#correctional work camps

[youareunbearable]

Tonight is a great night to think fondly on Haleth and Caranthir. I think they would make such a funny couple.

Imagine??? The Big Tall Broody Scowling Kinslayer Who Is Also The One Reason The Economy Is Functioning At All Between The Different Races/Elvish Factions Who Probably Is Dying To Tell King Thingol/His Cousins To Fuck Off At Any Given Moment and hes looming over this short human lady??

This short human lady that Can, Will, and Already Has told him to pull the stick out of his ass and bullies him into doing normal townsfolk chores??? Lord Carathir, Master Economist and a Weaver with the skill to rival his grandmother, sitting there and darning socks cause his tiny mortal wife told him too. His reward will be a kiss on the cheek but she'll scold him while he does it because he said a mean thing about his Cousin Finrod in his last letter to her while he KNEW Finrod was visiting her.

Only three things in the world keep Caranthir in check: His Eldest Brother, The Lord Himring, The Current Head of the Feanorian Faction of Noldor, and Former High King; the idea that if he didn't complete his brothers' tax paperwork and run the Trade Routes then the Nolofinweans and Arafinweans would become more economincally important And We Cant Have That; and his 4'11 wife he met bloodied and wrathful on a battlefield screaming at an orc over the corpse of her brother-- it was love at first sight

[swan2swan]

Jurassic World: Camp Cretaceous

Running Gag: "What Are You Doing?"

[zazzander]

Translating the Prophecy of Seven into Latin:

In light of the fact that the current version of the prophecy isn't done very well at all. I decided to try and translate it myself! This is bringing me back to Latin 101 lol, but it's pretty fun.

Seven half-bloods shall answer the call,

Septem filii deorum curam respondebunt

The Latin word for "demigod" is literally heros, however, the translation is "halfbloods". This is tricky. A literal version of this would probably be semisanguines, however, I believe the intent is to refer to children of gods (rather than legacies). So I've made this filii deorum, "children of the gods".

I used the word "curam" for "the call". It can mean that they are answering a command / charge (I think). But it also means they might be answering/reacting to:

an attendant, guardian, observer.

anxiety, grief, sorrow

trouble, solicitude

So basically they're responding to this Big Concern or to Hera herself (the "guardian"). I like the ambiguity of it. And the English phrase "the call" is a decent translation of such an ambigious phrase.

To storm or fire, the world must fall.

Aut ab procellae aut ab igni, Terram cadenda est

I had some fun with grammar in this one and learned what a gerundive is - wow! Anyway, this version is less ambigious on what is falling exactly. Because "Terra" = "Gaea", the personification of the earth.

The verb comes from cado, which has several meanings related to "fall" such as "fall in battle", "fail", "loose strength", or "die". This fit nicely :)

I used the term procellae rather than tempestas for storm because the latter is more general and can refer to any type of weather, as well as seasons etc.

So this reads more like: To storm or fire, the Earth must fall. But it's close enough.

An oath to keep with the final breath,

Fidem ad ultimam animam praestabitur

Okay, so I think in the context of the story, this phrase is closer to the concept of keeping one's word. Like "Leo kept his word to Calypso" / "Leo fulfilled his promise to Calypso". And in that case, in Latin", fides is the best term. Rather than the straight-forward sacramentum, which I believe is used in more formal contexts only.

I put this phrase in the passive tense because it doesn't actually say who's keeping the oath. In Riordan's original Latin the sentence adds a mysterious "we" - this doesn't work for obvious reasons.

The translation of "breath" was kind of tricky. In Riordan's version it's spiritu which I think is okay, but on the face of it, anima is better. Anima refers to both "breath" and one's "life / soul". So if I'm right, to give the indication this is a death, anima works better.

Another translation of this is: An oath will be kept with a final breath

And foes bear arms to the Doors of Death

Et inimici arma ad Ianuam Leti ferent

So this really depends on what Riordan meant by "bear arms". There are two meanings:

carry firearms

wear or display a coat of arms

Neither of these really match what I think Riordan was going for. I think his intention was that a battle would take place. The second meaning fits this in a way, armies traditionally "bear arms" when they are about to fit. In which case, it would be signa ... ferent.

However if the idea is simply that they're carrying weapons, then it's arma ferent. I think, based on how it's presented, the second option makes more sense.

I have made a couple other changes compared to the original Latin in the books as well:

It's inimici "enemy, rival" rather than hostes "enemy if the state, hostile".

And Leti not necem. This is because the Doors of Death are named after Letum, the god of Death. It's also in the genitive case now (yay!).

A fun part of this version is that it can also mean both: And foes carry arms to the Doors of Death & And foes endure war at the Doors of Death.

So together:

Septem filii deorum curam respondebunt.

Aut ab procellae aut ab igni, Terram cadenda est.

Fidem ad ultimam animam praestabitur,

Et inimici arma ad Ianuam Leti ferent.

What do y'all reckon??

[skyloftian-nutcase]

Blood of the Hero Ch 9 (Link's parents play BotW)

Summary: The Soul of the Hero will always be there to save Hyrule. But when Calamity Ganon is nearly victorious in killing him, it's those that bear the Blood of the Hero who will prevail. Ten years after the Great Calamity, the Shrine of Resurrection is damaged and Link's parents fight to save their son and Hyrule along with him.

i.e. Link's parents play BotW while protecting their boy and they are ready to take on Ganon himself if they have to.

(AO3 link)

First

<<Previous // Next>>

To Kakariko - Dueling Peaks

It was the prickling on his neck that woke him. It was an unsettling feeling, like he was being watched. He’d felt it a few times when a monster would try to jump him or his men during a journey.

Abel opened his eyes, instantly on edge and confused. He was home; why did he feel like he was being—

Oh.

A little set of beady eyes was staring at him silently from the stairway, peeking around the edge of the banister.

“Link…?” Abel whispered a little hoarsely. “What’s wrong?”

His son watched him mutely, biting his lip. He looked afraid.

Concerned, Abel slowly slid out of the bed, careful not to disturb Tilieth. “What’s the matter, son?”

The toddler looked at his feet, sniffling. When he still didn’t speak, Abel sighed, sitting on the stairs and pulling the little one onto his lap. Link was a bit of a mystery sometimes, though he wasn’t sure if that was because the child was really that bizarre or because he himself knew so little of children anyway. This was his first, after all. But either way… Link was a pendulum swinging rapidly between a noisy, boisterous, and reckless three-year-old and a stifled, quiet, and timid one. To some degree Abel saw his own more silent demeanor and Til’s exuberance for life fighting for dominance in the child, and he felt a little guilty for it.

But when Abel was scared, he would grow agitated and aggressive. He would fight his fear. This little one seemed overwhelmed by it… and he didn’t know how to address that.

Giving his boy a kiss on the head, he said, “Tell me what’s wrong, Link.”

“Bad dream,” Link finally admitted into his father’s chest, his little hands clinging to Abel’s tunic.

“Oh?” Abel prompted, rubbing the little one’s back reassuringly. “What was it about?”

Link shifted a little on his lap, and suddenly Abel felt the boy’s weight change, increasing rapidly. Caught off guard, he glanced down and saw Link, bloodied and broken and burnt, one eye swollen shut, the other bloodshot from exhaustion and exertion, a small chunk of flesh torn off his neck as it oozed blood from the one spot that hadn’t been cauterized by an energy beam. Abel jumped, nearly dropping his boy, horrified at the sight.

“You didn’t get to me in time,” Link said accusingly. “And I died because of it.”

Abel gasped as he awoke, scrambling for reality, heart in his throat. He whipped his head to the right and his eyes immediately fell on his teenage son, oblivious to the world around him. Neither eye was swollen any longer, though Abel had only glanced at their cerulean hue for a few minutes in the past ten years. Had they been bloodshot when they’d opened yesterday? His neck bore the traces of a burn, reddened and somewhat swollen but at least fully intact.

The former knight sighed and dropped his head to the ground, closing his eyes as he collected himself.

Slowly, after a few calming breaths, Abel opened his eyes and sat up, pulling Link up with him. Tilieth was still fast asleep on Link’s other side, bundled under the blankets they’d packed, her brow slightly furrowed in discomfort as the family slept on the floor of the shrine. 

With Link settled on his lap, held loosely in place by his left arm, Abel sifted through their bags to find some water. Stew would be best as it could provide some nutrition for the teenager as well, but nothing was prepared and Abel’s growing anxiety would not wait for breakfast. Grabbing a flask of water, he shook Link slightly, whispering softly to him. In previous shrines, getting a spirit orb had shown some sign of improvement in Link, but Abel couldn’t discern any notable changes in his son since they’d completed this shrine, and it was making him grow worried.

Despite multiple prompts and his voice growing ever louder, Abel was unable to make Link even stir. Tilieth eventually awoke with his attempts, sitting up and throwing an uneasy look in his direction.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

“He won’t wake up,” Abel answered pitifully, as if this hadn’t been an issue before. Being able to get some water into the boy yesterday had given him hope for their journey, but now he couldn’t get Link to react, even briefly. Had it just been a fluke?

Abel shook his head. There was no way Link was getting worse, was there?

This was foolish and he knew it, wasn’t it? Link hadn’t even flinched throughout all their jostling yesterday. Maybe the boy just needed more sleep. He’d barely awoken for them yesterday, but… Abel had hoped it meant he was improving quickly.

Of course he’d been wrong.

Tilieth reached out, her hand settling on Link’s forehead, and Abel shook his head. “I’m sorry. It… maybe we’ll be able to give him some water later in the day.”

“There’s a river outside the shrine,” Til suggested as she stretched. “Maybe a cool bath will wake him up a little.”

Abel supposed that was possible. Til made a simple breakfast for the pair, and Abel went outside first to clear any monsters before bringing Link to the water. There was a small group of bokoblins just down the hill by the shore, and he dealt with them swiftly. With so many beasts around, though, he was beginning to consider wearing his old knight armor; he hadn’t been keen on doing so due to its cumbersome nature while carrying Link and had been wearing a warm doublet and trousers instead.

Sighing, Abel was temporarily distracted at the sight of a chest that the bokoblins had been apparently guarding. Opening it, he felt his stomach churn at the sight of what was inside.

A soldier’s bow.

Abel suddenly felt enraged. These monsters were pillaging the bodies of the fallen, combing through their homes and stealing their weapons to further Ganon’s chaotic agenda?! The very thought of such a desecration happening all over Hyrule nearly made him sick to his stomach.

