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luwritesomething · 1 year

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mickey altieri x reader where she starts getting suspicious of him but ignores it cause he’s her boyfriend (and she’s in denial) until one day she accidentally catches him still in costume without him knowing. Reader then starts avoiding him and is super upset and doesn’t know what to do until one day he shows up and asks her why she’s been avoiding him. She tells Mickey that she saw him in the Ghostface costume and knows that he is the killer and he tries to explain himself and tries to calm her down. She’s very upset about it and is scared that he might hurt her but he reassures her that he won’t. She loves him so she eventually decides to stay with him anyway and promises that she won’t leave him or tell anyone abt him being the killer… I hope this made sense lol I feel like I put a lot I’m just in desperate need of mickey fics 😭

Mickey Altieri x Reader: Please.

Warnings: swearing, manipulation (mickey manipulates the reader to stay by his side), lack of morals from reader's side, mentions of blood and murder.

Word count: 2160

Author's note: i'm living for these requests! with this little piece, i was able to answer two of them, that's why i added the other one. i love mickey, but i actually struggled with writing this one because my moral alarm was going off everytime i tried to think of a reason for reader to stay with mickey after finding out... that's why i went down the manipulation path! hope you like it, and remember, no matter how 'unoriginal' or 'boring' you think your reqs may be, i love getting them and will most probably write them <3

also in here mickey is a little dumb dumb because he goes into his dorm with the ghostface costume on, something that i don't think mickey would actually do... but anyways! no more spoilers :)

graphic by me! also, i'm leaving my mickey altieri playlist, if anyone wants to take a look at it, feel free!

comments and reblogs are always appreciated! requests are open, especially for scream! hit that anon button and tell me your ideas. in the scream fandom, i write for billy loomis, stu macher, mickey altieri, chad martin-meeks, mindy martin-meeks, tara carpenter, anika kayoko, laura crane

The pounding of your heart was the only thing you could feel as you shut your eyes close and try not to make a damn sound. You knew you hadn’t been meant to witness what you had since the moment your mind had been able to connect the dots together, just some minutes ago, and now you were just trying not to discover yourself.

The sounds of someone moving around Mickey’s room had woken you up from your heavy sleep, the coldness from your boyfriend not being by your side anymore easing you up to reality. You had barely opened your eyes, a quick flutter that registered the small lamp in Mickey’s desk shedding its light in the figure next to it. Your heart had stopped at the sight of the figure who, even though had its back turned to you, you could recognize everywhere after last week’s news.

Someone was on a murder spree on campus, dressed with the same costume the figure there was wearing, so it was natural for your first thought to be that you were the next victim. You even saw the knife in the figure’s hand, blade stained with blood that meant you weren’t about to be the only dead of the night. But, before you could even think about moving to try and save your life, the figure had taken the ghostly mask off and you had recognized Mickey, your dear and loved and lovely boyfriend Mickey, in less than a second. That was when you had stopped breathing, your eyes closing as you tried to wash the sight of the bloody knife off your mind, and your heart trying to escape from your chest.

You waited in silence, trying to control the thoughts that raced through your mind, and not making a single move that could expose you to Mickey. Luckily enough, he got out of the room with a towel on his shoulder, to go and use the communitary shower, and that allowed you to breathe deep before trying to control the panic trying to take over your body.

Was Mickey really the killer? When you opened your eyes again, the costume was nowhere to be seen but it was not like you had the imagination to make that up. And if you were true to yourself, Mickey had been shady as fuck. Oh, God, were you really suspecting your own boyfriend of being a killer? The evidence had been right there, in front of your eyes — that wasn’t suspecting anymore.

When some steps could be heard outside the door, you forced yourself to close your eyes, trying to focus on anything other than the sick feeling messing with your stomach. You kept yourself grounded, hidden between the pillow and the sheets, and your body stilled terribly when Micky got himself on bed, like nothing had happened. He smelled sweet, the scent of his shampoo surrounding you.

Quietly, you held your breath as his arms surrounded you, lovingly, and you waited for something — anything — to happen.

You waited for the whole night, but nothing other than Mickey swiftly falling asleep did.

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The days passed by, and your mind couldn’t help but bring back the image of Mickey on the costume with the bloody knife whenever you were around him. And that was terrible, because you spent an incredible amount of time with Mickey, which quickly brought you to avoid him.

At first it was rather small and subtle — made up group projects, very real homework, studying. Then, the need to be on your own, which triggered his suspicions of something else going on. You were inevitably jumpy around him during those times you ran out of excuses, laughing less than usual and sometimes even zoning out on him. The thought of you losing your feelings for him was nearly driving him insane.

Mickey couldn’t stop thinking about you during his film history course, and not in a good way. From college, his murder spree and now you acting up, he had received a ridiculous amount of stress — enough to make him space out in every single class of his. In the middle of the lesson he had already made up his mind about having to talk things out with you and figure out what he had said or done to upset you that much.

When the class ended he was the first one to get out, without even saying goodbye to Randy, and heading towards the classroom he knew you’d be in. You both had learned each other’s schedules after spending so much time together, and that hour was perfect, since his class ended a little bit before yours and both were the last classes of the day.

Oblivious to his presence outside the classroom, you calmly gathered your things once the class came to an end, agreeing a date and hour with the partner you had been assigned to for your next project. Attending your classes and focusing on your schoolwork kept your mind off things — things being Mickey — but as soon as you crossed the classroom doors and saw him there, it all came back.

Mickey smiled at you, even if you didn’t smile back, and walked towards you with that easy going manner of doing things he had. You waited for him with your fingers drumming against your side, which he caught on — weren’t you happy to see him? Even if he had verbalized that question, he wouldn’t have gotten an answer.

“Hey.”

“I didn’t know you were coming.” You said, forcing a smile that, surprisingly, hadn’t felt so forced. Maybe you had been slipping lately, but your objective was not to be killed, and you didn’t know how far he was planning on going. “I have to go to the library, do you want to hang after—?”

“I just wanna talk to you for a minute.” Mickey interrupted you, grabbing the hand you had use to lightly gesture around.

Your heart started pounding so loudly you were afraid he able to hear it. He wasn't, but you didn’t notice his fingers pressing on the pulse point on your grip, checking that, indeed, you were pretty nervous. “It can’t wait?”

“It’ll be just a min.” Mickey promised, insisting oh so charmingly. He squeezed your hand once. “Please?”

How were you supposed to say no to him when he asked so nicely, with his head cocked and his eyes shining? You nodded softly and sighed under your breath, letting him take you wherever he wanted as you tried not to think too much about it.

He led you outside and to the side of the building, a not so hidden place that equally allowed you to be seen by the students walking through campus but not be heard unless you raised your voices. You found yourself terribly afraid of noticing all these things, but Mickey letting your hand go and placing himself across from you got your attention too fast.

“What’s gotten into you?” He finally asked, head cocked.

It took you a second to catch it. “What?”

“You think I haven’t noticed?” Mickey pursed his lips slightly, then shook his head. He truly looked worried. “You can’t avoid me forever.”

“I’m not avoiding—”

“Oh, please.” Mickey waved his hand to make you stop, diminishing your ridiculous attempt to fool him. “Don’t lie to me like that. Just… tell me what I did wrong so I can undo it and—”

You started shaking your head, nervous. “It’s not— It’s not like that.”

The look in Mickey’s eyes was so helpless that you felt how your heart started to crumble. “Please?”

You looked away from him, feeling the fast way your heart was pumping blood. If you had been seated, you would have started to bounce your leg up and down — Mickey couldn’t be more confused at your nervous-wreck state.

“Are you the murderer?” You asked in a whisper, almost not daring to look up to see his reaction.

But his face didn’t tell you anything. Mickey was completely emotionless as he stared back into your eyes, his brain processing very slowly those four words that had just left your mouth. How could you know? He was sure he had been really careful, trying not to let his mood after a kill or planning affect any scenario between you. Mickey knew you were smart, but how?

That was not the right direction to go, though, he realized as you waited for him to give you an answer. You had been acting all weird around him because of being scared of him, and that feeling didn’t make him feel entirely good.

“Listen…” He started, coming a step closer to you, but you instantly backed away.

“Don’t.” You hissed rather abruptly, still not believing he hadn’t denied it completely and put an end to your delusion. You were right. “If you get closer I’ll scream.”

“Sweetheart!” Mickey exclaimed, surprised, his eyebrows shooting up as the pet name he reserved for your softest moments slipping past his lips in what was an improvised plan of manipulation. The seriousness in his voice and face was the only thing you could pay attention to, though. “I wouldn’t hurt you. You know that, right?”

You hesitated and he almost hissed right then. Falling for you hadn’t been on his plan, but now that same plan was being threatened just because you had found — and he couldn’t have that happen. Mickey wouldn’t kill you, no, but his partner easily could if you did something stupid, and he also did not want you to go to the police saying things about him and the murders. He needed to think of a solution, and fast.

“Then why would you hurt others?” You said hastily, then your head looking around you to really make sure no one was listening. “You’ve killed people, Mickey. I knew some of them—”

“You have to trust me.” He interrupted you instantly. There was only one way out, as he saw it: manipulation. Mickey needed you by his side. His acting skills were enough for you to stop looking so nervous, watching closely how his eyes fell to the floor in fake defeat — but you didn’t know he was acting. You didn’t even know he was a star. “I can’t tell you but you have to trust me. I would never do anything to hurt you.”

His hand reached out to grab yours, but you dodged it, rather defensive. “And why would I trust you?”

“Because I’m not a liar.” Mickey frowned slightly. If you didn’t let him convince you of staying by his side, he would have to… The way he called out your name was rather heartbreaking, this time managing to catch your hand and pressing it against his chest. “Please. I wouldn’t hurt you, and you know that.”

He was making you doubt, he realized, as your eyes fell to your hand on his chest. Mickey seemed desperate from your eyes — begging you to stay. But it wasn’t right… “It just… this changes so many things.”

Mickey shook his head. “No, it doesn’t. I still love you, and I always will.” His promise sounded genuine, and it was. There was no denying that, Mickey truly loved you. If he didn’t, you would already be another number on his back, after those little four words you said to him.

But there he was, playing tricks on your mind without you noticing. “I’d trade my life for yours.”

“Mickey…”

“I wouldn’t know what to do without you.” He insisted, more strongly now. His eyes continuously searched for yours, knowing you wouldn’t be able to deny him if you were looking right into his eyes. “Please, please, you have to trust me. Don’t you love me anymore?”

The question shocked you, and if you had been in your right mind, you would have realized the length of the manipulation. But in that moment it only made you gasp, surprised that he would actually question it with such a real expression.

You were quick. “Of course I do!”

“Then…” A sigh interrupted Mickey, who looked down, letting your hand go. He didn’t need that much dramatism, but now that he had actually gotten used to the part, why stop? “Please.”

There wasn’t much thinking from your side. Mickey had asked you to please trust him, and that was what you were going to do. He had also promised not to hurt you, and you knew him too well — or so you thought. There needed to be more behind all this, and you had to be by his side.

“I trust you.” You muttered after some seconds, and he looked up instantly. A soft smile blossomed in his lips as you nodded. “I won’t tell, I promise.”

Mickey leaned closer to you, with the swiftest movement, a hand cupping your cheek. “I love you.” He whispered softly.

“I love you too.” You replied against his lips.

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passable-talent · 3 years

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guess what I’m up to?

if you guessed “writing for another obscure hayden christensen character before that movie disappears from Tubi”, you’d be correct!

David Rice x GN!Reader, Jumper (2008)

ik this movie was based on a book but i have not read it. forgive me if, when i play around with the rules of jumping, it violates what the book says a jumper can do. I’m gonna operate with the best understanding i can. also i’m changing the ending woooo

At fourteen, you met a boy. His name was Elliot Rhodes- and he was a jumper.

At first it was freaky, sure. Finding out that teleportation is real? It would freak anybody out.

But it... it also explained a lot of things. It explained the way that you’d always wake up in your bed when you swore you passed out on the couch. It explained the way that you’d sometimes walk in the front door, not really remembering the bus ride home. It explained how you’d pop into a different room when you’d only taken half as many steps as you needed to.

Were you a jumper, too?

You met Elliot when you were fourteen, and life was good for five years. He was your best friend, he was more than that. He helped you learn how to jump, helped you hide it from your parents, from the school. The both of you knew that you should be hiding your ability, could feel that it was a secret you had to keep, but didn’t quite know why.

Then, five years into your relationship, when you’d finally figured out how to live, how to use your powers to make a living without being found out, when you were just about ready to leave your parent’s place and move into the cabin in Canada his parents left for him-

Death came for you, on his pale white horse. But it was his hair that was white, instead. And he didn’t come for you, exactly.

Roland Cox. He appeared at Elliot’s home, and killed him. Then, before you even had your hand on your phone to call the police, someone else jumped into the room.

You’d lashed out at him, throwing him away from Elliot, but he pushed you back, getting right to business.

He knew who Roland was. He knew why he’d come. He introduced himself, his name was Griffin- and he offered you a chance to help him get back at Roland.

Griffin didn’t really hold up to his word. He couldn’t trace Roland any better than you could’ve, but you were happy to have an ally, someone who had a mission, and a mission that would keep you out of your grief. You channeled your anger into hunting paladins, just like Griffin did. He wasn’t the easiest person to get along with, but he was a good guy... somewhere, deep down.

He was somewhat understanding of you. He recognized your grief, found it similar to his own. And, in the four years you’d been hanging out with him, you’d become a pretty skilled fighter. You’d learned the tricks- you were a paladin hunter.

It was a pretty solid new life. Given the superpowers and the dead boyfriend and the newfound target on your back from some ridiculous religious zealots, you could’ve done a lot worse.

And then, along came David.

David Rice. You’d seen him a thousand times, even if it wasn’t actually him. He was just another jumper who’d never had a run-in with the paladins, who’d never lost someone to the paladins, just another idiot who robbed a bank (unoriginal), and took his girlfriend on an ill-advised trip (bland). There was nothing exceptional about David Rice.

Well, he was cute. A little.

Okay, fine, he’s really cute. He’s a jackass, but he’s got a sweet smile. And he’s still a little puppy dog, following after a girl that he’s not into, but he’s convinced himself he’s still in love with.

Textbook. You’d seen it a thousand times. It was something that a lot of jumpers did, using their new power and money and suave to find the person they were in love with before things changed, and wooing them. It always worked, at first, but things fell apart, because those amateurs could never keep it together. Even if they did manage to keep their partners out of the claws of the paladins, the secrets or the lying did them in. Most of the time, these jumpers weren’t even in it for the people, anymore. Just like David- he didn’t love her, not anymore. He just loved the idea of getting what he’d always wanted.

When you saw him, at a bar in London, you had this quick little thought, ‘he’s not gonna last long.’

No, no, he was more impressive than that. He showed up at the Colosseum, and Griffin followed, assuming that the paladins weren’t far behind. And he was right, he always was, and you got to have plenty of fun moving around and fucking with paladins.

“Ya know,” you said with a laugh when one of them had their eyes on you, their cables tearing up another priceless stone wall, “you sure don’t have much respect for history.”

They managed to get a cable around you, and you felt that familiar tingle of lots and lots of electricity roll through you. But you were used to this, and you slipped out of your outer layer, then using the fabric to hold onto the cable and jump it through a wall, so it couldn’t be yanked out by any human force. Now, it was useless, and they had one less weapon.

You jumped in front of them, and slipped your jacket back over your shoulders.

“Loose fabric,” you said with a smirk, then landed a strong punch across his jaw.

You jumped back to Griffin’s lair with unconscious paladin in tow, and quickly handcuffed him to the usual spot. Griffin wasn’t far behind with the other, but then, David appeared too.

Griffin kicked him out, fast.

“Yeah, he’s dead in a week, tops,” you said with a shake of your head. Griffin rolled his eyes, and started his work with the same level of anger and annoyance that he always did.

A few hours passed in silence. Griffin had a new controller, so you let him ramble on about whatever game he was playing while you stretched out on the short couch you’d swiped from a closing furniture store a few months back. It was the closest to peace you ever seemed to get anymore, at least whenever you hung out with Griffin. But then David came back. He had nagging questions, they always did, when they managed to get ahold of Griffin. It usually didn’t change their fates.

No, what changed their fates was when someone they cared about died. It happened to Griffin. It happened to you. And when he discovered his dad dead, it happened to David, too. So he wanted to help hunt Roland.

Join the club.

David gathered up the most recent intel Griffin had on Roland- which just so happened to be what you’d given him, four years ago. You watched from across the room as he and Griffin got into a bit of a tiff.

Griffin pulled out the scars on his neck, to prove to David the high stakes he was messing with. That caught your attention- Griffin wasn’t one to be vulnerable.

“Look, forget it! Forget Roland. Don’t waste your time.” Griffin righted his shoulders, taking a step back. “Just leave it to me.” He went off to his business out of your line of sight, which just left David. You still hadn’t really said a word to the man, too focused on Griffin’s drama to pay the new guy much attention. But you stood, taking a step closer to him, so now you could at least see Griffin working at his safe. Like always when he pulled the key from around his neck, you looked away. David hadn’t yet learned that lesson.

