Author Archives: Webmistress Ave

I’m Avery, the one who primarily develops this site. I’m 22, mixed Mexican/Hispano, a student, a butch lesbian—I can keep listing things. I use any pronouns, not in singularity. Do not use a singular set for “simplicity.” I’m a disabled artist, a writer, creative. The first time I touched a computer I started to learn how to type and this is why I write so much. I tell stories and document experiences rich to me. I hear noises others do not. I have a long history with radio and the news.

2023-05-22-Back-Log

This edition of the blog is painfully overdue. There’s a draft where I started writing about my (still ongoing) computer issues, & the melancholy that came with March & it being my birthday. That has since past, in fact it’s been a month since I turned 21, so I think I will allow myself a little bit of freedom as a I write this post. What is there to say about the state of the world itself right now? I could easily focus on a lot of the not so
great, especially given the last two months I had, but I want to cut to the chase a bit & talk about things I enjoy.

We deserve that, don’t we?

I’ve been collecting the things that give me joy for a long time no matter if I can’t physically keep it. Between the tracking systems of my journals, the way I save every scrap piece of paper, the endless list of links & artwork & books & essays & creativity I have the slightest chance to touch means the world to me.

Right now, I am in personal stress, & I’m working on getting myself in a stabler place. I’m sure I’ll have some updates

Without further delay, here’s some things I enjoyed. https://www.youtube.com/embed/E-3JxcPBQlE

Krow’s animatic for the new era of
blaseball was AMAZING, and I was totally blown away.
I really have to compliment the way you’ve developed your lighting skills
for one thing, fire is such a challenge and you managed to
capture the horrors of incineration all in several terrifying
and unique flashes.

I found that the other iconography you chose
to use just fit so well with the whole intro to the era too.

Putting the disk on, saying goodbye to those you love, the cycle goes on and on and on. I remember seeing your Anastasia when you had just started this project, and wow, the entire project did not disappoint, totally emotionally wrecking in an incredible way.

We started the Wild Wings Fic Archive over on the forum. I’m currently working on getting my own
pieces up, but in the meantime go appreciate all of the
stunning fics from all of our buddies on the team, it’s
nearly impossible to suggest just one.

That is to say, theres some fantastic old fics from early on in Beta that absolutely deserve more

This fic suggestion is one of absolute bia.
Teasing each other good-naturedly, [Burke + The Watsons.] is the prompt, and this is easily be one of my favorite depictions of the trio.

Nel & I talked frequently about Burke Gonzales & the Watsons as they got closer & closer, & this short prompt fill he wrote captures the essence of what makes their dynamic so engaging to me.

Really! Just read it! Read it & think about these old men. Joshua Watson is a menace, to his husband, his boyfriend, & his poor poor step son.

the valor I have won is one of Blink’s masterpiece fics.

I was reminded of it because of the ongoing Blaseball ship bracket, because of just how distinct Don’s narrative is.

I watched what happened to Don Mitchell live, I remember the ache I felt of course, but that didn’t begin to cut into the narrative potential that Blink
expertly dissected.

Where the ache and longing tangle up with love & just constant tragedy.

This is a quintessential fic for fans of the Lovers, Fridays, & people who love to feel heartache about the Expansion Era.

Cedar shared Crits/Cell with us the other day & this is where I shout GO READ ABOUT THEM.

This is truly just a joy to see niche
prehistory guys get lore as a guy with niche prehistory lore. Go read what if i asked you to stay

Sharing Joy

CW for Character Death

Six Cats Under is a quick supernatural rescue mission.
I had fun with this! You are a ghostly grandma trying to save her cats with limited
spiritual abilities. Exploring her apartment makes for a fun little romp before you figure everything out, & getting to learn about your beloved cats before you let them out into the worldwas really sweet.

Give this game a quick play, it will take
maybe 15 minutes if you really explore & read through
everything, but I love this a lot!

I ordered some stickers from
CURSEDLUVER again recently, a perfect excuse to came up because of setting letters to my partner. https://www.youtube.com/embed/YAV96XSdMQo

We Are Dead Stars is a 2016 TEDx
Talk from Dr. Michelle Thaller. She’s most known for her work in astronomy & working with NASA, but to me, her work is poetry.

