#Haven’t drawn in like 3 months aside from assignments

[crow-n-tell]

your art style is really cute i love it!! you’re very creative :)) i hope you have a good day, take care of yourself and hydrate pls! :) 🌻

Thank you!!! :D

I will consume so much water now, I hope u have a good day too!

[aethelflaedladyofmercia]

Twelve Months - Good Omens fanfic

Happy 31st Anniversary of Good Omens! :D

To celebrate this momentous occasion, I have posted a slightly-sad, slightly-sweet Wake the Snake fic on AO3, because our demon has been napping for a whole Twelve Months, and sometimes Angel gets a little lonely!

Thank you all for another fantastic year in this fandom!

--

Twelve months.

Aziraphale pushed open the door to Crowley’s flat, a simple shopping bag tucked under his arm.

The lights were still off, the curtains drawn in the awful empty room he called a study. Nothing had changed.

He passed through the enormous, rotating section of wall and into the solarium. This was still bright—many of the plants flourishing despite being unattended so long, despite clearly not having enough water. A few had started flowering. They waved their branches at him as he entered, perking up eagerly.

The angel waved back, but first he peeked into Crowley’s bedroom.

He was still where Aziraphale had left him, on his last visit a month before. Bright red hair spilled across black pillows, grown into a stringy mop. Duvet pulled up to his messily-bearded chin. One hand curled up beside him on the bed.

Still asleep.

With a sigh, Aziraphale crossed over to the plants, who greeted him excitedly, unfurling their newest leaves, a few vines hanging down to brush his face.

“Hello, my lovelies. How are you all doing? Look at you, grown at least a foot since I saw you, I’m sure. And you! What beautiful pink buds. Very impressive.”

He didn’t think Crowley would approve of how he spoke to the plants, but the poor things had been so distraught on his first visit, straining to keep upright, trying to hide their yellowing leaves. So much healthier now, much happier for just a bit of attention. He picked up the watering can and gave them all a quick splash. He didn’t know how much water each needed, but it didn’t seem to matter.

“You keep it up, dears. I’ll be back before you know it.”

Picking up his shopping bag again, Aziraphale headed down the hall to the kitchen. The kettle sat on the island where he’d left it, and he quickly refilled it and set it to boil. While he waited, he pulled his latest creations from the bag: a small pumpkin spice cake from a recipe he’d been perfecting since fall, a lemon coconut cake, and a few apple cinnamon muffins.

Two plates—a muffin for each, a slice of the coconut cake for himself and the pumpkin spice for Crowley.[1] The rest went into the refrigerator, where they would never go bad or stale.

Aziraphale put the plates onto a tray, along with forks and napkins. Next he found two mugs and pulled the little tin of his second-favorite tea out of the bag just as the kettle boiled.

For himself, a teaspoon of the expertly blended leaves, steeped for exactly three minutes, resulting in a pale brown tea with a slightly spicy aroma. For Crowley, he dropped a tea bag into boiling water and let it sit until it was almost black.[2]

He carried the tray back to the solarium and selected a bright red-and-gold tulip that was nearly vibrating in its eagerness to be noticed. A moment to assure the other plants that they were still doing fabulously—particularly a self-conscious little succulent that had rather drooped over the winter but was making a fine recovery—and he once more headed into Crowley’s bedroom.

Crowley had rolled over, and now sprawled on his back, sleeping soundly. He’d apparently kicked a bit, too, as the blanket had slid down past his stomach. Aziraphale smiled as he set the tray on the chair he’d brought in some months ago and got to work.

“It’s wonderful to see you again, dear,” he started cheerfully, carefully rearranging the objects on the little bedside table. “I have a few things for you again, I hope you don’t mind.” Just enough space to slide the mug and the little plate. Perfect.

“I received a package from Tadfield again. Everyone wrote a note and then gathered them all together, really quite clever. They’re all doing well, if a bit bored.” The table was nearly overflowing with little items now, brought in by Aziraphale to cheer the place up. Framed pictures of their human friends, quarantining with their families, clustered in one corner so tightly you could hardly see them anymore.

He pulled the latest out of the shopping bag. “Anathema has started a garden,” he explained, pausing to show the photograph to Crowley’s sleeping form. It showed the witch, kneeling outside her little cottage, working on growing several rows of herbs. “I got the impression she was off to a rough start, but she hopes to send us some mint in the next package. Although Newt warned me not to expect too much, as they’d already forgotten which patch is mint and which is oregano.” He set the picture with the others, and slid the potted tulip alongside it. “I’m sure she could use some advice from you, when you’re ready to share.”

“Nnnnh.” Aziraphale spun eagerly, but no, just Crowley shifting in his sleep again, rolling onto his side.

The angel paused to pull the duvet back up to Crowley’s chin, tugging it straight and smoothing a hand down his back. In a way, his friend was nearly unrecognizable, with that hair and ridiculous beard, but in another way looked the same as ever. That was always Crowley’s way, of course, constantly changing yet somehow always the same.

He lingered, taking in the shape of that face, leaning close, lips hovering above his cheekbone—

Aziraphale pulled back, quickly digging into his bag again. “Oh! Ah, the, um, the children have been making projects for their art class. This past month was sculpture, and they sent us some. Look!” He pulled out four little figures of oven-baked clay. “Ah, young Wensleydale has made a very clever model of a train car. Brian’s is…abstract.” He turned the next a few different ways. “And Pepper’s is, ah, either a very complex symbolic representation of the Patriarchy, or…a troll, I think.” They just fit on the edge of the table, all in a line, a very mismatched tableau. The fourth, on the end, was the best, in Aziraphale’s opinion. “Adam made a little Dog, and it’s very well done, don’t you think?” The canine figure posed with one leg raised and head cocked, ready to play, but the shadow it cast was just a little too large, too ominous, for such a small creature.

With a sigh, Aziraphale shifted the row this way and that. “I sent a letter to Warlock, over in America, but haven’t heard back since Christmas. I believe they’re very busy with something. Politics. You know how it is.” When the Dowlings had left England, they’d planned to return for a visit the following summer. A global pandemic had had other ideas.

“In any case, that just leaves Tracy and Shadwell. I understand he’s decided to hate the concept of literacy this month, so no word on how his war with the squirrels is going. And Tracy has declared she will spend the summer making a fairy garden. I thought her sketches looked very promising, and she promised to send us an update in June. I’m sure you’ll find it charming.”

“Hrrrrm.” Crowley sank under the duvet, nestling down a little deeper. Aziraphale smiled, settling into the chair with his plate and mug.

“Things are loosening up again,” he explained, taking a bite of cake. Delicious, if he said so himself. Sharp and not too sweet. “People are getting vaccinated, shops opening up. It’s really a lovely breath of fresh air, at least when you’re not wearing a mask.” A long sip from his mug, then he held it, fingers tapping. “It’s been nice walking through the park again, just in time for the baby ducks. And that record shop at the corner, they’ve had some wonderful new additions. Which reminds me.”

Putting aside his mug, Aziraphale dug through the bag again and pulled out a handful of square plastic cases. “They had a whole shipment of those little records the Bentley likes. Modern music. I picked out the ones with the rudest names. I’m sure you’ll enjoy them.” He pulled out the first disc and placed it atop Crowley’s phone. The device blinked in confusion a few times, then obediently copied all the music.

“Of course, it’s not all good news.” He stacked the rest of the discs atop the phone and returned to his tea. “Reopening means the customers are coming back. Yesterday, this one individual spent almost an hour browsing the same three shelves. And then he tried to make off with one of my books.” Another long sip. “Granted, he offered to pay, but still. What sort of establishment does he think I’m running?”

Aziraphale paused, waiting for Crowley to respond, not that he ever did. The demon’s eyelids moved a little, but no more.

Sighing, Aziraphale turned to his muffin. “You know, many times in the last year, I’ve wished you were there. Particularly during reopening phases. You could have posed as a customer, and then I’d be able to tell people I was at the capacity limit. Oh, and the people who would call to try and buy my rarest books. Collectors, or so they claimed, but then they just turn around and sell to anyone for twice the price! I’m sure you’d have some biting things to say about such people.” He smiled at Crowley’s sleeping face. “I’ve missed that, and your jokes. Rather more than I expected to.”

When his plate and tea were finished, Aziraphale set them on the floor and reached again into the bag. “Now, I have been attempting to teach my computer how to use the internet. I think it’s going quite well. Adam and his friends gave me a ‘homework assignment’ to find articles on recent news events, and I made the most wonderful discovery. Did you know that humans now share their news through humorous pictures? I printed out my favorites to show you.”[3]

He flicked through a few. “Ah, to start with, a few months ago there was this American politician with amusing mittens who showed up everywhere for a few days. It was extremely droll.” He leaned closer, holding them up for Crowley to see. “Ah, a few more from America. The murder hornets arrived, though by that point everyone had forgotten them. The election became increasingly confusing, and it all ended in a parking lot. For a little while everything was ‘This-or-That Total Landscaping,’ and before that everything was cake.” He showed a few extremely clever illusions. “I did try to make my own, but couldn’t manage it without miracles, which I felt was cheating.”

Really, leaning like this was starting to strain his back. Aziraphale shifted to sit on the edge of the bed, the better to share his pictures. “Ahhh. Also for a time everyone’s calendars were stuck on ‘March.’ And then earlier this year, a group of people learned how the stock market works, but sadly not how to spell it. The whole situation seemed very much like the sort of thing you’d be involved in. And…Oh, this angel from a television show was sent to Hell for…reasons.” He glanced at the shape beside him. Crowley had curled in slightly, pressing against Aziraphale’s back. “Yes. Various reasons. And then this musician, I suppose, went on his own. Both had many people extraordinarily upset.”

The next few images would really tickle Crowley, if he could actually see them. “The biggest news is that a large ship got stuck sideways in that canal in Egypt. Stopped half the world’s shipping for a few days while they dug it out! I’m sure you would have liked that very much. Exactly your sort of trouble. The humans were all very excited.”

The final photo was another of the ship, an image Aziraphale had made himself, printing out a blank version and writing on it in felt-tip pen. The hull of the enormous ship was labeled, “An eternity putting up with the tedious bureaucracy and frequently conflicting commands of my superiors until I begin to doubt my own judgement and sanity,”[4] while the small digger working steadily beside it was “Crowley.”

Aziraphale watched the demon beside him, not really expecting a reaction, certainly not getting one. He reached over, brushing brilliant hair back from Crowley’s forehead. “I think you’d have had rather a lot of fun last year. Or perhaps you’d have been upset you could only watch from a distance. Or…”

He’d leaned much closer than he’d intended, hovering just above Crowley’s forehead.

