#I wrote this in a sudden sleep-deprived haze

[cameliawrites]

the muscle cut from the bone

for @alltheworldsinmyhead

summary: Kaz and Inej, falling apart and falling back together.

(or: the angsty breakup and reunion fic I never thought I'd write.)

There’s a purple bruise at her wrist, a thumbprint at the juncture of her hand and forearm, that Inej finds herself pressing her fingertips into over and over again. She wonders if, by pressing, she can keep the bruise from fading; wonders if she can keep that vibrant purple alive just a bit longer, just enough to stop imagining the wound as the shadowed imprint of a touch she won’t receive. Rationally, she knows the wound is the mark of a slaver who’d grabbed her by the wrist and tried to wrench the knife from her hand. Rationally, she knows she should be glad to be rid of the marking. But every night, alone in her cabin with just the flickering lamp light and the waves crashing outside, she looks at the bruise and imagines it’s Kaz’s thumb pressing into her skin, clutching at her wrist. Pulling her to him. Begging her to stay.

Read more on ao3.

[xohachi]

illuminate

| sherlock holmes x u |

word count: 966

u have a date tonight! ur actually on the date for the first half of the story and sherlock’s brooding about it so badly that he can’t sleep :( BUT u come back sad 😧 so he comforts u ☺️. {angst/comfort/cute ending} {this is for the girls w no dad.}

(LOOK AT HIS PUPPY DOG EYES I WANNA CRYYYYYY) (i hate writing stories in my notes app but I watched American beauty last night and that “you could never be ordinary,” scene literally ate me so i just haddd to write something based off it. so enjoy this blurb i wrote first thing in the morning at a sleepover)

The mundane tick of the clock nearly lulled Sherlock to sleep. He persevered through the heavy bricks on his eyelids, pacing the room thinking of you. The time now was 12:34am. You’d left for a date at around 8, you never went on dates. Sherlock preferred it that way, maybe then he’d get some sleep. He thought of you, the image of you in your little black dress and red heels… the way you styled your hair and left a few dangling curls to frame your already perfect face. The stubborn detective would never say it but it enraged him to see you dressed up like this for another man.

…

“How do I look?” You asked sheepishly. He watched your eyes meet his, inhaling the presence of your soul snaking its way into the void where his was supposed to be. Somehow during the time that the two of you had roomed together at 221B Baker St, Sherlock had fallen in love with you and he hated the fact that he didn’t hate it.

“You’re leaving?” His tone was low, monotonous.

“Yeah silly, I happen to have a date tonight.” You gave him a spin. His eyes locked onto the slit in your already short dress and how it hiked up even higher when you moved. A scowl snuck onto his face as he thought about you dancing with lesser men at sub par bars, the way they’d probably slide a hand down your back, itching for an invitation to taint you with their touch.

…

‘A date,’ He muttered to himself. A cigarette sat between his lips. Sherlock leaned onto the fireplace and pulled his head back as he exhaled. Finally, your footsteps echoed up the stairs. He put out his cigarette and scrambled to find a place in his chair. Quickly picking up his violin, fumbling with the tuning to look busy. You’d left the house wearing heels yet your footsteps showed no indication of heels on your feet. You’d probably taken them off after too much dancing & the thought brought a red jealous haze back into his mind but he decided to let it go. Your dark silhouette emerged from the shadows. Something was wrong. He quickly scanned you with his eyes. Messy hair, your left dress strap sliding down your shoulder, your hand on your right shoulder seemingly massaging a bothering ache, perhaps from carrying your purse. Turning around, a yelp emerged from your throat.

“Sorry,” You choked out, trying to mask your sobs, “I didn’t mean to interrupt.” You glanced down at the violin in his hands, yet his attention was solely on you. Sherlock’s eyebrow was cocked as he continued to silently read your tells. Shaky voice, running mascara, you’d been crying. Your arms were hugging your body, you’d been hurt. He stood up cautiously.

“He hurt you…” Sherlock concluded aloud, inching closer. His hands were somewhat extended towards you as if he wanted to touch you but couldn’t.

“No, Sherlock he didn’t, I’m alright.” You closed the space between the two of you. The sudden feeling of your small hands on his chest electrified him yet also diminished a fraction of his anger. Physically sure, you seemed to be okay. Sherlock realized that you were hugging your body to console deep emotional pain. Physical or emotional didn’t matter to him though, all that mattered was that you were in pain.

“You’re crying. He made you cry, I’ll murder him.” His rough calloused hands cupped either side of your face, his words venomous with intent. Maybe it was the sleep deprivation but Sherlock had never allowed himself to touch you like this. The most touch you shared was when he’d let you rest your head on his shoulder during long train rides, even then he felt like he was playing with fire.

“He was good to me, I promise,” a small silence, “I did this to myself, with my own insecurities.”

“Am I… ordinary, Sherlock?”

The streetlights trickled through the curtains, illuminating the silhouette of you both holding back from indulging in your deepest desires. The image of you, gazing up at the cold detective with wide teary eyes, clinging to his word like he’s god reciting the bible directly to you. Him, his hands on either sides of your face, soothing you with his words, “You could never be ordinary, not even if you tried.”

Although your crying had ceased, his words broke the dam behind your y/e/c eyes. Your head fell into his chest and the sudden intimacy caused Sherlock tense up. He could feel you needing him, begging him to hold you just this once, to tell you that everything will be okay…and that he loves you so. He opened his mouth to protest the hug, only to be cut off by a small, “Please, just this once,” whispered into his chest.

Frozen in time, the gears in his brain began to short circuit. He was a sociopath, how could he feel like this? The two of you were never even meant to get this close. He could feel his defenses crumble. Every alarm inside his mind palace blaring. Emergency! Emergency! The void where his soul should lie was no longer empty. You’d fought your way past his defenses, seemingly effortlessly. He lived and breathed you. He burned for you, and only you. Your soul igniting him, Sherlock finally allowed himself to wrap his arms around your small figure tightly. His chin resting atop your head. He wouldn’t admit any of this aloud. As a matter of fact, he wouldn’t say anything at all. This was enough for now, he’d just be here, with you, for you, in the moment.

[scarletlight-has-issues]

The Vampire's Thrall

Rating: Mature Characters: The Empress, Simon Petrikov, Random unnamed humans Words: 2,327 Trigger warnings: Partial mind-control, blood, self-harm, dehumanization, canon-typical madness and memory loss, canon-atypical violence, major power imbalance, forced kiss, toxic relationships, hurt no comfort, implied noncon if you squint

Summary: A short window into Simon's life while under The Empress' control.

Notes: So I've been completely obsessed with the idea of The Empress and Simon's history since that one stakes episode where they mentioned it and then never brought it up again so I wrote this in a sleep-deprived haze of hyperfixated mania.

Although not explicit, there are some fucked up themes in this, so beware! Don't like, don't read.

Ice ki- no. No, that wasn’t right, it was… it was Simon, right? Yeah. Simon hissed as he cradled the injury he’d sustained. The humans he’d been tasked with capturing had escaped. Truth be told, he hadn’t really been trying, but one of them had still managed to graze his shoulder with a sharp handheld dagger. He could’ve used the magic that soothed and whispered to him constantly, begging him with a temptress’ voice to give in to the power of frost, but, as he’d said, he hadn’t really been trying.

He’d been firm in his goal when he’d set out, just as bloodthirsty and determined as his haughty mistress, but somewhere along the way he’d gotten… lost, confused. So much seemed lost and confused recently, what with that damn whispering. It had been that little girl, hadn’t it? He’d seen a little girl among the refugees fleeing his freezing conquest, her head covering stylized like a black cat. She’d tripped and fallen, scraping her knee bloody. Simon suddenly froze, something snapping inside him. Before he knew what he was doing, he’d surged forward, a sudden pang of… of something welling up in his chest.

The people around him shrieked and fled, tripping over themselves to escape the Ice King’s descent. The little girl screamed and cried in terror, fat globs of tears creating tracks in the grime on her red-flushed face, blood staining the torn green slacks she wore. Unfamiliar words slipped easily past his lips as if they were a song he knew by heart, dropping to his knees in front of her. Are you alright?’s and Here, let me see-’s repeated over and over like a mantra. He’d reached a clawed blue hand forward, to do what he didn’t know, when a wild scream shattered his trance. Pain erupted across his arm as he just barely managed to jerk to the side in time to avoid the blade hitting his throat.

A woman stood in front of him, her chest heaving, a dagger clutched in her hand.

Mama bear.

“GET AWAY FROM HER, YOU DEMON-SYMPATHIZING WIZARD!” She cried. She lunged again, swinging wildly, but Simon had anticipated her strike this time. He blocked it with an icicle summoned quickly to hand, the whispers singing their delight. Without another word, the woman scooped up her daughter and ran after the rest of her settlement.

He dispersed the icicle with a flick of his wrist, dissolving it into a shower of snow in an instant. Something in Simon’s mind screamed to give chase, to follow orders, but something louder and implacable drowned it out. And so he sat, struggling to process what had just happened.

His head hurt, and he screwed his eyes shut to try and block out the conflicting voices. The crown was heavy on his head. He sucked in a breath, held it, and took it off. The whispers reached a level that most would consider screaming, and his hands shook as he gripped the cold metal in his fingers. With a disproportionate amount of effort, he managed to set the thing down in his lap. He let out the breath he’d been holding, tension leeching from his shoulders as his head tilted up towards the treetops above.

Good glob above, what was he going to tell his mistress?

***

Back at The Hive, Simon just barely managed to bite back a hiss of pain as he was forced to his knees in front of The Empress’s throne. The vampire slowly removed the heel of her boot from the small of her thrall’s back. She stalked around him, sapphire eyes scanning his pathetic, groveling form from behind the black curtain of her hair.

“So you’ve failed me again, henchman.” She hissed, lips pulling back in a snarl of displeasure. Her heels clicked on the hard floor and Simon peered over the tops of his cracked glasses to see her boots in front of him.

“I-I did…?” Simon asked weakly. God, his head hurt… His eyes traveled up her long black dress to settle on her face. “I-“

The Empress rolled her eyes, raising a boot and pressing it harshly against his scalp to force his face back to the ground. “Oh shut up.”