I totally get the corniness of the whole stardust connection, though there is the root peace & connection I feel when I recognize that the matter that made me has always existed since the universe began.

There’s a beauty in what I extract out of
Thaller’s words in the wake of exclusion & isolation. There’s warmth in the inherent connection Thaller acknowledges we have, no matter how distant.

That means something

While not a joy
itself, I also deeply appreciated her talk with Big Think this
year, about the healing power of physics, & survival after your
soulmate has died. https://www.youtube.com/embed/Oh6EEskE-xA

It is both an aching and hopeful approach, and as someone who is both fascinated and terrified of death, this was the first piece
on grief I found that was really impactful to me.

Music

Listen to the new Softwire album!!!

https://open.spotify.com/embed/album/2rnOwK1DJz0ZqUuCwPlbtV?utm_source=generator

I’m taking the time to stop here, There’s never enough time or space to share everything I want to do

Please take care.

2023-02-23-Frost

These last few weeks have been a recovery week. I’m feeling fairly good as I write this, but with medication changes you sometimes have a bad time.

That said, things have regulated out a bit now, and I have some upcoming project goals in the next month.

Earlier last week my dad and I went through my grandma’s stained glass supplies, and I picked out a few pieces to make some projects with. I’ve fooled around with pattern cutting and using some old tools, but I’m definitely going to need new glass cutters. I’ll write a separate blog post documenting that process collectively, but I’ll start drawing some patterns for some sun catchers next week, and I think I’m gonna theme them around a few personal/friend related things to start.a picture of my kitchen table covered in cardbord, glass, and paper pattern pieces, along with my tools.

[Image I.D.: A picture of my kitchen table covered in cardbord, glass, and paper pattern pieces, along with my tools.]

I’ve been trying to slow down. I think. At least in the sense that I’m trying to be more reflective about how I write and how I communicate with others, which has been a process like all things are. First and foremost, it’s nice to have a support system of people who recognize the difficulties I have with communication and tools to improve myself.

It’s especially hard in the creative sense. It’s no secret I’m constantly inspired. I am interested in *so* much, but much like with my communication skills, I’m working hard to be more direct, and a bit limited in my inspirations so I can hone in *how* I’m inspired, and how that directs me.

I’ve been struggling to pick up a book this month, but one that is currently in my interest pile is Queer Airwaves: The Story of Gay and Lesbian Broadcasting by Gail Johnson and Michael C Keith. Shocker I know, I’m thinking about radio again.

I haven’t picked it up yet, but at least with my experience in the rural Southwest, radio is an extremely conservative form of media. I’ve pitched LGBT focused radio content in the past, and I was a bit in over my head, but I think I’m up for some digging again. When I pick Queer Airwaves up, I’m sure I’ll talk about it here.

With work done and having some time off, of course I used part of that time to do errands. A small fondness from chores was cleaning one of the cabinets in our house, we found a really pretty ash tray made by my grandmother for her father in law. I’m so enamored with the shape of this piece, I might try to recreate it at some point. A family filled with ex smokers can be so, so autistic about smoking paraphernalia.A picture of a circular ashtray being held upright, it is a big circular dish, with a raised wall with three evenly spaced notches for joints. It is glaced in oxides and glaze in blue, teal, brown and grey.

[Image I.D.: A picture of a circular ashtray being held upright, it is a big circular dish, with a raised wall with three evenly spaced notches for joints. It is glaced in oxides and glaze in blue, teal, brown and grey.]

This is more of an unfinished blog post this week. I’ve been a lot busier with appointments and tasks and futureproofing some things, more to come, as always.

Inspiration and Appreciation

from the bones to the other side by marquis

Grappling with the new era and figuring out the umpires has been a casual back processor of mine for a while, but Blink’s work is utterly horrifying and effective. Alternation is such a sore spot among fans and taking such a unique and again, terrifying look into even a “good” call in a game of Blaseball is amazing.

You will not go to heaven, you’ll go to Kansas City by waltztangocache

Hen has one of the most stellar grasps of environmental horror I’ve ever read. The Mints are an…underrepresented team in the lore and fic genre and this instantly pulled me in I’m fascinated with these players and this world soo much.

