sees a lot of new faces, and they didn’t want to bother going through the process of hiring someone new) I don’t want to risk my life working around guests who don’t wash their hands and don’t properly distance. I don’t want to gamble with my health when they won’t offer me health insurance because I’m part time.

 Mid October, I get an interview for a full time job and get hired on the spot. I peace out at the zoo 2 weeks later, literally 3 days before they planned to open my exhibit to the public. It was a close call for me to escape before they opened to the public (and pettiness was only partially the reason I dipped out so close to opening). Sorry new hires who are now in charge of the bird feeding exhibit. I taught you the best I could in the short time I had. If the managers are struggling with what to do with one less person, I can’t say I feel bad. I can only hope they delayed opening/closed you down again for your own safety. You are not lightbulbs. I really hope the higher ups stop considering you as replaceable as one. Will I go back to the zoo to visit? Probably. But not for a year at least.

 I started my new job the very next day after I quit the zoo, and have been there ever since, (which isn’t that long yet, tbh. Christmas day was my 2 month anniversary). It’s full time, but it’s also a small business, and everyone’s hours this year have been on the short side due to the plague. I understand, though. They don’t want us to work if they can’t afford to pay us. Everyone is nice enough, though some people smoke and it’s hard to avoid them with how frequently we have to go in and out, and I really don’t want to get lung cancer, sorry not sorry, please and thank you. Also, with such a small team, gossip is certainly harder to go undetected, so it’s a relief knowing people don’t talk behind one another’s backs.

 I participated and beat my 4th nanowrimo in a row, I made TWO apple crisps on thanksgiving, and made baklava on Christmas and both of these recipes were my first time making them, and they both came out adequately! I voted the first day of early voting, and I did an art trade/collab with two of my friends for my birthday! (normally we would have done monthly “art days” where we get together and do art projects for fun because we’re adults and we can spend our time together however we want, but the plague said otherwise this year) We drew pokemon and it was fun! (hopefully I can show you all the results soon. At the time of writing, I’m still waiting for the last two colored parts to get back to me)

 I reached 100 pages on my undertale comic, and finish the first arc out of…! (im not sure. It’s either going to be 4 or 5, I haven’t decided yet)

 Over all, I managed to stay healthy as far as I know. I wasn’t as productive as I wanted to be this year, but then again, who was? (don’t answer that. I don’t need that kind of comparison in my life right now)

 Will 2021be any better? Honestly? I don’t think so. Not right away, at least. Just because a new year is about to start does not mean the slate is completely wiped clean. The change of the calendar year doesn’t magically make all our current problems disappear. Covid will still be here and cases will still climb when January starts. Small business will still be strained when the month rolls over, police will still go on murdering innocent civilians and getting away scot free, amazon and disney will still be monopolizing all consumer goods and media, and I can’t help but feel like there’s an impending shit show about to go down on inauguration day. I do hope things will get better, though. It’ll be arduous and unpleasant, but I do hope things will improve, because sometimes hoping is all you can do.

 Good night.

[thissimplefeelingzine]

regarding your inexperienced w zines mod team- do u at least have somebody handling finances that has experience w a completed zine? that’s SUPER important, especially now, and I would urge you to reach out if not and find somebody to handle that positon. looking forward to this zine!

Hello anon,

I am Mod Dogfeathers*, and while posting directly to our socials is somewhat rare for me, I am This Simple Feeling's current Finance Mod, and so I thought it very important that I address your concerns directly, myself. I am very shy, I am neurodivergent, and I have severe social anxiety, and so most of the work I've done for This Simple Feeling thusfar has been infrastructural and supportive, somewhat away from wider visibility. However, I am extremely aware of the awesome responsibility that falls squarely on my shoulders as finance mod, and that the community around our zine– from my fellow mods and our potential contributors to the fans who will be cheering us on and reading issue 6 next year– must be able to depend on me to manage our finances through every stage of This Simple Feeling's production. The success of our project requires the community's collective confidence in me, and I am extremely keen to build that trust.

So, first, I want to apologize for the length of time that you've had to wait for this reply, and assure you we've been taking your concerns very seriously. Much of this time has been spent in deliberative reflection as to whether or not I should remain in this role. I love this project, and I have invested a prodigious amount of time and effort and affection into it since Head Mod @menecio approached me in early November 2020; I desperately want it to succeed. I have never wavered that I want to remain in this role, and my fellow staff have not wavered in their conviction that I should remain here, too. That said, I am aware that the success of our zine does not particularly care about what I want or what feels good, and so I took some time to seriously assess my own capabilities, to strenuously question my resolve, and to seek advice from people with zine experience who I trust. We have determined that I shall remain Finance Mod, but I want to stress that this was neither an easy nor an immediate decision– I did not let it be an easy or immediate decision, because what has always mattered to me is what's best for the zine. In the end, that determination was made based on the work that I've already done and the trust that my team has in my abilities.

Nevertheless, we want to emphasize that we continue to take your concerns seriously; we recognize that my lack of zine experience is both significant and reasonable cause for concern. We are taking additional measures to address that lack, beyond those that I insisted upon when I accepted this role. I will shortly lay out some of my relevant experience, but in recognition that it is limited and that it may not be sufficient to assuage your concerns, I want to make clear one of the additional measures that I requested during this period of consideration.

My husband and my partner of ten years, Tom, is a trained accountant, and he will now be supervising my work for this project directly. He had already agreed to assist me informally, and had– with supreme patience– already conducted a few intense, 6 hour long sessions to explain the ways that double-entry bookkeeping and Microsoft Access can be used to manage a project of this nature. He will continue to do that, but he will also be keeping an eye on my work and checking up that work periodically. I will still be managing our accounts, my name will still be on our books, and this will still be my job, but Tom will be actively present to confirm that I am doing this correctly. He does not have zine experience, he is not involved in fandom, and he does not have fandom-relevant socials– he has no specific pull towards fandom participation, the way I do– but he has worked for several years as one of two accountants for the library of one of the USA's top 40 public research universities, managing the extremely complex and surprisingly variable needs of such a massive nonprofit, and has been responsible for controlling several million dollars of public acquisitions spending in that capacity. (His way of describing this: "Each year we spent about the same amount as the budget for 10 Things I Hate About You, and I was in charge of a little over half of it.")

As part of this supervisory role, Tom is also going to maintain a presence in our server. He is not a mod and plays no part in decision making beyond occasionally giving us financial advice when asked, but he has appropriate server roles to provide direct access to mod discussions, so that he can be present to pay attention when I bring financial data to the team, and to answer our collective financial questions, should any arise that are beyond my personal capacity. When his schedule permits, he is also available to our contributors and mods to answer their questions directly in server.

What follows is a non-comprehensive, but hopefully thorough, summary of my relevant experience.

By training and professionally, I am a studio artist with an MFA, the terminal degree in my field. I manage my own studio practice. This is a complicated, variable job that requires a great deal of flexibility, responsiveness, and skill– most of which does not actually involve the hand-skills necessary to create the literal artwork the studio practice ostensibly produces. As an artist, I am a sole proprietor, and my studio is my business, but with very specific needs not necessarily found in other businesses, and I run it without assistants. I maintain my inventory and my supplies, I purchase and manage equipment necessary to create work, I manage my work through various states of creation and exhibition and– sometimes– publication, I take on clients for commission, I apply to shows (for which there is always a fee), I work with gallerists and curators, I research and make connections with different platforms and specialist logistics businesses (PayPal/money handlers, banks, streaming platforms, printers, data storage). All of those affect my studio's finances, and so they must be managed carefully, in addition to sales of prints and original artwork (thusfar handled privately, as is fairly normal– we are often encouraged not to maintain digital storefronts, because it can dissuade potential gallerists from representing us; I am in the process of threading that needle.) In this capacity, I have no employer: I am responsible for taxes– both knowing what they are and paying them– and fees, I am responsible for my costs, and I am responsible to my business partners. There is no external buffer– if I fail any of this, I am the only party responsible for making it right.

Because I believe in the transformative power of art (and, for that matter, fandom), I try to work with local arts organizations and nonprofits when possible, particularly when it comes to showing my work and engaging in community arts efforts. I prefer to support group projects that elevate multiple artists, and/or organizations that serve diverse communities. Prior to COVID, I was doing a volunteer-intensive residency with local community arts nonprofit whose mission is to bring art and heritage craft skills to communities that would not otherwise be able to access such training; COVID has necessitated a change in my ability to serve them, but I do still work for them in a more limited capacity, usually grantwriting.