Just like it had been when you first arrived, David awkwardly turned his back to the safe while Griffin entered it. You still didn’t quite know what was in there, but you knew it was important, and you knew it was dangerous. There were a few obvious conclusions you could leap to.

“I’m-” David started, letting out a little breath. He really wasn’t prepared for any of this, was he? How long had he been jumping without running into the paladins?

“I was thinking that if we do this together, we could get him.”

“Oh, no,” you said with a bit of a laugh, laying your head back against the stone wall. “He’s a solo act. He only keeps me around ‘cause I’m so charming.”

“No, you’re not,” Griffin threw over his shoulder, and you only laughed at him. “Look, I’m sorry, but I don’t play well with others.” When you heard the safe close, you lifted your head back to the two of them, and watched as Griffin paced toward the doorway. You followed only after David did, and noticed him heading toward one of his vehicles, an old trailer- why Griffin liked to mess with it before he jumped, you didn’t quite get. It wasn’t going to move, anyway.

“Do me a favor, yeah?” Griffin asked David, “Don’t be here when I get back. Find a rock, crawl under it, stay there.” He turned back to David, and you watched with a raised eyebrow from against the doorway.

“ ‘Joi woo’, brother,” He said, and you rolled your eyes. “That’s ‘goodbye’ in Chinese.”

For some reason, you didn’t think it was.

He stabbed a knife into the tarp and jumped, and though you hoped that was the end of it, David followed him through his jump scar.

Perfect. Just perfect.

You followed as well, hoping to at least keep David out of trouble. When he followed Griffin, you just kept pace beside him, sticking to him in a way you knew would annoy him. You were like a bystander, letting the two of them figure out their annoyances with each other, staying out of it. It took him what seemed like half of the length of Tokyo until he finally got around to the point.

“And I know where to find Roland.”

“Why didn’t ya lead with that?” You asked, smacking the back of your hand against David’s shoulder.

Griffin turned away, but the two of you followed. He swiped a car, you loved when he does that, because it’s always a really nice one, and you get to lean out of it and feel the wind. David took shotgun, and that’s fine, he’s the one with the special information or whatever. Didn’t matter, you could just enjoy the way that Griffin drives. He’s fun.

All the sudden, David jumped to an airport, and the both of you followed. After a quick conversation, it was time to jump back to the lair, get some weapons together. You pulled on your loosest hoodie, knowing you’d probably need it, if they were bringing cables to whatever fight you were about to have. Was there a plan? It’s not like you were listening, but it didn’t seem to you like David had exactly explained where he planned on finding Roman.

“Hey, what the hell?” You snarled when he jumped into the lair with his little girlfriend. “Oh, no, no, you can not bring her here. No way.”

“Look, I gotta keep her safe, alright? Where’s Griffin?”

“Out front. You have to get her out of here.” Your words fell on deaf ears as he charged out to get Griffin, and you watched with a bit of annoyance as the girl followed. What was her name? Millie? Poor lamb probably didn’t know anything of what was going on at all.

You heard whispering behind you, and turned around with a drop of your heart. Oh, this was bad, this was bad. They’d used- they had a wormhole, right into the lair.

“Griffin!” You shouted, and not a moment later he appeared beside you, the same look of dread on his face that you were feeling in your chest. David appeared, then, and Griffin turned on him instantly.

“What have you done?”

“Griffin-”

“Where does this thing go?”

“We gotta go.”

“David, what did you do?!”

The both of them jumped away, and it seemed like you were the only one who had any sense at all.

You jumped immediately to the mouth of the lair, where you found Millie, looking confused and terrified. Naturally. Good for her, honestly, for keeping it together as much as she was.

“ ‘ello, love,” you said, “Millie, right?” You took hold of her hands and jumped her away, far away, where she’d be much safer. On the other side, you waited for just a moment for her to get her wits together, so she’d register your words.

“Stay here, okay? I mean it. Don’t go outside. There’s water and food and power, you’ll be fine. Just- seriously. Stay here.” You jumped back, then, to the mouth of the lair, hoping that when you entered, you wouldn’t be interrupting something important.

Well, judging by the use of Griffin’s flamethrower, something important was happening.

There were two men, plus Roland. As much as you wanted to take on Roland yourself, Griffin seemed to have that covered, and there were others you needed to deal with. With just a grab to the shoulder, one of them took a nice fun drop into the Mariana Trench.

What? You’d read a book on it, once.

The other was charred to a crisp, it seemed, and so you went looking for the only other person unaccounted for.

“David?” You called into the lair, and you heard him groaning, along with the crackle of electricity.

“Where’s Millie?” He asked, and you rounded the corner to see him strung up to the ceiling.

“Somewhere safe, relax,” you said, shucking your hoodie off of your shoulders to wrap the fabric around your hands and grab onto the cables. Once you had them, you could jump away easily, pulling them off of him. You jumped back, slipping your hoodie back on, and gave him a cocky smile.

“Loose fabrics,” you said, then jumped away to try to find out what Griffin was up to.

A double-decker bus, that’s what. Then came Roland, and then came Griffin with the flame-thrower. When they both disappeared into the jump scar, David rounded on you, narrowing his eyes.

“Where’s Millie?” he snarled, and you took a step back.

“She’s fine, I told you! She’s safe!”

“Where is she?” David roared, and you shoved him away from you.

“She’s fine! Christ, boy, you don’t even love her, anyway!”

That caught him off guard.

“What?”

“Oh, god,” you groaned, turning your head before snapping your eyes to him, more ferocity in your gaze. “You know you don’t. You’re just holding onto the last thing you had when things were normal.”

“Where is she?” He said again, taking an intimidating step toward you.

“I get it, okay?” You said, though now you were yelling. “I get it. But you’re putting her in danger! David, just let her go. You’re never going to be able to protect her. Not from them.” David’s eyes widened for just a moment, and then he looked down. You could see it as he gave in.

“Let me take her home. At least let me do that.”

“Sorry,” you said softly, “The place I put her, I- I can’t let anyone else see it. You gotta understand.”

Before it could get any worse, Griffin threw himself through the jump scar.

“Nice,” he said as he righted himself, then immediately opened his safe. “The whole lot of them are in that apartment.”

“Oh, you’re finally gonna use the safe?” You asked, watching as he punched a few buttons.

“I’ll take ‘em all out while they’re still there.”

“That’s Millie’s apartment!” David said, and Griffin turned to him with a shrug.

“She’s not there,” he said, nonchalantly, as though it was obvious. What’s the harm in destroying the apartment if no one innocent dies in it?

Griffin readied the safe and jumped away, leaving you and David behind. You turned to him, raising your gaze to his. He still looked vaguely angry.

“She’s-” You turned your head to the side, before you could finish the sentence. You hadn’t told anyone about the cabin, not even Griffin. “She’s in Canada. Near a lake. She’s got water and power, nobody knows about it but me. She’s fine. But-” You gestured toward where the jumpscar to her apartment used to be, “Now she’s got nowhere to go back to.”

“I know where her mom lives,” David said, shaking his head. “I’ll take her there.” You nodded slowly, then brought your gaze to his. He had- he had really blue eyes. Strikingly blue. You knew he couldn’t get to the cabin without following your scar, so you made him wait for you, made him wait until this moment ended. He didn’t seem to mind.

“Hey, thanks,” he said after a moment, “You got her out of there.” He was speaking a bit gentler now, and this tone of voice you could certainly get used to. Was he being genuine with you? That was new.

“Well, she seemed important.”

“Yeah,” David said, a small smile finally growing on his face, and even though it was dark, you could swear you saw him begin to blush. Bashful little fucker. “We never even- Rome, I-”

“Save it,” you said with a smile, reaching out to take his hand, which was surprisingly warm. You jumped him to the cabin, and found Millie curled up on the couch, looking out the window at the lake.

“Sorry about all this, love,” you said, letting David have his moment.

“Just take me home,” she said with a bit of a whimper, and you shook your head, even as you walked to the cabinet to grab a packet of crackers.

“Sorry, love, that apartment’s gone. Kinda had to. Hope you understand.��

“What?” Millie asked in disbelief.

“Really, (Y/N)?” David asked over his shoulder, before taking Millie’s hands and jumping her out of your cabin.

You were meant to move here, with Elliot. This wasn’t even technically your place, even though you’d taken it up. Every now and again, you still missed him- but now that Griffin had taken care of Roland, it didn’t hurt so bad anymore.

Four years was a long time to heal, maybe. But you’d needed it. And now that you had, and Roland was gone, and the world was just a bit safer for you- maybe you could consider trying again.

Maybe with someone that had strikingly blue eyes. And surprisingly warm hands.

-🦌 Roe

#jumper 2008 #jumper #david rice #david rice x reader #x gn!reader #gender neutral reader #david rice jumper #david rice jumper x reader #hayden christensen #fics

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shiroganeryo · 3 years

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D.Gray-Man Tag!

I got tagged by my friend Violet to hop into this little game she made, and there are few things I love more than babbling about DGM, so let’s go! The rules are to tag three people to get the game going, so I’ll do it at the start because this will get looong. I’ll tag @14th-melody, @metzzi and @rudimentor0x0. Here’s the blank post. Sorry if you have already done it, I might’ve missed the posts ;;

⭐ What year did you first get into DGM? Hmm, actually, that’s a hard question because I didn’t get into it right away? If memory serves me right about what grade I was in high school when that happened, I was 15 - so, 2008. Pull a chair, I’ll tell you how that went. It was actually a recommendation from a friend of my best friend; we weren’t particularly close, I just knew he and I had a similar taste for anime/manga and I was looking for getting into a new series... but I wanted it to be worthwhile. So I asked my bestie if her friend wouldn’t give me a rec. He recommended me D.Gray-Man, and just like I do before watching any series, I watched the first opening to get an overall “feel” of it and I quite liked it: cool aesthetic, music was dope, characters were nice-looking. But, for some reason, I didn’t watch it and eventually forgot about it.

Then, one day on my way back home from school, I stopped by a nearby newspaper stand since here they also sell manga. They were all very cheap at that time, so I would often look for new volumes of the titles I was collecting (my allowance was enough to buy two or three!). I saw DGM’s first volume there, and went “oh! It’s that one series he had recommended me! I’ll take it and finally give it a shot.”

I fell in love.

I really liked it at first, but the point where DGM completely won my heart was during Lala’s arc. I had never cried with a manga before.

⭐ Who’s your favorite character? This is probably very unoriginal, but it’s Allen! At the start I was very lukewarm about him, but as time went on, I felt like I could relate more and more to that kind-hearted boy and he became my role model. DGM has been with me through some of the worst of my life, and Allen’s resolve to keep going, keep walking, no matter how hard things were for him was what motivated me many times in past. It still does. Allen also taught me to be kinder and through him I realized being there for others makes me truly happy. Sadly, I also share with him the same trait of being unable to truly see how appreciated I am and all the good I bring others just for being there... But I’m working on that! He became the first character I felt like I could fully relate to, and I was surprised - but still very happy - to realize that, now that I’m an adult with more experience and maturity, I feel like I can understand him even more and better than before. Our connection didn’t wane with time, I feel so much closer to him now. He’s very special to me.

Standing at the second spot - because it’s also fair I would mention her -, is Miranda! I always say that if Allen didn’t exist, Miranda would be my number 1 since she stands so close to him hahaha After him, she’s another character I deeply relate with. My self-esteem isn’t the best out there so I’m quick to think I’m worthless or useless, just like her. Even so, she wouldn’t give up. Every time I felt like giving up because of auto depreciation, I would think “Miranda would try again, she would work harder”.

It’s like the two of them were walking me through the steps so I could move forward and keep doing my best.

⭐ Who’s your least favorite character? I’m going to say Chaozii. But, before we get to the usual “Chaozii slander” we’re used to doing in this fandom, let me elaborate. It has nothing to do with him not siding with Allen. As much as I love Allen, I know we’re able of sympathizing with his ideals because as the readers we have a plethora of information on his motives; if not for that, we would probably take the same stance as Chaozii has taken about him.

What riles me about Chaozii is that, unlike all of the characters, his mindset is either black or white, good or bad. Everyone seems to have a perfect mix of both, showing many facets just like, well, real, imperfect people. Chaozii is the only one who doesn’t have that. Being simple-minded is not a bad trait, but when that clouds your judgement, then it turns into a bad thing.

It all fell apart when he snapped at Allen when he refused to kill Tyki. That particularly bothered me a ton, even if I understand his feelings. Chaozii, who thought it was wrong and cruel to kill humans and was grieving for his lost comrades, was fine with killing a human whom he wasn’t even sure if was being forced to do things or not. Do you see the issue here? Chaozii never feels to me like he’s striving to do the right thing in order to bring justice, but instead, because he wants revenge.

I hope he does get to learn one thing or two in the future. He has potential to be a great character; but he needs a “redemption” first.

⭐ Who’s your favorite general? Tiedoll! Although I like all of them for different reasons. I really love Cross and differently from what some people think, he did care for Allen and I love their rather dysfunctional relationship. He’s a much deeper character than just a womanizer full of fishy shenanigans. He’s also really badass: former scientist, user of magic, (former) wielder of both an Innocence of his own and another person’s (Grave of Maria). I just happen to love Tiedoll a liiiittle more because I can’t take this guy! He’s just so sweet, and his doting nature makes him both funny and lovely. General Sokalo is really cool and all, but I feel like he’s just a cool guy to me. On a side note, General Klaud could step on me and kill me and I’d thank her. I hope we get to learn more about her Innocence sometime.

⭐ Who’s a character you would get along with? I would love to say it’s Allen, but he’s someone really hard to get close to. If I think about the characters I’d like to befriend because of shared traits or interests, I think I could get along well with Miranda, Krory, and Marie. The first two because they’re two softies who just happen to be really awkward, I feel like I would probably befriend them after trying to comfort them too often. And, the latter, because I’m a person who likes calm company whom I can have honest talks with.

⭐ What kind of innocence would you have? I honestly have no idea. If I had to pick one from the ones we already have, I think I would go with the Dark Boots. Being able to fly and maneuver in mid-air would be a dream come true, I feel the happiest when the wind blows against me. If I have to think of something “for me” specifically, I think I would like a long range Innocence. I particularly like firearm-like weapons like guns, so maybe a gun or dual pistols? Yeah, I think I’d really like the dual pistols.

⭐ What’s your favorite ship? Ah, to be in the DGM fandom is to be a multishipper; yet this is the part where I always get nervous at because my favorite is a rarepair. But!!! I’m building up the courage to be more open about (and less self-judgmental of) the things I like. It’s Allen x Miranda. I don’t really know when it started; from what I said before, you already know they’re both my top favorite characters and very special to me, so I naturally loved it when I saw them sharing screentime. When I realized it, I was looking at them and thinking “they would make such a cute couple together”. It just kinda happened.

To keep this short, there’s this blog I really like explaining about this pair’s dynamics. I think they have a great dynamic together and much potential. They could very easily have a wholesome relationship based in lots of patience and mutually covering the other’s weaknesses and helping them become someone better. These are the best kinds of relationships imo. I hope to share some of my headcanons for them (and even writing, hopefully!) sometime in here. I always picture Allen being older, so that gives me some free room for creativity; it doesn’t look like he has time for romantic love right now, and I don’t really feel comfortable with him being a minor for this ship, so both things go hand in hand.

Honorable mentions go to Link x Allen (again, older!Allen), Yulma and LaviLena, as I also get super happy when I see these particular shippings.

⭐ What’s your least favorite ship? I actually have some, but it goes against my policies to publicly (consciously) say negative things about certain things if I can help it. I know I’m allowed to have opinions, but you never know who can stumble upon it and what I dislike can be something that makes someone really happy, you know? I tend to stay silent about such things when it comes to something as harmless as shippings.

So, I think I can say I’m accepting of everything as long as everyone respects each other! And, of course, if it isn’t distasteful (as in, illegal).

⭐ What branch would you want to be part of? We’ve only seen the European and Asian branches properly before but even if there aren’t many choices, this is still a hard question; I think both have lots of good things going for them. I think I would probably want to settle with the Asian Branch! I love how lively the atmosphere is and I also feel like there are way less science division shenanigans in there... Sorry, Komui.

⭐ What’s your favorite arc? I have three! The Rewinding City arc came right after Lala’s arc - that had touched me a lot -, bringing in even more feels. It introduced Miranda and at the blink of an eye, made me care so much about her. The first activation of Time Record after she protected Allen, followed by his thanks to her hit so hard; I get really emotional talking about it. It was such a great, yet touching moment. I think everyone can relate to that; being worthy of receiving gratitude for something they did for someone.

Then, there’s Lulu Bell’s Invasion of the Black Order arc, followed by the appearance of the Level 4 Akuma. I can’t express into words how great the flow of the elements are there. The plot is focusing on multiple characters with their own background dramas happening, all at once, yet none of it feels out of place. Everyone gets their moment, everyone contributes to the big picture (saving the staff and defeating the Akumas). It all felt like one big collective effort of several parts uniting forces, no one was more or less important than the other. It was expertisely done.

