#started off as a doodle but spiraled out of control when I started fixing the outline

[its-teeem]

Verum Memoria

I have no idea how to draw bouquets or backgrounds.

¯\_( ツ)_/¯

[gisachi]

Can you do number 30?

Thank you for patiently waiting! Before I start, I need to mention that this is a completely self indulgent drabble, heavily inspired by one of @detectivegeekshin‘s ShinRan doodles. This one. Damn I really really loved it, literally how can a doodle make my heart thump so fast!! So I hope you don’t mind me making a fic out of it!🥴❤️ And for Anon, forgive me if this kinda feels all over the place because halfway through I kinda did some paragraph vomit and derailed...lmao but I hope this still suits your taste, somehow! 😉

30. Weak, sweaty kisses because it’s unbearably hot. (1,726 words)

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Shinichi and Ran have a super secret routine after class.

After Shinichi’s return for good, everyone could’ve correctly guessed that the two would be back to being inseparable like bread and butter, so wherever Ran goes, Shinichi goes, except in the bathroom or in club activities.

No one ever questions this, understanding how much time they need together now that they’re making up for what they lost, not to mention how all their classmates find these two incredibly adorable together that they will deliberately go out their way just to see them both being happy spending time in each other’s company.

Which pretty much makes everything nice and convenient for them and their secret routine.

Because no one - absolutely no one - must know about it.

It all started three weeks ago when Shinichi accompanied her to the filthy storage room to return some cleaning equipment after her Tuesday cleaning duty. Idly, he dusted the back of her uniform just below her nape, noticing unnecessary cobwebs that might have clung to the fabric when she moved some big boxes away.

Nothing harmless about doing that, given that the public is a witness of how comfortable they are being innocently touchy with each other. But both realized touches like that translated differently when it’s just the two of them alone. As normal as how he intended it to be, somehow at that moment the sensation of his deft hands grazing her warm back made their breath hitch, throat dry, chest tighten with an overwhelming emotion they couldn’t quite silence at will.

Like any other curious teenage couple, there’s something about being physically close to each other that compels them to just...be closer, as if the knowledge that they’re already in each other’s personal space isn’t enough. Yes, there’s nothing implicative of her boyfriend stroking her back to clean some dirt away. But his hand rested there longer than it should have, and she heard his slow, steady breathing—or hers, she wasn’t so sure—amidst the thick silence of the dim room, nothing but the passage of light from the half-opened door as source of illumination. Instinctively, she turned around and it hit her that they were sharing the same space, same air, same look…

There was barely light but she clearly saw the dangerous glint in his dark irises, longing getting the best of him. He didn’t say anything, but his message came through loud and clear.

All she knew afterwards was the mention of her name escaping his and her hand pulling his tie and his hand on her waist and mouth over her lips and—

Thus the birth of their super secret routine. Just like that.

Ran is no stranger to stories like this. She’s already in high school, and she knows things like this happen to couples their age. As a matter of fact, she does hear stories from Sonoko about sneaky couples going for it on campus and finishing undetected. But never did she expect that they will be one of the guilty ones. She’s always trusted their self-control, believing they’re mature enough to at least keep their hands to themselves until they’re in the privacy of his own house (not in her house where holding hands isn’t even an option, unless they want to give her father a heart attack). But voila, all that is gone, simply because there’s something thrilling about stealing kisses in public that makes her not want to stop.

“Hide your lips, Ran. They’re swollen,” Shinichi warned and teased the first time after they emerged from the storage room, acting all calm and collected as if he wasn’t on high adrenaline tasting her mouth minutes ago.

“Mou, Shinichi! Don’t come with me anymore!” Ran replied, face turning red immediately after recounting how shameless they’d been in there.

But Shinichi would still come, and Ran would let him, and then they’d do it again—

—And still do it, three weeks later.

In terms of intensity, she doesn’t consider them on any high scale; what they do is a lot more innocent compared to what she imagines other more daring couples do. That’s how she knows that they still have their self-control in check. Nothing but kisses, lots of them. No hands under clothes. She isn’t ready for the next step yet and Shinichi knows it from the fact that getting her face to tone down the red takes even longer than the deed itself. Likewise for Shinichi, but months of practice allow him to perfect his poker face that could rival some magician thief the moment they step out the storage room.

Today though, Ran feels a little braver. While she’s pinned between him and a dusty cabinet, she forcibly yanks his tie so it gets a little looser, almost dangling from his neck. That’s the first time she hears him gasp audibly; before, it’s just her. She feels proud of what she’s done, and returns her lips to his.

But then they hear faint footsteps approaching and Ran instantly regrets why, of all days, she has to do the yanking that day where it’ll make it harder for him to hide any evidence of impropriety.

“Caught you!” a shrill voice exclaims, booming in the room like a megaphone.

Sonoko.

Of course, it has to be Sonoko.

The only one who’s brave enough to get in the way of their alone time, just so she can tease them about it later.

Ran should’ve known.

Fortunately, Shinichi has known.

Otherwise, Ran won’t have found herself getting dragged by him inside that old cramped cabinet she was leaning onto seconds ago.

It takes a while before she fully grasps the situation they’re currently in.

Sonoko’s in the storage room, her expectant voice telling enough to let them know that she knows they are in there, while she and Shinichi hide from her in some very narrow cabinet, with little to no air circulating and with space so tight even liquid water cannot seep in.

They wait impatiently for Sonoko to leave. She must leave now, or else Ran’s going to lose her mind over how incredibly intimate and embarrassing their position right now is. Her body literally squeezes his, her hands blocking her chest, while his right hand, for lack of a better space to place it on, grips her waist.

She isn’t sure if it’s her whole body shaking or just her rapid heartbeat vibrating at an outrageous rate that can shatter glass. It’s really warm yet she feels cold sweat dripping down her neck and temple, and Shinichi must be feeling the same too because she hears him curse under his breath, his palm on her waist rubbing it over the fabric of her uniform as if wiping it off of sweat. She sees nothing in the dark despite her eyes wide open, but she can sense his head facing the side, probably due to the cramped space, and she’s close to his ear so she whispers as quietly as she can, “How did she know we’re in here?”

“Beats me. But I figure this is bound to happen,” he shrugs inwardly.

The more they wait, the more the air expands. They hear shuffling sounds outside indicating that their friend hasn’t left yet. As if the heat and tension aren’t enough to kill them, he attempts to start a conversation.

“Seriously, yanking my tie?” He mutters, more air than voice.

“W-Well if I had known I shouldn’t have d-done that!”

“Shh.”

His grip on her waist tightens as the shuffling sound gets closer to them. She doesn’t know how much air she’s holding until she senses his head slowly, soundlessly turning to her. In that instant, every fine hair on her neck tingles to his breathing, and she’s sure he’s wearing a smirk as reckless words roll out from him,

“Wanna be daring?”

His left hand springs out from where it rests behind her, successful in finding her lips in the dark, tracing before parting them slightly, and before Ran can even tell what’s going on, she feels something warm and moist press against them. Weak, tentative, cautious at first. Firm, thorough, unrelenting the second.

Only then does she realize he is kissing her, right then and there.

All while their friend is literally inches away, looking for them.

Oh, her nerves.

Oh, the thrill.

She crumples his uniform under her sweaty hands and hums, his mouth absorbing her nervous plea. Her world zeroes in on his lips kissing her, and everything around her spins and spins like she’s spiraling into some black hole, dragging Shinichi along whom she feels smiling through his goddamn arrogant mouth. What if Sonoko suddenly opens the cabinet and catches them red-handed? Does he have an excuse? Will she think of an excuse? Can they think of an excuse?

They can’t. They’re much too busy indulging themselves.

Perhaps too busy that they fail to notice the shuffling noise disappear little by little. Only when Ran claws on his shirt to ask to breathe for air do they realize that the sound is completely gone and Sonoko has already left.

“Shinichi! What was that for!” Ran half shouts, breathless as they push themselves out the cabinet, her joints and muscles aching all over.

“You didn’t like it?” Shinichi chuckles, mischief in his tone brutally evident, and Ran turns vermillion red.

“Sh-shut up!“

“I’m saying you did tug my tie so hard,” he fixes his tie while Ran hurriedly flattens her hair into something presentable, “and if Sonoko sees us like this she definitely won’t shut up about it.”

She agrees. She doesn’t even want to think about Sonoko’s incessant teasing once she finds out she and Shinichi have this kind of arrangement after class.

“You did something daring today so might as well be daring too.”

With one final touch, Shinichi swipes his lower lip with his thumb, eyeing her playfully while he smirks in satisfaction, before walking to the door. “Let’s go, before she gets even more suspicious.”

Damn. She’s doomed. He knows she’s going to want more of those next time. Every session just keeps getting dangerously better and better.

As they exited the storage room, the only thing in Ran’s mind is how much she cannot wait for the day of Shinichi’s cleaning duty. This guy better prepare himself for her payback.

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[quinn-firethief]

I’m Really Hurt {5/5}

Quinn can’t find his bow.

Quinn couldn’t find his bow.

He had torn up his dorm looking for it. He retraced his steps. He went up and down all the paths in Ravenwood. He dug up flower pots, he went up and down the path from Ravenwood to his favorite tavern, he asked neighbors, he asked fellow students, he asked teachers—except for Cyrus and Moolinda, he couldn’t even look at them right now without feeling embarrassment and shame—he burst into the Headmaster’s office, he got to the point where he ended up diving into the pond in the Commons, just to see if he could find it at the bottom. Someone from the school newspaper was able to get a picture of him coming out of the pond, sopping wet and frowning intensely, and it was on the front page of the newspaper. Quinn was going to find whoever had done it and burn them.

But some good did come out of that, as he received a note the day the newspaper went out.

Quinn Firethief,

I’ve heard that you’ve been looking for your bow. Have you not thought to come and see if I have it?

— Professor Cyrus

Had it been anything else, Quinn wouldn’t have gone. He would have considered it lost forever and just coped with it, probably bought something else to replace it. But it wasn’t some random hat or some scarf that his father made for him. It was his bow. He loved that bow. It had been given to him when he was ten and had to wait six years before he could even yield it. He would spend so long with it sometimes, cleaning it, changing the string, keeping it in mint condition until the day he got to finally yield it. Even now in his current state, where he drank more than he slept, he kept up with the maintenance that a bow like that needed. After every long quest, he changed the worn-out string. After every battle, he would clean it until the wood shone. Needless to say, he loved that bow. He needed that bow. The day he lost it was the day he hurled himself into the Spiral.

So he swallowed his pride, and after class was done for the day, he went to the Myth school. A few students he passed by snickered, but they all soon stopped when he glared at them as he went by. He knew what it was about; that stupid picture in the newspaper. It was mostly daring freshmen, who didn’t quite understand who he was, what he had done, or what he was going through now. The upperclassmen had the decency to not say anything about it, or laugh about it when he was around at least. God, he couldn’t believe this. He was a Prince, and he was once a great student. And now…

The last students had filtered out of Cyrus’s classroom by the time Quinn got there. When he stepped in, he didn’t see the teacher anywhere. Almost immediately his eyes darted around, looking frantically for his bow. Cyrus wouldn’t have it out on display, if he did, some Myth students in the dorm would have told him by now. Was it in his desk? Quinn hurried down the row between the desks, which were all neatly aligned. He had never really cared to notice before, but now that he was looking so hard for his bow, Quinn could see how neat the Myth classroom was. There was no doodling on the desks, no initials from students pass. No gum from what he could see either, Quinn imagined that Cyrus would never let anything like that in his classroom. The carpet looked like it was freshly cleaned, and the paintings on the walls were lined up neatly. They brightened up the room quite a bit, actually. He wondered who had made them. He lingered by the desk, eyes sweeping over the drawers, and he was about to step behind it and start scavenging for his bow when he heard someone clear their throat. He nearly jumped out of his skin and he quickly turned around.