He turned to further maim or burn the bodies of the creatures he’d slain only to find them disintegrating into dust and smoke, as all fell beasts did when Ganon had no more use for them.

Abel spat into the ground, marching back over to the shrine. After telling Til that the coast was clear, he kept watch while she cleaned herself and Link, using the bow he’d just acquired to pick off a stray bokoblin in the distance. As his eyes trailed the shoreline on the other side of the river, his gaze settled on two guardians sitting seemingly innocently on the ground, and he felt his breath catch at the sight of them.

If they’d been active he’d have known by now. They would have fired when he’d first attacked the pack of bokoblins. It didn't make him feel any less uneasy, though.

“I’m surprised Proxim Bridge held up as well as it did, considering how many guardians were crossing it back then.” Tilieth remarked from beneath the bridge. Then he heard her gasp slightly, and he slid on the slick rocks to get to her. Before he could ask what was wrong, she pointed to the water flowing on the other side of the bridge. “There’s a chest in the water, look!”

Abel sighed in exasperation. “Til, the amount of debris around here shouldn’t be a surprise to you.”

“It’s intact,” Tilieth noted. “Let me see if there’s something useful inside.”

Abel spluttered in protest as his wife swam over into plain view, unable to stop her as she gently pushed Link towards him. His son was unphased, floating peacefully in the cool, clear water as his father held him afloat.

Tilieth reached the floating wooden chest, struggling a little to open it while swimming in the water. When she’d tried and failed three times, Abel called out to her. “Til, for the love of Hylia, get back over here! I can’t protect you from there!”

His wife was clearly growing frustrated with her lack of progress and swam to the rocky shore, climbing up and walking back towards their supplies underneath the bridge. Abel lost sight of her for a moment and then heard her scream.

Every nerve in his body fired in response, and he hastily tucked Link under the bridge and grabbed the bow and an arrow, knowing he probably couldn’t get within arm’s reach in time. When he leapt over the rocky wall of the bridge, he loosed an arrow at a brown figure near his wife and then felt a yell of shock and horror tear out of his throat immediately after.

The Hylian turned in time to see the arrow slam into his shoulder, and he hit the ground with a cry of pain.

Oh shit, Abel’s mind screamed. Shit, that’s a Hylian, an actual Hylian!

Tilieth slid under the bridge to hide, both horrified at being caught in such a state of undress and at what had just happened. Abel found himself at a loss for words.

It hadn’t occurred to either of them that they’d run into living, breathing people before they got to Kakariko.

“Zomi!” another voice cried, and Abel turned sharply to his left, seeing someone running towards him across the bridge, blade already raised.

Abel felt his mind numb as he nocked another arrow, and then Til was in view again, a green tunic covering her to her mid thighs. She waved frantically in the air. “Stop, wait!! My husband was just trying to protect me, we didn’t mean any harm!”

The Hylian on the ground grunted. “Feels pretty harmful to me.”

“You’re one of those thieves, aren’t you?!” the foreign woman yelled accusingly, raising her sword to point at Abel. “You think you can just attack anyone who is trying to travel?! Get away from my brother!”

“We’re not thieves,” Til replied, a little bemused at the branding. “We’re just…”

His wife trailed off, glancing at Abel uncertainly. Abel supplied, “We’re travelers.”

Finally, the former knight lowered his weapon, though he was still too addled to get near the injured Hylian. The woman grew hesitant with his action, uncertain of his intention. With the pause that it created, Abel managed to catch his breath and knelt beside the man. “I’m… sorry. My wife yelled and I—”

“Reacted,” Zomi grunted as he shifted uncomfortably. “Good thing you caught yourself in midshot, eh? Though I—Hylia above, this hurts… I’d really like to get this out.”

Abel bit his lip. He hadn’t changed the trajectory of his aim at all. He didn’t have the heart to tell the man the only reason he was alive was because archery was not Abel’s strength.

He couldn’t even fathom the fact that the only reason he hadn’t just murdered a man was because his aim was off.

“We can’t pull it out, you’ll bleed more,” Tilieth protested as the Hylian woman rushed over to the injured man.

“We have something for that,” the woman said dismissively as she reached for the arrow. Her brother hissed in pain as she braced, her brow furrowed in worry.

Abel put a hand on her shoulder. “Let me pull it out. It’ll be faster.”

“You’ve already hurt him enough!” she snapped.

“Hisal, please,” her brother pleaded, his voice shaking. “Let him do it.”

Hisal frowned, clearly not wanting to listen, but she backed off nonetheless, reaching into her large travel pack. Abel took a deep breath, putting one hand on Zomi’s shoulder and the other on the arrow. Then he pulled hard, leaving the stranger screaming as Tilieth looked away, slipping under the bridge to check on Link.

The sister shoved a bottle in her brother’s face, and he drank quickly, coughing a little on it as he groaned in pain. Once he was finished downing the contents of whatever concoction he was given, he laid on the ground, panting for air and sweaty, but… not bleeding. Abel glanced at the wound and saw that it was little more than a divot in his skin.

Abel looked at Hisal, amazed. “How did you do that?”

“Fairy,” she explained.

Abel grew confused. “Fairy? Those are exceedingly rare. And I didn’t see a fairy in that bottle.”

“If you cook them, they have healing properties.”

Abel’s mouth snapped shut. Somehow that seemed… wrong to cook such creatures. Weren’t they supposed to be gifts from the goddesses?

He didn’t comment. It wasn’t as if the goddesses had spared much after the calamity. People had to make do.

Maybe they could find some fairies too.

Tilieth appeared once more, wearing trousers and throwing her light blonde curly hair into a messy bun as she almost always did. “What are you two even doing here?”

“We were trying to make the pathway safer for travelers,” Hisal said as she helped her brother sit up. “People are slowly starting to try to venture out of their homes again. If we could make contact with others then maybe we can help each other out. But there are plenty whose homes were destroyed during the calamity and have been living out in the wilds. Some make do, but a lot try to jump people for supplies. It’s dangerous to travel anywhere right now.”

“So you’re… clearing the path?” Abel tried to surmise, growing tense. Had this Zomi person been about to attack Til, then?

Zomi rotated his arm a little, testing it as he grimaced slightly. “We’re building a shelter on the other side of the bridge. A place of refuge for weary travelers. I saw someone under the bridge and went to investigate. I’m… sorry for the scare.”

Abel’s tension drained out of him, and he slowly rose. “I believe I’m the one who should be apologizing.”

“Where are you two from?” Tilieth asked, prolonging the conversation (unnecessarily, his mind added).

“Palmorae Village,” Zomi answered after a moment, sighing. “What’s left of it.”

There was a heavy silence in the air after that. Abel glanced around uneasily, wanting to check on Link though he knew Til had just done so. Clearing his throat, he said, “Well, you stumbled onto my wife as she was finishing up a bath, but I’m afraid I still have to clean up, so perhaps you two can get back to whatever you were building and we’ll leave each other in peace.”

His words fell on deaf ears, though, as the siblings stared off towards the shrine.

“Wasn’t it glowing orange yesterday?” Hisal wondered softly. 

Zomi shook his head, glancing at Abel. “Sorry, we just… these things have popped up everywhere. People are taking it all kinds of ways. Have you seen the towers? They’re enormous and they came out of nowhere, and it’s got people freaked out. Like… some are saying it’s for the guardians.”

Abel nearly laughed, but he bit his tongue instead. As entertaining as others’ interpretation of the situation was, he and Til still had a mission to accomplish, and these two were stalling them. 

Tilieth, on the other hand, was eager to speak. “Oh? Well, I don’t think it’s anything quite that foreboding. It could be a good sign.”

“That’s what I said,” Hisal muttered, nudging Zomi. 

Abel was finally at the end of his patience and turned to go under the bridge. “Either way, be safe. I’m sorry about earlier.”

The apology felt significantly less sincere than it really had any right to be, but he hadn’t spoken to anyone aside from his wife (and recently a dead man) in the last ten years and had enough adrenaline in his system to make him want to scream. He had little idea or tolerance for such an interaction.

Zomi noticed the finality in his tone and huffed a small, sheepish laugh, patting his sister on the shoulder. “Yes, I suppose we should get back to what we were doing. I… good luck to you two.”

With that, the siblings uneasily made their way across the bridge, dipping around the other end and climbing down an embankment. Abel immediately let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding and rushed under the bridge to check on Link.

“You almost killed him,” Til said shakily as she followed him. “I–goddess, what if–I didn’t even think about—”

“I noticed,” Abel said flatly before adding with a sigh, “I didn’t think about it either.”

His train of thought derailed when he got to Link and saw the boy grimacing and shivering. Abel hastened his steps and knelt beside his son, quickly wrapping him in a larger cloak to dry him off. Til noticed his furrowed brow and immediately grabbed a water flask as Abel tried to coax him awake.

“Link,” he whispered, giving his son a little shake. “Open your eyes.”

Hylia, please, Abel prayed as he brushed damp locks of hair out of his boy’s face. “Wake up.”

Link looked like he truly was trying, but his furrowed brow started to relax, the crinkles around his eyes smoothed out, and he started to grow limp in his father’s hold. Tilieth let out a panicked little cry as Abel shook him again, but neither parent could rouse their child.

Abel sighed heavily. “Let’s just get him dressed and get going.”

Breakfast was simple and somber, and the couple was on their way soon enough. A quick scan from Abel ensured that the siblings they’d encountered were nowhere in sight as they crossed the bridge, though building materials were stacked to the side. As an afterthought, Til grabbed the slate and made an ice pillar to finally reach the treasure chest she’d been investigating, and she pulled a purple rupee from it.

“All of that for a purple rupee,” Abel sighed. At least it was more useful than amber.

Honestly, the more he thought about it the more he realized that if there truly were so many survivors, they had a fairly significant problem.

They were broke.

The thought was only a brief concern. They’d survived off the land long enough, he supposed. They didn’t need to buy from anyone. He looked distractedly to his left as Til returned, feeling his son’s legs sway by his sides, and saw the wrecked remains of a distant stable.

He wondered just how many people had actually ventured outside of their home towns and villages. He wondered how many towns and villages were even left.

Focus, he told himself, shaking his head. He hadn’t had these thoughts since the early years.

As the pair made their way on the path, the dueling peaks loomed steadily closer. Abel remembered when it used to be a comforting sight on his journeys home, when he was allowed time off duty. Except… there was something distinctly different.