Flying Wild High-AWAY GAMES by Otterpop
Ohh the memorial belt.

Pandora does a such a sweet job recapping the little in/out of universe game that the “Wild High” teams play for this BNN Article. My fondness for the old division remains from the time the Lovers were welcomed into the Legacy league.

There’s a lot of beloved interps in here that Pandora captured, and in true Wild Wings fashion, our incineration is the first one to introduce the belt to the new era.

Ada’s Poems

First off, go look at Ada’s website! She’s so fucking stellar with code (helped me out when I first started my site), and the site style is just stunning.

I’m highlighting her entire poems page, because they’re all really beautiful and visceral pieces.

My personal favorite is is To Change but you should read them all. https://www.youtube.com/embed/IALJrMgacMU

This tiny pottery studio tour by issey roquet was CRAZY inspiring as someone who A) would really like to get back into pottery and B) doesn’t have a large space.

I also took the time to watch her shorts, she has such a lovely presentation! I hope she posts more to Youtube. https://www.youtube.com/embed/7cOVubGtaB0

I really loved this sketchbook tour by Terra Zook. I appreciate the discussion between mental health and art and your creative output. I also found reflecting on the things you create when you were struggling is…just really nice. I appreciated her outlook.

Her style is also really, really fun. It popped quite nice for me and hit me with some ideas for sustaining a sketchbook.

Closing

Thanks if you’ve gotten this far! You get to read both my shill corner and a special blog update (update.)

2023-02-05-February Blog

Author’s Note: I’m aware this is quite long! the following link will take you to the section labled Blaseball, I keep it at the bottom of the article so someone not interested in my non blaseball thoughts can consume what they please. Additionally on review I’ll probably do bi-monthly “This the the stuff I think is cool as hell” section, sans the blaseball fanworks appreciation that’s always gonna be here.

Blaseball Play and Siesta

Click the above link for my thoughts!

I think February is a strange month, in terms of the false start it provides between the transition between winter and spring. It’s been cold. I’ve been tired.

Things are starting to thaw?

Evidently from the recent updates I’m quite focused on my personal site. It’s been a welcomed piece of fun for me. I’m reteaching myself JavaScript, which is nightmarish, but hey, this blog is running so that’s a plus. I’ve been messing around with art, specifically the pixel kind, a lot of stuff isn’t ready to be put on my site yet, but I’m getting there.

In terms of other affairs, I’ve been applying for additional work and housing situations as returning in the fall draws closer. I’ve been filling in morning shifts, from 7am to 12pm several times a week just about, it’s a radio station job that I’ve done for a long time. I find being up that early with a task to focus on extremely fulfilling. It’s harder to keep that energy up working at home. But the call of radio work is always there man. It’s pretty funny.

There’s this artist I quite like, Annabelle Gao, who did a series some time ago called Slow Living. I think there’s an obvious difference between the lives she and I live, but I do find a lot of her motivational sentiment and vulnerability quite refreshing. There’s a lot of good to take from the work she does! Both artistically and as what I kind of what, working as an adult in fields I’m passionate about. (An aside, I’d love to find other women, in particular fat women or queer women who document their lives from an artistic standpoint, I haven’t had much luck there. You ache to see people like you yknow?)

I think Slow Living stuck in particular in my head because of the length of time it’s taken me to repair a lot of the routines and fix the damage those disruptions caused for me. When I reflect on January, I am proud of the cycles I took through recovery, and I’m excited for more to come.

There’s so much in the world that I cannot control, and it terrifies me greatly, but I can fight for what I can control.

Blaseball: Play and Siesta

Running parallel to the cycles of life and work and personal affairs is of course the cycle of everyone’s favorite fictional death sport, Blaseball.

The team behind it announced this week that they will be going on a longer siesta as both the fanbase and the development team recognized the major problems with the sim, the UI and accessibility could not be resolved as the game went on.

I am so, so incredibly relieved for them.

I’m going to be frank, I think it is so vital to give grace and nuance to creators, artists, designers, anyone who is working to provide something to others. I sent in accessibility complaints, the Wild Wings’ season one was wrought with bugs, errors, and glitches (I say this not in a “we were being targeted way” more of a “they changed our acronym and it broke the entire team page view on the site way.”)It was a mess on all sides, whether or not they believed they were ready for the Return or not.

