Finished School, Don’t Know What To Do

22, He/They

[oysters-aint-for-me]

you are a regular guy. you can enter a space. you are a regular guy. you can enter a room. you are a regular guy. you can do that transaction. you are a regular guy. you know how to answer the phone. you are a regular guy. you know what sleep is. you are a regular guy. you know how to wake up. you are a regular guy. you know how to move through space. you are a regular guy. you know what it means to be you.

[kayforpay]

history fucked me up

oxford was built and operational as a college before the rise of the mayans and cleopatra lived in a time nearer to pizza hut’s invention than to the pyramids being built

[kayforpay]

I need a noncomprehensive history book that covers Known World History in time periods, like “in this century, all this shit was happening concurrently” and not just all spread out so I have to piece it together like some unpaid uneducated scholar

[archaeologysucks]

You mean like this?

The Timetables of History by Bernard Grun

I grew up with this book, which is frickin’ enormous, and it was endlessly fascinating to young me to pour over the side by side comparison of events taking place concurrently under different headings and in different parts of the world.

Or if you want something you can put on your wall, there’s this:

World History Timeline

[butts-bouncing-on-the-beltway]

I had this book! My grandpa gave it to me and it was really freakin useful!!

[mckitterick]

I loved this book! Same for The Timetables of Science: A Chronology of the Most Important People and Events in the History of Science.

Same for The Timetables of Technology: A Chronology of the Most Important People and Events in the History of Technology. Great references!

[lepetitpoete]

okay but here’s an even cooler (free!) visualization that goes a step further and tracks ideas, devices, infrastructures, and systems of power

Calculating Empires: A Genealogy of Technology and Power Since 1500

✨️with a special focus on colonialism, militarization, automation, and enclosure✨️

You can spend hours upon hours exploring this

[sweetoothgirl]

Peppermint Mocha Cake

[wifehaver103947]

the new york times is now charging money for my favorite chocolate cake recipe so i bought a subscription and screenshotted it and canceled my subscription and now it's here for you for free

i do a mixture of red wine and fresh squeezed navel orange juice for the liquid, plus the zest of one large orange. now you make the cake

[mikkeneko]

[Image ID: Screenshot of the New York Times' recipe for OP's favorite cake, no timestamp. Text reads:

INGREDIENTS Yield: 8 servings 3/4 cup/ 177 milliliters extra-virgin olive oil, plus more for greasing the pan 1/2 cup/ 118 milliliters Earl Grey tea, or use coffee, dry red wine, orange juice or water 1/2 cup/ 50 grams Dutch-processed cocoa powder 1/2 teaspoon ground cinnamon 1/4 teaspoon fine sea salt 1 cup/ 200 grams granulated sugar 3 large eggs, at room temperature 2 teaspoons vanilla extract 1 cup plus 2 tablespoons/ 135 grams all-purpose flour 1/2 teaspoon baking soda

PREPARATION Step 1: Heat the oven to 325 degrees. Grease a 9-inch round pan and line the bottom with parchment paper.

Step 2: In a medium saucepan over high heat, bring tea or other liquid to a simmer, then turn off heat. Whisk in cocoa, cinnamon and salt until smooth, then set aside to cool.

Step 3: In the bowl of an electric mixer fitted with the paddle attachment, combine sugar, olive oil, eggs and vanilla. Beat for about 3 minutes. Reduce speed and pour in cocoa mixture, scraping down the sides of the bowl. Gradually beat in flour and baking soda until just incorporated.

Step 4: Scrape batter into prepared pan and bake until the sides are set but it's still slightly damp in the center, 35 to 45 minutes. A cake tester should come up clean but with a few sticky chocolate crumbs clinging to it. Transfer cake pan to a wire rack and let cake cool completely in pan." End ID.]

