#I NEED A THERAPIST MOMENT NUMBER FIVE THOUSAND

[loverboybrightsideghost]

fuck i really am a perfectionist FUCK

[sillyguy99]

* don't look now, but i lost my shoe.

(Undertale Sans x Reader)

Chapter Five: (woo-hoo) * but you know i'm yours

[Index | Previous | Next]

               "Well, I'll be honest with you, officer," the robot says, propping one leg over the other. "You're better off arresting me on the spot."

               He's not joking.

               Endless questions fill your mind, the number increasing the more pages you turn past. There are all sorts of reasons Mettaton was meant to be behind bars, most of these related to his fame and the dangerous games he played with Frisk. While you could save yourself time by listening to his advice, you're still obliged to carry on with your procedure; you still have three whole months left to determine whether he truly needed to be sent to jail or not.

               "I can't do that yet," you reply, sighing. "Not only have we just met, but… I need to be sure about why I'd be taking you in. It wouldn't be right to dismiss my research this quickly."

               "If that's what you wish, I guess I can't stop you,” he retorts, frowning. “But I will say you're wasting your time with me. If other monsters are arrested daily for minor crimes, imagine what could be done with me if you turned in those records! I mean it when I say I want to come clean." There's a brief stutter to his tone, one you can barely grasp before he returns with a confident facade. "I did... awful things to get where I am now. My show having thousands and thousands of followers wasn't obtained as humbly as many of my fans think, and I want to seek change, so please��� Allow me to make up for everything I did."

               You stay silent, a debate taking place in your mind as you decide whether to be blunt with him or not. 

               You observe him from head to toe, trying to reach a decision. 

               "If you really do want to come clean, sir," you begin, bracing yourself with a deep breath. "Then why do you still continue with your show? Wouldn't it be a better option to cancel it until this problem is dealt with? And why have you chosen to look after Frisk, if your lifestyle is so… chaotic and dangerous, as you claim?"

               "I owe them." The robot's answer is simple. He combs through his hair, closing his eyes as he faces down and lets out a heavy sigh. "Frisk was the one responsible for my career’s success, after all. Hadn't they freed us all from the Surface… I would have not been offered the technological advancements for fixing my body."

               His response makes you take another glimpse of his body, how detailed the craft is making it easy for you to believe he could pass off as a regular human with minor adjustments and longer clothes to cover up some of the metal parts surrounding him. 

               "Alright, but what I said before still stands,” you state, smiling. “I will be contacting you shortly to determine our second meeting. Any doubts or questions you might have, sir?"

               "Nothing for the moment. I'll see you soon, then, officer."

               "Promise me you’ll have some good news next time we meet?" you taunt, a subtle smile showing through.

               Surprisingly, that seems to lift Mettaton's mood. 

               He uncrosses his legs, stands up from his seat, and offers a hand out to you, his eyes and smile just as bright as his metal coating.

               "Promise," he replies, winking. "I'll be awaiting your call." 

• • • • •

               "what's this for?" Sans asks, irises parting from the gift you set over the counter. 

               He looks at you instead, gaze furrowed.

               "An apology," you reply, firm in your words. "I meant it when I said I feel sorry for what I did. Maybe this… doesn't take away the fact I got drunk, used you as a therapist, and then thought you were hitting on me, but… I do hope it's enough to get you started at the Surface – Y- You'll see what I mean when you open it at home."

               "not that i don't appreciate this, but ya know what this looks like to outsiders, right?"

               You don't dare tell him about yesterday and how much your life appeared to be crumbling apart this week. You wanted nothing more than to be free from Jessie, yet current conditions keep you stuck to him. What you once viewed as a dream has gradually become a never-ending nightmare, your hopeful and optimistic view over marriage turning continuously sour the longer Jessie continues to stay labelled as your husband.

               "Please, take it,” you insist, voice finding strength. "Let him think what he wants to think. I know I'm being faithful, and I don't need his permission to make new friends."

               "i get that, but-"

               "I'll divorce him as soon as I-"

               Without a warning, your body surrounds itself by blue.

               You're leapt over the counter and held still by a thin veil of magic, rear meeting the floor and head ducked under the counter.

               "this isn't a safe place for you anymore," Sans explains, pointing with his irises over to Grillby, whose fire now glows yellow instead of orange. 

               He looks distressed, his reason for it making your stomach churn wildly.

               Jessie sits on a stool farther away from yours. 

               He doesn't notice your presence, kept busy by Grillby distracting him with recent additions to the nightly menu.

               "he's been visitin' this place ever since he messaged me on overnet. tracked down where i work, and now he won't stop, always askin' to see me and questionin' 'bout what i did for you to end up interested in me."

               Hidden behind the counter, you feel you've reached your lowest point in life. 

               Anger takes over, making you spout the first thing on your mind. 

               "So, he… He really dares to keep doing that even after he…" It vanishes quickly, Sans's gaze piercing you, the confusion in his irises and the concern in his body language stopping you from blowing up. "A- After he…”

               Rather than commenting anything over your state, the monster walks over to a mini cooler, where he retrieves a bottle of water. He gives it to you, then leans back against the counter, attempting to keep cover. You take the water, thank him, and stare at Grillby from afar, noticing he's already moved on to his next customer, relieved from his task now that you're hidden behind the counter. 

               "This is a disaster," you mutter, huffing into your water bottle before taking a gulp. "I… I don't know what happened for things to end like this. W- Wasn't I just having a few drinks to unwind and stuff? How did that lead to all this?"

               Having to tend to a customer, it takes the skeleton a moment to get back to your side and respond. 

               Once he's done, he leans back again, staring down at you.

               “dunno about it myself," he replies, rubbing his neck. 

               A button snaps open when he does so, forcing you to focus your eyes elsewhere, feeling guilty despite knowing you aren't doing anything wrong, as Jessie so claimed, and not to mention, you're still with him despite him doing the same thing he had accused you of.

               An eye for an eye never ends well – of that, you're fully aware of. 

               You don't want to stoop to his level.

               Not today, and not ever.

               Hearing him continue, you set those thoughts aside, determined to hear him out in spite of your mind demanding reclusion and no further embarrassment on your part. 

               "you gotta be more careful if you're not gonna divorce ‘im yet."

               You bring your knees close to your chest, hugging your legs and leaving him more space to walk around. 

               The water bottle remains beside you, half of it gone. 

               "Still, he… He cheated on me. Why go through all the trouble of saying he wants me, i- if he's just gonna do that in the end?"

               That's enough for Sans to stop what he's doing, the drink he'd been pouring for a customer almost spilling out. 

               "uh…. mind repeatin' that? don't believe i heard ya well, pal."

               Nodding, you sigh, shuddering in the process. 

               "He cheated on me. With someone who looked similar to me."

               "so he did that with his type – no surprise there. but from what he said to me these past few days here, i honestly didn't think he'd cheat. it's more like he’s… obsessed with you or somethin', so it's surprisin’ to hear that."

               You raise an eyebrow, estranged by his words.

               "You really think he's obsessed?”

               “more ‘know’, than ‘think’, actually.”

               Chills rise when you listen to Jessie's voice closer by.

               Sans cuts off the conversation and remains the same, unfazed as he hands over the drink to a customer and tends to Jessie next. 

               "Have any water? Your boss says I've gotta buy something, if I don't wanna be kicked out of here."

               "sounds ‘bout right. you've been here for way too long without payin’."

               "That's 'cuz I'm trying to get the truth out of you."

               "already told you i’m not–" Sans pauses for a split second, making air quotes before going back to a professional state. "–'screwing' your wife. i'm just a bartender here, buddy. ain't my fault i got assigned to her for my background check, in the process."

               "That's bullshit. I know you must've done something."

               "nothin’ aside from tryna be her friend."

               "With benefits, I'm sure."

               You stifle a laugh right as Sans rolls his irises.

               That moment doesn't last long though, fear returning when you see Jessie focus his eyes on the gift you left for the monster.

               "Are you two-timing even her now?" he asks, grinning. "That sure's low. Who's that for, anyway? Some other customer you want to screw with next?"

               "that's a gift from a customer. wouldn't mind tellin’ you who they are, if you'd just drop off the subject 'bout me falsely sleepin' with your wife."

               "I still don't buy it. That look on your face says it all. You're a two-timer, and I'm gonna prove it."

               "suit yourself, then. here's your water, buddy."

               "Know what? I'm gonna call her right now and tell her she's wasting her time with you."

               "just take the water, pay up, and do whatever it is ya wanna do. capiche? you're holdin' me back from other customers, and your yappin' ain't helpin', either.”

               Though it's become clear to you that Jessie's drunk, given by how persistent he is – more than usual – and the subtle slur in his voice, you still make haste to silence your phone and put it off vibrate, heart caught in your throat when you're done. 

               Your moment of calm is soon forced to end when you hear him speak up again.

               "How about this? I tell her to send your background check off to another detective, and you delete her number. I won't bother you anymore after that."

               "prove it."

               "Prove what?"

               "that you'll keep your end of the bargain."

               Jessie laughs. To anyone else around, it would look like the bartender's joking around with a customer. In your eyes, it's everything but a light-hearted situation, how hidden you currently are being sufficient proof that there's no fixing whatever you once had with him. 

               "I don't need to prove anything to you, bonebag. Hands off my wife, else I'll make sure your background's tainted enough that she won't even need to waste a single damn month researching about you."

               Beyond tired of hiding, you attempt to stand up. 

               Magic holds you back as quickly as you try to do that, challenge present in Sans's irises, still facing Jessie despite using a hand to hold you back. 

               "try it," he replies, tone dry. "dunno what the hell's goin' on with you two, but i trust it's not gonna affect me. this was your wife's rest spot, and you're ruinin' it. she's my path assigned for a better life at the surface, and now you're tryna ruin that, too."

               There's a brief pause, followed by a rough change in the skeleton's tone.

               “so either act like a normal customer, or get the hell outta my sight.”

[Index | Previous | Next]

[aspiring-writer-hidden-voice]

⛅️

The grit and grime cling to your skin, making it feel irritated and dry, not to mention itchy. A glance at the window reveals a world you barely recognize. What happened to the people?… Where did the smiles go?… Why was the sky so dark?… How did things end up this way?… So many questions fill your mind as you lay in bed half covered by the sheets and pillow partially covering your face. The room is a mess, hell the whole place is from dirty dishes you’ve been meaning to wash to laundry that needs done to the trash building around the too full can beside the fridge that’s been empty for…you can’t even remember how long it’s been since you went grocery shopping.

All that you’ve known is survival mode.

Holding just enough energy to do the bare minimum, to keep up appearances that everything was fine. That raises the faint question in the back of your head of “Is this the new normal?” Unfortunately, that same tiny voice doesn’t have an answer for you, so it remains silent…for once.

What day is it? What time? Should you bother getting up? Was anything worth doing anymore?

Your lashes twitch when a notification bings.

For a second your hand remains where it is…until it slowly shifts across the bed to lightly pick up the device responsible. The screen lights up as you lift then bring it closer until your face is illuminated.

That’s when the world suddenly seems to bloom with color rather than the grayscale you’ve become familiar with as the text shows upon the screen from an unknown sender. It didn’t matter if it was a wrong number; an AI, an old friend whose number you’ve lost over the years, or a relative you thought would never reach out.

It was what you needed.

Your fingers dart across the screen to respond back. A few words turn into a paragraph…then two…then three…until it’s so long that it’s near impossible to see the beginning without scrolling. For a moment your finger hesitates over the send button and with a moment of silence you quickly delete it all then send “I’m fine”.

Or at least you think you do when it sends the whole thing.

For a moment anxiety grips you. Your eyes widen, heart hammering against your chest as its rise and falling of breaths quicken…

But then the response of “Whatever I can do, I will for you.”

And you believe those words as you glance up at the window just in time to view the rainbow that breaks apart the clouds.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hey, loves! Long time, I know! Lots of things have been happening lately and I’ll just cut to the main points:

Basement flooded with sewage

We three got sick with Covid like we did back in March and had to be hospitalized

The pipes are remedied with bandaids until we can move out

Field for Section 8 housing and are looking for Low-Income Neighborhoods

Our little one celebrated her second birthday in the hospital

We have come to the understanding and acceptance of her Cerebral Palsy, meaning I will most likely be her caretaker for the rest of our lives

I have alarms for 6am, 7am, 8am, 9am, and all through ought the day due to her feeding/meds schedule

My energy and esteem has suffered tremendously so I am now mustering the courage to face a therapist for antidepressants

Juggling being a mom of a special child, a wife, my ADHD and PTSD from childhood trauma, my depressions that I’ve been in denial about for the last five years, and being the middle person of everything else from pharmacy dealings to landlord…

Anyway~~~ so as I am working through life, I may or may not update as frequently.

The journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step…and mine starts now.

[tulsiadepu]

She Knows Every Word. But Can’t Hold A Conversation.

“She Could Name Every Fruit.

She Could List Every Color. She Could Recite Alphabets And Numbers. But She Couldn’t Hold A 10-Second Conversation.”

Maya, 4 years old, amazed everyone.

She labeled everything: “Mango! Orange! Apple!”

She recited colors: “Red! Blue! Yellow!”

She counted: “One, two, three, four, five...”

But when her mother asked:

“What did you do at school today?”

She said nothing.

When her father asked:

“Did you enjoy playing outside?”

She repeated: “Playing outside.”

“She knew every word. But she didn’t know how to use them in life.”

🧠 Why Word Knowledge Isn’t The Same As Conversation

At Pinnacle® Hyderabad (Secunderabad), speech-language pathologists explain:

“Children on the autism spectrum often memorize labels, numbers, alphabets — but struggle to build functional conversations because social use of language is a separate developmental skill.”

Signs to watch:

Labeling objects but no back-and-forth exchange

Reciting facts but avoiding personal sharing

Repeating phrases without adding new thoughts

Difficulty answering open-ended questions

Talking at people, not with them

“It’s not speech delay alone. It’s pragmatic communication disorder. And early action matters.”

📞 The Day They Knew It Wasn’t Just Shyness

At a friend's gathering:

Maya pointed and said, “Ball.”

Another child asked, “Do you want to play catch?”

Maya stared.

Said nothing.

Turned away — back to her flashcards.

“She wasn’t joining the game. She wasn’t building a moment. She was lost — behind the wall of memorized words.”

That night, they called 9100 181 181.

The counselor said:

“She has the words. Let’s give her the bridges between them.”

They booked a free AbilityScore©® Pragmatic Language Screening.

📊 Maya’s AbilityScore©® Communication Profile

Vocabulary Size: 🟢 Green (920/1000)

Functional Question Answering: 🔴 Red (450/1000)

Conversation Initiation: 🔴 Red

Topic Flexibility In Conversation: 🔴 Red

She wasn’t speech delayed. She was speech disconnected.

🤖 How TherapeuticAI©® Helped Her Build Conversations, Not Just Lists

Her personalized therapy included:

“Expand The Word” games (apple → eat, red, sweet)

Emotion labeling with visuals (How do you feel about it?)

Open-ended question sessions with gradual scaffolding

Peer role-play: Asking and answering in real time

Weekly zone tracking: Labeling → Describing → Conversing

By week 5:

Maya answered, “I played on the slide!” when asked about school

Asked her father, “Can I have water?” — instead of pointing

Shared a 3-sentence story about her doll by herself

“She didn’t lose her words. She found her own voice inside them.”

💬 What Her Parents Now Share

“Knowing thousands of words doesn’t build a life. Connecting through conversation does. And Pinnacle® showed us how to make that possible.”

🌍 This Autism Awareness Month — Count Connections, Not Just Words

If your child: ✅ Recites alphabets, colors, objects perfectly ✅ Struggles to answer or ask questions ✅ Talks but rarely shares feelings, experiences ✅ Echoes phrases without natural conversation

…it’s time to screen for pragmatic language development — and turn words into windows into their world.

📞 Book Your Child’s Communication Screening in Hyderabad (Secunderabad)

📞 Call the Pinnacle® National Autism Helpline: 9100 181 181 🌐 www.Pinnacleblooms.org 📍 Secunderabad | Begumpet | Bowenpally | Malkajgiri

✅ Free AbilityScore©® Pragmatic Communication Report ✅ TherapeuticAI©® Conversation Building Plan ✅ Telugu + Hindi + English Speech Therapists ✅ Home Expressive Conversation Starters

⚠️ Disclaimer

This article is intended for informational and awareness purposes only. It is not a substitute for professional medical advice, diagnosis, or treatment. For expert guidance tailored to your child’s needs, please consult a qualified healthcare provider or contact the Pinnacle® National Autism Helpline at 9100 181 181.

[idgivemyeyesfor-mattmurdock]

Hey in your last update you can Upload part Two ?

hope ur ok: pt2

GIF by kamillahn

TW: are you allergic to fluff? if so piss off

Pairing: Fem reader teacher x Matt Murdock

(tag requested) @chezagnes

“you weren’t joking about times tables, were you?” asked Matt as he heard you take out some papers from your briefcase. 

“Do I sound like a joking person?” 

Matt was used to women falling down at his feet, and begging him to be with them. Though, that doesn’t mean you wouldn’t do the same in due time, but thats just how you were. 

Hard to get. 

“No, but, my times tables?” asked Matt as he began to stand up from his bed, “out of all the things, you’d have me recite numbers?” 

He had to be sixteen, because there was no way someone could be so whiney. 

as you sat down on the chair beside his bed, you began to place the essays your students had written; on the top of your lap, you said, “you’re a lawyer, right?” 

“Thats the rumor on the street.” 

You signed as your hands went over the dots, “so, you know the constitution, history, aws that were passed years ago and cases that hardly matter to us now backwards and forwards, right?” 

“yes.” replied Matt a he swung his legs over the bed and placed his feet not he the floorboards, then facing your voice you said, “So, the one thing you probably could give two fucks about is math and science. Right?” 

“yes…” 

“And you’re a lawyer. and by the time I have spent talking to you, and by the way I’ve seen you maneuver yourself around court— you seem like the type of guy to think he knows everything.” 

“I do.” 

“whats seven times five hundred and twenty tree?” 

he paused. Thinking for a moment he replied cockily, “Two thousand, three hundred and sixty one.” 

“wrong.” you said with a laugh, “It’s three hundred, six hundred and sixty one.” 

In embarrassment in pointed his head away from your direction, though you continued laughing by replying “So, Matthew, you don’t know everything.” 

“you want to humble me.” 

“No,” you replied as your hands continued towards the page, “That’s what church is for… I just think you need to broaden your perspective on people.” 

“by doing my times tables and chemistry?” 

“Why not?” you asked as you’re hands stopped feeling the dots that were on the page, “you need to learn how to stretch you’re brain from just the circle that you live in.” 

“So you’re a therapist.” said Matt in a laugh as he relaxed he just got himself into some trouble with you. 

“No, I’m just a person who thinks you have more potential than what you see in yourself. God knows why He gave you a second chance, but he did. By seeing you and the way you treated you’re partners in the last case you three did— made me think that If I was ever in a situation that I had to deal with that— that I’d want that person to realize that they aren’t a little perfect creampuff that gets to walk on the face of the earth. And if it takes for me to teach you how to balance and equation or for me to sit down with you and practice seven times forty nine— then it will.” 

Matt looked away from the sunlight and set his peripherals back to you. 

His eyes, defocused yet so concentrated on your words. 

Concentrated on you. 

“So, when do we start, teach?”

-

Check out my Matt X Fem Frank Castles sister POC OC!!

[shurisneakers]

perceive

Summary: In which he reclaims his five senses of perception

Word count: 1k

Warnings: angst, anxiety, ptsd, mentions of death and torture, sensory overloads but also fluff

A/N: behold, i actually wrote it. try prying filter coffee from my cold dead hands but since chai is more popular, i included pakorey to compensate even though it’s tasteless and i hate it

here’s my ko-fi if you’d like to support my writing <333

1.

He’s not usually one for soft blankets.

Hell, for the longest time he’d find comfort on the cool tiles against his skin. Fevers stealing away nights of peaceful sleep, body aching from the stress of carrying all the sins of the world on his back.

Blankets were too soft, too gentle. It worked hard at his years of pain, felt almost completely strange against his skin. Too kind. He did not deserve the kindness. The harsh cold punished him in ways his mind couldn’t and he thought that maybe, this was his redemption.