I still had a lot of fucking fun.

I think I find as someone who participated in, watches and engages with actual sports, the frustrations being levied at The Game Band are quite expected; its like staring into a funhouse mirror where parodies of both the sports industry and the games industry are seen all the way down here. I also think a large part of the community who, while existing in not too dissimilar positions as TGB in terms of being hungry and passionate people at all levels of their professions, understand the highs and lows that come with the development of what is arguably a product of pandemic mind power.

I’m not going to be the person to rattle on about the funding they’ve received, we’re all living in capitalist hell. I am going to be the person to say I hope the team at TGB is taking care of themselves. I hope fan volunteers are taking a break as well. I’m excited for what’s to come.

Fanwork Appreciation

among the reeds, among the rushes by Novelsinourhead

Stara has been capturing some absolutely beautiful storytelling within Blaseball for a long time, and xer continuous commentary on antisemitism within our community and fiction in general is frankly a weight that ze does not deserve to bare. I think this interp of Mike Townsend is really, really fantastic, and could talk at lengths at how stunning I find Stara’s writing on players across the league. Read this.

something wicked by marquis

Blink hitting it out of the park as always, what a fucking stunning exploration of such a sensitive subject. You and Gob both are so fucking good at just absolutely heartbreaking depictions of grief. This features Nagomi Mcdaniel, York Silk’s Mother Lehua Silk, and her son. Read this.

This section is for things I’ve enjoyed this week:

Untold Story of Disco by Polyphonic, I have a deeply fond memory of disco as a young child, babysat by post-hippie movement adults in an economic recession, my impression of of a lot of that subculture feels so distant now as an adult, understanding their passions as people and their passions for the genre kinda clicks a little more now, and I think that is quite sweet.

RadiAngel by ZeddyBear

RadiAngel by zeddy-bear, I read through this entire game for the lesbian groupchat, check the content warnings of course, but I thought this was a really stunning novel, I’m glad Kish got us to play this, it’s been in my “play this” folder for too long.

https://www.tumblr.com/jean-wei/707347681420427264/made-a-soup-zine-in-2021-asked-my-friends-to-send

This zine is A) absolutely stunning and B) such a blessing for a guy who has soup as a safe food.

Signing off

I’m not sure how often I’ll do these, we will have to see. maybe monthly, maybe bi-monthly, whenever I wanna talk about something extensive is probably a good guess.

I enjoy writing appreciations for other artists work so much, I know that will be frequent

Until next time I suppose, keep your eyes out for site updates and fic archiv websites, and thanks for reading :]

2023-01-31-Digital Garden

Being autistic, making myself write a “projects update” aka what I’ve been thinking about lately.

Was following a thread on the Yesterweb Forum, about journaling, and I stumbled upon an interesting term I hadn’t heard before called a Digital Garden, with is a specific journal you keep for writing about your interests.

I typically keep a journal for emotional and physical things, and as such sometimes my interests will cross over but not as much, and I wanted a generalized place to store notes on different subject matter across time because I’ve always been dissatisfied with my ability to keep paper writing. I’ve kept paper journals, it isn’t right for me, I suppose.

For my personal journal, I’m using RedNotebook a functional diary application that allows for custom templates and automatic calendar dating, as well as a fun word cloud, so I can see how much I write in a certain topic (ironically, one interest has slipped through the cracks, but that’s for me to know and for you to assume when I’m not around or whatever.)

For my notes’ system, I was using TiddlyWiki, but it wasn’t a snappy enough system for me and I had frequent backup issues. I think I might rely on Tiddly Wiki in the future as an indexing form once the acclimation of these notes expands a bit more, I’m also (terrifyingly) eventually planning on noting the two surviving journals I have from high school. Not now. Probably not for a long while. But eventually. I’ve put them in storage.

Right now, I’m using Notes-Up as my system for long term notes, for example things like clothing sizes in specific types of jeans or whatever. I have an academic section I am slowly building as well as a professional section, and then my digital garden. Presently. I’m mainly writing a lot about robots.

