#too tired to put it any better but rituals obviously have like. reasons to exist. like they help face something scary they strengthen the

[mirmidones]

a friend of mine has never attended a funeral, not even for family, she says she thinks it would be too much to bear and her mom always told her she didn't have to go if she didn't want to. my uncle also does this he didn't take his children to our grandma's funeral nor to our uncle's, "because it's too heavy". of course there isn't a "right" way to deal with death and i shouldn't judge but i do judge. idk. i think of how humans have been having funerary rituals for 300 000 years... before we were homo sapiens we were burying our dead... how can it be something to avoid?

[hypnoshatesme]

Unlikely Acquaintanceship

[[As not-quite-promised here, I did finish the Distortion!Michael meets Book!Gerry fic! Thanks again for the idea, it was a lot of fun to play around with :)]]

*

They left him again. It was becoming a habit. They'd read him out, try to get him to answer their monster related questions and then they'd 'forget' to dismiss him and left him in the boring shed. Not that Gerry could do much of course. It wasn't like he could interact with anything. All he could do was read his page, left open. He knew it by heart now, was desensitized to looking at his last moments scribbled on his own skin. It had been a slow process to get used to it.

Gerry had not trusted Gertrude but he had wanted to, had tried to. The betrayal he felt when he was read for the first time, when he had seen the book, had been gutting. Except Gerry didn't quite feel the same anymore, feelings were twice removed, but it still hurt. Not as much as existing did. He remembered her talking about death being a mercy, and it hurt to realise that she did not consider him worthy of it. And Gerry hated that he was still hurt by it. That he had expected things to be different. Gerry really should have known better after so many years of being fucked over.

He didn't notice the door at first, he was reading. And so Gerard ended . He wished. He wished he was ended. Eventually, Gerry caught movement at the corner of his eye and looked up just in time to see the creature step out of the yellow door. Gerry was confused at first at the utter lack of confusion, until he remembered he wasn't really there. He wasn't alive so his senses didn't feel the presence of the Spiral the way he used to. Gerry’s senses were no more.

Gerry had never met this particular aspect of the spiral but he had read about it. He had even found the assistant’s paperwork while going through Gertrude’s things, the poor guy she had sent into the hallways to stop the ritual. Michael. According to some statements Gerry read, it still went by the name.

It was eyeing the room with eyes full of fractal patterns and when they settled on Gerry he was fully prepared for the discomfort of looking at those nightmarish colours. He felt nothing and the disappointment he felt at that cut deep. Not that it mattered. There was nowhere to cut.

Its face was doing all sorts of things Gerry couldn't comprehend, but there was something...surprised about it. Curious, as it approached him - except it didn't, it just was there suddenly - many-boned knife-tipped hand coming up to touch him. He pressed his lips together at the familiarity of the motion. It was the first thing they had done after they read him out the first time too. Despite the fact that he knew he couldn't feel it, he still tensed. His form flickered a little where the knife points went straight through him. He didn't feel it, but he saw it in its face. It looked...delighted.

"You shouldn't be."

It hurt to hear it and Gerry wanted to pretend that it was the glass shard voice, off-synch, words overlapping, that hurt. It would surely have been were he still alive, still human. Unfortunately Gerry had always been too fond of knowing and he knew that wasn't the truth. He shouldn't be. Not he shouldn't be here , which would have also applied, but he shouldn't be , because he shouldn't. He wasn't.  

"Neither should you," he decided to answer. Gertrude’s old assistant merged with part of the Spiral. Between that, Gerry's ghostly existence nearly paled. Well, he couldn't really pale any more.

Gerry couldn’t quite place the expression that made its way unto its face in jagged lines, utterly unnatural. It looked searching, maybe, but for what Gerry couldn’t tell for sure. "You know me?" It sounded displeased.

"About you,” Gerry corrected, maybe a little too quickly. It had been a while since he had a proper conversation and he didn’t want it to end this quickly. “We worked for the same person."

"Ah.” It seemed to relax, as far as Gerry could tell. Its eyes wandered over him again. It was strange to be looked at so intensely. The hunters barely dared to raise their eyes. “This was her doing?"

Gerry nodded. It didn’t sound surprised which he guessed made sense. It looked around once more. Gerry wondered if it wanted something. Maybe it was searching for something.

"Why are you here?"

It shrugged. "Why are you here?"

Gerry looked confused for a moment, not having expected that question. He pointed at the book on the table. "Can't move the book."  He couldn’t move anything , couldn’t even feel it if he tried. His hand just went through it. He’d tried too many times.

Michael’s eyes followed as he pointed at the book. They lingered on it as it spoke, "Shouldn't you be in there?"

"They keep forgetting to dismiss me." Gerry tried to sound blank, but the bitterness still made it into his words. It didn’t really matter, he guessed. But he didn’t like to show how they were getting to him.

"They?"

"Some hunters,” Gerry sighed, running a hand through his hair. His old habits didn’t die, even though he was always struck by how much nothing he felt every time he did it. “I don't know how they got the book but they've been using me as some kind of handbook for monster hunting."

He managed better with the neutral expression and tone this time, but saying it still made him seethe, no matter how much he pretended. He didn’t even know why he was trying so hard in front of Michael. Maybe he was afraid that once he let loose he would be unable to go back to blank when the hunters came back. He didn’t want them to know they were getting to him.

"Ah."

Gerry would’ve loved to be able to read it, to understand that many-layered tone in such a short noise. It was watching him again and Gerry felt like it was trying to read him somehow. Its silence was odd.

"You're Michael, right?," he said to break it.

Michael seemed to consider its answer, "Among other things.” It didn’t sound too happy about it. “What about you?"

Gerry guessed it was a fair question. He might have hesitated answering if he were still alive, if it still mattered. It didn’t, though, and he was tired of only hearing his name from the hunters. He was tired of hearing that name in general. He’d never been Gerard.

"You can call me Gerry."

It seemed to be mouthing the name, before grinning. "I might."

Its grin was infectious, or maybe Gerry was just desperate to try out some other expression but the scowl he’d been wearing since death. One way or another, he grinned back and Michael’s grin seemed to grow wider, too wide to really look right on that face. Nothing about that face looked right, but Gerry didn’t really care. He was already dead anyways. He might as well try to enjoy this conversation, the breath of fresh air - not that he breathed - between drawn-out interrogations by people who clearly felt uncomfortable around him, but found him too useful to let go.

Somehow, it always ended up being about usefulness with him, no matter how hard he had tried to escape. It was like death had decided to really shove it in that his worth lay in being used and nothing more. Gerry was so tired.

“Gerry.” It pulled him out of his thoughts with his name, said slowly and deliberately, as if to taste it. “There’s nothing interesting in here.”

Gerry laughed, stopping just as quickly, surprised at the sound. Michael was eyeing him like it might be reconsidering its words. The door was still in the middle of the room, the brightest object Gerry had seen in a long time, and maybe in his life. It opened again and Gerry’s face fell, only for a second, only until he could catch himself and put on his blank expression again. He wondered if he had done something wrong as he watched it disappear behind the door again. He guessed there was no reason for that to stop happening in death.

*

Michael hadn't intended to go back to that shed. Nothing was there and there weren't many humans to feed on close. There was no reason to return. Except for Gerry, of course. Which also shouldn't have been a reason because Michael couldn't feed on the dead. But maybe that was what made it think back to that meeting. The fact that he was utterly unbothered by it. Just continuing the conversation like normal. That was new. New things were exciting. So it found itself in the small, stuffy room again and, as expected, Gerry was there, leaning against the table. Or hovering, rather, it didn’t look like he was actually touching the table itself. And this time, he also noticed it right away.

"Michael!," Gerry sounded way too excited at its appearance and for once he was thankful he was a ghost because he would've probably blushed at his own tone.

Michael was a surprised too, looking at him with eyebrows raised way too high. It had obviously not expected the enthusiasm, either. Gerry would have absolutely blushed by this point.

“Uh...sorry.” He brushed his hand through his hair, wondering how he managed to sound so flustered and so dead at the same time. “It-it gets really boring. Just staring at this room. Every distraction is, uh….exciting.” It sounded like a pathetic excuse, but it was, unfortunately, an honest one.

Gerry had believed it would never come back and he’d be stuck staring at nothing forever again. After it left he had realised how much he really missed just talking to somebody. Something, he guessed. He usually tried to keep his mouth shut with the hunters and talking to himself only made him very aware of the ghostly quality of his voice, so he’d rather not.

Michael looked around at the disgustingly boring interior. It looked as dull as before, so it guessed it could see that. It wasn’t entirely sure how it felt about being greeted like that, though. It wasn’t usual for people to be glad to see it, even when it was looking human. Normally they were, if not outright afraid, unnerved. Which was good, of course. Like an appetizer. But Michael couldn’t feel anything from Gerry, and it certainly hadn’t expected the enthusiasm. It looked genuine, too, if the flusteredness that followed was anything to go by. Not that Michael was particularly good at recognising emotions, but it usually could tell a lie from a truth easily. And Gerry wasn’t lying. Peculiar.

“Did they forget to read you back in again?”

Gerry took a moment, having expected some kind of reaction to what he had said. If it wanted to ignore that embarrassing comment, Gerry was more than fine with that. “Yes.” He rolled his eyes. “I think they do it on purpose.”

Michael couldn’t imagine what they gained from leaving Gerry outside if they weren’t even here. The nonsensical quality of it would have been a great reason for it , but humans rarely did things without a motive, from what it knew. “Why?”

Gerry shrugged. “So I might get more cooperative. I...don’t provide the most helpful of answers, usually.”

Michael got curious, head tilting to the side. “Why? If you know they’ll leave you like this?”

“Because I’m no fucking encyclopedia for convenient usage. I’m a person.” His voice went a little lower as he added, “Well...I used to be.”

Michael raised an eyebrow. “Does it matter?”

“I don’t care. It’s...I just refuse.” He sighed. “It’s not like this is awfully different from being inside the book anyways. The pain is worse, more...draining. But by now...it doesn’t really matter. I’d rather spend my existence not playing into their hands. At least that much autonomy I still have.”

Gerry had had no intention of saying all that, but he felt so much better now that he had put it into words. He didn’t care if he was being unreasonable, whether he was even making sense, it just felt good to have said what he had been mulling over for so long. He hadn’t actively set out not to cooperate. It had been an automatic reaction at first, mostly spite. There was probably still a lot of spite involved now. But it was also just something to cling to that was his , that was him .

Michael understood some of it. Mostly the stubborn, frustrated tone, the reminder that it, too, used to be much freer to do as it pleased, before it had been bound, before it became.

“Sounds like a high price to pay for pettiness,” it said instead.

Gerry shrugged, unsure whether he had imagined the appreciative tone. “It’s better than giving into the boredom and my new role as handbook, in my opinion.”

Michael looked around again, slowly, mumbling to itself, “They could at least provide you with something more interesting to look at…”

“Like you,” he blurted out without thinking, and then regretted it, because that sounded like he was hitting on it, which he was fairly sure he wasn’t. At least it hadn’t been his intention. He watched it nervously, wondering if he should try to clarify or if that would only make it worse.

Its eyes settled on him again, thoughtful for a moment, before its lips pulled into an amused grin, “Am I interesting?”

Gerry had been expecting some sort of smug understone, a knowing glint - okay, maybe not that, it’s eyes were constantly flickering and glinting and shiny - but its voice just sounded amused, a light tease somewhere in those layers, but nothing that would suggest it interpreted what he had said as flirting.

Gerry relaxed, matching its playful tone, “I could also just be very bored.”

It laughed and Gerry grinned, knowing full well that if his ears had still been human they would have probably disagreed with how satisfied he felt about making it laugh. It had been so long since he tried to lighten the mood with some stupid comment or another. It was good to hear laughter again.

Michael stayed a little longer this time and they continued their pointless chat. It sat down on the table next to him at some point and, clearly bored with the surroundings and started to change them mid-conversation. Gerry couldn’t always comprehend the pattern and shapes, the colours that seemed to overlap but never do what would’ve been expected. It was obvious that all of that wasn’t actually there, some fractals settling in mid-air, hovering furniture replacing, overlapping with the few items in the shed. And yet it also looked perfectly reasonable, in a way, and Gerry guessed being dead didn’t make him completely immune to the Spiral’s doings, since he knew, realistically, that reasonable was not an applicable term for anything his eyes were perceiving.

It was an interesting juxtaposition, making him lose track of the conversation multiple times, so it ended up being more disjointed. Michael seemed rather satisfied with that, eyeing him with curious interest when he dropped his sentence to look at a particularly bright coil, only to pick it up somewhat close-ish to how he had left it a moment later. Michael knew that if Gerry had actually been affected by what it was doing, there would have been a lot more confused frowns and headaches. He just seemed to be genuinely interested in looking at what it was making. His distraction wasn’t really its doing, but his own.

*

It became a habit to stop by the shed for Michael. Gerry wasn’t always there and it would leave again, then. But when he was there, it would stay.

Gerry found himself not feeling as frustrated every time they left him outside the book after another drawn-out interrogation. It wasn’t the case every time, but Gerry knew that Michael might appear. It did so sporadically, and Gerry still found himself stuck alone fairly often. But even those times were somewhat better now that he had some new things to think about from their past conversations.

At least he wasn’t stuck thinking about the same things over and over, reading that page again and again. He tried not to glance at it too much and it was easier when he instead tried to remember the exact shade Michael had turned the table into the last time. Even without it there, it served as a good distraction from his situation. And of course, he did still have the hope that it might appear.

They still talked about whatever, and nothing at all. It didn’t really matter, because it at least wasn’t trying to get Gerry to talk about the Fears or the Leitners or any of that, and that was refreshing. He could barely remember points in his life where anyone had shown interest in him rather than wanting to use him to get to a book or whatever. Which was why he had been highly suspicious, especially in the beginning. He was expecting it to trick him into telling it...something. It didn’t matter what. Gerry just knew that that was how it usually went. But it never tried to bring the conversation to the details people usually wanted. If it ever asked for further information, it was about him . It sounded genuinely interested in whatever Gerry had been thinking or doing during whatever story he was telling, ignoring the bits and pieces about the actual technicalities of how he managed to hunt down that book or destroy this monster.

It made Gerry paranoid, at first, and he spent much time trying to figure out what it was trying to achieve. But as time passed, and it just continued doing the same, Gerry relaxed. It felt strange, at first, to talk about himself. But Michael continued to encourage him. It was satisfying, in a way.

*

Gerry could hear the rain outside as they fell into comfortable silence. Michael was trying to fit more patterns unto the walls, humming a distorted tune, which somehow sounded even worse mixed with the rain. Gerry missed feeling the rain. Rainy days always made him aware of how much he missed feeling anything , really. Michael distracted him, yes, but Gerry was still dead and in pain and so tired. He’d been wondering if Michael would help him with that for a bit by now. It at least seemed not to hate him.

“Would you destroy the page if I asked you to?,” he ended up asking, disrupting its tune. He was looking at the floor that seemed undecided about what colour to be right now.

Michael looked at him and let the shed get back to its initial state. “No.”

Gerry wasn’t surprised, but he still felt like some unreasonable, fleeting hope had just been crushed. It had been stupid to hope for mercy from it. “Oh…I guess it’s not really your style.”

“I’d miss the company.” Michael said, staring at him.

Gerry tried to find his playful tone, but he couldn’t keep the lingering disappointment out of his voice, “You would?”

Michael grinned. “Maybe I’m just very bored.”

Gerry froze for a moment at the scarily accurate copy of the tone he had used to say something rather similar a while ago. He burst into laughter, then, sadness momentarily forgotten. Gerry hadn’t really expected it to agree to destroying the page. He had not, however, expected it to give him such a personal reason.

“What if you get bored of me?” There was always some lingering anxiety about it eventually not coming back and Gerry being left to his miserable excuse of a life after death again. He still tried to make it sound more like he was teasing it.

Michael watched him for a long moment before saying, “Hm...You’re anything but boring.”

Gerry grinned, “Especially from you, I take that as one hell of a compliment.”

“Take it as you want.” Michael chuckled. There was another short moment of silence before it spoke again, “You’ve been silent today. You didn’t finish your story last time. About your holiday.”

Gerry took a moment to remember what it was talking about, and another second to be confused, since he was fairly sure he had, in fact, finished telling that story. He looked up at Michael, who was watching him expectedly from its place sat on the table, swinging its legs back and forth despite them being too long for that to be possible. He shrugged, and started to talk about that trip from the start again, since he didn’t know where he had supposedly left off. He did enjoy thinking about that one. Even if it hadn’t quite worked out as a break, he still had had a fun time in Italy. It put a smile on his face. Michael looked satisfied.

