#I am being congratulated by the ILL librarian?????????

[liesonthefloordramatically]

our ILL librarian referred to me as a "power user" slkjfdaufoidsuafoiuaoiusoiauoifusa

[make-me-imagine]

✨ Hii Mera! Congrats on the follower milestone! I've been following you since the sherlock days, I'm not really into too much of the other fandoms you do but I'm still here 🥰✨

Can I ask for a ship from bbc sherlock and mcu if you don't mind 😊

info:

Female. 23. Christian. Irish. Librarian. No ship preference. Asexual (romance yes, sex no). Hufflepuff. INFJ. Kind of reclusive thanks to trauma induced mental illness, I am better now though but I feel like I missed on some social skills 🤷‍♀️ love language is gift giving (I looove buying stuff for people cuz I get to shop with a little less guilt cuz hey its not for me hahaa), quality time, touch (will take a long ass time for me to be comfortable with touch cuz trust issues 🙃). I live for vintage things, reading and small old cafes. 30s-40s vintage era is my fav but also 70s. Really want to go to see Barbra Streisand live someday. Fav authors are Agatha Christie and Tolkien. Hobbies: reading, sewing, trying to make vintage inspired clothes, rewatching the same comfort movies and shows, music, walking. Tony Bennett and Lady Gaga 😍 foo fighters, avril lavigne, tøp, violet orlandi, doris day, judy g. Would like to learn a new language someday and calligraphy. I love handbags and tea cups and alice in wonderland and the secret garden. I think that's enough info I don't really know what else to say

✨ 💙 ✨ ✨ ✨congratulations✨ ✨ ✨💙 ✨

Thank you! Wow yeah that is a while lol. Sorry I don't write for it much anymore :/ but I'm amazed and thankful that you stuck around! <3 <3

I hope you like your ships :)

BBC Sherlock:

I ship you with Sherlock!

You two would definitely have a slow-burn relationship. You became companions fairly easily, but were slow to friendship. Once you spent more time together you warmed up to each other slowly, learning the intricacies of each other, and slowly fell for each other.

Sherlock is not a physical type per se so he would never pressure you to do anything you weren't comfortable with. He is perfectly fine just spending time with you, whether is be sitting around the house, reading, playing music, etc. Or walking around the city together. He doesn't need anything but you by his side.

Even if Sherlock doesn't need anything, he knows your main love language is gift-giving, so he knows each time you buy him something, it is you telling him you love him. So, he never rejects a gift, and even if he doesn't need it he keeps it. It now holds a sentimentality to it that he will protect.

Runner Up Ship: John Watson

-------

MCU:

I ship you with Steve.

Though Steve doesn't mind being physical he is perfectly fine with not being as well. When/if you get to the point you are comfortable with physical touch he will be ready and very caring and gentle as to not cause you any discomfort.

He loves that you like vintage things (he jokes that this is the only reason you love him). He enjoys exploring genres of music, and you two introduce your favorites to each other.

Steve loves spending quality time with you, so he loves going on long walks and having movie nights. He will also buy you gifts when he sees something that reminds him of you (he buys you flowers once a week, and sometimes comes back with an actual plant)

Runner Up Ship: Vision

[lostcybertronian]

The Author’s Night Vale- Part Three

Written by @thepoolofthedead ugh they did such a good job with this.

---

Author leaned back in his office chair, lost in thought, his secrets having been kept by the good doctor. Dark suspected something. He’d doubled down the security since their little chat in the hallway; one of the Googles always seemed just a step behind, invading his privacy in the most annoying way possible. He hadn’t dared go back to the Old Oak door, not with them following him around. 

He’d try to write them away, forcing them into a nightmare of their own making, only for the Jims to appear, far worse than the dead-eyed glares of Google Blue, or the silent scowls of Red.