And the last mention goes to the Searching for A.W’s arcs (Saying Goodbye to A.W also included). These arcs are being extremely painful but, at the same time, also extremely rewarding to go through. For the first time ever, we’re seeing Allen give in to his wants and acknowledge his feelings; he’s not honest with himself very often, and seeing him actually admit that he still wanted to go on - for himself -, that he still wanted to hold onto hope was something that I suddenly realized I had always wanted to see him do. It’s like I had been waiting for so long. Allen is growing up, and I’m loving to see the part Johnny and Kanda are playing in this. I could talk all day about how happy it makes me, to feel this much hope in the midst of such a difficult situation these arcs are covering. It captures very well the essence of D.Gray-Man imo: the bittersweetness of the hardships of life, and the good things it makes us realize we have had all along. The people we have by our side. The will to continue moving forward because we still have something we love and want to fight for.

Whew, I expected this would get long but guess I got too carried away; those were amazing questions to answer to! If you read until now, you have my most sincere gratitude and appreciation. I wish you have a lovely day! 😊

#dgm #d.gray man #d.gray-man #long text #tag #there are still asks in my inbox but I'll be tending to these sometime later!#I really don't want to spam you with long texts everyday #but I don't really like not elaborating my thoughts when I'm on to discuss something #added a read more not to clog your dashboards!

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collecting-stories · 5 years

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Ghost - Modern!Ivar

A/N: This is for @tephi101‘s 800 follower writing challenge. I’m so sorry this was late and hopefully it turned out okay. I’ve been wrestling with this idea since I signed up for your challenge and I was gonna scrap it but I just couldn’t let go lol. So here it is!

Ghost - Modern!Ivar x reader

It was an odd thing to think but ghosts had played an unusual part in your relationship with Ivar. In your small apartment three stories up from the ground you laid in bed thinking about the young man that had taken up too much of your time for the last four years. If you could have done it over again, rewound time to the exact moment you meant and decided not to be outgoing you never would. Regardless of everything that had happened in the past four years you would never change any of the memories you had or trade them or something else.

You could still remember the day you met Ivar. Never much for company, he’d been dragged by his brothers to a Halloween party at a friend’s house. They’d convinced him to dress as some sort of famous, historical, and physically disabled dead guy, telling him it’d be funny. He was the ghost of FDR if you remembered correctly and he looked absolutely livid to even be there in the house. That and the living room where everyone was spending their time was sunken-in, making it near impossible for him to actually join in the festivities. Which was better luck for you because you had no interest in parties either and you desperately just wanted to go home so when he rolled up to the snack table you couldn’t help thinking that you finally had a companion for the evening.

“What are you meant to be?” You had asked, voice slightly raised because even in the kitchen you could hear the noise of the living room.

“A president?” He shrugged. “A ghost of a president.”

“Oh Roosevelt. Clever.”

“My brother chose it...I’d’ve preferred to stay home.” He replied. Ivar was certain he’d severed any chance at further conversation. He wanted to sulk in piece at the food table not entertain someone who had the unartistic sense to dress as a black cat at Halloween. Even if he wasn’t entirely sure who this Roosevelt fellow was.

“Do you want any of the punch?” You asked as you dipped your red cup into the punch bowl and scooped out a good helping of whatever the concoction was.

“Not particularly.” Ivar watched as you shrugged and took a rather large gulp of the blue liquid. You coughed immediately afterward, trying to cover it with an awkward laugh that only made it more noticeable.

“It’s really strong.” You confirmed, looking down into the cup before sniffing it suspiciously, as if you would be able to tell all the different types of alcohol from one whiff of the over-sugared drink.

“I can tell.” There was just a hint of a smirk on his face and you smiled at him, pleased with yourself that you’d managed to make him grin, even just a little bit.

You decided that now was as good a time as any to introduce yourself to him and hoped as you told him your name he wouldn’t just brush you off as being annoying. If you were lucky he’d give you a name back and if things truly worked in your favor maybe you would see more of Roosevelt. He did tell you his name, Ivar, and he threw in a snarky comment about your unoriginal cat costume while he introduced himself.

“I didn’t really want to be here, this was all my friends could find in my apartment.” You replied. Honestly you weren’t too interested in the party scene, at least not when you were in the middle of your third year of college and you wanted everything to go according to plan.

“You had cat ears on hand?” He asked skeptically.

“Yes?”

You met Ivar again purposely. After the party you had given him your number, hoping he would use it but positive he would only throw it away. So that first text from him was surprising but welcome. He wasn’t what you expected, both then and every day after that.

The best dates were not even dates but simple movie nights. The two of you sequestered in your apartment, lounging across the couch with snacks littering the coffee table as you watched movie after movie. Eventually one or both of you would fall asleep only to wake hours later to the generic lock screen of your apple tv playing picture-videos of different global locations. You alternated each week who would choose the movie but that never stopped Ivar from complaining every time you chose something he didn’t like.

“It’s iconic,” you argued, sitting on the couch and tossing your legs over Ivar’s lap. It was movie night at the flat and due to a lost bet between you and Ivar the week prior it was up to you to choose the movie.

“It’s stupid.” He complained, reaching over to take the freshly made bowl of popcorn from you just as Whoopi Goldberg appeared on screen. “He’s dead, she should move on.”

“She can’t. She was in love and his ghost self is still haunting the apartment.” You replied, a smile on your face.

Ivar huffed in annoyance, crossing his arms over his chest as he stared at the television screen, deciding not to pay attention.

You couldn’t help laughing at his expression and leaned over, placing a kiss on his cheek. “Just think, next Friday you get to pick the movie.”

He had his own collection of questionable movie choices but you were never one to complain, a trait that helped to balance out the relationship you found yourself in. He was reluctant to call you his girlfriend and at first you thought it had something to do with you. Maybe he didn’t like you the way you thought he liked you or maybe he just didn’t want to label something so soon because there could be others. Your friends were far more willing to believe that Ivar was just another fuckboy, toying with your emotions while he occupied his time away from you with other girls who were equally willing to believe his stories. But it wasn’t that. His unwillingness to call you his girlfriend had everything to do with his own insecurities and the reality of something more serious than you realized.

“I thought this was movie night?” Ivar grumbled.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know anyone was coming over.” You replied. The movie paused and Ivar disappeared into your bedroom as you pressed the buzzer. “Hello?”

“Hey, you answered!” Hvitserk’s happy voice rung through speaker. “Buzz me up?”

“I’m kinda busy H.” You insisted, chancing a look back to the living room.

“Please?”

The first time Ivar asked you to be his girlfriend it was an entire two months after you met him. He was with you after a play that you had somehow managed to drag him to. A Christmas Carol was on at the local playhouse and your sister’s son was playing Tiny Tim. You took the opportunity to invite Ivar on a date to a place that wasn’t just your house and were surprised when he accepted. The play was alright, a great effort for a cast of volunteers that were putting the show on purely because they loved it. You made plenty of jokes about Ivar being more like Scrooge than Tiny Tim and he grumbled through them pretending to be annoyed.

He wasn’t.

After the play while you helped him into the car he told you that he needed to talk to you about something. Acting like it was serious was a guaranteed way to make you instantly nervous but then he smiled and you knew it was nothing too bad.

“So I told my mom that I was bringing my girlfriend to Christmas Eve,” he said, sending you a hopeful look. He fiddled with the hand controls on his car as he started to back out of the theatre parking lot, trying to sound nonchalant.

“Yeah?” You asked, turning to him with the beginnings of a smile. “Your girlfriend?”

“That okay?”

“That’s perfect.” You replied.

When you got home that night you and Ivar watched the Kelsey Grammar version of A Christmas Carol and he listened to you tell him how sad it was when Scrooge danced with the ghost of Jennifer Love Hewitt. Ghosts once more dictated the important moments of your life with him.

“It’ll be fun,” Hvitserk tried to reason, sitting down on the couch with you where you had paused the movie. You picked at the fringe on your blanket, trying to appear indifferent but knowing that you probably looked on the verge of a breakdown.

“I don’t know...I’m not really in the mood to go anywhere.”

It was Halloween again and you were the ghost this time. When you thought back on it you couldn’t remember anything about your costume or Ivar’s, only that you were a ghost. The party was in a different house this time, a house that belonged to Hvitserk’s current girlfriend. You were in the kitchen like last time, talking to the young woman that had captured Ivar’s brother’s attention for the time being while Ivar was in the bathroom.

And then someone called your name. It was a screamed that sounded so loud you swore the music had been cut but you knew when you thought back on it that the music was still blaring in the background. A friend of a friend appeared in the hallway, gripping the corner of the wall as they called your name once more.

“It’s Ivar!”

He was laying on his side in the hallway, just out of the bathroom door, his wheelchair on it’s side. He was seizing and you yelled for someone to call an ambulance though there was already someone on the phone as you said it. Hvitserk came running from somewhere in the house shouting his brother’s name and dropping to his knees when he arrived by his brother’s side.

The ambulance seemed to come slow but you knew it was fast. You would’ve insisted on riding with him but Hvitserk looked close to a breakdown so instead you managed to pull yourself together long enough to drive Hvitserk to the hospital in Ivar’s car. You weren’t great at hand controls and nearly stalled the car three times on the way there but you made it in one piece and followed Hvitserk inside as he rushed the front desk demanding to know where his brother was.

Both of you stayed that night, sitting in the waiting room until you were allowed to go sit in Ivar’s room. Eventually Hvitserk went home but you never did. Not until Ivar was permitted to. You both went home together, back to your apartment. He talked candidly about what happened at the house party and what was wrong and why he had been so reluctant to call you his girlfriend. You were in love and you told him that.

That Christmas you and Ivar were separated. Your mother had bought the whole family cruise tickets and Ivar declined, the thought of being trapped on a ship in the middle of the ocean not his idea of a good time. The internet held up though and you spent a majority of your time sending him snapchats of yourself, sometimes more compromising, always giddy when the little ghost on your phone let you know that you had a notification.

Ivar enjoyed the exchange as well though he would have preferred having you there in person, a fact he was not shy about letting you know. Once Christmas was done and you had returned home the need for the third-party ghost was no longer necessary.

“I’m going to go on vacation more often if you’re this excited to see me!” You teased, kissing him as he leaned over you in bed that night.

“I’m this excited to see you when you get home from the grocery store.” He replied, grinning. Cheesy but always flattering you had no comeback other than pulling him in for another kiss.

“Where are you going?” Ivar asked, watching you get changed out of your comfy pajamas.

“Hvitserk asked me to go out with him, just to a bar or something.” You commented, trying to ignore the twist in your stomach as you met his eyes in the mirror. He looked annoyed and you looked away.

“I thought we were watching movies.”

“I can’t sit here and watch movies forever Ivar.”

You got two more Halloweens and two more Christmases and an eternity of days between them all. It was January when Ivar collapsed again, not for the first or second time but for the last. You were alone this time and you called 911, crying through the phone to ‘please come, please’. Hvitserk met you at the hospital. Ivar’s mother, his other brothers, his dad, and a few friends all followed. They waited and waited and left and came back and repeated the cycle for months. And then spring came and Ivar went.

Hvitserk was sitting in the room, talking to you and Ivar about a girl he met at the bar the weekend before when it happened. Ivar was holding your hand, his thumb running back and forth on your skin as he listened to his brother. Every so often you looked up at your boyfriend and smiled, sweet and loving and hopeful. Then his hand gripped yours, too tight, before going limp and he seized one last time. The monitors went off and a whole team of medical professionals came running in and you felt yourself being ushered out and you heard yourself calling his name. And Hvitserk reached for you and he stood there in the hallway holding you close to his chest as you sobbed for his brother.

“But it’s movie night.” Ivar looked close to tears and you stopped drying your hair long enough to turn away from the mirror and face him.

“Ivar,” You shook your head. God you were going crazy. You’d locked yourself in your apartment ever since the funeral. You just kept watching the same movies on repeat, not eating, hardly sleeping. You smelled and you looked terrible and you were depressed and every inch of your body ached with hurt and you were angry. But you couldn’t be forever. “Ivar, you aren’t here.”

“I am.”

“No...no you aren’t.” You insisted. “I love you but you aren’t here anymore. I have to go, I can’t stay here with you.”

“Just one more night.”

A knock on the bedroom door and Hvitserk was calling your name, making sure you were okay and you were still going out with him. Even just a walk to the bodega on the corner he said.

“I’ve given you too many nights already.”

I think this is both the fastest and slowest I have ever written a fic before.

#ivar x reader #ivar the boneless imagine #ivar the boneless x reader #ivar the boneless modern #ivar the boneless fanfiction #ivar ragnarsson imagine #ivar ragnarsson x reader #ivar ragnarsson fanfiction #ivar lothbrok imagine #ivar lothbrok x reader #ivar lothbrok fanfiction #vikings fanfiction #vikings imagine #vikings fanfic #vikings modern au #tephis800followerwritingchallenge #collecting stories imagine

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thedreamvevo · 5 years

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Little Do You Know: September

a/n: grad student instructor!Shawn / student!reader. Feedback encouraged & appreciated.

She’s stuck. Absolutely stuck.

Her mind was a swirl of ideas, her thoughts bouncing from one end of the philosophical spectrum to the other and her fingers can’t type quick enough to get all the ideas out. Y/N's word document was a smatter of bullet points, full of half finished thoughts and random notes here and there and frankly, she can barely read it herself let alone have someone else read it.

The first part of the assignment due on Thursday isn’t necessarily a hard one, she just has to pick a specific pop culture artifact for her Persuasion class and write a proposal for how it persuades its audience (she decides that she actually likes the idea, contrary to her class’s disapproval, because, as a communications major, writing a persuasive paper has become boring and unoriginal). The assignment is preliminary, enough for her instructor (her stupidly cute instructor, mind you) to give the class individual feedback on their ideas before delving into their semester-long research paper. Four parts total, one parts due per month. Her head was spinning and though she knows there’s gotta be some intelligent ruminating going on up there, her thoughts won’t stop racing enough for her to collect them enough to form a coherent one.

This is how she finds herself begrudgingly opening the Communication Studies office door, the scowl on her face melting as she smiles at the receptionist. It’s not like he did anything deserving of a death glare, it was just her stupid head. “I’m here to see Shawn?” she answered his questioning gaze.

His eyebrows raised, giving her a smirk before responding. “He��s in room 2004.”

Y/N nodded, thanking him, and followed in the direction the guy pointed her to. She huffed to herself, situating her backpack on her shoulders nervously as she slowly passed the small offices one by one. The night before, she’d sent a quick email asking if she could come in during his office hours before class and he replied ten minutes after she sent it welcoming her. She had every right to be here, Y/N reasoned with herself, slowly coming to a halt in front of 2004.

The door was slightly ajar, a warm glow emitting through the crack, and the faint chords of what she immediately placed as something by Mozart leaked through what she assumed were tiny speakers. Taking a deep breath, she knocked on the door lightly, waiting for a few moments before knocking again with a little more force. After receiving no response after a few seconds, she gently pushed open the door and came face to face with the back of Shawn. His shoulders were hunched over his desk, his foot tapping the ground furiously, and music blaring through his headphones. She had half a mind to lecture him about the importance of not blowing out his eardrums but refrained, for obvious reasons.

Y/N bit her lip, her hand stretching out to tap his shoulder but drawing back after realizing that might be inappropriate. Shifting her weight from foot to foot, she decided that tapping the desk next to him would be the best way to go about the situation, since it seemed he didn’t have a clue she was there yet. Slowly, as to not spook him, she took two small steps so she was standing in close proximity to his desk and delicately knocked her knuckles against the wood in his direct eye line.

“What the f--” Shawn cursed, ripping his earbuds out of his ears and launching himself back on his desk chair, narrowly avoiding whacking Y/N with his forearm as he extended it outward in surprise. “Oh my jeez” he gulped, eyes comically wide as he took in the situation and realized he’d just scared the crap out of his student; her reaction to his reaction to her a chain effect. “Oh my gosh,” he started, running his hand through his hair while the other clutched his chest, “Sorry, you scared me.”

And Y/N giggled awkwardly, coughing a little in between, because she didn’t know how to react when his reaction was so funny and so cute (and an uncomfortable bout of fond made her hands feel a little fuzzy). “Sorry ‘bout that,” she explained as they both chuckled, the tension created by her unintentionally dramatic entrance easing. “Didn’t mean t’scare ya.”

“No worries,” Shawn replied, wrapping his headphones up and clearing his throat while scooting his chair back and nodding towards her. “So what’s up?”

The girl sighs, her shoulders rising and falling with the action as she ambles over to the chair he’s gestured towards, placed in front of the other desk perpendicular to his, since apparently his officemate was out at that moment’s time. With a thump, her backpack hit the ground as she settled into the seat. “I literally have no idea how to choose a topic for this paper.” Her as-of-late perpetual frown settled into her face again, her eyebrows furrowing as she crossed her arms. She looked like a little kid pouting after being told that no, they couldn’t have a third piece of candy (and he thinks it’s kinda adorable but he pushes that thought right back to where it came from).