There was a tower beside them!

“Didn’t you say the tower on the plateau let you map out the area on the slate?” Tilieth noted.

“I did,” Abel answered slowly, wondering if it was worth the climb. He knew this area like the back of his hand, after all.

Then again, the tower could have more to offer the slate. If nothing else, it would give him a good view to survey the region. It had been a decade - things changed.

“I‘ll climb it,” his wife said, catching him off guard. At his surprised expression, she added, “You're carrying Link. I don’t want you to get tired.”

“Til, that’s a hell of a climb.”

“I’ve got it,” she insisted, waving the slate. “Let’s get closer.”

A small monster encampment was just north of them, and it didn’t take much for Abel to eliminate it. The treasure they guarded was an opal, to Abel’s relief and Tilieth’s delight. His wife started to pick through the trail as well, finding herbs and berries and nuts and even snails on the shoreline at one point.

“Is that really necessary?” He asked as she stuffed a freshly caught butterfly into her pouch.

“It could come in handy,” she said lightly with a cheery smile.

The highlight of her strange fascinations was when she shoved a rock into a curiously formed hole and then smiled at the air above it, holding out her hand.

Abel stared at her in bemusement. “What are you doing?”

Til’s smile faltered a little as she looked at him, and then her eyes dulled a little with sadness before she shrugged and returned to the path ahead. “I’ll explain later.”

The tower itself was adjacent to a monster camp that rivaled the large one by the River of the Dead. Abel had practically gone to war with the beasts there a few times, keeping their numbers fairly low. Here, there were…

Wait a minute. Were those people?

Abel froze, and Tilieth nearly ran into him with a yelp. Then she tensed as she recognized them too.

“Is… why does that look like a monster camp?” she asked quietly, her voice tight.

“I think they took over it.”

“So… that’s a good thing, right?” Tilieth asked, and a part of Abel despised that it even had to be a question. Given their last interaction, it was possible, but…

But Abel wasn’t a trusting man. Not anymore.

“I don’t know,” he answered. “Best to assume it isn’t. That man spoke of dangerous people on the road.”

“But… they would have passed them, wouldn’t they?”

That was a fair point. It didn’t make Abel feel any better, though. He didn’t want them to see Link.

“Let’s backtrack,” Abel said. “We—”

“Wait,” Til interrupted, staring at the shore. “Maybe there’s an alternative.”

Abel watched his wife tiptoe towards the shoreline, staring at a spot just by the water. When he examined where she was looking, he saw only the same rock that covered the rest of the shore. She reached down as if to pick up a stone and then jumped slightly, her hand shooting back as if it had been burnt.

Confused, he approached slowly, very aware that they were steadily creeping into the line of sight of the camp. “Til, what are you doing?”

“I think I can find a safe path across the river,” Tilieth said. “We both can cross.”

“I can’t swim with Link on my back like this,” Abel immediately. “This current is too strong.”

“We’re not swimming,” Tilieth replied with a mischievous smile, pulling out the slate. “Follow me. With that, his wife started creating ice pillars to cross. Abel watched them warily. They were… fairly easy to traverse, but they were still made of ice. He’d barely managed to not slip when they’d first started using it in the snow shrine. And if they fell into the river…

Sighing, he watched as Til easily slid across three pillars to reach a little island where the stone tore out of the earth higher than the water could cover. They weren’t quite in view of the camp from here. He followed his wife, wondering why she again stopped on the rock and reached for something only to stop midway, but he didn’t bother voicing the question. They continued with this pattern until they were nearly all the way across the river. Then Tilieth smiled and held out her hand, her palm closing as if she’d grabbed something.

“Caught another bug?” Abel surmised, catching his breath after leaping across the river with Link in tow.

“Something like that,” Til said softly, her smile brightened by her flushed cheeks. Then she pointed ahead. “We’re almost at the tower!”

She wasn’t wrong. From here they could just hop to another rock and then they’d be at the shore again. Tilieth hastily ran ahead, climbing up some rocks that helped her reach nearly halfway up the tower.

“Be careful!” Abel called a little worriedly before settling Link on the ground. As he examined his boy, he noticed a little blood stain on Link’s trousers, right around where the strap of the harness would be. Feeling his gut clench a little, he slid them down to look and see the damage he suspected was happening.

The harness was hurting him. Because of course it was. It wasn’t as if something could go well for any of them. It wasn’t as if Link couldn’t just wake up, and—

Abel bit his lip, reaching into his bag for what little medical supplies they’d packed as he cleaned the pressure wounds. There was no sense in complaining about it. He just had to deal with it. Just like he dealt with everything else.

There was a yell of excitement and Abel looked up and nearly had a heart attack as his wife practically landed on top of them, their glider guiding her descent. Before he even had a chance to speak, Tilieth was immediately rambling with excitement.

“Honey, there was another upgrade to the slate, it has a sensor that can track shrines, we can find any shrine anywhere now and—why are Link’s pants pulled down? Did he make a mess? Why—is that blood? What happened?!”

Abel held up a hand in a desperate attempt to make his wife at least pause for breath so he could explain, and then her words registered. “A sensor? The slate can find shrines?”

Tilieth’s distress was evident when she started to speak again, so Abel hastily redressed their son and explained, “It’s the harness, Til. There wasn’t an attack. Tell me about the sensor.”

Tilieth bit her lip, anxiety sketched into every crease of her pinched face, and then she determinedly pulled out the slate. “If we follow the beeping, it’ll lead us to shrines. It’s already picked up on one nearby.”

Abel ignored how his stomach growled in protest while the midday sun hung heavily overhead. He was suddenly filled with energy at the sliver of hope that maybe, just maybe, something was finally going well today. Carefully slipping the harness back on Link, he rose with his son. “Then let’s get going.”

Tilieth rushed ahead, leaving Abel to run to keep up with her. At first they climbed a few rocks and then started to trace a path around the mountain. Then Til paused so abruptly Abel crashed right into her.

“Til, what the—”

“The signal stopped,” she interjected, a little worried. “Let’s try again.”

Turning around, Tilieth brushed by Abel, who followed her hesitantly, his brow steadily crinkling together. He heard the little slate chirping more frantically as they moved, and Tilieth picked up the pace once more.

And then she stopped again.

“Til—”

“It keeps disappearing.” She said, squinting at the screen. “I think… honey, I think we have to climb.”

You’ve got to be kidding me.

He shouldn’t have been surprised at this point.

Shaking his head, he said, “Well, if it means we can find a shrine, then let’s go.”

The couple looked upward, sizing up the mountain. There were perches for them to cling to, but it wasn’t going to be a pleasant experience. Abel’s gut churned; if Til lost her grip, there was nothing he could do to catch her. He didn’t like this.

Then again, they had little choice in the matter. And she had the paraglider, so there was that.

Slowly but surely, the two started to climb, emboldened by the repeated encouragement from the slate.

And then, halfway up the mountain, it stopped.

“What happened?” Abel asked, growing a little concerned and more than a little frustrated.

“We lost the signal,” Tilieth muttered, carefully looking at the slate as sweat poured off her forehead. “But… it didn’t… this doesn’t make sense…”

“Maybe we should just bomb our way through the mountain,” Abel grumbled.

“No, we have to figure this out!” Tilieth argued. Abel noticed with worry that her arm was visibly trembling.

“We will,” he insisted. “But let’s reach the top first.”

The pair continued on, and Abel quickly realized how completely idiotic of a suggestion that had been. There was absolutely no way they were reaching the top. Thankfully, though, there were outcroppings where they could stop and rest. By the time Abel dragged himself onto stable, even ground, his body gave out altogether, leaving him in a crumpled pile lying prone in the grass while Link slowly crushed the air out of him. Tilieth wasn’t of much help as she was splayed out on her back beside him, panting.

“Why—is there—a shrine—in the middle—of the mountain?” she asked between breaths.

“Why can’t that damn sensor figure out where the hell we’re supposed to go?” Abel snapped. “It has to be broken.”

Til groaned as she pushed herself into a seated position and gently coaxed Abel to lie on his side so she could get Link out of the harness. A steady rain started to coat the area, washing their sweat away along with any chance of continuing their climb anytime soon. Sighing, Abel finally crawled over to Link and pulled him close so he could shield him from the rain. He could already feel his boy shivering a little under him.

“I’m going to look around,” Tilieth resolved tiredly. “Maybe I can figure this sensor out.”

Abel didn’t bother to throw his two rupees in on the matter. Instead, he carried Link and found a tree to serve as somewhat tolerable shelter, and then he started rifling through their bag to see if Til had any elixir. They’d promised to not use any unless absolutely necessary, but if he couldn’t get Link to wake up long enough to sip more than two gulps of water, he’d need one soon enough.

Speaking of which, he should try to wake him again. At least Link was reacting to his surroundings once more. Every fiber of his being screamed in protest as Abel pulled Link into his lap and shook him a little, and his stomach was so tight he felt nauseous.

Maybe he should eat something too.

The ground shook, and Abel heard Tilieth call for him frantically.

Propping Link by the tree, he immediately grabbed his sword and ran to find his wife, only to find…

Only to find a stone talus.

Tilieth was miniscule in front of the monstrosity, running for her life to get to Abel.

“TILIETH!” he called. 

The stone talus took an enormous step and Tilieth screamed, dodging its feet within the last second. She managed to reach Abel just to slam into him, and he nearly fell over before whirling around to drag her away. 

His mind screamed a million different things at once. Where would they go?! How would they get Link to safety?!

Someone had to distract the beast.

Just as Abel shouted a command to his wife, she dragged him to the tree and pointed at Link. “Pick him up, we have to climb!”

“It’ll pick us off before we can ever get anywhere! It needs to be distracted,” Abel shook his head, throwing the harness to her. “Get him out of here!”

“No!” Til shouted as the ground shook again, the beast looming just around the corner. “Climb the tree! Remember the little taluses on the plateau? As long as they couldn’t see us they’d go back to their resting place. They’re even dumber than bokoblins, Abel!”

“You—you want to hide in the tree—”

“Come on!”

Well there wasn’t any stopping her. Abel quickly switched strategies, pulling Link onto his back and hastily clamoring into the branches. It appeased Til long enough for him to try to come up with a new strategy.

The stone talus loomed into view and then paused just a step away from them. It swiveled its stone body a few times as if looking for them. Abel and Tilieth held their breath.