*

Gerry was often in a bad mood when Michael arrived, eyebrows pinched into a v, lips a tight line. It became less with time, and even when Michael caught him on a particularly bad day, it usually managed to distract him enough to make that expression go away.

Today, however, there was something else to his face, something more than the usual weary anger. There was less anger, more despair. Gerry looked hurt and Michael didn’t know if it was more struck by that expression or by its own distaste of it. Gerry hadn’t even noticed it.

“Gerry?” It didn’t wait for him to acknowledge it. “What happened?”

He looked up, surprised, though it did nothing to wash away the pain in his eyes. “Michael.” He brushed a strand of hair behind his ear. He hadn’t expected it, had forgotten about it, in a way. He guessed he was rather shaken. “Nothing, really. They’re getting annoyed with my lacking cooperation and are trying harder. I...should probably be glad they can’t hurt me physically anymore. I think I really burned down their patience.” Part of Gerry felt some form of self-satisfaction about making them this desperate, but even he could hear the waver in his voice.

“What did they do instead?” They clearly had still found a way to hurt him, and Michael’s anger grew the more Gerry said.

Gerry looked away, letting his hair fall back into his face and crossed his arms in front of his chest. “They dug up some stuff...I...it’s fine. It’s...I’m fine.” Gerry didn’t want to talk about it, didn’t want to think about it. It had been enough to be confronted with the past once. He didn’t need to relive it once more.

Gerry did not, in fact, sound fine. Michael felt an urge to comfort, suddenly much bigger than its boiling anger, but it didn’t know how that worked. It hesitated for a moment, before walking up to him and leaning against the table next to him, not quite touching, but close enough that Gerry would have felt its presence if he had been alive. It didn’t, however, know how to proceed, so it just stood there, looking at him and trying to determine if there was anything it could say to make that much tension bleed away.

After a moment, Gerry leaned his head against its arm, more as a sentiment, as he knew he’d fall straight through if he were to really lean in. But he did appreciate it being there, and he wanted to show that, somehow, without having to actually talk. Gerry didn’t really want to talk.

Michael brought its hand up to pet his back, but it went right through him, making Gerry’s form flicker for a moment where it had disrupted it. Gerry’s smile was wry. “Doesn’t work.”

“Sorry.” It ran its hand over the length of his back, careful to keep it from going straight into Gerry again. It just felt...appropriate. Maybe that was how comfort worked.

Gerry didn’t feel anything, of course, but he was vaguely aware of the movement. He appreciated the sentiment, smile sad, but a little softer, “Thanks.”

Michael wasn’t sure for what, but it didn’t feel like talking. It needed the focus to not accidentally stab Gerry with its fingers. Even though it knew Gerry didn’t feel it, Michael felt like it would defeat the point of whatever it was trying to do.

Gerry closed his eyes and tried to imagine how it might feel. It wasn’t easy since he lacked a reference, but it certainly helped with distracting his thoughts from going back to nightmares he had hoped he could have left behind in the living world.

*

Michael could not forget the tone of voice, the expression and for the first time it considered maybe doing something about Gerry’s situation. It wouldn’t destroy the page. It wasn’t sure if it could. It would be direct interference with the End and Michael would rather not take sides. There weren’t sides to take, really, with the End. But maybe he could do something else.

The next time Michael came to visit, Gerry wasn’t there. It happened, sometimes. Michael had no sense of time, and the hunters probably didn’t work on a schedule, so often Michael would open the door and Gerry wasn’t there. It had considered before to read him out itself, but it didn’t want to disturb Gerry. He said it was better in the book.

Michael opened the book, leafing through it until it found Gerry’s page. It had never read it, but it always lay open, the skin looking fresher than the rest. Of course, it also had his name on it. His real name. It was strange to read it. Gerry was Gerry and thinking of him as Gerard Keay was like thinking of a different person. One Michael probably wouldn’t like as much. Maybe that would be for the better. It didn’t know and it didn’t care.

It cut the page out with its finger, carefully, before closing the book again and going back through its door, page in hand. The hallway didn’t like the page, something so clearly belonging to the End was an unwelcome intrusion. But Michael didn’t care. It was the hallway and it liked what was in the page very much.

It started reading. It didn’t like the words, but it continued, aware of Gerry appearing, slowly taking shape the more it read. And Michael made sure it was solid, his form, gave him colour and life, both a lie, carefully crafted and prepared in the last couple weeks or so. Michael didn’t know how long it had been. It didn’t matter.

When it looked up from reading, Gerry was standing in front of it, expression one of bewilderment, looking as much as Michael could manage like he had used to. It had mostly gone of what his ghost form gave and filled it with colour, with matter that wasn’t. It had found some photographs, too, for orientation.

None of them had prepared it for the intensity of that gaze as Gerry’s eyes settled on it after looking around in confusion. It forgot how to speak. It just stared back, marvelling at having something that looked so human look so directly at it without flinching. It should hate that, probably. It didn’t.

“Michael? What-where?” His voice sounded different, more there , and Gerry’s eyes went wide with awe.

“The hallway.” It showed him the page.

“You stole it?” Gerry sounded genuinely surprised. It had never even looked at that book properly before, had shown no interest in it at all.

Michael nodded slowly, unsure if it had done right, and even more unsure about whether it wanted the answer to that question to be yes or no. “Yes. I thought...Maybe you’d like it more in here.”

Gerry had discovered his hands by now, eyes going wide at the sight of skin. He touched one hand with the other. It felt real. Gerry’s ghost form never yielded to itself, so the fact that he could touch his hand wasn’t new. The fact that he felt something was. It wasn’t exactly skin, that much he could tell. It felt like deception, though Gerry didn’t know what that meant, not really. But he felt it.

“What did you do? What...how-” He could barely decide on what to ask, what to say as he looked down at himself and actually saw his body, instead of seeing through it.

“I tried.” Michael didn’t know why it was so nervous, why it was watching so closely for Gerry’s reaction. Or maybe it did. It couldn’t tell. “You can change it, if you please. It’s your body. Well...an illusion of such.”

Gerry looked at it, confused. “What do you mean, I can change it?” He held his hand up to his eyes, but it looked like it used to. It looked like his hand. “What is this?”

Too many questions, none of them Michael wanted to answer. Or maybe it couldn’t. “Try changing something.”

Gerry gave it a suspicious glance before frowning at his fingernails, willing them to darken. He had gotten sloppy with keeping up his appearance close to the end. He didn’t want to look at unpainted nails now. It reminded him of how he had pushed the headaches and dizziness back so Gertrude wouldn’t decide he wasn’t worth bothering with anymore. She clearly considered him plenty useful if she ended up putting him in that book, he guessed, but it was no comfort. She still abandoned him.

The nails turned a glossy black and he gasped, running a thumb over one of them. It felt very close to how he remembered it feeling, just one step removed from how it should be. He looked up at Michael in wonder.

“It’ll only hold up as long as you’re in here.” Michael offered, unsure what to say when Gerry was looking at it like that.

“It’s...I’m still dead, right?” He was still tracing his fingernails, eyebrows drawn together.

Michael couldn’t really interpret that expression. It didn’t really know if it was a critique or a simple observation, or something else, so it tried, “You can be see-through in here too, if you want. I just thought-”

“No! No, I didn’t mean to sound ungrateful!” He shook his head, looking up at it again with a small smile. “I was...I’m just trying to...understand.” Gerry was sure he would’ve gotten a headache from trying that if he’d still been human. Being in the hallway would have probably made him feel uncomfortable by now, too. He was definitely dead.

Michael’s head popped to the side again, as it often did when it found whatever Gerry said peculiar. “Understanding isn’t something you will find here.”

Gerry laughed, and it sounded properly like his laugh, no ghostly quality to it, and he stopped, surprised. That’s why he had asked. It felt so real . He felt so alive, somehow, while at same being highly aware that he wasn’t. Michael looked disappointed when the laughter stopped, and Gerry chuckled.

“I guess you’re right I...it’ll take some getting used to.” Not wanting to understand just wasn’t in Gerry’s nature. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t embrace this. Could he embrace something? “Wait, can I...touch things in here? Does it work? Or is it just like outside, where it only work on me?”

Michael shrugged. “Try it out.”

Gerry touched the frame of the picture next to him. He hadn’t noticed it before. He was fairly sure it hadn’t been there. It felt wrong, a lot like he did, but it felt solid. He pressed a little bit but his hand didn’t go through. Until he willed it to and nearly lost his balance. He steadied himself again, brushing his hair behind his ear, worried about blushing until he got too distracted with the fact that his hair felt so much like it used to.

He looked back at Michael who was still watching him with its grin that could have been a smile if you’d switch the definitions of the words. Gerry wondered, not for the first time, how it might feel.

“Michael?” Gerry sounded embarrassingly bashful and yet somehow not as nervous as he actually felt. “Can I touch you? I mean- i-in general? Is...is it possible?” He ran a hand through his hair nervously, “Would it be okay?”

Now it was definitely smiling, Gerry thought. Maybe. It held out its hand and Gerry felt very much like when he had wondered about how sharp his mother’s skinning knife was as a child, an urge to reach out and find out while at the same time being well-aware that it was a bad idea. Michael’s hand didn’t cut him as the knife had and Gerry marvelled at the lack of the pain he had been bracing himself for. It didn’t feel like a hand, either, skin so strange under his fingers he found it difficult to call it that. But he could feel it. He barely heard the short, delighted laughter that escaped him.

Michael smiled at the noise again, lovely as it echoed in its hallways, and it slowly closed its fingers around Gerry’s hands, squeezing it. And Gerry wanted to cry, because this was a lot of new, confusing things happening at once and he had no idea how to cope. He had a new body, that wasn’t really a body, was only a lie of a body as long as he stayed in this place with its maddening colours and patterns. There was a hand with too many bones gently holding his own, not pushing or pulling or making any attempt to hurt him. There were definitely tears in his eyes now. Michael looked troubled.

“Are you alright?” People often cried when it brought them into the hallways. Usually not this quickly. And Michael had assumed Gerry would probably be immune to the constant pull of insanity since he was dead. Maybe it was the pain of the book? “Is...is it making the pain worse?”

Gerry blinked, making some of the tears run down his cheeks, surprised at the fact that he hadn’t even thought of the pain. Even though it had been a  constant for years now, it was hard to ignore, all encompassing and constant. Gerry barely felt it in the hallway. There was too much distortion. He could feel it was still there, but it didn’t seem quite right, anymore. It was strange. He shook his head.

“No...I think it’s making it...less.” Not necessarily less bad, or intense. Maybe not even less in quantity. Just...less. He couldn’t explain it. “I...I’m just overwhelmed. I don’t-I didn’t think-”

Gerry didn’t know what he didn’t think. He didn’t think his existence would ever change again from the misery it had become. He didn’t think anyone would help him. Kindness had been hard to come by in life and he hadn’t expected to find it in death. Or he had. A hope quickly crushed when the pain had started.

He sniffed, unable to explain what he meant to say and Michael pulled him closer, carefully. Gerry knew he could pull away, Michael’s grip was lose, his tugging a suggestion, a question Gerry answered silently by following as it navigated them into a hug. Gerry could feel its hands on his back, on his shoulders, heavy but light, gentle. He didn’t feel trapped but held , and he buried his face in Michael’s chest, wrapped his arms around its middle. It full of strange angles under his fingers.

He didn’t know the source of the tears anymore, but he didn’t fight them. It felt good, relieving. He felt Michael’s hand running over his hair, and he half-expected it to pull, but it didn’t. It just continued the soothing motion, the other hand still holding him tightly, but not too tight.

“Thank you,” he mumbled, voice barely above a whisper.

Michael nodded, too struck by everything to form words. Not that it knew what to say. It hadn’t expected this. It didn’t know what it had expected, and it had worried about the tears, worried this hadn’t been a good idea. It relaxed, now. Gerry’s words were genuine, it could have told if they weren’t. If he was thanking it, then it hadn’t been too bad of an idea. It felt like too much of a thank you for the little Michael had actually done, but it didn’t dwell on it. It wasn’t like it understood a whole lot about emotions, but it was fairly sure that what it was feeling now was relief. And maybe something else.

[qm-vox]

Sigilverse Fanfic - Death by Misadventure

Author’s Note: After ten thousand years I am ONCE AGAIN PROCRASTINATING ON OTHER OBLIGATIONS to bring you the unasked-for fourth chapter in this Sigilverse fanfic. Previous chapters, in order, include What You Think of Death, In It To The Death, and Death Warmed Over. Sigilverse continues to be provided by @periakman whose latest book Legacy of the Sigil just dropped. Like queer YA that grapples absolutely fucking directly with trauma, recovery, and injustice? Give her a glance and your money.

Content Warnings: Child abuse, violence, mentions of suicide, extrajudicial murder, drug use

Vellkill Island, Grevelt. Late Autumn

Monika was intently working her way through her linguistics assignments when Deirdre punched her directly in the back of the head, not hard enough to see stars but definitely hard enough that the young apprentice’s hunched-over seating posture became her best imitation of a human-skin rug.

“The Void was that for?” Monika asked with her mouth against the stone floor of her room.

“Don’t die of shock, but science,” Deirdre commented. “Notice how you actually got hit?”

“I was there, I remember.”

“How often have you actually been hit in the last two months you ass?” came the acidic rebuttal.

Monika considered this. It certainly hadn’t been for lack of trying on Deirdre’s part or, she had to admit, the various soldiers the two of them had cajoled into helping explore Monika’s affinity. The apprentice’s telekinesis seemed to rely on existing movement, but it could nudge and exaggerate motion with incredible efficiency. Fists, feet, blades, sandbags, hurled bricks (while wearing a helmet, obviously), all had simply nyoomed right past Monika without so much as disturbing her dreadlocks. Deirdre had vetoed attempting to shoot Monika with a crossbow bolt; when Monika had tried it anyway using a rope and pulley system, the bolt had went right past her too.

“Yeah, well - I’d like to see you try it again,” Monika muttered bitterly.

“I’m going to,” Deirdre admitted.

“Why?”

“Science,” Deirdre answered, and then she aimed a savage kick at the girl.

Monika’s previous training paid off; she rolled away from her master’s boot and up into a fighting stance. Deirdre wasn’t in her typical armor, which meant among other things that if Monika hit her it’d actually hurt, except -

- hold on -

“Are you wearing padding?” Monika asked in outrage.

“We’re in a stone room and I expect you’re gonna toss my corpse around like old laundry, of course I’m in padding,” Deirdre answered. “You gonna hit me back or what?”

“What’re we testing?” Monika answered; the two circled each other warily, automatically edging away from Monika’s bed and kicking books out of the space where a fight might happen without taking their eyes off of each other.

“Focus,” came the reply. “I need to know if you can fight and do that at the same time, and how long you can do both or either. What’s the rule?”

“Report any feelings of pain in my head or eyes, halt if you call a halt, magic can hurt me and I need to not be hurt for no reason,” Monika answered dutifully. “I’m no good to you if I have a stroke.”

“You’re no good to yourself if you have a stroke, little patriot. Now hit me.”

So Monika hit her.

Like a speeding carriage.

Deirdre took the shot in the solar plexis and hit the stone wall with a whump. Dust shook loose from the rafters while the teen stared in vague shock. Deirdre slid to the ground slowly, collapsing onto her ass and sucking in deep, steady breaths.

“Change of plans,” the Silencer managed in what Monika could only call ‘her voice’ for lack of a better word. “I’m just gonna try to hit you and if anyone asks what happened to me, your obstacle course got me.”

“...Yeah, okay.”

This plan went fantastically for Monika. Deirdre not so much.

The teen watched as her master attempted to hit her to absolutely no avail. Deirdre kept her movements small, precise, laying out a flurry of controlled jabs and strikes that all missed by the barest fraction of an inch. For bigger things Monika could usually feel a twinge, the sensation of her affinity being accessed, but here it was more like a background noise as her kinesis just chugged along.

Things got wild with the bigger hits. An attempted haymaker sent Deirdre sprawling into the wall in an ungainly heap. A stomp kick fit to break down a door hit the wall instead, folding the Silencer in on herself like a paper fan and blowing the air out of her lungs. Deirdre tried to wave off Monika’s sheepish attempts to offer her a canteen of water but her body won out over her pride.

The attempt to throw the canteen at Monika sent it sailing out the window and into the presence of the world’s least fortunate chicken and luckiest enlisted man, respectively.

After what felt like an eternity, but the shifting daylight insisted was about an hour, Deirdre collapsed onto the bed with sweat plastering her red hair to her neck.

“You’re not even tired,” the Silencer complained.

“Nope,” Monika agreed. “I’m only just now feeling any pressure in my head and even then it’s more like I’ve got a cat on me.”

“...This might complicate things.”

“Isn’t it a good sign?” Monika pressed, voice full of hope.