I’ve updated my Neocities. I’m still kind of updating it. Past unreliable attempts on updates made me desperate to have one solution to every part of me and what I create. I realized it’s okay to utilize separate spaces as long as it works for me, and I’m transparent about it. My site is just an easy way to point people, and it’s a consistent learning project on HTML and CSS, and it’s something my brain can turn to when I get worked up. Eventually I’ll use a GitHub pages to host my proper professional portfolio, it’s just taken a lot of energy to assemble that after the burnout.

Lately, my girlfriend and I have been watching competitive scrabble competitions. We’ve been playing a lot frequently, too, but we haven’t played since we’ve started watching the competitive scene. We’re going to drag our friends into sick, sick games of scrabble, and frankly I cannot wait.

WIP Amnesty

Author’s Note: Hey! This piece of fic was written for the Blaseball Zine Jam 2022, and was for the collab zine Foreward [To Finish Later]. Please consider checking out the zine and the whole collection!
This piece was inspired by a personal experience! I have always lived close to trains, and the Amtrak Southwest Chief route from Los Angeles to Chicago has always deeply fascinated me. I think the use of slower travel across the U.S. as symbolism for both Baby severing ties from xer life in San Francisco, and as a metaphor pulling them towards the call and the life that being a firefighter demands is so interesting to me.
This piece was originally gonna be a solo zine, however my friends talked some sense into me! I hope to return to this eventually.

‘Train Tickets?’

That’s one voice xe will miss.

Sigmund’s voice in hir ear is soft, all things considered. They knew xe was going to do this for some time. The ache in hir bones, the burn of the sun, staring at the band of lovers that have come to center around hir siblings, the overwhelming rise of the LARP, the fight xe had with–

Knight.

It boils down to Knight.

Their fighting has only gotten worse with the talk of the game they fell in love with on a bout of some quest. Neither of them dared to comment on their relation to time, and how they were brought here; but where Baby wanted to settle, Knight created ripples and waves in their wake, between falling within the mess Theo began, or upsetting time to kill a god, or the cult of personality they formed around their love and their honor.

It felt suffocating.

The more xe stayed, the more hir beliefs took to Knight’s like oil to water. Xe couldn’t be like them. Xe couldn’t be in their shadow anymore.

Xe couldn’t keep living with clipped wings.

It’s why she’s here. It’s why xe is trying to get through Sigmund’s halls as quiet as xe can.

From Parker, xe heard that the Amtrak was just a few hours away in L.A., and if xe really wanted, xe could ride it to the end of the line.

‘You know I hate driving.’

Xe can feel Sigmund’s sigh of resign. In all reality, she knew that Sigmund would support xim. They talked about hir room, about how it would stay, if xe needed it.

She was hoping ey wouldn’t need it.

The train ticket purchase wasn’t difficult.

The line read LAX to CHI.

Chicago Union Station.

Something tugs at hir chest.

Of course, Sigmund told them.

Their conversation wasn’t long.

They straightened xer coat before she left.

Even in California, the early morning November air stings against the tear stains.

At least if they know, it will maybe make the split easier.

Somewhere, the threads that hold them together are stretched thin.

They do not break.

She’s glad ey called in this favor.

Don’s sitting in his black low rider, the tail pipe sputtering gray among the darkness. Don was usually up this hour, up to something, and had a double excuse as his ‘legal advisor’ was at a conference in L.A.

By the time hir bags are in the trunk, Don is tapping out the last of his cigarette. He tosses the spent butt in the dashboard ashtray, and he turns to xim.

“You ready to go?”

Xe nods, “Let’s go.

It’s around 2:55 when xem and Don finally stop talking, and the car is quiet.

The drive to LA isn’t a bad one, the late night air flowing through the open windows against their skin calms the flush on xer face.

She knows he won’t miss the empty sky, or the constant artificial lights. Xe’s never seen…most of the country before, frankly. Xe has read the stops and the breaks. Hopefully wherever she stops will be fresher than this.

Only after xe swallows the anxiety in their throat, does Ruthless realize how thirsty they are.

“Hey, Don?” their voice cracks, but Don hums in acknowledgement.

“Do you mind if we stop somewhere quick, I need to get something to drink.”

Don nods, “Sure thing kid, I could use something myself.”