Though I prioritize nonprofits, I have also worked as an assistant/intern for urban galleries using for-profit and co-op funding structures, which involved both basic work associated with gallery assistantship (manning desks, running errands, calling support businesses, promotion, show installation, etc), and sometimes work on specific projects that required knowledge of the institution's fiscal state and available funds (from contacting local businesses about the replacement of a gallery's floor and helping to plan the launching of a new residency, to more routine tasks, such as contacting local bakeries about catering or hosting satellite shows, and ordering promotional material from printers.) All galleries run on extremely tight budgets, and having been exposed to a variety different gallery funding structures (with concomitantly different priorities and audiences) gives me an awareness of the work and the precision required to achieve ambitious goals with extremely limited finances. They are why I price things out on three levels: the ideal, the nearly-ideal, and the most affordable that still meets our high bar for quality.

I have experience writing grants, both for myself and (more notably) for the nonprofit at which I am an AIR (artist in residence). The most ambitious of these grants has reached the second stage of consideration, which is notable both because the granting organization is not arts specific, the deciding board is composed mostly of bankers with deep fiscal expertise, and we were asking for funds significantly in excess of what that grant usually offers. That decision is expected in June of next year. Grant-writing is less of an abstraction on the skills necessary for a zine than it might initially seem: both involve my operation as an agent representing the organization for which I requesting money; art grants are usually for very specific projects with very specific constraints; they usually require that our funding comes from multiple sources that are then pooled to enact the project; the projects have a specific lifespan and a schedule on which key stages must be completed; they require extremely precise budgeting; we are directly accountable for both the project and the precise management and tracking of said funding; and we must be ready to provide statements and proof of the project's progress and funding at every stage of the project's active lifespan, as well as a summary report at the end.

I have curatorial experience with local and regional art shows, usually organized by a small independent team working closely with a local, preferably-nonprofit gallery who is lending us their space; those roles are very analogous to the XO/logistical role I am currently fulfilling for This Simple Feeling. Though we worked with local galleries, and could sometimes make use of some of their equipment (such as hammers and nails and– if we were very lucky– leftover paint), we were responsible for every aspect of the actual hosting of the show and associated costs. This included equipment rental, installation costs, costs to repair & repaint to walls from the normal damage of installation, catering, sometimes utilities and space rental, etc. All of those costs were additional to the cost of recruiting artists, hosting calls, managing the artists and their work, managing sales of the work throughout the duration of the show, managing the sales of any prints the artists or merch the artists wanted to offer alongside the work, and organizing any publications or promotional materials released for the shows. Each show had different financial needs, but they all required budgets prior to their beginning, modified when necessary as the project came closer to realization and new constraints presented themselves. The businesses we solicited quotes from and our cost-reduction strategies varied from show to show, but all of the teams I worked with were semi-formal groups of friends and collaborators, similar to the teams that design zines, and so we did not have a pool of institutional capital to use for funding– we had to generate or barter for all of that ourselves. We did it because we loved it and we believed in it, not because it was potentially lucrative (community art shows almost never are, even less than zines; the point is celebration of our community.)

And that, honestly, is one of the most relevant bits of experience I've accumulated to date, tangential but applicable to a project like this: the awareness that this kind of project is done for love, not money. Issue 6 is being produced for charity, but even wildly successful for-profit zines will almost never be able to make enough profit to adequately compensate the cost of the staff's time, which would be upwards of $20k, if you paid them $10/hr, which is below the cost of living in most parts of my country. The cost to hire freelance writers is, at minimum, $.10 a word. The artwork in zines would cost in the hundreds– and, more realistically, thousands– of dollars, in a professional illustrative or fine art context. The writers and artists who contribute to zines absolutely make work that reaches (and exceeds) the professional standards required to participate in those industries. Our contributors have trained for years to hone their skills, and they put those skills towards making work for us, for free; our staff similarly donate their time to accomplish very complex tasks to support that creative work; that time could be spent producing work for those professional contexts, but instead they give it to us, and they do that because they believe in us and our community, and they want to celebrate a fandom and a ship– Star Trek and K/S– that have brought us together, and (with Trek and K/S specifically) have supported fandom engagement for over five decades. They give that work to us, and the only thing they ask is for us to make a zine out of it. I am an artist and a writer, I have formal training in both disciplines, and I understand these costs: I cannot express how seriously I take the gift of their time and energy, and how profoundly I am humbled to be trusted with it.

If I sound zealous, it's because I am, and because I am excruciatingly aware that from the moment our staff begins working on this project and our contributors start making their works, the financial responsibility for taking all that gifted energy and skill and effort becomes solely my own. If I fail as finance mod, I do not fail only myself, as would be the case in my studio practice– I also fail my fellow mods and every single one of my contributors, and I fail the community responsible for the generation of work that has provided me solace for decades. If I fuck up as finance mod, it is solely my responsibility to make it right.

As I said before, your concerns are absolutely reasonable– I share many of them– and all of this experience is tangential, and zines are different projects to those that I've worked on before, with different constraints and needs. I have thus taken action and structured my own work as a mod to assuage these concerns in myself, in ways that I hope will concomitantly assuage some of your concerns as well. I am paying attention to my own inexperience, I am preventing myself from functioning on auto-pilot, I am taking nothing for granted, and I am being actively vigilant for the inevitable gaps in my own expertise.

That's easy to say, but what does it look like? Thusfar, it takes the form of huge amounts of research, and the connection to a extant network of experienced zinesters, both of which are repositories of information with which I am trying to plug some of my gaps. I know well, as an academic who also practices disciplines (art and writing) that are precarious by their nature, that there is a big difference between external research and experience– but if everyone starts somewhere, then I have gone to great lengths to map out the place where I'm starting as thoroughly as possible. I have read (and often annotated) literally every resource on the production and staffing of fandom zines that I could find. When I have a question, I check these sources and I also look for examples of whatever I'm curious about 'in the wild'. To determine the likely price of our zine, for example, I looked through seven pages of tags on popular hub/promotion blogs on Tumblr, and generated a comprehensive Excel sheet from one such session that allowed me to compare prices against the number of pages and the kinds of merch offered alongside the zines in question. To balance the holes in that mode of data collection, I have also sought contacts and tried to build a relationship with communities around zine production: i have close friends who work on zines (and who initially got me interested in this kind of project– you know who you are, and my thanks is infinite for your patience and your willingness to act as resource), and I regularly make a pest of myself by asking strange questions to folks in Discord servers dedicated to the topic (I am also grateful to these communities, in similar terms). When possible, or if the question is specific enough, I try to go directly to the source: when I was uncertain what, specifically, could be used to verify a PayPal account, and found conflicting answers in their documentation, I spent three days talking to various help desk personnel until I found a solid answer on which to proceed. All of this is basic, and deserves no accolades.

If I am anything in my personal art practice, it is a colorist, and so I already had fairly deep knowledge of color theory prior to my involvement here– however, because color accuracy is so important to printed artwork, and depends so much on printer technology, the capacity and setup of individual print shops, and digital color spaces, I have spent time researching this too. I have requested printing samples from 7 different printers, and I have peppered the ones that meet the zine's standards with esoteric questions about what kind of printing presses they use and what ICC profiles their digital presses are set up to handle. I have done this because when it comes time (very shortly) for our Art Mod (@i-drive-a-nii-san) and myself to make some final determinations on which printers we want to use, it is important to me personally that we have the most comprehensive data available with which to make that decision. The zine that we publish needs to be pragmatically affordable– but within the scope of that pragmatism, I want the best quality possible, so as to do justice to the contributions that will live on its pages. 

I am aware that all of my experience is tangential, and that the direct relevance that it has on this situation is limited. I am aware that there are gaps in my knowledge. I am aware of the awesome responsibilities I have as finance mod, and that I am a potential bottleneck upon which this project either breaks and fails or through which it passes and succeeds. I am aware of the gift inherent in every work we receive and every moment of staff working time, and the legacies at play with K/S specifically. I am aware that all the book-learning in the world has limited bearing on the actual experience of doing something on the ground. I find my experience lacking, and for that reason, I very seriously considered stepping down. I am humbled by the responsibility required by this position; I decided to stay because the trust my team expressed in me was also humbling.