“Do you have any general direction?” Shawn muses, mirroring her posture as he laced his arms and crossed his ankle over his knee, his foot lightly bouncing. He listened earnestly as Y/N launched off into a slew of ideas, her thoughts ranging from capitalistic infiltration in youtube videos to how criminally good ASPCA is at persuasion in their commercials to social media regulations on celebrity promotions. It had easily been five minutes of her rambling on before he realized he’d accidentally tuned out. Shawn couldn’t help it though, she was just so adorable and so passionate about her miscellaneous routes of ideas that he couldn’t help but get lost in her furrowed brows, her wild hand gestures, and the frustrated tugs of her hand in her hair when she couldn’t get the words out quite right.

“It’s just--” she sputtered, catching her breath and huffing out a sigh, “It’s ridiculous! The Kardashians get paid like $300,000 to post one stupid miracle hair-growth pill that they probably don’t even use and--” she stopped suddenly, her mouth gaping open. “I’m sorry! Did… Did you follow any of that?”

And Shawn tried, bless his heart, he really tried to not laugh but her sulky expression was just so intriguing and he can’t help that his cheeks are a little flushed from feeling like he was found out for staring (adoringly) at her instead of listening. A giggle rumbled in his chest, and he did (he really did) try to quell it but it’s only a moment before it’s bubbling out of his lips and pouring into the atmosphere around them. His laugh was sweet honey, sticking to her like glue. And though it’s irritating and Y/N wished to wash her hands of the sticky embarrassment she felt coursing through her veins, her pout slowly morphed into a bashful smile as she started to fidget in her seat.

“I’m sorry,” Shawn coughed, trying (and failing) to reign in his amusement.

“No, I’m sorry,” she muttered, suddenly finding the ugly pattern of the carpet very interesting. “My mind is literally everywhere right now.”

“No, no,” he fretted, sitting up in his chair and leaning his elbows on his knees, his body leaning in towards her. His heart squeezed and he immediately sobered from his outburst once he noticed that she avoided his gaze and couldn’t sit still. “It’s just… I’ve never heard you talk this much before.”

And she flushed because he’s right. Y/N thought back to his Interpersonal Communication class she’d taken the previous spring and how she barely spoke a word the entire semester. She really enjoyed the content of the class and the way he engaged his students, but she was never really much of a talker in any of her classes, let alone a section accompanied by a few girls who fawned over the instructor and had no shame in doing so. It kinda made her queasy to think back on, how oblivious it seemed Shawn was to how he’d had those girls completely wrapped around his finger.

Y/N had contemplated many times whether he was aware of his effect on them (on her, too, but she’d never admit that) and ultimately decided there was no way he’d intentionally partake in such attention since he’d never jeopardize his work towards earning a PhD. Shawn was genuine and he loved to teach and that much was obvious in the way he wanted his students to succeed so badly, even in the way he’d give harsh editing suggestions back on papers in hopes his students would revise. Shawn was too focused and too determined to engage in inappropriate behavior with a student, she reasoned.

“Not that it’s a bad thing!” Shawn added after a moment’s silence swept through the tiny office, his mouth pinched inwards as he regretted speaking without thinking. “I know you pay attention in class,” he conceded. “You take notes and you’re engaged and you nod when I make eye contact with you so I know you’re not a slacker but I’ve just never heard you talk this much.”

And the girl laughed, especially when he smiled at her reaction, slumping in his chair because he knew he hadn’t offended her. “No worries,” she responded. “I know I don’t talk in class.”

“Why though?” Shawn inquired, noting absentmindedly they were getting off topic. “I know from your papers and reflections that you’re incredibly intelligent and probably have a lot to add to discussions in class.” He paused a moment before adding, “Not that it’s bad. ’m just curious.”

Y/N shrugged before answering, trying to ignore the flush burning her cheeks and down her neck at his praise. “Dunno, just don’t like talking in class I guess.” And he was going to leave it at that but she continued musing after a beat of silence. “It actually weird to me because I feel like I do talk in class even though I know I don’t because you know, I don’t,” she tilted her head, clearly lost in thought, “But I’m always paying attention and I always think your jokes are funny.” She would’ve probably stopped talking (wouldn’t have even begun, if she were honest) had she not been completely strung out from the stress of the week and work so far, so she kept talking. “It’s funny because I actually think of you as like a friend? Like when you say something funny I’ll tell my roommate or my mom about it like ‘Oh Shawn said this yesterday it was hilarious’ even though I don’t... know you?” At that remark, she scrunched her face, a groan leaving her mouth before dropping her head into her hands. “Oh my gosh, I’m sorry, that’s like, totally weird.”

And Shawn’s glad that her face was buried in her hands because if she were looking at him at right that second, there’s no way he’d be able to mask the fond leaking all over his features; deep red cheeks, a grin almost too big for his face, and ruffled hair at the back of his neck gaining more moisture by the second as a light layer of sweat broke out over his body. He felt stupid for feeling this giddy but all he wanted to do was teach and it was so satisfying to know he’d had an effect on a student that seemed so hard to crack sometimes. (And maybe there was something a little deeper seeded there that made Y/N’s admission feel so… fulfilling, but he couldn’t delve into that. Couldn’t allow it to happen, couldn’t give into that feeling so he shoved the ticking thought down.)

Shawn cleared his throat and settled his face into a neutral, albeit still very friendly expression. “‘S not weird at all,” he remarked, crossing his arms again. (And she could’ve sworn his eyebrow raised teasingly when she unintentionally ogled his biceps that looked so good, stretched against the cotton blue t-shirt he was wearing, but maybe she just imagined it and it was all in her head.) (It wasn’t.)

“I think of my students as friends.”

And they laugh at that because they’re both not really sure of how to move on from there but then she’s whipping out her laptop and showing him the document she’d started the night before and the awkwardness that threatened to loom over them disappeared. Shawn has his bottom lip sucked into his mouth, his eyes set in deep concentration as they work out a few solid ideas, her fingers flying across the keyboard as they brainstormed. By the end, she has a clearer direction of where she wants her paper to go and Shawn is quite sure he’s actually fucked for this girl but he keeps that thought to himself. After talking through her ideas, they settle into casual conversation. Questions about Shawn’s journey through academia and what internships Y/N’d been looking into break the ice before his phone abruptly rings. Jumping, he quickly silences the alarm for his Persuasion class with flushed cheeks, explaining he had to set it because, “I’ve been late one too many times this semester already and it’s only the third week.”

And then, they were both shuffling their things into their backpacks and silently marveling at how they’d just spent an hour and a half together without even blinking an eye. Y/N made fun of him for the Harry Potter calendar Shawn had hanging on his wall as he searched for his keys, and he bit back with a quip about a paper she’d written about One Direction the semester before.

The banter and the conversation came so easily and instinctually that it felt natural for Shawn to place his hand on the small of her back as he led her out the door of his office. His eyes widened as he realized his mistake, quickly trying to ignore the blunder he’d made by mumbling a quick, “Sorry” under his breath and turning to lock the office door. An unmistakable awkwardness settled over them as they walked in silence to the classroom, only broken by a stumble over his own feet that had Y/N snickering. He was grateful for his clumsiness in that moment because her laugh is just so adorable and in that moment, it was for his ears only, and he didn’t have to share her with any one else in his class and--

Shawn needed to stop. She’s my student, he reminded himself as she rambled on about a show one of the other grad students wrote that was premiering the next weekend. He tried not to deflate too much as she resigned into herself in class, but duly notes that she seemed to give him bigger reactions than usual; smile a bit more when he joked around or nodding at him when the class gave him little reaction to the material he was presenting.

Baby steps.

Class passed by quickly and it’s not long before Y/N was shooting him a smile as she left that Shawn was letting out a giant sigh of relief.

It’s later that night when he’s writing out the lesson plan for the next class that Shawn looks up her age in the university database only available to instructors. Even though it’s kinda an abuse of his power, Shawn reasons it’s because he just... Needed to know the age of his students to help him figure out how to cater the lessons to them best. Not to like… reason out that it’s not weird at all that he’s attracted to one or anything… No. Nothing like that.

(I mean, really, he maintained, They were only a few years age difference. It’s not that weird.)

(And he was content with that thought until he realized, Holy fuck, I just reasoned with myself that it would be okay to date my student and nothing about that is okay.)

And so, Shawn’s not really sure how to act around Y/N. because it’s clear to him that while he may be attracted to her and the age difference is minimal, she’s his student. In the real world, no one would bat an eye at them but university protocol prohibited anything from happening. And, he supposes, it’s not like she even showed interest to begin with so he really had nothing to worry about. (Wrong. He had lots to worry about.)

September went as quickly as it came and it’s a little off-putting that it was mere days until October. Y/N is in the full swing of classes, having established a routine for the semester and so far, she’s maintaining her assignments well. She’s in the heart of her major classes now so there’s not really any classes she dreads. Her Persuasion section, however, she’s always a little bit more… giddy for, even if the revisement suggestions Shawn gave on her proposal were harsh.

Some suggestions he’d given her made sense, but as for his questioning of the theory she was planning to apply to her pop culture artifact… His direction was unclear which is why she found herself visiting his office hours again.

“I guess I’m just not really sure why you don’t think that the theory of semiotics would be the best,” Y/N says plainly. Her left foot was tucked underneath her right thigh in hopes to stop the nervous jiggling of her feet and her palms felt sweaty, tucked into the pocket of her hoodie. (Constructive) criticism was a hard pill to swallow already; adding to the fact that Y/N to receive it from Shawn only compounded the nerves thumping through her veins. She knew from taking his class the previous spring that he always grades the first draft submitted harshly in hopes students would take his suggestions on their papers and turn it in for a better grade.

Y/N respected him as her teacher and his expertise in the major she was pursuing, and she knew Shawn respected her enough to give her feedback on the work she submitted. She knew he only aimed to make her (and his students) a better writer, which is why she was okay with seeking out his explanation for his edits in the first place.

“Well,” Shawn started, leaning back in his desk chair and stretching his arms above his head, his bones cracking at the movement. “I didn’t necessarily say that it wasn’t best, I just asked if you’d looked into other options, like…” He pursed his lips for a moment, a frown settling into his features. He hummed recognition sparked in his eyes, “Like the agenda setting theory.”

Y/N sighed, ruffling her hair before propping her chin on her hand. “I’d thought about that theory and it makes sense since I’m analyzing Kardashian promotions, but to be honest,” She shrugged, “We didn’t learn about that theory until after I had already written the proposal up.”

Shawn laughed. “Fair enough.”

“So…” Y/N inquires. “Semiotics is good?”

“Yeah,” Shawn replied. “You’re good, just wanted to make sure you’d considered everything else before going forward.”

“Cool,” she said, before pulling her laptop out of her bag. “I have a couple other things I wanted to ask you about.”

And so they huddle over the screen together, her questions about some of Shawn’s notes here and there accompanied by the just-barely brushing of their shoulders against each other, Shawn’s warmth emanating from his t-shirt only just ticking her skin. There’s a little voice in Shawn’s head warning him that maybe they didn’t need to be sitting that close but he throws caution to the wind because they’re just sitting there together, nothing out of the ordinary. And there’s a little whisper in Y/N’s mind wondering if Shawn was aware of their proximity and if it was okay but ultimately decided they’re doing nothing wrong, only going over her paper. So what if she could feel Shawn’s gentle exhale on her shoulder as he wrestled internally with how to answer her questions and who cares that Shawn can almost feel the smoothness of her jeans against his own jean-clad thigh, right? It’s no big deal.

She was actually sad when they come to the end of the revision suggestions, but knew it was time to go as she needed to head to the library to write a paper (due at midnight) for another class.

“Feel free to stop by anytime,” Shawn said, a smile on his lips as he watched her pack up. He waited for Y/N to make eye contact before tilting his head forward and adding, “Seriously, no worries.”

And she smiled, sticking her hand out and grinning harder at Shawn’s scrunched up nose.

“Pretty sure we’re past the point of a formal handshake but whatever,” Shawn teased her, his eyes twinkling as he grasped her smaller hand in his, both of their palms sweaty and yet neither of them minded.

“See ya later,” Y/N quipped, throwing her backpack on her shoulders and shooting him another sweet smile before leaving his office.

Holy shit, Shawn thought as he shook his head, a small smile still present as he stared at the space that held Y/N only seconds before. I’m so fucked.

#my writing #shawn imagine #shawn mendes blurb #shawn mendes imagine #shawn mendes writing #shawn mendes drabble #shawn mendes #shawn mendes one shot #shawn mendes fanfiction #shawn mendes fanfic #shawn mendes x reader #well there it is. this damn fic. i want it to be over already.#smh this is gonna be entirely inspired by true events I KNOW I'M A TERRIBLE PERSON #IT'S STILL HAPPENING I SWEAR I'M LIVING A FIC RN. except no happy ending.#altho yall know me... i don't do happy endings often....... lolz peaceee #(i have oct nov & dec already mapped out i just need to write them) (get ready for a slow burn and almost kisses lol)#(it will hurt)

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kaffeinic · 5 years

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How to Start Your Own Writing Blog

This is more centered on a kpop/requesting blog, but the basic principles can still be applied to any other writing blog. Feel free to change or omit any of these steps. These are just what I’ve found to be the basics. Here is a link to my blog, @kaffeinic. You can check it out if you have trouble understanding anything here or you’d like to ask me a question. Asks are always open!

Step One: Naming Your Blog

This seems pretty self-explanatory and plainly obvious, but I’ve seen so many people start up a blog with a name that’s unoriginal or mundane, or just something they don’t like.

If you’re planning on capturing people with your writing, you need to be willing to make a name for yourself. Let’s say your blog picks up some good traffic, and you suddenly change your username. Your readers will be extremely confused until they click on your blog. Some readers - like myself - might even unfollow if they don’t recognize you.

Moral of the story: Pick a unique name that you love.

Step Two: Masterlist/Navigation

This should be - and I cannot stress this enough - your first post. You can take a look here at my main masterlist. Note that I write for multiple bands and have made separate masterlists accordingly. Always link your masterlist in your bio - it’s best as the first link - for easy access.

If you have sub-categories such as myself, then it’s best to make headers separating different styles of writing. It helps your readers to find exactly what they want to read. Some people like headcannons, and some people like to read full-length fanfictions. You can use this method to separate different forms of graphic art as well. Here is an example of how I’ve divided my work into digestible categories.

Step Three: About

This one isn’t completely necessary, per se, but I’ve found most people like to know more about the author of their favourite literary pieces. Even if it’s just a simple list of basic facts about you, make a post for it. Link it in your bio for easy access. In my About page, I’ve added these items as my starting point.

Name: (If you’re comfortable sharing it.)

Pen Name: (If you have one.)

Personal: (If you’d like to provide your personal blog, I would put it here.)

ID: (She/He/They/etc. This one may seem odd, but I’ve been referred to as male when I am very much not a male. It just gives your readers an idea of how to speak to you.)

Age: (If you’re comfortable sharing it. Be sure to check it occasionally, or after a birthday to make sure it’s still up to date.)

Languages: (Very useful if you speak more than one language and want your readers to know.)

MBTI: (Completely optional, not really necessary. I’ve added mine because it gives people a somewhat general idea of what I might be like.)

Below this, you can add a Q&A section - which is what I did - or any other bits of information. It’s all up to you!

Step Four: FAQs

Another completely optional post, but if you’re tired of getting asked the same question over and over, make yourself a FAQs page and link it to your bio. Here’s what mine looks like.

Step Five: Rules

This is mainly for requesting blogs, but it’s always good to have some ground rules for how you do things. Be very clear on what you want and what you will and will not tolerate. Here is my Rules post, linked in my bio as well.

Step Six: Settings

Here’s a few things you might want to set up in your settings.

Are you creating a requesting blog? (Where other bloggers ask for something specific for you to write.) Make sure you have your asks turned on. Decide if you are willing to accept anonymous requests and toggle the setting accordingly. Note that you can also edit the ask box text.

Would you like to integrate your followers’ ideas? Turn on submissions. This allows another blogger to send in a post for you to approve or disapprove of before posting.

I’ve found that it’s always a good idea to allow Tumblr to pin your most popular posts to the top of your blog. It gives readers a general idea of what you write and can captivate them as well, if they see something they like. This can be toggled in the settings.

Step Seven: Taken Anons

I wouldn’t bother with this one unless you have anonymous asks turned on, but if you do, it’s become common practice on Tumblr for someone to name themselves anonymously, such as the 👽 Anon, Happy Anon, etc. Here is my Taken Anons page. It’s just a simple bulletpoint list of names people have claimed.

Step Eight: Create a Format

Nothing bothers me more than looking at two similar posts on a blog and noticing that the formatting is messy, disorganized, and/or inconsistent. I may be wrong, but I don’t think I’m the only one who feels this way.

Creating a format adds a cleanliness to your blog and gives you a template to add your posts to. My basic format is as follows:

[Title]

[Ask box submission] (If there is one. Never be afraid to write something no one has requested. Your blog is your safe haven of creativity. Use it as you please. As a side note, most blogs don’t have requests when they first start out, so many of your first posts will be of your own accord.)

- [Sender]

[Divider] (I use these: ~ )

[A/N or Notes] (Optional)

[Divider] (If notes were added.)