“Depends, how into dying on accident are you in the name of science?”

Monika didn’t answer that.

“You know what I’m about to ask.”

Monika didn’t answer. She just left the room.

*

Monika had long since given up on looking for Ysabelle anywhere but the infirmary; the healer slept there, on a narrow cot that she insisted was her own choice and preference, thank you very much you nosy brat. On the average day there weren’t actually all that many patients, and today there were none. Monika walked in on Ysabelle putting a kettle on for tea.

“That beast finally find a way to maul you again?” Ysabelle asked without looking up, her voice flat.

“I don’t like you talking about her like that,” Monika said in a low voice. “...But no. I wanted to ask you about magical injuries. Erm. Injuries from using your affinity, that is.”

Wordlessly, Ysabelle left the kettle, but when she came back with two cups and set them down Monika knew she was invited to stay. The apprentice sat down cross-legged on one of the medical beds and waited for the healer to speak.

“Understand that I say this in the most technical sense I can,” Ysabelle began after a moment. “The question you’ve just asked is completely useless. Some affinities are inherently dangerous. Some are dangerous because they’re in bodies that aren’t suited to use them, or only partially suited. The Reaper puts his bones straight through his own skin and muscle, and even though he’s adapted to handle that it still hurts. Is that the sort of affinity injury you’re asking about?”

Monika frowned, holding her empty teacup and staring down into it. The porcelain was thin and unusually fine; once again, the apprentice considered asking Ysabelle why she had such an expensive tea service, and once again Monika discarded the question as likely to open up realms of bullshit beyond her imagination. “No, not...well...maybe? What happens to telekinetics?”

“Ah. Hrm. You’re wondering about your limits?” When Monika nodded, Ysabelle started to hrm her way through preparing the tea; picking out the blend she wanted to use, getting out stale cookies (’Why are your cookies so shit when your tea is so expensive?’ was another one of those questions Monika forced herself not to ask on a nearly daily basis), and fetching her cream, butter, and sugar. With the service fully set, the healer once again settled down to look at Monika. “That is...also complicated. Esoteric applications of magic can cause brain injuries, but they don’t always do so. Over-use of magic in general causes damage to what I will, for lack of a better term, classify as the soul, the fallout of which can range from acute depression, catatonic or fugue states, dissociation, or even death. Part of the reason ritual magic is so tightly controlled is because of injuries of this kind.”

The teen nodded, and then frowned again. “Wait, for lack of a better term? Do you not believe in souls?”

Ysabelle gave Monika a wan grin. “I did most of my learning in Haldon, where we have other ideas. That beast training you could tell you more, if you care to ask.”

Monika bristled, and when she saw Ysaballe tensing up in turn the apprentice let out the breath she hadn’t realized she was holding and willed herself to calm down. Lots of people had reasons to dislike Deirdre. Void, Monika disliked Deirdre! Just let it go. Leeeeet it gooooo.

“In your opinion -” Monika began, and then she stopped. Ysabelle said nothing, but when the kettle started whistling did move to make the tea at last, giving the teen a lot more time to think. Getting a warm cup how she liked it (to wit, with enough sugar to kill nine men) to hold in her hands was a comfort of its own. “My master is concerned that if I can’t find a way to regulate my power, I could cause myself brain injuries. Maybe even those soul ones you’re talking about,” Monika explained at last. “How would I be able to tell if I’m close to danger?”

Comprehension dawned over Ysabelle’s expression; the healer added butter and sugar to her tea and stirred it slowly, clearly looking for the words she wanted to say. Monika had seen this look before, when trying to diagnose a tricky problem or injury and explain it in a way her patient would understand. “You probably don’t,” Ysabelle admitted after a moment. “Pain in the head without a clear cause could be one sign, but it might not be; a lot of the brain has no pain receptors, and if you’re bleeding internally you may not know until you have a stroke or even die. Fatigue can also be a sign of excessive magical expenditure, but given your affinity...”

“...I’ll probably be exhausted for other reasons,” Monika finished with a nod. “Hell, even just doing training with Lee leaves me exhausted.”

“Mister Lee puts you through your paces,” Ysabelle agreed. “And if you end up in battle, as you inevitably will given your master’s profession, the emotional toll can make self-awareness even more difficult. Your master is correct - you are in fact in an unknown amount of danger from yourself, and this danger of necessity will need to be addressed.” She and Monika took sips of their tea at the same time, each with expressions of Intense Contemplation on their faces. “If you could be so kind, please explain to Deirdre that you had this conversation with me, and that I may be able to suggest resources to the both of you on this matter which would require her rather more comprehensive powers of requisition. I am willing to speak to her at her earliest convenience.”

“Civilly?” Monika pressed.

Ysabelle sighed.

“Civilly,” the healer agreed, at last.

*

Vellkill Island, Grevelt. Midwinter.

The teleporter arrived without much fanfare, to the immediate panic of those posted there. Monika’s first clue that something was wrong was the mad scramble to put everything up to code, as if some kind of inspection was coming. She had just been about to find Deirdre and ask what was happening when her master found her instead.

“Uniform up, we’re due downstairs,” Deirdre ordered briskly. “And your books have arrived.”

“These related?” Monika hazarded, even as she moved to obey.

“Very. Try to be on your best behavior, the Colonel’s going to have a stick up his ass.”

‘Downstairs’ turned out to be the fort’s parade ground, where the soldiery were assembled in crisp formation. The Colonel (Monika went into her breathing exercises; stay calm, staaaay calm) was conversing in low tones with a tall, bald woman with skin just as dark as Monika’s own, a first since arriving at this Void-curst island. As they got closer, the apprentice noticed the dagger tattoo on the woman’s hand, just like the one on Deirdre’s.

Another Crimson Dagger. Oh no.

“Silencer,” the tall woman greeted with a nod. “Monika of Westkill. My name is Serethen of Javier. I have brought your requested materials.”

Monika bowed. Deirdre just nodded, and then opened her mouth: “Didn’t expect those until spring opened the seas up. What do you want?”

Serethen laughed and favored Deirdre with a faint smile. “Your reputation precedes you, Silencer. There is an ulterior motive, but it will wait. My journey has been long, and I am exhausted. You and your apprentice will take lunch with me tomorrow, and then we can discuss things.”

“I will have my rooms -” the Colonel began.

“Not you,” Serethen interrupted.

“That is hardly your place, Agent,” the island’s lord and master hissed, only to be forced to fumble and curse as a sealed envelope was thrown at him. He glared at the tall teleporter, and then at the envelope.

Later, much later, Monika would treasure the exact look on his face during darker times in her life.

“Not you,” Serethen repeated, and then she set down the heavy pack on her back. She gestured between it and Deirdre and then swept away with a quiet dignity and no small amount of self-satisfaction.

“I think I might want to be her when I grow up,” Monika said after a moment.

“Same,” her master echoed.

[driftwork]

honeymoon - 3rd person...

They had  broken the rituals that had bound them into their lives within their respective worlds. The solid structures they had lived in, the concrete  had become erratic streams in which only their being together remained, and even this was really an ongoing experiment. And so here we have two people who are  together [...] 

His wife  had felt tired and unwell, she was about six months pregnant with their first child at the time and they had rushed back to the hotel room, where she had laid down, tired, shivering and feeling sick.  They didn't want to ask the hotel for a doctor immediately because they had only been married a few days and they were on their honeymoon, and on a honeymoon you do not really want the interference of strange doctors. And after all she was probably just tired, being pregnant and having overdone it during the previous week after their wedding, before travelling by train to Paris the day before.  They were staying in an expensive hotel sheltered from the traffic by deep pavements and the square in front of the hotel. She fell asleep almost immediately as soon as he had helped her undress and he had helped her put on a teeshirt to sleep in and covered her with the duvet. He didn't want to do anything that could disturb her sleep so he went and sat on the balcony with the book he was reading in his hand, the balcony door slightly ajar so he could listen for her,  instead of reading he was watching people walk around and across the square. The people of paris, how they walked and dressed, their voices could be heard like a soft murmur, traffic sounding like the sea in the distance, cyclists running through like drunken molecules, bounce, bounce, bounce. He looked out and sighed wondering if they were right to have come even for the few days. He looked out without really seeing anything, it felt like one of those days at work when he was trying to decide whether to arrest some pitiful criminal or not. How did it become like that he wondered, knowing that it was because of the asleep woman on the bed,  how did everything become about context? They had  broken the rituals that had bound them into their homes within their respective worlds. The solid structures they had lived in, the houses of concrete  had become fluid in which only their being together was becoming fixed, and even this was really an ongoing experiment. Was it simply that he had become a more serious criminal than than most of the people he arrested ? Over the past few years since carrying her bag across the city all that had remained stable was her. That one person who had remade him as a person, a becoming ethical was with him. They had become married, he smiled at the phrase as he thought it, for political reasons, to convince others that they were staying in place, unmoving in exile. Together. He looked down and identified the uneven distribution of men in suits, picking out the man in a dark suit who unlike everyone else was simply standing, motionless looking forward at the hotel. The man was about thirty, a white shirt neath his suit jacket, dark shoes. Perhaps he was waiting for someone ?  He decided he was waiting for something, someone, who? After a few minutes he answered his phone and walked in a circle as he spoke and listened. Another man walked over and handed him a bag, before leaving the square. it was a large black bag which he held in his left hand, the shoulder strap hanging down towards the path.  He walked over to a bench made up of four planks of dark wood bolted onto a metal frame that was facingtowards  the hotel. He sat on the bench after adjusting his clothes to be more comfortable, his left shoulder seemed slightly out of alignment and he stretched slightly to loosen his posture.

It was growing dark and the fading light made the man on the bench seem more solitary, more isolated and  more obviously waiting for something, an instruction perhaps. Whatever it never arrived.  He started reading his book in the light from the window as the anti-photons began to absorb the light from the square, the street lights came one. Illuminating the bench that the man was sitting on. Sitting on the balcony he was reading a novel by Antonio Tabucchi The Missing Head of Damasceno Monteiro.  He listens to her  turning over in her sleep. He relaxes into his chair listening and reading pages of the novel, between pages he looks down. Sometimes he saw people approach the man on the bench but he dismissed them with a wave of his arm.  Eventually another man sat down next to him and they started talking about something, poetry perhaps, their wives or most likely work he thought. The man looked up and seemed to be looking at him on the balcony for the first time. Their eyes crossed, the man looking up at him saw he was lit from behind. He didn't know anyone in Paris, apart from his pregnant wife in bed behind him. He could hear her moving in the room behind him pouring a glass of water, looking at him through the window before going back to bed.  What were the men on the bench waiting for he wondered. He was casually watching the cafe on the corner when a man left it carrying a bag of food and some cartons, he was walking slowly a little unsteadily when he realized it was a woman dressed in dark suit with black ankle boots and a brown teeshirt like garment underneath the jacket. She stopped by the bench and handed them the drink cartons, coffee he thought and some trays of food, tapas or bento boxes he thought. He watched them talk for a while. They became more animated,  perhaps because of the woman he thought, gestures of appropriation and perhaps something akin to recognition.  There was some gesturing towards the hotel they were staying in. Some of the gestures from the woman seemed to suggest bravado as if to affirm that they could do it... Look they are up there, there are only two of them we should do this now. He imagined she was saying. The original man made a grasping gesture telling them to calm down. Perhaps to wait until the square was darker. Shrouded in anti-photons, sufficient to hide their actions from the surveillance systems in the square.

Hey, she said behind him from the bed.  He stands up and goes into the room, she is sitting up and looking a little less pale now. She is smiling, and says she is feeling better now. Still a little tired, her hand resting on her swollen stomach. She doesn't look sick any longer just pregnant. It's ok he tells her, do you want to sleep some more ? I think I'll have a shower, and we can eat something downstairs afterwards. He goes over and touches her shoulder, her hair. Handing her the bathrobe from the sofa. The sound of running water, whoosh. whoosh. She thought about how they had become these people, surrounded by the institutions of the state, originally she'd imagined it as a binary system (state -- war machine) and that she had left her place in the state machine and become a war machine with him, but it was plain now that so many competing interests surveilled them, that it required a more complex model, she drew the triangular model on the bathroom mirror with lipstick. From within the stream of the rain shower she looked at the diagram and tried to remember what she had been like as a warrior for the sovereign or had she been an assassin for the producer ? She wasn't sure that in any sense she could know her old self, she wondered as she stroked her pregnancy in the hot water.  The triangular model does work better than the binary adaption. She thought of him in the bedroom, with the usual moment of desire. Only he generates that sense of desire, because only he exists in the war machine with me. These days too many people would have to die if I went out of exile. Fortunately nobody in the world could see her expression...

He went out onto the balcony and looked down at the street, recognizing one of the Thursday men walking down the street besides the hotel.  The man waved making a grasping gesture, a hello sign, not of friendship but of recognition. He waved at him leaning over the balcony and noticed the bench was now empty. The three people vanished. Picked up his book from the chair and went back into the room. Pulling the shutters  closed behind him, leaving the doors pen to let the cool air through the slats. The noise of the city in the growing dark echoing in. The thought of having to tell his wife about the people he'd seen slightly annoyed him. They were on their honeymoon after all, and you just want to left alone with your partner, with space and time to be alone with them. The sound of the hairdryer running from the bathroom. He sighed and remembered that they were never alone anymore,  that something or a person was always surveilling them.  She came out of the bathroom, naked beneath the open bathrobe her hair dry. She got dressed and suggested they go downstairs to eat.

[They went downstairs in the lift, she held his hand, her face as bleak and observant as always. He thought he was probably smiling enough for both of them. She liked the Yoshi dress, it was a soft grey fabric with a red satin lightening bolt shape from her left shoulder down to her right hip, mirrored on the back.  In the lift as she adjusted her leather short coat.  She looked  so desirable he thought that he might die.  She shook her head.  “ Really you are hopeless.” “I don’t understand what it is. Not really.”  She was still hugging him when the lift doors opened on the first floor/mezzanine. “ I do so it doesn’t matter...”  They were alone amongst the surveillance.]

After they ordered some food she got up from the table and went to the bar, talking with the barman and ordered something for him and walked back to the table.  I almost wish this dress wasn’t a pregnancy dress it’s so nice. She told him and continues talking with him about being so tired this afternoon. Perhaps we shouldn’t have come, it's probably all too much. She smiles, I don't know, I like the hotel. It’s nice here and we can only  travel because we cannot run at the moment. Her hand touching her stomach. People were looking at them as guests in hotels do. The woman stretched, her arms emerging from the sleeves of the dress.  A Japanese man, who had spent the week expecting and receiving obsequious behavior from the hotel staff, froze on seeing her as he was sitting down at his table with the other people on his negotiating team.  Hesitantly he straightened up and walked over to her table and bowed to her.  She scarcely even looked at him,  gestured dismissively, looked at him and told him to go away. He looked horrified and hurried back to his table. The people at his table asked him if he was all right. After a few seconds one of the other Japanese men who were sitting together in a booth by the bar left his two colleagues and walked over to the man and spoke to him quietly.  “He is the son of a friend of my father.” She explained to her husband. “ I have learnt not to be polite to them since living with you...” “I think we will be terrible parents...” He said to her.  She shook her head. “I don't think so, I dream of killing my father so compared to mine I think we’ll be like angels. It's an experimental activity after all. ”  "Änd him?" He asked as the drinks she had ordered arrived.  "Not a criminal, one of the sons of an oligarchic business friends... " The man who'd gone over to the table to speak to the man,  nodded to them as he passed. They talked about the wedding, and began to talk about what they were going to do next week and when the baby arrived. They decided that they would return home early, the day after tomorrow...

They stayed in Paris another night before traveling back on the train. 

[solo-net]

OTP Questions

Tagged by: No one! I stole this from @dep-yo-tee​

Tagging: No one!

Vera Hendrix and Stefano Russo

DISAGREEMENTS

•Who is more likely to raise their voice? Vera. She’s not the type who yells and she hates yelling because it drains her emotionally, but Stefano has a way of getting under her skin. If they get into even the smallest argument they are likely to fight and yell about it for weeks. Vera is never going to be the first person to give in, even if she knows she is wrong.

•Who threatens to leave but never actually does? Stefano. He’s lost count on the number of times he threatened to cut things off with Vera only to come crawling back a day later.

•Who actually keeps their word and leaves? Vera. There will come a time when Stefano commits the unforgivable and Vera leaves him. She'll become more and more unavailable to Stefano. Suddenly, she’ll stop returning his calls or she’ll just remove him from her contact list entirely. It’ll be as if he never existed in her life.

•Who trashes the house? Neither.

•How often do they argue/disagree? They argue a lot about the state of their relationship and Stefano’s jealousy.

