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bakerstreethound · 1 year

Note

Scenario! Reader accidentally messed up with some evidence Anderson had and he got furious, Sherlock gets mad at Anderson and stands up for her.

Hi! I really liked playing around with this idea and I hope you like it! I slightly altered it in a little way, but I consider this a bit more of my practice writing. I still hope it turned out okay.

Corrupted Evidence

All writings belong to me @bakerstreethound (Do NOT claim, copy, repost, or translate my works to any other sites. I only publish here and on A03)

You didn’t mean to interfere in the affairs of the crime scene but Sherlock insisted you join as a second pair of eyes because for some reason he valued your opinion, despite your talents being on the far other side of criminology and the like.

You knew all too well about Anderson and Donovan, they had been the source of many a night of gunshots fired at the walls of 221B during the wee hours of the morning, for they constantly questioned Sherlock and his judgement regardless of what the evidence provided. Lestrade trusting him was enough for you to put your worries aside at the moment.

Before you and Sherlock lay a table littered with samples of blood, spatter samples lining across the table in interesting patterns. A gun rested further down the table, where Anderson was hovering over it snapping a few photos and grumbling to himself.

“Fingerprints I assume?” You walked over, interested in the ordeal. Sherlock’s gaze followed you a shadow observing your every move. You being near Anderson set him on edge, he could deal with the direct insults to him but oh, the hell he’d give Anderson if he so much as touched you, he would rip him to shreds.

“Yes, they’ll help us determine who last held this gun because some young banker is dead because of it. Then, I’ll have to find out who it’s registered to, track it, so on and so forth,” Anderson explained, half in boredom like he previously had this conversation before.

You didn’t mind it, really, you could tolerate him as long as Donovan wasn’t around.

“Interesting,” you nod in understanding as you trip over some uneven part of the floor, knocking into the table. The unmistakable sound of glass shatters, littering the floor. Your heart stopped cold, not wanting to look up, bit fuck, this was one more thing for dumb and dumber to hold over you.

“What the hell were you thinking?” The unmistakable condescending tone of Donovan resounds throughout the small room, making your insides twist in knots. You are better than this, you know it, but still you cursed internally wishing Sherlock had left you at the flat, you were unthinkably useless.

Dovovan stepped into the light, her signature scowl upon her features, you’d think it’d be etched there permanently on her face by now. “…We told the freak you weren’t welcome here, and you won’t be again. This took us weeks to gather now we have to start all over! You hear me, weeks!” She sighed in frustration, crumbling the piece of paper in her fist, muttering tapping away on her phone.

“She’s right, you know. Not a good look for your track record,”Anderson pipped in.

The boiling anger inside you rose by the moment, your tongue ready to lash out an insult, but what was the point? You are again out of your league and here Sherlock was once again, leaving you again at the crime scene being utterly useless.

This was why you organized books and shelved them for a living, that was way more up your league and you didn;t deal with shitheads as bad as Donovan and Anderson. Still, it did nothing to calm the parts of your brain that knew they were both right, you had no place among them nor would you belong, so why did Sherlock bother?

“Choose your next words carefully Anderson. Wouldn’t want you to join the banker now would we?” Sherlock’s gaze was searing, borderline murderous as he slammed Anderson into the wall, the camera clattering to the floor. More damage done, another bone to pick with the Yard. “If you ever so much as speak to her again I will tell Lestrade.”

Anderson scoffed, despite his position, clearly thinking he had the other hand, “Yeah, then what Sherlock, what’s daddy gonna do, rescue you from me?”

Your heart raced the longer you watched, the audacity it was beyond stupid. “Enough, Sherlock we’re leaving.” By some miracle you pry Sherlock away before he could outright strangle Anderson, grasping his hand tighter as you increased your strides. You wanted to run away, so far away.

“Don’t let them get to you,” Sherlock broke the silence, sounding almost sincere, his breath foggy in the cold air. “They’re always dreadfully unpleasant, trying to ruin my reputation at every turn.”

“Just because they constantly do it doesn’t mean it hurts any less when it happens.” You respond and he squeezed your hand. “They make me furious, but I really had no business being there.”

His lip twitched in amusement, and you can’t figure why but he sighed. “Thats how it is. I’ve dealt with it for years.” He said nonchalantly, pulling you closer towards him his hands falling to wrap around your waist and you meet his beautiful sapphire gaze. It was only you and him in this moment, the night breeze ruffling through his crown of curls, a hint of a boyish smile lighting his features.

“What is it, Sherlock?”

“I think I am enjoying the moment so to speak,” he paused, tilting your chin up to meet his gaze further, “and you’re not useless or an idiot.”

You try your hardest to slam away the warmth cascading along you, and tear your eyes away from his but it’s all consuming and magnetizing a hint of promise divulged, intertwining in his words. “Well, I suppose I should thank you. I appreciate you standing up for me, though I was on the verge of saying some choice words to them.”

“I know.” He oh so slowly presses his lips against yours and you respond in kind, gently deepening it a fraction more captured in the moment beneath the starry sky, all your cares melting away if but for a moment. You wouldn’t forget this for nights to come.

******

#sherlock x reader #sherlock holmes x reader #sherlock holmes x you #sherlock holmes imagine #bbc sherlock imagine #sherlock fanfic #bbc sherlock #benedict cumberbatch #sherlock tv

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bleachhaven · 3 years

Text

Soutaicho’s Secret Admirer (Shunsui x Reader) — Part 5/6

Author’s Note:

It should be noted that this story is almost coming to a close...I’m sad to stop writing about Shunsui but it’s time to wrap this one up. So there’s maybe 1 or 2 more parts left.

Warning: A bit of smut ahead. One can only be seduced endlessly for so long without something happening about it.

–

Read Part 1, Part 2 , Part 3 and Part 4 first!

Uncharacteristically, Shunsui was late to arrive at the office. It was almost ten in the morning when he finally strolled in. Nanao would have admonished him without a thought but the dark circles beneath his eyes revealed he had already had a terrible night. She didn’t want to make it a terrible morning as well.

Shunsui didn’t have the excuse of drunken debauchery at some late night party for his tardiness. The last party he’d been to had been Lisa-chan’s Valentine’s Day celebration and that was over two weeks ago.

It was more or less about how his loneliness and melancholy had kept him up late into the night. Something he definitely didn’t want to burden sweet Nanao-chan about.

He had found himself strolling randomly in seireitei at around three in the goddamn morning because simply staying in his bed staring at his ceiling felt impossible. He didn’t have these kind of difficult nights too often but when he did have them, they were quite terrible.

Sure, he missed Juu. But his loneliness was a bit more than that this time.

It has been over two weeks since he had received anything from his beloved Secret Admirer. Fourteen whole days of complete silence from her was quite unusual, and he felt it acutely. Where was she?

The darkest of thoughts had plagued him at night. What if she was sent on a dangerous mission? What if she had been injured? He hated to think it...but what if she was never coming back? Hadn’t he honestly lost enough?

The thoughts spiraled as the evening progressed into the wee hours of the morning, growing darker and more melancholy.

He knew he was not the greatest catch in the Soul Society. That title fell to Byakuya, uncontested. Shunsui was older than everyone in seireitei - a thousand years too old, he’d say. He was nobility too but he wasn’t one to truly fit into that mould, which deterred most noblewomen from considering him.

He wasn’t what one would call conventionally handsome either. He knew he wasn’t ugly...but he wasn’t exactly...whole. Not anymore. Maybe once he would have held some appeal and he had many lovers who thought him handsome enough to have a tumble with him... but the eyepatch never failed to remind him that he was never going to be good looking, by anyone’s standards, with a goddamn hole in his face.

Most days, none of this would honestly bother him. But last night it did.

His beloved Secret Admirer probably came to the conclusion that he wasn’t worth all the trouble after all. Surely, there had to be a reason why he had never been able to have a long term relationship. He blamed it on his job but...was that all it was? Maybe he was just not meant to have a happily ever after with someone.

As romantic as he was, he didn’t really believe in the concept of happily ever after. He knew relationships were work. It was a commitment between two people who cared about each other to work on staying together through whatever. With time, he had put any thoughts of a relationship on the back burner. With his duty to the Gotei 13, and his responsibilities as well as the added burden of maintaining his reputation as the Soutaicho...it was a practical choice.

But his Secret Admirer had made him want. Had made him yearn for a happily ever after for himself in a way he never had before.

He wanted to be loved and cherished as much as he wanted to love and cherish that one special person in his life. But did he really deserve it?

He knew it was her silence that had his latent insecurities rising to the surface keeping him up at night.

So as sleep deprived as he was, he came to the office with a plan. He couldn’t bear her silence anymore so he was not going to. With everything that had come up in the office, he hadn’t been able to finish up the letter he had started to write to her. At that time, it had felt futile considering there was no way to send it to her.

But he had a brilliant idea. He would have it published in the next installment of the Seireitei Communication including just enough information so that she would know it’s him while withholding enough details to still keep it anonymous. He could trust Hisagi-kun to be discreet.

He had a plan, and it could actually work!

If only he could actually find that bit of lavender paper he had left on his desk.

“Nanao-chan, did you remove anything from my desk by any chance?” he asked, opening up drawers and bending down to check under the desk.

Nanao looked up from the training schedule she was working on. “Nothing more than the usual paperwork. Why what have you lost now?” she asked with an overexaggerated sigh.

“My, my, Nanao-chan. You make it sound like I lose things on a daily basis.”

“The only thing lost on a daily basis around here is my sanity,” she said, rolling her eyes. Still she relented. A distressed Taicho always meant a distressed Nanao. “Fine. Describe it to me and I will tell you if I saw it anywhere.”

“It was nothing official. Just a bit of lavender paper I had been writing on…” he trailed off seeing the look on her face. “What? Did you see it?”

“You lost the letter you were writing to you Secret Admirer?” she asked.

“Nanao-chan! How did you…?”

“You forget, Taicho,” she said quite matter of factly. “There’s nothing that goes on here I don’t know about. But I haven’t seen it. Maybe it got mixed up in some paperwork and got sent to another division. I don’t think anyone would recognize your flowery handwriting which you reserve for your personal correspondence anyway. So nothing to worry about.”

Shunsui simply stared at her. He has known his little fuktaicho for too long to not notice that something was off. All this time, he thought she was just laughing at his expense because he was mooning over someone he didn’t even know. But now...that look...the way she said it without even having to think about it...it all felt fishy somehow. Nanao-chan was up to something.

“Why are you staring at me like that?” she huffed, correcting the papers on her desk that didn’t need correcting. A nervous habit that always gave her away. “If you don’t have any serious work, I have a pile of forms…”

“You know perfectly well who it is, don’t you, Nanao-chan?” he interrupted her attempts to distract him.

“I don’t know what you’re…”

“Please, Nanao-chan. It’s perfectly obvious you know exactly what I am talking about. Just...tell me…” he said.

He was so serious and intent. Nanao had only ever seen him like that in the heat of the worst kind of battle. She dropped her pretenses as well.

“She and I have both left enough breadcrumbs for you as it is. So if you’re so desperate to know who she is, why don’t you do the work to actually find out?” she asked him. “Clearly the girl cares about you but is terrified to approach you. Who wouldn’t be considering who you are and the position you hold. She is a nice girl, Taicho. But as things stand, she wouldn’t be the one to approach you so maybe you should find out for yourself who she is and do the approaching.”

So Nanao did indeed know who his Secret Admirer was. He understood her reasons why she couldn’t tell him. It wasn’t really her secret to divulge. Shunsui had to respect that despite his desperation.

“Is my sweet Nanao-chan giving her taicho dating advice?” he teased instead.

“Yes, I am,” she declared with a raised brow. “For even I can see how far you’ve fallen that you need advice from me to get yourself a date!”

Shunsui gasped, buying into the friendly teasing. “Nanao-chan is so mean to her taicho!”

Finally, they both got back to work, but Shunsui’s mind was still thinking about what Nanao had said. Apparently breadcrumbs were laid out and he hadn’t even noticed! He clearly had to pay more attention.

He tried to outline the facts in his mind.

The letters were always lemon scented. It could be a shampoo or some kind of scented cream...but it smelled fresh, almost as if unintentional. Something to further ponder upon.

The gifts were always elaborate but simple and he hadn’t been able to trace it through any vendor. The chocolates were handmade so his little Secret Admirer was probably very good with cooking and baking.

The handwriting was very distinctive as well. Especially the way she looped all her Ls and Bs with a distinctive flowy curve.

So far, the facts didn’t fit well into place to identify her as anyone he knew...but somehow, it felt like it was just barely within reach now. As if it’s only missing one final puzzle piece for the whole thing to come together.

That night, sleep evaded him once more. He couldn’t deny it. He missed her! He couldn’t help but wishing that she was right next to him, romancing him with more than just her words. He wished he could cherish her in all the ways he desperately yearned to.

He took the letters he kept at hand in the drawer of his bedside table. He found that he liked to read them sometimes, and no matter how many times he read her words, they still managed to make him feel things. The shape of her words, the texture of the paper...it comforted him.

However, the sensual seductive ones were his downfall.

With all the time he has been alive, and all the experience he’s had, one would think he would be able to resist the temptation. But he often couldn’t.

Reading those letters, describing how she wanted to make love under the moonlight or how she yearned to taste him...it had him imagining soft feminine hands touching him. His hand would unconsciously reach into his hakama of its own volition and grasp his manhood, wondering what it would feel like to be touched by someone who ardently wanted to please him.

It wouldn’t take him too long at all. He would cum, gasping into the empty bedroom, wishing he had a name he could moan. Wishing she was here for him to hold.

Sated, he’d finally fall asleep. Yet though his body was satisfied, his mind wasn’t. He couldn’t help but feel alone on this big empty bed.

That coveted final piece of the puzzle arrived as, of all things, more paperwork. He was mindlessly flipping through some reports after lunch the next day when it popped out at him like well-lit beacon.

It wasn’t anything special. Just a request for more funds to be allocated for a better training ground for the 13th division. Except it was filled out by his beloved Secret Admirer. The handwriting screamed her identity at him, looping Ls and Bs and all.

“_____-san,” he whispered to himself, wondering how he could have missed it.

Suddenly, everything was perfectly crystal clear.

Everyone knew that while Kuchiki Rukia settled in enough to pick her own fuktaicho, the 3rd seat of the 13th was acting in that role in an unofficial capacity, putting her in-charge of all the paperwork coming and going from that division. A reason why she was always showing up at the 1st...giving her ample opportunities to learn his habits well enough to leave behind those delightful missives without ever getting caught.

The lemon scent was from all the lemonade he knew she made for her division and for some special occasions in the seireitei. It was her specialty, a way of creating comfort and homeliness for her subordinates. He had tasted her chocolates twice - once at the Valentine’s Day party itself and then when she gifted them to him specifically. Both facts which had been pointed out by Nanao-chan while _____-san stood right next to him. No wonder she had flushed red then. It hadn’t been out of embarrassment but possibly from thinking she might get caught. The little minx.