My experience may be tangential, but there is a final element that I strongly suspect is applicable to my role as finance mod (and mod generally): in a project like a zine, done for love and for community, there are a myriad ways in which trust matters, small enough to overlook but overwhelming in their accumulation. The trust of the external fandom/zinester community matters, and for that reason I am being as honest as possible, and almost ceded my position to someone with greater experience; the trust of one's fellow staff and collaborators also matters in significant ways. An administrative team that trusts each other– that has confidence in each others' abilities and convictions, that understands each others' outlooks and that communicates well, and that deeply believes that that they will mutually have each other's backs– that kind of administrative team is an awesome thing, and their confidence is often perceptible to the contributors in very real ways, who then trust the administrative team to have their backs and to support them as necessary. Collaborators and administrators who have established that trust with each other tend to work together more effectively, and produce stronger work as a result, especially in a creative capacity. Good work requires creative risk-taking, which in turn requires the certainty that administration can support the necessary risk-taking and facilitate its success. The establishment of such trust is not automatic– we must work for it, actively– but the team involved in issue 6 of This Simple Feeling has that trust in each other, and the willingness to build it with both our collaborators and the wider community around our zine.

My confidence in the rest of my team is unshakeable. They have, in turn, expressed their confidence in me, that I am able to do the tasks and handle the responsibility involved with being finance mod on a project as specific and complex as a fandom zine for charity; I will trust them, and I will continue to work to earn their trust. I will also trust the broad community of zinesters around me, and solicit their expertise to help me navigate unfamiliar waters, and I will trust the professional expertise of my partner, who I have asked to donate his time. I will not lie, and so I make no promise that I won't fuck up in this role– but I will absolutely promise that if I do, I will make it right, and I will do everything in my power to prevent such fuckups from occurring in the first place.

I encourage you or anyone else to contact me if you have further questions; I can be reached through the contact forms on my personal Carrds– both linked on This Simple Feeling's staff bio on the Carrd– or alternatively you can request my Discord handle via DM on This Simple Feeling’s Tumblr or Twitter.

- Mod Dogfeathers/42/booleanWildcard/NAB

* I write fanfiction under the name booleanWildcard, and I am known socially as 42 or */asterisk. I post drawings as Dogmachine. I sign my visual work as NAB, my initials.

* We are using Microsoft Access instead of Excel, because Access is more flexible and comprehensive with its ability to cross-reference multiple fields. We will use it to generate reports for release, including possibly ones that can be plugged into Excel/Google Sheets

[aglimmerintheriver]

How to mentally keep baneful spirits out - no tools required AKA How Not To Give A F*** About the Uninvited

You can find so much info on here and throughout the web about negative entities and protecting yourself from them. Just as there is so much info, there are all of these different perspectives on how our energies associate with them. In this post I hope to cover a lot of different perspectives, as well as some creative methods for dealing with baneful spirits and your own defense magic tool set.

Introduction

A lot of mythical creatures are based in energetic truth- the vampire is aligned with the energy vampire, the evil and feared witch (like in the Witch movie) is aligned with the early-Christian understanding of the Wise People. The word Witch came from Wic, which means ‘Wisdom’ in Germanic languages. Think of anything given malevolent or benevolent power in the media, and you can likely tie it to misconceptions about the witchcraft and pagan community.

In Shonda Rhimes’ “Grey’s Anatomy” there is an episode where Dr. Miranda Bailey talks about how her OCD creates negative, scary fears within the mind that feel so real that they become real, but she also says that if her mind can think up and believe in these terrible, scary things, she can also think up positive things that make her feel better about those fears- things that help create a buffer, to save her from being so afraid. I’m completely blanking on which episode this was, if you know please let me know and I’ll add it in. By bringing this up, I want to point to something that inspired me to write this post: that elasticity of our perception and of the power we hold within ourselves being dependent on our awareness of our power.

All of this to say that this is not a post created for someone experiencing demonic intrusion. I may or may not have experienced this kind of interaction and if I have, I was simply saved by calling on Jesus (holy freaking heck did not expect the Christian god to help me out but he did) and asking that he save my soul from the attack. If you are under demonic attack or believe that you are, please consult a shaman or a witch who knows how to deal with demonic power. My understanding of demons is that they were the very first spirits here, and so they are the oldest of the old and have a lot of power. That’s not to say your power stands no chance against them, but if you feel overwhelmed by the spirits you’re facing, a lot of the times it is helpful not just for our spiritual protection but also for our perception of how safe we are to call on someone outside of us for help- whether that be a deity or other type of spirit we revere as having badass protective strength or another human we believe can help protect us/banish whatever’s in your sphere.

Perception and Reality

What we believe is what we see. Another way to phrase this is, ‘Where the mind goes, your energy flows”, a very famous phrase within the spiritual community (I believe it has Buddhist origins but not sure of who said it first). This is why a lot of witches are recommended to meet with a therapist or psychologist regularly to ensure our mental health is strong. A lot of people within our community believe that mental health creates spiritual gaps wherein baneful spirits can creep in and target us, but others believe that the cause of mental problems is our spiritual health itself. I’m in the camp of believing mental health is important no matter how you see the correlation- taking care of your brain is just as important as keeping up with the rest of your practice. 

Another aspect of protection and magic is not just ‘what we see’ but how. To bring in a little cognitive function theory, someone with extroverted intuition (or Ne) would likely see a situation and the world from twenty or more different lenses. This is like viewing the world through a multi-faceted crystal and being able to look at all these different crystal-edges and see a different distortion. And that’s really what our view is mostly, because it is nearly impossible to go around living your life and be able to see everything EXACTLY as it is. It’s just not reasonable to think you’re going to be able to have a clear lens every time. If you do and if you’ve developed that, please share how you did and help me figure that out haha, but until then I’m going to work with my understanding that our perception is going to have some type of illusion to it.

And here comes what this post has been leading to- the thing I’m excited about. The Imagining, and the power in that imagining. This is mental craft.

The You-Shaped Perception

In focus meditation you’re told that attention to the breath or to one sensation is important, because you’re narrowing your cannon-sized attention to the size of a pinhole. In much the same way, mental magic is about not just changing your lens, but also how you use that lens.

You       can.         do.            Anything.

It’s true. I mean, within physical means, right? You’re only going to fly if you know how to build mechanical wings, so this isn’t some offhanded promise meant halfheartedly. Nope, I mean this with all of me.

The mind is our friend and our enemy. I’m not even a big fan of meditation and yet I know that. It’s that changeable lens we see things through and how we think of them.

Our mind, my friend, is our power.

In speaking of the mind, I am not just thinking about your brain matter, or your reason, or whatever. I’m talking intention (leading to manifestation) and conscious attention to changing our thoughts.

Think something long enough and you start to believe it. Don’t like your thoughts, or how you feel? What thought or visualization would help you feel better?

There are rabbit holes we fall into where we either can’t control our thoughts and feelings due to mental illness and other times when we just don’t want to control them. Sometimes it feels good to be swept away by our own ocean of emotion and madness. It’s part of being human. The former situation (with the rabbit holes) is likely to be helped by a mental health professional and possibly some anti-depressants. The latter can  a p p a r e n t l y  be helped by meditation. 

(Also, did you know that meditation helps grow the gray matter in your brain? Sitting down and just watching your thoughts pass like clouds, allowing your body to rest, opens you up to expanded compassion, self awareness, contemplation, and helps your memory. If anyone is interested in practicing this, I’m going to be working through this free online MBSR/Mindfulness course in the hopes of helping my depression and my powers of intention- it looks like a great resource especially during this time of political and global tension. I believe our souls are deeply connected to one another and also to the overall soul of the world. Everything that happens in it is something we collectively experience and all of the stress along with this social isolation that the majority of us are experiencing is incredibly traumatizing. I highly recommend checking this out and seeing how it affects you over a few weeks’ time: https://palousemindfulness.com/ )

The point I’m trying to make here is that 98 times out of 100 times, YOU control your perception. And that’s a very empowering and creative thing. Especially when you identify as a witch 😄

gif of Joaquin Phoenix as the joker with a smiling mask on, then pulling up the mask and grinning.

DAMN TABITHA JUST GET TO THE POINT ALREADY

Okay okay. Here’s my point.

You can use creativity in your craft. You know this already. But you don’t need a book of spells (they’re fun to read though) and you don’t need the latest books on psychic magic. You can seriously just use your magical brain.

Intention is everything. Your natural intuitive powers are where your strength lies- I’d say it’s the key to unlocking whatever the heck you want in life. 