SEX

•Who is top? It depends. Sometimes Stefano will want to mix it up a bit and haul Vera on top of him. He loves taking the reins in the bedroom, but deep down he loves it when Vera tops him.

•Who has the weirdest desires? Neither.

•Any kinks? Vera’s secret kink is being body painted. The idea of cool paint caressing her vulnerable skin not only turns her on, but it also makes her want it done to her with another person watching on. Stefano’s kink is the flesh itself. He wants to look at it, taste it, nibble on it; he wants to crush his own skull between Vera’s beautiful legs, he wants to go deaf listening to her scream his name as he pleasures her beyond the ability to think any longer. His kink is hot, naked flesh.

•Who’s dominant in bed? Stefano. He knows exactly what to do and when to do it; he might as well be giving Vera a full-blown story-line to go along with the steamy sex they have! Stefano also loves having spontaneous sex somewhere he and Vera definitely SHOULDN’T be having sex at.

•Is head ever in the equation? Yes.  

•If so, who’s better at performing it? Stefano. Stefano loves giving oral to Vera. While Stefano isn’t the type to go down on just any woman, because he’s picky and judgmental as hell, whoever he does go down on is one hell of a lucky woman. Like, the luckiest of women. Vera is that lucky woman.

•Ever had sex in public? Sometimes. Vera is always down to try new things and having sex in public is on her list. She and Stefano have had sex on a rooftop where they were comfortably isolated from the bustle of Night City’s street.

•Who moans the most? Vera. For such a quiet and serious woman she moans the loudest.

•Who leaves the most marks? Stefano. He wants the whole world to know who Vera belongs to. P.S. She hates how he leaves such large hickeys on her neck.

•Who is the most experienced of the two? Both. Vera and Stefano have had their fair share of lovers. They know exactly what they’re doing in the bedroom.

•Do they ‘fuck’ or 'make love’? Fuck. But sometimes Stefano will slowly ease Vera into making love.

•Rough or soft? Both. It depends on the mood.

•How long do they usually last? A while. There’s a lot of foreplay and teasing...a sensual buildup until one or the other can’t take it anymore.

•Is protection used? No. Vera is on the pill and Stefano loathes condoms. However, during the first few weeks, they were together, Vera made him use a condom.

•Does it ever get boring? Sometimes. There are times when Vera’s not in the mood and Stefano is quick to pick up on her lackluster performance so he stops to save himself the disappointment. Some couples have bad sex and that’s perfectly normal!

•Where is the strangest place they’ve had sex? The back of a club. Stefano was impatient and Vera was in the mood for a quickie.

FAMILY

•Do they plan on having children/or have children? Not at first. Their relationship is casual...for now. In a couple of years, they get married and have kids of their own.

•If so, how many children do they want/have? Only five. Two girls and three boys.

AFFECTION

•Who likes to cuddle? Stefano. Stefano is the type of guy who secretly loves cuddling so much that even when he doesn’t have anyone to cuddle with, he’s dreaming about snuggling up with Vera.

•Who gets naughty in the most inappropriate of places? Stefano. He gets very touchy in public and a little overbearing, but Vera doesn’t mind too much...just so long as he doesn’t overstep.

•Who struggles to keep their hands to themselves? Stefano. When he’s feeling playful, Stefano can get touchy-feely and he'll want Vera to play along with him, but his playful attitude is usually more like play fighting and tickling, not so much snuggling on the couch and smooching.

•How long can they cuddle until one becomes uncomfortable? Think of Vera like a cat: when she wants to be touched, she’ll let Stefano know. Otherwise, she’ll feel uncomfortable being held for too long and too tight. It’s not that she’s totally opposed to affection at all, but she does feel more affectionate when she’s with someone she really trusts.

•Who gives the most kisses? Vera. She loves kissing Stefano and will try to steal a kiss from him whenever she can.

•What is their favorite non-sexual activity? Vera and Stefano spend a lot of time in her apartment. A few kisses, some hand-holding, a cute hug from behind — they love it all.

•Where is their favorite place to cuddle? The bed. Vera will often find herself wrapped up in Stefano’s strong arms and resting her head on his broad chest.

•How often do they get time to themselves? Not much. Vera is so busy that sometimes she’ll end up sleeping in her car before moving onto her next job. Stefano has a full schedule so he’s sometimes unable to make time for himself.

SLEEPING

•Who snores? Vera. Fortunately for her, her snores aren’t very loud and they come off as cute little snuffles.

•If both do, who snores the loudest? None. Stefano is a quiet sleeper and Vera’s snores are pretty tame.

•Do they share a bed or sleep separately? If Vera isn’t in the mood to share a bed with Stefano, he’ll go sleep on the couch but most of the time they share the same bed.

•If they sleep together, do they cozy up or lay far apart? Cozy up. They can’t help it. Their bodies just slowly drift together.

•What do they wear to bed? Stefano wears only pajama pants to bed. Vera wears short shorts and a very long t-shirt.

•Are either of the insomniacs? Stefano.  He just can't stop thinking... to the point where it could seriously drive him a little crazy. Going over details again and again, until all details seem pointless and senseless — that's what Stefano does, on a nightly basis. Too many thoughts with too little direction.

•Can sleeping pills be found by the bedside? No.

•Do they wrap their limbs around each other or just lay side by side? Vera gets a little clingy in her sleep so Stefano will take full advantage and wrap his arms around her.

•Who wakes up with bed hair? None. Stefano’s hair is always put together and Vera wears a bonnet or a wrap to bed.

•Who wakes up first? Vera. Early to bed early to rise.

•Who prepares breakfast in bed for the other? None. Vera prefers to make her own breakfast because she doesn’t trust people to make her food. Stefano hates eating in bed.

•What is their favorite sleeping position? Spooning.

•Do they set an alarm each night? Yes. Stefano is a hard sleeper so he’ll set the volume of his alarm to super loud.

•Can a television be found in their bedroom? No.

•Who has nightmares? Vera.

•Who has ridiculous dreams? Stefano has strange dreams of dancing pigs and singing cars. Yeah, it gets pretty weird.

•Who sprawls out and takes up most of the bed? Stefano is pretty broad so he’ll take up Vera’s whole bed.

•Who makes the bed? Whoever wakes up first.

•What time is bed? Bedtime for Vera is twelve at midnight. For Stefano, he’ll go to bed at ten or eleven p.m.  

•Any routines/rituals before bed? Both will wash their faces and brush their teeth before going to bed.

•Who’s the grumpiest when they wake up? Stefano. He’ll speak in nothing but Italian in the mornings because he’s just too damn tired and grumpy to speak English. The only reason why Vera taught herself Italian was because she wanted to communicate with Stefano better in the morning.

WORK

•Who is the busiest? Both. Vera is constantly taking up jobs for Dexter Deshawn and Stefano is a corporate yuppie who is practically stuck in his office all day making conference calls and crunching the numbers.

•Who rakes the highest income? Obviously Stefano. Vera makes a steady flow of cash, but because Stefano is a Corporate Yuppie...he makes more.

•Are any of them unemployed? No.

•Who takes the most sick days? Neither of them. Vera can’t afford to take sick days and Stefano is afraid that taking a sick day will be seen as a weakness by his business rivals. It’s a chance that both cannot take.

•Who is more likely to turn up late to work? Neither.

•Who sucks up to their boss? Stefano. He is constantly sucking up to the big bosses so that he can make himself look good.

•What are their jobs? Stefano is a Corporate Executive who works in the corporate district with all the rest of the elite. Vera works as a hired gun for Dexter Deshawn.

•Who stresses the most? Stefano. He may not seem like it, but he is under constant stress at his job and is always pushing himself to be the best. In the Corporate world, its either kill or be killed...literally.

•Do they enjoy or despise their careers/occupations? Stefano enjoys the thrill of his job and the fulfillment it gives him. Vera is indifferent. Money is money.

•Are they financially stable? Yes.

HOME

Who does the washing? Vera. She’s a clean freak and washing soothes her.

•Who takes out the trash? Both, but its mostly Vera who takes out the trash.

•Who does the ironing? Vera. She irons her own clothes. Stefano is too much of a perfectionist to let someone else iron his shirts.

•Who does the cooking? Vera. Stefano prefers eating out, but Vera doesn’t trust people to make her food...so she does her own cooking.

•Who is the one to burn down the house when trying? Stefano. For years, he’s paid people to cook for him and if given the chance to make his own meal he’ll burn the kitchen down.

•Who is messier? Neither.

•Who leaves the toilet roll empty? Stefano. It drives Vera crazy.

•Who leaves their dirty clothes on the floor? Neither.

•Who forgets to flush the toilet? Neither.

•Who is the prankster around the house? Neither. They loath pranks.

•Who loses the car keys when it comes time to go somewhere? Vera. She has a habit of misplacing her keys and forgetting where she put them.

•Who mows the lawn? Neither. Stefano hires a man to do that and Vera lives in an apartment.

•Who answers the telephone? Vera. She answers ALL calls without delay.

•Who does the vacuuming? Vera. She vacuums like crazy and will not stop until she’s gotten every single crumb.

•Who does the groceries? Vera. She buys her own food at twelve different grocery stores in the city.

•Who takes the longest to shower? Vera because she has a hair and skin routine.

•Who spends the most time in the bathroom? See above.

MISCELLANEOUS

•Is money a problem? Not for Stefano. He’s a corporate overlord who makes a pretty penny. Vera makes a decent sum working for Deshawn, but not enough to make it big in Night City.

•How many cars do they own? Vera owns one. Stefano owns a flying car that he rides around in.

•Do they own their home or do they rent? Vera lives in an apartment building so she’s constantly paying rent. Stefano lives in a giant mansion.

•Do they live in the city or in the country? Both live in Night City.

•Do they enjoy their surroundings? Vera HATES the city. As a Nomad who lives on the road, Night City feels more like a prison than a home.

•What’s their song? Isak Danielson - Power

•What do they do when they’re away from each other? Working or tending to their personal business.

•Where did they first meet? Stefano heard rumors of an up and coming mercenary who knew how to get the job done. He was in desperate need of a hired gun and he hired Vera to rough up a business rival who stole money from him. They met in his office to go over the details...and Stefano was instantly smitten.

•Who spends the most money when out shopping? Vera. She likes to treat herself.

•Who’s more likely to flash their assets? Neither.

•Who finds it amusing when the other trips over something? Vera. There’s just something so hilarious about this self-assured man tripping over his feet.

•Any mental issues? Vera has severe PTSD.

•Who’s terrified of bugs? Vera. Spiders freak her out. Too many eyes.

•Who kills the spiders around the house? Neither. Vera prefers to pluck them up with a piece of paper towel and throw them out of her window.

•Their favorite place? The top of Vera’s apartment building. It’s just so relaxing and far up.

•Who pays the bills? They don’t live together and have their own bills to pay.

•Do they have any fears for their future? Vera is afraid of never making it to the big leagues and Stefano is afraid of losing Vera to someone else.

•Who’s more likely to surprise the other with a fancy dinner? Stefano. He loves to surprise her with exotic foods and grand dishes.

•Who’s the tallest? Stefano. He’s 6′2″.

•Who’s more likely to just randomly hop into the shower with the other? Stefano. He loves to get intimate in the shower with Vera and is always quick to climb in and wash her back or hair.

•Who wanders around in their underwear? Vera. She feels comfortable wandering around her apartment in just her bra and panties.

•Who sings the loudest when singing along to the radio? Neither.

•What do they tease each other about? Vera likes to tease Stefano about his fancy suits and will ask if he’s ever worn “normal clothes.”

•Who is more likely to cringe at the other’s fashion sense at times? Stefano. He hates how Vera wears heavy clothing during the summer and doesn’t seem unaffected by the heat.

•Who crushed first? Stefano. It was Vera’s looks and ability to get the job done that made him attracted to her.

•Any alcohol or substance-related problems? Vera drinks too much to cope with the stress of living in the big city.

•Who is more likely to stumble home, drunk, at 3am? Vera.

•Who swears the most? Vera but its really Stefano who will curse in Italian when things don’t go his way.

[toxicpineapple]

I did a writing yesterday for Inktober day ten (and I've been doing writings for all the other days too) about depression because it was world mental health day. I decided to post it here because y'know,, life is short.

TWs: Depression, light suicidal ideation, nihilism.

The prompt was "pattern".

---

Life is really just a bunch of patterns.

It’s just a load of things that stay the same from day to day. Things you do habitually, naturally, just because you’ve done them so many other times that it becomes muscle memory. Get up at the same time every morning. Go to the same place, park your car in the same spot if possible. Greet the same people, eat the same things, do the same work. Go home. Unwind in all the same ways as you always do. Deviating from the routine is considered a privilege. Taking a break, getting up later, eating different things. So much as wearing a different colour tie can be considered living a bit on the edge.

In a way there’s something nice about it, that endless routine, because it gives people an appreciation for the smaller things. It makes people more grateful for things that they wouldn’t be, living extremely exciting lives. If every day was different, people would probably stop appreciating the little differences in their day-to-day lives, such as the flavour of their coffee creamer, or the pretty little flower the secretary had tucked behind her ear this morning.

And even so…

Most days, Jayden doesn’t remember what they cover at school. In her classes. She doesn’t remember talking to friends (of which she has very few) and she doesn’t remember what she eats at lunch or how many times she raises her hand to be excused to the bathroom or how many times she has to bend over and retie her shoelaces. The days, being so much of the same and all the time, tend to blur together unless something really terrible happens. Or something really good. But the former is a lot more common than the latter, so she doesn’t tend to consider the latter as a possibility. Because it’s not, not really. And she doesn’t like to lie to herself.

She has her little rituals memorised. That’s pretty normal, she thinks, to do things instinctively without putting much thought into it until they’re called into question. Whether or not her habits are normal has never really been a concern of hers, because she knows that they are. Waking up at six thirty to catch the bus in the morning isn’t uncommon. Brushing her teeth and skipping out on breakfast are pretty universal. Tying her hair up into a ponytail certainly isn’t unique, because many people wear ponytails, and many people wear them better than she does. Her same hoodie, her same ratty Adidas, her same backpack and notebooks and unfinished homework- no parts of her morning routine are special.

She doesn’t notice them, more often than not. Typically Jayden only becomes aware of herself when she’s on the bus, gazing out the window at a world of grey, and wondering when her world ever became so colourless. The bus route she takes is one that many of her classmates take, and the time she takes it at is a pretty universal time for kids wanting to get to school early enough so that they’re not late to class. It’s usually pretty jam packed, but her house is at the beginning of the route, so she’s always on the bus in time to secure herself a seat by the window.

It would be a good spot for people watching, Jayden thinks on some days, if she had any interest in the sea of warm toned faces floating around her.

As things are she trudges off the bus when it rolls up to the spot closest to her school- the one before that, actually, because Jayden doesn’t like the large crowd so she gets off a little bit earlier than everyone else so she can spend the rest of her morning in solitude. It’s just a few minutes longer by foot, so she doesn’t mind it. She is hardly conscious for the walk anyway.

Jayden isn’t exactly a model student. She’s not good at paying attention in class, doesn’t like taking notes until her hand cramps or asking clarifying questions about the material or writing essays or solving equations or even playing the violin, which is her only elective. She doesn’t like homework, either, and so she doesn’t do it. Grades are a minor annoyance to her at best, because she never pays attention to them, and a small part of her is pretty sure that her teachers hate her for it, that they think she doesn’t care about their classes, and they’re not wrong, exactly, but it’s so much more complicated than that and Jayden wishes sometimes that she could explain that it’s not that she doesn’t think their teachings are important, it’s just that she thinks nothing is important. Everything is futile. There’s no point in trying hard if there’s just going to be more of the same.

She sits with the same people at lunch every day. People who call her edgy and depressing, make fun of the hoodie she wears every day without stopping and the bags under her eyes. They rarely call her Jayden. Being friends with them has made her respond to the word “emo.” She doesn’t hate them, though, because it’s not like their assumptions about her are wrong, necessarily, she just doesn’t think they’d understand her feelings so she doesn’t bother trying to correct them. Or talking to them, most times.

A lot of times Jayden exits the school building able to count the number of times that she spoke throughout the day on one hand. Sometimes she doesn’t speak even once.

She sometimes remembers the bus ride home a little bit better just because she’s never able to get on in time to get a seat (much less a window seat) after school so she has to stand, clutching onto the railing for dear life and getting jostled every time to bus makes a stop. Her eyes glaze over and she thinks about nothing- futility, often- but sometimes she snaps out of her reverie, aware that someone is trying to move by her, or speaking to her about the tiny insignia on the sleeve of her hoodie, or that there’s a seat available and she needs to hurry if she wants to snag it before someone else from her school.