He couldn’t help but remember every encounter he had with her in the recent past. Her cute blushes...the way she gasped out “Soutaicho!” Come to think of it, every time he saw her, he felt like she almost called him Shunsui out of habit only to change it to his official title at the last minute. He even recalled the twinkle in her eyes every time she looked up at him.

He couldn’t believe it. He finally knew who his Secret Admirer was and she’d been right before his eyes, had he only known where to look. He couldn’t help smiling, thinking about all the ways he would get back at her for running him around in circles. He would torture her so, so deliciously…

“You have that dopey smile on your face. Should I be worried?” Nanao asked, breaking him out of his thoughts.

“Hmm…? Of course not, Nanao-chan,” he said, not really reassuring her at all. “I am heading out. Be back soon!”

“Taicho!” she called out but he was already gone.

...to be continued.

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spotlightauthors · 3 years

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Jess Cippian

Jess Cippian, author of the medieval fantasy series Song of Glædlond, was born and home based in West Virginia. She traveled often to Mexico as a child of eclectic gypsy-type parents. As a result Jess developed a passion for all things Old World and ethnic.

You can find Jess deep into her notebooks in the wee hours of most mornings. She spends the rest of the day with her family in their homeschool, in the garden or pouring up herbal concoctions in the kitchen. She loves to end the day sitting by the fire in her favorite reading chair.

Author Name: Jess Cippian

How long have you been writing? I've been writing on walls and notebooks ever since I learned to read. When I was six, I wrote my first book: a romance between a grasshopper and a cow. I've always kept some type of journal/writing pages, mostly as writing therapy. It's how I sort out life problems as writing helps me put things in perspective. Needless to say, I have filled quite a few notebooks. I had a homesteading/family blog for a while and loved it. I also wrote a few articles for a homesteader's magazine.

Did you ever imagine that you would be published one day? I always wanted to be an author and illustrate my books but with a large family, I just couldn't see how that could happen. Then when I discovered regular people do write and publish, I gave myself permission to give it a try.

What made you want to become an author? I have always been a writer and just thought of being an author as a daydream. To be an author meant I had to have my book in print.

How long have you been published? I fulfilled that publishing dream in November 2020.

How does it feel to be published? It is a surreal feeling to hold my book in my hand, and to be honest, very overwhelming.

Are you self-published or did you go through a publishing company? *Why? Probably because I self-published and the selling of my books is in my lap. It's all mine, and that is why I self-published, I wanted total control of my book. But there's a price to owning your content: it's up to you to distribute it! I am happy with my choice.

The other reason to self-publish is that I knew it could take two years, at best, to go the traditional route and I wanted my book in my hands before that.

How many books have you written? I have written two books, and am working on book 3 at the moment of my series the Song of Glædlond, a medieval, noblebright fantasy.

What is/are the name of your book(s)? Bloom of Beorg: A Song of Glædlond 1 and Arrow of Ebbadane: Song of Glædlond ll

What genre is it/are they in? Fantasy

What do you feel will inspire others to never forget when they read your story(ies)? I want my books to touch the heart in a meaningful way—the way old literature provoked the mind, not just for entertainment, but still a pleasurable read. Even though my current writing is fantasy I write about real things, sowing and reaping and other simple human principles; hence the term “noblebright” in my book description.

What's the hardest part about writing a book? The hardest factor in writing for me is the balance in conveying emotion. In my effort to keep my characters relatable they sometimes become too whiny or over stoic. This is where beta readers give awesome help!

What's the easiest part about writing a book? The part of writing easiest for me is world building. I am writing a story because I want to be there, and when I am there I want to have a five sense experience!

Where can interested readers purchase their copy of your book(s)? I am currently published on Amazon; I also have sales and offer signed copies on my website.

Do you have any future projects in the works? *Is there a tentative release date? The rest of my series—three more books—will be out by the end of 2022. I have many other ideas across the genres that I want to write after this fantasy series.

Do you have any social media sites that you would like to share with my readers? You can find me mostly on Instagram. I also have an author page on Facebook and I host a Facebook group as well.

#Jess Cippian #featured author #featured #spotlight author #spotlight #author

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antique-teacups · 4 years

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sunshine in L.A.

A/N: kind of an original character piece but also not entirely. i just was having a great time writing! hope you folks enjoy!

word count: 3k

There was something about her twenties that never felt quite right, worn like a sweater a size to large. She watched as her friends floated from relationships and friendships seamlessly, while she felt caught. In what exactly, she wasn’t sure. Part of her hoped with time that feeling would fade, become background static instead of pumping along with her heartbeat. Going with the current, she did exactly what was expected of her. Attended college, albeit a community college, but college none the less. Part time work covered what financial aid wouldn’t, even scraping enough together to buy a beater car.

Time drifted on and the feeling stayed, haunting and hollow. Avoiding the problem didn’t lessen its size but it never grew. In the back of her mind constantly. Social media was the worst part, watching her friends flourish and flower, while it took everything in her to remain sane and present. Two years flew by in the blink of an eye and she were left with a tiny degree she was not sure she really wanted. When the opportunity did present itself, she knew it was one she could not possibly pass up.

She knew that even in L.A these demons could surface but maybe the constant sun could choke them out. Packing her meager belongings into the back of her car, she pointed it in the direction of L.A. Whether she actually ended up in the sunshine state wasn’t the point, but rather, it was to get out. Stop the cycle before it became the only focal point of her life. It took longer than it should’ve, she passed the days slowly. Each spent behind the wheel simply heading west.

L.A. was a zoo. She worked your way through the city with fascination and hopefulness. She was certain of one thing and uncertain of many. She hoped to write but was willing to do just about anything to make money. Well, just about anything, she still harbored some self-respect.

L.A. had of a way of worming its way into your heart, no matter how shitty people made it seem. Each self-respecting L.A citizen hated the city as much as they loved it. She found a decent studio apartment, managed to get a job as a barista quickly, and spent the first month slinging caffeine in the daytime and writing into the wee hours of the morning. Cash was always tight, considering she did live in one of the most expensive cities, but there was semblance of happiness. It was clawing it’s way in on the edges of her life.

The customers were not particularly strange, at least not always. There were a couple of memorable moments, but most days passed by in monotony. She knew customers by their orders, not names. These small moments between the register and picking up their coffee offered she a small window into their world. These hints they dropped left her wondering about their lives outside their order and these four walls. Who were these people who flocked to the shop like cattle to slaughter?

She certainly played favorites, every barista did, with both customers and coworkers. There were those who made the days a little brighter. The first was her coworker James. Somewhere in his twenties like her but an old soul. He came to work in sweaters, cooper rimmed circular glasses, and disheveled hair on the daily. He was welcoming and warm and chased away some of the darkness.

The two of them became instant friends. He would wait after work to hang out, get drinks on the weekend, and spend Sunday brunch complaining about his hangover. At first, she was confronted with the concern that maybe he was worming into her life in hopes of it ending in a relationship, but as soon as she met his boyfriend Scott, that fear was put to rest. In a way, she chose the two of them as family. She spent countless hours with them, at ease with the way things were.

In James, she confided most of her fears and a lot of her guilt. The backstory of her life surprising him but explaining the front she put up. Tragedy often bores the strongest soldiers. In the year she had been in L.A, James helped her pick up the pieces and put herself together, an unrepayable favor. Thanksgiving was right around the corner and she were destined to spend it with James and Scott.

“James, I’m running to the grocery store after work and if you play your cards right there might just be a bottle of Prosecco with your name on it.” she joked over the espresso machine, a sly smile on her lips. James and her always bantered at work, often to the amusement of the customers and other coworkers.

James matches her smile, “Oh honey, you act like I would actually need to play my cards to get it, I’ve got you wrapped around my finger.” He chuckles and turns back to the drawer. The day was getting late, closing time just mere hours away. She was practically counting down the hours till she could curl up on his couch and binge “New Girl”, the new obsession for the two of them.

“I like to pretend it’s the other way around, but I would admit you are right, James. But besides that, anything else?” she asked, hardly looking at him. There was unspoken communication between you two most days, a glance could tell a story. “I was thinking pizza this fine Wednesday night. But I’m certainly open to suggestions.”

“And break the Wednesday night pizza tradition, how absurd!” James feigns hurt, a hand over his heart and concerned expression painting his face. “The table is already set, we can’t go making changes now, silly girl.”

“Then pizza and prosecco it is. Perfect.” She giggled and sent a curt nod in his direction. The entire conversation was an open invitation for him to change the plans, but he never did. Wednesday night was always reserved for the two of them. They devoured pizza and whatever show they were working on. It was sacred to them both.

The rest of the day passed quickly, the sun just barely setting when she and James locked the shop doors. A brief hug and a quick exchange of words and the two of them were off in opposite directions. A pit stop at the grocery store and then to James’ place. He would order the pizza in, as per tradition. Tasked with grabbing the drinks and whatever bits she needed, she would be to his place shortly.

Her car sat tucked in the back lot, warm from sitting in the sun. Cranking the window open once she had climbed inside, turning on the radio, she set off to the grocery store. It was smaller than most that scattered around L.A, which is why it was her favorite. She did not have to fight the yoga obsessed mothers to get through the aisles or hope the hipsters didn’t pick through the all the good stuff before she got a chance to be there. The old man, who she assumed owned it, knew her by name. Often, he would gift products just a day out of date to her. He did save your ass more than once.

“Charles, what’s the good word for today?” She asked, swinging the door open and nabbing a basket.

Smiling, he gushed, “I beat the finalist in Jeopardy today, but I’m here and he’s there,” shrugging he went on, “I put some of those cookies you like in the back, they went out of date yesterday, Dandelion.” Charles had been using the nickname since she had started coming here. She was totally convinced he had to be her guardian angel. When she asked him where it came from, his response surprised her. “Like the weed, you always come back. You are full of fire and strong. I can see it.” She felt partial to this grocery store. She ended up here for a reason.

“Great, I was craving something sweet all day. Remind me, I have got something for you in my bag before I go. Don’t worry, nothing poisonous.” Jokingly she added.

Charles had a love for Jim Harrison. Often when she was browsing at old bookstores or garage sale’s she would stumble across one for him. He probably owned nearly every single book published by Harrison, but always acted thankful and surprised when she presented him with another. She wanted to make sure he knew how much she appreciated him in a way of more than just saying thank you.

She scanned the aisles looking for the familiar packaging of her favorites. She hardly noticed the boy till she had practically run into his back.

“Another one in Charles good graces, a rare species.” He teased.

Chuckling, “That must mean there are people on Charles bad side, which I highly doubt.” He was home strung, as far as she could tell. Clean cut and not looking for a lot of attention, judging by his all black attire. “I’m assuming you’re one of the lucky ones, too.” She implored.

“Thankfully, I have managed to make my way into one of his chosen few. Even without it, I would still come here. This is the only grocery store where I don’t have to cross my fingers and hope all the good stuff isn’t picked over. Charles seems to have a force field to keep this place hidden. Certainly, the best kept secret of L.A.,” he pauses, searching your face, “you work at the coffee shop on Sunset, Eight-Fold Coffee, right?”

“Guiltily is charged, Mr. iced latte with almond milk,” tapping your temple, “steel trap. I only know people’s drinks, not their names, sorry. I was wondering if you looked familiar or if it was just the lighting.”

Extending a hand, cheekily responding, “David. The name’s David Dobrik, or iced latte if you please.” His smile was easy and charming, you couldn’t help but stare. His entire posture oozed ease, you couldn’t quite decide if he was trying to flirt or simply be friendly. Of course, that wonderful friend called self-doubt started to crawl its way into your chest, so it was time to go.

Flashing him what you hoped was a friendly parting smile, “Y/N. Y/N Y/L/N. It was nice finally meeting in more than just an ‘iced latte with almond milk’ kind of way. I’ll see you around. I have promised the roommate a night in and if I don’t come through, the world might stop turning.” Turning on her heel, tossing David a small wave, she headed for the register. All the things she needed forgotten.

She set the single bottle on the counter and wait for Charles to ring it up. Silence elapses, you lost entirely in your own thoughts.

“Dandelion?”

“Huh, what?” she missed what he asked, cheeks flushing at him catching her in dreamland.

“Lots on your mind today?” Charles inquired, a knowing look on his face.

Smiling and rolling her eyes, “I respect the fishing for a morsel of mind but maybe when inquiring minds aren’t near.” she winks. Digging in your bag, she pulls the book for him, Returning to Earth, out. “I found it at a garage sale this weekend and thought you could add to your collection. But this one, is to expand your horizons.” She pulls The Pleasures of the Damned by Charles Bukowski out. “I’ll need it back but keep it as long as you need, I know where to find you. See you around Charles.” She pays and get ready to go, sneaking one last glance in David’s direction. Grabbing onto her bag with the prosecco and cookies tucked in, she heads for the doors. One last look to the aisles and she can see David still tucked amongst them, scouring for something in the sea. A shake of her head and she is out the doors.

Tossing the bag in the passenger seat, she meanders down the streets towards James. A stampede of thoughts about David comes and goes. It was just mutual acknowledgement that the two of them did in fact kind of know each other. Yet, she found herself wondering if she should tell James about him, see if he had any insight on the guy. The thought felt foolish considering it was just a run in at the grocery store, nothing more.

Charles knew more about her then he let on. He knew her heart was kind but had been through a lot, he knew you were loyal and strong, but he knew also knew when her heart would tell you who to let in. David did not need much from that grocery store, mostly some alone time. His inquiring mind also wanted some more information on the barista who stole his breath away. As he left that day, Charles told him something he would carry with him for a while. “People like her, they guard their hearts, but hers is golden. It won’t always be shut.”

Opening the door to James and Scott’s apartment, she could smell the pizza. Her mouth was already watering. James rounded the corner into view between the small kitchen and living.

“I was beginning to wonder if you bailed.” He poked.

“On you, never.” Rolling her eyes.

“I am almost flattered.” He made for the bag in her hand, noticing the cookies right away. “Charles treats you like your one of his own grand kids. One of the people placed on that golden list.”

“About Charles coveted list, I ran into a guy from the coffee shop. David? Iced latte with almond milk, dresses like an unemployed ninja. Do you know anything about him?” She asked trying to keep the hopeful tone from her voice.

James searches her face before continuing. “A sudden interest in a customer, more like prominent interest. I’ve noticed the favorites you play with him.” He flashes you a joking grin. “I don’t know much about him honestly. I’ve heard whisperings from the other baristas that he has some youtube channel, not much else. He seems nice.” Bumping his shoulder with hers, “It wouldn’t hurt if you tried to be friends with him. It’s not a crime to branch out. I would not be insulted if you did. I worry that maybe you don’t because I take up a lot of your time.”

“Certainly not, you take up a perfect amount of my time. I just, remember how hard it is for me to be friends with people, I guess. I am a lifelong hermit. Plus, if he’s doing that whole ‘social media career’, he might not be the kind of friend I want.” Socializing was never her strong suit and if David’s preferred choice was blasting his life across the platforms, maybe she would take a pass.

The two of you vegged out on the couch way past what was a reasonable time, both scheduled to open tomorrow. He was on her mind all night, the little she knew about him had her mind doing circles. He seemed innocent enough, a good guy if Charles liked him.