She huffed, rubbing at her temples. “Honestly, are trying to infuriate me? Because at this point I’m starting to think you’re doing this on purpose.”

“I-I’ll do better next time!” Simon assured, though he didn’t know what exactly he was supposed to do better at. All he knew was that The Empress was displeased with him, and he couldn’t have that.

His feelings towards her were… confusing. It was as if they were balanced on a constantly shifting sliding scale. One minute he was head over heels for her, worshiping the very ground she walked and completely infatuated with her every move, the next he was terrified of her, eyes darting around to search for an escape route, an overwhelming feeling of being trapped overpowering every other conscious thought.

“I promise, darling!” Simon continued enthusiastically, clasping his hands and pleading. “Whatever it is, I’ll do it!”

“Sure you will.” The Empress replied dryly. She sighed, pacing back and forth as she muttered to herself, ignoring him for the time being. “You have an infuriating knack for breaking my control, even if you don’t seem to realize it… must be that unfortunate curse of yours…”

Simon watched her, encapsulated by her long strides as she walked back and forth.

“While not intentionally disobedient, you deviate from my orders when you encounter emotionally straining stimuli…” She sighed again, giving a small groan. “Golb… I hate getting my hands dirty, but it seems if I want you to be useful, I’ll have to accompany you to make sure you follow orders…”

“Th-that’s great! Maybe we can-“ Simon started, something inside him elated at the prospect of spending more time than he already did with The Empress.

“Silence. I’ve had enough of your blabbering for one day.” She interrupted, before tilting her head back and musing. “Ugh… I don’t feel like breaking into the storage, I’m in the mood for something fresh. And since you failed in your assignment, I think it’s only fair you serve me another way.”

Her gaze finally moved back to him, and the sliding scale tipped back in the other direction, feeling his hands start to shake. He didn’t want to be near her anymore. Now he wanted to run. The Empress saw this and smirked in amusement.

“Get up.” She ordered, and Simon felt his legs responding without him having consciously moved them. He straightened, swallowing hard as she stalked towards him. She paced around him and slowly dragged a finger from the edge of his shoulder to the back of his neck. He shivered involuntarily and felt his body going tense as she leaned in. Vampires weren’t known for their warmth, but since Simon was a wizard of ice and snow, her breath was still hot on the back of his neck in comparison, her hands warm against his freezing skin.

Simon felt the Empress’s arms snake around him from behind and something was pressed into his palm. He started, glancing down to see a familiar ornate dagger. He didn’t need instruction to know what to do with it. After only a moment’s hesitation, Simon tugged up his left sleeve to expose the scars lacing his forearm. He’d used the right last time, and it still needed time to heal. Sucking in a deep breath, he shut his eyes and pressed the blade against the inside of his wrist.

Simon bit down on his cry of pain, and the empress smiled her satisfaction. She licked her lips, slinking around her thrall to take hold of his arm.

“Good little pet.~” She taunted softly before lifting his forearm to her lips.

Simon shuddered at the feeling of her mouth on his wound. Having the blood sucked out of him was never a pleasant feeling, but he’d learned to handle it after the first few times. Still, he bit down on the inside of his cheek and his free hand grasped at the fabric of his trousers to avoid making a sound.

***

The Empress studied his face as she drank. He was such a fascinating character, the curse from that crown of his rendering him helpless and dependent in such a way that made it just too easy to manipulate the poor fool. She had half the mind to remove her spell entirely to test the theory that he’d still obey her without it, but no… the periods where his curse’s effects would lapse and he’d become frantic and hysterical were enough to tell her that the spell was still very necessary for his obedience.

Still, she mused, his varying states and moods were amusing to play with. Sure, he might be endearing and foolish when he acted like a lovesick puppy over her, but she found him much more entertaining like this. She could feel him trembling under her fingers, his pulse quickening with every movement she made. The smell of his fear was intoxicating, she just couldn’t get enough.

***

Simon felt The Empress’ hand snake its way from his waist up his chest and to the side of his neck, thumb pressed lightly against his throat. He struggled to control his breathing. Her lips detached from his arm once she was satisfied, and he went tense as he felt her breath on his neck again, the feeling of her fangs pressed against his cold skin. He half expected her to bite him, despite her insistence that he was more valuable to her like this. The hand on his throat took hold of his bearded chin and forced his head in her direction. He barely had time to comprehend what was happening before her lips were on his.

The sensation was uncomfortable, her fangs sharp against the soft flesh of his mouth. He shuddered unpleasantly as he tasted his own blood on her tongue, coppery and metallic. Part of him felt he should be enjoying this, but most of him just felt surprised and sickened. This was wrong. He didn’t know why but everything about it was wrong. He couldn’t bring himself to push her away, no matter how much he wanted to.

The empress’s warm hand was clenched around his injured wrist, crimson oozing from between her fingers, streaming down his hand, and dripping off his clawed nails to the cold ground below. Her other hand was tangled in his beard, holding his head in place so he couldn’t pull away if he tried. Lightheadedness gave the whole thing a sickening, dreamlike quality, swaying ever so slightly as he stood. After what felt like an uncomfortable eternity to Simon, she released him and drew away. She wiped a trickle of blood from the corner of her mouth with an offhanded swipe of her thumb and Simon watched as she licked it clean again.

“Clean yourself up.” She ordered, turning away with a restored air of contempt. “Talk to The Moon if you can’t handle that cut of yours. I have more important things to attend to.”

“…Y-Yes, my empress.” Simon managed to stutter. He paused only a moment to pick his crown up off the ground where it had fallen earlier, before turning and hurrying away. The second he was out of his mistress’ sight, he slumped back against the wall of the hive. His hands were shaking badly, head tilted up towards the sky. He shouldn’t be so affected right now. This was far from the first time he’d experienced something like this. Hell, this was far from the worst thing The Empress had done to him. He dropped his head down and brought his hands up to meet it, his breaths turning sharp and gasping as he struggled to get a hold of himself. His head hurt. God, his head hurt. He couldn’t focus. The Empress was his master, he knew that. He lived to follow her orders, lived to serve her. So why did it feel so wrong? He shouldn’t be afraid of her, he shouldn’t want to run, his skin shouldn’t crawl at the thought of her hands on him. His clawed nails dug into his scalp, tangling in his snow-white hair. Something was wrong. Something was so incredibly wrong and he couldn’t place it, couldn’t seem to figure it out, couldn’t remember-

He only realized he was crying when he felt the wetness against his bloodstained palms. Something was tightening inside his chest, curling like a spring ready to snap under the pressure. It was too much, he couldn’t breathe- His eyes darted around wildly, searching for something, anything. Help, an escape, a friendly face, a way out, anything.

They landed on the crown at his feet.

Clawed blue hands grasped towards it, fumbling the cold metal between white-knuckled fingers. The whispers came back, soothing, comforting in their gentle melodious voice. He needed it. He needed it. Tears rolled down a face contorted in a forced grin as a hysterical laugh slipped from between trembling lips. He pushed the crown back into its rightful place atop his skull, and a sound halfway between a gasp and a sigh pushed out of his throat. The whispers sang in delight, the secrets of ice and snow wrapping him once again in their cold, comforting embrace. The tension leeched from his body, relief washing over him as he sank back into the comfortable arms of madness.

He reached a hand up to touch his face, momentarily puzzled when it came away wet. The liquid quickly froze into tiny, intricate crystals of ice on his fingertips. Had he been crying? Weird. He shrugged it off, smiling and humming to himself as he pushed himself up again. Whatever it had been didn’t matter now. He had to make himself presentable if he wanted to please his mistress.

[stcries]

@sixersigned wrote: " I'm sorry, " all the man had been is panicked apologies, Carolyn tossed to the side (a little less haphazardly) as he'd come to terms with the fact he had literally shot his brother with a crossbow. Way to go, Stanford, you always knew how to make problems. He'd been so fraught with sleep deprivation and paranoia, he's not been thinking straight recently... and fighting rather than flying. " You came all this way, and I-- "

after what seemed like an eternity, eyes finally begin to flutter open, slowly turning from side to side in their sockets. at first stanley feels nothing, mind in a haze, unsure if he was even still alive or if this was one of heaven's stupid tricks. but as consciousness finally reaches it's peak and he tries to open his mouth, that's when the pain hits him like a steam engine. it's intense, a horrible burning sensation in his throat, trying and failing to force sentences out of his lips, coming out as nothing but croaky mutterings. fucking hell, what happened? ...

it's only during his brother's continuously ramblings do the memories slowly come flooding back. the coldness of the snow ridden forest, knocking upon the shack's door only to be hit via a stabbing sensation and sudden darkness, the memory of choking on his own blood. the culprit? the very one standing before him apologizing so profusely. "mmngh ... ford," stanley manages to croak out, hoping his pained whispers may be enough to snap his brother out of his own head for just a moment. he'd stared death in the face so many times now, what was another one to add to the already long list?

"you ... when i get my hands on you ..." in the moment, he's agitated, perhaps due to the pain, but there's no real bark behind those words. deep down, there was a part of him that was happy to see stanford again after so long, but also distress at seeing what a shell of himself he'd become. there were so many answers he wanted, no, needed to get out of his brother. but for now, those could wait until he wasn't knocking on death's door.

[idmakeitbehave]

Did That Just Happen?

Summary: Sleep-deprived from the latest case, you let a confession of love slip. Spencer’s positive you didn’t mean it—no matter how much he may wish you did.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x gn!Reader

Word Count: 1.2k

A/N: that’s right, another cheesy love confession!!! Shocking, I know. Also I wrote this in like an hour so do with that what you will

The never-ending case from hell is finally, blissfully over.

The team looks like a horde of zombies, all running on fumes and far too much caffeine. Even the relief of the unsub being caught isn’t enough to wipe the sleep deprivation from your faces. Everyone had just barely made it to the hotel, Hotch and Derek being the only ones alert enough to drive you all back.

There’s one last speed bump in this dreadful case—room reassignments. There was some issue or another in the booking system, and everyone’s been reassigned to different rooms for your final night.