2.

Coffee was dark, bitter, many a times lukewarm. It was hard to explain his inclination to this variation of it when there were so many more available in the free world. But things were constantly changing, there was never a rug that stayed long enough under his feet to initiate shock when it was pulled away again. And when for seventy years one of the only constants he has was this garbage, he stuck to it, hoping that it tethered him in a world that seemed like it was spinning out of control around him.

There was never any effort put into the drink. Usually grabbed off the desk from a lower ranking agent, or stale from day or two prior. Years later, coffee any other way was just too sickly sweet. Anything more than the cheap beans and water felt foreign on his tongue. Too luxurious. He doesn’t want to afford luxury, not when he took away the chance to experience it from countless others. 

The only exposure he had to coffee was a quick adrenaline shot before he’s sent out to wreck havoc quietly and maybe, that’s all he should be allowed to have.

3.

Silence was his best friend. If there was silence it meant that for a second, perhaps he could drown out the cries. Silence meant that he wouldn’t add a name to his list of redemption, it meant that his ears wouldn’t strain to hear what new serum they discussed injecting into him to improve efficiency. In the silence, it was just him. 

Did he love the silence or did he love the absence of noise? 

But he learned to pay attention to sounds, even when he’s out of confinement. He never felt like there was a moment where a sound is just what it claims to be. He paid attention for footsteps while leafing through books in the library, angry shouts in a crowd of squeals at a carnival, gunshots near the loud chatter of a construction site. He was always searching for more.  

If he focused on one sound, he risked ignoring the rest. He would never know peace.

4. 

With the number of times his nose had been broken, you’d think that he altogether lost his sense of smell. A several thousand times he wished he had. Old gunpowder, the cement dust from falling buildings, and fuck, he thought the stench of blood was the worst but one time he unwittingly catches the fresh scent of perfume before he kills the wife of a Hydra victim waiting for her husband to return home. It sears into his brain. He can pull it from memory even years down the line and the terror from that night drags him back into a spiral. 

It was an unlikely enemy. He didn’t even know how to explain it. 

5. 

Days with sensory overloads were common. His home for majority of his life was in the darkness; sometimes his body existed while his mind forced itself to think of something other than the cold. He always took time to adjust when he was pulled out of the ice, blinking and adjusting an environment different from the last time he opened his eyes. Years’ worth of distinction. 

His sensory attacks happened a lot more in Bucharest. At least now it’s down to about two or three a month. He remembers the newspaper clad windows and cowering under a blanket, hoping that the familiarity of darkness would stop it. 

There is so much around him all the time- seasons keep changing in front of him, wild hair colours and hundreds of billboards and he thought, God, sight has to be the worst of them all. 

He wore black. Constantly, everywhere. It gave him less to look at. 

He just wished that everything would stop. 

Years later, he’s glad it didn’t. 

6.

Things were different now. 

“Penny for your thoughts?” He doesn’t need to turn around to know it’s you. He’d recognise your voice anywhere. 

Bucky drags his eyes away from the lawn in front of him. There are flower pots you’ve arranged, filled with any kind of plant you find pretty. He finds himself spending hours looking at the bright pink carnations and the sunflowers he picked out. It brings a certain liveliness that he adores. 

“How many pennies do you have?” Lifting up the blanket, he offers you a place under the warmth beside him.

You settle down next to him, taking him up on his offer, nudging yourself under his arm. “I’d say I have enough.”

His body is a warm security against the cool wind that the storm brings.

The smell of rain on fresh grass is intoxicating. He’s long added it to his list of favourite scents, only next to the fresh waffles from the diner downtown.

Your hand extends a cup of filter coffee towards him. A content smile grows on his face. What initially was too sweet, too sharp, now is a lingering sense of comfort. He was damn near addicted to it.

He takes it a little too eagerly. 

“New sweater?” you ask, and he hums in affirmation. “Blue looks good on you.”

“Thank you.” It’s something he’s working on- accepting compliments. It won’t hurt anyone if he just accepted that some people like certain things about him, he was reminded over and over again by his therapist.

A stray droplet lands on his cheek. He closes his eyes. 

He feels your fingertips wipe it away softly. He leans into you.

Your hum of an old Kishore Kumar song reverberates through you, a soft melody to accompany the rain. He simply listens, willingly zeroes in on it.

The world has been rough for years but maybe this cup of coffee, fleece sweatshirt and the plate of pakorey beside you will be soft enough to help for the next few.

[mimik-u]

Togetherness

Summary: The aftermath of Steven transforming into a huge reptilian monster brings back old memories for Pearl, who remembers another time Steven was scared so many years ago.

A/N: This piece was written for the Pearl-focused I am a Pearl! mini-zine a couple of months ago! It was a great opportunity to get to explore Pearl's mind space after the events of "I am My Monster" and how her friendship with Greg has evolved over the years. ;w; Thanks to the mods for a great zine experience! <3

AO3 Link / Zine Tumblr Link / @iamapearlzine

—

Steven is sixteen years old when he erupts into a scaly, pink monster—fifty-foot tall and inconsolable.

Everyone tells him that they love him, but because words are rarely ever enough, they show him that they do; they embrace him; they hold him; they press their fingertips into his reptilian skin. His scales are cold and sharp against Pearl’s palms, keratin hard and impenetrable. She tells him that he shouldn’t have to keep anything from her, all the while burning with shame that he’s kept so much from her.

He’s felt responsible for her fragility and loved her enough to tiptoe around the Diamond in the room.

His mother.

His mother and the complicated history between them.

The love.

The torture.

The grief.

The love.

(Because what is grief after all but a manifestation of love? A reminder, its echo, and its painful, lingering, lovely ghost.)

Connie kisses Steven, very lightly, very softly, and he falls from the sky, a boy again. 

Pearl wraps him in a blanket.

Garnet carries him into the wreckage of their home.

And approximately one hour later, they’re all standing on the deck, waiting for Priyanka Maheswaran to finish her professional assessment of him as the sun sinks into a honey-colored sea.

Pearl cradles her face in her hands, elbows sinking into the railing, trying to retrace every missed sign in the blackness of her own head. She sees his skin glowing pink in the darkness—at the Reef, in Little Homeworld, just moments ago in the living room…

So many flares in the night.

And Pearl had watched them all fizzle.

—

Steven is six years old when he moves into the newly minted beach house, and he tells Greg that he’s afraid of the silence. Nearly all of his life, he’s been surrounded by noise—the gentle rumble of the van’s motor, the susurrant murmur of the sea, wind, rain, buskers playing guitars on the Boardwalk, the whoosh of the rollercoasters at Funland. 

His dad’s snores echoing off the tin ceiling.

His dad’s laughter.

His softly-sung lullabies, too.

The beach house is really quiet at night, Steven tells Greg who tells the Gems, and he doesn’t like that…

He’s trying really hard to like it, though.

Maybe things’ll get better next week.

Pearl never looks at Greg as he delivers this news, tapping her fingers against the side of her leg as she sits at the kitchen table, ankles primly crossed. He stands in the doorway—right beneath Rose’s painted image—wringing his hands and looking too awkward to be allowed. She resents him for this—for his awkwardness, for his intrusion into their lives, and for everything else, too. 

(Namely for Rose.)

She inwardly knows that she’s being unfair. 

That loathing a person on the basis of his existence is morally suspect.

Wrong.

But what are rightness and wrongness to emotions? To the sheer primality of grief?

Grief is irrational, she rationalizes to herself—she self-justifies; it knows nothing of ethicality.

“Why didn’t Steman tell us this?” Amethyst asks, absently scratching her nose. “If it’s noise he wants, I got an old drum set he can knock himself out on.”

Pearl frowns, well-remembering the ten straight years Amethyst played the drums through the nineties. Rose loved it; Pearl spent many hours alone in her room to decompress. 

“He’s still intimidated by you three,” Greg shrugs kindly. “And shy. You just have to give him reason enough to trust ya with stuff like this. Tucking him in at bed at night, y’know. Checking under the bed for monsters.”

“There aren’t monsters under his bed,” Garnet says, practical as ever. “They wouldn’t fit.”

Greg chuckles, running a flat hand across the back of his neck as he peers between the three gems. When he and Pearl lock eyes, she meets his stare coldly, her mouth pressed into a thin line.

“But Steven doesn’t know that,” he mumbles, glancing away, his cheeks flushing. “You gotta shine a flashlight down there and show him there’s nothing there.”

“Doesn’t that seem patronizing to you?” Pearl asks, taking little care to disguise the condescension in her voice. Across the room, Garnet’s visored stare finds her—blank, inscrutable, and arcane—but Pearl knows her fellow gem well enough to understand that this is chastisement, silent and brutal.

Arching a thin brow, she ignores Garnet.

She demands an answer from Greg.

“Maybe,” the man concedes, but when he acknowledges her gaze again, there’s a little defiance in his eyes, an edge in his scratchy voice. “But maybe not. That’s what being a parent is sometimes. Patronizing the kid! Playing along. Showing him that you’re listening to what he needs. Letting him know that you’re there… haven’t you ever been afraid before, Pearl?”

“No,” she protests immediately, bristling.

“Pssh,” Amethyst snorts. “Last week, you jumped ten feet in the air ‘cuz you saw a snake.”

“You did,” Garnet smiles wryly. “I was there.”

Pearl scoffs, trying and failing to ignore that her cheeks are suffused with blue blush…

… and that Greg is staring at her with an almost distinguishable emotion in his eyes.

If she didn’t know better, she would say it was pity.

—

Dr. Maheswaran tells them that Steven is okay; he’s tired and sore—transforming expended a lot of his energy—but he’s ready to see everyone now. She tells them to be quiet and to maybe go in one by one, so he doesn’t get too overwhelmed.

Firmly, she warns them that it’ll take more than a good night’s sleep for him to heal .

And she doesn’t mean physically.

“Here’s a number of a good therapist I know,” she says, placing a card in Pearl’s hand. “Her office opens at nine.”

Pearl folds her fingertips over the edges of the glossy card stock but doesn’t quite glance down to look at the name—too fixated on watching Greg stand in front of the doorway, palming the screen door as he seemingly steels himself to go in. 

He’s aged so much in the twenty-something years that Pearl has known him—from his nearly bald head to the branching lines creasing the corners of his eyes—but for some reason, it is only now, in this ephemeral moment, that she realizes how old he is.

She doesn’t mean physically either.

As the others gather around Dr. Maheswaran, asking her questions, voicing their concerns, Pearl takes one deliberate step and then another.

—

Garnet tells Steven that it’s okay—there are no monsters under the bed—and when she shines a flashlight beneath the mattress, Amethyst is there, shapeshifted into a tiny kitten, purring at the child sweetly.

“See, dude?” She laughs, bounding out from beneath the bed. In an instant of blurred matter and color, she becomes herself again, her bangs sweeping inelegantly over her eye. “No monsters under the bed, only cute kittens.”

“Only kittens?” He repeats, grinning that famous gap-toothed smile that everyone adores. His legs are nearly swallowed by his oversized shirt.

“Kittens and dust bunnies,” Amethyst confirms, knuckling his curls playfully and smiling broadly when he laughs. “G’night, Steman.”

“Night, Amethyst!”

“Goodnight, Steven,” Garnet murmurs, lifting the six-year old into her arms and gently placing him onto the bed. She tucks him beneath the covers. She tenderly kisses him on the head.

“Nighty night, Garnet.”

And then it’s Pearl’s turn. Garnet and Amethyst head towards their temple rooms, and Pearl settles down on the edge of the comforter, balancing her left ankle on top of her right knee.

“Don’t forget about M.C. Bear Bear!” She teases softly, reaching over and placing the stuffed animal next to Steven’s arm. “He needs a snuggle buddy.”

Steven nods in agreement, his brow furrowed seriously over his eyes.

“Yep,” he says importantly. “I’ll be sure to hug him tight.”

“Excellent,” she says primly.

“Excellent,” he echoes playfully.

She lightly skims her knuckles across his soft cheek, smiling when he giggles a little, always ticklish…

… but then, when she withdraws her hand, letting it fall away from his face, the moment that immediately follows is quiet.

Too much so.

So quiet that Pearl can hear the softness of Steven’s breath, quiet enough that Greg’s words from earlier haunt her in the absence of noise.

Haven’t you ever been afraid before, Pearl?

Contrary to what Garnet and Amethyst may believe, she isn’t afraid of snakes —pestilent creatures though they are.

She’s surprised by snakes.

And afraid of much bigger things—five-thousand-year old secrets and equally ancient insecurities, for instance.

Six thousand years ago, after all, she was coded to believe that her highest order in life was to be a slave.

And sometimes—if only sometimes—she fears that her weaknesses were ingrained then, in the very moment she emerged from a shell and was called a pearl

One of so many.

Disposable.

Programmable.

Objectified.

Sometimes, she barely knows what it means to be herself, much less what it means to be a parent .

Indeed, Greg Universe of all people seems to have the idea down better than she ever could.

So, yes, Greg, she is afraid.

(Afraid of failing Steven.)

(Terrified that she’s already failed her. )

Patronize him, Greg suggested.

Play with him.

Show him that you’re listening.

Let him know that you’re there.

—

“Greg?”

Pearl places a light hand on Greg’s arm, startling him from his trance as he turns around to face her.

“Pearl!” He exhales, his breath coming in short bursts. “Y’scared me!”

“I’m sorry,” she says sincerely, not quite moving her hand away yet. His skin is warm beneath her fingertips, soft like wave-washed sand. “I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“Yes,” he returns immediately, and then—taking one look at her imperiously raised brow—just as quickly rectifies himself. “No. I don’t know. I’m freakin’ terrified, Pearl. I feel like a failure of a parent. I don’t know what to tell him. But I gotta go in there anyway.”

He says it all very rapidly, as though he’s talking to himself.

Encouraging himself.

And putting himself down to do it.

“I’m his dad,” he concludes, his voice breaking, tears standing in his dark eyes. “I’m his dad, and I didn’t… I wasn’t there for him, and I should have—“

“ Shh, ” Pearl cuts across him gently, patting his arm as tears threaten to slide down her own face. “Shh. There are so many hypothetical should haves that we’ll all have to face soon when it comes to Steven. But not today, Greg .”

With her free hand, she conjures a tissue from her gem and hands it to him, unflinching and kind, even when he needs to wipe his nose.

“Today,” she murmurs, her voice inhibited, a hundred emotions thick, “we just let him know that we’re here.”

—

“Pearl?” Steven asks.

Pearl blinks rapidly, coming back to herself; she’d been lost in her own thoughts, nearly consumed.

“Hey,” she smiles, placing her hand on top of Steven’s own. His skin is so warm and soft; she absently wonders if her alienness feels sharp to him… hard… cold… “Here’s an idea—how about I sing you a lullaby before you go to sleep?”

“You know how to sing?” Steven’s eyes widen incredulously, his mouth shaping itself into a delighted smile.

“Don’t look so surprised,” she laughs playfully. “When we were younger, your mother and I used to sing all the time—hymns from our home planet and the like…”

A pause, infinitesimal, hesitant. 

“...I could sing one for you if you’d like?”

“You could?” The child dares to be hopeful; the very emotion shapes the pitch of his question, the light in his eyes.

He has his mother’s eyes.

Dark and full of stars.

“I could,” Pearl repeats. “I’d sing as long as you wanted me to.”

“How about fooooorever?” 

“Let’s just start with until you fall asleep,” Pearl laughs. “That’s a part of forever, yes? This moment?”

“If you say so, Pearl,” he wrinkles his nose skeptically.

“I know so, Steven.”

As she sings him to sleep in her mother tongue, Pearl admits that this must be something that Greg knows, too.

The importance of hereness to a child.

Togetherness on scary nights.

[watery-lane]

Words into Smoke

The Night You Cared Sequel.

Pairing: Modern!Ivar Lothbrok x Reader

Summary: As a part of his therapy, Ivar writes letters to unwind and keep track of his mental health progress. He writes to his mom, he misses her. He writes to Sigurd, sometimes he regrets his departure. One night, he writes about her.

Warnings: Angst

Words: 3864

A/N: (3/5/20) I had this idea in my head that I simply could not let go. 

(10/4/21) P.S: Can’t promise I’m back, but I’m definitely turning to writing as a way of winding down. I hope you guys are alright.

Part I / Part II / Epilogue

Some nights, while the city sleeps, Ivar stays awake. Like an owl looking for a prey, the Ragnarsson remains seated upright at the edge of his bed, his now heavily tattooed chest exposed to the world through the panoramic window, heaving. Beating.

Some nights were amazing. He got his drivers license, and Freydis got him an adapted Bentley as a gift. He would spend the nights driving by himself down the empty streets of Kattegat, not worrying about speeding tickets or angry neighbours. 

Not so long ago, he learned his wife was finally carrying a child, her round belly reminding him that he had a legacy to keep, now that the Lothbrok dynasty seemed to be more fragmented than ever. After spending thousands of krone on in vitro fertilisation, the universe seemed to work in his favour. Their favour. If the gods were unwilling to bless them two, science would. These were the nights that were made for celebrations, champaign showers and water for the mother to be.

Some nights were alright. Ivar would come back after a long day of meetings and getting his ass kissed, to find Freydis immersed in her little personal projects. He would tell Erik to pick up some takeaway while he washed away the power and wrapped himself in mundane clothes. He would eat in silence, elbows propped on the counter and eyes on the horizon, watching the sun kiss the skyscrapers goodbye as he mindlessly put food in his mouth. Then he would take his new baby for a ride, to the bar he now owned with his brother Hvitserk. 

Ivar would go there, check the inventory and the register, ask the employees how everything was going and what could he do for them. Sometimes he would also find Hvitserk at the bar, practicing the cocktail skills he had been mastering since he took over your share of the bar. Ivar would simply walk past, not entirely avoiding making contact with his sibling but prefering to keep a healthy distance from the person that substituted you. He started visiting the local more often after you left, feeling the responsibility to continue what you started. He found peace in the simplicity of managing a bar: at the office, he was a tyrannic boss, voice always booming through the walls, keeping both employees and investors in check. At the bar, he was just the young lovestruck Ivar he once was. He understood then, why you wished to escape from it all. You are just a memory now, but sometimes he still feels you around, checking on the girls, checking on him.

Some nights were... Painful. Therapy had a big presence in his life. He no longer needed a cane thanks to nurse Hansen, his physical therapist. But on some days, the stress and the weather would simply take a toll on his legs, forcing him to carry around that metal stick that reminded him that he was, in fact, human. 

Before you left, Freydis figured out a question that would calm Ivar down and make him focus: “What would Dr. Nielsen tell you to do?”. That was how she got him to control himself and open up the last time he was onstage, the night she met you. They were just engaged back then. Oh, how quick did time pass. Ivar no longer organised events like that. He was too consumed by his two jobs. There were nights where Freydis would be on business trips, or out hanging out with friends until the next morning, nights where absences were felt more than presences. But he was coping now. Dr. Nielsen helped the youngest Lothbrok greatly since his great breakdown. 

Ivar had thought he physically felt his heart break the night he got down the stage to find you, only to figure out you were gone after most of the guests had left the hotel ballroom. He felt compelled to call you dozens of times to ask for an explanation. After his calls went unanswered, he decided to drive around town in search of you, not knowing where to start, not knowing where to ask, anger poisoning his brain and taking over his actions. That night he stayed at Loki’s after barging in to see if you were hiding there like “the coward you were”. He hated the fact that you could make him feel that weak. It felt like he was putty and Freydis was fire, hardening him the more he was exposed to her. You were water, turning him into a pliable being, at mercy of your actions.

For five days in a row, he found himself staying at his office until late at night, observing his office telephone with attention and indecision, silently praying for you to pick up the phone, practicing the rage filled words he was about to rain down on you the moment you uttered a response. He prayed with ill intentions, but he prayed nonetheless. It was his last resort. 

The earth seemed to crack open and swallow him whole the moment he gathered all his courage and dialed your number, only to hear an automated voice telling him that the number no longer existed. He sat there, phone on his hand as a white noise took over the voice message, thinking about the different possibilities that could have happened for you to cancel your line. Maybe, he thought. Maybe I really asked for too much this time. 