“I can assure you, Firethief, that I don’t have any room for a bow in my desk.”

Cyrus was standing in the doorway to a back room. Quinn couldn’t see anything past him because of his tall figure, but he didn’t care. His eyes had immediately trained on what was in the teacher’s hands. His bow! Relief flooded through every pore in him and he rushed up to the teacher and held his hands out. Cyrus raised an eyebrow and when he didn’t immediately hand it over, Quinn opted for ripping it out of his hands instead. He cradled it to his chest as he took a few steps back, turning away from him to inspect his bow. He could only imagine the build-up of dust and grim! The string was probably worn down too, he doubted he had encased it right! It would take him hours just to fix...

The bow was in perfect shape. The redwood gleamed and glowed in the same way it did just after a fresh polish. He stared down at it in bewilderment, golden eyes wide and nearly full of wonder as he ran his pointer finger along the edge. When he looked at it, there wasn’t a speck of dirt or dust. He had never really trusted anyone to clean or care for his bow, even if he were wounded he’d be sitting up in bed and taking care of it. Not many people knew how to care for bows, they weren’t a very common weapon in their realms. One wrong brush, one badly misplaced touch, and it could ruin the entire bow.

“Did… Did you…?”

“Clean it? Yes. I’ve handled a few bows in my time, so I’ve had plenty of practice.”

Quinn looked back at him with wide eyes. He looked back down at the bow. “Why?” He finally asked after a long pause.

“Well, it was in need of a clean after it spent all night out in the elements beside my classroom, I’m afraid. I believe I was able to polish out all of the scuff marks, and luckily, no wood was chipped in your… Fall.” Quinn looked at him. Cyrus looked mildly uncomfortable. “Consider it an apology. For causing you harm.”

It took Quinn a moment to realize what he was talking about, and when he did, he suddenly felt very uncomfortable too. “No, it’s… It’s fine. I…” He trailed off and then sighed. He rubbed the back of his head. The cut was gone, now. If he ran his finger along the area for a bit, he might be able to find the smallest scar it had made. But it was nothing to write home about. “I deserved it. What I said… Sober or not, it wasn’t right.”

“Regardless, I should not have laid my hands on you. You’re a student, and I’m a Professor. It was improper. And I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, yeah… I’m sorry too.”

Cyrus nodded. He stared at Quinn before he sighed. “When I was trying to help you, you said something rather interesting.” Quinn groaned.

“Listen, I’m a drunk talker, alright? Whatever I said, probably didn’t even make sense—”

“You told me you liked the pain that came after dueling. You said it distracted you.”

Quinn froze. He looked like he had just been caught stealing out of the cookie jar. He stared down at his bow before he pushed it into the quiver on his back. The three arrows he had in there clinked and clanged, welcoming the other piece of them back. “Like I said. That doesn’t even make sense.” Cyrus scoffed.

“Don’t lie to me, boy. You’re horrible at it.” Quinn frowned at him deeply.

“I took a lot of diplomacy classes growing up, I’m a damn good liar,” he growled. Cyrus rolled his eyes.

“You seem to have forgotten your lessons.” Quinn’s cheeks turned a bright red. “I haven’t brought this up to fight with you. I’m merely concerned that you’re going out and putting yourself in danger, simply to have a distraction. I’ve heard you’re still questing.”

“So what if I am? I’m allowed to. I have high marks in all of my classes and a damn good track record!”

“A good track record when you had a team!”

Quinn’s heart dropped. He swallowed and Cyrus sighed. “You are not fit for solo runs, boy. I have seen you fight, I have seen your cards and your deck. You have nearly no healing spells in there!”

“I have that fairy!” Quinn snapped.

“Three whole copies,” Cyrus deadpanned, “I’m sure that carries you through an entire dungeon.” Quinn’s temper flared.

“If you didn’t bring this up to fight with me, then what do you want?!” He shouted. “This is wasting my time! I could be studying right now, or hell, drinking—!”

“I want to mentor you.”

Quinn paused, which wasn’t an easy feat when he was in a rage. He stared at Cyrus. “You want to… what?”

“You have potential, Firethief, and I am tired of watching you drink it all away.” Cyrus stared down at him through the bridge of his long nose. “I want to see you grow, and prosper. I want to help you in any way that I can. I can teach you how to duel, and how to organize your deck better. But I will warn you, I am not an easy teacher, as I’m sure you’ve heard. You won’t be slacking, and if you drink on the day of our training sessions, there won’t be any training that day. If it happens enough times, there still won’t be any training at all. Not to mention, if I do mentor you, there will be no more questing. Not solo at least. Not until you’ve proven yourself. If you take this opportunity, I expect you to earn it.” Quinn stared at him. His eyes dropped away and he looked deep in thought before he suddenly took a deep breath.

“Can you teach me how to fight mind control?” Cyrus stiffened. “And how to free those trapped in mind control?”

Without having to kill them, goes unsaid, but not unheard. It took him a moment to find his voice, and more energy then he would have liked to admit to keeping it steady.

“Those are difficult spells, and they all stem from different branches of Myth magic. You can’t just leap into it.”

“Then I’ll start from the beginning.”

“You’ll what?”

“I’ll start from the beginning. I’ll sign up for your school.”

Cyrus stared at him. “Firethief, you’re already studying in Ice and Fire!” Quinn shrugged.

“You already said I won’t be able to quest. That’ll free up a lot of time. I need to feel it with something, and that can either be alcohol, or some more classes. Which do you prefer, Professor?” Cyrus stared at him before he crinkled his nose.

“Very well. Don’t expect me to go easy on you, simply because I’m training you and you have two other schools to master. If you fall behind, it’s your own fault.”

Quinn felt challenged. He hadn’t felt that way in a while. He stood up taller and squared his shoulders before he looked Cyrus right in the eye.

“Trust me. I won’t.”

Quinn Firethief loved a challenge.

[maryanntorreson]

6 tips to help you manage your day when working from home

Krystal Quiles

When I first began working at home, I couldn’t believe I was getting away with such a racket.

No one told me what to do or where to be! I could work in my bed, go to the grocery store in the middle of the day, and my clients were none the wiser. Even though I was a freelancer, I was constantly looking over my shoulder and expecting to be reprimanded by someone.

But my elation wore away when I realized I wasn’t quite alone at home: my anxiety was there, too.

Now, I’m an anxious person, even in the best of times. But these days, it seems like we’re all anxious. And anxiety is another ingredient — like Zoom calls, overloaded wifi or howling children or pets — that needs to be factored into your days, your productivity and your time management.

Some days my anxiety drives me to perform at an Olympic level, with no task undone and no email unanswered even if I have to work until midnight. That is overwork — a common way that many of us anxious people deal with our feelings — and I’ll return to it later.

Other days, anxiety creates a background buzz in the form of intrusive thoughts and fears about the future. It can also make us distracted and unable to focus, so another common way of dealing with anxiety is avoidance (more later on this one too). For example, while I was writing this piece, I baked banana bread, made a half-hearted attempt at the exercise bike, fed the cats their pre-lunch snack, and wandered around my house looking for things that needed my attention.

Working from home can be wonderful, but when you’re anxious, it can be difficult to concentrate and stay on task. How do you stay accountable to yourself and get work done without driving yourself to exhaustion?

Here are some tips based on what I have learned from 15 years of managing my anxiety while also working from home:

1. Call off the mental fire drill that occurs whenever you get a Slack or email notification

I know I’m not the only one whose heart rate accelerates when I see a new email in my inbox (or a Slack message). It could be a client, a staffer, my accountant or my mother. My anxiety drives me to want to quickly fix what they’re writing me about so I’ll feel better. But before I do, I often spend time worrying and trying to suss out the “true” meaning of their message (a fool’s errand, since emotional nuance is lost in almost any digital communication). Then I’ll force myself to respond no matter what — even if I’m finally eating lunch at 3PM or doing time-sensitive work.

Don’t blame yourself for leaping to reply to every message — much of modern knowledge work is built on this Pavlovian system of instant feedback and urgent response. With so many of us working from home and without the normal in-person interaction, this past year we’ve gotten trained to crave the feedback of a “ping” or a visual notification.

To start to de-program ourselves from the need to always be on, we need to practice being disconnected for small amounts of time. Begin with a time limit. Pick an after-hours moment when you don’t need to be online, and then turn off or hide your devices for an hour. Gradually work towards doing this during a workday. For that, select an hour when you can purposefully avoid checking updates (set up an “away” or “in a meeting” notification so people won’t wonder why you’re not getting back to them).

See how you feel when you can take a break from checking. When I avoid my phone for an hour, I notice that my neck is looser and so are my shoulders! Immediate benefit.

2. Stop waiting to get permission to log off

When work isn’t a place you leave at the end of the day, it can be incredibly difficult to stop. And let’s face it, when the option is to keep working and feel in control or spend more time on the sofa doom-scrolling or with whining kids, overworking might seem even more attractive. But learning to stop work is a discipline that creates good habits and a necessary step to keeping your energy tank filled.

I am an accomplished professional, but unconsciously I still want someone to tell me, “You did a good job today — you’re done.” Well, you need to learn to give yourself that permission.

Psychologist Alice Boyes changed my life when she suggested setting concrete limits around the amount of time I spend on the tasks that make me anxious and tend to overdo. Such shortcuts and hacks that help calm anxiety are called heuristics.

Here’s how you could come up with a heuristic to set boundaries on your work hours. At the beginning of your day (or the day before), create a reasonable to-do list. The key word is reasonable — no writing up a list based upon an imaginary 240-hour day — and based on experience, you’ll probably know how long most of your tasks will take. And if you have to guess time for any, guess upwards. Structure your day based around this list, and when you’re finished, close your computer. You did good.

3. When you get stuck in a worry spiral, ask: “What’s making me anxious right now?”

The flip side of overwork is avoidance — avoiding deadlines and tasks because you’re anxious. Everyone has their greatest hits of coping mechanisms, from trying to worry the fear away to working it away to diving into a bag of cheese doodles. Our brain does this because it’s trying to help us avoid our bad feelings. To understand the motivations and causes behind your anxiety, it helps to take a pause to feel your feelings and monitor how you react to those feelings.

Start by looking at what’s making you anxious right now and how the anxiety is making you react. Here’s an example from my life. Thinking about money makes me anxious. When the economic news is frightening, I might act out when I’m faced with a work task that has anything to do with money. So if I need to prepare a financial report for my small business, I assume it’s going to reveal negative results, which sends me into a spiral of fear. Cognitive behavioral therapists call this kind of reaction an anxious automatic thought. Consequently, instead of facing the spreadsheet and doing my work, I might avoid it entirely. I might eat that bag of cheese doodles or buy something online that makes me feel good. I’m reacting to my anxiety.