He spun in his chair, idly glancing around at what had once been a recording studio. The hotel notepad sat in his lap, and he drummed his pen against it. He came to a stop slowly, his eyes landing on a dusty old radio, tucked away on a high shelf. A grin appeared on his face as he stood up, brushing aside the cobwebs and dust and plucking up the ancient-looking device. He tucked the notepad and the pen into his pocket, carrying the machine out of his studio and through the library, studiously ignoring the android sitting by the fireplace. Green only fixed him with a blank stare, his eyes flashing as he reported back to Blue.

“Author?” Green called out as he swept out of the library. The Author gave him no mind, and even made sure to kick the door shut for good measure when he heard the android’s footsteps approaching.

“Author, stop!” Green’s voice was muffled through the thick wood but the Author only ignored it as he broke into a run, cutting down hallways and through doors. He needed to be alone, but Dark wouldn’t let him. He could fix that.

A left, a right, down a set of stairs, another left, through a set of double doors, where the chemical stench of antiseptic and the steady chirps of heart monitors were waiting to greet him.

He smiled and nodded to the nurse. She responded in kind before disappearing behind a curtain, knowing better than to ask questions when any of the facility occupants entered the clinic. 

He clutched the radio like a lifeline as he opened Edward’s office door. “Batteries. Do you have some?”

There came a scoff behind him; he glanced back at Green, who glared at him with nothing less than murder in his mechanical glowing eyes. He even seemed offended as his gaze shot to the old radio, a clearly inferior piece of technology.

“And you didn’t ask your bodyguard first?” Edward asked casually, glancing up from his work, amused. Nonetheless he got up, crossing to a cabinet labeled “Misc.” and pulling out a cardboard box sagging with a couple dozen batteries. “What kind?”

“Uh,” The Author leaned over to squint at the piles of batteries. “Those big round ones. Four of ‘em.”

Edward rifled through the box, producing four C batteries and handing them over to the Author, who eagerly set the radio down on the desk and began jamming them into the back.

Both ignored the glowering Green, even as one android quickly became two, and two androids became all four Googles standing in Edwards office while the Author worked the dials. 

Static was all he got as he dialed through MegaHertz. He strained his ears, watching the number roll higher on the radio dial. He kept going, frowning when there was still only static.

Nothing, location: Edwards Office, He scribbled in his notepad, which lay on the desk just out of view of prying eyes. His abilities circled him as he stood. “Well, thanks for trying.”

“Sure.” Edward shrugged. “Hope you find what you’re looking for. Now get out of my office. Take your robots with you.”

“Half the fun is the thrill of the hunt.” The Author grinned and blew him a kiss before snatching up the radio and his notepad and spinning. “Come Googles, to the lobby!” 

He glanced back as only Red and Yellow followed. He jerked his head back toward the other two. “What’s with them? Not what floats their boat?”

“It’s shift change,” Yellow said, “and I was curious. What are you looking for?” He nodded to the radio.

“A certain station, I had a dream.” The foyer was dirty and ill-used, as usual; dust motes floated through the air, and what little afternoon sunlight managed to get through the dust-covered windows glinted off the broken mirror hanging off the far wall.

The Author looked at it. Three similar faces looked back; the Googles, of course, were identical, merely aged versions of his own face. The Author stood in silence. How much did they really know? Did they know why everyone in the office looked the same? Did they know that there were others like them? 

A shadow flitted through the mirror, as if sensing his inner turmoil. The faceless shadow slammed silent fists and silent screams against the cracked glass.

He set the radio on the table under the mirror, repeating the process from before, except this time all that came through was a distorted voice, crackling and mostly gone: do not trust the demon. Do not trust the demon.

The Author glared at the shadow in the mirror. “You’re not helping.” Then, he scrawled, shadow entity pleading for help, investigate later. Location: Foyer/ Lobby into his notepad.

When he turned, he was alone; the androids were gone, evaporated into the dust hovering idly in the air. With a cautious step forward as he looked up the stairwell and to the balcony, where there was no one at all. The house-turned-facility was oddly silent. 

He grabbed the radio and notepad, scribbling notes quickly. His footsteps echoed as he ventured up the stairs, ducking through doorways and halls, stopping to listen for any other occupants of the manor.