[sacred-portal]

[mousenemy]

HE IS BARELY ALIVE (BARELY THREE BARBEQUE SAUCES TALL) AND YOUR PLAYING WITH HIM SLOPPY BOPPY STYLE

[chipjrwibignaturals]

any computer people wanna explain how the hell this works

it wont let me do shit bc i apparently have 81 gigs of apps clogging my c drive, but my largest app is 0.4gb?????? its not system applications either because system is its own segment of storage. wadda hell are you talking about

[chipjrwibignaturals]

guys i installed a program to show me exactly where the data is hidden and i think i found it and youre never gonna believe it

todd howard im fucking coming for you

[chipjrwibignaturals]

"thank you random microsoft customer support agent" we all say in unison

[hylandude]

Here's your friendly neighborhood trans girl programer to tell you WinDirStat is a free open source alternative and you don't have to sign in to the annoying microsoft app store!

[epidemicpandamonia]

[escuerzoresucitado]

[enterguavastuff]

...bro

[tiktoksthataregood-ish]

[victusinveritas]

[androdragynous]

Screenshotted tweet text:

demi adejuyigbe @electrolemon

in october 2021 i had such a transcendently good piece of pumpkin pie [with] a dense texture. i got obsessed with trying to recreate it every fall for the next three years. anyway, i finally nailed it. here's the recipe- pumpkin pie with orange zest and cardamom whipped cream

Recipe text:

PUMPKIN PUDDING PIE with ORANGE ZEST & CARDAMOM WHIPPED CREAM

(makes -3 pies)

2 ½ cups sugar

15oz can pumpkin puree

2 eggs

½ tsp baking soda

2 cups flour

2 tsp baking powder

½ tsp ground cinnamon

¼ tsp vanilla

pinch of salt

2½ cups milk

4 TBSP butter (melted)

1 orange

1 tsp powdered sugar

1 cup heavy cream

2 TBSP powdered sugar

1 tsp cardamom

pinch nutmeg

pumpkin pudding pie with orange zest:

preheat the oven to 325°F

prepare the pie crust (that's another recipe's job- either find a scratch recipe or buy a pre-made dough or graham cracker crust)

blend 2½ cups sugar, pumpkin puree, eggs, and baking soda in a large mixing bowl (if using a mixer, blend with a paddle attachment)

add the flour, baking powder, cinnamon, vanilla, and salt; blend until well mixed

add the milk and melted butter, whisk until well mixed (if using a mixer, blend with the whisk attachment)

pour your batter into the crust, filling right up to the edge (the mix will be more liquid than solid, but it will rise/solidify in the oven)

bake at 325°F for 55 minutes

remove from the oven and let it cool

top with sifted powdered sugar

zest an orange over the top of the pie (microplane if possible but regular zester is fine; have found that the most aesthetically pleasing version is to peel the orange and then finely dice the peel but that's a hassle!)

whipped cream:

put your metal mixing bowl and whisk in the freezer for at least 15 minutes

whisk powdered sugar, cardamom, and nutmeg together in bowl

add heavy cream; whisk until stiff peaks start forming

serve on a cooled pie :)

[nixcraft]

Literal definition of spyware:

Also From Microsoft’s own FAQ: "Note that Recall does not perform content moderation. It will not hide information such as passwords or financial account numbers. 🤡

[caroline-vibecheck]

KillKillKillKillKillKillKillKillKillKillKill

[alluringapex]

There's a way to remove it~

Go into the power shell

then paste in:

reg add HKCU\Software\Policies\Microsoft\Windows\WindowsCopilot /v "TurnOffWindowsCopilot" /t REG_DWORD /f /d 1

like this

Then restart. Also here is how to turn off the awful search suggestions:

How to Disable Windows Web Search and Speed Up Your PC

Stop the OS from pulling up web results when you just want files and apps.

[venonomnomicon]

incase anyone didnt know there's some great free software to handle disabling windows bloatware without needing to mess with the command line

With the freeware O&O ShutUp10++, unwanted Windows 10 and 11 features can be disabled and the transfer of sensitive personal data onto Micro

O&O AppBuster gives you the control back over your Windows again! Now you decide which apps you want on your computer.

these are a mandatory part of every windows install for me. been using them for years and it's such a lifesaver

[foxofninetales]

Because this has mostly been talked about with Windows 11, heads-up that this installed itself on every Windows 10 computer in our house with this week's update.

