#I resist the temptation to block them and or call them out for their behavior

[hollyhomburg]

This is not directed at anyone in particular and certainly not the people who reach out via ask anonymously- but sometimes someone will comment on a later chapter of BILY and I will have absolutely no clue who they are, like actually have never seen their @ before in my life, and I have to resist the urge to just comment “who the fuck are you and what are you doing in my house?”

[josnashak69]

Shake the evolution of rogue advertising

Many users are disgusted by the so-called "shake ads". So how did this type of advertising come about in the mobile Internet era? In this article, the author tries to start with electronic psoriasis and talk about the evolutionary HE Tuber history of rogue Internet advertisements. Let’s take a look at the story of this article.

Electronic psoriasis makes full use of the characteristics of the mobile Internet and places every advertisement on the user's usage behavior.

Recently, I don’t know how many students have been confused by the “Shake” advertisement just like me. Just open an app, and out of nowhere, the next step will be cyber teleportation, and you will be transported to the shopping platform from where you were.

In previous open-screen advertisements, the close button was made very small and had to be clicked carefully, otherwise it would be accidentally pressed. Now it’s better, you don’t even need to touch it. The moment you open the app, you have to keep the phone balanced for fear of triggering the gyroscope.

There are also all kinds of tempting little advertisements when watching videos, especially those birds that keep chopping down trees, whoever you choose at the start will be wrong, looking for unreasonable places in the 80s in the picture, etc. .

The key is that I still can't resist the temptation. I click in every time to take a look, and then I watch 30s of ads every now and then.

This kind of electronic psoriasis has become a feature of the current Internet. Whenever you go online, you cannot escape or avoid it.

In this issue, I would like to start with electronic psoriasis and talk about the evolutionary history of rogue advertisements on the Internet.

01

As the name suggests, the spiritual guide of e-psoriasis is "urban psoriasis",

 which is the illegal posting of small advertisements scrawled on telephone poles, stations, public toilet doors, and shared bicycle seats.

"Urban psoriasis" has a long history and diverse content, ranging from violent debt collection, to loan sharking, to men hiding their secrets, to paying large sums of money to have children, covering most of China's gray industrial chain. Even if you have no need for the above services, these things are plastered all over the streets and alleys, which affects the appearance of the city and is unsightly.

From these two levels, electronic psoriasis is indeed of the same origin.

Old Internet users like me who have been surfing since the dial-up Internet era may have personal experience. In the early years of surfing the Internet, encountering pop-up advertisements was as inevitable as encountering electric cars running around when driving.

When you click on a website, the first thing that comes into view is often not the web page content, but a huge advertisement, completely covering up what you want to see.

Some pop-up advertisements are designed very carefully, such as car advertisements, which will have a flash effect of a car swiping past on the screen. Some ads directly capture your basic humanity, showing a scantily clad beauty or something like that.

In my opinion, this kind of pop-up advertisement that only blocks the content of the web page is relatively moral. Most of them will also show you a close button, and they are more common on regular websites. If you accidentally click on some less visible websites, five, six, seven or eight new web pages will pop up directly for you. The content of each web page is indescribable and leads directly to various pornographic online gambling platforms.

What's even scarier is that they not only pop up web pages,

 but these web pages also have sounds, and the content of the sounds is even more indescribable. If you don't have headphones and your parents happen to be at home, you'll probably have to pay some explanation costs.

At this time, the best excuse is: the computer seems to be infected with a virus.

Don’t ask me how I know, who hasn’t been young before?

But to disturb people, pop-up ads are really effective. Some media have calculated for a long time that in terms of conversion rate, this method of forcing you to watch ads may be more than ten times higher than other non-forced ads. Because the effect is so good, pop-up ads are basically the first generation of electronic psoriasis kings.

In addition to pop-up ads, there is another type of ancient electronic psoriasis that is also very disgusting, called hover ads, which can be hovered in the corner of the page and will not disappear even if you slide the web page. They are visible throughout.

Although this kind of hover advertisement does not force you to watch the advertisement, and it does not affect your browsing of the web, there are many cool operations you can do.

For example, it will float around on the page to create a sense of presence, or directly turn your mouse pointer into an advertisement.

There are also hover ads that are rich in content. For example, when you killed a pig and exploded equipment for 999, I would really spend a few seconds to read it.

The most disgusting hover ad is when you think it will stay in the corner of the screen, but when you want to click on the page, the ad will teleport under your cursor, and then a new window will pop up. Congratulations, you are It completed another click.

But this method gradually becomes difficult to use in the mobile Internet era.

02

At the beginning, the mobile Internet was still in the barbaric era, and many businesses directly transplanted the gameplay from the web era and guided users to download apps.

 Especially middle-aged and elderly people who are new to smartphones are very hard to guard against.

 If they are not careful, there will be 80 more apps on their phones.

As the Internet industry merges vertically and horizontally and continues to integrate, traffic that was originally scattered on different websites begins to aggregate into some large platforms. For example, Taobao and JD.com have killed off a lot of vertical shopping websites, video websites have become a competition between several large companies such as Aiyouteng, and a large number of portals have become a competition between a few news websites, and the head effect has become more and more serious. It's becoming more and more obvious.

The world has changed, and it would be disrespectful to take the wild road again. Everyone comes out just to make money, there is no need to do shady business all day long. Now I have traffic, but no good way to monetize it. Since you have a need for advertising, why not sit down and talk.

Since we want to come ashore with a clear conscience, we can't be too rogue, and we must abide by the rules. Since this is a business run by our own app, we don’t want to call it psoriasis. If it doesn’t sound good to others, just call it “resource position”.

Thus, electronic psoriasis, which is more suitable for babies playing with mobile phones, was born.

[omg-snakes]

Do you have any tips on getting a very young baby snake to eat? I didn't produce said baby, but she maybe isn't as well started as I would have liked. She's about a month old and has had two meals according to the seller. I've had her for about a week and she's refused twice now but is otherwise looking and acting healthy. She's in a small quarantine bin with two dedicated hides, a water bowl and fake plants for clutter. I have two sides and the top of the bin blocked out to offer additional sense of security. Heat mat is on a thermostat and is currently keeping the ambient temps dead center of the temperature range, with one hide sitting on the mat reaching a few degrees warmer

Hey friend!

First off, a stinky-face at the breeder who didn't ensure that a baby was eating reliably prior to sale and didn't offer any tips on ensuring that your little one acclimated easily once they got home. That's not very cash money of them.

Second, it sounds like a change of scenery might just have been a little jarring and your baby needs some help feeling like they're at home.

My go-to method for ensuring that a little one eats is as follows:

Get a small container with a lid. A clean repurposed yogurt container, a 4-ounce sauce cup from the deli, or the travel cup your baby snake came in are all great choices. If the container is airtight, poke air holes! If none of these are available, you can also use a small paper lunch sack use a paperclip to keep it closed. The idea here is to provide a small space with no distractions.

Put your baby snake into the container gently and close the lid. Let them hang out in there to get comfy for 5-10 minutes.

While they're relaxing, get your thawed pinky very hot. Dip just the head in nearly-boiling water for a few seconds.

Using a clean pin or small scissors, poke a little hole in the top of the head of your hot pinky. Brains are mostly fat, and fat = flavor. Baby snakes, just like baby humans, gravitate towards fatty, flavorful, calorie-dense foods. No need to squeeze or anything gross like that, just a little hole will do.

Drop the hot poked pinky into your container and close it up. You can put the container back in their enclosure if it'll fit or just set it somewhere quiet where it won't be disturbed.

Walk away for 30 minutes. Resist the temptation to hover. Go watch an episode of your favorite TV show or read a chapter of your latest book or take a walk or have a snack.

Check back after 30 minutes. If the food is still not inside your snake, leave them alone to think about their choices for a whole hour.

It's rare that a baby will take longer than an hour and a half to eat, so at this point if they haven't touched their food you can call it and try again in 3-4 days.

You can also try offering live if you have that option, or reach out to the breeder and ask what conditions the baby ate under previously and try to match that.

As long as their body condition is good and they're maintaining weight, you can keep this up until they finally get the hint and start eating reliably. If they lose 2 whole grams and/or start to look emaciated, develop any noticeable lumps inside their body that aren't food, or display a sudden behavioral shift such as biting or flailing when they were previously chill, schedule an appointment with your veterinarian for help.

I hope your little one gets with the program and starts focusing on their continued growth and development!

[quickspinner]

Not Exactly a Loophole (but he'll take it)

Luka's got a crush on one of his regulars, but there's just one problem. His mom may not be big on rules, but when it comes to her bar Nanarchy's, the few she has are nonnegotiable--including the rule that employees are not allowed to ask out patrons. With Juleka also pining for a cute customer, Luka's determined to find a loophole...but the universe seems to have its own plans.

Rating: T (mostly for language)

This one is a belated birthday gift, but not for me--for the lovely @mamanabeille! It was meant to be a meet cute featuring EMT Marinette, but bartender Luka kinda stole the spotlight, so it didn’t quite come out like I intended, but I hope you all (and especially MA!) enjoy it anyway! 

The bar was nearly empty the first time she walked in, but Luka was sure he would have noticed her in the craziest crowd. She paused in her approach to the bar when she saw him, but when Luka gave her a friendly smile and simply asked what he could get her, she came the rest of the way over and slid onto a stool, ordering her drink in a quiet, hesitant voice, pulling out her wallet.. 

“I thought Juleka was working tonight,” she said as he took her card and opened a tab for her. 

“She will be.��� He glanced at the clock. “In about an hour.” 

Her eyes widened slightly. “An—“ She frowned, pulling out her phone, and then something seemed to click and she folded her arms, pouting, as he set up to mix her drink. Luka felt like pouting, too, over the fact that Juleka had seen her first. She was really cute.

“They told me the wrong time,” she grumbled. “Because they thought I would be late. Which means I nearly killed myself getting home to change and get back here for nothing .” 

“Not for nothing,” Luka said easily. “Juleka’ll be here in an hour. We’re not busy, I don’t mind if you camp out. You look amazing, I’m sure she wouldn’t want to miss you.” 

She looked a little confused for a moment, and then her eyes went round and she touched her fingertips to her soft red mouth. “Oh, n-no, I’m not, uh—I mean I don’t um—“

Luka winked at her. “It’s okay, I won’t tell her anything.” 

“Rose!” she squeaked, waving her hands so frantically that Luka instinctively slid her drink out of the way. “I’m friends with Rose! She wanted to come while Juleka was working, and I had a—a bad experience at the bar I used to go to, and she said that kind of thing doesn’t happen here, and a bunch of us were supposed to meet up so Rose could fli—TALK! To Juleka and the rest of us could have a drink and hang out in peace but they gave me the wrong time because I’m late for everything, but for once I’m not late and now I’m stuck here with you and—“ She slapped a hand over her mouth and looked so horrified that Luka could only laugh. 

“Well, Rose is right, we don’t allow any kind of disrespectful behavior here, my mom’s very strict about it. She values Nanarchy ’s reputation as a safe space and she’s very particular about it. I promise you, being her son wouldn’t excuse me from an ass-kicking if I was inappropriate with you, or stood by while anyone else was, so feel free to hang out and wait for your friends.” He picked up another glass, flipped it in his hand before scooping it full of ice, and then he filled it with water and set it in front of his reluctant customer. “My name’s Luka, just let me know if you need anything.” 

He lingered long enough for her to smile tentatively back at him, and then busied himself far enough away from her that she wouldn’t feel crowded, setting up the wells and making sure everything was stocked and topped off before the rush started. 

Marinette nursed her drink and pouted, annoyed with her friends for wasting her time this way. Sure, she was always late, but her job was demanding and she wasn’t always in control of when she was able to leave. She couldn’t just ditch Adrien to handle it all, that would be mean. As it was, she’d been late leaving her shift today, and she had scrambled home to get home and get herself presentable and get here in time. 

Then she walked in, triumphantly on time and not even in her work clothes, and those losers she called friends weren’t even here! And then she got all confused and tongue-tied and practically preemptively accused the cute bartender of harassment, even though in two minutes of conversation she could tell that he wasn’t anything like that guy that ran Graham’s and—

She groaned quietly and dropped her head on her arms. 

Luka didn’t look back at her, but there was a slight quirk of his lips and the tiniest motion of his head in her direction that said he knew she was watching him. He set the two handful of beers he had just picked up on the bar in front of him and dipped a hand in his back pocket, coming out with a bottle opener spinning on one finger. He flicked the caps off the bottles in quick succession and then with another twirl, the bottle opener went back to his pocket like a six-shooter into a cowboy’s holster in some old western. Marinette giggled, and only then did he tilt his head in her direction and wink. 

Marinette squeaked and buried her suddenly red face back in her arms. She was pretty sure she heard a low chuckle from down the bar. 

Juleka walked in about forty-five minutes later. She took one look at Luka and asked, “What happened?” 

“Hmm?” Luka looked up at her from where he was slicing limes.

“That’s the dumbest grin I’ve ever seen on your face,” Juleka commented as she tied her apron on. “And that’s saying a lot. What gives?” 

“Nothing,” Luka said, resisting the temptation to squirt her with lime juice. It was too early in the evening to escalate that far. “I’m just in a good mood.” 

Juleka’s eyebrows raised. “You’re always in a good mood. You don’t always grin like a dope.” Luka opened his mouth to say something rude when they were both distracted by a surprisingly strong but very feminine voice carrying the length of the bar. 

“Luka!” Both of them looked down the bar to the pretty dark-haired lady waving at him (and wincing slightly as she realized how loud she’d been), and Luka’s grin grew wider as he waved a hand to acknowledge her. 

“I’ll get it,” Juleka said as he reached for a towel to clean his hands.

Luka took a step back to block her from getting around him. “Oh no you don’t. She’s my customer.” 

Juleka blinked at him in surprise and then smirked. “Oh. I see.” 

“You see nothing,” Luka told her, tossing the towel at her face as he made a beeline down the bar. “Back off. You can serve their table later, but while she’s at the bar, she’s mine.” 

“Never knew you were so possessive,” Juleka muttered, moving the towel aside with two fingers and dropping it into the dirty bin with a gesture of distaste. 

“Laugh it up, I’m gonna get you back soon,” Luka called back, and turned to his customer. “Doing all right? What can I get for you?” he asked, smiling as he leaned his hands on the bar in front of her. 

“My friends are almost here,” she said, setting her phone on the bar where he could see the message chain. “I was going to go ahead and order for them if that’s okay?” 

“Yeah, sure,” Luka said, looking at the list of drinks. When he was sure he had the order, he leaned back and smiled at her. “You can go find a table if you want, I’ll get the drinks ready and have Juleka bring them to you.” He winked, and she giggled. 

“That would be perfect. And...thanks, Luka,” she smiled, blushing a little, and he thought his heart was going to burst out of his chest. “My name’s Marinette, by the way. Which...you actually probably knew, because you opened my tab, um...” 

“I did,” he grinned, and began setting up glasses on the bar top. “But it’s nice to hear it from you.” Marinette gathered her things slowly; she’d spread out across the bar as she’d waited, with pens and a small notebook and a set of index cards with neat notes scattered across her part of the bar.

Luka pulled his mind to the task, picking up a jigger and flipping it in his hand. Realizing that Marinette was still watching him, he poured some liquor and then gave the jigger a flip around his hand as he made eye contact with Marinette. He had to chuckle when her eyes widened slightly and her face flamed up red. She forgot all about picking up her things as she watched him mix the drinks, and he struggled not to show off too much, amused at her fascination. He quirked an eyebrow at her and she suddenly remembered what she was supposed to be doing, and began picking her things up haphazardly. She reached for a pen, but knocked it with her fingers, sending it spinning off the back of the bar. 

“Oh, I’m so sorry—” she exclaimed just as Luka’s hand snapped out and caught it before it could fall to the floor. Fortunately he hadn’t been holding anything liquid at the time, and he hastily picked up the shaker he’d dropped on the bar and set it back upright before handing Marinette her pen back.

“It’s okay,” he said soothingly. “No big, Marinette. Relax.” 

She was staring at him, her blue eyes round, and slowly she took the pen back from him. “Thanks,” she whispered, and shrank a little, tucking the last few things in her purse.

“My pleasure,” Luka smiled. “Seriously, Marinette, you’re here to unwind. Don’t sweat the small stuff, okay? No pressure here. Just take your time.” He flipped a shaker up over his shoulder and caught it behind his back, and Marinette put her chin in her fist and pouted again. 

“How do you do that?” she asked enviously. “I’m such a klutz when I’m not focusing.” 

“Practice,” Luka shrugged. “I’ve been working here since I was old enough to be behind the bar, so. It’s not really anything special, but it makes pretty girls smile, so…” He grinned at her, and then motioned behind her. “Table six is the quietest, over there by the wall. I’ll have the rest of these done in just a minute, and—”

“Marinette!” someone squealed from the door and Luka chuckled. 

“—And there’s your friends,” he said, as Marinette turned and waved. 

She turned back and gave him a smile that nearly knocked him off his feet. “Thanks a bunch, Luka, really. You’ve been great.” 

“Any time,” he barely managed to answer, and had to swallow quickly afterwards. He mixed the rest of the drinks on autopilot, his eyes darting back to Marinette as she and her friends settled at their table. He saw the petite blond with her raise her hand and wiggle her fingers, and a quick glance down the bar showed him Juleka standing as if she had been hit in the back of the head with a board, a faint rosy color tinting her pale cheeks.

Luka grinned and loaded the cocktails on a tray before carrying them down to her. “These are for six,” he told her, and she looked at him stupidly. Luka smirked. “You know that saying about people who live in glass houses?” he grinned, nudging her arm before he headed back to the next customer waving for his attention. “Don’t drop anything,” he called back, and heard Juleka snort. 

***

Girls Night was no longer the trial that it used to be. Marinette loved everything about Nanarcy’s . Their aesthetic was cool and unique, their atmosphere was fun and chaotic in a controlled way, their live music nights were amazing, and they didn’t overpour, so everybody was only as drunk as they wanted to be at the end of the night. 

And their bartenders were hot. Rose was head over heels for the quiet, dark-haired Juleka, and Marinette was pretty well smitten by the kind, gentle man with the shaggy hair and the soft eyes, who never seemed to take offense no matter how many times she put her foot in her mouth. She’d never been as early as she had that first day, but she did rush just a little to beat the girls there, so that she could sit and talk to Luka for a bit before the rush hit. 

He was just so nice , and easy to talk to, and perceptive, and she always relaxed after a few minutes in his company.

Unfortunately Marinette couldn’t be early all the time, and the girls were already at their table and there was already a crowd at the bar before she arrived.

She stood on her tiptoes, looking over the crowd, and saw Luka about the same time he saw her. He flashed her a broad grin that set butterflies wild in her stomach. She gave him a small wave and then formed her fingers into a d, their sign that she was the designated driver tonight. She saw him nod, and started working her way through the crowd to the bar. 

Luka picked up his napkin and did that funny flick with his fingers that sent it spinning onto the bar right in front of her. Marinette really wanted to know how he did that, but his hand moved so fast she couldn’t follow it no matter how many times she watched him. She saw him chuckle at her pout as he flipped a tumbler in his hand, filled it with ice and soda water,  and then set it on the napkin. “Good to see you, Marinette,” was all he had time to say, but his warm, smooth voice still made her melt a little on the inside. 

She lingered at the bar for just a moment, watching him joke and banter as he flipped and spun bottles and tumblers and shakers, dropping them to catch behind his back, his movements all smooth and practiced. He’d told her once that what he did wasn’t actually that hard, but it still looked like magic to her. It had surprised her at first; he’d struck her as a quiet, laid-back kind of guy, not someone who enjoyed crowds and attention—but then she’d seen him play with the band one night, and understood. Luka might be quiet on his own, but in front of an audience, he was a performer, and if she’d thought what he did behind the bar was impressive, seeing him on stage with his guitar was, well...breathtaking. 

For all that flash, though, it was watching him shake a drink that made her go weak, eyes glued to the lines of his arms and the slight smirk on his face. Marinette picked up her soda and headed back to the girls’ table before she could embarrass herself by swooning on the bar. The girls gave her knowing looks when she arrived, but other than the smirks, they left her mercifully alone about her increasingly obvious crush. 

