#sometimes i sit here and think that this is the culmination of 3-4 years of work and i'm like what the actual fuck

[thickenmyblood]

hi maca :) do u already know when you can post chapter 20? im so sad about hiuh ending but also so excited for some happiness :( also, will it really only be 20 chapters or will you add one or two more? in any case, thanks so much for all the time and effort you put into this! I loved every second I spent reading this fic <3

hello!!! well, i was supposed to post ch20 on feb 1st . . . but that obviously did not happen. this month is the month though!!!! I'll try to make it happen before march.

about the chapter: yes, it's the last chapter ever. there will be no more. ever. honestly, I don't think you'll want another chapter after this considering the rough draft I'm working with is 250 PAGES

#anon #hiuh #ch20 will NOT be 250 pages #so don't even be like oof no one's gonna read that much blablabla #i'm TRIMMING IT #i'm giving it a shave #i was making good progress before the power went out lol #and yes there is happiness this chapter STOP WORRYING IM GONNA MAKE IT SAD I WONT #i mean yeah there are always sad bits but if you read ch20 and say it's a sad ending i'm kms #AFTER EVERYTHING I'VE DONE FOR YOUUUUU #sometimes i sit here and think that this is the culmination of 3-4 years of work and i'm like what the actual fuck #somebody sedate me!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! #i also think of all the shit i wrote and never posted and i'm like what's wrong with me like ???????? girl #anyway yeah disabled laurent lives on in my mind and so does the camping trip fic and so does ur mom's dick

[hit-song-showdown]

Year-End Poll #38: 1987

[Image description: a collage of photos of the 10 musicians and musical groups featured in this poll. In order from left to right, top to bottom: The Bangles, Heart, Gregory Abbott, Whitney Houston, Starship, Robbie Nevil, Whitesnake, Bruce Hornsby and the Range, Bob Seger, Bon Jovi. End description]

More information about this blog here

Lots of things happening this year. What I want to draw attention to first is the influx of glam metal (or hair metal). Heavy metal as a genre had existed for a few decades by this point, mostly branching off of the blues and psychedelic rock of the late 1960's. To avoid going on an overly-long tangent about metal, I'll leave it at that for now. Glam metal has its roots in the heavy metal sound while also (as the name would suggest) taking additional influences from the glam rock of the 1970's. MTV was very kind to this style of music, and glam metal reached a level of fame where you didn't have to be deep in the metal scene to be exposed to. Other subgenres like thrash and death metal would also grow in popularity around this time, but only to those who were aware of what was going on. Metallica would have to wait to breach the underground and MTV would probably have a hard time getting middle America on board with Necrophagia. So while there was a lot going on in metal throughout the 80s, there's a reason why when most people think of "80s metal", there's a very specific image that comes with that.

But that isn't to suggest that rock music in the mainstream was able to escape controversy by featuring more hairspray and less corpse paint, because there's another moment in music history that will culminate this year. In 1985, the PMRC (Parents Music Resource Center) put together a list called the "Filthy Fifteen", which listed fifteen songs thought to be inappropriate and damaging towards traditional family values. Songs on the list include Prince's Darling Nikki (which seemed to have raised the most ire out of the PMRC's co-founder, Tipper Gore), Mötley Crüe's Bastard, Twisted Sister's We're Not Gonna Take It, and Cyndi Lauper's She Bop. A senate hearing over the matter of explicit lyrics was held in 1985, with musicians Frank Zappa, John Denver, and Twisted Sister's Dee Snider speaking out in opposition to censorship. There is a lot behind this conflict, both inside the courtroom and outside, so I'm aware that I'm giving a very fly-over view of the events for the sake of this poll. I'll just mention that these hearings were sometimes dubbed "The Porn-Rock Hearings", the outcry from these concerned parents groups fit really well in Reagan's America, and Zappa gave this absolute bomb of a quote that has been sitting with me a lot as of late:

"Bad facts make bad law, and people who write bad laws are, in my opinion, more dangerous than songwriters who celebrate sexuality. Freedom of Speech, Freedom of Religious Thought, and the Right to Due Process for composers, performers and retailers are imperiled if the PMRC and the major labels consummate this nasty bargain."

There are so many good quotes, so I linked to the Full Video and Transcript

To make a long story unfortunately short, something of a compromise was reached by requiring musicians and labels to put "parental advisory" stickers on their albums, alerting potential consumers of the "objectionable" material within. Some musicians found the label as a loss for free speech and another example of the U.S. government deciding whose voices get to be considered moral or not. Other musicians predicted that the parental advisory sticker would only make their music more appealing to young people. You probably didn't need me to tell you this, but Tipper Gore and the PMRC did not stop the "moral downfall of America", if such a thing could even be quantified.

So now we all have little black and white stickers on our albums, yay. But this is far from the last time we'll see a major court case over music and obscenity. But we'll go over that next decade.

#billboard poll #billboard music #tumblr poll #1980s #1980s music #1987 #the bangles #heart #gregory abott #whitney houston #starship #robbie nevil #whitesnake #bruce hornsby #bob seger #bon jovi

[crazyexdirkfriend]

Hiiii

I was wondering if you had any advice on writing fics? I find myself struggling with structure/timeline(?) the most

Hi! Thanks for asking! Hmm I'm not sure what tips I have for you exactly, but I'll try and explain my process.

I have two approaches myself when I write fic:

I plan meticulously. I know exactly every scene and every chapter that will be in the fic. I do an outline, I explain it, and then I write it-- sometimes in order, generally depending on what bit I want to write when to keep myself motivated. Examples of this approach: Can Town Communication Manual, Okay Cupid!, calvariæ

I come up with a concept, theme, plot premise. And then I write whatever I want, whenever I want to, and when I have a solid chunk written I start figuring out how that's all supposed to flow together and tidy it up, write the intermittent parts etc. Examples of this approach: we were something, perpetuity, eschewal

Two alternatives to those: Now and then I write a fic in one sitting, such as lunar calendar, let it linger, or vote now on your phones. And now and then something theoretically has a chapter plan or structure but I go so loosey goosey off script that it ends up not mattering at all, such as shag emotionally devastate etc. or two short hours etc.

I will admit, most of my approaches use 2. BUT. I can use 2. because I spent about 4-5 years writing only using approach 1 and can generally eyeball what something is supposed to look like. Am I always right? No. But generally I think my pacing works for what I want it for.

BUT you want advice, not me being like eh? I throw darts at a board and sometimes they stick?

Okay! So here are my guides.

One, look at a three act structure. I ganked this one from the internet.

This is how a typical movie or book or, yes, fanfiction is set up. How this works is v easy to explain for multichapters or longfics with numbers in my opinion. Take a ten chapter standard long fic.

Chapters 1-2 should introduce your characters and premise, and involve your inciting incident- ie, what idea is dropped into the narrative that is going to make the rest of this plot roll out.

Chapters 3-4 should get your ball rolling. The plot should be happening, characters should be introduced, your quest should be underway.

Chapter 5 (and maybe one before or after) is where stakes should be getting high, the action is rising, the tension is occuring. Things are starting to get into action.

Chapter 6 or 7 should have a new plot point or a twist in the tale. Something goes very wrong or very right. A battle results in a huge victory and our hero is cocky. Or they lose a football game and it's a huge blow. Some wedge comes between our favourite ship- and they're going to need to confront it. This is often where a couple hook up for the first time in romances- that can be done well, it's often cliche, but hey fanfiction in general is. Here you can also have the calm before the storm too- things can be going wrong, but they can also be going well! Too well.

Chapter 8 is your conflict climax, the culmination of what you've been building up to. This is often where your ship will realise they have a seemingly irreconcilable difference, or they'll have a dispute that leads to a breakdown. An earlier betrayal can be revealed! In non romances, your hero can realise they've been fighting for a lie, they can be taken off the football team for something, their friends can abandon them. You know this part in a movie- it's where the music builds and you start to feel sick with stress. Or at least I do.

Chapter 9 is your resolution, your falling action. If you're going to fix things, this is where you do it. This is your resolution climax-- if your protagonist is going to, hm, chase their love interest through an airport to propose or confess their undying love or apologise for all their misdeeds, this is where they do it.

Chapter 10 is your quiet end, your new beginning: your epilogue if you will. Or, since this is fanfiction, this is often where you stick the sex scene but I often find that can be tonally jarring. Up to you!

Now you may be thinking: JEEZ that's awfully rigid. Well that's for math structure nerds like me who need to get their pacing down. That is to be taken not as gospel, but as a very basic "yes this is proven to work, if needs be" structure guide. It's the structure you'll find in classic films such as Legally Blonde 2001 or Music and Lyrics 2007 (warning: music and lyrics is not a classic film). But structures ARE made to be played with and broken. But to do that you need to understand the basic structure first, and then play with it. If you don't, you'll end up with like 7 climaxes like Outbreak 1995

One shots often don't have this kind of structure. There is no conflict in perpetuity for example. There's no real resolution in shag emotionally devastate etc. That's fine! I am a big big big BIG believer that writing form is a specific skill: not every novel writer can write poetry, not every poet can write plays etc. And fanfiction allows writers to use prose in a way that doesn't work in stand-alone fiction.

Which brings us to point two: meat and candy

Ganking this from Hussie himself because it does genuinely mean something. If we take meat to be plot, form, action, and candy to mean character, relationships, dialogue, then we know that any good story has BOTH. Fanfiction can sometimes get away with being all candy (fluff fic, aus, etc) and movies often get away with being all meat (can you remember the characters in various action films?). But generally speaking? You need that balance. Without candy, I don't care about your characters enough to give a shit if one of them dies in the meat. Without meat, there are no stakes, no tension, just some characters having meaningless banter that goes nowhere.

So with structure, you need both. You need a plot that's engaging and you need enough tension, twists, stakes in that to keep readers interested. But you also need to pad that out with periods of rest for your characters to speak to each other, show us things about themselves, and show their every day lives. We'll care more when we see what's being snatched away from them.

Ideally, you interweave this. Casual conversations will drop little tidbits in that foreshadow something that will happen later in the plot. Action sequences will have little interactions that tell us something about character relationships ie. one character protecting another.

Third point, read more of what you want to write. Look, ideally we'd all broaden our horizons and watch and read loads of things from different forms and genres and we'd all be great at media literacy. But let's face it: maybe you should watch Citizen Kane, but it's probably not going to help you write your fanfiction. What WILL? Reading fanfiction.

But also. You want to write experimental prose fic? Great! Read poetry. Read experimental prose flash fiction. Watch short films at your local LGBT film festival that absolutely bewilder you. You want to write long form ship fic? Great! Read romance chick lit. Watch rom coms. How are these structured? What styles do they use? How do they show love or growing affection? Then GANK IT. I'm stealing the entire "she can't order a sandwich" bit from When Harry Met Sally as we speak.

This also works for my math friends. You love a particular long fic? Want to structure yours that well? Gank it. Copy and past a chapter and see how long it is and aim fo that word count. That fic has 3 scenes per chapter? Aim for 2-4 yourself. 6? Aim for 5-7. How many chapters does it take for the oh oh moment to occur? How many times does the main couple speak per chapter? When does their inciting incident occur? Gank. It. You can't steal a chapter structure so reference it all you want.

And all of that is to say: if you struggle with structure, you need an outline. Check the fic you want to be most like and reference how long it is, how many chapters etc. Then make a bullet point list of each chapter, then fit your plot into it. Then expand it. Expand it some more. Put every detail you need to remember into this outline. Mine are generally 1/8th of the piece's total length. Then sit on it for a week and come back to it. Make sure you're following some act template, or your approximation of it for what you're writing. Make sure each chapter has plot progression and character introspection, meat and candy.

Bonus Round!!! Some random tips

If you struggle with description (LIKE ME) write dialogue first. It's just like rping with yourself and it can help keep your character voices solid.

Try to start and end chapters on engaging notes. One liners, cliff hangers, something to keep people waiting without pissing them off. True cliffhangers (near deaths, accidents etc) are often cliche, but can be done well. But leave a reader something to chew on, something to comment on, something to hypothesise about. Or even just a line you think fucks.

Can't think of a structure? Write now, figure it out later. One shots often don't need a strict structure, like I said-- sometimes you have the luxury of writing off pure vibes if your themes and characterisation are solid.

Refer back to canon. Call back to canon in text if you have to. But it's always good to have notes for what you're trying to do thematically-- would facets of your character's character interfere with your pacing? ie. yeah okay maybe the couple sleeps together at the chapter 7 point in fanfiction a lot, but if you're writing a character who would never do that, or a character who would have done that 5 chapters ago, then consider if that takes precedence over structure or if there's a reason for this point.

Having a solid chapter plan allows for foreshadowing, even for minor things in dialogue. And this is so so so so so so so fun please don't deprive yourself of this. I am literally kicking my legs writing Okay Cupid! right now. I think there are like 7 incidents of foreshadowing in chapter one alone. I love when a plan comes together.

If you want more writing/storycraft tips and theories: Save the Cat- Blake Snyder (Scriptwriting based) The general go to book for film structure, definitely solved major holes in my script-writing Into the Woods- John Yorke (Storycraft) A classic On Writing- Stephen King (Novel) Worth a read, solved a big character quandary for my personal work

Also I follow a number of writing tumblr blogs that frequently put tips on my dash: you might find these useful too, so I recommend having a scour!

x x x x x Research semiotic theory, such as Barthes (Death of the Author, Mythologies) or Chandler (Semiotics: The Basics). Also look at intertextuality and cross-border, cross-media analysis (Such as Henry Jenkins). This is if you're feeling adventurous and want to look at thematic structure in Homestuck and apply this to your work. You can write very good fic without ever considering this, so this is an if you're interested not a you must.

Anyway that was obscenely long because I do NOT know how to structure a neat ask response, but I hope this is all of some use to you! Good luck with your fic writing, and if you've any more questions shoot them my way!

[one-winged-dreams]

🐪, 🐊, 🐒, 🐦 and🐁 for the polyship asks pleeeeeease uvu/ <3

OH WOW, ty Dean!

Who confessed first? How did it go?

SO IT STARTED WITH ME AND ISA, since we'd actually KNOWN each other the whole time. When we were re-completed we were like "Guess we've been in love with each other this whole time, huh?"

And then we became friends with Terra and both of us were like "Uh oh." And then not soon after, TERRA was like "Uh oh."

Which culminated into one day Isa just going "Terra, we deliberated. We're in love with you." and Terra losing his little puppy man mind.

How long have you all been together?

Isa and I have been in LOVE with each other since 358/2 Days. We've been TOGETHER since the end of KH3. Our friendship with Terra apexed into romance and then a confession about... A little less than a year later? So I headcanon we've all been together about 4 years.

What were your first date together?

GOOD QUESTION. It was excessively awkward, but we took Terra up to the clocktower. Yes, that one.

"You guys really sit up here?" "Well not really, but Lea, Roxas, and Xion do and we wanted to see what it was like with three people to see if there was any appeal." "... And?" "... It's pretty nice." "-puppy blushing intensifies-"

Any headcanons you have about your polycule?

I'm almost as big as Lunatic and only slightly bigger than Ends of the Earth, so they both sometimes make comments about being able to sling me around no problem. I get huffy about it but it's more of a way to cover up how goddamn flustered I get.

Since neither Isa nor myself have any way of traversing the worlds anymore, Terra had to get creative with being able to travel with us. So we all ride his keyblade glider with me in front of Terra and Isa clinging to his back. Out of the three of us, he's the most flustered.

Sometimes one of us will get triggered just by seeing the other two (Terra sees me and Isa as Drixa and Saix, the people Xemnas manipulated so cruelly. Either myself or Isa will see the other with Terra and think about the guilt from letting the other get caught up so closely in Xemnas's agenda on top of guilt for associating Terra with Xemnas at all because he arguably suffered the most among the three of us.) It becomes a group comfort effort, and no one has ever walked away from a guilt spiral without feeling loved and secure by the end of it, even if the person in question still needs to work on the guilt on their own.

