#but that means at least spellchecking

[factorialsotherfandoms]

TW: panic attack, non-graphic self harm, reckless behaviour, fear of drowning

This is like... a bit 5K of Pac and Philza actually bonding for once...

Fear claws into Pac's heart just as easily as his fingernails dig into his palms. There's nothing wrong, objectively there's nothing wrong, but he's been alone all day. It's not at all like working with Mike; he's been trying to decorate the Favela, but his breath keeps catching and his thoughts keep stopping.

He can hear the fountain beneath the warpstone, and he wants it to /stop/.

He knows anxiety now, he knows it, he knows this is what it is, and when Fit found the blood in Chume Labs and the empty graves he made him promise to call him if it happened again. It's happening now, Pac can feel it building, but there's nobody awake. He checks it again, and still it's only him.

So he does the thing he does next best. He holds his breath and he thinks of nothing and he builds. More trees, more ponds, more fountains - anything and everything he can think of. Give the Redeemer a sombrero, then think better of it half way through and take it down. Start returfing the football field, only to decide to put it back because making the goals muddy is just ugly. Hang up more banners, pull them down, add a bit to the fences, swap them for iron, then concrete.

Breathe in, breathe out, there's nothing wrong it's just anxiety.

(But it is wrong, everything is wrong, the back of his brain where Mike sits is empty, not just asleep but empty, torn away and - )

Mike's in the Order hospital, Pac reminds himself, and begins to walk that way.

( - and there are eyes at his back, ready to take him again and - )

Pac forgets to breathe. He drops to his knees in the middle of the street, and scrabbled his hands in the dirt.

Pac checks the communicator again. There's a few more people awake, but... No Fit, no Tubbo, no Mike, no Bagi or Forever... Of the handful of people, the one he knows best if Philza - and while he's happily looked after the man's children, and he's been quite happy to chat or fight together in the past... Philza Minecraft is a legend, and he's never really spoken much without Fit there as a buffer.

But the other option is staying here alone, and he promised Fit that if he started feeling like this again he'd ask someone for company.

He takes a deep breath, and sends a message.

You whisper to Ph1LzA: Can I visit?

As soon as he hits send, Pac slams it shut. He pushes it against his head, shuddering while curled up in a ball. He clings to the communicator, his link to the outside, so hard it leaves indents in his skin.

"It's okay," he whispers to himself. "It's okay, you're okay, there's nobody here to watch you."

It doesn't help; he tries it anyway.

The seconds drag on into minutes, and Pac's fears overwhelm even his attempts to comfort himself.

"You're okay, you're okay, you're safe," he promises himself, even as he claws at his knees, at his face, at his hair and at the floor - anything he can reach to force himself to remember his place.

He hums songs he loves, shuts his eyes and tries to dance along.

He slams hands over his mouth and freezes when he tries.

Too loud, too loud, they'll find you - quiet, quiet, quiet as a mouse and quieter still. Hide amongst the rats, and hope nobody spots you curled up there...

The communicator pings.

In a scramble Pac pulls the lid open, shaking fingers quickly clicking him through to the correct screen.

Ph1LzA whispers to you: sorry m8, missed the message

Ph1LzA whispers to you: still need something or you get it sorted?

What does Pac say? The loneliness is getting to him and the walls are caving in and he can feel something watching from inside his spine? That Mike is gone and he's remembering a /before/ he wants to forget, He can't say that, he really can't.

But what sounds like a normal response which might get him a conversation...

With shaking hands he types whatever comes to mind.

You whisper to Ph1LzA: I am just missing Fit

... Not that. That absolutely does not sound like a request for company.

This time Philza's reply does not take nearly as long, though still longer than anyone else Pac ever messages.

Ph1LzA whispers to you: yeah?

Ph1LzA whispers to you: you want some company? I can put down a sharestone

Pac's heart settles back into place - maybe slightly too high still, but far closer. He didn't mess it up too badly - maybe English is just like that - he didn't even have to ask again.

You whisper to Ph1LzA: please.

It's another minute or two for Pac's anxiety to build and him to cling to the communicator before he recieves a reply.

Ph1LzA whispers to you: red sharestone, name should be obvious

You whisper to Ph1LzA: obrigado

Ph1LzA whispers to you: you're good

There's definitely some emotion to reading those words; Pac pushes it aside, and grabs his warpstone. Moving to the main warpstone for the warehouse seems like too much, so he simply sends himself to spawn.

Only there does he pick himself up, activating the red sharestone. It takes a few scrolls to find the new option, but once he does it earns a small laugh. He selects it, and lets his body be pulled through space.

Where he arrives is cold, deep snow all around, and an icy ocean before him. Pac tugs his sleeves down over his hands, and looks around.

Whereever Philza is, he isn't immediately obvious.

"Philza?" he calls. "Felipe?"

There's a splash as Philza trident-jumps out of the ocean, his paraglider flipping open at the zenith and allowing him to drift safely down to the ice. Pac watches him drift down, the water dripping off him freezing as it falls.

"Hey," Philza calls, once back in voice range, arm moving as though to wave before suddenly remembering he needs to hold the paraglider. "Sorry about that; spotted another jelly and had to get it before it ran off."

Pac waves him off, "it's okay, it's okay, do you need any help?"

Philza squints at Pac a moment, and Pac squirms beneath it. After a moment, though, he just shrugs, "just hunting for rainbow jelly."

"Rainbow jelly?"

"Like the French use to make themselves all rainbow," Philza grins a bit. "You can use it to make glass like that, too. Chayanne wanted some, so..."

Pac thinks of the children, hurting and asleep and under the Federation's "care", the only guarantees of their safety the ability to visit, and the knowledge the Federation knows what is coming if harm comes for their children.

"For Chayanne?" He asks. "I'll help."

"Feel free to hang onto it - if you don't use it, he'll appreciate the gift when he wakes up."

When, not if, even if Pac can see Philza hesitates too.

With that confidence and the thought of their children, Pac doesn't even consider before throwing himself into the water. Behind him he hears the somewhat distorted sound of Philza laughing, and the man throwing himself in after.

Pac spots a couple of the comb jellies, and kicks off towards them. Philza seems to see another group, as he takes another route.

Hunting animals for their innards is one of the few times that sweeping edge is worth it on this island, and so Pac takes out his sword. It only takes a hit to take out the jellies, small as they are, and then Pac just has to scoop up their remains. From there he spots another - deeper - and swims after it. And another, and another - Pac loses himself to the chore, simply collecting jelly for the happiness of a child.

He thinks he's finally calmed down, when he spots another in a cave. Pac doesn't even think about it as he dives in after - but very quickly, it gets very dark.

Too dark.

He tries to ignore it, to push through and find the jelly even as memories start to loom and the dark closes in.

Breathe in, breathe out, remind yourself your helmet is in place and with that much Aqua Affinity you're fine.

It's not the underwater prison again, it's not, it's not.

Just find the jelly and get out...

On instinct he reaches out for Mike, and finds nothing.

Nothing.

Mike? What happened to Mike?

The most frustrating thing is always that he knows, he remembers, but in the dark and the wet and the unnatural silence it doesn't matter. His breathing picks up, and he twists and he turns, looking - screaming - for Mike.

Rationally, he knows he's lightheaded because hes hyperventilating. But in his heart, in his fear, it doesn't matter, it doesn't matter, it doesn't change anything because he's alone in the wet and the dark and he /can't do this anyone/.

He wants Mike, he wants Mike, he wants Fit and he wants Mike.

Where is Mike, why can't he reach him, where is he where is he why can't he feel him in his mind?!

He's screaming for them, he thinks, even as tears stream down his face and he twists in the water. By now he's helplessly lost, not even able to find the exit he cane in by. Whatever light there was is gone, and he doesn't even quite remember why he's here.

He twists and he fights, trying to fend off hands that aren't there - only to get his leg twisted up in the seaweed and somehow everything is even worse and worse and worse. He tugs and tugs, but the seaweed grasps tighter - he sees dark prison walls overlaying dark, broken caves, and he sobs as he realises he is going to die here.

He screams again and wonders how he still has air; something responds this time, and he begs it for bitter, screaming help.

A small light he cannot focus on, and hands find their way to his leg. In a panic he twists, kicks, fights - nothing, nothing, nothing can touch him - it's worse than the seaweed, to be grabbed by a hand.

"Shit, Pac," a familiar voice calls, an odd quality to it. "Fuck, I'm just cutting you out, Jesus mate no need to break my nose."

The words don't make sense, not entirely, but seconds later Pac finds his leg free - still entangled, but the seaweed cut from the floor, and he does his best to swim away.

Right from the seaweed and slamming into the cave wall.

Hands grab him again, and say something, and he fights them all the same. Seconds later he's being dragged and pulled and - oh, god, this is how he's going to die.

He goes to fight before remembering, actually, dieing might not be so bad actually... At worst he'll respawns, at best he'll be with Mike again.

It's just as that thought crosses his mind that his head breaks the surface of the ocean. Pac gasps for air and, by the time he's processed that, he's being hoisted and yanked up onto the ice.

He's frozen, he's freezing, but he shakes off the worst of the water and shudders as sunlight presses into his skin.

He's crying - sobbing even - on his hands and his knees, blind terror all about him as he struggles to breathe.

"Aw, mate, you could have said no if it was gonna fuck you up."

There's someone else here; Pac's eyes glance around, only to find Philza there. He can't tell if the man is a friend or a foe or just an acquaintance to be embarrassed around, but the man shrugs off his bag and opens his arms in a familiar gesture.

Pac falls into them, and hides. A hand finds his hair, and another his back, and something very dark curls around to protect him from icy wind. He does not cling back, just cries to the sound of slightly awkward comfort, sucking it in.

"You're okay," the words sound so much more believable coming from someone else. "You got out, I've got you, you're safe, you're okay."

The words are whispered into his skin, and they're not quite a balm but they are a promise and a kindness none the less; he is promised safety, and he knows the man around him can provide.

He just... Did not expect that provision to include himself, only friends of friends as they are.

Pac breathes, and it comes easier now - the air is cold, but between the darkness and Philza's chest he is safe. Slowly, slowly, as he remembers what limbs are Pac reaches out a shaking hand to the void.

It finds feathers; the darkness tenses, and then relaxes to his touch.

Pac, in turn, relaxes with it.

"You good?" Philza eventually asks from above.

"Sim," Pac replies, gathering himself a little more, hiding himself in a laugh. "Sorry, sorry, that was embarrassing."

"We've all been there mate," Fit's friend says.

The wings peel away, and Pac can see them properly - tattered edges and all. Sees how they droop, and the strain in Philza's shoulders as he uses his hands to fold them, and his backpack to keep them in pace.

"Shall we get somewhere warmer?" he asks, before Pac can comment. "I've got a treasure map to somewhere near that mesa you and Fit showed me, if you've still got the warp?"

"Are you sure?" Pac's hands shake as he checks his things.

"Eh, I'm pretty sure it's an iron dungeon," Philza replies, pulling out a map and squinting at it. "I was saving it to troll Etoiles with, but I could actually do with more iron. And someone to deal with mobs while I mine it. You, me, and some skellies - sound good?"

Pac isn't sure; he doesn't want to think, though, he does know that. Dungeons are supposed to be his and Fit's /thing/, one half the time someone intrudes on. The offer almost feels insulting, but...

But when Philza felt bad, they offered him a dungeon - he so clearly means to offer the same. Like for like, not pity but a trade.

"I want the tracks and redstone," Pac tries to sound steady, and knows he fails. "I'll save it for Mike when he returns."

"Sure, I don't even know where to start with that shit," Philza takes Pac's hand, and leads him along a safe route over the ice. "If we go back to that haunted rock area, then glide back towards the mesa? I should be able to find us on the map from there."

Pac nods, placing his hand on the warpstone in advance. Philza's joins it, and together they warp away.

---

Thankfully it is dawn, and any monsters are gone this time - there's just the beautiful sunrise over the haunted sea. The sun is rising, not setting, but Pac waves to it anyway and hopes that, somewhere, Bobby can see.

Philza makes half a laugh as he finds his glider. Pac searches for his own, and tries not to remember the night on the cliff - him and Fit, him and Fit, but also Philza, laughing about cannons and resting in one another's arms, only for Philza to pull away first and let him and Fit be.

Pac instead thinks about friendship, and how Fit would abandon everything for Philza just as Pac would give it up for Mike, and how it seems that isn't limited to just them. Because Philza didn't send him home, just as Fit also kept close to an oddly behaving Mike. How it doesn't really matter, because in the end they both agree with where the other stands.

Pac instead thinks of nothing, and throws himself off a cliff after Philza.

For one glorious second he lets himself fall, before pulling out his own paraglider and following Philza down.

He lands on Philza's boat, and they drive it back to the mesa. It's filled with the sort of talk that means nothing, and with Philza humming tunes to the air. For a man who claims to be musically dead, he manages it well.

It's also noise, white noise to blur the absence in his mind.

"Here we are," Philza gets out first, and offers Pac a hand out. "We should be pretty close. These things are a bit of a nightmare to find, being underground, but I'm sure we'll manage."