[eridanidreams]

Crossposted from BlueSky!

[gaystation4]

[glowingghosty]

i don't say this very often so you can trust me when i say for the love of god please unmute

[foxofninetales]

Audio description: Very loud trilling purrring.

[comicgeekscomicgeek]

Very important kitty noises

[radpalet]

Allow me to make use of tumblr’s new longpost shortening feature for a moment to say HEY… the comic we’ve been working on for the past year is live with *11 episodes* you can read RIGHT NOW.

Are you into Tech-Fantasy? Trans protagonists? Dragons? Comedy? …Romance? An oddball team of not-quite-knights chasing after a God’s last wish?

Check out HERE THERE BE DRAGONS on Webtoon!

[ Patreon ] | [ Twitter ] | [ Instagram ]

[radpalet]

I made this post back on april 2022. Season 1 was completed just yesterday! :’) 💖 You can now read the whole first saga, for free, at any moment.

Not to toot our own horn, but I think it’s pretty damn good.

[bastart13]

sorry if this is a dumb question, but whats your plans for your Love and Legends remake? is it something that can be released (legally speaking)?

It is released! You can download and play it here and my current plans are to continue recreating the second season :D

Love & Legends (Recreation) by Bast

Recreating Lovestruck Voltage's Love & Legends with new art

Legally speaking, I don't even allow the option of charging, so I'm not selling other people's work as my own, and I've included as many credits as are publically available (on that note, go check out the original writers! A lot of them have published their original writing)

The game is also defunct so it's not taking attention or money away from the original. Kind of like the Lovestruck Salvation Project, this is meant to be an archival fan project that also works as personal art/programming practice

[bajoop-sheeb]

PLEASE for the love of the universe read anti-colonial science fiction and fantasy written from marginalized perspectives. Y’all (you know who you are) are killing me. To see people praise books about empire written exclusively by white women and then turn around and say you don’t know who Octavia Butler is or that you haven’t read any NK Jemisin or that Babel was too heavy-handed just kills me! I’m not saying you HAVE to enjoy specific books but there is such an obvious pattern here

Some of y’all love marginalized stories but you don’t give a fuck about marginalized creators and characters, and it shows. Like damn

[spid3rgrrrl]

If anyone has any recommendations give them to me please!

[bajoop-sheeb]

Gladly! The pieces on this list aren’t limited to specifically anti-colonial science fiction and fantasy, but they do center related and relevant topics, themes, etc.

Anything by NK Jemisin. She is the best speculative fiction writer of her generation and probably the best speculative fiction writer alive. She is easily one of the best writers working right now, across all genres. That’s not hyperbole. She deserves all the hype.

Anything by Octavia Butler. She needs no introduction. Her short fiction is incredible; “Bloodchild” is one of the pieces that inspired me to write.

An Unkindness of Ghosts by Rivers Solomon. Excellent. Just read it.

The Radiant Emperor duology by Shelley P. Chan. It broke my heart and it'll break yours.

Babel by RF Kuang. You’ve probably already heard of this book because Harper Voyager marketed the shit out of it and was right to do so. It’s very, very good. Kuang writes a compulsively readable story, that’s for sure.

The Empress of Salt and Fortune by Nghi Vo.

So Long Been Dreaming: Post-Colonial Science Fiction and Fantasy (anthology) edited by Nalo Hopkinson.

Dark Matter: A Century of Speculative Fiction from the African Diaspora (anthology) edited by Nalo Hopkinson.

Severely underhyped books of assorted speculative genres:

The Blood Trials by NE Davenport. Given the current chokehold romantasy has on the public it’s insane to me that this book hasn’t sold a billion copies.

The Vanished Birds by Simon Jimenez. It’ll change you.

The Tiger’s Daughter by K. Arsenault Rivera.

The Lesson by Caldwell Turnbull.

Read widely. Read diversely. People of the Caucasian persuasion need to stop getting pissy when the story doesn’t immediately center them and they don’t automatically relate to everything the character says and does and is. Just let yourself get swept in the story—even if it touches on (gasp!) racism—and maybe, just maybe, it’ll reveal something to you.