Marinette felt fortunate that Rose was more fun to tease (and safer; Rose didn’t flail and knock over drinks when she got flustered). Rose blushed and denied and then gave herself away by sighing dreamily as she looked at the tall girl behind the bar. Marinette couldn’t help covering a snicker with her hand, though as her gaze followed Rose’s, her traitorous eyes snapped straight to Luka. 

He seemed to be in some kind of one-up contest with his sister, the grin on his face positively wicked as he balanced a cocktail on a bar spoon on his forearm—which required to him to keep his arm flexed in a way that made the normally subtle swell of muscles along his arm much more obvious. Marinette groaned and leaned on Rose, who was peeking through her fingertips and trying not to squeal as Juleka rolled her eyes and set up a row of glasses in front of the bar. Twirling a bottle in each hand, Juleka smirked at Luka. Luka was good, but Juleka obviously outmatched him in this context. She was herself beautiful and elegant, with her hair tied back in a thick braid and perfectly done makeup that highlighted her fine bone structure. Her features were a little rounder than Luka’s sharp angles, and she was tall and slender without being as lanky as Luka. The pair of them together were unfairly attractive. 

Juleka’s motions at the bar were fluid and graceful, without any wasted movement, and she was fast . She filled the cocktails on the bar in front of her, mixing them up first and then stacking the shakers to pour all four glasses at once. Then she turned to Luka, plucked the glass off of his spoon with a lifted eyebrow, and set it on her tray, swinging it up onto her shoulder. Luka made a laughing gesture that was clearly I surrender , and Juleka smirked as she went around the side of the bar.

“She’s so beautiful,” Rose swooned into Marinette’s side, and Marinette smiled, bumping her shoulder into Rose, who just flopped in the other direction to drape herself over Mylene and sigh some more.  Marinette gave her friend an affectionate look, and then tried to school her expression as Juleka appeared at their table, setting cocktails in front of them with practiced ease and a quiet, “Welcome back,” with a subtle smile. Her eyes, though a different color, were as intense as Luka’s, and Marinette thought they stayed focused on Rose for a beat longer than the others. Then Juleka’s gaze flicked to Marinette’s drink and her eyebrows lifted slightly. “Refill?” she asked. 

“No thank you,” Marinette said automatically, and Juleka nodded. Those amber eyes flicked back to Rose as she set the last cocktail down in front of her. “Enjoy,” was all she said, but there was a subtle quirk of a smile to her lips, and Marinette could feel Rose freezing like a deer in the headlights at her side. Then Juleka was gone again, her heavy braid swinging behind her, before Rose could even think of anything to say back. 

“Ooh,” Rose moaned, frustrated, grabbing her drink. 

“Next time,” Mylene said consolingly, patting Rose’s arm. “It’s busy here tonight. I’m sure she’ll be back when there’s more time to chat.” 

That was true, Marinette thought, but still...they’d been coming here for weeks and things didn’t seem to be going anywhere. She’d thought Juleka was interested but maybe…

“You know what, I’ve changed my mind,” she said, picking up her glass and sliding out of her seat. “I think I do want a refill.”

“It just tastes better when Luka serves it,” Alix snickered, and Marinette pretended not to hear her as she made her way to the bar. She needed some answers, and maybe it was time to try the direct approach. 

Luka was hopeless, he knew, watching Marinette’s table out of the corner of his eye even as he teased Juleka. He didn’t care if it made sense or not; he was crazy into the girl, and her mere presence made him feel more alive. 

Juleka snatched his cocktail and Luka had to move quickly to catch the bar spoon and dump it in the bin. He waved Juleka off with a laugh and glanced back at the table again where Marinette was consoling her little blond friend, who was clearly suffering after Juleka’s display. That only made him grin wider. 

Luka allowed himself one lovesick sigh. Marinette was so beautiful, and he loved the way she put so much individuality into the way she dressed, and the contours of the muscles in her arms as she waved them about, talking with her hands. She was funny, and she was sweet, and she was smart , and every time she came in he entertained fantasies of quitting on the spot, confessing his love, and running off with Marinette in the rain (he wasn’t sure why it was always raining in his fantasies, but it seemed to fit her for some reason). His mom would probably forgive him. Eventually. 

Juleka would kill him though, and besides, he liked his job and he got to see Marinette almost every week. And...maybe he was a little bit chicken. Just a tiny bit. There was every chance that instead of falling into his arms and agreeing to run away with him, Marinette would be startled and freaked out and run away without him, and then he’d be out of a job with a broken heart in the bargain. Just because she liked joking around with him, and watching him (because he definitely didn’t miss her eyes on him, with as often as his were on her), didn’t mean she was interested in the reality of dating him—especially if he were suddenly jobless. 

So the fantasies would stay just that for now. 

Ugh, sometimes he really wanted to...hug his mother in a bone-crushing but loving way and tell her that for someone so hung up on freedom, her rules were a righteous pain in his ass. 

That would probably get him fired too. If you fire me, I’ll have to come live back at home with you , he mentally argued with his imaginary mother, but it didn’t work any better in his imagination than it would have in real life.

Unfortunately Juleka didn’t seem to be having any better luck than he did. Luka had a half-formed plan to call in a favor so he could get Juleka cut early, so that she could run into Rose on her way out and get around Anarka’s rules that way, when he was startled out of his thoughts by someone calling his name.

Luka was moving down the bar to smile at Marinette before he’d even fully processed that she was calling him, but the crease between her brows made him hesitate slightly. 

“Juleka didn’t get you a refill?” he asked, but Marinette shook her head. 

“I told her I didn’t need one, and then I changed my mind.” She set her glass on the table and nudged it towards him. “Also...well, I want to ask you something.” She shifted uncomfortably, and Luka swallowed as if that would keep the sudden butterflies in his stomach confined there.

“Anything,” he said glibly, with a smile that showed no trace of his nervousness. “What’s on your mind?” 

“Well, it’s just...do you think…” She glanced up at him shyly, and looked down, cheeks pinking. 

Luka leaned his elbows on the counter and lowered his head, cocking it slightly to show he was listening. His fingers laced together and squeezed tight in front of him.

“Does Juleka like Rose?” Marinette asked, glancing nervously back at their table. 

Luka blinked. “Ah…”

“Before you answer,” Marinette said quickly, turning back to him. “It’s just that Rose really, really likes Juleka, but Juleka hasn’t...well she does flirt some, but Rose isn’t sure, and...I just don’t want to be encouraging her to pursue something hopeless, so I’d really appreciate it if you’d tell me now if Juleka’s not interested in her. I won’t say anything to Rose, not directly, I just...if it’s not going to happen, I can maybe get her to—”

“It’s not hopeless,” Luka interrupted, trying not to laugh, though whether at his own stupidity or Rose and Juleka’s, he wasn’t sure. “It’s definitely not hopeless. The only thing hopeless is my poor little sister.”

“Oh,” Marinette breathed, and then smiled. “Okay then. I’ll tell Rose not to give up?”

“Definitely not,” Luka confirmed, straightening. “But we’re not allowed to ask out customers, so she’s either got to catch Juleka on off hours or make the first move herself. Mom’s a real stickler about it. I’d get in less trouble for being high on the job than hitting on a customer.”

“Oh,” Marinette’s eyes widened slightly. “Oh, I see. I...I guess that makes sense. And Rose hasn’t wanted to be creepy if Juleka was just…” She blushed, surprisingly intensely. “You know, being nice because it’s her job.” 

Luka snorted. “Juleka’s not nice.” 

Something hit the back of his head and Luka straightened to find Juleka glaring at him. “What are you saying about me, jerk?” she demanded, and Luka rolled his eyes, looking back at Marinette.

“See?” he grinned.

“Shut up and move,” Juleka grunted, shoving his arm until he stepped aside for her to get by. 

“Someone’s in a mood,” he called after her, and she turned her back to the bar and flipped him off where only he could see. 

“Rude,” he chuckled, and focused back on Marinette. “Look, I can’t speak for her, but as her brother...I don’t think your friend has anything to worry about, yeah?”

Marinette gave him a dazzling smile. “Thanks Luka. I really appreciate it.” 

“Anything for you,” he grinned automatically. 

“Send us another round for the table when you get a chance?” 

“Sure. I’ll have Jules drop it off.” He winked at her, and her smile got even brighter.

“Perfect.” She gave a happy little bounce before she hopped off the stool and went back to the table. Luka watched her go, and saw her look back at him over her shoulder. He sighed. 

“Dumbass,” he said to himself, shaking his head as he turned away to get their drinks ready.

Well, at least Juleka would be happy. If Rose still felt weird about asking her out, he could still try and get Juleka cut early the next weekend. Victor was always asking for more hours, surely he’d do Luka a favor if it meant weekend night tips…

Not that that helped Luka any. He looked back towards Marinette’s table and sighed. 

Well, he’d get his own chance eventually—or he’d make one, if he had to. 

***

“I’m missing girl’s night,” Marinette huffed, throwing herself behind the wheel. She was missing seeing Luka, she thought petulantly. Her one night a week to see him and she was missing it because Adrien had said something stupid to the person resonsible for their schedules, and she was his partner, so she was guilty by association.

“I said I was sorry,” Adrien sighed, hauling himself up into the passenger side of the ambulance.”

“Say it again,” Marinette grumbled. 

Adrien groaned, slumping into his seat. “I promise that I have never in my life been more sorry than I am at this moment, facing this whole shift with you in this mood.”

Marinette glared at him, but the radio called their attention. 

Their first few calls were simple enough, but the next one made Marinette suck in her breath sharply. 

“What?” Adrien asked, looking at her. 

“That’s my girls’ night bar,” Marinette breathed. “26-year-old male…it could be Luka...”

Adrien raised an eyebrow at her. “You want to pass it on?” he asked, not unkindly. 

Marinette shook her head. “Nobody else is even close. Let’s go, but you take lead if it’s—if it’s someone I know.”

“It’s probably not,” Adrien reassured her, flipping on the lights and sirens.

Marinette made a noncommittal noise, trying to ignore the cold weight that had settled in the pit of her stomach. Adrien put his hand on her shoulder and squeezed—and then braced himself as Marinette pulled out into traffic.  

When they walked into the bar, they had to shove their way through the crowd that had formed in a ring being kept back by a man and a woman wearing shirts that identified them as security. 

“Marinette!” Rose cried, waving at her with one hand, and for an instant, Marinette froze.

Luka was sitting in a chair, looking dazed. He kept trying to get up, but Juleka shoved him back down with one hand. Rose was pressing a blood-stained towel to his head. 

“Oh no,” Marinette murmured. Adrien squeezed her arm, and then moved past her, his stride purposeful. Marinette pulled herself together and followed, pressing her lips together. This was her job, after all, and she was good at it. It was just another call, and Luka would be fine.

Luka was confused as hell, and his brain didn’t quite feel connected to his body. He was vaguely aware that his head hurt, but he couldn’t seem to make sense of what was going on. He’d woken up on the floor, and then he’d nearly fallen when he tried to stand, and Juleka had shoved him into a chair and fluttered over him, alternately swearing at him and sounding at the edge of tears, and Luka still had no idea what was going on.

“What happened?” he asked.

“You’re a fucking idiot, that’s what happened,” snapped Juleka. “We have bouncers for a reason , dumbass.” 

“Bouncers?” Luka asked, bewildered. He blinked, trying to focus and clear the fog from his mind. The room didn’t seem to want to be still. It wasn’t spinning, exactly, just tilted to the left slightly. A flash of white crossed his vision and he focused on it for a moment, and then blinked again, still confused and sure he couldn’t be seeing what he was seeing. “Marinette?”

“Hey, Luka,” she smiled, leaning over him. 

Luka grinned. “Hi.” Then he frowned. “Thought you were working tonight.” 

“I am working,” Marinette said gently, pulling something out of her breast pocket, and Luka vaguely registered that the white he had seen was some kind of uniform shirt. Then he jumped slightly and blinked as she shone a light in his eyes. “He lost consciousness?” she asked, but then Luka was distracted from Marinette as someone else took his arm. He blinked down at a blond man that had knelt next to his chair and was pulling... stuff out of a bag beside him. 

“Yes,” Rose confirmed from somewhere behind him. 

“Luka, was it?” the blond man asked. “I’m Adrien. What’s the last thing you remember?”

“Kentucky sunrise,” Luka muttered. “Told Jules to keep an eye on the guy, he seemed shady.” 

“He was shady,” Juleka said, fingers squeezing on his shoulder. “He got nasty and I told him to leave, and he grabbed me, and then this idiot jumped the bar to come get involved and—it’s kind of a blur after that, but he got Luka in the head with a glass or a bottle or something.”

“Where’s the guy now?” Marinette asked. 

“Ivan’s got him in the back, waiting for the cops.” 

Luka tried to follow the conversation, but he couldn’t seem to concentrate for very long. Adrien started asking him questions, and Luka’s world greyed out a bit as he tried to focus enough to give the right answer. They seemed like really dumb questions, and Adrien kept touching Luka’s head where it hurt. Luka tried to push his hands away, but Marinette caught Luka’s hand and squeezed it tight. Luka looked back at her, focusing on the cool blue of her eyes. She asked him something, but he didn’t quite catch it. 

Fuck, he was tired. He just wanted to get somewhere quiet and dark and less peopled and go to sleep. 

Marinette’s hand on his cheek brought him back to reality a bit. She was frowning. “Luka, do you feel sick?” 

“No,” Luka sighed, eyes fluttering closed. “Just tired.”

“Luka,” Marinette said sharply, and he opened his eyes again. “Don’t go to sleep, okay?”

Luka whined, but tried to keep his eyes open. He leaned his head on Juleka’s stomach, and felt her hand stroke gently through his hair. He must really be messed up, he thought with mild amusement, for Jules to be that gentle. 

“I think we better take him in for evaluation,” Marinette said to...someone. “He’s definitely got a concussion, and that head lac needs stitches.” 

“Agreed,” said Adrien, and Luka began to lose the battle to stay awake. “Come on, stay with us.” Someone squeezed Luka’s arm, and Luka struggled to open his eyes again.

Luka lost track of what was going on after that, moving mechanically when someone asked him to and just trying to stay awake. The only thing he really registered was Marinette leaning over him in the back of the ambulance, stroking his hair back from his face and looking at him with such softness that his breath caught even through his fog. “I’ll drive,” she said. “Take care of him for me.” 

Luka was confused until Marinette disappeared from his side and Adrien settled in next to him instead, a faintly amused look on his face. “She must really like you,” Adrien commented under his breath. “She hates to give up the action and drive.” 

Luka smiled weakly. 

***

The hospital was a confused sequence of waiting rooms and big noisy machines, but as they sat through it all, Luka began to regain some focus and clarity, and by the time they came to tell him that he was fine, he pretty much was, aside from the throbbing in his head where they’d stitched the wound closed and the anesthetic was wearing off. 

“We’re going to keep you the rest of the night for observation,” the ER doctor told him, “But unless there’s any sudden changes, you should be good to go tomorrow. Just take it easy for the next few days.” 

Luka didn’t bother to argue since the night was mostly gone anyway. All he really cared about was getting to a bed, now that they had cleared him to sleep.

When he woke up in the morning, Juleka was sitting next to his bed. 

“Hey, dummy,” she said, when he turned his head to look at her.

“Hey,” he sighed. “Can I go home yet?”

Juleka snorted. “Knowing hospitals, it’ll take all day just to fill out the paperwork to get you out of here.

Luka made a face. “Probably true, actually.” He sighed and laid his head back, lolling it over to look at her. “Tell me you at least got a date out of it.”

Juleka blushed, and dropped her gaze, a smile twitching at the corners of her mouth. “She’s a nurse at this hospital, do you know?” Juleka mumbled, fiddling with her fingers. “She stayed with me the whole time they had you doing all those tests. We’re...having dinner tonight when she gets off work.” 

“Awesome,” Luka grinned, grabbing her hand and squeezing it. 

Juleka took a moment to collect herself, and then she lifted her head and grinned at him. “Now it’s your turn.”

“God I wanna marry that girl,” Luka groaned, smiling dreamily. “Gorgeous and smart and funny and a badass. This is it. I’m totally gone for her, Jules.”  

Luka didn’t need to see Juleka’s smirk, he could hear it in her voice. “What else is new?” she snorted.

Another memory surfaced and he grimaced. “I’m not sure puking all over her partner in the back of her ambulance made the kind of impression I was hoping for.”

“Don’t worry,” a male voice chuckled. “You’re not the first, and I’m sure you won’t be the last.” 

Luka and Juleka both looked towards the door. Marinette and her golden-haired partner were standing there in clean uniforms. Luka felt a sudden flutter in his stomach. The EMT uniform didn’t do much for her, compared to her usual perfectly tailored clothes, but...she looked strong and confident and in charge, and it was definitely doing things for him. Her hair was tied back and pinned up, but that just made her beautiful eyes more prominent, and the same smile tilted her sweet lips.

He suddenly remembered what he and Jules had been talking about. Oh God, did she hear him? Luka swallowed nervously.

Marinette gave him a little wave, her shoulders hunched slightly. “I hope you don’t mind that we stopped by,” she said shyly. “I— We just wanted to see how you were doing.”

Adrien grinned broadly, clearly amused, and Juleka began to snicker. She leaned over and whispered to Luka, “Your heart monitor’s going crazy, dumbass.” Then she kissed his forehead. “Call me when they’re ready to let you out of here.” She walked away from the bed, and Luka realized too late that she was planning to leave him there with Marinette. 

He registered about that time that the monitor behind him was indeed beeping frantically and felt himself flush. He fiddled with the clip on his finger, but if he took it off the nurses would come charging in, so he took some deep breaths, trying to get himself under control as Juleka stopped to exchange a quiet word and a hug with Marinette, with a quick handshake for Adrien. 

Adrien and Marinette approached the bed and Luka reached up self-consciously to smooth his hair before remembering the bandage on his head. He extended his hand towards Adrien instead. 

“Hey, man, I really am sorry for throwing up all over you,” Luka told Adrien. “I swear, I didn’t know it was coming.” 

Adrien smiled ruefully as he shook Luka’s hand. “I’m used to it. Sometimes I think I have a target on my chest.”

“Serves you right for always wearing such expensive shoes,” Marinette huffed.

“They’re comfy!” Adrien protested. 

Luka chuckled and looked at Marinette, taking in the uniform and trying to recalibrate his mental image of her to include this new information. It wasn’t as hard as it seemed like it should have been; she’d always had that something about her that said she could do anything, and she was certainly fit enough to be hauling people around, and the impulse to help people fit in with her sweet nature. 

He really hadn’t thought he could fall any harder, but looking at her now—staring at her, he realized abruptly—he accepted that this hole was a lot deeper than he’d realized.  

Marinette leaned over the side of his bed and reached toward his hair. “May I?” she asked, and at Luka’s nod, she parted his hair to peek under his bandage at the stitches. She was close enough that Luka could smell the faintest hint of sweet vanilla even past all the medical smells. The monitor began to beep warningly again and Luka thought he saw the corner of her mouth twitch. Her fingers skimmed his cheek as she lowered her hands. “It looks good. You probably won’t even notice it with your hair covering it.”

“Thanks,” Luka said stupidly, not really sure how one was supposed to react to a compliment on how well one’s head was sewn back together. 

“How do you feel?” she asked, straightening a little. 

“Not too bad,” Luka shrugged. “Still have a headache, but it’s much better.” 

Marinette frowned. “What are they giving you for pain?” She looked at the board in his room without waiting for him to answer, and gave a slight sigh. “Well, that should fade soon, hopefully. As long as your imaging came back normal—” Luka nodded. “—it should just be a question of paperwork.” She laid her hand over his and squeezed. “You should be back behind the bar in no time. No more fights though, okay? You scared me, when we got the call for your address.”

“Sorry.” Luka gave her a lopsided smile. “Can’t say I wasn’t wishing to see you, but that wasn’t what I had in mind.”