[Gif]

[Text] (The actual writing piece I’ve done.)

[Divider]

[Disclaimer] (Mine just claims ownership of the writing, but dismisses ownership of the gif/photo that was used in the post. Never, ever, EVER forget this.)

[Divider]

[Taglist] (If you have one. Make sure Tumblr has actually linked the blogs to the post or your tag list won’t be notified.)

As always, feel free to change it up. Your formatting is your choice. I would just recommend you remain consistent with each post by using a format.

I actually have a post in my drafts at all times that outlines each of my formats just for my own personal reference. It’s very useful and I highly recommend you do the same.

Step Nine: Other Posts

You’ll probably end up adding more posts to your bio the longer you have your blog, such as a queue, prompts list, or other social media. I also keep a VIPT list (VIPs & Taglist.)

Step x: How to Add Links to Your Bio

I’m just going to address this here so that I’m not asked a million times, because 1oRd kN0wS I had a hard time, and I even studied HTML years ago. I was so annoyed when I used the correct coding and nothing happened. Smh

Moving on, here’s how:

To add a link to your bio, you must use a computer/laptop, or - I do this - request the desktop site from your mobile device. It’s typically under the settings in most browsers, labeled as “Request Desktop Site.”

Click on your blog and choose “Edit Appearance.”

Browse the menu under your header and profile until you see “Edit Theme.” Select it.

Copy and paste the exact text in black to your bio: <a href="YOUR LINK HERE"> YOUR LINK TITLE HERE (Example: Masterlist) </a>

Make sure that the quotations around your link are straight, (") not curly(“). This is vital. Your link will not work otherwise.

Click the “Save” button at the top and test your link.

For line breaks, use this code: <br>

Personally, I can’t think of anything else to add. My fellow Tumblr writers, feel free to reblog with more information! Happy writing, everyone~~~!

* DISCLAIMER: I do not own any gifs/photos used in this post. I do own the written content. Do NOT repost/edit. *

🏷 @a-toxic-galaxy • @hoshithehamster

#kpop #writing #masterlist #faqs #anon #new blog #how to #link in bio #help #stray kids #bts #exo #blackpink #seventeen #skz #fanfictions #headcannons #reactions #ships #hours #blurbs

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simplyshelbs16xoxo · 6 years

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‘Life in Death’ Chapter 3: And We Just Go in Circles

Several days had passed since I reluctantly agreed to help my ghostly roommate. As my new official partner in crime-solving—or perhaps I was his—I decided to carry the pocket watch with me to work. Where it went, Sherlock went, which turned out to be fortuitous given that another body showed up in the morgue with the same letters carved in her hand. And, so, it was here I found myself performing another autopsy with the less-than-corporeal Sherlock Holmes at my side.

“Could you stop breathing down my neck?” I asked with annoyance.

“I would if I had any,” he quipped. “Breath, that is.” I couldn’t help but giggle at his dead-pan humor. “You’re quite scrupulous with your autopsies, Miss Hooper. I’m impressed.”

For a ghost, his beaming smile left me feeling warm and rather proud of his unsolicited approval. “I believe that’s the first compliment I’ve received from you,” I said, blushing. “Thank you.”

His brow knitted with bemusement. “Have I really been that unbearable to be around?” he asked.

“Well, let’s see,” I began, taking a brief pause from the chest spreader. “You constantly criticize my clothing, the cleanliness of my flat, and the fact I apparently put too much sugar in my coffee,” I listed, ticking them off on my fingers. “You’ve also taken to wander aimlessly about the flat at night, which tends to keep me awake. There might be a few things you’ve forgotten about being human, such as the importance of sleep. I think that’s a good start…although I anticipate the list to grow.”

“Interesting,” he remarked.

“What is?”

“You haven’t mentioned my pipe smoke.”

“It doesn’t bother me; I love the sweet cherry scent,” I answered, somewhat distracted with my hands in the dead woman’s chest. “What does this calling card have to do with Moriarty? He’s dead.”

“I.O.U. referred to his promise to make me fall.” His eyes briefly glazed over with a faraway look, as though remembering something he’d rather forget. “I’m sure you’ve read the story.”

“Yes, I have.” I removed some tissue samples, placing them in a dish for the lab. “I’m just wondering if this is really a random copycat, or could it be a descendant of Moriarty?”

“Your powers of deduction are brilliant, Miss Hooper! I’ll make a fine detective of you yet.”

There it was again, that radiant smile of his, and those beautiful blue eyes eagerly inviting me to join in his enthusiasm. It's hardly my fault that my heart was left pounding thunderously in chest, echoing so loudly in my ears I could barely hear myself think. He was magnetic, hard to resist, and I couldn't help but wonder what his hair might be like in its natural state, or how it might feel to run my fingers through those luscious, thick curls that fell carelessly along his forehead.

I silently chastised myself, grateful he wasn’t a mind reader. What the bloody hell was I doing anyway, falling for a ghost?! Granted, I was in a bit of a dry spell where my love life was concerned, but this…this was irrational; illogical, even. Still, the more time we spent together, the more my curiosity grew.

“Wh-what about you?” I asked as nonchalant as possible. “Do you, um, have any descendants?” It seemed like a perfectly logical question, considering we were exploring ancestral links.

“Nope.” He emphasized the ‘p’ as though the idea were distasteful. “Romantic entanglements, while fulfilling for others, Miss Hooper, held little interest, along with an unnecessary distraction from my work. The work was more important.” Sherlock disappeared from my side, and across the morgue. It was an unnerving habit of his. “If this really is a descendant of Moriarty, then, logically, our evil-doing fiend must be my unfinished business. Always remember, when you rule out the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth.”

“You really think so?”

He winked. “I know so. Let’s catch ourselves a serial killer, shall we?”

Once I concluded the autopsy, I left the watch in my locker to meet up with my friend, and co-worker, Meena at the canteen. The last thing I needed was a side conversation with an invisible person, in public, who would have no problem expressing his every opinion, insisting upon my attention.

“So I heard you talking to someone when I passed by the morgue.” Of course Meena would begin a conversation like this.

“He’s my, uh, roommate.” I anxiously bit my lip. “He called me.”

Meena’s face lit up with curiosity. “You finally got a roommate!? What’s he like??”

“He’s very…spirited.” I nearly laughed at my own humor.

After distracting Meena from asking too many questions about the roommate I would never be able to explain, we finished our tea, leaving only a few hours left on my shift. Grateful that Sherlock chose to remain in his mind palace, as well as my lab pocket, I was able to go through my paper work in record time. Then, a curious thing happened. While reaching for my cup of coffee, I dropped my pen on the floor, which isn't that curious at all. But, bending down to pick it up, I found an envelope with my name...the handwriting quite lovely. It was a short and sweet request from a co-worker that left me mildly astonished at its Victorian formality.

Molly,

I know we’ve only worked together for a few months, but I’m afraid I can’t ignore this feeling any longer. If you’re up to it, perhaps we could have coffee sometime or maybe even dinner? I’d like to get to know you better.

Best regards,

Thomas

Of course I found his approach highly unusual. Having trained Thomas when he first started three months ago, he never struck me as the shy type. Why not just ask in person, or give a ring? Still, he was always very sweet to me, and we all do silly things once in a while. Maybe he was trying to impress me? And, sadly, I wasn't having a bit of a dry spell where dating was concerned. A one year, involuntary hiatus was beginning to feel like a seven year drought. Where's the harm in having coffee...or dinner? It's not like a commitment, or anything, and I do like to eat...

But what if it was terribly boring? It was difficult for me to find anyone that held my interest. My mum always said I was fickle, and my standards were set too high. Perhaps she’s right, but is it such a crime to want the best for myself? I used to joke with her, saying that maybe I was just a woman out of her time. I wanted adventure, and was much too bored with mundane life.

“You’re thinking too loudly,” Sherlock’s voice reverberated through me, making me jump and nearly fall off my chair.

“Oh Christ! Don’t do that,” I gasped, my hand resting on my chest, whilst catching my breath. “I doubt you can hear me think.”

“You’re right, I can’t,” he replied matter-of-factly. “But I can feel a certain amount of tension in the room.”

“The only tension you’re feeling right now is you nearly causing me to jump out of my skin. No offense.”

“None taken. However, I always trust my instincts, Miss—“

“Then please trust this,” I interrupted, my impatience growing. “Instead of discussing ‘tension in the room’, maybe we should figure out if Moriarty had any children, and go from there.”

“Balance of probability says no. Perhaps his brother did. He was a stationmaster, and relatively normal,” Sherlock informed me, cocking his head in my direction, a slight twinkle in his lovely blue eyes. “Did you know his name was James too? Colonel James Moriarty.”

I didn’t know and was unable to hide my surprise by this information. “He and his brother shared the same name?”

“Yes, very disappointing in its unoriginality,” he sighed. “Now, what are you going to say?”

“About what?”

“Not about; who. The man behind the letter.”

“You…you read my letter?”

“No need. It was obvious.”

It had been a long day. I was tired, and his imperiousness was getting on my last nerve. “Obvious?”

"Clearly. Your breathing was elevated from the moment you opened the envelope. As you read, and considered the words on the page, the pupils of your eyes dilated, your tongue slipped over your lips several times - no doubt an invitation to dinner - and you have a habit of twirling a strand of hair when interested in the attentions of the opposite sex. That should be enough to be getting on with, unless you'd like more?"

“It's none of your business," I snapped, grabbing my keys and ready to storm from the room. I had half a mind to leave the pocket watch, and him, in my locker for the night.

“While it's been a year, perhaps longer," Sherlock continued, "since you've courted any gentleman worthy of your affections, Miss. Hooper, I suggest you postpone any further involvement from the dubious, masculine intention and keep your priorities on me. This is a mutually advantageous arrangement, if you recall. The sooner this unfinished business is over with, the sooner I can move on and you can return your attention to this boy."

I was furious with him. "He is not a boy!"

"While it is not in my nature to contradict a budding romance such as yours, no self-respecting man would dare approach a beautiful, young woman with impoverished meagerness."

"Yes, you would, and you are. And, if you must know, I'm going to tell him 'yes.'" Pride had gotten the better of me, as did the condescending attitude of a one hundred and fifty year old ghost. I had no intention of saying 'yes' to Thomas, but I refused to be bullied and needed to prove something...although I wasn't exactly sure what. Perhaps I was only infuriated that he seemed to think he knew everything about me.

“Fine,” he muttered, then disappeared.

“Fine.”

I slipped the watch in my pocket, but couldn't shake the feeling of disappointment. Somewhere between his arrogance, and me needing to prove something, I wanted his argument to mean something more than unfinished business. Or, maybe, I was stalling for time? If we solved the case, what then? He'd leave and, as much as it pained me to admit this, I wasn't ready to say good-bye.

Author’s Note: a big thank you to @penelope1730 for helping me figure out what was missing from this chapter! Any theories? Or favorite parts/lines?

FFN | AO3 | Buy Me a Coffee?

#sherlolly #Life in Death #my fanfiction

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the-scenic-route-stories · 6 years

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Lost the Plot: A Parenthesis

The Doctor is (politely) displeased.

This follows on from my ACGAS/Fifth Doctor crossovers The Scenic Route and Tea in Bed but do be warned that it is written in a very different style from those previous pieces and is a piece of utter absurdity, inspired by a plot point in A Very Peculiar Practice and my love for ‘Castrovalva’ and the fictional worlds of Jorge Luis Borge as well as for All Creatures. Now with minor revisions.

Features Tricki-Woo and Mrs. Pumphrey, offstage.

The Doctor gently swung his legs down to the floor and used one hand to slowly push himself up into a standing position. Tentatively, he padded in his red socks across the Persian rug, holding on to various items of furniture for support. After his previous attempts, he was anxious lest a wave of dizziness or nausea should hit him, but succeeded in crossing the room without incident. He arrived at the fourth wall and cleared his throat.

“Excuse me,” he said, attempting to bring a tone of polite authority to his voice. “I’ve been lying in bed for a couple of weeks now. It’s been wonderful to be looked after and everything, Mrs Hall is a very kind lady, and I do like that green quilt, but the thing is that I’m stuck here while everyone except me is having adventures and I feel that I’m not really living up to my job description. James and Tristan have been up in space and Turlough is out there on the Eye of Orion – sketching, supposedly – while I’ve been languishing here on earth coughing and collapsing whenever you wanted the readers to feel sorry for me. Now I’m feeling more myself again, it’s getting to be really rather tedious. If you had to give me space flu – what sort of an unoriginal name was that, anyway? You could at least have come up with some fancy Latinate terminology – to facilitate your frankly ridiculous plot mechanics and have young Tristan crash my TARDIS, can’t you at least let me recover properly now so that I can repair her and resume my normal life of dashing about the cosmos? He’s a decent enough young fellow, if a little reckless, but it’s rather trying to look at a mirror image of yourself and be constantly reminded that with regeneration, you never know what you’re going to get.”

“I’m very sorry, Doctor,” I told him. “I had some plot ideas but wasn’t sure how to put them together. It really is a very nice quilt, and I even rescued that dressing-gown from Lady Cranleigh’s for you to wear, although that wasn’t mentioned in the episode at all.” I stopped there, realising that the dressing-gown thing had been pure self-indulgence on my part, based on how absolutely ripping he had looked in it when he wore it in 1925. “Isn’t it better than languishing in a dungeon while the writer figures out how to get you out of there? I thought it would be nice to have someone looking after you for once. In most of your adventures, you end up getting bashed about, locked up or tortured with nobody to take care of you. You just have to dust yourself down and get on with the story. I thought you would appreciate the soft bed, tea and crumpets after all that.”

“That was indeed very considerate of you, and you know how much I love tea. The crumpets were delicious, too. Thank you very much. But I am beginning to suspect your motives in some of this. Can you genuinely say that you have never daydreamed about mopping my fevered brow? Or building your own benevolent version of Castrovalva for me to recuperate in? In which I am not ‘trapped’ in the strict technical sense but develop a strong disinclination towards leaving while there is honey still for tea?”

“Er, well…” I suppose you don’t get to be an intergalactic hero without having a good deal of insight into other people’s motivations, and such insight comes more easily when you’re being written by the person who has those motivations. (It’s almost like telepathy.) “OK, yes. I did want to look after you. But I’m not trying to keep you trapped in this story. I just haven’t got round to writing the next part yet.”

“The lady doth protest too much, methinks,” he said, arching his eyebrows. He really is such a smart aleck. Pretty much everyone quotes that wrongly, apart from him, of course. Probably picked it up when he was drinking with Shakespeare, or ghostwrote it for him, or something. “'Look how much nicer I am to you than the BBC was', eh? What about the space flu, though? That wasn’t pleasant at all!”

“I’m sorry about the space flu. But if nothing unpleasant happened to you, there wouldn’t be a story, would there? I’m afraid that’s an occupational hazard of being a hero.”

“I suppose you’re right,” he said, with a universe-weary sigh. “Writers of stories really do seem to have it in for one, sometimes. Tea and crumpets are certainly better than Cybermen and Daleks, and you have promised that you are going to give me a chance to play cricket. But as for making me wear this absurd dressing-gown again…”

“I have given you pyjamas too, you know. With your favourite question-marks on them. You haven’t had to spend most of an episode walking down corridors with the dressing-gown open to your chest in my story. Nor wear a Pierrot costume. And in any case, this is just prose, without any visuals. For all the readers know, you could actually be wearing a baggy old cardigan.”

“Hmmm. But what about those illustrations of yours? To be fair, you haven’t done an illustration of me in the dressing-gown yet, but I suspect it’s only a matter of time. I wonder whether these illustrations aren’t something of a pretext for downloading a ridiculous number of pictures of me from the internet. Drawing references, indeed. How many drawing references does anyone need?”

“Have you been rummaging around on my hard drive while I’ve been asleep?”

“You’ve given me so little else to do, and one must keep oneself occupied somehow. There’s only so many hours one can spend doing crosswords. You still haven’t managed to draw me properly, you know, despite all your references. You’re nowhere near as good as Turlough. And you’ve started writing me out of character now, too. I’m not usually quite this sardonic.”

“In my defence, I’m not the first person ever to have done that, but I will try to do better from now on. So, what sort of plot do you want? How do you want me to get you out of here?” (First rule of plotting: consult your protagonist ahead of time about all important plot decisions. Except, perhaps, ones in which he is attacked by monsters that are made of rubber or green versions of Dobbin the pantomime horse from Rentaghost. Sometimes it is necessary to preserve the element of surprise, particularly when the special effects aren’t very convincing.)

At this point, Tristan came in and looked quizzically towards the Doctor.

“Authorial conference,” said the Doctor.

“Aha, I see. Good stuff. Perhaps I can contribute too. I used to read through some of Mr. Wight’s drafts and make notes for him, or rather the real person I’m based on did. Wonderful chap, Mr. Wight.”

“We’re discussing what should happen next in the plot,” said the Doctor. “I was feeling rather grumpy about not having had much to do in this story so far. It must have been the aftereffects of the space flu that made me feel so out of sorts and out of character. I’m feeling much better now, though. Quite my old self.” He rocked backwards and forwards on the balls of his feet to illustrate this, and grinned broadly.