Or maybe not! Marginalized sff authors do not have to and should not have to educate their readers. But if I see one more white person complain about how Black characters are fundamentally annoying because they complain too much I’m going to fling myself into the sun

Thanks for coming to my ted talk I didn’t want to do it but here I am

[teeth-and-spackle]

Don't forget Aliette de Bodard! Especially her Xuya and Dominion of the Fallen series.

Zen Cho is my other favorite - Sorcerer to the Crown and The True Queen, and also Black Water Sister.

[glorified-red]

Autopilot (Damian Wayne x Reader)

summary: After witnessing an event that hit just a little too close to home, you were left at the mercy of your own memories. All the usual tactics Damian knew weren't helping. It's a good thing he had a little helper.

word count: 4,070~

warnings: flashback during a panic attack, disassociation and driving through it, reference to past physical abuse (not specified from who or if it's domestic, it's very vague. But is heavily implied to be from a male), depictions of physical abuse in terms of verbs (punch, kick, hands on body, etc. Nothing more. Aka no bodily harm, just the feeling), and reference to passing out from a panic attack in the past.

Nothing quite like real world events to jerk me out of a writer's block, aye? This is based on a personal experience from just a few days ago so if there is a complaint with this story being too specific, I will ignore it. This fic means a lot to me so please be kind to it. Dont hesitate to let me know what you think of it! For those wondering, yes, I did finish writing that essay. Have not submitted it because I would love to read it and edit it at not 1 am, so that's a task for tomorrow while I dye my hair.

Autopilot — acting or functioning without conscious thought, as a result of routine or habit.

That was one way to describe what was happening. 

From the second you put your helmet back on to the moment your hand closed the front door, you couldn’t pinpoint a single frame in between. The entire world around you was a blur, even as you zipped through Gotham traffic on a busy afternoon. 

Distantly, you knew you should be aware of the wind hitting your skin, especially as it assaulted your jacket with its wispy breath. Each red light and your boots hit asphalt. You should’ve been able to register that feeling shoot up each of your legs, maybe feel the way your body shifted into an upright position.

 But instead, your eyes were blank behind the tinted lens of a bike helmet. 

You didn’t even try to fix it, not yet anyway. Not when there were cars blocking you in from every angle; not when one wrong move—one stuttered breath—could mean your bike jerking into a freefall. 

So you didn’t even try to fight for awareness. If you did, maybe your hands would be gripping the handlebars a little tighter, maybe even twisting the kevlar of your gloves into the grooves until you felt something. You would’ve rubbed your hands down your thighs, dragging the fabric along your skin just enough to force your body into consciousness. 

But you didn’t. 

You just let yourself run on autopilot. 

It was safer that way anyway. Safer than having the worst panic attack of your life while driving at least. You didn’t even want to think about how Damian was going to react when he found out you were driving this far down into your subconscious—on your motorcycle no less. 

He really was going to murder you one of these days. But then again, you had countless retorts ingrained into your repertoire, countless callbacks to days where it wasn’t you in the driver's seat doing this, but the hypocrite himself. 

So you didn’t worry enough about it. You gave it maybe two seconds of thought before you put your helmet on and rolled out of the parking lot. Should you call Damian? Wouldn’t it just be easier for him to pick you up and worry about the bike later? 

Your brain sighed, maybe your body did on instinct, if it did, you wouldn't have known. He was at home—which was barely fifteen minutes away, you could survive that long—waiting for you, it’d worry him too much to get a phone call two hours after you were supposed to be home. 

Somewhere between hues of gray, your legs guided you through the maze of a familiar home. There was a buzz in your ears, like the poor organs were trying desperately to comprehend the noise around you but fell short every time. They were filled with water then dried with cotton only for it to dissipate with water once more: a ferocious cycle that left you a stranger to the greeting happening right before you. 

You shouldered passed . . . something? It didn’t matter. If it did, surely your brain would let you know later . . . right? Then came the mechanical routine of finding a place to bring yourself back. But when every wall looked the same and your boots trudged against the carpet—Damian was so gonna gripe about shoes in the house later—it felt like a losing game. 