A bird squawked beside them, making Til yelp. Another bird at the outcropping across from them flew off, startled. The movement caught the talus’ attention, and suddenly Abel’s world shifted and any stabilizing force holding the tree together fell apart as the talus picked up the tree and tossed it high into the sky.

Both parents yelled in horror as they flew through the air. The tree was steadily stripped of its leaves until Abel could see a clear view of ground underneath him - they’d cleared the mountain peak entirely. If they held onto the tree any longer they’d fall right back down into the river far below.

Assuming they didn’t hit the rocks first.

“Let go!” he shouted.

“What?!”

“Let—go!!”

Tilieth screamed but obeyed, and the two hit the ground hard before rolling a little ways. The tree continued straight over the cliffside, splintering on the ground far, far below.

The stone talus was nowhere in sight. Nor were any landmarks, until Abel looked around over the cliffside, dizzy and disoriented. 

They were on the top of the mountain.

The air was considerably colder, wind howling against his face and stinging his cheeks. The biting chill was a slap of reality to the face, and he gasped, unfastening the harness just as Tilieth helped pull Link off him.

Their boy was bruised, with some blood leaking out of his nose, but none the worse for it. Though he was clearly cringing in pain.

“Link, oh Link, baby I’m so sorry,” Tilieth sobbed, holding the boy. “I was just trying to figure out where the sensor was leading, the talus came out of nowhere—”

Abel put a hand on Til’s shoulder, too out of breath to comfort with words, when the slate chirped.

“That damn thing,” he snapped, getting ready to grab it and throw it when Tilieth gasped and pointed behind him.

Turning, he saw a shrine glowing at the very top of the mountain, nestled between two stone formations that looked like pillars.

On the other blasted mountain.

Abel was going to lose his mind. He was. He really, truly was. 

Gritting his teeth, he took a steadying breath, his chest burning both inside and out as his ribs protested against movement while his lungs protested against the dryer air. 

Shooting to his feet, Abel swayed in place and nearly fell back over, but he spread his feet a little to plant himself into the ground as Tilieth hurried to steady him. He stormed away from the twin mountain, away from his wife, and away from his son.

“Abel, where are you going?” Til asked shakily.

Abel waved a hand over his head, beyond words. His ribs hurt too much to talk anyway, and he was ready to go off.

The only way this day could get worse was if Link didn’t wake up at least once to drink something, and that seemed a likely possibility considering getting catapulted into the air didn’t rouse him.

Tilieth’s tear—filled call made him pause, and he clenched his fists, trying and failing to calm down. He wasn’t mad at her. He wasn’t mad at anyone.

Well. Maybe he was a little mad at Hylia. Maybe that was why they were getting pulverized like this.

What was it that they used to say back in the day? Trust the goddess?

Abel scoffed. Trusting in the goddess got Hyrule destroyed. Her royal bloodline had failed Hyrule and his son.

Yet he had failed Link just as badly, if not worse.

Abel’s knee suddenly gave out, and he yelped as he face-planted into the damp grass. His body felt like it was on fire and he couldn’t even tell if it was from pain or the pure frustrated rage that was about to tear out of his throat.

Instead, he took a shuddering breath and slowly sat up. Glancing back where he’d walked away, he saw Tilieth sitting on the ground with Link’s head in her lap as she rocked him slowly. He couldn’t see her face from where he was, but he could see her shaking.

The former knight sighed, drained of his anger and filled with hopelessness and exhaustion. Slowly, he rose to go back to his family and offer what little support he had left in him. When he approached, Tilieth looked at him, her cheeks stained with tears.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, barely audible over the wind.

“This isn’t your fault.” I’m sorry too.

Abel knelt beside her, slowly and gingerly wrapping an arm around her as he helped cradle Link. The wind blew harder, making both parents shiver in the cold, and it blew a few pebbles over the side of the mountain.

Only for them to bounce against something that was distinctly not stone.

Both Til and Abel glanced in the direction of the drop where the rocks had just fallen before looking at each other with curiosity and, in Til’s case, the smallest glimmer of hope. His wife rose first, leaving Link in his care, and Abel watched her walk as he held his son tightly.

Tilieth gasped and quickly said, “Abel! Abel there’s a shrine here! Just under the cliff!”

Though his joints were stiffening from the bitterly chilly wind and the cool moisture seeping into his clothes from the ground, Abel still had a little energy left to lift Link and follow his wife. Just as she proclaimed, a shrine sat waiting innocently for them just a little slide away.

There were two shrines. Twin shrines for the twin peaks.

Abel let out a weak, tired laugh, his breath carried away by the gusts.

“Then what are we waiting for? Let’s get Link’s spirit orbs.”

[rotzaprachim]

i think the beach sequence is fascinating too in light of how many buzzy beach location sights anglo tourists flocked to in the 60′s-90′s (hypothetically when this show i guess would kind of be set??) in latin america, the caribbean, spain, and portugal that had that buzzy hyper capitalist tourists lying on blankets vibez whilst having right wing authoritarian dictatorships. palm trees and espadrilles can happen in the same place as people being violently disapeared and sent to labour camps. a man walks out of his hotel room to buy snacks for a one night stand to be immediately profiled and accused of another man’s crimes. (the crime is anti-imperial speech.) it isn’t just genius writing but quite a pointed reference

[james-stark-the-writer]

you know, i appreciate the work Susan Sontag has done for people appreciating Camp and stuff but i feel like if you are still using Susan Sontag as the authority on Camp in the year of your lord 2023, using notes that were written in 1964, as if the landscape of art and our relationship to art hasn't fundamentally changed since then,,, it's like, you need to catch up babes, a lot of those points are still really relevant, i'm not saying throw it out, but like update your understandings of Camp beyond that one authoritative text that's at this point almost 60 fucking years old. Susan Sontag is not the fundamental authority on what art today is or would be considered Campy, build off of those basics, please dear gods, evolve your understanding of what Campy art today actually looks like rather than trying to apply a prescriptive label from a text that can kinda boil down to 'Camp is whatever you feel like, and you'll know it when you see it because it won't be like traditional art' because the attempt to define it is so wide, calling every non-traditional piece of art campy is fucking pointless and not how anyone is obviously using the fucking label, people are very deliberately talking about one specific feeling they get from the piece of art, and it's got very little to do with aesthetics, at least as far as TV shows are concerned (movies are a different conversation), and much more about presentation and tone and intended effects and what the whole fucking point of the piece of art actually is, which is a lot more than what is afforded to most things considered Campy, like 90% of the shit people call campy at this point is just called campy and then it's left there, because it's a "oh you can't say anything about it because it's campy" like at this point it almost functions as a conversation ender because anyone you're talking to about any aspect can just go "yeah that's meant to be that way, it's campy" and it's like. okay, where do we go from here? should the piece of art not be analyzed as a work of art? does it not deserve to be evaluated in good faith and treated like any other piece of art? i understand the urge to defend the use of the term, as like "oh we're using it because people are misunderstanding art and what it's trying to be", and as a Riverdale-truther (as in genuinely love it as a piece of art and what it says and does, it's not fucking campy i swear to god, none of you fucking know what pulp art is!), and as a TASM2 truther (best Spidey movie after ITSV, and definitely best general movie after ITSV, and i don't care what your opinion is) i understand the urge to want to defend it as camp, but like, what's the piece of art actually doing and trying to say, what are the deeper layers at play? or are you really just satisfied saying something is Campy and stopping your analysis of the piece of art there? is your soul really okay correcting someone's interpretation of a show and saying it's campy and not doing anything beyond that? what does it being campy actually change? what the fuck does it actually do for the piece of art, if the piece of art is even campy at all?

[bibleofficial]

my father asked me ‘why do u belittle ur brother so much’ like BC YALL FUCKING CODDLED HIM HIS ENTIRE LIFE SO HES STUPID

[if-you-fan-a-fire]

“From Agassiz Correctional Camp: Camp Puppeteers entertain youngsters,”  THE CHILLIWACK PROGRESS, Wednesday, November 3, 1971. 3A. ---- The Camp Puppeteers were activated at the Agassiz Correctional Work Camp during July of this year. 

The Camp Superintendent, W. A. Hall, asked Cliff Sherlock, a former professional puppeteer and now a staff member at the camp, to form the group as a a therapeutic activity for the men. Since that time the club performed weekly shows for the Easter Seal Camp for crippled children at Chehalis during the summer months, the Agassiz Raspberry Social, the Chilliwack fall fair, and at several schools and community functions. 

On Sunday, they performed at the Kiwanis Halloween Party at the Chilliwack Armories before more than 400 youngsters. Because of the large crowd it was was necessary to put on two shows. 

The club consists of 15 men who are accompanied by three musicians from the camp when required. At present they have a repertoire of four plays with a further two plays in the process of being prepared for the Christmas season.

Several bookings have been accepted by the club within the upper Fraser Valley area tion. between now and Christmas, but they are still open for more engagements from any interested group or organization.

The men gladly donate their talents to any community social or charitable function but are also seeking private commercial engagements. 

Any person, business, community group or charitable organization wishing to contact The Camp Ruppeteers may do so by telephoning Superintendent Hall at Agassiz 796-2712 between 8 a.m. and 4 p.m., Monday to Friday. 

CAMP PUPPETEERS entertain children Sunday with a Halloween skit at Chilliwack Armory at a children's' party sponsored by Chilliwack Kiwanis Club. Puppet show was staged by inmates from Agassiz Correctional Camp. Some 450 youngsters attended the affair,

[gothhabiba]

It is very revealing that Israelis feel able to use their own bodies as preventatives against aid trucks getting into Ghazza. Obviously doing this requires betting on the assumption that your body can work as a barrier or as a shield—that is, that the operator of the machine will agree with your assessment of the mutually agreed-upon value of your body and your life. You cannot physically stop the truck. The only world in which you are stopping the truck is one with the correct personal and political circumstances to cause the operator of a truck to decide not to kill you.

This is something that is not always the case! Many people do not exist in those political circumstances! When nine or so people with the International Solidarity Movement tried to use their bodies to stop Israeli bulldozers from demolishing buildings in the Rafah refugee camp, the driver ran over Rachel Corrie twice, killing her. The activists, who had carried out similar actions in the past, expressed the understanding that they were putting themselves in danger, that there was every risk their lives would not have that agreed-upon, politicised ‘value.’