It’s better if I can learn to move from reacting on auto-pilot to knowing what sets me off and then managing how I will respond. I can say to myself: “Looking at my company’s finances is going to set me off right now. Maybe I should ask my business partner to do it. Or maybe I should build in a reward if I face the challenge head on? I could let myself have an extra hour of Netflix if I complete the spreadsheet.” I find that most of the time, doing the work doesn’t feel nearly as bad as what my anxiety anticipates.

4. Follow it up by finding a super-achievable work task and doing it

As you can see from my example above, when you feel anxious, it’s easy to turn a relatively straightforward task into an overwhelming thought exercise that sends your brain into catastrophe mode. When you are mired in anxiety and avoiding your work, the important thing is to do something. Jonathan Baxter, a family therapist, gave me this advice:

“The experience of stress has to do with your body wanting to take action. If there are actions you can take — whether getting some exercise or cleaning the bathroom or teaching your kids something — go ahead and take them. When you take action, give yourself a moment to let yourself feel good about taking a step. Use your mind to give your body the signal that you have agency and are doing what you can. (“There, I did it!”) The goal is to feel active and effective rather than scrambling from one thing to the next.”

I like to take a page from positive psychology and choose a small, meaningful action that will build my motivation for work and to tackle bigger tasks ahead. Have you ever organized a messy spreadsheet and just felt so good? Pick an activity that connects you to your larger purpose and allows you to see yourself as an effective and competent individual, which will ultimately help you move towards doing the thing you’re avoiding.

5. If that seems impossible, pick a non-work task

If tackling work just feels like too much when you’re toiling from home and staring at a messy house or out-of-control kids, pick a non-work action that’s physical and helpful. Since I hunch and clench in my desk chair when I’m stuck, I like to pick a task that gets my body moving and my shoulders open. I might pick a household chore (I like to scrub the bathtub because it’s quick but physically demanding), cook, do some yard work or even run up my stairs a few times. I find that it helps me to get off my screen and into motion.

Notice how you feel after you do your tiny non-work task and whether you’re able to begin the thing you have been avoiding. Then notice: How long can you continue until anxiety hits again? Is there a specific activity that almost always gets you in the mood to tackle a task?

6. Keep adding to your anxiety-taming bag of tricks

Anxiety feels different for everyone. We all have different triggers, and we all react differently. Money, as I mentioned before, is a big anxiety trap for me. When I get unwelcome financial news, my brain immediately goes to a gloomy place: My business will fail, we will go broke, we will lose everything.

As you continue in your career, it’s crucial that you understand specifically what sets you off and how it affects your workday. Once you understand that, you can try to avoid these triggers and — when you can’t avoid them — use specific strategies or tools that can help you move out of anxiety.

Many people I talk to for my podcast “The Anxious Achiever” tell me that they find making to-do lists and detailed schedules helpful, because they help them cut down on ruminating and overwork. Others know that they need to sweat, get outside or run around with their dog to dissolve that knot of anxiety. I like to cook. When I’m anxious and unfocused, I make giant stockpots of broth or chili. Hey … it works for me.

It’s possible for you to create a remote workday that minimizes your anxiety, creates real connection and engagement with your coworkers, allows you to get your work done, and lets you feel OK about unplugging at night. But like all skills, learning how to manage your workday anxiety takes practice, time, and above all compassion for yourself. We all succumb to the cheese doodles at times, and that’s OK too.

Watch her The Way We Work video here: 

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Morra Aarons-Mele is a (mostly) happy, successful person. She also identifies as an extremely anxious overachiever. To normalize anxiety and help others manage theirs, Aarons-Mele launched and hosts The Anxious Achiever podcast for HBR Presents, which was a 2020 Webby Awards Honoree and is a top 10 management podcast. She’s passionate about helping people rethink the relationship between their mental health and their leadership. Aarons-Mele is also the founder of the award-winning social impact agency Women Online, which created a database of female influencers, the Mission List. She was named 2020 Entrepreneur of the Year at the Iris Awards, recognizing excellence in digital parenting media. Aarons-Mele is also a prolific writer. Since 2004 she has covered the campaign trail, the White House, the lactation room and the office cubicle. Her book, Hiding in the Bathroom: How To Get Out There (When You’d Rather Stay Home), was published in 2017, and she has written for the New York Times, Entrepreneur, Fast Company, Slate, InStyle, O, the Wall Street Journal, Forbes and the Guardian.

This piece was adapted for TED-Ed from this Ideas article.

6 tips to help you manage your day when working from home published first on https://premiumedusite.tumblr.com/rss

[trickstercheebs]

A Devils Regret

alright here’s the second part to this fic, dont worry yall there’s a happy ending here for these two. once again using @shinyzango‘s 2D Bendy AU for fun times

Henry had been walking in a sullen silence for about ten minutes now..His chest ached horribly now..actually everything on him had taken on a dull throbbing after being thrown about like some childs doll..But he didn’t think mentioning it in his present company was in good manners..Speaking of the little Devil..Bendy had been silent since Henry had fished his page out of the ink..the only thing letting Henry know Bendy was still there was a soft series of sniffles and hiccups..

Bendy felt absolutely horrible..there was no way to put it lightly that what had happened shouldn’t of, that something had gone wrong and nearly cost someone their life. And the more Bendy thought about it, the worse he felt..Something had..overtaken him during the fight, he enjoyed getting rid of those pesky ink blobs like they always did..but when Henry had tried to get him to stop something else inside said no..He watched himself chase Henry down, a part of him even liked holding the animators life in his hands. That part of him made him sick to his stomach..he had put Henry in mortal danger and Henry forgave him!! He had nearly ripped Henry to bits, that part of him had wanted to do it too, but..something let him take the wheel and when he did everything fell apart. He was scared of himself, scared for Henry being here, and scared of what could of happened had he not somehow gotten control again. He was at a loss for what to do..the only idea that came to him made his tiny devil heart ache fiercely, and that was to part ways with Henry.

Henry of course had no idea any of this was going through the little Devils mind..But he had some inkling about what was upsetting him. Henry in truth had been scared seeing Bendy in such a state, even more so that he had wound up on the receiving end of that rage..But he would not place the blame on the poor Devil, judging by how hard Bendy had been sobbing, he had no real want to cause him harm...And therefore something else must of caused the reaction. The only real problem now would be to find out what sent Bendy into such a state..and getting the other to calm down long enough to realize Henry wasn’t mad at him. Looking about he spied a door, one that thankfully wasn’t locked. After everything that happened, Henry thought he could use a rest and some peace and quiet. And while he knew there were no beds to be found, a quiet room with a chair and a lockable door were the next best thing. Slipping inside and locking the door behind him, he was glad to see the normal, almost comforting sight of a basic animators desk and chair..the dim bulb hanging from above set everything into a lazy setting..It’d do nicely for what was possibly going to be a long talk.

Sitting down in the chair, Henry let out a soft appreciative groan that he was sure his legs would of mimic’d if they could. Setting the now quiet paper on the desk he scooted the chair forwards and fell to silence..How was he supposed to start? It wasn’t a easy subject to broach honestly..there was no real gentle way to ask what happened..But before Henry could even try to sound out a single word..a soft voice broke the silence first..

“...y-you should of just left me there on that wall Henry..I’m no better than those..those things dontcha see? I almost....I-I almost k-killed you..just..just leave me here ok? You’re better off without me...”

The little Devil’s voice was dripping with grief and sorrow, Henry could feel his own heart pang softly listening to the others words..They felt that strongly about their actions enough to want Henry to leave them here? No..he couldn’t leave Bendy like that..it only proved to him that Bendy was innocent here..

“...B-bendy don’t say that abou-”

“IT’S TRUE AND YOU KNOW IT HENRY! ..I..I couldn’t control myself..I could of ripped you to shreds and I just about did!”

“ That wasn’t your fault Bendy..you lost control of yourself..Something happened and it made you lose yourself, just calm down and think for a minute..what do you remember before..well it all fell apart?”

“It’s no use tryin to explain it Henry..I’m dangerous to you and I don’t..I don’t wanna hurt you ever again...you don’t deserve that..you deserve to get outta here and live the rest of your life..Not to worry about when some useless ink stain on a piece of paper might stab you in the back like th-!?”

A fist being slammed into the desk was the only thing that stopped Bendy’s self-depreciation spiral from continuing onward, the noise and impact making the little huddled shape jump in alarm. Henry was rarely angry without good reason, he thought of himself as a well grounded man at times..But watching Bendy dig himself further and further down had sparked something he wasn’t quite sure the name of was yet. But he was angry nonetheless..not at Bendy but the way how he was so quick to blame himself for a accident..It had to stop, and Henry had to do something before the little Devil would most likely think otherwise.

“Now that’s enough of that, not one more word alright Bendy? I want you to listen to me, and I want you to remember every word.. What you did was not your fault, and never will be, you understand? You are not just some useless ink stain Bendy, you’re a lot more than that..Now I want you to answer me truthfully here..did you ever feel like attacking me the last few times you..well took on that big form of yours?”

“ ....n-no? But Henry I still hu-”

“No buts Bendy, but see? The last few times you had complete control..Something must of been different this last time you see? Now..what was different from the other times? I want you to think carefully now Bendy..”

“I don’t see why this matters I’m...okay, okay..stop looking at me like that first and lemme think..”

Each time he had heard Bendy protest and tell him it was pointless..Henry had adopted a rather stern glare..The little Devil couldn’t help but do as told when met with that sort of look, but he couldn’t quite understand why..

“Alright...well..there was a lot more ink than usual..it was up to your waist right? So..there were more of those blob things too..But last time there were alot of them too..and I didn’t lose control..Henry I don’t get it..”

“ Well you were right on both parts so far..Whenever you become that bigger version of yourself it’s always to settle a quick fight...But last time took alot longer didn’t it? We were fighting and clearing a path for a little while..”

“...Were we? I..I can’t remember, I was busy fighting all of them..I remember it being fun, knowing you were behind me fighting too..T..then all I felt like doing was fighting....A-and next thing I knew I was about to...about to..”

“Shhh..it’s alright Bendy..I think I know what might of caused this...”

“ Y-you do? What is it Henry?”

“...I think it was time..Or..how long you were stuck like that? Thinking back on the last few times you were like that..it was only for a few minutes at most..But, last time was a lot longer..I think this ink does something to you in that form..the longer you stay like that it might cause you to lose yourself..I mean look at the paper, it’s almost falling apart it’s so soaked....Actually why don’t we fix that real fast..?”

It wasn’t hard to find a blank sheet of paper and a pen to draw another line for Bendy to stand on..With a bit of coaxing he eventually transferred over to the new sheet..Henry could still see that he was upset about the whole event..But there was a slight general improvement at least..

“There..a little bit better. “

“ But Henry..w-what if it happens again? What if the next time I turn I end up finishing the job? ...A-aren’t you scared of me? Aren’t you scared I’d goof up and just..become another one of those blobs?”