So you stuttered to a stop, somewhere. Arguably the worst place because the only tether you had to the outside world was the ground under your boots, which you couldn’t even feel because there was at least an inch of rubber tread between your reality and everyone else's. 

The same buzz hit your ears. Maybe if you tried hard enough, you could blame the disconnect on the inner padding of the helmet stuffed against your head. It’s worked before, it’s not like it’s easy to hear with this thing on, let alone when your brain didn’t even want you to. 

You could start to feel the autopilot wearing thin, the remnants of it dissolving with each passing second you remained idle. You tried to tap each of your fingers against your thumb one at a time to cling to what little autopilot was left. All you got from your body was a single twitch in your thumb. 

A tap, a click, and a slide. All sounds you saw rather than felt or heard yourself. The tinted panel in front of your eyes lifted slowly until your grays turned into greens. You could get lost in that green for eternity and your soul would find contentment. You could find that green from memory, even when your eyes were filled with grays or your body turned blind to it. That green was one you would never lose. 

It came naturally, locking your eyes into his. You could almost laugh at the fact that the last wisp of autopilot was used connecting yourself to him, as if your body had formed a habit you didn’t even know about until now. 

You knew those eyes better than he did himself, even if he’d spent years staring at them before you. It was an easy victory when you traced them in your memories. So you knew each crease of worry that outlined the narrowness they had at the moment, the subtle squint as he tried to reach you. 

Unfortunately for the both of you, he succeeded. 

Your next breath came right before your lungs were punched by reality. The sheer weight of it was enough for you to struggle for air. It was like you were trapped as Atlas once was. But instead of holding the weight on your shoulders, you were crushed underneath all the rubble, having failed to keep everything upright. 

You choked out a sob, hating the way your own breath ricocheted off the helmet back into your skin. You were suffocating. Your hands shot to the offending metal and clawed at each of the safety latches built in. Shaky fingers didn’t have enough dexterity to succeed which only made you gasp harder. 

In an instant, there were skilled hands overtaking your own, practiced enough to succeed where you had failed. 

“—eathe, I’ve got y—”

Newfound peripherals blindsighted you, they were both a blessing and a curse. While the new vision made it easier to protect yourself, the responsibility of having to do so was far too heavy a burden. You wanted to keep living in your tunnel vision and pretending it was safe there. 

You were still suffocating. Air was scarce to come by and when it did travel through you, it scorched your lungs until you considered if air was truly worth the fight if it hurt so much. The same shaky hands grasped for the collar of your jacket, suddenly far too tight against your neck. It was as if the fabric itself was choking you and not Reality. Thready hands were better to imagine than calloused ones. 

You didn’t notice your feet tripping backwards until your back collided with a wall, you didn’t even care, you just wanted this stupid jacket off. Agile hands swifty unlatched everything, unclasping safety mechanics and helped shrug the leather bind off of your skin. 

“—ok, it’s off. Brea—”

The wall was solid; the wall was good; the wall was safe. You let yourself slide all the way down until you hit the floor, your green easily followed. You coughed on an exhale, your inhale having hurt far too badly to finish. 

Your hands settled together behind your neck, fighting to grab at something, might as well protect your pulse points. 

“—off?”

Your gaze struggled to lift up to him without staggering. When it settled back into his calming hue, you choked out a response: “What?” 

Realistically, you exhaled far too much on the word when you received another kick to the chest but you figured he would get the gist. He’s smart. 

“Do you want your boots off?” His hands floated in the space between you both, where your bent legs ended and his crouch began. 

With a tilted comprehension, it took a few breaths—albeit pretty quick ones—for the words to sink in. When they did, you jerked out a nod. Without hesitation, he made quick work of velcro, buckles, and zippers, forcing you to trudge through heightened awareness alone. 

Awareness was always worse than letting your mind shift into sand to pass through fingers with ease, free from the pain those fingers always left. Especially when Reality was combing through sand with a sharp comb, breaking each particle down to the atom. Water couldn’t wash away atoms the same way it could sand. 

Your lungs convulsed again just as your socked feet felt the bite of cold tile, boots long since forgotten. 