Israelis talk about feelings of “risk” and “danger”—but no one in Ghazza right now would see putting their body in front of a something as a reasonably sure means of blocking a path. Killing them would be not only acceptable collateral damage, but the point of the presence of the tanks and bombs in the first place. The evidence is clear about who is risking what, and what the real dangers are.

[bunnys-kisses]

i have this little thought bouncing around in my head! single father simon. (a drabble)

*shrug*

simon ends up with his daughter winnie after her mother abandons her at his doorstep. he was the father, it was his turn to take care of her. simon could handle warfare, he could handle guns and sweat and metal. he could handle blood and bruises.

but a fussy newborn was a little too much for him.

enter you, it was your summer off from university and you were making extra money by babysitting for parents who couldn't afford weeks of posh summer camps. it was decent work and you were pretty good with them! so being concerned for your neighbour, simon's well being, you offered to watch winnie.

simon very well fell in love with you the moment you took the baby girl into you arms. winnie instantly got settled into your grasp, almost like you were her mother.

"what a lovely baby girl." you cooed, you looked at her with such affection already. you looked at simon and smiled, "she looks too cute to be yours." a playful jab.

you watched winnie while simon was at work. you didn't know what he did for work, but you tried not to ask too many questions. all you knew was that the checks didn't bounce when you cashed them.

but being with winnie for so many days had gossip go through the apartment building. you had a baby with simon? why were you in two separate apartments? where did the lovely newborn sleep? she SHOULD be sleeping with her mother (you).

when you tried to correct them, simon always said, "ah don't worry. we'll be havin' our own place soon enough!" his large hand snaked around your waist.

you just looked down at winnie who was sound asleep in her stroller. she couldn't care less who her mommy and daddy were. it wouldn't be hard to be the mother she'd otherwise be without, right?

that was the angle that simon too.

you'd make the most perfect mrs. riley. you were already taking care of winnie, but also him when he came home. you shouldn't be the nanny, you should be winnie's mama.

"she really loves you." simon remarked when you went with him to the pool.

you were in a one piece swim suit and you were making sure that the baby was out of the sun and had sunscreen on. you didn't want her to get sick or burned.

currently she was resting on your chest while you were in the shade. in your free hand you had a book in it and the other was on winnie's back. you said, "i don't know what you're talking about." as if you hadn't heard the comments from the little old ladies about how sweet you two looked.

"look like a real mama."

you looked to him and raised your eyebrows, "i thought i was the babysitter, mister riley."

simon placed a hand on your thigh then rubbed up and down, "nah."

it didn't take long for you and simon to get intimate. he asked you to stay because winnie had been having trouble sleeping. you two shared a glass of wine and then you found yourself face first into simon's bed. the scent of him filled your head as he fucked you into the comfortable mattress.

he loved the sound of your pussy as he fucked you without much abandon. the thickness on your hips would only grow once he made sure his next child was inside of you. you'd be such a good mama, unlike that previous bitch who left him.

maybe there was a good reason why she left him.

cum clung to the fuzz on your pussy lips and was a bitch to clean in the shower come morning.

he woke you up and said, "she needs her mama. she gettin' fussy, doll." then watched you stumble around to find clothes to wear while you checked on winnie as if the little girl was your own. his hand was wrapped around his cock. he wondered how many more times he could finish in you before you stumbled back to your apartment.

the answer was four.

it wouldn't be easy carrying for a sprouting little baby plus the baby boy you were currently pregnant with. you've put school off for a little while and moved in with simon, your due date was in the middle of the semester. now you were trying to figure out what food was good for a teething winnie while also trying to manage the riley son that was occupying your womb.

you were making dinner for your growing family with a cute little maternity dress of. simon was at the table with winnie. he knew that one day he'd have to tell her that you weren't her actual mama. but you were raising her and her little brother too.

"see there's mama." simon said in that grumbled voice of his, pointing in your direction.

you didn't imagine that you would've ended up as a stay-at-home mother to two children who were than a year apart. but as you felt the shift of your 'second' baby inside of you, you smiled.

you heard winnie make a little noise to get your attention. you checked on the pot of sauce on the stove before you turned away to check on your little girl.

[gallusrostromegalus]

The Van Has Officially Declared It Spooky Season

---

I've got my parent's van for the week and it seems determined to establish my status as The Local Cryptid by terrorizing an innocent 7-11 clerk.

...I might need to back up a bit.

My mother is an eminently sensible woman who knows herself well, and when The Plauge hit, she knew she'd need some sort of mentally and physically engaging craft project to keep herself from going insane and massacring the local zoning and water management boards (even if they have it coming). So she and Dad acquired a utility van and converted it into a camper van because while they love camping, they're past the age where their joints and immune systems will tolerate sleeping on the cold ground in a nylon tent.

They did a terrific job of it and my mom taught herself woodworking and carpentry and now the van has it's own cabinets, fold-away dining table, and removable queen-sized bed with memory foam mattress. My Dad was already a computer engineer, but he learned the dark magics of automotive software and electronics to install after-market backup cameras, a media player that would take a terabyte hard drive and a solar-powered battery and outlet so they could wake up and just turn on the kettle and griddle for breakfast without having to exit the van into a cold morning on an empty stomach.

Truly, the height of Camping Luxury.

My parents are both in their mid-seventies and my primary life goal is to be at least half as cool and hale as they are when I get old.

Anyway, they take it out at least a dozen times a year and it works fabulously, but, being as I am on good terms with my parents and also finishing the process of moving house, I've been borrowing it to move large and cumbersome objects that will not fit in the back of my equally lovely but minuscule Honda hatchback.

It's a Great Van. Very easy and comfortable to drive. Stunningly good MPG for it's size. The best cruise control I've ever had in a car.

It's just also. Quirky. Mischievous, even.

---

If this van has a fault its that it bears the unfortunate affliction that all lightly used white utility vans have in that the combination of an utter lack of branding features and the large dent/scrape I accidentally put on it while trying to escape a Denny's last Thanksgiving means that this vehicle is one addition of a Badly Spray-Painted "FREE CANDY" on the side away from being the sort of vehicle you see in an edgy horror movie.

It's got the same issue that Doberman Dogs have where they look like the sort of creature that likes to snack on toddler's faces whilst actually having personalities made of marshmallow fluff. This vehicle is unnecessarily menacing and I think nothing short of an airbrushed Epic Van Wizard will correct this. People see this van pull up and lean over and squint suspiciously at me when the driver's side door opens, and then look moderately confused when, instead of Charles Manson, a small, potato-shaped creature with neon purple hair and a statistically unlikely assortment of dogs emerges.

My own two dogs, Herschel the Hanukkah Goblin/Corgi and Charleston Chew The Taco Dumpster Dog, Do Not Like The Van. Even with the bed in it, they have a tendency to slide and roll around in the back, and both WILL chew through dog saftey belts or other attempts to secure them in there.

On the other hand, my house mate's dog, an exceptionally tall standard poodle whom we lovingly call "The Creature", loves the Van because SHE wears her doggy seat-belt with only mild complaining and gets to sit up in the passenger seat like A People.

Also like A People, The Creature likes to stand and walk around on her hind legs. It doesn't hurt her and it's entirely voluntary, but every so often I will feel a hand on my arm and instead of my husband or friend, it's a canine that's taller than I am on her hind legs who wants to stare at my face with soulful, concerned eyes. The Creature's favorite thing is that she is exactly the right height for me to hold her arm in Genteel Fashion and walk around the pet food or hardware store with her like I'm a count escorting a debutante around a royal ball.

---

As it stands, I am set to inherit this vehicle whenever my Honda gives up the ghost, and I fully intend to paint an Epic Van Wizard on it when that time comes.

The other peculiarity of The Van is that while Dad did manage to successfully install all his after-market electronics, not all the electronics get along. Sometimes, they fight for Dominance. The Terabyte Music Player and the Backup Camera have a particularly contentious relationship, and turning on the music has about a 25% chance of turning on the backup camera as well, and turning on the Backup Camera is equally likely to turn on the music.

Firthermore, The Van has a favorite song.

I am not kidding that Dad filled an entire terabyte hard drive with music and the software to sort it via the radio controls, but of all the Early Boomer Dad Rock (Kingston Trio over The Eagles) and Irish Folk and Symphonies and the entire discography of Weird Al Yankovic, The Van's favorite song- The one it picks to play as victory music every time it beats the Backup Camera at their weird electronic game of rock-paper-scissors -is The Liberty Bell March by John Phillip Sousa.

You all know this song already.

...but in case you've forgotten the tune:

Yeah.

The Van's favorite song is the goddamn Monty Python's Flying Circus Theme Music.

It does not play this song at a normal volume.

Every time I turn on the Backup Camera and it manages to turn the music player on as well, The Van insists on absolutely blasting this nonsense on at the maximum volume it's physically capable of producing, which I know is loud enough to be heard from the Denver International Airport's Pickup zone when they Van decided to start playing it from the economy lot about half a mile away.

Perhaps it's The Van's way of honoring the aesthetic sensibilities and sonic enthusiasm of Mr. Sousa.

...I can't help but wonder if the purpose of an Epic Van Wizard is to control this sort of faerie-like malarkey, and channel these chaotic energies into things like Spell of Don't Break Down In Nevada or Enchantment Of Always Have Good Parking.

---

So last Friday the 13th, I get a call from my friend and housemate, at said airport.

It's roughly 11PM at night, and I have already retired for the evening. I am in the exact minimum of clothing required to be a decent housemate and not scandalize the neighbors should I happen to walk by a window. My feet are up. There is a cat in my lap and fictional British people murdering each other in highly inventive fashion on the tv. -But my friend has returned from her friend's wedding,and either American or United Airlines has managed to lose her luggage, including, among other valuable possessions, the keys to her car. ...So she cannot just drive home as originally planned.

There are, as luck would have it, her spare set of keys not eight feet from me.

Being a good and decent person, I agree to bring the spare keys to her so she may get home before daybreak and not spend a semester's worth of tuition on an uber across the greater Denver traffic jam.

Being also that she Loves Activities, and it's her mom we're going to pick up, I elect to take along The Creature.

I am primarily focused on remembering how to get to the airport and not leaving my friend's spare keys on the counter, so I throw on a pair of flip-flops, step outside, remember that it's AUTUMN and my minimal evening attire is not sufficient thermal protection, step back in, grab the first coat in the closet I lay hands on, pull it on, check that I have her keys again and leave.