“I didn’t cut a very good figure at all in the last section of ‘The Scenic Route’,” said Tristan, turning towards me. “Made rather an ass of myself sashaying around in the Doctor’s costume and then crashing the TARDIS. Any chance of a rewrite?”

“No, I’m afraid not,” said the Doctor, before I could answer. “Web of time, and all that.”

“Well, I think the first thing to do, since you’re feeling better, is for you to change back into your normal costume. You’ll feel much more like getting back into action, then! It’s laid out on the chair. Unfortunately, your celery buttonhole has wilted and Mrs Hall has had to throw it away. I think it might have caught the space flu from you. It's obviously a very important part of your outfit although no-one seems to have taken the trouble to explain why. But there’s no problem – I’ll bring you a nice new celery stalk from the vegetable rack. ”

“Ah, but my previous celery was imaginary,” said the Doctor. “It came from an Edwardian yacht in space. Imaginary space vegetables keep for much longer than real ones. My first stick of celery, which was produced by by block transfer computations, lasted for a year and a half before it started going a bit brown around the edges.”

“That’s no problem,” said Tristan, breezily. “The celery from downstairs is imaginary too. We’re imaginary. Well, I’m not entirely imaginary, but I’m a fictionalised version of a real person, and this conversation we’re having now certainly never happened in real life. It’s far too silly. We look so similar that we're clearly being played by the same actor - perhaps due to budgetary constraints at the BBC - and are only appearing together in these scenes thanks to CGI. Or smoke and mirrors, since I'm someone from the 1930s who hasn't heard of CGI."

“I meant imaginary in the context of this story. Things that we’re imagining. What we call in the trade second-order imaginariness or the doubly fictional. I would tell you to go and look up the entry on ‘Uqbar’ in James’s musty encyclopaedias in the cellar to give you an idea of what I mean, except that the episode in which James buys the encyclopaedias hasn’t happened yet and the encyclopaedia in question, despite being published in 1902, is the subject of a fiction that wasn’t written until 1940. Continuity can be rather confusing, sometimes, even when you’re not suffering from regeneration sickness.”

“Ah, I’m not sure how we’re going to manage to produce something that’s doubly imaginary in a veterinary practice in 1937. We do have quite a few interesting chemicals in the surgery…” mused Tristan. “Oh yes, I have an idea! I’ll ring Mrs Pumphrey, and ask her to ask Tricki-Woo to imagine one. I’m sure she won’t mind. She’s always been very forthcoming where food items are concerned.”

**********

“Here you are! To dear Uncle Doctor, from Tricki-Woo, Esquire,” said Tristan, bounding up the stairs with a very crisp-looking but entirely imaginary stick of celery. “Nothing but the best from Mrs. Pumphrey. She popped a very decent-looking bottle of port into the package, too.”

“Excellent,” I said. “Now, Doctor, if you’re ready to change, I’ll avert my gaze and insert a row of asterisks.”

Tristan gave a naughty grin. “If I were writing from the omniscient narrator point of view, I’d be sure to make full use of all the privileges that that afforded.”

“Yes, I rather imagine you would,” said the Doctor, with a raised eyebrow.

Tristan blushed and grinned again, a little sheepishly, realising that he must after all have left a copy of Health and Efficiency inside one of the more sedate publications that he had lent to his visitor.

“Tristan!” I said “Be more respectful! He’s very proper, you know. Hundreds of years old, and is supposed to be a good example to the young. No hanky-panky in the TARDIS, and all that.”

“I’m not supposed to be a good example to anyone. Quite the reverse, in fact!” said Tristan, laughing.

************

The Doctor, now back in his usual costume, turned to me: “Pleasant as this discussion has been, we don’t seem to have got much further with deciding on the plot.”

“There have been a lot of distractions. But look, I have got you better from the space flu, now. That’s progress.”

“Yes, indeed,” the Doctor said brightly. “No more shivering and shaking. Definitely an improvement.”

“I have a plot suggestion. You could write yourself into the story as a love-interest for me!” said Tristan. “Of course, our relationship would have to be ultimately doomed to failure because of a disapproving father or a strange obsession with goat dung, because the BBC has it in for me too, but we could have some fun first.” He gave me a very flirtatious look.

“Well… yes… I could do that…” I said, blushing and suddenly feeling very flustered.

“So, would your authorial avatar like to come to the Drovers’ with me this evening?”

It was very tempting, of course, but taking into account Tristan’s overdeveloped sense of humour and the presence of his exact lookalike, I was not at all convinced that I wouldn’t be the victim of some convoluted mistaken-identity prank sooner or later, even without the Doctor’s active collusion.

“Tristan. The author has to concentrate on writing the rest of the plot and doesn’t need this sort of distraction, and you know full well that Siegfried has forbidden you from going to the Drovers’ until we have finished mending the TARDIS,” said the Doctor. “Come on,” he added, putting his arm around Tristan’s shoulders, “Let’s go down to the paddock. While the author is working out where to go next with the plot, we can get started with the repairs, and then if the plot turns out to be too dull, we can fly off and have our own adventures instead.”

#lost the plot #fiction #doctor who #all creatures great and small #fifth doctor #tristan farnon #absurd and surreal humour #authorial avatar #celery #my fiction

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found915 · 6 years

Text

lessons.

Pairing: Modern!Steve Harrington x Named!Reader (female)

Words: 4,357

Summary: Emma finds herself partnered with Steve Harrington on a project, but it looks like they’re going to be spending even more time together when he decides he wants to learn to play guitar.

Warnings: Does fluff need a warning? Because this is pretty damn fluffy. Also, it might be terrible, so I guess a possible warning for that too?

A/N: DEDICATED TO @hairringtonsteve!!! HAPPY BIRTHDAY, EMMA, MY LOVE!!! I hope you have a wonderful day and I hope you enjoy this little ficlet thing here. I don’t know, it might be trash... But you deserve the best and I hope it, at the very least, brings a smile to your face, gorgeous. You’re so beautiful and pure and good and kind and you deserve the whole world, so the least I could do is give you a small oneshot because you deserve your own Steve Harrington. Love you!!!

(Also, I apologize for any errors you may find because I haven’t slept yet and I’m half dead. I wanted this to be worthy of you, babe, but I’m not sure I quite made it, but I think it’s pretty cute, so... )

Oh, and texts from Steve are in bold and italics are Emma! I hope that’s not too confusing... It looks really messy tbh.

It’s not that Emma necessarily minded partner work, but it was just her luck that she got paired with the cutest guy in her class for this big project that was worth a good part of her grade. The same one who had led to her being very distracted quite a few times. The one with the amazing hair, the beautiful brown eyes, and the widest of grins. Steve-freakin’-Harrington. Emma had taken notice of him the first day of class, so maybe she paid a little extra attention when the roll was first called. Maybe she wanted to know the name of the guy who was sure to ruin her life. At the very least, ruin her semester.

Steve was honestly hard not to notice, though. Aside from the obvious good looks, he was pretty vocal in lecture. Not in that annoying way that makes you want to roll your eyes every time they speak, however. Emma would have much preferred it if Steve was just speaking because he loved the sound of his own voice. She’d honestly take anything that would make the boy seem less endearing to her, but no. No, Steve only interjected when he had something to contribute or to kill the awkward silences that seemed to linger after the professor asked a question. He was a bit of a hero in that way. It was beyond cringeworthy the few times the man had stood at the front of the room, waiting for some kind of response and getting nothing, before Steve started coming to his rescue.

Emma didn’t know who was more grateful, the professor or herself. Especially the few times the middle aged man decided to make the sleep-deprived college students laugh with his awful dad jokes. Once Steve had learned his role in the class, he made sure to never leave the man hanging, so he tended to laugh the loudest and, occasionally, compliment the joke, but there was one day that Emma found herself a little more delirious than normal from pulling an all-nighter and the joke that left the man’s lips was just so terrible, and he was so proud of it. She laughed far too loudly and far too long for it to be okay. What was even more mortifying was that Steve turned around, the biggest grin plastered on his face, chuckling at her reaction. Emma’s eyes widened as she covered her face with her palms, forever wishing for the clock to tick faster so she could go die in peace. Ever since that day, Steve seemed to turn in his chair every so often to gauge her reaction on things, much to the girl’s chagrin. Honestly, how was she supposed to focus now? It was one thing when she could make out just enough of his profile and stare at the back of his head, but now? Now, it was like he responded to certain things and wanted to know what she thought or like they were in on some kind of secret joke, but she had missed the punchline. It was nerve-wracking, to say the least.

So when Emma walked into class on a random Wednesday only for Mr. Welsh to announce that they needed to partner up for their midterm project, she turned to her left, fully prepared to ask the girl sitting on her row (despite knowing it probably wasn’t the best idea because of how often the girl fell asleep during lecture) before being startled by the sound of someone sitting in the seat on her right, making her jump a little. Turning her head so fast that she almost gave herself whiplash, Emma’s eyes widened as they connected with pools of brown. Steve chuckled at her alarm, giving her an impish grin that made the girl both want to smack him and kiss him because it was really damn cute.

“Mind being my partner, Emma?” Emma wasn’t sure how, but her eyes widened even more and her eyebrows were surely connected to her hairline at this point. She honestly couldn’t believe her name had left this boy’s lips when she had never even spoken to him. (Well, except for that time she briefly thanked him for holding the door as they left the classroom. She had thought about that for longer than she cared to admit.)

“How- how do you know my name?” she questioned. Roll hadn’t been called since week one and she was fairly certain she’d never been called on. Not to mention, she was as bad as the others about not speaking up in lecture. (The class started too early, okay?) Steve’s smile softened as he looked down, rubbing at the back of his neck awkwardly.

“I, uh, might have paid more attention during the roll call in week one than a person should…” Emma couldn’t help the blush that found its way onto her cheeks. She was fairly certain he meant in the general sense, but she was still a little shocked that he remembered her name. “So, uh, partners?” he coughed, feeling a little more awkward than he had when he initially sat down. Emma would be lying if she said she didn’t enjoy seeing the boy squirm a little. It made her feel a little braver.

“Oh, I don’t know… I was going to ask Sleeping Beauty over there, but if you’re so desperate… I suppose I could have mercy on you,” Emma laughed softly as she watched a myriad of emotions pass over the boy’s features. He leaned forward in his seat to glance at the girl Emma had referenced, cracking up at how apt the description was.

“Well, I mean, I’d hate to steal you away from someone who’s obviously really eager to be here…”

“It’s fine. I’ve always thought myself to be a kind and charitable person. Giving back isn’t easy, you know?” Steve’s loud laugh, earned the two a few more stares than Emma was okay with, but she couldn’t exactly hide the grin on her face at the reaction.

Steve was beyond thrilled to see this side of the girl he had been a little too focused on since the beginning of the semester and he found it more than a little difficult to follow Mr. Welsh’s lecture that day, but he was damn glad the man had given him a reason to move seats and talk to her, even if it was the briefest of conversations. The boy was practically vibrating in his seat, trying to find another reason to talk to Emma, but when he noticed how focused she was, he decided to wait until lecture was over. As they were reminded of the deadline for the project one final time and dismissed, Steve watched Emma pack her backpack for a minute, before blurting out, “Can I get your number?” The girl quirked an eyebrow at him, halting her movements for a moment. “Uh, so we can get together to work on the project?” Steve tried his best to save face a bit, groaning internally at how desperate he sounded.

“Yeah, sure,” Emma shrugged, pulling her cell out of her back pocket and opening her contacts before passing the phone over to him. Steve followed her lead and did the same, passing over his own phone. After saving his contact information with a grin, he handed the girl back her phone, letting his fingers linger a little longer on hers than was absolutely necessary, lighting up even more as her blush returned. “Umm, right, well, I have another class, so… “ she bit her lip, not knowing what to say as she returned Steve’s phone. Steve’s eyes were a little too transfixed on Emma’s mouth and her skin was a little too hot to be comfortable.

“Yeah, uh, yeah… I’ll text you?” Steve shook himself a little to break out of his reverie, glancing into Emma’s eyes one final time as he moved to the side so that she could pass.

“Sounds good. Talk to you later, Steve,” Emma mumbled a little as she passed him, wondering what in the hell she had just gotten herself into. She didn’t turn back to see the shocked expression that matched her earlier one when he revealed that he knew her name. Steve Harrington wasn’t the only one who paid attention.

Emma was working on a paper when her phone buzzed with a text message. She couldn’t help but laugh when she noticed the contact name on her screen, heat settling in her cheeks once more. Smiling, she unlocked her phone to read the message.

To: Emma :)

From: My Idiot Partner

Received: 3:12 p.m.

So how soon is too soon to text about a project that isnt due for another month? :D i mean i dont want to sound “desperate”

Emma laughed out loud, glad her roommate wasn’t around because she was certain she looked like an idiot, grinning at her phone like a maniac.

To: My Idiot Partner

From: Emma :)

Received: 3:14 p.m.

Pretty sure you’re supposed to wait 3 days, right? I’m not the expert on these things, though…

btw my contact name seems a little unoriginal now and idk how to feel about that

To: Emma :)

From: My Idiot Partner

Received: 3:14 p.m.

Damn… So much for sounding desperate, i guess… :/

Nah it’s cute. The smiley was a nice, artistic touch ;)

To: My Idiot Partner :)

From: Emma :)

Received: 3:17 p.m.

I’ll forgive you for sounding desperate since you appreciate my smiley. I added a smiley to your contact since you like it so much. :)

To: Emma :)

From: My Idiot Partner :)

Received: 3:18 p.m.

:) you really are a giver. Thank you

To: My Idiot Partner :)

From: Emma :)

Received: 3:20 p.m.

I do what I can. ;)

To: Emma the Giver :)

From: My Idiot Partner :)

Received: 3:20 p.m.

Im extremely grateful. When can you meet?

To: Emma the Giver :)

From: My Idiot Partner :)

Received: 3:20 p.m.

For the project i mean

To: My Idiot Partner :)

From: Emma the Giver :)

Received: 3:22 p.m.

Lol I knew what you meant, Steve. Umm… maybe tomorrow? 5-ish? I get out of my last class around that time. Where do you want to meet?

To: Emma the Giver :)

From: My Idiot Partner :)

Received: 3:25 p.m.

Just making sure, Em. ;) idt ive ever worked on an assignment this early… 5ish works. We can grab food at that little diner down the road? Joe’s i think? Do you know where it is?

To: My Idiot Partner :)

From: Emma the Giver :)

Received: 3:27 p.m.

Neither have I, honestly, but this project is killer, so we’re probably better off starting now. :) That sounds great, but no, I don’t know where it is… Joe’s?

To: Emma the Giver :)

From: My Idiot Partner :)

Received: 3:28 p.m.

Thats true. :) Umm… how about i pick you up? You stay in the dorms?

To: My Idiot Partner :)

From: Emma the Giver :)

Received: 3:29 p.m.

Uh, yeah… Westcott Hall. Are you sure? I can just put the address in my phone…

To: Emma the Giver :)

From: My Idiot Partner :)

Received: 3:31 p.m.

Yeah, im sure. Westcott isnt far from my dorm. Copeland. It’s easier to just pick you up. :) i’ll let you know when im on the way

To: My Idiot Partner :)

From: Emma the Giver :)

Received: 3:34 p.m.

Okay. See you tomorrow :)

Emma had been freaking out the entire day. Steve insisting on picking her up made it seem too much like a date in her mind and while she kept trying to put that pesky thought out of her head, it continued to wiggle its way into her brain. And if she put a little more effort into her outfit that day than usual, well, that was her business. After her last class, she rushed back to her dormitory to freshen up and grab her books for Welsh’s class, while waiting for her ridiculously good looking project partner to text her. He didn’t keep her waiting very long, fortunately. She chastised herself for being so eager when her phone chimed. The smile, however, slipped from her features a bit when she read the text.

To: Emma the Giver :)

From: My Idiot Partner :)

Received: 5:16 p.m.

So i probably shouldve asked for your dorm room number before entering the building… im getting weird looks just standing here

Emma panicked a bit, looking around at her mess of a room. Albeit most of the mess was on part of her roommate, but still… She hadn’t planned on the boy coming to her door. More like meeting him downstairs… Outside. Far away from her room. She didn’t know what to do, but Steve didn’t give her time to properly think it through before he sent another text.

To: Emma the Giver :)

From: My Idiot Partner :)

Received: 5:16 p.m.

Okay so i started walking to avoid looking like a creep and now i feel really stupid… hopefully im going in the right direction? Passing 123 now

Emma couldn’t help the giggle that bubbled up, shaking her head, and deciding to take pity on the poor boy.

To: My Idiot Partner :)

From: Emma the Giver :)

Received: 5:17 p.m.

Omg Steve lol. Take the stairwell at the end of the hall. I’m 217.

To: Emma the Giver :)

From: My Idiot Partner :)

Received: 5:18 p.m.

Emma starting picking up a few of her and her roommate’s more ridiculously placed items, still shaking her head at the boy when she heard a knock. Giving another cursory glance around to make sure everything was a little more presentable, she crossed the small room to open the door, looking up at a sheepish Steve and tried her best not to laugh. She didn’t succeed in the end which made him hang his head in faux shame.