“Fuck no,” Ivar reflected out loud as he tossed his phone away, “In no fucking way this is my fault.”

“Ivar?” A distant voice reverberated through the glass corridors. It sounded familiar. The youngest Ragnarsson frowned, weirded out by the fact that one of his brothers was still in the office this late.

It wasn’t just one of his brothers, but the three of them.

“Freydis called us asking where you were. You’ve been out late at night for many days in a row, she literally just confronted each one of us asking whether you were having an affair.” Hvitserk said, arms crossed as he leaned on the door frame. “That woman nearly dragged each one of us out to look for you.” Ivar pursed his lips, outraged by such accusations from his then fiancée.

“Well, tell her I’d never do such thing.” He answered, swatting his hand in annoyance. “I am surprised she came to that conclusion, knowing how busy I always am as the bloody CEO!” He exclaimed, letting the following silence fill the room as he flashed a disdainful look towards his brothers.

“Why are you here, brother?” Ubbe finally dared to ask, observing his youngest sibling sway in his chair from side to side.

Ivar looked up for a brief moment, like a puppy who lost his favourite toy, and decided to tell them the whole story. That the had the hunch you were back from a strange event where someone knocked on his penthouse door. To that, Ubbe awkwardly shifted in his place, still listening intently. Ivar explained that he sent you an invite to his inaguration gala and how he asked you to stay for his speech so you could have a dance afterwards, unaware of the utterly personal turn his speech would take just because an old man decided to drink a bit more than usual that night. How he waited for you, called you and looked for you tirelessly, frustration filling his voice as he talked about how you had been avoiding him for a week now, changing your phone number in the process.

“If she thinks she can avoid me by changing numbers she’s dead wrong. We’re business partners, for fucks sake!” He complained, registering the situation as a burden. “I’ll find her new phone sooner or later.”

Unbeknownst Ivar, tension had been gradually building up as he spoke, his three brothers standing still in their places, not knowing how to break the news. Sure they knew this day would come, but none of the three expected to be trapped with the ticking bomb. It was way too soon. Too recent. 

Hell, it was about you. It was most likely no amount of time would soften the blow.

Ubbe took a step forward, leaning on the hardwood desk. With a resigned tone, he mumbled:

“She’s gone, Ivar.” He swallowed. “(Y/n) left Kattegat.”

Already motionless before, Ivar remained still. He darted his eyes to look at his brother, confusion and fear brewing within him, fueling a fire he thought it was extinguished the day he made Sigurd leave. With trembling lips but a determined voice, he asked how did he know. How did Ubbe Ragnarsson, the brother who would stab his youngest sibling in the back at the slightest opportunity, know the whereabouts of his woman, while he sat there completely lost, disoriented.

With an attempt of a soothing voice, Ubbe confessed that months ago he offered you a job position to work on a humanitarian project he had running in Haiti. Aslaug had stated in her will that she wished to expand the non-profit organisation she created to other countries and Ubbe decided to make his deceased mother’s wish come true. He told Ivar that while you rejected the offer at first, you ended up accepting it the night of his gala. That you made him promise to make the process fast and discreet, and that, while you insisted on paying for the plane tickets, Lothbrok Inc. paid for your travel expenses and necessities. You left three days ago, unnanounced, with only Ubbe at the airport to bid you farewell.

Hvitserk, who remained silent all this time, let him know that you were no longer the owner of the bar you opened together. At that, Ivar panicked, his eyes wide open as he snapped his head towards his older brother. You simply signed a transfer contract, with Ubbe as the witness and five krone as the contingency, stating that you were returning the property to Lothbrok Inc., thus paying your debt to the family and releasing yourself from any ties to Ivar. He tried to soften the blow, letting him know that he didn’t know you gave him your share because you were leaving. He thought it was a rash decision that stemmed from seeing Ivar with a fiancée, that you’d come back and take back the business when you were ready. He promised he’d take care of the bar as well as you took care of it, that nothing would change under his management.

Ivar listened intently, motionless. His breathing was deep, yet steady. He never moved a muscle voluntarily, but his nostrils flared with every breath and his hand, hidden under the desk, shook incontrollably as he processed their words. His piercing gaze was focused on the oldest Aslaugsson, who was now relaxing and straightening his back as he regained his composure.

It felt like every action happened in slow motion, yet the blow came fast. In mere seconds, Ivar had propped himself forward from the chair, one of his hands grabbing the jacket Ubbe was wearing while the other, contracted in a fist, made contact with his right cheek. That is when Bjorn, who had been silent during the whole exchange, stepped in, grabbing the torso of his youngest brother as he struggled to keep himself standing, making sure he didn’t hurt himself.

Sometimes, Ivar still hears his own screams.

“YOU TOOK HER FROM ME!” Ivar accused, eyes absent of tears but voice cracking at the end of the sentence. “SHEWAS GOING TO STAY,” He roared, fists swinging towards his brother’s face. “AND YOU FUCKING TOOK HER FROM ME!”

He lost it that night. The screams he released came from the depths of his sorrow, his eyes only registering red while all his nerves could only feel the desperation taking over his soul. Ivar kept trying to reach Ubbe, unaware of how he repeatedly banged his legs against the desk as Bjorn tried to pin him down. 

But what started as a justified outburst gradually led to nonsensical, rage-filled accusations.

“You wanted to fuck her, didn’t you? You wanted her and you couldn’t stand the fact that she chose ME!” Ivar recriminated, grabbing a sharp glass ornament and throwing it to his brother. Ubbe pursed his lips, dodging the improvised weapon. “You did this to get back at me, hmm? YOU WANT ALL I HAVE, DON’T YOU?” He seethed, eyes and mouth wide open, exposing his teeth like a menacing predator as he let out a guttural laugh.

Bjorn was having a difficult time restraining him. Years relying on his upper body strength gave Ivar the advantage of resilience amongst his biggest sibling, while Bjorn struggled to keep him in place. Ivar managed to grab the second glass ornament, throwing it as he shrieked.

“DON’T YOU KNOW WHO I AM?” his voice boomed in the room, palm pounding his chest as his free hand signaled the whole place. “YOU CAN’T TAKE THIS AWAY FROM ME, I AM IVAR LOTHBROK! YOU CAN’T TAKE THIS AWAY FROM ME!” Ivar kept shouting, cursing as he spat towards Ubbe.

Hvitserk stepped forward, having seen enough, ready to take on his little brother. To his surprise, Ubbe halted him, his arm creating a barrier between Hvitserk and Ivar as he observed with intent and horror etched on his face.

That night, Ivar lost the little progress he made. He broke his femur, dignity left behind as an ambulance carried him to the emergency room.

As if that wasn’t enough, he lost another family member to Lagertha that night.

With a reedy voice as he laid down in the hospital bed, he asked Ubbe one thing:

“Bring her back.” He whispered, his eyes stuck in the ceiling, pretty certain that if he laid his eyes on his brother, he would kill him. “She is working for Lothbrok Inc. now. Bring her back.” His request was met with silence. “That’s an order.” He swallowed, nostrils flaring with each ticking second.

“I’m sorry, Ivar.” Ubbe mumbled. “The Sigurðdóttir Trust is out of your reach.” He reminded him, reopening a wound that Ivar closed not so long ago. “That’s what mother wished.” Ivar snapped his head at the mention of his beloved mother. The brim of his eyes were red like his sclera, a menacing gaze stabbing his brother as Ivar grabbed his wrist.

“You have three days to gather your stuff and leave Lothbrok Inc.” Ivar seethed as he moved his face closer to his brother. “If you’re not gone after that, I will make sure you’ll leave the premises crawling like I crawled as a child.” Ivar swore, releasing his wrist as he let his head drop back to the sterile pillow.

Up to this day, Ivar still saw Ubbe’s action as a huge betrayal. He knew his older brother would return to his life as the new addition of Lagertha’s legal team, Bjorn granted his little brother this little backup plan.

Tonight, his thoughts weighted a little heavier. His eyes scanned the city before focusing on his bedroom, where he finds the clothes he wore today discarded on the leather chair. Behind him, his wife slept peacefully, her baby bumb protuding more and more each passing day. His legs were alright, but with the absence of physical pain he could sense his yearning looming over his head.

Ivar sighs and stands up silently, his bare feet and metallic support dragging on the tiles as he moved to his home office.

Dr. Nielsen taught him the importance of adapted emotional releases. She actively discouraged Ivar from indulging in his impulses and told him to write them down instead. For business meetings, Ivar was told to count until 10, 20 or even 30 if he was encountered with bad news. When it came to personal affairs, Dr. Nielsen told him to write letters addressed to the pertinent subject. Ivar could write them and discard them, write them and take them to therapy or he could write them and send them to the addressee. 

It wasn’t the most effective exercise, but it kept his flame at bay. He needed to learn to do that, now that he knew he had a little one coming soon.

Sometimes he wrote to his mother, asking her questions about ruling an empire he wished he had the answer to. Those he kept, as a tool to reflect later on when his ambition peaked. The more emotional ones he’d take to Dr. Nielsen, a proof of his progress on his journey to... normalcy. The ones he wrote to Sigurd, those he threw away. In those pages filled with guilt and rage, he found himself cornered in a bleak past that seemed to refuse to let him go.

Tonight, he thought about you.

It wasn’t like you weren’t a constant presence in his mind, like an annoying tenant in his brain that refused to leave or pay rent. Ivar just chose to remember the best parts of you, those who could be found at the bar you owned, or on his bed when Freydis left him for the night. If he kept you alive that way, he would also keep alive that part of him he thought he lost. You were inevitable, like the pain after a blow or the kiss after a reencounter.

He wishes he could blame you. For leaving, for stepping outside the gala without waiting for your dance. For silently giving away your shares to Hvitserk, who the only thing he knew about bars was how to empty the alcohol pantry. But there is a part of him that cannot physically repulse you.

Ivar sits down and turns on the desk lamp in front of him. He finds his precious pen and puts a piece of paper on the desk. Before starting, he hesitates.

Dear (Y/n),

He groans, crossing the two words with disdain.

Hello.

“Hello?” Ivar shakes his head, crossing the word again.

Hi, princess.

Ivar cringes. No.

Frustrated, he discards the paper. He had done it before. Why was it so hard to do it all over again now?

Just... Jump right in. Start from the beginning, start from the middle, start from the end if you prefer. He recalls the advice of his therapist. Sometimes, formalities are overrated. It may help when you have nothing to say, but it becomes a burden when you got too much to say. Ivar reflected. 

And so he did.

Every night I drive through the streets of Kattegat I find myself looking for you wandering around, looking for me to give you a lift, for the memory of our first reencounters were the ones that helped us find redemption.

It is weird, but I still have the need to find you even though I know you are no longer here. The idea of you lives in my head, that I am sure of. The feel of you, that is what I miss.

I guess part of me feels like I still need to apologise for something that I’ve done.

At the sight of his words written on paper, Ivar blinks. He never consciously thought much more ahead of his negations, his feelings dictating the perspectives he kept imposing to his reality.

He sacrificed so much for you. He tried to change for you. He went to therapy, he learned to walk. Ivar tried to become the right man for you, he really tried. 

He wished you were there to see it.

Ivar doesn’t really know what he did wrong. All he knows is...

And now that you’re gone for good, 

He shakes his head, crossing the last two words.

all I wish for is to be in the wrong this time.

Ivar huffs in frustration.

I wish I had been selfish, I wish I was the old Ivar. I wish I had begged you to stay, to manage this empire I never chos- by my side.

I know you would have never wanted this.

But I know you would have never said no to us.

Mindlessly, Ivar puts his pen in his mouth, a subconscious tick he developped not-so recently. Passing his hands through his hair, he sighed.

I started to smoke. He confessed. I know you never liked the smell, how it clings to my clothes, my mouth, how it lingered around the house when my brothers decided to have one one in their rooms. Ivar snorts at the memory. Not that you’re here to tell me off. 

Freydis has been buying candles, they’re all around the house now. The smell of the cigarettes blends with the essences and I technically get to have fire dispensers in every single room.

“Maybe I’m waiting for you to magically show up and tell me to fuck off.” He whispers.

Suddenly, Ivar shakes his head, as if the physical gesture cleared his mind.

I guess I’ll have to stop soon, I have a baby on the way. He releases an airy laugh as he re-reads what he just wrote. Who would have thought, (Y/n)? A baby. Me. Your Ivar.

The young Ragnarsson lets out a tired sigh, strenghening his grip on the metalling pen as he mindlessly tapped on the crystal desk. With resigned resolution, he decides to write his last lines, telling himself that he is finally starting to accept reality.

I know you’re not going to come back. Not to the place we grew up at, at least.

If you ever do, I just want to let you know, as sappy as it may sound, that my heart will always be open for you, even when my arms are not.

I miss you.

I miss us.

Take care,

Ivar.

Dropping the pen, Ivar stares at his letter. His hands blindly search for an envelope, a frown etched on his face until his fingertips brush against the soft surface of the letter. You don’t know, but he found your new address. He searched around Ubbe’s old files.

With a careful manner, Ivar writes down your address on the envelope. 

He stands up, walks to his living room and grabs a jacket as he makes his way to the exit.

All of the sudden he stops right on his tracks, his free hand almost reaching to the door handle. Freydis seemed to have forgotten to put out a lone candle, a tiny fragrance dispenser resting on the entrance drawer.

Ivar may not be aware of a lot of things in life, but one thing he was certain of: smoke traveled faster than mail.

His hand was trembling slightly, but it managed to follow his instructions. With a swift move, Ivar positioned the ephemeral piece of paper on the fire, watching intently how the flames consumed his words and took them to you. Discreetly, he threw the burning letter in the empty bin, the lid cutting short the trail of smoke escaping from the container.

He makes sure ashes are all what it remains from his indecent confession and makes his way back to the bedroom. Slowly but steadily, Ivar returns to bed, nesting himself between the sheets before holding his beloved wife in his embrace.

Tonight, he was human. Tomorrow, he’ll have to be a God.

The end.

Taglist:

Note: This is the old taglist I have noted from my past Ivar ficts. Please let me know if you want to be removed or added by sending an ask here. 

@aesstheticallypleasing @captstefanbrandt @unicornbaby741 @fuckthatfeeling @huffelpuffers @yannii04  @collecting-stories @timber3 @darkwolfpeanutskeleton @vampsclassiffied @lenafarn @yourpurplequeen​@youbloodymadgenius​ @lettersofwrittencollective​ 

[theguidetocryptids]

Guess who forgot to post their latest works!!

Anyway, prefacing this one with a trigger warning: it borders on themes of suicide, so please don’t read on if you’re sensitive to this sort of thing.

—————————————

I’ve been walking the edge of this cliff for hours.

Just idling.

I’ve been thinking about the moments leading up to this for hours, too. And how to record my last thoughts.

I think I’ll start at the beginning.

I was driving to work one day. Normal traffic, going five over the speed limit like everyone else. Music playing a bit louder than it probably should have been. Daydreaming a bit more than I needed to.

And I wondered, just for a moment, what would happen if I swerved into the oncoming traffic. No brakes, no last minute changes of my mind, just a quick turn into the next car before they could react. I’d surely die. My family would grieve. My pets would never see their owner again.

And nearly as soon as it appeared, the thought was gone. Normal, I thought. Everyone thinks dark things from time to time, even if they don’t really plan to act on them.

The next time was when I was hunting with my father. We have a tough time talking, especially considering I’ve lived in the city for six years and he’s never left our two-thousand something people hometown. But I remember how to hunt, and we get along well in the quiet hours before morning.

We didn’t get anything that day. No boars appeared, and we only saw a doe and a yearling. Nothing deserving of being shot. So, we packed up our rifles and headed back to his old pickup truck, the type that seems as if it can rust infinitely without ever really breaking down.

For a moment, I thought—just for half an instant—about shooting my old man in the back, and then taking myself out with him. The gun was already loaded. All I’d have to do was flip the safety and pull the trigger. Aiming wouldn’t even be a problem.

And I must have zoned out. I thought I did. But when I snapped out of it, blinking away a black mental fog, my hand was on the safety, about to release it.

I thought I saw something out of the corner of my eye, but I chalked it up to a bug. I was more concerned about what had happened to me than anything.

I need whoever reads this to know, I’ve never been depressed. Never even been properly sad. No family deaths. No lack of positive feelings. I have a good job, and a nice house. I was lucky enough to get good parents.

I need you to understand that, when you find my body, that this isn’t—wasn’t—a suicide. I don’t want to die. But I’m walking closer to the edge, still, and it’s getting hard to concentrate. That inky blackness is lurking on the edge of my vision.

God, I don’t want to die.

It happened for the third time when I was home alone, making myself breakfast. I considered turning the gas stove on without lighting it, and seeing if I suffocated or blew up first. I had already turned the knob for the burner before I came back again, but I was able to turn it off before anything bad happened. But the gap in my memory seemed longer. I had to struggle to remember who I was, and where I was. That fog cleared more slowly.

I tried to contact a therapist, set up an appointment, but my fingers couldn’t dial the number. I, physically, could not press them. The strength left me as soon as they got close to the screen. Anything else was fine, but I couldn’t ask for help.

I called a friend instead, to get my mind off of things.

“Hey,” I said, my voice already tense.

“What’s up? You usually just text,” They responded, sounding concerned.

I wanted to tell them about everything. The car, the hunting trip, the stove, but my tongue felt leaden. My jaw clenched up tight enough to grate my teeth, and my finger hovered over the button to hang up without my permission. Just from the thought of trying to explain what was happening to me.

“Oh, nothing,” I said, lying through my teeth, surprising myself with how genuine I sounded. “I was just wondering when the last time me, you, and Hailey hung out. I was thinking we could all meet up for dinner?”

And then we talked, and talked, and every time I tried to be genuine, to beg for help, I couldn’t. The words shriveled up and died when I tried to speak..

I started to black out more frequently, unrelated to any dark thoughts.

Washing the dishes, and I’d suddenly find myself with a knife pressed against my neck.

Mowing the lawn, and my foot was nearly under the blades before I was able to yank it away.

Taking a bath, and I half-scalded myself with the hot water before managing to turn it down.

It was around this point that I started to hear a voice.

Think of it as dark. Think of it as heavy. As something beyond what the human ear should ever hear. Something low, and bassy, and earth-shaking. Think of the voice that a crag leading to the heart of the earth would have. That Hades himself would use to command his subjects.

It whispered comforts to me, of how things would be better. How I’d be taken care of. How paradise awaited a brave explorer, someone eager enough to take that last grand step, even as it forced me to raise a fork to my eye, and tried to convince me to drive it home.

And it whispered threats, of fire and brimstone, of the torture laying in plain sight for me. Of how I was condemned, and this was my punishment, as it tried to force me out in front of traffic, the only thing stopping me being the throng of people in front of me.

And it soothed, as I drove seventy miles away from home, to the nearest national park.

And it disturbed, as I almost lit myself on fire instead of the campfire I had built overnight.

And it smoothed, as it forced me to hike hours to the deepest gorge in the area.

And it broke me down.

I must be crazy.

I know that the void doesn’t talk.

I know that devils aren’t real.

That there are no ghosts laying behind the veil, and that no vampire is waiting to drain my blood.

But, god. I can hear the void calling.

Murmuring my name like a chant,

Urging me to take the final step,

The last piece of the puzzle, my death, making it whole..

My death, a sacrifice to the dark and the unknown,

To the boogeymen hiding under beds,

To the things that go bump in the night,

To the deep, cold, cruel earth, and the things burrowing beneath.

To Hades, and Satan, and Tartarus itself.

Oh how they thirst for blood, and bone, and sinew. How they want the taste of flesh. How they want to see that spark of life snuffed out against its will. How they want the world to burn, and blacken, and die. How they urge you to take that final step. That jump over the edge. The final leap to join their kingdom, their land of the damned.

They want to hear the crunch of my bones. The drip drop of my blood running over stone. They want to see the lights behind my eyes fading out. To see my skin turn gray and dead and lifeless.

I don’t feel like myself.

I’m looking at my phone, and seeing things I didn’t type, or didn’t want to type.

My feet are betraying me.

I’m walking closer to the edge.

I don’t want to do this.

I don’t want to die.

Please, don’t let me die.

Don’t let my death be in vain.