The trip to the airport is largely unremarkable, save that it becomes necessary for me to put on sunglasses to drive, despite it being nearly the witching hour and almost entirely darker than the inside of a cow.

It's necessary because this blissful darkness of night is violently punctured by a startling number of cars that seem to have installed miniaturized but no less powerful lighthouse bulbs in where their headlights ought to go so the oncoming traffic and sports cars that insist on tailgating me in the slow lane alike illuminate the road and my mirrors with the kind of radiance I'd normally associate with the arrival of a Seraphim.

I arrive at the distant highly discounted airport car lot where my housemate is waiting, deeply apologetic. It's nothing. I say. Once I see that your car starts up, I'm gonna go to that 7-11 across the way that I parked in front of, get a slurpee or something and I'll see you at home.

While she is retrieving her vehicle (an equally eccentric but much more stately Subaru that is old enough to be elected to congress) I rifle through the loose change in the glove box and discover that I have exactly $6.66 in small bills and coins. The Subaru, continuing it's long voyage into vehicular immortality, immediately starts up.

Upon her return, we all remember that my friend had all her camping gear in the backseat of the car and there is no room for The Creature to ride home with her parent, so I again assure her it's nothing, and will just take The Creature into the 7-11 with me. She is trained as a service animal and needs the practice after the plague.

I wave my friend off and turn to enter the 7-11.

I promptly trip over the jutting back bumper of The Van and fall, cartoonishly, face-first onto the sidewalk.

Fortunately, I have a lot of practice falling on my face, and have learned not to throw my hands out but instead cover my face, so my unexpected self-inflicted attempted curb-stomping lightly scrapes my hairline and nothing else -my sunglasses even stay in place- and I get up and resume my quest for a slurpee.

It's well known that the airport is a lawless place, and the 7-11 across from the discounted airport parking at the stroke of midnight is no exception.

I know it's the stroke of Midnight because there's one of those Audubon society bird-call clocks that makes bird noises, and my arrival is heralded by the twittering call of a Summer Tanager. I am almost charmed enough by the unusual choice of chronological device to excuse the exorbitant Airport-adjacent mark-up of Slurpee prices. I stand at the machine for some time, trying to decide on a size for the price and guess what the fuck "Blue Lighting Blast" is supposed to taste like.

The Creature is being Very Polite but is somewhat agitated, I assume because she *just* saw her mother for the first time in three days and then she LEFT with no explanation, so The Creature is on her hind legs, staring woefully into my eyes, asking to be escorted around the 7-11. Even though that's not what she's not supposed to be doing, there's nobody else in here, so I let her hang off my arm and discuss various Slurpee Flavor options with her.

We eventually decide on an experiment in which I try a Small Blue Lightning Blast, and discover it tastes a bit like licking a nintendo cartridge but in a pleasantly satisfying way.

I go up to pay and realize something is amiss.

The Cashier is a young man staring at me with wide eyes, one had over the register and the other wrapped up in his rosary.

I look down at myself.

In my haste to reunite my friend with her spare keys and service animal, I had left the house in the following accoutrements:

Flip Flops. Not matching. It's below freezing outside. That last part is not particularly odd footwear for the weather in for Colorado, but it's an important detail for the rest of the ensemble.

Assorted scrapes, bruises, cuts and welts on my arms and legs that come with doing outdoor work and living in a house with three dogs and a fully-clawed cat that all want to be in my lap all the time. It's cold out, so vasoconstriction has pulled the blood away from my skin, a trait that served my ancestors well during the last Ice Age, but leaves me with pale skin to contrast the various wounds and I look like a corpse that fell out of the back of a pickup truck.

The black Bootyshorts with "CRYPTID" painted in bright red gothic font across my ass, that @theshitpostcalligrapher gave me for my wedding present.

A peculiar but extremely comfortable garment that straddles the line between "Lacy Camisole" and "Industrial-Strength Sports Bra" like the Ever Given straddling the Suez Canal. It is also Bright Red. with black accents.

The Jacket I had grabbed out of the closet, which is in fact, a black Velour Dinner Jacket.

The Tokyo-Ghoul inspired reusable anti-covid mask a friend made me with the set of Coyote Teeth.

My sunglasses, which are shaped like a Halloween Bat. The lenses are the wings and the body is the nose bridge. It is ALSO bright red.

A Very Large and remarkably Humanoid Poodle that I have been audibly affectionately calling "Dear Creature" who is hanging off my arm like she's my Prom Date.

The Very Large and remarkably Humanoid Poodle is ALSO dressed up in a black Dog Sweater that has white bones printed on it to look like its an X-ray jacket showing off her skeleton.

I look like I am taking my Very Fancy Werewolf Girlfriend to a particularly casual Dinner Party for Vampires, but the thing that's really selling it and probably alarming the kid the most is the fun accessory I acquired in the parking lot not five minutes earlier:

The "Small Scrape At my Hairline" is actually a painless but PROFUSELY bleeding head wound that I had somehow entirely failed to notice covering my face, neck, decolletage and magnificent cleavage with blood like a Tarantino Film Extra.

This does explain why The Creature has been delicately trying to use her bodyweight to push me down onto the floor for the last ten minutes. So I don't injure myself while we wait for the paramedics she hoped this kid called to arrive, you see.

The Creature has such a High and Naive Opinion of humanity.

I decide this social situation is already fucked, and the only way out is through, and with haste, before I start dripping on the floor.

"Hi there!" I say cheerfully, to indicate this is a visually alarming but not terribly serious situation. "Just a Small Slurpee!"

The Cashier has entered the relevant code into the register before I finish the sentence. His gaze flicks off me just long enough to look at the total, and he grips his Rosary harder.

$6.66

"Oh cool! I have exact change!" I say, taking the money out of my as-yet-unsanguined pocket without looking and slap it down on the counter. "You have a good night and be safe out there!" I wave, leaving.

I get in The Van, mortified, buckle The Creature up, and as I make to leave, I have to put it in reverse, which automatically turns on the backup Camera.

It also turns on the music player.

I make eye contact with the cashier as the dulcet tones of John Phillip Sousa boom from the van hard enough to make the windshield and the windows of the 7-11 rattle for the nine-and-a-half seconds I have to wait to be able to turn the volume back down. Not knowing what else to to, I give him a thumbs up, and leave.

Anyway, now I know what my Future Van Wizard has got to be dressed like, and what their familiar is.

---

If you enjoyed this story, please consider donating to my Ko-Fi or Pre-ordering my Family Lore Funny Stories book on Patreon

[liketolaugh-writes]

Bruce looking past the fact that (recently adopted) Danny is a powerhouse and recognizing that he has other skills also. <3

Danny is a STEM kid and just as brilliant as his sister, you cannot convince me otherwise

Danny gave Bruce the handwritten list of powers in the morning. Bruce stared at it over his cup of coffee, then gave Danny a flat, somewhat disbelieving look. Danny shrugged sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Sorry,” he said, perching on one of the stools. “I can point out the ones I don’t use if you just want to work on the ones I do. At least I have an idea of what needs improving with those.” Alfred gave him a cup of coffee and a plate of bacon and French toast, and Danny smiled at him. “Thanks, Alfred.”

“We’ll have to prioritize your training,” Bruce allowed after a moment, frowning down at the paper. Dick leaned over to look and whistled. “But all of these will be addressed eventually. You should have at least a moderate grasp of every tool at your disposal.” He looked up. “You intended to work in the lab today, correct?”

Danny nodded, playing with a strip of bacon. “I’ll probably spend most of today making a big batch of phaseproof coating,” he said. “Then I can experiment with mixing it with paint and maybe coat some of your spare weapons in it? That should work for the bo staff and escrima sticks, maybe a set of brass knuckles. But I’ll need to make a different solution for the edged weapons.” His mind wandered, thinking of how he could adapt what he knew of the Bats’ gear to work against ghosts.

“Who’re the brass knuckles for?” Dick asked, raising an eyebrow at Danny. Danny flushed and shrugged.

“Batman,” he said. “You don’t really use a weapon, right?” Bruce grunted. “But phaseproof cloth isn’t something my parents ever really figured out. I can work on it, maybe, but I thought brass knuckles would be an okay compromise for now.”

“Hn.”

“Good thinking,” Dick praised with a smile. “It’ll be easy to add to the utility belt too. Should we ghostproof my main set or a spare?”

“The main, I think, if you’re okay with it,” Danny said, tilting his head thoughtfully. “You probably won’t even notice. But the edged weapons should all be spares. Ecto-treated metal tends to glow.”

“Not great for stealth,” Dick nodded. “Whatever you think is best, baby spook. We have the resources.”

“You’re hyper-specialized,” Bruce noted without inflection, sipping from his coffee. Danny winced.

“Sorry,” he muttered. It was easy to forget that all this was pretty useless outside of Amity Park. Bruce shook his head.

“It’s not a problem. But we’ll need to diversify your skillset. Your talent for chemistry and engineering should expand beyond ectoscience alone.” He studied Danny contemplatively. “Higher education might be beneficial, perhaps a PhD.”

Danny’s eyes went wide. “What? I’m barely passing high school!”

“I had Casper High send over your transcripts,” Bruce said. Danny flinched. “You had a B+ average in middle school, with a particular bent for math and science. You also participated in several advanced extracurriculars, including a junior astronaut program, space camp, and competitive robotics. Further, you clearly have a comprehensive understanding of your parents’ work, which eludes both the Justice League engineers and JL Dark. You had these talents prior to acquiring your powers, and it would be a waste to discard them in favor of your raw combat ability.”

Danny stared at Bruce, open-mouthed and speechless. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d considered even the possibility that he could have a future outside of his hero career.

“…Do you think I could do that and be a superhero?” he managed after a minute, quieter than he’d meant to.

Bruce nodded sharply. “Most Justice League heroes maintain a career outside of heroics,” he reminded Danny, without even sounding like he thought Danny was an idiot for asking. “Aside from myself, there is also a Pulitzer prize-winning journalist, a museum curator, a forensic scientist, and a fighter pilot.”

Danny had known that on some level, but it had always seemed unreal. Practically a myth. “When am I going back to school?” he asked, hardly able to believe that he was suddenly looking forward to it.

“At the beginning of next semester,” Bruce said. “Your parents’ trial should be completed by then. I assume you don’t want to be announced publicly until that happens.” Danny shook his head fervently. “You may need to complete some make-up classes online, but we can discuss that next week.”