Look at your life like it is a children’s story book or movie, alright? It sounds stupid but please stay with me if you made it this far, because I think this is where it gets good. You know how the main character faced this seemingly impossible task or challenge, and they didn’t know how they’d do it but they did it anyway? Things just worked out for them, either because they did some work to help meet their goal and they fought to believe in themselves, or because the writer(s) wanted to throw them some tools that would help them easily get their goal.

You’re the main character and you’re the author of your story. And not only are you the author, but you’ve got all these spirits helping you co-author what unfolds in your life. So it doesn’t matter if there’s a damn fire-breathing knife-throwing monster standing on top of you while you sleep because in your witch brain, all you need to do is say “I am stronger than you will ever be. I am the apex predator” and watch that nasty bugger fucking deflate.

What is the most empowering thing is realizing that you are worth fearing, yourself.

Now this isn’t an excuse to take on a bad-bitch persona and mess your life up. Don’t go around hexing people willy nilly, please. Don’t think you can conjure a demon and be able to control it.

Just know that you can control yourself and the space you’re in. Cause you a badass, bitch.

An actual example from my real life

I have a little known disorder called Ehlers Danlos Syndrome. Essentially it’s scary AF because I have dislocations on the daily and they’re painful and honestly, it’s the bane of my existence. 

That’s not even exaggerating haha.

So along with it comes a lot of second guessing self worth, because of how it’s perceived and how I’m perceived because I’m a lady with EDS. The questions I’ve fielded, the conversations I’ve had, the experiences I’ve had to deal with as a result of it are utterly ridiculous (sometimes, downright despicable). 

One day I was talking to my therapist about self-perception and not feeling strong enough to face life with my handicap, and she asked me to point out the strengths it’s encouraged in me. I was able to point to a few things and while I did, I could see Brigid beside me and this oak shield forming around my body, and I imagined that every word I spoke, every good quality I have grown from having my disorder, made that shield stronger.

There are the times when I rabbit hole and I forget what that armor means and looks like. I forget that it’s there. But inevitably, something happens that would normally feel like it was undermining me and instead, I remember that oak shield and Brigid’s protective, loving energy, and I remember how expansive it feels to see myself as being worth this life and as having valuable traits to offer to the world. That’s when I see that shield again.

As you can see this isn’t only for spirits, but it applies even in those situations too. I’ll detail my channeling session that ended with calling on Jesus another time haha as this is getting quite long. To wrap this up:

TL;DR: “How not to give a f*** about unwanted spirits”

- Decide not to give a f***

- Decide what you will give a f*** about

- Find a couple practices for protection that you like and stick with them

- Know what clairs you have that are strongest (and if none feel that strong right now, that’s perfectly normal. Don’t put pressure on yourself, just enjoy exploring how your intuition works and pay attention without obsessing (or try not to obsess anyways). You have time to experiment with intuition, I’ll try to find some good sources for this and write something for those of you frustrated with figuring out where your skills lie or how to use them.

- Know that they’re working, that you’re a freaking badass witch, and that nothing can come into your space without earning your wrath (which can just be a GTFO and a call on your fave deity if you like)

A lot of the time, spirits who show up don’t actually have any dominion to stay. You have the power. You own the space, you own YOUR space (the space of your body). So own that you own it and do it with certainty. Feel the POWAH haha.

Sources mentioned:

https://news.harvard.edu/gazette/story/2011/01/eight-weeks-to-a-better-brain/

[bubonickitten]

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

Previous chapter: tumblr // AO3

Chapter 7 full text & content warnings below the cut.

      CWs for Chapter 7: panic attack/shutdown; hospital/ICU imagery. Jon meets his apparent quota of one (1) allowed swear per chapter. SPOILERS through S5.

      Chapter 7: Zombie, Redux

     There are hushed voices coming from somewhere deep below the unbroken whine of static filling his ears. Nearer, Georgie is saying something, but her words are too garbled for Jon to wring any meaning out of them. He isn’t sure exactly how long it’s been since he woke up, but he can feel his muscles cramping from holding the same position for awhile now, curled tight and taut and small.

  …catatonia: a state of…

  Fuck off, Jon thinks dully.

  At least he’s not crying anymore. That stopped some time ago, all of a sudden between one moment and the next, and now he just feels hollow and raw. He knows what he would see if he looked in the mirror: puffy, reddened eyes, so reminiscent of a human – but with a glint of something hungry and monstrous behind them. Any sympathy or concern that anyone might feel at first glance would be quashed with one long look into those eyes, leaving only fear and revulsion and hostility in their wake. And they would be right to flee or freeze or fight, just as they might when confronted with any other predator. 

  Jon keeps his eyes closed.

  “– a sedative,” comes an unfamiliar voice, finally reaching him through the haze.

  “Does he look like he needs a sedative?”

  Basira, Jon recognizes.

  “We – we should really do some – some tests…” The first voice trails off uncertainly. A nurse, Jon assumes. He can feel the apprehension coming off them in waves. 

  No one knows what to do with him. There is no standard of care for a patient who spent the last six months as a seeming corpse with frantic brain activity as its only signs of life.

  A zombie, Jon recalls wryly. The statement calls to him from within Basira’s bag: a taunt, a balm, and a poison all at once. He pushes the thought of it away.

  None of the hospital staff like entering his room, he Knows. They certainly don’t want to deal with him now he’s awake. His circumstances present a medical marvel – the kind of mystery that most researchers would kill for a chance to study – but their curiosity was tempered by that overpowering sense of wrongness emanating from him. They were wisely dissuaded by the sheer dread of coming close to something so unquestionably inhuman. 

  Most people aren’t so curious that they would run headlong towards an ominous fate like the first person to die in a horror film, he supposes. It’s just one more way in which Jon was – is – such an easy target for someone like Jonah Magnus.   

  Distantly, Jon can feel himself start to shiver.

  There’s movement to his right as Georgie sits on the edge of the bed, within arm’s reach but careful to leave a buffer of empty space between them. She tells him that he’s safe – he’s not, and neither is anyone else while he still exists in the world – and that she’s here – for now, but once she realizes how far gone he is, she’ll leave again – and that they’ll sort it all out – yes, and when they do, they’ll never stop looking at him like he’s a monster, and isn’t he?

  The door closes behind the nurse, but the fear lingers for several minutes afterwards, like blood diffusing through water.  

  “Jon,” Basira begins, her tone resolute and impersonal.

  “Give him a minute,” Georgie says.

  “He’s had a minute. He’s had six months.” There is no malice in her voice, only a bone-deep exhaustion. Basira has been carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders since the Unknowing. She’s barely had a chance to mourn Daisy; she’s wound tight from hypervigilance, made worse by the Flesh’s attack; she’s had to put practicality above all else, because sentimentality is a luxury that has long since been stolen from her. “He needs to answer some questions.” 

  Georgie huffs and turns back to Jon.

  “Jon, can you hear me?”

  He nods without looking up.

  “Are you nonverbal?”

  Jon can feel a faraway part of himself balk at the clinical flavor of the word. Georgie was always direct like this. Intellectually, Jon can appreciate having a term to summarize nebulous human experiences like this. Emotionally, he still has difficulty tolerating how exposed the practical application of those terms makes him feel.

  Besides, the word doesn’t really apply to this situation, does it? Not in the traditional sense, at least. Not completely. So he shakes his head no.

  He takes a deep breath and reluctantly looks inward to the Archive. There’s a spark of excitement, or relief, or maybe smug vindication from that alien part of himself when he finally gives in to the need, and he tries his best to ignore it and get it over with. He doesn’t delve too deeply, instead settling on the first thing that might work.

  “I’m sorry, it won’t let me say the words,” he says, voice strained and raspy with months of neglect.

  “O…kay,” Georgie says. “I guess that’s a no?”

  “Hmm.” Basira doesn’t say anything else.

  Jon starts picking through his library again, but nothing jumps out at him. His thoughts still feel sluggish, his mind packed with cotton. Or cobweb. Usually he’d shudder at that thought, but right now, he’s just too tired for that familiar fear to actually reach him through all the fog. He’s just spent months literally sleeping like the dead; why is he so tired?

  When a full minute passes without a reply, Basira turns to Georgie. 

  “Could you give us some time alone?”

  “No.” The immediacy of the refusal surprises him. He feels Georgie’s eyes on him, and he tenses. “I’m staying, Jon.”

  “I need to talk to him.”

  “Then talk to him.”

  “I thought you didn’t want to be involved in Institute business.”