“Well!” Aziraphale stumbled to his feet. “I suppose that’s just about everything.” He picked up the tray from where he’d rested it on the floor, starting to re-load it with everything he’d brought in. Crowley’s cake and tea sat untouched, as always, but Aziraphale wouldn’t dream of skipping them. “We’re all very optimistic for the summer. Two months and everything should be just…just tickety-boo. Perhaps we can go for that picnic soon, if…yes…”

They’d made such plans for 2020. All the things they would do now they were free. Plans, and other thoughts carried in their minds, possibilities that would play out in their own time. Not too fast, just a slow, steady exploration of everything they could be…

“Well. Pleasant as that idea is, best not to—to plan too much, as the previous year made fools of us all. I just…” He turned away from the tray and watched Crowley sleep, hands clasped before him. “I miss you terribly. And I wish…very much…”

He picked up his shopping bag. One item still inside. The same one he’d been carrying for months, trying to find the courage to bring it out.

With a shaking hand, he reached in and drew forth a soft hand-made doll. He’d spent much of the winter on it. Simple white cotton for the head and body, wooly curls for the hair, and stiff white lace for the wings. Dressed in waistcoat and bowtie made from Aziraphale’s favorite tartan.

He still wasn’t sure why he brought it. He’d stitched several little toys, particularly a lovely black-and-red serpent with gold button eyes that had watched him from the sofa since November. But this, for reasons he couldn’t articulate, this one was for Crowley.

“I, ah…” He shuffled closer, doll clutched in both hands. “I made, um…” Back to the edge of the bed, one hand fumbling across the duvet. “…thought you might like…”

Crowley’s face stood out in stark contrast to the pillow, pale skin and bright hair. Aziraphale wanted to drink it in, memorize every detail, to hold him over until next month. The curve of his nose, the sharp angle of his cheekbones. His lashes flickering as his eyes moved. His lips, pursed ever so slightly…

“Bless it, Angel, are you going to kiss me or not?”

Aziraphale gasped, pulling back from the bright gaze of slit-pupil eyes. “You—you’re awake!”

“Nnnh. Half.” Crowley shifted, head moving across the pillow, eyes threatening to shut again. “Wouldn’t miss your visit.” One hand reached out, plucked the doll from Aziraphale’s unresisting fingers. “For me?”

The angel nodded. “If…if…you like it…or I could—I could just…”

Without a word, Crowley pulled the doll under the duvet and curled up, tucking it under his chin, a faint smile on his lips.

“If you were awake you—you should have said something! I’ve been going—going off like a fool all this—oh!” Aziraphale could feel his face turning hot as he recalled a few times his tongue had been a bit too loose for propriety.

“Mmmmmh.” The golden eyes were shut again.

“Crowley?” No response. “Crowley!” Aziraphale scowled. “Anthony J. Crowley, if you’ve fallen asleep again, I swear, I’ll—”

He’d do what? The angel fumed, but what could he really threaten? To stay away? Never.

“Alright then, I suppose I’ll see you in June. I’ve had several new requests for extremely rare manuscripts and I need to go pen some responses reprimanding these vultures for their cheek. I can—”

“You can stay.”

He spun around. Crowley had one eye barely cracked open. Gently, he pulled back the duvet, showing there was just enough space for Aziraphale beside him.

“I…I couldn’t.” But he stepped forward, not back. “I have business tomorrow, things to—”

“Just tonight then.”

His fingers brushed the mattress and pulled back as if burned. “You—you don’t really mean this, you’re just talking in your sleep.”

“Nah.” Crowley settled the doll by his pillow, making space. “Why else would I give you my key?”

“I…to…water the plants?”

“They take care of themselves.” Crowley held open his arms, eyes shut once more. “I missed you, too.”

Well. What could he say to that?

Aziraphale took off his shoes and slid into bed, into Crowley's arms. They wrapped around him gently as Crowley wriggled closer. “Mmmm. Y’r softer than the doll.”

“Oh.” He’d been called soft many times, generally as a way to imply he was a failure as an angel. But just this once, it made him feel rather pleased. “Soft is good?”

“Verrrry good.” Crowley twisted a bit, trying to find a comfortable way to rest his long limbs, and finally settled curled up against Aziraphale’s chest, tucked below the angel’s chin with a leg hooked over his knees.

The angel smiled. “And you’re…you’re noodlier than a stuffed snake. Err…”

A chuckle, just a stirring of breath across his throat. “Can’t wait to hear the story behind that.” Crowley nuzzled against his shoulder with a sigh. “Good night, Angel.”

Aziraphale swept the brilliant hair back again and bent down, pressing his lips to Crowley’s forehead. A soft, gentle kiss that made his friend smile a little more broadly. “Good night, my dear.”

Crowley drifted off again, burrowing close, as the angel continued to gently tease the back of his hair. Perhaps, he thought, perhaps tomorrow's work wasn't so very urgent. Perhaps a bit of rest would do him good. And perhaps...

Well. Don't plan too much. But for the first time, Aziraphale felt a bit of optimism about the coming summer and its possibilities.

“Sleep well, Crowley.”

[1] Crowley had invented pumpkin spice, and Aziraphale assumed he must like it. In truth, Crowley despised it, and regretted every autumn how it took over the entire world. He missed apple cider season. [2] Aziraphale had suspected since the early 1950s that Crowley secretly took his tea with several lumps of sugar, but would continue to pretend he didn’t know until Crowley confessed. Considering current circumstances, that was unlikely to be any time soon. [3] Aziraphale’s fax machine, revived after over three decades of disuse, had been somewhat confused to be asked to perform any task at all, much less to print memes onto photo paper with perfectly balanced color; but like the plants and Crowley’s phone, it couldn’t stand to disappoint the angel. [4] It was possible he hadn’t quite mastered this new form of communication.

[jade4813]

Like Moths to a Flame, Chapter 12

Fandom: North and South

Title: Like Moths to a Flame

Rating: NC-17

Pairing: John/Margaret

Synopsis: “I hope you realize that any foolish passion for you on my part is entirely over.“ Margaret decides to confront John about his unjust judgment of her character, but the two have always been drawn to each other, and things quickly get out of hand. In the aftermath, she agrees to marry him to satisfy propriety, but she cannot forget how ready he was to believe the worst of her. Can love survive without trust, or will the two find a way to work through the misunderstandings that have plagued their relationship from the start?

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

John Thornton was not a man prone to vacillation or prevarication, once he had reached a decision. Indeed, his experience indicated that no unpalatable task had ever become more agreeable through the passage of time and procrastination, and so he tended to tackle the most unpleasant of assignments all the quicker, to have them over and done with once and for all. To go back upon a decision, made only upon due contemplation and deliberation, after all the facts were obtained and considered with the gravity each deserved, would be an indignity, an act of dishonor. And for John, the binds of honor, the demands of duty and responsibility, were not theoretical concepts but concrete mandates, which had formed and shamed him into the man he was today. Personal preference and selfish desire didn’t merely take a distant second to the demands of his duty to ensure the happiness and well-being of those around him; they had no bearing upon the matter at all.

And yet, over a month passed, and he could not bring himself to compose the letter that would break his heart, which would separate him from his wife, possibly forever. His attempts to console himself for his action only brought him further frustration, darkening his mood and instilling in him an irascible temperament, prone to snapping at any who drew near. Even his mother, who normally could be assured of safe harbor from even his darkest of moods, had nearly been the recipient of a sharp word or two, had he not bitten them back in the nick of time. Only Margaret was certain to avoid his irritability, as his ill temper did not overcome his concern for her in her grief, or his desire to buffer her from greater unhappiness. With her, he remained gentle, seeking refuge in work when finding himself with uncertain temperament, rather than risk imposing upon her with his foul mood.

He was standing above the mill floor, overseeing the work in progress, when his mother entered the workroom. To his surprise, she didn’t begin her inspection of workers and machines, as was her usual custom. Instead, she tilted her head back to gaze upon him, her jaw set in a stubborn line. She stood still, waiting for him, and he masked his grimace as he headed to the stairs to join her. As was too often the case as of late, he had been disagreeable at breakfast, glowering at his plate and speaking little, and he was certain that her patience was at an end.

He moved to her side, and the two walked in silence to office, so as not to be overheard by the workers. As the door closed behind them, he expected her to take him to task for his behavior, but she remained silent, her gaze expectant. Moving behind his desk, he wasted no time on pleasantries. “I’m sorry, Mother. I know I’ve had a foul temper lately. I’ve no right to take it out on others.”

“Is it the bank loan?” she asked, sounding concerned, rather than accusatory.

He shook his head. Looking away, he explained, “Before he left, Bell suggested he take Margaret to London, to take her mind off her grief. I’ve decided to accept his offer.” He didn’t mention that this determination had been undermined by his inability to put such acceptance into words. Instead, he waited for his mother’s response, certain that she would express unequivocal agreement with this course of action.

To his astonishment, however, his mother said nothing, prompting him to look at her once more. In a quiet voice, she asked, “How long do you intend for her to be away?”

He sucked in a deep breath. “Indefinitely.” Only the slightest quirk of her eyebrows betrayed her reaction to this revelation. “I thought you would be overjoyed at this news. I know you disapprove of her.” She glanced away with a scowl, crossing her arms over her chest. “I’ve disappointed you,” he remarked in mild surprise, having never drawn his mother’s disfavor before.

Her eyes darted back to his, and she stepped around the desk, reaching for him. As he sank into his chair, she cupped his face in her hands, forcing him to meet her gaze. “Never,” she swore fiercely. “No mother has more cause for pride than I. But all your life, you have looked after others. The workers. Fanny. And don’t think I don’t see all that you’ve done for me. Your bride is the first thing you’ve ever truly wanted for yourself alone, and now you intend to send her away?”

“She doesn’t love me!” he protested miserably. “How can I demand she remain, when I know it will only bring her misery?”

“How is she to realize her love for you from London?” she argued, holding him in place when he would have drawn away. As though the words were torn from her chest, relinquished only with reluctance, she continued, “Margaret is proud. And vain. And I cannot pretend to love her for it.” There was the slightest moment of hesitation before she acknowledged in a dry tone, “But she is not alone in either, and she has as much right to both as any Thornton, I suppose. Sometimes pride makes it hard to recognize love, even when it’s truly felt.”

At this, he did pull away, yanking out of her grasp as he stood and stepped past her, not wanting to hear her words when he could not believe in them. She, however, refused to relinquish the point. “She cares for you, John. Whether or not either of you see it.”

He stormed to the other side of the room, keeping his back to his mother so she wouldn’t see the pain on his face. “Believe me when I say that isn’t true,” he snapped. “And I won’t keep her here against her will, when her heart would wish her elsewhere!”

“She agreed to marry you, to build a life here in Milton, and she’s never been one to do anything she didn’t wish to do. Do you trust her judgment so little, to think she’d be happier to be sent away?” He froze, the words tearing at him. He hadn’t asked her, having overheard enough to know of her regret. Was his mother right? Was there a chance Margaret would prefer to remain in Milton, for all the pain that it had brought her? As though recognizing his indecision, his mother urged him, “You mustn’t send her away. It won’t make either of you happy.”

Lost in his thoughts, he didn’t notice when she slipped out of his office to return to her duties on the mill floor. Instead, he remained where he was, cast into self-doubt by his mother’s words, uncertain that his present course of action was the right one.