He paused, backtracking to where his own bedroom door was. In the place of the sleek mahogany door was a weathered oak door that looked like it'd be at home in one of his novels. He approached, his hand on the door knob. A click greeted him, and the doorknob turned with a rusted squeak and opened to allow him through into an all-too familiar sandy desert.

The quiet static of the radio suddenly became a smooth, alluring voice and the Author jumped, spinning to find that the door had closed behind him. 

“-Welcome to Night Vale.” The voice purred. There was a pause during which all that could be heard was music, then the voice continued, “Perhaps we are all part of a greater story, one that doesn't revolve around us. Or maybe it does. Perhaps we are nothing more than words on a page. Now, my dear listeners, allow me to read these words off the page that just appeared on my desk: Necessary. Evil. Enabled. Damage. Nudge. Ego. War. Monsters. Avenge. Never. Anger. God. That is all. Perhaps it is a code of some sort.  Perhaps it is a warning, or the telling of a war beyond our understanding, one of monsters and gods. Now, onto town news, the new Mayor Pamela [error noise] wants to congratulate the man or being who took out the escaped Librarian early this morning. Thank you for your service.” 

Author walked, following the radio signal as it got louder, listening to the man named Cecil talk through the speakers. Occasionally, the man talks about the Author, describing him to a T, describing every moment, every thought. 

The Author entered the town wondering if this was what his victims felt like; a voice narrating every move he made, a mounting sense of dread and curiosity. He went up the steps of the building with the radio tower on top of it, pushing the door open to a few half-hearted shouts of “interloper!”

He glanced around the rather open building. A girl? No, a person, the Author decides, is sitting at what looks like a secretary desk. 

They smiled up at him as he approached, then at the radio, now playing a jazzy beat. “The weather sounds pretty good today.”

“Yeah,” the Author agreed, then leaned forward. “I was hoping to inquire about the new management position-”

 He jerked as a man burst through the recording studio door. He looked normal enough at first glance, and, to Author’s relief, nothing like the man who created him.

“You have returned, stranger,” the man said, sounded almost giddy. A third eye blinked open at the center of his forehead, purple and staring. “The Author, correct?”

“The one and only.” The Author offered his hand. 

Cecil ignored it completely. “Cecil Baldwin. Can I get a statement?”

The Author considered this. “Well, I am new in town-”

“I doubt that!” Cecil chuckled and headed back toward the door, where he turned and paused. “What’s your name again?”

The Author blanked. “Author” was the only name he’d ever known, but-

“Mark,” he answered finally. “My name is Mark.”

Cecil grinned conspiratorially, like he'd been let in on a joke. “Intern Alex, please take care of Mister Mark,” he said, before disappearing once more into the studio.

The door clicked shut, and a moment later the radio flipped back to Cecil's voice. “My dearest Listeners, you'll never believe what just happened,” he said excitedly, “you know the man-- yes, that man. Imagine him in your mind-- who has been traveling through the desert? He is here. In the studio! Can you believe it? He claims to be new, though we all know no one is ever new to our little town. But Welcome to Night Vale anyway, Mister Author, and we do hope you enjoy your custom-made Night Vale experience. Please remember to drop by the mayor's office to fill out your ‘new citizen’ paperwork, or I fear we will never see you again.”

“Right this way Mister Author.” Intern Alex-- the Author guessed that it was Intern Alex who was speaking to him now, considering the slightly blood-spattered pin and t-shirt they wore-- said They led him down a hall, past a wall of glass, where, from behind it, Cecil shot them a thumbs up as they passed. Soon, they found themselves facing a looming door with a black plaque labeled Office Management.

Author surveyed it for a moment, then said with a grin, “this is perfect. Thank you.”

“Sure,” Intern Alex replied, “no problem.” He left the Author standing there, presumably to head back to his desk. The Author did not watch him go, so he wouldn’t know.

“Perfect,” he said to himself, and reached for the doorknob.