When Isa is moody, all it takes is Terra and I attacking him with neck kisses on either side and he just completely melts.

Hanging out with Ven and Roxas respectively is always weird because it's

Terra: -spiderman points at Roxas-

Me and Isa: -spiderman points at Ven-

#holy shit i got carried away with the headcanons lmao #answers #dean! #so i stayed in the darkness with you #a lunar light #subtle grace of gravity heavy weight of stone

[afishlearningpoetry]

Hi! I've loved Sherlock since 2012 but I'm new in the Johnlock fandom. Your meta is one of my favorite! I totally agree that S4 is John's story/blog/alibi etc, but I wanted to ask you: if this time Sherlock is working with John to take Mary down, why is John jealous? How can he think Sherlock has feelings for her, if Sherlock wants her dead? Also: how do you think John faked his suicide? Is there a body? Maybe it's David's? I really hope it is all John's plan! It would be so smart and badass.

Hi, thank you so much.

It's funny you ask that first question because this (John's enduring jealousy) is a thing that was established the series 3 finale in 2014, and the particular scene in which it culminates is so convincing that it's not an exaggeration to say that currently almost no one knows what actually happened in it, which is in large part due to how manipulative Sherlock acts to John in the latter half of that episode, and also how people believe Mary's stated intentions (especially after her death, which was supposed to make her look like a saint, which definitely worked on viewers) and and underestimate John's intelligence.

Just to recap for anyone else: John's jealousy is conceived when Sherlock and John enter Magnussen's office and Sherlock deduces that the smell of perfume is Claire de Lune, which is the perfume Mary uses. This also comes right after the scene outside the elevator to his office, where Sherlock manipulates Janine into letting them in. John says, "But Sherlock, she loves you," and Sherlock says, "Yes, as I said –– human error," as John looks on, terrified. Later in the episode, John confronts Mary and says that the first thing Sherlock said when he woke up was her name. When Sherlock disappears from the hospital after being shot, in part because he doesn't want to be questioned by the police after who shot him, because he's trying to protect Mary to protect John, Lestrade asks John why he would disappear, and who he would be protecting from whatever happened in Magnussen's office. John asks the same thing, and then looks at Mary's perfume, which is sitting on the table next to him (he doesn’t even consider Sherlock is protecting him). To summarize, he assumes Sherlock is protecting Mary because he secretly loves her and that they had an affair, which in his mind is only confirmed later in the episode when John learns Mary was (is) an assassin, because John draws a correlation between him assuming Sherlock loved Irene and now Mary, to Sherlock being a sociopath and only being able to care about other sociopaths who enable him, which also means he could never love John. He says during the loft scene where they treat Mary as a client, “You two should have gotten married.” There's some comfort in the idea that Sherlock isn't capable of love to begin with, it's another thing to see this. (Something cool about its shape is it's echoed in Mary's wedding earrings, which are hearts with a hole in them, as well as the coin she shoots; "I will burn the heart out of you.")

So there are a couple explanations why John would still be jealous, even after him and Sherlock team up to stop her. The most simple is that it doesn't even matter to John that he's trying to kill her now, because he's convinced he's a sociopath for the majority of series 4, so he doesn't have any lingering feelings about turning against her now because he doesn't care about other people in that way. John isn't jealous to the extent that he wants whatever their relationship was (at least consciously -- there's a lot to talk about how he makes his subconscious insert of Eurus into a brazenly over the top sociopath that Sherlock has to learn how to love, but even then, John still locks himself into a sibling relationship where he's caged up and they can only see each other when there's glass between them to stop him from attacking him), so much as that there was any initial love/connection or sexual affair between them. Throughout TST, Sherlock follows a trail of breadcrumbs he thinks will lead him to Moriarty, but actually leads him to Mary, so the real events of that episode involved him realizing the two of them are working together (if he didn't already realize this at the end of TAB -- there's debate whether he is or if it's still subconscious, but either way he's right on the edge).

So John wants to stop Moriarty, or Mary for working for him (she's working with him, but they wouldn't know this yet, because it's being saved for the series 5 reveal), which compounds his anger at her betrayal, but he doesn't know that right away. He already has enough motivation before that because he still thinks they had an affair. Sherlock doesn't have sex with Janine, but John thinks he did. John doesn't even understand what that kind of relationship would be like, if there are any emotional feelings involved, which is why he asks, "So how does it work, you and the woman?" at the end of TLD. His jealousy is also magnified by the idea that he fell for a sociopath in Sherlock, so a lot of it is just swelling self-hatred that John can't escape, that keeps growing and growing until he's choking on it by series 4, so it still doesn't matter Sherlock is trying to kill her now. In the teaser for series 4 they were both drowning.

If anything, their covert mission being focused around her means that John probably can't stop thinking about it. If Sherlock loved her then he could he do this now?

Then he looks at himself, and he starts thinking about how whether or not he ever loved Mary to begin with, and then he thinks about how Mary was supposed to be different, and oh John actually fell for a sociopath for a second time just like Sherlock, so is he any different? Of course he should know that he is, even if he's wrong about Sherlock, but then he starts thinking about how his love for Sherlock actually makes him a monster, and that his love for him isn't real either because it could never be the same thing as him loving a woman, or maybe he could never love anyone to begin with, not really, and that maybe John himself isn't real either, maybe he isn't even a real person, or a person who should stick around at all. But no no no, first he has to stop Mary. He has to stay around to stop Mary. His goal for the first two episodes of series 4 isn't about trying to fuck Sherlock anymore, it's all about stopping her.

Of course we know that he can't stop thinking about it, because not only does he write Mary and Sherlock having a perfect relationship that doesn't exist where John is considered more worthless than a dog (calling back to Moriarty calling John Sherlock's pet by the pool in TGG), the cheating subplot established two episodes ago (and clarified by Sherlock in TAB, which is another explanation, but he isn't even aware that John thinks they had an affair), isn't addressed at all, even on the surface text/blog level in series 4. It's just dropped completely, which went over the heads of most viewers watching because they didn't even pick up on or remember it from before (fitting because it's not mentioned in John's blogs in series 3 to begin with iirc). John does this to absolve both himself and Sherlock, because there's no way he could resolve it without offering motivations for either Sherlock or himself to kill her. He finds ways to sublimate it though, because he has to make them flawed so it's a believable event. So to answer: John's jealousy is a huge, invisible, growing monster sitting at the heart of series 4 and everything that happens in it. It's largely irrational and trying to ask him why he would even think any of this would just make him retreat further into denial of the truth: that Sherlock loves him, which he's deeply afraid of.

When Sherlock manipulates John into thinking that Mary shot him non-fatally in order to cover for herself while saving his life, he's lying, because he literally died lmao. But he decides not to let John in on the secret, which is a huge mistake, and John can see through what he's doing and that Sherlock is using him, but he plays along in order to take Mary down. Sherlock underestimates John, so it's only fitting that Sherlock underestimates John again when he fakes his suicide, because John doesn't let Sherlock in on his secret, in part so he can know what he felt during and after the fall, because all of this is about the fall (and John tries to communicate with Sherlock while Mary is manipulating him, as we see at the end of TST with John’s note that is also dropped from the plot completely) (Sherlock does let John in on their plot to stop Mary sometime after the loft scene, but by that time John's already operating on his own to some degree, because Sherlock still isn't letting him in on the biggest secret of all that would explain everything to John). So because John is mastering the level of deception Irene, Sherlock, Moriarty and Mary (and Emelia Ricoletti) showed him over the course of the show, he would also leave a body behind. He would have planned it extensively, and part of that is by manipulating public opinion. He even gets really blatant with his prose and has himself sitting in front of a carpet of blood (calling back to how Sherlock sees the pile of blood before Mrs. Carmichael, explained here). You already saw this post but he would also need a body to draw Mary out of hiding by making the suicide convincing, which he also does by writing so many suicidal themes into series 4 so that when news gets out and people in-universe (and real life) react to his death, they put the clues together, which is like a double deception in order to make it seem impossible that he could have faked it. (#tw suicide)

So these plot points have been ongoing for seven years now lol and they’ll be key to series 5.

#sherlock bbc #john watson #mary morstan #sherlock holmes #john x sherlock #tjlc #meta #series 4 #series 3 #his last vow #the six thatchers #the abominable bride #the lying detective #john's blog #also about David: I haven’t seen anyone write about that in a while and I need to refresh my memory on the possibility #so I can’t really answer that one

[spiritcc]

Good day. I finished nrh. I know that almost all the episodes have a general theme. like, for example (correct me if im wrong)

ep 2: imperialism, ep 3: clownery of starting wars over mistresses and love, ep 5: breaking the cycle of violence, plus: holmes "pity the age of knights (glory) is gone" watson "nope it's (unnecessary bloodshed) not", ep 6: cops, ep 7: was there a theme or just adblock

But could you enlighten me on the theme of ep 8? And why was the ep named after the dog?

holy shit i didnt even think of it that way!

idk if i mentioned it or not, but the show explicitly talks about contemporary russian issues that sometimes do and sometimes very much dont overlap with what was happening in england at that time. this is why moriarty is just russian mafia, police are easily bribed, idk even abandoned war veterans is precisely what happened after the soviet-afghan war. a lot of such issues are sadly familiar to folks from other countries, but i did wonder sometimes whether what episode 8 went for was.

first of all, in my opinion, the episode is general decided to defy all expectations. like shitty ep7 did the exact opposite, looked like the gang of scriptwriters (there were at least 4 or even 5 credited) gave up and decided to give the audience what it wanted: a what they interpreted as a (needless) romance, a waterfall fight, a fakeout drama, like sure mates. thats what every sh adaptation is about, you can have it. begrudgingly. but everything in the last episode twists those expectations, all these funny fakeouts like HOLMS ALIVE?? - shot of an unrelated homeless dude going ??, HOLMS IS BAK?? - mycroft comes in, plus yea the entire mycroft reveal lmaooooooo iconique. moriarty is back, adler fucking dies - all unexpected and thus very enjoyable imo. this is why, again just my opinion, they did it with such fervent almost hatred towards the previous episode, like they included the waterfall fight, but they knew it wasnt their real fight. two four-eyed loser bitches do not culminate in a fistfight and it was clearly shown they kinda suck at it - their real fight was atop of big ben, peacefully sitting next to each other while the real brawl was happening through their real weapons - their brains. that was their real reichnebach. which once again begs the question as to whyyy the fuck did episode 7 need to happen at all but oh well.

as for the theme, it is clear from the reveal of what were the documents stolen by bobby bobbyarty. the country selling itself while playing up the importance of patriotism to its people. the rise of this shit NOW is truly concerning in russia, like how besides the usual propaganda we also deal with bots, who on the day of protests this january started a twitter hashtag supporting the cops that said KEEP WORKING, BROTHERS, as to celebrate the camaraderie of them beating up civilians, shit was insane. how last month after that the festival for the graduates that ends with a ship with scarlet sails emerging, which this year for the first time ever also included the russian flag tricolor sails on it. all of this bs while just two days ago we had a story uncovering some politician who was secretly cutting half of siberia's forests down to sell to ikea, how baikal is being polluted because we need to be uwu with chinese businesses. even drifting away from russia, the uk painfully follows that entire SUPPORT THE NHS gig where they'd organise these clap for the nhs evenings, express their support on billboards n shit, just to cut the nhs salaries by the end of it <3 and to relegate the development of covid tracing apps and feeding children to private companies whomst have appropriated most of the budget instead of doing their jobs. this is the cynicism of the last nrh episode, as sherlock said it basically, we're all out here clapping for our dear queen, wahoo great britain, the pride and joy is our crown and achievements, while the crown is licherally selling itself and couldnt care less about your patriotism or traditions. very real for us, also real for other countries, they're just more subtle about it.

and as for the title, once again it's subverting your expectations. like oh yea, the hound, every adaptation has to have that huh. disregarding the fact that hound was basically shared 70/30% with the musgrave ritual, hound obviously had the 30% of it. heres yer fucking hound gotem. they did prepare us for it since it's not THE HOUND OF THE BASKERVIILES, it's what it's kinda currently translated to english as the hound named baskerville, which ended up being one big joke bc thats the whole trophy holmes got for his torment. watson hates the dog so much he writes a whole story about it being a massive nasty bitch whomst then gets shot five times damn!!!! also meta points since the queen gifting the baskerville dog to holmes is played by soviet mrs barrymore, and watson's editor waving at us right before the credits is mr barrymore himself. we got baskervilled up the ass there

so welcome to the dystopia my dudes with each year passing it's becoming more real <3

#new russian holmes #the hound named baskerville #also dID yoU SEE THE FIRST 10MINS OF EPISODE ONE HOW W-

[morningfears]

Rose Tattoo [Chapter Five]

Rating: PG-13 (this chapter is a little heavy! See the TW below)

Summary: Stevie has her first appointment with her new therapist. She and Cal take a walk in Central Park but a figure from his past ruins their night.

Word Count: 7.3k

TW: This chapter includes suicidal thoughts, self harm, anxiety, depression, talk of mental illness and past abuse. The first half of the chapter is a little heavy. If you need to skip the first half (or the entire chapter itself), please do so. 

CH. 1 | CH. 2 | CH. 3 | CH. 4 | SERIES MASTERLIST

The chair that Stevie had been stuck in for nearly an hour had been comfortable at first. It was plush, cushioned and roomy enough for her to not feel constricted, but as she fidgeted anxiously, it grew increasingly uncomfortable. She couldn’t find a position that worked for her, nothing made her feel at ease, so she settled for sitting with one leg beneath her and bouncing her other knee as she stared at the clock on the wall.

She found herself all too aware of her surroundings. The ticking of the clock thundered in her ears, each second passing felt like a lifetime and seemed to mock her as it melted away. The hiss of the heater, the metallic screech of the vent above her head, sent goosebumps erupting across her skin. The unbearable heat of the office felt suffocating and made it that much harder for her to breathe as she sat and waited for her appointment to begin.

She hadn’t been to a therapist since high school and she felt a bit of residual resentment as she glanced around the office. She had been forced then, dragged against her will to sit and talk to a stranger after her mother spotted new scars on her thighs and didn’t know how to handle it, and hated every moment of it. She felt alone, misunderstood, and didn’t want the rationality that her therapist offered her. She wanted to wallow, to live in her misery and let it drown her, but not this time.

This time, she went willingly.

After her first visit to her therapist as a teenager, Stevie was medicated. She was given something she considered an all-purpose drug meant to tackle her anxiety and all of the nasty things that came with it and, for a while, she was fine with it. She had long since stopped caring what anyone thought of her and if medication made her mind a safer place for her to be, she knew that she could tune out the stigma surrounding it. However, when the medication made her feel like a stranger in her own skin, uncomfortable and more anxious than before, she made the decision to stop taking it and no one fought her.

Her doctor declared that someone so young - she was barely sixteen at the time - shouldn’t be on such a heavy medication. Her mother, a woman who had been on medication more than half her life for her own bipolar disorder, didn’t want Stevie to endure the same fate. They decided that she seemed fine, over the teen angst that resulted in her harming herself, and in a better state of mind after only six months on medication so they let it go.

She stopped taking her medicine and stopped seeing her therapist and learned how to hide her suffering a little better.

If you’d asked her, she would have told you that she was fine during that period and, for some parts of it, she was. She was functional, able to maintain high enough grades to earn academic scholarships and breeze through college. She made friends, she made memories, she lived; however, it often felt as though she were an outsider looking in. She kept her struggle hidden, only commenting on her lack of sleep or appetite when she was busy enough to cover it all up with a reasonable excuse, and felt that she was managing it adequately.

In the rough waters of depression and anxiety, Stevie had become a professional swimmer.

However, Angela’s death was something that she couldn’t manage, not even somewhat. She was the only person that Stevie confided in, the only one that knew from the hazy look in her eyes or the bouts of silence Stevie sometimes lapsed into just how deep in her head she was, and Stevie had returned that favor for her. But when Angela got sick, Stevie no longer had anyone to talk to. She couldn’t tell Angela how her illness was effecting her life. She couldn’t tell her that she was afraid of what would happen if she died.