The sun shown through the windows all morning, bringing a warming light to the coffee shop. All day you hoped he would pop in, yet, it went unanswered. Clocking out, she nabbed her notebook and a mug of coffee, making her way to the bank of windows along the window. She tried to keep her mind from wandering, yet it seemed impossible. Perhaps she scared him off.

“I figured you were a writer. Nobody suggests poetry books, Bukowski especially, unless they are a writer. Or terribly sad, but judging by the notebook, I’d say the first.” David said, standing next to you bathed in the afternoon sun. He looked as though he just woke up but in a delicious way. His hair was messy and his eyes warm. She could not help but bath in the light emanating from him.

A small smile spread on her lips, “You’re a fan?”

“I saw it on Charles counter on my out yesterday. A simple Google Search did the trick. Guy seems kind of dark for you.” A blush plays on David’s cheeks. “I was hoping to run into you today. Listen, me and my friends are going to this party tonight, would you be interested?”

“Uh,” glancing behind the counter you see James shaking his yes vigorous, “sure, why not?” It seemed in David’s presence, the hole in her chest seemed to lessen some.

#david x reader #david dobrik #davids vlogs #david dobrik imagine #david dobrik x reader #vlog squad #vlog sqaud #i mostly write vlog squad

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cathygeha · 3 years

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REVIEW

Fractals by Alicia Anthony

From first page to last I was immersed in the story. I could not stop reading until I found out how the story would play out. I was invested in the outcome as if I were involved and could change what would happen. I knew who I cared about, who I despised, and who I was on the fence about. Not a romance in the general sense of the word but there was love and caring and deep abiding affection along with other emotions that played a huge part in the behavior of the characters. The pasts of many impacted their behavior. I wanted to hug some of the characters and give them a safe harbor while others…I won’t tell you what I wanted to do with them! This was dark, gritty, and difficult to read at times…but it was so worth reading.

What I liked:

* That the story made me think and care.

* Looking up fractals and tears…intriguing what I learned.

* Asher: a complex man, a teacher, a man who loved deeply, a good person, someone I admired and rooted for throughout the story.

* Carly: damaged, cares deeply, loved her life before her mother died, has seen more than anyone should have. She is one I wanted to hug and help.

* Moreno: homicide detective, husband, father, has a purpose, a good man – I grew to truly like and admire him.

* Jo: department of child services employee – someone I was on the fence about for most of the story.

* The way the topic was covered with compassion and eyes wide open.

* That there were (and are) some people that stand up for right and do what they can to help.

* The unexpected twist(s) at the end and the sense of hope I was left with.

What I didn’t like:

* Knowing that human trafficking is real and how people are coerced or groomed into it.

* The people in the story that I was meant not to like – they were wicked, evil, loathsome creatures.

* Realizing that there is little hope of ever eradicating this type of crime.

Did I like this story? I did

Would I read more by this author? Definitely.

Thank you to NetGalley, Aurora Publicity and the author for the ARC – This is my honest review.

5 Stars

BLURB

Seventeen-year-old Carly Dalton should’ve known Asher Thompson had secrets. Why else would he be in a truck stop bar in the middle of a school night? And she definitely shouldn’t have accepted his offer. But here she was sitting in a police station keeping secrets of her own … new school, new friends, same old problems. High school science teacher Asher Thompson only wanted to help. He first told himself that the night he pulled Carly, a rain-soaked teenager, from the floor of the local truck stop bar. Now, with the girl’s father dead and sister missing, he was doing it again, opening his home to her as a temporary guardian. But as Carly’s brutal present cracks open a door to Asher’s own painful past, he’s forced to choose … protect his student or save himself. And Asher learned long ago … no good deed goes unpunished. *** Content Warning: This book contains elements of human trafficking which may be difficult for sensitive readers.

From award-winning author Alicia Anthony comes a gripping novel of redemption and revenge, fueled by the traumas that shape us. Fractals is an emotionally intense psychological thriller that explores the impact of trauma on our perception of right versus wrong. Readers of Lisa Unger, Ruth Ware, and Alice Feeney will enjoy the edge of your seat twists in this darkly complex thriller.

Title: Fractals Author: Alicia Anthony Genre: Suspense/Thriller Publisher: Drury Lane Books Release Date: March 16, 2021 Format: Digital/Paperback Digital ISBN: 978-1-7333624-7-4 Paperback ISBN: 978-1-7333624-8-1

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Alicia Anthony’s first novels were illegible scribbles on the back of her truck driver father’s logbook trip tickets. Having graduated from scribbles to laptop, she now pens novels of psychological suspense in the quiet of the wee morning hours. A full-time elementary school Literacy Specialist, Alicia hopes to pass on her passion for books and writing to the students she teaches.

A two time Golden Heart® finalist and Silver Quill Award winner, Alicia finds her inspiration in exploring the dark, dusty corners of the human experience. Alicia is a graduate of Spalding University’s School of Creative & Professional Writing (MFA), Ashland University (M.Ed.) and THE Ohio State University (BA). Go Bucks! She lives in rural south-central Ohio with her amazingly patient and supportive husband, incredibly understanding teenage daughter, two dogs, three horses, a plethora of both visiting and resident barn cats, and some feral raccoons who have worn out their welcome.

When she’s not writing or teaching, Alicia loves to travel and experience new places. Connect with her online. She’d love to hear from you!

Aurora Publicity Where the Magic of Your Books Meets the Assistant of Your Dreams.

#Alicia Anthony #Aurora Publicity #NetGalley #Fiction #Human Trafficking #Abuse #Drugs #Crime #Dysfunctional Family

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samayla · 4 years

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An Utterly Impractical Magician

Chapter 9

A Jane Eyre/Jonathan Strange and Mr Norrell fusion fic.

Also on AO3

Summary: When John Reed burnt Thomas Godbless’ book of magic to spite his cousin, he had no idea how drastically he would alter both her fate and that of English magic.

@majorxbuddyxboy @shygaladriel @bookhobbit @wolfinthethorns @kaethe-nicole @warsawmouse @cassandravision @mythopoeticreality @jmlascar @seriouslythoughguys @isawatreetoday @rude-are-food @the-stars-above28@the-candor-shadowhunter

Let me know if any of you would like to be added/removed in the tags list.

So... I just quit my second job yesterday.

I have two shifts left, and then I’m down to just my regular day job. The plan is to write part time through the spring, and then find a summer job if I need cash while school is out, but I’m hoping to have a book by then. I have a kids’ story ready to go, aside from the letters and paperwork -- and finding a good-fit publisher for it, but *shrugs*. Anywho... Have a chapter to celebrate my newfound freedom!

The Master’s Moods

Hurtfew Abbey, July 1805

Hurtfew Abbey was a sleepy, solemn sort of house. Never a mote of dust in the air or a single quill out of place, it was the sort of house that smelled chiefly of furniture polish and old paper, and where candles were never, ever left burning unattended. But when John Childermass arrived with his new charge in the wee hours of the morning, he found the place in a state of relative pandemonium. Lights shone in half the windows. Smoke still rose from the library chimney. The front door hung ajar. And as they drove closer, he could see someone pacing in the front parlour.

Clearly, his master was in a Mood.

Though she’d put on a creditable performance of it, Jane had only slept truly peacefully in the final few miles of their journey, and Childermass feared the shock of waking to one of Mr Norrell’s infamous fits. He waited until the last possible moment, lest Mr Norrell catch onto his plan, then leaned out the window and directed their driver to take them round to the servants’ entrance at the back of the house. No doubt Mr Norrell was watching — by means either magical or mundane — and would head for the servants’ hall as soon as he spied the carriage making its turn, but Childermass hoped to have the girl awake and settled with one of the maids by the time his master arrived.

He reached across the carriage to shake Jane gently awake. She was upright and alert at once, as if she’d been struck by lightning, but she apologized only half-coherently for dozing off during the lesson. “Peace, Little Miss,” Childermass soothed, patting her knee beneath his bulky coat. “We’ve arrived is all.”

True to his word, the carriage eased to a stop just then. Jane peeked out the window and cast a skeptical frown at the grim rear face of the house. Childermass helped his charge out of the carriage, relieved her of her lone bag of possessions, and offered his arm with an exaggerated flourish to brighten her up. “This way, Little Miss.” She smiled a little, looking especially small and pale in the dark of the kitchen yard, and accepted his arm gingerly. He patted her hand, mindful of the bandaged stripes on her palms, and offered her an encouraging wink. “It’ll look more promising come morning, I assure you.”

Jane nodded, but she seemed to shrink within his coat, and the smile she offered in return did not reach her mismatched eyes.

Thankfully, it was Hannah down mending shirts in the servants’ hall when they entered. Childermass was in need of an ally, and of all the maids, she had the most level head on her shoulders. Still, the sight of Childermass with a little girl on his arm was a startling one, and Hannah rose with a gasp when she registered what she was seeing. Pretending it was the most natural thing in the world that he should arrive with a child in the deep dark between moonset and sunrise, Childermass performed the introductions.

Hannah took his lead, her quick eyes catching the way the girl clung to his arm like a lifeline. “Lovely to meet you, sweetling,” she said warmly, though she kept as much distance between them as could be reasonably considered natural.

The girl started to answer, but she stopped short at the sound of Mr Norrell’s voice carrying down the corridor. “…what he means by it!” There was a pause as somebody else answered more quietly. “Propriety’s never stopped him using the front door before!” Norrell snarled.

“Hannah, love, we’ve had a very long journey, and I think a soft bed and a bit of proper looking after may be in order.” To Jane, who had gone very still and tense at his side, he said, “Go on with Hannah, Little Miss. I’ll send Dido along with some bandages in a bit.”

“You can meet the master in the morning, sweetling,” Hannah agreed, stepping in and beginning to unravel her from the cocoon of Childermass’ coat. “It’s been far too long a day for good first impressions now, but Lucy suspected you might be joining us when Mr Childermass headed north in such a hurry. She’s done up the Green Room just for you, just in case.”

“Off you go,” Childermass urged, disengaging her grip as Mr Norrell’s ranting grew louder and nearer. “We’ll sort the rest out in the morning.”

“We will do no such thing, sir!”

Jane went white as a sheet and shoved her hands behind her back as Mr Norrell stormed into the hall. She twisted her fists anxiously into the back of her skirt, but otherwise, she did not move. She might as well have been turned to stone standing there in the no man’s land between servants and master.

“I will have an explanation now, Childermass! Gone without a word — not where you were going, nor when we should expect you back! Inexcusable, sir! Utterly inexcusable! How do you account for it?”

Childermass stepped close and squeezed Jane’s shoulder. He was gratified to feel her resume breathing beneath his hand. “Mr Norrell,” he said pleasantly, “this is Miss Jane Eyre, formerly of Gateshead House. Miss Jane, Mr Gilbert Norrell, master of Hurtfew Abbey. Hannah was just about to take her up to bed. We have had a terribly trying day, sir, and it is far too late for little girls to be up.”

“I should say so!” Norrell exclaimed. “It’s already gone one in the morning! Utterly irresponsible, sir! She ought to have been in bed hours ago, I should think!”

Childermass resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “You heard Mr Norrell, ladies,” he scolded, pushing Jane into Hannah’s waiting arms. “Off to bed now, and no dawdling.”

“Of course, Mr Childermass.” Thankfully, Mr Norrell was utterly oblivious to the smile in his maid’s voice.

As Hannah departed with Jane, Childermass set off in the opposite direction, in search of Dido and a bite to eat. A single bowl of stew as most decidedly not enough to keep him until morning. Mr Norrell was conflicted for all of half a minute, but then he scurried after him, still irritably demanding explanations. Childermass ignored him for the moment. He chose instead to deliver orders to Dido, who was preparing tea in the kitchen. “Hannah will be needing some bandages up in the Green Room shortly, love. Would you mind?”

Lucy bustled into the kitchen just then, clearly having met Hannah and Jane on the back stair. She commandeered Dido’s tea kettle just as it began to sing on the stove. She discarded Mr Norrell’s Earl Grey and replaced the leaves with soothing chamomile and a sprig of mint from the window box. “Oh, Mr Childermass! You were quite right to be concerned for her! The poor thing is skin and bones! And her hands! Best bring a pot of Mr Laceworthy’s salve when you come, Dido. I know Mrs Porter keeps some in her cupboard for burns. And another kettle of water, if you please.”

“Of course. I won’t be but a minute, Lucy.” She curtsied to Mr Norrell with a perfunctory “Sir,” and disappeared to the cook’s cupboard, while Childermass made for the larder. He returned to the kitchen with a plate of cold ham to see that some of the bluster had gone out of his master. He’d looked fit to burst when Lucy had absconded with the makings of his tea, but now, he looked very nearly concerned. “What’s happened to the child’s hands?” he asked.

“Beaten for doing magic,” Childermass answered shortly. He carved a hunk off the ham.

Norrell’s nose wrinkled in distaste. “Beaten for doing magic? What a positively medieval notion! Why on earth would they do that to a child? Who did that?”

“Her headmaster,” he answered around a mouthful of ham.

“But what magic can they think she’s done? She’s odd-looking, to be sure, but a magician?”

“Jane is the supposed book murderer from last fall.”

“The Book of Thomas Godbless! That is the girl you spoke of?”

“Aye.” He swallowed and carved off another slab of meat. “I’ve had half an eye on her since we met, and I believe she’s become somewhat entangled with the magic of the burned book.”

“Highly unlikely, I’m afraid. There are no accounts of such a thing having happened before. But then, I suppose it was extremely rare for a convicted book murderer to live beyond a week. This is entirely unprecedented, Childermass! I suppose nearly anything is possible in a case such as this!”

“It may be prudent, sir, to remember that she is not, in fact, a book murderer, but rather the one who attempted to save the book from the flames,” Childermass said blandly. He raised an eyebrow. “For your sake and hers. She will not take kindly to any careless accusations.” He thought back to the fierce little creature in the library, daring him to show his mettle, and he could not imagine such a showdown going well between the girl and Mr Norrell.

“Of course! Of course we must be entirely accurate in this matter, Childermass! It is good you see it too! I only wonder why you waited until now to say something.”

Childermass had to stifle a smirk at this reversal. Naturally, this was all Norrell’s idea now, and Childermass was the reluctant one.

“Really, Childermass, I recall you saying you felt something amiss that very day when you were at Gateshead. Only think of what we might know by now! Though one must wonder, of course, why the magic — if that is indeed what it is — has taken so many months to manifest…”

“Almost as soon as Jane arrived at her school, strange reports began coming in from that area of the country. The only mystery, is why it took so long for her headmaster to get fed up with her disrupting his flock.”

“Then why have you waited until now?”

“I consulted my cards a fortnight past, and was warned of disaster.”

“Your cards,” Norrell scoffed.

“Aye, my cards. And I arrived at Lowood to find that girl beaten bloody by her headmaster, near-starved, and halfway to disappearing into a moldering mural in the school’s chapel.”