“Thanks,” Danny said sincerely. He was talking about a lot more than his re-enrollment.

[whatbigotspost]

Damn a lot of gen X and millennial teens sure were Guinea pigs in the horrific experiment* of all the “scared straight” and “behavioral corrections programs” and “military schools” and “therapeutic boarding schools” and “pray out the gay camps” and other fucking abusive “give us your troubled teens and we’ll fix em up” bullshit that was extremely popular in the 90s and 00s.

They’re telling all the stories now and have been for years and the depths of the horrors are mind boggling. They’re making all the docs and writing all the books and pulling back the lids on all the seedy underbellies and throwing the terror into the light so we can all stare at all the traumas that occurred and in some places are still occurring.

*btw we can say beyond all doubt none of this shit “worked” to help ANYONE of course. Except the abusers who got to get rich off of abuse. So many of the survivors will be the first to say they’re deeply fucked up by it and many haven’t survived the experience. Messed up beyond words.

[hazardsoflove]

i don’t know how hiking/camping trips work at summer camps but i’m doing it this way because it works for my narrative

[tiredguyswag]

one of those masterposts for Sudan 🇸🇩

Disclaimer: I am not Sudanese, and am in no way an expert on the ongoing crisis. Corrections, if any, are welcome.

LAST UPDATED: 26th April 2024 [Please try to reblog the original post as much as possible]

~

So what's going on in Sudan? Sudan was under the rule of the military dictator Omar Al-Bashir for thirty years. He came to power through a military coup in June 1989. His rule saw extreme economic decline, repression, and conflict. In the December of 2018, a democratic revolution began that eventually overthrew the dictatorship on April 11, 2019, and saw the beginning of a military rule by militant parties SAF (Sudanese Armed Forces) and RSF (Rapid Support Forces). This unrest is, of course, funded by western governments.

On the 15th of April, 2023, fighting broke out in Khartoum between the SAF and RSF. Clashes spread across the nation of Sudan, and the civilian populace is still caught in the middle. According to UN officials, Sudan is in “one of the worst humanitarian nightmares in recent history."

There is an ongoing war in Sudan, and it's getting worse. There is a health crisis along with the humanitarian crisis as well: around 2/3rds of the population do not have access to healthcare services. Around 15-20 millions suffer from hunger. There are 70 non-operational healthcare facilities in conflict zones. Thousands killed, millions displaced, and a dramatic increase in sexual violence and rape cases.

~

Links for Learning Resources:

Hadhreen: Hadhreen started as an initiative by a small group of Sudanese youth in 2015. Since its inception it continued to work in a variety of sectors, most notably Emergency response, health, and in supporting vulnerable groups.

Talk About Sudan: Learn more about what's happening in Sudan and actions you can take. Also has donation links for those who are able.

Keep Eyes On Sudan: A website run by Sudanese diaspora to amplify the calls of the Sudanese people. Has donation links, actions you can take, upcoming protests and events, resources, FAQs, etc.

#SudanSyllabus.docx: An extensive and well-sourced document, providing English language resources about Sudanese history. It's really long and has got lots of links to books, articles, and more. Curated by Razan Idris.

Human Rights Watch

~

Donation Links:

List of verified charities providing humanitiarian assistance in Sudan

Help Sudan Tarada Initiative: The aim is to deliver emergency basic needs, food and medicine. Funds will be transferred directly to local charities and organization who are managing those shelters to make sure that the funds are well received and is spent on the needs specified.

One Million Sustainable Pads Campaign: Fundraiser to help provide women in IDPs camps with reusable pads

Zubeyda Adam and family (Sudan)

Our home bombarded and destroyed

Help my family escape Sudan's war

Save a transperson in african Refugee camp from starvation [Unsure about the legibility of this one since its not from the person themself, but if someone can verify this for me that would be great]

Hope For Sudan

Darfur Women Action

Doctors Without Borders

Fill A Heart: Financial Assistance to Sudanese Hospitals

Hometax: Sudan Relief

Cairo Sudan Aid

Amal For Women

Sudan Solidarity Collective

Sadagaat

UNICEF

~

These are all the links I have so far. Please spread awareness about Sudan! Let me know if there are any links I should add to the post and I will update it.

[mariasont]

Office Sleepover - A.H

a/n: this is honestly kind of shit but whatever

might make this a mini series?

part two here!

‧₊˚ ✩°｡⋆♡ ⋆˙⟡♡ ⋆˙⟡♡⋆｡°✩˚₊‧

pairings: aaron hotchner x fem!reader

summary: in which reader gets put on a hit-list and has to stay in the office (kind of based off when penelope got put on a hit-list by the dirty dozen)

warnings: reader kind of flashes hotch, really inconsistent with how the gov works i'm sure, there's also definitely not an oven in the break room but in my world there is <3

wc: 3.8k

Hotch's voice reached you, but the words tangled into an indecipherable code as they hit the air. You nodded, a reflex, but it was as if your brain had short-circuited. You could make out fragments--a hit on you, stay at office, 24/7 protection, you can take the back office. But no matter how many times he said it, it seemed to ricochet through your head, making less sense each time. You were on a hit list? A hit list?

It all felt very made up, like a script ripped straight out of a tv show. Risk was a part of the BAU job description, but a hit list? For a fleeting moment, a chuckle hovered at the brink of your lips, but it was swiftly swallowed by a wave of dread that rose in its place. You blinked a couple times, probably too many in a vain attempt to clear the fog and bring Hotch's face into focus.

"But what about all my stuff? And you want me to camp out here in the office? For how long, Hotch? I mean, I'm all for overtime, but this is... this is a lot, and I--," you babble, your speech racing ahead of your thoughts. "And my baking? That's my biggest stress reliever. Not to mention my DIY projects--I can't just abandon my half-finished throw pillowcases. Plus, how many pairs of shoes is too many for an office closet?"

Your pout formed a delicate bow, and though he said nothing, his eyes softened. Hotch could feel the frown marring his features. He might never say it, but seeing you like this struck a chord, making it a little hard to breathe. 

Circling the desk, he planted himself in front of you, his hand settling on your shoulder. "Hey, take a deep breath," he urges softly. "Let's take it one step at a time. List out what you need, someone will bring it here. Your baking supplies, DIY projects, even your shoes."

True to Hotch's word, as usual, you found every piece of your life carefully compartmentalized into cardboard boxes, lined up carefully in the office that now doubled as your temporary room. There was an odd sense of dislocation in finishing your workday and needing only to count about thirty steps before arriving at your room.

You swung the door closed, the sound sealing the room as a deep sigh wrapped around you and you started sifting through the boxes. The pullout couch serving as your bed was less than appealing, its worn fabric making you grimace internally. Nevertheless, you diverted your attention, busying yourself with the organizing of your extensive collection of things. Spencer would definitely shake his head at the sight of the vast amount of clothes you had brought.

The irony wasn't lost on you; surrounded by the office's ceaseless motion, yet you felt more alone than in the stillness of your own apartment. God, this was pathetic, and you needed a drink, but you had a nagging suspicion the office handbook would have a thing or two to say about that. You spent a solid two hours attempting to infuse the sterile space with a touch of home, it wasn't perfect (at all), but it would have to do.

Rossi knocks on the doorframe, poking his head in with a grin. "I didn't realize we were redecorating the bureau in shades of bubblegum," he teases. "How you doing, kid?"

"Actually, it's blush," you correct with a mock-serious tone, meeting his smile with one of your own. "I'm fine," you insist, but Rossi's knowing look prompts a quick add-on. "I am, really, I mean I've always said I wanted my own office."

"An office with a view of the bullpen, no less. You're living the dream," he says, his eyes scanning the room. "Need any help with anything? Or anything else from your place? Maybe your favorite mug to make feel more like home?"

"Don't worry, I'm already one step ahead of you," you assure him, revealing a drawer brimming with mugs.

Rossi lets out a low appreciative whistle. "Why am I not surprised?" he chuckles with a broad grin. "Well, I'm heading out for the night. Remember, I'm just a call away if you need anything. And Hotch is still here, buried in paperwork as usual."

He left, and you were alone--a cue to try and cling to some normalcy of your routine; you drew the blinds and slipped into the comfort of your pajamas. You hauled yourself off to the office bathroom, reluctantly at that, and proceeded to attend to your skincare, brush your hair, and polish your smile with a thorough teeth brushing.

Eyeing the hallway warily, you made a silent exit from the bathroom, the carpet softening your footfalls. But in your rush to avoid prying eyes, you crashed into a solid wall of a figure, the force sending you tumbling backward. You hit the floor with a muted thud, your ass hitting the ground, legs splayed inelegantly in front of you. Your eyes rose to meet the firm, penetrating look of Hotch. Of fucking course.

There was a pause as Hotch's eyes drank in the sight of your flushed complexion and the wide, doe-like eyes that seemed to capture the light just so. He felt like his heart could stop then and there. And he knew it was wrong, but he certainly liked the sight of you sprawled below him. He blinked, breaking the trance, and offered a concerned, "Are you okay?" His hands were outstretched, ready to pull you back to your feet. 

Your cheeks turned a deeper shade as you held onto Hotch's hand, the feeling unexpectedly comforting, rough in yours but nice. "What? Oh, yeah, I'm all good, sorry about that," you managed to say, the words squeaking out a tad too eagerly. 

You stood up, and his closeness was all-consuming. You were suddenly intensely aware of every breath, every throb of your heart, and your mind went blank; the usual stream of thoughts replaced by a buzzing silence.

His eyes held yours for a fraction longer than necessary before he stepped back, creating a respectful distance. The hallway's warmth seemed to dissipate with the space, leaving you with an unexpected stab of disappointment. 

"Rossi said you'd be here. Anything I can do to help?" 

You rationalized the offer as a gesture of your goodwill, but a small part, well a big part, of you knew just wanted to be close to him, to be alone with him maybe--in the office, after hours, in his office. This was weird, I mean, you'd always admired your Unit Chief, but this was different. You chalked it up to the day's unfortunate series of events--you were tired, and lonely, and you needed desperately to snap out of it before you made a fool out of yourself.

"No, you need to rest. It's been a long day, and you've been through enough." He paused, his gaze assessing you. "How are you holding up?"

"At this rate, I'll need a sign that says 'I'm fine,' to stop the check-ins." Although you silently doubted that would deter him. You gesture to the surroundings. "And this? It's like a sleepover at work. Just hoping this so-called hit man doesn't show up."