  Georgie hesitates, and Jon finally looks up at her. He’s careful not to make eye contact. It’s alright, he wants to say, you don’t have to stay – but he can’t.

  “…anyone who doesn’t want to be a part of it, they can…” Jon says instead, faltering when he can’t find a good way to express the rest.

  Back to the charades, I suppose, he thinks sullenly. He holds one hand out and walks the middle and index finger of his other hand across his upturned palm.

  “Jon, why are you –” Georgie cuts herself off with a short exhale. “Do you want me to stay?”

  Jon bites his lip. “Probably putting you in danger.”  

  “Yeah, probably, but that’s not the question I asked.” She sighs when she sees Jon’s puzzled expression. “Look, the only way I can think to approach all of… this is to break it into smaller pieces. It doesn’t mean I’m committing to anything else, it doesn’t mean that I can’t change my mind, it doesn’t mean that I can’t walk away later or set more boundaries. I’m not asking whether I should stay, and I’m not offering to get involved indefinitely or unconditionally. Right this moment, all I’m asking is whether you want me to physically leave this room for now and come back later.”

  For a few minutes, Jon says nothing. If the question had been whether it’s safe to be near him, she already knows that his answer would be an emphatic no. Unlike him, Georgie knows when to cut her losses and leave. It would be condescending to assume that she needs him to protect her from her own choices, especially considering how, of the two of them, she’s the one who actually has a self-preservation instinct. She doesn’t have a choice, really. She can’t feel fear – one of the most basic survival tools – and as a result, she has to evaluate her circumstances much more constantly and painstakingly than others.

  It must be exhausting, Jon thinks to himself. He knows what hypervigilance is like. Even if Georgie can’t experience the fear that goes along with it, it probably still saps her energy in much the same way.

  He tries to force himself back on track. The question: Does he want her to physically leave in this moment? 

  No. He really, really doesn’t.

  Jon closes his eyes, and Naomi’s statement is the first thing his mind touches: “Could you stay please?”  

  “Okay.” Georgie looks at Basira. “I’m staying.”

  Jon feels some of the tension leave his shoulders, but he can’t help feeling selfish.

  “Are you really okay with that?” Basira says, eyeing Jon. He can detect the unspoken question: You know what I’m going to ask. Do you really want her to hear the answer?

  He does. Georgie deserves to know. They all do. What he doesn’t want is to hear what she has to say to him after the truth comes out.

  But he nods anyway.

  “Fine. What are you?” Basira says without preamble.

  “’Are you secretly a monster?’ probably would have been a great opener,” Jon says acidly.

  He flinches as the words leave his mouth. They were Sasha’s once – the real Sasha – said with a hint of playfulness, but now they just sound bitter. He’s fully aware that he has an overflowing stock of resentment bottled up inside him, hidden somewhere deep underneath all the layers of guilt and grief and self-loathing, but he wasn’t expecting the vitriol to slip out quite so easily. And he really, really can’t afford to start burning bridges, especially so early on.   

  But Basira seems unruffled.

  “Alright,” she says with a shrug. “Are you?”

  It’s complicated, he does not say.

  When he reaches up to run a hand through his hair, the movement jostles the hospital bracelet affixed to it, catching his eye. He brings his hand back down and stares at it, hanging loosely from his wrist. He’s always been scrawny, but his arms look thinner than usual. Fragile. With a pang, he notices the scarring on his wrists, left there from where the ropes cut into him during his month in captivity with the Circus. By the time the world ended, they had faded somewhat. As they are now, they’re impossible to miss.

  SIMS, JONATHAN, the wristband reads. Date of birth. Sex. Blood type. Patient identification number. Barcode. An allergy alert: amoxicillin.

  Is he even still human enough for an allergic reaction to pose a threat? He could Know, he supposes, but –

  “Jon?” Basira prompts.

  He sighs, closes his eyes, and consults the Archive once again. 

  “It seemed almost human, from a distance, but as it got closer, I saw that it was –”  

  Jon quickly skims through statements looking for an appropriate fragment.

  “…some newly-birthed monster,” he settles on. It’s blunt, and a bit petulant, but he may as well be honest. He resigns himself to whatever comes next.

  Martin would have hated to hear him think like this.

  Martin’s not here, some destructive, cruel part of his mind supplies.

  “Why are you talking like that?” There’s the faintest tinge of aggravation in Basira’s tone now. 

  Before Jon can answer, Georgie gives him a skeptical, almost chiding look. “I doubt it's that simple, Jon. Why don’t you try that again?”

  “I could see myself becoming one of those people and I fought very hard against the feeling of wrongness that seemed to be trying to worm itself into my mind,” he amends. Better. Probably more accurate, if he’s being kind to himself. (He’s rarely kind to himself.)

  “That sounds more constructive than just giving up and deciding you’re a monster,” Georgie says.

  She still seems baffled by the unusual quality of his speech, but he can tell she’s trying not to draw attention to it. Probably thinks it’s some neurological aftereffect of the coma. Not-coma. Whatever.

  Who is he kidding? Georgie is sharp. She knows this is some supernatural nonsense – and there’s a simple, straightforward way to confirm it for her.

  “I don’t think I’ll ever be the same person I was before.”  

  “I think that could be said of anyone. We all change from moment to moment, and – wait.” Georgie gives him a shrewd look as she registers the cadence with which he speaks. It’s undeniably familiar, but it’s not him. It’s his voice, but those aren’t his words. “Jon, was that my…”

  “Statement – regarding the last words of a possible corpse,” Jon says wearily.

  “Jon,” Basira says, her eyes widening just barely, “are you quoting statements?”  

  “The words repeated, as though on a recorded loop.”  He gives an affirmative nod, just in case the words are unclear – which is often the case. 

  “Care to explain why?”

  “I started to say something – but my voice died in my throat,” he says.

  Then, changing tack: “…but it – it didn’t seem to be working right; all I could hear from it was the – faint noise of static, and…”  

  They probably don’t care how it feels, though, do they? They just want to know what it makes him now. His hands flutter in agitation as he tries to redirect, mind racing to find another statement.  

  “Okay, alright, I get the gist,” Basira says. There is a long, considering pause. “Can you just… write it down?”

  The simple answer is no, but the easiest way to make them understand is with a demonstration. He holds one palm flat and with the other hand mimics writing on it. 

  Reaching into her bag, Basira produces a small notepad with a pen stuffed into the wire spiral binding. Jon pulls the pen out, rips the cap off with his teeth, and –

  “Seriously, Jon?” Basira complains.

  “Honestly, Basira, what did you expect?” Georgie snorts. “You can’t tell me Jon’s desk isn’t a graveyard of gnawed-up pens.”

  Jon manages a tiny smirk at that. Most people were well-acquainted with his treatment of writing utensils after the first week of working alongside him. It had quickly become an office joke. About a month into his tenure as Head Archivist, he’d managed to chomp down on an exploded ballpoint pen. Tim had found him at the bathroom sink twenty minutes later, still trying to get the ink off his face and hands – and, of course, never let him live it down.

  Well, until Jon burned the bridge between them, anyway. The good-humored ribbing and inside jokes gradually dwindled away, only to be replaced with corrosive distrust and resentment.

  Jon’s smile fades just as rapidly as it had appeared. He flips to an empty page of the notebook.

  He sets out with the intention to write a sentence of his own: Regardless of the mode of communication – verbal, written, sign – I can only borrow from statements.

  It sounds too stiff, too academic, but it doesn’t matter. The moment the tip of the pen touches paper, Jon’s hand seizes. The tape recorder underneath the bed emits a brief crackle. When Jon tries to press down and begin writing, his fingers and wrist start convulsively twitching. A scalding pain starts to seep through his fingers and crawl up his arm, the recorder’s static oscillating along in time with the throbbing. When it upsweeps into a shrill screech, Georgie starts.

  “Jon –”

  Picking the pen up off the page, Jon holds up one trembling finger: Wait.

  With a pained hiss, he shakes his hand out until the ache recedes. When he starts writing this time, it’s with the intention of reproducing a verbatim line from the statement of Jane Prentiss, regarding a wasps’ nest in her attic: I have tried to write it down, to put it into terms and words you could understand.  

  The words flow easily. The handwriting is a nearly illegible scrawl, but that has nothing to do with the Archive. Jon has always had poor handwriting, and it’s only gotten worse since his encounter with Jude. While his dominant hand is still usable, the burn scar contracture still affects his mobility and coordination to some extent.