When Jayden gets home, usually she sleeps. Sometimes she stares at the ceiling, a large block in her chest and her limbs weighing a million pounds, and occasionally she takes out her homework, blinking uncomprehendingly at all the words and concepts that she doesn’t understand, hasn’t paid attention to since she entered high school three years ago. She’s staring another session of summer school, which she will likely also fail, right in the face, and she has the audacity to not even be intimidated anymore.

Because what she’s learned through experience is that adults say a lot of words like potential and future and integrity but what they actually mean is that they’re not going to make an effort to understand you, they’re just going to keep on asking you to be the person they want you to and be like all the other kids your age until eventually they deem you a lost cause and a problem kid and give up on trying to lecture you.

Her least favourite time of year, by far, is the beginning of a new school year. For a number of reasons (she hates it when her teachers call attendance aloud and she has to announce her identity in front of the class, hates name games and surveys and syllabi even more than that) but mainly because all of her new teachers are bound to assume that she, like everyone else, cares about grades and continuing the loop of wake up, do things, go to sleep, repeat on and on until she ceases to comprehend her own existence. All of those teachers are going to ask her why she doesn’t do her work, and try to work with her.

The more annoying teachers, the ones who act like they care, will send her to the counseling office, and there they already know who she is, so of course it’ll just turn into another staring contest, but when their attempts yield no results, Jayden tends to be the one who is blamed. Because she’s disrespectful. Because she’s apathetic. Because she’s directionless and has no perception of her future.

Not her fault that she understands that she doesn’t have a future.

She doubts that things will ever change. Regardless of the way the world shifts and changes in her lifetime, she’s still not one of the rich, the famous, the talented. She’ll remain where she is, a faceless, nameless, zombie in a crowd of unimportant people without identities. She’ll keep on keeping on, forever.

Even death can’t be counted as an escape. What happens when she dies? Nothing. Obviously, Jayden isn’t religious, or else she would have something to be working towards. She doesn’t believe in an afterlife, or any greater purpose. There’s no reason to exist. No reason to continue. Just the inevitability of everything all ending. Drawing closer and closer with every day. With every meaningless decision she makes. With every awkward dinner with her parents, avoiding eye contact but knowing what they’re thinking. Knowing what question they’re asking themselves in their heads, and each other with their eyes.

Most days Jayden attends school. She copes with the embarrassment that is no longer real embarrassment over not having her work done, over not knowing the material. She shrugs and averts her gaze when the teacher calls on her for an answer. She shuffles through the day, gives thin smiles to her friend, heads home and stows her phone in a drawer so that she can’t see it blinking red with texts she doesn’t care to answer.

But sometimes she doesn’t. Sometimes her alarm goes off at six thirty and she sleeps right through it. Not because she’s particularly tired, or because she can’t stand going to school, but because she just can’t make her limbs move. Her joints feel sore and heavy and stiff, like they need an oil change, and her eyelids weigh a million pounds, so she just lets them fall shut again and allows dreams to wash over her like a shower. She thinks about nothing and stays in bed for the whole day, only crawling out from under the covers to use the bathroom and occasionally splash water on her splotchy red face with the gross stuff in between her eyes and marks from the pillows on her face, wondering why she is this way.

Jayden considers herself (well, she understands herself, rather) to be a disappointment of sorts. Clearly, in this society, the goal isn’t to completely give up like she has. Yes, everything is futile, but working hard at least allows people to pretend that there’s some sort of reason for existing. Going through the motions only becomes tedious when one stops coming up with reasons to keep going through them. If you lie to yourself and say things like, well, after I save up enough money, I’ll move into this city I really want to! you’ll feel motivated enough to keep going. Jayden just lacks the energy to lie to herself.

She knows when she’s lying, after all. Some things she just can’t hide from her own mind. One of them is her cynicism. She knows how things are. There’s no point deluding herself, of all people.

Jayden wakes up at six in the morning one day, half an hour before her alarm, and without thinking much about it slides out of bed and dresses herself. Her movements are sluggish and heavy but she performs the same tasks as always. She doesn’t think about flavour or changing things up because she doesn’t care to. Wearing a different coloured hoodie wouldn’t excite her, it would just make her uncomfortable. That, she thinks as she ties her hair up into the same ponytail as always, might be a part of the problem.

The bus ride to school is different, emptier, but she knows that’s just because everyone is planning on catching the bus half an hour from now. It gives her room to spread out her legs across the seat next to her. She doesn’t, though. She just stares out the window as always, eyelids drooping like she’s going to fall asleep. Part of her wonders what would happen if she did fall asleep on the bus, just rode until the very last stop on its route and slept after that. Slept through all of the other routes, and then all the way to the terminal. Jayden briefly entertains the notion of sleeping on this bus forever, lost and forgotten to time. She decides the idea isn’t so unappealing.

But when the bus rolls up to the stop she usually gets off at, she climbs off, gripping her backpack straps and pretending that she’s invisible. In a way, she kind of is.

The walk the rest of the way to school blurs, and Jayden finds herself in her first period, and then suddenly she’s in fourth, gazing dully at the clock and wondering where the hours went. All the faces around her look the same, now, like they’re all just one person in different clothes, staring at her and judging her and wondering why she can’t even do something as simple as pretend that there’s a meaning to it all.

Lunch arrives and she sits at the same table as she always does, in the same spot with the same sack lunch with the same carrots and apple and peanut butter jelly sandwich that she never eats. She rests her chin on the table, wondering where her friends are, but they never arrive. Instead, someone else sits across from her.

Another one of those blurry, insignificant faces, and Jayden prepares herself to think about something else when the person talks, but then they talk.

“Hi, can I sit here? Sorry, I’m already sitting here, you can still say no, I’m just, like, new here, and it’s so awkward looking for places to sit when it seems like everyone already has friends, y’know?” It’s a girl, Jayden’s age, probably, a junior; her hair is short but a bit unkempt. It curls under her ears, which are slightly pointed at the tops, like she’s a fairy, or something. Her skin is a bronze colour, and her eyes are a striking amber-brown, warm and a little nervous and very friendly. She’s looking at Jayden expectantly, and it takes her a moment to figure out what the stranger is talking about.

“That’s fine.” Jayden replies softly. She averts her gaze, so that the other girl doesn’t think she’s weird for staring.

“I’m Margaret, but people call me Maggie, and you can too.” The girl (Maggie) introduces herself, holding out a confident hand to shake, and Jayden looks at it for a long moment, not sure what to do. After an awkward silence, Maggie seems to take the hint and retract her hand. Though her smile doesn’t even falter. “What’s your name? Are you a junior?”

“...Jayden.” Jayden speaks again in the same quiet voice as before. She’s not sure whether or not it would be acceptable to keep talking, but she does, figuring she should answer Maggie’s second question. “And… yeah. You are too…?”

“Uh-huh! What a bad year to transfer in, right? Halfway through, too! But when your parents move, they move, y’know?” Maggie laughs, like this is something relatable, and her laugh is pretty and nice like church bells so Jayden sort of wishes she could laugh as well. “So, is this a good school?”

And then, for the rest of lunch, despite receiving extremely bland answers, Maggie keeps on talking to her. It’s strange, because logically Jayden knows it’s a perfectly normal interaction, and yet… something about it sticks out to her as different. Perhaps it’s the fact that, when Jayden mentions that she doesn’t really pay attention in her classes, or do well at all, Maggie doesn’t treat it like it’s strange. She just shrugs, and says that everyone has their reasons.

When lunch is over, Maggie asks Jayden if she’d like to go somewhere after school.

“Nothing fancy,” Maggie says quickly. “Just, y’know, like, hanging out around the area. Maybe get some ice cream or something. It should be fun! At least, I think so. You don’t have to answer right away, though- if you want to, I’ll be hanging around the front entrance for a bit right after school anyway, so you can come find me. Alright? See you!”

And it’s not as though the prospect of going is a bad one. Jayden thinks that Maggie is a perfectly pleasant sort of person to spend time around. If she should be hanging out with anybody… Maggie works just fine. But at the same time…

Maggie said that it should be fun. And Jayden isn’t sure that she’s even capable of fun anymore. Jayden isn’t sure that she’s even capable of anything anymore. She thinks about all those text messages on her phone from friends who wanted to make plans but she never responded to. All those counselors she avoided eye contact with, the teachers she ignored, her own parents, who she never speaks to when they ask how her day was when she gets home from school. All she knows how to do anymore is disappoint people.

And knowing that everything is futile, that they’ll all end up dead anyway… she’s not sure that this’ll even have any significance to her. It’ll probably just turn into another one of those going through the motions things eventually, if Maggie keeps asking her to hang out and if she keeps saying yes.

Jayden looks out the window. It’s sixth period now. The sun is shining outside, like it has been recently despite it being winter, and the way that it streams through the bare branches of all the deciduous trees is… rather beautiful, actually. She wonders why she’s never noticed that before.

After school, she still hasn’t really made up her mind. She leaves the room and lets her feet carry her, expecting auto-pilot to take over and deliver her, dutifully, to the bus stop, as always. Instead, though, her legs take her to the front of the school, and she looks around for a moment before she spots Maggie. The other girl is sitting on the steps in front of the school, browsing some social media on her phone. She hasn’t noticed Jayden yet. Which means that if she turned around right now and left, Maggie would never know. Her bus will be leaving soon, so, she should probably head out right now if she wants to catch it and be home at the same time as usual. Get back to her routine. Keep trudging through her life and not experiencing any of it.

But…

She takes a deep breath, and then cups her hands around her mouth. “Maggie!” She calls out, and when the other girl turns around, she beams, and Jayden forces her feet to move her forward.

(Blocks away from the school, the afternoon rush of students piles onto Jayden’s bus, and it drives away without her, breaking the pattern.)

[kuriquinn]

Telanadas [2/19]

Cover Page & Disclaimer:

first chapter

Sakura’s resolve to press on only lasts a half hour, if only because Nature makes a more convincing argument than Comfort. Darkness falls sooner than expected, and they are forced to find shelter.

As the winds grow strong enough to press the travellers up against the sharp, icy façade of the mountain, Sasuke spots a cave almost obscured by rock and snow. Even luckier, it is large enough that all four of them can fit comfortably inside without infringing on each other’s personal space. Having had to sleep crowded against Naruto on at least two occasions lately and subjected to his kicking, Sasuke is more than relieved about this.

Once inside, Kakashi uses his magic to erect a barrier of fire, offering both protection from enemies and the frigid gusts of wind. As the blood flows back into Sasuke’s fingers and toes, the mage conjures a small fire. Meanwhile, Sakura takes on the undesirable job of fashioning a small latrine at the back of the cave.

“That’s all we need is for one of you to wander out to take a crap and fall off the side of a mountain,” she says cheerfully.

Sasuke doubts any of them will make use of such a thing unless they are snowed in here for days. Then again, dwarves and humans have such odd notions of hygiene and propriety he cannot be entirely sure.

While Sasuke lays out their gear and armour to dry near the fire, Naruto digs about in their supplies to put together a warm meal.

Though meal is being polite, Sasuke thinks with a grimace.

“I do not understand how you people can eat this,” he mutters, the complaint escaping him before he can stop it. He was taught to consider food no more than fuel, but after weeks of the same paltry fare he has lost patience. “Do I even want to know what it is?”

“I think it was lamb at some point,” Sakura says, accepting the makeshift bowl of tasteless noodles and jerky from the human. “But the texture…isn’t one I’d normally associate with lamb.”

“Beggars cannot be choosers,” Kakashi replies mildly, shrugging one shoulder.

“What are you guys talking about?” Naruto asks, slurping down his share. “This is so much better than that frilly stuff we had back at the castle! I hate food I can’t pronounce. And this stuff never goes bad. I bet if we packed it away, it’d still be good to eat fifty years from now!”

Sasuke stares at him in disgust. “I cannot even tell if you are joking or not.”

“He is not,” Kakashi confirms, examining what is left of their rations. “I am rather sure these are from supply caches that have not been opened since the Storm Age. They were old before I stole them from the Circle of Magi.”

“And…I’m done,” Sakura says, offering her still-full bowl to Naruto, who cheers and adds the share to his own. Sasuke is tempted to do the same, but as it might be construed as a kindness to the human, he refrains. “What about you, Sasuke-kun? You didn’t eat like this where you grew up, right?”

As always, she is trying to find out more about him.

“No.” He intends to leave it at that, but when she gazes up at him beseechingly, a follow-up question clearly on her lips, he elaborates: “Simple fare. Bread made from seeds. Milk from our halla. Vegetables.”

He tries not to lick his lips at the mere thought of tomatoes. It has been so long since they had a decent meal.

“Halla?” Sakura repeats, confused. “Is that a kind of animal in Oto?”

Sasuke tenses, realising his unconscious slip.

“Not necessarily Oto,” Kakashi answers for him, eyes widening in understanding. “Halla are creatures like horned stags. The Dalish consider them to be noble companions.” He raises an eyebrow. “I had wondered about the markings on your face, Sasuke. They resemble none of the tattoos that the House of Crows use…but I have never seen that particular vallaslin before, either.”

“Dalish?” Naruto asks Sasuke in slack-jawed awe. “Wow, really? Arl Hiruzen used to talk about the Dalish, but I’ve never actually met one before!”

“Your powers of observation are worse than I thought, as you have been travelling with one for weeks now,” Sasuke bites out.

“Oi!”

“What’s vallaslin?” Sakura asks quickly, obviously attempting to curtail an argument.

Sasuke shrugs noncommittally, not wanting to explain.

“It translates to ‘blood writing’, if memory serves,” Kakashi says in his place. “A sign of adulthood, and adherence to the beliefs and traditions of the Dalish. It is surprising that one who submitted to the ritual would then be found working as an assassin for the House of Crows.”

“Chains of a past that no longer exists,” Sasuke interrupts. “I am going to sleep. It has been a long day.”

He turns away from the fire, a clear message that he has no intention of answering any questions or pursuing the discussion further.

He can feel Sakura’s eyes on him, but after a short pause, she suddenly says, “Well, that still sounds a lot better than what happened to me. I got this—” He imagines she is pointing at the rhombus shaped brand on her forehead, “—just for being born in the wrong place.”

“Heh. I understand what that’s like,” Naruto snorts.

“Maybe. Except as far as I know, Konoha doesn’t brand a newborn with a hot poker just because his parents were unwed.”

“What? No way!”

“Uh-huh. The minute a casteless dwarf is born, we get marked, so there’s no way to mistake who we are if the nobles catch us lurking in the richer quarters. Also, it makes it way easier for Carta recruiters to decide which kids they can press-gang into doing their dirty work.”

“Carta—the dwarven crime syndicate?” Kakashi questions, sounding surprised.

Back still turned in a pretence of sleep, Sasuke frowns. He does not find that surprising at all. It certainly explains her occasionally mercenary attitude and her talent for surviving insurmountable odds. The Carta offers about as friendly an upbringing as the Crows do.

“They’re the ones who smuggled lyrium to the Templars,” Naruto whispers, a little uncomfortable. No doubt he had comrades who suffered from that particular addiction. “You were one of them?”

“There wasn’t much choice,” she replies, unembarrassed. “Since the most respectable job for a casteless dwarf is sweeping the streets, and there’s only a few people who even get that job. It’s either work for the Carta or become a noble hunter. And I’d starve to death begging before I got on my back for some jacked-up noble because I might bear him a son.” She sounds abruptly fierce just then. “No disrespect to the women I grew up with who did that—there’d be no dwarves left down there if there were no noble hunters. But I won’t sell my heart for the small chance of pretty clothes and jewels.”

Sasuke snorts at this.

There is that naivety again.

“It seems we are talking too loudly and disturbing the elf’s sleep,” Kakashi remarks wryly, but Sasuke refuses to reply. It is enough that he has been forced by close quarters to listen to this.

Sakura is not so easily fooled; though she does not speak to him, her next words are pointed.

“People should be allowed to love one another without reprisal. Without duty or society or anyone else’s agenda getting in the way,” Sakura says, and her tone has lost all the levity he would normally associate with it. She only sounds like that when defending a cause that she considers worthy.

 “You’re right,” Naruto says quickly. “The world would be a much nicer place if that were true.”

“Perhaps some places,” Kakashi says carefully. “Circles of the Magi, for one. But for the good of the many, sometimes the desires of the few need to be set aside. Many a peace accord may never have happened if the belligerents in a conflict did not seal it with a marriage. And our world may have looked much different.”

“Maybe up here on the surface,” Sakura says. “Back in Iwa they’re so obsessed with blood purity that soon there won’t be anyone left to marry, diplomatic or not. If people could choose…if people could choose, Iwa might not be falling into the dust.”

There is sadness and anger in her tone, coupled with the sudden shifting of her body.