The nearest exit is about a mile drive, and sooner than Ruthless can really process it, Don is parking in front of a 7/11.

Wandering the isles gives hir a headache. Between the florescent and the bright packaging of everything in sight, he goes for the largest bottle of water and the least disgusting energy drink she can find.

Don is still meandering around, which gives her more time to look.

A lot of the conveniences are things xe already packed, or snacks that would make hir sick, but one section does catch hir eye.

Usually, she would ignore the section of what Helga explained was ‘school supplies and stationary,’ but a particular object stood out.

It was plain and brown, no bigger than the palm of xer hand. Embossed in leather, the book read ‘Travel Diary.’

Xe remembers, a long time before San Francisco, Knight would write about their travels, sit their with parchment bound by leather, reading off stories and quests when xe was young. Xe would sometimes sit, when Knight was gone, reading off old books and notes that they took, tracing the letters with their fingers, wondering what traveling like his sibling would be like.

A voice breaks them from the thought.

“You ready to go bud?” Don’s head peeks from the opposite isle, and Ruthless nods.

“Yeah one sec.”

Without a second thought, Ruthless grabs the diary, along with a pack of pens, before joining Don at the register.

Savor What’s Yours

Author’s Note: Hey! This piece of fic was written for the Blaseball Zine Jam 2022, and was for the collab zine To The Hall and Back: A Zine About Marriage, Divorce and Everything In Between. Please consider checking out the zine and the whole collection!

They stare down the television. The tiny CRT sits on top of boxes and milk crates in the equipment shed. Usually, things wouldn’t be…this tense. The fear of the idol board isn’t unknown amongst the players in Hawai’i, but they’ve felt nothing like Don’s instant rise to stardom.

The boss’ announcement comes, MVPs are awarded, and the man in question groans in ache.

Ego sits well on his skin when the modification takes. It’s Yosh’s eyes who meets Don’s now amber tinged first. This wasn’t new to the Fridays, but back in San Francisco, ego was the far from their concerns. Don was talented, Don was good. A part of him wished that Don Mitchell would put his energy into anything other than a love for the things and people he cared about.

This, Yosh knew, was out of the question.

He gets it.

Yosh gets it.

He’d be hypocritical. All things considered, the ache in his bones from several seasons back makes that no clearer. They both did what they did for love, it’s how they both got here in the first place.

The discussion from the team and the word from management is “wait it out, see where the vibes take us, we can try to prevent you from getting vaulted if we can.”

Being an optimist has never been Yosh’s forte.

Yosh comes to him with the idea.

“I’ll learn to bat, it will be fine, if you’re not on base, that will get the statisticians off of your back.”

Out of his entire blaseball career, Don has pitched a ball a total of maybe twenty times. Most of which, were homoerotic flirting attempts with his husband, or inebriated bets that varied wildly in result. He’s used to the run, he’s used to the fast-paced nature of the lineup.

He knows the sting of Ego. He knows his husband’s fear embedded in FaceTime calls and texts between timezones and air travel.

He says yes.

Yosh is a smart, smart man. It’s something Don has always admired, but even then, calling up his husband for the weekend so both of them could teach him to pitch as a bit…much.

He tugs at his collar, the height of the mound has him looking bouncing between the Sandford’s eyes as his catcher and Yosh’s eyes as the batter. Percival is serving as their ump, Roland is in the outfield, this is for him. He knows this whether feedback demanded it or not they are here for him.

Don can’t tell if that makes the shining weight in his stomach and lungs feel lighter or heavier,

He pitches the ball.

“Strike Three!”

Percy is grinning under her mask. He watches Sandy squeeze the ball in his mitt. Yosh’s grip on the bat loosens, and he signs.

“You’re a natural.”

Don steps off the mound, and runs his free hand through his hair, cringing at the stick the pine tar has against it.

“Well I had good people to learn from.”

Sandy takes off his mask, rolling his eyes, “You sap.”

Percy hollers for Roland to come in from the outfield, and goes off to the dugout to clean up, “You three got it here?”

Yosh nods, “Yeah, yeah, we got it.”

Laying in bed now, Don feels an ache in his shoulder, and he groans, “How the hell do you two do it.”

Sandy laughs, “Honest answer? It’s all in the elbows.”