[therapardalis]

honorhearted​:

-

Ben scoffed, though he was smiling. “Fair enough. I’ll keep that in mind.” He certainly lacked common sense when it came to her, though he wouldn’t admit that aloud. Yet given the sly glint to her eyes, she undoubtedly already knew…

Thera fell back enough to be in step with him, and subconsciously, he tightened his hand around his saber. Sometimes, Ben had to remind himself to not touch, no matter how tempting, lest someone see a gentle grazing of their fingertips, or his hand at the small of her back.

Thera laughed then, and something in his chest grew warm, as it always did at the sound of her mirth. Though when her teasing assessment reached him, Ben drew a hand over his chest in mock disbelief. “Me?” he asked. “Am I truly that helpless? I’d say I have at least half my inhibitions whenever I’m around you…though that number seems to be dwindling by the day. Do you ever intend to return them?” Here, his fingertips lightly grazed her elbow before returning to his sword, the brief moment of contact far too much to resist.

The thought of annoying Caleb was admittedly a plus (especially after all the damnable teasing he’d had to endure as of late), and Ben grinned, nodding as assent. Though once Thera spoke of the officers’ quarters, his face warmed from both the implication and the very fond, vivid memories he replayed quite often.

All night? Oh…

Trying not to get too ahead of himself, Ben replied, “I suggested the barn since I thought you might enjoy seeing the animals…however, there are also plenty of animals to be had at the officers’ quarters, too.” It had been a bad joke – terrible, in fact – and he glanced at her sidelong before flashing a smile. “I believe most of the officers are detained for the day, so there is the risk of one or two of the rooms being occupied. However, I’m fairly certain our room would be available.”

Our room… Perhaps he shouldn’t refer to it as that. And yet in his mind, it was theirs – it was where he’d first discovered comfort through touch… the feeling of being wanted and loved. With a slight pink to his cheeks, he assured her, “We can certainly try there again, if you’re willing to risk it. I’m sure I could come up with a good enough excuse, were we to run into someone. You are a librarian, after all, and I like to learn.”

Any lack of sense she might be causing, Thera was prepared to cover for, if not make good. The relationship between herself and Ben was new, particularly for him, and though they’d jumped the first rather subtantial hurdle, it was a bit of an obstacle course now. Whatever they wanted to do, would like to do, was always hovered over by secrecy and propriety - the first helping to prop up the appearance of the other.

All in all, and remarkably for the time, it was Ben who had more to lose from discovery than she did; she’d been scowled at and called ill-names often enough before (and in fact already was, depending which corner of the camp you were listening to), and it was mostly water off her back.

Ben, however ... she didn’t want to think what damage could be done to his already tenuous authority if they were found out.

“I’ll let you take some of them out for a stroll during work-time, how about that? A bit like borrowing a book.” Her smile flicked toward him before being muffled once again - only to break out in open laughter again at the assessment of his fellow officers. “Personally, I find actual animals to be much better behaved!”

Rather like Caleb, who would likely wail to the heavens about sacrilege being committed in his boat, but then congratulate his friend on the side. But as to the rest ... she didn’t have to look to know there would be colour in Ben’s cheeks and thoughts racing in his eyes. It was heartening that all the intelligence and calculation he put toward his work he also gave to their time together.

Rather flattering, in fact.

As was ‘our room’. A warmth began to tickle in her belly at the words, another smile refusing to be kept down. “An excuse would be the easy part.” She had one in mind already, as it happened, that should work nicely, “Provided I keep myself properly dressed until we’re in the room this time.”

A teasing bait? Oh yes. Another inhibition tweaked away? Maybe.

“It more depends on your schedule, and when you can get the time free.”

[lemondice]

Guest post: Mia!