He was still in his office a short time later, when there was a light knock on the door. He lifted his head from his musings just as it swung open and rose to his feet when Margaret stepped inside, a mug in her hand. “I don’t mean to intrude,” she told him in greeting, with a soft, uncertain smile. “I was down to see Mary in the kitchens and thought you might be thirsty.” He made no move to reach for the mug, and so she admitted, “That was my excuse, at any rate. If you want to know the truth, I just wanted to see you.”

As he often did in her presence, he felt himself slip into a more agreeable frame of mind. Tilting his head to the side, he chided her gently, “You need no excuse to come see me, Margaret.”

“Perhaps not,” she agreed with a relieved smile, stepping toward him. “But you’ve been working so hard, I didn’t want to intrude.”

“I haven’t meant to neglect you,” he offered in apology, longing to draw her into his arms but not allowing himself the pleasure. He was still painfully conscious of her grief and his intentions, which left him uncertain of his reception. His mother’s words haunted him, daring him to broach the subject of Margaret’s departure. Knowing it likely that she would be excited at the prospect of leaving Milton. And him.

She shook her head, her eyes contemplative as he stepped around his desk to relieve her of the mug she carried. “You’ve been preoccupied, worried about more than the state of the mill.” When he looked at her in surprise, she explained, “You’re my husband now. I think I’m coming to understand you a little, at least.” She paused and then added, “I was hoping you would talk to me.”

He nodded slowly, recognizing the fruitlessness of evasion, even if it wasn’t against his nature to make the attempt. Unable to look at her as he continued, he busied himself by moving some papers aside on his desk to make room for the mug she had brought him. “It’s true, I’ve had a great deal on my mind,” he began. “This business at the mill is taking up much of my time. I’ve been wondering if you might not prefer to be in London.”

“Oh!” Her soft cry of surprise and consternation compelled his attention once more, though she looked away from him under the weight of his regard. Choosing her words with great deliberation, she replied, “I suppose…if you think it best…I would like to see my cousin again. I could write to her today. How long of a visit should I suggest?”

When he didn’t reply immediately, she returned her gaze to his. “Oh,” she breathed again, as a dawning comprehension overtook her features. “I didn’t – you weren’t suggesting a visit. You intend to send me away.” He winced as the words hit her mark, unable to argue against the truth of them, even though the starkness of her statement was more terrible than the idea had sounded in his mind.

Afraid she might misunderstand, he tried to explain, “Milton has brought you little joy. I thought you might be happier in London than you’ve been here.”

Her temper rising, she crossed her arms across her chest, her face flushed with emotion. “Is your suggestion meant to ensure my happiness or your own?” Before he could reply, she continued, “I knew my mind when I took you for a husband. I thought we understood each other! I didn’t realize that you thought you were buying a bride you could send away the moment she became inconvenient for you!”

It was not the first time she had accused him of mercenary intent, and he felt his hands shake as he stalked toward her. “You say you thought we understood each other, but you still think so little of me, that I can only think of buying and selling because I’m in trade!” he spat.

Unlike so many others, his Margaret did not recoil from his fit of temper. Then again, she never had, neither flinching nor backing away as she demanded, “What else am I to think, when you’re so willing to send me away like some – some bale of cotton that has displeased you?” She pressed forward, offering him no mercy. “I wondered if honor might not be a sufficient comfort, and you might not come to regret your proposal one day. I didn’t realize it would happen so soon!”

Her words tore through him, flaming his anger with the injustice in her accusation. Straightening, he looked down his nose at her as he growled, “You’re mistaken. I’m not the one who regrets our marriage, Margaret. It isn’t my desire I seek to satisfy in sending you to London but your own.”

Her countenance, once flushed with her ire, rearranged into an expression of irritable confusion. “I don’t know what you mean. I have no—”

He was ready to explain about the conversation he had overheard, until a knock at the door interrupted them. Clutching his hands into fists at his side, he spun to face the offending intruder, barking a loud, “Enter!”

The door opened to reveal Nicholas Higgins on the other side, his expression calm and placid, although he must have heard the raised voices from his position in the hall. “Beggin’ your pardon, but there’s a problem with one of the machines.”

“I’ll be there shortly—” John began, but Margaret, her color still high with the force of her emotion, spoke over him.

“No, it’s all right. I’ll go. You have work, and I’d hate to inconvenience the Master of Marlborough Mills.”

Nicholas quirked an eyebrow slightly at this parting shot, but his face betrayed no other thoughts as she stormed past him, striding quickly into the hall. As her skirt disappeared around the corner and the rapid sound of her footfalls faded, John picked up the mug she’d brought him and hurled it against the wall, feeling no satisfaction when it landed with a loud crack and tumbled to the ground, spilling its contents upon the floor. It was perhaps possible that he could have handled that entire situation worse than he had, but he couldn’t at present imagine how.

Several hours later, he returned to the house, physically exhausted from his strenuous day, and emotionally spent from his earlier argument with his wife. With an early appointment looming in the morning, he knew he should hurry to bed, to catch what sleep he may. However, he found himself lingering downstairs, seeking consolation in the bottom of a glass of stronger spirits than he usually indulged. He barely tasted the first glass of the amber liquid as he tossed it back in a single swallow before pouring himself another, this time intending to savor the fiery liquid.

With a fierce yank, he untied his cravat, leaving the rumpled fabric looped around his neck as he shrugged out of his coat, tossing it aside. Then, rolling up his sleeves, he paced before the fire, his thoughts giving him no peace. Bracing one hand upon the mantle, he bowed his head, taking another sip of his drink as he stared at the dying embers with sightless eyes.

He remained that way for he knew not how long, until sound behind him that drew his attention. He knew what he would find before he even turned, finding to find Margaret in the doorway. Her feet were bare, toes curling into the carpet, her night-rail providing scant protection from the cool night air. Seeing her shiver, he reached for the coat he’d discarded on the back of a chair and stepped forward to wrap it around her shoulders before stepping back to give her space. “I hope I didn’t wake you,” he said, the words sounding inane, even to his own ears.

“I couldn’t sleep,” she replied in a soft voice. “I was waiting for you.”

“Forgive me. I meant to return sooner.” He didn’t know how to reach her, how to breach this great divide that had grown between them. A divide of his own making, he feared.

She rocked back and forth on her heels, but she didn’t approach, pulling the folds of his coat tightly around her body. “Do you truly wish to send me away, John?” Unable to answer, he turned away. “Will we never come to understand each other?”

They never would, until they could find the strength and courage that honesty required. There were so many things left unsaid between them. Perhaps it was time for him to set aside his pride and bring those secrets into the light. What had he to lose? He could not fear her hatred, when he had never had her love. “No. I don’t wish you to leave,” he admitted. “I could never truly wish for that.”

He heard her move closer, felt the gentle pressure of her hand upon his arm, but he did not turn. He didn’t want her to see his shame. “Then why are you sending me away?”

“The mill will likely close soon. We’ll lose this house. I made you a promise, when you agreed to be my wife, and I didn’t want you to see how I’ve failed you.”

She let out a sharp cry, increasing the pressure of her hand until he turned toward her, although his face remained averted. She reached to touch him, moving closer when he flinched away. “You haven’t failed me. Do you think I haven’t seen how you’ve tried to care for your workers? How hard you’ve tried? Whatever happens with the mill, you’re a good man, John Thornton. I didn’t see that when I first came to this place, but I do now. I’m proud to have you as my husband. Don’t you see that?”

He didn’t see, but he wanted to believe it. She was kind, as she had been so often to those around her, and he wanted to throw himself upon her mercy, to beg her to pretend to feel what she had once sworn she could not. To offer him the kindness of a lie, and let him believe that he might one day win her heart.

He wanted to tell her that he knew he had been a fool, pushing her away time after time, even as he wished for nothing more than to hold her close. No one had it in their power to hurt him as she did. For her good opinion, he would face rioters, intent upon his destruction. He loved her as he had never loved another, and yet he created distance between them, in a vain attempt to protect a heart that was no longer his alone.

He should reassure her of his faith in her, which he had once sworn had been lost. There was nothing for which he could deride her – save, perhaps, for choosing him when she deserved so much better than the life he could offer her. She deserved to be cossetted and protected, to live a life of comfort and joy, unmarred by deprivation and want. For her skin to be caressed by hands that had never seen a day’s work, their touch soft and gentle.

John’s hands were rough. He was hard, coarse. He had struggled as a child and would struggle again, once the mill had closed and his family was left in dire straits as they had been so many years before. He couldn’t indulge Margaret as she deserved; he couldn’t promise her a future without care. It wouldn’t be long before the bank loan came due and he lost the comfortable home he had spent a lifetime building for his family. He would find himself cast down from his position of Master of the Mills to the bottom, to claw and scrape and grab for the lowest rung of the ladder, intending to scale it rung by rung in the hopes he might one day find himself at the top once more. Meanwhile, Margaret would be left with nothing but calloused hands from hard work that her gentle upbringing had never prepared her to undertake, and with the necessity to scrimp and fret from one meal to the next.

He should tell her that he believed in her – in her kindness and her compassion. In her integrity and faithfulness. She had never taken a lover before him, but he hoped that she had once loved another, though the idea pained him – to know, even for a short while, what it felt like to bask in the adoration of one more deserving of her than he. Although John would swear that nobody in the world could love her as he loved her; nobody else could cherish either her heart or her spirit as he did.

There were many things that he should say, now that he had sworn to lay himself bare before her, but the words swelled in his chest, jumbling together on his tongue until they tangled and knotted, and he didn’t know which thread to pull at to set them free. There was only her name, a benediction upon his lips. “Margaret.” He grabbed her hand, drawing her near, missing the warmth and the feel of her, his mouth hot against hers as he wrapped her in his arms.

As it often tended to do, he was surprised by her passion, by the readiness with which she reached for him. His coat fell to the floor, forgotten, as she wrapped her arms around his neck, pressing her body flush against this own. She whispered his name as he lifted her, her night-rail falling open, her shift hitching around her waist as she wrapped her legs around his hips.

He should carry her upstairs, to the privacy of their bedchamber. They could be interrupted at any time, caught by a servant in search of something to eat in the middle of the night, or finishing up on a task left undone. But he had not held his wife like this for far too long, and the taste of her lips and scent of her skin was intoxicating, filling his senses and driving away all reason. Reaching out one hand, he stumbled forward until his palm struck the wall, her body making a loud thud that shook the painting on the wall as it followed.

He began to apologize, but she laughed, finding delight in their passion, her hands grabbing at his shirt, his shoulders, his hair. Her lips chasing after his kiss as she tossed his discarded cravat aside. “We should stop,” he breathed, even as he pressed his lips against the curve of her neck. “The servants—”

But Margaret wasn’t in the mood to be agreeable, and she taunted him with a roll of her hips, rather than acquiesce to his suggestion. He groaned when he felt her against him, even through the fabric of his trousers, and she threw her head back, exposing soft, smooth skin to the dim light cast by the dying embers in the fireplace and the moonlight spilling through the windows. Bowing his head, he caressed her breast his mouth, wetting the fabric with his tongue as he drew the nipple between his teeth.

“The servants—” he tried once more, his voice muffled by fabric and skin, but she slipped her hand beneath his shirt, caressing the muscles of his chest, and shook her head at his protest.