Spencer can’t help but watch you out of the corner of his eye as everyone shuffles into the lobby, waiting for their new keys. You’re a little wobbly on your feet, and he can tell that you’re in a bit of a daze. It’s not much different from just about everyone else here, but Spencer finds himself far too concerned with your well-being in particular.

As if that’s anything new.

You lean into him a bit, and he can’t tell if you pretend not to notice the way he jumps or if you actually don’t notice. “I’m so excited to sleep,” you say, head dropping to his shoulder.

Spencer can’t manage more than a pitiful little nod. He doesn’t trust himself to speak and say anything that isn’t a ridiculous declaration of love.

The comfortable silence that takes over is broken when Hotch approaches the group with a stack of room keys in hand. He holds one out to you, and you accept it with a wide, almost goofy grin.

“Thanks, boss.”

And then it happens, so quick that Spencer almost believes that he’s imagining it: you kiss Spencer, right on the lips, soft and light and over much too soon.

“Love you, goodnight,” you mumble, as nonchalantly as if you’ve said it every night of your life.

And with that you turn and head into your hotel room just a few steps away, the door shutting behind you. Spencer blinks rapidly, staring at the door before turning back to the rest of the team. They’re all staring at him, eyes wide with both shock and amusement.

“Did that—did that just happen?” he asks before he can stop himself.

“Oh, it absolutely did,” Derek says, an undeniable gleam in his eye. “And I am so, so happy we were all here to witness this.”

Emily elbows him in the side, eliciting a dramatic oof. “What Derek means is: we told you so.”

Derek nods. “Can’t believe they were the first one to break. You better go get ‘em, lover boy.”

Hotch just barely manages to stop himself from rolling his eyes. “Okay, as entertaining as this has been, I’m going to bed.”

There’s a chorus of agreements, and before Spencer can even register it, he’s left standing alone in the hallway just outside your door. He contemplates his next move for longer than is probably acceptable, mind racing with what has just happened.

It was probably the sleep deprivation, he decides. Just a random slip of the tongue, like calling your teacher ‘Mom’ or telling the movie theater attendant to enjoy the show too. Something like that, something that would explain why you had suddenly kissed him on the lips and told him you loved him. A million different explanations run through his head, all except one—that you meant it. Because that one is simply too good to be true. There’s absolutely no way you meant it.

But what if you did?

Maybe it’s his own exhaustion getting the better of him, but Spencer’s desire to know the answer beats out his utter disbelief, and he knocks on your door.

He thinks that maybe you’ve fallen asleep when you don’t answer right away, but the door clicks open after another moment.

“Hey,” you say softly, not quite meeting his eyes.

Spencer doesn’t really know what to do in this situation. “Can I—can I come in?”

You nod, and he follows you to your bed. The two of you sit side by side, the once comfortable silence now tinged with just a hint of awkwardness.

“Why did you—”

“I’m sorry—”

“Wait. Why are you sorry?” Spencer asks. He tries to brace himself for the answer—you’re sorry you kissed him, sorry you said anything, sorry you ever knew him at all. (Spencer has quite the imagination.)

“I didn’t mean to—to kiss you. Or to say that,” you say, and all at once Spencer can feel his heart breaking into a million little pieces. And then: “That’s not how I wanted to tell you.”

He blinks at you. “What?”

You sigh. “I was just—so tired. And it kind of just came naturally? I’m sorry, Spence, I’m so embarrassed.”

You’re starting to get flustered now, and Spencer can’t help but think of nothing except how completely adorable you are.

“Not how you wanted to tell me? What does—what does that mean?”

You look up from the thread of the blanket you’d been picking at, and it’s as though the moment you meet his eyes you understand. You finally smile. “I didn’t really picture telling you I loved you for the first time in some sort of sleepless haze.”

Once again, Spencer finds himself near speechless. He watches you in disbelief, waiting for the punchline, but it doesn’t come.

Finally he asks, “You meant it?”

You nod. “Is that… is that okay?”

The question is so completely ludicrous that he breaks into a smile so wide his cheeks hurt. “It’s more than okay. It’s perfect.”

“Will you stay?”

Spencer nods. There’s nowhere he’d rather be.

The two of you are staring unabashedly at each other now. Spencer feels like his vision is going fuzzy, be it from the lack of sleep or the sudden realization that everything he’s ever needed is right in front of him. (It’s definitely both.)

In a burst of courage, Spencer pulls you towards him, the two of you flopping back onto the bed with a soft thud. He wants to bottle up the laugh you let out, to press the sound between the pages of a book.

Anything to have this moment forever.

You reach out and turn off the lights. The darkness envelopes the room, and it’s as though you and Spencer are the only two people in the world.

In a way, you are.

“Can I try it again?”

It takes him a second to process what you’ve asked. “Try what again?”

You don’t answer. “I love you,” you say instead. “Goodnight.”

If the first time had been perfect, then there are no words to describe this.

“I love you too,” he finally, finally says.

It’s quiet for a moment, and Spencer’s suddenly sure that you’ve realized your mistake, that this was all just one huge misunderstanding. The panic eats away at him for just a split second before you pull the covers up over you both. You kiss him again, slow and sure, and suddenly you’re both certain.

You’re going to say it every night of your life.

+++

Tags:

@diesinspanishbcimhispanic @myglitteringstardust @sapphic-prentiss @fandom-monium @julialuv1d @howdycharlie @fantastic-fans @saspencereid @whxt-to-write @90spumkin @idocarealot @moonstarrnghtsky @thelovelyrose @closetedreidstan @averyhotchner @tripleyeeet @rainsong01 @multifandomegan @no-honey-no @bauhousewife @shadybagelsludgecolor @idiotinnit @elldell1204 @gublersbooblers @calm-and-doctor @shadyladyperfection @homoose @wheelsup @writingintheroses @reidingmelodies @spenxerslut @imdefinitelyfloating @spacedikut @spencerreid9 @sweetandsunny @cynbx

[bulletsandbracelets]

Omg why is legolasing getting a sudden surge again.

Y'all I wrote that post in a sleep deprived haze 6+ (?) years ago 😂

[whelvenwings]

✭ Girl Like You ✭

Pairing: Michelle Jones/Shuri Word Count: 13.8k Thank you so much to @lesbiansassemble for letting me take part in her 10k femslash challenge, with the prompt “We’re Trapped”!!

MJ doesn't do opening up to people. She doesn't do dancing at lame parties. She doesn't do singing in public. She doesn't do losing control in any way that she could possibly help, ever. She also definitely does not do being trapped in an elevator - not after what happened at the Washington Monument.

And then she meets Shuri.

((I wrote this for a challenge with a 500-word minimum, and ended up writing so much more. I totally fell in love with these characters and how I imagined their relationship might grow. I hope you enjoy it if you check it out!!))

Read the first chapter below or check it out here on AO3!!

***

“- and she’s coming to our school? Our school?”

“Ned. I’m not kidding.”

“Tell me this isn’t like the time in eighth grade when -”

“No, I swear to God, it’s not like the time you ate your own eraser.”

“You said that you’d switched out one of my things for candy and it just looked so -”

MJ folded her arms, sank down in her seat on the bus, and tried to tune out the conversation Peter and Ned were having in front of her.

“I said that because I thought you’d guess , not just pick something up and chew on it…”

She closed her eyes, and pictured her desk back at home: and there they were - her headphones, sitting on top of her laptop. Exactly where she’d left them, trudging past in an early-morning haze on her way out of the door; their wire curled up in an enticing beckon, promising bass thick enough to drown out whatever was going on in front of her.

“No, no, seriously,” Peter was saying. “I swear, she’s actually coming to our school.”

MJ’s head was aching. Last night had held an accidental Wikipedia binge, hopping from article to article, reading all the new tech pages that were springing up like weeds on the sidewalk; Kimoyo Beads. Ring Blades. Vibranium Strike Gauntlets. The details were sparse and there wasn’t a lot to go on - but over the course of the six hours MJ had spent lost down the rabbit hole, at least two of the articles had already grown extra subsections. New information was flooding in.

It had made MJ’s heart thud as she sat bathed in the blueish light of her laptop at three in the morning, on the night before the first day of junior year.

And it was only now, as she sat on the bus and tried desperately to convince her body that closing her eyes constituted more sleep, that she felt even the slightest twinge of regret. Watching this stuff happen was once-in-a-lifetime.

“Hey, MJ.” Ned’s voice, loud enough to be heard clearly over the roar of the bus, made MJ frown. “MJ.”

“Mmm.” She did her best impression of a person who was extremely asleep.

“EM JAY.”

She slit her eyes open, making sure that her stare encompassed the exact right ratio of tiredness, irritation, lack of investment, and sheer dead-eyed scariness as possible. Ned hitched on a grin in the face of it, clearly not appreciating the artistry that went into the expression’s careful emotional makeup.

“Did you know about this?” he said, gesturing with one hand towards Peter. The bus rattled onto the school grounds, stop-starting to avoid the students running across the path. MJ glanced from Ned to Peter’s profile and back again, making sure to look completely disinterested.

“Know about what,” she said flatly.

“Who’s joining the school this year?”

“Oh, yeah.”

“Really?” Peter spun completely in his seat to look at her. MJ’s eyes flicked over to him - his brown hair a slight mess, as usual, though she could see that there had been some attempts to school it into a definite style. He, too, looked tired, though MJ could concede in the privacy of her own head that he wore it with better humour than she did herself. “How’d you know?”

“Because we’re best friends already,” MJ said.

“You what?”

“Oh, yeah. Me and my dear friend Please Shut Up go way back.” She glared at the pair of them, and then shut her eyes.

“What’s up with you?” she heard Ned say. “Late night?”

“You really wanna know?”

“Uh… yeah, I gue-”

“I was hanging out with Please Shut Up. Having a ton of good times.”

“You’re mean.”

MJ snorted. The bus came to a complete stop, and the doors sighed open; MJ kept her eyes tightly closed for a few seconds longer, trying to enjoy the feeling as much as she possibly could while everyone around her scrambled for their bags and began to pile out into the parking lot.

“Ding ding,” she heard Ned say. “This is our stop.”

“Ugh.”