“Breathe,” he said simply, telegraphing his movements slowly. “Can I take off your gloves?” 

You liked the safety of where your hands were, but feeling a leather mesh on your neck wasn’t exactly the most comforting feeling.

You jerked your hands out slowly, seeing for yourself just how much you were shaking compared to his steady hands. His movements were slow and deliberate, testing the waters to see how you reacted to his touch on your skin. The second both hands felt air instead of fabric, they retreated back to safety.

“You need to breathe.” 

You shook your head, feeling the muscles under your hands twist along with the motion. “I—” you choked, “I can’t” 

“Yes you can.” Damian shifted from his crouch to sit before you. “You’ve been through this before and you always come out of it, don’t you?” 

You squeezed your eyes shut, hoping it would help somewhat. Another kick to the chest and you were back to scrambling. 

“ ‘t hurts,” you whined. 

“I know it does, but you have to breathe. Breathe with me.” You opened your eyes to look at him through the blur of watery tears. 

That was a mistake. 

Reality was finicky at best. It shifted like the waves in its fluidity, morphing into new forms and combining within itself. Your fingers twitched against your neck. 

Focus on the green. 

But then his hands slowly laid atop your knees, a familiar trick he did every time. Innocent touch, a tethered connection between you two to bring you back to him. The further the attack would go, the more weight he’d put into his palms until your legs unbent without your knowledge. It was an easy way to open your chest cavity to make breathing a little bit easier while making it seem like nothing is changing, especially when your brain is occupied with other things. 

But this time, his hands felt bigger, they felt more calloused, and held more weight in them. You jerked in an inhale. “Sto—stop touching me.” 

Immediately his hands lifted off of you. “Okay, I won’t touch you.” His palms raised in the air so you could see them, an emphasis to his word. “But we’re going to breathe together.” 

Damian waited a single moment for you to register his words, for your eyes to shift from his hands to his eyes, then finally, to his chest. 

“Breathe in.” He exaggerated his chest visually for you to replace touch. Usually there would be some comfort in the way your hand was guided to his sternum, fingers spread out to feel the fabric of his shirt and the way his chest rose with each inhalation, only to fall when he exhaled. Yet this time, his chest would’ve felt different and that thought alone was enough for your breath to stutter. 

“And out.” You envied the way he released his breath so slowly and with so much control where yours was rushed and clunky. 

He praised you all the same. “Good. Again. In,” he breathed in, you followed shortly after, “and out.” 

You fell out of the inhale before he did, your lungs quivering under an invisible hand. Your head hit the wall with a whine. “I can’t.” 

“You can,” he stressed. “I know you can. Try again.” 

You wheezed where he inhaled, you coughed where he exhaled. Your hands sunk from your neck to your chest, gripping on tight to the kevlar.

“That’s it,” he said, just before another set of breaths. You hated this part the most. You could live with the shakiness afterwards, the pain and the burn of your lungs once they finally settled down. You could ignore the feeling of being on edge for hours after, the feeling of fragility, like someone could blow and you’d wither away with the feeble wind. 

But the feeling of true hopelessness that came from this part was always the worst. You couldn’t fathom succeeding at this simple human task, a task that comes mechanically—completely on autopilot. Yet for some reason, it was a monumental task for you. 

Before Damian—and a little bit during—you let yourself get consumed by the darkness. You let the hands squeeze your lungs until your brain fizzled out, the consequences to be dealt with once you woke up. It was far easier than fighting for consciousness, especially when said consciousness was so painful. 

He didn’t like that very much. 

So here you were, clamoring your way through a breathing exercise as if it wasn’t the most painful thing in the world. As if your lungs weren’t burning with rage and your muscles weren’t aching with tension. 

As if you couldn’t feel hands all over your body with each step back into awareness.

As if you couldn’t hear and see things just passed Damian’s silhouette. 

“This isn’t working,” you bite out. Your head had sunk down to face the floor at some point. The carpet was a darker shade of beige than it was a moment ago. Maybe it was your shadow affecting it, but considering everything, you didn’t think so. “I need—” you choked. 