When Angela died, Stevie couldn’t tell her just how much she would miss the best friend she’d ever had.

In the months leading up to Angela’s death, Stevie’s emotions grew more and more unmanageable. She returned to old habits, her thighs were covered with more new scars than she ever imagined she’d see, and began to isolate herself from her support net. She knew, rationally, that they would lend an ear and be sympathetic if she were to reach out to them. Everyone knew how close they were and how much they meant to one another. It was understandable, how she felt, but she’d managed her feelings for so long on her own by avoiding them, by pretending that they didn’t exist and removing herself from any situation that might force her to talk about them, that she didn’t know how to ask for help.

She wouldn’t have made the decision to see a therapist had it not been for the growing intensity of the intrusive thoughts. Her life had been falling apart for a while, long before Angela’s death, but that was the straw that broke the proverbial camel’s back. Her family was falling apart before her very eyes, a process that began in her teen years but sped up after she left for college, and her mother was turning into someone she didn’t know. She didn’t know what she would return to when - if - she returned home and she had no idea how to cope with it all.

She was living her dream but it had turned into something of a nightmare.

Stevie didn’t want to die. She knew that. But it seemed like the only option that made sense. She had her dream apartment and her dream job in her dream city. She was young, free, and living the life she always imagined she would but she still wasn’t happy. If that wasn’t enough, she couldn’t imagine there being anything that would make her happy.

So why not end it all, if there was nothing left to live for?

The moment that thought crossed her mind, she knew that she needed help. She had a lot to live for, a lot to be happy about, and it was a chemical imbalance in her brain that was telling her she didn’t. Rationally, she knew that. But every time she stood by her window, staring down at the pavement below, and every time she spotted the bottle of sleeping pills she’d been prescribed but never used, she thought about how easy it would be. And that scared the shit out of her.

She wanted to live. And although the idea of sitting in a therapist’s office and taking medication for the foreseeable future wasn’t something she liked, she knew that it had to be done.

“Stevie?”

Stevie lifted her head, torn from her thoughts by the sound of a soft voice calling her name. She blinked away the unshed tears that lined her lashes and gave the doctor she’d booked an appointment with a tight smile as she stood from her chair. “That’s me,” she confirmed, holding out her hand for the doctor to take, “nice to meet you.”

“It’s nice to meet you, too, Stevie. I’m Audrey Maxwell. Come on in and we’ll get started,” Dr. Maxwell instructed, her tone gentle and patient smile lifting her lips as she ushered Stevie into her office.

Stevie bit back a sigh as she took a seat on the plush blue couch, settling into the corner and placing a pillow over her lap as she waited for Dr. Maxwell to take her own seat. She was young, no older than mid-thirties, and polished but not overly so. She had kind eyes and a gentle smile that Stevie imagined made it easy for people to trust her.

“Alright, Stevie,” Dr. Maxwell hummed, her voice light and tone airy as she placed a box of tissues on the coffee table that sat in front of Stevie, “what brings you to me today?”

Stevie wasn’t sure where to even begin. It was a culmination of a lifetime of anxiety and depression, of childhood trauma and teenage angst. It was her family falling apart, her best friend dying, her dream life not being enough to make her happy. It was thinking about suicide when she didn’t want to die.

“Life, I guess,” Stevie answered with a shrug as she stared at the throw pillow in her lap. “I’ve always been anxious and depressed. I was medicated for a while as a teenager but I hated how it made me feel so I stopped taking them. And things have just gotten worse since then.”

“How have they gotten worse?” Dr. Maxwell asked, her question gentle but a firm guidance for Stevie to delve into specifics.

“My best friend died a few months ago. We grew up together. She was more like my sister than anything and when she was here, I felt like I could deal with it. Things were bad before then.” Stevie hesitated for a moment, her tugging at a loose thread as she released a shuddering breath. “They’ve always been bad but it was manageable, at least.”

“Why don’t you start from the beginning, then?”

Stevie knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that the beginning of the end was her childhood. However, she hadn’t exactly opened up to anyone - not even Angela - how how rough it had been. It wasn’t a time she liked reliving and she felt her heart begin to race as she recalled the events that pushed her to develop less than ideal coping mechanisms.

“My mom is bipolar,” she began, her voice shaking and her hands trembling despite her grip on the pillow. She didn’t dare look at Dr. Maxwell, she knew that she would cry if she did, so she kept her gaze on her lap as she continued. “She wasn’t handling it well when I was a kid so when she and my real dad divorced, he ended up getting custody. But as unstable as my mom was, he was worse.” Stevie paused, willing her voice not to crack as she swallowed thickly.  “It was emotional abuse for years, telling me that no one loved me and my mom didn��t want me. He didn’t hit me until I was older but I was just a kid. I didn’t understand. I wondered why no one loved me. And it just… it was all downhill from there, I guess.”

Stevie fell silent for a long moment. She could hear her own ragged breathing, heavy and labored in her ears, and could feel her body shaking from the anxiety. She knew that her childhood was where her problems began, she knew that leaving her trauma unchecked for so many years was unhealthy, but thinking about it was hard. And talking about it was even harder so instead of dwelling, she moved forward.

“My mom got on meds, started seeing a new doctor, and got custody. Things were fine. We never talked about it because it was almost a competition to her. Her dad was abusive and my dad abused her, too. She had it worse and she told me that every time I bought it up. I didn’t feel like I had the right to be upset but when I got older and started to think about it, it hurt. I went to therapy and got medication but I hated it. So, I stopped taking the pills and stopped going and everyone just assumed I was better. I let them because I didn’t have a reason to be unhappy. I didn’t have a reason to be happy, either, though.”

Dr. Maxwell remained quiet as Stevie attempted to gather her thoughts. She watched as Stevie bounced her knee, tapped her fingers against the arm of the couch, and blinked back tears as she summed up the most recent years of her life. Her words rushed out in a flood, the dam breaking and her panic overwhelming her as she fully committed to honesty to get the help she knew she needed.

“I should be happy now. I have every reason to be,” Stevie stated, a pained laugh leaving her lips as she shook her head and brought hand up to her hair. “I’m living in my dream city in a great apartment and I have my dream job. I have everything I’ve ever wanted but I feel so guilty. I’m living my dream while everything else is falling apart.”

Stevie fell silent again, her nails digging into the arm of the couch as she swallowed the lump in her throat and offered a weak laugh. “My best friend, who should be here with me, is dead. My mom is off her meds and self-destructing and nothing I say seems to be helping. My step-dad is going to leave. My brother has already left and decided he doesn’t want to be part of the family anymore. I feel guilty for being here but I don’t want to go home and try to fix everyone else’s lives if that means destroying my own."

“Feeling guilty wanting to put yourself first is, unfortunately, a common experience. But that doesn’t mean it hurts any less,” Dr. Maxwell acknowledged as she nudged the tissue box a little closer to Stevie. “You deserve happiness, Stevie. You have had a hard life and just because things are falling into place now doesn’t mean you’re not allowed to grieve for the things you’ve lost.”

Stevie listened and attempted to process Dr. Maxwell’s words as she acknowledged the circumstances she’d been placed in. “You shouldn’t have to destroy your life to fix someone else’s. I understand that you care and that you want what’s best for your family but you alone cannot fix them. You cannot control other people’s actions. The best you can do for your family is tell them how you feel and urge them to seek professional help for themselves. Your mother needs a doctor, Stevie, not her child telling her that going off her medication is unwise. You are doing what is best, what is healthiest, for you but putting those boundaries in place and I’m proud of you for that.”

Stevie bit her lip, unsure of how to respond to Dr. Maxwell’s assurances. “I don’t like feeling like I’m not in control,” she confessed, her grip loosening on the arm of the couch as she attempted to process what she’d just been told. “I couldn’t help Angela, I can’t help my mom; what can I do?”

“You can live your life,” Dr. Maxwell. answered, her tone gentle as she offered Stevie a soft smile. “I know that it’s hard to let go of control but you can only control yourself. You can help other people all day long but, at the end of the day, it’s up to them to accept that help. You have to take care of yourself, too.” Dr. Maxwell paused for a moment, her gaze on Stevie not scrutinizing but genuinely curious, before she asked, “What makes you happy, Stevie?”

Stevie almost felt ashamed that she had to stop and think about the things that made her happy. She hadn’t sought happiness in a long time and found that the answer didn’t just occur to her. She felt as if she were grasping for straws, looking for light in the darkness, and knew that she sounded unsure as she answered. “My dog,” she confessed, her voice quiet and small in the confines of the office, “and writing. I love walking in the snow, too.” She hesitated as another, more recent, source of happiness appeared in her thoughts. She didn’t want to voice it aloud, it felt too real, however, she wanted help and she knew that honesty was the only way to get it so she added, “And I met this guy recently. He makes me happy, too."

Dr. Maxwell nodded, a gentle movement as she asked, “What about these things makes you happy?”

When it came to Max, Stevie didn’t have to think about it. “My dog is always happy to see me. He loves me, even on the worst days. He can tell when I’m not feeling great and does whatever he can to make me feel better. He’ll lay on the couch with me or go on a walk without being dramatic or huffy about the weather if I need to get out of the apartment.” With writing, Stevie felt less sure. “As for writing, it’s just the one thing I’ve always been good at. It lets me escape and be whatever I want. It makes me feel like a person,” she admitted with a light shrug.

As she thought about Calum, Stevie paused. She didn’t know what it was about him that made her happy and she didn’t know how it came to be that when asked about happiness, she thought of him. There was just something about him that put her at ease and she appreciated it. She appreciated his presence and she told Dr. Maxwell as much.

“The guy, Calum, is nice. It’s easy to talk to him. I haven’t wanted to get to know anyone in a long time but I want to get to know him,” she stated, her voice small as she thought about the way Calum made her feel.

He made her feel happy, light and carefree when she was normally a ball of anxiety, and she selfishly wanted that to remain a constant in her life. But she felt that she had to give him something in return and she didn’t know what she could offer that he would want.

“What’s stopping you from getting to know him?” Dr. Maxwell asked, with all the logic of a therapist and none of the panic that existed in Stevie’s head.

“I don’t want to hurt him,” Stevie answered immediately, “I don’t want to let him in and then disappear or do something stupid and hurt him. It wouldn’t be fair. And I told him that. I told him I wasn’t ready for a relationship but I would really love one. I just…” Stevie hesitated, her hands stilling on the pillow and her shoulders slumping as she said, “My dream life hasn’t made me happy. It hasn’t stopped me from thinking about just… ending it. I don’t want to drag him into my life only to give in to those thoughts.”

“Sometimes you need to find little things in life to keep yourself going,” Dr.  Maxwell explained, sitting forward in her chair as she waited for Stevie to meet her eyes. “The little things that make you happy - your dog, your writing, this guy, friendships, going for walks in the snow - are the things you should nurture. Use them as tools to seek other avenues for happiness. Pushing these things away because you’re afraid you’ll hurt them if you give in to those thoughts will only make it easier. Give yourself something to hold on to, something to keep moving toward.”

Although Stevie knew that, it was still painful to hear it spoken. It was hard to hear someone else rationalize what she’d been too afraid to tell herself. However, Dr. Maxwell continued, “Make some friends, plant some roots. Get to know this guy. Tell him that you’re trying your best for now and ask for patience. Let him know where you stand and hope that he’ll stand with you. That is the best you can do right now, for everyone. Try your best to be there for your mother but know that you can only do so much. Try to live a life Angela would have been proud of. Your best doesn't have to be your all. It just needs to be what you're capable of at the moment. You can't be all things for all people but you can be your best."

Stevie still felt guilty. She still felt guilty for not knowing how to help her parents. She felt guilty for living when Angela couldn’t. She felt guilty for wanting Calum, even though she couldn’t be enough for him immediately. But Dr. Maxwell was right. She couldn’t be all things for all people but she could be her best she hoped that her best was enough.

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

“I’m going to take a walk through Central Park. Want to join me?”

Calum stared at the message from Stevie, surprise clear on his face as he read over it. They had shared a few messages in the week that had passed since their trip to the Empire State Building but they were mostly small talk; asking about the other’s day, a few good morning greetings, a question about a record shop as Calum was looking for a gift for Mali. And he had done most - all, actually - of the initiating so he was surprised that she was the one reaching out to him. However, he certainly wasn’t going to complain about the role reversal as he looked up from his cellphone and glanced at Mali and Tāne, asleep beside him on the couch.

Like most days, he didn’t have anything planned. He’d gone about his daily routine of work, picking Tāne up from school, finishing his last few customers as Mali and Tāne worked on homework, and having dinner with them both before they settled in to watch a movie before bed. He normally read to Tāne, usually a classic tale that demanded he adopt multiple different voices, but it had been a long day. The end of the week was nearing, as was his first court hearing, so he wanted to pack as many appointments into his schedule as possible to give himself a little time off to breathe.

He would’ve been content to go to bed when Tāne did - usually around seven on a school night and it was already past six - but he found himself itching for the opportunity to see Stevie again. He stared at the message, contemplating whether he should ask her for a rain check or wake Mali up to see if she would mind putting Tāne to bed. However, before he could make a decision, Mali spoke.

“Just go,” she mumbled, her voice thick with sleep as she attempted to move away from Tāne without waking him. She gently untangled herself from the sleeping child and rubbed her eyes, cursing when a smudge of black stained the back of her hand. “Fucking eyeliner,” she huffed, rolling her eyes before she returned her attention to Calum. “It’s almost time for bed and I can handle that. I need to write, anyway,” she mumbled as she ran a hand through her bleached hair, a stifled yawn leaving her lips as she did so.

“How did you even…?” Calum trailed off, staring at his sister in confusion and slight awe for a long moment, before he shook his head and unlocked his phone to respond to Stevie’s text. “When did you become a mind reader?”

“When you elbowed me in the head trying to read the text,” Mali informed him with a wry grin as she rubbed the red spot on her temple where Calum had hit her. “I wanted to see what was worth injuring your sister. Tell Stevie I said hi.”

Calum laughed as he stood from the couch and dropped the remote on the fabric beside Mali. “I’m not doing that,” he assured her, his voice full of laughter as he nudged her shoulder before leaning down to press a soft kiss to Tāne’s forehead. “Thank you. I’ll be back by ten.”

“Mm, your curfew’s not until eleven, though,” she teased as she watched him cross the living room to reach for his coat and shoes near the door. “Don’t do anything I would do.”

Calum shook his head fondly and tossed Mali a wave over his shoulder before he stepped out his home and began the walk to Central Park. As he weaved through the crowds, he felt a mixture of emotions swirl in the pit of his stomach. He felt nervous, giddy and excited to see Stevie again after how well their trip to the Empire State Building went. He felt like he did in high school, excited to see the girl he had a crush on and hope that she would give him a bit of attention, but he also felt a little foolish.

His pace slowed as he thought about what he was doing. For the first time in nearly five years, he was letting someone new into his life. He was letting someone else bring him outside of his comfort zone and pull him away from his home. He was letting someone into his heart and he felt a little silly for being so willing to drop what he’d been doing - even if it was just watching his son sleep on the couch - for someone he wasn’t sure would extend the same effort.

He liked Stevie. He wanted something more than just a few meetings, here and there. He wanted dates and hand holding, good morning texts and good night phone calls. He wanted to know that she would be there, that he wouldn’t wake up and find that she had been nothing more than a beautiful dream, but he knew that she wasn’t there. Not yet, maybe not ever. 

He respected that she wasn’t interested in a relationship at the moment and though he remained hopeful she would be someday, he didn’t want to get his hopes up. He wanted to remain realistic, to keep it firmly in his head that she had been honest with him, but rushing to meet her made him feel like he’d gotten stuck with his head in the clouds.

That didn’t seem to matter, though, the moment he spotted her lingering near the entrance to the park. She was dressed down, in a pair of simple, light wash jeans and an oversized sweatshirt, and for the first time, she wore her hair straight. There was no signature eyeliner, a stark black contrast to the hazel of her eyes, and Calum was surprised to see how soft she looked. She looked exhausted, defeated by the day, and Calum longed to wrap her in a hug.