Rolling her eyes behind closed lids, she grabbed for her backpack on the empty seat beside her, and slouched off the bus behind Ned and Peter. She winced against the sunlight, sleeplessness watering everything around her down to a kind of liquid surreality. She yawned - but even as she did so, even as most of her mind was dedicated to wishing that she was back in her bed with her head on a soft pillow and her comforter pulled all the way up to her chin, even as she blinked slowly and sleepily - she realised that there was some kind of commotion happening across on the other side of the parking lot.

“Oh my god,” Ned said, punching Peter - surprisingly hard, MJ thought, but Peter didn’t seem to really feel it. “Oh, my god, it’s happening. It is happening.”

The words what’s happening were on the tip of MJ’s tongue; an image of Ned’s smug face rose up in front of her, how happy he’d be at knowing something she didn’t after she’d been rude on the bus, and she bit back her questions. Instead, she started to head quickly towards the school - directly away from the crowd. There were a few odd looks thrown her way by all the people heading in the opposite direction, but she paid them no attention whatsoever.

The growing melee surged behind her as she walked through the school gates, not meeting anyone’s eye. Instead of going inside, though, she took a quick right, heading for a conveniently placed wall that started low and slowly sloped upwards; climbing up, she walked her way to higher ground, peering over the heads of the crowd in the parking lot.

She was too far away to see what was really happening, except that there were four sleek black cars all parked side by side, and some women in red standing absolutely still and eyeing the general ruckus of students. They seemed to be keeping some kind of peace just by looking vaguely ready to kill anyone who looked at them.

MJ stared, wishing she could so effortlessly channel that kind of energy.

The clothes they were wearing… she narrowed her eyes. She knew that armour, she knew those patterns. They all had shaved heads, too - no hair for anyone to grab onto in a fight.

She blinked. Surely, it wasn’t possible. She’d just spent all night reading about these exact women and their country and their weapons and their technology, and now she was sleep deprived, and seeing things. These could not be the Dora Milaje.

MJ wasn’t even completely clear on how that was pronounced, let alone being prepared to see them in her school’s parking lot.

And then, out of one of the cars, stepped a girl.

MJ felt her breathe leave her, before she’d even fully registered who she was looking at. Dressed in lowkey, casual clothes - just jeans, a t-shirt, and a black and white jacket, with her hair tied up at the back of her head - was a person MJ knew by sight, instantly. Someone she’d read about; someone she followed on Twitter; someone she’d seen on the news, announcing the arrival of new outreach buildings across the country. Someone she’d actually considered getting Snapchat for, just to see her stories and selfies.

Shuri, Princess of Wakanda.

The crowd around Shuri were going wild, yelling and waving. The Dora Milaje were looking, somehow, even more stern as they kept the tide of teenage enthusiasm at bay. Shuri offered them all a grin, and MJ felt her heart flip in her chest.

With a little nod of her head, Shuri began to walk towards the school. Like a flock of seagulls, the students all around her shuffled and squawked at each other, following along; Shuri seemed unfazed, not ignoring them, but just smiling around and occasionally laughing.

She must be used to this by now, MJ thought.

“I told my brother,” she heard the Princess say as she headed through the gates. “I told him, I wanted to take the bus! The big cars will only make it worse! Tomorrow I’m taking the bus here and there’s nothing he can do about it…”

MJ shifted, almost falling off the wall. Shuri was going to be here - not just for one day, but for two?

The suddenness of her movement must have caught Shuri’s eye. Down below, the Princess jerked her head up - frowning, her eyes drifted upwards too - and quite suddenly, MJ found herself meeting the gaze of the Princess of Wakanda.

MJ froze.

Shuri’s eyebrows raised slightly, and her mouth crooked into a smile - a small one, genuine, not for show - as she took in MJ standing atop the wall. MJ swallowed. Before there was time to smile politely, or wave, or do anything at all, the moment was over. Shuri had walked into the school, her eyes sliding away.

When the swirling wave of students chasing after her had washed inside with her, MJ hopped down off the wall. She leaned back against it; she could still feel her heart pounding.

Shuri had smiled.

And MJ hadn’t even tried to tame her hair this morning, beyond shoving it into a bun at the back of her head. Not that she expected someone as smart as Shuri to be making judgements about someone based on how many flyaways they had going on, hair-wise, or how beat-up their shoes looked, or how probably vacant and awestruck their expression was…

MJ breathed out. But Shuri had smiled.

She found herself half-smiling down at the ground, just thinking about it.

“So, how did you enjoy meeting Princess Please Shut Up ?”she heard a voice say. She looked up, blinking away her mind’s looped replaying of the moment that had just happened.

Ned was smiling at her smugly, while Peter stared up the steps after Shuri.

MJ considered using words to reply, and then decided a simple gesture would do the trick.

“Aw, come on. That’s not nice.”

They headed inside as a reluctant, ragged trio.

“So… she’s here because…” MJ said, unable to resist fishing for information any longer.

“To go to school,” Ned finished for her. “Something about community outreach or whatever.” MJ tried to keep walking normally, tried to keep breathing. Shuri. The Princess of Wakanda - a title so grandiose that it sounded ridiculous even to think it - that Shuri. Was going to be here every day? Was going to take classes? Was going to join band or the cheer squad, was going to go to parties, was going to - to go to high school?

“But she’s, like… a genius,” MJ said, sounding stupid to herself. “Like… she doesn’t need high school.”

Ned shrugged, while Peter looked thoughtful.

“Peter, does she even know about -” Ned began.

“Don’t know,” Peter said shortly, with a pointed look, before seeming to sink back into his thoughts. MJ narrowed her eyes at the pair of them, before shrugging it off.

Whatever. Those guys were losers.

And Shuri had smiled.

***

Read the rest here on AO3!!

[multifandom-damnation]

Molly huffed, rubbing his hands roughly over his face. “I mean, it’s only because the words just won’t stay still and I know where they should go but they are just never there and its really frustrating because I should be able to know this, memory loss or not, and the fact that I can’t just means that-”

“Hey, Molly,” Yasha soothed, placing her raised hand heavily on his shoulder. “You know by now; I will not judge. I will help you as well as I can but I cannot grantee we will get anywhere.” She paused. “But I will not give up until you can at least spell your name.”

“There’s nothing wrong with me,” Molly muttered to his lap, sounding doubtful to his own ears.

“No,” Yasha confirmed, gripping his shoulder tightly. “There is nothing wrong with you. Nothing at all and you have nothing to worry about because tonight I am going to help you as best I am able.”

The relief on Molly’s face was enough for Yasha to stand abruptly from her hammock and stroll over to her luggage to retrieve a quill, a jar of ink and a piece of parchment.

(AKA every time the Mighty Nein found out Molly couldn’t read and the one time they found out he could)

So, Taliesin said on Talks Machina that Molly was “functionally illiterate” and I took that to mean that he was dyslexic. I don’t have dyslexia or know much about it but I do know how it was portrayed in Percy Jackson so here you are, a horrible version of a dyslexic individual.

Honestly not sure how I feel about this one, was definitely better second time editing, but I tried my best. Hope you enjoy x

Yasha knew as she knew everything, within the first month of her arrival at the Fletching and Moondrop Carnival or Curiosities. When Mollymauk tentatively walked into their shared tent and shyly asked if she could help him spell his name, she knew better than to ask but he felt the need to clarify anyway.

“It’s only because I had to sign that court document today, for the Halfling with the tiny hat? I nearly got us kicked out of the town because I couldn’t sign my name to state that I had legal proof to be here and I don’t actually know how to spell ‘Mollymauk Tealeaf’. I mean, it doesn’t matter, I was hardly able to speak until Gustav taught me so it’s not so unusual that I can’t-”

Cutting him off with a hand raised, Yasha tried to give a reassuring smile. It must have worked because soon Molly was tiredly smiling back. “I do not mind, Molly.” She told him. “I don’t know how good of a teacher I am but I will try.”

Molly huffed, rubbing his hands roughly over his face. “I mean, it’s only because the words just won’t stay still and I know where they should go but they are just never there and its really frustrating because I should be able to know this, memory loss or not, and the fact that I can’t just means that-”

“Hey, Molly,” Yasha soothed, placing her raised hand heavily on his shoulder. “You know by now; I will not judge. I will help you as well as I can but I cannot grantee we will get anywhere.” She paused. “But I will not give up until you can at least spell your name.”

“There’s nothing wrong with me,” Molly muttered to his lap, sounding doubtful to his own ears.

“No,” Yasha confirmed, gripping his shoulder tightly. “There is nothing wrong with you. Nothing at all and you have nothing to worry about because tonight I am going to help you as best I am able.”

The relief on Molly’s face was enough for Yasha to stand abruptly from her hammock and stroll over to her luggage to retrieve a quill, a jar of ink and a piece of parchment. She sat down on the floor, Molly following, and she laid the parchment out, dipped the quill in the ink, wrote his name at the top. “Copy that.” She said as she handed him both the parchment and the black feathered quill.

His writing was shaky, too-big or too-small, letters almost looked more like scribbles and Yasha was convinced that this was the first time he had ever held a quill.

After the 50th time the words were repeated, Yasha asked him to read them out to her. “Mollymauk Tealeaf.” He recited without reading the words and as if it were obvious.

Yasha’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. “How do you know?”

“Dear, that’s what I came in here asking to learn in the first place.” He sounded exasperated, had the same look on his face when he had to explain a fortune to a small child, or a relatively slow adult. “Really, Yasha, I would like to think, although I may be wrong though I highly doubt it, that I would remember what I came in here for.”

Taking the quill from Molly’s hands, Yasha flipped the page over and wrote her own name. “What about this?” She asked.

Molly blinked, staring at the word like he had just been presented with his own execution sentence. “I don’t know.” He muttered eventually, eyes glaring hatefully at the parchment he once looked at with pride.

Yasha wrote out the names of the other members of the circus and pointed to them each in turn. “Gustav, Ornna, Toya, Mona, Yuli, Kylre, Bosun, Desmond.” She handed the quill back to Molly. “Copy them.”

By the end of the week, Molly did know not only how to write his own name, but the names of his family, even if the letters jumped and ran around the page to avoid his eyes and the tip of his quill, but they came out in thickly blotted black ink on thin parchment, and that was enough for Mollymauk.