“Everyone’s asleep,” she reassured him. “Don’t stop. I need you. I-I’ve missed you.”

In the darkness and with their haste, their movements were clumsy and awkward as he fumbled with the buttons of his trousers, pulling himself free. Sliding one hand between her thighs, he could feel that she was wet and ready for him, her breath coming in tight gasps as he slid two fingers inside of her, teasing her sensitive nub with his thumb.

Tomorrow, he would chastise himself for taking her so roughly against their drawing room wall, his need for her overwhelming all sense and the fear of discovery. Rather than making love to her with sweet words in a soft bed, as gentle ladies such as she had been raised to expect. But she would offer him no similar recriminations, to be sure, her exultant cries muffled by his lips and cheek, the only thing preventing them from echoing through the empty room.

Questing fingers swept into his hair, brushing it back from his face, and he reached for her hand, pinning it against the wall beside her head. She demanded nothing from him this night, but there was one thing he needed from her, his longing so deep that his heart ached with it.

“Tell me you love me,” he growled, demanding and pleading in equal measure. “Just for tonight, let me pretend.”

Her laughter died on her lips, her eyes growing wide, and he feared for a moment that he had spoiled the mood, that she would balk and push him away. He was gratified when she whispered, “I do love you.” It was a lie, but she was kind, and he was willing to let himself pretend to believe it, and so he let out a long sigh, his eyes closing as the joy of those four words washed over him.

Beneath him, Margaret squirmed, her movements growing more insistent, even frantic, as she clutched at his shoulders, his neck, his face. “John, please! I love you! I do! You must believe me!”

A groan rumbled through his chest as though torn from his very soul, and he pressed his face against the curve of her neck, savoring the weight of her words and her willingness to utter such a lie for his sake. She was kind, and he was willing to let himself believe.

“Look at me,” she begged him, her voice catching as he thrust inside her. “Look at me!” But he could not – dared not – in case he saw the truth of her feelings in her face. Instead, he crushed his lips against hers, swallowing her soft sounds of desire as he slid his hand between her thighs and stroked her until she came undone in his arms.

Her pleasure was still washing over her when he thrust into her again, rocking her body against the wall behind her. “Tell me you love me,” he demanded once more in a low voice, his lips against her ear, the strength of his need deepening his voice and the harsh, Northern burr of his accent. She shook her head, her breath escaping in a soft sob, but he increased the pace of his thrusts as he repeated his demand. “Please.”

Her arms wrapped around his neck pressing his cheek against hers as he drove into her again. A moment later, he felt a cool dampness against his skin and was surprised to realize it had come from her, a tear spilling over her lashes and sliding down the gentle curve of his face until it became trapped between them. It was almost enough to compel him to stop and draw away, except she tightened her legs around his hips and would not release him.

“I love you,” she whispered into his ear, driving him on.

He savored those words, committing them to his heart, a treasured memory that could never be taken from him, not even with the truth in the harsh light of day. Wrapping his hands under her thighs, he repositioned her, steadying her weight as he drove into her again and again until his own pleasure washed over him.

He pressed his mouth against the curve of her shoulder as he poured himself into her, feeling his muscles tremble with the strength of his release. Only when he was spent, his senses slowly returning, did he put her back on her feet, turning his head to capture her mouth in a kiss, swallowing the lie she had graciously bestowed upon him.

She deserved to hear the truth, although she must know it by now already, given his shameless request. “I love you, Margaret,” he breathed against her lips. “I have never loved another.”

[perseusjackson-jasongrace]

Day 6: “What book is that?”//”Is that smut?”

masterlist

non-descript, non-canon-compliant AU

Leo Valdez sighs as he stares at the gloomy weather taking over his Saturday. It seems that while winter is well and truly underway the sun would not be making an appearance, or at least it hadn’t for the last week. He looks back at the rough sketches he’s drawn for his practical assignment due after winter break and decides he’s worked hard enough for the day. Writing down measurements and ruling a few lines counted, right? He didn’t care. Heaving himself out of his chair he pulls up the socks that had slowly started slipping down and shoves his feet into his giant Yoda slippers that are truly a wonder and a disgrace in equal parts. His friends take turns wearing them and pretending to be everything from big foot to Yoda-crushers. He has a polaroid hall of fame behind his door.

As he trudges across the wooden floor of his apartment his mind wanders to the upcoming days and the time that stretches before him. His roommates are gone to their homes for the break but Leo, ever the orphan, was still stuck in their shared apartment, the weather and his lack of plans keeping him steadfast. He hops onto the kitchen counter and slides across it, landing on the other side in a smooth glide to the fridge. With a self-satisfied smirk he prepares a hot chocolate, laced with coffee because he doesn’t need a sleep schedule when he’s on holiday! He dances at the thought, slurping up a marshmallow and burning himself on the steaming mug.

A knock at the door interrupts his little moment. He glances at the time on the microwave and frowns as he sees 13:30 flashing on the little screen. Who would be here at this time? Everyone he knows is well on their way to family homes or tropical vacations. Stupid Piper and her stupid rich father. He should call her and check in. The knock sounds again and he hurries to open the door.

“Jackson?”

Percy looks up from his phone, a small smile tugging at full lips, “Hi Valdez, can i come in?”

Leo instantly moves aside, as his mind runs a mile a minute. It’s not unusual for Percy to pop around, considering they went to the same university and hung with the same people. It just seemed odd that he’d be here now. When he was supposed to be in New York.

“Is uh, is everything okay?”

That signature smirk takes over that lovely face and it makes his heart beat just a little faster. Well that’s a new reaction. “Everything is fine. I just wanted to come back before the semester reopened, so I could catch up on sleep and video games without Estelle trying to press every button.” His nose scrunches in what’s supposed to be irritation but the soft look in his eyes offsets the whole charade.

“Oh, well make yourself at home.” He gestures to the lounge, which looks relatively neat for once.

“Thanks,” Percy looks around, setting his keys on the kitchen counter and flopping onto the double couch. “Want to play a video game with me?”

“Sure, mind if i go shower first though? I kind of got distracted with school stuff and haven’t actually gotten any self-care stuff in.”

A laugh that reminds him of forest brooks, catches around the apartment. “Go shower, you hazard. I’ll wait for you.” 

Sticking his tongue out at the jab he hops off to the bathroom, all the while thinking how nice it is to have a friend here. Even if that friend came back from two months of holiday with sun-kissed skin the colour of maple bark, and green eyes that twinkle as bright as the evening star. It’s never really been fair how gorgeous Percy Jackson was, with his whole skater boy-badass-saving the world-looking-out-for-the-little-people thing going on, but now he seems to be from another galaxy. One where they make humans out of gemstones. It is almost a shame he’s still dating Annabeth because Leo would happily set his heart on fire for a chance to be Percy’s flame. But no matter. He is allowed to appreciate without disrespecting.

His shower is quick and steaming as he tries to fight off the strange chill in the air. Soon he’s in a fresh pair of sweats and is running his fingers through damp, unruly curls to try to organise them into something that won’t resemble a bird’s nest when it dries. He doesn’t have much luck but at this point his interest is far below his luck. With a shrug in the mirror to make sure his top is on the right way- inside out, back-to-front shirts are a common occurrence- he pads across the cool wooden floors and into the lounge. There he finds Percy, sitting on the floor, back against the couch, with his nose buried in a kindle and the most adorable wire-framed glasses pushed up his nose.

Without saying anything he comes up behind him and settles himself on the couch. He knows his friend notices his presence because he shifts slightly so Leo can get comfortable and then settles back down. He sees two video games lying on the table and the controllers connected and waiting to be used.  And then he glances down at the book Percy is reading, curiosity pressing on his lungs.

“What book is that?” He leans in closer, his curls brushing the balck-haired boy’s cheeks. ”Is- Is that smut?”

Instantly his friend blushes, skin turning a deep red. “N-no.” He stammers.

“It totally is.” Leo smirks, delighted by the recent discovery. “You trying to learn some tricks for Annabeth?”

“Oh my gods Valdez!” He blushes harder and it is possibly the cutest thing he has ever seen.

“Well there’s no need to be embarrassed. I think it’s very cool that you’re putting in the effort to try and impress your lady. I know Annabeth would love this, she’ll see it like studying.”

Percy drops his head into his hands and groans in embarrassment. It sets Leo off cackling with glee.

“Annabeth and I aren't together anymore.” His friend mumbles.

‘Wait what?”

“Yea she went halfway across the world and we felt it was better to break up, If we find each other again then so be it.”

“Holy shit are you okay? Do you want to talk about it?” The scandalous book is all but forgotten.

“No, I’m good.” When he sees Leo’s raised eyebrow he rolls his eyes. “I swear. I was a bit all over the place in the beginning but the holiday with my family and talking it over with my therapist really helped. Besides we didn’t lose all contact. She’s still my friend.”

“Okay,” He is still a little skeptical but he drops it. “Let me know if you ever want to talk.”

“Will do love.” And he goes back to reading.

But Leo sits there frozen in shock as he processes the words Percy had just said. Love, love, love. Oh gods. This little crush was turning into a big problem in his life. 

“Want to play a video game now?” He asks a little too loudly.

The black-haired boy gives him a weird look but locks his Kindle and grabs the controllers from the table. “What am i beating you at Valdez?”

He scoffs, as he scrolls through the options, and then grins when he lands on the perfect one. “I’m going to absolutely crush you at Mario Kart.”

“Oof, wrong choice love. I’ve been playing this game since before i could talk.”

“Big words for a man who chooses Luigi over Princess Peach.”

“Hey don’t judge my avatar. Luigi is a beast.”

“He looks like the creepy brother who’s plumbing business is a front for the mob.”

“Good then at least you know not to mess with him.”

“Oh you are going down Jackson!”

The screen flashes with 3, 2, 1. And they’re off. Yelling obscenities at each other and slamming their little cars off the roads. Percy lands up in the ocean, and growls so loudly Leo is sure he has a stray animal in his apartment. But then a blue shell is hitting him and he’s the one making animalistic sounds, as he shoves Percy’s shoulder and zooms past Luigi’s car.

“I’m getting the family inheritance sucker!” He whoops as he crosses the finish line.

“Listen Mario. If i’m tied to the mob you’re tied to the mob so buckle up buddy, we got shit to do.” Green eyes flash, dark eyebrows knitting in faux seriousness and then they’re both keeling over with laughter.

Percy flings his head back and it hits the couch seat with a soft thud, but he’s too busy laughing to notice. Leo’s head falls forward until his curls are brushing his friend’s forehead and they are breathless with amusement.

“You’re a clown Jackson.” He whispers, still only centimeters away from beautiful brown skin. His lips a mere inch from brushing against the crease between those eyebrows

“At least i’m not Princess Peach.”

“Maybe you should be, and then you could actually win.”

“Oh you did not just say that!” He gasps, and Leo feels the intake against his knees, which are pressed to his back.

“Round two?”

“You’re on, mobster.”