Marinette giggled, her eyes darting away and her teeth catching her lip for a moment before she looked back at him, a bright smile slowly growing across her face. For a moment they just stared at each other. Adrien raised his eyebrows and put his hands in his pockets, wandering back across the room. 

Luka barely noticed. Marinette was looking at him and he had never seen her eyes so soft before. Except—except that one moment when she’d been leaning over him on the gurney, and she’d promised him he was going to be okay, and then she’d looked up at Adrien and said take care of him for me…

He was so transfixed by her eyes that he didn’t react to her leaning over the bed until he felt her hand on his chest and her breath on his face, and then he only had time to gasp and close his eyes as her lips found and caressed his in a soft and tender kiss. He leaned into it as much as he dared, and managed to move his mouth to kiss her back, electric thrills moving through him. 

He followed her when she pulled back, and opened his eyes to stare at her in wonder as her lips left his. 

“I’m dying,” he said flatly. “I’m dying and no one wants to tell me, is that it?”

Marinette giggled. “No more than everyone else.” Then she actually blushed and looked down. “I’ve maybe been thinking about doing that for a while now.” She glanced up through her lashes and a truly wicked smile slowly spread. “And trust me, when you actually are going to die, you’ll know it.”

Luka’s attempt at a reply became a strangled noise at the back of his throat. 

There was a quiet cough from the other side of the room, where Adrien was turning red attempting to hold in his laughter. “I’m getting the feeling you didn’t actually need a wingman here,” he said.  

“Take a walk, Adrien,” Marinette said in a warning tone, and leaned in to kiss Luka again. Luka moved to meet her, lips parting eagerly as he buried the hand not covered in wires in her hair, only vaguely aware of Adrien’s gusty sigh and the sound of the door opening and closing, or the rapidly accelerating beep of his heart rate monitor again.

Somewhere in the haze Luka realized he wasn’t on shift, and anyway Marinette had kissed him first, and Anarka’s rules didn’t matter anymore. 

“Hey,” he mumbled in between kisses. “Want to—mm—get coffee sometime? After they let me out of here.” 

“I’d love to,” Marinette sighed, and kissed him again. She giggled. “You should have told me about that stupid rule sooner. All this time, I’ve been waiting for you to make a move.” She pulled back and blinked for a moment, and bit her lip. “Um. I should probably tell you that I told my boss you’re my boyfriend.” She shrugged. “If I start dating you after you’ve been my patient, it’s weird, but if we were dating before that, then it’s just unfortunate coincidence, so…” 

“I’m cool with that,” Luka said quickly. “Very cool.” They grinned like fools at each other for a moment, and then moved to kiss again. 

They were interrupted by a knock on the door, and a nurse poked her head in. “Mr. Couffaine? We’ve been getting an alarm from your monitor—” She paused, taking in Marinette’s wrecked hair and two blushing faces. “Oh.” 

Marinette giggled, hiding her face in his shoulder, and Luka groaned. “How much do I need to bribe you to turn that damn thing off for the next f—” he glanced at Marinette. “Ten minutes?” 

The nurse rolled her eyes, but winked at them. “Just remember you’re supposed to be taking it easy,” she admonished, crossing the room and unplugging the monitor from the wall. “If anyone asks, you’re in the bathroom.” 

“Yes ma’am,” Luka grinned as the nurse shut the door behind her, pulling Marinette back in.   

[hvilested]

Yes, you can cure Maladaptive Daydreaming

Two years ago when I joined this community, I think I was more dead than alive. I've been waging quite a brutal war with maladaptive dreaming and the array of issues that underlie it ever since then and I'm on my way out of this prison. I wanted to do something for you guys so here is a little essay with insights on MD and what you can do to understand better and finally tame this beast. Hopefully, someone will find it useful.

The split and the life between two worlds

Do you think the vague feeling of being split in two and existing between two worlds but belonging to none is exclusive to maladaptive daydreamers?

“If you try to have a conversation with me, I can’t bring myself to listen to you. I pretend to listen and you really think I do but my mind is somewhere else, thinking about it. Every time I try to stop doing it, I genuinely feel as if a part of me has been torn off and a deep sense of personal loss ensues. I feel as if I’m not here but I’m not there either and I can’t shake off this feeling of being split in two.”

This is what a recovering heroin addict once told me. Heroin addict. But it’s also what a regular maladaptive daydreamer could have told you, isn’t it?

Maladaptive daydreaming is, among other things, a typical psychological addiction. Most of the negative issues associated with maladaptive daydreaming come from the fact that it is an addictive coping mechanism and not some unique disorder with specific symptoms just recently discovered. You have heard million times that addictions are encoded in the primitive part of the brain associated with survival – which means that if you don’t get your fix right now, you feel more dead than alive and you need your drug of choice to bring you back to life. Your brain is sending a false message to you – it is issuing an urge that is blown out of proportion, compelling you to constantly indulge in daydreams and making you think that if you don’t, the world will end and you will lose a part of yourself. Drugs usually invade your sense of self – they fuse with it and by giving up the drug, you feel as though you are giving up a dear part of yourself.

Addiction is addiction but different types of drugs and addictive behaviors tell you different things about their users. So what does fantasy reveal about you? MD is like a guardian angel that tries to protect you too much and eventually causes more harm than good. But it’s still your guardian angel that tried lifting a burden off your brittle shoulders. It’s destructive in its own way but it was originally born to protect you from something. To realize and accept what you are trying to run away from is your first step towards recovery. Maybe it’s depression, maybe it’s low self-esteem and loneliness or it’s anxiety or PTSD.

Fall of the self

Maladaptive daydreaming isn’t the act of random mind-wandering – it’s a highly immersive mental activity, where all attention is gathered and directed towards happenings of the fantasy. This would be parallel to a so-called flow state, which is characterized by immersing intensely in an activity to the point of losing the sense of self. Which means, whatever happens in fantasy, happens, but not to you. It is a selfless experience, never integrated into what you call yourself, into sense of identity, into what makes you you. It exists as a detached, ecstatic, fleeting moment that slips through the fingers the moment you try to make sense out of it and process it as your own experience. You witness traces of happiness but the happiness is never yours.

Fantasy is an egoless state of mind where we are not ourselves. And by temporarily cutting ties from your own ego, the conscious identity, you’re also cutting ties from all insecurities you have ever had, from all the problems that are currently bothering you and this is why daydreams feel so damn good. Everything bad is just cut off from your perception. The part of your brain that defines your sense of self, along with all the negative things and mental illnesses attached to it, is turned off.

As you venture into this egoless place that is MD, you make up imaginary people you sometimes end up loving dearly or even fall in love with or you conjure imaginary places you’re desperately drawn to, and then suddenly – you wake up from your dream and you’re violently pulled back to reality and to being yourself. And this is where the problem arises: all those things you’ve done in your dreamworld and all those made up people you’ve come to love have nothing – absolutely nothing – to do with real YOU. They are not attached to your conscious sense of self. All those dreams and false memories you made – you made them in an egoless state of mind. And it’s this that makes you feel split. It’s not the fact that you’re physically apart from the content of your fantasies. It is the fact that your subconscious feelings, fantasies and desires do not connect to your sense of self. Even if everything you’ve been daydreaming about came true, you’d still feel like garbage, empty and miserable. If your imaginary friend came to life to make you less lonely, you’d still be lonely – because MD isn’t about made up friends or lovers or getting a new life. It’s about you not wanting to be you. Everything else is irrelevant.

In other words, you’re not addicted to your fictional characters or your imaginary love or to a fantasy about being a famous singer or writer. You’re addicted to not being you. You’re addicted to this erratic state of consciousness that is MD – regardless of its content – that provides a temporal relief.

I’m not saying that you don’t genuinely care about the content of your daydreams (quite the opposite, more on that soon) – what I am saying is that it’s not your love towards whatever is the content of your fantasies that creates this ugly feeling of being split between two worlds. One thing I can assure you (and this comes from my own experience) is that the moment you feel comfortable being you, those two worlds will reconcile, they will merge into one, and you’ll finally feel at peace with yourself.

Will a part of you be taken away as you give up your daydreams?

Maybe the saddest question I have ever asked myself was ‘how much of myself will I lose when I give up the only thing that makes me happy?’ Here’s a glimmer of hope: you’re not supposed to give them up. To give up the feelings you experience in your daydreams is self-mutilation. As strange or silly as they are, they still represent a censored part of your subconscious; maybe they are an epitome of your loneliness or your sadness. They are a testament to how hard you’re struggling and how hard you’re trying not to be dead – and to give this up is a crime towards yourself. Maladaptive Daydreaming isn’t just about wishful thinking and getting your wounds licked. It is that one place where your life flame stillburns while you may be dead in all other planes of existence. That’s enough to know that this MD thing isn’t all that entirely wrong. Maybe your real life is all emptiness and void but what you do in your daydreams – you do it with passion. And that’s enough to know that you are still capable of loving and caring about something just like other people. So passion exists and don’t you dare ever doubt that. It exists in a wrong place but it exists nonetheless. What you have to do is find a way to redirect those emotions from daydreams to reality and, as stated before, this causally happens once you’re finally you. All the positive emotions from your daydreams will flow back into you and you’ll feel as though these two worlds between which you have lived for so long have at last coalesced into one.

So what you want to do is focus on healing the self. It’s a tough one but there’s no quick fix here. Now comes the irony which you’ve been waiting for: in order to heal yourself, you need to let go of your daydreams. But didn’t I just say that you aren’t supposed to give them up, you ask? Don’t give up the passion, don’t give up the love you have for the content of your daydreaming, don’t give up the feelings – because they are all, real or not, a reminder that you’re alive. What you do have to give up is the false sense of comfort your daydreams give you. Try giving up all those countless hours you spend stuck in your own head pacing back and forth because you’d rather be there than here. Try giving up the temporal fix when you feel miserable. If someone angers you, don’t impulsively lock yourself in your room and act out a revenge in your head; go kick a sofa or something, lash out at something external.

You have to wean yourself off of this strange dissociative painkiller that’s fantasy, then let yourself feel all the pain with every ounce of your being, let all the negative emotions resurface, let them swallow you alive, don’t resist, don’t run away, accept them, let them ravage you, and somewhere along this process, a part of the you will be reborn. Something will awake. Not all of you, maybe just a small part but that’s enough to gather what’s left of your strength and continue the struggle. If you feel the urge to daydream, this is okay – as long as it doesn’t censor the pain which you shouldn’t run away from anymore, it’s fine to give in and indulge for a while if you feel like you have to. Don’t ignore temptations, this sparks the fire of addiction even more. It’s a well known pattern: if you fight the urge to engage in an addictive behavior, it makes it stronger. If you acknowledge it, analyze it, this is what breaks the cycle of addiction. In other words, the imperative is not to block the pain and negative feelings. If a sudden sense of self-disgust or low self-esteem suddenly hits you, welcome it. Welcome it, analyze it, let it consume you, and you will realize it is just a false message your brain is sending to you because that’s what brains of depressed people do, after all. The more you let yourself feel and process the negative feelings without censorship, the more will the urge to daydream weaken and the less you will run away.

Who are you really?

Depression usually enters people’s lives like a tempest – yesterday you were an optimistic person enjoying simple pleasures of life and today you feel like a suicidal or apathetic piece of shit, and this is how it is for most people. Depression that underlies MD, however, takes a different route. It enters your life stealthily, slowly, so slowly you don’t even notice it, then it gradually robs you of emotions, ambitions, memories, motivation, identity, empathy, and you end up thinking: “I don’t remember a time when I wasn’tmiserable,” or “these bad feelings must be a part of my personality, they have always been here“. Because of this, most of us fail to realize where depression (or anxiety or any other kind of chronic mental illness) ends and where we begin. So if this illness isn’t you, then who are you?

Let me make a digression here. MD is usually born when you can’t express yourself properly because you’re anxious, depressed or sometimes simply shy or lonely. Mental illnesses are like lenses which distort your perception. Everything you see appears more tragic, senseless or uglier than it really is. And your both eyes are infected with these lenses. But here your subconscious decides to play a trick on your mental illness and tells you: ‘well, if your both eyes are infected and make things appear worse than they really are, then why don’t you just close them?’ You do and this is the beginning of the addiction to fantasy. You stop paying attention to the outside world and you turn it inwards and use your mind’s eye to create things inside you: your daydreams. This mind’s eye, which is fantasy, cannot get infected with depression and this is why MD is a safe haven. Depression doesn’t reach there. What your subconscious forgets to tell you before it’s too late is that if you close those two eyes used for perceiving outer world, for things outside of yourself, you’ll be completely cut off from reality. But none of this is your fault – this is a war between mental illness, the attacker, and your subconscious, which is your protector, and you are their battlefield. You don’t have a single choice, they are the ones who decide – you only observe. So if you ever blamed yourself for being too weak to make a decision to cease this addiction, stop it. It’s wasn’t your fault.

Back to my question, who are you then?

The daydream version of you isn’t the true you but it’s not a fake one either. It’s a highly filtered product of your subconscious that tried to protect you. Then we have this other real-life you imbued with low self-esteem and negative thoughts that seem to go on a loop forever. Well, that’s certainly not your true self either. Heck, if it’s any comfort for you, the daydream you is far closer to the true you than this real-life depressed version of yourself will ever be.

Can you remember the time when you didn’t have MD? Can you remember your sense of identity when you were a child free of MD? Try conjuring up all those times when you knew how to live in the present. It doesn’t matter if you were 6 years old the last time you were here. Just try to pinpoint all those moments and try to remember the feeling of being in the now. Here’s one pretty handy trick you can use. I always joke that music is a drug that takes you on a trip down a memory lane. It’s like an emotional psychedelic. It transports you emotionally back in time, to another place, another reality, to wherever you wish. It helps people with Alzheimer’s remember who they are and regain a sense of identity for a short while. Maladaptive daydreamers often use music to help them imagine an alternate setting – but what if you used music to transport yourself to the past when you had neither depression nor anxiety or MD or whatever is bothering you? If you can remember a forgotten song which you used to listen as a child who at the time hadn’t had MD yet, listen to it again, try to remember who you were, and if the song is meaningful to you, the old you and your sense of self, which you used to have back then, will come back to you for those few minutes while the song plays. You’ll feel the warmth of finally being you. You won’t quite be in the present – you’ll be in the past, but it’s your real past, it’s your true self. Try to capture this feeling and then try to reenact it. It’ll strengthen your identity in the long run.

I’ll give another example on what set me free from my own MD for a short while. You all know what fight or flight mode is. What you also probably know is that most people with PTSD or chronic anxiety are stuck in a constant state of fight or flight. Spending too much time in this state eventually leads to a burnout and is a sure ticket to depression since you go from fight and flight into freeze mode where all your functions are off and you feel like an emotionless zombie. You don’t care, you don’t live, you don’t get angry or sad or happy, you only exist on autopilot. In order to feel normal and alive again, you usually need a fix so strong which will set your body back on fire. Someone or something has to attack you so fiercely in order for you to rethink your existence and regain your instincts and the will to fight back. This is what happened to me. When one of my daydreams violently crumbled some time ago, I got so ridiculously pissed off that for the first time after several years spent in freeze mode, I felt genuinely alive. I was me. The anger acted like a stimulant and the state lasted for 15 minutes until the anger wore off. But hell, during those 15 minutes, I was me. I was so mad but I was also indescribably happy. I could feel. I could let go. I was defeated but I also won. The thirst, the cravings, the split, this strange nostalgia for my daydreams all dissolved. But instead of just disappearing, every positive feeling that was limited to the daydream world only, such as sense of purpose, motivation and normal self-esteem, flew back into me. I didn’t lose a single part of me – quite the opposite – I regained back that detached part of my soul that existed only in daydreams. What took for me to awake was extreme anger, being defeated, my world crumbing to pieces. The moment I genuinely accepted that my dream world crushed, the moment I let go of all attachments holding me back for years, I was reborn. The anger, which is a natural stimulant, made something in me click. But note: this feeling of finally being alive and the desire to fight back woke up in me once my daydreams were in danger, not me. It’s because we’re so displaced, because fantasy is where we had hidden the core of our souls.

In the long run, you’re destroying neither the daydream you nor the positive feelings that come with it, you’re not giving anything up – you’re just transferring it to reality, to where it should be. But for this change to occur, before you can be reborn and whole again, you have to self-destruct, you have to let go.

[islamicrays]

This past weekend my family and I went on a road trip to the mountains. As we drove down the long stretch of a seemingly endless freeway dodging all the big rig trucks, passing the empty desolate fields, and avoiding the dangers of the long windy roads up the mountains, I had some reflections about life and parenting.

Everything that we had experienced seemed analogous to the dunya and the countless spiritual pitfalls and struggles that human beings experience.

1. Life can seem sometimes like a long endless loop.

2. There are so many large obstacles to avoid all the time.

3. The isolation this dunya induces is very real for most people regardless of how socially connected they are.

4. The dangers are always there and require us to be vigilant constantly.

I then started to analyze the life cycle of the human being and the vital role that the parents play.

We are told by Allah (swt) that this dunya was designed to test us. Knowing this, the parent is tasked with preparing the child spiritually and fortifying them to come out of this test in the most unscathed state possible, spiritually speaking. In other words, the parent’s job is to protect and provide spiritual immunity to the child from the very beginning, the same way for example, a mother who nurses her child from the onset is able to provide immunity against physical disease through her breast milk.

So, what does spiritual immunity look like? Well, think of it like giving a child the spiritual building blocks for them to work with and build upon at a very early age.

1. For infancy through the younger toddler years, a child is heavily influenced by the spiritual state of the parent. We know that even what a mother consumes, for example, passes through the child in the womb and then in the breastmilk. In a similar way, the spiritual state of the mother and the father can have a positive and beneficial impact or a negative and deleterious one.

So, for example, if either parent is overwhelmed, under appreciated, undervalued, or worse, abused, abandoned, or neglected, the child or the children in the home will be impacted spiritually. They will witness negative things that they are not equipped to process or cope with and this will begin to compromise their spiritual immunity. Some of these effects can be reversed, but some may never go away at all—la qadr Allah.

On the flip side, when the parents are strong in their faith, they are on the same page and have healthy communication, and cultivate a home of love and respect, the child’s spiritual immunity is strengthened and enhanced. This doesn’t mean they will be completely inoculated and never tested spiritually, because everyone will have their own unique struggles regardless. It means that just witnessing the positive and God-centered exchanges of their parents, children in such environments are fortified with spiritual vitamins that optimize their immunity so that they can better resist spiritual diseases.

2. For older children, the parent's job is to strengthen their spiritual immunity through not only modeling healthy behavior but through instruction and education. Stories are powerful antioxidants that can help children develop the requisite mental pathways they need to avoid the countless spiritual pitfalls shaitan is constantly developing and tailoring for them.

So, for example, when we share stories from the Qur’an, or the sunnah, our intention should be clear: we are building our children’s spiritual immunity to this diseased and dangerous place called dunya. Thus, every story we share with them has to be with THAT intention. It’s not just history we’re teaching, it’s for them to grow in their love for Allah (swt) and His Beloved ﷺ, and to take their teachings as daily doses of healing that are designed to prevent the dunya and all of its diseases from reaching their heart.

Another powerful tool at our disposal is our OWN stories. When we share our experiences and actually engage in conversations with our children as opposed to shutting them out or sedating them with screens/games and other distractions because we’re too impatient to deal with them, we are helping them literally fortify their spiritual hearts and preventing them from learning difficult tests/lessons the hard way.

Thus, the more stories we share, the more open conversations we have, the more our children are spared from learning through suffering and pain. Think about the fact that since time immemorial, human beings from all backgrounds and cultures, have had oral traditions which included folktales, poetry/song, and popular stories passed down generation to generation. What was the purpose of that other than to teach and help prevent unnecessary pain and suffering?

We have strayed so far from that and we’re seeing it in our world today. Parents are often too busy with their own lives to talk to their children let alone tell them deep and personal stories, grandparents and other relatives are often too far or removed from the picture to do the same, and our children are left to their own devices—literally and figuratively, which means they have to teach themselves and often end up learning a LOT of difficult life lessons the hard way—through pain and suffering. And without the spiritual immunity they should have had from infancy, this means they are filled with spiritual diseases and have little to no recourse for getting the healing and treatment they need.