They were riding through the dusty dirt roads of by the mountains when the first sign appeared, old splintering wood and rough peeling paint that littered red and black on the earth below it and Molly was squinting up at it through the glare of the sun when Fjord rode up on his horse to join Molly on his own. “What does that say?” The tiefling asked, glancing at Fjord.

For his credit, Fjord tried to mask his confused look into an emotionless emotion. “The… sign?” He asked hesitantly as he followed Molly’s gaze, almost as though he was afraid of getting the answer wrong.

Sighing, Molly rolled his eyes. “Yes, the sign. That one, right there above us, what does it say? I can’t read it for the life of me.”

Blinking, Fjord looked between the sign and Molly. “Kamordah,” he said slowly, as though it were obvious. “We’ve just arrived in Kamordah, Molly. Are you alright?” There was real concern in Fjord’s voice and Molly wished Yasha were here so he could leave the half-orc at the head of the party and trot over to her in the rear.

“I’m fine Fjord, let’s just find a bloody tavern. I need a drink and a nap. Maybe some food too, if they have it, but I’m not gonna get my hopes up and then be disappointed.” Hoping to drop the previous conversation, Molly changed the subject and stayed silent, but Fjord was having none of that.

“Haven’t you ever been to Kamordah?” He asked, looking out towards the mountains in the distance. “Not with the circus?”

“No, I can’t say we ever came this way.” Molly admitted, silently wondering if it would be obvious if he spurred his horse on faster. “But honestly, I never really payed attention to names of places. Never really mattered.”

Fjord looked away, hiding his expression from Molly and in the silence, Molly took that as an opportunity to spur his steed towards the closet tavern.

Later that night, Molly’s head was comfortably clouded by the soft, familiar haze of cheap tap ale and the faint dizzying buzz of sleep deprivation brought on by stress, but the quiet knock at the door was enough to wake Molly up to shout a “come in!” to the half-orc he knew the knock belonged to.

Shyly poking his head in followed by the rest of his body, Fjord padded towards his end of the room, closing the widow Molly had opened and closed the blinds before he sat down on his own bed, facing his roommate. “Molly?” Fjord asked and Molly hummed in recognition. “I want to ask you something but I don’t want you to feel like you have to answer, because you really don’t but I was just curious-”

“You’re rambling Fjord.” Molly interrupted. “Ask your god’s damned question. If I really don’t want to answer it, I’ll just ignore you so unless there are any spells involved then I’m sure we’ll be fine.”

Instead of pointing out the hypocrisy of that statement, Fjord looked down at his fingers currently twirling the length of red rope between them before the words left him in a blurted rush like a tide breaking through a dam. “Can you read?” He almost regretted the words as soon as he said them if it had not been for the considering look Molly had on his face, the way he seemed to muse the words over in his head and come to a stable conclusion.

“I mean, I suppose not.” Molly pondered. “I know what letters look like and I know the alphabet. I know mostly what letters go into what, but it’s more the letters never seem to want to stay still on the page.”

“What do you mean?” Fjord asked, confused. “So you can’t read?”

“There’s nothing wrong with me if that’s what you’re thinking,” Molly said quickly “It’s just that the words don’t correlate with what I’m seeing. There’s nothing wrong with it, or me.”

Suprised, Fjord blinked at the sudden outburst, hearing the disbelief in Molly’s own voice as he spoke. Fjord realised that Molly had probably tried to convince himself of those very same words for countless hours yet still didn’t totally believe them. “I know there’s not Molly, I know that. I just wanted to get a better understanding of what’s happening.” Fjord said gently, trying to console his friend. “I won’t force you to answer anything you don’t want to.”

“Of course you can’t,” Molly murmured, sudden outburst apparently forgotten in a drunken haze. “Nobody can force me to do anything.”

Taking this as a sign to continue, Fjord asked again. “You really can’t read?”

“Yes, but it’s not because I don’t know how to.” Molly sighed, sitting up on one arm. “Honestly, this was so much easier explaining it to Yasha. The words I look at are never the same, and even looking at my own name, the letters that should be there are backwards or in the wrong places.”

Fjord mulled this over for a moment before he nodded. “I think I understand.” He said. “It’s like the letters don’t cooperate with your eyes. I mean, I don’t know how that would happen but I think I understand.”

“Good.” Molly yawned, flopping back down and turning his back to Fjord, curling the blankets around himself. “Because I’m tired and drunk and don’t want to sacrifice my precious sleep for stupid conversations about words of all bloody things.”

And if Fjord read out loud every meal on the menu they were handed the next morning so Molly had a chance to order without asking Jester what she was getting, neither mentioned it.

Sitting at a dirty round bar table, shuffling his cards between his fingers in a talented display of dexterity and practice, he watched Caleb flick though page after page of arcane scribbles that danced around the parchment like the wizards own Dancing Lights and Molly was having a hard time discerning if the words moved because of some mystical enchantment or just because of Molly’s own eyes.

“What are you reading Mr Caleb?” Molly asked as he placed his cards down on the table and instead placing his chin on his interlaced fingers. He didn’t actually care but he was bored and just wanted conversation.

“I am reading a very tiresome book that you would not enjoy,” Caleb said absently as he turned another page. “It is very hard to, uh, absorb so if I could have silence that would be very helpful, freund.“

Molly pouted, knowing full well Caleb couldn’t see him, and reached forward to flick one of the flowers in Caleb’s dirty red hair, making the wizard jump and reach up to make sure the pretty yellow bud Nott had placed there earlier was still in place. “Come on Caleb, I’m bored. Entertain me.” Molly purred, tail flicking out behind him and making a soft whipping sound through the ale and puke scented air.

“Why don’t you go tell fortunes and stories to the lovely couple over on that table over there?” Caleb suggested without looking up and indeed, there was a Halfling and a dwarf giggling and holding hands on the table across from them. But Molly wasn’t interested in romance, not today.

“Too far away,” Molly moaned as his tail landed heavily on the inside spine of Caleb’s book. “Read to me, Caleb.”

With a sigh that sounded like he had suffered a thousand pains, Caleb reached into his bag and dropped a rather thin looking book in front of Molly. “Here, read this and be quiet, please.”

Molly stared at the book blinking, opened the pages and flicked through them faster than even Caleb was, admiring the pictures and the crisp air on his face when he turned a page particularly fast. He was just considering whether he should start making shapes out of the folded pages when he caught Caleb staring at him. “Yes?”

“What are you doing?” Caleb’s brow was furred and he was glaring at Molly’s hands like they had personally offended him. “You do know that it is impossible to read that quickly, ja?”

“Fjord didn’t tell you?” Part of Molly admired Fjords ability to keep a drunken secret, the other half slightly annoyed that he had to retell and explain it again, maybe many more times.

“Tell me what?” Caleb frowned as he turned to Molly, closing the book. This wasn’t the kind of attention he had wanted. “Is there something going on, Mollymauk?”

Sighing and cursing the gods for everything under the sun, he turned to Caleb. “I can’t read.” He said it quickly and without feeling, continuing on before the wizard could comprehend the words. “I haven’t been able to for as long as I can remember and there is nothing I can do about it because the letters won’t sit still on the page.”

Caleb’s face was a mask of shock, disbelief and horror. “Can’t read…” he muttered, staring at both the books now lying closed on the table. The emotions on Caleb’s face faded and was replaced with something closer to determination as he pulled out a spare piece of parchment, a quill, some ink, and a book written in common (so alike what Yasha had done so long ago) and spread them all out on the table. “Then I shall teach you.”

Before he could ruin the expensive parchment he only had a few pages left of and waste the half-empty bottle of ink for a lost cause, Molly reached out and clamped Caleb’s pale grimy hands between his scarred purple ones. “Caleb, dear, do not waste your time,” Molly says gently and enjoys the way Caleb’s nose wrinkles and turns upwards. “I cannot read and I probably never will and it is not because I have never learned or do not have the care to but because the words are not the right way to my eyes as they are to yours. So please, don’t bother.”

“But, why not?” Caleb objected and Molly would normally enjoy Caleb turning into a whiny child if it had not removed the sweet look of powerful determination that Molly has only just now realized looks wonderful on the wizard. “Why must your life be so much convoluted than ours that even the simple pleasure of reading is taken and soured for you?”

“Because,” Molly began, relishing in the rare eye contact and the warmth in Caleb’s hands in his, not wanting to look away, not wanting to let go. “The gods and the fates have not deemed it to be in my cards, in my thread and it is a life I have to live because in return for taking away my ability to read stationary words they gave me blood that glows with holy energy and crackles in ice. I think that is a fair enough trade, don’t you?”

"Why should you be at such a disadvantage?”

“Caleb, sweetheart, there is nothing wrong with me,” Molly told him and was surprised when he meant it. “I am perfectly content with who I am and you should be too.”

Caleb didn’t speak, only looked down at his parchment with a downcast glare and gently slid his hands from Molly’s, which the tiefling reluctantly allowed. Standing, Molly patted Caleb softly on the back before making his way up the stairs and to his room

When Caleb returned from a shopping trip with another book in his hand, Molly thought nothing of it, until a few days later the two were on watch together and Caleb had shuffled closer to the fire (something very unusual for the wizard) and pulled out the new book. Before Molly could make any jokes about the human slacking off on his duties, Caleb began reading the pages out loud for Molly, weaving tales of warriors and mystery and magic with nothing but his words. Molly had barely stayed awake through his watch as he listened to his friend read in the glow of the firelight. Molly had made sure to thank Caleb in the morning for the wonderful dreams he had that night.

They were running, and Molly didn’t know how long for but he was side by side with Beauregard running through tight corridors full of guards and traps and nothing but darkness, so Beau was forced to hold onto Molly’s coat as they ran.

“Where the fuck are they?” She huffed as she rearranged her footing. “This place is a god damn maze! What if we don’t find them?”

Molly pushed Beau’s head down roughly with one hand as he saw a long jagged and rusty sword appear from the darkness and swing towards her neck. Molly parried it with his own sword and left a gash in undead swordsman’s stomach with the other. “We can’t think like that dear. This place isn’t that big and as long as they haven’t been moved I’m sure we will find them.”