“...Bendy..It won’t happen again, I promise you it won’t. And I’m not scared of you either..in fact I trust you wholeheartedly..I know what you did was not your fault, and accidents happen you know. I’m still here and so are you..and I’m not going to leave you behind..now or ever..”

“ ...h-henry...”

Bendy was slowly devolving back into tears again...but thankfully it wasn’t due to sadness. Listening to Henry still having such faith in him..he felt like he didn’t deserve someone like that believing in him, especially when he didn’t. Even after nearly taking his head off Henry still wanted to have him around..the little Devil couldn’t contain the happy feeling welling up in him as it began to leak out from his eyes...He quietly told himself he’d make Henry proud from now on, and that he’d do whatever it took to keep the man safe..

Henry gave a tired smile at last, he had finally managed to talk some sense into the upset little doodle..Along with figure out what had possibly caused the accident in the first place. He’d have to keep a eye out on the other should he lend a hand again..Henry couldn’t think about seeing the little Devil so distressed again..Now that things had been patched up, a long yawn worked its way free of the animator.

“..you tired Henry?”

“ A little bit yeah..I was thinking of catching a bit of sleep before we carried on, you don’t mind do you? “

“ No no, you need your sleep big guy..I might join you even, even Devils need a bit of shut eye right?”

“Heh..right, we should be safe in here for a few winks anyways...”

Shifting some he gently picked the paper up off the desk before shuffling the few pieces of furniture around to where he could comfortably sit in the chair and prop his feet up. Once things were settled, Henry hunkered down with the paper laid over his chest gently..The light wasn’t bright enough to bother him..and thankfully it was just warm enough in the studio to not worry about a blanket..Letting his eyes slip shut Henry let himself relax fully for what was possibly the first time since entering the studio..

“Night Henry..sleep tight..”

“ Goodnight Bendy..”

The little Devil didn’t quite go to sleep as fast as Henry did, instead they remained awake listening to the others restful state take over. The animators hand almost acting as a warm blanket of sorts, keeping the page he was on safely tucked against his chest..It was almost like a hug Bendy thought..comforting in ways he didn’t realize he had needed after all that had happened..Listening to Henrys soft..almost nasally snores he let himself drift off at last for some shut eye...

-----

Hours later, both had woken up feeling marginally better than when they had gone to sleep..Well sans a few stiff joins and possible bruises forming here and there..But aside from that Henry felt better about things..Specially when he was greeted by that happy little voice he had grown so fond of. A quick peek outside had proved the halls safe enough to walk back out into to continue their “adventure” into the unknown depths of the studio..However before Henry could get too far Bendy stopped him with a odd request..One that found him taking the little Devil back to the ink flooded portion of the hall once more..

“...Are you sure you want to do this Bendy? There’s nothing wrong with avoiding the ink for a while until you’re ready..”

“No Henry..I-I gotta be sure, you know? We can’t dodge all the ink down here..I wanna be sure of things so...so I don’t have another accident an get you in danger..”

“..Alright, I understand..”

It didn’t take Henry that long to return to the spot where it had all happened..Looking down at the piece of paper, Bendy gave him a nod to let him know he was ready..and set the paper down into the ink..At first nothing happened..But slowly a form began to take shape..It wasn’t quite as big, but still rather tall compared to Henry..He got the vague idea Bendy was metaphorically dipping his feet into the waters. Instead of the bulky figure he had seen several times before..was a much slender version, a foot or two taller than Henry was. There was clear evidence that Bendy looked nervous but hopeful as he looked over at Henry expectantly..

“..How you holding up so far lil buddy? Everything good?”

Bendy seemed to stare at his hands for a moment or two, flexing them a bit before nodding and giving a bit of a small smile. Looks like things had gone well so far for the little Devil, Henry thought.

“ Alright..you wanna call it quits for now? ...Bendy?”

Instead of reverting back to his usual state Bendy seemed to want to test his luck fully..Henry watched as the form swelled a bit..slowly becoming the more larger version Henry was more familiar with..When the transformation had stopped..Henry noticed Bendys face was screwed shut in fearful expectation..That feeling slowly crept back into Henrys mind..no matter what form the other took he was still just that goofy little Devil to him..and one that was afraid of himself. Deciding to help out just a bit..Henry reached out to lay a hand on the others shoulder, making the hulking Devil flinch in surprise. Cracking open his one eye he looked down at Henry with what looked like a mix of worry and surprise..

“See? Nothing to worry about big fella..You didn’t have to test it out, but you did..I’m proud of ya Bendy, long as we mind that time limit there’s nothing to worry about right? I’ll be sure to k-ah, Bendy what?”

Something about the words “Proud of you” had made the floodgates open up once again..Henry was..proud of him?? He was scared this entire time..Scared that the second he saw Henry he’d want to attack..But Henry was right after all, he could control it and Henry had trusted him from the get go..Relief had welled up in his heart as it sank in. Henry had absolute faith in him to do his best..even after all that..Henry quickly found himself wrapped up in another inky hug..the Devils head resting on top of his own as fat inky tears rolled down his face.. Henry couldn’t help but smile and comfort the sappy doodle with a few pats and a hug in return.

“ Shhh it’s okay..You did great just now Bendy..I told you it’d be alright didn’t I?”

While he thought it a big comical trying to calm down someone big enough currently to carry him, he was happy things had finally gotten back to normal. Bendy eventually returned to his normal paper bound state and the two of them resumed their walk down the halls. The two of them in much brighter spirits now than before, and now a great deal closer as well.

[samiam-night]

MariChat May Day5: Captain’s Log (The Baton)

Okay, so I haven’t written fanfiction in a while. A LONG WHILE. And I’ve been sucked into reading Miraculous Fanfic since January, which means I’ve been holding out. So bear with me okay? For @baneismydragon  ‘s MariChat May Collab

________________

Marinette steeples her fingers as she leans across her desk, keeping her gaze stolidly forward as to not stare at the object just inches from her elbows. Her fingers rest at eye height causing her to focus on how light plays on her fingers, the translucency of skin and how she can probably play around dyeing fabric to simulate the watercolor-esque beauty of light and life. Alya would look perfect in the dress, Marinette adds, anything to keep her gaze from slipping. Anything to keep her mind from drifting to…

Chat.

 Ugh. It’s too late now; Marinette should just embrace it like Tikki said. She feels Tikki’s worried buzz a foot or so away, taking slow, quiet bites from her plate of cookies to give her some peace.  It’s not working.

 She leans forward, cupping her face in her hands and lets out a muffled groan.

 “Can my yo-yo do this?” She breathes, jerking back as she grabs hold of Chat’s baton. In. Out. In. Out. She has to remind herself to keep breathing; otherwise, she’ll panic, then things will spiral out of control and turn into a mess.

 “Of course!” Tikki chirps. “But it’s not like you need it. You already keep a diary with a lock of your own creation! You don’t need magic to keep your secrets safe.” She beams proudly at Marinette, and her charge tries to get a sense of relief.

 “But why does Chat have one?” The question is damning for Marinette. When she hears the words escape her voice, she feels the sob clawing at her throat, she hates the threat and demand that tightens her vocal chords. The sound of it scares her, so she tries to play it off with a laugh. “I mean, what dumb boy keeps a diary?”

 “Not all Chat Noir’s keep a diary, Marinette, but it’s asked that they do.” Tikki sets aside her cookie and floats to Marinette’s side. She sits just on top of the computer, forcing the young hero to lift her gaze.

 “Why?” Marinette asks again, gripping the metal too tight, her gaze once again fixed on the glowing paw.

 “Because he’s Chat Noir,” Tikki says as if that should explain it all.

 “And they only do as they’re told?” Marinette is on her feet, kicking back her chair and glaring at Tikki. “Or because he’s bad luck and – and – and all he can do is ju-just wait for something bad to happen to him?”

 Tikki cocks her head to the side, staring at Marinette with a vague curiosity. The hero knows this look; it’s the look Tikki gives when she’s about to throw out some ancient god history-information-whatever that Marinette should have known the moment she put on the earrings.

 “Where do you think your luck comes from?” Tikki asks, folding her arms across her lap. It’s a calm question, one that lines itself with a quiet threat as if to say, ‘do not blame this on me.’

 “You give it.” Marinette waves one hand. “I have it.” She waves the other. “I don’t know!”

 “There’s a reason Chat Noir and Ladybug fight side by side together. They are a balance of creation and destruction, good luck and bad, give and take. You are equals in that sense. You both take what is given. Chat Noir’s gladly give their luck to those who need it more. They willingly take the bad because they believe in their hearts their purpose is to weather the pain. Ladybugs take luck in whatever form it comes in and throw away the bad because they know their luck will help others. Ladybugs are all about helping others.” Tikki soothes as if knowing this is supposed to be a comfort.

 “How do I stop it?” Marinette asks. “I don’t want him taking it from me. We’re a team; we have an equal luck of each kind.”

 “It doesn’t work that way, Marinette.”

 “Then how does it work?” She snaps, throwing her arms out wildly. The baton slips from her hand and clatters to the ground. It pops open, showing a green screen with a list of numbers and time stamps.

 “Whoah! What’s this?” Marinette freezes, hearing Chat Noir’s voice comes from the baton now rolling under her chaise. “Star Date–no–Captain's Log…”

 She dives for it, skidding on her rug. She hears his recorded laugh and finds the wind knocked out of her. She no longer has the strength to move.

 “Okay, okay,” He chuckles some minutes later, causing her breath to hitch. “Log three. And I want to say this super important thing before I forget: My Lady made a pun. Not just any pun. She managed three puns in a single sentence! That’s practically im-paw-sible!” He laughs. “I think she’s warming up to this cat. I can see it meow, Chat Noir and Ladybug getting married under the Eiffel Tower!”

 “Sap.” Marinette glares at the floor, curling into herself. She knows, in the beginning, the logs are short. They’re mere seconds and glimpses of moments long forgotten. She knows there are hundreds of entries in his baton and most of them are locked. She suspects those recordings have mentions of his civilian life. She wants to know more about him, but there’s a reason Chat Noir’s locked the file. There’s a reason why her diary is sealed in its box right now.

 “Dear Diary,” Chat Noir says with a lovesick sigh. Marinette’s lip twitches into a scowl. She’s listened to this recording half a dozen times. “I’ve teamed up with Marinette again today and let’s just say; she’s a very bad actress. Or good, depending on how you see it.” He laughs. “So get this, she’s been acting. ACTING like she thinks I’m this super grand hero–which by the way, I am, no need to tell you that–and it’s kind of a bummer, really. Sure, I have fans, but the first few times I partnered with Marinette, she seemed to be my fan. Not ‘oh I love Ladybug and Chat Noir but mostly Ladybug!’ It was about me.”

 He sighs before forcing out a laugh. “And yeah I know, it sounds narcissistic that I was excited over a fan that liked me more than Ladybug but you have to understand: Marinette doesn’t really talk to me. Not in civilian form. I’m worried she might hate me. In my normal life, she gives away her time and attention like it doesn’t cost her anything like she has all of it and then some to spare. And-“ He laughs again. “I know she doesn’t. She’s always running late for things or caught up in an Akuma attack or doing this or that. But when she’s with someone she’s there, nothing can make her move. And sure she talks about Ladybug but only when her friend Alya forces the issue. She’ll talk about me in a heartbeat.