And what happens when people who are ill with spreadable disease come together? The diseases spread and wreak havoc on the entire group and beyond.

Look around our world and it becomes evident that the reason our children are suffering is because they are being raised by spiritually-immune-compromised parents which means they too will likely suffer the same fate.

Of course everything is in the hands of Allah (swt) and He guides whomever He wills, but we as parents who have been given guidance and are privileged to be able to use the faculties He has given us and the resources He has blessed us with, must rise to the occasion and first and foremost start with treating our own spiritual diseases, and then look to our children and help them fortify their spiritual hearts against disease. We can inoculate them against spiritual diseases through all of the things mentioned above: remembrance of God, love of Him and His Prophet ﷺ, and commitment to instructing them through important stories from the past and the present. The more stories we share with them, positive and inspiring ones as well as cautionary tales, the more we can help them.

If, however, we barely make the time to check in with them and are always rushing our conversations to go to the next activity or item on our daily agenda/itinerary, then why are we shocked when we find them engaging in something or meeting with someone that is harmful to them? They either lack the knowledge or skills to protect themselves or they are too spiritually weak to resist the temptations of shaitan. In either case, the parents could have been instrumental in preventing the harm.

May Allah (swt) help guide us and help us rid our own diseases first, and then help us protect our children from having to get sick from the affects of the dunya in order to learn life lessons. Amin.

-Ustadha Hosai Mojaddidi

[mo-nighean-rouge]

Where You Lead- XII

Canon Divergence AU: Faith survived and stayed at Lallybroch when Claire returned through the stones before Culloden. An accidental trip to Craigh Na Dun turns life upside down for the Frasers once again.

Chapter 1 and Chapter 10 artwork by the wonderful @cantrixgrisea

Chapter 1/ Chapter 2/ Chapter 3/ Chapter 4/ Chapter 5/ Chapter 6/ Chapter 7/ Chapter 8/ Chapter 9/ Chapter 10/ Chapter 11

AO3 

Shout out to my brilliant betas, @whiskynottea and @isitgintimeyet for helping me figure out what I was even trying to say here. 

Thanks to all who have continued to ask about this one.

Chapter 12

Claire wrestled the dripping bed sheet – fresh from the hot, soapy water of the wash basin – into the wicker basket to hang dry in her small yard. Momentarily, she regretted declining Mrs. Graham’s offer to use the new machine at the manse, wearily purchased by the Reverend after a slew of hints from the persistent housekeeper.

Still, at-home handwashing was more convenient than dragging the entire load to the steamie in town. Especially today, with Jamie spending the day at his job-training (Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ!) and unavailable to lug the wet things back home for her.

Claire had returned to work in the past few weeks, starting with just a few days to give Jamie a trial run of keeping the girls and house in check. While the stove’s modern controls still baffled him a bit, he could manage a few of Claire’s simple emergency recipes for lunch.

“Ye keep calling it ‘SOS,’ Sassenach,” Jamie had mused as he hesitantly flipped one more piece of toast in the pan. “What about it minds ye of saving ships?”

Claire pursed her lips in amusement, impressed that he had remembered that particular call signal from her stories about the war.

“Actually.” She smirked. “In this case, it stands for ‘shit on a shingle.’”

Jamie blanched as he stared down at the browning meat in the other pan. “Christ,” he muttered.

“The Americans taught me that expression, and later showed me the ‘speedy’ recipe.”

“Weel, I mind Mrs. Crook creaming beef a time or two, but I dinna recall hearing such crass language cross her lips.” He leaned down to kiss the offending feature and blinked at her slowly, expertly switching the burner off.

“Mama?”

Claire startled, turning around to find Faith’s blue eyes searching for hers, bare feet shuffling across the kitchen floor. It had been weeks already with her daughter back in her arms, and yet she still wasn’t reacquainted with Faith’s light footsteps and silent approach. While Bree babbled to her pile of blocks on the quilt spread across the floor, Faith had kept herself studiously occupied at the kitchen table with one of her sister’s books, worn out after ‘helping’ – which had amounted to her splashing the bubbles around in the basin.

“Yes, Lovey?” she knelt down to her daughter’s level, pausing to admire the flush that had come back to the girl’s cheeks along with the gradual return of her figure, belly promising to become a delightful pooch.

“Could I… hold the bairn?” Faith’s eyes were wide and hopeful, anxious of a request not previously made.

Claire’s chest swelled, another abundant occurrence in the last month. She stroked downward from Faith’s shoulder, then offered her hand. “I think she’d really like that.”

Claire knelt to greet her 10-month-old with a sloppy kiss as she lifted her into the air. They walked through the house together, laundry postponed at present.

Claire directed Faith to sit up against the arm of the sofa, then lowered Bree into her waiting arms. Nerves wound tight, Claire scooted close to her eldest, ready to intervene should disaster or conflict occur.

Bree squirmed in Faith’s hold, hips twisting as if she would throw herself onto the floor.

Claire registered Faith’s heart-wrenching little intake of air as she watched with bated breath.

Brianna must have heard it too, as she pivoted her upper body once more to study Faith, who stared back with frozen features. Suddenly, Bree pitched back into Faith’s middle, damp fist seeking Faith’s closest curl.

Faith sighed in relief, meeting Claire’s eye before stroking her sister’s back tentatively.

Claire lost herself in the sight, her daughters closer than they’d ever been, something she’d only expected to see in her imagination.

“A nighean ruaidh,” Faith whispered, the words rolling off her tongue effortlessly, drawing Claire out of her own thoughts.

“What was that, Baby?”

“Just something I’ve heard Da say to her,” Faith shrugged. “Almost like he calls us.”

Claire’s lips twitched into a smile, overcome. “I suppose you’re right.”

“I dinna have enough Gaelic yet,” Faith continued, brow scrunched in contemplation. “But I think it means that he loves us.” She paused in thought, then lifted her chin to meet Claire’s eye. “Mama, will ye have more bairns verra soon?”

Claire felt her cheeks flush. From the mouths of babes, indeed. While she and Jamie hadn’t discussed the idea of more children, she knew it was a surer possibility in their hopeful future. Meanwhile, they’d plenty of practice of late. The temptation was hard to resist when every morning they woke tangled together from the previous night.

She shrugged as she stood to cross the room, keeping a careful eye on the pair. “I think we’ll have to see what God has in mind, my love,” she said gently.

Reaching the corner desk, Claire easily found what she had in mind. She brought the large format Rolleiflex to life, pointing it toward her girls. She captured one shot just as they were – studying each other curiously. “Smile,” she called before snapping the second photograph. Bree looked up at the sound of her voice, while Faith looked startled before baring her teeth in an awkward grimace in response to the command. While the camera had been present in many of their daily moments of late, both were still becoming accustomed to the expected behavior in front of the device.

As soon as she had clicked the shutter, their pose shifted at the scratch of a newly minted key in the front door.

Claire glanced down at her watch. Five o’clock on the dot meant that she still had a number of chores to complete, but at least one more willing helper to get them under way.

________________________________________

 Faith leapt from the sofa as soon as Mama had lifted the baby from her lap, bounding to the door.

She’d been greeting her mother every day when she came back to the house from seeing her patients. Faith wasn’t allowed to go with Mama when she made calls to the sick tenants anymore. She still didn’t quite understand her parents’ explanation that these patients could be sicker and more gravely injured than Faith was used to seeing. What could have happened to them that was more dangerous than at Lallybroch?

Either way, she was always excited and a bit relieved when Mama got home in the afternoon. After all their time apart, it was hard when she left even for the day. Mama didn’t usually notice, but Faith always woke to the sound of the creaking door when her mother tiptoed in and kissed her cheek in farewell. She didn’t want to miss those moments together.

But this was the first day that Da had gone anywhere by himself in a while, so Faith thought he must have been nervous. She knew how hard it could be to meet new people and learn new things, especially in this strange place where they had found Mama. So she wanted to be sure to welcome him back just in case he hadn’t had a good day.

Faith jumped high as Da closed the door behind him. He noticed just in time to kneel and catch her in the air, like she knew he would. He laughed, his voice deep with joy.

“Good even’ to ye, a leannan.” Da drew her close to him, a big hand grasping her back. “Have ye been helpin’ yer mam today?” They crossed the room in only a few large steps.

Faith was glad that he seemed happy, so his day must have been better than she thought.

“Aye, we did the laundry. ‘Twas verra heavy, Da.” Faith sighed, remembering the mess she’d made as she pulled her new dresses out of the wash basin. But Mama’s thankful smile and compliments had made it worthwhile.

Mama chuckled as Da gestured for her to pass Brianna to him, as well. “And to think there’s still more of it left!” she teased.

Bree grabbed for the collar of Da’s new shirt as she settled in his arms and made wee noises to him. He nodded back to her as if she was using real words, something Faith remembered him doing with Michael and Janet, not long ago.

Da sat on the couch, making room in his lap for both Faith and Bree.

Faith remembered something from earlier. “Mama, Da, I knew all the letters in the book I read today!”

They spoke at the same time, then chuckled together. “Show us!”

As Faith ran down the hall to retrieve her book, she turned just in time to see Da place Brianna in her swing and stand up to face Mama, whispering to her. Mama chuckled deeply as they reached for each other.

She couldn’t help but notice Mama’s silly little smile as their faces came together, nor Da’s hand finding its favorite place on Mama’s bum.

________________________________________

Jamie exited the lavatory wearing his new pyjama bottoms, steam from the hot bath following him into the bedroom. He paused to watch Claire as she sat at her dressing table, wrapped in her dressing gown and combing through her still-damp locks. The scene was so reminiscent of their everyday life in his time – at Leoch, followed by Lallybroch and everywhere else his duty had taken them.

She startled as they made eye contact in the mirror before her face slipped into a wide smile.

His breath caught. He’d surely just witnessed her remember their reunion for the hundredth time, each ever sweeter than before.

Jamie crossed the room in only a few steps, reaching for the comb to take over her task.

Claire’s head lolled back and her eyes slipped shut as his hands worked into her curls, squeezing out a few more water droplets. “So, how was the first…” she paused her inquiry to make a breathy wee noise that nearly drove him to distraction. “… day?”

“I must say it was a bit overwhelming at first, Sassenach,” he muttered. “I’m grateful once again that ye drove me in, though I almost couldna find my way inside the hospital itself.”

She hummed. “You’ll figure out the way of it by the end of the week, at least. But the job itself?”

Jamie smiled. “The director and the other lads I met were all verra kind, and if I did anything out o’ the ordinary they didna point it out.” He hummed to himself. “Felt a bit braw to recognize all the wee defense tactics they showed me, even if they were a bit tamer than one might actually find in the face of battle.”

Claire nodded, but quickly stopped when the motion pulled the comb too tight against the last knot in her hair. “Well, I am proud of you.” Their eyes met in the mirror again, connected.

He kissed the top of her head and offered his hand to let her know he was done. She stood up to face him, but then arched a brow as she took him in. She guided him down to the stool by his shoulders and took up the comb again, pulling it gently through his towel-dried waves.

Jamie was glad that his hair didn’t take as long, since his wife’s gentle motions pulled him into a pleasant drowsiness. And that was hardly what he had in mind for their night.

As soon as he heard the slap of the comb hitting the table in front of him, he turned to face Claire. As he prepared to stand, he put his hands behind her thighs to lift her.

“Wait, I wanted to show you something!” Claire shimmied out his grasp and reached for the table behind him before taking a seat next to him, hip snug against his.

She presented an envelope to him, identical to the one she’d brought home just the week before.

“More photographs?” he asked, settling his arm over her shoulders.

“I stopped to pick up the new packet on the way home today,” she told him, cheeks flushed with excitement.

She unwound the seal gently and slid the portraits into his open palm.

It still gave him a bit of a shock to see his likeness printed so neatly on the surface of the first sheet. He grinned to see the tenderness on his face as he gazed down at Bree while building a lazy tower out of her blocks. Faith could be seen climbing onto his back to look over his shoulder in the black and white shot.

Jamie flipped through, starting to notice a pattern. Nearly every picture was a combination of himself, the lasses, or all of them together. There was naught of Claire to be found. Come to think of it, the only likeness of her he recalled seeing was hanging on the wall in Bree’s nursery – the blurry shot taken moments after the bairn’s delivery.

“You’ll have to teach me to use this wee thing,” he said determinedly. “I’d like to see your bonnie face in one of these photographs.”

She blushed prettily. “It’s a deal.” She kissed his chin sweetly. “Come to think of it, I’ve hoped to get us into town for a portrait sitting one of these days when we’re both off. We’ve no pictures of us together, either.”

“If you’ll lead the way, my lady.” He stood and stretched, then bent once more to gather her into his arms.

Claire smirked. “You don’t always have to carry me, you know.” Nevertheless, she tightened her arms behind his neck as her legs twisted around him like vines.

“Perhaps no’,” he leaned in to kiss her once, leaving a smacking noise as he did so. “But you’ll find that I will as often as you’ll let me.” He hesitated as he lowered her to the end of their mattress, then knelt in front of her. He placed a hand over her belly gingerly. “Until it’s mebbe a wee bit too difficult?”

She startled, eyes leaping to his, then harrumphed. “Watch it, lad.”

Jamie grinned at her cheekily but didn’t let her stray from his implication.

Claire’s hand gripped the back of his neck, then slipped under the collar of his shirt. “Your daughter asked a strikingly similar question earlier today.”

“Mmphm,” he uttered. “And did ye have an answer for her?”

“There was only so much I could think of to say.” Her blunt fingernails scratched his shoulder.

Jamie swallowed deeply as he looked into her eyes, searching her glass face as he crossed his arms over her knees.

“Maybe after the divorce process is complete,” she whispered.

He took her hand and nodded, remembering the thick envelope on their kitchen table, still unopened amid their adjusting routine. “Aye, of course.” He kissed her smooth palm.

“Besides,” she chuckled. “Bree isn’t even a year old yet.”

“That may be so, Sassenach.” Jamie rose to his feet before her. “But we’ll have to put in some extra effort for that even dozen.”

Claire’s mouth fell open, several moments lapsing before her body shook with laughter. “You’re ridiculous.”

He struggled to speak through his own snickers, his voice not quite sounding like his own. “But in the meantime?” His eyebrows rose.

“Please.” She laid back as he crawled over her, easing the robe over her shoulders.

________________________________________

[Several weeks later]

Claire felt like cackling in delight as she took in the details of the postcard in her hands. Their family portrait had arrived in the post just that afternoon, but she had delayed opening it until the girls were asleep. She hadn’t been sure of the results of their outing, and wanted to keep it to herself until she was. She would show them when they were older, of course, preferably once they’d gotten the hang of a portrait sitting.

So the Frasers had gone through their evening ritual together, a joint bath for the girls – quicker when it wasn’t made to be more chaotic – then she’d combed the tangles from Faith’s curls while the nebuliser ran, and cuddled her to sleep as had become customary.

Jamie had just slipped out of the sitting room with a freshly burped and rocked Bree, and would be back any second. She still wasn’t sure when she’d show him the family memorabilia, as his reaction seemed to have tipped the scale for the most priceless.

It had been a drizzling afternoon as the Frasers had filed from Claire’s auto and into a corner shop in Inverness. Campbell Portraits boasted a proud lineage, their circulars advertising their establishment in the 1880s. The family-owned business had serviced the highlands amid the changing technology of photography, evidenced by the display in the waiting room.

Claire had gone to great lengths to make everyone look presentable after lunch that day – teasing curls, straightening collars and pressing skirts until she finally resolved to leave well enough alone and herd everyone into town.

As she had signed them in for their appointment time, she had felt a tug on her skirt. She had smiled at the receptionist, taken Faith’s hand, and walked them back to sit with Jamie, whose free hand had tapped a rhythm against his thigh. He had bounced a fussy Bree, who had been teething once again, in his opposite arm.

“Yes, lovey?” Claire had asked as Faith patted her hand.

“Ye said you would go with me again, aye?” Faith had asked.

Claire had pasted on a smile and answered patiently, for the third time. “Yes, darling, we’ll all be together.”

Her eldest daughter seemed to have conflated the foreign concept of the studio with her recent experiences at the hospital, unsure of her role in this new environment.

Almost as soon as they had settled down, their name had been called. Claire had led the way into the little room, Faith’s hand tight in hers. She had noticed both Jamie and Faith eyeing the surroundings of the dark room suspiciously.

Claire had wondered at what they might be able to compare the tight quarters and dim lighting to from their own experiences. The priest hole at Lallybroch? Damn it.

An almost too-cheery man had greeted them at the door.

“Welcome, Frasers,” he had declared. “My last appointment of the day.”

The short man – Archie, as he had introduced himself – had quickly displayed his frustration as he tried to arrange the Frasers in a posed position. Jamie had begun to show his full range of stubbornness at Campbell’s brisk directions, while Faith had become drawn into herself.

At last, they had settled into an arrangement with Jamie and Claire side by side, angled diagonally. Faith had been seated on a platform just in front of them, while Bree had been propped up on Jamie’s lap.

The frustrations of the afternoon were clear in the final product. Claire’s curls were frizzed from the rain, while Jamie had adapted a complacent glare from trying to sit still for so long. Faith looked plainly startled from the bright flashbulb, her teeth bared unnaturally. And poor Bree’s fingers were in her mouth, Claire’s earlier pain-relieving methods worn off.

Chuckling over the image once more, Claire rose to tuck it away in an album at the back of her bedroom closet for now.

________________________________________

 Christ, but it had been a long first official shift, Jamie thought as he re-entered the sitting room. He hadn’t expected for a large part of his job to involve fielding questions from incoming patients and visitors as they entered the hospital. He’d found himself running back and forth to get answers to those questions just as often as he’d stood at his post.

His supervisor, a man named Duncan, had assured him once again that this was one more aspect he’d grow accustomed to, soon memorizing the answers just as well as his other duties.

Come to think of it, Duncan had mentioned that he still needed to add a few of Jamie’s records to his employee file. He dragged himself up again and to Claire’s desk, where he had last seen the documents before they were sorted away. He scratched his head as he wondered which drawer Claire might have slipped them into.

Jamie hadn’t heard her moving through the house while he’d put Brianna abed, but perhaps she would be back soon to help him locate the documents that the Reverend had procured for him.

Taking a cursory glance over the desk’s surface, he noticed that their collection of printed photographs had grown. There was a third envelope, that appeared not to have been opened.

He looked back toward the doorway of the sitting room. He assumed Claire was planning to show him this set when she returned, but it wouldn’t hurt to have a wee keek at them. He’d practiced taking a few shots of her in the last week or so, and was anxious to see how they’d turned out.

Jamie slid the stack out carefully, but then nearly dropped the entire set at the first image he encountered.

Taken on a bright day, the portrait proudly displayed Leoch. Or, at least he could still recognize a few features of the castle. Stones were missing from its great walls, while several windows were broken and overbearing vegetation grew up its sides.

But most startling was the man stood in front of Jamie’s ancestral home. Randall – not Black Jack, as he’d originally feared – but Frank, dressed in a proper three-piece suit and matching hat.

Jamie swallowed deeply, stunned at the juxtaposition of this part of Claire’s history and his – theirs -- unexpectedly converging.

With shaking hands, he flipped through the next photographs. The castle by itself, an auto in front of the castle, then like a shock to his system, Claire in front of the auto, Leoch in the background.

He ghosted his finger over the likeness of Claire’s apple cheeks in the photograph, careful to heed her previous warning about smudging the surface.

Examining the image, Jamie recalled the other-worldly, shivering lass that had tended him on a cold and damp night, then compared her to the fearsome woman he’d since shared two lives with.

She’d been more slender then, her present curves having filled in as she carried each of their wee miracles. But there was something he couldn’t quite put into words, as if the last vestiges of her innocence still existed in this single captured moment. All that they’d faced together had honed her into the unstoppable force that continued to surprise and challenge him every day.

“I found one more undeveloped roll, tucked away in a drawer.” Claire’s voice carried softly.

Jamie looked up to find her studying him from the doorway, a wistful smile on her face.

His cheeks burned. “I didna mean to– “

She shook her head, then offered her hand, head tilted toward the sofa. “Let’s look together?”