The thing that surprised him the most, however, was the smile that graced her face when she spotted him. It was small, an upturn of the corners of her lips, but it was genuine and brought a light to her face and a warmth to Calum’s heart as he matched it. She looked happy to see him and though that only sent him higher into the clouds, he was glad that she was just as excited as he was.

“Sorry for dragging you out,” she began, her smile turning sheepish as she met Calum’s eyes, “I forget sometimes that you’re a parent.”

“It’s okay,” he assured her, his smile remaining as he stepped a little closer to move out of the way of tourists entering the park. “Mali, my sister, is staying for the week and she’s handling bedtime. Tāne likes it when she sings to him.”

“It runs in the family, huh?” she asked as they followed the few tourists and stepped into the park themselves. When Calum shot her a look, confused as to what she meant, Stevie breathed a quiet laugh and clarified, “The singing. When I told Tāne where my name came from, you sang Landslide for him. You have a nice voice.”

Calum felt his cheeks heat in embarrassment as he rubbed the back of his neck and shook his head. “It’s nothing compared to my sister’s,” he assured her, “she’s playing a show on Sunday. If you’re not busy, I’d love for you to come with me.”

Calum expected her to hesitate, to think about her answer for longer than a split second, but he was surprised yet again when she nodded. “That sounds really nice,” she agreed, her smile returning to the soft, sincere upturn of her lips. “I’d like that.”

Calum didn’t want to offend Stevie, however, there was something different about her and he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. She seemed a little more at ease than she had in their last few conversations, a little more relaxed, and he couldn’t help but ask, “Are you okay? You seem… different.”

Stevie laughed at Calum’s question, an amused exhale of breath as they wandered down a lit path, and nodded. “I’m okay.” She paused for a moment, her teeth sinking into her bottom lip in a way that Calum was quickly associating with her thinking, before she confided, “I had my first appointment with a therapist today. It was something I needed to do and it felt good to talk.”

Again, Calum was surprised by her honesty. He’d gotten used to cagey answers and hesitation but he liked how straightforward she was being with him. And although he wanted her to talk to him, to feel comfortable opening up and letting him in, he knew that he wasn’t a professional and with the experience she’d been through, that was what she needed. He was happy for her, glad that she’d been able to talk with someone, and he told her as much as his hand brushed hers.

“I know it’s hard to open up,” he said, turning his head to face her as they passed a small fountain, “but I’m glad you got the chance to. I hope it helps.”

“I think it will,” she nodded, a hopeful lilt to her voice as she met his eyes once more. “How was your day?”

“Busy,” he replied, his shoe brushing an errant rock in the path as they watched a jogger pass them by. “I have the rest of the week off so I’m trying to get to as many clients as I can before then,” he explained as Stevie nodded in understanding.

“Any reason why?” She asked before quickly adding, “You don’t have to explain if you don’t want to.”

It was Calum’s turn to hesitate as he mulled over her question. She had been honest with him, her candor refreshing and her willingness to answer straight a nice change of pace, and he wanted to return the favor. He wanted to be able to have that dialogue with her, to be open and honest about what they were going through so there were no surprises if the day ever came for them to be together, but it felt odd letting someone he was just getting to know in on the most distressing situation in his life.

However, having an outside opinion, the thoughts of someone who didn’t know El and their history, might help him understand the situation a little more fully.

“My ex, Tāne’s mom, El, is trying to get custody of him. We have our first hearing on Friday,” he finally admitted. Stevie surprised him for the third time that night by grabbing the hand that had been bumping into hers and he released a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

“Fuck, I’m sorry, Calum.” Stevie’s surprise was evident in her voice as she squeezed Calum’s hand. “Do you… If you want to talk about it, I’m more than willing to listen.”

Calum offered her a weak smile as they crossed a small bridge. “It wasn’t supposed to be this way,” he pointed out, his voice quiet and seeming to float on the breeze as they stopped in the middle to glance out at the water. “We were supposed to be a team, partners in parenting even after the breakup. But she didn’t want to be a parent. She wanted to enjoy her twenties. I did, too, but I wanted to be a parent more, I guess.” Stevie remained silent as Calum collected his thoughts, her hand warm in his despite the chill of the air surrounding them. 

“Sometimes I wonder if she ever really wanted him, you know? I wonder if she just had him because I was so excited about him and wanted to be a dad so bad. It was so easy for her to just pack up and walk away. Last year, she even had papers drawn up to waive her parental rights but didn’t sign them. I just… I didn’t see this coming and I don’t really know what to do about it,” he admitted.

It felt like a weight had been lifted off his chest as he admitted his feelings to her. It was part of his hesitation in seeking her out - he still felt guilty for spending so much time thinking about her when he had much bigger things to worry about - but he knew that he needed to tell someone who wasn’t invested in the situation. At least not wholly.

“I don’t have kids,” Stevie began, her voice quiet as she stared out at the water and pointedly away from Calum, “and I don’t know what you’re going through as a parent but as a child of divorce, I know what happens when the judge gets it wrong at a custody hearing. I don’t know your ex and I only know a little of you but one thing I have no doubt about is that you love your son. You do your best to care for him and I know that he’s in good hands with you.  I just hope that a judge can see that and makes the right decision, the one that’s best for Tāne.” Stevie hesitated for a moment, her eyebrows furrowed, before she turned her head to Calum and asked, “I’m not trying to advocate for her, I don’t know her, but do you think your ex is genuine in wanting Tāne now or is it to hurt you?”

“I don’t know,” Calum admitted, shrugging his shoulders in defeat as he met Stevie’s eyes once more. “I don’t think she ever wanted to be a parent. I think we were in love and she just gave me what I wanted. Or maybe she just didn’t love me enough to want to be a parent with me,” he guessed, a dull ache flaring in his chest as he thought about what his son could have had. “If this is to hurt me, though, it’s fucked up. It’s the only thing she could do to hurt me but that doesn’t make it any better.”

Stevie remained silent as she stood by Calum’s side. Instead of trying to offer comfort with clumsy words and a lack of knowledge about the situation, she squeezed his hand a little tighter and stepped a little closer to his side. Their arms touched, body heat seeping through the fabric of their sweatshirts, and they would have been content to stand their for hours, silent and contemplative, had a voice not cut through the night and sent a shot of icy dread straight to Calum’s heart.

“I thought that was you, Cal.”

Calum stiffened and bit back the annoyed, incredulous laugh he wanted to huff as he released Stevie’s hand and turned to face the couple that stood just steps away from them on the bridge. They looked like they’d been out for the evening, both dressed for dinner with her in heels and him in nice slacks and a button down, and Calum wanted to roll his eyes.

The universe was testing him, sending him a reminder of where his head should be, and he didn’t much appreciate it.

Elise Wells, El as she had always preferred to be called, stood before him looking exactly as he remembered. In her heels, she stood nearly as tall as him. Her jet black hair was still long, hitting around the bottom of her ribcage, and perfectly curled. Her skin, the same golden shade Tāne had been born with - the only thing of hers he got, really - was still free of ink and Calum was reminded of the different paths they’d taken in their lives.

“Hi,” she said, a smile on her face that looked almost too genuine for him to trust, “it’s good to see you.”

“You, too, El,” he returned with a sigh, no smile on his lips as he met her eyes for the first time in nearly three years.

El looked him over, her piercing brown eyes taking in the faded blue buzzcut with a flicker of disgust - she had never been a fan of his desire to change his hair or cover himself in tattoos -, before she turned her attention to the girl at his side. As Calum spared Stevie a glance, he realized that the two of them couldn’t be more different. Whereas El was all sharp lines and polished perfection, Stevie was soft smiles and beautiful chaos.

Calum realized in that moment that that was what drew him to Stevie. She was the polar opposite of what he’d always gone for, a complete 180 from the girl he always dreamed about. She wasn’t the metaphorical other half he’d been missing, she was a compliment to the things that he already had. She made him want to amplify the good in himself, the softness he saw and the swirling chaos that lived in his head, and he suddenly understood why he felt so desperate to keep her around.

She was everything he’d always wanted but had been too stubborn to admit he needed.

“Since Calum is being rude, I’m Elise,” El introduced, cutting her eyes to Calum before offering Stevie her hand with a smile that he recognized as one of her polite, yet angry, expressions. “You are?”

“Stevie,” she returned, shaking El’s hand quickly before dropping them back to her side and covering them with the arms of her sweatshirt once more. “Nice to meet you.”

“Mm,” El hummed dismissively, giving Stevie a once over before she returned her full attention to Calum. “Where’s Tāne tonight?”

“In bed by now,” he informed her with a sigh, wanting nothing more than the conversation to be over and for El and her boyfriend - who, Calum was amused to see, looked just as uncomfortable as he felt - to leave. “My sister’s watching him.”

El, who had never gotten along with Mali, made a face at the mention of his sister and Calum clenched his jaw in an effort to keep himself from saying something he’d regret. He’d done enough of that the last time he and El spoke and he didn’t want to give her any fuel for her case. “That’s nice,” she finally hummed, her tone deadpan and her eyes narrowed as she glanced between Stevie and Cal once more, “it’s nice that someone other than one of those guys is watching him while you go out.”

Calum already felt somewhat guilty for leaving on such short notice, without really planning to have Mali babysit or telling Tāne goodbye, and El’s comment hit him like a punch to the stomach. Not only did she insult his friends - who she also never really got along with - she was insinuating that he pawned his son off on others while he went out and had fun.

He didn’t want to feel bad, it was rare that he did anything other than go to work and return home to spend time with Tāne, but the one night he did might be enough for her to use against him in their custody battle.

“Well, I’d love to stick around and chat but we’re running late for reservations. I’ll see you on Friday,” El assured him, a sickly sweet smile on her lips as she gave him a wave before purposely bumping into Stevie on her way off the bridge.

Stevie and Calum stood in silence for a long moment; Stevie surprised at what had just happened and Calum allowing his thoughts to run wild. He knew that he shouldn’t feel guilty for spending one night away from his son, it wasn’t a common occurrence and he didn’t intend to make it one, but seeing El reminded him of where his head should be.

Stevie wasn’t interested in a relationship, not yet, and he didn’t have the ability to focus on one until the custody battle with El was over. However, he couldn’t bring himself to give up on either as he turned to glance at Stevie and asked, “Can we try this again some time? I feel like I should head home.”

“Of course,” Stevie nodded, a small smile on her lips as she folded her arms over her chest and began walking the way they’d come. “Just let me know when you want to.” Calum could see that she had more that she wanted to say as he glanced at her out of the corner of his eye and he had to bite back a surprised laugh when she admitted, “I don’t mean to be rude or stick my nose where it doesn’t belong, but I’m not a fan of her.”

“Yeah,” Calum nodded, a rueful smile on his lips as thought about the others in his life who weren’t fond of her, either. “Not many people are. I’m sorry about that, by the way. She’s… yeah.”

“You don’t have to apologize for someone else’s actions. I get it. I just hope that everyone goes well for you on Friday. If you need anything, you have my number,” she reminded him, the genuine smile from before returning to her lips as they approached the entrance much quicker than he hoped they would. 

“Thank you,” he breathed, his appreciation genuine as they stood, face to face, and watched the other with a sort of curiosity that Calum was closely associating with his growing feelings for her. “I… this has been tough and I feel like we’re both in weird spots in life but it’s nice to feel something good right now.”

“My therapist told me today that you have to find the little things that make you happy, that keep you moving. If a walk in the park is one of those things, so be it. If getting to know someone new is it, that’s good, too. Let the little things bring light right now,” she advised, her eyes meeting his and shining with sincerity. 

Calum nodded, appreciative for the advice, and returned her smile with one of his own. “Tonight was nice,” he told her as he stepped just a little closer, his hand reaching out to squeeze hers one last time. “It brought light.”

“Yeah, it did for me, too,” she assured him, her eyes flashing with an emotion Calum didn’t quite understand before she squeezed his hand and let go. “I’ll see you later, Calum.”

“See you later,” Calum agreed, watching her walk away yet again.

He wished that things weren’t complicated, that he could just tell her how he felt and that she would feel the same. He wished there wasn’t a custody battle looming over his head and a dark cloud over hers. He wished he’d met her a long time ago, when they could’ve just dove in without worrying about having to sink or swim.

However, he resigned himself to acknowledging that he hadn’t as he began his walk back home. He’d met her at a time in his life - and hers - that made things complicated. But he hoped that when all was said and done, when the dust settled and everything was fine, the complications would have made them stronger. 

But, as he walked and thought about what he planned to do going forward, he reminded himself that things were always darkest just before the dawn and the most beautiful roses bloomed after the heaviest storms.

____________________________________________________________

Author’s Note: I’m sorry it’s so heavy. I always intended for this chapter to be a little heavy but this week has been rough so it got a little heavier than I planned.

Tag List (like this post or message me if you want to be added!): @toolazymyguy , @irwinkitten , @jamieebabiee , @glittersluke , @spicycal , @lusbaby , @everyscarisahealingplace, @brokenvirtualheartcollector , @if-it-rains-it-pours, @blisshemmings , @calumscalm , @lovemenowseemenever , @ijustreallylovezebras , @rhiannonmichelle , @p0laroidpictures , @tomscuddles , @loverofmineluke , @harrytreatspeoplewithkindnesss , @blueviiolence , @loveroflrh , @empathycth , @luckyduckydoo , @tobefalling , @bandsandbooksaremykink , @watch-how-she-burns , @megz1985 , @wokeupinaustralia , @lucidlrh , @canterburyfiction , @cal-is-not-on-branding , @t-i-n-y-d-i-n-o , @jaacknaano , @findingliam-o , @old-zeppelin-shirt , @idk-who-i-am-anymore1 , @sammyrenae68 , @flowerthug , @calumsphile , @caitdaniels, @drummerboy794 , @writingfortoomanyfandoms , @x-lover-of-mine-x , @miliefayy , @sunaaii , @canterburyfiction , @sebrox40 , @nati-nn , @opheliaaurora23 , @bitterbethany , @sunnysidesblog​ , @333-xx​

#5sos imagine #5sos fanfic #5sos imagines #5sos fanfiction #5sos stories #5sos fic #calum hood fanfic #calum hood imagines #calum hood preference #calum hood fanfiction #calum hood imagine #5 seconds of summer fanfic #5 seconds of summer fanfiction #5 seconds of summer preferences #5 seconds of summer preference #5 seconds of summer imagines #5 seconds of summer smut #5sos smut #calum hood smut #calum hood x oc #5sos fics #5sos au #5sos angst #calum hood angst #calum hood au #calum hood blurbs #calum hood blurb #calum hood preferences #5sos blurbs #5sos blurb

[professorlthings]

How Supernatural Gripped Me Tight and Raised Me from Perdition

Happiness in Just Being:

How Supernatural Gripped Me Tight and Raised Me from Perdition

I am a broke college student. What little money I have is often spent on books I don’t technically need, much to the chagrin of my mother, who I have clearly not learned how to budget from. Furthermore, with Supernatural conventions on the 2021 calendar, saving money has really become something I strive to do. Nonetheless, sometimes my budgeting fails.

Trudging through Barnes & Noble one evening, looking for two YA books I’d recently added to my reading list, I walked into a Supernatural display. Now, as mentioned above, I’m a college student with limited funds to my name, but my investment in the Winchester brothers and their angelic ally Castiel had peaked this semester, and I was immediately drawn to one of the books, a volume entitled Family Don’t End With Blood, which had a drawing of the Winchesters standing against their 1967 Impala.

After a brief, agonized contemplation, I bought the book, along with several other pieces of Supernaturalparaphernalia, completely depleting my bank account – this is not hyperbole. Though I haven’t even begun to scratch the surface of all the essays people have written in this book about how Supernatural changed their lives, I am conscious of one indisputable truth: it changed mine, too. So, in the spirit of inspiration by the book, here is the story of how Supernatural gripped me tight and raised me from perdition.