“I kind of figured you’d wait in the parking lot, Harrington,” Emma giggled, moving back to her bed to pick up her bag once more, not noticing how Steve had stepped a little more into her room so that he could get a better look at her side of the room. He stopped when he heard her question, mouth dropping open a bit, giving the girl a look that would suggest she had lost her mind. Emma jumped a little when she noticed he was very much in her room.

“What kind of gentleman doesn’t go to the door, Em?” Emma warmed a bit at the nickname, before laughing at his almost comically serious face, which earned her the most adorable pout.

“I mean, it’s 2018, Steve… And it’s not like this is a date, right?” She almost slapped herself for letting that question slip, but it was out now and she couldn’t take it back. Emma wasn’t sure what to make of the slight deflation of his shoulders as he turned his focus elsewhere.

“That’s no excuse,” he mumbled, almost as if he were distracted. “You play?”

“Huh?” Steve turned back with a smile, nodding at the corner of the room, near the small closet that housed her clothes, where an acoustic guitar rested on a stand. “Oh, yeah. Yeah, I do.” Steve gave an impressed nod, doing this thing with his mouth that shouldn’t have been cute, but it really was.

“Very cool. I always wanted to learn.”

“Oh, well, I, uh, I could teach you?” What? Steve being in the small room with her was making Emma lose any sense of filter, apparently. She no longer knew what she was saying. The brunet’s answering beam however was almost enough to make her not regret it.

“Yeah?” Emma felt herself nod, unable to help the small smile on her face. “Awesome.”

Between getting together to work on the project and guitar lessons, Emma felt as if all of her free time was spent with Steve. Not that she was really complaining. The boy never failed to make her smile or laugh and the only real downside was that she felt herself falling a little too hard into what had started out as a simple crush at best. It was kind of annoying because she was pretty certain that he had also become her best friend and that’s where things get messy. Not to mention, there was the whole not knowing whether or not he liked her as more than a friend, which almost seemed to high school to contemplate. All Emma knew was that she was enjoying spending all her free time with Steve, even if the majority of it involved some kind of lesson.

Steve was pretty quick when it came to picking up the guitar and Emma was fairly impressed that he was learning so fast. The weird thing was that he didn’t always remember things he had learned in his previous lesson, despite having pretty much mastered it the week before. It was beyond suspicious, but Emma wasn’t going to call him out on it. She relished the feel of laying her hands on top of his to place on the frets a little more than she cared to admit and the girl wasn’t overly keen to give it up anytime soon.

Steve insisted on paying her in some way for the lessons, but Emma wasn’t having it, so he started to ply her with various treats and almost always bought her food whenever they got together to study. She protested at first, but he always found a way to smuggle it into her possession anyway, so she eventually relented. He was as stubborn as she was and it was beyond ridiculous, so she figured she’d let him get away with it occasionally. Steve Harrington was happiest when he was taking care of people and Emma melted a little too much at the thought to protest when her friend decided to show her that side of himself. That’s what had led her to return the favor one day. She had bought Steve a coffee and his favorite candy bar, a 3 Musketeers, and headed to Copeland Hall, smiling to herself. She’d been to Steve’s room enough to not have to text him and ruin the surprise. As she walked up to the door of room 111, she heard music coming through the door because either Steve or his roommate, David, had left the door slightly ajar. Stopping and tilting her head to listen for a minute, Emma noticed it seemed a little familiar, but she couldn’t quite place the song. It was clearly an acoustic version of whatever the song was. The sounds of the guitar were soothing, but the voice was a little raw, though very pretty. Emma smiled as she listened to the lyrics, closing her eyes so she could focus.

“Jackie loves to run and hide

Give her love, and she will die

Good golly me, oh my, oh my,

Cross my heart and hope to die

Bourbon streets and bicycles

Holding you in carnivals

Baby is my love too old for you?

Emma I’m for you

Emma I’m for you”

Emma’s eyes shot open at the chorus. Steve couldn’t be listening to that could he? And why did that voice sound so familiar? Did David play? Surely, it was coincidence, the song choice having her name in it. She hadn’t really talked to David much, so it’s not like she knew his music tastes… Emma couldn’t take it anymore. She had to know! She lightly pushed the door open just a bit more and peaked around the corner only for her jaw to completely hit the floor.

On the edge of the bed, facing away from her sat Steve Harrington, “novice” guitar player not missing a note as he sang the song, occasionally dropping in volume as if singing was more of an afterthought. He was completely lost in it, though, and didn’t notice his best friend’s presence. Emma stepped back into the hall for a moment, taking a breath as she tried to collect her thoughts. It was a lot to take in, but she wasn’t entirely surprised that Steve already knew how to play. Actually, it answered a lot of questions she wasn’t ready to ask. Now she was more curious as to why he lied about knowing how to. And she was beyond curious about his song choice. Releasing the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding, Emma tried to shake off the nerves, careful not to jostle the coffee in her hand too much. Nodding to herself and steeling her nerves, she pushed the door open fully this time, making sure her presence was known. Steve’s head turned and his hands stilled immediately, brown eyes widening in shock. He had been caught red-handed and he knew it.

“Uh, hey, Em… How’s it, uh, how’s it going?” Steve’s voice cracked a bit.

“You’ve gotten pretty good at that,” Emma nodded at the guitar, eyebrow raised. She set his coffee on his desk along with the candy bar. Steve’s eyes softened as he noticed what it was, having the decency to look apologetic when he looked back at the girl who had her arms crossed defensively.

“I had a good teacher.”

“Steve… Right, you know what? I’m gonna go,” Emma rolled her eyes and turned to leave. It was such a stupid thing to lie about, but it was still a lie and that hurt a little more than she cared to admit. Steve Harrington had never moved so fast in his life, nearly tripping over himself as he moved to grab the girl lightly by the hand to stop her from leaving. Emma stilled, but still didn’t look at him.

“Em, come on, hear me out? Please.” The please did it, honestly. Turning just slightly, but not willing to meet his eyes, she heard him sigh. “Look, I’m sorry, okay? I… I shouldn’t have lied to you. Even about something as stupid as this,” Steve gestured back at the guitar with one hand while the other still kept Emma’s captured in his own, rubbing his thumb ever so lightly on the back of her hand. His eyes were focused on their hands when Emma decided to look at him.

“Why did you? Because you’re right. It’s beyond stupid.” Emma wished her voice held a little more anger than it did, but she felt the fight drain out of her with every pass of his thumb. Brown eyes meeting hers, she noted that he was silently pleading with her to understand.

“Would you believe me if I told you that I wanted an excuse to spend more time with you? Which was crazy because we hadn’t even really had a conversation yet and we hadn’t even started working on the project, but you had opened your door and all I could think was ‘I have to spend as much time with this girl as possible.’” Steve started to move a little closer as he continued. “It was crazy, but I noticed you on the first day of class. I remember you walking through the door and all I wanted to do was know your name and I felt a little robbed when Welsh was the reason I learned it and not because you had given it to me. And then there was that day in class when you laughed at his stupid joke and I realized that despite still not knowing you, I wanted to make you laugh like that. I kept trying to work up the courage to speak to you after class, but you always left so quickly,” he paused with an almost sad smile. Emma could almost feel the heat radiating off his body as Steve continued to close the distance, his other hand finding hers. “So, yeah, when Welsh told us to partner up, I knew that was my shot. I was fully prepared to be charming and funny and when I saw you blush? I knew that I wanted to continue to do that. But then you completely turned the tables on me. It was insane. It took every ounce of my self control to not text you before I did, by the way. I was surprised I held out as long as I did because all I wanted to do was talk to you. And then I was in your room and I was still trying to figure out how to talk to you and I saw your guitar and the next thing I knew, I was saying I didn’t know how to play and you were offering to teach me…” Steve’s hand released her left to push a lock of hair behind her ear. Emma tried to ignore the shiver that ran through her body, as she looked up at him through her lashes.

“What can I say? I’m a giver,” she whispered, making Steve chuckle as his hand lightly touched her jaw. His eyes flickered down to her lips as his hand moved to her neck. Emma’s free hand had found home on his chest without her knowledge, unsure if she wanted to push him away or pull him closer.

“Think you could forgive me, Giver?” he murmured.

“I suppose I could be persuaded… But if you ever lie to me again… I don’t care how sweet your intentions are, we got a problem.”

“Never, Em. Next time I’ll just be upfront about my intentions to seduce you,” Steve smirked. Emma rolled her eyes as she swatted him lightly, unable to help the smile that found home on her features.

“Shut up and kiss me, Harrington.”

Steve didn’t waste any time closing the distance and tried to make a mental note to find a way to thank Mr. Welsh before the semester was over. However, he was pretty distracted and overwhelmed by the incredible girl in front of him and figured all of that could wait until later. Emma decided she was a little too okay with this boy ruining her semester.

#steve harrington #steve harrington imagine #steve harrington fic #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x named!reader #modern!steve harrington #hairringtonsteve #happy birthday emma!#mdakotaqwrites #mdqwrites

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feynites · 7 years

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I had a thought earlier and thought I'd shoot you an ask about it: Do you have any tips on getting better at world-building (I think you're great at it btw)? Also, have you always liked world-building, in itself? I find myself often using worlds other people create, because I'm not very good at creating/thinking of my own, and was wondering if that was lazy of me? Just was wondering what your opinion was, on all that! Just food for thought. c:

Thank you! I’m glad you think I’m good at it!

World-building is a very interesting subject, but it took me a while to even really appreciate what it was. I’ve also spent a lot of time in other people’s worlds and environments, that’s pretty common among fanfiction writers, but I wouldn’t consider it lazy. Not unless you think any fiction set in our world is also lazy. There will always be parts of a story that some people are better at or prefer to focus on, or still need to build up their skills at. It’s normal.

I think a few things are very key to good world-building, though. Or at least in my experience, it’s the stuff I’ve figured out that’s helped me the most.

1. Nothing is original. You might not be entirely sure of where an idea has come to you from, but at the end of the day, there are only so many facets to human existence out there. Our imaginations only carry us so far, and our ideas come from the people around us, and also from their ideas. Artists draw from the things they see and experience, and use references to make stuff more realistic. So do writers. Do not worry that your stuff is unoriginal. Doing your best to abandon that fear is one of the biggest favours you can do for yourself as a writer; there’s a difference between similar concepts and ideas, and plagiarism, and only plagiarism is really a problem.

2. Nothing is without real-world context. This is related to the above. The things you make are coming from somewhere, and that means that they will have implications and real-world parallels. It pays to stop and consider where you’re getting your ideas, and what those ideas are implying about the world around you, too. In order to write stories, you have to be willing to take the stuff of your daydreams, and hammer it out into a narrative. It’s like turning a hunk of rock into a gemstone. You have to cut pieces out, decide what to reshape, what to keep, and what to throw away. If you can’t attack your own presumptions about the real world, you’ll have a harder time shaping a consistent fictional one. But also, at the end of the day, a rough diamond and a faceted one are both still diamonds. People will often be able to tell where you’re pulling your ideas from, so what you say about certain subjects can still have an impact on real-world concepts, and on your readers.

3. Let your setting be bigger than you. When writing, it’s extremely easy to get caught up in your own ideals and frames of reference, and that can mean that you design a world that acts more like how you think it should, rather than how it would. Worlds are big, and to some extent you can mitigate this by being aware that there is more going on than what you’re describing - that your story’s perspective is limited to the characters and events in it, and that contradictory things or mysterious unknowns still linger in the wider scheme of the setting. Your characters shouldn’t know everything that you, the author, knows, and you, the author, shouldn’t know everything about the world, either. An exhaustive list of details can even work against you, because it makes it trickier to keep track of what all your characters do and don’t know as well.

4. Big events are great, but cause and effect is better. When you look at history, you can see the way certain figures and events impacted one another, and connected together to get people to their ends or beginnings. A common mistake in world building is to take the big events - wars, coronations, the fall of empires, the rise of them, etc, etc - and just throw them into the setting without much thought for how they all interact with one another. But it’s like… if you have a nation that’s got a standing army, that’s expensive. Most nations have very small armies of professional soldiers, and instead tend to temporarily conscript people to bulk up their armies in times of crisis, because someone who is busy training and fighting isn’t doing other vital work, like raising livestock or farming crops or building homes, making babies, running households, etc, etc. But they still need to be fed and clothed and offered some kind of shelter from the elements, provided with equipment and a certain degree of entertainment, and things like that. Professional soldiers can spend their time focusing on being the best fighters they can be, so there’s an advantage to it, but you also need to justify having them around, especially if the rest of your country is having to work overtime to keep them fed. So a nation with a big standing army is going to be a nation that finds a lot of reasons to go to war - war lets you bring home spoils, lets you raid someone else’s farms to feed your soldiers, and expand your territory, and tax or enslave conquered peoples, and so on and so forth. You can start your world-building at the point of ‘I want this nation to have a big army’, or you can start it at the point of ‘I want this nation to be war-like’, or somewhere else on the chain of events - but certain things will also imply certain other things. It’s best to be aware of what those elements are when you’re laying out your setting. If you make a nation with a big army that is ‘peaceful’, you either need to explain how that works, or else people will probably think that the reputation is inaccurate (and that’s fine, too, as along as you’re willing to create a nation with one hell of a propaganda machine instead). But if you have a warlike nation, then there will also be other nations that have taken the brunt of its actions and conquests. So you will do better to let a few key traits expand into their implications, than to try and railroad everything into a framework that doesn’t flow naturally from those things. Because if you have your big nation with its standing army and militant inclinations, every other part of the world is probably going to be impacted by its quest for expansion, and if they aren’t, you need to be thinking about why, or else the pieces of your setting won’t fit together very well.

5. Avoid the Golden Mean Fallacy. The Golden Mean Fallacy, also known as the ‘argument to moderation’, is the idea that the perfect solution to any problem lies in compromise. But thereare some situations where saying ‘both sides are in the wrong’ requires a lotof false equivalents or narrative contrivances, even though people often tend to think that this is the most reasonable or neutral stance to take as the sort of arbitrator of the setting. Approaching societal conflicts in your world-building withthe idea that compromise is an ideal solution can actually be really offensive, though, and less ‘neutral’ than beneficial to aggressive qualities in the setting.For example, if one group is trying to commit genocide against another, looking at it and going ‘okay you guys want to live, but these other guys want to killyou, so I think the solution here is to just let them eradicate your culture –that’s really what they’re objecting to, anyway, and then you get to live andthey still get to destroy you, everybody wins!’ is not something you want to present as a fair solution. Sometimes people are just plainly in the wrong. That said…

6. Nevermake any culture/race/ethnicity/etc ‘evil’ in your stories. Doesn’t matter ifit’s orcs, robots, aliens, faeries, or what-have-you. The ‘savage tribe ofmonster people’ or Always Chaotic Evil Race™ is a bad trope and it needs to godie in a fire. If you want an ‘evil group’, you will do far better to alignpeople based on something like ideology or political corruption than race, geography, or traits theyare born with. There are other tropes along these lines that should be avoided, too, in fact there are more of them than I could successfully list in a timely fashion. As a general rule, though, if taking your world-building principles and applying them to real-life groups would result in an appalling statement, you should either change it, or else work it in as a form of propaganda and prejudice which you’re well aware of. That’s the difference between something like ‘mages are the most dangerous people in Thedas’ versus ‘the Templars believe that mages are the most dangerous people in Thedas’. One is you, the writer, making a blanket statement that some groups of people are just born dangerous, whereas the other is you, the writer, creating a scenario where prejudice exists in the setting.

7. Taking something out is often harder than adding something in. For example, building a setting without something like sexism or racism is usually much more complex than building a setting with something like magic or dragons or something. Fantastical elements are flexible, and you can shift the rules of them around to suit your needs without too many people crying foul. Whereas something like sexism is built into a lot of aspects of our society, and sinks into things that many people don’t even think twice about. Trying to create a fictional world where there is no sexism or history of it is, therefore, very hard, because you have to learn as much as you can about the ways in which this prejudice impacts our society and our presumptions, and then try and extrapolate how that would change everyone’s behaviour in a different world. And what you don’t change will immediately tilt your setting towards being the kind of place where biased presumptions are true facts of nature, rather than being a place where bad attitudes merely exist among the people and cultures there. This applies to basically everything, by the way, although it’s usually the most glaring when someone decides that they don’t want to deal with X kind of bigotry, and think that just going ‘it doesn’t exist in this world’ is the simple way out. (It’s not, the simple way out is to go ‘it exists in this world just the same way it does in ours, but I’m not focusing on it’.)

8. Keeping track of things is more important than knowing them off the bat. Everybody knows you’re making stuff up. That’s what they came to this party for. Inconsistencies can happen, but it’s also entirely possible to get so caught up in the planning stage that you never actually do any writing. So a good compromise between spontaneous invention and consistency is to just note the things you add in when you add them in, and then figure out how they might impact the other elements in your story, and set aside potential consequences in case they’re interesting or useful later on. Editing is your friend, and ‘I don’t know, let’s think about it until I do’ is also a vital element to incorporate into your thinking.