“Truly?” And Norrell was off, scurrying down the passage toward the stairs, grousing to himself all the while about the oppression of magicians, medieval attitudes, and the dangers of mold and damp. Anyone who overheard his muttered tirade might have thought him on his way to single-handedly rescue Jane Eyre from all three. But when he reached the Green Room, however, all the righteous indignation seemed to go right out of him to puddle ineffectually on the floor, like an overfull wine skin that had suddenly sprung a leak. He paused several feet from the open doorway, as if he had only just remembered that the little girl they’d just been discussing was, in fact, a real, living, little girl.

“She won’t bite you,” Childermass teased softly, leaning against the wall beside the door. They could hear Hannah and Dido talking softly, and a faint splashing told them they were still cleaning her hands. Norrell, who in other circumstances might have answered back, instead ignored Childermass entirely and peered around the door frame as though frightened of being caught in the act.

“She’s an odd creature, to be sure,” he hissed, “and she’s been treated abominably, but I don’t understand why she should come here, Childermass. Surely there is somewhere more suitable —”

“The orphanage, sir,” said Childermass bluntly.

“But—”

“Then Bedlam, no doubt.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Brocklehurst says she is unnatural and will lead the other girls to damnation,” Childermass explained, his lip curling in distaste at the memory of the conversation. “He will not have her in his school any longer.”

“But what about the girl’s family at Gateshead?”

“Her parents are dead, sir. Her aunt, a fashionable waste of space, cast her off after the incident in her library. She has no other family to claim her.” He let that sink in a moment. “She has been branded a troublemaker, a liar, and an unnatural creature for the way trouble seems to flare around her. And when the orphanage comes to the same conclusions, she will be committed as a lunatic, beyond hope of redemption.”

“And yet you wish me to take her on!”

Lucy came to the door with a reproachful look at this outburst. She shut the door firmly. Norrell looked indignant, but Childermass chose to ignore it and continue in the most reasonable manner. He had been long enough in Mr Norrell’s service that he recognized the approaching end to the argument. He was like a child determined not to go to sleep: one last little burst of resistance before dozing off quietly. Taking on this little girl was the most reasonable thing in the world, and Norrell was but a hair’s breadth from accepting it as fact. “Aye,” Childermass soothed. “I have asked my cards, and they say she is none of those things.”

“Your picture cards!” Norrell spat. “What is she then, according to your all-knowing picture cards?”

“She is a little girl whose only friend in the world has ever been Thomas Godbless.”

That seemed to quiet Norrell for a few minutes while they listened to the soft murmuring on the other side of the door. The maids came out and bid them a very firm good night, and Lucy shut the door behind herself once more with a stern look at each of them. They watched the maids go, chattering softly amongst themselves about clothes and dolls and hairbrushes and every other thing a little girl might need in a new household.

“But what am I to do with her, Childermass?” Norrell asked at last as the chatter faded down the stairwell. “My work is sensitive — sometimes dangerous! I cannot have a child scampering about, getting underfoot.”

Childermass snorted. “To look at her, sir, I would very seriously doubt Jane Eyre has ever ‘scampered’ in her life.”

“You have not answered my question, Childermass.”

He sighed. “Teach her, sir. She seems a bright little thing, once one gets past her timidity. And she is very fond of reading, which I daresay is a good enough start.”

#eyre/strange fusion #jane eyre #jonathan strange and mr norrell #jsamn #kate writes #mywriting

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juleswolverton-hyde · 5 years

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The Inked Ways of a Raven (Writing Routine)

Top o’ the morning, lads and lasses,

A wee while ago, I announced participating in a type of NaNoWriMo adjusted to my own convenient rules, but also sharing some writing advice alongside the personal writing routine of a Raven. Henceforth, this post, as has likely already been gathered, is to fulfill another promise in this writing-positive month.

So, what is my routine?

I do not have one.

But, Raven, why the hell do you make a post on it if ye don’t have one?

Alright, first of all, calm down. Think about your blood pressure, yer still young.

Secondly, I do not have a routine because circumstances urge me to adjust it time and again. There are good days with lots of words and there are those when there is less than satisfactory progress made on WIPs. For example, on days when I do not have to work or go to university, I tend to be more creatively active than when these obligations apply. However, there are some consistencies in writing as a moody author.

Whenever doing leg exercises at the gym, hands are unoccupied and thus available for the craft. Funnily enough, it is here and under the shower where most ideas find root, alongside literature lectures and seminars on old English literature, which should suffice as an explanation for the style and register of the pieces. Permanently influenced by the writers of old, that is simply how it is. Also, while waiting for the bus after an evening shift, some progress is tried to be made since half an hour of doing nothing is not preferable whatsoever.

Lastly, in case of going abroad, while waiting at the airport, travelling around the country, sitting in a café or park or at night in the hotel, I work on stories while the stay should actually be a holiday to relax. Once I am home, practically immediately the revising and editing process starts. Never is a full break taken from being an author, as has become apparent by now. Withal, do not do what I do and neglect your studies in favour of a hobby. All in all, it comes down to grasping every opportunity there is to write at any moment.

Let us move further into the subject and take a closer look at the process of writing.

Materials & apps

Paper

Pens

Bullet journal

Journal (not always applicable)

Laptop

Phone

Werdsmith

Grammarly

Google Drive/Google Docs

Microsoft Word (only applicable under certain circumstances)

It is pure unadulterated chaos, let that be said first. The amount of slips of paper with concepts, random ideas jotted down in diaries and storylines disrupting academic notes taken in class has significantly diminished thanks to the purchase of a bullet journal. A separate post shall be made later on to talk about that.

It all begins with a concept which is jotted down in some way or another. This method has two sides: a physical and mental either physically with a pen to form a steady foundation or preserve the work for a later occasion (noted down in the bullet journal or the regular one on occasion) or even type out an entire first chapter and store it somewhere on Google Drive.

This leads to the actual process of writing.

I use the app called Werdsmith (IOS & Android), which allows up to six project drafts and four idea drafts for free. I prefer this over writing on my laptop because I am mostly on the go and still want to work on projects without having to drag along any big electronic devices.

After having written the piece, I export the project to my mail to edit it in Google Docs with a little help from the Grammarly extension and The Emotion Thesaurus by Angela Ackerman & Becca Puglish alongside thesaurus.com.

While editing, I listen to ASMR and/or music because you have to keep it fun somehow. As for how long it takes, it all depends on the word count. Henceforth, it can take two hours to an entire day to edit the text, albeit with breaks thanks to the gym, work or university.

After this first round of editing, because the Grammarly extension does not fully work in Google Docs, I copy and paste the document in Wattpad for another grammar check.

Once this is done, having finished simultaneously editing the original Drive document and the Wattpad file, the piece is transferred to Tumblr and AO3. In case of the former, images - of which most have served as reference material already - are also added. All that remains to be done by this stage, is pushing the publish button and thus finish the routine.

ASMR channels

New Bliss

Miracle Forest

ASMR Rooms

Winter Whale ASMR

Music channels

danielions playlists

Café Music BGM channel

The Jazz Hop Café

The Guild of Ambiance

#writeblr #writing #writer #author #writing routine #about me #get to know me #get to know the writer #get to know the author #get to know the blogger #get to know The Raven

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mosungie · 5 years

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eighth member! au

hi hello!! i’m going to start writing again, but this time for bts!! because i’m a stupid bitch in love anywho, i got some things that i guess you’ll need to know to understand the oc?? oc/reader was born in 1995, so this part takes place in the winter of 2011/2012 and is going to be an introduction to her character, like before debut. also note that i have zero knowledge of how one becomes an idol, this is just something that i came up with lol im sorry, i also don’t really know much about bts before debut, im like new to the fandom and have little knowledge about them before debut, so im sorry in advance for the lack of accuracy

anywho, lets begin!

warnings: extremely bad humor/my attempt at being funny but i failed, some cursing because i wanted to, oh also, the boys aren’t in this one, its just an introduction to oc but, they’ll be in ones in the future!!

word count: 1.1k

okay so she has lived a life so far, let me tell you

even though she was only seventeen, she felt as if she’s lived for centuries

she was born in 1995 in busan, korea to two very loving parents who would support their daughter to the very end

she lived in busan until she turned seven, when her father’s job had relocated in los angeles

they lived there until her father’s company re-relocated back to busan because his company is stupid and didn’t want to have their off-shore in los angeles

i can go on and on about how stupid her father’s company is but like, no

so she’s kinda smart smart, with a basis of primary and a wee bit of secondary education in both korea and america

she’s very versatile i don’t make the rules

like she’s intelligent, fluent in both english and korean, along with her studies in school of course

but anywho, her life truly started when she was sixteen

though, she grew up very shy, only showing her goofy and (not so slightly) crackhead personality to like her three closest friends, one of which still lived in Los Angeles

like every single person thought that she was shy, but boi that’s because she got uncomfortable around new people ya know

so obviously, she was quite shy when she became a trainee, only being seventeen at the time

with a voice like hers, it was obvious that she was destined to be in the industry, even if she didn’t think that she had to ability to do so

she also composed music and song lyrics on the daily, sometimes selling it to bigger producers that found her work after her friend forced her to send it to a company a year prior

before that, she would send her work of short stories and poems to publishing companies just for fun

she was a small writer in a very vast world of different writers

but she didn’t just write, she would make private writings, some of them were songs that she composed, which led to her friend forcing her to at least try to send it to an entertainment company

anywho, there were some people that really liked her compositions and others that wouldn’t even accept her work, but that was okay, she wasn’t really thinking about making a career out of it, just doing it for fun on the side on top of her studies

one day in december, she sent a file of a song that she had written and composed on the piano to an entertainment company called BigHit

she wasn’t even going to do it to be completely honest

it was like two in the morning when she finished completing the files

you see, there were two different files, there was the composition of just the instruments with attached song lyrics and one of her singing her lyrics along with the instruments in the background

originally, she only sang it because she needed to make sure that the lyrics would be able to be harmonized if the company were to use it, but she thought she sounded like a screeching rat when she sang, so she really didn’t want anyone hearing it

she never thought of herself as a singer, mostly as a writer and composer but boi she was wrong

at least in the eyes of the person who opened the files of the email that she sent

okay back to it being two a.m.

with her mind barely being functional at that poorly timed hour, she coined an email to an executive at the company and accidentally attached both the files of just the instruments and the one where she was screeching the lyrics (along with the lyrics itself but like,,, irrelevant)

so without thinking twice, she sent the email and passed the fuck out

she was delirious and blames that but it’s also because she has her stupid moments

the next day though, that’s when she got an email back

it was a monday, meaning ya know, school so she didn’t see it until she got home from classes

when she opened the email, she literally passed out, again

it was probably from the cold winter and maybe a little exhaustion but like also because she sent b o t h files

and they liked it

the email basically said, “hey we really like that do you like wanna come to an audition for our company”

when she came to, she started freaking the fuck out

i mean like, why wouldn’t she, she thought she sounded horrendous in that audio, it was literally not supposed to be heard by a n y o n e

but fast forward like a month

its now mid-january and boy she was freaking the fuck out

it was the day of the auditions in Seoul, meaning she traveled all the way from home which was like three hours of her sitting in a car

her legs cramped and her ass went numb but we won’t talk about that

anywho, the audition was very nerve racking

like she was sweating in january in seoul, like that doesn’t happen, normally

but this wasn’t normal

she never sang in front of people, it was always just her, a mic, and some shitty computer where she composed those songs

but now, she was in front of a panel

these people looked intimidating, like no facial expression, just blank stares as she poured her soul out

yeah she was still freaking the fuck out, but calmly and only in her mind

she tried to keep her cool face on, but once again she was literally sweating her pour heart out

but after her audition, one of the ladies smiled sweetly at her and thanked her for auditioning

when she left, she felt relieved but still nervous ya know? like she wanted it subconsciously but not as much as the others that were there auditioning too

she went home afterwards and if she got a trainee spot, they would call her the next day, if not, oh well, at least she tried

but the next day, she did get the call

she got the call that she was going to be a freaking idol

she passed out again, i think she might be anemic to be honest, she needs some help

the information for when and where she’ll be training was going to be sent to her in three days by mail and she literally could not have been happier, like she was sporadically jumping up and down

and thus, it begins

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divagonzo · 6 years

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Funny Business (Harry & Ginny and more)

Ao3 // FF.net

A/N: Sp I got the idea from @gryffindormischief from a prompt from her and asked if I could take it for a short fic. 7000 words later and here we are. Rated T just for giggles. Ace mostly safe. @vondrakenhof might be able to name the game in question. Also, my eternal thanks to @fightfortherightsofhouseelves for the size 250 kick in the arse on getting on with writing part II up to snuff.

Under a cut line because it’s 7K in length but I’m publishing it in 2 parts since it is so long.

Oh, and A/N2: This based off my own nicheverse (*Cough CC isn’t Canon Cough*) and so Albus isn’t Captain Emo Edgelord and Harry isn’t a tosser to Al. – DG

“Alright Harry, fess up.”

Harry continued to stare at the kids playing video games in the den. “I – “

“The Minister being an arse?” Ginny cheeked. “Budget cuts stressing you out?”

“It’s not like that,” he muttered.

James stood up and danced over his brother Al, taunting him like only brothers could. “Don’t pout. I told you that you had to drink a strength potion before taking on that wizard. I can’t help it he killed you within 30 seconds.”

“Shut up. I’ll beat him” Al glared but Ginny knew that her other son would keep after his task until he did win and beat a task. He has her tenacity where James got by on natural talent. Al was the best of his parents, in addition to being a very kind boy, where James naturally took after his grandfather, supposedly.

“Alright. I’ll start it from the last save. Try it again.” James toggled his controller and the game backed up 5 minutes, to where the players were on the second level, with three more to go. The boys were immediately busy, fighting through trolls and other bad guys and jawing with one another. Lily Luna, though, was in the corner, playing with her toys and pointedly ignoring her brothers. Ginny knew Lils was irritated at her siblings for not letting her play on the console, but they also didn’t know that when Lils couldn’t sleep and Ginny was still awake late, they’d play a different game, bonding over video game go kart racing. Lily Luna loved going fast, either in a video game or for real. The family was thankful for their grandfather making such muggle things work in their household around so much magic.

Ginny tuned her kids out and focused on her distressed husband. She knew him better than he knew himself most days and needed to know what was going on before she could help him – or kick his arse out of agonizing over something he would reluctantly share with her.

“You took the kids out for ice crème when you got home from work at 1, and then went and played at the park for two hours. You’ve not left work after a half day in years. Now I know you adore the kids, but something isn’t flying straight here. I will help if you can tell me what’s going on. ”

“Maybe I wanted to spend time with the kids this afternoon. Can’t a dad have some fun time with his brood?” Harry kept his eyes forward, not looking at Ginny. She knew that look when he was lost in thought and not paying attention to what was in front of him. “Al said he wanted to go play at the park and Lily asked for ice lollies. James wanted to play video games when we got home.”

“I know you too well. Something is bothering you. You distract yourself from mental torment by playing with the kids more than usual. They won’t notice but I can see it, how you stare out the kitchen window and forgetting to drink your tea.”