Jamie took a seat cautiously, perspiration slickening his palms.

Claire followed close behind him, footsteps soft on the carpet. She lifted the stack from his hands, then arranged herself in his lap, her back braced against his sturdy arm.

“What do you think?”

He drummed his fingers against her hip. “’Twas a shock, to see him there.” He paused. “But ye… Lookin’ so happy.”

She sighed. “Getting there, perhaps. I didn’t want to acknowledge it at the time, but things weren’t quite the same.” Her fingertips caressed his neck. “We both knew it.”

Jamie breathed out. “Suppose things did no’ turn out quite like ye expected?”

“No.” Claire twisted to face him, forehead pressing against his. “Better.”

They flipped through the small batch of photos from the unfinished roll, Claire giving him space for any questions or clarifications.

While shots of the clan markers and open spaces of Culloden Field robbed him of breath, what truly puzzled him was a portrait of a village square in Inverness.

“I don’t think you and I have been back that way,” Claire insisted when he asked. “That’s in front of the inn where we – Frank and I – stayed during our trip.”

But something about the location struck Jamie as familiar, sending a shiver through his very bones. “Suppose it doesna help to dwell on it. We’ll be busy making new memories, you and –"

Claire’s lips swallowed the end of his question as she twisted in his lap to straddle him, her calf-length skirt gathering between them. She guided him in a subtle rocking motion, her eyes never leaving his. One hand gripped his jaw, thumb sweeping over his bottom lip. The other lost itself in his hair.

Jamie’s hands slid from her knees to her arse and held on. “Dhia,” he panted into the gooseflesh of her neck. He quickly forgot about Frank and any other bloody Randall.

Perhaps not exact, but this is pretty close to my mother’s SOS recipe, credited to my grandfather’s time in the U.S. Army in the 1950s.

[whatawhumper]

Family Dinner

2109 words

CW: electrocution, pet whump? (kinda) 

The shipment arrived on a Monday, when Master Welhouse was at home. Haiyan wasn’t surprised by the arrival, Master had told them what was happening a few weeks prior.

What surprised Haiyan was the contents of the cage. 

They had been expecting someone like them, quiet and well trained and easy to care for.

This, this raging ball of tawny feathers spewing vitriol and a slew of curses from behind the bars was about as far from expected as it could possibly be. 

Haiyan didn’t even get a good look at them for a long time. They couldn’t approach to get a closer look, Master Welhouse hadn’t said they could move from their perch in the entry hall, and from where they sat the solid wall of the man-sized cage blocked their view. They could hear perfectly fine, though, and the curses Haiyan heard that day were more vicious than any they had heard in a long while; probably not since Master Arthur had died. 

They heard Master Welhouse talking about the newcomer over the sounds of rattling metal and beating wings. “A very fine specimen,” he called the caged beast, and “a wonderful addition to the family.”

A shudder passed through Haiyan, which they quickly suppressed before Master could see. They had come to hate that word, especially when he said it.

Haiyan couldn’t imagine any situation in which that thing was going to fit here. They figured it was only a matter of time before Master resold that avian and found one better suited to this ornamental life.

“I’m finding a playmate for you, dear. Won’t that be exciting?” Master had asked Haiyan a few weeks back. “I’ve wanted a new pet for a while now, you know.” A jolt of fear passed through Haiyan, their entire body tensing up and their breaths hitching. Why was that? Hadn’t they been good enough? Were they being replaced or sold or worse?

“Oh don’t look so worried, dear. You won’t be replaced.” No matter how well Haiyan thought they concealed their emotions, Master Welhouse could always figure out what they were thinking. Never forget that. “I just want a new project. My father trained you so very well,” He ran his fingers through Haiyan’s curly hair, toying idly with the black strands and eliciting a shudder that Haiyan hoped they could disguise for pleasure, “but there are some things I want to do differently with the new pet.” 

Because Haiyan was too quiet. Because they were never good enough, because Master had to punish them too often to be convenient-

“And of course, you need someone to keep you company when I’m away, don’t you?”

No, no no. Haiyan treasured the days when Master Welhouse left on trips, even if they didn’t get any food while he was gone. Those days were the only times they had any agency, the only times they could drop their facade and be genuine, if only to themself. 

“Don’t you?” Master asked again, a hard edge creeping into his voice. Haiyan tried not to let themself panic. He had seen their doubts, he knew.

“Of course, sir.” 

Numbly, Haiyan heard Master introduce himself to the unfamiliar avian. “I am Matthew Welhouse, and you belong to me.”

A maddening screech rent the air in the marble entry hall, startling Haiyan out of their daze. Great, the newcomer was a screamer. Haiyan tucked their wings primly against their back, snowy and sooty feathers laying flat in opposition to the flashes of ruffled, flared wings that they saw between the cage’s bars. Maybe this was a good thing, maybe Master Welhouse would be so disgusted by this new avian’s behavior that he would realize Haiyan was good enough. Or maybe- Haiyan tried not to get their hopes up- the new avian would be the new outlet for when Master had his bad days. 

Just then, the master of the house went off to bring the new avian into the manor, and Haiyan was left alone in the hall, unable to move until they had been given permission.

It wasn’t until dinner that Haiyan finally saw the beast up close. He was a startling thing, all muscle and scars and piercing eyes that locked onto Haiyan the moment he entered the dining room. He was wearing only loose fitting pants, leaving his scarred chest visible. Haiyan couldn’t help but stare at the marks that marred his freckled skin. So far, those were the only things Haiyan could see that they had in common: the scars, and the fact that the larger avian was adorned in metal, as Haiyan had been for so long. Clamps held shut his speckled wings, and cuffs locked around his biceps, pinning his upper arms in place but leaving his hands free. A collar wrapped around his neck, a blocky, two-pronged node pressing uncomfortably into the side of his neck. Master Welhouse walked in with him, a remote clasped in his hand. 

“Haiyan, this is the new member of the family, Carus. Say hello.”

Haiyan dipped their head obediently and muttered out an almost silent greeting, their hair falling into their eyes as they did so. 

“He used to be a fighter, isn’t that exciting, dear?”

“Yes, sir.”  Not at all. This avian is a threat, Haiyan thought, he’s dangerous and now you’ve let him into the house. They didn’t miss the expression of revulsion on Carus’ face, that curled lip and wrinkled nose and dangerously flashing eye. Off to a great start already, they thought ruefully. 

“Take your seats.” Master Welhouse said. Haiyan obeyed. Carus didn’t take his eyes off of Haiyan as they sat at the table, posture straight, wings tucked, and hands folded in their lap. The larger avian didn't move.

“Take your seat, Carus. Just there, across from Haiyan.” That hard edge returned to Master’s voice. Haiyan shuddered and peeked at Carus from the corner of their eye. 

“No.” Carus’ voice was strong and assertive. Haiyan flinched, a person with that kind of tone was never a good sign in their world. They couldn’t help it, Haiyan peeked at Master to gauge his reaction.

That cold, calculating look was on his face, the one that spoke of torment and pain and neglect and the dark. He stared at Carus, examining him like he examined everyone else in his life. Then, suddenly, that murderous look was gone, replaced by a nonchalant, charismatic mask.

“Very well, you may stand if you like.” Master waved his hand, signaling for the staff to bring in dinner.  “But you won’t get food until you sit like a somewhat civilized creature.” 

An enticing aroma filled the room as dinner was brought in, as usual. A plate was set in front of Haiyan, but they didn’t dare move, waiting as they always did for Master Welhouse to eat first. While they waited, they watched Carus.

His dark eyes followed the servers like they were an all new danger. He watched every movement, kept tabs on every figure, and remained tense as the trio of servers laid plates at the three set places on the ornate dining table.

Master had already dug in. “Carus, the carriers told me you hadn’t been given food during your trip here, is that true?” 

Carus didn’t reply. 

“Eat, dear.” Master gestured to Haiyan, and the small-statured avian jumped to follow the order. They laid out a napkin on their lap and picked up their fork, every movement measured and regulated, just like they had been taught. 

“Is that true, Carus?” There was that aggression in Master’s voice again, making Haiyan tremble like it always did. They lowered their fork and desperately wished Carus would just cooperate so they didn’t have to hear Master speak like that again. Master’s hand was hovering over the remote, his index finger tracing the button on top idly. Haiyan saw it, and but the looks of it, so did Carus.

“Yes,” Carus said through gritted teeth, his eyes trained on the food placed on the table before him. He looked like he was fighting every instinct in him that told him to run to the table and eat; his jaw was rigid and he worked it, clenching his teeth in an effort to resist temptation. As if to punctuate the statement, the scarred avian’s stomach grumbled plaintively.

Master’s sardonic smile grew. “Then you must be hungry, after all it took almost four days for you to get here. Please, take a seat and have something to eat.” He took another bite of his steak.

As though floodgates had opened, Carus surged forwards and thumped into the high-backed chair in front of him, immediately descending onto the plate like a bird of prey. Haiyan reeled backwards, flinching away from the ravenous avian in front of them and shocked by his actions.

“Now, Carus, where are you manners? Use your utensils and sit up straight.” Master Welhouse scolded. 

Carus only glared with his dark eyes, hunching over his food like an animal and inhaling as much as he could all at once. His bound wings flexed, as though he wanted to shield his plate with them as well as his own body. 

“I said sit up.” Master commanded, rising slightly from his chair. Carus’ wings fluffed up and he tensed, but continued eating anyway.

Haiyan felt the electricity before it even came. Carus’ choked scream filled the dining room, making Haiyan flinch violently and cover their ears to try and block out the noise. Their feathers fluffed out from fright involuntarily, and they curled inwards, trying to escape the noice of crackling electricity and the avian crying out from across the table. 

It stopped suddenly, and Carus slouched forward, bracing himself against the table’s edge with a closed fist. His breaths were short, he panted and growled like some kind of animal. 

“I told you to sit up and use your utensils.” Master’s voice was dark and cold, it sent goosebumps rippling across Haiyan’s skin. They had heard that tone of voice before, often directed at them. Fear caught their breath and hollowed out their lungs. “Now Carus, if you’re going to be a part of this family you need to-” 

“Go to Hell!” Carus spat, earning him another surge of electricity. Carus almost fell out of his chair, crying out and straining against the cuffs that hold his arms and wings in place. 

“Disrespect isn’t tolerated here.” Master coos, as though he’s teaching a toddler not to stick out their tongue. “You’ll have to learn that. But I’m willing to give you the benefit of the doubt and wager a guess that those arena junkies never taught you any sort of obedience. Perhaps you need an example.” 

A quick snap of his fingers made Haiyan shoot upright. “Haiyan, come here.” They scrambled to their feet ungracefully before recovering. Their bare feet padded softly on the carpet until they reached where Master sat calmly. 

He pointed at the floor beside him. Haiyan knelt obediently at his knee. 

Master Welhouse patted his thigh, and seconds later Haiyan’s head was resting in his lap, just like a good pet. Master smiled and ran his fingers through Haiyan’s hair, tousling their curls gently. 

“This is what you are meant to be, and this is what you will become.” The tone of his voice made Haiyan shudder. They played it off smoothly by nuzzling against Master’s thigh, pressing against him just like he taught them to. 

“Fat fucking chance.” 

Master’s hand tightened, grabbing Haiyan’s hair and tugging it suddenly. They held back a whimper, but couldn’t stop the fearful shudder that racked their body.

“You’ll see, in time, that everything is better this way. Everyone gets exactly what they want.” He insisted, his grip on Haiyan’s hair never loosening.

“And what about him? He looks fucking terrified right now.” Carus gestured with his restrained hands to Haiyan, his dark eyes flashing with disdain. For Haiyan or Master Welhouse, no-one could be sure. 

The well-dressed man scoffs in disbelief, looking down at the avian at his side. He cradles their face in his hands, hands that had hurt them and maimed them so many times before. But right now, his touch is deceptively gentle, as though he would never imagine hurting anyone, especially not his beloved pet. “My dear Haiyan, are you really terrified? You can tell me. Please, tell me if you’re terrified.”

Haiyan glanced at Carus, at his tense posture and hard demeanor and the sweat slicking his skin from the electricity he had endured. Haiyan didn’t want to end up like that again. 

So they lied.

“Of course not, sir.” 

[wiltedeyesandtwistedlies]

What is ADHD?

ADHD stands for attention-deficit/hyperactivity disorder. It’s named after it’s two most common symptoms, and some people really hate that.

Causes:

While no one has been able to find a direct cause, it does run in families. If you have ADHD and have a child, there’s a roughly 70% chance that child also has ADHD. Likewise, you can have no history of it in your family, and still have ADHD, it’s just very unlikely. (It is most likely your family members went undiagnosed and you were just the first to be diagnosed.) 

Being exposed as a child to toxins like lead may also be a cause. So might having certain illnesses like meningitis. Poor nutrition or substance abuse during pregnancy is also linked to causing ADHD.

All of these “causes” aren’t direct causes. They increase the chances, yes, but don’t garuntee you’ll have ADHD because of them. You could have all these possible causes, and still not have ADHD.

So what exactly is ADHD?

It is a neurodivergency (biological change in the brain) that disrupts our executive functions.

Executive Functions = a group of advanced thinking skills that basically run the rest of our brain.

Executive functions are what make a person able to:

stay focused

plan ahead

organize

resist temptations

stop something once they start

regulate their emotions

and be mentally flexible.

So people with ADHD have Executive Dysfunctions instead. And can struggle with any or all of the symptoms above. This is what links all types of ADHD. 

Executive dysfunction is what causes ADHDers to be unable to do simple tasks. By that I mean physically incapable of completing certain tasks. For example, say you need to fill out a form to bring to your bank. It’s a simple form you already have printed out and have your pen poised over the first blank line. You understand the question being asked, you know what you would answer, but you can’t bring your pen to touch the paper. Your arm won’t move. Your brain is blocking you from completing this task. It won’t let you continue and would rather think about ANYTHING else. So instead you’ve cleaned your whole apartment, donated to Goodwill, signed up for a dog daycare program you just read about, and went on a hike to avoid this simple form that just wants to verify your name and new address. (better example)

Executive dysfunction is also what causes ADHDers to hyperfixate. As said above, executive functions control the brain’s ability to focus. In the previous example I showed how executive dysfunctions can block you from focusing on even simple things. The flip side to that is how ADHD makes you focus way to much on one particular thing, whether you want to or not. When you hyperfocus, that hyperfixation is all you can think about. You can’t give attention to anything else. If it doesn’t involve your hyperfixation, your brain won’t spare it a second thought and will force you to ignore and forget everything else. You don’t even have to like your hyperfixation. It could be an uncomfortable subject or one that makes you very sad or angry, but you can’t stop thinking about it. 

Issues like these are what leads to the belief that people with ADHD are extremely lazy and always procrastinate. This is a false presumption and one of many reasons why going undiagnosed is so traumatizing. It is an uncontrollable biological thing your brain does that cannot be stopped and trying to do so can make it much worse. You can do things to strengthen your executive functions, but you can never change the physical makeup of your brain. 

Types of ADHD:

There are three types of ADHD. The differences are only in the way ADHD is presented/what symptoms are shown.

Primarily hyperactive-impulsive type

Primarily inattentive type

Primarily combined type

Originally, the hyperactive-impulsive type was the only one to be diagnosed. It was also thought that only young boys could have ADHD, and that they grew out of it as soon as they became an adult. Pretty recently it was found that girls could have ADHD too, not just boys. Even more recently doctors realized most kids with ADHD did not grow out of it, that it just changed how it was presented when they got older.

This is largely because the inattentive type went unnoticed for a long time. More info on a probable reason why can be found here.

Primarily hyperactive-impulsive type:

People with this type are often described “as if driven by a motor” and have very little impulse control. They are always moving, squirming, and talking even in the most inappropriate settings and situations. They are very impatient, impulsive, and often interrupt others. It is not something they can control and are often frustrated with themselves for this behavior.

Primarily inattentive type:

Previously called ADD or Attention Deficit Disorder, this type mostly shows symptoms involving the ability to pay attention. People with this type have an extremely hard time focusing and have very short attention spans. They often “space out” and no matter how much they want to pay attention, have difficulty staying focused. 

This type is most common in adults and women. Often, children with hyperactive-impulsive type grow up and start to experience mostly inattentive symptoms, leading to the assumption they have out grown their ADHD entirely.  

Primarily combined type:

People with this type have a combination of ADHD symptoms that cannot be put solely in either hyperactive-impulsive or inattentive categories. 

Some terms that pop up a lot: 

There are a lot of words and phrases that are used when discussing ADHD that not everyone knows. A lot of the time, we assume everyone reading our posts already know what these terms mean and don’t explain. That can be very confusing to people who don’t already know. I’ve already explained many of them, but there are still a few common ones I didn’t define yet. So here are some terms and their meanings that will be useful to know when reading ADHD resources:

Neurotypical = a “typical” brain, one that isn’t neurodivergent. Depending on context, can be used to describe a person, a type of brain, social groups, and societal practices

Neurodivergency = the difference in a brain’s development or current state compared to a typical brain (ADHD, autism, OCD, and many more are all examples)

Neurodivergent = used to describe a person who has a neurodivergency, a person who’s brain has developed into a state that is different from a typical brain

Extra info:

There are many other things (such as RSD and time blindness) that can accompany ADHD. I don’t know if all people with ADHD experience them, but I do know they are very common. This post is already a lot so I’m going to make a separate post about them and link it here. 

[sparrowrider]

Thermal Energy [Connor x borrower!reader]

HAT Day has come and gone, but I still wanted to do something for it, so...here we go! I’ve recently gotten really obsessed with a video game called Detroit: Become Human, so...last night I miraculously spouted out 2.1k words of this!

Warnings: freezing; brief mention of death; anxiety/feelings of helplessness

@misfitsgalaxygt @tinypancakes (I finally got around to posting it :D)

[A/N: This takes place after the events of the game, assuming you get an ending where Connor becomes deviant]

To say that it was cold would be the understatement of the century.

Shivers wracked your tiny form as you stumbled forward, wading through snow that reached your waist. Though it would barely brush the ankles of any humans that would happen to wander through this part of town (unlikely at this ungodly hour of the night), to you the snow formed an obstacle of mountainous—not to mention freezing—proportions.

It had all started when your cozy little home tucked away underneath a human’s house had frozen over. Though it had certainly gotten cold in the past, frost had never formed over half of your food stores in the past—so you figured it was time to move.

You’d planned it carefully—you waited until the dead of night, when most humans were sleeping, and wore your best camouflage clothes possible. You hadn’t even intended on going particularly far—you just needed to find a place with better heating, after all.

You did not, however, count on the possibility that it would begin to snow, nor did you think it’d pick up as rapidly as it did. You had attempted to hide away until the storm ended, but unfortunately, that had resulted in the current predicament in which you were stuck.

Your limbs were rapidly growing heavier and heavier as numbness slowly spread through your body; your ragged, homemade fleece had long since been soaked through, and provided no relief against the biting winds.

Suddenly, your foot caught on something hard underneath the stone—some sort of root, perhaps—and you tumbled forward, somersaulting through the snow at an alarming rate. Your breath was knocked out of your lungs as you landed on your back, now completely and thoroughly soaked, bruised and aching all over.

Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes as you attempted to sit up, struggling to catch your breath. Your limbs felt like lead, however—you couldn’t move without them screaming in protest as you struggled to catch your breath.

Who were you kidding? This whole venture was hopeless. Everything was hopeless.

You closed your eyes, the cold no longer so horribly biting. Maybe you could lie here for a few moments to regain your strength.

Just a few moments, though. You knew that staying in the cold for too long was dangerous...but a few more minutes couldn’t hurt.

Unconsciousness claimed you quickly.

* * *

Connor rather liked snow.

There was something beautiful about the way it fell gently from the heavens, glazing trees and buildings in white and blanketing the ground in glimmering sheets.  He liked how it seemed to mute out everything, cocooning the world in a soft silence. And despite the fact that he was not equipped with taste buds, even he couldn’t resist the temptation of sticking out his tongue to catch a snowflake and feeling it melt on his tongue.