 “So I was glad, thinking she was mine. My-my fan, I mean. It turns out; she’s an Adrien fan. A BIG Adrien fan. I saw the hearts doodled on the posters.” Marinette can imagine his Cheshire grin and wants to smack it off his face. “She has no room for a poor stray like me.” He swoons. “Anyway, she dropped the act the moment I commented on her doodles. Who knew Marinette could be so sassy?” He laughs. “She reminds me a bit of My Lady with that attitude. I kind of like honest Marinette but I might ask her to pretend to be my fan, her swooning needs a bit of work.” He cackles before the recording abruptly moves to the next file.

 Heavy breathing. Marinette grips the short fibers of her rug as tight as possible between his fingers. Chat curses from somewhere beneath her chaise. “Ah-“ He hisses. “Crap. No, wait, I shouldn’t curse but damn this stings.” He heaves a heavy breath. “I thought the magic prevents us from getting hurt. I thought this suit was practically bomb proof.” He hisses. Marinette can hear the sound of his baton sticking to rooftops and extending. He curses again. “Dad’s going to kill me. My Lady’s going to kill me. I shouldn’t have tried to do this on my own.” He whimpers.

 The baton hits something metal; then there’s a grunt and crash, the tinkling of pottery breaking as Chat groans and hisses. “Ow.” He repeats over and over.

 “Who’s there?” Marinette squeezes her eyes tight as she hears herself on the recording. “Chat?” She hesitates. “Chat!” Marinette can remember that night. Chat had been clutching his side “Oh my god, you’re bleeding. I thought the magic–”

 “So did I.” Chat wheezed. Marinette remembers that day so many months ago. She pulled him through the trapdoor and resting him on her bed that he got blood all over her sheets, which she later explained as a ‘time of the month’ mishap to her maman. She bandaged him, brought him food and water and let him rest in her bed. She sat at the foot of it for the longest time, just watching over his pained sleeping form.

 The following recordings are a series of highs and lows. There are moments he’s never been happier to be Chat Noir and moments he’s injured in some shape or form, crawling to her house.

 “I’m not a real doctor you know.” She hears herself grumble in one of the recordings. It’s her only real complaint when he comes needing a field dressing; she can’t give him the proper care he needs.

 “You’re purrfect, Princess. I’ll be the Cat’s Meow come morning; I just need a little glue holding me together until then.” Chat hums.

 The next recording starts out quiet. Marinette knows it’s been months since his first injury and this one. If she strains her ears, she can hear the chatter of the streets and honking of cars below. She thinks she can hear Chat breathe. “Okay,” He says in a breath followed by the awkward scrambling sound of his baton being moved. There’s an ache in his voice, something painful that draws out the words slowly. “Tonight’s been,” He hesitates, “full of discoveries. I just found out some news from Plagg and something else.

 “I guess I’ll start with the easiest bit: I like Marinette.” Marinette’s breath hitches in her throat again; she’s replayed this part too many times to count. “And I still love Ladybug. That’s complicated,” He scoffs, “all of this is complicated. She’s pretty, beautiful even, did I ever tell you that? And it’s not just physical, though that doesn’t hurt, she has a beautiful personality? Soul? She’s just all around beautiful. I’ve been visiting her for a while now: before patrol, after patrol, after attacks, even if I’m not injured. She’s always there, and we can talk about anything, which is a change from both my lives.” He sighs a little dreamily. “You should see her when we talk, her eyes lock onto me, and they don’t look away, and then I can’t look away. Her eyes have, like, a million shades of blue. How’s that possible?” He’s silent for a three count before he whispers, “I don’t know what to do.

 “And then there’s what Plagg told me.” Chat groans, his voice slightly muffled, no doubt dragging a hand across his face in a moment Marinette is forced to imagine. “There’s a reason I’ve been getting hurt in the suit. It’s partially Hawkmoth’s fault, part Kwamii ‘nature of the beast,’ part my own stubbornness.

 “I take bad luck. I guess that shouldn’t be a surprise, but it is. That’s okay; My Lady needs all the luck in the world to save Paris. I’m already pretty lucky outside the suit, a little extra bad luck won’t kill me,” He exhales sharply as a worried tone creeps in,“will it?” Another pause and he seems almost back to normal.

 “Anyway, what with Hawkmoth akumatizing people like crazy lately- five in one day, who does that- My Lady’s been needing some extra luck to finish those battles, which means extra bad luck comes my way, which weakens the suit. Plagg said it doesn’t always happen; some Chat Noir’s never have to go through this, it just depends on how much we have to fight.” He sighs, and Marinette can imagine him running a clawed hand through his hair. She curls around herself even tighter because if he were beside her, she’d be hugging him and making stupid promises of never letting go.

 “We have to find Hawkmoth,” Chat says, suddenly determined. “If I do that then the bad luck won’t affect as much. I can still be Chat Noir, Ladybug won’t be worried about me, and I can still be around Marinette. Sound like a plan? Great.”

 The following logs are more professional, dates, times, and coordinates of places he checked for Hawkmoth’s lair. He mentions briefly if he’s been injured or if he’s visited Marinette.

 “I think I know what home feels like.” Chat tells the recorder. He grunts occasionally, and Marinette knows he’s jumping across rooftops. The background noise is minimal, something she’s timed perfectly to the early morning. “I guess I’ve forgotten since my Mom disappeared. Damn, this is a beautiful morning, should I go back and wake her? I really want Marinette to see this.

 “It’s, ah, December third, six thirty in the morning and the sunrise is amazing. I’ve, um, just left Marinette’s place,” He laughs awkwardly, and Marinette can just see him reaching to rub the back of his neck out of nervousness. “Last night I got injured more than usual.” His voice is a steadier, which tells her he’s stopped leaping around. “It was awful,” He admits, “And Marinette patched me up, but I wasn’t in any condition to leave so she let me sleep in her bed, like always. This time was different than always. There was the usual stuff; I kept the suit on because Plagg speeds up the healing, I slept on the right side of the bed, against the wall. I wasn’t sleeping, not really. I was in too much pain for that. So Marinette decides to crawl under the covers with me. She tells me stories of her time with Alya or helping her parents in the bakery, petting my head and holding my hand. She reminds me of my mom when I was sick. Mom used to lay in bed with me even though I was coughing up a storm. She was just there for me, like Marinette, and I realize,” He lets out a wistful sigh, “I haven’t felt this good in really long time.”

 Another pause before he rushes out, “Also I purred sometime in the middle of that, so that’s…new. I guess it’s going to be a thing now…”

 “Oh Kitten,” Marinette manages a smile, lifting her gaze high enough to see the glowing green baton beneath the chaise. She’ll have to move to get it, but she still can’t find the strength.

 “December twenty-first,” Chat huffs. “I’ve been at this for hours, and there hasn’t been a single sighting of Ladybug. I’m tailing Juanita Million to see where she goes next, but there’s no point in attacking if Ladybug isn’t here to help fix everything. Hawkmoth needs to work on his puns: Juanita Million-One in a Million, how can he come up with something so terrible? And princess calls my puns bad.” He makes a couple of quiet jumps before continuing.

 “Juanita Million is sort of like Reflecta. She’s changing everyone to look like crystal versions of herself. It’s kind of creepy, really. When she first started attacking she went on a super long villain monolog about how the boy she liked thought she was one of the guys? Or he couldn’t really see her? Or that she was really plain? I don’t know; if I'm honest, I was too busy avoiding her rays to pay attention. No way am I getting stuck in heels again.”

 Marinette can’t help but giggle at that.

 “Long evil rant short, she’s turning people into crystal reflections of her so she can she can shine bright like a diamond? Or that she’ll be the one to stand out? Again, my attention span was not there.”

 “Chat!” Marinette hears her voice faintly over the recording. “Chat Noir! Over here!” She remembers waving at Chat from street level as he bounded from rooftop to rooftop. He was confused at first, seeing an akumatized victim, features faceted in crystal actively searching him out rather than hiding.

 “Princess!” Chat yelps. “Princess, did you get caught?”

 “What kind of dumb question is that, Chat?” Past Marinette grumbles. “I got transformed into glass, and now I’m constantly being blinded by light being reflected off of me.”

 “Well, you sure do light up my life.”

 “Chaaatt,” She groans. “I can’t decide if that pun is still better than Juanita Million.”

 Chat scoffs. “It’s at least a few Kilowatts better.”

 “Chat!”

 “Yes, Princess?” He asks sweetly, Marinette hears her past self sigh.

 “I don’t think Ladybug’s coming anytime soon; I’m worried she got hit in her civilian form-”

 “Like you?”

 “Like me.” Past Marinette confirms. “I did overhear Juanita saying only true love’s kiss can break the spell. It was something along the lines of, true love will recognize you in whatever form you’re in.”

 “Hey, I’m de-lighted to say I recognized you immediately! That watt to count for something!”

 “I’m going to be stuck in this form forever!” Past Marinette continues as if she never heard him. “I mean, what if Adrien doesn’t recognize me? And what? I’ll have to ask him? Without stuttering and flailing and going ‘uh-buh-good-Adrien-noon-after!’ It would be a miracle if I could even manage a ‘Kiss me, if you want to live!’ but that sounds way too Terminator and–”

 “Can I act as his stand-in?” Chat asks. “I-I mean it’s worth a shot. I recognized you out of all the other victims, that’s worth something, right?”

 “I–” She hesitates. “I don’t know. I guess? Just one little kiss?” 

 “Princess,” Chat laughs, “I’m not some frog claiming to be a prince. I’ll have you know I am a cat of the highest pedigree!”

 “You still seem like an alleycat to me.” She huffs.

 “Meow-ch, Princess! That hurts! It’s just one kiss. If nothing happens then, no harm done, but when you do change back, the only thing you’ll be blinded by is my stunning beauty.”

 “Kitty, don’t get full of yourself. It’s just a kiss. Let’s just get it over with, okay?”

 There’s silence for what seems like a lifetime to Marinette. She remembers what happened. Kissing him while he wasn’t under Dark Cupids control was different. He was hesitant and unsure, unable to decide if he wanted a quick kiss as promised or something more. But there was electricity, Marinette felt it too, tingling down to her toes. She expected the world to shift beneath her, she tried to blame it on turning back but her eyes were closed, and she had no way of knowing if that was true. He seemed to be searching for something in her, and she had found herself searching too, holding him tight in an attempt to stay upright as his arms pulled her closer and closer.

 “Oh,” Past Marinette is the first to break the kiss and the silence that follows. She is breathless and panting.

 “Oh.” Chat Noir agrees. “Hey,” His voice cracks a little. “You’re back to your beautiful old self.” A pause Marinette remembers was filled with well-meaning gazes. “You should-uh-hide. Don’t want you turning back again. Who knows if-um- t-true love’s kiss works-uh- a second time.”

 “R-right! I’ll, um, just go hide, then.” Pounding footsteps drifts away from the recorder.

 “Crap!” Chat Noir hisses. “It’s still recording! Well, uh, I guess cat’s out of the bag. I kissed Marinette.” A pause, “Now how am I gonna explain that to Ladybug?”

 Two entries pass, more of the same boring professionalism of previous entries, though there’s a clear lack of mention of whether or not he visited Marinette’s. She knows he didn’t. She waited up every night waiting for him to knock on her trapdoor.