To his surprise, Pac is passed the map while Philza puts away the boat. He has to turn it around to orientate himself, but once he has Philza gestures for him to lead the way. Philza puts himself on Pac's left - the side he holds the map, whilst his other has his scythe, shield turned out against the wild.

Pac tries to think of something to say, and what comes out is, "so did you go looking for a big cannon, or did you just stumble into it?"

The comment draws startled laughter from his companion as they walk, having to stop a moment to let him gather himself. "We knew we were going to see one, but we're exactly looking. You find them all over the coast in the UK, and I think some along the Thames too? A lot have been removed, but we like our old crap, so a couple of the old forts are still open."

"So you're saying you come from a land of many large cannons."

"Yes, Pac," Philza laughs again. "Yes, I do; don't you?"

"We have other large things instead," Pac tries to smile, but he knows it looks off. "Like diamonds."

"Diamonds?"

Pac can see Philza looking for the sex joke, and suddenly realises he doesn't actually want to explain what he meant. So instead he says, "quality over size. Even a big diamond is small."

That draws more laughter, "yeah okay mate; Fit's a lucky boy then."

That almost has Pac dropping the map he's holding as he chokes. Philza grabs him, holds him steady, gives him something to cling to with Mike and Fit and Richarlyson and Walter Bob all gone. Something there, some support, something to stop him choking on himself.

"Too much?" Philza's voice is gentler this time.

Pac nods, hiding his blush in his hands even as he leans on Philza.

"Alright," Philza says, handing him a bottle. "Drink some water, king, and we'll get this dungeon cleared. And no more dick jokes until Fit's also here to suffer. Maybe we could even come up with some new ones, just to tease him next time we all meet up."

Pac takes the bottle, hiding in his hood as he does as he's told. Philza takes the map and they continue to walk as he sips at it, hiding himself and his face in the bottle. Philza makes sure to stay in sight, keeping idle commentry going.

At this point, Pac is reasonably sure Philza knows something continues to be wrong - but then so did Fit and Pac when Philza had that strange... Maybe hallucination? Fit says it probably wasn't, and Pac trusts Fit, but whatever it was it was unsettling and strange.

Philza seems fine now, though; maybe one day Pac will be fine too.

It is about ten or fifteen minutes walk to the dungeon. There's nothing on the surface to mark it, just Philza squinting at the map, and passing it to Pac to check.

Once they agree, they dig; Philza calls 'race you!' and begins a staircase.

Pac lives for adrenaline; he starts digging straight down.

Somehow he doesn't hit lava.

He does end up falling from the top of the dungeon into a crevasse, fails to find either a water bucket or his paraglider, and breaks his leg. It's terrifying, and he's alone as he sees his death message flash up in chat but - maybe - it's okay. There's Aypierre laughing and Baghera offering help, and Philza on his black paraglider swooping in from the ceiling to assist.

"You good?" Philza asks as he pours a potion out over the wounds, his eyes almost glowing in the low light as Pac's bones knit together.

Pac leans forwards to check his prosthetic while his body heals, twitching only a little with the pain. The fall knocked a few screws loose and bent some of the metal out of shape, but it's an easy enough fix with a hammer and screwdriver. He'll check it over properly later, or maybe swap it for his spare until he has energy for it, but it'll hold for the day.

"All good," Pac confirms, as he pulls his jeans back down.

He can see Philza side-eyeing the prosthetic, and shifts; the man says nothing, however, just helps Pac up and types out an 'all good we're just dungeoning' to calm the global chat.

And then he looks at his map.

"You've got us near a corner," Philza turns his communicator to show Pac. "If we just start here and work around to the left, we shouldn't miss anything."

Pac nods, and pulls out his grapple. Together they pull themselves up and onto the ledge, and the dungeon begins.

It starts simple - Philza takes out a spawner, while Pac works on the skeletons, then they swap so Pac can loot the minetracks. Trading the mobs on and off, Pac cannot help but notice how Philza even when on mob duty prioritises looting, catching the attention of a swamp of skeletons and sending them on a chase over barrels as he smashes them open and grabs the contents. Only when he can carry no more does he start fighting, laughing as he does.

It's a nice laugh, that one.

He laughs too when Pac fights, hacking away at the iron blocks he claims to want. With every other hit there is a call of "good hit!" "nice one!" "you're doing good, Pac!", and Pac can feel himself starting to grin as well.

Together they dance in a dungeon much easier than the one Phil joined Pac and Fit for, able to let loose without worrying for the giant magma cube around the corner. They keep an eye on each other, and watch their backs, and Fit's deep voice is so clearly missing between them without feeling like a void.

By the time it is finished, they are both laughing, bone-dust covering their clothes and their tools and the world in their hands. Philza gives Pac some of the iron, and they take his staircase - not Pac's hole - out.

They don't talk about what comes next, but neither of them reach for their warpstones. Instead Pac picks a direction and walks. Philza follows.

They find a hill a little way out, surrounded by flower fields but empty of them itself. Philza lights it up with his slingshot, despite it still being around midday, and Pac makes hot chocolate for them both. Pulls out chairs, too - blue and green - and places a coffee table between them.

He sits on the blue and Philza looks at the green and says, "are you sure I'm okay to sit there? I don't wanna intrude."

Pac looks at the chair - it was just habit, just what he carries - and curls up his toes. "It's fine," he can hear the sadness in his own voice. "Mike isn't here, he wouldn't mind."

"Do you mind?"

"I got it out for you."

"Alright, king," Philza finally takes the seat and the hot chocolate, leaning back into the cushions. After a bit he adds, "these are good chairs. Maybe I should invest in something better than mine."

"They're not expensive," Pac replies. "And they're comfy! I have one instead of a bed."

He wonders if he should have admitted that - he knows people worry - but in the crash of the panic attack and the fighting it's hard to keep his mouth shut.

Philza just laughs though, "yeah? I've been using one of those wooden ones. You know? Basic ones, just in a fancy wood."

"How do you not have splinters?!"

"I'm good with my hands - what else can I say?"

They both laugh at that one, a joke which actually lands. There's something comfortable and comforting about it. The laughter drifts into giggles, drifts into sips of hot chocolate - quiet and together. Pac makes a point of not watching as Philza gets himself comfortable, untangling his wings and stretching them... Not to full width, but wide.

It's only when one brushes his arm that Pac dares to ask "what happened?"

"Hm?" Philza looks up.

"To your wings?"

"Feds fucked them up when I arrived," Philza says it like its nothing, but there's bitter pain in his words. "By purgatory they'd healed up just enough to fly, but then carrying Tubbo through meteor strikes and radiation... I can't regret it, I /won't/ regret it, but they're fucked again. I can hold them up so it seems better, but they hurt worse than before."

Pac wants to say he's sorry, but he doesn't think it would be appreciated. Instead he says "thank you for saving Tubbo."

"I couldn't just leave him," Philza says. "He's my friend too, you know?"

"I know," Pac fiddles with his cup. "You're a good man, Felipe Minecraft. I'm not sure I'd do it."

"I think you would," Philza says, with more faith in Pac than he's ever had in himself. "If it came to it. You're also a good man, Pac - if you weren't, I wouldn't let you have Fit."

It's an admission neither of them acknowledge. Instead Pac flops, exhausted, against his chair. "I'd do it for Mike. I miss him."

"I can't imagine," Philza's wings stretch a little further, stroking against Pac's cheek. "But, I'm sure he'll heal. And once he does hold him close, okay? Because you never know when you'll loose him."

It's obvious, of course Pac will try to, but there's pain in Philza's voice, and Pac thinks of a memorial on a wall and a child living in the footsteps of a ghost, and maybe Philza can imagine better than he thinks he can.

Or maybe Philza means he can't imagine, because he knows.

"Did you love him?" Pac asks instead.

"He was my best friend."

Philza's voice breaks on the word, and Pac knows both that he has to stop, and that Philza knows just what it is Pac fears. Even if he calls it different, even if they didn't share one mind... Pac should not have asked.

"I'm sorry."

"You did nothing wrong; it hurts, but in hurting I remember him, you know?"

There's a long silence, in which Pac tries to know what to say, and Philza stares absently at soft clouds on the horizon. Even in Portuguese he would struggle, and Philza is certainly not looking to his translator.

Maybe Philza and Fit are not as Pac and Mike; Philza has already lost his Mike. Or, perhaps, both are true, and even if Pac looses his best friend, someone will be there to keep him whole.

It's a nice fantasy; he knows Philza's wound bleeds open even now.

"I have never been without Mike before this island," Pac eventually admits. "At least... I was seven when we met, he was five. I've heard his thoughts since I was ten, and the first time he ever fell silent was when I was put in that water prison."

"Shit," Philza closes his eyes as he swears, leaning back. "Earlier, with the water... You should have said something, Pac, I wouldn't have judged you. Fuck knows there's shit I can't do anymore."

"I didn't know it'd be that bad," Pac hesitates after those words. "It hasn't been before. Today is just... bad? I already felt bad."

"And you came to me for company, and I made it worse," Philza says. "I am so, so sorry mate - I didn't mean to, I just- It was for Chayanne."

"It was still better than being alone," Pac replies. "The second time our connection broke was when he was taken - I haven't heard him since. Even asleep, even unconscious, even when I was in a coma... We could still feel each other. Not now. It's lonely no, and it's been so long..."

"Pac..." Philza's voice catches. "You shouldn't have to make those choices... You shouldn't have to put up with my whims just not to be alone, mate, you should have just said; we could have gone to the dungeon, or the favela, worked on the train tracks... You didn't have to swim."

"Fit is gone, Mike is gone, Richas is gone," Pac twists his hands. "You were helping me. I wanted to help you - I wanted to do something for Chayanne too! He is a good egg."

"He is," Philza smiles softly, taking the distraction for what it is. "The best. But, king, are you going to be okay?"

"When am I not?" Pac asks, as he thinks of happy pills and his own blood trailing the floors of Chume Labs.

Philza gives him a distinctly unimpressed expression and, yeah, fair, "I'm serious, Pac; I don't have plans today if you just wanna chill somewhere. Here, my place, your place, the Favela... if the karaoke's working, we could steal a room? Hell, we can just keep heading outwards and find some more dungeons if you fancy violence instead."

"... Are you sure?"

"We're friends, aren't we?" Philza asks. "We don't get to hang out as often as we should - if you'd rather get some rest, I won't stop you. Just thought I'd offer."

"Karaoke then?" Pac suggests, if only for some structure to keep the anxiety from seeping back in.

"Sure. No promises I won't fall asleep on the couch, though."

Pac laughs. It is weaker, but it is more real. "No promises, no promises here either."

In time they do, of course, fall asleep on the couch - and that is where Fit will find them in the morning.

#qsmp fanfic #qsmp philza #qsmp pac #mike and techno haunt the narrative #what is that conversation at the end idk they ran away from me #it was supposed to be about the shitty prison system #it very much is not #god this was a long one #I wanted to write it so bad #but christ 5k of continuous narrative is a lot #I've put scene breaks where they teleport #and summarised the fighting more than I meant to #but its still all one continuous scene really #and oh god was it hard to stitch together #multiple scenes so much easier for longer >.< #okay enough complaining about writing hope you enjoyed #I'll get it to ao3 when I can #but that means at least spellchecking #but oh god I'm tired after this #I've been writing it for... eight hours #on and off but without doing anything thinky between #just replying to occassional email or watching a video about a snake while I have lunch

[sanchoyo]

updated the ekleipsis website so hopefully all the links wont open in new tabs now. like ik thats a Little Thing but it was ANNOYING me -_>-...

#at least im pretty sure it should be fixed on every page unless i missed one #but theres a. lot of pages to check so. i am not entirely sure . but MOST of them it is fixed #when the story ends i am goin to change the font too probably to smth a bit more dyslexic friendly and maybe mess with it so its more #mobile friendly too... #i am dreading the grammar/spellcheck run when i do finish soon... #its almost 100000 words long. i. i have accidentally went double over the nano length of 50k. help #i mean technically its aroun 85k rn i think. but its . its going to go all the way to 100000 i already know because I know myself im gonna #CRY #HELP #MAYBE ILL WAIT UNTIL JAN TO BOTHER WITH GOING BACK OVER IT #MAYBE DECEMBER WILL BE DRAWCEMBER FOR ME. MAYBE ILL JUST NOT WRITE OR LOOK AT WRITTEN WORDS AT ALL #JKDSKFJHKJ #sanchoyorambles

[artsekey]

I'd been seeing videos on Tiktok and Youtube about how younger Gen Z & Gen Alpha were demonstrating low computer literacy & below benchmark reading & writing skills, but-- like with many things on the internet-- I assumed most of what I read and watched was exaggerated. Hell, even if things were as bad as people were saying, it would be at least ~5 years before I started seeing the problem in higher education.

I was very wrong.

Of the many applications I've read this application season, only %6 percent demonstrated would I would consider a college-level mastery of language & grammar. The students writing these applications have been enrolled in university for at least two years, and have taken all fundamental courses. This means they've had classes dedicated to reading, writing, and literature analysis, and yet!

There are sentences I have to read over and over again to discern intent. Circular arguments that offer no actual substance. Errors in spelling and capitalization that spellcheck should've flagged.