Snow was simply mesmerizing, especially at night—there was something about the way the snow caught the starlight and sparkled in the darkness that touched his mechanical heartstrings. Luckily for him, his thermal regulators prevented him from getting cold, meaning he was free to wander about at night without fear of freezing.

He was on his second block when he noticed something odd.

There were footprints in the snow a few feet away. Not only that, but they were tiny— as if a Barbie had come to life and trekked through the snow. His eyes followed the tiny trail of prints until they ended at a tiny, dark shape slumped in the snow.

He internally flicked on his thermal scanners as he approached slowly, the world morphing into an explosion of blue hues. The bundle in the snow, however, was orange, indicating it was...warm. Its color was shifting, however, at an alarmingly rapid pace—it was losing heat.

Whatever it was...was organic.

Connor flicked his scanners off, the world returning to normal, as he kneeled beside it. His hand reached out, tentative, and he slid his fingers underneath it and gently turned it over.

It was...a person.

A tiny, organic person lying unconscious in the snow.

He didn’t understand how this could be possible—there was nothing within his database that suggested this could be possible. And yet, here it was...a tiny person who was breathing and trembling and was very much real.

...not only that, but it was losing heat at an alarming rate.

At this rate, it has a 3% chance of survival if left here.

Connor sucked in a breath (not that he needed to breathe, of course—but sometimes it helped him to steady himself, to ground himself) as he stared at the tiny...person...thing.

What could he do? He couldn’t just leave them there. It felt...wrong. It was wrong. He may not have a perfect grasp on morality, but he knew that much.

He had to get them warm. That much was obvious.

He gently slid a hand under them, and—oh goodness, he could feel their tiny bones shifting, feel their tiny heartbeat pulsing weakly beneath their skin—scooped them up. Cradling them tenderly in his hand, he lifted them up to his chest, pressing their ice-cold body against it.

Closing his eyes, he internally switched on his heating system. They were certainly going to need it.

* * *

When you finally woke up, it was warm.

Every molecule in your body sung as the blissful, blissful heat flooded your body, relaxing every muscle in your body. You breathed out a deep sigh, gently resting your head against the firm surface behind you—

Wait.

Firm surface? Last you remembered, you were dozing off in the snow…

As you glanced up—and up, and up, and up—your eyes widened in horror. A pair of dark, wide eyes framed by neatly-trimmed black hair gazed down at you, equally shocked, as you attempted to backpedal, only for your back to slam into a pair of fingers larger than your body.

Fingers?

You were in the hands of a human.

You stifled a squeal as you glanced around wildly, attempting to formulate an escape plan. You were several feet off the ground, cupped in the human’s hands—a human who, oddly enough, was wearing dress clothing at two in the morning in the freezing cold, and who had a glowing blue ring embedded in their forehead, and—oh. It was an android. Well, that didn’t make a difference in the long run, did it? He was still much, much bigger than you, and there was nothing you could do except sit in his hands and wait.

“Please, don’t be alarmed,” he said, sounding flustered. His voice was soft, gentle—something you didn’t expect from something like a human.

You opened your mouth to respond, but find that you can only produce a faint squeaking noise—no doubt a side effect of nearly being frozen over. Wincing, you glanced up into his curious brown eyes, which seemed to bore directly into your soul.

“You were...lying unconscious in the snow. I could not leave you there…” he said slowly, as if unsure about his words. “Are...are you alright?”

You uttered a silent yet dry laugh. Were you alright? You nearly died in the snow, only to be “rescued” by something twenty times your size, thus breaking one of the most sacred rules to your kind—don’t get caught.

“Oh...your voice. I see.” The android paused, clearly uncomfortable, before continuing. “Well...I apologize if I caused you any discomfort. I was designed to be an asset to humans…” His voice trailed off, and he peered at you again, his eyes narrowing in a way that made your heart threaten to beat its way right out of your chest. “But you’re not exactly...human, are you?”

Figuring it was best to go along with him, you reluctantly shook your head. In every way except size, you were identical to humans—but it didn’t matter to them. They’d never see you as anything but a common pest.

“Oh.” The android paused once more. “Well...my name is Connor.”

You glanced up at him, incredulous. He was...giving you his name? You shifted in his hands—which, you realized, were radiating blissful heat—and crossed your arms.

“Sorry. I’m not quite sure...I’m programmed to communicate effectively with humans. I’m not entirely sure how to go about speaking to someone who...isn’t technically human. But, luckily for you, adapting to human unpredictability is one of my features.” With that, he winked, a tiny smile appearing on his face.

You couldn’t help it; you burst out laughing. Well, it was more like raspy wheezing while you grinned so hard your cheeks hurt—but despite the fact that you were in a potentially life-threatening situation, there was something hilarious about the android’s attempt to use cheesiness, of all things, to make you trust him.

“What?” the android—Connor—asked, sounding offended, but his affronted tone was betrayed by the wide grin that had spread across his face. “It’s true. I am programmed with an algorithm designed to analyze patterns in human behavior and reciprocate them as needed to make humans feel more comfortable around me…” He trailed off, his smile taking on an embarrassed edge, as you simply raised your eyebrows at him in confusion and amusement.

“Ahem...anyway. Back to the matter at hand.” Connor glanced to the side, a tiny, flustered smile lingering on his lips. “Had I not found you when I did, there is a high likelihood that you would have...not made it through the night. It is imperative to get you to a location where you can rest and warm up to regain your health. I have turned on my heaters, but…” He trailed off once more, visibly uncertain, before picking back up. “But I believe I may need to bring you to a...more secure location if you are to regain health as quickly as possible.”

Your shoulders tensed as he spoke. What the android was implying was taking you away with him, putting you completely at the mercy of a giant machine. While he seemed sincere, you were still hesitant to trust him—after all, the slightest misstep with someone so big could cost you your life.

“I know it must be difficult for someone your size to trust me,” Connor continued, his voice much more firm now. “But I’m afraid I must insist. It is my purpose to assist humans, and though you admit to being something else, you clearly have the intelligence and emotional capacity of a human, making you undoubtedly an equal. I am obliged to ensure your safety and good health.”

You froze, staring up at him in shock. He called you...an equal? You’d never thought something so much bigger than you would be able to look past your size, your fragility—but he had. He’d recognized the humanity inside of your tiny form.

Besides...you were looking for a new home anyway, right? The warmth radiating off of Connor’s hands was one of the best things you’d felt in awhile, and you found yourself scooting a little closer to his fingers as you pondered his words. Here was the opportunity for a new home, a warm meal for the first time in ages, safety...even a friend.

Maybe it was the fact that Connor’s heavensent heating systems were clouding your brain, but you found yourself nodding in agreement. If Connor hadn’t intervened, well...you didn’t want to think about what might have happened.

“Oh. Oh! Glad to have your cooperation. Well, then...I know a place you’ll be safe...at least for the night. You can probably stay longer if you want...I have to get permission from the human who lives there, of course, but it’s not as if you’d take up much space. I’m sure he’d be able to accommodate you.”

You continue nodding, only half listening to his words at this point. The warmth and (surprising) comfort of his hands, coupled with the strain the last few hours had put on you, were making it more and more difficult for you to keep your eyelids from slipping shut.

“You’re tired,” Connor hummed, his low voice rumbling through the air. “I’m going to start walking now, if that’s alright.”

You nod once more, slumping against his fingers. They tense for a moment before relaxing, and you sigh, content.

You heard Connor chuckle softly overhead as you absently snuggle into the crook of his curled fingers, the warmth enveloping you in a cocoon of pure euphoria. As he slowly began moving forward, he brought his hand up against his chest once more. A soft, mechanical thrumming pulsed through his body—it wasn’t quite a heartbeat, but it may as well have been.

As Connor took you towards your new home, you allowed sleep to claim you—safe, warm, and happy at last.

[okimargarvez]

NUMBER 13

Original title: Numero 13.

Prompt: Luke and Penelope going to a speed dating event.

Warning: O.C.

Genre: funny, comedy, romantic.

Characters: Penelope Garcia, Luke Alvez, various females and males O.C.

Pairing: Garvez.

Note: oneshot 45 in Garvez collection. 

Legend: 💏😘🎵.

Song mentioned: Rosso relativo, Tiziano Ferro.

GARVEZ STORIES

NUMBER 13

Las ganas palpitaban, tronaban... cantaban... chillaban... en plena noche en el pecho de... Paola... oh... Paola...

She is sitting at the last table of the room. From there she has a good view of the whole space, decorated in a rather cheap way, certainly not according to her tastes. It's the first time she experiences something like this. She passes her fingers through the thick red hair. Contact lenses have already started to bother her. Why was she dressed like this? Why not show up in one of her usual low-cut dresses? She sighs as the man walks towards her and sits down in front of her. It's nice enough, tall, not too muscular, black hair and brown eyes. On the card it is written Nathan.

-Hey.- she must resist the temptation to stand up. She limits herself to an embarrassed smile.

-Hey.- he says. -Are you nervous?- he asks her then, but with a sympathetic tone.

-Enough.- she shrugs. Pretending to look at her name, he also gave a good look at everything else. She struggles not to wonder what he has thought at first sight about her.

-First time, right?- she nods, then chuckles, her cheeks more and more the same shade of hair. -I've been there, it's get better, trust me .- he winks. -So... Penelope, right?- another up and down. -I see we have only a few minutes... talk to me a bit 'of you. What do you do?-

 El tedio aquella noche era enorme, llamaba, buscaba un príncipe ideal, en cambio ya era la dama del castillo.

He was about to back off, to cancel the reservation, but he finally decided to go there. He reaches the first free table and sits in front of a blonde woman. Blonde, but with short, very short hair. And as much as he strives, he can't avoid starting the comparison. Damn it, he has reduced to this just to not think of her, and it's enough a little thing to send everything to hell.

-Hey.- he sketch a shy smile. It is written on his face that this is his first time. She looks at him carefully, before greeting him with her hand.

-Hey, I'm Marissa.-

 El tuyo es rojo relativo, no se mancha de amor y por eso canta muy dentro de ti, por tu gran soledad y porque...

When the bell finally rings, Penelope gives a sigh of relief a bit too accentuated. Poor Nathan, he had been very nice and fine, but when chemistry is missing, it can't be invented, and at the most they could become good friends. And it was clear that neither was looking for this.

-Can I sit?- a deep, baritone voice that reminds her about Walker, makes her jump. She raises her head suddenly and falls in two green eyes, a green rich in shades, which dazzles her for a few seconds. The man is not irritated by the precious wasted time, on the contrary, gives her a much warmer smile than the number 4.

Welcome, number 5. She hastens to regain possession of her mental and motor skills. -Yes, yes, sorry, I was... a little distracted.- the embarrassment hasn't passed at all, but it's only the second man she meets. The evening is still long.

-No problem. Nice to meet you, I'm Jared.- she holds out her hand but instead of squeezing it into his, he prefers to take it to his lips, posing an old-time kiss.

-Penelope.- looking at him she can't help but wonder why he is in a place like this. It's possible that he couldn't find someone decent in the real world?

-Yes, Penelope, I think I've already seen you somewhere. It's possible? Are you an actress or a model by chance?- he asks after a few moments. She can't help but burst out laughing.

-Me, a model, me?- he doesn't seem to understand her perplexity and this flatters her. Not everyone therefore appreciates only the skinny girls. -No, I work for the feds. I'm a computer technician.- she adds after a brief pause.

-FBI? Wow.- while he searches for words, Penelope understands what in this man had immediately attracted her and at the same time rejected: he looks very much like Battle, has his own look. She shudders, but decides to ignore those feelings and focuses on what he is saying.

 Venga... ámate mucho esta noche y mañana vuelve a ser quien no se divierte porque buscas algo más fácil de hacer.

He didn't have time to sit down that the woman, Amber, number 9, started to stun him with words. Luke can't even say his name, and this allows him to continue with his own reflections, which certainly don't concern this unknown, as well as the previous one. Even Amber is definitely pretty, she has everything a man could want, as for the physical aspect, but her voice is petulant, annoying, certainly not as sweet as that of...

Damn it, Luke, you can't keep this up. You don't have to think about her. What did you answer to Phil when he asked if there was something between your colleague and you? No, what you think! And how did he repay you? He sent you here. As if I hadn't seen the way he looked at her, and I didn't understand that he wanted to make sure he had a free field...

-...and then there was this unpleasant shop assistant who told me...- the sound of the little bell forces her to block the monologue and at the same time wakes up Luke.

 La timidez salía pero huía, escapaba de noche... se diluía. En los ojos de... Paola... oh... Paola.

A few meters away, that same noise is received with great regret. Jared lingers, already standing, stealing seconds from the next stranger. -I shouldn't say it, it's almost against the rules, but... I hope you will send positive feedback too.- he whispers slightly, gives her a wink and Penelope is still smiling, when a blond man, number 6, Carl, sits in front of her with a snort.

 Jugaba al escondite, se escondía, y mostraba, buscaba sus cazadores, y en cambio ya era la presa de ese bosque.

-Hello, number 13. We have little time, so... talk to me about you.- Luke sighs, feeling almost (almost) the lack of Amber.

-What do you want to know?- he tries one of his best smiles, but it comes out badly.

-Everything.- answers the woman, who is called Silvia, according to her card, and that seems little interested in the names. -It's clear that you've never been in a place like that, and that you're not that type, so... I want to go right to the point. What is the rip-off in you? Problematic children? Are you a serial killer?- the question rips from him a sincere laugh, in spite of himself.

-No, but I work with them, you could say...- she is more and more confused, so he has to clarify. -I'm a profiler, I work for the FBI, department of behavioral analysis...- he explains, and the woman lights up, finally managing to understand.

-Ok, then I understood what is your problem. Timing shits.-

 El tuyo es rojo relativo, no se mancha de amor y por eso canta muy dentro de ti, por tu gran soledad y porque...

Penelope realizes that about every fifteen seconds she looks at the clock, perhaps hoping to make the hands run faster, but the trick doesn't work, unfortunately. The number 7 is slightly late, and she doesn't mind. -Walter.- he says, in no uncertain terms. Even when he is seated, she understands that he is much shorter than she is, thin, and has red hair. This particular makes her want to laugh, and it is very difficult to keep everything inside.

-Penelope.- she answers, almost sobbing.

-Well, Penelope, are you busy at the end of this thing?- even the nuances of his voice are strange, there is something... disturbing, in the negative sense.

-What, excuse me?-she hopes she misunderstood. Now that she looks at him better, he has a lascivious look. She takes another look at the clock. She must hold on last another minute and a half...

 Venga... ámate mucho esta noche y mañana vuelve a ser quien no se divierte porque buscas algo más fácil de hacer.

A few feet away, Luke is doing much better. The number 11 is much nicer, friendlier than the previous ones, she is neither chatty nor too taciturn. And it's even pretty, but... but it's not her, and it can't be. Michelle is blonde, and even wears glasses bigger than her. Her voice is pleasant, not too acute, nor low. She likes animals, and she was happy when they ended up talking about Roxy and her Merle.

That's why he almost feels sorry when the bell rings again. He has to meet many women and doesn't know how to get by. Phil will have to listen to him, it's sure.

 Y no descansas ya, solos pantalla y tú (das tanta pena), teclado y alma…

And here, the number 8 is approaching. He is the fifth man she meets, and she almost starts to hope that Emily calls with a new case that forces her to drop the kit and caboodle, because this experience is not as if she thought. Jared aside, but even he is not enough to positively balance the evening.

-Hey, I'm Simon.- she shakes his hand and smiles, but now knowns that her face is responding automatically, without sincerity, and especially without involved the heart.

-Nice to meet you, I'm Penelope.- she is sure that after that sexual maniac, that hoped to conclude already at the end of the meeting, and that probably has done and will continue to make the same proposal to all women present... well, sure Simon- number 8 can't be worse.

-My pleasure, Penelope. It's a nice name, yours, and I'm not saying it just because it is assumed that I have to try to impress you at any cost...- it starts well, and like Jared, he winks at her with the right dose of malice, not too much. -But because I'm a professor of Greek literature.-

 ...qué demuestro así con esto... muchas formas hay de sexo.

-Hello, I'm... my name is Carol.- the mysterious woman sitting at table 13, i.e. the one that carries the same number of him, is tiny, with brown hair up to shoulder length, two big blue eyes and red cheeks for embarrassment .

-I'm Luke.- he smiles at her, because he feels immediately softened. -It's the first time for you, is not it?- she nods. -I don't know how you went for now, but with me there is not to be anxious. Do you like animals?-

 Las ganas palpitaban, tronaban... cantaban... chillaban... en plena noche en el pecho de... Paola... oh... Paola...

Mister 9 has some clearly exotic features, but she can't locate him geographically. -Hey, Penelope.- the hair is dark, curly and slightly longer than... of the standard. The eyes of the color of the sky when it is cloudy, and he has amber skin. -My name is Maurice.- he says. -Sorry if I'm so outspoken but..- Penelope already worries, fearing to repeat the situation experienced with the number 7. -You already found someone interesting, tonight? - he asks only her. She sighs in relief and the man looks at her strangely. Probably now he thinks it's her, the crazy one.

-Yes, in fact...- she shrugs, while she sees those sea-green eyes. Oh oh, it seems like a principle of crush. She didn't believe it was possible. -Something like that.- the expression hopeful of him goes out like a private fire of the oxygen that is necessary to make it burn. -And you?- she asks, even though she already senses the response.

-No.- he answers. She wonders if Jared will have met some other interesting woman, that will struck him more than she... and she also feels a tiny pin of jealousy.

-Oh, I... I'm sorry.- she's forced not to look at her watch.

-It's not your fault.- he says, still in the same firm and decisive tone. Even though she is not a profiler like her coworkers, Penelope understands that he must be a straightforward man who saying anything directly. -What do you look at most in a man?- he asks after a few seconds of embarrassment.

The first thing she sees as she thinks about her answer is a memory, a short skit with a man who is not Jared-number 5 at all. -You might think I'm a liar, but... The sympathy, in short, if he makes me laugh, we are halfway there.- Jared also made her laugh, and a lot, in those very few minutes they had available. So why had she had to think about him? Why can't she drive off the harmonious sound of his laugh of her ears? Still, it went so well, until now. She managed to put him aside, she didn't even compare every male being with him... why give in now?

-A beautiful answer, really.- Maurice says, and she just nods, distracted.

 El tedio aquella noche era enorme, llamaba, buscaba un príncipe ideal, en cambio ya era la dama del castillo.

As he walks between the tables 13 and 14, Luke glances at the rest of the room and his eyes end up attracted towards the back, one of the last places, where a red, curvy woman is sitting, whose face is however covered by a man. He doesn't almost have time to sit down, that the woman, brown hair with a few pink and blue strands, shoots him the first question. -Hey, when was the last time you did it?- it's not just a matter of ingenuity, he doesn't really get there.

-What?- indeed, he asks, without even frowning eyebrows.

-Sex, what else?- he is not in church, nor in catechism lession, but he feels the consequences of twelve years of Catholic school, and a speech so shameless on the mouth of a stranger upsets him. -If you're here...- the girl continues, another that seems to have clear ideas and above all total disregard for their names.

He tries to collect all the little calm that has remained in him. He will make Phil pay, yes. -Listen to me, Stephanie, right?- the woman doesn't nod. -I'm not here for this.- he explains. -If you really want to know, my best friend sent me here. It's a sort of bet.- he hopes in this way of getting rid of it.

-Hey, don't overheat.- it seems that she is the one upset. -It's not so embarrassing.- she adds, moving her hand on the table, directed towards the male one. Then she paints a beautiful, comprehensive expression on her face. -You're a virgin, are not you?-

 El tuyo es rojo relativo, no se mancha de amor y por eso canta muy dentro de ti, por tu gran soledad y porque...

Howard, is written on the card. And indeed, he also resembles to one of the astrophysical protagonists of The Big Ban Theory. Penelope is tired, and the worst thing is that this is only to number 10, which means that there is still more than half men to meet. If she wasn't ashamed, she would stand up and give up everything. But they could remove her card, and she might miss the chance to see Jared again...

-Are you listening to me?- telling him the truth it wouldn't be nice, but at this point, she doesn't even have the strength to pretend.