I almost died this semester.

No, no. That’s too passive. I almost killed myself this semester. It’s unfair to say “I almost died” as though it wasn’t something completely in my control. Well, both under my control and ridiculously out of my control.

I got low this semester. It’s been a taxing year for everyone, I grant, and I was no exception. I’d fallen into such a bad place that I had taken to cutting myself with the red kitchen knife my mom had given me when I graduated high school. Cutting became a routine, something I would fall back upon. But I eventually stopped. And as I think back to the last evening I ever cut myself, I wonder what stayed my hand, what made me put that knife down.

It wasn’t my friends. Some of use weren’t even talking at this point.

It wasn’t my family. We were in a bad place, too.

It was something about me. Some resolution to keep living, despite every bad thing that had happened to me in the last 12 months.

Two months later, I shrug out of my trench coat, making sure to keep my open button-down on over my grey waffle undershirt, the cold already biting through my heavily layered clothing. My clothing is at this point 75% inspired by the Winchester brothers, from my red, purple, and green striped button-down to my now just broken-in Doc Martens; the other 25% belongs to Castiel, who inspired me to buy this trench coat. And it so happened that America’s Thrift Store had just what I was looking for – for $16.99.

I survey the now almost empty campus of the University of Alabama, oddly empty for the middle of dead week; it seems that most of the students have seen fit to go home, unlike me and my ragtag group of friends, most of whom decided to stay through until the end of finals week. I catch a glimpse of two people walking their dog across the Quad, and they probably notice me as well, sitting on the steps of Gorgas Library, a haunt usually occupied by many students at this time of year.

But, then again, it hasn’t exactly been a normal year, by any standards.

When Quarantine hit and I suddenly found myself back home at my parents’ place, I did what half of the population must have decided to do – I began watching a new TV series. With Doctor Who, Sherlock, and Good Omens already under my belt, the obvious place to go next was Supernatural. I had shockingly written it off as a show of little interest, because it was American, not British. Nonetheless, I didn’t think anything particular about this particular choice; it more just seemed like a natural next step. My younger sister and I began with “Pilot” and stopped somewhere in the middle of season 3, when my sister lost interest in the show. But my journey with Supernatural didn’t end there.

As an English major, I’d been thinking about what I’m going to write my senior thesis on, and I eventually decided to write it on free will in the works of John Milton. And in exploring Miltonic free will in modern media for my directed readings class with my thesis director, Dr. Ainsworth, I found that Supernatural spoke volumes for the research I wanted to conduct for this class. Thus, without hesitation, Dr. Ainsworth and I added Supernatural, seasons 4 and 5, to our syllabus for the course.

I won’t lie, though, this semester got away from me.

I had a fight with one of my best friends and we didn’t talk for weeks.

I was sent to the North Harbor psychiatric facility for the second time this year.

Needless to say, with all of this stacking up on me, school became a less than a priority. My grades started slipping in all my classes, especially in Italian, where, for the first time in three years, my grade dropped from the usual A+ all the way down to a C.

I forgot all about Supernatural, BSing relevant facts about it and free will during my meetings with Dr Ainsworth, barely having a hold on my Milton project at all.

My grades were tanking, and my mental health was slipping out of my control. For the first time in my life, I really didn’t know what to do. I resorted to cutting on the regular, always in the same place, the outside of my wrist. At first, I’d just barely draw blood, but one time – the last time – I cut it so deeply that it wouldn’t stop bleeding. My sweatpants were covered in blood, as was my bathroom floor. That’s when I realized I needed to stop.

It was a resolution. A resolution that I would never cut myself again. I hate making promises, and try to avoid them at all costs, but when I make promises, I keep them. And this is what I promised myself. And it was hard. It was so hard!

Nonetheless, life began looking up.

Lightning struck.

Sometime in the weeks that I was back at my parents’ place in New Mexico, healing, I realized I wanted my essay for Dr. Ainsworth to be a good essay; I wanted it to be lit journal-worthy, hopefully.

That meant I needed to watch seasons 4 and 5 of Supernatural. Which meant I needed to finish season 3 first.

I made a half-hearted attempt to start season 3 back up where we’d left off, but I watched one episode and lost interest, my overtaxed mind refusing to focus on the Winchesters. Besides, Castiel was the relevant character for my essay, not the Winchesters, and he didn’t show up until season 4.

Okay, I thought, I’ll give up the chronological watching and just start season 4. I did. And from then on, I kept watching. At first I watched every episode, but with deadlines for my paper coming up quicker than I was prepared for, I began just watching episodes that Castiel appeared in.

I didn’t stop once I’d finished the relevant seasons, either. The Winchester brothers and Castiel quickly became an integral part of my life – and that’s where this story truly begins.

Once lightning strikes in my soul, it usually means we’re in for the long haul, which in this case means 15 seasons worth of the long haul, culminating in my senior thesis next fall, a project linking John Milton’s Paradise Lost and Paradise Regained with Supernatural. I found the link – love is what gives us free will, and all of the media I was engaging with supported this idea.

Don’t even get me started on how Castiel in season 15 ties into this thesis, but oh my goodness, he does.

In Supernatural, I found more than examples of how the power of love gives individuals free will. I found things relatable to me that I never would have previously been able to relate to, had it not been for this profoundly hellish year.

I found Sam Winchester.

Sam Winchester is not perfect. Sam Winchester has so many faults. Sam Winchester is so profoundly relatable that I count him responsible for saving my life.

How did Sam Winchester inspire me and how does he continue to inspire me? I couldn’t count the ways. But I think the most important thing about Sam was that he taught me I was okay. Broken as I was, Sam taught me that I was not beyond saving – that there was hope that I could still get my life back on track.

One of the key aspects of season 4 is Sam’s addiction to drinking demon blood. I saw myself in Sam; his addiction to demon blood mirrored my addiction to self-harm. On that night I realized I needed to stop, I made a deal with myself that I was never going to pick up a knife again. And I haven’t. Now, whenever I start to feel that I’d be better off dead, or when I tempted to pick up a knife again, I think of Sam Winchester. If for no other reason, I can do it for Sam. As Sam taught me, you can overcome addiction and get your life back on track – even when the addiction makes you feel so good and you suffer withdrawal without it. If Sam Winchester can avoid demon blood, I can avoid cutting myself. And I have. For nearly two months.

Sam continues to encourage me to not lose faith. For instance, when Sam didn’t tell Dean the whole truth about what he was doing, that caused his brother to lose trust in him. Sam didn’t tell Dean that he was drinking demon blood, teaming up with a demon, or any number of other things. Dean flat out tells Sam that he can’t trust him anymore, that their relationship will never be what it once was. And that resounds with my soul in ways so hurtful I wish it didn’t. My oldest sister said she doesn’t trust me anymore, after things I’ve said and not said this year. I see myself in the same situation with her as Sam is with Dean. And it hurts; but at least I have Sam to relate to.

But perhaps most importantly, Sam Winchester tries to do right by the people around him. Sam tries to focus on others rather than himself, and he tries to help whenever he can. I wish I was more like Sam Winchester, and I am eternally grateful to Jared Padalecki for his portrayal of Sam that inspired me to continue on.

Castiel, too, makes me strive for better. And when I say that Castiel’s final speech in 15.18 is the reason I’m as happy as I am, I mean it.

Castiel makes a simple statement: “Happiness isn’t in the having; it’s in just being.”

Preach, Castiel.

Though people may have gripes about season 15 of Supernatural, one thing that kept right until the end was solid character development. Nobody did anything outrageously out of character, and for that I am truly grateful. As could be expected, Supernatural ended in heartache, but also a profound sense of peace – the idea that if you pursue the greater good, as motivated by those you love, you will have a fulfilling life.

I think I finally understand.

Years of depression and anxiety cannot stack up to these few words:

“Happiness isn’t in the having; it’s in just being.”

I’ve finally found my happiness, and I have Supernatural to thank for that.

This essay would be incomplete, however, without a shout-out to Dean Winchester as well. Although I see less of myself in Dean, I admire many traits he possesses. He cares about his family, almost to a fault, and he cares about his friends. While he doesn’t express feelings on the regular, he does in the important moments, and that’s what matters.

Dean Winchester is perhaps a role model I could take, saving people, caring about his family and friends, and living life to the fullest.

Furthermore, Dean is arguably a bisexual icon. I really appreciate both the subtle and blatant ways in which Dean Winchester’s sexuality is portrayed on screen. Though I know not everyone believes that Dean is queer, as a queer person, I find the idea of Dean being a canonically bisexual character in mainstream television exceptionally powerful. So it’s canon to me.

Watching Dean’s death scene in 15.20 nearly broke me. Although a good friend and I tried to get drunk to watch the season 15 finale, alcohol was not enough to prepare me for the emotions I felt watching that one last episode. When Dean died, it genuinely felt like I’d lost a good friend. I cried a lot. Both in the moment and in the days that followed.

But missing things reminds me to be grateful for the fact that these things exist in the first place. Yes, Supernatural may have ended, but we were lucky to have it with us for fifteen years.

Because, after all, “Happiness isn’t in the having; it’s in just being.”

Supernatural taught me that love of friends and family can truly save the world, and that in a world where you can be anything and love anyone, it’s best to be yourself. So here I am.

With this essay drawing to a close and the cold air beginning to freeze my fingers as I type, I have one last thing to say:

I don’t seek acceptance or love or approval from anyone other than myself – I am no one’s but mine – and I now have a new life mantra. Say it with me.

“Happiness isn’t in the having; it’s in just being.”

The fact that an ex-blood junkie, a fallen angel, and a college dropout with six bucks to his name saved my life speaks volumes both to how Supernatural affected me, as well as how bad things had to get to get me to that point. I can look back on this year, everything I did right and everything I did wrong, and one thought rings truer than all the others: Supernatural changed the course of this year – and my life.

Thank you to Lynn Zubernis, Jared Padalecki, Misha Collins, Jensen Ackles, and Eric Kripke (among many, many others) for helping me to discover this amazing experience!

#supernatural #spn #spn 15x18 #spn 15x20 #jared padalecki #jensen ackles #misha collins #dean winchester #sam winchester #castiel #cas #saving people hunting things #dean #sam #how supernatural gripped me tight and raised me from perdition

[rockinhamburger]

2020 Creator Meme

rules: it’s time to love yourselves! choose your 5 (or so) favorite works you created in the past year (fics, art, edits, etc.) and link them below to reflect on the amazing things you brought into the world in 2020. tag as many writers/artists/etc. as you want (fan or original) so we can spread the love and link each other to awesome works!

I was tagged by @unfolded73, @fishyspots, and @likerealpeopledo-on-ao3 - thanks, this was fun to do!

1. sustineo. The actual writing took about three days, but this was really a culmination of ideas I’ve had banging around in my head for a long time. This fic is a symbiosis of my interests, and if it’s effective at all, it’s only because it is coloured through with 10 years of college and uni studies in several fields, from social sciences to art and media studies to social work to literary analysis. I really enjoyed the experience of writing it, particularly showing how trauma can shape a life and how art and vulnerability can make it easier to endure. So you can imagine my absolute delight over the podfic of sustineo that @flashbastard recorded. That was a very special moment for me in 2020, getting to experience this podfic, and I still sit down and listen to it here and there because it’s so incredible to hear the words I wrote rendered so beautifully. If you haven’t, you simply must listen to it.

2. got a bad desire. This is a story about Patrick coming quickly and being extremely embarrassed about it. David finds it very hot, so he’s not helpful! XD But they communicate and they have lots of sex. There’s an emotional undercurrent in there that I really like and am proud I wrote.

3. (a long time ago) we used to be friends. This is the fic I wrote for the Reel Fest based on the movie 13 going on 30. I’m proud of this fic; it’s light and fluffy (unusual for me!), and I think I managed to blend the different canon elements from each source material together to create a cohesive remix. I also think it’s funny, but then humour is subjective, so I’ll leave that up to you.

4. You Can Still Be Free. This fic is the Ella Enchanted AU I spent about five months writing. I’m really glad I wrote it; there were times I thought I’d never finish. It was an agonizing world to immerse myself in sometimes, but I did eventually manage to put together a cohesive narrative (I think). It’s very dark (lots of warnings apply), but I worked at making sure it’s not gratuitous. Ultimately, this is a story about healing and connection and love. It’s angst with a happy ending, the greatest of jams.

5. I Think We’re Alone Now. AKA David the Vampire Slayer. This is a dialogue-only fic that I wrote with @likerealpeopledo-on-ao3, who is hilarious and brilliant, and so it’s no surprise that the fic is extremely funny. But it also flew under the radar when we posted it in October, so you should definitely check it out if you haven’t.

-

In total, I posted about 85,000 words in 2020. It’s been such a wild year, but reading and writing Schitt’s Creek fic and meeting the wonderful people in this fandom has made it easier to endure. On to 2021; hopefully, more words will come.

It seems like everyone’s done this so go ahead and do this if you haven’t! Tagging @flashbastard and @datrickrose and @language-of-love

#i will not rant about how i had to rewrite this whole post due to technical issues #this is fine #but anyway! #writing is fun and also hard

[tabletoptime]

2020 Creator Wrap: Favourite Works

so i got tagged by @robinlikeitshot which is !!!! super neat!

Rules: it’s time to love yourselves! choose your 5 (or so) favorite  works you created in the past year (fics, art, edits, etc.) and link  them below to reflect on the amazing things you brought to the world in  2020. tag as many writers/artists/etc. as you want (fan or original) so  we can spread the love and link each other to awesome works!

-

i sure wrote stuff this year. like. a surprising amount of stuff, honestly. i'm now 15 chapters into my longfic, and i've been steadily creating at at least a few thousand words a month if not more. it's kind of really nice? especially since i've only gotten busier as time has gone on lol. i can definitely blame all of the peeps on discord for that one :p so in no particular order

1) Take It Back Now Y'all

yeah this one was obvious. this is my baby, my passion project, and the piece i keep coming back to over and over again. i'm so proud of this story, and while sometimes working on it can be frustrating, other times it feels like sitting down and getting comfy. i love writing in Tim's voice, and the amount of feedback has been incredible. it's now at over 1000 kudos, and everytime i remember that i freak out all over again. i'm hoping to finish it this year, but its always going to hold a special place in my heart

2) We're Not Driving (How did we get here?)

this was my first attempt at a giftfic, and every time i think about it i'm reminded of one of my favourite people, and for that alone i love it. though i should really go back and fix this one continuity error that i notice everytime i read it. bonus points if you know what i'm talking about :p but yes, i got to write hurt/comfort, i got to Project Hard onto a character i love, and i got to make someone i care about smile. heck yes

3) Each Life Touches so Many (Or Leaves an Awful Big Hole)

surprise surprise, this one isn't a Tim fic. i am and will continue to be an absolute ho for alternate universe crossover fics, in which characters are forced to confront the Maybes of their own lives. and when Castlevania gave me a maguffin as pretty as the Infinite Corridor in its second season, well. i really had no choice. i cracked this one out in like two days and its got some of my favourite action in it. also a pissy dhampir x2. it was a lot of fun and Sypha is The Best

4) No Need to Deal with Dragons

so i tried to JayTim week this year and oh boy. i had Ideas and Plans and a lot of them just didn't end up working the ways i had hoped. this fic on the other hand was exactly what i wanted when i had the idea for the Fairytale/Based on a Book prompt. the Enchanted Forest Chronicles meant so much to me as a kid, and getting to play with that world even a little was so damn cool. also i got to make the Outlaws cats, and that will never stop being funny

5) Orographic Lifts

another not-DC fic, and another bit of shameless self-indulgence. time travel and wings and assassins, oh my. i'm pretty proud of it, all things considered. less because i think its super good or something, but because i joined a pleasantly small discord full of some awesome people, and this fic is the product of a bunch of yelling of ideas back and forth. its also kind of a symbol to me of how i'm getting more comfortable with sharing creatively online? i would have never dreamed of writing this fic last year, let alone posting it. not because i wasn't capable of it ideas-wise (though it probably would have been a very different fic in terms of style), but because i kind of consider this a Niche Interest, and i've played those very close to my chest for a long time. this year has been huge for me in creative growth, and just being able to be a part of creative communities, and this fic is a culmination of all that

it's been a hell of a year, y'all. here's to a better one going forward <3 (also i didn't check if any of you i'm tagging have already done this because i'm lazy, feel free to ignore)

@epicmusic42 @selkienight60 @batbirdies

#my writing #tag game #this is definitely rambly dont mind me and the Fair Amount of wine i've consumed #tim drake #castlevania #assassin's creed #i'm not gonna tag more because this is all over the place lol

[introvertguide]

Oh, You Thought That Movie Was Long...