Yosh chuckles into the pillow, and Don lightly hits him on the chest.

“Okay haha you shitheads.” Don is grinning too, despite everything, and he lets out a sigh.

“Are you two gonna be okay?” Don doesn’t finish his question right away, and the air hangs still.

“Like, if I really still get vaulted, are you two going to be alright?”

It’s more than the ego that makes his chest feel tight.

“Don-” Yosh starts. “This isn’t the first time the thought of losing someone has been at the forefront of my mind.”

Right. Fuck. Right.

“And because of that, I know that, whether you are vaulted, I will still have my love for you.”

Both him and Sandy are staring at Yosh now.

“I know I can’t speak for you Sandford, but, when Sebastian and I-” Yosh chokes on his words, and he takes a breath, “When we got married, we knew that with everything we had going on in our lives, that letting ourselves fall into grief would only hurt us. I miss him, I miss him every day.”

He pauses.

Yosh lets himself set his hand against Don’s bare chest, and Sandford joins him.

“He told me while we were living back in Trinidad, that if something were to happen, he wanted me to keep going, to keep trying, to keep loving, to not let myself break the cycle of filling the world with some tangible part of me, and of him.”

“Don, whatever we can do to keep you out of that vault we will do. But even if the worse comes to worst, we will keep going, for me, for you-” Yosh squeezes Sandford’s hand, “For us.”

Sandy rests his head on his shoulder, “You’ve always had a way with words, Carpenter.”

Yosh chuckles, “I try.”

They don’t talk about it anymore, at least for now. Sandford is quiet drawing his finger up and down Don’s chest hair, focusing on the slow pulse of the ceiling fan.

Don moves his arms, ignoring the strain in his shoulder. He wraps his arms around the pair, and pulls them close.

“Hey, we have the night to ourselves, why don’t we just enjoy it instead?”

“If by ‘enjoy it’ do you mean fall asleep in ten minutes?” Sandford smiles against his neck,

“Shut the hell up you old man.” Don kisses the top of his head, then turns to offer Yosh the same

Bleed

Theo has always hated blood.

The first time he busted his knuckles, getting in a fight with some snot nosed kid who called him a slur on the playground, he held his fist and sobbed. Roland would patch him up back then.

He’s bled a lot more since then. Bloody noses, cuts and scrapes, the graze of a sword getting a little too close to his side. Every time, it turns his stomach, it makes him sick.

He hates blood.

When the decree hits, when the metallic smell hits his nose, he vomits.

Theo has always appreciated his spot in the outfield. Right side, quiet and unbothered, he could dissociate among the sheets of red as the game goes on.

It is day 31.

The game is going, frankly, a grind. Tied for innings and innings, just waiting for someone to hit a homer and end the whole affair.

It’s the bottom of the 8th.

Knight has always stood center field, it’s a point of command and leadership, Theo relied on that often.

Combs, he thinks? That’s who’s up to bat.

The Ump calls a strike.

Theo glances away.

The gurgling starts.

The smell of blood is suddenly stronger, overwhelming, drowning. The droplets fall away from him and the rest of the team, the form around Combs at the plate and stream out away from him. The deep read clouds from around his lover, his captain, Knight. Blood flows around and into their suit, destined to go there by the gods and their assignment as a siphon.

The rain turns back to normal. Yosh is standing on the mound in horror.

Combs hits a double.

They win, in the end, but Theo barely recalls it.

They played into the 12th.

They were drenched.

Yosh is the one to storm off the mound first, going straight for Knight.

“What was that.”

Knight’s echoing voice explains it away “I couldn’t control it.”

Yosh stares at his own reflection in the shining, ruby tinged steel. “Okay.” They go to clean up, Theo pulls away to breathe.

He believes Knight.

Nine days.

It takes nine days.

They’re in the infinite LA and blood is drip drip dripping from his metal glakneesframes. His dreads are already tinted a deep maroon.

Fig crumbles at the plate. Out.

Val Games, that Val Games, gasps violently. Out

Then Fig screams. OUT

Percy is screaming too. The outs don’t feel good. The inning shifts are tense. Three times, three times he watched Knight fill with blood and stand firm in the wake of the pain of their opponents.

They win.

Theo helps Percy off the mound.