Beau gripped tightly to Molly’s sleeve when she felt it almost slip from her grasp. “And if we don’t?”

“Then I suppose we’re fucked.”

Pausing at a door, Molly brought his glowing sword up to examine the inscription and turned to Beau whose eyes were wide. “Read it!” He told her as he spun around to face the now empty hallway again, one sword held out in front of him.

Blinking, Beau leaned closer to the wall, so close her nose almost touched it before she scowled and pulled away. “It’s not in Common.”

Molly swapped places, took one look at the dancing letters and cursed. “It’s in Infernal.” He sighed angrily as he turned to fully face the hallway. “I’ll have to charm someone to open it.”

“Just read the fucking door!” Beau shouted in his ear and of course, Beau didn’t know because both Caleb and Fiord had kept his secret and now their friends’ demise would be on his hands. “Just read the gods damned door! This might be the way!”

“Beau…” Molly warned, low and deadly as he backed her further up against the door, back to her and swords extended.

The monk was having none of it. “What the fuck is wrong with you? I don’t know Infernal but you do. What the hell Molly? Just read the fucking-”

“I can’t read!” Molly roared as he spun around and slammed a scimitar into the door hinge, breaking the metal into pieces and kicking the door open with his foot before storming through without waiting for Beau to follow but knowing she had when he felt a hesitant tug on his coat sleeve.

Everyone was safe when they found them behind bars and once they opened the door and unlocked their chains they all clambered out in a pile, nothing much worse than cuts and bruises, Yasha with a gash on her side, Fjord with blood on his chin, Caleb with a swollen and purple eye.

Beau came and found Molly at the bar, a glass of something sickly sweet and purple, tar-like on his tongue. “I’ll have what he’s having.” She muttered as she got the barkeeps attention, accepting the glass with a silent nod as Molly placed a gold on the table to pay for it. “So,” Beau started, turning to Molly. “You really can’t read? I thought that was just something you read about in like, stories.”

Molly took a long swig from his glass. “I’m glad you find me mysterious and handsome enough to place me in a story.”

“Can you just not read or is it something else?”

“There’s nothing wrong with me, Beau, I just can’t read.”

“I mean, there are many things wrong with you, I just don’t think that’s one of them.” Beau took a sip from her glass and made a face. “So are you going to answer my question or not?”

Sighing, Molly rolled his eyes.“I could do it if you helped me, or if you gave me time, but it gets worse when I’m drunk or tired or stressed and the longer it takes if just makes me frustrated and that honestly just makes it worse.”

Thinking for a moment, Beau attempted to swirl her glass, with no effect. “What do the words look like to you?” She asked.

Molly considered this, rubbing a hand through his hair. “They look like scribbles, but they move about and even my name in Common has the right letters in all the wrong places but I sort of know what it looks like.”

Beau nodded as she turned to face Molly. “Alright. Any other hidden secrets?”

“No, it’s just that.”

“Is it a secret?”

“It’s not really a secret, but I don’t think Nott and Jester know yet.”

Humming, Beau drowned her drink and left the bar. Molly convinced himself that the looks Beau gave him when he ordered one of everything on the menu without looking at it were looks of incredulous disbelief and not a secret shared between friends and if she quietly whispered words in Molly’s ears when he was struggling to read them, Molly make sure to send her a nod and a wink and shout her a drink.

It was strange, sitting on a tall grassy hill filled with multi-coloured flowers that overlooked the wide expanse of blues and greens of the land, to have Nott of all people approach him and sit by him, plucking a flower and twirling it between her palms. “I know, by the way,” she said without preamble. “Just thought I would let you know so you could stop trying to hide it so much.”

Molly hummed as he looked up at the sky and watched the clouds float by, fluffy and white. “Know what? There are many things one could know about me and twice as many things I could be hiding. But you’re going to need to be more specific, dear, while I am sure you would call Jester to cast that horrid little spell on me again, I’m not a mind reader. Only a fortune teller.”

Nott looked as though she hadn’t listened to a word he said since he opened his mouth. “I know you can’t read.” She elaborated, reaching up to gently pick the petals of the flower before rubbing it between her fingers and dropping it to the ground.

“Ah,” Molly sighed, staring out into the distance. “Did Caleb tell you?”

“No, I overheard Fjord and Beau talking about it during their watch the other night,” Nott explained, a slight grin twisted her face. “They didn’t even know I was awake.” She looked at Molly out of the corner of her eye. “Is it true then?”

“Yes Nott, I believe it is.” Molly really didn’t want to explain it to another person, especially not to Nott, who seemed to go against everything he believed in and wanted for himself so far, so he had no reason to believe that she would listen and at least pretend to understand this time. “The words move.”

“I get it, you know.” When Molly looked at her, Nott was pointedly looking back at her flower, not devoid of half its petals. “I used to be like that when I was younger, way before they taught me, and even know when I get the itch it’s like I can’t understand the words I see until I have something special in my hands. Sometimes I need a drink, but sometimes it’s just the itch.”

Blinking, Molly looked confused at Nott. “Really?”

“Yeah, I mean, it’s not that hard to understand.” She waved a hand like it was no big deal, though it was something Molly had been trying to explain for the majority of his short life. “There were some people in my clan who were the same, but when they couldn’t be taught they were just kicked out and left to die.” Nott frowned. “There were some who got better, but most of the time it got worse. I don’t know what happened to them.” Reaching behind her, Nott pulled out her flask and took a large mouthful, tipping her head back and Molly watched the tiny rivulets run down the side of her mouth.

“That’s very… clever of you Nott.” Molly narrowed his eyes. “Although I get the feeling you didn’t just come over here to share your sympathy and tell stories of times gone by.”

“I think you should tell Jester.”

“You think I should what?” Molly asked in disbelief “Why would I ever feel myself compelled to do that?”

Nott met his eyes with the confident air of someone who had been thinking about this for a very long time. “Because she deserves to know, just like the rest of us.”

Sighing, Molly rubbed his face with his hands. The view was too pretty to have this conversation. “I know I probably should, but how would I start that conversation? ‘Hello dear, I may have been lying to you about my ability to read and because everyone else already knows I think it’s about time you do to’? That won’t do.”

“How did you tell everyone else?”

Holing up his hand, Molly counted on his fingers. “I asked Yasha how to spell my name back at the circus, Fjord had to read a sign to me and I drunkenly told him, Caleb tried to entertain me by getting me to read one of his books, Beau was yelling at me to read a sign in that dungeon we found you all in and apparently you know because Fjord and Beau were talking about it? What did they say?”

Waving the last part of the statement off, Nott gingerly took one of Molly’s hand in hers, almost afraid that his claws would cut her and her nails would cut him in return. “I think it’s better if she found out from you willingly, from your own voice than if she overheard it or if a situation calls for it.” Her voice was gentle, calming, and Molly felt himself relaxing under her touch. “I think that would make her feel better about being the last one to find out.”

Molly sighed, looked back over the landscape. It was getting dark, the light slowly but steadily disappearing behind the mountains. He gave Nott’s hand a squeeze. “I suppose your right.” He stood, pulling Nott to her feet as well. “I’ll get around to it. Wouldn’t want her to feel left out.”

Nott’s hand tightened around Molly’s when he tried to pull it out and when he looked down at her, she met his gaze. “There is nothing wrong with you, Molly.” Her voice was firm, brokering no room for arguments. “I just want you to know that. No matter what you or anyone else may think, there is nothing wrong with you.”

Feeling his breath catch in his throat, Molly smiled at the tiny goblin. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re a rather motherly creature?” He nodded back to the campsite. “We better get back, otherwise Caleb will come looking for you and Jester will feel cheated out of the fortune I promised her.”

And when Nott shot him encouraging smiles and nods when he glanced at her as he was pretending to quietly read, he smiled back and made sure to buy her something shiny and expensive at the next town.

Zadash was quiet this time of the day, no loud parades or drunken fools roaming the streets, not too many guards on patrol, the sun rising from the crest of the hills and the rainbow streamers still tied around poles from the week before. Jester was sitting on a bench in the sun a few feet from the bakery, the warm smells of honey and cinnamon and pastry wafting through the constantly opening door. There was some sweet spelling ball of dough in her hands and when Molly sat down on the bench beside her, she beamed at him. “Hello, Molly!”

“Hello there my dear Jester,” He pulled her head closer to his and kissed her between her horns. “What are you eating?”

“I’m not sure, but it had jam and cinnamon and chocolate and it reminded me of Nicodranas so I brought it.”  She held it out to him and a glob of jam rolled down the side at the sudden movement. “Would you like to try some?”

“No thanks love,” he declined, throwing his arm around the back of the chair. “I was thinking we could go to that candy shop you were talking about before. We never did get to go before the tower blew up.”

Jester’s eyes widened and Molly was momentarily afraid that she would drop her pastry. “Yes yes yes! I forgot, we were supposed to go because you’ve never actually been to one have you? They are so pretty and so colourful-” she gasped, tugging at Molly’s coat with sticky fingers “-just like you Molly!”

Smiling at the compliment, Molly met her eyes. “Then I am sure I will love it. Anything that is even remotely like me is going to be amazing, isn’t it?”

They sat together in comfortable silence, the only sounds were the jangling of Molly’s horns in the wind, the crunch of Jester’s pastry when she bit into it and the gentle swishing of their tails against the floor. Oh, how Molly hated to break it. “I actually came to find you because I had something to talk to you about.”

“Oh?” Jester asked as she whipped her hand against her mouth, cleaning away the jam and powdered sugar “What’s that?”

“Uh, I don’t want you to be upset when I tell you though, alright?” Molly really didn’t know what to say, but there was no way he could turn back now. “The rest of the party already knows so you don’t have to keep it secret but I think you should know anyway.”

Jesters face morphed into something serious, a look that was never associated with the blue tiefling, but she turned to Molly was an unreadable look in her eyes. “What’s wrong?”

“I uh, I can’t actually read…” Molly admitted, cringing away from the perplexed look on Jesters face. “Its not a bad thing, not really, but I just wanted to let you know in case it ever came up-”

Molly paused, watching Jester’s face for any emotion he was expecting (disgust, disappointment, pity) but saw none of them, only a blank calmness that was not fitting for someone so excitable as Jester. Like the changing of a tide, a large grin spread across her face and she wrapped her hands around Molly, taking him by surprise.