At a glance, it's easy to trace this issue back to two things:

The state of education in the United States is abhorrent. Instructors are not paid enough, so schools-- particularly public schools-- take whatever instructors they can find.

COVID. The two year long gap in education, especially in high school, left many students struggling to keep up.

But I think there's a third culprit-- something I mentioned earlier in this post. A lack of computer literacy.

This subject has been covered extensively by multiple news outlets like the Washington Post and Raconteur, but as someone seeing it firsthand I wanted to add my voice to the rising chorus of concerned educators begging you to pay attention.

As the interface we use to engage with technology becomes more user friendly, the knowledge we need to access our files, photos, programs, & data becomes less and less important. Why do I need to know about directories if I can search my files in Windows (are you searching in Windows? Are you sure? Do you know what that bar you're typing into is part of? Where it's looking)? Maybe you don't have any files on your computer at all-- maybe they're on the cloud through OneDrive, or backed up through Google. Some of you reading this may know exactly where and how your files are stored. Many of you probably don't, and that's okay. For most people, being able to access a file in as short a time as possible is what they prioritize.

The problem is, when you as a consumer are only using a tool, you are intrinsically limited by the functions that tool is advertised to have. Worse yet, when the tool fails or is insufficient for what you need, you have no way of working outside of that tool. You'll need to consult an expert, which is usually expensive.

When you as a consumer understand a tool, your options are limitless. You can break it apart and put it back together in just the way you like, or you can identify what parts of the tool you need and search for more accessible or affordable options that focus more on your specific use-case.

The problem-- and to be clear, I do not blame Gen Z & Gen Alpha for what I'm about to outline-- is that this user-friendly interface has fostered a culture that no longer troubleshoots. If something on the computer doesn't work well, it's the computer's fault. It's UI should be more intuitive, and it it's not operating as expected, it's broken. What I'm seeing more and more of is that if something's broken, students stop there. They believe there's nothing they can do. They don't actively seek out solutions, they don't take to Google, they don't hop on Reddit to ask around; they just... stop. The gap in knowledge between where they stand and where they need to be to begin troubleshooting seems to wide and inaccessible (because the fundamental structure of files/directories is unknown to many) that they don't begin.

This isn't demonstrative of a lack of critical thinking, but without the drive to troubleshoot the number of opportunities to develop those critical thinking skills are greatly diminished. How do you communicate an issue to someone online? How do look for specific information? How do you determine whether that information is specifically helpful to you? If it isn't, what part of it is? This process fosters so many skills that I believe are at least partially linked to the ability to read and write effectively, and for so many of my students it feels like a complete non-starter.

We need basic computer classes back in schools. We need typing classes, we need digital media classes, we need classes that talk about computers outside of learning to code. Students need every opportunity to develop critical thinking skills and the ability to self-reflect & self correct, and in an age of misinformation & portable technology, it's more important now than ever.

#computers #pc #digital #rant #something something planned obsolescence

[emeritusemeritus]

Vulnera Sanentur [Weasley Twins x Reader]

Part 1

Part 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14

Title: Vulnera Sanentur

Pairing: Fred Weasley x Reader x George Weasley {Established relationship}, platonic Snape x Reader.

Timeline: DH1- Set during the events of the seven potters. Canon and certain plot points have been altered for the needs of the story.

Summary: The battle of the seven Potters throws your world into chaos when one of your boyfriend’s is cursed. As Snape’s ex-potions assistant and previous protégée, you recognise the inflicted curse immediately and demand answers from your mentor.

Warnings: Angst, mentions of war and Voldy, descriptions of injury and blood, descriptive smut, p in v sex, shower sex, tension. Snape has a soft spot for reader. Arguments. Probably some cursing. Mentions of nightmares. Reader is part of the Order of the Phoenix. Mentions of death (Dumbledore). Mentions of Tonks’ pregnancy. Not spellchecked nor beta read, we dire like Madeye.

"Dumbledore's dead, it was Snape."

Your eyes opened in sheer panic as you startled awake, quietly gasping to force air into your lungs as you attempted to center yourself, realising you were safe. You looked around the dark room, breathing deeply and squinting through the darkness, familiar outlines of furniture slowly coming into focus as you took in your surroundings, realising that you were safe in your bed. The familiar weight of two arms slung around your waist gave you an immediate sense of relief as you quietly lay there, your breathing and racing heart slowly calming as you listened to the small snores and steady breaths of your two sleeping boyfriends lay either side of you.

Fred's body was pressed tightly to your back, his arm crossed over your waist as his hand cradled your clothed breast, whilst George lay beside you, your head on his shoulder with his hand resting on your hip. Despite the comforting knowledge that you were safe, surrounded and protected by your beloveds, the words from your dream replayed in your mind like a continuous, tormenting loop, casting an essence of foreboding within you.

"Dumbledore's dead, it was Snape."

Those words had haunted you since the moment you'd first heard them, the words and the greater meaning completely unfathomable to you. You weren't there when Dumbledore had died, but you saw the pain in Harry's eyes each and every time his name was mentioned and for some reason you couldn't escape the moment you learned of the headmaster's demise at the hands of your mentor, Professor Snape.

You'd always had a certain proficiency for potions, that much was clear as early on as your first year when you'd passed the first year examinations with flying colours, earning top marks in your written work and had drafted an exemplary specimen of Forgetfulness potion from memory. You'd proven time and time again that you were both able and interested in potions and for those very reasons Snape had seemed to take a liking to you, never giving you the same harsh treatment he so often bestowed upon his students. At the start of your sixth year, Snape had offered you the role of Potion Master's assistant, a highly esteemed role that had never been offered to a student before. You'd accepted with sincere gratitude and had found that working alongside Snape was much more harmonious than you could have anticipated, both of you sharing a bond of sorts, finding that you were a good team. Of course you were conflicted with his treatment of Harry and his general preference towards the Slytherins, particularly Malfoy, and you could hardly excuse his past as a death eater but for some reason you sensed conflict and guilt within him that redeemed him at least slightly in your eyes. Most students wrote him off and cold and uncaring but you saw beneath that, having seen first hand his caring nature, both with yourself and Draco in particular.

You'd been with Snape the night that Harry and Draco had duelled in the sixth floor boys bathroom, when Harry had unleashed an unknown curse he'd found in that cursed book to block the cruciatus curse that Draco had fired.

Snape had sped to the bathrooms with you in tow upon hearing Myrtle's scream and had tended to the gravely injured Malfoy without hesitation, casting healing spells and incantations that manage to stop more blood pouring from the gashes that littered Draco's body. He'd ordered you to get the essence of dittany from his personal store at once and you'd applied it to the wounds that were knitting together as Snape concentrated on the incantation. Later that night, when he had taken Draco to the infirmary, he'd called you into his office and told you never to speak of it to anyone, and you had kept your promise, knowing the grave consequences you and your loved ones could face if you did.

When you were told of Dumbledore's demise at the hand of your mentor, you'd been astounded and profoundly shocked. Though Snape could be cold and harsh, you'd never once seen him be anything other than loyal and respectful to Dumbledore, which only greatened your shock and horror at the events that had transpired.

"Angel," a voice whispered gently in the dark, the hand holding your hip squeezing gently to get your attention. You turned to George, seeing that he was awake now and watching you. He offered you a small smile as he looked at you with concern in his eyes, his hand moving from your hip to stroke your cheek. "What's got you awake?"

"The usual," you whispered back, with a sigh, nuzzling down into his bare chest to comfort yourself. He placed his arm securely around you and made room for your snuggling, though you still had Fred's arm around you which restricted your movement just a little.

"Want to talk about it?" He asks quietly, stroking your hair, knowing exactly what you are referring to. You don't reply verbally but instead shake your head against the smooth skin of his shoulder, your hand rising up to run your fingers through the sparse patch of hair beneath his pecks, feeling mostly smooth skin beneath your fingertips.

"I'm sorry if I woke you up," you said quietly, drawing little circles on his chest as he stroked your back soothingly.

"You didn't," George says, though you know he's lying. "Need to get up soon anyway."

Disappointment surged through you at his words, realising that he was right as you looked at the little digital alarm clock beside the bed, seeing that there was less than twenty minutes before the alarm would sound out to prepare you for the big day ahead. You hummed a little vague reply and snuggled down closer to his side, already feeling morose at anticipating having to leave him later that day.

"Want to take a shower with me?" He asks, his hands running up and down your back gently. You consider it for a moment, not yet willing to part with the warm, comfy bed but a shower with George did sound like a nice way to wake up.

You looked up at him and nodded, earning a sweet little smile from George as he slowly leant down to place a kiss to your lips, just a small peck that was meaningful nonetheless.

You managed to manoeuvre out of bed without waking Fred and as you slipped into the bathroom with George, you cast one last glance back at your sleeping boyfriend, seeing him now sprawled across the entire bed, seeking the rare opportunity even in his sleep.

George had started the shower ready for you both and was just in the process of checking the water temperature when you walked into the bathroom, really looking at him in the light. You always thought George looked incredible in the morning, still rousing and slightly dishevelled from sleep, his newly cut hair spiking in every direction. He was only wearing a pair of lounge shorts that hung low on his hips, his muscular back completely on display for you as he adjusted the knobs before turning round and flashing you a gorgeous smile.

"It's ready Angel," he says, walking over to you and immediately grasping your T-shirt, or rather one of Fred's old ones, by the bottom and slipped it off of your body, leaving you in just your panties. The whole act wasn't overtly sexual, it was comforting if anything spending a little time just being intimate with one another but you couldn't deny that the scales were tipping and everything that George did seemed to light a fire of desire within you, your nightmares already forgotten. You didn't miss the way George's gaze rested on your naked breasts before he leaned down and captured your lips in a kiss, clearly needing to feel as close to you as you did him. Your hands stroked down his chest as you kisses and you started tugging down his sleep shorts so that he was bare before you, feeling him smile into the kiss at your desperation to get him naked. Your panties were next, George's long, deft fingers slipping into the waistband and slowly dragging them down your legs as he broke the kiss, moving downwards with your panties until you were both completely naked.

"Get in angel," he says with a smirk, smacking your bum gently as you pass him to step into the steaming shower cubicle. The hot water feels heavenly against your skin as you step under the spray, ensuring to leave enough room for George too. Because of your boyfriends' height, the shower had to be raised right to the top of the slide rail, shock created a wonderful waterfall effect for you. George stepped in behind you, closing the door and placing a dry towel over the top of the cubicle away from the water spray for after.

His hands immediately begin running over your hips as you wet your hair, pushing it back and away from your face. You each lather up your hair with the shampoo you shared and take turns washing it out under the spray. You laugh and joke as you reach up to style his shampoo-filled hair into different configurations, manipulating the suds to form different shapes. You'd successfully created the shorting hat on top of his head, though with his new shorter hair it was much more abstract and you poured as he stepped under the spray and washed away your masterpiece.

"Let me," he says as you reach for your shower gel hanging by the little rack. George's hands roam over your shoulders as he spreads the sweet scented gel over your body, watching as it turns to suds in his hands. When his hands slip down over your breasts you can't help but rest your head on the tiled wall, a little puff of breath escaping you at the sensation. You could tell that it was having an affect on George by his increasingly excited member in your peripheral vision that was beginning to run against your leg.

"My turn," you say with a smirk, turning to face him completely as you reach for his products, squeezing a little out into your hand as you begin to lather him up, starting with his shoulders and slowly working your way across his abdomen and down.

He gasps and groans when your hand comes into contact with his hard cock, beginning to pump him slowly, just how he likes.

"Fuck Angel," he groans, eyes closed as he tips his head back in pleasure. Your pace slowly increases as you squeeze him just a little tighter, building the sensations he needed, rewarded in turn by his frequent moans.

"Angel, fuck," he moans, reaching up to suddenly grab at your wrist to stop. You look at him with wide eyes, worried that you'd done something wrong but he immediately pushed you back into the tiled wall, smirking at your little gasp from the coldness of the tile before he kissed you passionately, hands wandering all over your body. You moan into the kiss as his fingers drag over your pebbled nipples before slinking down your body until they slip between your legs, feeling the heat and wetness there.

"Georgie," you moan as his fingers begin to circle your clit, knees trembling already at the sensation. "Georgie I need more, please."

The spot he'd been kissing on your neck is suddenly punctured by his teeth as he groans and dominantly spins you around, manhandling you with little to no effort as he positions you as he likes. Your breasts are pushed against the cold glass, nipples already aching from the cold as he presses you gently into the glass wall. His hand reached down and spanks you, earning a gasp followed by a deep groan as his fingers begin to toy with your little pussy once again, this time from behind. His finger slips inside you and you can't help but buck your hips at the sudden but welcome intrusion. He pumps his finger in and out of you a few times with precision before he suddenly pulls away. Seconds later you can feel the familiar bulbous tip of his erection pressed against your labia and you rock your hips again, desperate for him to enter you as he snickers at your desperation.

Grabbing hold of his cock, he slips back and forth through your folds before pulling away slightly and slapping his tip against your clit a few takes making you cry out. Without warning, he suddenly reaches for your leg and holds it up, spreading your thighs and leaving you completely open for him as he slides in all the way, your hungry pussy greedily accepting him as you feel yourself stretching to accommodate him.