They do not speak to Knight.

It happens again.

And again.

And again.

And again.

The Shelled One is angry. The world is rumbling. The blood keeps pumping and draining and looking Knight in the helm is becoming harder and harder and harder.

It’s nearly the end of the season now.

Day 97.

Bloodrain.

Even his disgust is getting tired, his original horror feels dulled in the wake of everything.

Pedro goes down in a gurgling gasp, and Sandy walks him in an instant.

Knight stands firm.

Kennedy, poor fucking Kennedy, he gets drained and falls to his knees, with Luis and Parker having to help him to his feet.

Knight is shining under the blood.

Sutton glows when it hits her, she laughs with blood dripping from her lip as she slams a ball right past him.

Knight radiates.

They win. It’s a shutout.

It’s between himself and Sandford who get to Knight first. But Theo moves quicker than he has in ten fucking seasons and makes it first.

“What the fuck is wrong with you Triumphant!”

He bangs on Knight’s chest plate and blood splatters across his face and glasses.

Knight doesn’t even try to defend themselves.

Knight’s face is shifting, they certainly aren’t upset, in fact, they look proud.

“This is helping us, isn’t it? We won. We’re in the playoffs.”

Theo stares at them.

They keep staring.

Theo hits them again, right against the helm, suddenly he feels his knuckles sting in a familiar ache. Knight does not flinch. Theo is certain his blood is mixing with Knight’s and everyone else’s

There’s something unspoken here.

The fact that it’s not about winning, the fact that Knight didn’t care what they did to other people, the fact that Knight didn’t care about what they were doing to them, all of them.

Those issues went unsaid.

They lose in the semifinals against the same team Knight sucked the life out of.

Theo catches himself whispering to Percy in bed, asking if maybe they did that in spite of them, in spite of Knight.

The finals happen.

They are nearly torn apart.

Theo never gets a chance to ask.

Dinner Night

The smell of spices hits Adalberto’s nose when they get to the door.

The apartment lights, sans the kitchen, are turned down low. Some sort of music fills the air between the smell of garlic.

She said he was just going to pick up wine, cheese and bread, just like his husband asked, but got sidetracked by a few extra treats along the way. The corner market by their apartment was always too tempting, and Brock would definitely tease him for it later.

He watches Brock sway to the quiet music, he looks focused, relaxed, and the sight makes Bertie feel warm.

He sets the grocery bag on the counter, which gets Brock’s attention enough to smile at him, before going back to swaying.

Bertie lets himself slink behind him, pressing himself against Brock’s back, moving with his sway. Bertie’s long arms wrap around Brock’s waist, Brock leans his head back slightly, enough to press against Bertie’s chest.

This is how they stay, the lingering jazz, the warm smell of tomato & rosemary.

Then Bertie leans in, bending down, they kiss the man, letting their lips linger on the top of his head, then he hears Brock chuckle.

“Isn’t bending down like that gonna hurt your back?”

Bertie rests their chin on his head, “That ship sailed a long time ago dear.”

Brock sighs, “It’s only a little unfair that you’re so much taller than me”

Bertie grins, “It’s either this or we get you a step stool.”

With his unoccupied hand, Brock lightly hits him. He sets the spoon down, then turns to face Bertie.

“I can reach you just fine thank you.” Suddenly Brock raises up, balancing on his tiptoes, to place a kiss on the bottom of Bertie’s lips.

Bertie meets him, of course he does, he holds his husband close. He takes in his cold skin, running his hand against the rough texture of his face. He keeps an arm around him, just to make sure the steady balance doesn’t shift.

Then he feels Brock jump, he falls off his tiptoes.

“The sauce!”

Brock turns around to what is clearly a now steaming and bubbling concoction. Bertie chuckles and presses another kiss to his head.

“Keep your eyes on the prize love.”

Brock grumbles with no malice behind it, “Well someone decided to distract me!”

“Do you want cheese bread or not?” Bertie retorts.

Brock grins at him, “the oven is already preheating, I didn’t forget.”

Bertie smiles back, then goes to get the groceries they brought home.

The warm silence fills the room again, with the promise of dinner getting closer.

Without warning, Brock asks, “What snacks did you buy?”

“Dammit.”