  He’s tried grabbing individual words from statements to piece together a novel sentence before, but just like speaking a single word in isolation replays every instance of it recorded in the Archive and leaves him reeling in the aftermath, trying to write a standalone word is risky. When he writes a word with the express intention of removing it from the context of a statement, every occurrence of the word floods him all at once. The force of it always overwhelms him before he can even start on the next word in his intended sentence. Usually he ends up dropping his writing utensil. Sometimes he passes out. Always it’s unpleasant. 

  It’s as if whatever power is enforcing the rules knows when he’s trying to bend them. Or Knows, more likely. Assuming he can assign self-awareness to the Ceaseless Watcher, that is.

  Stop, he tells his wayward brain. Stay on task.   

  He shoves the pen back into the notebook’s spiral binding and hands it back to Basira, who returns it to her bag. The cap he keeps for himself, rolling it between his fingers now.

  “What about BSL?” Georgie suggests.

  Jon shakes his head no.

  “How do you know?” Basira asks.

  There are two answers to that. The first is that he just Knows. The second is that he’s tried. Martin knows a limited amount of signs, but Jon’s hands never cooperated when he tried to copy Martin’s motions. His fingers never wanted to curl into the correct shapes, his joints would lock up, and subtle movements would turn into violent tremors. Once, in a fit of stubborn frustration, he kept pushing back against the thing controlling his body. His arms went limp and numb, and he couldn’t use them for hours after.

  Simple nonverbal signals – nodding, shaking his head, giving a thumbs up – seem to be, for the most part, whitelisted. Most charades and expressionistic gestures will also pass through the Archive’s filter. Formalized signing, though, is usually blocked.

  The deciding factors seem to be intentionality and whether or not an attempt at communication is deemed to fit the definition of formal language. Sign languages, systems of writing, spoken words – all off-limits unless being used to reproduce the Archive’s existing records. The more imprecise and abstract the attempted communication, though, the more likely it is to escape the Archive’s strict conceptualization of language.

  He and Martin experimented a bit with illustration and found mixed success. It was difficult to ascertain any concrete limits. The more abstract the intended drawing, the more likely Jon was to be able to produce it – though it tended to leave him drained and with a splitting headache regardless of how successful the attempt was.  It did seem as though the intent mattered more than the result – which was probably for the best. Jon was no more of an artist than he was a poet, and it showed.  

  Any time Jon tried to ask the Beholding for clarification on the rules governing his new-and-impaired communication abilities, it gave him nothing but static in return. They had to find things out mostly by trial-and-error.

  Luckily for Jon, Martin is observant and intuitive when it comes to reading people, and he’s a poet with a mind for the abstract. He was usually able to interpret Jon’s meaning with alarming speed and precision, and whenever Jon grew frustrated with his inability to express himself in a way that felt right, Martin would pose yes-or-no questions to try to help him narrow it down. He would always keep going until Jon was satisfied that he was understood. Even when they were in disagreement. 

  But Martin isn’t here, Jon’s treacherous brain reminds him again.

  “Let me guess,” Basira sighs. “You just know.”

  Jon gives a tired shrug. Even if he could use his own words, he may have had the same response. He’s never managed to have a conversation about his ability to Know that didn’t leave him feeling defeated. Sometimes it doesn’t seem worth trying to explain.

  “Alright,” Basira mutters to herself, rubbing her temples now. “This makes things more complicated.”

  You think? Jon wants to snap, and he’s thankful that he can’t. It isn’t Basira’s fault; she doesn’t deserve his ire.

  “So, what does this mean?”  she continues.

  “I often find myself locked in a sense of esoteric paralysis on how to proceed,” Jon quips, borrowing from Adelard Dekker this time. He wonders if Dekker would have tried to kill him on the spot. He wonders whether he would have been right to do so.

  Georgie stifles a laugh. Jon can hear the relief coloring it, and one corner of his mouth twitches into a smile again. She’s intimately familiar with his ill-timed gallows humor, and the fact that he can still draw on it so readily is a good sign. Another small piece of evidence added to the Jonathan-Sims-isn’t-too-far-gone column. She wants to believe it’s still him, he Knows, and wants to believe that he can get better – but there’s still a tiny, nagging ghost of doubt somewhere deep in her mind. He doesn’t blame her for that. 

  Basira isn’t as amused.

  “Jon,” she groans, “please be serious.”

  “It was definitely human once I could see, as it grasped desperately” – a skip ahead – “it was trying to say: ‘I’m sorry.’”  

  “It’s fine, just…” She sighs. “Try to answer the question.”

  Jon closes his eyes again, brow furrowing in concentration.

  “…so aware of the position I’m in, and keen to use that power to actually help people.” Referencing Tova McHugh’s statement makes him nauseous – the hatred and disgust he felt the first time he read it was directed at himself as much as it was at her. But it’s a fair comparison, considering what he was doing back then. “I’m trying to do good,” he adds, and hopes it sounds more sincere than Tova’s flimsy rationalizations ever did. 

  As expected, Basira looks unconvinced.

  “Look, Jon, a lot has happened –”

  “He already knows,” Georgie interrupts. “We talked – in the dreams, you know.” Basira does know. “About Tim and Daisy and Martin. And… and Melanie. He’s the one who told me about the bullet.”

  “I thought Melanie figured it out on her own.” Basira’s eyes narrow as she looks at Jon. “How did you –”

  “He said he knows things because of the Eye.” Georgie gives him a look that he can’t quite parse. Sympathetic, maybe? An undercurrent of disappointment, but without accusation. Frustration, but not directed at him – rather, it’s for him, on his behalf. “And he said that when he woke up, he would explain everything where Elias couldn’t overhear, but…”

  “Maybe somewhere in your library are the words to explain what happened,” Jon says, unable to mask his dejection. “I suppose I’ll just have to try.”  

  “Still want to wait and do it in the tunnels?” Georgie waits for Jon’s affirmative. “Fair enough. I brought you a change of clothes.” Jon gives her a questioning look. “I’ve, ah, been bringing a bag each time I visit for the last couple weeks, in case you woke up. Just some things you left at my flat. I couldn’t find any trousers, so I just grabbed a pair of my joggers – which are definitely too big for you, but it should be better than a hospital gown, at least.”

  Jon feels a grateful smile tug at his lips. He didn’t expect this level of consideration, doesn’t deserve –

  “We should probably wait until a doctor signs off on your release, though.” Georgie stands and starts to move towards the door. “I’ll go to the nurse’s station, and –”

  Jon shakes his head. “I cannot imagine what they would have thought of a person who could not die.”  

  “Well, you can’t just walk out of here. I don’t care how inhuman you think you are, you still need to be cleared for discharge.”

  “I’ve no interest in becoming a resident medical marvel.”  

  It’s a hollow excuse. The first time around, the hospital staff couldn’t wait to rush him out the door. He doubts they’d ever processed a discharge so quickly before or since.

  “Just stay here.” He’s halfway to ripping off his ECG sensors when she shoots him a stern warning glare. “Leave them.”

  Jon responds with a peevish huff. Those sensors haven’t been connected to anything since the first week he was here. No one wanted to hear the incessant flatline, and –

  Suddenly, he Knows all about the heated argument that was had regarding his DNR status. He had no next-of-kin to consult, so they were hesitant to mark him as DNR in advance. That meant that, since he was unresponsive – and his case was so unprecedented as to make any speculation regarding an outcome impossible – they should have been trying to resuscitate him. But they’d already tried that, and the consensus was that he should have been declared dead by the first responders. (Rumor was that his boss of all people had managed to convince them to bring him to the hospital for treatment instead.)

Under normal circumstances they would have declared time of death several times over by now and moved him to the morgue – except that brain death hadn’t occurred, and it didn’t seem like the absence of a pulse or respiration was having any effect on that in the slightest. Didn’t that render the entire discussion altogether moot?

  And then Jon Knows how the only reason he was admitted in the first place is because Elias had a brief chat with the director of the hospital. He was, as always, very persuasive.    

  “I don’t want to hear it,” Georgie says when she hears Jon sigh. She stops at the threshold and looks back at him again just as he starts fiddling with IV cannula in the crook of his arm. He freezes and folds his hands in his lap, like a toddler caught reaching for the cookie jar. “Jonathan Sims, you’d better still be in bed when I come back.”

  Jon rolls his eyes, but stays put. As Georgie leaves the room, Basira lets out a soft chuckle.

  “No wonder she and Melanie get along so well.”