If you hear the void call your name,

Cover your ears, and avert your eyes.

You don’t want this.

I think

that my time might be up

the darks creeping in

my fingers feel heavy and my legs are still moving and the canyons yawning wider

tell my family i didnt want this

tell the void to shut up god please shut it up

please dont forget what ive said

i wonder if itll hurt when i hit the grou

[ficsilike-reblogged]

Sunshine City: Five

A/N: We have reached the end, my loves. Thank you for coming along on this little journey with me. Thank you for all the wonderful comments, likes, and reblogs. I owe you my heart.

Pairing: Agent Whiskey x F!Reader (No Y/N)

Word Count: 5.5k

Rating For This Chapter: NC-17 for Whiskey being Whiskey and putting his moustache to good use (female-receiving oral), penetrative unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it, loves), just a whole bunch of mush because I love a sappy happy ending. 

Catch up previous chapters here!

Perhaps learning that it was Agent Moonshine that had set them up shouldn’t have been a surprise. How many times had Jack “taught Moonshine a lesson” about manners—both in and out of the field? Moonshine had apparently been burning for some more-permanent payback and thought getting rid of Jack in the field would regain some of his honor.

Whatever.

Both Moonshine and Alice had disappeared into Statesmen’s holding cells about six months ago and Champ dealt with them. She didn’t ask what happened and she didn’t want to know. All she cared about was that Jack was okay and she knew what it felt like to have Jack’s arms wrapped around her without the confines of the mission and she knew that he liked to smile before he pressed his lips to hers. 

She loved how he kissed. Loved how he held her tight like she was something—someone to be treasured. Loved how he always tried to make her smile even when they were thousands of miles apart or if he had managed to sequester her alone in some room of the Kingsman headquarters, or in her townhouse—or even that one time when he’d managed to get her alone in Champ’s office last week when she was needed stateside for a mission. He stole a kiss then, too, feeling like mischievous teenagers hiding from too-strict parents.

It was…good.

Better than good, actually. It was all much too sappy to say out loud but she felt happier than she had in a long time. Like she had shed some sort of heavy coat made of metal and wool and she could move and breathe without restraint. She would never tell Whiskey—his ego was already insatiable—and she had a feeling he might have an inkling he knew how she felt.

“I’ve never seen you smile like that, Sunshine. Do it again.” As she thought: insatiable. And it felt like they had readily settled into some idyllic relationship that a person could only dream of having. They spoke as often as they could, about anything and everything—Jack even told her about the discussions he had with his therapist and she spoke about the nightmares that sometimes plagued her in the dark. They bickered, of course—they were human, but it was usually few and far between and over trivial things (like which agency had the best tech or Bela’s favorite movie) and over before they really began. It was good. But at the moment, she had just finished a mission in Singapore and expected to hear her phone ring with Jack’s Skype call. They kept tabs on each other’s missions and always called one another when they came home. Bela zoomed down the staircase and leapt on his little legs into her outstretched arms. Her dog-sitter, a Kingsman technician, happily reported Bela behaved himself while she was away before saying goodnight. She pressed a few kisses to Bela’s fur and locked up the doors and windows before pulling her phone from her pocket, ignoring her suitcase for a bit longer. Bela settled on her lap as she pulled up the app and was just about to dial Jack’s number when Ginger’s face appeared on her screen with an incoming call. Ginger was back stateside to assist Statesmen with some sort of kidnapping ring and had been giving Sunny updates every few days. She answered it quickly. “Hey! I’m about to-” “Jack’s been shot.” “What-” “Let me finish,” Ginger said in her usual calming tone. “He’s going to be fine. But he wanted me to tell you that he’s sorry he couldn’t make your usual call.” Ginger’s lips picked up in a small smile, probably trying not to laugh at her fellow agent’s mortified expression. “For a pair of agents, you two are very bad at keeping your relationship a secret.” And then Ginger did laugh. “He’ll call when he’s cleared by medical. Okay?” She pushed out a breath and nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, okay.” “He’s fine, Cap. I promise,” Ginger said, old moniker slipping by her lips. A few more words of encouragement were given, mission details were traded, and eventually they hung up. Her appetite gone, she eventually wandered upstairs to her bedroom and simply stared at the ceiling. Bela was asleep on her chest, giving her a little comfort. And she knew Statesmen had some of the best medical team and technology available. She knew Jack would be fine. But it still… hurt. Worry bit at her bones and pressed at her already-buzzing mind. There would be no sleep tonight.

                                                **

Whiskey did not like the smell of the medical wing. He did not like the bright white lights. He did not like the stupid paper gown they insisted he wear after sewing him back up. And he definitely didn’t like watching Champ settle into the chair next to his bed with a frown.

“Ain’t you supposed to be the one leadin’ the charge, Whiskey? Grenadine said you were distracted-”

“I was fine, Champ. I had it handled-”

“You’re in the medical wing. Did you forget that? Or did you hit your head, too?”

Whiskey felt his lip start to curl in a snarl. “My head’s fine and you know it.”

Champ’s frown deepened before he let out a sigh, pulling out a silver flask from his blazer jacket. He grabbed two of the small plastic cups from the bedside table, usually meant to hold medications, and poured two shots of amber-colored liquid. He slid one toward Jack before quickly downing his and putting away his flask. “You’re a good agent, Jack. A fine Statesman.”

Jack quickly grabbed the offered shot and drank it, knowing no conversation that started with compliments like that was ever good.

“But you want more than that.”

“Champ-”

“I’m old. Older than you and I’ve worked my entire life to save the world and the people in it—usually from themselves. And I got squat to show for it outside my big office and nice car. But you-” he pointed a finger, “-you have a chance at something real. Another chance. Those don’t come around every day. And you two have been tip-toein’ around each other for years.”

And, for a moment, Jack Daniels didn’t have a word to say. It was embarrassing to realize that everyone seemed to know they had moved past the fellow-agent relationship. But it was also strangely calming to know that people beside him and his Sunshine wanted them to be happy—together.

“You’ve saved the world enough. I know you’ve been thinkin’ about retiring anyway.”

“I-”

“Give it a little more thought. Visit your lady, yeah?” Champ said as he stood and patted his chest. “Take the next week off. I’ll have Grenadine handle the debrief.” 

“Champ-”

But he was already out the door.

                                                **

She wiped at her eyes, trying to press a bit of exhaustion out of her head with limited success. But Harry had accepted her debrief and then let her go for the rest of the day. “

Mordred, you’ve nearly fallen asleep twice just sitting here. Go home.”

Not her finest moment but she wasn’t going to say no to a nap. Maybe if she was asleep she could ignore that she still hadn’t heard from Jack. Ginger did say he would be fine but it still didn’t sit right with her and-

“Hey, Sunshine.”

She dropped her keys.

There he was, posted up against the side of her house, one foot kicked up behind him on the white-washed wall with his stupid Stetson pulled low over his eyes. She leapt at him and pulled him close, sagging into his grip as he wrapped his arms around her. He was so warm and wonderful and here. His familiar, expensive cologne touched her nose as she breathed him in, laughing at how he pressed his lips against her neck, mustache tickling her skin.

“You’re here,” she said as she pulled back.

He stole a quick kiss with another smile. “I am. Champ gave me some time off. I guess I should get shot more often.”

She quickly grabbed at his face. “No. That’s not funny-”

He kissed her again, smiling against her frowning mouth. “Are you going to invite me in or do I have to hang outside your door like a lost tomcat?” Jack bent and scooped up her keys and pressed them into her hand.

“You drive a hard bargain.” She slipped from his grasp and moved toward the door, undoing the three locks and stepping inside, Jack right on her heels. She closed the door behind him, only just noticing the small bag slung over his shoulder before he kissed her again. She would never get tired of kissing him.

But now was the first time in six months since she was alone with him—six months since Edinburgh. Six months of only stealing kisses and wandering hands when others were around and not having a moment truly to themselves. But work came first. Saving the world wouldn’t stop because she wanted to kiss him and hear his laugh.

And she really loved the sound of his laugh.

But then she yawned right in his face when he broke away from her lips to breathe.

“Now, Sunshine, you truly know how to cut a man to the quick.”

She laughed and leaned her forehead against his chest. “I’m so sorry. I got no sleep last night.”

Jack wound his arms around her and pulled her tight again, uncaring that they were still right beside her front door, barely a few steps inside. “And why not?”

“Ginger told me what happened and then you didn’t call. I was worried.” Her hands found purchase on his shoulders, thumbs rubbing against the buttery soft leather of his jacket. “Stupid in our line of work, right?” Her laugh was soft but sharp with self-deprecation. And she knew it was stupid. Knew that her line of work that nothing really was promised. That her time with Jack, no matter how much it made her smile, was never guaranteed.

“I never meant to-”

“It isn’t you, Jack. It is just… me, I guess. I think I worry too much.” She stepped back as she yawned again. “Sorry, jeez.”

But Jack just smiled. “Tell you what, Sunny. I’m here all week. I’ll let you worry about me all you want.”

“A week? Jack, you know I want to but I have to wor-”

Her phone chirped.

“Shit, sorry.” She pulled her phone from her pocket and frowned when she saw the message. It was from Roxy and it simply said;

Have fun! See you on Monday. ;)

It took a moment, but if finally dawned on her what it meant and she tossed her phone onto her couch with a smile. “It seems that I’m not expected back in the office until Monday.”

Jack let out a holler and all but started to drag her toward the staircase. She had to slap his hands away to lock her door before she let him grab at her sides and strong-arm her upstairs. Her laughter finally woke Bela from his mid-morning nap and he poked his head out of the guest room to let out an indignant huff at their noise before retreating again. Jack knew where her bedroom was, having been there for a total of ten minutes after Scotland, and he basically dragged her inside and plopped her onto her overstuffed mattress, rumpling the blankets immediately. And she happily let him crawl over her and pressed her down into the welcoming softness as he shucked his shoes and jacket. Hers soon followed with fumbling limbs and they both laughed as Jack continued to kiss her lips, her cheek, her nose, her neck—anywhere he could place his lips was quickly kissed. 

She let him pull his shirt off and divest her of her own and they both scrambled with their jeans and trousers before falling back against the pillows in a pair of matching, tired huffs. Maybe she should have been a little more demure about this casual near-nakedness—it was the first time they’d bared this much skin with each other—but all she felt was comfort when he looked at her. Some beautiful, gentle warmth bloomed in her chest as she looked at him.

Jack leaned forward to press a slow kiss against her lips as one of his hands landed on her hip, thumb tracing the lacy edge of her panties.

And she might have let him continue—let herself finally know what it was like to be touched by him in that way—but she yawned again and her eyes caught the fresh scar on his shoulder. Her fingers brushed against it, feeling how the skin was raised and twisted, something even Statesmen’s tech couldn’t stop with some injuries.

Jack’s hand stilled on her hip. “I’m okay, Sunshine. I’m right here with you.” But then he touched the mark across her stomach, the one she’d gained from their time in Italy. His fingers trailed to the scar on her chest and then down to another zig-zagging twist of puckered skin on her side. She shivered at the contact, nerves alight. “And you’re with me, yeah?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m with you.”

“Good.” He smiled, soft and tired-eyed. “Let’s get some sleep.” He reached back and managed to pull her sheets and blankets down enough for them to slide underneath and then slid an arm under her shoulders so he could bring her to his side as she closed her eyes. And she fell asleep to the quiet beat of his heart.

                                              **

She found Jack liked Hyde Park, free museums, and having tea. “It ain’t sweet tea, Sunshine. But it’ll do.”

And he never pressed her for more than a few heated kisses and she never swatted at his wandering hands, even when they seemed to always gravitate toward her ass when they were alone—he did have the sensibility to keep them above the waist when they were outside her house.

Again, she was struck with how easy and domestic it all ways. No one was shooting at them. No one was trying to poison them or use them for information. All they wanted from each other was each other.

It was just her and Jack and Bela and the occasional autumn rain sliding against the windows. And she let herself believe that her life could be like this—simple and fulfilling and quiet. They both had enough money in the bank to live very comfortably if they both wanted to leave—but she was definitely getting ahead of herself. In the grand scheme of things, she didn’t even know if Jack wanted that. What if he wanted to live out the rest of his life as a Statesmen, retirement be damned? Did she want to be in Kingsman for the rest of her life? Those thoughts didn’t stop her from realizing that her house finally felt like a home when he was inside it.

But when Jack’s lips found her neck as she finished drying the last pan from breakfast and his still-damp-from-the-washing hands wrapped around her waist, wetting her pajama shirt, all thoughts disappeared. All there was—was Jack.

“What are you up to?” She asked with a smile, turning in his grip to wrap her arms around his neck. His hair was still mussed from sleep and he had on only his boxers and a t-shirt, but he was handsome—so handsome in the low morning glow.

He didn’t answer but grabbed at his phone on the countertop and pulled up an app behind her back and soon Johnny Cash’s voice started to croon over the small speaker and flood the kitchen. She instantly recognized the tune and had to laugh. “Really, Jack?”

“You are my sunshine, my only sunshine,” he sang along, letting his fingers trail along until one of his hands was wrapped around her waist and the other was holding her hand against his chest.

She grasped his shoulder and let him lead her in a swaying, mellow version of a dance as the sunlight trickled through her kitchen window and painted everything in a hazy yellow while the air still smelled of sticky syrup and pancakes.

“You’ll never know, dear, how much I love you,” he sang, slightly off-key, the words muffled into her cheek, but they made her heart leap all the same. “Please don’t take my sunshine away.”

“This is a sad song, you know,” she said without making a move to change it.

“Yeah, I know,” he replied. And he sounded sad, too.

And that just about did her in. Well, that and the fact that he was set to be back in New York tomorrow. She pulled out of his grasp and grabbed at his phone, switching to another song with a forced smile. But the smile became real when he laughed at her choice, low and rumbling in his chest.

“Dolly and Kenny?”

“This song is a classic!” She argued, letting him pull her close again and she tried to follow him in an abbreviated two-step jaunt that had her laughing and pressing a kiss to his perfect, single dimple. But the song eventually ended, fading into another and then another. And their steps slowed too, once again simply swaying on her cool tile floor. “I don’t want you to be sad—not with me.”

His next breath was slow but his grip tightened. “I think you make me the happiest I’ve ever been, Sunshine.”

“You make me happy, too.” She turned, murmuring the words into his chest like a secret, like if she said it too loudly it would be used as a weapon. “We really wasted a lot of time, didn’t we?”

“But we turned up exactly where we’re supposed to be.” He turned to press a kiss to the top of her head. “You know I love you, right?”

And her heart sprouted wings in her chest while the smile splitting her face almost hurt. “Yeah.” She turned her head just enough to look up at him, seeing him already looking down at her. “I love you, too.”

Easy. It was so easy. And they continued to sway to the music even as he turned his head just enough to catch her lips again in a kiss that so sweetly stole the breath from her lungs. Her lips were slick and tender from his ministrations but it was an ache she would gladly live with, especially when he gently grasped her face in his hands to angle her face just-so, leading the kiss until she was unmoving in his hold. Her hands circled his wrists and she sighed against his mouth. A different kind of heat was starting to curl in her stomach like perfumed smoke that left her whining when Whiskey pulled back to breathe.

“You look so pretty like this, darlin’. I’ve never seen you look like this before.”

“Like what?” Her voice was hoarse.

“Like you want me to eat you alive.”

Her heart stuttered in her chest at the dark, hungry look in his eyes. Heat took root in her stomach, clenching her muscles and her hands unconsciously fisting the soft material of his shirt. “Oh.” She swallowed the dry lump in her throat. “You…you want to?”

And he laughed and kissed her again—god, she could never get enough of his lips. “You gonna let me?” His warm hands slid down to grab at her hips and he tugged her a little closer. “Huh? You gonna let Jack eat that pretty-”

Her hand pressed against his mouth as she bit back a laugh. “Don’t refer to yourself in the third person if you want to get anywhere near me.” And then she felt him smile against her fingers. “I mean it.” The words were stilted with her laugh which only grew when she felt his lips pucker so he could kiss her fingers.

He reached up to gently remove her hand, the hungry look in his eyes now sparkling with a bit of mischief. “You drive a hard bargain.” His fingers tangled with hers and started to tug her toward her staircase. “But I accept.”

The pair was quiet as they retreated to sun-soaked haven of her bedroom. Warm hands slipped beneath her shirt and dragged it up to just beneath her breasts but then stalled, a quiet question in his eyes that was quickly answered with a swift nod. He pulled her shirt up and over her head and tossed it aside—his shirt quickly followed. He moved to brush a kiss against the scar over her chest as his palm settled over the scar on her stomach, like he was trying to wipe it away. She reached out to cradle his face and pulled him up, smiling against his mouth as he sighed.

“I’m here,” she said as she stretched to brush against the faded scar at his temple. “We’re just fine.” Her skilled fingers curled under the elastic band of his boxers and shucked them down his legs before he shuffled her backward. Her knees hit her bed and he pushed her back to make her bounce on the mattress. It was then that she allowed herself to truly admire him—strong legs and chest, a little soft around the middle, but still very capable. She found herself licking her licks—a little unconsciously—as she eyed his cock as it curved up toward his stomach. “Are you just going to stare?”

“Well, you are such a pretty picture.” But he climbed over her anyway, mouth slanting over hers with a passion and curl of his tongue that had her moaning and delighting in how he almost shivered under her hands as they trailed down his chest. He pulled away from her mouth to let out a groan of his own when her warm hand encircled his hard cock and squeezed. “Don’t be cruel, Sunny. I want to get to the main event before I make a mess.” Jack shuffled back, pressing wet kisses against her throat, her chest, her stomach, before he huffed out a long breath against her sleep shorts and it was her turn to shiver. He slowly pulled them down her legs and he pressed a kiss against the lace of her underwear before he pulled those down, too, tossing them over his shoulder. “So pretty for me,” he murmured, mostly to himself as his hands around her legs to pull her open, exposing her to the warm air of the room and his greedy gaze.

She curled her fingers into his thick hair as he dragged his nose along her folds, breathing her in. He had barely begun and she already felt like she was floating, held down to the bed just by his strong hands on her thighs. His tongue finally—finally parted his beautiful lips and he licked, strong and firm.

And she keened, hips lifting from the bed only to be pulled back down by his unyielding grip. And the bastard had the audacity to laugh and glanced up at her, mustache wet and glistening in the low light.

“Be good, darlin’. I wanna treat you real nice.”

“If you don’t finish-” The next words stalled in her throat as he licked another firm stripe before sucking her clit between his smiling lips. “Fuck!”

And then he truly began—a ravenous mix of tongue and plush lips moving against her and stealing any sort of coherent thought she might have had. He didn’t stop when she thrashed in his grip with her first. Didn’t stop when she tugged on his hair with the second. Didn’t stop when she wailed and panted and pleaded for a bit of a reprieve as the third started to crest and the damp spot beneath her legs continued to grow. But he let it build, continued to let her writhe under his hands until he was drinking her down like ambrosia again.

“J-Jack, please! Enough,” she begged, tugging on his disheveled hair. Her sigh was a little broken in her throat when he finally raised his head, smile glistening. He was such a pretty sight, bracketed between her thighs. A shiver shot down her spine as he pressed a kiss to her hip. “You… are something else, Jack.”

He chuckled and pressed another sticky kiss to her other hip. “I’ve been wanting to know what you tasted like for years, Sunshine.”

She slid her hands down to frame his face, letting her thumb brush against the edge of his mustache letting just a bit of slick coat her thumb before bringing it up to her mouth and sucking. His mouth dropped and a guttural groan pushed passed his shining lips as he watched. The sharp tang of herself was lost to her as he suddenly reared back onto his knees and he climbed over her, legs pushing against hers to spread her wide and hands dropping to either side of her head on the rumpled blankets. The feel of him pressing against the crux of her thighs made her moan, soft and breathy as he loomed above.

“I never thought you’d be a tease.”

“I just wanted to know what the fuss was about,” she shot back, fighting a smile, but it bloomed just as Jack’s did and he laughed before pressing a kiss to her lips and she tasted herself again.

He dropped to his elbows so he could gently cradle her face. “You got one more in ya? Just about did me in like a teenager.”