This week, I thought it would be fun to have my bandmate in Lemon Knife and girlfriend in lemon life, Mia Blixt-Shehan, write a post for some variety.  I asked her to write about her favorite bands and how they influenced her work in Lemon Knife, and you can read her post right below:

So, I’m a Guest Writer for a blog! Exciting times! Really! Look, I’ve had this title exactly once before (https://www.writebynight.net/news-events/wfpl-rats/), where I made the interesting (read: ill-informed) decision of pawning off the first chapters of a thirteen-year-old novel—by which I mean I was thirteen years old when I tried to write the stinking thing (what was I doing trying out novel writing at thirteen?)—about the coming of age of a group of British sewer rats who decide to migrate to America in the era of Beatlemania…???...to promote a now-defunct blog under a now-defunct nom de plume. I’ll gladly take my second chance to appear on someone else’s blog without completely exposing the gaps once filled by my long-lost tween-aged marbles, thanks very much!

Well, anyway…of course, I have a bit of a personal attachment, to understate things—the blog’s author is my dear bandmate and partner, John, so I, Mia, am here to write about my top three favorite musical artists and how they made a mark on the excellent duo that is Lemon Knife! I hope you enjoy my stop by and learn a few things as well. Here we go, lowest- to highest-ranked:

3. Muse

Sing in me, Muse, and through me tell the story of the air raid siren with the bass. Lowercase—The Air Raid Siren is the formidable Bruce Dickinson, obviously, I can’t take that title. But I’d be an effective red alert nonetheless—“EEEEEEVAAAAAACUUUUUUAAAAAAAATE IT’S A MOOOOOOOOONSOOOOOON!!!!”…new Lemon Knife lyric?

Before my love affair with the Muse discography began just five or so years ago, however, I wasn’t an air raid siren but a coffee shop bulletin board flyer. At this point I’d finally become semi-comfortable with my instrumental abilities, in specific circumstances, anyway, but I was still terrified of singing louder than, like, 25 decibels. I knew my voice was imperfect and didn’t really want to use it for much. The potential use of my vocal imperfections finally clicked on the fateful day where I heard the Black Holes and Revelations album for the first time (of at least ninety since). Loosely recommended by a visiting librarian when I was a library page, it was something I remembered only by fate on my usual very long train ride to college one day—“sure, let’s stream this thing, this train is stuck and I’ve got nothing better to do!” And there it was, as I sat spellbound through the opening track, “Take a Bow”—I was listening to a voice I hadn’t heard the likes of before, though I couldn’t quite place how it was so distinctive at the time. This was something greatly commanding and uniquely beautiful, and something that evoked copious amounts of whatever song’s emotion without sacrificing the ability to sound genuinely stinking good, and I wanted to know how it was done straight away. And so, after the last notes of “Knights of Cydonia” had died away, I set to figuring out the keeper of that voice—the magnificently brilliant Matt Bellamy—and diving into the music and generally obsessing over every recording I could unearth on my lengthy train rides. Good college pals, Muse were…

In the depths of my weekly Muse analysis (weekly classes, you know) I also became fascinated with the instantly recognizable bass work in the band, granted to the listener by the utterly fantastic Chris Wolstenholme. This isn’t your typical fuzz bass by any means. It’s got every amount of effect manipulation and gear tweaking and all—the—pedals—yet it’s combined with a great and distinctive technique that ensures that unlike that of too many other bands of their era and just before it (looking at you, Green Day!), their bass will almost certainly never become a lesser part of the music. It was here that I heard about another distorted bassist that was openly inspired by Muse and took it to the next level—he was Mike Kerr, the sole melodic instrument (well, besides vocals!) in a little band called Royal Blood. And it was THERE that I realized that bass/drum duos could be a thing…and…well…what do you think happened next?

2. The Who

We’re going a pretty hefty step up in influence here—I wouldn’t be a fuzz bassist and air raid siren vocalist without Muse, but I wouldn’t be a musician at all without The ‘Orrible ‘Oo.