And with a determined gleam in those green eyes they race into another round. And Leo thinks, maybe this is what paradise feels like. And Percy laughs as he releases a blue shell. And Leo knows this is what happiness looks like.

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

Tags:

@spoopylucy​​

@leydiangelo​​

@nishlicious-01​​​

[badbookreviewclub]

Empress Theresa, Chapters 3 & 4

If you haven’t read Chapter 2, here is the the link. I recommend reading through this and Chapter 1 first before continuing on for the sake of continuity. These WILL contain spoilers, so if you’re not cool with that, don’t read it.

Chapter 3

Chapter 3 by far has to be one of the most boring chapters I’ve come across in this book. It took me forever to work through this chapter alone simply because of how boring I found the writing and the general story line of the chapter. Its sole purpose is to introduce a couple things, one being Theresa’s love interest, Steve, and how ‘interesting’ she is.  Summary and Analysis: Theresa has finally moved on from her high school baseball career to attend Boston College, which Boutin, the author, constantly abbreviates to BC throughout this chapter. This abbreviation grows annoying rather quickly, considering that I don’t think the name of the college needs to be mentioned as often as it is. Aside from annoying abbreviations, this chapter is absolutely littered with a poor attempt to follow the story line Boutin seems to have loosely laid out throughout the book as well as piss poor logic. In chapter 3 we learn that Theresa is a whiny little bitch who thinks the amount of homework given to her is absurd despite the fact that there are plenty of college students out there who are handling it just fine. “The assignments I got in my classes seemed endless. Could anybody do all that work in a semester? (Pg 40)” This is Theresa’s first day of classes and she’s already getting upset over the amount of work she has to do. I don’t know about anybody else, but even with my higher level courses the amount of homework ramps up over the semester before the assignments become more manageable when finals start to draw near.  Aside from complaining about her homework, we never even see Theresa do it once throughout the chapter. After her classes, rather than starting to work on this ‘endless’ amount of homework she has, Theresa relaxes in her room before a group of girls (I assume her roommates and not just random strangers - It’s never explicitly stated which one.) invite her down to the cafeteria. In the cafeteria, out of a “”long habit” Theresa started to look around the room. She notices pretty quickly that a group of ‘kids’ are staring at her. I tend to take issue with the fact that Boutin constantly refers to these college-aged adults as ‘kids’ simply because it throws you out of the story. Theresa wouldn’t refer to people the same age as her as ‘kids’ and the book is supposed to be written like an autobiography. Nonetheless, these ‘kids’ are staring at her and Theresa automatically picks two out to comment on in the book. “Mr. Intense,” who was looking at her intently, hence the name, and “Mr. Fast Move.” I have a slight problem with the name “Mr. Fast Move” simply because Theresa gave him this name before he even got up to introduce himself. Theresa somehow being omniscient is a problem through everything I’ve read up until this point and I’ve found it to be more and more annoying as I keep reading.  Boutin also tends to have a really big problem with making Theresa assume the emotions and thoughts of other people. “One boy [Mr. Intense] was intently looking at me.... he was around six feet which was a good match for my five feet four inches. I liked taller guys and apparently he liked smaller girls (pg 40).” ‘Mr. Intense’ hasn’t even gotten up to talk with Theresa, nor will he for the next little while as far as I can tell. Yet, somehow, Theresa already knows his likes and dislikes and what he looks for in a potential partner. It doesn’t end there though, Theresa also goes on to continue and assume just what he is doing and thinking. “He wasn’t gawking at a pretty girl, or lusting for her body. He looked interested. And that’s ok. A girl gets used to being looked at (pg 40).” Aside from assuming what he’s thinking, there’s a lot of problems with this quote, enough so that I’m not sure where to being. Starting simple, I absolutely hate when authors write out ‘ok’ rather than ‘okay.’ It comes off as lazy to me. It only takes two more strokes of the key to add the ‘ay’ to the first two letters. Moving on to the next problem, Boutin never takes issue with the fact that someone may be looking at Theresa like an object, and Theresa never objects to that idea. She seems to be fine with the idea that someone is looking at her like an object or like a potential partner. Boutin never out right states that someone is looking at Theresa like an object as far as I’m aware, but it tends to be heavily implied throughout the book that Theresa is fine with that.  Moving on from Theresa’s assumptions about ‘Mr. Intense’ for now though, ‘Mr. Fast Move’ obviously makes the first move. As stated early, Theresa gave him this name before he even got up to make the first move. She also keeps calling him this after he gives her his name, Jack Koster. To keep it short and sweet so you all don’t have to suffer as much, Theresa knows pretty soon into her and Jack dating that the two of them are not a good match and that their relationship won’t last. Yet, she continues to keep dating him and dragging him along. One day, when she goes down to his dorm because they have a movie at eight. Turns out, Jack has another girlfriend named Ginny from before college. Despite the fact that she knew her and Jack wouldn’t work out and was just dragging him along, Theresa still gets angry at him and wants to make him jealous. Jack says that he’ll talk to Theresa upstairs so she goes upstairs to wait for him. Before I go further, I just want to point out that Boutin wrote that there were six guys in Jack’s dorm waiting on him as well as Ginny. That’s a lot of people for a college dorm. Still chugging along, Theresa decides she wants to make Jack so jealous he’ll “throw Ginny out a window (pg 45).” Theresa says that there’s no chance that her and Jack will get back together, so I’m not quite sure what her logic is on this one. But she dresses in a  “backless dress made of flimsy, cling material (pg 45).” The dress falls six inches above the knee, which “wasn’t a big deal these days, but to make it more interesting I folded back the hemline three more inches inside the skirt and taped it (pg 45).” I may just have short legs, but I measured how short this dress would be on myself, and this wasn’t even covering the bottom of my ass cheeks.  Anyways, Theresa watches a movie which Boutin goes into way too much detail to describe and it’s just overly boring and pointless. Jack never shows up but surprise surprise, ‘Mr. Intense,’ better known as Steve at this point, does. At this point the dress has ridden up Theresa’s hips at this point and despite Steve’s clear discomfort with the whole dress situation, she makes no move to try and make it better even though he’s there to offer her comfort. We do get this banger of an exchange though (Pg 49): “You’re quite, Steve. Something on your mind?” “Yeah. I’m trying not to think about what I might see.”  “I’m wearing a thong. You won’t see anything but my hip.”  “And a nice hip it is, I’m sure.”  Steve has had a total of maybe 5 words spoken up until this point but he’s already my favorite character solely from the line “And a nice hip it is, I’m sure.”  Steve and Theresa’s relationship develops absurdly quickly from there and it’s almost at a worrying pace. After only about a month of dating, the two of them decide to get married. Father Donoughty, or as I lovingly refer to him, Father Dick Doughnut, convinces Theresa’s parents to let her marry Steve at the tender age of 18 and after only a month of dating because he is more than certain that their marriage won’t fail. Eventually her parents give in because “Discouraging it [the relationship] could do more harm than good (pg 54).” Theresa and Steve apparently have an absolutely amazing wedding and we get a lovely detailed description of what Theresa wore that I’m more than happy to share with all of you because it’s not in the slightest drawn out or excessive; “I was gorgeous as a recently turned eighteen year old. For the church service I wore a two piece wedding gown. A floor length wide skirt with spaghetti shoulder straps made from matte duchess stain. Over this I had a jacket made of peekaboo cotton Venice lace that more or less covered my shoulders and the top half of my upper arms so as not to scandalize the congregation. At the reception the jacket and train came off and my shoulders and cleavage charmed the crowd (pg 54).” This description just reminds me of the excessively long description of what Ebony was wearing in the all-time classic My Immortal. Nobody gives two shits just what Theresa was wearing and the comments about what she is wearing don’t even make sense. I don’t recall a congregation ever being ‘scandalized’ by a young woman having their shoulders exposed. I also don’t recall a crowd ever being ‘charmed’ by someones breasts and shoulders, or you know, I just live in a boring world where people don’t get dazzled by my boobs and my offensively sexy shoulders.  As for the poor attempt for Boutin to continue the plot throughout chapter 3, in-between Theresa meeting Jake and then finding out about him cheating, Theresa is called into the campus police office because her ‘watchers’ were caught following her. Nothing really comes of this other than that we learn the Pope is paying for her tuition and finds her a ‘highly interesting’ case. The president also talks on the phone to the head of the campus police and tells them to pass along the message that they didn’t see anything happen, that they shouldn’t tell this to anybody, and that they should just forget about it. It’s a boring scene with boring dialogue and its rather pointless as well. If anything, it only serves to create more plot holes throughout the entire story.  Chapter 4 So we got through the boring hell that was chapter 3, but what about chapter 4? It’s not better. Arguably it is so much worse. I can sum it up fairly simply for you. Theresa gets kidnapped by government men, she assumes they’re ‘Navy SEALS’ but calls them goons through the entire book. She’s then put on a plane with an atom bomb on it because I guess the president finally decided that he wanted her dead and yet nobody objected to this happening despite there being no evidence for her deserving this fate. Also her watchers just disappear in this chapter so I guess their presence in her life was just completely pointless. This may come as a surprise, but Theresa manages to get out with the stupidest solution ever and doesn’t die. This is the part where I should be celebrating her survival but all I can do is mourn the fact that she could have died but didn’t. If she did, the book would be over.  Summary and Analysis: God, I really don’t want to summarize this chapter and point out things I hated in it but I will. This chapter was so overwhelmingly painful to read and mark down that I gave up towards the end and just started scribbling ‘No’ and ‘Why’ into the margins.  Okay, rant over. Starting off, Theresa is on her way to go to the grocery store when a bunch of cars in front of her essentially make a barricade so she can’t get through. The people in the cars get out with their weapons drawn as a van pulls up behind her. Once more, Theresa’s omniscient knowledge kicks in and before the door to the van opens she already knows what the interior looks like. She gets into the van anyways without much of a fight and just willingly lets herself be kidnapped. They take her to a helicopter and fly for a long ass time. Eventually Theresa asks where they’re taking her and rather than telling her that it is classified information like they should, they basically tell Theresa that they’re taking her to an aircraft and that she’ll be killed. Rather than getting upset about this, the tears just well up in her eyes but she doesn’t break down into hysterics. As Theresa so eloquently puts it, “But I didn’t cry. I wasn’t a phony movie actress using hysterics to milk all the drama she could out of every moment. I was a real person and I didn’t give a damn what these kidnappers thought (pgs 57-58).” Theresa once more assumes emotions, and states that she must have impressed her kidnappers and won their admiration by not breaking down into hysterics. This is where she also guesses that they’re Navy SEAL despite having absolutely no proof of them being in that part of the army as of yet.  Blah blah blah, Theresa decides to ‘wax poetic’ though she’s not being poetic at all and it’s just Boutin trying to fill in space so he can make his book longer. Somehow this chapter is even more boring and annoying than chapter 3 and shit is supposed to be happening here. I suppose Boutin is trying to make it intense, but it comes off as long winded and any sense of action of anxiety that may have been there is gone.  In-between the long and boring moments of Theresa just observing things, she asks how she’s going to die and they tell her that she’s going to be loaded onto a plane with an atomic bomb. This is a problem for a lot of reasons, actually, and I’ll put them in a list for you:  1. This is a stupidly expensive way to kill someone 2. Theresa never stood trial for this and its not as thought it could have flown under the radar either. There is a shit ton of money being funneled into an atomic bomb and a plane that wouldn’t go unnoticed in the records.  3. Theresa’s watchers never showed up once despite having watched her grow up and seeing that she would never harm a fly. Yet here she has been declared a danger to national security.  4. All of the men who are escorting her to her death have no proof that she has done anything to be a threat to national security. As far as they’re aware, she’s an innocent eighteen year old girl. 5. The way that they’re going to kill her is cruel, inhumane, and excessive. Never in my life could I see anyone letting a president get away with ordering a death sentence like this.  6. Theresa never fucking stood trial for this shit. This wouldn’t just fly under the radar with congress. Believe it or not, but the President of the United States doesn’t have enough power to just order someone dead because they believe them to be a threat. Theresa would have to go through a trial first.  I could see a coup happening in the United States before anyone ever let anything like this happen. These tend to be my problems with a majority of the chapter. To get into more specifics, Theresa says that she needs to think of a way to get out of this, but we never see her elaborate on a plan nor do we ever become clued in that she has come up with an idea. Instead, we, the reader, see her do some nonsensical bullshit. When they take her to an empty cafeteria to have her last meal, Theresa takes an empty garbage bag and fills it with exactly 11 coke bottles that at the time confused the living shit out of me. As it turns out, she’s going to empty out these coke bottles and shove them into her jumpsuit so she’ll be buoyant when she jumps from the plane before it can blow her up. This is some kind of bullshit five-minute crafts solution. It’s a stupid one and never in a million years could I ever see this working.  Theresa also decides to reflect on her life and comes to the conclusion that her life as not significant and was incredibly boring. How wonderful for that the reader has to reader that when we could have come to that conclusion ourselves. We also learn that Theresa has had ‘no illnesses’ which seems like utter bullshit to me, but alright, go off Boutin. She also had a ‘mean’ dog growl at her once and suddenly she now has absolutely no love for dogs. I’ll let you interpret that one however you want. The night before she’s going to be executed, Theresa decides to reflect on her life thus far with Steve. This could have been a bittersweet moment where we truly get something emotion filled and with fond memories that we didn’t see. It’s not a bad idea to have her reflect on her loved one during what should be a very emotional time, yet all we do is get a recap of his experience with her last chapter. It’s boring and inspires no emotion from the reader. We could have learned something about Steve and how Theresa sees him and yet we don’t learn anything.  What we do learn however, is that Theresa somehow has shit tons of knowledge about aircraft despite this never being mentioned before in the book. I don’t think she actually is supposed to be an aircraft nerd, I think that Boutin just forgot about that and started to write far too much that he learned about planes so he could share the information with everyone. It’s more confusing than not in the actual text though and draws away from the story, not that there was much to begin with.  Also, somehow, refueling in flight will snap your neck if you don’t brace right according to Boutin. I did some light research and no, no it will not. Despite this, Boutin goes on for about two pages about how Theresa has to brace so it doesn’t snap her neck when they refuel mid-flight on their way to take her another boat so she can get on the plane with the bomb on it.  Jesus christ the next few pages are just absolute hell. Theresa lands on boat. Captain of boat brought women onto top of boat. Thought the one being executed would be man and deserved to see women before he died. Strongly implies women are objects for men to look at again. One woman takes out her phone. She asks Theresa if she has anything she’d like to say. Dis bitch.  Dis.  fuckin.  bitch.  “I once read a famous quote by the Shawnee Indian Chief Tecumseh about singing a death song and going out like a hero. I had rewritten it for a more universal use, never dreaming that I’d use it myself so soon. ‘If people grieve your passing rejoice in the good you did and die like a hero going home. I feel good about who I was.’ (pg 68)”  Not only is pulling your phone out to record someone who is about to be executed highly against probably all policies, but also, just... fuckin... if this situation were to ever happen in real life, this would be an absolute shit show of a situation. People are breaking rules left and right, nobody is obeying any sort of code of ethics or any kind of rules that were laid out for them. It’s just stupid. All of this chapter is just plain stupid and the logic is terrible. One of the people gives Theresa thermals because it’s going to be cold when she’s flying up and they insist that she gets oxygen and wears a mask. They do all of this for her despite the fact that in the end she’s going to get blown up and none of it matters. Nothing fucking matters in this book. After this though Theresa fucking jumps from the plane once it has taken off and is at an altitude of 54,140. The impact on the water alone would have been enough to kill her and yet it doesn’t. She just passes out when she hits in and then wakes back up. Now is when she starts to get cold and she passes out again.  The entire time that the plane is climbing into the air and she’s falling before she hits the water is supposed to be an intense and action-packed scene. I get that’s what Boutin is trying to do in this last part of the chapter, but it doesn’t come across that way. It’s dragged out. It’s wordy and Theresa thinks way too much about other things for it to feel like it is supposed to be as intense as I think Boutin wanted it to be. It’s poorly written to put it simply, which really sucks because it’s the climax of the entire chapter and the most intense moment out of anything leading up to this point.  End Alright that is the end of chapter 3 and 4. I don’t know when 5 to whatever chapter I decide is worth it will come out, but hopefully sooner rather than later so I can finish with this book. Chances are I’ll post a review for a different book in-between this one and the next so look out for that. I’ve got a few absolutely terrible books on their way that I’ll be receiving over the next month. The first one out of the batch I plan to review is someone’s fan fiction that they decided to publish called Insanity: Jeff the Killer simply because it’s 77 pages and after flipping through it, it’s already better than some of the shit I’ve read lately.  Anyways, I hope you enjoyed and please feel free to follow and look out for more reviews of books. I hope I’m actually getting better at this review thing! Please feel free to leave any feedback and things you would like!