“Anyhow. It’s not like any of this matters here and now,” she goes on, and her tone is such an abrupt shift to cheeriness that Sasuke knows it is fake. “We just have to get to that temple and find those ashes to help Arl Hiruzen.”

“That is assuming they do exist,” Kakashi says reasonably. “This ‘Urn of Sacred Ashes’ could be nothing more than a rumour. Or a hoax.”

“You couldn’t have said something before we climbed half a mountain to get here?” Sakura jokes lightly. “Shannaro…”

“No, it’s real,” Naruto insists, faithful Templar even now. “Just wait, we’ll get those ashes back to him and he’ll be kicking down Danzō’s door in no time—believe it!”

The dwarf is not the only naïve one.

“I’m sure you’re right, Naruto,” Sakura says warmly. “But in order to get up there, we need to be at full strength. Which means sleep. I can take first watch if you want.”

“No, you’ve been pushing yourself pretty hard the last few days, Sakura. Take a break. Kakashi and I can keep a lookout since someone’s being a lazy arse.”

The recipient of the barb rolls his eyes.

“Naruto,” Sakura warns.

“Yeah, yeah…”

“Go on, Sakura, he is right. You are no good to your cause if you pass out and freeze to death in the snow,” Kakashi coaxes.

“Hah! Like I’d let that happen!” Naruto scoffs.

“Well, thank you guys. I guess I can take an hour—but I will take second watch at least.”

That is what you think, Sasuke decides.

Annoying as the humans are, they are correct. Sakura is no good to them dead from exhaustion. Especially since Sasuke has thrown his lot in with her, he intends to keep her alive until he figures her out.

It should not be an issue to take the next watch.

There is a sound of shifting armour and the rustling of a camp bed, and he imagines Sakura has indeed turned in for the night. Kakashi and Naruto murmur to each other quietly, not wanting to disturb her; Sasuke is not so lucky, his ears picking up even the quietest whispers.

“I’m actually just as tired,” Naruto groans. “I’ll play you for first watch, if you promise not to cheat.”

“No, you go ahead and sleep. I’ll stay up and read for a little.”

“Ugh…just make sure you ‘read’ far away from my blanket.”

“And what is that supposed to mean?”

“Exactly what it sounds like. You mages are all perverts…”

Sasuke silently agrees.

After that, everything goes quiet (or as quiet as they can with Naruto’s snores). Sasuke allows himself to sink into a light sleep for a few hours, but when his ears pick up on Kakashi shifting in discomfort, he rouses himself. The older man has an odd propensity to take longer watches than he ought, to let everyone else rest. This makes no sense considering Sasuke does not need as much sleep as anyone else in the party. Sakura would say it is because Kakashi is an old mother hen at heart, but Sasuke is not sure. He does not trust humans, and mages even less, even when they do not wear masks to cover all but the eyes, the way Kakashi does.

With a stretch, Sasuke climbs out of his bedroll. He heads for the mouth of the cave to take a piss, then goes to sit beside the mage.

“I will take the watch until morning,” he murmurs. “You people are no use to me dead on your feet.”

“I sense there was concern in there somewhere behind all the stoic,” Kakashi remarks.

“Tch.”

“I’m serious, Sasuke. You are so tightly wound, it cannot be good for you. You know what would do you some good?”

“I suspect you are about to tell me.”

“If you went out some time, found a girl, and did naughty things with her that did not involve trousers,” the mage continues as if he hasn’t heard him. “If you are in the market, I know of at least one who is definitely interested.”

The way his eyes slide toward where Sakura is sleeping, albeit fitfully, leaves no question to whom he is referring.

“Len’alas lath’din,” Sasuke grumbles, turning away in contempt.

“Now, now, that is not very polite,” the mage says, more amused than offended. And it should not surprise Sasuke that the older man knows Elvish, especially given his remarks earlier about blood writing. No doubt he has read about it in his studies, locked away in one of those shemlen towers.

He honestly has no intention of replying, but Kakashi continues to look more amused than he should. It reminds Sasuke a little of the teasing his cousin Shisui used to subject him to, and now, as then, his pride does not allow him to let it go.

“What makes you think I have not already?” he hedges.

Kakashi chuckles. “I can smell purity a mile away. It is a talent.”

“That proves to be useful, I am sure.”

“Not that often, as it turns out. It would be much better if I could sense Templars. It might make them easier to avoid.”

Sasuke snorts. “You have my deepest condolences.”

“Heh. Likewise.” Kakashi puts away his well-worn, orange-covered book. “And so does she.”

The comment has Sasuke puzzling over it longer than he will admit.

When he gets it, he wonders if it is too late to hit the older man.

Translations:

Halla – type of horned stag, used by the Dalish to pull their landships

Vallaslin – intricate facial tattoos worn by adult clan members of the Dalish elf tribes

Arl – feudal title; rules over an arling

Lyrium – valuable mineral/material whose consumption can strengthen a mage and boost their mana

Len’alas lath’din - dirty child no one loves; Dalish insult

Comments and concrit are much appreciated, and very motivating! For information about supporting my original, non-fandom related works, you’re welcome to check out my ko-fi tip jar, or my patreon page. 

栗

Next Chapter

[doodledrawsthings]

Alrighty here’s the masterpost for Hell’s Studio, I guess

So what the heckity heck is this au about?:

This AU spawned from a joke I made with @arsonsara about bendy looking all weird in-game because joey sucks at 3D modeling.

Basically, Joey Drew got the idea in his head that he could potentially bring his original characters to life, and then goes to do that. However, it’s not all that easy, and he ends up bringing Bendy into the real world completely off model as this hulking mess of sentient ink vaguely in the shape of a demon. Obviously Bendy is very frustrated by this. But on top of being off model, he finds even more frustration in the fact that Joey wasted precious time trying to perform a demonic summoning ritual when he could’ve spent it making the actual goddamn cartoon. Seeing how impulsive and distracted the guy can often get, Bendy decides to appoint himself the new head animator and co-producer of the show if they want anything to get done. And it all kicks off from there.

So this AU doesn’t have a big overarching plot or anything, it’s mainly just episodic and things just happen. Think of it like The Office of Parks and Rec. Most of it is goofy comedic shenanigans, but i guess there is some drama-ish stuff in there from time to time, idk it’s a mess. It’s been built off of people sending me cool ideas on Tumbler Dot Com.

I don’t intend on making an organized timeline for things that happen throughout the au because literally anything can happen at almost any time and it’s constantly being added to, so I’m just gonna list a bunch of important points about the characters and how things work.

this is kinda just so y’all have just one big post to reference.

So here we go there’s a whole heckin’ lot:

Bendy was the first character to have been brought to life. Since it was Joey's first time summoning a demon, he did it wrong and messed up the model.

Bendy had to spend the first week or so as this tall, spooky, mass of ink trudging around the studio and yelling at people about animation.

Boris came in next, this time successfully and on model. Boris, the character, had already existed in the show even before HS Bendy was brought into the real world, so the two are already familiar with each other and personally know each other.

He works with the music department with Norman and the rest of the band and also script writing.

Then comes Alice, a much newer character, written into the show about a year after Bendy and Boris are brought to life, and is supposedly Bendy’s female counterpart in the show. Because she was put into the show after Bendy and Boris were summoned, the real-world versions of the boys never had a close relationship with her before she was brought into the real world, whereas she was close to a Bendy and a Boris that don't exist in the real world.

They decided after Alice that Joey should not summon any more characters into reality.

The toons retain their memories from the episodes they were previously in before being summoned, as if they were actual personal experiences. So when Alice comes in, Bendy and Boris don't really have that relationship with her that she may have had with the in-show versions of them. And Bendy and Boris know each other already because they were written as friends in the show, together. Even before both were brought to life.

Alice and Bendy don't get along at all at first but gradually become good friends as the years go by.

Bendy in earlier years often got jealous when something threatened to take his spotlight. 

Alice works closely in the music department, writing music with Sammy and directing voice stuff and working with Susie and the other actors.

Bendy is pretty strict when it comes to the art direction of the show, but he knows his workers’ limits. If he knows they REALLY aren't capable of doing something he won't make them do it, but otherwise he’ll try to push them to do the best they possibly can,no exceptions. He just wants things to look good.

Bendy, despite maintaining a sense of professionalism as an animation director, is still a mischievous prankster when off the clock. He won't deliberately do anything to halt progress, but people still should watch their backs.

Bendy LOVES picking on Sammy because his reactions are always the best. Sammy resents this.

The toons are made of ink, water and acetone hurts them but it won't kill them. I guess it sorta makes them lose form.

Holy objects are the opposite of good for these three.

Joey, in this au, is a pretty hardworking guy and a lot of people respect him for his accomplishments. However, he is incredibly impulsive and often inconsiderate of the consequences of his impulsive actions and often gets dristracted by other things halfway into a project, so he needs someone to keep him in check. He always means well but he doesn't really have a filter for the things he says or does, and often puts himself at risk of being punched by Sammy for saying the wrong thing at the wrong time.

Joey is not super devoted to demon worship or rituals. it's kinda more like a side hobby. He did it cuz he realized he could use that kinda magic to do a thing he wanted to do, so went ahead and did it.

Sammy, despite also having a passion for what he's good at, is exact opposite of Joey: Pessimistic and constantly acting like he hates his job. He does what he does REALLY well, and people respect him for that. But most think he's a kind of jerk,so they leave him alone. He’s good acquaintences with Susie, Alice, and Henry though.

The top three people who piss Sammy off: Joey, Bendy, Wally Franks.

Henry's kind of the voice-of-reason. Very easy going and usually able to keep calm in ridiculous situations and is also good at following directions when given. Y’know that one post about being 85% of Joey’s impulse control.

Colored ink apparently gets the toons drunk. They act differently depending on color.

The toons drink regular ink like humans drink water

Joey has absolutely no interest in raising a family, he's already got one at the studio. He’s metaphorically married to his work.

Despite the crazy shit Joey does, he still means well and is usually one to try to make up for his mistakes. If only he just prevented them from happening in the first place.

Sammy, at some point, kicks the ink machine and becomes an ink-creature for a while. I kind of consider @nollplus’s fic to be AU canon, but honestly anyone can play around with any of these ideas as much as they want to.

I don't know who of the original crew passes away first, but I know for sure that Joey goes last.

Joey teaches bendy how to play piano as a way to relieve stress, it's kind of a thing they do together.

Henry is very close with bendy, and is often one of the people the toon goes to when he needs someone who will listen to his rants and frustrations without complaining about it.

Henry and Bendy often go out together on breaks to draw or walk around the town. It’s their thing.

Boris has the kind of face that is really hard to say no to. Whether he realizes this or not is questionable.

While Boris tends to be more on the naive side, he’s not ignorant. He knows when things are bad, and sometimes knows how to read a room better than Joey can, honestly. He just thinks that having a positive attitude will spread to other people.

@Ka-star’s fic about bendy getting chased into a church by a dog is AU canon and for the longest time it made him kinda scared of leaving the studio. But he’d never admit that.

Alice is very careful when she leaves the studio and is much more sneaky about it. She loves being outside the studio. It gets a bit too stuffy in there for her.

Same goes for Boris, he doesnt have a particular place he likes to go he just likes to run around outside and get out pent-up energy.

The toons get redesigns every now and then, some more permanent than others. Bendy was the first subject of that.

Sammy's office (and much of the rest of the music department) is right by the ink pipes, which often tend to burst and leak. This poor man is in a perpetual state of frustration.

The studio in this au actually becomes very successful over the years (in more of a Disney-ish fashion rather than Fleischer studios)

The toons are kept secret from the rest of society, when they go out into public, they go wearing cheesy disguises.

Bendy is not one to be very open about his emotions. He doesn't like being seen or treated like a kid, either. When he's upset, he often tries to hide it as best he can, which is kind of hard when you visually reveal how upset you are by involuntarily melting whenever you're stressed.

Since people in the studio have known them for so long, the toons are a regular and normal sight in the workers there. So when they get new members who are absolutely blown away by how toons exist in the real world it can be a bit jarring because sometimes even they are forget how unique their situation is.

The ink machine is kind of equivalent to a glorified coffee machine for the toons. It still serves importance though, as being a quick way to heal them if they get hurt.

They very much enjoy video games as they’d probably be around long enough to see technology develop from the 1920′s to what it is today and idk but thats kinda cool.

The toons can shapeshift to an extent, doing it for too long makes them REEEALLY tired. They usually use this ability to become other characters when kids are given tours of the studio. (Or to play pranks. Bendy specifically.)

Wally never really gets outta there, the studio’s become a sort of hectic second home to most of the workers.

Joey gave bendy that sweater after impulsively taking up knitting as a hobby, just because. Bendy wears it as PJ’s.

As much of a stick in the mud as Sammy is, he refuses to be a jerk to kids. Same with Bendy, though the latter is better with kids than the former.

While Joey was out doing his thing, bringing the toons to life, everyone unanimously decided Henry should be in charge when Joey’s off distracted by something else. He was stressed out for the longest time while Joey was working on that project of his. Everyone was. Thanks Joey.

Toon logic applies to the toons in some of the weirdest ways, and has a 50/50 chance of being convenient or inconvenient.

“Thanks, Joey” has become a sort of inside joke throughout the studio.

The summoning ritual is kind of anticlimactic. When done right, it’s kinda like POOF there’s a cartoon here, now. Yay. For the toons themselves, it’s an incredibly weird feeling. One moment they’re in whatever world they came from and now they’re here for some reason.

They do a Haunted House every Halloween that is basically just the canon game, but as a spooky haunted house.

Bendy sleeps in a drawer in his office.

Muppet Bendy. Just. Muppet Bendy. Whether it’s Spud’s idea whre bendy just straight up becomes a puppet at some point for some reason or if it’s just a puppet that bendy happens to have, it’s there. 

Thaaaaat’s all I can think of right now. There is so much stuff that goes on this au and so much still being added to it that it's hard to keep track of it so i’ll probably be constantly adding to this post.

But uh these are most of the ones that stick out to me more.

[sending-the-message]

If your voice stops echoing, it's about to strike by M59Gar

I set fire to several miles of forested terrain, and I got away with it. There's really no way for them to tell who did it. Thing is, razing that stretch of trees might not have solved the problem.

Midwestern parents are often characterized as 'helicoptering' around their children, but now that I have a kid myself, I think I'm starting to understand. Everyone here knows the truth, even if just on an unconscious level. The forest is still here.

While cities have become fortresses, high-walled bastions of man, the primordial forest that covered the world for millions of years is still all around us in the Midwest. We surround our houses with grasses, bushes, and trees in an attempt to appease it. We carve what we have to and leave vast spaces of woodland untouched. More than anything, we never let children stray off on their own anymore, for we broke our pact, and the forest is always watching.

This time of year, human activity outside dies down. This time of year, you're more likely to be alone. It's chilly, the sunlit hours are short, and the forest hungers in the devouring days before winter's sleep.

But it's not going to come at you so obviously.

A few hours before a road trip we'd planned to go camping an hour away, I noticed that my voice had stopped echoing. Checking the physicality of my voice was a ritual I always undertook before driving anywhere long-distance, and I'd never had the unthinkable happen a second time. The first time, I'd nearly died. I'd been small then, and with my grandfather. The experience was a vague collection of half-memories of darkness, cold, and something out there that hated me. Now, thirty years later, I was standing outside my house and calling to the trees with no reply. Beside me, my son shouted at the trees, too, and then giggled as his echo came back. He raised a mitten-covered hand at me. "Dad, why doesn't your voice echo?"

I didn't answer him. The afternoon was white-harsh-dim in that way that only autumn days can be, and the trees behind our house swayed with chilly breezes, hiding and revealing dark spaces between them as they moved. I stared at one of these blank spots as it shrank and grew innocently. The longer I looked, the more I felt I was staring into something—and that I was being watched in return.

It was hard to believe memories from so long ago. What had I really seen back then? The ritual of listening to my own voice had become a habit for its own sake, rather than one born of any lasting fear. I couldn't really call off a trip because my voice wasn't echoing, could I? A distant vibration moved through me, maybe from my feet, or maybe from the air, and only for just a moment.

It was just me and him for the first leg of the trip. I did get in the car and start driving, but nothing felt right. As we pulled onto the interstate, I began to calm down. Really, what could happen out here at sixty-odd miles an hour?

As the trees rose on either side of the highway, my son laughed, touched the window, and said, "The moon looks weird."

I couldn't see it from the driver's seat, but I did lean and bend a few times to try to get a look. When I finally caught sight of it, I had to grab the wheel to keep from swerving off the road. The moon wavered between huge and small, as if we were looking at it reflected on the surface of a rippling lake. Looking that direction repeatedly also caused me to notice the trees below.