It’s a story I’ve told countless times and will forever retell: Right around the extremely tender age of five, I came across a VHS (remember those?!) of the original Who rockumentary, decades before the squeaky-clean presentation of Amazing Journey—I speak of The Kids Are Alright. Familial lore dictates that the music of Neil Young was an immediate sedative when I was kicking hard in the womb, but a few years out of it, this was the first time I’d been exposed to music so raw and raucous and explosive…literally and figuratively. It had clearly seeped into my underdeveloped brain as an obsession grew through the years. (The first piano chords I learned outside of classical training were the ones in “Baba O’Riley,” at my independent request.)

At thirteen—oh, yeah, when I was also trying to write a novel about rats!—I got my first guitar. I took a few lessons for some months with a couple of fantastic tutors and then I was off on my own with a self-prescribed in-depth study of acoustic Who songs. I can’t imagine I was a particularly typical student, because from the very beginning I had absolutely no interest in learning to Van-Halen-shred and very little in the Gilmour bend, even though I greatly admired both—I was in deep with the Townshend -sus4 chords and vicious pick attack. To this day my right hand is ridiculously gritty with sets of both six and four strings, more so with my choice of using coins as plectrums (we’re about to get to that). Eventually I decided to abandon soloist peer pressure entirely and focus hard on rhythmic playing and making songs melodically interesting, which, filtered through The Who, greatly informed my later interests in both musical composition and the deep dive into bass. Rock composition came easily—much easier than lyricism, then and now—after spending so much time with my head in the Who discography, with the instantly recognizable chord structures and ever-expanding boundary-pushing within songwriting (flailing rhythm guitar! Lead bass guitar! ARP-2600s! Rock operas!!), and my decision to pursue bass was solidified by John Entwistle, the band’s resident Ox and my four-string hero to this very day.

1. Queen

Oh, buddy! This is it! This is the point of the article where we start really jumping up and down about things—like, if you thought those other two entries were fanatical, well, ohhhh, buddy!!

Queen! Yes! The greatest band on Earth, then, now, and onward. Well—to me. It’s all subjective, I’m aware. But the greatest band on Earth. Really. Here are four guys that took rock by its legs, stood it on its head, and spun it around until the very soul of it was changed for good. The way I see it, there are two schools of musical artists in the current era—the ones that mostly grew up on everyone else in the 1970s, and the ones that mostly grew up on Queen. You can always tell who they are if you have the innate sense, which often comes to you by being a fellow Queen fan. The Struts. Fun. (fun., actually.) Mika. The Killers. And in news that should surprise no one reading this, three of the most obvious Queen fans in music make up Muse. They can’t be understated.

Let’s look at this further—what did we have here? The most “duh” answer first—we had the greatest frontman in the history of any style of music, I’d venture to say, in Freddie Mercury. Need I say more about him—really?!? We had a bassist that told miniature stories within his prominent sound in John Deacon. We had Roger Taylor, the human drummer who was “more reliable than a drum machine,” the primary utterer of THOSE harmony high notes, and, as it turned out, probably the most experimentally minded member of the band if his solo career is any indication. And last but most certainly not least, we had a guitarist who literally crafted one of the most immediately known tones in rock with his bare hands (from a fireplace!) and pushed every boundary of the instrument in Brian May. Whose musical presence, by the way, essentially saved my life way back when. (I was about to say that there should be shirts made with the statement “Brian May Saved My Life” on them, but I immediately recognized how terrible of an idea that would actually be, although I wanted it known that it passed through my brain, so yup, here’s a parenthetical on it. Voila.) Many apprehensive people who eventually get into music see themselves for the first time in a tough-as-nails leather-clad punk goddess, or a platform-wearing out-and-proud queer, or a genre-blending, every-line-crossing, overall bad-arse POC. I saw myself in a frizzy-haired nerrrrrrrd equally inclined to embroil himself in academics (astrophysics in his case, anthropology and library science in mine) and jet onstage to make himself very known in a rock band. A convincing argument to be sure.

Okay! That was a while. It was. I hope it wasn’t too much of a while. If you made it here, congratulations—and thank you! Lemon Knife is a happy endeavor indeed—maybe we’ll see you at a show!!