[thefifthclown]

Part 1, Chapter 3-Look For “Seventh, Magician”; Scene 3

Fifth, Pierrot, pages 96-102

Three months had passed since then.

Including Ton, Lemy had already killed eight people.

…No, tonight made it nine.

.

He had gradually lost his reservations towards killing people. And by now he had grown used to handling a knife.

“Seventh, Magician is staying in Rolled as a prostitute”—that was all the information he had. Lemy had no means to obtain any further information than that.

So the method he had chosen there was extremely simple.

To systematically kill all prostitutes until he arrived at Seventh, Magician.

His mother had told him that prostitution was a vulgar job. That they were the lowest of women, who sold their chastity for money.

“Your real mother was also a prostitute.”

Julia explained to Lemy the truth that had always been hidden from him.

“After I adopted you, for a time I secretly looked for any clues on your true parents. Of course I had no intention of giving you up, but if you had been abandoned for some unavoidable reason, then I had thought I could at least let you meet them. And two years ago I was finally successful in tracking down your mother. …She was an awful woman. She birthed a child without even knowing who the father was, and then carelessly abandoned it. Just tossed you into the Orgo River midwinter. If you hadn’t been found by the orphanage director as they were passing by, I’m certain that no one would have saved you—”

That truth had increased Lemy’s hatred for prostitutes all the more.

Apparently his real mother had already died from illness five years ago. However—as long as there were prostitutes in this world, then children like him would continue to be born into it.

Leaving behind the woman’s corpse at his feet, Lemy decided to head home.

A complete Mama’s boy now, aren’t you.

Ney was being sarcastic like always.

“I’m not just doing it because she told me to. This is my own decision.”

I wonder. If you were being brainwashed, you wouldn’t be able to tell on your own. I know someone who was like that. She’d been brainwashed by her mother for several years, went deranged, and then finally killed the mother who was manipulating her with her own hands.

“I’d never kill my mother!”

Lemy’s angry shout reverberated through the midnight street.

Maybe you think so now. But you’ve already started to know how pleasant it is to kill people. I’m not against that. I myself know how good it feels to be soaked in spraying blood.

“Quiet. My killing prostitutes is solely because it’s the ‘right thing’.”

I’m sure that it won’t be enough for you eventually. One day you’ll want to bring your hand down on the people you love. It’ll bring you a pleasure that killing bad people simply can’t compare to. Both you and I know this instinctually—

“I told you to be quiet!”

Alright, alright. If you shout too much people’ll come running.

They were almost to his house. Despite it being so late at night, the lights were on.

“I wonder if Mom is still up?”

--Looks like she has a visitor. I can see two figures in the window. Julia and someone else…not Pheobe. A man.

“At this time of night? Who in the world is it?”

Lemy opened the door to the house, trying not to make any noise. There was no issue if the guest was a member of Pere Noel, but if they weren’t then it wouldn’t be good to let them see what he looked like then.

He peeked into the sitting room. Lemy had intended to keep from being spotted, but was quickly noticed by Julia.

“Oh my, welcome home ‘Fifth, Pierrot’.”

His mother didn’t look flustered. And given that she was calling him by that name, the guest must have been someone who knew of Pere Noel.

Lemy entered the sitting room without reservation.

“Long time no see, young master.”

Sitting there was Bruno Marlon.

“I’ve come today to consult with your mother. Regarding my inauguration as vice-commander of the Freezis Foundation—and as ‘Second, Dealer’.”

The members of Pere Noel…He didn’t know the total number, but it was clear that it was high.

There were seven people who served as its core members, called “Sept”. Starting with his mother Julia—“First, Santa Clause”--the members each had various numbers assigned to them.

Lemy was “Fifth”, and Gatt was “Sixth”. The numbers weren’t the order in which they’d joined, and neither did they show merit. It seemed that they could pick whichever codename and number that they wished when they joined “Sept” (as long as it didn’t conflict with that of another member’s).

However, lately the majority of “Sept”’s members had become vacant. “Second, Dealer” Kaspar Blankenheim, his wife “Third, Sleep Princess” Margarita, and his aunt Mayrana who had been “Fourth, Shadow” (Lemy had recently learned that she’d been a member and that she was Julia’s body double) had all died off one after another. To say nothing of “Seventh, Magician”, who was currently on the run, with Lemy looking for her.

As Mayrana had died off, custody of Rin had been shifted to Aceid by Gatt’s guidance. There she was secretly being raised by Pheobe’s little sister (apparently, she was also working as a servant).

“Bruno has been wanting to join Pere Noel for some time,” Julia explained. “In order to further expand on the Freezis Foundation, he currently wants to grab the Black Market that Pere Noel operates. And on our end, we’re fairly drawn to the Freezis Foundation’s wealth and influence. All other things aside, it’s the Freezis Foundation that paved the way for the World Police’s formation.”

“Though, as the World Police has now become an independent organization, I can’t manipulate it publicly. I can, however, apply a little bit of pressure to make it easier for Pere Noel to operate.”

“In other words, it’s a mutually beneficial arrangement.”

Lemy replied to their exchange with an uninterested “Hmm”.

He didn’t get complicated matters, and as long as his mother said she wanted him to do something, then he would.

Bruno stood from his chair and walked up to Lemy.

“Young master Lemy, are you—”

“I don’t really like being called ‘young master’.”