You moan out in unison at finally being joined together and he slowly pulls himself back out, dragging it out so that you can feel every single inch of him, every vein and every ridge before he slams back into you, setting a brutal but tantalising pace as he fucks into you from behind. His moans and groans echo in the little cubicle and those mixed with the steam from the shower make you feel lightheaded and completely fucked out already.

George shifts you forward just a little, still keeping hold of you securely before resuming his thrusting, making you cry out at the new angle. He manages to slip even deeper in you now and you can't help but rock your hips at the intensity of the feeling as he bites and sucks at your neck from behind, never once loosing his momentum.

Suddenly, he spins you in his arms so that you're facing the shower and with one swift reach up, the spray of the shower is no longer above you as George knocks the shower head off the clamp, allowing it to bungee down until it was spraying your bodies. With his unoccupied hand, he reaches for the showerhead and immediately aims it up at your pussy, causing you to scream at the new sensation. The spray of the water was focused entirely on your pussy, the forceful droplets hitting your clit in the most perfect way which only furthered your pleasure. You were completely overwhelmed, the water vibrating against your clit, your nipples taught and aching from the coldness and George's perfect cock filling you entirely. You couldn't hold out any longer and you could feel your climax charging through you, all of your pleasure spots being played perfectly by your boyfriend as you begin to cry out louder and louder.

"Georgie fuck, fuck, George I'm cumming," you cried out as he fucked into you harder and harder, balls slapping against your pussy as he feels you begin to clench and roll your hips at the intensity of the orgasm crashing over you. He lets go of the showerhead immediately, knowing that it would overstimulate you quickly as he focuses on thrusting through your orgasm, prolonging your pleasure and cresting his own as he fucks into you. Your clenching walls squeeze his length in the most wonderful way and he only lasts mere moments before he's cumming inside you with a roar that reverberates around the small room.

He stays inside you as you both catch your breaths, George's arms lowering your leg back to the ground as you wiggled your toes, feeling the familiar ache begin to creep into your limb from being held up for so long but you only smile, feeling blissfully fucked out. He slowly pulls out of you, resting his head on your shoulder as you keen at the sensation, both of you breathing deeply as you feel his cock slip out, followed by a stream of his cum that slips slowly out of your little sore hole and down your thigh.

"Perfect timing," you laugh as you hear the alarm blaring from the bedroom, followed by a loud groan from Fred who you can picture slinging his arm over the side of the bed to whack the clock into silence. George chuckles against your shoulder at your words before placing a kiss to the spot he was resting on, moving to stand at full height again. His hand reaches out for the showerhead and carefully avoid any areas of your body that would be too sensitive, he washes away the evidence he'd left on your body with his hands before turning off the shower and placing it back into the bracket clamp.

"I love you so much," he says suddenly, prompting you to turn and face him, seeing the trepidation in his eyes. Today is the day that the order would be transporting Harry to the burrow, a dangerous but necessary mission and unfortunately for you, both of your boyfriends had been chosen to assist with this operation. Tensions were high and the stakes were even higher, meaning that you were all scared of the outcome.

"I love you so much George Weasley," you smile, feeling your own emotions bubbling under the surface at the prospect of what could happen tonight. You moved forward and stepped into chest, his arms instinctively wrapping around you as you fought of the chill, no longer having the hot water to warm you up.

"If something," George begins to say, but you place your lips on his to silence him, not wanting to hear it. You pull apart and though he still looks downcast, he understands.

"We love each other, that's all we need to think about right now." He nods gently and pulls you in for one last cuddle, placing a kiss to your wet hair as he holds you. The sentiment is not lost on you, both of you completely bare before each other both physically and emotionally, each needing to cling to the other as you navigate the next 24 hours.

"Have you two done fucking? Some of us need to take a leak!" You hear Fred shout, though his voice is muffled through the door. "I don't need to point out that I'm feeling very left out here!"

You laugh and pull apart as George reaches up to drape the towel around you before you both step out of the shower. You walk over and open the door as Fred bursts in, staggering straight to the toilet as he pulls down his own pyjama pants and pulls out his cock, not even caring that he has an audience as he relieves himself. His bleary eyes look over at his twin and he instantly grimaces, seeing him completely nude with only a small towel ruffling his wet hair.

"Gross, get some clothes on," he says, flushing the toilet and walking over to the sink to quickly wash his hands.

"You see him naked all the time," you say, watching his reaction, pointing out the facts. Fred turns to you with a frown before seeing you dressed in only a towel which clearly piques him interest.

"That's different, I don't actively look at him, in fact I try and avoid it. When you're naked I don't see anything else," he grins, moving toward you and messing with the towel where it was tucked, hoping to catch a peak of your naked body but you gently slap his hand away, making him pout.

"So he gets to rail you and I can't even get a peak? Where's the fairness in that?" He says with mock outrage.

"Stop pouting and you'll get more than a peak later," you say with a smirk which makes his eyes widen and his hands immediately fall to his sides as he puts his bottom lip away.

"Yes ma'am," he jokes before leaning in to kiss you, pulling you right into his chest as his hands snake over your bare shoulders.

Fred slips into the shower as you prepare breakfast for the three of you. George makes you a cup of tea and kisses you as he slides it over to you on the counter before taking a seat at the little table in the corner of the kitchen, pulling out the daily prophet and reading through the news of the day. Freddie joins you only a few minutes later and slips behind you as you cook the breakfast, pressing dangerous kisses to your neck as his arms wrap around your middle.

When breakfast is ready you all take a seat and eat in comfortable silence, listening to the radio that Fred had flicked on as he entered the kitchen. There's tension in the air as the news reporters begin to list off the names of witches and wizards that are declared missing, with a few familiar names creeping up on the list such as Charity Burbage, the muggle studies professor at Hogwarts.

You tried to push down the anxiety that was swirling around you and tried to focus on the positives of the day. The shop was closed today on account of it being a Sunday as to not arouse suspicion for the sudden closure to anyone who might be looking for signs that Harry would be moved, knowing that the death eaters were all waiting for this information.

Your orders from Madeye had been simple, though you were still a little aggrieved that you hadn't been selected for the mission, you were to apparate early to the burrow alone and set up a base camp for the returning members. Your talents in potions had been mentioned by your ex-professors Snape and Remus numerous times and this information had earned you the unofficial role as the healer of the group, with your own draughts having been created and shipped to the burrow in preparation.

You had a few hours until you were due to arrive at the burrow and so you took your time getting ready, checking and re-checking the bag you were apparating with, namely containing your personal items, clothing, toiletries and copious amounts of dittany and other healing and restorative herbs that you could use incase of injury or worse.

When it was time to say goodbye to your boyfriend's you could barely hold back the tears as they held you between them both, all three of you cuddled together as the reality set in, those dark thoughts twirling about in all your heads as you looked upon your boyfriends for what could be the last time. If it was, you wanted to commit this to memory, the feel of both of their arms around you, their towering height, the softness of them and the small little differences that you could physically feel between them both.

"I love you Princess," Fred says, pulling you into him as George steps back, letting you both have a moment. "I've loved you for as long as I can remember and there will never be a time that I don't, whatever happens tonight." Tears pooled in your eyes as you nodded to his words, feeling his hand delicately cupping your jaw as he looks into your eyes. "I'm not going anywhere, you're stuck with me forever you know that? Him too, but mainly me," he smirks, nodding his head to George who you're certain is rolling his eyes.

"I love you Freddie," you say, reaching up to kiss him before turning to George.

"You already know how much I love you," George says, taking your hand in his and pulling you closer.

"Yeah I think I heard that this morning," Fred mumbles before receiving a glare from George that makes him step away, leaving you to have a moment with his twin.

"We'll be back before you know it, be safe, I love you." He presses a firm kiss to your lips, hands clutching at the fabric of your dress.

"Now, future Mrs Weasley, do you have everything?" Fred says, moving back towards you as he placed at the bag by your feet. You smile widely at the nickname, butterflies raging in your tummy as you nod.

"My dress is already at the burrow," you say, thinking of your dress for Bill and Fleur's wedding in a few days, "everything else is here."

You glance at the clock and take a deep breath, knowing that you needed to leave. The twins both seem to notice and though you can tell Fred is trying to play it cool, you can see his fingers fidgeting at his side as they often did when he was uncomfortable. George's eyes told you everything you needed to know, the torment and sadness at being parted so clearly visible in his sad look.

"Don't keep me waiting," you say with one last smile before you reach for your bag and with a loud crack, you begin to pull through space and time before ending up directly outside the Burrow in the tall grass.

Molly rushes out to greet you, no doubt having been waiting for your anticipated arrival for quite some time and pulls you into a warm hug, ushering you inside and thrusts an already made cup of tea into your slightly shaking hands. Ginny heard the commotion and comes barrelling towards you, sweeping you up in a hug before you do the same to Hermione who follows suit. Ron stands back awkwardly but you simply step towards him and wrap your arms around him, knowing he wouldn't make the first move. He doesn't resist in the slightest and you hug your boyfriend's younger brother for a moment before pulling away, smiling at them all. Arthur then rounds the corner and ushers you in to a fatherly embrace, asking after his twin sons. Bill and Fleur arrive not long after and then Remus and Tonks, who pulls you away to the front lounge to speak with you.

"Tonks, that's wonderful! I'm so happy for you both!" You say with wide smiles as you embrace the mother to be, overjoyed at their wonderful news as she shares it with you privately whilst you await the rest of the order. Upon entering the kitchen once again, you see Remus look up from his discussion with Bill and you smile widely at him, mouthing congratulations secretly so no one else would see. He shoots you a shy but kind smile with a nod of his head that shows his thanks before he engages in conversation once again.

Kingsley shows not too long after and you greet each other formally but fondly before Madeye bursts in gripping the collar of a disgruntled Mundungus who looks like he wants to be anywhere but here.

"Right, Hagrid is meeting us in little whinging, as are the twins," he says, stomping forward to address the small crowd. "The plan has not changed, we will be executing it precisely as Dumbledore wanted." Suddenly he turns to address you, his fake eye wandering around the room as his real eye focuses entirely on you. "Have you brought everything I asked?"

"Yes, everything's ready," you reply with a nod, eyes flicking over to the little wooden box on Molly's table that housed all of your pre-prepared potions.

You walked over to the box and pulled out a large vial of pre-prepared potion you'd been brewing all month before walking back towards Madeye and handing it over. He examined it briefly before reaching into his pocket and pulling out a familiar flask, sniffing it once before tipping the poly juice potion into the flask before handing the now empty vial back to you.

"It'll last two hours, give or take 10 minutes, Fred and George will need to take slightly more on account of their height, everyone else a big sip will do. Get Harry's hair from the root and sprinkle it in, swirl it around but don't shake it, let the hair dissolve and it won't fail. "

"Excellent, right, best not to keep everyone waiting, Mundungus you're with me."

Madeye marches out and the rest of the group take turns to say goodbye to eachother. You reach out and grab Remus' jacket sleeve as he starts to walk away, gesturing for him to hold back for just a moment.

"Tonks, she, I, should she really be doing this?" You ask delicately, not feeling at all right about sitting about whilst a pregnant woman goes into battle. Remus simply smiles at you and pats the hand that clutches his arm, as if he appreciated the thought.

"I've never once been able to stop her yet, I hardly doubt any being on earth could," he says simply with a smile that doesn't reach his eyes. You can tell the weight of the task at hand is laying heavily on him, knowing that both his wife and unborn child would be out there on the front line.

"I can take her place," you say, offering yourself but he shakes his head.

"She knows the risks, as do I, and I greatly appreciate your concern but it's already set."

The waiting has grown to be excruciating as the hours dragged on. Molly whizzed around occupying herself, fluffing and re-fluffing pillows, picking up her knitting then throwing it down in frustration moments later and scrubbing the kitchen counters until the sponge was worn down to a slither. Ginny on the other hand sat frozen at the table, hardly moving as she gazed into nothingness, her worries written clearly all over her face. You tried your hardest not to think of the possibilities and had tried desperately not to think of your boyfriends or friends and companions out there but it was hopeless, all you could think of were Fred and George, desperate to be reunited with them again. You'd checked all your potions, split them into individual vials and had begun brewing more, reading up on healing herbs and anything else you might have missed as you waited. You'd made countless cups of tea for the three of you but none had truly been touched other than a few sips here and there and Molly had created a feast for the members due to return, mostly just to pass the time. You'd actively avoided looking at the infamous clock that featured each member of the Weasley family but as the clock chimed announcing that it was 9pm, you'd accidentally cast a glance at the clock and saw that nearly all of the Weasley family were now pointed at the 'mortal petal' setting on the clock, all except Molly, Ginny and Charlie. Your stomach dropped as you considered what could be happening, knowing that they were due to arrive at Harry's any moment and tried hard to reason with yourself that there was no option on the clock that would fit this exact circumstance, though it was complete denial.

You could tell Molly was trying her hardest to appear strong but considering that four of her sons, her husband and beloved friends were out there, she was clearly distressed. Both of your loves were out there and that was hard enough, you couldn't even fathom how she must be feeling.