You saw the way Damian’s hands twitched against his pants, fighting to do something to help you. “Tell me what you need.” He tried searching your eyes like before, that tether was one that could bring up to him from just about anywhere. But you were studying the carpet as if it had wronged you on a visceral level. 

You closed your eyes, trying to think past the echoes of an old voice and the remnants of old touch. You were stuck in limbo, caught between two realities that somehow merged in a single moment. Another kick to the chest and your body caved inwards—the same way it had before. 

You could feel your grip on Damian’s reality fading. It was the one you’d prefer any day and it was the one you should be in. Not this one. Yet here you were, taking the hits of hands long in the past. 

But . . .

Damian. 

“When did we meet?” you demanded more so than asked, the words coming in and out with your breaths. 

Despite his shock—and extreme confusion—he didn’t hesitate to answer with a number of years that have passed you by. Questioning you, especially your needs, at this moment wasn’t going to help.

You shook your head, your legs twitching together and back apart, the muscles contracting at random. “What year?” you said, trying to keep your oxygen inside for just a second longer. 

He responded simply, your ears catching the sound with ease. The outside chatter cut down to a buzz. You breathed out a little slower. 

“How?” you breathed in, your inflection cut off just slightly. 

Damian didn’t waver. “We met in high school. I transferred in late and you were assigned as my peer guide to the Academy. You gave me a tour around campus to help figure out my schedule,” he paused, gauging your reaction before adding on just a bit more. “We ended up having a few classes together that year.” 

“How old—” you breathed in, “How old were we?” 

Damian blinked, his eyes shifting to the side as he recalled, probably doing some kind of mental math in his brain. “I started school when I was fourteen. You were probably fourteen or fifteen at the time.” 

You blinked your eyes open, your lungs expanding happily at the information. Realities were disconnecting slowly, each question cutting a strand of fate that had sewed them together. Since neither could coexist, this new information was proof that the voices were just that, the past. Damian didn’t exist in the same era of these voices—these hands—him being here was a testament in it of itself. 

The carpet was tinted just so, but it was enough to make it lighter. 

“What about now?” you asked. 

“What about now?” Damian echoed you, his confusion still prevalent in his voice. “What do you mean?”

You swallowed down the fire. “What year is it?” 

For someone so intelligent, he really was not catching on to what was happening. Knowing him, he was probably scanning your head for a concussion right about now. But he didn’t show it outwardly. As much as he was confused and incredibly concerned, this was helping. So even if he didn’t sign up for trivia night, he’d play along—and he was sure as hell gonna win. 

He responded factually. The math not only aligned, but since it was late into the year, it wasn’t exactly hard to remember. The buzz got even softer than before. You were able to breath out shakily, the intake was sharp in return but the progress was showing. 

“And the date?” 

Your eyes had closed softly, a sense of calm starting to breach through the anxiety. 

Damian’s response immediately shrouded that progress. Suddenly the voice was right next to your ear and a foot was on your chest, constructing any airflow from ever hoping to come to your lips. The same date. A stupid number that just so happened to align, an anniversary, was enough to derail everything. 

Damian’s voice turned to nothing but a buzz, a low rumble with a worried inflection. 

He had asked a question. That much you knew. But your eyes had opened to a shade of dark beige and dreary grays, completely at the mercy of a dissociative state. 

Even your hands lay limp from where they were resting between your knees, your wrists balanced atop the bony joints. You let it happen. You let your breath get squished underneath calloused hands along the back of your neck and a knee to the spine. You let your fingers go numb and your skin go cold as the room around you soured. 

Suddenly it was a different time and a different place entirely. 

Just dark beige and dreary grays. 

The thuds of footsteps were easily drowned out until it was a simple buzz, just a low static rumbling beneath your skin. 

But then your hands lifted at the feeling of fur underneath them. It was soft to the touch, the small fibers splitting away underneath your fingers. The fur shifted, it nosed in-between your pointer and middle finger before sliding down your palm, leaving a slight trail of warmth along your skin. 