“Oh, I see. Well then—‘Fifth, Pierrot’. I hear you’re searching for ‘Seventh, Magician’.”

“Yep. I killed a prostitute today.”

Rather than be perturbed at those words, Bruno smiled meaningfully.

It was as though he was hinting, “When it comes to killing people I have some experience there too.”

“I hear you’re doing things quite showily. You’re the hot topic right now even in foreign newspapers. Though, as you’d expect, the World Police plans to get serious about this soon. Tomorrow—well, I suppose today by now. At any rate, in the morning two investigators from ‘Justea’ will be arriving in Rolled to look into the matter of the serial killings.”

“Justea?”

“It’s the Internation Works Department in the Marlon headquarters of the World Police. That’s it’s nickname. They are elite members of the World Police. They normally don’t deal with criminals that don’t cross national lines…but they’re making an exception since ‘Pere Noel’ is involved--Anyway, you should take care to avoid them.”

“It’s no big deal. I haven’t been caught up until now, after all.”

“I hope so. If you get in trouble just send for me—‘Second, Dealer’. …Well, I suppose I shall leave before much longer. It’s almost dawn. It would be rather inconvenient for anyone to see me having come here, the way things are now.”

Bruno took his wide brimmed hat off the clothes hanger and pulled it low over his eyes. Then he bowed to Julia and Lemy and left the house.

<<prev------directory------next>>

[bookmawkish]

Just a patient, part 2

I wasn’t sure I had it in me to continue but apparently there was at least this XD

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5

All my fanfictions (includes more Loki)

@nikora3010 and oh gosh I’m sure there were others who wanted to be tagged in Loki fics I’m so sorry

You do sign it. You hate yourself for it in some ways, because almost everything about this feels wrong. It feels. You feel. It is not a benefit in your line of work to feel too deeply. There’s a long section in training which is designed to quash that, in fact. They give you false bodies, half torn apart, with real guts from slaughtered animals so that the smell of shit and the reek of gore isn‘t a surprise. And the others - stage makeup, but real person, real screaming. It desensitises you, so that when the time comes, you can push the severed limbs out of the way, kneel in the blood, and save lives.

And yet today, you feel.  

The paperwork is important, you’ve done it every day of your professional life, so you do it. And it will take the fallen villain out of your life, remove your confusion, return you to normality.

Or it should.  

There’s the bit halfway down the sheet where you record all the injuries in detail (show me on the doll where you got beaten to a pulp, Mister Loki): your pen moves over the anonymous, cartoonish line drawn human figures on the page, checking off the wound sites. Torso, stomach. Then the annotations. You write automatically, noting down the symptoms. Loki’s breathing, remembering the sounds the air made in his crushed throat, rattling in his flattened lungs. The cold, dirty sweat on his skin and the edged, inhuman smell of his blood in the air. He’d smelt exhausted. Yes, exhaustion has a scent. It’s bitter and acrid and unmistakable to anyone who’s ever been in a truck with twenty other exhausted people, on their way home from a war zone with filth on their bodies and a tarnish on their souls that no shower will remove.

Every fucking busted fingernail, as requested, Director.

You sign at the bottom of the page. One of those grim-faced men takes the clipboard away from you, and the room immediately empties with startling speed and precision. You’re suddenly alone with a bloodstained, empty crater in the floor and the damning memory of Loki’s weight leant so trustingly against your shoulder. The silence is huge and unnatural and it’s only at this moment that you feel as if you could cry. Cry for every damn thing that’s happened out there and every damn thing that the killer of New York made you feel by just lying there in his own blood and trusting you - you - when everybody else would have nailed his heart to a wall and smiled while they did it. But you don’t.

“Shit.”

You haven’t cried for over ten years. It’s possible you’ll never cry again.  

So instead you rise, your kit gathered close to you like a shield between you and the world, and you walk out of the ruined tower. There’s no longer anyone trying to guard it. It’s empty and broken and there’s nothing left of value in it. You rather think you know how it feels.

And then the world starts trying to go back to normal. Not the next day, or even the next perhaps, but slowly, insidiously, like the way ivy pushes itself under the tough skin of a young tree and starts its stranglehold. People start calling it “The Incident”, like it’s too awful to describe properly - or maybe it’s just that everyone needs a convenient shorthand for “massive unexpected alien invasion which almost destroyed New York, and, by extension, the world.” The cleanup is going to take years, despite what Fox News is saying. Everybody who works in one of the right kinds of agencies is deployed, regardless of their rank, status or previous assignment. The army are shovelling rubble right alongside the air force, and what remains of your unit is out there picking through the detritus for bodies.

Tiring, depressing work: but normal work. Aside from the special boxes into which you are instructed to place anything which has that distinctive, organic alien look and feel, this could be any war zone. Anywhere in the world. Rubble and bodies and long, long days. It’s all very familiar and something in you takes comfort in the repetitive work, the feeling of physical weariness at the end of each day, the ability to sleep like the dead, without dreams. Because after all these years at S.H.I.E.L.D, your dreams are never good.  

 But that ghost feeling, that memory of Loki’s body leaning weakly, trustingly against yours doesn’t go away, and that definitely isn’t normal. Sometimes you wake in the morning with that phantom weight at our side, real enough to make you jolt upright with your heart hammering. And once or twice you actually attack the phantom, because in that ephemeral moment between sleep and wakefulness the feeling is so incredibly real that you can hear the strained breathing, hear that broken whistle of air. In and out, the push of a half-ruined ribcage against your back. The alien tang of Loki’s sweat, ingrained in the fabric of your pillow. So you slam your arm out, to silence and drive out the interloper in your bed, only to hit the empty mattress (it’s always been empty. There’s never been a trusted, shared weight here, never anyone to lie with you) and leave you in blinking, uncomfortable bewilderment.

You don’t like it. It’s a piece of vulnerability, a loophole to be exploited, and maybe - just maybe - a chink in your armour which may one day prove to be the death of you.

Months pass, and it’s every morning now you wake with Loki at your side, the sensations getting stronger. Once you almost start to choke, a strand of his long dirty hair across your face, breathed into your mouth as you slept and gone as if it had never been once you are fully awake. Still you pretend it isn’t happening. It’s not as if anyone ever asks you how you are. You don’t have friends anymore. The only people you could even vaguely consider companions are all dead.

And that’s working out very well for you, until the one day in the canteen when you’re trying (and failing) to enjoy a sandwich, and a hand falls on your shoulder once again. It’s not Fury this time. It’s a much smaller man, with a slightly sad, distracted air, glasses, and a nervous habit of rubbing the back of his head as he talks.

Belatedly you recognise him, and you get to your feet in surprised, automatic deference. Everyone knows Bruce Banner, or at very least, knows what he’s capable of.

And he’s got that goddamned piece of paper with your signature on it in his hand.

“Yeah, so, this is awkward,” he says, as you come to a some sort of attention in front of him, and he makes a vague patting-down motion with his hands. “Don’t - don’t do that. I’m sorry that I even have to say this, but you need to come with me. Uh. Right now.”

[surveysonfleek]

1396.

1. When is the last time that you experienced rejection–literal or imagined? applied for a job... got a rejection email. gotten quite a few in the past couple of months. 2. When you are feeling down are you more likely to cheer yourself up by shopping, eating, or drinking? i cheer myself up by sleeping it off and watching movies. 3. Do you think there will be a time when our current age of rapid innovation comes to a standstill? What do you think is the limit of human technological advancement? not during my lifetime. things are moving ridiculously quick, sliced bread and traveling to space was only discovered under 100 years ago. 4. Have you or would you ever subscribe to (or work for) a grocery home delivery service? What do you think of so-called “contract” work that is done through apps such as Uber(Eats) or TaskRabbit? not really. i prefer physically going grocery shopping myself.

5. In hindsight, what was the most misguided/unhelpful assignment you had to do in school or college? it’s been years since i finished college but honestly most of the assignments i did were unhelpful lol. 6. Is it easy for you to identify that you have or haven’t emotionally matured throughout your life? What are some of the signifiers that bring you to this conclusion? tbh i’ve been through a lot emotionally throughout my life but i’m not sure if i deal with it in a ‘mature’ manner. i tend to sweep all my problems aside and just go with the flow. 7. Has your (current or past) partner ever said or done anything that gave you pause? How did you recover? yeah i guess. thought about it and reacted accordingly. 8. On any blogs or social media you may have, do you try to maintain a certain aesthetic or persona? Is this consistent across platforms or just specific to one? not at all. i’m just myself. i’m not out there to impress anyone plus all of my social media accounts are private and i only allow people i personally know to follow/friend me. 9. Is there an artist or celebrity whom you admire for their craft but take issue with their personality or politics? i feel like so many artists/celebrities these days are ‘canceled’ so i’m having trouble keeping up. i loved old kanye’s stuff but his new stuff and his political views and outlandish personality suck now. 10. What is the last party or event you were invited to but declined? Why? Are there certain events that you might be invited to which you are likely to decline? i was invited to a concert of an artist i love but declined because my heart wasn’t set into buying a ticket and finding people to go with. i was just feeling lazy lol. 11. Imagine your life three years from now as if things have gone perfectly, better than you would typically predict. What do you see? i’d be financially comfortable, engaged or married, healthy, happy, own a home and working a job i actually enjoy. 12. What about your personality makes you good at your job? Alternatively, why do you find yourself uniquely suited for or drawn to your ideal career path? i don’t take shit from anyone, i’m socially easy to get along with when need be and i’m always willing to help people. i’m not on my ideal career path yet but hopefully things change this year. 13. Do you find it valuable or important to respect those in positions of authority simply because of their position? Does this vary based on what that position is? to an extent. i treat everyone with respect. if someone does/says anything to lose my respect, so be it. it really doesn’t matter what your position is, at the end of the day we’re all human, we all have feelings and we all deserve respect. 14. Do you find that you often desire and/or enjoy sex? If not, why not and how do you negotiate those feelings with your partner? If so, what is it that you enjoy about it in particular? of course. it’s just a part of a relationship i guess. the feelings involved (physically and emotionally) and just having the intimate one-on-one time together. 15. Do you have any particular hobbies or habits that you have curated in order to better yourself or to change your self image? What are some lifestyle choices you might like to pick up? all i know is that i need to get back into the habit of exercise. any kind of exercise is acceptable, i just need to start.

[luvkirby4ever]

#15 on the Identity Ask thing! :3

Thank you anon!

#15:  5 most influential books over my lifetime.

Number 5:  “The Ersatz Elevator” by Lemony Snicket

Among my various “milestone” books, such as the first chapter book I read (The Trumpet of the Swan), books that made a flip switch inside my brain to like reading (The Hatchet, Frindle), or “book I stayed up so late reading that I dropped it on my face like an idiot” (Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire), I choose The Ersatz Elevator because it was a book I successfully read back when I was very reluctant about reading.

One thing that always stuck with me is that the style in which Lemony would write the teaser for the next book (/his narration style) actually made me question whether or not the series was fictional.  I was probably about 10 or 11 at the time and was pretty firm on the stance of “there’s no way this happened, that’s impossible” but the fake notes to the editor at the end were so convincing that I kinda started to believe it.