"Molly, please let me help," you say, walking into the kitchen where she was scrubbing the sink once again. She stopped and turned to you and you saw the faintest crack in her resilience as she paused her scrubbing, heaving out a large sigh. She gave you a small smile and handed you the dishcloth to dry the plates and you worked in comfortable silence, not quite knowing what to say to each other despite years of a budding parental friendship.

A resounding bang followed by clattering and a splash out in the field immediately made you freeze and look at each-other with an unreadable expression.

They were back. At least, you hoped it was them.

Next

#emeritusemeritus #harry potter #emeritusemerituswrites #fred weasley #fred weasley x you #fred weasley x reader #fred weasley imagine #fred weasley masterlist #george weasley #george weasley x you #weasley twins x reader #george weasley x reader x fred weasley #george weasley smut #george weasley x reader #weasley twins masterlist

[venti-venus]

baby driver - j. m x reader

summary: after a failed study session with dean forester, jess and y/n decide to get a little innocent payback.

𐌕Ꮤ: hating on dean forester, accurate gilmore girls banter and drama, not spellchecked, first jess fic yippie ! ¸¸♬·¯·♪·¯·♫¸¸ ¸¸♫·¯·♪¸♩·¯·♬¸¸

"Mariano," Y/N whined, stumbling into Luke's Diner. She dragged her feet across the floor and dramatically plopped down on one of the bar stools. " I feel like my face is about to fall off and I'm blaming it on you."

Jess rolled his eyes as he wiped down the counter, "Good morning to you too, Y/N. I get the feeling you didn't just come in here to complain."

"And you would be right!" Y/N smirked, "I'm here for the doughnuts. Chocolate, please." She jokingly batted her eyelashes before yawning. "Ugh, get me a coffee too."

"So, why are you up at eight o'clock in the morning," Jess poured her some coffee and handed it to her, along with the doughnuts. "You don't wake up until at least two. Special occasion?"

"Oh yeah, Dean Forester is real special. I'm supposed to meet up with him to go over our English assignment. I doubt he'll actually focus on the work though. I swear he's been so obsessed with Rory it's actually suffocating my last braincell."

Jess laughed at your comment, "You wish that was you or somethin'?"

Y/N threw a crumb of her doughnut at him and gagged, "As if! Dean doesn't even like Bowie, there's no chance him and I are gonna be anything more than friends."

"Very true," Jess smirked, "Any hater of David Bowie should be locked up and studied. I'm glad you're staying away from the freaks of the world, Y/N. Very proud."

"Yeah well, I better get going. Dean said he would pick me up from here and drive us to the lake so we can focus or something." Y/N sighed, "Wish me luck, Mario."

"Hey, do not call me that. Put some respect on a poor kids name, will ya?" He joked, "At least you get to ride around in his car. Pretty nice one if I do say so myself."

"Pretty car, pretty annoying boy." Y/N took her coffee and doughnuts and gave Jess one last smile before she headed out to wait for Dean and his car. Surely he wouldn't be too long..

"H-Hey, Jess," Y/N's shaky voice spoke into her phone, "Can you come pick me up? I'm at the lake and it's raining and Dean left an-"

"I'll be there in 10." Y/N could hear a door slam and a car start on the other side of the line. Jess hung up and Y/n waited as he drove to come get her.

The study session had gone alright, but it was what happened after that which led to Y/N now being stranded. She hid under what little over a close by oak tree had and waited until Jess pulled up.

“Get in.” Jess handed her a towel as Y/N got into his car. His knuckles grew white as he gripped the steering wheel, not saying anything else as he drove off.

“Thank you, Jess.” Y/N sniffled, “I could’ve walked but my house is too far with the rain and all.” She looked over to see the brunette focused on the road.

She decided to stay quiet as he drove her to her house, using the towel Jess gave her to dry off as best she could.

"The hell do you mean he kissed you?" Jess yelled from the living room, arms crossed on his chest. His eyebrows were so creased, they were practically conjoined. He was sitting down on the couch while Y/N was in the kitchen, trying to dry off and get water.

"I don't know! He told me he was finally dating Rory and everything was fine and then out of the blue," Y/N threw her hands up, "And then I freaked out because, hello, he just said he was with Rory!"

Jess huffed. "And then what happened?"

"He got mad at me for some stupid reason and yelled at me." Y/N got quieter, "I swear Dean makes no sense. One minute he's normal and the other he's... I'm sure there's some reference I could make but I can't think of one, but you get what I'm saying. He totally flipped."

Y/N opened her refrigerator, grabbing a bottle of water. "Oh, and then," She scoffed, "He had the audacity to tell me that he actually liked me the whole time. He was 'too scared' to tell me though because-. (because he thought I was dating you.)" Y/N paused and quietly mumbled, "That's not important." She frantically walked over to the living room and sat down next to Jess.

"Does he even like Rory? Or is he just leading her on now?" Jess was confused about the whole situation.

"Everyone likes Rory, Jess." Y/N rolled her eyes, "But I don't think he wants to get serious with her. I just can't believe he would do something like that to me."

"That tall freak has some serious paying up to do," Jess got up. "Go get changed into something dry. I have an idea."

Jess and Y/N got into Dean's Ford F-150, muffling their laughs as best as they could.

"Wait, you know how to drive, right?" Jess teased as he buckled his seatbelt.

Y/N rolled her eyes, laughing as she pulled out of Dean's driveway. Rory had picked him up earlier after Jess pulled a few strings, so his car was free and available for a little joy ride.

"I got my license last year, Jess. I'm practically Richard Petty." She pulled out of the driveway and turned on the radio.

"Okay, baby driver." Jess laughed as the two of them began to drive, happily using Dean's car for the night.

¸¸♬·¯·♪·¯·♫¸¸ ¸¸♫·¯·♪¸♩·¯·♬¸¸

#jess mariano #jess mariano x reader #jess mariano x y/n #jess mariano fluff #jess mariano imagine #jess mariano x you #milo ventimiglia #venti venus writes #venus village #gilmore girls x reader #gilmore girls

[junovuno]

|| How to give the Genshin boys affection

Cuz we all need it smh.

Just some fluff hcs. Also my first post ever! Congratulate me by following and giving me validation!

Warnings: Spellchecked by Grammarly

Characters mentioned: Zhongli, Childe, Wanderer, Venti, Albedo

||𝐙𝐡𝐨𝐧𝐠𝐥𝐢 - 𝐋𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠

If ya really like Zhongli, the best way to show it is just by purely listening. When you've seen everything after so many years with no one to talk to about it, sometimes the wounds of what happened never go away. He doesn't really recount the old days with you. He doesn't want to seem as much like a grandpa with his lover, which is understandable. So you kinda have to initiate it first. And that's fairly easy! Just ask a simple question about the history of something random in Teyvat, and he'll tell you everything you asked and much more on the subject. After you get into a routine of him talking and you listening to his stories, you won't even have to ask to hear them. He'll just absent-mindedly tell you about his experiences. Sometimes they're short, sometimes they go on for hours. You don't mind, though. It always feels like you have all the time in the world with Zhongli. Sometimes, he'd go over a sad bit in his stories, and he'd hesitate. If it's too depressing for him, then surely it would be for you as well. To combat this, just simply tell him you want to hear the rest of his story, and he'll fold just like that. He'll end up telling you everything he saw, and maybe a lot more than you expected. Either way, you're there to listen through it all, comforting him occasionally. He'll surprise himself with how much he exposed himself in front of you and after he feels like he talked your ear off enough, he'll excuse himself with an embarrassed look on his face and stop his story time for the day. But as the days pass, you'll learn a bit about Zhongli more than he even thought he knew about himself. And by some strange occurrence, he'll run out of stories from his old archon days, and the two of you will only have the memories you made together to reminisce on.

||𝐕𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢 - 𝐏𝐡𝐲𝐬𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐥 𝐀𝐟𝐟𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧

Your beloved Venti makes it harder for you to be the affectionate one, really. He's extremely clingy and likes to display that you're his whenever you're around people, often by holding onto your arm and kissing your hand. He's also a major tease and constantly leaves you blushing, whether it be from his kisses or his weird poetic metaphors that no one would get except you and him. So yeah, he has you beat on the affectionate partner. But that doesn't mean you have to give up entirely! In fact, Venti likes to encourage you to try and make him swoon... Although, it usually ends up with you being the embarrassed one and him being amused. And after your few failures at making his heart skip a beat, you figured out the most efficient way to make him blush is by utilizing the element of surprise! Venti least expects affection from you during his time of focus. And that'd be right before one of his public performances. Of course, it's a little bit mean to catch him off guard with a kiss right before he's about to perform, but you find he's the most reactive them. Especially when he's lost in thought beforehand, and you just happen to give him a kiss on the forehead to get his attention. Your sudden boldness may throw him off for a minute, but he'll be fine. In fact, he'll take it as a sign for him to do his best and may expect an even bigger reward from you after his songs. And although he considers the moments when he's the flustered ones to be a reward, he must not like being beat by you as the affectionate one. Because you've found that after your little stunts with him, you always managed to be the one dying from embarrassment afterward because Venti is a fan of payback. He'll give you so many various displays of affection all in one day... and in front of so many people, too. Teasing him may be fun, but in the end, your heart might not be built to handle the consequences of it afterwards.

||𝐀𝐥𝐛𝐞𝐝𝐨 - 𝐐𝐮𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐲 𝐓𝐢𝐦𝐞

It's kinda hard to get a strong reaction out of Albedo. It's not like he feels nothing for you of course! He's just naturally composed. So it's a bit hard to pinpoint what makes his heart race. But rest assured, it does. He's just very good at hiding it in order to get the most reactions out of you. After careful observation, you found that most of your methods to woo him were futile. He was just too good at being calm! Frustrated, you just resort back to what you usually do. Sit down near the fire and watch Albedo sketch. You ramble about your day, Albedo showing that he's listening by giving occasional replies or nods. And time just seems to pass like that, the two of you coexisting peacefully. And after some time, you do notice that you have successfully made his heart race when you look up to see a faint blush cover his face. That did seem to be the ultimate form of affection for Albedo. Having you exist with him. The simple moments where you ramble, he listens, or you're both in silence enjoying each other's company. The idea of simply having you by his side forevermore is enough to make him giddy. So do him a favor and set time from your busy schedule to be with Albedo, and you'll have managed to make him the happiest man in the world.

||𝐖𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐫 - 𝐏𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞

So you wanna show this lil wander over yonder shortie that you appreciate him? That's gonna be a hard one. Bro's got more emotional baggage than a therapist on an airplane. But in all seriousness, he really isn't the type to show affection or expect to receive any in return, which often makes him seem much more distant than he wants to be. That's kinda why he cherishes the relationship he has with you the most. You give him the time to be able to feel loved, which isn't what many have given him. And although he acts like he doesn't want it, you know that a lot of love is what he needs. You show your affection to him in a lot of small ways and tiny services. He notices it, of course, and every time you do so, you can always see the faintest of blush dusting over his cheeks. Sometimes, he doesn't say much. No playful insults or anything of the sort. And on those days, you find that the best way to show that you love him is through a hug. A hug that he may try to push you away from, but one that you don't let go of until he eventually opens up and lets out the cry that he needs to cry into your shoulder. You'll hold him even after he's done, and he'll always hug you back, and the two of you would stay like that for hours. It doesn't happen much. Or really ever. And that's fine with you. You've learned to deal with his silence when it's needed. But in the end, you know that there will always be a time when he'll truly open up to you. And even though it might be infuriating, your patience with him is something he'll always treasure.

||𝐂𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐝𝐞 - 𝐏𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐬𝐞

He likes to think he's some sort of a mystery to you, but it'll be the exact opposite between you two. He doesn't like to admit it, but you can read him like a book. Sure, he tends to be the more PDA one in the relationship, but that doesn't mean you're lagging by any means. In fact, only you know ways to get Childe so flustered than he could ever hope to make you. Of course, he can make you blush easily with his honeycoated words, but only you know the thing that he likes to do most in the world (other than fighting people), and that would be bragging! He doesn't realize it, but he's very transparent. After winning a tough battle, the moment he sees you, he'll automatically go into detail about how heroic he was, and exaggerate the danger of it and make it seem far more interesting than it actually was. It's natural for you to give him a kiss on the cheek and tell him how great he is, but one day, you may just get curious and ask Childe to tell you more. This catches him off guard. Maybe he really doesn't have anything else to add, and he's already flaunted enough? Just kidding, there's always something else he's done that sounds cool. After a little bit of observation, you may find that the easiest way to make him turn red is to exaggerate your praise. Of course it's cheesey to anyone else that's normal, but going on and on about how great your boyfriend is and how lucky you are to have such a strong man will easily make him blush hard. And you've found that he's even cuter when he's embarrassed from your compliments. After gaining some of his composure back, he'll go back to bragging. A subtle hint to continue on with your praise. Of course, you know you shouldn't feed too much into his ego. But at the same time, Childe seems to have most of the fun. He's always trying to make you blush in various ways, and he always has a smug look of satisfaction once he's gotten a reaction from you. So there's no harm in making him blush just as hard back, is there? Either way, you're going to have too much fun teasing your harbinger boyfriend.