They were shooting by with all the speed one might expect—nothing I hadn't seen before while idly watching out a car window on a long drive—but the trunks flying past and the dark spaces between them were beginning to blur together. They began to move too fast for my eye to catch and run with; I started gazing directly at them. Beyond the passenger-side window, the forest became a rapidly undulating curve that went up and down at a slower rate than the passing of the trees themselves.

It was enormously disconcerting, but I couldn't help but repeatedly look. Slowing down slightly made the pattern begin to dissipate, while speeding up brought it into better focus. The curve became a static blinking span approximating a circle pointed on the sides; an uncomfortable feeling of looking upon a closed eye grew in me, and then: it opened.

Beyond were stars. Darkness and stars.

I knew in an instant that what had happened to me as a child had all been real. This was some sort of anti-existence, perhaps the universe as it had been before sentient life. Wind tore at my hair despite the windows being closed; it was cold, colder than anything I'd ever felt before—except once. That unliving eye was filled with ice and stars, and it hated me, and all the more so for escaping its grasping clutch once before.

It remembered me.

Something about it was hypnotic, and had been from the start. The only thing that snapped me out of it was my son screaming in terror.

I blinked, aghast, and finally looked away. The speedometer was dead on 117 and a third miles an hour. In seeking the right speed to perceive the gate, I'd somehow accelerated past the red line. The car shook around us, and my son was rightly terrified.

But I couldn't slow down. That was the one thing I remembered from thirty years before. My grandfather had gone over a hundred and twenty miles an hour to try to save me from whatever force it was out that lurked out there in the ancient world. We could only see each other, only interact, at certain speeds. That was the key. Wherever it was, it could never rest, and all parts of it were always in motion through an emptiness colder than death.

Silhouettes began to emerge from that eye, infinitesimal at first, as if the gate was unthinkably far away—but growing as they ran parallel to us. They were set forward in their blazing gait, running so fast that we could see into them at purple and blue and white stars burning in distant voids, and they matched pace with us while slowly moving closer and closer. A hill made the forest jump, but only for a moment, and the runners were right back alongside us.

"What are they, dad?"

The question struck my nerves like a hammer. They weren't my imagination. He could see them, too.

And I was beginning to feel tired and drained, the same way I'd felt before at the approach of just one of those entities. I couldn't speed up this time. If I passed out, we would crash, no doubt. What else was there? Did they have us?

He was buckled up. That much I'd always insisted on. "You're going to going to have to trust me, alright?"

He was crying, but he nodded and tried to act brave.

I locked the doors and told him: "Hold on tight."

Even entranced, I'd seen something in the formation of the gate. The first time I'd seen one of the entities, it had already been here. This time, I'd gotten to see how they got here. I sighted a dirt bridge to the other side of the highway up ahead, and I slammed on the brakes.

The car squealed and turned at random; whenever it threatened to go too far left or right, I let up, and tried to stabilize. Still, decelerating took forever, and the runners were upon us in moments, clawing at the doors. The night sky seemed a blight upon our windows as star-filled voids hammered at glass; I let the car turn too far, hit the gas, and shot across the dirt bridge right into traffic going the other way.

A numb chill fell across my senses, but I accelerated with traffic, gaining speed as fast as I could. Cars honked at each other and swerved out of our way—curious, we'd been alone on the other side of the highway. It was as if it had waited for the perfect opportunity.

Glass sprayed over me. My son was screaming, but I was blind to all but the lights of the dashboard directly in front of me. Darkness drained away all my other senses, but I kept the last of my sight focused on the speedometer: 117 and a third miles an hour, just past the red line, going the opposite direction. We hit that number and I put on the cruise control.

To my left, out the shattered driver's side window, curving darkness rotated the other way. Ink drained out of my sight, leaving me to blink and stare as the hate-filled silhouettes were torn from our car and flung away into the vortex as it circled in on itself and closed.

It was the pattern that had opened it, and it was the pattern reversed that had closed it.

I let the car slow and just drifted for awhile as I tried to recover.

Finally, I pulled over, and of course about a dozen people had called the police. I sat there in shock and let my crying son explain until one of the officers demanded that I speak. None of this was possible, he shouted, and I must have been insane the way I was driving. I'd even shattered half my windows driving the way I had.

When I showed him, he just backed away and waved off his partner. "This is, uh, out of our jurisdiction," he stammered. "I'll take care of the calls about you speeding. Have a safe trip home."

He let us go for the same reason that I went back and burned down those woods two weeks later. It's not a scar—not exactly—but I have a feeling the blackened skin frostbitten in the shape of a clawed hand on my left shoulder will never heal.

Blog FB Tw.

[careforselfs]

Tips that changed my young life

Part  1 (one)

 As a kid with ADHD, sleep deprivation and a severe case of laziness, at one time in my life I had stressed myself out to the point where suicide was looking like a viable option. No young person should have to feel that way, especially if it’s because of preventable habits. Around the start of high school my time was spent being unproductive and feeling miserable. I had no motivation to get any work done, I was tired 24/7 but I hardly got any sleep, I was grumpy and depressed and unfocused, and my social life was suffering. Although these are still problems that I (and everyone on this planet) face, I’ve gotten a lot better at handling myself and I’ve stopped putting up with my own bullshit. Although not all of these tips are going to help/are practical for everyone, hopefully some tired and sickly kid like me will find this list and feel a lil more inspired to get the most out of life. 

1. Self-care isn’t what you think it is:

A few years back my idea of self-care was so skewed that my habits ended up doing more harm than good. Whenever I felt bad, I’d usually curl up in a blanket, watch some netflix or scroll tumblr, wallow in self-pity, and eventually fall asleep. While admittedly that is something we can all benefit from every once in a while, when that becomes a daily ritual is when it becomes counter-productive. Self-care is supposed to make you feel good; not only in the moment but in the long run too. Blanket pity cave feels great at the time, but when you finally emerge into the light you find that you’ve wasted time, you still feel sleepy, and nothing has been achieved. But what else could self-care possibly be?!?! you may ask. Well I hate to be the one to say it, but sometimes self-care is doing the last thing that you feel like doing. If you’re feeling tired and sad, often the best remedy is to go for a quick walk around the block. If you knew me at all, you would know that walks are not something I very much enjoy. Especially when I feel like curling up into a sleep-ball, exercise is the last thing I want, but the first thing I need. And I always end up feeling better in the end. And exercise isn’t the only form of self-care! It’s getting a glass of water even when you’re too tired to get up from the bed. Its doing your god-damn homework even when you’re so fucking sick of calculus oh my god I can’t even bare to look at it. Just do it. Even for, like, 10 minutes. Then take a break. It doesn’t seem like much but you’ll feel a sense of accomplishment and therefore feel more motivated. Please, just take this from me. Two years ago I would have laughed in your face if you had suggested this to me “I can’t do homework if I don’t feel like I can do it! Are you crazy? That's not how ADHD works!” Well suck it up kid. You gotta take care of yourself. Think long term!

2. Just ask for help:

I like to be independant. I like doing things by myself, without help, because that's what smart people do right? Wrooong. Nobody is born with the innate understanding of how to do everything. It’s a waste of time if you’re trying to get stuff done but you’re stuck because you don’t understand something, and instead of asking a simple question you stubbornly sit in your chair for hours wracking your brain for the answers when you know in your heart they aren’t there. Asking for help can be embarrassing, especially when you think the question is stupid or you think you should be able to do something by yourself. But teachers/parents/chaplains/whoever are usually more than happy to answer your questions, and will rarely think badly of you. They need help sometimes too! And help isn’t only for school work. At some point in time you’ll realize that you need mental health help, or physical help, or emotional help. Those aren’t things to be ashamed of. I used to/still have a lot of trouble getting motivated to complete basic tasks. Before I’d just sit on my ass and wait for the motivation to come naturally, but it never would. Finally I realized that if I simply asked my mom to help me (set a timer, check up on me, go through things step-by-step) I could... actually accomplish stuff. And yes, asking for help, especially for simple and “easy” tasks, is anxiety inducing. Sometimes I felt like a child, incapable and useless. But if you get help straight away, then you learn how to be independant sooner rather than later, and you’ll need less and less help. There’s really no shame in it. Everyone needs help at some point in their life. Everyone. 

3. Identify and treat any underlying health problems you may have:

I was diagnosed with ADHD in grade four, but it didn’t start to affect my life until high school. The second semester of grade ten I noticed my marks dropping an unusual amount, and I was struggling to stay motivated. I was tired, disoriented, grumpy, all the things I’ve listed above. Finally my mom took me to see my old psychiatrist, and she put me on medication. It took a very long time to find a combination of pills and coping strategies that worked for me, but now I find I’m able to cope a lot better. And I know that I’m not just lazy, or dumb, or useless. My brain is wired differently from the norm and I’m not able to function well in the environment that modern society has created. And now that I know that I’m able to adapt. And mental health problems aren’t the only health problems that can affect your outlook on life. For a long time after I had settled on the right meds, I was still feeling tired and hazy. I was weak and pale, had absolutely no strength or energy, and fell asleep so uncontrollably that I started to wonder whether I was narcoleptic. After a blood test to check if I could start new medication, it was discovered that my iron levels were non-existent. All my symptoms were symptoms of low iron. It was such a simple and common health problem, but it had gone undiagnosed for so long that it had started to severely affect my life. I started supplements and added iron-rich foods to my diet, and two years later I’m a completely different person. I can go for hikes. I can wake up early and not feel tired. I have the energy to do whatever I put my mind to, and even my thinking is clearer. Don’t just chalk up all your problems to “I, as a person, just suck.” Sometimes, our “quirks” or “faults” are actually symptoms. 

4. Love unconditionally: 

This tip doesn’t focus on you, but your perception of others. My whole life I’d been in a toxic friendship. My best friend didn’t treat me or others well, but she was all I’d known and therefore I didn’t know any better. She was extremely quick to judge others, on their clothes, hair, and personality. If someone did something she didn’t like, no matter how small, she’d cut them off completely. After a while I learned to think and act the same way, and eventually, to our surprise, we ended up with no friends but each other. I just thought that people were mean. That I was better than them. I understood how the world worked and everyone else was immature, and not worth my time. Unconsciously I ended up judging people by their flaws. I’d disregard all their good traits, their kindness, their loyalty; I’d look through all of that to see only their faults. And nobody is perfect, so I had no friends! My “friend” had even higher standards than I did, so naturally I was cast aside after 10 years of loyal friendship. I was shook, to say the least, and I started to reevaluate how I viewed people. All along I’d obviously known that everyone makes mistakes, you should love people with their flaws, blah blah blah, but I actually started to put that mindset into practice. And I discovered a world full of beautiful, beautiful people. I began to realize that if a friend did or said something I didn’t like, I could still be friends with them. We didn’t have to agree. Sometimes people say or do stupid things. Sometimes people have outbursts, take all their anger out on you. Sometimes they can be unkind or unloyal or untrustworthy. But those things don’t define them. For all their flaws, they have 100 more beautiful traits. You shouldn’t let their problems outshine who they really are. And that’s what I’d been doing! I missed out on so many wonderful friendships because I couldn’t get over the fact that sometimes people aren’t 100% awesome. They can make mistakes and it’s alright! Sometimes they even make big mistakes! And that’s alright too! You can work past them together. I find that when someone is shown unconditional love, instead of taking advantage of you like you might think they would, they tend to become more appreciative of your friendship, and become a more confidant person. But it’s important to remember that it’s also ok to cut toxic people out of your life. Sometimes, for no reason at all, you won’t get along with someone. Your personalities just don’t mesh, or some of their traits just rub you the wrong way. You’re not obligated to be friends with everybody. You don’t have to hate these people, remember they have good things inside them as well, but you also don’t have to devote any of your time to them. It’s also important to remember that some mistakes are just unforgivable. It doesn’t matter what it is, but if someone does something that affects you so much that you don’t know if you could handle keeping them in your life, it’s ok to let them go. You can’t say “it’s fine whatever” when in reality you’re going to suffer. Sometimes, people’s negative traits can outshine their positives in your life. They might not be a bad person, but they can be a bad person for you. All in all, I find that it’s easier to just accept people. I have sooo many more friends now. I’ve been exposed to different types of thinking and different ways of being, and I’ve only become a better person because of it. 

[trueishcolours]

American Gods: ARRRRRRRGHHHHH

This post comes with content warnings for sexual violence, child sexual abuse, misogyny and general violence.

The more I think about it, the more I realise that I hate Neil Gaiman’s American Gods with the fiery passion of a thousand suns. Now I know that a lot of people really love this book and I’m sure it has much to recommend it, so this post definitely isn’t intended as shade at any fans. It’s just that I’m filled with salt and love to rant.

My central thesis is that American Gods contains a ton of gratuitous sexualisation of women without enough redeeming features to make me forgive it. I think I’d have found it a dull read no matter what, but the real sticking point is the women. And you know how a lot of stories don’t have that many characters? Or at least not many important ones? So in a story with say five detailed characters, there’s one woman and she gets fridged and you side-eye the author but you’re like, ‘maybe it was just a coincidence! Not every character has to be a woman and people do sometimes die! Perhaps all his other novels are full of feminist icons and it all evens out!’ But the gimmick of American Gods is that it has probably hundreds of characters who pop up for a scene and then disappear, so you can really get a representative sample of how Gaiman writes women.

So if you don’t want to plough through 635 pages of this, strap in for the highlights!

p.5 – we meet our first female character. She is the protagonist’s wife, and he imagines having sex with her. Reasonable.

p.14 – his wife is dead. Does it count as fridging if she gets back up later?

p.32 – a man has sex with a woman who turns out to be some kind of goddess. Her vagina swallows him up. Om nom nom.

p. 54 – a woman comes to the protagonist’s wife’s wake and spits on the corpse. Why does she do this? It could have been because she is a bigot and the dead wife is a member of a minority group. It could have been because they were colleagues and the dead wife ruined her career. It could have been because the dead wife put gum in her hair in third grade. But actually it’s because her husband was cheating on her with the protagonist’s wife. A reasonable reason in itself, but it’s all about context…

And then we find out that the protagonist’s wife died because the guy she was having an affair with crashed the car while she was giving him road head, and this is where I lost my shit for the first time. Of all the fucking male power fantasy bullshit. Road head. I’m starting to wonder if Gaiman realises that women can do things or have things happen to them for reasons that aren’t sexual.