“Oh, Mollymauk!” She cried, love in her voice that Molly was not expecting. “Don’t worry! I still love you!”

Blinking, Molly felt a smile spread across his face. “Is there a possibility that you wouldn’t have?”

“I mean, maybe if there was something, really, really wrong with you, maybe not. Until I found a way to fix it, then I would love you twice as much!”

“Oh don’t worry my sweet, there’s nothing wrong with me.”

Returning the smile, Jester punched him her version of gently in the arm and turned back to her pastries.

Later, he noticed when she slid up next to him and read him her letters to the Traveller or grinned at him when he read words correctly or gave him dramatic enactments while she was reading Tusk Love to him or if she read to him the stories she wrote about the people they watched pass by, and he loved her all the more for it.

Molly wasn’t even sure how they got here, wasn’t sure of anything since the ambush and the bag over his head and the cold heavy manacles on his wrists before he was shoved into the back of a cart with bodies that seemed to be in a similar situation and the angry battle cries seemed to be a match for those of the Mighty Nein.

But here he was, on his ass in the dirt and his friends behind him in cages. A grey-haired half-orc wouldn’t stop calling him “Lucian” and a half-elf called him “Nonagon”, and frankly, Molly was rather sick of this dream

Beau was calling to him, talking to him, but he couldn’t hear her- too focused on the gnome with the knife who sliced shallow cuts into the eyes dyed permanently in his skin and letting it run into a chalice, raising it to his lips and drinking from it before passing it to the next person and filling up another one.

When thunder cracked from somewhere in the distance, loud and angry, and Molly resisted the urge to turn back to Yasha and reassure her that it was all going to be alright. She’d been put in a separate cage, her sword taken from her and gagged, and now she sat with no sound but pants from her previous rage, her legs crossed, fuming silent fury and watching every move near Molly like she could suddenly break her bonds and save him.

“I am awfully flattered you lot, but I don’t think you have the right tiefling,” Molly said weakly, lightheaded already. “Although whoever it is, is a very lucky guy.” Caleb was muttering in his cage and Molly thought it was such a shame that these goons had thought ahead and had made the cages wizard-proof. “So if you could let us all go I am sure we can go on our way and you can find your “Lucian” and we can pretend this never happened.”

A human crouched down to face Molly, blind in one eye, a large cut running through it and Molly tried to ignore that all these people had scars like his own. “We want the knowledge, Lucian.” The man growled in Molly’s face. “We want the secrets of immortality and don’t you dare pretend we won’t do whatever we have to in order to get them from you.”

Gulping, Molly eyed a halfling who arrived with bandages and slowly and methodically wrapped them around Molly’s bleeding skin. “Let me assure you that those will not be found in me. I am a man of many secrets but immortality is not one, otherwise, I would not be afraid of dying by your hand”

The man smirked and a gem was shoved into Molly’s forehead and blindingly cold pain shook through his mind. He knew subconsciously that he was screaming, if only for Yasha’s muffled roars of fury, Beau slamming her hand into the bars, Nott’s frantic chatter, Caleb’s sharp intake of breath, Fjord’s begging to just talk this out, Jester calling his name like she was drowning and the rough-roar pain in his throat. “What the fuck was that for?” Molly panted, blinking his eyes from the film of pain.

A book was shoved in his face. “Read it,” Came a smooth female voice, accent same as Caleb’s and Molly tried to get a good look at her face, the book preventing it. When Molly dragged his eyes to the pages, the words swirled and shook like always.

“Sorry to disappoint,” Molly snarled, suddenly very angry, but not knowing where the anger came from because in the pit of his stomach all he could feel was fear. “I can’t fucking read, so you’re gonna have to find another way, arschloch” Molly watched the woman flinch at her native language, heard Caleb’s whispered praise at the same.

Before he could feel pleased with himself, another, thicker book was shoved into his face. Molly took one look at the words before glaring at the woman. “What part of ‘I can’t fucking read’ don’t you understand? It’s not going to change page by page you know.”

The woman turned to the man from before, muttering something in a language Molly couldn’t identify before the man came back into his view, a third book retrieved. “We know all about your little problem, Lucian,” The man sounded smug, like he knew something Molly didn’t. “Maybe it’s not that you can’t read. Maybe you’re not just reading the right language.”

“Now, I think that’s enough,” Fjord calls from his cage, and Molly could hear the strained politeness and patience in his voice. “Don’t believe ‘em, Molly, they’re trying to bait you.”

They already have he doesn’t say as he meets the eye of the man holding the book, saw the piercing determination glinting behind them. “What are you talking about?”

The book was spread open and gold-inked letters were revealed, just as Molly was about to shut the man down again, tell him the same story, he looked at the letters and they moved. But they didn’t move around the page and the words didn’t get jumbled up, but they moved in glowing synchronization into a correct order that Molly could read, but it wasn’t a language that Molly knew but the words came to him as fast as the flipping of his cards and he let out an involuntary intake of breath at the sight.

“Read it,” the man breathed, deep satisfaction in his voice and so overwhelmed with the sensation of joy and disbelief and pride in himself that Molly did.

“I pledge allegiance to the Nonagon, the guardian over life and death everlasting-”

Someone was calling his name, maybe Caleb, maybe Fjord but Molly couldn’t hear them, too overjoyed with words fitting in the right places and the feeling of them sliding off his tongue.

“I sacrifice my soul, my life, my death, to the lord-”

Jester was crying, but Molly couldn’t hear her. Why was she crying? This was a good thing, a very very good thing.

“I allow my body to be taken, and my soul to be accepted into the heavens to be used as the vessel of the lord-”

His voice was too loud in his own ears, almost like it had an echo. He could faintly hear Yasha thrashing against her bonds, the bars, but it was too far away and quiet to matter.

“I give through me, through you, my blood to be drunk and my bones to be crushed to bring about the change of the red-eyed god-”

Caleb was muttering in Zemnian, throwing spell after spell at a wall that his magic would not pass through and cursing when they dissipated harmlessly.

“Through you, my lord, I give about your disciples the ability to experience life ever-lasting, to control the extension of their fate and to choose the time of their own demise-”

He felt weightless, no feeling but from the contentedness of the circumstance and the fuzzy feeling of reading. Actually, everything was kind of fuzzy, the world outside the book shook and blurred into a something not quite right, except for the words, still in their glowing gold light.

“I grant them the power to bring about change and to become your vessel in their time, Lord Nonagon, as I have and they shall serve you as diligently as I-”

Molly wasn’t even aware of his own words, the fuzziness in his eyes clouding over his hearing into a slight buzz. Beau and Fjord shook the bars and called out to him, but he was deaf to their wishes.

“And hope that in time, they shall live and die as I have, serving you and continuing your quest throughout the land, and hope that when their time will come they-”

Something hard hit Molly on the back of his head and he slouched forward, his eyes closing and his mouth falling shut. The man holding the book only had enough time to look up and the that the goblin had slipped through the bars and was plunging a dagger into his skull at the same time Yasha threw her door open, silently picked by Nott beforehand, ripping apart the other cage door, rushing towards Molly and dragging him far away from the fray.

When Molly blinked his tired eyes open the next morning, buried in Jester’s customary pile of pillows, his head thumping and his body numb, he was left with the sweet blissful feeling of his first time reading. There was a book on his bedside table, familiar, almost as though it were placed there porously by the wizard who purchased it and Molly reached for it with hands trembling both in body-aching exhaustion and barely concealed anticipation.

The words on the cover were unfamiliar to his eye, twirling and shifting as usual, but not how they had last night, they didn’t form tangible words that made any sense but only formed meaningless nothings, a bundle of nonsense and in his sudden frustration he hurled the book at the door and growled into his pillow.

Trying to explain it to the rest of the Nein was like a punch to the gut, the heart-wrenching feeling of his eyes no longer gliding effortlessly across the paper, of the words read falling off of his tongue, the relief of the letters fitting where they were supposed to.

For the rest of the week, Molly kept glancing at signs he would once have ignored, looked through books, at menus, at the words written on his tarot cards, searching for that unknown language that would make all the words fit together and sing in his head like the sweet tones of young Toya back at the carnival, but none were found.

And when the Mighty Nein shot him looks of sympathy, small smiles of reassurance and gave him soft pats on the back when he caught him listlessly staring at words, it meant nothing to Molly.

He didn’t need anyone’s sympathy when there was nothing wrong with him.

[mildlymaddy]

Yearly (Belated) Review

Alright, there it is. My answers to the Yearly Review meme. Honestly I found this SO HARD. Not only was it hard to find positive things to say about my writing, but also I don’t remember anything of what I wrote last year? It’s hard to answer these questions if you don’t even remember any detail about your own fics.

It’s really weird because I take so much pride in my actual job, like I know I’m good at it, I know exactly what I’m good at, I could answer all the questions in the world about it. I also think that I’m a really good beta reader, like I’ve never found anybody else like me? Someone who will actually nag at you and go deep and force you to rework stuff and get even better. All of this, I can easily see and appreciate. But my personal writing? UGH. Nothing to keep, throw it all away please.

Writing this was really painful for me, when it seems to have been so much fun for everyone else (as it should be, because y’all are so fucking talented and I’m glad you realize it)... but you know what, soldiering through actually helped me take a step back and force myself to see what was good about my writing. I’m incredibly grateful for it.

1. List of works published this year:

This one at least is easy, you can find the list here.

Except that I forgot my original ficlet I wrote, a soft lesbian summer haze story inspired by some Danielle Campbell photos! It’s there and I think only two people in the world have read it but I really like it.

2. Work you are most proud of (and why):

Hahahahahahahahaha…. hahahaha… haaaa.

Sorry.

Um.

I guess, maybe, the Lilo Brits verse? Because it’s like, one of the more “serious”, angsty things I’ve written (and La helped me make it good).

I guess it’s pretty clear I have a real big problem about thinking “happy” fic is meaningless, which is kind of a downer considering it’s almost all I write (and probably what I’m best at).