9. Be aware that you can mess up, and probably will. In order for any story to be inclusive of a wide enough range of people and cultures to make a whole world, it’s going to require you stepping outside of your own experience, or incorporating stuff that you have only a limited amount of knowledge on. You may very well fuck this up. This doesn’t mean the attempt was doomed, and it doesn’t mean you’re bad at world-building, and it also doesn’t mean that you have to defend your mistake in order to keep your setting from being deemed a worthless heap of junk. Your honour doesn’t ride upon whether or not you can make a convincing argument as to why your intentions outweigh the unintended implications of your actions. If someone points out a mistake, you should think about the ways you can go about handling it and/or fixing it. Maybe you just suddenly made your virtuous heroic group a lot more shady than you thought. Maybe you have to abandon a plot twist you were originally angling for. Maybe you have to make your narrator a lot more unreliable than you initially planned. There are solutions, and most importantly, you gotta listen to the people in the real world whose cultures or traits you borrowed from for your story. Just like when you borrow anything. If it’s not yours, you need to respect that and be mindful of how you use it.

10. Have fun. When you make a new world, there should be things in it that you love. That speak to your delight and sense of wonder. These are the things that often help the most when you’re deciding what to actually make in your world. You want unicorns? Put in unicorns. You want talking dragons? Put in talking dragons. Just think about how they would work, and how people would react to them, and how having them around might change the way the world operates. A lot of stuff will build naturally out of that.

I hope some of this helps!

#Anonymous

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deanessner · 7 years

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I Can't Give Everything Away

I have a cycle. When I’m bored or lonely, I break up my un-momentum with a little dance: checking my Facebook, then my email, then my Facebook again (keeping this tab open for easy access in case someone wants to contact me), then my Twitter, then my email again, then my Twitter again, and so on. Maybe I’ll disrupt the routine by wandering onto a New York Times article I discovered in my Twitter feed for a few minutes, but it’s only a brief footnote.

I read somewhere in some article — probably in one of those aforementioned “footnote” sequences — we approach this cycle the same way a lab rat presses a lever over and over again hoping for a food pellet. For us, those pellets probably seem to vary. Nourishment can come in the form of being up-to-date on the news or being in on a funny joke or knowing that an old friend received your birthday message.

But I think there’s a darker, duller edge to that gratification. I may check my Twitter in the focused spirit of seeing what inflammatory stuff Trump said today. I may check my email to see if an editor got back to me about a pitch. I may check Facebook to see if someone liked a song I shared. But, I also check for the sake of, well, preventing the pain of not checking. I’m not even referencing a fear of missing a crucial, time-sensitive thing; I’m talking about the deep, guttural, language-and-logic-defying need to check just to check. Even after pulling on the lever a few times and it yielding no pellet, a rat is bound to just keep pulling, right? (Sorry for the annoying Thomas Friedman-esque metaphor here — it just seemed appropriate.)

Why am I like this?

I used to think the main purpose for making and consuming art was to share and experience it with others. You didn’t just have an opinion, you formed it, sculpted it. You thought about the right words and vocal cadence to describe something. You considered your audience. You ranked things, not for your own compartmentalization but so others could see the breadth of what you’ve seen. Art was something to advance your ideology and self-worth in the eyes of others. Art absorption was a proxy for power-grabbing and knowledge-accruing. What a piece or work actual meant to you was important, but, then again, that “meaning” was probably also informed by a restless fear, and also an excitement, about how others may see you. If a tree falls in the blah blah blah...... well, you get it.

Peppered in with that perspective was a thirst for originality. I remember feeling a wash of sadness and futility after a college lit class I was taking studied the Roland Barthes’ essay “The Death of the Author” — which suggests that writing is inherently unoriginal because words are finite and each reader attaches his or her own meaning to sentences and paragraphs and stories anyway. If I couldn’t be new, then why should I bother to try and do anything?

Then, the need to try regardless of any audience came to me. In the summer of 2013, my previously bulky and broad-shouldered grandfather developed cancer and started losing weight at a rapid clip (he passed away in February of the following year). One afternoon, while I was alone with him, I suffered an intense panic attack. Then I suffered another one that night. It would keep happening. It was a bad few months for my mental health, but it taught me a valuable lesson: people make art to survive.

I could barely play guitar (or any other instruments for that matter), but I started making music. I wrote and recorded a full 9-song album and 5-song EP over the course of three months. I now consider myself an accomplished songwriter, but not a musician, because I haven't really taken the time to learn music theory or chord patterns. I just know the way I feel when I press my fingers on certain keys or strings. Maybe I did this to run from and resist Barthes’ thesis, but, regardless, I knew I had a lot of emotions to purge that summer. I knew I needed some way of articulating and understanding what I was going through. I needed a way to feel more alive.

Since that summer, though, I’ve fallen back on old habits. I created and religiously monitored a Last.fm account: a social media platform for music lovers that let’s you see what you and your friends are listening to. I grew obsessed with the idea of others looking at what I was listening to. What did they think of me? Every time I’d listen to an album, I’d check to make sure it was also “scrobbling” (aka recording) to my profile. I recall a conversation with a friend where he remarked that my Last.fm account showed I didn’t listen to music all that much. I was devastated. In my quest to scrobble obscure artists as a way of displaying a depth of taste, I fell in love with some of my favorites bands: Stereolab, Can, The Dismemberment Plan, Shabazz Palaces. But still, was any of this authentic?

This obsession with exaggerating the extraverted parts of myself makes me think of the recent Jim Jarmusch film “Paterson,” which is about a bus driver (played by Adam Driver, ha ha) named Paterson who lives in Paterson, New Jersey and writes poetry (his favorite poet is William Carlos Williams, who has a book of poems titled “Paterson”) in between shifts. The audience’s intimate connection with Paterson comes in the form of these poems — he doesn’t share them with anyone, not even his loving wife Laura, except us. He stores them in a secret notebook.

Paterson has the same routine every day. He eats his lunch by the same waterfall and walks home through the same industrial complex. Coupled with the fact that he doesn’t own a smart phone (by choice), Paterson lives an extremely boxed-in life. He writes poems, a form of escape and expression for sure, but for the most part, Paterson just listens. He listens to Laura discuss her dreams of becoming a country music star. He listens to a heartbroken man named Everett talk about losing his lover. He listens to Doc, the owner of the dive bar he frequents, tell stories of Paterson folklore. He listens to the chitchatting of his bus riders.

Jarmusch doesn’t paint Paterson as a hero or a gifted genius as much as he does an observant vessel to frame the movie around, however I saw his character in a different light. For Paterson, poetry wasn’t a means to any end. He seemed to have no ambitions of getting published or sharing his work with the world. Rather, he wrote to survive. He wrote to make sense of everyday life. It’s easy to see Paterson as docile and powerless, but in reality, he was fully in control of himself. He didn’t need to open his mouth or share his art for it to mean anything. It existed for him.

As I consider my social media tendency with that “language-and-logic-defying need to check just to check” in mind, I’m reminded of David Bowie’s last song “I Can’t Give Everything Away” from the album “Blackstar.” The song concerns itself with two topics that mean a lot to me: how difficult it is to control the way people think of you (and in the late Bowie’s case, remember you) and whether it’s possible to keep anything to yourself.

In reference to the latter, Bowie’s speaking about the pressures of celebrity. But, for me and my life, I view this theme through the lens of temptation and pressure. “Seeing more and feeling less/ Saying no but meaning yes/ This is all I ever meant/ That's the message that I sent/ I can't give everything away,” he sings. Translation: Let me die with some secrets.

I also see this lyric, though, as a warning: Words are malleable. Ideas are interpretable. Nothing is fixed. But you know what isn’t subject to the whim of others? Your feelings. Your thoughts. Your secret notebook. Don’t give it all away if you don’t want to be hurt, he seems to say.

And maybe that’s the key to freeing myself from the cycle of checking Facebook and then Twitter and then email, and then doing it all again: Keeping some things to myself.

Maybe the sooner I learn that only I matter in the network of me, the sooner I can learn to just exist in the poetry of everyday life.

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joshterry · 6 years

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this afternoon i grabbed coffee w/ a college student that my old boss asked me to meet with. she graduates soon & was in town interviewing for jobs at various music companies. my old boss sees some promise in her, so as a favor to him, i told him i’d be happy to meet with her. the meet up couldn’t have came with worse timing. i’ve been in 3 weeks of utter hell at work, stressing out over everything, overreacting, internalizing, not being the best version of myself and in general just being mentally and physically exhausted. but the coffee meeting was happening whether i wanted it to or not because i’m a grown man who’s not in charge of my own schedule and my assistant had already cancelled a bunch of other things i wanted to avoid this week and i wasn’t going to let my old boss down, so i needed to man up and drink coffee with this freakin' college kid.

as with most coffee meetings with strangers, they start with small talk and pleasantries, the stranger tells you a little about themselves and then they finally get to the actual point of the conversation. now usually i’m quite ninja like in my ability to talk about anything but myself. i’ve learned over time most people if given the opportunity will go on and on about everything in their life, and so when the topic turns to me, i can easily skirt around it and get back to focusing on them. in these types of meetings though, i can’t escape quite so easily, because i’m actually the subject they want to talk about.

she asked about my job, how i got my start & what steps i took along the way. i talk to a lot of college kids and these questions come up quite often. jenn from my office has heard me tell this story probably 9 million times in the 3 years she’s worked for me. she often jokes and says it’s hard for her not to roll her eyes almost every time i tell someone my background story, because i always tell it just a little bit differently. part of the reason for that is i have a terrible memory & the other part is when i’m caught up in telling a story i can tend to embellish a bit for the purpose of really driving a point home. i’m sure i often make out that i was some kinda refugee who walked miles to school in the snow with no shoes on, starved to death because i was so poor and suffered in the same ways the cavemen did before they discovered fire. in fairness, jenn’s right, i have a penchant for storytelling and sometimes remember the exact details a little fuzzier than they really happened. kinda like that guy adnan on the podcast “serial" who’s in jail for killing his ex girlfriend. to hear him tell it he’s so innocent and was framed, he had an idiot lawyer and was just a kid. he couldn’t remember what he was doing the day she died, probably because if you asked me he killed her, but because some white lady who worked for this american life reports on it, now everyone thinks he’s innocent even though it’s obvious to me (and america if you’re truly honest with yourselves) that adnan killed that dang girl. i mean come on, just listen to the podcast, i know you have, it was like the most listened to podcast in the world. and you’re telling me that sucker can’t even remember if he was playing nintendo the day his ex girlfriend was found dead, come on. nope he doesn’t remember crap because probably he killed her and also because it makes for a better prison story if you think he’s innocent. so i guess you can say i’m kinda like that dude from serial who killed that girl but can’t remember quite how he killed that girl so instead he says he can’t remember and you think he’s innocent because sarah koenig from this american life will make you believe anything because SHE knows how to tell a good story. i think i’ve made my point. you’re welcome.

anyways, keep me on track people. i get lost sometimes.

anyway i answered her questions. my story can be inspiring and she seemed inspired. go me. so she asked the follow up which always comes next. it’s the question every college kid who’s not sure if they’re doing the right thing right before they graduate always asks me in hopes that i will give them some sort of reassurance as someone who “did it” so they feel at peace with their choice.

“if when you were my age you knew what you know now about where your career would take you, would you have still chosen to go down this career path?”

had she asked me this question on any other week, in any other month, in any other year, i would have had a stock answer that reassured her, challenged her or maybe even made her think twice if she was serious enough about this. today i was just honest.

now i’m paraphrasing here, because lord knows i can’t remember what i said. right jenn? but i think i said this.

“to be honest, when i was your age there wasn’t anything a 36 year old goober like me was going to say that was going to convince me i wasn’t right. so here goes. you want to know if i would recommend what i’m doing now to be something you should dedicate the next 14 years of your life to doing. ha. well let’s see, the past 3 weeks i’ve been an absolute lunatic. i’ve bitten off people’s heads, i’ve been short with people, i’ve felt overextended, not heard, overwhelmed, mean, negative and like a really really bad version of myself. i’ve wanted naps, soooo many naps, i even wanted to be deaf one day so i wouldn’t have to hear anyone complain or hear their stupid ideas that i already thought about 3 days before they asked them because i’m that good at this that i’m like ms. cleo the psychic reader when it comes to people feeling sorry for themselves and needing to be mad at someone for something they did to themselves. literally on tuesday in front of my entire staff i almost had a nervous breakdown and talked some nonsense about how out of control i felt and now i think they all think i’m a crazy person and maybe they’re be right. so yea at 22 i had no clue that my last 3 weeks would have been like this, and if my stupid 22 year old self would have even had that thought i probably would have pursued something that paid me better, gave me more vacation time, or benefits, or maybe i would have just spent more time trying to talk to pretty rich girls so i could be a stay at home dad with no kids so not really a dad but like a bum who’s wife’s rich and maybe even considered adopting a pet if she wanted that and i dont’ even like pets but if my rich wife liked them i’d like ‘em or heck i’d even get some stupid hobby like flying kites like those dumb people that fly kites seem to enjoy…”

immediately the poor college kid's eyes got huge & i could tell she instantly regretted asking me her unoriginal question. she was probably thinking “what on earth did i just get myself into, this coffee isn’t even that good." so i continued.

“but here’s what i do remember about being 22. everyone that was older than me told me not to get into this. they told me this profession was very trying, that i’d make tons of sacrifices that might not be worth it. they told me that most days i’d feel more defeated than successful. they told me that no job was permanent. they told me that i’d have more self doubt after doing this job than confidence. and they told me that most people that do this for a living are drug addicts or idiots or both. so i can tell you this as a 36 year old that now appreciates what all those older people told me when i was your age. they were right.”

again not the answer the poor kid was looking for. she was no longer smiling like she was when she originally asked this question before i started my ramble. instead i think she was looking for the exit signs in this coffeeshop so she could run the hell out.

“…but all those people who were in their 30’s & 40’s that were telling me all of that, knew that i was going to do this anyway. they knew this is what i wanted, and they knew they weren’t going to talk me out of anything. and you know what, even though i’ve had 3 of the most trying weeks of my life & have felt like a complete lunatic & useless person to everyone around me, i would not trade any of the ups & downs, the highs or the stresses that i’ve had in 14 years for anything. because it all happened how it should have for me. i couldn’t have imagined the successes i’ve had at such a young age or seeing the things i’ve seen. i never thought i’d live in nashville - the honky tonk country music line dancing capitol of the world. but i love it here. i never would have thought at my age now i’d be an entrepreneur again and not working for someone who gives me benefits and a 401k. but i adore what i do now, even when it drives me crazy. if i’ve learned one thing in my time working with music, it’s that i now know who i am as a person and i’m pretty unapologetic about it most days. this job has tested me and pushed me. it’s taught me patience, empathy and even tolerance, and i’m anything but all three of those things. it’s taught me that no matter how bad it gets, i’ll get through it. and it’s taught me that if i surround myself with good people and we all trust and believe in one another and we stay the course, we can create some really amazing moments and do some special things together. every day i get to go into work, no matter what craziness is going on around me and i get to talk to two of my favorite people, two people i’ve given chances and believed in, they both work for me, they both don’t know who master p is - i bet you don’t know who master p is either do you, but those two non-master p knowing fools do more for me and my business than i can ever thank them enough for. they’re smart, and they’re driven, and self motivated & they’ve taken something i created and are making it their own and because of them what i’m doing now is far better than i could have ever imagined on my own. i get to talk to bands that i love, who’s music inspires me, who i consider friends and who also believe in me and i get to help them achieve their dreams and goals and hopefully build a business that supports the art they want to make for the people they want to make it for. and i get to do all of that without anyone telling me what i can and can’t do. my job and my life are focused around two things - doing things that i think matter and doing them with people that i think matter. that’s it. and at 22 years of age, i didn’t have the foresight to think any of that was even possible, because i didn’t think a dumb kid from south carolina could be that lucky. so if you want me to tell you what you should do with your life, i’d tell you to stop listening to some 36 year old guy who went crazy these past 3 weeks and just wasted an hour of your time and learn to trust your own gut, because i think you know what you wanna do, and whether i tell you to do it or not, you’re going to do what feels right in your heart, and secretly if i’ve made my point that’s what i’m trying to tell you anyway.”

her eyes were still big, but she was now smiling.

i got up, thanked her for her time and said “i gotta go back to work and be crazy again."

as i walked in the door & sat down, i apologized again to my staff for how i’ve been acting the past 3 weeks. they laughed, jenn probably rolled her eyes (again) and we just continued to do our jobs. because at the end of the day, they support me and they motivate me, and i think somehow i might do a small bit of that for them too. if i’m honest, i think most times they don’t think i’m as crazy as i think i am. and that’s why they’re my people and that’s why i’m glad that at 22 i didn’t listen to nobody but myself, because had i listened to anyone else, i wouldn’t have what i have today. and i hope for that girl’s sake, 14 years from now she feels even a fraction of the way i do tonight. i also hope she can admit to herself that adnan killed that girl, because he did, and i’m not going to listen to you either if you don’t believe me.

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