Just. The woman is angry because sex. The wife is dead because sex. The wife is linked to the protagonist through sex. It’s getting boring and we’re only on page…

63 – where the hero watches a TV episode called ‘I want to be a prostitute,’ featuring ‘several would-be whores, mostly female.’ Gotta give him marks for the ‘mostly,’ I guess.

p. 64 – the protagonist dreams that he is walking through a hall of statues. One has her tits out; another has a ‘gash’ between her legs. Some male statues. No dicks.

p. 65 – the statues continue: ‘…their faces had an unfinished, hasty look to them, although their breasts and genitalia had been carved with elaborate care…’ Yo Gaiman I think you’re describing your female characters here!

p. 70 – dead!wife shows up. I must admit that she seems a decent character so far. Also there’ve been several service industry women who’ve appeared for like a line without getting sexualised, and it seems only fair that I mention them.

p. 71 – wait shit I take it back the God Odin is in bed with the ‘ratty’ ‘girl’ from the motel desk. She has small breasts, in case you were wondering.

p. 81 – ‘ “The best thing about the states we’re heading for is they have the kind of women I like…full breasts with the veins running through them like a good cheese.” ’

p. 82 – we meet some old lady goddesses. I am pleased that women get to be old in this story.

p. 97 – a midnight conversation with another Goddess. The hero is ‘uncomfortably aware’ that she isn’t wearing anything under her nightgown.

p. 99 – ‘Her nipples, every goose-bump on the areolae, were visible momentarily.’ Thank God, because I was getting worried she didn’t have any.

p. 105 – an 18th-century diarist reminisces about a buxom scullery maid who gets knocked up by the squire’s son. Got to admit her story is kind of cool overall.

p. 117 – ‘ “Liberty is a bitch that must be bedded on a mattress of corpses…that’s who they have in their New York harbour: a bitch, who liked to be fucked on the refuse from the tumbril. Hold your torch as high as you want to, m’dear, there’s still rats in your dress and cold jism dripping down your leg.’

p. 137 – the god Anansi reminisces about having ‘a big old high-titty woman’ to keep him company.

p. 139 – store mannequins with ‘sexless breasts.’ Not too sexless to be worth mentioning, apparently.

p. 151 – an old woman in a red sari shows up, but it turns out she’s got a goddess-form and it’s naked.

p. 163 – dead wife (Laura) shows up and kills a bunch of baddies and saves the hero and it’s actually kind of badass?

p. 165 – one of the baddies was in the middle of jerking off when she killed him. It’s not a sexist moment, it’s just a whyyyyyyyyyyy moment. More sexy/=more interesting.

p. 174 – totally relatable believable humanised cash register lady.

p. 178 – totally relatable believable humanised hitch-hiker.

p. 190 – a TV goddess has a reasonable, interesting conversation with the hero, and then, when she can’t persuade him to join her by other means, starts to unbutton her shirt while asking if he wants to see her tits. Aaaaaaaaaaand we’re back.

p. 193 – a little girl. Female children are also allowed to exist.

p. 204 – sex but with two men this time.

p. 213 – okay, so we had a lull there, but this is where I lose my shit for the second time because the protagonist enters a funeral home and a teenage girl is lying dead and naked on a slab and photos of her smiling and happy are stuck up around the place and the death God/coroner cuts her open and catalogues all her organs and eats bits of them and he’s supposed to be doing an ancient Egyptian embalming ritual but I don’t even care because I’m in full-on militant feminist get your hands off my sister and stop making a spectacle of women’s pain rage at this point. And of course she was murdered by her boyfriend who thought she was pregnant because nothing happens to women for reasons unrelated to sex. We learn, in detail, about all five of her stab wounds. No, Gaiman, this scene is not ‘respectful, not obscene,’ and your protagonist’s urge to give the girl some privacy is right. It could have been a man’s corpse on that slab, but it’s not. It’s a teenage girl’s. Surrounded by three living men.

p. 228 – another goddess appears to the protagonist and they have healing, life-giving sex. Some might call me churlish for complaining both about the vagina-nomming death-sex and about the soothing ecstatic life-sex. Maybe there’s no pleasing me. She has nipples, in case you were wondering. Hard nubs.

p. 252 – a character flirts with a waitress, who looks ‘scarcely old enough to have dropped out of high school.’ Look, you can put your misogyny in the mouth of a morally bankrupt character if you want, but in the end it’s just going to sound like misogyny. Especially if nobody refutes or punishes the character. I don’t care whether it’s the author saying it or just the character. I’m sick of hearing it. I’m tired.

p. 260 – the character succeeds in his seduction of the waitress. It is unclear why, since he is creepy and gross. Possibly magic? The hero is ‘uncomfortable’ and remarks that the waitress looks ‘barely legal.’ The other character says he doesn’t care. Apparently it is important for his godly magic that she is a virgin.

p. 267 – two fourteen-year-old girls get on a bus. The protagonist eavesdrops on their conversation. We learn that ‘one of them knew almost nothing about sex, but knew a lot about animals, while the other was not interested in animals, but thought she knew a great deal about human sexuality.’ A brilliant ruse! By mentioning that the girls are also talking about animals, Gaiman conceals the fact that he is absolutely slathering to write about them talking about sex. This is where I gave up.

This concludes my ethical quarrel with the book. My other issues are just a matter of taste, and your mileage may vary. Basically, there is not one single character who I give a fuck about. The hero starts out completely passive, which makes sense because he’s just come out of prison and lost is wife and is obviously traumatised as fuck. But three hundred pages later he’s still completely passive. I know that trauma doesn’t get better all in a minute, but it’s unclear whether Gaiman wants the reader to understand that the hero is in a bad, bad way, or just thinks that writing an apathetic lead character is edgy and cool. And all the other characters seem to be varying degrees of terrible, so there’s no reason for me to get invested in any of their problems.

But at least we know they all have nipples.

[ninavale]

So this is another bit of my “brainstorming” idea about silver eyes  I've talked with several people like @saradominists I had like back during volume 4. The lore is obviously  VERY different than the current canon one, not only because it was created back then but I simply sort of like this idea better. Ozpin’s still a bit of a liar tho tagging also 

Inna Forrester was humming under her breath as she organised the potions and herbal teas on the pantry shelf. The holy time of Magieve was coming soon, ok there was still around a week, but she could already feel the tingling sensation under her skin. And the forest felt it too. It was bristling with energy. She could almost touch it. 

She loved Magieve. It was the night between thirtieth of April and first of May, and it was one of the few nights, along with Forefathers Eve(or Halloween as it was more commonly known) Midsummer and Winter Solstice when magical energy and those who benefited from it was stronger. There would be bonfires, flower crowns and spellcasting. And of course the tributes and prayers to the two main deities of the night. The Lord of Light and Great Mother. Sun and Mother Nature. Inna was most partial to the latter. Sun was, of course, important and she acknowledged that but Great Mother was the mistress of both life and death, she was the goddess of harvest and winter, of war and peace. And perhaps most importantly in the face of the holiday, she was the patroness of magic and all those who used it. 

Suddenly Inna’s musings were interrupted by a loud knock on the door. She glanced at the clock and felt a twinge of fear. Did one of the women in town miscarry? Was a baby coming too early? Her mother’s midwife services were the only reason she could think of for someone to come to their door so late. As she made her way towards the front of the house more possibilities flashed through her mind. Maybe it was Raven? Her sister(or at least Inna regarded the woman as such. Not that it was reciprocated in any way) tended to come when she needed something and with everything that was going on in the world, it wouldn’t be out of the realm of possibility. 

However, all of these possibilities flew out of the window when she opened the door. She was so surprised, that she stepped back. On her porch, stood Qrow, accompanied by his nieces and their two friends. She was honestly sure they were in Mistral. Or at least that Qrow was heading there with Ruby and...it suddenly hit her that the girl has not been travelling with her team but with some other friends of hers. And she couldn’t see them anywhere. And then there were the faces. Everyone looked...just so broken for the lack of better term. 

“Little falcon what...” she trailed off when she saw some shifting in the background and a boy came forward. She immediately recognized him, and everything became both clear and more complicated at the same time. She sighed deeply and her shoulders sagged.

“Come on in, everyone,” she said “you can tell me everything when we sit down”

None of them said anything as they walked inside. Inna closed the door behind them before leading them into the kitchen. It had a long table with benches on both sides so everyone could fit in. They did so, again with this overwhelming, almost apathetic silence. In any other situation Inna would feel awkward and would have difficulties finding her words, but with Ozpin being there, she was just too tired and done to feel it. 

“Ok,” she said, “what has he done this time?”

At first nobody answered but finally, Yang spoke up.

“He lied,” she said through clenched teeth “he kept secrets” 

"About?”

“Everything” answered the girl. Inna let out a breath. That was getting nowhere fast.

“Alright, but you’ve got to be more specific Miss Xiao-Long,” she said “because that’s kind of his thing”

“He lied about his curse and about Salem, about relics and about silver eyes,” said Weiss Schnee, her voice was calm but her eyes were hard as steel and cold as ice, “he told us he’d keep no more secrets and no more half-truths. Yet he still lied. He hasn’t told us what the relics can do. He never told us that the lamp we’ve obtained will attract Grimm. Nor that it has a spirit trapped in it, that you can ask questions”

“And then when we tried to obtain information he was trying to possess Oscar to stop us” added Yang, throwing a hateful glare towards the young boy “but Ruby did it anyway, and we found out he got cursed because of he basically let two major tragedies happen and let innocent people die because he was too much of a coward to act. He also didn’t tell is that the dammed woman can’t be killed” 

Inna’s own eyes widened. She had been progressively more and more shocked by these revelations. Alright, the siege and fall of Caer Gwynn, she could understand. It was human nature to try and hide memories that were loaded with guilt and shame, and as much as it pained her to admit...it was long ago. All- with two exceptions - that have been there to witness it, have been dead for a long time. It wasn’t anything too crucial. But relics and Salem being unkillable by regular methods? That was rather important. And it seemed like there was even more to come. She let out a grunt and put her hand to her forehead. She could already feel a headache coming. 

“And then there are silver eyes” continued Yang, clenching her fists “he..he failed to...no, he was insistent on trying to cover up that my sister can end up blind or mad or dead” 

“WHAT?” that question came a lot louder than expected. Inna’s head snapped up and she turned to Oscar or Ozpin “YOU HAVEN’T TOLD THEM ABOUT THAT?”

The young boy shifted uncomfortably and hung his head. 

“And he trained her in throwing punches instead” continued Yang, her tone bitter. 

Inna was speechless by this point. She just couldn’t find the words. For all her knowledge of Ozpin’s secrecy and want of thought, this was beyond anything. She didn’t even know how she felt right now, or what she should do. Part of her wanted to scream at him and curse him ten times over or trap him in a coin or something for eternity. Or drag him to Salem in chains for her to deal with him. 

Then her eyes fell on the children at the table, and on Qrow, and she remembered just how broken they’ve all been. She looked at Ruby Rose, the girl, whom she’d heard described as energetic and always optimistic was looking down at the table, completely forlorn. And then she looked at Oscar..there was too little time for the ritual to be completed. She’d be taking out anger on an innocent, who already had too much on his plate. And he was just a kid. And then it hit her, with all these revelations and shocks, she’s completely overlooked that. He was a kid. Now that she had better look at him, he couldn’t be more than fifteen years of age. She really, really had no strength to deal with all this. It was too late in the night for that and too much. She pinched her eyes with a deep sigh, before looking at the gathering again.

“Listen,” she said, forcing herself to keep calm. Someone had to be strong, and it seemed like this doubtful privilege fell on her. Again “ It’s late, we’re all tried and you all obviously had a hard time lately. We’re not going to find solutions today. It has no point really. I suggest we all go to sleep and return to it tomorrow morning. I’ll show you around the house and we’ll find you blankets and someplace to lie down” 

The teens looked at each other, before nodding. It was clear they were exhausted and just wanted to forget about all of this, even if for a couple of hours. They all got up from their seats. Inna was about to move when she noticed Qrow was still sitting at the table.

“Qrow” she had at least enough mind to call him by his name this time. 

He shook his head and looked at her, blinking several times. Like he just woke from a daze 

“Come on,” she said gently “time to go”

He sighed and picked himself up, slowly. Following after her and the kids. The tour was quick. The teens all decided they want to be in the same room, so they picked the big room on the first floor, that served as second living room, and a bit of library. Qrow didn’t say anything so she assumed he’d be staying in the same room he’d always stayed. She provided the kids with blankets and pillows and told them that if they should get hungry during the night, they were free to make something for themselves and told them where the Mellisa teas were if they had trouble falling asleep. She then wished them goodnight and watched Yang and Ruby hug their uncle, before leaving with him. They got to his room without saying a word. She silently set his bed up and opened the window to let some much needed fresh air. 

“I trusted him, you know,” he said, suddenly  “I was cursed. No one wanted me. Ozpin...gave me a place I could belong, a home, a new family. I thought I was finally doing some good, but it was all a sham and for nothing. My niece can die and it will be all for a bunch of lies and deceptions and what’s worst I got her into it. Meeting him was the worst luck of my life”

Inna turned to him. He looked like he was going to break down and cry. She didn’t blame him. He had been abused by his family, told he was a curse, bane on everyone’s existence. And here was someone who saw him differently, gave him a chance. So he gave his all. Like all those helpless and damaged by life. He was ready to die and fight anyone for Ozpin, even other allies..and it was all a lie. It really did look like Ozpin saw Qrow the same way everyone else did. A bad luck charm, you couldn’t trust. Even though she knew it wasn’t true, even tho she knew that Ozpin’s lies came from his own guilt, shame and often sheer lack of common sense(then again, the heck did she expect from an Emerald Wizard? Common sense had never been their forte. Truly, it was a miracle they survived as long as they did) she couldn’t forgive the old wizard for that. 

It was a quick decision. In an instant, she made her way across the room and wrapped her arms around Qrow’s waist, and held him for a while. She then pulled away and concentrated, and soon two vortexes of air, lifted her up, allowing her to stand a little higher than her 5′3 and comfortably run her fingers through his hair.

“You’re not cursed, little falcon,” she said gently “you have an inconvenient semblance, true but you are not cursed. Nor is what you do worthless or for nothing. Yes, Ozpin lied and it hurts” she paused “but still that doesn’t change what you’ve done. All the lives you have saved as a huntsman, they were real lives of real people. Would you rather be a bandit, and kill them?”

He shook his head “Of course not” 

“See?” she smiled “and you don’t regret meeting Summer and Tai, and having two nieces, and training these kids at Signal, right? Aura always said that you were one of her favourite teachers. That you treated them all seriously”

he smiled weakly “No, I don’t regret any of it” 

“And if it wasn’t for Ozpin meddling with both of our lives, I probably wouldn’t have met you either. I mean he was the one who sent you to me and told me to treat you and your sister like my own. I never regretted it. You’re like a brother I never had, and I wouldn’t change it for anything in this world. Gods could offer me power, they could offer me Caer Gwynn and all the knowledge it held, but I wouldn’t take that deal. And it’s true for Yang and Ruby and Tai too. There are people that want you and love you, and trust you”

She stayed silent for a moment, before smiling lightly. 

“I’ll give you a little advice. It’s a song, that Yas wrote for you some time ago...and it seemed he had some sort of divine inspiration. It’s a song about getting lost in a world filled with chaos, and how there seems to be no good path or choice...”

“You can say that again” muttered Qrow, looking away

“But” she held her finger up “the last verse is filled with hope, it’s a solution for the seemingly hopeless situation” she coughed and recited the words: 

The world is far too big

For you to save it

So at least try to guard

Those close to your heart

“So don’t fight for the great and powerful, don’t  fight for Ozpin. You fight under his leadership and on his side because the other option is much worse. Choose the lesser evil, and fight for those you love. Your home, your friends, your family”

She hugged him again, and this time he returned it. 

"And we’ll figure something out about Ruby. She’s not lost yet”

“Thanks” he muttered “I don’t think I’m going to be alright yet. It still hurts like hell, and I still don’t know what to do but...thanks”

“That’s what friends and family are for,” she said, pulling away with a smile “to be there for each other”

“Anyway, I meant what I said back in the kitchen,” she said “you’ve all been through some tough shit and you’re emotionally exhausted. Go to sleep, rest” 

With that, she plated a small kiss on his cheek and called the vortexes away and left the room, closing the door behind her. 

So, if there are any mistakes sorry. It’s sorta a brainstorming idea, I don’t know if I’ll go through with. In case I don’t. The backstory for Salem and Ozpin here is similar to my other story. Basically, Salem lived in a small community in the forest, and they were plagued by bandits and other hostile people and she asked Ozpin, who was her friend and a well-known wise man for help. He promised to come but due to his overly careful ways, and willing to see how things go, and maybe slight ‘runing from responsibility and pain’, he failed to appear. Her community was wiped out and she lost her family and watched it all burn before she died. She was s grieved she couldn’t move to the afterlife and as time passed by, her grief- as it is with restless spirit- wrapped her mind and she began hating Ozpin(especially after she learned more about him. a.k.a that he wasn’t as great as he was claimed to be. Yes, Ozpin has feet of clay is a running theme I have for him as character) and she also got a bit of resentment towards the living, and decided to repay him with the same pain she felt and destroyed the city of mages, he’d helped create.  

Caer Gwynn means White Fortress credit goes to @twicebornrepository for going through dictionaries and helping me brainstorm this name. It’s going to be used in the other fic I’m actually writing so it’s not gonna go to waste. 

Maginight/Eve is my translation of Czarodzielnica, Polish/Slavic equivalent for the Walpurgis Night/Beltaine. 

The song used is the 3rd verse of Percival Shuttebach song: Dobro i Zło/Good and Evil. Translation is mine

In both of my stories, I’m using deities based on Polish/Slavic ones. I just...love them very much, and I don’t see them in fiction outside of Poland and maybe Ukraine or Russia. Great Mother is based on Marzanna, who despite what pop culture claims wasn’t just goddess fo death and winter but more like Mother Earth. She was the dualistic goddess of both life and death, she was the goddess of harvest and winter, and held the key to all four seasons. she was also connected to waters. And because of dualism she’s both connected with Ceres and Hekate, hence my goddess is the patroness of magic as well. Also, she’s such a strong diety, because Marzanna in Poland got replaced with Virgin Mary and being raised in Poland Mary is REALLY important to me, personally. Like I’m not kidding you people. The cult of Mary is strong. We have like 40 days a year when there is at least ONE Holy Virgin of( insert: name/patronage/painting/place) we’re worshipping and sometimes. Sometimes there are three in one day. The most known are Our Lady of Berries, Our Lady of Herbs(Assumption of Mary), Our Lady of Candles(Candlemass), Our Lady of Sorrows. Our Lady of Częstochowa...and many others. As I said the 40 are just DAYS, and there can be much stuff held on these days for different Marys patronesses of different things. Oh, and did I mention she’s crowned as Queen of Poland. So yeah. She is important people. 

@sssn-neptune-vasilias (bc I think I once discussed the deities with you in regards to silver eyes. also you’re one of my faves on this hell site...and one of favourite smutt writers and writers in general) @northforwinter(bc Qrow needs a hug, we can agree)