She laughed and let her hands pull through his hair again. “I think I can try, for you.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I wanna know what the fuss is about,” she repeated, smiling into his lips as he bent down to kiss her again with a laugh of his own.

“Be kind to me, darlin’. I’m half-cocked already, finger on the trigger.”

“Oh?” She wiggled her hips and tried to bite back a smile when his eyes fluttered shut as she let herself glide against him. “I think you’re more than half-cocked.”

His hands suddenly grasped at her cheeks and he stole the breath from her lung with a vicious sort of ease despite the smile she still felt him pressing against her mouth. “Mean, baby.”

One hand slipped down and her entire body jolted as she felt him push the tip of his cock up and down, up and down along her folds before catching against her opening. Then, in one slow, delicious push, he slid inside. Her entire body seemed to catch fire as he bottomed out, curls at the base of him scratching against her skin. The stretch burned but she didn’t care—she didn’t care because he was there. Her Jack. And she was so deliciously full. Her hands scrambled to grab at his shoulders again and she barely managed to sigh out a heated “move” before he slipped his arms around her back and was dragging in and out with a slow, harsh thrust that had her choking on every breath while he pinned her down. Every sense was Jack—touch, taste, sound, sight, smell. All of it was him.

And that was sending her careening toward another orgasm at an embarrassingly quick pace. To finally have Jack, the man she’d been in love with for years, made it all the more terrifyingly lovely and erotic.

“You feel like heaven,” he grunted. “Tight, beautiful heaven.”

“Oh please,” she breathed, shaking hands reaching down his back, feeling his muscles flex as he continued to thrust. “Please.”

“I wanna feel ya, Sunshine. Wanna feel ya gush for me. Can you do that?” His slow drag continued and he buried his face into her sweat-slick neck, tongue sliding against her pulse.

“I want to feel you too, Jack.” Somehow she managed to find the words she needed through her buzzing mind. “Give it to me. It’s okay.”

He pulled one of his arms from around her back and slipped it between their tightly bound bodies, finding her clit like he had done it thousands of times and rubbed quick, firm circles that had her crying out and turning her head to kiss him, catching his jaw with her lips. “You first, Sunshine.”

And she erupted, one more time, shaking and shuddering in his grasp as white light flashed behind her eyes. But then she heard Jack’s beautiful, broken groan as his hips stilled, flush against hers, and warmth flooded as he gave a few small thrusts, chasing the last bits of his high. Her lips pressed against his neck, his cheek, finally finding his panting mouth. Her fingers traced his spine as they both tried to catch their breaths, bodies still reeling from the aftershocks. The afterglow was quiet and warm and perfect—sticky, syrupy, sweet. When Jack went to pull away, she tightened her grip on his back the slightest bit, uncaring of the slick she felt trickling down to puddle beneath them. “Stay a little bit. I like how you feel.”

His breath was warm against her skin, smelling of syrup and mint. “I’ll stay as long as you want.”

                                             **

“Call me when you land.”

“It’ll be late-”

“I’ll be awake. Just call.” She tried to press a smile to her lips but she was sure it looked withered. With all the years of subterfuge and espionage she had under her belt, it still seemed like she now couldn’t lie with him. Maybe her heart just couldn’t take it anymore. It refused to go back to pulling into frowns or impassivity.

Jack brushed his lips against hers with a sigh. “I’ll call. I promise.”

She sucked in a breath as her hands pressed against his chest, feeling his warmth and steady heartbeat. “I kinda got used to having you all to myself, Whiskey.”

And then he was quiet, face pulled tight, before he wrapped his arms around her. He pulled her close and pressed a kiss against her forehead. “Let me see what I can do, Sunshine.”

“Jack-”

“Because I got used to being able to kiss you whenever I wanted. I got used to saying I love you whenever I wanted—”

“We just started saying that yesterday,” she grumbled, half-pleased, half-despondent.

“I got used to being able to kiss you any time I felt like it.” And then he stole another kiss. “But I’ll be back soon.”

“Promise?” She whispered.

“I promise that I’m very hard to get rid of.”

She liked the sound of that.

                                               **

Two years later:

“Bela! No!” The corgi had stolen a piece of toast from the counter���how did he even get up there?—and tried to scamper away with the large treat.

Jack had been planning for weeks. His Sunshine had taken an assignment in Prague alongside Ginger Percival and Lancelot and was due back home in just a handful of minutes. He wanted everything perfect. The perfect flowers, the perfect music, the perfect meal (breakfast for dinner was a favorite of hers).

Perfect—until the dog stole a piece of toast.

It had been a year and a half since he had stepped back from Statesman, becoming a consultant for more complicated missions and only stepping into the field for end-of-the-world scenarios. He had shown up on his Sunny’s doorstep with a bag in hand and she had welcomed him inside without blinking.

She was…she was everything. His love. His second chance. His Sunny, filling every part of his scarred heart with warmth like sunlight sparkling on a skyscraper, sending beams of light into every dark corner and alley.

And living with her? It was so easy. His own slice of paradise on this wretched earth. They were a family—him, her, the dog. But he had definitely wanted more and he knew she did, too—they’d talked about it during more than a handful late-night phone calls and when they were wrapped up in each other under her soft blankets. And maybe they could have that. Maybe they could have a little more of this beautiful paradise.

He heard the door open and Sunny greeted Bela. “Hi, baby. Where’d you get toast?” She walked into the kitchen, carrying the corgi who was still chewing on the pilfered toast with his tiny, sharp teeth. She smiled as she looked at him and quickly pressed a slow, soft kiss to his mouth. “Hi, handsome.”

“Welcome home, Sunshine.”

She bent to set Bela on the ground and then gave him another kiss before looking around at the kitchen, seeing the spread of food and the large bouquet of her favorite flowers. “I will never get tired of coming home to you.” She plucked a piece of toast from the plate and took a bite and he watched as she smiled with crumbs on her lips.

For a moment—just a moment—the small box tucked in his back pocket could wait. He wanted to look at her a little longer.

A/N: And that’s all she wrote, folks! Please let me know what you think! Thank you all for reading. I love you. Period. The end.

Beautiful people who asked to be tagged: @spookyold-saintjm​ @honestlystop​ @paryl​  @fioccodineveautunnale @lackofhonor @ahopelessromanticwritersworld​ @chibi-liz05​ @huliabitch​ @iellaren-uodo-rian​ @roxypeanut​ @mrpascals​ @paintballkid711​

[cntrspll]

this is a love letter to my own fic

hi hello hey, this is an essay about my own fic and the feelings i have about it. fic can be found here.

i am going to try so hard to keep this organized but i don’t know how well that will work soooo let’s go!

on the fic overall:

i just... like magnus. i think he is a fan fave for a reason, but i think there’s a lot of missing discussion of his post-canon situation and the development thereafter. when i finished listening to balance for the first time (in february-ish this year, i think?), i remember being super frustrated with where parts of the fandom had landed their focus. this isn’t an uncommon fandom thing, and i totally get where it comes from. some characters are just super relatable and a lot of fun to write about and have like absolute piles of stuff to unpack, so it’s totally fair that some characters get more focus than others, but where i felt that some of my faves got a lot of fandom focus, others... didn’t.

so this fic was in part an attempt to rectify that, because i wasn’t finding the unpacking of magnus and his emotional / mental state that i wanted. that being said, there are a couple fics that i did draw a little bit of inspiration from, the biggest probably being patterns of migration by goodnicepeople. the depiction of magnus as this big strong dude who also has these quiet vulnerabilities that he doesn’t like admitting to people is like, in part just really accurate to canon, but also something that i really wanted to see explored more, and i didn’t find a whole lot of other fics that fit that, so in part i just wanted to set out to put a little more into that.

also, like, i work in food service, and we are in a pandemic, and i moved in the middle of this year and i started hrt this year and have been dealing with the fallout of coming out and just kind of everything, and this fic was a really good way of just like, distracting myself from everything and sitting down for a little every day and thinking about something else and not so much about everything that was happening around me. so there is a good part of this fic that is just like, me coping with everything and trying to reorient myself a little. and it worked pretty well for that!

on process:

ok first things first, this was never meant to be 133k long. when i first sat down to write this, it was going to be a handful of snapshots set across [undetermined amount of time here] of magnus dealing with isolation and insomnia, and it was only meant to be like, maybe a 20k oneshot? that obviously did not happen. i think my original estimate once i accepted that this was gonna be multichaptered was like 60-70k, but then the chapters started getting longer with each one i finished, and then i wanted to add in an interlude, and then i decided i needed an epilogue, and here we are.

i’ll talk about this in other sections too, but as i wrote, i just kept finding more and more things that i wanted to talk about. i was also in the process of relistening to balance i was writing, and i kept running into little things that happened over the course of the show that i was like... oh shit! and that would inspire another scene or an interaction i wanted to write or something i wanted to focus more on, and the whole thing just kept getting more and more and bigger and bigger.

i’ve said it like 50 thousand times now, but i have never written anything this long before. i tried really hard to be regimented about the way i did it, because from the beginning i knew this was going to be an emotional journey for me to write, but i knew that if i let it slide for a week or so then i would never finish it. so to get through it, i wrote almost every day for a minimum of an hour. the process that i’ve found works best for me when i’m writing is using word sprints, putting on some music, and then forcing myself to tune out of social media and everything else for 25 minutes. i try to do between 750-1k words in that time period, then the site gives you a five minute break, during which i usually check twitter or fact check if i need to, and then i go back in and do another sprint. this works really well for me because i wasn’t trying to hit a specific word goal in any given day, just like... trying to sit down and write. i also tried not to guilt myself too much if i missed a day, or if i only did one sprint instead of two, or anything like that, and that’s kind of what helped me get through the whole monster without instantly dropping it as soon as i had another idea.

on mental health and recovery:

so one of my big personal pet peeves in fiction is the idea that trauma recovery is like, a one time single event deal. like, someone has this big horrible thing happen to them or they have some pressing mental health issue and then someone else walks in and they have one conversation and bam, everything is fine. i was exposed to a lot of [fan]fiction when i was younger that kind of supported this kind of narrative, and i get that there is a certain sort of wish fulfillment thing to that, but it also sucks, being an adult and having Problems(TM) and knowing that it absolutely does not work like that.

so when i set out to write a fic about trauma and mental illness and recovery, i felt kind of a responsibility to not fall into that trap and write it like, okay and then magnus and taako talk about it and taako’s like hey dude you’re depressed but it’s okay and then magnus doesn’t have nightmares anymore. also, because this is taz and the canon of like, historical accuracy is complete bullshit, i can put therapists and psychiatry and psychiatric medications in my fic and no one can tell me i’m wrong and it doesn’t exist. elevators exist, so i can make ssris and anti anxiety pills exist.

but also, magnus as a character is not going to jump into that right away. it is canon fact that he doesn’t like accepting or asking for help with stuff like this, and yes there are a couple big moments where he does, but like i bring up a couple times in the fic, mental health struggles are a big jump from like, a physical fight using swords and axes and shit. and this i think is really accurate to a lot of people’s struggles with mental illness, just taking that first step and admitting that you don’t feel okay, and that you need someone’s help to deal with it. that’s super super scary even to admit to like, your closest friends.

so that’s why magnus kind of shies away a number of times from some of the conversations that people try to start with him about mental health. taako and carey and lucretia and pretty much everyone else approach him at some point about opening up about this stuff, but he pulls away because admitting that kind of vulnerability to someone else is super scary, even if you’ve maybe admitted it to yourself already.

i also wanted to make sure that at the end of the fic, he wasn’t magically better. this is something else that i think people kind of forget, like... trauma and the problems that it causes don’t go away just because of therapy and medication. those things help, they help you reform the ways you think about yourself and about the world, but they don’t change the struggles you’ve been through or the sometimes biological problems that are causing whatever issue you’re having. and i remember reading a lot of fic when i was a kid where someone would be depressed, and then they’d fall in love and get magic dick or something and then they’d never be sad again, which... isn’t great.

but at the same time, i didn’t want it to end on this note like, oh everything is still bad even though he worked so hard to open up and get help, because that sucks, too. so it was really important to me that the fic end on a hopeful note, like, magnus isn’t cured. he still has bad days and bad weeks and sometimes he is just as low as he was before, but he also has like, normal days, which is something that i think you kind of forget can even exist when you’re depressed, or when you’re dealing with any mental illness. but like, i really wanted it to be obvious that things did get better and even if he’s still coping with it and it’s not going away, he’s okay. he’s gonna be all right.

on an unreliable narrator:

this kind of plays into some of the mental health stuff, but one thing that i love about taz that i really wanted to play into with this fic is the idea of limited perspective. griffin does some really cool fucking things with this, specifically in relation to the ipre and the big reveal in the last lunar interlude, with the idea of like... a character can only know the things that they know. like, magnus knows that there is a picture of him depicted as a red robe, and barry knows that they’re all red robes, and taako knows that they found the umbra staff next to a red robed skeleton and that the umbrella spelled out lup at one point, but none of them necessarily know all the things that the other person knew, and none of them know all the things that lucretia knows or that fisher knows or junior knows, etc etc.

unfortunately, just because the pace of the story picks up so much in that last lunar interlude, there isn’t a whole lot of space to explore that like, disconnect between all these facts that they each have as individuals. and given the perspective of mental health and the way that plays into your perceptions of yourself and your perceptions of other people’s perceptions, i really wanted to delve into like… magnus’s misunderstandings.

this is not a strictly straightforward unreliable narrator situation, but i did bring in some elements of that. i really wanted to explore the disconnect between how magnus sees and how everyone else sees him and his issues. there are also a couple moments where he flat out completely misinterprets their intentions, which unfortunately i didn’t delve into as much as i wanted to so they ended up mostly being fun easter eggs for, uh… me? i guess?

one of those moments is the scene in ch 4 where barry and magnus are sitting in the kitchen and barry starts to ask magnus something. magnus assumes it’s going to be about his mental health, and that this is barry stepping up as representative for everyone else to talk to him about it, but it’s really meant to be a precursor to their conversation in ch 6 where they talk about barry and lup and marriage and proposals.

magnus gets a little perspective on this later, i think in ch 7(?) where he’s thinking about how maybe their lives don’t completely revolve around him and he’s missing some of their perspective. but like, they all have their own shit going on, and they all love him and they’re worried about him, but also, barry is thinking about lup. lup is thinking about taako. taako is thinking about lucretia. lucretia is thinking about davenport, and davenport is thinking about his own issues, and so on and so on and they’re not all just like… waiting to pounce on magnus the second he shows weakness.

a lot of that plays into the hypervigilance of ptsd, too. magnus is very aware of any perceived threat, and he sometimes treats the people around him as threats, when all they’re doing in reality is thinking like, man i wish he didn’t live out here by himself all the time.

on a more meta note, i also have a tendency to make every character i write just like, a super good judge of character. i don’t think magnus is that, and i really wanted to lean into that. magnus does not read intention super well, even when that intention is genuinely good.

on the ipre and their relationships:

so i… really don’t write gen fic a lot. even when i do, it is almost always tinged with a little bit of background shipping, and there is some of that in this, but whereas in most fandoms i end up being a multishipper, for some reason with taz i’ve ended up pretty much only caring about the canon ships (sorry…). that being said, the platonic relationships in taz (and especially in balance) are some of the most compelling and important fictional relationships that i’ve ever encountered. like, they are just really well fucking done.

this being the magnus love letter that it is, i really wanted to focus on magnus’s distinct relationships with every member of the ipre crew. i don’t know how obvious this is in the actual narrative, but with the exception of the interlude and the epilogue, the story is broken down into one chapter for each member of the starblaster crew (in order, magnus, taako, merle, davenport, barry, lucretia, lup). i did this specifically because it was really important to me that i dive into all of them and their particular issues. i didn’t quite get the deep dive with merle or davenport that i would’ve liked to, but hopefully in the future i’ll get more time to explore that.

anyway, in case it isn’t obvious, lup is probably my favorite fictional character literally ever in any media created by anyone in the history of time. i say this only because a lot of this fic was set up to build to the conversation between her and magnus in ch 8 out on the mountain where he finally opens up for the first time. there are some really incredible unexplored parallels and relationships in taz (unexplored mainly because like, where would it even fit in canon), and while some of them are super self indulgent (ie, lup and mags, barry and mags), i really really really wanted to dig into those a little more. things like the conversation where taako is talking about everyone brushing over his trauma to rush to forgive lucretia, or lucretia talking about trying to learn to love writing again and recognize happy moments, davenport almost admitting that he’s not completely sure about stepping back into the family in his former role… i could write an entire fic on any of these, really.

but ultimately, this being a magnus fic, i tried to filter those conversations through a perspective of two things: first, how does this affect magnus and his mental health journey, and second, what can magnus do to help this. those scenes where magnus is trying to help someone with something and they’re like, backhandedly helping him are some of my favorite interactions in the fic.

the other thing i really really really wanted to explore that i never see enough of in fic is magnus and carey’s relationship. carey is canonically magnus’s best friend, and yet in fic i feel like she gets pushed to the side a little in favor of the starblaster crew. which i get, they’ve got a hundred and ten years of shared trauma, but also, travis flat out states that carey is magnus’s best friend, so… i mean, there is also a little bit of self indulgence here, because i am also a man who is exclusively best friends with lesbians, but you know.

that being said, i really wanted to emphasize that relationship in particular, which is why carey doesn’t have her own dedicated chapter and instead kind of slides in and out of each one and slowly helps magnus along the way. her personality i also feel is like, the exact kind of thing that magnus needs to push him into accepting / asking for help and moving towards recovery.

on real life parallels:

ok, i swear to god i did not intend to make this a holiday fic posted during the holidays. i started writing this in june, and again, it was only meant to be like 20k and not necessarily entirely set during candlenights. that kind of happened, anyway? candlenights just seemed like the best vessel to get all these characters whose post-canon situations i wanted to explore into the same room, and i finished the first draft around mid october and i wanted to give myself plenty of time for editing, so it honestly just ended up coincidentally aligning with the holidays. go figure.

that being said, isolation ended up featuring pretty heavily in this fic. that i think is to be expected to a certain degree given the nature of mental health and recovery and blah blah blah, but i probably unintentionally ended up leaning into it a little more because like… this year. and the holidays tend to be a time that a lot of us feel really isolated, and this year especially, but one of the big things for me this year is that like, all of my friends live out of state. the closest one to me is still a good 2-3 hour plane ride, which i am absolutely not risking. i had like a hundred plans to go see people and do things this year, and those obviously got cancelled.

probably the biggest one of those things was seeing a friend who i have kind of started a new years tradition of seeing, but we ended up calling that off out of safety considerations, of course. and it sucks! it’s not fun! i also moved out this year and i have my own place and in june i was really hoping that things would be okay by now and i could have all my friends come in from out of town for new years and that didn’t happen. and i wasn’t intending for this fic to be a kind of wish fulfillment of like, here’s my new place post-[saving the universe / coming out and becoming a real person], let me show my found family around my hometown and let’s make new holiday traditions together now that we’re no longer [fighting the apocalypse / literal children] and everything will be fun and happy and good, but that is kind of what happened anyway. [insert joke here that goes like “do you project your real world problems and mental health issues onto fictional characters or are you normal?”]

but yeah, magnus’s mental health struggles did kind of accidentally become a little bit of a pandemic / quarantine life parallel. i did not mean for that to happen, but it did help me tease out a little bit of what it is that i feel like i’m missing and what i want in the future when things are better, and i hope it helped some other people figure that stuff out too, maybe?

and in conclusion:

i said this a little bit in the final notes in the fic, but i am so so so grateful and emotional over the comments i’ve gotten from some of you. i’ve said it already, but this was such an emotional rollercoaster for me to write. i put a decent amount of my own mental health issues into the stuff i wrote into magnus, and it was genuinely therapeutic and like… super helpful and important. it was also a big struggle, and there were some scenes i came out of feeling incredibly drained and like i needed to not write for a week.

so that being said, those of you who have commented things about how this fic helped you deal with your own emotional turmoil or helped put something in perspective for you, i am genuinely so happy to hear that i’ve impacted you in that way like, at all. that is so incredible to me, and not necessarily what i set out to do, but it means so much to hear someone say that and also to know that someone felt comfortable sharing that with a stranger on the internet. thank you so so so much.

again, this fic means so much to me. the fact that it’s impacted even a handful of people in that way is absolutely amazing. some of the things you guys have said have had me seriously choked up. i am so glad that anyone even took the time to read all 133k of this, let alone that it affected people like that.

i don’t know if i’ll be writing more about magnus in this universe. i would love to! but i’m also super happy with where i’ve left his story. i have plans to explore the calen thing in the future, but only kind of tangentially in a side mention and not fully, so who knows? there is more though, a lot with taako and kravitz and lup and barry and hopefully one day i will find the motivation somewhere in me to flesh out everyone else’s situations a little more, too. who knows!

anyway, i just want to say thanks again to everyone for reading, and even more so if you are reading this dumb essay. you’re super cool.