  Jon refocuses at the mention of Melanie’s name. He makes a circular motion with one hand: Go on. When Basira gives him a blank look, he has a quick rummage through his catalog.

  “– see any obvious signs of previous slaughter.” Trevor Herbert’s statement leaves a nasty taste in his mouth, but given Basira’s expression, it seems to have gotten his point across.  

  “Oh, the bullet?” Jon gives an enthusiastic nod. “Yeah, we, uh… we removed it. Melanie was reluctant at first, but I guess Georgie won her over. She’s… recovering. Physically, at least. She’s still angry, but not like before. Mostly, she just seems lost. And…”

  Basira hesitates.

  “…whatever protection it might have afforded you is severed.”  

  “Don’t read my mind, Jon,” Basira snaps.

  Jon shakes his head: I didn’t.  

  “Whatever.” She drops into the chair next to his bed. He can see the fatigue in the way her shoulders slump. Basira has always had excellent posture, but right now, she looks ready to crumple. “Brought you a statement, by the way. If you want a fix before we leave.”

  Something famished and greedy rears up inside him. It’s only with some difficulty that he manages to force it back. He can feel Basira watching him intently, and he avoids meeting her gaze.

  “Well? Do you want it or not? You have that hungry look to you.”

  Involuntarily, Jon’s eyes flick to Basira’s bag. He squeezes them shut again, shaking his head.

  “Hm.”

  Jon opens one eye and chances a glimpse of Basira. Her poker face is as flawless as always.

  It’s stale anyway, he tells the persistent thing inside him. You’ve already got that one. Just pull it up and reread it if you want it so badly.  

  It continues scratching at the door.

  Can’t you just be satisfied with Oliver’s statement and go back to lurking?

  He isn’t sure why he’s acting like the craving belongs to something other. The Archivist, the Archive – they’re both him, even if they feel distinct from the human he used to be. It just helps sometimes, to talk to those parts of himself as if they’re backseat drivers. He used to do the same thing to his intrusive thoughts, back when he was still his own person. It wasn’t difficult to adapt his inner monologue to apply it to the Eye’s influence, even if it is ultimately a self-delusion.

  The door opens and Georgie is back. The nurse trailing behind her looks like she would rather be literally anywhere else.  

  Here we go, Jon thinks sourly.

      The hospital staff are clearly out of their depth. As it turns out, a rotating cast of specialists have been overseeing his case through the months, but it seems each of them did so for only as long as it took to hand him off to the next unlucky person in line.

  Once he’s disconnected from all the (mostly inoperative) sensors and monitors, a nurse – he drew the short straw, Jon Knows – goes through the motions of taking his vitals a final time. Jon does him the courtesy of keeping his eyes lowered and tries to ignore the way the man avoids turning his back. He does not speak except to give short instructions – sit up, lay back, hold your arm out straight, take a deep breath – and Jon obeys without saying anything in return.

  The current attending physician on duty makes only a cursory show of evaluating his condition. During the brief neurological assessment, she makes no comment on the fact that Jon hasn’t verbally answered any questions or even said a word. She’s barely there for twenty minutes before announcing that she should go work on his discharge papers. 

  “Shouldn’t he have a treatment plan?” Georgie tries. “Or – or referrals for follow-up, or something?”

  “I, ah, have to discuss things with his treatment team,” the doctor says, already halfway out the door.

  She doesn’t, Jon Knows. He hasn’t had a treatment team since the first month he was admitted.

  “This is ridiculous,” Georgie mutters as the door closes.

  Jon reaches out to touch her arm, and shakes his head when she looks at him.

  “It is. It’s unprofessional.”

  “Understandably, I think – it was entirely my own fault.”  

  “Stop that. You’re still a patient, you deserve some sort of – continuity of care.” When Jon chuckles, Georgie shoots him an indignant look. “What? You do.”

  Now that there are no lines restricting his movement, he’s finally able to stretch properly. Doing so yields a series of devastating cracks and pops from his joints, and Georgie gives him a horrified look. He just raises his eyebrows at her: What?

  When he sidles to the edge of the bed and puts his feet on the floor, Georgie stops him with a hand on his shoulder. “Are you sure you’re going to be able to stand?”

  No, he’s not, but if he has to sit here a moment longer he’s going to lose his goddamn mind.

  Predictably enough, he does have trouble standing on his own at first, but Georgie has no problem supporting his weight. Even when they were dating, she probably could have picked him up if he’d let her, and he weighs even less now. The bathroom is small, and he waves her off when she offers to help him dress. She hasn’t seen the extent of the scarring on his body, and he’d rather her not. Once he demonstrates his ability to stand using the handrail, she agrees to wait outside, but she stands near the door just in case.

  Jon shouldn’t be able to stand at all, this soon after waking up from a six-month coma. He should have more muscle atrophy. He should need extensive physical rehab. He should still be in bed. Hell, he should probably be in some research facility somewhere, being poked and prodded and tested every which way.

  He keeps waiting for the moment Georgie decides it’s all too much, tells him to take care of himself, and leaves.   

  Although he’s been here before and he knows what to expect, he still has to brace himself before looking at his reflection in the mirror. He’s haggard. Gaunt. His hair isn’t as long as it was where – when – he came from, only barely touching his shoulders now. It needs a wash. The burn on his hand is mostly but not yet fully healed. Same familiar dark circles under his eyes, same familiar speckling of shiny, pockmarked worm scars. His ribs are visible, and – he’s hit with a bolt of panic in the split second before he remembers that, yes, twelve pairs of ribs is the normal amount that he should have. Hopefully this time he can keep all of them.   

  The eyes staring back at him – only two – are still his own for now, back to the deep brown they’d been for most of his life before the Archive claimed its place. But he can see something sinister skulking behind them even now, and he knows that everyone else will be able to see it, too.

  When he emerges from the bathroom dressed in a What the Ghost hoodie two sizes too big and practically swimming in a pair of Georgie’s joggers, he’s surprised to see that she’s still here. That she hasn’t changed her mind and written him off yet.

  “Better?” she asks, and he nods appreciatively, if a bit timidly. “Sorry it’s not more your size.”

  Jon doesn’t care. He hasn’t been this comfortable in… well, he doesn’t feel like calculating the time frame of the apocalypse. He doesn’t wait for the Beholding’s disapproval to hit him before he sends it a silent rebuff. At this point, it’s just reflex.

  “I found you a wheelchair,” Basira says from across the room. “Just in case you need it.”

  As she gives him a measured look, he feels like he’s being tested. It makes sense. The speedier his recovery, the less human he seems. But he isn’t going to feign infirmity. They deserve the truth from him.

  There is a familiar dull ache in his bad leg, though. He could do with a cane, but his should be in his office about this time, and he doesn’t want Georgie to have to support half his weight until he has a chance to retrieve it. 

  “Well?”

  He wavers a moment longer, then nods an affirmative and has a seat.

  Just then, the door opens and a nurse enters, a new one this time. Jon makes the mistake of looking up, and when their eyes meet, he Knows that she has a statement for him.

  The sound he makes as he claps his hands over his eyes is something like a strangled, panicked whimper.

  “Jon?” Georgie places a hand on his shoulder.

  “Oh, um… sorry if I startled you, uh – Mr. Sims. I have some paperwork here, we just need some signatures before you –”

  When she was nine years old, she was playing with friends in a drainage ditch. It was nearly dusk when they dared her to enter the tunnel, but she always was the bravest of them. She –

  Jon digs the heels of his palms into his eyes until he sees sparks, rocking back and forth slightly to distract himself from the compulsion snaking its roots through his thoughts.

  – spent days wandering the gloom, and all the while, the frantic calls of the search parties echoed off the walls. Whenever she tried to call out a response, it would tighten its grip on her ankle: that warbling, mangled, broken-jawed thing with the –

  “Leave them here,” Basira says curtly, crossing the room in a few long strides. “I’ll bring them to you when we’re finished.”

  Jon can see the shape of the statement in her thoughts, but it’s not enough. He needs her story. She needs to tell it in her own words. She has to walk through that tunnel again, relive every twist and turn and shade of terror, and he has to experience it alongside her, all eyes –

  “O-okay,” the nurse stammers, “I just – I thought I saw –”

  – a second shadow, starkly visible even in the deepest dark, all dislocated joints and distorted –

  Basira shuts the door on her mid-sentence and turns to face Jon.

  “Jon. What was that?”