-No, I'm sorry, but... Has anybody ever told you that you look like the actor of a TV series?- the man takes the statement as a compliment, the offense passes completely and he starts talking again, by allowing Penelope to think freely. She just has to nod occasionally for another minute and a half.

 Venga... ámate mucho esta noche y mañana vuelve a ser quien no se divierte porque buscas algo más f��cil de hacer.

-Deborah, right?- this time it's him, the one who just sat down and starts talking, even before introducing himself. Also because, after the first three times, saying "Hi, I'm Luke and I'm a federal agent" has become as painful as talking about weather conditions. -Sorry frankness, but I just had a conversation...- he sees the brunette woman frown. -... uncomfortable, so I prefer to be clear.- she is silent, letting him finish. -I don't know why you're here, but as far as I'm concerned, I don't expect to necessarily meet my soul mate, nor a possible one-night stand story.- he must have been a little too brusque, and he'd like to apologize, but in fact , it's not that he really cares about it. He needs time to meditate on his revenge against Phil.

Deborah, after a few moments, bursts out laughing. -Wow, it was really bad, that chat, it's not?-

 El tuyo es rojo relativo, no se mancha de amor y por eso canta muy dentro de ti, por tu gran soledad y porque...

The number 11 is dark, short hair, slightly curls, dark eyes, tall, muscly but not too jock. I look slightly Latin. But it must be the fault of contact lenses. She doesn't know how she has endured them until now, because she feels them dry on the pupil, and everything is very out of focus. Still, he resembles him. -Hello, I'm Lucas.- the man begins, unaware. Fortunately, she hasn't yet used her coupon for an alcoholic drink, otherwise she would have spit it over the handsome amaranth shirt of the unfortunate poor guy.

-Wh... What?- she manages to chock with her saliva anyway. She tries to look at him better, but she doesn't change her mind. It looks like him, it's unequivocal. And the name... is almost identical. It must be a twist of the fate. She is tempted to get up and really let it all go to the hell. Too bad for Jared and for the beautiful blond children with green eyes that could arise from their union.

-Lucas.- reiterates the other, confused. -Why?- then, he seems to have an illumination. -Don't tell me that you have an ex that is called so.- the idea that he can be considered as one of her ex, boyfriend, husband, lover... makes her want to laugh.

-No, no- she is quick to deny, a bit too vehement. -And anyway... No, his name is Luke.- she has to say, to exorcise it, to prove to herself that it is only a harmless crush, that it is not true that she is thinking about him uninterruptedly, since he chose her for bring the dog to his friend Phil... he chose her instead of Matt, JJ or Tara, must mean something, right? She notices that he is staring at her. -But it's just a colleague, at most a friend.- she says, trying to sound convinced, but she's not very good.

-Are you sure?- Lucas asks her.

-Yes.-

 Venga... ámate mucho esta noche y mañana vuelve a ser quien no se divierte porque buscas algo más fácil de hacer.

Patricia. With the number 16, it can be said that he is almost half the battle. The idea that he has to meet eleven women yet is inconceivable. Should not it be any man's dream? All those women, brunette, redheads, dark, blondes, all this variety ... and he wants nothing more than to lock himself in the house with the only girl in his life, Roxy, put on pajamas and... and dream her, the unattainable.

In every woman he found a piece of her, willy-nilly. Some were blond, some wore glasses, or the voice was very similar, full of sweet nuances, or even the love for animals... but none was like her. Not even Michelle, the nicest, the prettiest and the most normal, the one he almost displeased to greet. Even while he was talking to her, he doesn't stopped thinking about his obsession.

 El tuyo es rojo relativo...

In the American world, the number assigned to him, the 13th, is considered to be the bearer of bad luck. He was never a superstitious type, too rational to fall into such a thing, and not even the Catholic influence had an impact to his opinion about the existence of bad luck. But he knows, by pure chance, because he must have read it somewhere, that in Europe, the number of bad luck is another. The 17th. And at the table 17 is the redhead who caught his attention a few minutes ago. The closer he gets, the more he feels to have already seen her...

-Penelope!- she doesn't wear glasses, is not blonde, is not wear a low-cut dress. But it is her. His soul had recognized her before his eyes, and this is very serious. -The red suits you.- but she ignores the compliment, if this was it, and her eyes get to pop up so much that he wonders how they haven't bounced on the table, as happens in cartoons.

-Luke!- a strangled cry comes out her mouth. So she blushes, clearly embarrassed that he, just him, has seen her like that, in such an environment. But the feeling is mutual.

-What are you doing here?- In fact, they end up saying the same thing, and this increases the embarrassment even more. -You talk first.- Luke finally says, as a real gentleman.

-I...- now that she has the floor, she doesn't know what she meant anymore, and above all she is aware of the fast flowing time, and she imagines it like grains of sand falling from one side of the hourglass to the other. -A friend of mine recommended it.- she says. And she is lucky, because man falls for it.

-Me too... Phil talked to me about this.- after the first few seconds of total displacement he seems to have recovered well. Penelope is like his island in the middle of the stormy sea, a safe oasis in the desert... even if it is a wild card and causes to him anxiety and worries, she is still a person who he has known for a while, which he trusts... actually, he would be willing to put his life in her hands. Fuck.

-Your friend Phil?- she asks him, starting to smile, amused. -Really?- but she doesn't wait for confirmation, bursts out laughing. Uh, how he missed this music. He is that bad? She's laughing at him, she's teasing him, she's enjoying the situation a lot, and he keeps thinking her so beautiful, so fantastic and ... and he doesn't care if she's dyed her hair or it's just a wig.

-What's so funny?- he tries to seem offended, but it doesn't last even three seconds. Her attempts to curb her laughter make him want to smile, join her, kidnap her in a kiss, and not necessarily in this order.

-Nothing.- she takes a deep breath, taking possession of herself again. -So, what should we do?- she asks, fiddling with a lock of hair and often looking away. -We pretend not to know each other? Let's talk about the weather?- Luke shakes his head, extremely determined, even if unaware of it.

-No.- he also says, the tone deep and safe. -Once you said you don't believe in destiny or even coincidences.- he points out, leaning a little with the bust towards her, and unlike her, never taking his eyes from her. He was never good at not staring her. Let alone them in this place, where he is authorized. Where he is encouraged to flirt with her. -But according to you, it's just a coincidence that we met here tonight?- Penelope seems to think seriously about his question.

But she ends up doing one of her jokes. -Unless you didn't follow me...- Luke doesn't want to laugh. He sighs, and pierces her with another look.

-You're joking, are not you?- she shrugs and looks toward the clock.

-Well, you still have... Two minutes, Mister Number 13.- the fact that she calls him that way gives him another shake, the definitive one. The numbers 13 and 17 continue to bounce before his eyes. The thought that after him there may be other men, that there have already been 9 others before him, that even outside, in the real world, is full of people who can, have the right to hit on her, and all because he is a jerk who doesn't knows what to do...

-You intend to continue this... This thing?- he was about to call it farce, but he would insult himself, because he could say no too. He could refuse. Phil didn't point a gun at his head. And she? Why she goes to a place like that? Does she really need a speed date to find a decent man? What happened to the Canadian boyfriend, the one who taught her the fingering techniques for the clarinet? He has too many questions to ask, and too little time.

-Why not?- she answers with another question. -How do I know, if I don't try? - the voice cracks, becomes extremely serious, and for the first time she keeps her eyes fixed in his. -The number 14 could be the love of my life.- and he can't contradict her, can't be sure that she is not right, but he can't even lose her for a speed date. As much as he tries not to have preconceptions, he keeps thinking that this whole thing is really ridiculous.

-Or maybe it could be the person in front of you right now.- it escapes him. But he doesn't regret it. Penelope, for her part, decides to believe it is a joke. She takes the easy road.

She looks to the right, then left, behind him and even under the table. -Mmm, I don't see anyone...- Luke, however, has completely exhausted everything: patience, cowardice, self-control. He stands up, quite abruptly, quickly he comes around the table and takes her by the hand, dragging her away just in the moment when that sound, which he will probably hear tonight again and again (if he will not be too busy in other activities), begins to trill, making them understand that their time has expired.

-Luke, are you crazy?!- Penelope doesn't shout, but only because she doesn't want to draw attention to them, or at least doesn't make the situation worse. -Leave me!- they pass in front of the number 14, which, poor devil, will remain high and dry. -What the hell do you want to do?- she tries to free herself from his grip, but there's no way. He leaves her only when they are out, in the cool (and cold) air of the evening.

-Speak, as normal people.- he replies, perfectly serious, as if he hadn't just recently made an act against the regulation, and it was really embarrassing.

The humidity is such that she can't own it anymore. -But what? - she asks, while digging in the bag looking for the box where she throws the contact lenses, promising to herself that she will not wear them anymore, returning to her trusted glasses. This change should make Luke a little faint, especially when she puts her hands in her hair and rips them off... and then he realizes that it wasn't true that he didn't care, he adores her blonde hair, even if, before meeting her, it wasn't his kind of ideal woman.

-Did you know anyone interesting?- he asks her, hoping the answer was a no, and feeling like shit for having hoped for something so selfish.

-You are not the first that ask me this, tonight. And the answer, even if it doesn't concern you, is yes.- she sees him clench his hands into fists. -The number 5 was very nice, kind and smart. He told me he would like to see me again and... I think I will accept his invitation.- he doesn't know if she said it to shake him, to make him jealous or because she really thinks it. But she doesn't have much time to think about it, because he takes her by the wrist and pushes her against his body, while with the other hand he holds her by the neck and... kisses her. Not a chaste kiss, sweet, tender, but ravenous, greedy. After a few seconds, in fact, their tongues start to struggle. While remaining displaced, she kisses him back, because it is all too overwhelming and even seems unreal.

-Why the hell did you do it?- she asks, thinking of playing angry, indignant, upset, but it just seems... deeply scared. He hasn't moved away his right hand from her neck and continues to keep her close. This alone would be enough to confuse her definitively.

-Because it was easier than trying to convince you with thousand words.- he simply answers, moving just a thumb up and down, between the skin and the hairline.

It is clear that Penelope is struggling to find a possible alternative, but it is not there. -To convince me of? - the voice still trembles, and she hates it. Even the legs are not put better, and if he would let her go, she would probably end up on her knees or with her ass on the ground. The head, then, doesn't stop turning.

-I don't believe you didn't understand it.- the other hand ends up on her neck and then climbs onto the cheek, where he lays a caress. -I'm in love with you, that's why I came here, not to spend another evening alone on the couch thinking of you.- he confesses, with a sweet tone that makes her vibrate inside. Maybe it's those blessed stomach butterflies that she's never tried before. -Phil understood it, he saw you only once and understood it.- he continue to explain them. -He asked if there was anything between us, and since I'm stupid, I said no, but he understood and sent me here hoping to have free field with you.- wait a minute, this means that she Phil also likes, she deduces. -Why did you come here?- she doesn't feel as brave as he is, but she takes a few breaths, inhaling the icy air, which enters directly into her lungs.

-For the same reason.- she shrugs. -I wanted to distract myself a little and understand... Understand how messed up I was.- she adds, and there's no need for explanations. This seems to be enough for him, in terms of words. He bends his head and this time she opens her eyes and gets up on the tips to make it easier. The second kiss is much deeper, intense than the first. She then leans on his chest as he surrounds her with his arms.

-Does that mean you will not call the number 5?- he provokes her one last time as they walk, swinging toward his car.

TAGS: @theshamelessmanatee  @arses21434 @kathy5654 @martinab26 @reidskitty13 @jenf42 @gracieeelizabeth27 @silviajajaja @smalliemichelle99 @charchampagne14 @thinitta   @myhollyhanna23 @garvezz @mercedes-maldonado  @shyladystudentfan @cosmicmelaninflower

[pamphletstoinspire]

What Is Pornography - Part 5 - THE STRUGGLE WITH PORN - Part 23

23. I will never be able to regain my spouse’s trust after sneaking around with porn.

When you stood before your family, slipped that ring on your spouse’s finger, and told her you would “forsake all others”, I doubt there was some small print written somewhere that read: “Except when I want to sneak off to masturbate before digital prostitutes.”

Deep down, despite all the excuses, this is not the kind of husband or wife any of us wants to be. Do you want to be the kind of person who loves someone for the rest of your life, gladly sacrificing yourself for the good of that person experiencing an intimate personal and sexual bond? Or do you want to be the person who sneaks off late at night to have an intimate encounter with your computer? Which one of these sounds closer to the wedding vows you spoke and the person you wish to become?

Still, when a spouse discovers that her husband or his wife has been sneaking around watching porn, it can feel absolutely devastating. It is a traumatic discovery in the truest sense of the word. When dealing with a husband’s sexual betrayal, approximately 70 percent of wives fit the criteria for post-traumatic stress disorder, often manifesting symptoms of fear, depression, anxiety, obsessive thinking, insomnia, hyper-vigilance, and nightmares.

Spouses in this situation often begin to doubt themselves, caught in the immense insecurity of feeling the need to compete with a world of fantasy. Not surprisingly, these spouses often feel angry, lonely, exhausted, and in deep despair. Is it possible to regain the trust of a spouse who feels so hurt?

In his book Partners: Healing from His Addiction, Dr. Doug Weiss uses a key phrase over and over: believe behavior. If you want your spouse to begin trusting you again, you must demonstrate trustworthy behaviors. Talk is cheap, and in the case of a partner who has been sneaking around watching porn for a long time, talk is even cheaper. Making promises or stating mere words of reassurance cannot rebuild trust. New behavior can.

I want to outline seven vital steps for rebuilding trust. For the sake of simplicity, I’ll assume that the offending party is a husband who is attempting to regain his wife’s trust, but the same steps equally apply to a woman attempting to regain her husband’s trust.

1. Fully acknowledge the wrong.

It is vital for your wife to hear from you a clear, humble, honest admission of wrong. Don’t just acknowledge the action: “I have been looking at pornography.” Acknowledge the nature of the action: “I have wronged you by my selfishness, lust, and deception.”

Also acknowledge that you don’t fully understand just how badly you’ve hurt your wife and that you agree that her mistrust of you is warranted: “I know I have crippled your trust in me, and I don’t blame you. Still, I won’t pretend to understand how difficult this is for you, but I want to understand it better.” Promise to listen to her — uninterrupted and without being defensive — then follow through with that promise, no matter how painful it is to hear her words.

2. Never shift the blame.

Acknowledge that, although there may be underlying reasons why you have been obsessed with porn, you take full responsibility for your actions. Perhaps you were exposed to porn at a young age, or perhaps you think your parents could have given you a much better sex education. Perhaps you feel as if your habit has spiraled out of control into an addiction and you need professional help. These are fine things to share with your wife, but don’t ever treat them as excuses. Your wife needs to hear you take full ownership of the problem.

It is also common for a woman to feel as if the problem is at least partially hers. If she had only been sexier or less of a nag, maybe you wouldn’t have gone down this path of fantasy and deception. You must remind your wife that this is a lie.

Tell her that porn is cleverly edited, high-octane sex, and no woman can (or should) compete with this. Women everywhere are told that they need to be younger, prettier, and bustier. The last person a woman should hear this message from is her husband. In the arms of her husband, she should feel beautiful — because she is.

3. Purge all access points to porn.

Do everything in your power to close off access to porn. Just as important, let your wife know what you are doing to close access.

Many husbands are tempted, especially after a while, to feel as if all the safeguards are a bit childish and over the top. Don’t think this way. It probably took you years to build up your porn habit. Don’t be a fool and think it will go away in days or weeks. It takes a mature man to acknowledge where he is weak.

By closing off all the access points (and potential access points), you will show your wife exactly what she needs to see: that you love her more than your iPhone, more than unmonitored time online, more than your route to work that passes the adult bookstore, more than your private e-mail account, more than your secluded life, where no one knows the real you or the real temptations you face.

4. Encourage your wife to seek advice and help.

Though you are the one with the problem, your problem has spilled over into your wife’s life. Encourage her to talk to someone else about her feelings of hurt, betrayal, and confusion. Resist the urge you might feel to save your precious reputation by telling her to keep your porn problem a total secret. This only discourages your wife from getting outside help.

Often those hurt by their spouse’s porn use don’t want or feel that they need any help, but since your problem caused your wife great trauma, let her know that no one should have to face that kind of trauma alone. Encourage her to speak to a good friend or a counselor. There are counselors trained to help spouses of sex and porn addicts (called APSATS, the Association of Partners of Sex Addicts Trauma Specialists).

5. Be incredibly patient with her.

If you’ve been secretly hooked on porn for a long time, when the secret finally comes out, it can feel paradoxically frightening and relieving all at the same time. For you, the secrecy or the resistance to change has been an enormous burden, but now things look brighter and more hopeful — nowhere to go but up.

This is often not how the offended spouses feel. The revelation of your secret or the burden of carrying your secret has been crushing. Trust has been shattered. The world as your wife knows it now seems unreal to her. She might be questioning everything she ever believed about her marriage and about you.

Be patient. Don’t expect her to “be over this” because the secret is out or because you have made vows to change.

And don’t push sexual intimacy with your wife soon after divulging your secret either. Spouses vary in their responses when it comes to discovering that their husbands have a porn problem. Your wife may find the idea of sex with you repulsive, wondering whether you are just using her as a warm body as you replay pornographic scenes in your mind. Or she might be the opposite: sex might help to reassure her that things are still okay. Either response is very natural.

Whatever her reaction, you should pursue romance with your wife in nonsexual ways. Porn unfortunately trains us to desire sex without emotional engagement, to approach sex with a consumer mentality. To counteract this, you should pursue emotional engagement with your wife and let sex be the overflow. Show nonsexual physical affection — cuddle, hug, kiss. Be vulnerable: have heart-to-heart conversations about your memories, dreams, and hopes. Spend quality time together. Find ways to serve her. Surprise her with romantic gestures.

6. Become accountable for your technology use.

Most people who have a dysfunctional relationship with porn also have a dysfunctional relationship with technology. You might have the mentality: “What I do online is my own business, no one else’s. It is my time.” This has enabled you to create a private world of fantasy.

This mentality needs to change. One of the best ways to do this — it has helped me and countless others—is to use accountability software. Unlike filtering software that is typically used for kids and blocks adult websites, accountability software doesn’t block anything. It lets you go wherever you want. But every week or so, an Internet report is e-mailed to someone of your choosing (such as a friend, mentor, spouse, or counselor).

This reporting has great benefits. For one, just the knowledge that someone will likely see a record of all the questionable places you’ve been online is enough to nip temptation in the bud for a lot of guys. Second, if you do slip up and watch porn, you’ve already made your confession to others: they already know the dirty details, so there’s no option to hide or to minimize things. This keeps you honest. Third, it really shows the people who love you how serious you are about changing. It tells them, “My life is open to you. I don’t want any more secrets.”

Although there are a few accountability-oriented programs out there, the only one really worth its salt is Covenant Eyes. After testing some of these programs, I found that this is the one that consistently works the best.

7. Seek man-to-man accountability.

The word “accountability” might leave a bad taste in your mouth. That’s okay; it used to leave a bad taste in mine as well.

The best definition of accountability I can give you is this: giving permission to someone you trust to remind you of the person you really want to be. Yes, accountability involves sharing your faults and struggles with someone, but admitting those struggles aloud should always be followed by a reminder of what you are fighting for and the kind of man you hope to become. Having this mentality in mind will keep accountability from degenerating into demoralizing condemnation or a surface relationship in which you put on a smile and say everything is just fine.

Ideally, good accountability friendships should be man-to-man (or woman-to-woman, as the case may be). Someone of the same sex is more likely to be able to see through your pretenses and help you to get to the bottom of things.

Should your wife be your accountability partner? In one sense, yes. In another sense, no.

It is easy for men who have had a secret porn life to develop a secret “recovery life”. Don’t do this. Don’t cut your wife out of the process. Yes, some things are best kept secret if you are in a professional recovery program. If you are in a support group, keep the identity of other members a secret (they don’t call those groups “Anonymous” for no reason). Also, don’t feel pressured to give a play-by-play of every detail you’ve confessed or said aloud to a counselor, a support group, or a minister. You can share these things if you want, but those settings are safe places for you to vent your sloppy, uncensored, and often confused thoughts, and they should be kept safe for you.