“You’re right.” He didn’t elaborate. He gazed towards the boys on the floor in front of them but his flame haired wife knew he was lost in thought. Ginny ground her teeth. She thought he was better the last few months, with work settling into an actual routine where he was home most evenings and they could spend time as a family. But in the last month, he grew distant, almost apathetic with the family. Ginny was at her wit’s end in how to help her Husband be his warm and affectionate self. He was intentionally busy enough that she didn’t have time to use her time-tested way of helping - a relaxing shag.

“Mummy, show me how to fix this.” Their diminutive daughter who was as curious as her Aunt Hermione, and as much a dragon as her Mum, stood there holding a miniature figurine she used for playing Quidditch at home. Uncle Ron bought it for her sixth birthday and she never tired of it. The toy pitch took up space on the floor and she could move the figures around manually or her Mum could enchant it and she could watch the figures zooming around it. But one of the figures broke - the Keeper. Sometimes the bludgers didn’t go the right way. Ginny pulled her wand from behind her ear and pointed at the toy Keeper and silently repaired it. “There you are, dear. Good as new.” She pointed her wand at the pitch and animated the players along with the small scale bludgers. Lils went back to her corner with the toy box and was enthralled in moments.

“Come on, Harry. Spill it. You know I will pester you until you tell me either way.”

A loud squeal erupted. “No! It’s not fair. I did the spell. It should have worked.” James roared. “Turn it back. I’m not dying by the wizard.”

“I’ll resurrect you as soon as I beat him.”

“I said turn it back.”

“No. You’re mad you screwed up and got struck by lightning and were killed. Don’t blame me for cocking up and stepping on the trap.” Al unpaused the game and proceeded to kill the dark wizard who had been sabotaging iron ore for smelting. “

“It’s not fair. I’m turning it back to the last save. I have to beat the dark wizard.” James looked behind him to his parents on the couch. “Make Al turn it back.”

Ginny snorted. “He said it: you stepped on the trap and got zapped. It killed you. And he promised to resurrect you in a temple shortly. Quit pouting and wait ‘til he gets to a temple to heal you.”

James ignored Ginny. “Dad! Make him turn it back.”

“James, you died in the game. Either nicely ask or go revise in your room. I’m not giving in and going against your Mum.”

“But Dad!”

“Insulting your brother for your own mistakes is something Uncle Percy would do.” Harry knew he crossed a line by it but he’d not admit it to the kids right now.

“I hate you,” James threw the controller and ran off. “I’m nothing like him!”

Ginny shook her head at her oldest son’s antics. She glanced at Al and made a wink at her other son, her quiet one who was so much like Harry, but with a loving upbringing with tons of affection.

“Lils, do you want to play?” Al asked softly. “I could use a better companion.”

Lily looked at her Mum and saw the affirmation. She yelped and dropped the toy bludger she was about to set into motion and ran to where Al was sitting. He tinkered with the controls a touch and reset the game to the last save and off they went, fighting trolls and slime and mercenaries. Al quietly coached his sister on traps and how to evade death by treasure chest.

Ginny smiled. Her thoughtful son set the controls from hard to easy, for his sister’s benefit.

“Harry, tell me.”

Harry screwed up his face some before growing stoic again. But Ginny knew better. He wasn’t, not really. He was hunting up the words to use instead of exploding at her, even if she didn’t do anything. They’d agreed years ago that he could vent at her, even exploding, and she’d hold off unless she was directly involved. That agreement prevented many barn burning rows. He reciprocated for her, too, when the politics of the paper got to be too much for her.

Audrey performed so many miracles for the family after the war ended.

“It’s crap from work. You – “

“I do want to hear about it. You can share with me, well, as much as you can. You know that.”

“You’ve got your hands full with the kids. You don’t need my work crap too.”

“That’s a load of dragon shit and you know it.”

A door slammed upstairs. Harry and Ginny looked up towards the top of the stairwell.

“I’ll tell you after I go deal with James.” Harry stood up from the couch and Ginny reached out for his hand.

“You’re stalling.”

Harry looked at his wife, and past her words. Her features betrayed her casual comment. She was imploring him to share with her his burdens. He couldn’t resist anything she asked. “Yeah but when I get back, I’ll talk.” He leaned down for a peck on her lips before going to the stairs. He climbed them up with imposing footsteps. Ginny saw him limping up them and frowned. He wasn’t limping when he left this morning. Maybe his hip was giving him grief, a result of a previous visit and stay at St. Mungo’s.

“Mummy! I did it. I didn’t get killed on that level. We’re going down to the next one.” Ginny smiled at her daughter and caught a wink from Al.

“You did? That’s fantastic. Maybe Al can help you on the next level too.” Albus nodded in affirmation. They turned back to the game on the telly and went back to their dungeon crawl.

“Yes, Mummy.” Lily Luna didn’t see her Mum give her brother a conspiratorial smile back. He smiled and turned back to the telly and unpaused the game. They were fighting once again against half-human creatures that were pretty easy to kill.

Losing patience at watching the kids clearing magical traps on the next level down, she got up to go to the kitchen to make a pot of tea for them as well as a tumbler with two shots of Firewhiskey for them, too. If Harry was that upset that it took much effort to get him to talk he might need a wee dram to lower his resistance – or she might need it to hear what he had to say.

She took the tray with the pot, cups, a saucer of milk, a dish of sugar with spoon, and the tumbler of distilled beverage back to the couch and put the tray down on the side table. She settled back into her spot on the couch with the latest copy of the Quibbler. She hadn’t had a chance to read the article from Luna about the Peruvian Vipertooth. While much of it was fascinating and educational, the humor behind the article was why she wanted to read it. Somehow she read all of the articles in Luna’s voice. It was like having her best friend at home, sitting next to her, reading aloud. It didn’t hurt that interviews with Harry subsidized her expeditions.

Ginny lifted her head when she heard Harry stomping down the stairs. “He’s grounded from the console and his broom the rest of the weekend.” Harry plonked down on the couch and scowled. “He gave me some sodding excuse so I called him on it. He gave me cheek and I told him he was grounded the rest of the weekend. Maybe he can learn some manners while playing with his brother.”

“I never did, that’s for sure.” Ginny cheeked. Harry saw her smirk and softened. “I distinctly remember ending all of my seasons with the most penalties for a Chaser in the entire league. So I guess he gets it from me.”

“Oh I remember. I seem to recall you running full speed into Zacharias Smith after a match one time. Not like the tosser didn’t deserve it.” He smirked at the memory. But his expression changed when Lily yelled at the television. “She’s like Ron that way.” Lily yelled again before howling. Al grimaced at her temporary death before resurrecting her. They needed a few moments before heading down to the next level and facing more traps, slime, and bad guys.

Ginny turned to get his cup along with pouring a splash of whiskey into it. She stirred it before handing it over. He took a sip and gave her a pointed look. “I don’t need it,” he whispered.

“Then I will drink the rest and listen to you not talk.” She wiggled her eyebrows at him as she picked up the tumbler and drained the rest of the brown distilled beverage. Her face flushed and she burped a small bit of smoke before smiling at him. Her hard-drinking days as a professional Quidditch player were years behind her but her alcohol tolerance never seemed to wane, as long as it wasn’t elf-made wine.

She turned her attention back at her kids and said to herself that she’d wait on him tonight. Ginny laughed with the kids as they beat the dark wizard at the bottom of the dungeons and collected plenty of treasure. They were onward up and out of the mines and off to their next adventure.

She was comfortable with companionable silence as minutes passed and the kids played their video game. There were plenty of nights post-war with them sitting in companionable silence. Ever so slowly Harry learned to open up and share what he was thinking and occasionally feeling.

She felt Harry take her hand. It was their unspoken signal he was ready to talk. They came up with it the first Summer after the war ended when so much trauma happened and sometimes Harry needed her but wasn’t ready to talk. When she’d squeeze his hand back she was ready to listen.

Ginny pulled his hand to her lips and kissed the back of his hand.

“Hemera is retiring. She informed me of it today, effective at the end of September. That’s six weeks from now. She’s been an Auror for decades, and I depend on her so much. She was a mentor and then an amazing friend. Fuck, I’m going to miss her wisdom.” Harry took a deep breath before continuing. “It made me realize that while I will miss her, I miss Ron even more.”

Ginny put down her cup and saucer. Now that was profound, coming from Harry.

“I know you will. The two of you have been through hell and back so often you have your own boat across the River Styx. But what brought up the issue with Ron. Don’t you work with him, see him almost daily. Don’t the two of you have offices next to one another?”

“I do, yet I don’t. We’re both so busy in our jobs that we might see one another every fortnight at work or on the various inter-office memos flying around, but enough time to sit down for a lunch? Never. And I never realized ‘til today how much I miss having him sitting across from me in the squad bay, throwing parchment at me when I was being a git, or his laugh when Hermione would drop by with takeaway when we were too busy to take a break for lunch. I miss Hemera ragging on us for being a couple of misfits or putting us on our ass in training without breaking a sweat.” Harry took a deep breath and blew it out. “All I seem to do now is sodding paperwork, beg for budget increases, and play politics in the office, with the very rare occasion of a mission to oversee. I never considered I would be more politician than Auror when I took the Directorship. Had I known, I’d have turned it down and let Hemera do it for a few decades.”

“I hate to say it but I do miss the early days of my career on days like this. I miss going without sleep for two days with Ron there, watching for one of the rogue Death Eaters and trying to bring him in alive, or not.“

“Don’t you see him in all of those bloody meetings you’re always complaining about, that take up so much time and are so unproductive?”

“I do, but it’s not like we have time to go to the pub after a shift and spend two hours talking about everything and nothing. Don’t get me wrong – I love the kids with every bit of my heart. I miss Ron and Hermione, too. Hemera retiring made me realize all it. When she told me, I felt like I’d been kicked in the gut by a centaur.”

“Let’s have everyone over this weekend, including Hemera and Aurora. I can cook a standing rib roast with all of the sides you like. Ron can bring over pudding.”

“They’re probably busy,” Harry said wistfully. “And since Hemera and Aurora’s daughter hasn’t started Hogwarts yet, they might have other plans.”

Ginny screwed up her face. “Look Harry, we –“

“I’m being stupid and selfish,” Harry complained. “I thought that things wouldn’t change when we had careers and kids and our families. I thought we’d share dinner once a week with everyone and grouse about work and laud the kid and others stuff.” He frowned. “I never expected that my mentor would become a dear friend of mine and it not be you. And then there’s Ron. I miss him being with me and available anytime I needed him. But then maybe that was my dream that we’d still be in each other’s pockets for the rest of our lives, which I wouldn’t ever mind. I never considered that one of my best friends at work would be my mentor and one of the bare few who lived long enough to mean something to me. I never expected to have my best mate working with me but barely seeing him.”

“Harry, dear. Do you think that we have to see them daily to keep the friendship? Or that if I don’t see Hermione for two weeks that I don’t love her as fiercely as I do my brother? Or that if I don’t firecall Mum for a week that she thinks that I hate her?”

“Well, um,” He couldn’t continue, “yeah, actually. Isn’t that how it works?”

“Damn those bloody muggles,” She complained under her breath. “Love, dear, I know that you need quantity of time with them. I get it. I really do. I miss seeing Luna when she’s off on her expeditions for months on end. I certainly missed you when I was off on tour of the world those months way back when. But being away from someone for days to weeks on end doesn’t mean that they don’t love you, or that they don’t want to see you. Those Muggles? Maybe so.” Venom dripped from every word regarding the Dursley’s, except Dudley who they were on a friendly basis with since he grew up and married a Witch. “Do you think that Mum and Dad don’t love you if they don’t see you for a couple of weeks? Far from it, dear. The same goes for Bill and Fleur and the rest of the family. Sure they might not see you for a month but they do love you, and even like you, too. I can guarantee that Hemera will bug you weekly, send owls, and postcards from all of the places that they will travel.”

“It still hurts. I still miss spending time with both of them, talking bollocks at a pub over a pint of bitter and how fucked up a mission was.” Harry sniffed. “That’s why I took off early. I owled Ron but he was working for George today at the shop and he couldn’t leave.”

“What about this idea then? I’ll call Hermione and see if I can keep her two pixies for a few hours and you can go with Ron to a pub and have some time?”

“But he’s working at the shop and probably won’t be home ‘til 8 or so. The kids start getting ready for bed at 8 and Lily won’t go to sleep unless I read to her for half an hour. I want to go out but you and the kids need me.” Harry turned to look at his beautiful wife. “I promised you and the kids I wouldn’t forsake you for silly reasons. Wanting a night with Ron at the pub getting pissed is a silly reason.”

Ginny glanced at her two kids who were still playing before turning back to her husband. She leaned into him and kissed him gently but with passion and fire, promising more after the brood was asleep. “Let me see what I can do,” she said. She kissed him again and got up from the couch.

“Al, heal me so I can keep playing,” Ginny heard from behind her. Her precocious daughter and amenable son warmed her heart daily. Ginny stopped in the doorway of the den and watched her husband using magic to bring the Firewhiskey bottle to him and pouring a wee dram for himself, tipping it back in one swallow while watching his kids.

‘I have to do something,’ she thought as she went into the living room, where they kept the dedicated Floo for their home. She grabbed a handful of powder and tossed it into the fire. “Granger-Weasley auxiliary fireplace; authorization Weasley seven three seven.” She waited ten seconds before yelling, “Ron? Hermione?”

Hermione sat up from her chair in her office and came over to the fireplace. “Ginny? Anything wrong?”

“No, but I do need to prattle a spell.”

“About?” Hermione knelt down on the padded rug in front of the fireplace, sitting awkwardly before crossing her legs.

“It’s Harry. Hemera gave her retirement notice today and Harry’s gutted. But it made him realize he’s also missing Ron. He misses spending time with Ron.”

“I heard about her giving notice but I’m boggled about Ron. How’s he missing him? They work together in the same department,” Hermione said. “They see each other daily, or so I thought.”

“Harry said that it’s meetings and waving but to actually have quality time with one another and not talking work or shop is bothering him. I will try to change his mind but – “

“No, don’t. Ron mentioned something about a week ago and it only now made sense. He said that while he loves the jobs and working in the shop with George, he does hate having to work so much.”

“Any ideas?”

Hermione sat still for a minute, chewing her lip with a far off look on her face. “Ya know? I actually do think so. And while it’s quite barmy, I think it’ll help them. I think it will be one of my more brilliant ideas.”

Hermione went into detail and the more Ginny heard it, the better it sounded.

“And the kids?”

“James is old enough to go with them but Al and Lily along with mine are probably too young to deal with that much travel. Camping they can handle, probably. But if Harry needs private time with Ron, I think James could stay with us and have fun with his cousins instead of that. It might be a bit much for him for a first time out.”

“Maybe not if we work out a few things magically. But do we do this with magic or not?”

“I think that doing such without magic will help them both. It’s not like they aren’t in shape, is it?”

“So when is Harry free next?”

“A fortnight from now.”

“I’ll see to it that Ron has that four-day weekend free. You can go ahead and get things set up and I’ll meet you there. We’ll have them go somewhere else and then meet up with us that Sunday evening.”

“I think that would be a lovely idea for a trip.”

Part II will be published at 12:00a GMT tomorrow.