[missmentelle]

Hi, thank you so much for running this blog :) I am often afraid that my gf will become abusive. I frequently run scenarios through my head of what I would do if she hit me or sexually assaulted me and I get so scared I can't calm down all day when she might be mad at me. But idk why I'm like this because she isn't like that at all. I've never been in a relationship before. Do you have any advice to get over this?

This is the unfortunate trade-off of there being increased awareness of abusive relationships and potential red flags and warning signs - although it’s great that more people now know what to look for in an abusive relationship, I’ve also noticed that some people have become hyper-vigilant about possible abuse, to the point that they are no longer able to enjoy their relationships. The word “toxic” in particular has been thrown around so much that I’m not sure it has any real meaning anymore - saying that your ex was “toxic” can mean anything from “they physically abused me” to “they didn’t tolerate me being crappy to them”, and it can make people concerned that every relationship that doesn’t “work out” in the long run (which is most of them) must have been “toxic” or “damaging” in some way. When you see constant reminders of abusive relationships everywhere, you’re more inclined to start worrying that abuse might always be just around the corner. 

For what it’s worth, this isn’t a personal failing on your part - this is something called “the availability heuristic” or “availability bias”, and it’s part of how the human brain works. Basically, we tend to assume that things we’re most familiar with are more likely to happen or more important than they actually are. I’m guessing neither of us is old enough to remember the 1979 kidnapping of Etan Patz in NYC, but that kidnapping case launched an absolute explosion of fear across America that people were going to snatch their kids, and kicked off the “stranger danger” campaigns that continue to this day - even now, a lot of parents live in constant fear that their child will be abducted, even though stranger abductions of children in the US have always been insanely rare (on par with being struck by lightning), and children are in much, much greater danger of dying from heart attacks, swimming pool drownings or firearm accidents, which don’t get nearly as much attention. 

Our brains are just not very good at judging risk or probability, and so we take mental shortcuts to do it. It made sense ten thousand years ago - if you knew five people who got been eaten by lions it’s probably safe to say that lion attacks are a real danger in your community - but those mental shortcuts just don’t work very well in our incredibly complex world. We are afraid of the dangers we’re most familiar with, not the dangers that are most likely to happen to us. The availability heuristic is why most people tend to assume that breast cancer kills the most people (it’s lung cancer, by a mile - breast cancer is fourth), or why many people think that you’re more likely to die from homicide than diabetes (the numbers aren’t even close - diabetes is one of the top causes of death in both the US and the world at large). Nobody wants bad things to happen to them, so when we learn about a bad thing happening, it’s very difficult to sit yourself down and think “okay, how likely is this thing in my present circumstances” - our brains just want to be afraid.  If you are finding that the constant fear of being abused is creating a dark cloud over your relationship, I think you have three major options for dealing with it and getting to a place where you can enjoy your relationship in peace:

Remind yourself that abuse is the exception, not the rule. The majority of relationships are not abusive, and even among abusive relationships, the majority never turn physically or sexually violent. Everyone experiences some crappy and painful moments in their relationships (that’s true of all relationships, not just romantic ones), but when most relationships end, it’s not because of violence - it’s far more likely for relationships to end because you want different things in life, or because you just have nothing in common anymore, or because one person needs to move away and you’re both not on board with long distance. Plus, in your case, you already kind of have one of the greatest statistical protections from abuse that you can have - you’re dating a female partner. That’s not to say that women never turn abusive toward their partners - they can, and abuse from female partners is just as serious as male partners - but from a probability standpoint, you are much less likely to experience abuse from female partners vs. male partners. 

Set healthy boundaries and stick to them. The best protection against abuse is to know the warning signs, set good boundaries, and be prepared to bail if those boundaries are being consistently crossed. When I say “set boundaries”, I don’t mean that you should keep your partner at arm’s length - they should absolutely be the closest person in your life. I simply mean that you should have no tolerance for behaviours that lead up to abuse. If your partner wants to look through your phone, the answer is no. If they demand that you go change into more ‘appropriate’ clothes before you leave the house, the answer is no (assuming you aren’t trying to wear bright yellow to their mom’s funeral). If they throw or break something during an argument, that’s a hard no. Abusive relationships tend to start out with “mild” behaviours that gradually escalate as your tolerance for these behaviours grows - one of the best defenses you can have is simply to identify cut-off points where you would absolutely leave the relationship, and then stick to those. 

Speak with a therapist. This level of anxiety about abusive relationships could point to an emerging or underlying anxiety disorder, and it’s important to speak to a professional about what you’re going through. Relationships are supposed to be a source of support, happiness and comfort - if your relationship is a source of terror and anxiety, even when there’s no sign of abusive behaviour, that’s an issue that needs to be addressed. Any time anxiety is preventing you from enjoying your life, it’s important to talk to a professional so you can get the help that you need to start enjoying your life again. 

At the end of the day, relationships are supposed to be a positive thing in our lives - our partner is often our best friend, closest confidante, and our adventure buddy, and even though it’s important to be aware of the warning signs that come with abuse, it’s also important to make sure that fear isn’t holding us back from enjoying our lives, especially when we don’t actually see any signs of danger. If you’re at the beach and a shark is spotted in the area, you should probably get out of the water, but until that happens, it’s important to just enjoy yourself - letting your fear of sharks keep you away from the beach means missing out on some of the joy life has to offer. 

Best of luck to you! MM

[alleiradayne]

New Year (A Review)

I wrote a lot last year. More than I’ve ever written in any one year before. So on this New Year’s Day, I’m going to take a look back on 2019. For science.

To preface, in 2018 I transitioned from BioWare fanfiction to Supernatural fanfiction after finishing a massive 150k Dragon Age Modern AU fic. Prior to that though, in the summer of 2017, I started outlining The End. Over the last two years, I’ve been outlining and writing that book. It’s going to be a Death-of-the-Author/Fix-It fic. I’m definitely looking forward to getting back to that in 2020.

And by getting back to that, I mean actually writing it again.I put in minimal time on that piece at the end of 2018 and throughout 2019 for a number of reasons. I had a baby in November of 2018. Then I signed up for what felt like a thousand SPN Bingos, of which I only finished two. I also offered up two lots in the 2019 Fic-Facer$ Auction. And then I still had to write my Fic-Facer$ lot from 2018. I didn’t get nearly as much done as I would have liked but here’s a summary.

SPN Kink Bingo 2019 - All twenty-five squares filled, so many of which pushed me from my comfort zone, discovered new ships (hello, Ruby/Abbadon!), and tried my hand at different styles of writing. Some favorites:

Killer Queen - Where I discovered my love for Ruby/Abbadon, and was incredibly proud of my healthy (albeit graphic) depiction of a BDSM relationship.

Holy Smoke - Oh Saileen. My favorite canon-character ship.

Unconventional - This is one of my favorites from last year. I had a blast writing this J2 x Reader RPF series.

Dazed and Confused - When I offered up my free space for Kink Bingo to my followers for a request, I received the ask for a submissive Dean/Reader fic. And I went completely perfectly overboard.

Poison - Of course I can’t leave out my OC, Elizabeth Andersson, and some dominant Dean.

Cover You In Oil - Follow up to Poison

Rocket Queen - Okay, I’ll admit, I’m a slut for the F/M/M threesome. Sabriel is also a guilty pleasure ship for me. Tossing in my OC Natalie Murphy, my imagination ran wild.

SPN Fluff Bingo 2019 - Again, I filled all twenty-five squares, and had an absolute blast writing these. It was a really nice break after writing a metric shit ton of smut. More faves:

There’s Something Strange - This is easily my favorite thing I wrote all year. I struggled with the idea of an Author AU for weeks. Sam was the author for a while. Then Dean. Then Castiel. Then I finally came to the conclusion that the reader should be the author. Because meta. There are all sorts of pop culture references in this story, from Ghostbusters to Harry Potter to Dungeons and Dragons to Betrayal at the House On the Hill to Mansions of Madness. I hold this piece so close to my heart and loved how it turned out.

Anyway, Here’s Wonderwall - Greek God AU? How the hell do you do that? Easy. Sam is the god of the underworld and his eternal love visits him to ensure the change of seasons in the mortal realm.

Photograph - Superhero AU. Ugh. AUs are a damn struggle for me! But I am so happy with how this one turned out.

Have a Drink On Me - Business AU. This is almost canon-divergent. What if they’d never got into hunting? Sam and Dean start a bar. Platonic Fluff is always welcome here.

Secret Agent Man - Spy AU. I bent the rules a bit and went more with a hitman John Wick style world for Sam and Natalie.

Dead or Alive - Biker AU. I know I say I struggle with AUs but all of my favorite fluff pieces were AUs! And this one was especially fun!

About half way through the year I realized I wasn’t going to finish all the bingos I signed up for earlier in the year. So here’s what I got done for the others:

SPN Heaven and Hell Bingo 2019 - A truly challenging bingo, I struggled with so many of these squares. But, of the ones I finished in 2019, here’s my faves:

Yesterday’s Son - Apocalypse. I wrote this the day the guys announced the show was going to end with Season 15.

Hallowed Be Thy Name - Escaping Hell. A fun time-lapse piece on Dean’s time in Hell and his escape.

SPN Broment Bingo 2019 - Brotherly moments. I always need more of those.

Let It Be - Father’s Day. Tough topic, especially right after losing their mom again.

Here In My Car - They’ve always known Baby would be there for them.

That’s it for bingos. I flaked out on a couple others at the end of the year. Just didn’t have the time because, on top of those, I wrote three commissions for Fic-Facer$.

Rx: Physical Therapy - For the 2018 auction, I began posting this in January of 2019. The winning bidder requested a doctor AU Destiel fic. In this story, Castiel Novak is a surgeon and Dean Winchester is a physical therapist. I very much enjoyed writing this, but it took me a long time to get into it. It was my first steps in the Destiel ship, too.

Stuck In the Middle With You - I offered up two lots for the 2019 auction. This was the first. I did not post this to Tumblr. The winning bidder requested a cuckold threesome featuring his wife/Dean/Castiel while he (the bidder) watched. He gifted this piece to his wife. It is a male reader perspective.

Cowboys and Angels - For my second lot, @castielscarma and I talked a good bit before she requested this from me. And given all the other writing projects I had, she has graciously and patiently waited for me to get to this until the end of the year. It’s almost finished.

And here’s a few random things I wrote:

The Prophecy - A follower challenge.

Merry Christmas, Ya Filthy Animals - A Fluffy Christmas challenge piece.

That’s everything! It comes out to a grand total of 

201,081‬ Words

posted for the year.

A giant thank you to @atc74 for all your time beta’ing and listening to me freak out about insane shit. Another thank you to @just-another-busy-fangirl for running bingos so damn smoothly despite all the Tumblr fuckery. And a giant thank you to all my readers. I cannot thank you enough for all of your wonderful comments, replies, squeeing, likes, and reblogs. You are truly wonderful.

Happy New Year!

The Whole Thang:

@atc74  @hannahindie @bevans87  @meganwinchester1999  @oneshoeshort @jonogueira @andkatiethings @elfinmox @princessofthefandomrealm  @just-another-busyfangirl​ @jmekitchens @81mysteriouslyme​ @dolphincliffs  @seenashwrite​  @canadianspnhunter​  @meowmeow-motherfucker​  @staycejo1​ @hobby27​  @pretty-fortune​ @mypopculturediva​ @fanfictionjunkie1112​ @sandlee44​ @4llmywr1tings​ @claitynroberts​ @maddiepants​ @donnaintx​ @blackeyedangel9805​ @rainflowermoon​ @winchesterprincessbride​  @lazinessisalliknow​ @the-is13​ @waywardafgrandma​ @keymology​ @sister-winchesters99​ @amanda-teaches​ @amandamdiehl​ @onethirstyunicorn​ @spnbaby-67​

Sam’s Sasstresses (Jared):

@karouwinchester​

Dean’s Dames (Jensen):

@supernatural-jackles @jerkbitchidjitassbutt @akshi8278

There’s Something Strange:

@peridottea91 @amanda-teaches

Unconventional:

@wayward-and-worn @evansrogerskitten @squirrelnotsam  @jerkbitchidjitassbutt @pink1031   @aomi-nabi @heavensheadbitch @amandamdiehl @thatonecurlygirl @deans-baby-momma @crookedslimecreatorpasta @stoneyggirl

[therapyroomsuk]

How to Choose the Best Therapist for You

There are thousands of therapists out there, but it’s not easy to assess their qualifications, particularly in the throes of a crisis. Here’s our guide to finding help

You may see the words “counselling” and “psychotherapy” and wonder what the difference is. With so many phone numbers and emails you could use, for the uninitiated it’s a bit like putting a pin in an online map and hoping that the person who answers will be kind to you.

When you have reached that difficult moment of emotional crisis where you’ve decided to reach out to a psychology professional, you will probably look online. Cue confusion. You see bewildering lists of accreditation letters – ICP, IACP, PSI, IAHIP, FTAI to name a few - and you notice that there appear to be several methods - Psychoanalytic Psychotherapy, Constructivist Psychotherapy, Couple and Family Therapy, Cognitive Behavioural Therapy, Humanistic Integrative psychotherapy.

Finding a therapist is not like finding a dentist. Your friends will always have lists of dentists, and GPs and personal trainers to call. People tend not to discuss their therapists with each other, partly due to a lingering stigma in Ireland and partly because of the deeply private nature of the problem you are trying to solve.

Today psychotherapy in Ireland has developed to a high standard, even though there is no formal State accreditation of psychotherapists. Still, says psychotherapist Brendan Madden, many people still suffer for four or five years before seeking out a therapist and they may be at the end of their tethers, with sleep problems, anxiety or anger issues.

This feels like a shot in the dark, and yet you’ve never been more vulnerable because things have got pretty stressful for you to be phoning a complete stranger. As the phone rings, you may visualise yourself reaching Gabriel Byrne’s Dr Paul Weston of In Treatment, or Dr Jennifer Melfi in the Sopranos, Frasier Crane or even Sigmund Freud himself, with his goatee and couch where you will lie for an hour trying to remember your dreams. Who knows?

Whatever the reason for considering therapy, there’s no question that people feel extremely vulnerable when they finally decide to make the leap. Can you ask a friend? It’s a good idea, but you may not want to share your friend’s psychotherapist. Your GP may have a psychotherapist or counselling psychologist working in the practice, which can be a good place to start.

Comfortable

Finding a therapist may not seem as straightforward as finding a GP, but it’s actually a good idea to follow the same route. Do you feel comfortable with the person? Have they listened to you on the phone? Are they friendly, clear and otherwise consumer-aware (as in, telling you what they charge)? Are they nearby?

“In the same way we choose a doctor, we should allow ourselves the option of shopping around until we find someone we have a good fit with,” advises Trish Murphy, psychotherapist and Irish Times agony aunt. “This is not always easy and many people choose to stay with the person they first meet and this often works out well.”

Psychotherapists are trained to relate to and treat people who are distressed. They work to alleviate personal suffering and encourage change.

“The therapeutic relationship is very important and you have to be able to trust your therapist,” says Yvonne Tone, a cognitive behavioural therapist, one of the five “modalities” accredited. “It’s about collaborating with the therapist, working in a shared way to understand the problem, such as depression or anxiety, that you want to address.”

But first you have to figure out what all those accreditation letters mean and what the various forms of therapy are. Don’t you? “You can’t say that one therapy is better than another – for example, while CBT (Cognitive Behavioural Therapy) has been shown to be effective, there’s no evidence that it is better than other types of therapy,” says Brendan Madden.

Psychoanalysis, on the other hand, sees the path of self-discovery, in cooperation with the therapist, as an end in itself. “Psychoanalysis respects the individuality of each person,” says Jose Castilho, psychoanalyst and chair of the Irish Council for Psychotherapy.

“It’s not about helping the client to adapt to the world, but helping the individual to adapt to him or herself.”

While it may have a reputation for being the scenic route to wellbeing, since it’s not goal-oriented, psychoanalysis has changed over the years and can help people who are in crisis from a breakup or the loss of a job over a short space of time. Others may remain in “analysis” or other talk therapy for years because of the insights they gain.

Madden practises solution-focused “brief therapy”, where the client is encouraged to become “a solution detective” and discover their own strengths and solutions to whatever problem they’re facing, empowered by the therapist and available Therapy Room to rent.

The uninitiated may think that any therapist of whatever ilk has a gift of insight into their personality that will eventually be revealed like the third secret of Fatima. You are bound to be disappointed, because like the Wizard in Oz, the therapist hasn’t got the answers, only you do. But an effective therapist will help you figure it out.

“Therapy is not a healing ritual or practice performed by the therapist to cure psychological distress. Recovery and emotional healing comes from the strong therapeutic alliance built over time between therapist and client – and it’s really the client who does all the work,” says Madden. Trusting relationship Murphy agrees that establishing a trusting relationship is the key to the success of the therapy. “It’s the relationship between the client and the therapist, not the particular model of therapy, that is most important.”

In recent years, psychotherapy has moved towards shorter, solution-focused therapies that can help the client get through a rough patch or to make a difficult decision. Some therapies, however, can involve much more time. Where there is a serious issue with depression or anxiety, the therapy could take years to get to the source of the problem, says Dermod Moore, chair of the Irish Association of Humanistic and Integrative Psychotherapy (IAHIP).

What’s the difference between a psychiatrist and a psychologist or psychotherapists?

The key difference is that a psychiatrist has been medically trained and holds a medical degree. The suffix “-iatry” means “medical treatment,” and “-logy” means “science” or “theory.” Psychiatry is the medical treatment of the psyche, and practitioners are therefore qualified to prescribe medication, while psychology is the science of the psyche.

A psychotherapist can be a psychiatrist, psychologist or other mental health professional, who has had further specialist training in psychotherapy which focuses on helping people to overcome stress, emotional and relationship problems or troublesome habits.

What qualifications should a psychotherapist have?

All psychotherapists should be accredited with a professional body that adheres to a code of ethics and has complaints procedures and standards of practice. Currently, the Irish Council for Psychotherapy (ICP) is the umbrella body for all psychotherapy in Ireland, representing more than 1,250 psychotherapists who have undergone in-depth training and are committed to the highest standards of professional conduct. Another professional body is the Irish Association for Counselling and Psychotherapy.

Currently, the qualifications required for ICP is seven years’ training, four of those at post- graduate level dedicated specifically to psychotherapy. Many Irish psychotherapists hold the European Certificate for Psychotherapy which qualifies practitioners to work anywhere in Europe.

What will it cost?

Many therapists offer a sliding scale based on your income, so be forthright about what you can afford from the start. The cost varies depending on the psychotherapist but a regular fee is somewhere between €70-€120 per session . Less expensive therapy is available through training programmes or subsidised systems. Many psychotherapists offer a sliding scale for unemployed or retired people. Student therapists need to practise to become qualified, so you can see someone in a training programme for €50 per hour or less. The upside is that student therapists tend to be very enthusiastic, dedicated and well-supervised.

What should my therapist be like?

The therapist should empower you to feel more confident, not less. Empathy is his or her most important quality. Trust your gut instinct about whether this particular therapist is right for you. “Keep it simple and don’t be blinded by jargon. It’s the therapeutic relationship that counts – you have to have a sense that the therapist will listen, understand and work with you towards your goal,” says Madden. If you don’t feel it’s good for you or not what you agreed, then don’t be afraid to find another therapist that’s a better fit for you.

How often do I need to see the psychotherapist?