#genshin impact #genshin #genshin x reader #genshin men x reader #gn reader #fluff #albedo #albedo x reader #venti genshin impact #venti x reader #zhongli #zhongli x reader #childe #childe x reader #cute #follow me #headcanon #hcs

[klbwriting]

Broken Prism

Chapter 13

Fandom: Red Hood

Pairing: Jason Toddxfemale!Reader

Warnings: violence, villain death, poison

Summary: Jason hears about something that puts YN in danger and springs into action

Notes: I found a flower that is poisonous and is used in blow darts for the flower in this chapter. I am by no means a botanist or a scientist so please forgive my ignorance if my information is way off. Also, realized I've been spelling Iceberg wrong for years because I, someone who writes a lot, cannot spell nor do I care about spellcheck apparently. I am a liar and a fraud. Very sorry. Thank you!

Jason sat in one of his safehouses in the Bowery cleaning his guns, again. He couldn't stop his mind running and the only things he could think to do was make sure all his weapons were pristine to keep his thoughts at least distracted by the task of not accidentally shooting himself. He didn't know what to do. It was the night Bruce said YN would be at the Iceberg Lounge getting information about Penguin. She was probably there right now. Should he go? He wanted to go, but he wasn't sure if it was safe. What if she got hurt because he showed up? What if she didn't want to see him? So many thoughts all against the soundtrack of a clown faced madman. He was just finishing his one of his sniper rifles when he got a call from his second in the Narrows. Mac was a reformed drug dealer who now just dealt exclusively in dirty money and he knew almost as much about Gotham as Jason did. He was great when the Red Hood needed to know underground information about some of the normally quieter villains. While he was watching Penguin's dealings at the moment, Mac was watching everyone else. He answered, making sure his voice modulating phone app was working.

"Ya?" he said. He heard someone laughing in the background and had to shake himself to drown out the constant Joker laugh that played in his mind. He had to concentrate.

"Hood, got some interesting information for you," Mac said, then fell silent, waiting to hear what he would get out of it. Jason almost told him he didn't care that night, but something made him curious. He didn't know why but he felt whatever this info was it was going to be life or death.

"You get a bonus for it my friend, 5k," he said. He heard a satisfied grunt from the other end of the phone and then the background was a little quieter as Mac went somewhere private.

"I heard that Poison Ivy is pissed at Penguin for trying to buy up that big ass park in New Gotham," he said. Jason remembered seeing about Penguin trying to make a deal with Bruce Wayne to buy the park that Bruce paid for and carefully curated as a rare flower sanctuary. You could go to any of a dozen greenhouses and see rare flowers from all over the world. It didn't surprise Jason that Ivy would want to keep that. "She's heading over to the Lounge right now, right when it's busiest, she wants to make an example of Penguin and anyone who supports him." Jason stilled, color draining from his face. "Hood?" Jason coughed, mind scrambling.

"Thanks Mac, you'll get that 5k tomorrow," he said before hanging up. He needed to get across town fast. If YN was still in the Lounge...if she...he stopped his mind from racing and looked at his gear. He grabbed his helmet, shoulder holster, and his jacket. The rest would take too long to get on, and he ran out of the safehouse, getting on his bike and breaking every speeding law in the city to get to the Lounge before it was too late.

You weren't sure why you stayed at the Iceberg Lounge after you had talked to your contact. You had what you needed. They had let you into a server room that doubled as an illegal organ theft cooler, taken your pictures and made copies of the digital ledgers that were kept there. If you were smart you would leave before someone either stole your purse or realized you weren't exactly dressed for clubbing and got suspicious. You had planned to sneak out amongst the crowd of dancers at the club, but something about the rough music, it seemed edged in anger that night, kept you on the floor. You danced by yourself, letting months of annoyance, worry, and stress out in a way you hadn't been able to. Sure you threw yourself into work once you realized that Jason wasn't coming back. You left his book on your nightstand, note still attached, but other than that you tried to push him from your mind, stop feeling his hand in yours or seeing that smile or hearing his laugh. You started just working. You got Two-Face caught, and even had given some interesting info on Joker that had him on the run again, you were doing so much that Jim, your friends, even Bruce, were starting to worry you were careening towards a cliff face and if you didn't stop you would fall over the edge. Maybe you would, but at this point you just wanted to feel like you were in control. Somewhere in the back of your mind you thought if you could get all the villains that Jason wanted off the streets, get him his territory, get rid of Joker, maybe he would come back. But right now the music was loud, your body was barely functional, and your mind was starting to feel like something good was coming, so you danced near the edge of the floor, ignoring anyone who came up to dance with you, sometimes sending them away with a glare. You wanted to be alone. That was a lie, you wanted to be with Jason, but you couldn't have that. It didn't help that Red Hood had become a costume just like Batman, people walked around the clubs and streets wearing helmets from costume shops, some of them getting into fights with the idiots donning the cowl. It was like a constant reminder.

A guy approached you with a drink, offering it to you. He said he had something cool for you to see. You rolled your eyes but when you saw the cheap looking way too red helmet you threw the drink in his face. He called you a cunt and walked off and you took a shaky breath. It was time to go. You turned and crashed headlong into the person behind you. You grunted, almost falling, but were caught by a familiar arm around your waist. Your eyes shot up and looked at the very real helmet of Red Hood. You noticed he lacked the body armor, instead just in his undershirt and his leather jacket. You glared and shoved him back.

"Fine, you can be pissed but you have to go now, I have to get you out of here," he said. You barely could understand him above the music but you heard and felt the urgency in him. He grabbed your hand and you allowed him to drag you to an emergency exit door. Just as you got to it the music cut out and the wall opposite crashed in and vines started growing through the opening. "Go!" Jason said, pushing you out the door and closing it behind him. You banged on it, trying to get it opened from it locked from the outside. You screamed for him. He didn't have his armor, what was he doing there without it? You ran to the front entrance where people were desperately trying to get out. The blacked out windows broke as people tried to escape that way. Anyway to get in was blocked by terrified party goers trying to get out. You could hear screaming and gunshots. Finally people started to slow and you found a broken window that no one was currently coming out of. You grabbed a discarded jacket in the alley and put it over the shards, climbing inside, staying to the outside of the room, hiding behind upended tables.

Jason was still facing off against Ivy, guns aimed for her as she towered above him, her precious plants holding her aloft. She seemed to be entertained by him. Several of Penguins men were dead around her and Penguin himself was probably locked away in his office or had already ran to avoid meeting the woman face to face.

"Red Hood, you impress me, why don't we become allies? You get your territory but make sure they leave my precious parks alone," she was saying. Her voice sounded sweet and for a moment you were almost drawn in by it. She must be pumping some kind of pheromone into the room. You saw Jason take a couple steps forward and you almost cried out, but didn't want to distract him. What was he doing?

"That doesn't sound like a half bad idea," he said, lowering his guns. Ivy lowered herself to the ground, walking over to him. He didn't raise his weapons, they hung loose, almost like he was in a trance. You took a breath, scared that maybe he was infected by whatever toxin she was pushing to him. You moved trying to get a better look and fell, making plenty of noise. Ivy looked over and snarled, a vine grabbing you by the wrist and pulling you out onto the floor. You grabbed your switchblade and cut the vine, making her scream. Jason just stood there, but you noticed the hold on his gun tighten again. Shit, he had been luring her in and you had ruined it, stupid. A large white flower appeared in front of you.

"Stay put until I'm finished with my new friend here and then I'll deal with you. I hope you like a slow death," Ivy snarled before turning back to Jason, smiling again. "Now, how about that deal?" She came even closer. "We can seal it with a kiss?" He stood still until she was within arm's reach, then his gun pointed to her head.

"How about no?" he said and fired point blank into her head. You dropped down as the flower fired a poison dart before dropping itself. The vines around you died as their matriarch dropped, eyes staring lifeless. You got up from the ground and turned to see Jason on the ground, the flower dart sticking out of Jason's arm. He grunted, falling to his knees.

"Red Hood!" you yelled, running over, surprised you had kept yourself from calling his actual name. He was on his knees, breathing deep. He pulled the dart out and looked around. He grabbed a stack of napkins and wrapped the dart in them.

"I need...Alfred..." he got out, voice rasping even through the modulator. "Ivy...poison..." You nodded.

"I have a car out back," you said, sliding his arm around your shoulder and standing, staggering a little. Even without his armor he was solid muscle and that wasn't light. "You need to help me or I'm going to fall." He took a haggard breath and stood on his own, still leaning to you. "How much time do we have?"

"Twenty minutes maybe," he said. He let out an agonized cry. You reached over and grabbed his gun from him, keeping it ready in case anybody gave you trouble as you walked into the alley. You saw the line of parked cars belonging to the currently dead Penguin henchmen and picked the closest one, putting Jason in the back. You climbed in and got to hot wiring it. "Thought you said you had a car?"

"I do, I have any car I want," you said. "Now shut up and rest." Your voice was severe because even in this horrible situation you were still mad at him. He disappears for six months, comes back to get you safely away from an attack by Poison Ivy and then goes and gets poisoned? How dare he put you through this roller coaster of emotions. You got the car going and then, safety be damned, sped to Wayne manor. You crashed right through the gate and stopped by the door. Alfred was out the door, gun in his hand, dropping it only when he saw it was you.

"Miss YN, what..." he started until you threw open the back door and dragged the now unconscious Jason from the back. Alfred jumped into action, grabbing him with you and pulling him into the front hall. He locked the door and turned to you.

"What happened?" he asked as you removed Jason's helmet. He looked terrible, pale, lips barely having any pink to them. You told Alfred about the attack, about the poison. "What did the flower look like?" You were glad it had been aimed at you first, in your fear you had memorized its features.

"It was white, with red like tendrils and yellow inside," you said, closing your eyes to remember better. You knew that wasn't how it worked but right now you weren't thinking straight seeing Jason like this. You needed to stop seeing him before you lost control entirely. Alfred nodded.

"Her modified Medusa Flower, find the point of contact" he mumbled, getting up and running towards the kitchen where he kept the antidotes to several of Ivy's poisons. Luckily this was a common poison she used, having modified the flower to actually shoot the poison and the effects to be quick. He got the syringe ready, going to back and knelt down. You had found the puncture and torn off his sleeve so Alfred could get to it, displaying the frightening spread of the black poison through his veins. He injected the antidote directly into the wound. You wondered how long it would take to help him. Alfred frowned when he didn't open his eyes. "Sit him up." You did as asked, sitting him up. Alfred pulled his shirt up and over his head and you set him down, seeing poison. It was still moving, but much slower. "Do you have the dart?"

"Yes," you went through his pockets, careful not to sting yourself. You handed Alfred the dart and he frowned.

"She has continued modifying her poisons," he grumbled. "What I gave him has slowed the poison, let me get into the lab with Master Tim, we will be able to fix this. You nodded. Alfred touched a pin on his lapel and not even five minutes passed before Bruce, Dick, and Tim were all there in the hallway, asking a million questions. Bruce picked up Jason and you followed him upstairs to his old bedroom as Alfred and Tim went down to the cave. Dick followed, arm going around you as you finally started to cry.

#jason todd x y/n #jason todd x you #jason todd x reader #jasontodd #jason todd #red hood x you #red hood x reader #redhood #red hood #red hood x y/n #brokenprism

[howtofightwrite]

Hi, I'm not the person that asked about naming weapons. But the question got me thinking: how did weapons like Excalibur and Mjölnir get their name? If they're named like "people" would, if I'm understanding it right, then do those names have a meaning? Were those names ever a human name or are they derived from something? Is it like naming someone Rose, which derives from flowers, I guess? And could someone choose any name or does it need to be a specific name...like...an extreme example: instead of wanting to name the sword Excalibur, what if they just named it Peter because whoever named it liked that name better? Hope this all makes sense! 😖

Both of those names have meanings. Most names given to weapons have some kind of meaning, and you've picked two names that have been kicking around for over a thousand years, so the, “modern,” pronunciations are a bit off.

Mjolnir is either named, “lightning,” or, “crush.” It's just not named in English. (It's also not completely clear which translation is correct, and I wouldn't rule out the distant possibility that the name Mjolnir is, in fact, a millennia old pun.)

Excalibur is a bit of a trip, and somewhat better documented. The, “ex,” part came from the French translating Geoffrey of Monmouth. Geoffrey had already mutilated the sword's name when he translated it into Latin as Caliburnus (which, you'll sometimes see a sword named Caliburn. It's Excalibur, and if they sound a little different, you can thank a twelfth century British cleric.) Except, the sword wasn't originally named Caliburn, it's original name was Caledfwlch (which the spellchecker is extremely unhappy with.) Caledfwlch is Welsh. Caled translates to, “hard,” while, fwlch translates to, “cleft.” (As in, to cut or cleave.) So, through extensive linguistic mutilation, Excalibur was originally named something to the effect of, “hard cut.” If you're wondering why Excalibur originally had a Welsh name, it's because Arthur was originally a Welsh legend. (There's a few other names drawn from the same source, and these all, at least in theory, refer to the same sword, including Kalesvolg, and Kaledvoulc'h. There's also a bunch of variations in the French spelling of Escalibor, which do pop up as different swords from time to time.) One odd exception is Caladbolg, from Irish myth, which also translates to, “hard cleft,” but might actually be a distinct legend.