#Dragon's fic #hpfic #hinny #harry j potter #ginny weasley #James S Potter #Albus Potter #Lily Luna Potter #Ron Weasley mentions #Hermione Granger in a short cameo #and an OC from my nicheverse #Queue up for the Dragon

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rewolfaekilerom · 3 years

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we can’t criticize grad students for being influenced by toxic academia

//NOTE: This was originally posted to Wordpress on 05.22.2021//

It’s 9:26 am as I type this. I had my second dose of the Pfizer vaccine on Thursday, and I spent all of Thursday night–and into the wee hours of Friday morning–with a low-grade fever and a splitting headache. Ibuprofen helped, but I was in a fog all day yesterday. I worked, but only on tasks that I could manage–nothing too rigorous, just training and reading. I feel better today but am still a little sore under my left arm. Needless to say, I’m thankful to be (almost) fully vaccinated and to be feeling better. It’s Saturday, and I was looking forward to crocheting all day. I had no intentions of writing anything because I didn’t have much to say.

I’m 8 minutes into a 20-minute Ask a Mortician video. All of her videos are incredibly fascinating, and she seems like a real doll, but this video is an exceptionally interesting one. I happened to check Facebook, the site where dreams go to die, and I came across a post by TPII responding to an article written by a then-first-year grad student, Andy Greenspon. It’s titled “9 things you should consider before embarking on a PhD” and it’s shared on Elsevier Connect. Of the article, TPII writes, “Gaslighting by a Harvard PhD candidate, masquerading as grad school advice. To write this in 2021…. ffs.”

I’m not linking either of these things because I don’t want some algorithm to trace them back to me, but I think that’s enough information for someone reading this blog to go find these, if they still exist.

About Greenspon’s article: the title pretty much gives the plot. It’s a first-year student’s take on the lessons they’ve learned during their first year of grad school. As they put it in the first paragraph, the point of this article is to “save you [the prospective grad student] from anguish and help you make better decisions as you embark on that path to a PhD.” The author is now a PhD candidate in the sciences, which tells you more about the way publishing works than possibly anything else–except that maybe the author has stuck with grad school despite the negative aspects of the lessons in this article.

I won’t rehash the contents of Greenspon’s article because a truly interested reader will go find it for themselves. In some sense, the article quite clearly functions as a time capsule reflecting a particular stage in this particular grad student’s educational trajectory. I’d be curious to see how they feel about some of the things they wrote. As with any advice, everything this author says needs to be taken with a grain of salt. If there are any prospective grad students reading this, my main advice–advice that I think anyone will agree with–is that you need to get as many opinions and as much advice as possible because one person’s opinion of, perspective on, or experience during grad school will differ considerably from that of another person. Some of Greenspon’s recommendations simply won’t work for certain people, and that’s okay. If you’re considering going to grad school, you’re already probably a good critical thinker; you know how to approach something critically and without embracing it wholesale, so you should have no problem determining, for instance, if taking a year off between undergrad and grad school is an option for you. It wasn’t for me, and I don’t think it would’ve changed much if it had been.

All that being said, I don’t actually think all that much of what Greenspon says is especially controversial–except for point #7 and point #9 (the second is the source of the TPII controversy, if you can call it that). So, though I don’t think every bit of advice in the article will be advice every read should follow, I do think it’s advice worth hearing and considering. If nothing else, it’s good to get another perspective.

Greenspon’s seventh point is the point I’d take issue with–or, maybe, ask to be a bit more nuanced–as someone who has a PhD in a humanities discipline. In my experience, a program’s reputation matters quite a bit. It might not matter as much as location in the sense that someone probably shouldn’t go to a school that is in a location where they know they will be miserable, but names do tend to matter in academia. Let me explain. I went to a PhD program in the middle of the Midwest because that program and the university housing it have very good reputations (good names). This university isn’t Harvard or Yale, which have better names, but there’s no way I would’ve gotten into an ivy. My institution’s small town was just that, a small town with small things to do. I didn’t even know where it was when I applied (and when I got in), but I knew it would be fine for at least five years. The town wasn’t as uninhabited and without entertainment as, say, Mars, but it was no Chicago or Boston or Manhattan. You had to get creative and make your own fun because the town didn’t just provide it for you. The trade-off, though, was that the school and the program had strong reputations, which brought opportunities (and entertainment) that made it worthwhile. As someone who didn’t continue on in academia in a traditional way, I’ve found that my institution’s name has been a talking point in interviews and other networking opportunities. Hell, my dad received comments on my university (it’s football team, maybe) because he was wearing a t-shirt from there while on vacation halfway across the country from the university. I’m not sure I so much disagree with Greenspon here as I think the way the point is phrased here needed to be refined a bit. That is, Greenspon’s point isn’t wrong, but the way it’s stated is a bit misleading because so much time is devoted to advising that the reader go somewhere fun. Maybe I’m misreading Greenspon, but it seems to me that Greenspon is, in actuality, emphasizing the importance of paying attention to a program’s full package. If that’s the case, then I agree with Greenspon that “the reputation of the individual department you are joining — and sometimes even the specific research group you work in — are . . . important.” Indeed, when I say that going somewhere with a “good name” matters, I’m speaking about both the university itself and the particular grad program. Both of those things constitute a “good name.” The decision to go to a particular PhD program is informed by a whole assortment of choices, including its reputation, its location, finances, and departmental culture, among other things. Within that list of decisions, reputation might rank lower on the list of important decisions than location; for someone else, it may rank higher. That’s normal. In any case, Greenspon is right to point out that these things need to be considered. I guess I just think the phrasing in this section could’ve been clearer.

So, on to the point that received TPII’s attention: point #9, “There are no real breaks.” According to TPII, this is “Gaslighting by a Harvard PhD candidate, masquerading as grad school advice.” Scrolling through the comments on this Facebook post, a lot of readers are calling out TPII’s use of the word “gaslighting.” It seems like TPII, whose comment on the article is remarkably limited for someone who made such a strong comment on this article, is taking issue with the last third of this point, where Greenspon advises that “you should have passion for the research you work on (most of the time), so you should be excited to think up new experiments or different ways to consider that data you have collected.” I’m not fond of the “you should” phrasing here, and I do think Greenspon sounds a bit naive here. Most grad students feel that passion, but passion can take different forms and evolve over time. Think of passion in a relationship: early on in a relationship, you may feel passion in the form of lust for your partner, but that lust may evolve into a different form of passion as time goes on, becoming a deep commitment or trust in that partner. By my fourth year of the PhD program, I still cared about my topic, but I wasn’t brimming with excitement at the newness of it; that passion and devotion had evolved with time.

Back to the “you should” of it all, though. The problem with this phrase is not, as the Facebook commenters point out, that it’s “gaslighting” readers. Calling this “gaslighting” undermines instances where people actually are gaslit. The reader isn’t being made to question their judgment, memory, or interpretation of their experiences. The reader isn’t being forced to turn to Greenspon for emotional support/validation after having had their own experiences delegitimized and called into question by deception, contradiction, etc. Rather, the problem with this type of phrasing is the way it proselytizes a particular “right way” of doing graduate school. The problem is that is may potentially imbue guilt in a reader who, at the time of reading this piece, doesn’t feel that passion. There are a million reasons why this might be the case, and I’d be shocked to learn that there’s even one grad student–Greenspon included–who didn’t, at some point in their education, feel less-than-passionate about their research. It happens because we’re humans and sometimes get burnt out when work on the same thing for a number of years. But from the perspective of taking this as it was intended, this argument is a testament to how early on Greenspon was indoctrinated into the grad school mentality that one must be passionate about and devoted to one’s topic. And frankly, as someone who completed a PhD program relatively recently, having interest in one’s topic makes grad school a lot more bearable, so in a lot of ways, I think Greenspon is right to emphasize it.

Do I think passion is necessary? No, but as I said, passion can take a lot of forms. So, again, we’re back to the point that maybe Greenspon’s language isn’t great; maybe an editor should’ve recommended a few revisions here, or maybe Greenspon should’ve written this as a fifth-year student rather than a first-year student. Whatever. But this isn’t gaslighting. And as at least one Facebook commenter pointed out, are we really going to criticize a graduate student for being a product of the culture in which they’re being indoctrinated rather than criticizing the culture itself? I’m not down with that. I may disagree with some of the words Greenspon uses or the ways Greenspon makes certain points, but I’m not a public page with 1,000s of followers calling out a grad student for sharing advice about how they’ve survived the first year of an incredibly difficult experience–an experience that is known to have produced a wide range of negative effects, including PTSD, CPTSD, depression, anxiety, and so on.

And if you think I’m being extreme here, look at the first two thirds of Greenspon’s ninth point. This is where Greenspon emphasizes the amount of time that a grad student is expected to devote to their studies and research, and what gets sacrificed in the process. This is about survival. Greenspon says,

In a stereotypical “9-to-5” job, when the workday is over or the weekend arrives, you can generally forget about your work. And a vacation provides an even longer respite. But in a PhD program, your schedule becomes “whenever you find time to get your work done.” You might be in the lab during regular work hours or you might be working until 10 p.m. or later to finish an experiment. And the only time you might have available to analyze data might be at 1 a.m. Expect to work during part of the weekend, too. Graduate students do go on vacations but might still have to do some data analysis or a literature search while away.

As a PhD student, it might be hard to stop thinking about the next step in an experiment or that data sitting on your computer or that paper you were meaning to start. While I imagine some students can bifurcate their mind between graduate school life and everything else, that’s quite hard for many of us to do. No matter what, my research lies somewhere in the back of my head. In short, your schedule is much more flexible as a PhD student, but as a result, you never truly take a break from your work.

The only thing that shocks me about these two paragraphs is that Greenspon might know of grad students who go on vacation. I’m absolutely shocked. Where are they going? Are these vacations actually part of conference travel or visits to family so they can attend funerals or weddings? I’m mostly being sarcastic because I know the answers to these questions. And anyone who has been a grad student in the last decade will know that everything Greenspon says here is true. Anyone who doesn’t see the truth here is sorely out of touch with what grad students across academia experience.

And that brings me to my other point about TPII–the book and the blog. They’re products of an earlier time of academia–the book especially.

The book was published in 2015, and by then its approach to grad students finding jobs was already getting tiresome.

Let me start by saying that I’m the target audience for this book. I graduated high school in 2008, the same year as the academic job market apocalypse. I started my MA program in 2012, and I started the second year of my PhD program in 2015. Between 2012 and 2015, I attended plenty of career workshops and lectures. By my second year of the PhD, I was already thinking extensively about what I’d do after the PhD, and I’d already been seeking out extra opportunities that would give me as many skills as possible.

By 2015, I had heard more than my fair share of the same relentless, cloying negativity that characterizes the tone of the TPII book. It was all the rage at that time. Professors considered themselves “cool” if they grumbled and groaned about how hard it was for grad students to find jobs. But for grad students, it was no longer “cool”; it was over-played, out-of-touch, and unproductive. It was negativity for the sake of negativity, and all it did was shatter dreams or serve as a brutal wake-up call without offering something else in its place. That negativity wasn’t matched with some opposite–some other place to invest one’s hope for the future.

At that time, and I’m assuming today as well, the “cool” professors were the ones who embraced students seeking alt-ac or non-ac opportunities, the ones who encouraged their students to develop other skills and seek other forms of knowledge. The coolest were the ones who helped their students do these things by brainstorming and researching opportunities with them, who found resources on campus that could help when the professors themselves didn’t have firsthand knowledge in certain areas, and who generally and genuinely supported students seeking careers outside of academic.

At a certain point (and I’d argue that this point came well before 2015), it was no longer ethical to advise that any grad student pursue an academic job without any other options. But this book was published in 2015, and it was still the “gold standard” for job market advising in 2019 and 2020. I’m sure it still is, but 2018/2019 was when my advisor handed me a copy of the book and said something about it helping me get a job.

It did help me, but probably not in the intended way. Tucked at the back of the book is a short chapter on “Leaving the Cult.” That’s what helped me–that’s the section where TPII isn’t outdated. That’s the section where the book doesn’t try to play the part of “cool, moody, negative aunt” and actually is the cool aunt. In 2015, that short chapter shouldn’t have been relegated to the last few pages of the book; it should’ve been expanded to at least half of the book’s length.

This revision would’ve fundamentally altered the function and purpose of the book, but I think that’s what would’ve made the book worthwhile in 2015 and after. It’s what would’ve made the book stand the test of time. Don’t get me wrong, the book is still made out to be the “gold standard,” but it isn’t actually serving its target demographic as well as it could because it’s so focused on finding them jobs in a market where those jobs simply don’t exist–or they don’t exist in the way the book suggests they do.

Okay, that’s enough for now. Back to my video.

XOXO, you know.

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voidingintotheshout · 3 years

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I am just going to rant.

Note: I will not edit this until tomorrow. All mistakes are phonetic and easily rectified.

I am Muslim, but I am drunk. My best friend‘s mother just died and he was drunk and it shocked me because he never drinks. He tends to have an addictive personality and so it freaked me out that my friend who hasn’t drank any alcohol at all in five years is slurry and stumbling around his deceased mother‘s trailer in South Carolina trying to keep it together.

I am worried about my friend, but more worried, like the rideshare driver that I am about being a good steward to people and reminding him to set his alarm now so that he doesn’t oversleep for the appointment with the funeral director tomorrow. I have the high holy day Muslim prayer tomorrow at the mosque and it is very difficult and or unlikely for me to get there on time. I’m feeling very guilty because I haven’t drank almost anything in nearly a year and yet I am drinking tonight, in the wee hours of the morning before the holy Muslim prayer of Jumah; now, I sit here with my head moving further than my body does, feeling out of it and disoriented after my second large glass of Arak.

It’s been such a strange day, I sit here feeling drunk. I woke up and I had a car with a nearly flat tire and a dead battery. The kindness of a stranger helped jumpstart my battery and give me some very good advice. I pushed back my physical therapy appointment for my bad shoulder and drove across the city to the one reputable used tire place to refill my tire. Now, I have a car with a working battery and a tire that is not leaking air and, after doing my laundry I call my friend, expecting it to be more of the same with his mother, circling the drain having more days of sleeplessness only to be thrown out of my universe and be told that no, she’s dead. She died this morning. I didn’t tell you earlier because I knew you would call. Some thing that I almost forgot to do.

Why am I telling you this? I don’t care. Only three people will ever fucking re-blog this. No one will even read this far. Anyway, I was in a completely different headspace for most of his hour and a half call. I wanted to crack jokes and cheer him up but how do you crack jokes about someone having their mother die in his arms? How do you make a funny joke about a woman peeing herself and then having hospice rush her to the funeral home? What witty one-liners do you use for that? How do you feel of use in a situation where you were 600 miles away from someone and you can’t do any goddamn thing to actually help them other than just feel impotent and powerless on the other end of a phone line. What the fuck do you do? Seeing your friend who has always struggled with addictions get drunk off of a concoction of very delicious sounding margaritas in the trailer that had here too for been occupied by his mother, the last surviving parent. Now here I am dealing with the fact that he is living some thing I will have to live through very soon enough when my second biological parent dies and I am left with virtually no family outside of an aunt who I talk to once every two or three years. I feel like he is living my future. His future is filled with drunkenly stumbling around a trailer that is not his, feeling impotent and powerless trying to focus on anything else other than the fact that his mother is never going to have a conversation with him again. I am trying to have a conversation with him try not to remind myself that I will once again have to prepare myself for some thing that no one can prepare themselves for: the death of someone you truly love. In this case, my mom. He starts getting drunk, and so do I. I just want to feel numb.