Usually the first session is used to see if there is a fit between the therapist and client and to agree what the need is about the number of sessions. The average is probably about 8 weekly sessions. Some psychotherapists work on a twice-weekly basis; these would be in the minority.

Are all therapist’s neurotic?

To train as a therapist, you do need to have therapy and sort out your own issues. However, it’s fair to say that there is a tendency for people to be drawn to psychotherapeutic training to sort out their own problems, which probably leads to a higher proportion of neurosis and issues among therapists than among the general population. But that’s usually a good thing because the therapist has probably developed a good deal of compassion and understanding on their journey to mental wellbeing and personal growth.

I’m still not sure. Why do I need a psychotherapist rather than a friend who is a good listener?

A psychotherapist will help to unravel the tangles of the issue and help to clarify what the problem is and what can be dealt with at what time. “Psychotherapy is a safe place to explore and discuss the most difficult of things, even those that are hidden,” advises Trish Murphy.

When should I seek a therapist?

“When you are troubled, suffering, shocked, grieved, floundering and unable to reach decisions,” advises Trish Murphy. “When a relationship – at home, at work or elsewhere – is in trouble is another appropriate time. A critical event might be an ideal time to source help: loss, death, accident, injury, change of country/job, rape, hurt and so on.”

How do I know it’s working?

Generally, how things are working out early on in therapy is predictive of how things will turn out. “You should feel change and notice progress fairly early in the therapy process, over a matter of weeks rather than months,” says Madden. “By six to 10 sessions there should be some early change.”

There’s sometimes a notion that you have to get worse before you get better. Madden disagrees: “If it’s getting worse, something isn’t effective. You should be feeling more hopeful after six to 10 weeks and start to feel better. If not, discuss this with your therapist and consider doing something different .”

How will I know if it’s not working?

From the start, the psychotherapist should be professional and organised and give clear, reassuring answers about their qualifications and experience. The time, date, fee and location of the appointments should be fixed and agreed. The psychotherapist should be empathetic and always put the client’s needs first (for clients at risk of self-harm or abuse, safety needs come first). All psychotherapists are guided by their association’s code of ethics that guide practice and meeting client expectations. If clients are not making progress, therapists are obliged to listen to their feedback, change the direction or focus of therapy, or make a referral onwards. You should feel listened to and heard – that is the core of empathy, a necessary condition for change. With the exception of classical psychoanalysis, the client shouldn’t be expected to do all the talking. The therapist should take turns to summaries, paraphrase and clarify what the client is saying.

Are there cases where a couples therapist is better?

[androgyne-acolyte]

The “I” in Christ

Commissioning, Community, and Lessons From Hamilton

(My second sermon, for Confirmation Sunday. You can also listen on Soundcloud.)

This Sunday, a few of us are about to confirm our formal membership in this community of St. Andrew’s; we do this with a profession of faith, along with a promise to seek justice and resist evil. Not only does the process of confirmation ask the question of what it means to be part of a Christian community, but this passage from Luke (10:1-11,16-20) also poses the question of what it means to live out our own discipleship beyond the walls of the church — especially in an age where the image of door-to-door missionaries is something of a bad joke.

Perhaps Christianity’s best-kept secret is this: the actual gospel of Jesus is tremendously relatable to anyone else whose mission is also to seek justice and resist evil. These first disciples were instructed to bear one message: that “the Kingdom of God has come near” — or, to put it in more contemporary language, we might say “another world is possible”.

Jesus says to carry no extra gear, going out like lambs into the midst of wolves; greeting no one on the road, but traveling in pairs. This is a radically vulnerable commission — relying entirely on the generosity of strangers, who may not even care if you live or die — but it is also a commission of interdependence and reliance on one another. Sometimes, we might retreat by ourselves into the metaphorical desert for a while to figure things out. But when we go forth and proclaim the good news of the Kingdom of Heaven, we’re not meant to go it alone. And so, from its earliest moments, Christianity is lived out in relationship.

We also see this in how the very early Christians came together in table fellowship — the root of our communion ritual. Jesus and the disciples had caught on to something that’s borne out by sociological science today (this is why we also had lunch as part of our confirmation classes): deep down, our brain associates “the people with whom you eat” with “family”. This becomes especially resonant when we consider that Jesus’ ministry seems to have been responding, at least in part, to the breakup and dispossession of families caused by Roman encroachment on Jewish ancestral farmlands.

So part of Jesus’ message to these seventy disciples is about going out and finding allies — and through that work, making new and cohesive communities in a time of tremendous social upheaval. Then and now, Christianity creates familial structures that counter the systems of injustice in the world with a message of radical community and genuine connection.

The New Testament, in the original Greek, calls this concept of community or fellowship koinonia, literally participation, partnership, or sharing, with emphasis on the element of relationship; a koinonos, used in the Epistles to describe the disciples’ relationship to Christ and to one another, is a sharer, partner, or companion; a joint participant. So, when we become part of the Body of Christ, we become partners, koinonoi, in acting out God’s intent, “on earth as it is in heaven”. As Jesus says when he is asked when the Kingdom will come (later on in the Gospel of Luke), “the Kingdom of God is among you” (Luke 17:21).

So I suggest that we can look at koinonia — this radical companionship — as a concept that has four pillars. They are economic, interpersonal, internal, and political — and together, they answer a world of imperial domination and hierarchical, transactional relationships with the egalitarian, reciprocal relationships of a truly divine community.

Most of us grew up hearing the Gospel story of how a few loaves and fishes fed five thousand people. When Jesus says “give them something to eat”, the disciples respond with “but how can we possibly go out and buy enough bread for everybody?”. But Jesus had a plan — and we are told that “all ate and were filled” (Luke 9:10-17). This isn’t just a fanciful miracle story; in Jesus’ world, everybody gets enough. This is a total reimagining of our economic model. 

We see this principle carried out in the book of Acts, chapter 4: among the growing circle of disciples, it’s said that “there was not a needy person among them”, because people sold their possessions and shared the proceeds; “they laid it at the apostles’ feet, and it was distributed to each as any had need” (Acts 4:32-35).

“But that could never work!” we say, just like in the story of the loaves and fishes. I may not be an economic theorist, but my guess is that what gets in the way is our own self-interest; of course it won’t work if you assume that you and everyone else are just looking out for number one. The missing ingredient here is what the Bible calls lovingkindness, or what I call radical compassion — the key to the interpersonal aspect of the Kingdom of Heaven.

Remember, Jesus’ program is about treating people like family. And what happens when people feel safe enough, trusting enough, to be able to treat each other as a functioning family? “You’re in need? That’s okay, I’ll cover you.” — “Whatever happens, you’re still my sibling in Christ.”

This ideal of the family of God doesn’t end at the steps of the church, by the way. This is what Buddhist teachings mean when they talk about widening the circle of compassion: Talk to your neighbours. Look a panhandler in the eye. Fall in love with the immigrant kids down the corridor who won’t stop bouncing off the walls. Invite that raggedy backpacker down on Spring Garden Road to brunch. But, Jesus cautions, don’t make a big deal out of it; this is just what we do.

But again, we worry, just like the disciples: what if there’s someone in this community who’s really needy, taking up all the available resources and emotional energy? Perhaps that’s where a community can do its best work: helping a person become self-sufficient. Finding them a therapist, even if it means emailing every private practice in [the immediate area]. Finding them meaningful work in the community, something that provides for them and reminds them that their life matters. Granted, that’s extremely hard to do under late capitalism — but maybe that’s a specific challenge for Christians today!

We don’t claim to offer miracle cures here, but we do offer compassion and grace and walking with someone on the road to healing. And if you’ve bought into the Christian message, you’re already imagining the possibility of becoming whole — recognizing the image of God within yourself — and if you know any trauma survivors, you already know that that’s half the battle.

And to support each other like this, we have to be comfortable with being vulnerable. Paradoxically, that’s very hard to do in our white, English, North American church culture! 

My childhood pastor used to say that a good church has to be so much more than just “a club for nice people” — part of that is because niceness and civility as we understand them involve building very specific walls around yourself, so that no one sees the mess and the struggle underneath your calm exterior. But when others see that you’re a flawed, messy human too, they respond in kind. 

The very best of my church relationships are the very few people to whom I can confess almost anything, and they can confess almost anything to me. We inevitably find ourselves going deep; we have long conversations that are intense and sometimes unsettling, but I always come away feeling more fulfilled, more whole than I was before. And what is salvation in the original Greek but a kind of healing, or “making whole”?

That leads us into the internal work of the Kingdom of God. The hardest lesson we can hope to learn is to give up our preconceived notions of how things ought to be and what others are like. This is where contemplation comes in; it’s about letting go of our hangups so that we can see the bigger picture. This process of self-emptying seems like such a bewildering thought, but it’s a fundamentally liberating process. Just ask our Buddhist neighbours.

So, Christian community calls us to break free from our own self-interest by living as members of one body; as a collective of voices working together in constant dialogue. One might say that there is no “I” in Christ. 

And here is where being political comes in. When we live together in lovingkindness, in partnership, when we let go of our attachments to see things as they really are — we begin to see that this is exactly the opposite of what the world wants, both then and now.

We’ve heard [St. Andrew’s lead minister] Russ [Daye] speak of “sin” not so much as an individual moral failing, but as the state of a society propelled by self-interest and operating through systemic inequality, oppression, and violence. And when we see the big picture, we start to see that that’s exactly what’s going on.

A fully realized Christian life, lived out according to the principles of radical community, makes the scales fall from our eyes and highlights the terrible workings of inhumane disconnection and self-interest that our society is based on. That, in the eyes of our world, makes us dangerous. 

I recently had an extraordinary online conversation with another queer ministry hopeful, who is not afraid to state point-blank that “love cannot exist [or cannot exist fully] in a space where we are complicit in our neighbours’ suffering and exploitation”. We both agreed that a lot of us moderate Christians aren’t politically active because we can’t truly fathom how deep-rooted these systems of oppression actually are, let alone have any idea of how to stand up to them. 

But I invite you to consider that the kind of strong support structure that a fully realized Christian community can provide can be a living “no” to the Caesars of this world, and can empower us to speak our truth to their face, no matter the consequences. “We know love by this,” says the epistle of 1 John, “that he [Jesus] laid down his life for us — and we ought to lay down our lives for one another” (1 John 3:16).

Perhaps, then, there are many “I”s in Christ — together, we are the pillars that hold up God’s kingdom.

However we choose to confront the Caesars of our world, we must always centre our love for God and one another in our actions. This can mean letting our hearts break at the injustice all around us — remember, we are called to be vulnerable! — but it also means means finding and creating opportunities to speak out and stand up for justice; equipping one another with the skills to do so; and lifting each other up in support when those opportunities come.

Let me tell you a story about one such situation.

On June 15, only a few weeks ago, the Pride festival in Hamilton, Ontario was confronted by a group of right-wing agitators carrying giant banners with homophobic messages, shouting slurs, and threatening physical violence. Shamefully, many of these people had the gall to call themselves Christian, using our faith as justification for their hatred and aggression. 

Hamilton police, for their part, did very little to protect the Pride marchers. 

(By the way, I’ve tried to rely on firsthand accounts of this situation wherever possible.)

What did happen at Hamilton Pride was this: after a similar encounter a few weeks earlier in Dunville, Ontario, where homophobes and counter-demonstrators spent six whole hours trying to drown each other out, an affinity group formed in Hamilton with a new plan. They built a thirty-foot-wide, nine-foot-tall barrier out of black cloth, practiced moving it around as a team — and when the right-wing agitators showed up, the affinity group moved their barrier into position and physically blocked the agitators off from the rest of the festival. They intentionally did not raise their fists to strike at anyone.

But — they still got beat up. As the original members of the affinity group dragged themselves away from the fists and helmets of these right-wing bullies, they looked around to see people they didn’t even know rushing to the scene and keeping the barrier standing. The barrier, incredibly, remained intact until the police arrived a full hour later, escorting the troublemakers out of the park with their hateful signs in tatters. 

Community. We lay down our lives for one another.

When asked why the police didn’t get there sooner, an eyewitness reportedly heard the officer respond, “Don’t you remember we weren’t invited to Pride? We’re just going to stand here, not my problem”. [x]

There are, of course, many more layers to this story than I have time to get into here. But the ongoing aftermath of this situation is worth talking about. 

The queer community in Hamilton was furious and disappointed, if unsurprised. Remember that there is a decades-long history of criminalization and persecution of queer communities by police, and of police turning a blind eye to homophobic and transphobic violence. That tension doesn’t go away overnight, and it is still very much with us today.

A few days later, a local queer activist named Cedar Hopperton was arrested, purportedly because being present at Hamilton Pride had violated their parole conditions related to a previous act of civil disobedience. (Like me, Cedar goes by the pronouns “they” and “them”.)

But here’s the thing: according to eyewitnesses, Cedar wasn’t part of that incident at Pride. They had stayed at home, where their friends came to them for support and first aid following the confrontation. When Cedar got access to the paperwork associated with their case, it focused almost exclusively on a public speech they had given at City Hall in the wake of the events. 

And while they had been heavily critical of how Hamilton police have repeatedly let their community down, they framed their criticism with a prophetic statement: 

“...what I am interested in is building community around people who [have] a desire to build a shared idea of the world they actually want to live in. I feel like that’s a higher bar [which] is worth working towards.” [x]

That is what those seventy disciples were sent out to find: The Kingdom of Heaven is near. Another world is possible.

In response to this and what would become at least four other arrests of queer community members, along with frantic attempts to save face by the police and by City Hall, the local activist community decided to go straight to the mayor. In a wonderful example of non-violent protest, some twenty people “dressed in gay masquerade attire” showed up on the mayor’s front lawn early on a Friday morning, and spent fifteen minutes making a ridiculous racket while planting hot pink lawn signs that read “The Mayor Doesn’t Care About Queer People”. 

Within an hour, the same mayor who had largely refused to comment on the issue of right-wing agitators harassing and assaulting people at a Pride festival was in the news decrying the lawn sign action as a “violent attack”, and vowing that the perpetrators would be prosecuted to the full extent of the law.

That afternoon, one of the organizers of the lawn sign action found herself cornered by no less than eight police cars. After being brought in for questioning, she was escorted by officers with assault rifles to the central police station, where she was held overnight. 

Only one of the right-wing agitators has since been arrested. The mayor, in a stunningly oblivious move, concluded the day by issuing a boilerplate supportive statement about the fiftieth anniversary of the Stonewall Riots.

The organizer who was arrested following the lawn sign action (who has chosen to remain anonymous) had some insightful words that I’d like to share with you. For me, they may as well have been spoken by an apostle in the first century. She said:

“[This is] about us as a community getting stronger — and them being afraid of that. We know [that] because within five hours they mobilized an investigation, manhunt and takedown. We know because they confront us with shaking hands and assault rifles. We know because they [subsequently] responded to a queer dance party with eighty officers on a Friday night. We see it when they make desperate arrests; [like] Cedar for a speech at city hall.” [x]

Because when we start to make a dent in the facade of unjust power, the mask slips, and the true cruelty and desperation of the people at the top gets revealed; just like the crucifixion of Jesus laid bare the horror that the Roman Empire was capable of. And yet, in ways that we do not yet fully understand, we are told that Jesus performed one last radical act of turning the tables; using that humiliating, commonplace death as a jumping-off point into the coldest, darkest reaches of the cosmos, where he sowed the love of God into the very ground of the universe.

Our anonymous lawn sign activist continues: 

“In that, we can also acknowledge something else; we are winning. They are afraid of us and what we can do. They are embarrassed. They are losing ground.”

This takes us right back to Holy Week — when the authorities start planning Jesus’ arrest in the wake of the non-violent protest march that we remember as Palm Sunday, because they’re afraid he’ll incite the people to rebellion. When we start to successfully seek justice and resist evil, the powers that be, propelled by self-interest and sustained by systems of cruel inequality, are terrified.

She concludes with this wonderful statement of commission — and I’d like to think it can be our commission too:

“So let’s keep this up. Let’s keep getting into ... public spaces. … Challenging the things that harm us — even when they are institutional and systemic. … Let’s build towards the world we want to see – and share and learn those skills together. … Not just every four years — [I would add, not just every Sunday] — but every single day”.

Amen. 

July 7, 2019 (Confirmation Sunday) — St. Andrew’s United Church, Halifax

Selected further reading:

Center for Action and Contemplation, “Consumed with Love”

Queer Theology podcast, “A Community of Care”

Rethinking Religion, “Buddhists Don’t Have to Be Nice: Avoiding Idiot Compassion”

[jackzimmermannn]

Queer Eye for the Hockey Guy (~5K)

Queer Eye AU! What was going to be fluff about Bitty and Jack quickly became an entire episode of Queer Eye. If you haven’t seen the show, what are you doing with your life? Credit goes entirely to @aokayinspace and @zimmerhomme for creating the jumping off point for this! Uh, I guess RPF from the perspective that it involves the Fab Five? Very few fic liberties are taking regarding them, they mostly just provide the framework for the story. It mainly focuses on Bitty and Jack. Still, if that bothers you I recommend you move on and read @omgericzimmermann ‘s fic instead (read it on ao3 here) which slots other omgcp characters into the Fab Five (or if it doesn’t bother you, read this one AND Hayley’s!) Inspiration for Bitty’s food rant comes from Ruby Tandoh’s (you may remember her from GBBO) book Eat Up which I’m currently reading and highly recommend! Do some accuracy hand waving with the timeline. Please also excuse excessive comma usage and any typos (tho if there’s anything that makes absolutely no sense, please lmk so I can fix it!), I only do a very cursory proofred bc I can’t be bothered. Enjoy!

It’s like being ambushed.

A very friendly, loud ambush.

Jack is sitting at the kitchen table, methodically alternating between eating a chicken sandwich and doing his statistics homework (he really should have gotten his Math credit out of the way his freshman year) when he hears the doorbell ring, the front door open and Holster shout, no, scream, a  “FUCK YES!” from living room. It’s a testament to how used to the team he is that he doesn’t think anything is amiss until Holster comes running into the kitchen, a man who looks oddly like a white Jesus in his arms. He’s followed up by Ransom who is carrying a small blond man. The rest of the team piles in, followed by three other strangers Jack doesn’t recognize and an entire camera crew.

What ensues is a lot of excited yelling, enthusiastic introductions from the men he doesn’t recognize and curious exploring of the kitchen. Bittle, or Bitty as he told Jack most people call him, is talking sweetly to the Haus oven when it finally occurs to Jack what is happening. “You’re the Fantastic Five.” he says, and everyone laughs.

“You look surprised to see us.” the man who introduced himself as Tan says and Jack ducks his head. “I may have...forgot we were doing this?” Shitty is immediately draped on him, cradling his head. “Forgive him. It would be unfair if he had beauty, brawn and brains.” he chirps. Jack snorts and shrugs him off. Jonathan, who moments ago was bonding with Shitty over his flow, waves dismissively. ”We’ll forgive you, but only because you’re serving me Backstreet Boys realness with these bangs and I can’t wait to get my hands in your hair.”

Jack thinks that’s a compliment, “I’m not sure who that is, but thank you?” The men laugh again, apparently under the impression he’s making a joke, but Holster claps a hand onto Karamo’s shoulder, “No, he’s not joking. Yes, you have your work cut out for you.” Rather than looking shocked, or worse, condescending, Karamo looks pensive. Jack isn’t sure if he should be worried about what Karamo’s thinking.

“Do you think you could give us a tour?” Bobby asks, “Then we can get to know you a little better, get a feel for the space.” Jack nods, “Yeah, of course. Sorry.” Jonathan is gushing over the long “O” in Jack’s “sorry” (apparently his accent is adorable) as he pushes himself to his feet. Jack thinks Bitty may have given him a once over now that he’s at his full height, but he doesn’t have time to dwell on it. Bobby is already trailing out into the living room inquiring after any repairs the Haus might need, and Tan is asking him if always wears neon sneakers.

The cameras zooming in and out around him are mildly disconcerting and he stumbles over his words a few times as a result, but he finds himself slowly relaxing anyway.

Jack gives them a tour of the Haus, kicking more stray boxers and jockstraps under furniture before they can be seen than he should have to. When it’s just the team he doesn’t really focus on the state of the Haus as long as it’s not falling apart entirely, but with fresh eyes examining every inch of the space he can’t help but feel a little embarrassed. The look Bittle gives the couch in the living room doesn’t escape him. By the time they get to his bedroom, Jack is glad he at least keeps this room fastidiously clean.