  “…you’re not going to give the Watcher a statement,” he says, panting shallowly, hands still pressed to his eyelids. “You’re better than that.”  

  He isn’t sure whether he’s saying it for himself or for Basira. Both, maybe.

  “She… has a statement?” Jon nods. “And you could tell just by looking at her?” Another nod. “That’s… hmm.”

  “I could hear in her voice that she was afraid of him.” His elbows dig bruises into his thighs as he leans forward and draws his shoulders in tighter. “I was, too.”  

  “Does covering your eyes actually help?” Georgie asks, giving his shoulder a light squeeze. An attempt at grounding him. It helps.

  “…it was enough to ease the relentless pressure,” he says, “if only a little bit.”  

  Jon pauses for a moment as he selects another statement.

  “…wear a cloth across his face – hold my hand in front of my eyes –”

  “Oh,” Georgie says, understanding. “Hang on.”

  She withdraws her hand, but Jon can still feel her standing over him. A few moments later something is being lowered over his face and he goes rigid.

  “It’s just my scarf, Jon. I thought we could use it as a blindfold.” Jon signals assent. “Okay. You can put your hands down now. Just keep your eyes closed.”

  He waits patiently while she ties the scarf off at the back of his head and adjusts it, ensuring that it covers his eyes completely.

  “Better?”

  Jon lets out a shaky breath and nods. It’s a lengthy scarf and one end sits in his lap. He takes it in his hands and runs his fingers over the fabric: a nice texture, soft and warm and comforting. He wonders if – no, Knows now – Georgie knitted it herself.

  For a few moments the room is quiet but for the scratching of pen on paper as Basira forges Jon’s signature on the paperwork.      

  “I’ll go hand this over and then we can get out of here,” she says brusquely. “Don’t take off the blindfold until we’re back in the Archives.”  

  Jon wasn’t planning on it.

      End Notes:

Finished this chapter earlier than I expected. Not sure when the next one will be ready, hopefully sometime next weekend.

SO. A lot of exposition in this one, but I wanted to try to give a general outline of how Jon's statement-speak works, what limitations he's working with, and what loopholes he's already tried (and failed) to exploit.

Jon's verbal dialogue in this chapter was taken from statements in the following episodes, in order: MAG 019; 141; 112; 013; 026; 047; 115; 054; 094 (x2); 036; 054; 125; 032 (written not verbal); 156; 123; 155; 021; 064; 029; 010; 139; 042; 151; 125; 097; 099.

I realize that's... a lot of citations, so if you don't feel like scrolling and counting but you want to know what episode a specific line comes from, feel free to ask and I can tell you, lol.

[tracyinpolaroids]

The transition to 2 wheels

I’m currently sitting at the cafe, taking a break from grading for the semester. It’s only 1 PM, so I think I have some time to pause reading thesis papers and write up a blog entry. You know, to update whoever even finds my life remotely interesting. Or to somehow document the new things that have been going on.

December last year, I made the conscious decision to start bike commuting. I’ve never ridden a bike on the city streets; I don’t even remember the last time I rode a bike prior to getting mine. But the saying really is true, as silly as it sounds talking about this—it really is just like riding a bike.

For the most part, I’ve always been apprehensive about riding a bike outside the confines of our gated village. It never helped that the common perceptions about bike commuting were that it’s dangerous, it’s too hot here, it’s too polluted. Even without being prompted by anyone telling me those things, I came to those conclusions myself as I sat comfortably in air-conditioned cars as I went about my life in the city. I’ve always wanted to try biking to school when I was in college since my house was essentially just 5 minutes away but it was for those reasons that I never really got to try.

Fast forward to 2019, when the Barangay sent notice to constituents in Loyola Heights that there would be road clearing operations in accordance with the blah blah blah. What it essentially meant for us at the cafe was that parking would be tricky between opening hours to 5 PM. There was one occasion where 4 of us were ticketed for parking on the street during the day. That was no fun. November last year, I got my second ticket which sucked even more because the process was a little more difficult now in the time of the pandemic. Long story short, in involved more going around the city hall compound.

That was the last straw for me, really. I couldn’t hang out at my favorite place without worrying about stuff like that anymore. So a week or two later, I got myself a bike. Along with several essential gear and accessories, of course.

It was meant to be my bike

I went to Decathlon with Ryan to check out bikes, and I learned that the bike I was looking to get wasn’t available in my size. (Yes, I learned just a few months ago that bikes have sizes.) I asked when new stocks would I arrive and I was told that they would on the first of December. So on December 1, I went to different bike stores close by to check out what they had. I actually wasn’t planning on visiting Decathlon again, but I found myself parking in Tiendesitas after visiting this one place near White Plains.

Went back up to Decathlon and saw someone trying out the bike I was looking for—a B-Twin Riverside Matte 100—with a “small” tag hanging on it. New stocks! I heard him say he’d reserve it, and the staff talked to each other mentioning it was the last stock of the small-framed Riverside. WHAT. I approached on of them and asked if there were any more in stock. They said they seemed to have run out, but upon checking the unassembled new stock bikes hanging by the side, they found one. It was mine! I asked if I could try it out, and I was so delighted that there was actually a bike that “fit” me, a small girl of 5′2″.

I asked if I could have it reserved, and was told they could only hold it for 24 hours. I was hoping to get it on the weekend when I could ask Ry to come pick it up with me, but the guy suggested that I could pay for it already and it could pick it up whenever I wanted. I immediately said yes.

It was mine!

I didn’t remember biking to be this exhausting

Ryan offered to come with me the next day to pick up my bike, and we did. I was so excited. I decided to take it for a ride the moment I got home. The moment I got home, I was completely exhausted. I could barely move, my body was sore, and I wanted to just lie down for the rest of the night. And that was just after riding less than 5km around the village, for about 20 minutes. Was biking always this exhausting??? I felt so out of shape.

I decided that I had to build up endurance before I could start biking to Katipunan. I’d bike around my village as often as I could, tracking how long and how far I biked. It was promising to see I could bike for longer the more I rode around, and I got to practice letting go of the handlebar with one hand to try and signal, or at least adjust my glasses.

The biggest obstacle—crossing Commonwealth avenue

By the end of the month and on our last day of operations for the year, I mustered up the courage to finally take my bike out. This was to the apprehension of my parents, mostly my mom, who told me I could just bike inside the village. But you know, that wasn’t the point of getting my bike. While I got it over an e-scooter for the exercise, I also wanted to drive less for various reasons—avoiding being stuck in traffic, having one less car on the road, not contributing to pollution, saving money on gas and parking, and encouraging other people to do it by showing them it’s doable by a noob like me.

The day before I took my bike to Katipunan, I thought I would try biking along Commonwealth. It had a bike lane off the main road which was very encouraging for someone like me who’s never taken her bike outside the village. I initially planned on just riding up and down one side of the highway but as I approached one of the pedestrian overpasses, I looked up and though, “Maybe I should see if I can carry this thing over.” I did with a lot of difficulty. But I made it across and I biked around UP.

The second time I biked to the cafe (just last week), I tried to take another route that wouldn’t involve me carrying my heavy hybrid bike up and down stairs. To be brief about it, that route was terrifying and C5 sucks. I also fell off my bike, but that was due to my own stupidity. So today, I took the UP route, i.e. I decided to just carry my bike again.

This is great

Last night as I was thinking about how I’d go to the cafe today, I thought maybe I should just drive since I’m bringing stuff over and I want to bring my laptop too so I can sit here and grade. But then I remembered that day I got my second ticket, when I was sitting here working, and the Barangay with the enforcers showing up. The whole point of getting my bike was to free myself of that experience and the hassle of having to park at Pop-up and then walking to and from the cafe. So I strapped the cafe stuff onto my bike rack, stuffed my laptop into my backpack with a laptop sleeve for extra padding, and off I went.

Really, the only thing I find so unpleasant about my bike commute to and from Katipunan is the carrying of my bike to cross Commonwealth. The day I first biked on Commonwealth, they were painting bike lanes onto the main road with a buffer zone which is very encouraging. I saw a FB post a few days ago about an urban planner or something working with the QC government talking about the new bike lanes on Commonwealth and I expressed that hopefully they also consider improving the pedestrian overpasses by adding ramps for those who need to cross with their bikes. With that solved, I’m golden. It will take some time but for now, I can deal.

On my commute today, I thought about when I would finally be able to commute past Katipunan. Maybe I’ll take it a little a time and hopefully the improvement of bike infrastructure continues.