Still, as you make your plan for becoming a new man, make sure your wife knows the important details. If she is ever to trust you again, she needs to know what you intend to do and needs to see you doing it. Tell her what your porn “triggers” (tempting scenarios) have been in the past and how you plan to deal with them in the future. Tell her about the books you are reading. Tell her about the advice your minister, mentor, or counselor is giving you and how you are following that advice. Tell her who is holding you accountable. Liberally share the details of your plan for recovery so that she can see you living out the plan.

All the same, while your wife needs to know the details of your recovery, don’t make her your confessor — your sole confidant as you are taking steps to quit. Lean on others to do the heavy lifting of bearing your burdens, confessions, and difficult questions. Your wife should see you pursuing these kinds of friendships with men who can lend you solid personal and practical advice.

The healing of your marriage is possible. I know because I’ve seen many couples recover from the damage caused by porn. Pornography addiction thrives in the darkness of secrecy; it cannot survive in the light of accountability.

[radicalrevisions]

So, so many works I've read could be vastly improved with tightening and shaving of superfluous words. Wordiness is an easy stumbling block, as we're used to how we talk. We're used to how others (long ago) wrote. But times change, my friend, and so do expectations of the writer. We don't get paid by the word in fiction. So show your smarts and say as much as you can with as much power as you can in as few words as possible.

Here are a few things you can cut without reserve to help shorten your story right now. And as you catch yourself using these words in your next draft, hit that backspace before you finish the sentence! It's okay if you already have. You can go delete them now. No one will ever know.

Moment/Second/Minute

It's so tempting. I am guilty of using this word like fertilizer in my first drafts. But most of the time, these words aren't needed at all. They add nothing.

He sat down for a moment, sipping his coffee. vs. He sat down and sipped at his coffee.

But he only did it for a moment, you say!

He sat down for a moment, sipping his coffee. When the door opened a second later, he shot to his feet. vs. He sat down and sipped his coffee. The door opened, and before he could swallow his first sip, he shot to his feet.

I know, this is about making your writing more concise and my "right" example has more words than the first example. But what's the difference? The words used in the second sentence are more tangible. They give a visual that "a second later" and "for a moment" don't. And you could leave that part out, of course, if you're really going for trimming word count. It doesn't paint quite the same image, but "The door opened and he shot to his feet." is a perfectly good sentence.

Suddenly/All of a sudden

You've heard this one, before, surely. These words are used...when? When you're trying to portray suddenness. Surprise, perhaps. So why are you adding in extra words to slow down the pace?

She flipped on the TV and reclined in her chair. All of sudden, the TV flashed a bright light and the power went out. vs. She flipped on the TV and reclined in her chair. The TV flashed once before the lights went dark. The power was out.

That sense of immediacy is felt when stuff just happens. So let it happen. If it's rhythm you're worried about, then find more useful words to create the rhythm. Notice that I didn't just cut "All of a sudden" out of the sentence and leave it. I reworded it a bit to make it stronger.

Finally

It can be a useful word, but more often than not, it's just taking up space.

Really/Very

Just...delete them.

To alter a Mark Twain quote:

“Substitute '[fucking]' every time you're inclined to write 'very;' your editor will delete it and the writing will be just as it should be.”

But seriously, if you're saying, "She was breathing very hard." You could just cut the "very" and say, "She was breathing hard." Or, even better, "She was panting." Or, EVEN BETTER: "She panted."

Himself/herself/myself/themselves

Reflexive nouns have a specific purpose, though they can still often be avoided. They fall into the category of "use only when it's confusing otherwise."

Correct: He looked at himself in the mirror. Better: He looked in the mirror.

Incorrect: She gave them to Andrew and myself before leaving. Correct: She gave them to Andrew and me before leaving.

Technically correct I guess: I haven't eaten lunch myself. (Intensive pronoun; aka waste of words) Better: I haven't eaten lunch.

Intensive pronouns add emphasis, but that emphasis is negligible and often negated by the power of tightening your narrative.

That

You can likely cut 60% of your "that"s and your story will be unaffected. Sometimes, you do need to add a "that" here and there for clarification, but not always. And sometimes it's just plain incorrect.

The jacket was the coolest one that he'd ever owned. vs. The jacket was the coolest one he'd ever owned.

In other cases, you might do well to substitute "that" with "which." Though, if you're doing this, make sure you do it properly. That change can often alter the meaning of your sentence. That can be for the better, though.

The vandalism that read "Bad Wolf" made Rose nervous. vs. The vandalism, which read "Bad Wolf," made Rose nervous.

Do you see the difference? In the first sentence, the words are what make Rose nervous. In the second, the vandalism itself makes Rose nervous, and it happens to say "Bad Wolf." In this case, if you've watched Doctor Who, then you know the first example is the correct one.

So when you're sharing details using "that" or "which," contemplate how important they are to meaning of the sentence to determine which type of clause you need to use.

Then

Or worse, "And then."

It makes your writing sound a bit juvenile. Either cut it entirely, or substitute "and."

She jumped into the pool, then hit her head on the bottom. vs. She jumped into the pool and hit her head on the bottom.

And then, after all that time, she fell asleep. vs. After all that time, she fell asleep.

Even

Sometime "even" can help emphasize a situation or behavior, but when it's used in narrative improperly, it sounds childish and silly.

He couldn’t even breathe. vs. He couldn’t breathe.

Even with the new hair gel, his hair was terrible. (This one is fine, though you could still cut that “even” if you really wanted to...)

Just

Just...Delete it.

Breathe/breath/exhale/inhale/sigh/nod/shrug

Another one I'm so guilty of. In my first drafts, I tend to talk about how a character is breathing, or when they're sighing like nobody's business. I know a lot of writers who are guilty of this, too. It's a great tool to use scarcely. In intense moments, you can let your character take a final deep breath to calm themselves. When a character almost drowns, those first few sweet breaths are important. But you readers know that people breath all the time. And just because you need a beat in your dialogue doesn't mean you need to remind your reader that the character is still breathing or moving.

Rather/quite/somewhat

She was rather tall. She was tall. He was quite idiotic. He was idiotic. They were somewhat snazzy. They were snazzy. Why do you need those words? Kill 'em.

Start/begin

This is a great example of fluff.

She started to run toward the shop. vs. She ran toward the shop.

He began scolding them for their performance. vs. He scolded them for their performance.

There are obviously uses for this word, like anything. He started the car. Begin your tests! But when you're using it to slow the action and the pace of your narrative, then consider heavily if you need it. You probably don't.

In order to/in an attempt to

Phrases that add unneeded complications, cumbersome wording...kill 'em!

She bit down in an attempt to stop herself from screaming. vs. She bit down to stop herself from screaming.

Was able to

He was able to call. vs. He could call. OR He called.

This is one that isn't inherently bad, but it can easily be overused and cutting it will help simplify your narrative.

Due to

Ugh. Are you trying to sound proper and stuffy? Because that's a reason, I guess, to use this phrase...and yet it sounds like doodoo. (Yes. I'm an adult.) Rephrase. Use "Because of" or just avoid the need altogether.

We stopped due to traffic. vs. We stopped because of traffic. OR (Strength of narrative!) We stopped mid-highway. The parked cars went on beyond the curve of the road, out of sight.

Visibly/obviously/apparently/audibly

These are a sign of telling in your narrative when you should probably be showing.

She was visibly shaking. --> She shivered, hugging her upper arms. He was obviously tired. --> He yawned and tripped on his own feet as he crossed the room. They were apparently angry. --> They stomped and shouted, demanding attention. She screamed audibly. (Really?) --> She screamed.

Don't tell your readers what emotion a character is feeling. Instead, give a few clues that they can see/hear/feel the emotion too.

While

This word has lots of legitimate uses. However, if you're using it poorly, then your narrative reads like an Early Reader's book, and you (unless that's what you're writing) probably don't want that.

"Get it together," he said while flipping them off. vs. "Get it together," he said, flipping them off.

Turned

One of the classics. So overused, my friends. It's needed on occasion, but not nearly as often as we use it. Just cut it out.

They turned toward her as they spoke. vs. They gave her their full attention as they spoke. OR They looked into her eyes. OR (Nothing. Readers don't have to be updated on every little movement.)

Saw/looked/regarded

UGH. Regarded:Looked::Mentioned:Said

And, like "said," many, many instances of these words can be nixed.

She saw them run for the hills. vs. They ran for the hills.

This can be tricky, I know, when you're writing in limited-third or first POV. It's tempting to put every action directly through your POV character's filter. But resist that temptation! There are times when it's appropriate, occasionally, but it can be overdone so easily.

I looked at her and said, "Please." vs. I said," Please." OR. I took her hand. "Please."

This example sides with the breathing and the turning. It's often an unneeded update on the tiny movements of the characters. And, again, sometimes you need that beat or that little detail in an intense moment, but not often.

Said/replied/stated/spoke/mentioned/asked/commented/yelled/cried/shouted

I’m not here to tell you to cut all your dialogue tags (please don’t). I’m also going to the last person who insists you get rid of “said.” In fact, I’m in the “said is invisible” party of writing nerds and I think, if you’re going to use a standard tag, it should be “said” 90% of the time. 

But aside from that, using as few dialogue tags as possible is a good thing. I’ll do a full post on this soon, but for now, be aware of how often you rely on these words in your dialogue and do your best not to overuse them. Use surrounding action and context to take some of the reliance off of these words. 

To-Be in all its conjugated forms

If you're using any of this list:

am, is, are, was, were, be, being, had been

Then check yo'self. Some tenses call for an auxiliary verb. Some types of sentence do, too, not doubt about it. But many don't, and cutting to-be verbs when you can will help tighten your writing.

We were going to the store. vs. We went to the store.

Sounds were echoing through the chamber. vs. Sounds echoed through the chamber.

To-be verbs can also be an indicator of passive voice, though they aren't always.

He was hit by the ball. vs. The ball hit him.

Last but not least, check all of your adverbs.

Chances are, if you're using an adverb, you could be using a single strong verb instead and giving each sentence more punch.

He ran quickly. --> He sprinted. I hit him hard. --> I socked him. She spoke quietly. --> She whispered. They ran into each other fast. --> They crashed.

So what am I supposed to do about this?

Take it to heart. Try not to let these words take over your brain as you write. Once your manuscript is finished, try this method:

Use Find and Replace. Replace any and all of the aforementioned words in ALL-CAPS. Now, if you've paid attention to my advice in using emphasis, then those all-caps will really stick out as you're reading over your work and you can decide at each instance whether your usage is appropriate, or if it needs to be rewritten. As I did to this very old draft of mine from my first NaNoWriMo (in which I used every single word on this list, I'm sure).

When I used this method with my most recent WIP, I was able to cut my word count from 105k to 93k without cutting any content whatsoever. It takes a lot of work and it's pretty tedious but the results are amazing!

It wouldn't be the English language without exceptions, would it?

Now, there is actually an important time for intentionally using any or all of the words on this list. You know when that is?

When it fits the character's voice. - More on this in my next post!

[simmonsjosephine1991]

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[junker-town]

A delicious World Cup discovery: SOCCER BREAD

Soccer is the food of life in more ways than one.

The goods arrayed in the window of Poilâne’s unassuming little storefront in the sixth arrondissement are typical of what you’ll find at any bakery in Paris: pains au chocolat, tartes aux pommes, small shortbread cookies called punitions. But proudly set out on a green turf mat, next to 11 cookies arranged in a 3-4-3, sits the real pièce de résistance: a full-sized regulation soccer ball, complete with light and dark panels, and made of nothing but bread.

The store has been there since 1932 and has seen the neighborhood gentrify, the buildings transforming from monasteries and convents to a row of fashionable shops and eateries. Inside, the front room is tiny but warm, large enough for maybe a dozen people to crowd in if they don’t mind some uncomfortable touching between strangers. To the right, more punitions, along with smaller sliced loaves and jars of jam. To the left, several rows of enormous sourdough rounds, the top shelves displaying lavishly decorated crusts, including one designed, again, like a soccer ball. There are soccer ball punitions as well, for sale in plastic sleeves or by weight. In the window display, the punitions look like pawns gathered around the throne of the queen of the bakery, the bread ball.

Simply calling it a bread ball is to do it a disservice; it’s a dense, solid ball of milk bread that requires a custom cast-iron mold to create. Lugging it around requires a commitment to hauling a dead weight of at least a good three or four pounds, while resisting the temptation to dropkick the thing into the sky. As I was fortunate enough to be gifted one of the balls, I had the chance to taste it, and it is possibly the most fortifying bread in existence. This is not the kind of bread that leaves you hungry half an hour later; it is close-textured and filling, the perfect foil for a smear of jam or cheese, and it will sit solidly inside of your stomach while you tramp up and down the steps of a stadium or wander for miles through narrow stone-paved streets.

At a café a few blocks over from her bakery, owner Apollonia Poilâne tells me they prefer to bake several of the balls at once in their vintage wood-fire oven, because the completely enclosed nature of the mold means they never know if they’ll get a good result until they actually crack it open. Even though they’ve been making the balls for 21 years now, there’s still an element of uncertainty.

The balls originated as a collaboration between the French sculptor César Baldaccini and Apollonia’s father, Lionel Poilâne, during the run up to the 1998 World Cup, hosted in, and eventually won by, France. One of César’s enormous metal sculptures stands close to the bakery on Rue du Cherche-Midi, a centaur-like man with — clear as day — two big metal balls dangling from his horse end. It’s clear that Poilâne is a place that welcomes artists; in the office just off the front room, paintings of Poilâne’s bread line three of the four walls, starting around waist-high and stretching to the tall ceiling. The fourth wall is dominated by an elaborately detailed frosted glass window allowing anyone in the back office to peek out and see the customers lined up for the day. Pierre Poilâne, Apollonia’s grandfather, used to let art students barter the paintings for his bread, although today many artists simply send in paintings and sculptures gratis, inspired by the quality of Poilâne’s bread.

If the art students honed their technique by painting bread, Lionel and César were also students, practicing their technique to create new bread. And, like students, there was much trial and error at first. “My father and César made a first mold that didn’t quite fit the entrance to the oven,” says Apollonia, “So they had to remove a part of the entrance of the oven and a few other technical details which were not details when they were being done, obviously. And the first soccer ball’s dough was so strong and powerful that the mold itself came apart in the oven and almost destroyed the oven.”

It’s not that Lionel or César were soccer (apologies, football) fans, exactly; at least, not to Apollonia’s recollection. “My father and him had in common an interest in doing funky things where they would just be excited about doing something in a different way than what most did. And I think soccer must have been one of those objects of that, that filled that box,” she says.

Apollonia doesn’t particularly engage with soccer either, but she understands it. Soccer, like food, brings people together. It builds and strengthens communities. It’s nourishment — sometimes bland, sometimes indulgent, but always elementary. Before 1998, Apollonia viewed soccer as something they talked about on the news as a place where hooligans engaged in violence. “The image of it was, soccer equals people who are absolutely extreme in their behaviors,” she says. But after the creation of the ball, she understands better how soccer, like baking, is something that brings out the fundamental joys of existence in people. It’s part of why she likes that France is hosting another World Cup, even if she’s still not a huge fan of the sport. For her, she gets to enjoy both sides of her Franco-American heritage, especially with the United States and France heavily expected to clash in the quarterfinals. And she has the opportunity to learn about other countries and footballing cultures, in a different, healthier context than the hooligan news reports of her youth.

“In doing this collaboration with an artist,” she reminisces, “It wasn’t only about a fun experience between a business owner and a few bakers and an artist. It was also discovering the passions of the different members of our team and therefore creating some meeting ground. I love that soccer ball because it actually brought out different interests [in our team] with that same passion in common for the product, for the know-how, and that’s what’s remarkable.”

As Apollonia describes how the bread ball is a marriage of craft and science, it becomes clearer and clearer she could just as easily be talking about soccer. She nods understandingly when I explain the current VAR controversy to her, and how it seems to be leeching the soul from the game. “Sometimes if you practice the science behind some of the baking,” she says, “you take off a little bit of the magic of bread baking. But there’s more magic to it anyways because the ingredients are so intrinsically linked with our environment, literally the weather it is outside, that it’s never quite exactly the same.”

Soccer, too, is a combination of technical perfection and loving artistry. The great players are able to blend the two seamlessly, so that the first touch, the dribble, the through ball become the brush strokes on a canvas that, over 90 minutes, reveal the introspective power of a Frida Kahlo or the unflinching disruption of an Artemisia Gentileschi or the masterful synthesis and adaptation of a Lois Mailou Jones.

Take 11 players. Put them in the same formation with the same game plan. Little variations — an imperfect move here, an environmental factor there — will accumulate over time. You can start 10 games the same way and get 10 different results; you can mix the dough the same way 10 times and get 10 different loaves. A 10 percent change in humidity can sway a game or ruin a rise. Practice the technical elements, learn the rules, but leave room for magic. In the words of Yuki Nagasato, soccer needs your heart and humanity too.

“What I love about my craft,” says Apollonia, “is that you have a clear idea of the parameters at large, but fine-tuning it to make it the most perfect product takes experience, takes know-how, and attention to detail. And of course a lot of love and passion for the craft.”

She explains that several of her employees who are good at baking loaves are soccer fans, and so one of them made something that combined their loves: the sourdough round with the soccer ball design on top. It is as glisteningly majestic as any showstopper that a frantic baker on the Great British Bake Off has had a panic attack over.

“I think for me, whether it’s sports or food, it’s about bringing people together,” she says. “There’s this French word that I love to refer to because I find it just so powerful and so significant: the word copain. It’s the person with whom you share bread. It’s a buddy, it’s a friend; you can use it in all sorts of contexts.” We aren’t just fans, sitting in the stands together, our gasps and groans timed exactly to the fortunes of 22 painters on a grass canvas. We are copains, people deliberately sharing something together. Like the breaking of bread, once we have all taken into ourselves a piece of a larger whole, there is an expectation of commiseration, of shared generosity, of community.

Apollonia does not let me leave our interview empty-handed; she hands me a large bag stuffed with brioche loaves and a hefty sack of punitions. The sack contains the generosity of a host, the proud display of an artisan, the concern of someone who has made it her literal business to feed many, many people. I’m not sure if this puts us on the level of copain, but we’ve shared bread, and a little soccer, and so at the very least there’s an English word for that: friends.

[counttotwenty]

So I absolutely love your bullet points, but I was hoping I could get your opinion on one line from that OQ scene. The one where Regina admits that that vault is filled with the hearts of her enemies. What do you think the writers were going for there? Humor? I like that Robin called her out on it. It's a bit frustrating how she essentially brushed it off. But it's interesting how the show reminded us that this is still something she's kept.

I agree that was a very interesting line. “The hearts of my enemies BUT … “ There’s always a qualifier with Regina. She never takes full responsibility. She always justifies her behavior, or blames it on someone else. One thing she never does is fully own it.

She knows it’s wrong. That’s clear from the way she delivers the line. And also from the blocking as she moves to close the cabinet doors in an attempt to literally hide the hearts from view. 

But knowing and changing are two very different things.

Later in the scene she acknowledges she sounds like a hypocrite–probably because she often does– while at the same time claiming she’s changed. Which I’ll give her–she has. But there’s a big difference between being redeemed and becoming slightly less bad than you used to be.

I think the show enjoys keeping Regina suspended halfway been redemption and relapse because if the storyline flexibility it gives them. 

She likes to have power. She likes to be in charge. She likes to be feared on some level. Those are not things she’s willing to give up at this point. Much like Rumple.

The difference between the two of them is the lengths to which she’s willing to go to hold on to power. Those have softened over 5.5 seasons. She can resist minor temptation now but she can still revert to her old ways under more pressure.

I’m not saying Regina can never be fully redeemed, of course she can. But honestly I believe that’s gonna be a last ep of the series (or her participation in it) thing because I really don’t think A&E can resist trying to use her both ways.

It’s not that I dislike Regina. I don’t. It’s just that I refuse to view her, or any character, through rose colored glasses.