Jack notices Bitty frown at his “Be Better” poster before tugging it down and rolling it up. Before Jack can object, Bobby tosses out the idea of redecorating the Haus living room instead of Jack’s room. Jack firmly agrees, “It’s a shared space so everyone will get to enjoy it. It’s something the whole team will get to use together and keep using even after I’m gone.” Shitty aggressively hugs Jack at the comment, “You big softie. Looking out for the little guy.” Bittle seems to also like the idea. “God is good and that couch’s days are numbered.” he remarks. Jack surprises himself by laughing and Bittle grins at Jack.

Jack smiles back. Maybe this could be fun.

This is not going to be fun.

Karamo gets him first and it’s wildly uncomfortable. Jack knows that he’s just trying to get a feel for what direction to go in, but all the “What do you do for fun?” question combined with the camera focused on him just inches away leave him anxious. He’s given about ten different variations of, “I don’t know. Hockey takes up a lot of my time.” Before Karamo sighs and stands up from where he had been sitting on one of the steps of the front porch of the Haus. Jack immediately knows he’s fucked up.

He hunches in on himself, still sitting, and stares fixedly at the ground. “I’m sorry. I know I’m really not– you’ve probably had clients with a lot more personality.” Jack is expecting to get a stern, but well-meaning remark about giving them more to work with but instead Karamo sits back down next to him, “You don’t have to apologize. I was actually going to say I’m sorry.”

Jack doesn’t know what to say. “We’ve been doing this for a few seasons now, we forget what it’s like to be in front of the cameras. How about this, where do you feel most comfortable?” For once, Jack doesn’t even have to think hard to come up with and answer, “On the ice.”

Karamo’s response is just as immediate, “Let’s go then.”

Jack can feel the tension in his shoulders release as they glide around the perimeter of the rink. Karamo’s wobbly on his skates, but the fact that he’s trying and putting himself out there makes Jack want to make an effort too. Bittle ends up joining them as well, and he’s clearly at ease on the ice. Apparently he played hockey in high school. The common interest gives Jack a starting point to open up the conversation

As a fringe benefit, only some of the camera crew are confident enough with their skating to carry their equipment and be on the ice at the same time, so they put mics on Jack, Karamo and Bitty and send only one camera man out with them. The rest of the crew are doing wide shots from the bleachers. Jack doesn’t say anything, but he’s glad for a little distance.

The longer the three of them skate, the looser Jack’s tongue gets. He finds himself talking about his major, his love of country music. He mentions the photography class he took, the photo series he did about hockey which later transitioned into photography of different spots around campus. He can feel himself growing more comfortable with the cameras and he manages to make both Karamo and Bittle laugh. If he finds himself delighting a little more in making Bitty laugh he doesn’t focus on it.

They’re taking off their skates when Karamo suggests setting Jack up with an Instagram account. “Adam was right, you don’t know a lot about pop culture.” Jack focuses on undoing his laces, “But that’s not a bad thing or something to be embarrassed about. You have your interests, your own passions. That’s what’s important.” Bitty nods in agreement as Karamo goes on. “I want to focus on giving you an outlet to help you explore other sides of yourself outside of hockey. The bonus is that the outlet will help you share your fuller self with others and connect with people who aren’t your team.”

It sounds reasonable, and spending more time on photography could be fun. Bitty nudges his shoulder, “I’ll be your first follower.”

Jack’s sold.

Strangely, Jack doesn’t find Jonathan’s enthusiasm that off putting. He thinks it’s because of how similar the man is to Shitty, or maybe it’s just that Shitty’s personality is hard to top.

Jack is sitting in front of the mirror at a local hair salon, cape on while Jonathan works his fingers through Jack’s hair, examining it closely. It’s so casual that Jonathan’s question comes out of left field, “You have anxiety, right?” Jack tenses, “Yes.” He knows he probably sounds rude, but this isn’t really a conversation he was expecting to have on national television. The last thing he needs is to be justifying his mental health to a stranger.

But Jonathan meets Jack’s gaze through the mirror and surprises him with his next question, “Do you have any self-care practices?” Jack nods slowly, “I, uh. I have medication for when I need it. I see a therapist. But running is good for clearing my head. I meditate.” Jonathan nods vigorously, “Yes, I love it. You wouldn’t believe how many clients I have to explain the importance of this to. Which is totally fine! But it helps save us some steps.”

“So what I’m going to do is just update your cut a bit. As I said before, I love the bangs but they’re a little two thousand and late and we want you looking to three thousand and great.” Jack feels like that’s probably a reference to something. Jonathan continues, “I’m going to give you a messy undercut, it’ll be hot. Then I’m going to give you a few skin care tips, some under-eye cream I think. You have amazing eyes and bone structure so we want to help you take care of that. Sound good?” Jack doesn’t really know how any of that sounds since he doesn’t even know what an undercut is, let alone a messy one. But like Shitty, he finds himself trusting Jonathan implicitly.

“Let’s do it.”

Jack finds Tan and Lardo working their way through every item in his closet in his bedroom. He knows this since about half of his closet has been dumped into the “Hockey only pile.”

“They’re comfortable!” He protests, but Tan shakes his head. “There’s a time and place for comfort and there’s a time and place for style. You have a good sense for what kind of apparel is appropriate for different occasions, but a lot of your casual clothes are very– what did you call it?”

“Soft jock.” Lardo supplies.

“Soft jock,” Tan agrees, “I want to give you a wardrobe you can wear confidently when you’re not in the gym. Something you can wear out to lunch, on a date.” Jack flushes, “I’m not seeing anyone right now.” Lardo raises an eyebrow knowingly, “Right now being the operative word, dude.”

Bitty chooses that moment to poke his head in the door, and Lardo’s eyebrow only goes higher. “Tan, make sure you get him to a good tailor too. We all have our assets, some more than others. I know off the rack suits aren’t doing him justice.” Jack’s blush grows, “I own a suit!” Tan unfolds his suit pants from where they’re hanging, eyeing them skeptically, “That isn’t a size too big?” Bitty winks at Jack before slipping out.

“You have your annual team banquet at the end of the week, right?” Tan asks, redirecting Jack’s attention. Jack nods. “Your team speaks very highly of you and it’s clear you’re captain for a reason. You’re obviously playing the part, but you also want to look the part. We’re going to set you up with a tailored suit that fits all parts of you, and a comfortable, but styled, casual wardrobe. You’ll be set for the banquet, but different occasions as well.”

Lardo smirks, “Even if those are dating occasions.”

“I’m not dating anyone.” Jack mutters under his breath, but looks at the different tie patterns Tan offers him.

By the time it’s Bitty’s turn to get his hands on him, Jack barely notices the cameras and is comfortable with all the guys. But still, he gets a little nervous when he hears what they’re going to tackle in the food segment. After Bitty learns about Jack’s PB&J gameday routine, he becomes adamant that they make bread, nut butter and jam. Though Jack insists that he really, really, no, really doesn’t know how to bake, Bitty waves him off.  

“Everyone thinks these things are so hard to make, but they’re really not.  Bread is just a lot of waiting for it to rise, and with nice arms like yours you’ll be a kneading champion.” If Jack flexes a little at the comment, no one needs to know.

So the cameras find the pair of them in the kitchen. They’ve already made three different kinds of nut butter, the peaches are cooling in ice water so they can be peeled and they’ve moved on to bread. Bitty decided they would make two different loaves, one multi-grain and one cinnamon raisin, so they’re both kneading away. Jack has to admit, it’s kind of fun.

“We complicate food so much, what we should eat, what we shouldn’t eat. There’s all these rules.” Bitty has been preaching about food culture for the past fifteen minutes. “And you being an athlete, I’m sure that just complicates things even more. There are certain nutrients you need for sure, but we also need food that nourishes our soul. We can’t just ignore our minds and focus on our bodies. Then we just end up even more distanced from our bodies than we were to begin with. You know what I mean?” Jack doesn’t entirely, but he likes the passion Bitty speaks with. Plus, when he’s caught up in his words like this Jack can sneak looks at him without Bitty noticing.

“And don’t get me started on the politics surrounding food. People being shamed for what they do eat, don’t eat. Feeling like they need to punish themselves. It’s a whole industry, let me tell you.” Bitty lets out an irritated huff. “We’ve got a real problem on our hands when we make something that should be simple so messy. But at the same time it’s complex! Food isn’t just food. It’s history and culture. It can really affect how we treat ourselves and how we see ourselves.”

Jack hasn’t said much. He knows that probably doesn’t make for great TV, but he figures they’ll be editing all of this down anyway. He doesn’t mind listening to Bitty, enjoys it really. But with all the talk about food and people’s relationship to it he finds words joining together in his mind. Before he can stop himself, he’s saying it.

“I was a fat kid.”

To Bitty’s credit, his hands only still for a moment before they resume kneading. “Fat isn’t a dirty word, honey.” Jack nods jerkily, “Maybe not in theory. But in practice.” he lets out a shaky sigh, “I think. I think I still carry that with me?” He waves a hand, though keeping his gaze fixed on his bread, attempting to seem casual even though he knows the redness that is creeping up his neck betrays his embarrassment. “It shouldn’t matter, but people gave me a hard time, you know? And now I play hockey. I have to perform at a certain level. My body has to perform at a certain level. I need to eat certain things so that can happen. And looking a certain way is a side effect of that.” He immediately feels like he’s said too much and tries to cover it up. “But I guess. I mean. It wasn’t my best look,” to cut through the tension he tacks on a poor attempt at humor, “and you’ve seen me in Crocs.”

Jack had been so determinedly avoiding seeing Bitty’s reaction that it isn’t until Bitty takes his hand that he realizes he’s being stared at. Or. Glared at. With love?

“Now you listen here,” Bitty begins, and Jack silently think that the tone of Bitty’s voice suggests that he has no choice but to listen. “There’s nothing wrong with the way you looked, then or now. Why do you think we came all the way to Samwell?” Jack shrugs a shoulder, “I don’t know. Why do you go anywhere? To make people better.” Before he can blink, Bitty softly knocks him on the shoulder with his free hand. Jack feigns a wince which gets a smile out of Bitty, but he quickly schools his expression back to stern. “I didn’t take down the ‘Be Better’ poster in your room just because I knew it wouldn’t go with Bobby’s design concept. I took it down because it’s wrong. Getting better is for colds, not for people.” The corner of Jack’s mouth quirks up at the phrasing, but Bitty pushes forward.

“We’re here to help you be yourself. I don’t think Jack is a curmudgeon locked in his room, sadly drinking nasty protein shakes.” Jack open his mouth to protest, the protein shakes aren’t that nasty, but Bitty isn’t done saying his piece. “I think Jack is the person we were told about when your team nominated you. A dedicated guy, who loves hockey but also likes photography and history. He’s always there when you need a hand and yes he wears banana sneakers when he runs and Crocs in the locker room, but he helps his...frogs?” Jack nods, “He helps his frogs pick out a nice tie to wear to his friend’s art show. He’s thoughtful and funny.”

Bitty drops Jack’s hand, turning back to the counter to start kneading again. Jack stays where he is, a question still lingering, “Then why the whole...makeover? I mean. Why new clothes, new hair, new food?” Bitty stops and looks up, but not at Jack. Gazing out of the kitchen window he’s quiet for a moment. Jack can see him turning the words over in his head. “Because those things aren’t reflecting who you are. They’re reflecting someone else. You’re not a hockey robot, sweetheart. You like cracking jokes and spending time with your friends. Bobby’s redoing your living room so that y’all have a nice space to spend time with each other. That’s the real you. Hockey robot you would need his bedroom redone with a personal gym and a giant dry erase board to sketch out plays in his sleep.”  

Bitty finally looks away from the window, moving through the kitchen confidently to pull out a loaf pan and start to grease it. Jack goes back to his own dough, thinking Bitty’s done talking but suddenly Bitty pipes up, a tone of finality in his voice. “I think we buy into the stories the world tells us about ourselves. But you gotta remind yourself who you really are and stay rooted in that. You’re not asking for permission to be yourself, you find your core and then tell the world who you are.”

Jack turns that over in his head.

The bread turns out perfect.

Earlier in the week Bobby and Jack went through the photo series he did of the team for his photography class. What the photos would be used for Bobby refused to reveal. He had a sneaking suspicions they would just be made into prints to frame, but it was nice that Bobby thought his work was good enough to be part of the redesign.

Bobby blindfolds Jack on the porch of the Haus before they go in for the big living room reveal. Before he started all of this he thought getting free redecoration would be the best part, the rest of his makeover just something to tolerate, but as the week has gone on and he’s gotten to know all of the Fab Five better he’s grown to really enjoy the process and spending time with the guys. They’re part of his team now.

Shitty takes advantage of Jack’s lack of vision to give him a surprise sloppy kiss near his ear before they go in, accompanying a fond, “You look good, Jack-o.” Jack manages to get Shitty in a headlock in retaliation, which Bitty quickly breaks up, “Boys, boys. If you’re wanting to see your new home, you better behave.” Jack immediately lets Shitty go and feigns innocence, and even with the blindfold on he can feel Bitty smiling at him.

“Alright, Jack. You ready?” Bobby asks, and Jack nods. A steadying hand is placed on his back to guide him as they open the door and enter the Haus, gently guiding him to the living room. It’s only when he hears Shitty breathe, “Holy fuck.” that he realizes he can take his blindfold off.

Holy fuck is right.

Jack takes a few tentative steps forward, looking around in wonderment. It’s really. It’s incredible. The entire room is shades of gray and black, with red accents. One wall is painted red, the team logo printed large in the center of it in white. On other walls are canvas prints of the photos that Jack took, artistically angled shots of the rink, close-ups of skates carving ice. They look professional, better than Jack thought they would. The TV is on a real stand, not a beat up coffee table. All the cords for the different gaming consoles are tucked away, their video games neatly slotted in next to each other. The old couch is gone, to stay the least, replaced by a large black sectional. There’s a foosball table that has a closed top, so it can be used for beer pong, Jack realizes. A quick glance at Lardo’s face shows she’s eyeing it already.

Jack steps forward and touches the couch, it’s some kind of fabric. “It’s going to get stained at a Kegster. It’s. This is too nice.” Bobby laughs, “It’s liquid resistant. You get the look but without the mess. But I’m going to take that as a thank you.” Jack immediately moves towards him, embarrassed by his thoughtlessness, extending a hand to shake. “I’m sorry, no. For sure. Thank you, seriously. This is. It’s amazing. This means a lot to the team, we really appreciate this.” Ransom cuts in, “He’s got his captain voice on, that means he’s really serious about it.”

Jack is too overwhelmed to even chirp back.

It’s only a half hour later when it hits Jack that the Fab Five is leaving. Of course, he knew logically that it was the last day, but it all feels so sudden. They’ve been with him all week and Jack fulls acknowledges the intimacy and vulnerability involved with what they’ve done for him. One by one the say goodbye, Jack once again profusely thanking Bobby, reassuring Jonathan he’ll keep up with his new routine, promising Tan the Crocs will stay in the locker room and taking a last minute photo with Karamo for his new instagram account. Finally he gets to Bitty, who smiles up at him, looking a little misty-eyed.

“Look at you, sugar. All grown-up.” Bitty chirps. His expression is open but his body language is guarded. Jack places a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “I solemnly swear to never eat store bought peanut butter ever again.” It gets the desired effect when Bitty lets out a wet laugh. “Seriously though, thank you for coming out here and doing all this. For me and the team. It was great. Getting to know you.” Bitty bites his lip at Jack’s earnestness, dropping his gaze to his feet. “Oh, well you know.” Bitty replies, voice wobbily, “I’m just happy to help.”

Jack opens his arms, gently enveloping Bitty in a hug. For a moment Bitty goes stiff, but then Jack feels arms wrap around his waist.

For a long moment they’re together, then they’re apart.

When Bitty had received a call from Antoni asking him to fill in as the food expert on Queer Eye while he filmed his new show with the Food Network, Bitty wasn’t sure what to expect. Of course, he obsessively watched the show (the old version and the reboot, he wasn’t an amateur). He also wasn’t short a passion for food, he had that in spades. His baking vlog on YouTube had gained a lot of traction and he had managed to make an entire career out of being self-taught and social media savvy. But he didn’t have the same traditional credentials as other people, he didn’t go to college or culinary school. He was also young. Surely there was a long list of other people who were equally, if not more qualified to take Antoni’s spot.

But Antoni had insisted, and after a short meeting with the casting department and other Fab Five members it was clear Bitty was a solid fit. It had been a whirlwind of an experience so far, but Bitty’s favorite part was absolutely getting to interact and connect with so many different kinds of people.

Then came Jack.

Jack, with his simultaneous confidence and insecurity, muscles but soft smile. He was a sight for sore eyes wrapped up in good intention. As filming had gone on, Bitty felt himself growing closer and closer to Jack. By the end, he had thought maybe– well. It didn’t matter now. There had been a long, wonderful hug. And then goodbye.

Now all that left was filming their reaction to the follow up.

After lighting and sound had been set up, the five settled into the couch. The footage opened with Jack spreading jam and peanut butter on his homemade bread. Tan tsked at Jack’s gym shorts and tshirt, but Bitty barely noticed. “That’s my guy, look at him. That’s the almond butter we made!”

Once Jack made and ate his sandwich, the video cut to him going through his closet. They all waited with bated breath as he weighed his different options, but let out a cheer when he settled on a light blue tie with a navy suit. Bitty pressed a hand to his cheek, “He looks so darn handsome, you did a great job, Tan.” Too busy watching Jack, Bitty misses the look Karamo and Bobby exchange.

Bitty is expecting to see the video follow its typical format from there, Jack ticking the other boxes of what he learned and then attending his big event, the banquet. There should be a little video of him using his instagram account and spending time with the guys in the living room. But instead he’s suddenly watching footage of Jack walking down a familiar looking street with flowers in his hand. He stops at a familiar looking door. Bitty can’t figure out why he knows the location, even as Jack enters an elevator that Bitty swears he’s been in.

It isn’t until there’s a knock at the door of the Fab Five loft that Bitty realizes where Jack is. He’s here.

“Oh my Lord. Y’all did not. You did not.” is all he can seem to say, fussing with straightening his clothes as a crew member goes and opens the door. Jack, looking handsome as all get out in his sleek suit, steps into the room and Bitty is rooted to the spot. “Hi.” Jack says, waving nervously. If he isn’t just the sweetest thing.

Bitty slowly gets to his feet. “Hi.” he says back, staring at Jack with wide eyes. Jack smiles, moving further into the room, stopping in front of Bitty and handing him the flowers. “I got these for you. I would have brought you a sandwich but I didn’t think it would travel well.” Bitty lets out a strained laugh, taking the bouquet with a shaking hand. “They’re beautiful, Jack. Thank you. These are just. Goodness. You’ve got me all flustered.”

There isn’t much time to dwell on how overwhelmed Bitty is feeling, since suddenly Jack takes Bitty’s free hand. “You told me that I need to know who I am. Who I want to be. That I need to hold onto that and then tell other people.” Bitty knows his expression goes fond at Jack’s words. How could it not? Yes, Jack is quiet. But that doesn’t mean he’s not earnestly listening. “I did.” Bitty confirms, nodding. Jack takes a deep breath. “Getting to know you this week was really special. I mean, it was for all of you–” he glances at Bobby, Karamo, Tan and Jonathan who are all excitedly holding each other, watching everything unfold, “–but it was really special with you.”

Bitty squeezes Jack’s hand, encouraging him to continue. “I know myself a little better now, and I just wanted to tell you and I guess, the world.” He glances at the cameras this time, “I wanted to tell you that I really like you. I think you’re great.” Bitty knows he’s getting weepy, but he can’t help it. How could anyone when there’s a beautiful man in front of you, telling you how loved you are? “I’d really like to take you out to dinner. I’d make it myself, but you didn’t teach me how to do that.”

At Jack’s last chirp, Bitty lets out a teary laugh and finally leans forward and kisses him. Jack responds with enthusiasm, showing that kissing is one thing doesn’t need a team of reality TV experts’ help with.