So, over a thousand years ago, some guy, who probably, but might not have existed, named their sword Hard Cut, which sounded a lot better in their language than ours. Nine hundred years ago, a British cleric decided to translate it into Latin, and may have just made parts of it up as he was going. Then some French monks tried translating that name into French, but, being French monks from the 11thcentury, they maintained a somewhat flexible relation with consistent spelling, and somewhere out of that entire mess, one of those spellings made it back into English as, THE name for the sword.

Also, turns out, some variation of, “hard,” is a very popular choice for naming your sword, as Durendal, the sword of Roland (an officer under Charlemagne, who would later take on mythic status in French epics), also derives from, “hard scythe.” (Again, “hard cut,” is probably a better idiomatic analogue, though there is some debate on the back half of the name, and, “hard strike,” may be more accurate. There's some interesting academic speculation on this one, if you want to dig into these names on your own time.) Also, much like Excalibur, Durendal has a lot of spellings, including Charlemagne referring to the sword as, “Durendana,” intentionally flipping the gender of the blade. Make of that what you will. (Fun trivia: my muscle memory for how to spell the name is not academically correct, and much like all of you who have difficulty typing “Curtana” correctly, I can blame Bungie. Thanks guys.)

So, there's two important takeaways, first, going back to Mjolnir for a second, Norse myth is supposed to be funny. I don't have any academic citations to say, “wait, this might be a pun,” I just have my experience going through compilations of Norse myth, and, it would not be out of character for the material. This is something that gets lost from a lot of myth, and also from a lot of fantasy writing.

Case in point, Odin's spear was named, Gungnir, which translates to, “the rocking,” “shaking,” or “swaying.” It referred to the fear that the weapon instilled in its foes. This wasn't a supernatural power of the weapon itself, but rather an indication of how damn scary the spear was supposed to be. It's actual power was unerring accuracy. If thrown, it would always strike its mark.

A lot of these mythical weapons (at least, Gugnir, Mjolnir, and Excalibur) all had supernatural powers associated with them. Their names reflected those powers. Excalibur could cut through anything, which starts to make Caledfwlch a lot less awkwardly poetic, and far more on point. Now, it's quite possible the name came first and the myth built up from there (especially if it was a real item at some point in the distant past), but the name is an expression in of the myth. This is a lot more apparent with the Norse examples, as their names were references to the artifacts' powers.

So, when writing fantasy, it's okay to name your mythical artifacts something slightly witty, or even roll in a subtle pun, if the mythology of your setting supports that attitude. It's also a good idea to consider giving your mythic weapons distinctive supernatural reputations. It doesn't matter if those reputations are entirely real or the result of centuries of mythological embellishment, but there needs to actually be a myth around your mythic artifact. (And part of the reason Norse myth comes up so frequently is that the Aesir collected artifacts like an unusually homicidal D&D party. There are a lot of weird and wacky artifacts in Norse myth, and each one of them has an entire story about where it came from, and what it does.)

-Starke

This blog is supported through Patreon. Patrons get early access to new posts (though, this specific post is a bit of an exception), and direct access to us through Discord. If you’d like to support us, please consider becoming a Patron.

#Starke answers #how to fight write #writing advice #writing reference #writing tips #myth #norse mythology #mythic artifacts

[discar]

HZD Terraforming Base-001 Text Communications Network

GAIA set up a communications network for Aloy and her friends. Aloy had no idea what they were getting into. Or: I realized that a groupchat fic actually makes PERFECT SENSE in Forbidden West. Uploading this to Tumblr in celebration of Forbidden West being released on PC. There will be one chapter daily until they're all up. Chapter 1 | Next Chapter Chapter Index

ADMIN [GAIA] has created the groupchat [HZD Terraforming Base-001 Text Communications Network]

ADMIN [GAIA] has invited [Aloy], [Varl], and [Zo] to the group

Varl: Whts happpppng?

Varl: Happing

Varl: What is hap

Aloy: GAIA set up a communications network between our Focuses.  We can use it for voice or even holograms, like I did earlier, or just write short messages.

Varl: Wouldt talkng be easyer

ADMIN [GAIA]: Varl, there is a spellcheck feature if you would like to ensure you communicate with clarity.

Varl:  Tht mighyt

Varl:  Thhat

Varl:  YESS PL

Zo:  This could be convenient.  Assuming Varl can make use of this feature GAIA mentioned.

Varl:  How u so gd easyly?

Zo:  I find the system very intuitive.

Aloy: Um, Varl, this isn't the hard part of using a Focus.  You should pretty much just have to think the words and the program will write them for you.

Varl:  Mchbc dont wrt.

Aloy:  Machines don't write?  Are you saying you don't want to use a program?

Zo:  I don't think it's a moral argument.  I think he means he never needed to learn how to spell while hunting machines.

Aloy:  Oh.  Yeah, that's fair.

Aloy:  Wait, aren't you standing right next to him?  Can't he just tell you?

Zo:  He's being stubborn.  He wants to figure this out.

Varl:  Iz IMPRTT.

Aloy:  Well, at least you're using punctuation.

Aloy:  I'm coming down to meet you.  We'll talk about our plans.

Varl:  Il gett fmws

Varl:  rtnd

Varl:  ALL-MOTHER'S TITS

Aloy:  Sure, THAT got through fine.

Aloy:  I'll be down in a second.  Where are you?

ADMIN [GAIA]:  Zo cannot answer you, but I believe if you follow the sounds of her laughter, you will find them soon.

Chapter 1 | Next Chapter Chapter Index

#chat fic #text fic #groupchat fic #Horizon Zero Dawn #horizon forbidden west #horizon #aloy #varl #zo #GAIA #HZDBaseChat

[moonshinemagpie]

Editors who get cranky about nontraditional books. Editors who copyedit out prosody and flow. Editors who aren't well-read.

They're abundant, and that's really discouraging. I'm complaining here because I can't complain in the professional spaces where I do networking, but I feel very icked when those spaces are taken up by editors who lambast poetry and classic literature, or who deride a book they haven't read because it doesn't have paragraph breaks, saying books like that "will put typesetters out of business." (Give me a fucking break.)

It's funny to me that publishing gatekeeps writers so drastically, but so many of the gatekeepers are not gatekept in comparable ways. Basically all copyediting is freelance nowadays, with no degree required. Literary agents, likewise, don't need to have formal qualifications.

I don't mean that the people who help doctor up books are having an easy time of things while writers flounder. Copyediting is freelance because that entire profession was uniformly devalued, its workers stripped of benefits and kicked out of the office.

I mean that there are so many incompetent people working on books, and I imagine it's very hard for writers to know who's going to help them and who's not.

If you are hiring a freelance copyeditor for your fiction book, I recommend, in order of importance, vetting them by:

getting a sample edit first. you may have to pay a fee (<60 USD) for this. that's okay and legit! sample edits usually take a couple of hours to do, so editors shouldn't have to do them for free. but a sample edit will let you know if the editor vibes with your writing or not; if they're going to uplift or flatten your voice

checking your editors' presence online. do they have a book blog? any signs whatsoever that they're reading in thoughtful, open-minded ways?

have they worked on books you like? are they a writer themselves? not as important as the first two bullets, but helpful to know. editors who double as writers are more likely to have an appreciation for quality prose

becoming familiar with the Editorial Freelancer Association's survey on median rates that different kinds of editors charge. If someone is charging you wildly below these rates, it may be a warning sign that they're not really a qualified editor but rather someone using your book to "practice" editing. Alternatively, they may just be running manuscripts through spellcheck and calling it a day. You do not deserve to have a someone who's going to introduce novice errors into your book. In the wise words of an editing colleague of mine: No one does their best work for $4/hr.

While on that subject: As tempting as it might be, don't take up unknown editors on their offer to "edit" your manuscript for free because they're just starting out. Editing a book takes dozens of hours of rigorous labor, and the newbies who offer this in an ill-guided attempt to gain experience don't understand what they're getting into. It won't end up being a good experience for either of you.

becoming familiar with what the different kinds of fiction editing are before you ask someone to edit your book. Developmental editing and copyediting are very different.

knowing that you do NOT need to hire a copyeditor if you're aiming for traditional publication. Contrary to advice I often see online, it's okay if your manuscript isn't typo-free when you submit to agents or publishers (as long as you grasp the basic mechanics of grammar and punctuation—you don't need to be an expert).

Nabokov, in an essay on what skills a quality translator should have, wrote, "First of all [the translator] must have as much talent, or at least the same kind of talent, as the author [being translated]."

I honestly feel this way about editors, but many of them freely admit they're bad at writing. I don't know how you edit while being bad at writing, but I do know I wouldn't want such an editor touching my book. I'd rely on the vetting techniques above to keep them at bay.

#negative #editors are great when they're great tbc #and lots of them are! #im opposed to the uniformly negative impression much of tumblr seems to have about the publishing world #but i also hate how many editors just seem completely...bad...at their job... #writeblr #nanowrimo

[leebrontide]

Shed Letters: the complete archive so far

For all the people who've followed me recently- at least SOME of whom must be actual people and not clickbait bots- I have a free monthly newsletter that I'm really proud of. If you like what I write here, you can access my once month efforts to present organized, spellchecked, researched thoughts, often with cool links for further reading.

If you wanna read about writing, ableism, queerness, psychology, research deep dives into history, science, and current events that are funneling into my writing, consider looking over some of what I have on offer, and maybe consider subscribing.

Also contains cat pictures!

Reblogs welcome!

You Heard It Here, First! An announcement of a co-authoring project in the works where we use a pulpy vampire romance to explore queer history in MN

What Stories Are You Made Of? A meditation on renegotiating my relationship to the problematic queer media I had access to in the 90s

What Do We Celebrate? Pics and the story of how I ended up throwing a T(ea) party to celebrate starting HRT, and my nonlinear path to hormone therapy

Why I’m Researching a 19th Century Cult This Month What’s a civil war era cult have to do with the scifi YA I’m writing? (Hint- they were literally trying to breed messiahs into existence).

Another Kind of Coziness How can anti-ableist theory make my writing space so damn cozy and effective?

A Unique Character Development Technique  Learn about one of my most ridiculous ways of intuitively developing new characters. 

The Golden Girls, D&D, and The Newest Way I’m Refusing to Make Writing Solitary This is actually all one topic

Tractors, Cybernetics and the Radical at the Radioshack That time I got radicalized by a Radioshack cashier and what it has to do with disability activism

The Cartoons Are Coming for Our Collective Trauma A therapist/YA writer’s thoughts about why kids shows are all about intergenerational trauma these days, and what I think it means for our future

People Who Need People Writing about The Giver, Each of Us a Desert, and what it’s been like having one of those faces that compels people to tell me things I have absolutely no business knowing

The Bananabook Method  What I call “The Bananabook Method” of book planning/pre-writing. Please enjoy my collection of absurd tiny colorful notebooks and this explanation of my *~process~*.

Because Everybody Was Calling for YA Scifi About HIPAA, Right? Why I’m writing about medical data privacy practices in scifi books for teens. Contains a LOT of info about the current systems and their limits.

Tinkering With Cyberpunk I was interviewed about cyberpunk and disabilities by the lovely Zuhura Ismail, whose wonderful cyberpunk art is also included in this edition.

Lies I Tell Myself, Security Blankets and Backstitch Drafting Another writing process post! Features a very nice cat picture, more writing with memory problems, and my proposal that creative project advice is only as useful as it is adaptable.

Of Flesh and Gundams What somatic psychology has to say about the pursuit of perfection and immortality via tech.

Gods and Ink - the new digital era of old school mythmaking and my newest tattoo.

#indie authors #writing #queerness #disability #science #psychology #cyberpunk #YAbooks #author newsletter

[journalxxx]

Today on "Ideas that ran away from me beyond repair thanks to Haptronym's well-meaning curiosity and inputs", something that definitely never needed to exist and yet it somehow does: a Toshinori and Izuku-centric Evangelion AU.

This one comes with a few caveats: this thing completely lacks the complexity and the fascinating worldbuilding of the source setting, borrowing only a few technical setpieces here and there, and ends up being more of a generic Monster Of the Week kind of deal. Izuku and Toshinori's characterizations are also somewhat heavily revised to better fit the bleakness of Evangelion's mood. Last but not least, one notable element of the story is the unrequited crush Izuku eventually develops for his much older, much revered fellow pilot, so tread carefully if the topic bothers you.

WARNING: this doc is basically a largely unedited, non-spellchecked, non-in-chronological-order chat log. It is probably barely intellegible. Don’t expect fic-quality stuff or meaningful storytelling. Despite all this, hopefully this can still entertain for a few hours those 3 or 4 people on the entire planet who might find such a niche concept remotely interesting.

#my hero academia #boku no hero academia #neon genesis evangelion #toshinori yagi #izuku midoriya #all might #deku

[paradoxcase]

Chapter 38, 39, and the Epiparodos of Harrow the Ninth

Something that hasn't been made entirely clear to me about John's airless room: Mercy thought that Harrow wouldn't be able to survive in the airless room, but I remember John telling her that she didn't need to breathe way back when they were on the shuttle, and in the last chapter John is still offering to let her stay in his airless room with him when the Heralds come, so I'm a bit confused about whether or not this is actually a viable option for her, and if it is viable, why she isn't considering it at this point when she starts to believe she will really die

I'm blanking on an episode where Harrow hid under her bed waiting for Gideon the First. When was that?