I don’t want to think about how I needed to get new clothes yesterday because I got too fat for most of my T-shirts. I don’t want to think about the fact that the people at the physical therapy place think I’m weird because I like obscure Russian movies and I don’t have anything in common with normal people. I don’t wanna think about the fact that my friends think that I am irritating every once in a while because I have ADHD and severe depression and anxiety which are comorbidities with ADHD. I don’t wanna think of myself as a burden to my friends. I don’t like thinking about myself as an annoyance to people who I love, but that haunting Spectre in the back of my brain reminds me that that may be exactly what it is. I may be ultimately just a burden who stays a burden, alone, and then dies. That may be all I accomplish, outside of worthless posts on here that few people will ever read, like this one.

I’m laying on my bed at 2:40 in the morning and one of the bits of clothing I got yesterday today. A new T-shirt that ironically says kindness matters but, what can I say? I’ve always been a person who felt like that slogan was about how I should treat other people but I could never figure out how to treat myself that way. With other people I can always give them the benefit of the doubt that they have their own shit to work through and that they are doing their best but I know myself too well. I know I’m not doing my best. Might be kind someone who is ultimately not trying hard enough to do their best? It seems like a waste of time to try to support someone who you know is going to fail. Someone who you know isn’t giving everything they have. Someone who is in hustling enough to actually reach the finish line. You feel like you’re just pumping someone up that you know he’s not gonna actually make it. Someone who you know you’re gonna have to be there telling them that they tried their best. Again. That’s how I feel like it is like to cheer myself up to pep myself up. I know it’s just proceeding telling myself that I’m gonna get them next time. Next time my story will be published. Next time I’ll have enough confidence to actually set up the profile on the dating app. Next time, the date with a nice guy is going to be a reality instead of just some kind of daydream fantasy that I entertain myself with while I shuttle people around who could care less about my existence.

Here I am, at nearly 3 o’clock in the morning with a phone that is nearly dead, my friend is probably getting ready for bed, too drunk to really think much about his mother who is going to need to make funeral plans at the funeral parlor tomorrow. My life will be completely uneventful. It is always uneventful. That is a blessing, I realize, but it is the stagnation that makes me feel like what is the pointing going on living when I am just going to spend it in nothingness? Why bother doing anything when it’s just gonna end up being made siphoning resources away from the poor and taking up space until eventually I just disappear and nothingness, forgotten buried somewhere, wherever.

What is life but just a waystation on the way to death, trying to build up enough supporters and memories and accomplishments so that the sting of death doesn’t hurt as much. It’s like running for class president. You’re trying, in the limited time you have to garner as much accomplishments and support as you can before you run out of time and you’ll be judged as either good enough or not good enough. That’s life. At least that’s how it seems to me at nearly 3 o’clock in the morning right before I’m supposed to do Muslim prayer, and I still have a little bit left on my second glass of Arak.

What am I even doing? I’m a gay Muslim. Why even bother? I feel so pathetic every single time I find another Muslim. Like I found a Muslim lady in my building from the United Arab Emirates. She seems so nice! She like to read! Something in common! I didn’t even bother to tell her where I lived or to introduce myself because I knew, but I didn’t know, but I assumed, that when she found out I was gay she would think of me is disgusting and an idiot for ever thinking I belong at the Muslim table and that I should just stop wasting my time trying to appeal to a God who I would never be good enough for. I like writing this year because I know that most of the people reading this are either non-religious, non-Muslims, or gay and so all of you reading this also think I’m stupid for ever trying to appeal to a God who I believe in but who probably will never be satisfied with me. Some of you reading this will probably feel, rightly so, that it is hubris for me to imply that I know the will of God and therefore I should just try to be the best version of myself that I can. That is probably the helpful advice. Unfortunately, I don’t feel like helpful advice right now.

That’s the problem. I feel like I want to punish myself for the piss poor excuse for life I have created even though, I don’t know what I was expecting? I guess I was expecting to have it all. I wanted to be surrounded by friends and a gorgeous caring boyfriend and a wildly successful riding career. I wanted my ADHD to not be an issue so that I could’ve accomplished all of those things with all of the silent work in the background that those goals actually require. I wanted to be happy. I wanted to be satisfied. I wanted to be able to throw my money around buying useless garbage like expensive meals that I could’ve made at home and not even thought about how much they cost. I wanted to have enough money to be one of those wasteful gay people they can throw their money on garbage on Etsy that they don’t really need, expensive bespoke clothes that they could get cheaper elsewhere, and restaurant quality meals that are going to provide fleeting joy and are ultimately just expensive fuel for the body. I want to be that kind of a person. I want to be someone wasteful. Burns the money that could feed the poor on their on alter to themselves. I want to be that kind of person, but I have always somehow fucked it up. I want to be that type of person, who can create this world about making themselves the best and most beautiful and amazing thing in the world and insisting that everyone else treat them as this beautiful jewel even though they’re really just some random fucking asshole who will live, and then die. I could never do it. I mean there are people Who devote their entire lives to helping the poor. People who Sean the television and the Internet and spend their free time writing because they are actually writers and they love writing, even if they never publish anything and their contribution to the world is thousands of pages of glorious fanfiction on AO3. They are more writers than I will ever be with my stories that no one reads. The pain of being jealous of a couple in what is clearly an unhappy marriage because at least they were in love once, some thing I can never claim.

I take another sip of the alcohol, almost wishing that I could be videotaped and have this monologue in this pathetic scene where a 40 year old fat lonely man records a drunken monologue in his studio apartment at 3 AM. I wish they could show that at the mosque right before I arrive so everyone would be able to see that I am unworthy. Why do I want this? Is it sadism? Masochism? No. It’s a more toxic reason. I want everyone else to know so I can justify my own feelings of self hatred that are ultimately self created. It’s easier for me to imagine that the whole world sees me as terrible and pathetic than to imagine and except the terrible, terrible truth that I am actually a really great guy who is accomplished a lot. The terrible truth that I am totally fine and accomplishing a lot I just have depression that doesn’t let me see it. It’s so much more horrible to know that all of those negative self feelings are just in your head, you know? It’s so much harder to except that they are all in your head then to except that they are true. You almost want all of those negative self feelings to be true so it’s not just you being cruel to yourself for no goddamn reason. That’s the motherfucking horrible thing about being alive sometimes. Being a person with all of the advantages in a prosperous society like America and still having the nerve to not be happy. It’s like an insult to all of the people in the world that are struggling with not enough.

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waywardnerd67 · 6 years

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Writing Your Story: Chap. 10 - You Should’ve Listen to Me

Summary: Sam and Dean get a lead on Jack, the Nephilim and go in search of him. Raelyn tries to convince them to not go or to take her along since she knows everything that will happen. Raelyn and Dean get into a major fight and then the brothers end up missing. Characters: Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, Castiel and Raelyn Nichols (OFC) Pairing: Dean X Raelyn (OFC) Warnings: Angst/Fluff Word Count: 2950 A/N: As you can tell this is from the “Wayward Sisters” episode with Raelyn added into it. As always this is unbeta so all mistakes are mine. Likes, comments and reblogs are splendid and I will love you doubly for them! Enjoy!

“Have you heard from Cas at all?” Dean asked as the three of them were sitting in the library. It had been a few weeks since Raelyn and Dean had run into Raymond in Chicago and Raelyn had been pushing herself looking for a way to kill him. The brothers had been splitting their time between looking for Jack and helping Raelyn. She glanced up from the book she was reading watching Dean leaving another voicemail for Patience Turner, a teenage psychic they had met months back. “He said he was working a lead in Tucson on Jack. He calls in like every other day.” Sam said frustrated. Dean groaned as he plopped down in his chair. “I just want a break in something rather that is finding the kid or how to kill the hybrid.” As if the universe had been listening to him, Sam’s phone rang. He put it on speaker, “Jody, what’s going on?” Sheriff Jody Mills was a friend of the brothers and fellow hunter in Sioux Falls, South Dakota. “Hi boys, I think I may have a lead on your missing kid.” Raelyn put her book down as Sam and Dean listened intently to Jody. She tells them of a man whose eyes were burnt out in Bismarck, North Dakota. “I just sent you a picture of the description the wife gave. Is that you kid?” Dean’s eyes lit up, “Sure is. Thanks Jody.” Dean got up out of his seat heading towards his room as Sam and Jody chatted some more.

Raelyn was having the feeling of déjà vu again, but different than from her nightmares. When it hit her as to why she quickly got up and rushed to Dean’s room. He was packing his duffel bag with clothes as she barged in. “Don’t go.” She said slightly out of breath. Dean looked up her confused, “Why not? We finally got a lead on the kid after months of jack with a side of squat.” He continued to pack his bag as she tried to figure out a way to convince him to stay. “Dean, this is exactly how my next Supernatural novel starts. I know what is going to happen.” Dean stopped for a moment setting the clothes he had in hands on top of his bag. He walked over to her running his hands down her arms gently. “Nothing is set in stone. Sam and I have proved repeatedly that we make our own destinies. What you saw, what you wrote may not happen. I can’t let this lead on Jack go. Sam and I have to follow it and I know that scares you.” Raelyn sighed nodding. “Dean, I don’t know… what I would…” He pulled her into his arms wrapping them around her. “Raelyn, I promise you we will come back. We always come back. When I get back you and I are going to have the redo date, okay?” She looked up at him and nodded as he leaned down gently pressing his soft lips against hers.

Raelyn watched as Sam and Dean drove off in the Impala. She walked back to her room and tried to focus on finishing her newest set of rewrites from her publisher. After a few hours of struggling to work on her manuscript she decided to go down to the shooting range and let off some steam. As soon as they came back from Chicago, Dean started training her how to handle guns, knives and to fight. He wanted her to be able to protect herself though he always reassured her that she would not need to because he would always be there. She put on her noise cancelling headphones and picked up the Glock 19 loading the clip into it. She took the safety off and aimed down at the target. The first few shots she missed the target but the next few after she hit center mass.

She felt her phone vibrate in her back pocket and quickly switched the safety back on. She set it down and picked up her phone. “Hey Sam.” She heard Dean ordering food in the background. “Hey Raelyn, we are stopping for the night in Sioux Falls. Just wanted to see how you were doing.” She chuckled as she unloaded the clip in her gun and set it back in its case. “I’m alright. Just spent some time down in the range since I got frustrated at my manuscript.” Sam snickered, “Please don’t tell me you shot at your manuscript.” She heard Dean in the back saying, “She what? Sammy, give me the phone.” She listened to them bicker and laughed as Dean wrestled the phone out of Sam’s hand. “Sweetheart, I know you have struggled with your writing but no reason to shoot at it.” She was laughing even harder now. “I wasn’t shoot at my manuscript. I was shooting at targets, but now that you mention it I wouldn’t mind shooting my manuscript.” Dean started laughing now. “Don’t shoot your manuscript. So, how’d you do with the target?” She pulled the target sheet forward so she could see it better, “Four solid shots center mass.” Raelyn could just see the proud smile on his face when he spoke, “That’s my girl! Raelyn, we have to go but I will chat with you later, okay?” She said goodbye and pulled the target sheet off.

She walked into Dean’s room and taped it to his wall circling her best shots. As she was about to leave she saw his closet door open. She looked inside and saw his flannels hanging up. He had a red and black buffalo pattern flannel that was her favorite that was hanging up. She took it off the hanger and slipped her arms in the sleeves and brought the collar up to her nose. Even though it was clean it still smelled like Dean. She kept the shirt on as she turned off his light and closed his door walking across the hall to her room. About an hour later Dean Facetime her as she was in bed writing in her journal. “Hey pretty boy all settled in?” she asked setting her phone up on its stand as she continued writing. “Yeah, all cozy at The Falls Motel. Raelyn, are you wearing my shirt?” Dean chuckled as she felt her face heat up. “Uh, maybe…” she said looking over at her phone to see Dean biting his bottom lip. “Hmm, looks much better on you than on me.” Raelyn rolled her eyes, “I beg to differ. What’s the plan to find Jack?” Dean explained what their plans were for the next day and Raelyn settled under her blanket listening to him talk. His husky baritone voice lulled her to sleep and the next thing she knew it was the next morning. She checked her phone seeing a goodnight text from Dean and decided to leave him be since she knew he would be working throughout most of the day.

For most of the day she was able to focus on her manuscript with only a few interruptions. Sam had texted her letting her know they found Jack and would call later with everything that happened. Around midnight, Raelyn was starting to get tired and she still had not heard from Sam or Dean. She texted them both and called Dean with no answers. She knew if Dean would sometimes Facetime her in the wee hours of the morning so she decided to go to sleep and put her phone ringer on loud. She woke up the next morning and checked her phone to see nothing from Sam and Dean. Trying to keep calm she decided to take a shower and eat breakfast before trying them again. She paced around the bunker waiting for them to call her. Finally, around five o’clock in the evening, Raelyn went into Dean’s room and looked for anything with Jody’s phone number in it. She found an old address book with her number and called her.

“Sheriff Jody Mills.” She answered. “Sheriff Mills, my name is Raelyn Nichols…” before she could get anything else out Jody spoke, “Raelyn! I’m so glad you called. Dean told us all about you when he was here. Have you heard from him or Sam recently?” Raelyn sat on Dean’s bed her knees suddenly weak. “No, that is why I was calling. I was hoping you had heard from them.” Jody sighed, “Not for a few days. Look, one of the girls I looked after, Claire Novak, is on her way here to help us look for Sam and Dean. Just stay at the bunker and I will call you as soon as I know anything.” Raelyn stood up walking into her room. “No, I’m coming up there. I can be of help.” She heard Jody chuckle, “Dean said you could be stubborn. Seriously, we have a whole group of hunters up here to look for Sam and Dean. I will save your phone number and you have my word I will call you with any information.” Raelyn sighed defeatedly. “Okay. The moment you know of anything…” Jody reassured her she would be the first person she called. Now Raelyn laid on her bed panic filling her entire body. That night she tossed and turned afraid to go to sleep in case she would miss a call from the boys or Jody. In the back of her mind she thought maybe Raymond could have something to deal with this but somehow, she knew he did not. It was well past four in the morning when she finally fell asleep.