So I told my housemates that I was going to watch Gone with the Wind and I would be in my room for a the afternoon. Sometimes they get a little noisy so I let them know when I am doing online tutoring or if I am watching a movie that I am reviewing so they don’t literally yell right outside my door. It is sad I have to tell them every time, but at least they respect my requests (especially when it comes to the tutoring). Instead of the normal “yeah, sure” or “no problem,” we ended up basically playing a game of who had seen the longest film and this culminated in a search for what the longest cinematic film of all time was. Here are some results if you ever get into this game or you want to challenge yourself:

Intolerance (1916): 2hr 43min, black and white, silent film

This movie is not all that long compared to others, but it is silent with really slow music and is split into 4 separate stories that don’t make a lot of sense due to the absence of dialogue. The film is on the AFI top 100 so I am going to have to watch it again sooner or later, but I am really not looking forward to it.

The Lord of the Rings (2001-3): 11hr 16min, trilogy

These movies kind of count because, although they were released separately, it is a continued storyline that was simply broken into 3 parts. Everyone in my house has sat down and watched all three movies consecutively at some point, but I don’t know if it counts because the films are split and everyone took long breaks in between films. I don’t think it is that hard to sit through these films but I am a fan of sci-fi and fantasy. If you are curious, The Hobbit series is quite a bit shorter at only 8hr 52min.

Gone with the Wind (1939): 3hrs 58min, longest film on AFI list

This is the longest running movie on the AFI top 100, but not by that much. There are a dozen movies that dip well into the 3 hour range, but this one beats out Lawrence of Arabia by 10 minutes. Gone with the Wind would actually be 15 minutes shorter if it weren’t for the extended credits, overture, and intermission. Just know you will need to put aside 4 hours to get through the whole thing.

Hamlet (1996): 4hrs 2min, longest movie I have made it through

I had to watch this for my Shakespeare unit when I was in high school and it turned out that I loved it. This is not only the longest movie I have seen, but also one of my favorites. I am a sucker for good Shakespeare remakes and this movie has every single line with nothing cut out. There are a couple of movies that I have seen that are longer, but I did not make it through them without a nap or a very long break. I made it through Hamlet in one sitting with no problems (maybe a bathroom break but that is it).

Amra Ekta Cinema Banabo (2019): Over 21 hours, Bangladeshi

I had to look this one up since I am not very familiar with films out of Bangladesh, but this is apparently the longest cinematic film ever made. Most all of the cinematic films over 5 hours tend to be from Asian countries or France, but this one wins hands down being almost 7 hours longer than second place. It is the story of citizens in the aftermath of the Bangladesh Liberation War of 1971. The film was made over a period of 9 years with 176 days of shooting and around 4000 artists and crew. This did make me more interested in learning about the history of Bangladesh and Pakistan and I am sure it is a fine film, but I don’t think I would be able to make it through this film because 21 hours is just such a long period of time. Maybe in many sittings over a week.

Logistics (2012): 35 days 17 hours; longest released film to date

So that you don’t have to Google it, the longest film that I could find that was actually released was an experimental art film out of Sweden that follows the creation and shipping of a pedometer in real time. The idea is kind of interesting, but I don’t have a month to check this out. Besides the people who actually made the film, I wonder if there is anybody who actually has seen this film in its entirety. I kind of hope not.

So there you go. If you want to play the “longest movie I can name off the top of my head” game or if you are extremely fortuitous and have a bonus question in a pub quiz, you’re welcome. Now excuse me while I try to take notes on Gone with the Wind without dozing off from the heat. It shouldn’t be too hard since I truly love the film, but you never can tell with an epic movie.

*Well, I got a note from someone named @actionbastard1​ who made a fine suggestion for this list in the form of the Erich Von Stroheim film Greed (1925). It is based on the great American novel McTeague and is part of the National Film Registry. This silent black and white contribution had an original theatrical cut that apparently ran over 9 hours for critical review and was 42 reels long. It was eventually cut up by MGM to the point it made no sense and only ran 140 minutes. A 1999 reconstruction was created to try and get a feel for the original cut that runs just slightly short of 4 hours.

#longest movie #gone with the wind #hamlet #long films #art films #for fun #introvert #introverts #AFI film #foreign film

[apparitionism]

Hark

A merry early Gift Exchange to @kla1991​, whose not-so-secret Santa I am this year. This is the first part of a story set somewhat in-universe: there’s no season 5 (what could that even be?), and only the first ep of season 4—basically, time wound back to right before the Warehouse exploded in Stand, which aired on Oct. 3, so the Christmas during which this story is set is happening less than three months after that momentous occurrence. I’m postulating that Helena became an agent again, and there was no Artie/Father Data business. (Oh, and Steve didn’t die, so no metronome. I refuse to force Helena through witnessing anyone being brought back non-nefariously from the dead.) I’ll do my best to post the concluding part(s) by New Year’s Day—no promises on that, but I’ll finish as soon as apparitionally possible. Anyway, happy holidays to everyone. Continuing to participate with you all in this wondrous exercise in fandom is a blessing in every tradition, and I’m profoundly grateful.

Hark

“Your upstart nation stole ‘God Save the Queen’!” Helena seethed at Myka.

For whom “upstart nation” was really too much. “Nobody owns that melody!” she fumed, reciprocally, at Helena. “You can’t steal something nobody owns, our version is perfectly valid, and anyway I’m pretty sure other countries stole it too. Look it up!”

“I’m not in other countries. You look it up.”

“I’m driving! Since when are you such a fan of the monarchy anyway?”

“Stop questioning my patriotism!”

“I couldn’t care less about your patriotism!”

“You brought up citizenship!”

“Because you don’t have any!” Myka had genuinely thought they would be having an intellectual conversation, one about documentation and—

“I did at birth!” Helena raged, and then she scowl-sang, “God save our gra-cious Queen.”

This gave Myka pause. She reflected that she had actually never heard Helena sing before. She then concluded that she never wanted to hear Helena sing again... because Helena could not sing.

However: “My country ’tis of thee,” Myka sang back, frustrated. It was the only reason she herself would ever have sung, because—

“You can’t sing,” Helena informed her, in the tone of a doctor trying to conceal joy at having to report that the patient would not recover.

“Neither can you,” Myka informed back, aiming for straightforward “snide.”

“And I never want to hear you sing again,” Helena continued.

All Myka could come up with in response to that was an inadequate “Ditto.”

Helena sniffed. “You just wanted the last word.”

Myka pointedly let Helena have that last word. To make her stew in it. In the ensuing silence, she continued to drive. On this last leg home from a retrieval, late on Christmas Eve—their very first Christmas Eve—the air between them was frostier than the South Dakota winter outside the car could ever dream of matching.

She was under no illusion that Helena cared at all about anybody saving the Queen, and she herself, while reasonably patriotic on the American side of things, hadn’t sung her way through that song since her childhood. She knew this dispute was ridiculous, and she suspected Helena knew it too. She suspected also that they both understood they were developing a pattern: A period of calm—a deepening of accord—that would sooner or later, particularly in the adrenalin-ebb aftermath of a dangerous retrieval, dissipate into some minimally motivated squabble, the respective sides of which they entrenched themselves into with such commitment that it seemed there could never be an unentrenching.

*

An early instance: Myka had threatened to storm out of their shared hotel room because Helena had mulishly refused to concede that it had been foolish to open a bottle of mini-bar water for which they would be charged five dollars.

“Go right ahead,” Helena had “suggested,” so Myka did.

In the lobby, she’d run into Pete, who wasn’t storming anywhere, just looking for free snacks. “See?” Myka demanded of him. “Like a normal person.”

“If you were normal, you wouldn’t be out here with me. ’Cause you’ve got a hot girl in a hotel room, and I know things got a little uh-oh chasing that guy today, but you’re both still in one piece.”

“Maybe not for long.”

“You volunteered for this.”

“No I didn’t. Artie said ‘Pete, Myka, Helena, get on a plane for Montgomery, Alabama,’ and so we—”

“You know that isn’t the ‘this’ I meant.”

Myka did. But she hadn’t volunteered for that “this” either. Nothing about her response to Helena was voluntary. Nothing about it had ever been voluntary.

“Fights and all,” Pete added. “After the thing”—he always called the barely averted explosion of the Warehouse “the thing,” and so did Claudia—“you could’ve let her leave. You could’ve made her leave. She would have done anything you said.”

“Not anything,” Myka said, to be contrary.

“Maybe you don’t remember how she’d hardly even sit in a chair without your say-so. Oh, but wait, I think I know somebody who remembers everything, some tall lady with a lot of hair, name rhymes with Opelika... hey, that’s you!”

“Shut up. It wasn’t... that simple.”

“It is now.”

She crossed her arms at him.

He sighed. “Lemme show you: ‘Sorry, baby,’” he said in his “Myka” voice, which was terrible. “Me too, darling,” he then said in his “Helena” voice, which was even worse. As himself, he finished, “It’s like you’ve never been in a relationship.”

In a conversation in which Pete had said several annoyingly true things, that one was the most annoyingly true. But: “It’s like,” she conceded, and he slapped the side of her head, very gently.

“Hot girl hotel room,” he said.

When Myka went back to that hotel room, the hot girl said, “I’m sorry,” as if she’d received the same instructions from Pete. “I was precipitately thirsty.”

“I’m sorry too,” Myka told her. “I was precipitately miserly.”

Myka kissed the hot girl, the hot girl kissed back, and they fumbled their way to fine.

Until the next trivial-yet-entrenched tiff... because apparently, peace was for normal people.

*

Normal people. When Myka and Helena finally made it back to the B&B, Leena, Claudia, and Steve were doing reasonably convincing “normal” impressions: drinking hot chocolate, eating cookies, and playing board games. They seemed to be playing all the board games; Leena was replacing the lid on Monopoly, which she set aside, reaching for the next box in a towering stack. “Chef’s-kiss timing,” Claudia told them. “I just bankrupted these two pathetic poser slumlords, and we’re about to start Sorry. It’s funner with four, so siddown, and you two can be a team.”

“Or not,” Myka said, glancing at Helena, who glanced back and gave a definitely not yet inhale-exhale. “Why isn’t Pete playing?”

“We’re supposed to tell you it’s because he’s doing some last-minute Christmas shopping,” Steve said.

Myka was about to ask, “This late at night?” but Claudia supplied, “Except it’s really that he goofed off today and didn’t finish inventory and thought he’d get away with it but then Artie called and yelled at him.”

“And you left him alone to keep working on it? It’s the night before Christmas, and—”

Claudia waved her hands. “And all through the Warehouse, not a creature was stirring, I swear.”

“Besides,” Leena added, “he’s a grown man.”

“Who always ruins Christmas!” said Myka.

“Always almost ruins Christmas,” Claudia corrected.

Myka demanded, “Is there anything about me that says ‘I like a close call’?”

All eyes turned to Helena, then back to Myka.

*

Of course Helena had been part of the closest of calls, and Myka hadn’t liked it at all: nothing but the outcome. The Warehouse, the saving of it, yes, the thing—but the real outcome had been the aftermath at the B&B.

That outcome was real, but it was also a dream, one that Myka had dreamed more often than she would ever have confessed to pondering in her heart, this dream of being alone with a present Helena, no disastrous endpoint looming. The dream-logic of it: I can touch her? And Myka put a hand to Helena’s elbow. Reached and did that. Helena looked at the hand, the elbow. She looked in Myka’s eyes then and said, “Don’t spare my feelings.”

Feelings? Are you really you in your skin, Myka wanted to ask. Is this your elbow. Instead, because she needed to know, she murmured, “What do you want.”

Helena didn’t say words, but she made a noise that evolution had found fit to preserve from a deep, animal past, a guttural push of sound through the throat-column: it told Myka everything. Told Myka: “Everything.”

No speaking then but by bodies, a language of desperation and culmination. Helena had a mouth that could be met by Myka’s own, clothes that could be removed to reveal a palpable body, with every response of that body real under Myka’s hands. Myka held her eyes closed for much of that night, lest sight confuse her about presence and its proof, lest she fail to attend to what her eyes could never offer: The fleshy heaviness of a tongue in response to her own. The soft give of a thigh interior under her insistent thumb. The steady pressure of a body that pushed back. No empty air, no absence; only presence.

No question marks intruded on their immediate intimacy, their immeasurable, embodied relief. Two days prior, Helena had been a sacrificeable hologram, but all at once she was Myka’s living, breathing, at-last lover. All destined... like meeting at gunpoint.

That night precipitated a fast fall into full couplehood, with seemingly little conscious choice on either of their parts. As inevitable as the gunpoint meetings, the wrenching betrayals, even the miraculous redemption.

But nothing good can possibly be so simple, Myka told herself. Or so inevitable.

“Is that what you believe?” Myka imagined Helena asking this, Socratically. She’d had so many internal conversations with Helena that she found the habit—probably a bad one—difficult to break.

“I’m tired of belief,” Myka told her beautiful, imaginary Socrates. “Sometimes I want to go back to my regular non-Warehouse life, where belief didn’t matter.”

Helena said, still in Myka’s head, still Socratic, “Or did you merely act as if it didn’t matter? Artifacts were born. Religions carried on as they do. Your ignoring belief had no effect on any of it.”

“My not ignoring it has no effect on any of it.”

“So you yourself, regardless of attitude adopted, cannot affect belief.” Socrates paused. Smiled. “Or that which is inevitable.”

Myka did, in such moments, briefly wonder why she needed the real Helena around, if the one in her head was such a reasonable facsimile. A hologram could have done that job just as well.

But the answers, the “here’s why,” came fast and thick, and Myka rejoiced that they could. The real Helena could make Myka laugh an easy laugh, because circumstances were not as they had been with that hologram, when laughter was an impossibility. The real Helena could touch Myka’s neck—not wonderingly, as Myka had known that elbow—but instead quick and hot, in that way that said “we have been intimate recently and will soon again be.” The real Helena could fall asleep and in relaxation display a face so devastating in its symmetry that Myka was inclined to regret not being Michelangelo, so as to recreate it in appropriately tributary marble.

Strange, though, or probably just ridiculous, to feel that your romantic relationship had made more sense when one of you was a hologram.

Myka should have expected Christmas, also a fraught inevitability, to loom as an existential test—yet another existential test—of that relationship.

She should have expected also that when this new existential test was administered, Pete would be the one helping to shove answer sheets and no. 2 pencils into their hands.

*

“Might be a close call or two in Sorry. Sorry!” Claudia cackled. “Anyway, go put your stuff away so we can get our Sorry on. Also our merry. We might even sing.”

“Or not,” Myka said again, and this time she got an eyeroll in response rather than meaningful breathing. An improvement? Hard to tell.

“Nobody’s required to sing anyth—” Leena began, but then she sat up very straight and cocked her head. “Do you hear that sound? Or I guess I mean, do you feel that sound? It’s not singing.”

Helena moved her head too, and not in a way Myka recognized. “I do feel that sound. In fact I believe I know that sound.”

“I do too,” Leena said.

Steve squinted. “Feels like... a weird earthquake? Is it happening all over Univille?”

Claudia said, “This is the kind of thing they blame on us even when it isn’t us. It’s why they look at us weird at the supermarket.”

“I can’t feel anything,” Myka said. “What is it?” She looked first to Helena, who was shaking her head—not at Myka, not with anger, but as if she might be able to find the right shake to rid her ears of the sound, or the feeling, or whatever it was.