 “It’s um, it’s-it’s,” Chat sounds choked up. “It’s December twenty-fourth. It’s the day my Mom went missing. I don’t really remember how it happened and it really hasn’t been that long. She was just gone Christmas day. They assume she went missing the night before. My father’s already moping in front of her portrait. He’ll be there for hours. He’ll remember me some time after lunch tomorrow. That’s… okay, I think? People all have their own way of coping, and that’s my father’s. I just wish we could; I don’t know, cope together. Instead of losing one parent I feel like I’ve lost both and I know that’s not okay.” He sniffles and then heaves a heavy breath. “I’m, I’m going to go patrol. Hawkmoth attacked with four Akuma's yesterday, and I didn’t have time to visit Marinette. Um, well, who knows what he’s planning. He might akumatize someone again over Christmas, and no one should have a miserable holiday.” He sighs and then mutters, “Even me.”

 “Okay,” Chat lets out a hurried whisper as the next recording begins. “Okay, okay, okay. It’s um, damn, what is it again? Oh! It’s Christmas day!” He cheers. “And, I might be skinned alive by my father any minute, and that’s fine. One of my nine lives can handle it.” He laughs. “Still terrified though, that’s why I’m running back now. It’s – ah – early afternoon. I spent the night at Marinette’s place, again. Didn’t mean to, she was on her balcony last night, and she looked so cute, and I wanted to hash out what happened with Juanita Million, and then we talked and talked and oh! She gave me a Christmas present! It’s a green scarf, and it’s so soft and warm. And of course, I forgot to get her a Christmas gift, so I panicked and kissed her. That went on for a while…” He breathes. “We stayed up playing board games after that, let me just say: Princess is a sore loser. Meow-ch. Needless to say, this valiant knight calmed her down with a series of kisses. It was downright heroic of me to do so. Anyway, Mr. Dupain finds us in the morning, both of us having fallen asleep in the middle of a card game and invited me for breakfast. It was paw-some. It was like being part of a family. Mrs. Dupain-Cheng kept feeding me, Marinette goaded her Dad into a round of Ultimate Mecha Strike III. It was great. I lost track of time, and well, here I am, trying to make it back to my room before Father realizes I’m gone. Maybe I can sneak back to Marinette’s later…”

 Marinette’s trapdoor creaks open, causing her gaze to drift from the glowing paw to the pale hand flipping the door to the floor. A blonde mop of messy hair slowly comes into view followed by the biggest, dorkiest, and darkest sunglasses she’s ever seen. Maman must have bought those for a costume contest because they’re unmistakably feminine and does not belong to its current wearer.

 Chat Noir takes slow steps up the stairs to her room, dressed in Tom’s oversized sweater and pants, he looks like a kitten bundled in blankets. Marinette can see the bruises on his cheeks, the cut on his forehead and the bandages peeking out of his collar. A small little black cat sits on his shoulder, nuzzling into the dark blue sweater.

 “January eleventh,” Past Chat’s voice echoes through the room, causing current Chat to stiffen on his way up. “Marinette and I are dating now. I think. I did ask her, but she didn’t really give me a response. All she said is that it’d be hard with me in costume all the time. But then we made out for an hour, so I think we’re okay.” Marinette stares at present Chat, feeling her cheeks warm. “And I think it has to be this way for a while. I don’t think Ladybug will appreciate me revealing my identity to a civilian when we don’t even know each other. Marinette probably would have said yes to my alter ego, but I can’t justify it when she has all those Adrien posters on her wall. She has a crush on a celebrity, a mask of some kid who doesn’t know what he’s doing. I’m the one who’s honest with her, and I’m glad she likes me, the real me.”

 Present Chat crawls on his knees, closing the trap door before joining her on the rug, lying far enough away that only their fingers touch.

“And yeah,” He huffs. “The irony is not lost on me. I wear a mask too. When the time comes to know who I am, Marinette will already know. No matter the name behind it, I’m still her kitten.” Past Chat Noir giggles as current Chat beams fondly. “She calls me kitten,” They say together. “Isn’t that cute?”

Marinette stares at Chat, feeling his gaze but unable to see his radiant green eyes behind those bug-eyed sunglasses. They skew to the side as he rests his head on the floor, his messy hair falling in waves with gravity.

“Shit,” Chat’s recorded curse causes Marinette’s eyes to widen. “Four Akumas in one day again. It’s, ah, n-nearly two in the morning. And it’s, it’s pretty bad. Before Hawkmoth was sending quantity over quality but it looks like he’s managed to get both this time around. I-crap-I was hit clear across the city from the last attack.” His teeth chatter between heavy breaths. “Crashed through two bridges before hitting a boat and falling into the Seine. The Seine, in the middle of winter, how cruel could this Akuma get? Anyway, the Ladybug cure came by maybe ten minutes ago? I don’t know, it’s fuzzy. Everything fuzzy. I remember they repaired the bridge and the boat but just skipped right over me. And that’s, I don’t know, whatever? You’d think a Ladybug would help a stray cat.” He coughs and breathes a wet rattling breath. “Oh man that hurts. I don’t know if I can even see straight. I hope Plagg’s driving this suit, I hope he goes to Marinette. I can’t,” He chokes on a breath, Marinette can hear the blatant pain. “I can’t just disappear on her. I can’t.” He whimpers.

Marinette scrambles for the baton and shuts it tight before past Chat can say another word. She knows there are a few more recordings after that, but she can’t bring herself to listen to them just yet. They’re too close to the present, too close to how Chat looks right now. She knows the most recent one is what she stopped yesterday when he collapsed on her rooftop on the verge of death.

Yesterday was awful. She can still remember the blood staining the terrace, much more than she thought a person could hold. Marinette remembers being frantic, that she clumsily dressed most of his wounds. When Chat passed out, Marinette transformed into Ladybug hoping to give him a miracle; and it worked, somehow, though she’s still not sure how. He was still in bad shape, but his wounds were closed enough that she could call for help from her Papa and Maman to bring Chat inside and treat him properly.

She had to explain why Chat was on her rooftop. Why he kept visiting, why he was getting hurt, and why he came to her of all people. Some questions she answered truthfully; the others she left unanswered, her distress the only thing they need to know.

“You’re out of your suit.” Marinette whispers, clutching the baton tightly to her chest. How can the baton still be here when his suit isn’t? Will it disappear the moment he touches it? She doesn’t want it to disappear; she needs to know what happens next, even though she’s afraid to find out.

“Your parents needed me out of the suit to patch up everything. I’ll change back soon,” Chat promises. “I’m just giving Plagg a little breather. He’s been trying to heal me all day.”

“And now I’m tired and starving.” The little black kwamii flops in Chat’s hair, raising a paw to his forehead. “Woe is me; I’ll never fix Ad-Chat Noir like this. There’s no Camembert in the entire building. I’m too weak to move!”

“Plagg!” Chat warns. “The Dupain-Chengs are nice enough to let us stay in their home. You could be more grateful.”

“I’d be more grateful if I had some cheese.” Plagg grumbles.

“You had some Brie. Besides, Mrs. Dupain-Cheng already said she’d get you some Camembert. It takes a bit to get to the store, so stop complaining.”

Marinette can’t help but giggle. Plagg abruptly lifts himself from Chat’s hair and narrows his eyes at her. “Something funny, Pinky?”

“Nothing,” She tries to suppress a giggle. “You’re, um, just like siblings. I, I don’t have any of my own but Alya and the twins, they’re like that all the time. You guys really like each other, huh?”

“This lovesick kitten?” Plagg makes a gagging noise. “It’s a miracle I even let him put on the ring.”

“Hey!” Chat protests.

“You gonna talk about the audio journal or what?” Plagg ignores Chat’s protest and floats away, no doubt to where Tikki’s hiding. He says this on purpose, Marinette thinks, to steal away time with the other Kwami and layer the young heroes in thick tension.

She stares at the obnoxious sunglasses, feeling his firm gaze. She doesn’t know where to start. She wants to tell him her identity, wants to promise she’ll stop turning into Ladybug so he can keep his luck. But that’s a stupid argument waiting to happen, she doesn’t want to give up being Ladybug, and he definitely won’t let her.

Marinette wants to lecture him about being reckless when he knows he’ll get hurt. Then again, Ladybug has forced those moments more than a few times.

She wants to hold him, but he’s hurt.

She wants to kiss him, but his lips are split in a few places.

Marinette wants to tell him she loves him but he might not believe her. Not with the adrenaline high of him almost dying and the Adrien pictures she still hasn’t taken down. Not with Tikki hiding somewhere nearby.

“I’m scared,” Those two words slip past as tears break free. “Chat,” Marinette whispers. “Chat,” She sobs. “How can – and you – please don’t – I mean, just be – ”

Marinette doesn’t know what to say.

“Hey,” He whispers, calm and soothing as ever. “I’m here, see?” He reaches out, his fingers brushing her cheek. Oh. She’s never touched his bare hand before. She expects claws and cool material, not manicured nails and feverish skin. “We’re okay.”

“No, you’re not.” She chokes out thickly, rubbing furiously at her tears.

“I’m a superhero,” He says it like that’s supposed to assure her. “We all come with tragic backstories, it’s a membership fee.” Marinette scoffs. 

“I agreed to this life, Princess.” He tells her. “I want to do this.”

“I want you to stay with me.” She sobs.

“I am with you.” Chat promises. “There’s nothing scary in that baton, Marinette. Everything that’s on there is gone. It’s over. I’m here right now.” He shifts, hissing as it aggravates something as he pulls Marinette into his arms. “It’s nothing to worry about.”

“It’s plenty to worry about, Chat! Do you even hear yourself?”

“No, I don’t.” He admits quietly. “I make those entries, and that’s that.”

“Chat,” Marinette starts and stops as Chat holds her tight, burying his nose into her neck and purring, his last ditch effort to soothe away any pain they both feel.

“Play it, Princess.” He whispers into her back between purrs. “We’ll get through this together.”

[canaliculi]

Take me somewhere nice (5/?)

Gravity Falls

Bill/Ford

M: slow loving romance between two best buds

Bill edges Ford towards the creation of the portal.

1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5

The good thing that I have found

Devotion.

Ford isn’t a religious man. He isn’t one to believe in superstition, in fables or the power of stories. But-

Some kind of god.

-for some reason, those words have become lodged in his mind. Stuck to the insides of his skull like a chewed wad of gum. The kind Stan used to cram up against the underside of his desk with his thumb, winking when Ford’s unimpressed stare caught his eye. He remembers the thin shine of slick saliva on Stan’s finger, and with an unpleasant shudder, the way Stan would wipe his hand on the side of his jeans and grin at him.

Now Bill grins at him, and nigh-indescribable blue prints are written across the sky. Unraveling in bright glowing script, numbers that shuffle themselves into endless equations and lines that connect and combine in alien, unnatural angles. Ford is slaw-jacked, eyes darting back and forth over his mindscape. It’s like trying to read another language, or a cipher – he can pick out some patterns, instances of repetition that hint at something, but without a key it remains a stubborn, jumbled mess.

“Well, Fordsy? What do you THINK? Ready to BUILD IT?”