The next couple of days were torture for Raelyn as she had not heard anything from Sam and Dean or Jody. She was getting ready to say screw it and drive up to Sioux Falls when her phone rang showing Dean’s number. “Dean?!” she answered. “I’m so sorry Raelyn.” Was all he said and she felt tears spring up. “You should’ve listen to me! What happened? Are you okay? Did you find Jack?” she was rambling. “I know, you’re right I should have listened to you. Sam and I will explain everything once we are back to the bunker. We are getting ready to leave Jody’s now. Just so you know, I told her not to call you when they found us. I wanted to call you myself so you could hear my voice and know I am okay.” Raelyn let out the sob she had been holding in. She tried to calm herself down but a few days’ worth of stress and panic was now flowing from her eyes. “I’m so sorry, sweetheart. We will be home soon I promise and you can kick my ass as soon as I get there.” She let out a small laugh, “You better believe it that I’m going to kick your ass. Be safe coming home.” Raelyn sighed a breath of relief after hanging up the phone with Dean.

When Sam and Dean got home, things were different with them. They both were a little more defeated especially Sam. He was staying in his room a lot more and sleeping throughout the morning. One morning as Dean was making pancakes Sam came walking in with someone on speaker phone. “Donna, tell Dean what you just told me.” Dean listened as Sheriff Donna Hanscum explained how her niece had gone missing and she needed help. “Donna send us the info and we’ll be there.” Dean said as Sam ended the call. Sam went back to his room as Dean sat down next to Raelyn. “I know it’s only been a week since we went to an alternate reality, but Donna is family.” Raelyn held her hand up, “Say no more, you need to go and help her. I will be fine. Just check in with me.” Dean kissed the top of her head, “Thank you for understanding.” She nodded as he left the kitchen. She said goodbye to them in the library as she worked on her research on Raymond. Dean checked in with Raelyn everyday he was gone.

About a week after they returned, Dean came into Raelyn’s room one afternoon as she was looking over her convention schedule coming up for the next year. “Hey, do you have a moment to talk?” he asked. She looked up from her laptop and nodded. Dean sat down on her bed, “I was wondering if you would like to go out on a date this Saturday night?” Raelyn smirked as she leaned back in her chair, “Would this be our redo date?” He chuckled, “Yeah it could be our redo date, but also, I know Valentine’s Day was kind of a bust so I would like to make that up to you as well.” Raelyn started laughing as Dean nervously rubbed the back of his neck. “A bust? You were under a love potion spell and obsessed with a skinny witch.” Dean let out a groan as his head hung low. “Well at least I didn’t marry her unlike Sam who ended up marrying super fan Becky.” Raelyn doubled over laughing remembering when she read that in the Supernatural novel. “Alright pretty boy, we can go out on a date on Saturday.” The bright smile on Dean’s face melted Raelyn’s heart. “Awesome! Be ready at six o’clock.” Raelyn nodded as she turned back around to her laptop. She heard Dean shout out a loud yes as he walked through the hallway causing her to giggle.

Late Saturday afternoon, Raelyn started getting ready for her date with Dean. Not knowing what they were doing she decided on a simple pair of skinny jeans with her knee-high boots. She wore a simple olive-green blouse and pinned back her wavy curls so they were over her right shoulder. She decided not to wear any make-up except for a bit of lip gloss. She grabbed a black sweater as she heard Dean knock on her door. She opened it to see him holding flowers, “Miss Nichols, for you.” She took the variety of carnations, daisies and pink roses. “Thank you, Mr. Winchester. I need to find a vase for these and put them in water before we leave.” Dean followed her to the kitchen where she found a container large enough for the flowers that would work until she bought a vase. As she put them on the table in the library Dean held out his arm to her. “You look beautiful tonight.” She blushed giving him a once over, “Not too bad yourself, pretty boy.” Dean was wearing his black jeans with a white under shirt and a dark maroon button-down shirt. However, it was his shoes that she noticed the most. “Dean, are you wearing Converse?” He looked down at his traditional black Converse and wiggled his foot. “I wanted to see what all the fuss was about with them. You are always talking about how amazing they are so I went and got a pair today.” She pushed up on her toes and kissed his cheek. He smiled down at her, “I guess you approve then.” She nodded as they walked to the garage.

Dean took her to a nice Italian restaurant and then a late showing of Raelyn’s favorite horror movie in a local theater. They were walking back to the car after the movie holding hands and laughing about the movie. “Nothing says romance like Michael Meyers killing people.” Dean said as she laughed. “Hey, we could have seen that Fifty Shades movie because you know hardcore sex is so romantic.” Dean’s face perked up, “Yeah, I would have never made it through that movie. Really, hardcore sex?” Raelyn nodded, “Eh, for the most part. It’s an erotic novel that has sold billions of copies.” Dean hummed his response and as they reach the Impala he opened the door for her. She knew he was curious if she had read the books and just did not want to ask her. “Yes Dean, I have read erotic novels before. Several of them actually.” His traditional Winchester smirk came across his face. “Hmm, good to know.” She chuckled as she got into the car. Raelyn slid over next to Dean in the Impala as he drove back towards the bunker. She was resting her head on his shoulder as his hand was on her thigh. He drove past the exit for the bunker and Raelyn lifted her head. “Where are we going?” Dean smiled, “You’ll see.”

Dean made a few more turns and was driving down a gravel road into an open field. He shut off the car and helped her out of it. He shrugged off his jacket placing it over her shoulders, “Wait here for just a second.” She nodded as he went to the trunk. She looked up seeing an amazing display of stars. She slipped her arms into the sleeves of his jacket and she heard Dean shut the trunk. She smiled when she watched him lay out a blanket for them in front of the Impala. Raelyn sat down first and Dean sat behind her with his legs on either side of her. Raelyn leaned her back against him and he wrapped his arms around her waist. They spent several minutes silently staring up into the night sky watching the stars shining bright. “So, how was my redo date? Did it make up for the worst date ever?” Raelyn looked over to him nodding happily. “Definitely. This has been the perfect date, Dean.” He leaned down and gently kissed her. “Good.” He said and looked back up at the stars.

My Nerd Herd: @waywardbaby @waywardrose13 @ladywinchester1967 @carryonmywaywardcaptain @anotherwaywardsister @weirdoblogger69 @1967-essentialghoul

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sonofadeanwinchester · 6 years

Text

Two Ghosts

Summary: Living with Sebastian hasn’t been hard and being married hasn’t been hard either but now, you’re just two ghosts living under the same roof.

Words: 2226

Warnings: Angst & Swearing

A/N: Clearly after Harry Styles’ song.

Same lips red, same eyes blue Same white shirt, couple more tattoos But it's not you and it's not me Tastes so sweet, looks so real Sounds like something that I used to feel But I can't touch what I see

I crawled out of bed and dressed myself in the new dress he bought me. The new dress that he bought me because he thought it would trigger the times when we were actually happy. The times when I'd look forward to him coming home from work and spending time with me. After I slipped on the deep navy blue sun dress, I dress my lips in a dark red color; the color of a rose. Just like the roses he use to give me on Valentine's Day or any day he felt like being romantic. Those days are long gone. As I left the bathroom, I locked with those familiar gray-blue eyes. But, no matter how I hard I looked at him, it wasn't him. It was just his body; his mind and soul were long gone.

He smiled at me, flashing some perfect white teeth, but it didn't reach those blue eyes. It just fell flat like every other smile he gave me. He walked briskly to me and kissed my lips quickly before heading out for a jog. "Bye, Doll." He tasted so sweet, like syrup and blueberries and he looked so real. He sounded like something that I use to touch and feel everyday of my marriage. I'd wake up to breakfast in bed or him been out for already hours gathering my favorite flowers paired with my favorite fruits. That never happened anymore. Not since we lost the baby. I wish I could touch him the way I use too. The way I could hold him close to me and feel his heartbeat thump against my cheek. But I can't touch what I can't see.

We're not who we used to be We're not who we used to be We're just two ghosts standing in the place of you and me Trying to remember how it feels to have a heartbeat

He returned from his jog two hours later, the sweat on his body forming a small heart in the middle of his chest. I smiled at him as he walked past me and I heard the water start running. The days of him dragging me into the shower with him have passed. The days of me sneaking in while he was naked and doing things to him that were only acceptable behind closed doors. He never wanted that anymore, he never asked me to shower with him. It had been months since I had seen him walk around completely naked. I shook the tears from my eyes as the thoughts passed through my head. He was my husband, I shouldn't be looking at the negative. But it was so hard not to see where we had gone wrong. Ten years of marriage down the drain because of one lousy night, one terrible mistake. It should've been a good thing, to finally have what he both wanted so badly. But, it wasn't in the plan. That's what he said after we'd lost her. He always talked about wanting children, but when he actually thought about it, it would stop him from traveling and doing what he loved. For the longest time, I thought that thing was me. But, I was wrong.

The past was exactly that; the past. Now, we're just two people living in the same house, breathing the same air, having friendly conversations over breakfasts. We're not who we use to be. We aren't those young and wild teenagers who thought all we needed was love to fix the issues with the world. That all we needed was each other to get through this life. Turns out we were wrong, we need more than just each other. We need more than just our love; the love that use to be there but now is nowhere to be found.

The fridge light washes this room white Moon dances over your good side This was all we used to need Tongue-tied like we've never known Telling those stories we already told 'Cause we don't say what we really mean

I slunk out of bed once I heard his steady breathing that meant he had finally fallen asleep. We had said silent goodnight's as we slipped under the sheets and turned our backs towards each other. We use to hide in these sheets for hours at a time, talking for hours on end about our childhood and our futures to come. What it held for us, how many children we wanted, where in the world we wanted to live. I had grown up in New York and he had moved here when he was twelve. So, being the obvious love between us, we decided to plant ourselves in the middle of downtown Manhattan. We had a whole plan written down in one of his many journals. We'd make our careers fly first, him being a actor and me being a author. His acting career took off but my writing wasn't doing so hot. I had sold a few thousand copies of my latest book, but that was it. My publisher gave up on me before giving me a second chance on making it big again. Seb had been such a support when I cried for hours on end about how my career was over and I'd ruined our plan. He'd laugh and kiss my hair explaining that "we're just at a road bump, doll."

I sat at the table in the dark, staring out at the city that never seemed to shut itself off. When the fridge door opened unexpectedly, I jumped and yelped with fear. I glanced in the direction of the noise seeing the light from the fridge washing over his body, cascading shadows on all the perfect parts of his body. How it cast shadows from his jawline down to his abs, it fell perfectly at his low hanging boxers. His hair was a mess and he was squinting, obviously just up for drink. My mind flashed back to when we were first married and he'd sneak downstairs at the wee hours of the morning and find me sitting where I am right now, staring out at the city with such a peace in my eyes. He'd smile and sit beside me, his hands always on my body. We'd sit there until the sun came up and he'd stand, making us yet another pot of strong coffee and we'd finish our late night conversations about the stars and planets.

I chuckled to myself as I thought about how this was all we used to need, just us, together in the early hours of the day. Give us a couple pots of coffee, a comfortable sitting place and a good conversation; we'd sit here for hours before deciding to accept that there was a world outside of this small apartment. My snicker gave me away in the dark causing Sebastian to dropped the carton of milk and he sighed, not a happy but not a sad one. "You're still up?"

I shrugged into the darkness, knowing he couldn't see me. "Couldn't sleep."

He nodded in the dim lighting. "Remember we use to sit here for hours on end? Just watching the stars."

I licked my lips as they quivered. "Of course. Some of my best memories involved this window sill and a few pots of coffee."

He closed the door and came to sit in front of me. He didn't say anything, he just sat in front of me, his eyes locked on mine. "Good times."

I played with my wedding band and looked away from his burning gaze. "Better times."

He sighed deep and stood, kissing my head and chugging back his glass of milk. "I'm going back to bed. I got a long day of filming tomorrow."

I whispered a goodnight and brought my legs to my chest, letting my chin fall onto my knees. The tears fell silently on my cheeks as I thought about what we called 'good times' and 'better times'. We told those stories over and over again, getting the same reaction every time. We kept telling the same stories because we were afraid to bring something up to the other that would trigger a fight. We told the same stories over and over again because we don't say what we really mean.

We're not who we used to be We're not who we used to be We're just two ghosts standing in the place of you and me We're not who we used to be We're not who we used to be We're just two ghosts swimming in a glass half empty Trying to remember how it feels to have a heartbeat

He danced around me as I tried to get dinner ready. He was reading his script for filming the follow morning and whispering little things to himself. I chuckled as he ran into the door frame for the fourth time in half an hour. He rubbed his chest and shook his head, turning around and walking from the dining room table to the couch. He plopped himself down on the dark gray sofa and talked low. I turned the music on my phone up a ways to keep him out of my head. "Honey, can you turn the down please?" He never use to say that to me, not when I played these songs. Not when I had on this dress with this apron. He use to put the script down and help me, twirling me around as the food cooked. He'd pull me close to him and sing into my ear, sending chills down my spine. I reached for the phone and sighed, a tear slipping down my cheek. He yelled out a "thank you" before going back to his reciting.

"Dinner's ready." I set the table and filled his plate full of his favorite food. He came to the table, his script in his left hand and kept reading as he shoveled his mouth full. I shook my head and sighed. "Sebastian, can you please put the script down for a minute."

He peeked over the paper, raising a brow. "Why?"

I scoffed, "because you've been gone all day and I'd like to have somewhat of a conversation with my husband over diner."

He licked his lips and complied, putting in on the chair beside him. "Fine. What would you like to talk about?"

I sighed, and rolled my eyes. "If you're gonna be sarcastic about it then read your fucking script."

His fork dropped down on the plate and he wiped his mouth with a napkin. "Where did that come from?" I shook my head and picked up my plate, walking past him to the living room. He followed me into the room, his plate still in the dining room. "I asked you a question?"

I nodded, making my eyes big. "I know."

He folded his arms, his biceps threatening to break the seam in his t-shirt. "Then answer it."

I dropped my fork and stood, wiping my hands on the apron still around my body. "What would you like me to say, Sebastian."

He rolled his blue eyes and smirked. "The truth would be nice. Where did that reaction come from?"

I licked my lips and shut my eyes, an attempt to compose myself. "You were gone for three months, Sebastian. And you've been in New York for two weeks but you're not back."

He furrowed his brow, "what do you mean, I'm not ba-."

"I mean, you're back in the city but your mind; your heart isn't here." I could feel the lump rising in my throat.

"I've been a little preoccupied yes, but-."

I shook my head, my hair falling around my face. "Not a little, Seb. You're a lot preoccupied. I understand that this film is big and important but-."

He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "But what?"

"But, I'm your wife. I'd like you to be here like really be here with me."

He stepped closer but never touched me. "I am here."

I shook my head again. "You can keep telling yourself that, Sebastian, but you're mind is else where."

He bit his lip, sticking his tongue into his cheek. He was clearly getting frustrated. "I'm sorry that this role is important, I'm sorry that I haven't been pampering you head to foot but-."

"I don't want pampering head to foot, Seb."

His voice rose, "then what the fuck do you want from me?"

I slapped him across the face and let my tears fall free. "How dare you."

He rubbed his cheek and sniffed. "I'm sorry."

I shook my head again and stomped away from him, slamming our bedroom door loud enough that it shook the walls.

We're not who we used to be We're not who we used to be We're just two ghosts standing in the place of you and me We're not who we used to be We don't see what we used to see We're just two ghosts swimming in a glass half empty Trying to remember how it feels to have a heartbeat

#two ghosts #harry styles #sebastian stan #fanfic #fanfiction

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