“Agitated artifacts,” Leena said, performing a very similar shake. “They... rumble.”

“Agitated artifacts,” Myka repeated. “Pete’s alone at the Warehouse, it’s Christmas, and artifacts are agitated. Okay.”

Naturally, Pete chose that moment to march in, proclaiming, “I hope everybody’s ready to apologize to me.”

Steve asked, “Why should we apologize?” Now he was shaking his head too.

“Because everybody always says I ruin Christmas.”

Helena said, “As I understand the situation, the salient fact is not that they say you ruin Christmas. The salient fact is that you do ruin Christmas.”

“Almost,” Claudia corrected again. She canted her head, righted it. Canted it again.

“But this time I saved it.”

“By agitating artifacts?” Myka said, but of course he would think that. Probably encouraged them to have a party...

“More so by the minute, from the sound of things,” Leena told him.

“What? No! That isn’t what I did!”

“The artifacts are telling a different story,” Helena noted.

Claudia offered, “It’s more that they’re humming it real low. Like some geologic event that worked its way into a Björk track. Or vice versa.”

Myka—very calmly, she believed, under the circumstances—said, “What. Did. You. Touch.”

“Nothing, Mom,” he said, and his tone caused Myka to spare some sympathy for Jane Lattimer. He then said, as if it were some magnanimous confession, “Okay. Fine. I did, but I gloved up.”

“What did you touch after you gloved up?” Leena asked. “And why?”

“It was like it tapped me on the shoulder...” he began.

Still canting her head, Claudia muttered, “Sallah flashback, Sallah flashback...”

“And said ‘hey big guy’...”

Steve said, “This is already a longer story than I feel like it should be.”

“And told me it had to go the Christmas aisle...”

Myka had had enough. “If you don’t spit it out right now, I personally will Heimlich it out of you. Joyfully. WHAT had to go to the Christmas aisle?”

He turned to her and gave a palms-up shrug. “You know I don’t know anything about classical music.”

She reached to the table for the nearest board game, to throw it at him, but Helena preempted that move by saying, “Judging from Myka’s face, now is not the time for non sequiturs.”

She probably couldn’t have done much damage with a travel-size Aggravation anyway, but travel and aggravation made her think, in Helena’s direction, Oh, now you can read my face. An hour ago in the car, not so much. Then she sighed internally. Or maybe, an hour ago in the car, too well.

Pete was continuing, “But the Messiah had strong feelings.”

“Oh no,” Leena said, and Myka knew that Leena saying “oh no” in that particular way meant she knew something, and the something she knew wasn’t good, but Pete kept on, still enthusiastically proud of himself: “So I gloved up, took it where it wanted to be, and then came home. Because it isn’t Christmas till I’ve won the Trivial Pursuit Star Wars Classic Trilogy Collectors’ Edition!”

“Do I seriously have to remind you I’m the reigning champ?” Claudia demanded. “What you’re saying is, it’s never gonna be Christmas.”

“Not for a while yet,” Leena said, “because we’re going back to the Warehouse. Because I’m pretty sure I know what’s happening.”

“Why do I have to go if I can’t hear whatever it is?” Pete whined.

Myka told him, “I can’t hear it either, and it’s your fault.”

“Your ears are your own problem.”

“I might Heimlich you just for the fun of it.”

Steve said, with concern, “I’ve heard that ribs tend to break.”

Myka nodded. “Exactly.”

“Santa would not approve of that attitude, young lady,” Pete chided.

“All I do is lug around stockings full of coal,” she said. “Do your worst, Santa.”

She made the mistake of glancing at Helena, whose face betrayed a responsive ripple of disquiet. Exactly the wrong sentiment for ending a fight, even a foolish one, Myka realized: imply that nothing you carry with you is what you want. “I didn’t mean...” she began, but Claudia was demanding of Leena, “How do you know what’s happening? And what is happening?”

“He put the Messiah sheet music in the Christmas aisle,” Leena said, with what Myka considered enviable patience.

“You say that like it means something!”

“It does mean something,” Leena said. “You’ll see. More importantly, you’ll hear.”

*

At the Warehouse, when they reached the floor, they were greeted by... “Curtains?” Steve tried, because that was what they were. Tall, cream-colored damask curtains with a green floral pattern. Freestanding, blocking their path. Insistently blocking their path.

“For all of us!” Pete tried back. “Dun-dun-DUN!”

“No...” Leena said. She regarded the curtains. “I know who you are,” she said, and Myka found herself unsurprised to see the curtains rustle at that, as if in appreciation. Leena then said, “And now I know exactly what’s happening.”

“A play is beginning?” Helena suggested.

“Not quite, but you’re in the neighborhood. Surely somebody other than me knows who these curtains are really for.”

Pete leaned close to the curtains, then jumped back like they’d bit him. “Oh my god. Now that I look close—the von Trapp kids!”

“Good boy,” Leena said.

“I thought we were calling him a grown man,” groused Myka.

“Leena is providing positive reinforcement,” Helena said. Pedantic, as if Myka had never heard of such a thing.

“I know she’s providing—” But she shut herself up, sighed in frustration instead.

Leena made sure everyone was wearing gloves, then said, “Claudia, keep your goo gun in your pocket; we might find more of them taking their frustrations for a walk.”

“So do we just put things back where they belong?” Steve asked. “And they calm down and the rumble-chatter stops?”

“Any that got themselves where they aren’t supposed to be, we take them back. But here’s what else we have to do.” She paused. “Sing.”

“No,” Myka said, and “no,” she repeated. She chanced a glance at Helena, but she had closed her eyes and seemed to be pre-massaging a headache out of her temples.

Leena appeared not to have heard Myka, for she went on, “We’ll deal with the curtains first. Next, the Messiah goes back where it’s supposed to be—because that’s what started it all. After that, I think Claudia should tell us what we need to do.”

“Oh god,” Claudia said, sounding just about as dread-filled as Myka felt. “This is Caretaker practice, isn’t it?”

“What if it is?” Leena asked.

“Ugh. Thanks, Pete.”

He said, “Maybe it tapped my shoulder because it thought you needed Caretaker practice.”

Myka snorted. “Maybe it tapped your shoulder because it could tell you’re an easy mark.”

“Hey!” he protested.

“Particularly at Christmas.”

“Hey!”

Leena said, “I think the Messiah might have sensed you’d be an easy mark... mostly because you want to make everybody happy. Particularly at Christmas.”

“See? Leena understands,” he taunted Myka.

Myka once again considered the Heimlich.

They escorted the curtains back to the musicals section, passing by Ginger Rogers’s dancing shoes, and Myka was unnervingly tempted to put them on and bleed her way backwards and in high heels out of the entire situation as Leena explained, “People repurpose ‘My Favorite Things’ as a Christmas song. The curtains find that... troubling.”

Pete scratched his head. “I guess I don’t really get that. Isn’t it kinda great?”

“Wait,” Claudia said, “and this might not even be practice: I think I do get it. How they feel. So let’s say you’re you.”

“I’m me,” he said. “Gotcha. Awesome. Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

“Exactly. But what if some holiday thingy came along and made like it was changing you into something else? They’re afraid we’ll put ’em in the Christmas aisle, and they don’t want to be there. Unlike the Messiah, I guess. Am I wrong, Leena?”

“You’re not wrong,” Leena told her, smiling.

“I feel that too,” Steve agreed. “They’re... afraid? Afraid it’ll diminish them. They’ll be about Christmas and that’s all. That’s why they’re so agitated.”

And so the curtains were serenaded with words about raindrops, kittens, kettles, mittens, and all the rest.

“Are they happier now?” Pete asked. “Do they not feel so bad?”

Leena, Claudia, Steve, and Helena all nodded, if not entirely vigorously. Helena said, “Marginally happier. Not knowing the song, I of course couldn’t participate. I hope they aren’t offended.”

But she hadn’t seemed apologetic at all while the singing took place. In fact she’d smirked. So Myka murmured, “Thrilled, more likely.”

Helena pretended to ignore her but also bared her teeth, minimally, in Myka’s direction, as she said, “Popular culture, alas, remains a largely undiscovered country.”

“It’s just one song,” Claudia said. “You’re getting your head around more stuff all the time! Take the Muppets.”

“Last week’s Christmas special,” Helena said, and Claudia nodded. Myka knew they’d been going one per week, because that was as much as Helena could take, whereas Claudia would have set up a holly-jolly IV drip if she could. Helena continued, “The one you called a ‘crash course’ in several shows’ worth of puppets?”

Claudia nodded again, even more enthusiastically. “Muppet Family Christmas! And now you’re up to speed, so for example when I say ‘Oscar,’ you say...”

“I still fail to understand how the large bird, which seems more accurately a costume than a puppet, qualifies.”

“The answer we were looking for was ‘the Grouch,’ so maybe we’re not quite as far along as I thought. I’m not going to bother with when I say ‘Fraggle,’ you say.”

“Consumer of the structures built by the devoted little workers who wear hats.”

“Aaaand that’s why not. Although your essay answer isn’t wrong.”

“Thank you,” Helena said, performing her funny little bow that struck Myka anew, each time she saw it, as a Victorian tell.

*

In fact, Myka had come home from the Warehouse just as that “crash course” was ending: Helena, as always after such a lesson, looked bemused but relieved, while Claudia was fidgeting with post-lecture satisfaction and, most likely, disappointment that she’d have to wait an entire week till the next one. Myka had asked, “Why does Helena need to know about the Muppets?”

Claudia responded with a puzzled, “Why doesn’t she?”

“Bert, Ernie, and the distinctions therebetween,” Helena said to Myka. “Would that I were you and could retain it all.” She smiled a small “but here we are” smile, and Myka leaned over the back of the sofa and kissed that smile. Because she wanted to; because she could. The smile then widened, and Myka tried not to make the mistake of wondering why every moment wasn’t like this one.

“You two can be pretty soft when you want to be,” Claudia remarked.

Myka had thought, No, we’re not this way when we want to be. It was when they weren’t actively wanting it—or needing it—that this ease stole upon them. But here it was... so Myka kissed Helena again, then asked, “What’s for dinner?”

The asking of that question, in the softness of that moment, had seemed an ideal step forward, one not about destiny or fraught inevitability, but balance and consistency. And then Myka did make the mistake: Why couldn’t every moment be like that? What was it that disturbed all the other moments?

*

Now, as they all headed for the Christmas aisle, Pete pulled on Myka’s arm and held her back a bit from the rest. “You mouthed the words,” he accused, very quietly.

“So what if I did? You know I can’t sing.”

“Maybe it makes a difference. H.G. said the drapes were only marginally better.”

“She didn’t sing either, by the way,” Myka pointed out.

Apparently her feelings about that were clear, for Pete said, “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“I meant you and H.G. Incidentally, you walk a little bit like Big Bird.”

“We’re fine. Incidentally, if you got a chicken bone stuck in your throat I wouldn’t be at all upset about what could happen while I was saving your stupid life.”

“I sort of feel like if she choked on a chicken bone, right now, you wouldn’t want to let anybody else do the rib-breaking.”

Myka almost said a dark “you bet I wouldn’t,” but then she realized: “I think that’s always going to be true.”

Pete nodded. “Kiss her, kill her. I get it.”

Unless he was talking about vibes, he didn’t get it, not fully—Myka herself didn’t get it fully, and in everybody’s defense there was a lot to be got—but it was Christmas-sweet that he got as much as he did. She said a mollified, “Look, just don’t make me sing, okay?” Because if there was anything Myka was sure she and Helena definitely did not need right now, it was a replay of “you can’t sing” and “neither can you.”

“No promises, partner. When Leena says ‘jump’ I say ‘my knees are shot.’ You, on the other hand, when she says ‘sing’? Better say ‘how high.’”

“This is kind of a ‘my knees are shot’ situation,” Myka observed.

“What’s the matter with your knees?”

“Never mind.”

And then they reached the Christmas aisle. About which Myka felt, and felt she had a right to feel, a certain amount of post-traumatic stress.

“If you touch anything,” she told Pete, “I will turn your ribs into chicken bones.”

“That makes no sense.”

“And yet you understand me perfectly.”

He took a step away from her. “In a very mobbed-up way, yes I do.”

Helena, Claudia, Leena, and Steve had ringed themselves around a shelf, and Myka peeked over Helena’s shoulder. Only in the Warehouse, she figured, could a piece of music manage to project the idea that it was pleased with itself.

“It’s gloating at me,” Pete complained.

“It did make you do what it wanted,” Steve pointed out.

Claudia said, “It’s like it knew we’d show up right at this moment.”

“I’m pretty sure it did,” Leena said.

Myka, still at Helena’s shoulder, felt a tension in the body that was not quite touching hers. She felt a tension, too, in words that were not quite meant for her to hear as Helena murmured at the music, “What else do you know...”

TBC

#bering and wells #Warehouse 13 #fanfic #B&W Holiday Gift Exchange #kla1991 #Hark #second part coming sooner rather than later #(I hope so anyway)

[elliewritesfantasy]

A Distillation of Stephen King’s On Writing

(Or, as I might more accurately put it, a more selfish post of me pretending to be smart under the guise of another person’s wisdom.)

I posted a few months ago that I was reading On Writing, a book by novelist Stephen King that tells the story of how he became a writer, and his advice for other writers just starting out. Due to college being an absolute monster sucking off all my energy, I have not had time to finish it and sort through the jungle of sticky notes I posted to the inside pages. Now, I have more time than I know what to do with, as a lot of us do (thank you, coronavirus). 

As an amateur, I learned a lot, and I wanted to communicate some of the things I learned. I hope this helps!

Advice for Writers from Stephen King 

(with my lovely commentary and the page numbers)

1. “...you must not come lightly to the blank page.” (106)

He goes on to talk about how writing cannot be done frivolously. In the paragraph right after, King states, “But it’s writing, damn it, not washing the car or putting on eyeliner. If you can take it seriously, we can do business.” I agree. True writers take their craft seriously. We love it, we embrace it, and then we smother it to death. I think there is a balance to what we do. We need to put thought into our story, otherwise it won’t make sense. If we overthink everything, however, it won’t ever get done. You have to give serious thought to your writing unless its going to be a facade and if anyone else gives it any serious thought, it’ll go up in smoke. Just don’t take it too seriously (in other words, don’t be hard on yourself).

2. “Common tools go on top. The commonest of all, the bread of writing, is vocabulary. In this case, you can happily pack what you have without the slightest guilt and inferiority.” (114)

I really enjoy this part. He goes on to give several examples of good vocabulary. Some examples that come from old novels that use words we don’t normally find in our common conversations. Other examples from stories that use words anyone would know. And a third that uses accents to create characters. As a writer, I sometimes feel pressured to write like the greats. You know, authors like Fyodor Dostoevsky or Jane Austen, whose writing seemed at times that they plucked the biggest words from a list of synonyms to seem smart (of course they didn’t, but you get my point). The breadth of vocabulary doesn’t matter. What does matter is how you use it. The cleverness behind word placing means more than trying to find the longest word that means the same thing as simply writing “He was sad” to seem smart.

3. “...fear is at the root of most bad writing. If one is writing for one’s own pleasure, that fear may be mild - timidity is the word I’ve used here. If, however, one is working under a deadline ... that fear may be intense.” (127)

Here, he combines a lot of ideas. Most of what he says culminates in the idea that we get lazy in fear and fall back on things like adverbs, passive actions, and then on the other side of the spectrum, being too diverse in language to seem more intelligent when the first word you thought of was the smartest you could be. He talks about the importance of the word “said”, and how you should use it without fear. The phrase “said is dead” is one of the stupidest in my opinion. If you want a good example of going too far to not use said, I suggest reading the famous fanfiction My Immortal. This example is hyperbole, but it gets the point across. In simple terms, DON’T BE SO SCARED. STOP IT. My fantasy novel has sat finished for over a year simply because I am so scared to read it for a second draft. Realize you have the ability within you to write beautiful prose. You just have to relax and allow it to take over. 