It’s also worth noting that even though it’s #6 in the series it was the first one I read- I didn’t like reading back in elementary school.  I ended up reading the whole series because of this book, though!

Number 4:  “Wicked” by Gregory Maguire

This book is weird and I take quite a bit of issue with it.  For starters, I usually dislike large time skips, and there’s like 4 of them.  Another issue I have is that the author writes with a sort of emotional/thematic detachment in such a way that it feels like he’s trying to say something meaningful/important but it ends up boiling down to feeling like the “if there were two guys on the moon” copypasta.  I reread it for the first time after many years and was disappointed in the direction the story went after the school arc tbh.

But all that aside, I read this during a time when I was starting to awaken to the idea that things that were “girly” weren’t necessarily bad by nature.  And I should clarify that I would not consider this a “girly” book by any stretch of nature!  It’s just that I used to be so staunchly against narratives about women (no less about women showing genuine tenderness) that reading Wicked was a big step towards trying to drink respect women juice.

Wicked’s MVP was definitely Glinda- she was a character who I immediately wrote off as “the shallow girly ditz” and was surprised at how invested I had become in her at the end of the school arc.  I feel like there was a lot of wasted story potential in Wicked and Glinda was definitely a character who I’d want to write a fanfic about.  So much wasted potential.

Number 3:  “My Lesbian Experience With Lonlieness” by Kabi Nagata

WTNV may have been my gateway drug into LGBT+ culture, but just like the dumb f*** that I am it wasn’t until a few months after I first read this book that I realized that I’m gay.  The book constantly rested in the back of my mind so one day as I was staring up at my ceiling in bed I thought about it again and thought “wait… I think I’m gay”.

(Shoutout to “My Brother’s Husband” for also helping, too.  From a story perspective I prefer “My Brother’s Husband” but “My Lesbian Experience With Loneliness” is the one that keeps returning to my thoughts about stuff.  Both are so good though I highly recommend them both!)

Number 2:  Genki (Second Edition)

I know it’s not a “book” book, but I’ve had this textbook for years now and I have emotional attachment to this thing.  I’m going to be taking my first JLPT this year so I literally study with it for an hour every day.  It (along with my first signed WTNV novel) is my most treasured book.  It represents a lot of my hope and dreams.

Number 1:  “To Kill a Mockingbird” by Harper Lee

This book.  If you’re American, there’s a good chance that you were forced to read it.  And there’s a good chance you didn’t like it.  As a kid, there was a lot to slog through.  And it’s a book that truly shows its age.

I was 15 or 16 when I first had to read it.  My teacher had given an assignment/test question on the some themes from the book, and one that I remember very vividly was the topic of innocence.  Stuff about losing innocence, protecting it, characters like Jem vs characters like Boo.  And as someone who endured a lot of really horrible things in my childhood, I was particularly drawn to examining the narrative’s opinion on innocence.

…And refuting it!  Don’t get me wrong- I actually like the book, believe it or not.  The prose at end about Scout walking Boo back home and seeing the neighborhood through his point of view evokes a powerful sort of emotion in my stomach (sadness? nostalgia? fondness?).  But this book constantly makes me think about the theme of innocence and how it’s portrayed in media (and how my teacher put a spin on what he thinks innocence is).  And I actually really hate the notion!

As someone who experienced a lot of childhood trauma, the notion that “once innocence is lost we are bitter jaded adults” is a bleak one.  I don’t disagree that children are innocent and that they should be protected.  I disagree with the sentiment that the spark of childlike wonder and awe disappears when you mature and that in order to properly grow into an adult you must eschew it.  That innocence will die and you’ll never be innocent again.

It is true that we can never really unknow things.  And as adults we hold responsibilities that children aren’t developed enough to bear.  But we live in a universe so vast and in a world so wide that there is so much we don’t know.  There are things we haven’t tried, people we haven’t met, cultures we aren’t familiar with.  Right now, there could be your new favorite thing out there waiting for you to discover it.

Being an adult working at a science lab with other adults is odd because I’m surrounded by many people who believe that it’s completely normal to just go through the motions of marrying/having kids so that you can complain about how jaded your spouse/kids makes you.  And to be fair, that *is* normal in this culture.  But it doesn’t have to be that way!  The innocence and joy of living and experiencing new things doesn’t have to die when you get a nine-to-five!!!

Tldr:  I like the book and examining/deconstructing innocence as a construct is very important to me as someone who got depression at 14 and was led to believe that life was never going to better because once innocence is lost that spark never comes back

[claroquequiza]

Identity asks: every questions except 17,23 26 and 27 =D

OH MY...

IN REFERENCE TO THIS POST:

1. if someone wanted to really understand you, what would they read, watch, and listen to?

This is difficult to answer because I have such spotty taste in everything--I rarely have more than one song by the same artist, for example, or read more than one book by the same author. SO, if you base your understanding of me on which works I have consumed more than one of from the same author, artist, or whomever, then a small list would be: Jane Austen, Arthur C. Clarke, Mercedes Lackey, Musouka (from FF.N) and Michael Crichton for authors, Studio Ghibli, Disney, Ang Lee, and Star Trek TNG and VOY for movies/TV, and ABBA, Adele, Annie Lennox, Bad Lip Reading, Belanova, Beyonce, Daft Punk, David Bowie, Dido, Efecto Pasillo, Enya, Florence + The Machine, Juan Gabriel, OK Go, P!nk, Queen, Regina Spektor, The Seatbelts, and Woodkid.

2. have you ever found a writer who thinks just like you? if so, who?

You know, I don’t think so--I have disagreements with the style, intentions, and beliefs of every writer I’ve ever read. It would almost be terrifying if I did find someone who thinks just like I do, like--WHO SENT YOU???

3. list your fandoms and one character from each that you identify with.

Overwatch: Hanzo

Pride&Prejudice: Mr. Collins (I don’t think I’m anywhere near as bad as him anymore, but when I was a kid...holy hell...)

Star Trek: Counselor Troi

Star Wars: C-3PO

4. do you like your name?  is there another name you think would fit you better?

Daniel is an okay name! I don’t like its meaning much, though: God is my judge. Ew. I’m adopted, and I’ve met my birthmom, and for the three days before my adoption went through, she called me Esai, which is a bit more unique but means “God is salvation”. Not that much better than Daniel in implication. If I were to pick a name? I like wolves, so maybe Boris or Caleb. 

5. do you think of yourself as a human being or a human doing? do you identify yourself by the things you do?

I’m definitely a human being, I’m not very dynamic at all. That’s a huge sticking point between me and my dad actually: he has a need to constantly be doing things and has a very strong sense of pride in his accomplishments, big or small. I don’t have that same sense of accomplishment, for almost anything really. My writing and my humor are almost my only sources of pride, really.

6. are you religious/spiritual?

Absolutely not! I was raised a devout Mormon, so I’m very familiar with a certain kind of religion/spirituality, but I’ve been at odds with it for almost as long as I can remember. Even when I was very young I was drawn far more to a more scientific outlook and believed in religion more as an aside more than out of personal devotion, at least until I was a teenager. But that was a short phase. Nowadays I’m a fairly hard atheist, meaning I don’t believe anything has a supernatural explanation, so--no, not religious, not spiritual.

7. do you care about your ethnicity?

LOL, I am 1/8 Navajo, and growing up I was encouraged to be far more proud of that than was merited. I know next to nothing about Navajo culture, but that didn’t stop me from telling people about it as though it meant something to me personally when it actually didn’t. I don’t do that much anymore--sometimes I fall back into the habit though, to my shame. 

I don’t think much about the other 7/8, though I did do a DNA test a few months ago that suggests I may have a little bit of Moorish ancestry by way of Al-Andalus, which is interesting to me because I love Spain, but other than that I don’t think my personal connection to my ethnicity is anything to be proud of.

8. what musical artists have you most felt connected to over your lifetime?

Enya, Adele, and Woodkid.

9. are you an artist?

Naw! I used to aspire to be one, but I’ve only drawn once in the past few years.

10. do you have a creed?

I live mostly by the Golden Rule these days, but with caveats. Not everyone deserves its protection.

11. describe your ideal day.

Wake up after sleeping the whole night through, have a breakfast of pancakes and bacon, go the gym, come back to write a nice long chapter with a break for a lunch of pizza, and finish out the day watching something entertaining/informative with a nice big dinner of hamburgers or spaghetti before going to bed with a sense that the day was well spent.

12. dog person or cat person?

Both! Dogs and cats are both awesome! My dream is have at least one of each who are best friends with each other, but it’s unlikely because when I do get pets, I’m going to adopt them from a shelter, so they’re likely to be adults who will tolerate each other but not be good friends.

13.inside or outdoors?

Both! Inside when it’s cold, outside when it’s warm/hot!

14. are you a musician?

I can sing okay! I learned to play the viola and the clarinet when I was growing up, but I haven’t played either for a while. If I get the money, I might take up the viola again.

15. five most influential books over your lifetime.

Lord of the Rings, Andromeda Strain, The Last Herald-Mage, Pride&Prejudice, 2010: Odyssey Two

16. if you’d grown up in a different environment, do you think you’d have turned out the same?

NOPE. I am very much a product of my environment. The biggest factor in my childhood is the homophobic religion I was raised in--all things being equal, if I had been raised in an environment with a positive, neutral, or absent religion, my childhood would have been much, much better and I’d be a much healthier person. 

18. what’s your patronus?

I haven’t been assigned one, but probably a cat or a pig.

19. which Harry Potter house would you be in? or are you a muggle?

I imagine I would be a muggle, but if I were a wizard, I would apparently be a Slytherin.

20. would you rather be in Middle Earth, Narnia, Hogwarts, or somewhere else?

I would like to live in the Star Trek universe. I think it has fairly positive outlooks and societal workings. I especially like the post-scarcity aspect that allows people to live their lives more or less independent of their chosen vocation. I’m sure it would be a paradise for artists and authors.

21. do you love easily?

I don’t know! I don’t think so, but I haven’t really been allowed or allowed myself to be in situations where I might fall in love. I don’t know whether that means I don’t love easily or just that I haven’t had the opportunity to.

22. list the top five things you spend the most time doing, in order.

Browsing the Internet

Writing

Holding Myself Back

Sleeping

???

24. have you ever felt like you had a “mind-meld” with someone?

Naw. 

25. could you live as a hermit?

YES. That’s practically how I’ve been living lately--I’ve had a difficult relationship with society in general for the past year or so. The only caveat might be that I would still like an Internet connection, which probably doesn’t count as a hermit, but I've been thinking of disappearing into the wilderness.

28. on a scale from 1 to 10, how hard is it for someone to get under your skin?

On average? 5. Depends on the person, of course--if they’re conservative, it’s much, much easier. If they’re liberal, it’s harder. 

29. three songs that you connect with right now.

New Rules - Dua Lipa

I Won’t Let You Down - OK Go

The Writing’s On the Wall - OK Go

30. pick one of your favorite quotes.

Reality is that which, when you stop believing in it, doesn't go away.

-Philip K. Dick