His wonderment drops through the bottom of his stomach, heavy as a black hole.

“HA! Just kidding! That’s kinda putting the CORPSE before the CARRIAGE, huh?” Bill appears at his side and elbows him. “Gotta learn to crawl out of the PROVERBIAL MUD SOUP before you can GROW LUNGS and SPROUT FUR, am I right?”

“I-” What? Bill, or more precisely, another Bill, pops up before his face, and squishes his cheeks together. The flickering-lightbulb flashing of his body as he speaks is almost blinding this close.

“I’m saying, let’s start with the BASICS!” This Bill lets go of him and swings like a door to the side, to clear his view. Ford’s eye is caught by the slim glint of his profile. Bill’s not quite two-dimensional, but the descriptor’s not far off. His arms and bowtie and hat are all a flat, matching black, and could they be made out of the same material? It doesn’t make sense, but concerning Bill, when has anything?

Bill flips back to him without warning and Ford actually recoils a fraction of an inch, feeling acutely like he has been caught. It carries with it the edge of his adolescence, freezing motionless at the creak of footsteps beyond his door, heart pounding and eyes fixed through the dark on the battered door of his room, hardly even able to breathe. Bill’s eye curves. His muse splits down the center, and like a cell, two Bills are there where there had been one. This newest copy is wearing a graduation cap in place of his top hat, and carries a pointing stick instead of a cane.

“The basics!” New Bill repeats, and floats away from him. The other two hover by his sides, both watching their copy as though they, too, are ready for a lecture. Ford finds himself smiling.

“You are the expert, Bill,” Ford says, and the sprawling, almost labyrinthine blueprints vanish in hazy wisps of blue tinted smoke.

“That’s RIGHT, I AM! But YOU’RE my, what’s the word?” Bill smacks the stick down in the palm of his free hand, the sharp, cracking sound of wood against flesh that sends a rolling wave of something down his center, branching out along his limbs. “Student, mentee, protégé, take your PICK!”

Each choice fills his mind with a different imagining - Bill before him, Bill at his side, Ford on his knees - and Ford isn’t sure which he prefers. He isn’t forced to decide. The smoke coalesces into a long and meandering equation, that nonetheless feels familiar in some distant way. His eyes run across it again and again.

“Now, smart guy, what can you tell me about-”

“Gravity!” Bill drops his stick, and the two at his sides turn to stare at him. All their small, thin limbs are drooping gracelessly from the bottom of their forms. The tips of his ears turn hot, and Ford fingers along the hem of his shirt. “Uh-” clears his throat “-that is what this equation, or at least part of it, refers to, correct?”

“…You got it in ONE! Man, am I IMPRESSED! They didn’t call you Poindexter for nothing, huh?”

Ford can feel himself beaming and he tries to reel his reaction back in. Bill has never shown any inclination to control his own emotes, but Ford’s old habits die hard and his heart is beating almost painfully in his chest. It’s even harder when a small hand shifts through his hair, scratching over his scalp in a way that sends pleasing, tingling chills shivering down his spine.

He turns his head to the left, staring up at Bill – or the copy of his muse – still dragging his black hand up and down, back and forth, and whatever expression Ford has on his face causes his muse’s eye to crinkle upward in a smirk. Bill’s hand goes to the back of his head, and his fingers tighten around the fluffy locks of Ford’s hair, tugs gently and insistently to face him forward again. Ford swallows, hyperaware of Bill withdrawing as he turns his attention back to the equation. The other Bill is tapping his foot midair, impatient.

“SO, now that I have your ATTENTION… GRAVITY! HOW it WORKS – which I’m SURE, a SHUT-IN NERD like YOURSELF already KNOWS ALL ABOUT – and more IMPORTANTLY, how to make it NOT WORK!”

Ford learns what he can at night, and spends his days penning out page after page of mathematic theorems and crude, prototypical models of the machine he and Bill will build together. He writes until his hand cramps and the neat lines of his usual script become sloppy and smudged from the side of his palm. More than once he puts the wrong end of his pen up to his lips, resulting in a splattering of black ink across his mouth.

When he closes his eyes, numbers swim incorporeally across his vision, and when he tries to go to sleep he tosses and turns while his mind runs over his work without end. Bill comes more often, both in his dreams and as the semi-hallucinatory, intangible projection that pops up in the middle of his days without warning.

One such occurrence comes as Ford is mulling over his journal, plagued with the nagging, skittering sensation that he is forgetting something. With his thoughts occupied he doodles in the margins of his notes. A few cipher symbols, some pieces of as-yet theoretical machinery, and perhaps a scattering of triangle shapes here and there (and everywhere). Something isn’t fitting together quite right, but Ford can’t put his finger on it. He draws three lines. Did Bill say something that has managed to escape him?

“How’s it GOING?” With his usual subtlety, Bill is floating above his desk, occupying what had been previously stuffy and empty air. Ford jumps and slams his hand down flat, trying to cover up his idle sketches. It’s not very successful, as they are littered about the page, and if he looks down, heart hammering in his throat, he can see bits of them peaking between his fingers.

“Bill! Fine! It’s uh, fine,” Ford says.

“Let’s see what you got!” Ford can’t help but to grimace. Still, he angles his journal to let Bill get a better look. He fidgets in his seat and watches Bill’s pupil ticking back and forth across his work like a metronome. “Not BAD!” He lets out a held breath. “But you MISSED a step!”

All the thoughts fly out of Ford’s head and he pulls his journal closer, barely aware of the way his actions drag the physical object through his muse’s projection (and the subsequent indignant yelp of said muse). He… he did. He missed a step. He can see it now, and it’s a mix of pleasure and mortification to find that his problem is so simply solved.

Bill stays for a while and coos in his ears. How many humans could do what you’re doing here, Fordsy? I’ve been around a long time and I know the answer – none! His fingers are shaking by the time he is done. And after that, he doesn’t bother to hide away his doodles. Bill never comments on them, and Ford is certain it must be his own fancies, that he imagines Bill grins a little more after he sees them.

The dreams that fill the void between Bill’s visits are just as frustrating as ever, but now something looms constant in the periphery of his mind. Ford will dream of Bill speaking in numbers and watch the large struts and braces of some monolithic machine coming together cinch by cinch. Hands made from living darkness, their surfaces shifting and crawling as though swarms of parasites reside just below, they grab him and cradle him and aim his head towards a sky that spins in jerking, nauseating spirals.

“What is this supposed to be, anyway?” Bill – not Bill – asks him. Ford’s arms are tied behind his back, long curls of thick rope wrapped around and around each limb. When he shifts, they burn against his skin like he’s been wearing them for hours. “Student-Teacher? Muse-uh, whoever muses work with?”

Bill places one hand on Ford’s cheek, so that the claw of his middle finger rests over the thin flesh of Ford’s lower eyelid, and tap-tap-taps against the bulging curve of his eye through it. Ford shivers, his body going tense, but he doesn’t move away. He wants to answer but a hand closes his mouth, his teeth clacking together.

“No no, I wanna guess,” Bill says. The hand on his chin moves upward, and a cool palm rests over his lips. Bill’s finger taps against his eye. “Master-servant? Nah, not yet. Oh, I got it! Charming CON ARTIST and his lovable, DUPABLE MARK!”

Bill shoves his claw harder against his eyelid, harder, until Ford can feel a hot bead of blood welling up. When his muse takes his hand away, it dribbles down his cheek in an unbroken stream.

“Talk about foreshadowing, am I right? Ah, what would you know anyway. Actually Fordsy, you really should count yourself lucky – ALL SEEING isn’t ALL it’s cracked up to be!” Bill laughs. Ford’s head feels stuffed full of cotton, and he thinks he must not get the joke. “Well go ahead, open up! Let’s hear those innermost thoughts and FEELINGS!”

The hand across his mouth doesn’t move but cracks, fissures, and splits cleanly down its midline, strings of sticky black stuff stretching between the straight white bones of each half before reaching their limit and breaking. Its fingers seize and shake, and it’s only then that Ford realizes it’s got one finger too many.

“You are…” he begins, but stops. Words can’t encapsulate it. Bill narrows his eye, and Ford thinks of the statue in his den, the statues and tapestries slowly accumulating around it. Ford thinks of Bill offering him a sealed scroll, a gem, an all-seeing eye on a chain. Bill watches him, and then sprouts his extra arms, and they trail ghosting touches down his arms, across his chest, bury fingers into his hair and yank.

“Go on, Fordsy.” Ford is dragged upwards, lifted docile into the air, and he can hear the great, groaning sound of some engine rumbling to life. The edges of his vision quake. “Go on. GO ON.” The last words are preternaturally deep and resonate, and then like a laugh track spliced over itself again and again, Bill laughs and laughs and laughs.

Ford wakes up with a pounding – splitting – headache. He can only remember snatches of his dream, but he can still hear Bill whispering go on. His sheets stick to the sweat on his body and his pulse throbs through his veins. There is buzzing pressure inside him, building behind some dam. He clenches his fingers in the sheets and grinds his molars and wonders how long it will hold.

Nothing has challenged him like this. It makes sense, he supposes – this is the culmination of his life’s work. It doesn’t make it any less bitter of a pill to swallow. Everything has come almost naturally to him – 12 PhDs can attest to this – and what hasn’t, has been surmounted by hard work and indomitable will. And yet, no matter how he metaphorically bashes his brains against his journals, sometimes the things Bill tells him just don’t click.

It’s hard to say how many hours straight he has been sitting at his desk. His knees ache and the column of his spine that comes up between his shoulder blades flares rhythmically with heat. Muscles tight in broad, rock hard slabs, or bundled up like knots of tied cables. Eventually time doesn’t matter – and Ford realizes this after he sets his pen down to hunch over and rake both hands through his hair. When he looks back up, the pen is floating in midair, as are his desk and chair, and his lamp most of all, its shade titling crookedly upwards and its cord dangling behind it.

It’s not hard to guess he’s in the mindscape. There’s a warm weight on his head, and Ford doesn’t even have to catch the edge of a golden glow across the top of his line of sight to know that Bill has settled on him. Small hands fluff up his hair and then smoosh it to the sides, so Bill can lean forward and meet his eye. Ford knows what is coming.

“Fordsy,” Bill says.

“No.”

“What?” Is this really the first time he’s caught his muse off guard?

“I’m fine.” Ford stares straight ahead, at the constellations that have become a base, primal comfort. Bill laughs.

“It’s nothing to be-”

“I can do it!” he doesn’t mean to blurt it out, but he does, and his cheeks burn. The backs of his eyes prickle and he marvels at how pathetic he must be to his muse. His muse who has lived longer than human history itself, and has seen every manner of genius his species has taken. Ford shuts his eyes tight and chews on the fleshy inside of his cheek, and he feels Bill lift off his skull, and can feel the welcoming warmth that radiates from his form hovering before him.

“I know you can, IQ – I’m not doubting you here,” Bill says. Ford can’t open his eyes. “I was just thinking, maybe some ON-CALL tutoring wouldn’t be out of the question.”

“I-I don’t need-”

“No, no, no one is saying NEED, Fordsy! But I have to ADMIT, this POPPING in and out of your DIMENSION thing isn’t working for me!” It twists around like a knife in his chest but Ford opens his eyes to look at his muse. “Not to say I don’t LOVE bursting in unexpected, but let’s face facts here, about HALF the time I come around you’re IN THE SHOWER!”