This Cytherea episode sort of brings into question all of the other Cytherea episodes, and maybe she did hallucinate some or all of them. But Cytherea's body did disappear, and someone put Gideon the First in the incinerator, and there isn't really any good answer for who else that might have been

Does he mean that he failed her by failing to kill her all this time, or is he talking about something else?

And I also don't have any idea whose idea this could have been. I think everyone else on the Mithraeum has stepped in to save her from him at least once, Augustine and Mercy and Ianthe even helped her try to kill him once, it seems like if any of them had wanted to mercy-kill her they would have had ample opportunities to just let her die

I wonder if this is just because she is used to having experiences that she knows aren't real and is used to managing her reactions to them, or if it's at least partly because she's not quite a regular Lyctor anymore, so the Heralds have less of an effect on her?

The Epiparodos (apparently: the second appearance of the Greek Chorus) is interesting for being Ianthe POV, but I don't think it tells me anything I don't already know, except for maybe that Ianthe thinks about art a lot, which might explain why she likes Cyrus's nude paintings. We don't find out what she did, exactly, or what's in any of the unopened letters. It is impressive that Harrow did brain surgery on herself and maybe manually rewrote a bunch of her memories, and it seems to have worked out exactly the way she wanted it to, from what I can tell, I think her plans were only foiled by the existence of the Heralds

So, can you undo a blood ward by using the person's blood somehow? She's been using blood wards to protect herself from Gideon the First for a while now, if he could undo her wards using her blood, I think he probably had a decent opportunity to get some of her blood to do that, didn't he? Or does Harrow think a blood ward won't work for some other reason?

I just want to point out that I think this is the second time someone was entranced by Harrow's philtrum, this also happened in Gideon the Ninth and maybe it's just me but it seems like such an odd body part to wax lyrical about. Also my browser's spellchecker doesn't even know it's a real word

I'm not sure what she's referring to, here. To the issues she has with Naberius not dying willingly? That seems like the opposite of Harrow's problem. Is it about her losing her arm? Or leaving her sister behind?

She just meant that it was their duty to serve John now, right? I don't think there's any way she could have known about the resurrection beasts yet, especially since her plan specifically involved not dying

Ok, I guess I did learn one new thing: the secret to why Harrow's hair grew out so fast

You know, I thought all of their weird tension was mostly because of the kiss at the beginning of the book, but she is already thinking this (and already gazing lovingly at Harrow's philtrum) before that ever happens

I have no idea what this might be about. I think this might actually be the first time the word "queen" has ever even appeared in this story (and I don't think "king" has either, outside of "the King Undying"), the heads of the Houses don't ever seem to be referred to as kings or queens. We do have a duchess and a baron and princes and princesses, but since one of John's titles is "the King Undying" I would have assumed that other people being accorded the rank of king or queen would be considered sacriligious

Ok, something I saw, when I went back to the Dramatis Personae of Gideon the Ninth to find out how many European nobility terms that book used:

House of the Sewn Tongue? As in, the tongue-and-jaw necromancy Harrow did to Ianthe to prevent her from telling everyone about her brain surgery? That's important enough to the Ninth House to be one of the names that's commonly used for it?

Ok, I remembered that I have text search on the Nook app, so I went through and searched all of Gideon the Ninth and Harrow the Ninth for the word "queen" and all I found was

Gideon calling Harrow her "crepuscular queen" and so forth

Cytherea talking about being in "the queenhood of her power" (or not), which interestingly is quoted back later as "the queendom of my power" instead

Ianthe and Corona being described as "queenly" or "like a queen" a couple of times

And after that, the next appearance of "queen" is this appearance in Harrow the Ninth. So it's never been used remotely as an actual title before

#the locked tomb #harrow the ninth

[vinceaddams]

Top Five: thrift/secondhand/opshop finds?

Ooh, that's a good one! I have so many cool thrifted things. There's a big Value Village about a 20 minute walk from work, and I try to go there at least a couple times a month. 'Tis one of my few non-essential indulgences, and oh how I wish I had more room to store fabric and put cool decor in! (All the prices I'm saying are in Canadian dollars.)

1. Wool fabric! This is multiple finds, but I'm lumping them all into one. I think they're all 100% wool, and if any are blends it's still mostly wool. The burn tests results were all very wool-like. All of them are from Value Village except the navy blue in the middle, which was from a small hospice thrift store. That one was $4 for 6 metres!!

The bright teal on top is stretch knit, and I think it's merino. I'm thinking I'll make Regency inspired long underwear with it. The plaid is really long and narrow, and I think it's handwoven? The visible edge there is the full width, and there's probably enough for 3 waistcoats.

The beige and fuchsia will probably - wait, is that how you spell fuchsia?? Weird. It looks wrong. I always thought it was fuschia, but spellcheck is underlining it in red. Anyways, the beige and fuchsia will probably end up being overdyed. The one with the little woven diamond pattern is going to be a waistcoat, because the brown wool one I wear everyday right now really doesn't fit me anymore. (I'm going to make a youtube video of that project. Haven't started it yet, but I really need to!)

I have had a couple of deceptive fabrics that I thought might be wool at the store, but turned out to not be. Usually I'm pretty good at telling from touch though. Wool is so expensive to buy new, so finding any amount of yardage secondhand is pretty exciting.

2. This wonderful candelabra. It's solid brass and was $4. It's a modern reproduction, but very similar to some mid 18th century styles, and I love it. I've found some other nice candleholders there, but this is by far my favourite. Look at that elegantly curving S shape!

This picture is from before I cleaned it with some Twinkle copper & brass cleaner, and it's shinier now and has two beeswax candles in it.

(The next time I had alcohol after this I got really excited about my shiny candelabra, and went on the hardware store website and left a very positive review for the brass cleaner, because it honestly impressed me.)

3. Full length vintage mink coat for less than 20 bucks. It was marked as 21, but I had a coupon, so it came to $19.50. I think the reason it was cheaper than usual is because of the huge faded patch on the side.

It looks like there's sunlight hitting it, but there isn't, it's nighttime, that's just fading. I think it must have hung next to a window for quite a while. Other than that it's in pretty good condition, save for a tiny bit of stitching coming undone in the lining. I mean to eventually use it as the lining for a mid 18th century fur lined coat! The very dark brown one on the closet door behind me is a similar coat from the same thrift store, and it was $35, which is still an absolute steal for so much lovely fur. It's got a bit of moth damage at the hem, but is otherwise good.

4. Someone's really good button stash.

This was spread out over 4 bags, but definitely all came from the same old person. There was such a high percentage of Good Stuff in there, I was astounded!

Usually you look at the bags of buttons and maybe see a few mother of pearl and some nice metal ones, and have to decide if it's worth buying the whole bag just to fish out the good ones (and re-donate the rest because I already have more than enough plastic buttons that I rarely use). But for these ones the good stuff was half the bag!!

Dozens of Victorian glass ones, including a matched set of 15, and even more mother of pearl! And see the little ones in the lower right corner? They're from button boots!

Absolutely incredible day, I love to hoard beautiful buttons like a dragon!

5. Silver plated sugar bowl from 1880.

This was $6, and I almost left it there, but ended up getting it because the handles looked cool. "They look rather Art Nouveau" I thought, "perhaps it's from the 1900's". But nope! (I do not know things about historical dish styles) When I got home and looked at it properly I realized it has a personalized inscription:

"Le to Min Oct. 25th 1880"

Who were these people?? I wish I knew, but alas, sugar bowls can't talk. There are numbers scratched into the bottom and the inside of the lid, so I think it was pawned at some point.

The above picture is from when I was polishing it, and it turns out a fair amount of the plating has worn off, which is why the bits around the designs are so dark. Someday it would be nice to look into getting it re-plated, but I can't be spending money on that sort of thing right now.

I've gotten quite a few silver plated dishes from there (which I use to keep sewing stuff organized on my table) but this is almost certainly the oldest one.

It's hard to narrow it down, there are so many! My shiny blue carnival glass candy dish (which I use for candy) and the smaller one (which I keep my cufflinks in). My beautiful blue ship plate. (I actually have a pretty big stack of plates now. I always look at the collectibles, but most of them are unappealing, I just go for the monochrome transferware, which doesn't turn up super often.) That nice big piece of ikat that I fixed the fringe on and now have as a table cloth on my nightstand. The little brass medallion with Charles Goodyear embossed on it. The late Victorian fashion plate of two ladies, who had unfortunately been cut out and glued to velvet, which I sent to @marzipanandminutiae. The leather scraps, the fur collar, the multiple wool felt hats I want to re-block, the huge cone of olive green thread that turned out to be 100% silk...

I also usually grab embroidery floss when I see it, because the price of new skeins has gone up a ridiculous amount, and you can get a nice collection of it for a tiny fraction of the cost (as long as you use it for stuff where you won't need to match more of a specific colour). It's great to share with friends who do embroidery too! I gave a huge bag to @leegoguen when I went to visit them last weekend.

I don't always find interesting things there, but the chances of finding something good increase the more often you go! For every nice bit of wool there's like 100 pieces of scratchy garbage, but the nice wool does come along eventually if you fondle enough fabric.

#ask meme #ask #thrifting #me #clothing #fabric #buttons #dishes #candles #decor

[punk-chicken-radio]

spelling bee

oh, how a playlist like this warms my 'loves to tell you when you've misspelled something' heart....i give credit to @theoldsmelly for adding this into our library, though he probably didn't know just how much i would enjoy it.

i will readily admit, though it pains me to do so, that even though i am a spelling corrector at large, my own spelling skills....well....they seem to be getting worse. i am not sure if this is due to age, or the way spellcheck kind of tends to fuck with your brain and make you forget how to actually spell. some days i have to think a little too hard after typing a word if i have indeed spelled it correctly. my habit of typing all in lowercase means i get that little 'underline' on so many words that sometimes it just gets confused and then i get confused and it's like....uh. am i right? is the device right? wtf now i am gonna have to google how to spell this simple word....

at least i almost always get context right. i know smelly still rankles at a screenshot i saved of him saying 'there' when he should have used 'their" like 7 years ago 🤣. he's normally a pretty good speller and almost always gets the context of a word right, so i treasure moments like that.

you know what's next....👆👆....songs that spell out a word in them....somewhere....

love (i think tom hiddleston should be james bond) axiomatic and the old (calm down) smelly

[jimmycarterghostland]

Writers, remember to edit your work. It will be worth it.

I can tell when a story I'm reading hasn't been edited. Because there would be things like spelling errors, punctuation issues, and other mistakes. Things that could've been prevented if the writer reread their work or used something to check for errors.

No matter how much I enjoy a story, errors will take away some of my enjoyment. If you're a writer, make sure you never post or publish a work that you haven't edited or checked for mistakes. If you don't take your content seriously, why should a reader?

When I was younger, I never edited my stuff. Especially my online stories. I was too eager to be done with them and get validation. As soon as possible. I remember one story I wrote got some hate, because it wasn't edited. Errors in your literature will irritate the reader. And if you think your first draft of your story, novel, etc. has no errors, think again.

I've been rewriting my Royal Road exclusive web novel, 33, for a year now. Nobody can read it until it's finished. Even before the rewrite, I would edit each chapter before publishing it. I always found errors in the first drafts. Typos, mainly. Sometimes I would find continuity errors, too. I also tried making most of the chapters 5000 something words long. Which means if you have a first draft of a short story, or a chapter of your novel, that is at least 5000 words long, it definitely has errors. Most likely typos.

When I finish the first draft of a work of mine, I go back to the beginning, then edit it as I reread it. Then I use Google Docs spellcheck to check for typos I missed. Unfortunately it doesn't recognize missing quotation marks, which always makes me paranoid that some of my published content has missing quotation marks.

Editing is important, simply put.

Have you ever watched a movie and saw the non-actor crew members in a reflection in the film? Or maybe you spotted a cameraman. It broke your immersion, didn't it? It reminded you that you were watching a film.

Errors in a piece of literature break your immersion, too. It reminds you that you're reading fiction, which is a bad thing. You never want the reader to be sucked out of the story.

Continuity errors break immersion as well. Something like a character being described as having blue eyes and then green ones five chapters later will remind you that you're reading a piece of literature. If you want to write something great, you can't afford to make mistakes like that. I enjoy one of my former favorite book series a lot less because of the numerous continuity errors found in the books. Now I have no love for that series. There were other reasons why I stopped liking it, but the continuity errors were a big one. And there were massive plot holes that were absolutely unacceptable.

Edit your works. Publishing a first draft, a draft that hasn't been edited or improved at all, is something a fool would do.

Would you rather have people read your error-infested piece of literature that irritates them because of the errors? One that you published without editing because you're eager for that validation? One that could have had better description, dialogue, etc?

Or would you rather have people read your edited, error-free work that they love and that they praise you for writing?

It's your choice. But I highly recommend you edit your content before you publish it.

#writing #editing #writing community #edit #on writing