4. “If you want to be a writer, you must do two things above all others: read a lot and write a lot.” (145)

Writers need practice like anyone else. The first time in your life that you sit down and write a novel won’t end with the world’s finest masterpiece, and that is okay (or, if it does, tell me your secrets because you are a genius). I started writing when I was really young. And it was shitty. I straight up copied Percy Jackson and wrote a story about Greek gods. I copied Avatar the Last Airbender and wrote a story about people who could control the elements. I would never try and publish those stories because that is, first of all, plagiarism, and second of all, they suck. But by doing that, and also writing things like fanfiction, I learned how to write well. I learned the rules in a safe place. Eventually, I felt strong enough to break free and write original stories. I read hundreds of books when I was a kid, and I allowed myself to write shittily. And I still write badly. It’s the way you learn. Don’t get down on yourself.

5. “Story is honorable and trustworthy; plot is shifty, and best kept under house arrest.” (170).

I have heard a lot of people complain about modern literature and the fact that everything is purely staged around plot. I think this is true, to an extent. You cannot rely on your plot to simply keep plodding on despite everything else. Your characters have to make decisions, they have to have motivations, and extenuating factors need to shove things in a forward motion. A story contains good characters, a strong setting, and of course, a good plot. That plot though has to be joined by many other attributes. In the end, all of these things make a story. Sometimes it seems like I am not making up my own story. I am simply listening to my characters tell it. I just have the mere pleasure of writing it down. When your story is real to you; when you are the one digging up gems and not letting your plot do it for you, that is when good storytelling is born.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

I know this was long. I have dozens more sticky notes within the pages, so I am more than happy to make more parts to this. Of course, take my advice and Stephen King’s with a grain of salt. We are both human beings and we both have our opinions. There is no one way of doing something. Find what works for you, and go at it like there’s no tomorrow. And please, don’t stop writing.

#writing #writeblr #stephen king #writing advice #advice #on writing #books #storytelling #plot #characters #novels #writing tips #writing goals #inspiration

[one-abuse-survivor]

(TW for eating disorders.) First of all, I just want to say thank you for creating this blog as a safe space. You’ve given folk who more often than not have had their voices taken away a place of validation, comfort, and love. I wish you love, healing, and safety, especially with the times we live in now. (I also hope you don’t mind if I also come back sometime because there’s a lot more I’d like to talk about, but I feel like we’d be here all day if I’d unpack everything all in one go.) (1/16)

I’ve had an on-and-off eating disorder for the last 2 or 3 years, solely prompted by my dad offhandedly commenting about my weight. I don’t even remember what he even told me specifically, but ever since then, I’ve been torturing myself with starvation, purging, and over-exercising to compensate for a relatively minor incident I don’t think my dad even remembers happened. (2/16)

My dad has been emotionally and verbally abusive to me since I was young. Because of his abuse, I suffer from severe depression (though I believe I might have other mental illnesses due to some of my behaviors being similar to other disorders). And because of my depression, I’ve lost so much. (3/16)  

I’ve lost a fair amount of my childhood memories to memory loss (the ones I can primarily remember are traumatic incidents with him), lost any consistent feeling of stability and hope for the future, and nearly lost my life to a suicide attempt that he prompted & was actually there to witness – it’s been 3 years since then and I don’t think he’ll ever take the blame or even acknowledge it happened. (4/16)

What I hate him the most for though is the fact that he took away my ability to feel truly confident in myself, culminating in my eating disorder. I don’t remember it clearly, but I remember it all started when we were sitting at the dinner table with the rest of my family. (5/16)

He asked me, “Anon, what’s your height and weight?” I told him, and when he did, he pulled out his phone, calculated my BMI, read it out loud, and said something along the lines of “You’re overweight. You need to exercise more.” He said that in front of my other family members. I felt absolutely humiliated. (6/16)

(I know he said something more about my weight and that I argued with him about it a little, but my memory fails me. It sucks when my brain involuntarily decides to suppress and blur memories just to save me from the pain and trauma of remembering them again.) (7/16)

Looking back, it was extremely petty to the point I’m ashamed of it, but as revenge, I started indirectly and directly calling him a “fat pig”. (My father’s actually overweight as well.) I remember when he asked me if I wanted to eat a plate full of bacon with eggs for breakfast, I told him “That much bacon? You’re such a pig!” The satisfaction and petty happiness I got every time I called him out and insulted him only lasted in those moments, though. (8/16)

Now, for context, I’ve always been overweight since childhood – and still am to this day. I mostly pass it off in the form of jokes to my friends and never tell my family about it (except for my brother), but I’ve always had a deep-seated hatred for how I look and how fat I am. I don’t think it would be out of bounds to say that my negative obsession with my weight and appearance has controlled and borderline ruined my life. (9/16)

But that incident at the dinner table, eating as normal with my family, was what really tipped me off the edge. While it only started small, my eating disorder has gradually grown worse since then – and now it’s come back at its absolute worst. (10/16)

Today has been the first day in at least a week (if not longer) that I’ve eaten anything close to a solid meal, and with the relapse of my eating disorder I think it might stay the only real meal I’ll eat for a long while. I’ve taken up exercising for two hours a day to burn off the extra calories, to the point I actually end up burning what little food I ate & suffer through the pain of an empty stomach after just to feel the satisfaction of my body eating away at itself. (11/16)

My brother (who I’ve told about my eating disorder in the past) has become suspicious and concerned about my weird eating patterns and constant exercise, but I’ve managed to pass it off as my depression screwing with my appetite and my simple want to just exercise since I’ve had nothing much to do in quarantine. I’ve said the same to the rest of my family. (12/16)

To my family, I’m on the right track. I’m getting better. I’m healthier. I’m happier. But I’m far from it. I claw at my bulging stomach and stretch marks until my skin goes red because it isn’t flat. I’ve pushed my legs to the point they cramp, ache, and tremble almost daily from my rigorous exercising. Every time I eat a solid meal and feel full, I beat myself up for eating too much when that hardly is (or just isn’t) the case. (13/16)

What I hate the most is that I’m actually happy I’m suffering, because at least through my pain I’ve begun to see results. My arms and wrists seem unbelievably thin, to the point I have to look at them and marvel at them sometimes at how they seem so skinny. Same goes for my legs and chest. But not my stomach. I absolutely loathe my stomach and wish for nothing more than for it to be flat. (14/16)

I know I’m sick. I know I’m in pain. I know I need help. But I don’t want to get help because my abusive household is hardly a place to get actual help, and aside from that, I’ve told myself “Why do I need help when this is already working? I’m finally getting thinner and prettier, I’m helping myself! Why do I need help for the help I’m already giving myself?” (15/16) 

Once again, thank you so so much for listening. My best wishes for you, and for any person that reads this. (16/16)

-----

Hi! Thank you so much for your kind words ❤ it makes me really happy to be able to help others, and this blog has helped me immensely as well. I absolutely do not mind if you send me more asks in the future!

As you can imagine, I’m not qualified to help with something as complex as this at all, and I agree that you need (and deserve!) professional help. But I also agree that your abusive household is hardly a place where you can get better even with help, and even though I’ve never had an eating disorder, I resonate a some of your experiences, especially with the feeling of wanting to punish yourself because of your parents’ comments about you. And I also resonate with the whole rationally knowing that you’re not okay and that there’s an explanation for everything you feel, but not wanting to fix any of it because hurting brings comfort and you feel like you deserve the pain you’re going through anyway. 

I’m sending you all the hugs and strength I have to spare, and a reminder that none of what’s happening is your fault. So even if your ED makes you feel guilt, I really hope you don’t feel any extra guilt for the fact that you’re struggling with it; that’s on your dad and his abuse toward you. You’re doing the best you can in the traumatising situation that you’re in.

Oh, and about calling your dad a pig: I think we’ve all had these kinds of petty moments growing up, especially if we were being bullied or abused and hadn’t learned any other ways of defending/standing for ourselves. You grow out of these things; it’s okay. Don’t beat yourself too much for it. ❤

#Anonymous #ask #lovely ask #ED tw #eating disorder tw #eating disorder #toxic father #abusive father #fat shaming #starvation tw #purging tw #vomit mention #emotional abuse tw #self harm tw #verbal abuse tw #depression tw #memory loss tw #trauma tw #suicide attempt tw #suicidal tw #quarantine mention #Long post #Bullying mention #Internalised fatphobia #internalized fatphobia

[geniusjoereviews-blog]

A Review of Call of Duty: Modern Warfare 2

Major Spoiler Free!! (In case anyone cares)

           Now, I usually would take a more linear approach when it comes to playing through video games, but unfortunately, I wasn’t able to get my hands on a copy of COD 4 in time. All thanks to the one, the only, Gamestop. During that wait, my desire to jump into this long-fabled game overtook me, and I eventually caved to just grabbing my Xbox controller and starting the damn thing.

           Being semi-aware of the cultural relevance of this game gave me a tad bit of bias, but I believe I was able to surpass that since I have done a decent enough job of dodging spoilers.

           The intro starts with you in base camp, running you through a tutorial via the use of a military drill. All the controls are fluid and easy to learn, especially if FPS games are your bread and butter.

           The plot follows the mysterious and dangerous terrorist Makarov, as he tries to execute his plans of taking over both Europe and the West for Russia. I mean this is pretty cliche and samey in current terms and frankly in 2009 too. Although this can kind of come off as your traditional bad guy good guy shooter, I’d make the argument that Makarov is more or less a vehicle for the plot rather than a centerpiece. Yes, while he certainly has intense moments and intimidating behavior, the things that happen around him tend to pull you in more than just the character of Makarov himself. Unlike a character like Vaas (Far Cry 3), who’s personality and arc is the focus of the plot, in MW2, the environments that are created by Makarov’s schemes seem to be the more significant focus of the narrative.

           These environments are where Call of Duty: Modern Warfare 2 shines. From the intense chase down in the Favela to the exhilarating snow levels, the player is pushed through arenas that are unique, new, and well designed for their age. It kept me hooked.  For example, whenever I was about to log off, I’d sit through the following cut-scenes just to see where I’d be fighting next.

           While being a little bit dated, the gun-play is smooth, understandable, and stimulating. Outside of the shotguns, each firearm is very distinct and memorable. I specifically note this because, by the end of the game, I felt as though I had learned to use each of the guns in specific scenarios that would play to their strengths. My only argument against the shotguns in-game is that they tend to show their age much like the enemy AI.

           Enemy AI can easily be chalked up to either insanely fast or incredibly slow. Sometimes they’ll get stuck and become easy targets, but other times they’ll spin around in an instant and fill you with lead. This led to some confusion during my play-through as it would become frustrating when my well-timed strategy would be entirely shot down by an enemy with the reflexes of Robocop. Despite all the crap I’m giving the AI, I do have to admit that the game is nearly 11 years old, and my experience was no worse than if I was playing a non-AAA shooter.

           Ok, now its time to touch on the diversity issue. Knowing this was Call of Duty, I didn’t go in expecting the most inclusive game in the world, but I must say I’m a tad disappointed even for a game from 2009. There were so many golden opportunities to shine a light on different points of view from a world’s scale during the significant events in the game. For example, (Minor Spoiler!!!) during one of the missions in the middle of the game, you are tasked with getting your team to take over a Russian oil tanker that has been commandeered by Makarov’s forces. Here would be an excellent opportunity to bring in either Japanese or South Korean special forces to help the cause and add more depth to the conflict at hand. Unfortunately, though, the battle stays to being the Anglo-West versus Russia and loses out on some great opportunities to make the world and the game feel deeper. Even the token diversity characters have little to no meaning. Sgt. Ramirez, you play as for half the game, yet I can’t remember a single thing about him outside of his name being Ramirez. Hell, I don’t even think he had any voice lines. Once again, it’s just a blown opportunity, and I hope to see an improvement in the later titles.

           The first act may be bold, but the latter half of the game is truly the icing on the cake. By using twists and turns in the plot, Sledgehammer weaves one of the most stunning endings to a call of duty of game I’ve ever seen. The conspiracies of deception and truth run deep within the world, and it all culminates in a rapid-fire and bloody conclusion. While this game can periodically show its age and rust (lol), it is a fantastic roller coaster that you never want to get off.

#mw2 #cod mw2 #call of duty #gaming #video games

[bazsjournal]

Baz’s Journal: #1

A/N: Hello and welcome to the first entry of Baz’s Journal. Each post will read like a regular fic with the journal entries woven into Simon’s story of discovering the journals. I decided that I would start with something that’s a little fun/silly, and I hope you all enjoy it!

Simon

I know that I shouldn’t snoop through Baz’s personal belongings, but when I find a box of old notebooks on the top shelf of our wardrobe, I can’t help but be curious about why he’d keep old school books around.

At first, I thought that they might be his uni notebooks, but they’re all that green color of the blazers we wore back at Watford and have the school emblem printed on the bottom right corner, so they have to be older notebooks.

There must be some pretty spectacular notes in them if Baz has kept them around all of this time. We’ve been out of Watford for a few years now.

My intention when I start pulling them out of the box is to tease Baz about them and maybe have a good laugh when he gets home, but a problem with that arises when I start flipping through them.

As I skim over some of the pages, it turns out that content of the notebooks isn’t quite what I expected. It appears that they are actually journals or diaries (or something to that effect) from our time at Watford. There seems to be one or two for each year that we were there.

When I realize what they are, I know that I should put them back where I got them and just forget about it, but then I notice that quite a few of the entries mention me, and curiosity gets the best of me.

I flip to the first page of one of the notebooks, and it’s a short entry, more of a list, and I figure that it can’t hurt to read just this one, so I begin reading.

Ways to get Simon Snow’s Attention:

1. Insult him at the back-to-school picnic, ensuring that he sees me on the first day back.

2. Make fun of him in class

3. Scare him with the chimera

4. Start a fight with him.

5. Make him angry by flirting with Agatha.

6. Remind him that he’s the worst Chosen One who’s ever been chosen.

This could really be from any year that we were in school, but it’s the bit about the chimera that gives away that it’s from our fifth year. Apparently, that was the year that he was really intent on bothering me.

Although, I was certain that he meant to kill me with that chimera instead of just scare me with it.

I scan over the list, and as I remember both the day we saw the chimera and our many fights that year, including the one that culminated in him pushing me down the stairs, I begin to think that the list should be renamed “Ways to Piss Off Simon Snow.” It would be a much better description of the things on that list.

Agatha and I hadn’t even gotten together yet at the beginning of fifth year, so the fact that Baz was already planning to try to get at Agatha surprises me just a bit. I didn’t think that he noticed enough about me to see that I wanted to be in a relationship with her.

Baz manages to surprise me a lot, though, especially when it comes to the truth about his motives behind things that he did while we were in school. Like the fact that it was his aunt’s idea to steal my voice and how awful he felt after what happened.

What usually surprises me the most are the things that he did because of how he felt, including the things on this list.

The whole thing is proof that he really was plotting something in school, but instead of plotting to hurt me, it seems that all he really wanted was for me to notice him.

Baz never needed to do any of those to get my attention, though. I mean, he was my roommate and a bloody vampire for merlin’s sake. How could I not notice him?

The fact that he would make this sort of list has me smiling to myself.. Baz has admitted to me how long he was pining after me, nut it’s still hard to believe it sometimes. This right here is hard proof, though.

Even though he thought I could never feel the same about him, all he ever wanted was for me to notice him.

I start to flip the page to read more when I hear the front door of our flat open. Baz is home.

I can’t let him find me going through his journals, so I hurry to close them and tuck them back into box. I just barely manage to get the box back in the wardrobe and the door closed before Baz walks into our room. As I move across the room to welcome him home with a soft kiss, I can only hope that I don’t look as guilty as I feel.

The knowledge of the box sits at the back of my mind, calling me back to it, and I know that the first chance I get, I’ll take another look at its contents.

[Keep reading to see the handwritten version of the journal entry.]

#snowbaz #simon snow #baz pitch #carry on #rainbow rowell #bazs journal