“…What?” Oh god, has Bill seen him? Naked? Ford can feel his jaw hanging slack.

“Yeah! I usually just LEAVE, but not BEFORE-”

“Tutoring!” Ford interrupts, face and neck and ears all hot. “What are you proposing?”

Bill looks upward, and taps his finger along his surface, like he’s thinking. Ford’s gaze gets caught on his claw, each time it clicks against the gold plating of his form, and his right eye aches.

“Have you ever dabbled in MEDITATING?”

It’s like a direct line to him, Bill promises, and the first time Ford crosses one leg over the other, he feels ridiculous. But he tries to concentrate. On the slow, deep, even in and out of his breath. His thoughts drift, but he snaps them back. Concentrates on concentrating on nothingness, at first. And then concentrates on his muse. It feels strange to allow his thoughts to linger on Bill, after he’s spent so long trying to do the exact opposite.

Soon enough, Bill is in front of him.

“See? I’m at your BECK and CALL!”

And so it goes. Ford will get stuck, and Bill will come whenever he beckons. He works to keep it from going to his head. From wondering what it means, how he could even begin to express it - Bill, for all intents and purposes, making himself available for any question or whimsy Ford may stumble upon. He works himself ragged, until he looks in a mirror and doesn’t see himself, hollow, dark eyes and scruffy face. It’s worth it, he tells himself, and splashes water on his face. Goes to the kitchen and makes another pot of coffee, and neglects the dishes that have sat collecting in the bottom of the sink for the better part of a week that has turned into a month.

It’s worth it.

Devotion, he thinks to himself, and then thinks of the colleges that rejected him. Those faceless judges who will droop and sag to see his definitive triumph.

But there just aren’t enough hours in the day. Sleep is simultaneously a waste and respite, and Ford feels sick to his stomach every time the telltale creep of exhaustion bleeds into his bones. He remembers feeling this way when he was young, watching the sun set on the beach with Stanley, a long summer’s day ended in equally long shades. They used to sit so close that their shadows would blur together, and Stan would talk about where they would go one day, and Ford would drift and dreamily contemplate far off shores and untold wonders.

Far off shores – the farthest he’s ever known – are now one final mystery away. Untold wonders have already been dropped heavy into his lap, and so many more await him. He doesn’t need Stanley – he never did. This thought has blossomed, intrusively, into his mind more than once, and he doesn’t know why, but he works harder than ever.

Ford is getting used to finding himself in the mindscape, with no recollection of going to sleep.

“You’re burning the candle at both ends,” Bill says, right before he makes his latest offer, and his hand becomes wreathed in cerulean flames.

You pick the time – and the place; though I guess the place is always gonna be your fleshy meat sack, huh!

Just let me into your MIND, Stanford! And he has shaken his hand.

No matter how he has endeavored to disguise it, there is some raw and fragile part of Ford. Delicate, beefy red strings of emotion that regrow over and over. That leave him vulnerable and exposed, whenever he slips up. As he reaches his hand out, Ford is reminded of this piece of himself. Let me in, Bill says, let me in. The blue, shivering flame feels like ice over his skin, sharp pins that dig down to his bones and make his every nerve ending tingle to life.

Ford says, until the end of time.

The time and the place, and what better time than now? His choice for the place is his study. Not the one where he spends his days writing, that Bill is already intimately familiar with. He chooses the one he has sequestered away, has been careful not to work in lest his muse come calling. The one that he has filled with various forgotten treasures and weavings. An altar of sorts, that he has done his best to keep obscured from its object of worship.

The room shifts back and forth, timed with the flickering of candles strewn across its various surfaces. Ford drops to his knees and is acutely aware of the scratchy itch of his jeans. Of the force his body exerts on his knees and feet, just by resting on them. It makes him think of pressure ulcers, how they can form in just two hours of immobility, of soft, damaged, pink flesh. He lights the last two candles before him, and shifts his weight from one knee to the other and back and sighs.

He closes his eyes, and the tiny flames of the candles morph into orange-yellow blobs across the backs of his eyelids. A deep breath in, on the count of one, two, three, four, five, and a slow breath out on the count of six, seven, eight, nine. And again. Paying attention to the swell of his ribcage like the rising of a tide. And out. Paying attention to the ebb of his lungs, the receding waves.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

In.

And everything goes black.

Until he comes to again, and hears himself laughing. Ford can see, he can feel, but he can’t move, and panic thrashes wild in his stomach. His hands are moving. His right crouches like an insect around his neck, and he can feel the force of each fingertip along the column of his throat. And the left strokes up and down his stomach, beneath the bunched up layers of his shirt and vest.

“Stanford Pines,” he hears himself say. A shudder rolls along his spine, and something clicks in his mind. Bill. “That’s right. And I gotta say, this is not what I was expecting!”

Ford wishes he could swallow, he could fidget, he could pick at the fine fibers of his clothing, but there is no outlet for his nerves. His body – Bill – breathes in deep, without him.

“I’m flattered, Fordsy.” Bill looks around the room, his eyes stopping on each and every item, and Ford feels his body reacting. His only instinct is to hide, to curl into himself, but Bill arches his back and spreads his leg, and his hand drips down like honey to caress along the length straining against the zipper of his jeans.

Ford is a mess. He wants to hyperventilate, but Bill breathes evenly, huskily, and the thumb of his left hand flicks open his jeans. The fingers of his right hand tighten, pressing with expert precision against both carotid arteries, so he feels sick and lightheaded. Bill’s – his – left hand moves, slow at first, building to a frantic pace, and Ford finds himself unable to worry for the future.

When it’s over, Ford is thrust back in control, pearly white droplets hanging sticky from his fingers and stomach. He stares at his hand and wonders if he imagined it all. And then he’s watching himself again, unable to even grimace as he wipes his hand off on his good sweater.

“If you wanted to take this partnership to the next level,” he hears himself say, and his head is still swimming. “You could have just said something.”

The world collapses back in on itself like a dying star, Bill’s – his – voice a slim, glowing tether in the middle of pitch black that, without sound or fanfare, blips out of existence.

The thing about the world – or at very least, Ford’s perception of the world – blinking in and out again, is that it gives him no time to contemplate or compartmentalize anything that has happened. He jolts awake in his body, his mind still expecting the study, the candles, Bill’s hand-

Bill.

None of it is there. Lost time isn’t a concept he’s familiar with. Even if he may lose track of it, he doesn’t lose it. Studying, reading, sketching – all activities that have kept up him well into the small hours of the morning and sometimes beyond. But that time isn’t gone. He knows exactly where it went, what he was doing, even if he had, perhaps, gone a little overboard in the moment.

This is nothing like that. Fords wakes up in his living room, and the first thing that registers is a hot, painful tightness across his chest. He’s in his lounge chair, in just boxers and a thin undershirt. He looks down, hand already raised, fingers running over the white cloth, seeking out the strange irritant. His fingertips hit something damp and sticky and he frowns, wincing at the spark of pain his own touch inspires. There are random splotches where some liquid has seeped through the material of his shirt, yellowish and red tinged in some areas, all across his chest.

Ford lunges to his feet, and a book topples off his lap, landing with a soft thunk on the floor. Bewildered, he kneels down and carefully picks up the slim tome. It’s one of his journals, one of the few he hasn’t found occasion to use yet. But he turns it in his hand, and its spine is broken with tiny white hairline fractures that run up and down its length. He cracks it open, halfway expecting something to jump out at him, though he isn’t quite sure why.

This isn’t a cheesy horror movie, so of course, nothing emerges from its pages. Instead, he just sees page after page after page of equations and diagrams, all written in a singularly precise and unknown style. Bill, he thinks; this is his muse’s handwriting. It only takes four or five pages for the material to become unfamiliar, but he can already begin to see how everything slots together. He’s grinning heavily, too eager with the novelty to pay close attention to the information at the moment. His flipping through is put on pause when he catches sight of a very crudely drawn stick figure in one of the corners, with the succinct note thought I’d return the favor! scribbled next to it.

He laughs, which causes the, whatever-it-is on his chest to stretch and send fresh radiating waves of irritation scrambling along his nerve roots. It spurs him to set the book on the squat coffee table and proceed towards the bathroom. Ford looks around his house like he’s never been in it before. Bill has left all the lights on, and Ford notices with a frown, the refrigerator door open. He clicks them off, one by one, and closes the door, feeling almost as though he is cleaning up after an uninvited guest.

An unexpected breeze stirs his hair, its cool bite inspiring goosebumps to prickle out across his bare arms and legs. The chill makes a sharp contrast to the burning ache across his chest, and Ford’s not sure if it’s making things better or worse as he slams the window closed. It’s still dark outside, but he can see the faint purple and gold streaks of a sunrise on its way.

In the bathroom, Ford leans down and splashes water across his face, and then stares at himself in the mirror. He doesn’t… look any different. But he feels different. Misplaced, somehow. His hands rest on the porcelain edge of the sink and he leans his weight forward, shoulders hunching up. He sighs and drops his hands, and then lifts his shirt off. Lets off small hisses of breath as the fabric clings to damp spots on his chest, so that he has to peel it off of himself in agonizing slow motion.

Ford frowns as he exams the marks. Raw, bright pink splotches against his skin – some blistered, some just wet and open. Small puffs of white threads from his shirt stick like burs to their edges. They’re all shallow, superficial wounds, in strange globular patterns, and it isn’t until he spots a minutely raised oval of wax that he finally puts it all together. Bill poured candle wax on him.

He swings the mirror open, snatching some antiseptic out and beginning to liberally dab it over the burns. Now that he’s able to look closer, he can see that some of them are surrounded or scoured through with thick scratches – probably Bill trying to scrap the congealed wax off his skin. Ford isn’t at all sure what to make of this.

Curiosity is the simplest explanation. And according to someone or other’s razor, it is therefore the most likely. Ford, however, isn’t naïve; certain pictures come to mind when he thinks of hot wax dribbling down on skin, that send fresh waves of goosebumps cropping up over his body. It isn’t something he’s really given much thought to before, but apparently anything at all that involves Bill is capable of driving him to distraction.

Instinctively by this point, Ford redirects his thought process. He chides himself as inappropriate, just before he remembers what he woke into. His body kneeling in a candlelit room – a shrine – Bill speaking through his mouth, with his voice. And his hands, just the two of them, roaming over a scant section of his skin, each touch his own, familiar and yet newly electrifying. It’s still difficult to describe, even think about describing – the feeling of his body moving without his input, not quite an out of body experience. Not quite alone in his head.

Ford is quite alone now. A drop of water has been pooling quietly along the lip of the faucet, and it drips, a single syllable plop that disturbs him from his thoughts. He flicks off the light when he leaves but he leaves the door hanging open. Grabs the discarded journal from the living room and clicks the lamp once and twice and off. Descends to his study, where all the candles have burned low, become thick layered puddles with an ashy swipe of soot in their middle.

He sits at his desk. His fingers drum, uneasy, against the book’s smooth cover. For the first time in months (he tells himself), he wonders where Stanley is. And then he opens the journal, at the beginning, and starts to read.