Your fingers twitched, the ice around them thawing slowly with each press of warmth until you could interact with it yourself. The fur morphed from a body to a small head that could fit just along your palm. Whiskers pressed into your hand as it was used as a scratching post. A head bump and your palm raised with it, only to slide down the back automatically as if your hand had done it a thousand times before. 

Just along the back and up to the tip of the tail, just for the head to return for more scratches. You felt the tail wrap loosely around your ankle, shifting and swishing, but always remaining against you. 

You scratched at the chin, your chest feeling lighter when the gentle creature tilted their head back to accept more. Reality itself couldn’t deny the creature’s existence, even if they truly wanted your reality to morph into the past. 

Yet here it was, defying Reality, with nothing to say aside from a purr. Your hands touched black and your fingers graced white until you could make out the cat yourself, perched contently between your legs. 

“Alfie,” you sighed out, half out of astonishment and half out of relief. 

“I always seem to find you two together after a hard time,” came Damian’s voice, cutting straight through the static with his deep timbre. “He can help you where I can’t.” 

There was still a shake in your breath, your chest still rising and falling with great difficulty, more than Damian liked. He looked up at you briefly before looking back down at the precious cat, one that only seemed to like a few people on this earth. Even if he liked Damian, it was a hell of a taming. But with you, you two clicked instantly. 

Damian would never forget the day he found you holding Alfred, hugging him close and the content kitten doing nothing but hugging back with its smaller limbs. Alfred’s little head perched on your shoulder, eyes closed in pure bliss. You were swaying slowly, humming in harmony with the soft purrs omitting from the shorthair. 

You were waiting on him, that much he remembered. It was years after you two had met, just shortly after high school graduation and just before Damian started college. That was the blissful moment of limbo where it was just you two hanging out for the summer and getting his apartment together. 

That was the day Damian Wayne fell in love with you. 

So here you were, years later, yet all the same. 

“Alfred gave him to me my senior year,” Damian started. He knew you already knew Alfred’s origin, you were there. But for some reason, exact details of dates were helping you, so he was happy to recall a core memory. “He called it a graduation gift even though the meeting was pure happenstance. He didn’t want to admit the cat reminded him of me, but I knew.” 

You glanced up at Damian and he glanced back. 

He stated the year easily, the fricative consonants adding to his timbre. “That was the year I fell in love with you. I was nineteen. It started with prom night, I should have known what that feeling was by then. But it wasn’t until late summer that I finally realized I could see no other future than one that was beside you.” 

He pointed down at the fuzz ball that was now laying across your crossed legs. “It’s all because of him.” 

Your hands pressed into the fur and massaged the skin underneath gently until the final strand of fate was snapped. You looked into the green, seeing each shade of bright emerald and late spring, eucalyptus and summer leaves. 

You found your voice and it was among his, miles ahead of the distant voices of the past. You said the same year, finding that your consonants blended with his after being around him for so long. Your voices intertwined in some ways and diverged in others. 

“That was the year I fell in love with you.” You responded. “We got bored and decided to paint your bedroom a different color.” You found yourself smiling at the memory, not even thinking twice about how your voice became steady against the mechanics of breath. “We were trying to figure out how to use the paint rollers and you learned the hard way that too much paint was in fact, not, more efficient. You had paint all in your hair after just one swipe.” 

You laughed and Damian found himself smiling at the sound. “I managed to get some on your cheeks,” he recalled.

You nodded. “You did,” a slight chuckle shaking your shoulders. “I got you back though.” 

“Please,” Damian rolled his eyes, “you were covered in far more paint than I was at the end of the night.” 

“Was not!”

Damian hummed in absolute confidence. “As I recall, Alfred gave you a far more disproving look than he gave me.” 

“Because he found me first!” 

Sometime in the near future, you would retell the events that led you to this moment. From witnessing an event that hit just a little too close to home to the police report that followed, you’d tell him everything. 

But for now, you were happy just enjoying the moment with him. 

Taglist ♡

@anothertimdrakestan

@cherry-dropp

@missredrobin

[kombucha-orchid]

i keep thinking about this fic (in a very good way), and was appalled with myself for not reblogging it. took me a whole week to find it again. very good 10/10