Hotch internally recoiled at your words, leaving him with the sensation of a cold grasp tightening around his heart. He cleared his throat, the joke falling flat in the gravity of his concern. "I'll be here for a while longer. If you need anything, don't hesitate to come find me," he managed a nod before retreating to his office.

A while longer? You knew Hotch was a workaholic, but it now occurred to you that he must never sleep. Quickly, you gathered your scattered belongings, and made your way to your office.

The pull-out couch seemed even less inviting than you remembered, if that was possible. You perched on the edge, the metallic frame cold through the thin mattress. As you lay down, the couch seemed to swallow you in its awkward angles. Perfect. Tossing and turning, you struggled to find a comfortable spot. Eventually, exhaustion won over discomfort, the rhythm of your own breathing lulling you into a fitful sleep.

Your eyes flickered open at some point during the night and the blinds drifted apart, as if by an unseen hand, and through the gap, your eyes fell on a hooded figure, the face not visible in the dim light. Your muscles locked in terror, an icy fear clawing its way up your spine as you tried to move--to reach for your gun, to call out for Hotch, to do anything. But as if imprisoned by an invisible force, you could only watch, confined to the bed, as the figure crept towards the door. 

A scream tore from your throat, a raw and piercing sound that ricocheted off the walls and echoed through your eyes. This was it, you thought. 

Then, in an instant, you were awake and disoriented, your breaths coming in short bursts, and your body covered in a sheen of cold sweat. Your fingers clenched the sheets, the fabric twisting in your grasp as you fought to decipher what was reality. Your eyes snapped to the blinds, half-expecting to see the figure from your dream materialize, but the emptiness beyond them slowly calmed your racing heart.

With a throat dry as parchment and your pulse still echoing in your ears, you drifted from your room towards the break room. As you ambled past Hotch's office, you paused. The door, slightly ajar, felt like an invitation. Despite knowing better, a foggy curiosity nudged your feet forward. With a shaky breath, you eased the door open wider and slipped inside. 

His office felt different at night--it was quieter, more personal, and you felt like an intruder on Hotch's private world. You took a moment, absorbing the sight of his meticulously organized desk, the case files that were always present.

It was tempting to try to piece together the man from his workspace, but you held back. As you turned to leave, a familiar scent stopped you--the subtle hint of his cologne hanging in the air. It wrapped around you, easing the tension that had sunk into your limbs. Almost without thinking, you found yourself sinking into the couch.

The room, infused with his distinct scent, seemed to have your blinking growing heavier, more intentional. You nestled deeper into the cushions; the fabric familiar beneath your fingers, lulling you into a sense of security. Just five minutes, you thought.

Hotch's steps were slow, his eyelids having a hard time staying open as he made his way through the bullpen. He carried his briefcase, the leather handle worn and conformed to his hand. He contemplated a detour to your office, a silent check-in to ease his mind, but he dismissed the idea--you were probably still asleep, and he'd definitely look like a creep. Reaching his own office, he noticed the door ajar, a sliver of morning light spilling through the gap.

He stepped into the room, and time seemed to stand still as his gaze landed on the couch. There you were, fast asleep on his couch. Your hand lay gently under your cheek, a makeshift pillow softening the hard angles beneath, while your nose gave the faintest twitches. Your lips were parted as if mid-whisper and strands of your hair were splayed in a disarrayed crown around your head. He knew that in no way could that have been comfortable. It hurt his back just looking at you, but still you looked so peaceful.

He moved with quiet steps, heat creeping up his neck as he placed his things on the desk. Turning back to you, he couldn't help but notice the gentle dishevelment of your pajamas, buttons undone in innocent disarray, the fabric parting to reveal the gentle slope of your breasts. He felt an odd mix of emotions--a gentle chiding for finding you in such state, and the guilt of finding the sight so undeniably sweet. 

A quiet cough escaped him, more out of habit than necessity, as he approached a cabinet where blankets were neatly stacked--a nod to many nights spent just as you were. He draped one over you, his movements slow and unhurried, shielding you from potential curious eyes before finding his normal place behind the wooden desk.

He tried to focus--really, he did. I mean, he had a towering pile of paperwork and responsibilities that demanded his attention. But despite his best efforts, his gaze involuntarily drifted to you time and time again. It was as if he needed visual confirmation of your steady breathing to assure himself that you were okay. He thought about you here all night, alone, and he found his knuckles whiten against the grip of his pen. He knew you had security on you at all times, but somehow, he found no comfort in that.

Hotch's eyes flicked to the clock--7:30 am. You still had at least another half an hour before you technically needed to start work, although truth be told he would let you sleep as long as your body allowed. There was no way in hell he was going to disturb you when you looked so content. 

As Hotch worked, the morning light grew stronger, casting a warm glow over his desk. It was nearly 9 am when the sound of shifting fabric eventually roused you. You were waking up, blinking away the remnants of sleep, confusion etched on your face. As your eyes caught sight of the clock and Hotch, mortification set it. 

"Oh my gosh, Hotch. I am so sorry," you blurted out, embarrassment coloring your cheeks. "You could've woken me up--I... I should've set an alarm. And I shouldn't even be here, but I can explain, sort of..."

In a flurry of motion, you leapt from the couch, only to feel a sudden tug at your chest as a button from your top snagged on a stray thread. The fabric pulled open, revealing way more than what was appropriate for your boss to see. Your face turned a shade redder as you scrambled to cover up. Hotch, momentarily sidetracked by the sight of the cleavage of your tits once again, quickly refocused and interrupted your flustered explanations.

"It's fine," he assured. "Given everything that's happened, you needed the rest." He nodded towards the couch. "You're always welcome to sleep here if you need to--though I can't promise it'll be any more comfortable next time."

"Oh no, it was super comfortable, really," you insist, despite the awkwardness clinging to your words. Hotch gives you a look that says he's not entirely convinced. "Okay, well, I'm going to uh... go," you mumble, stopping short at the door with a sudden concern.

Hotch understands immediately and offers, "They're all in the briefing room--won't be out for a while."

With a relieved nod, and minimal eye contact, you dash out, hoping to reach your office unnoticed. But because the world just hated you these past days, just as you're rushing by, Morgan's hands come to your shoulders to stop you.

"Easy there, mama," he teases, a smile on his face. But as he gets a good look at your attire, his grin grows wider. "What in the world...?" he starts, laughter in his voice. He glances from you to Hotch's office door, then back again. "Hold up, hold up--you didn't... with Hotch? Are you?"

"What? No, Morgan, absolutely not! Why would you even--oh my god," you gasp, wishing the ground would swallow you whole. God, I mean, the day hasn't even started, and you needed it to end. Realizing your voice has risen in your flustered state, you quickly lower it to a harsh whisper, your eyes darting around to ensure no one overheard. "Why would you even suggest that?"

"Um, maybe because you're making a grand exit from the boss man's office in your PJs? Just a wild guess."

"No, Morgan, it's not what you think," you insist, but your attention snaps to the sound of the team's voices nearing the door. "I don't have time for this," you mutter, darting back to your office. 

In a whirlwind, you shed the pajamas, slip into your work attire, and hastily run a brush through your hair. Good enough. 

You threw yourself into work, the stack of papers becoming a welcome distraction, a rare sense of relief rather than the familiar dread. It was a considerable effort to divert your mind from the distractions--Hotch, the hit man, and Morgan's incessant teasing. Not that anyone would believe that you and Hotch were together; he was the very definition of sophisticated, handsome, and successful, and you were just, well, you.

Not that there was anything wrong with you. You liked yourself just fine; you laughed too loudly at jokes, talked to your houseplants as if they were your old friends, and you had an odd fascination with weather patterns. These things made you wholly you. You just knew you couldn't be more different from Hotch.

With a bit of luck and purposeful avoiding, your day passed smoothly, sparing you any unnecessary run-ins with Hotch. Everyone had gone home for the day which is why you stood in the break room attempting some baking recipe from Pinterest. 

The slippers on your feet padded against the carpet as you hummed around the room. With swift motions, you ushered the coffee cake batter into the oven, then turned to tackle the mess you had created on the countertops. Cleaning as you go wasn't your usual style, but office break room didn't seem like the place for your usual creative sprawl. 

Your phone had buzzed incessantly with Penelope's calls--her offers the keep you company is why you loved her, but you weren't going to subject her to that, no matter how many times she said she didn't mind.

Hotch's office was quiet, save for the soft scratching of his pen against paper as he finally closed his files. He moved into bullpen and as he passed the breakroom, the soft hum of the light and faint sound of movement drew him in. There you were, engrossed in tidying up, with your hair casually gathered above your shoulders and wearing your sweats, Hotch found him instinctively pausing to watch. 

He knew he shouldn't bother you, knew he was likely the last person you'd want to see, yet he found himself rooted to the spot, his gaze fixed on you, the warmth in his chest intensifying with each fleeting second.

The moment you turned and saw a figure, a sharp gasp cut through the silence, and the icing in your grasp became a sweet projectile that flew across the room. Relief washed over you as you realized who it was.

"Jeez, Hotch, give me a heart attack why don't you," you said, half-laughing as your heart rate settled. "Especially when there's a hitman who might beat you to the punch."

Hotch parted his lips to speak, but you were quicker, a stream of thoughts tumbling out before you could stop them. "I thought everyone was gone. You weren't at your desk earlier--oh wait, you had that meeting with the DOJ, right? Did they have anything about the people who marked me?" 

In your haste, you closed the gap between you, and only then did you spot the icing on his cheek. "Oh, sorry about that, Hotch," you said with an apologetic grin, reaching out as if to wipe it away. 

As your palm made contact with his skin, a shared realization of the intimacy of the gesture washed over you. Time seemed to slow as your thumb traced a lingering path through the icing, your whisper barely audible, "There."

The word seemed to hang in the air as you froze, the proximity suddenly overwhelming, your breath caught in your throat. Hotch's backward step was almost imperceptible, but it was enough. You cleared your throat awkwardly, cheeks warming with a flush. "Um, did you need something?"

Hotch shook his head slightly, "No, just wanted to check on you before I head out."

You gave a thumbs up, mustering a smile. "Well, consider me checked."

Hotch nodded, his expression unreadable. "Goodnight," he said, to which you echoed in response as you watched him leave.

Alone now, you slumped against the counter, your hand pressed to your face. Consider me checked? God, someone needed to tape your mouth shut.