Oh, okay, I’ve just re-read that ghost!Liam lirry fic and it’s surprisingly nice. I guess I like the way it’s a total crackfic and yet it’s very tender and bittersweet. I can grant myself that. :)

And now that I’ve found back that Danielle fic I linked to above, I can honestly say that I’m super proud of it. I’m proud of how soft it is, and how tentative, and I just… I really like how poetic it is? The words came out exactly as I wanted them to. I really love it.

3. Work you are least proud of (and why):

Most of them? Like, they’re okay, but most could have been infinitely better if I’d just forgotten about them for a bit and come back to them with fresh eyes, instead of posting them straight away. There’s stuff that people loved that I’m re-reading today and I literally cringe thinking of how much better they could/should have been.

4. A favorite excerpt of your writing:

I couldn’t say. Like, it’s not just that I’m super harsh on my writing, but how am I supposed to remember everything I wrote?? The way you guys all managed to answer this one is what baffled me the most, because I legitimately cannot do it. I’d have to re-read everything I posted (and even then I probably wouldn’t like anything enough to think it’s worth quoting here).

But one thing I can say is that I have a huge soft spot for my Lilo fairy verse. It’s not the most amazing thing in the land but I think Louis as a fairy works really, really well, and it’s just silly and happy and I’m glad I wrote it. :)

 5. Share or describe a favorite review you received:

This one is surprisingly hard to answer! I mean, obviously, @catateme9 is the most supporting reader and friend anyone could wish for, by far. The way you boost authors you like is heartwarming, and shows that you don’t need to actually put out material to be a vital part of the fandom. <3

I’m also just really grateful when people yell at me in their reblog tags, which happens often, it’s probably the most satisfactory feedback anyone can get.

I’m sorry, I feel bad for not being able to recall a really good one, I just… any kind of feedback makes my day. I cherish each and every comment/tag/message I get about my fics, so it’s just impossible to pick one.

 6. A time when writing was really, really hard:

Honestly ask me for a time when writing was easy, it’ll be easier to pinpoint. Writing is torture, all the fucking time. But some of the random ficlets I wrote in bed were wonderful gifts, sudden unexpected inspiration that I managed to see through in one sitting.

But writing has been especially hard for the past couple months, I have to say. I used to constantly daydream about my plots and now there’s only static in my brain.

 7. A scene or character you wrote that surprised you:

I guess all the het fic I wrote. I’ve always written exclusively slash, even back in my HP days (the only Hermione/Ron fic I can remember writing was PG, I couldn’t stomach the idea of writing a sex scene). I think because for a long time I wanted to get as far away from heterosexuality as I could. I guess me writing all those elounor, or elounorexha, or louelle fics shows my own real life path towards accepting I’m bi and that there’s nothing wrong with “het” sex.

 8. How did you grow as a writer this year:

I don’t think I grew at all. Queen of stagnation, that’s me. 😞

 9. How do you hope to grow next year:

I… don’t know? Maybe just… learn to give myself more credit? Be as kind to myself as I am to other writers? Oh and also if I could stop comparing myself to all of you and feeling terrible because I’ll never be half as talented, that’d be nice.

10. Who was your greatest positive influence this year as a writer (could be another writer or beta or cheerleader or muse etc etc):

@ferryboatpeak will never not be wonderful. She uses both the carrot and the stick to keep me on track (or tries to, at least), and she’s also sent me some DELIGHTFUL things to beta, for which I’m always so grateful because honestly, reading her stuff and then seeing her turn my suggestions into gold is a fucking privilege.

To be fair, I have a lot of incredibly talented writers as friends. You’re all inspirations in some way, but I’ll mention 3 writers that have really stood out for me this year (please don’t get offended if you’re not in the list you KNOW how much I admire and love all of you, omg, so much!!)

@queerlyalex the sheer range of what you write, and the softness with which you tackle tricky subjects, is absolutely incredible. Your fics aren’t only perfectly written, they’re also so enlightening, and eye-opening, and as someone who was very very clueless before I joined Tumblr, they’ve been a wonderful, soft way of truly realizing there is so much more than what I’ve experienced, and getting my head around some stuff. I feel so incredibly grateful to be your friend.

@polaroidgirlfriend, I’m sorry I haven’t yet read your fionrry, but I still think about your university Narry fic all the time. I’m still floored by how perfect and honest it was, you have a way of… of getting at hidden, unspoken human emotions that is so gentle and yet so uncompromising, it’s a testament to your beautiful soul.

@1000-directions, your love for the boys’ girlfriends (and friends, like Bebe) is the most heartwarming thing ever, and I’m so happy you’re constantly putting out these empowering, woman-positive slices of life out into the fandom world. We need more people like you here. I also love what you said about learning to write for yourself and not caring about how niche something is, that is something I could dearly do with.

I think it’s telling that the three people I’ve picked out have that one thing in common, your way of gently dissecting relationships to get to the heart of them, unflinchingly uncovering the good and the bad bits. You somehow all manage to depict love as a bloody beating heart, both beautiful and terrible, soft and ragged, full of hope and despair, and I just… love this so much about you. There’s a line in one of my fics (that sounds so pretentious omg) which goes “so she’ll stop cutting his heart open as softly as if it was a peach”, and that just really sums it up. I only wrote that one sentence, but y’all actually do it in every one of your fics, and I’m just... in total awe of you. ♥♥♥

 11. Anything from your real life show up in your writing this year:

Pretty much everything I write is about me. I get sick? I’ll write some sickfic. I’m super tired? Louis can’t seem to get any sleep. Little gestures I love end up in my stories. Things I crave end up in my stories. Often I’m embarrassed about just how much my stories are a reflection of myself, to be honest. I’m an open book.

 12. Any new wisdom you can share with other writers:

I’ll share wisdom from my actual job : do not cling to your ideas. It doesn’t matter how cute/sexy/well written that paragraph is, or how brilliant that idea is, if it doesn’t fit with the rest of the story or if it’s blocking you up, GET RID OF IT. Seriously. Being able to just delete chunks of your own writing when you realize it’s not serving your story will save you a lot of pain and time.

 13. Any projects you’re looking forward to starting (or finishing) in the new year:

Any of my WIPs, god, please. I started so many things and they fell through the wayside and I feel so guilty and gutted about it.

The most important thing of all would be finishing Take These Chances, because I still get comments on it from time to time and I’ve dropped it just before Louis and Liam finally realized they were in love and it’s just… it’s terrible. I want to finish it, I just don’t know how to make myself do it.

But I also have that summer heat nouis fic, puppy/kitten lilo, the lilourry mermaid thing, lilo new year’s kiss, another lilo fic about kisses in which liam must kiss louis every hour to make up for waking him up early, the nouis watching Stranger Things, a new installment of caldell highschool au, that hendes fic, a steamy Elouelle ficlet, the follow-up to the sleep-deprived Louis fic… all of these are half-written or more, they just need a little more work, but I can’t. seem. to do it!

If anyone’s got idea on how to motivate me through this, I’m ready to hear them.

 14. Tag three writers whose answers you’d like to read.

I don’t need to tag anyone, you’ve all done it already (and they were a joy to read). ^_^

[snakecompanion]

Like a Moth to a Flame

Clovniss oneshot.

Ok so I wrote this a while ago on my phone so of there’s any weird words I’ve missed it’s probably my autocorrect being weird. Figured I might as well share it. Please note I wrote this while sleep deprived. 

The training centre is empty apart from the two of us, everyone else has already left for the night. I can see her from across the room, diligently tying knots checking the screen periodically to make sure she’s got it right. My feet carry me forwards without a second thought. Something inside me drawn to her. She looks up curiously when I stop by her taking a piece of rope casually. Her eyes harden when she recognises me mistrust showing in her eyes as clear as day. She says nothing turning back to her knots. I stare at her braid perfectly tied much like the knots she’s already finished. When I try to speak my voice makes no sound. I swallow this is unlike me, I am a Career. Bold, fearless and yet the sight of this girl renders me speechless. She glances at me once more seemingly annoyed that I stand next to her just staring. “What do you want?” She asks, her voice carrying a dangerous edge to it, shudder excitement flooding through me “An alliance.” I find my voice finally. She pauses, brow furrowing in confusion. I keep my eyes focused on her braid and almost miss her asking my name. “Clove.” I tell her giving her an easy smile. She nods turning away from me to focus on her knots once more. “I’m Katniss.” She tells me, I wonder if this is her way of saying yes. Of accepting my alliance. “So allies?” I ask flashing her the boldest career grin I can muster. She watches me speculatively before shrugging. “I’ll think about it.” Is all she says before her hands stop what they are doing she turns disappearing out the room.

Katniss sighs, knife scraping at the branch sharpening it into a point. I watch silently until she looks up a suspicious frown on her face. “What are you looking at?” She asks her voice laced with annoyance. I shrug, spinning the knife in my hand. “What are you doing?” I ask watching as her hands grip tighter around the knife, my knife, the one I gave her. Katniss rolls her eyes containing her movements. “Getting us dinner.” Is all she says. The branch is sharp now she taps it nodding in approval. “Pass the wire.” I stare at her hands for a long moment slowly raising my gaze to realise she asked me something. She sighs impatiently reaching for the coil of wire between us. I realise what she asked me and grab it at the same time she does. My fingers touch hers and the sudden warmth makes me drop the wire immediately. She stares at me strangely licking her lips, a cough escaping them. I watch as she turns away refusing to look at me as she continues her work. All the while I watch her expert hands construct the trap.

Her eyes are closed, she rests just a few inches from me leaning against the tree. She fell asleep some hours ago finally giving in to exhaustion. She hasn’t trusted me until now I wonder how she made it two days without sleep. She lets out a small sigh her head slumping towards me falling onto my shoulder, I tense glancing down at her to make sure she’s still asleep, fire dances across my skin where her head is in contact with me. Slowly at first but then with more confidence I pull my arm free wrapping it around her. She sighs and if I’m not very much mistaken snuggles closer to me. My heart twists and I tighten my hold on her, suddenly filled with an intense desire to protect her. I gulp releasing a shuddering breath, heart speeding up as I try to push the feeling down. The feeling doesn’t leave, I’m left with it long after she awakens, pulling away from me as if I’ve burned her. Her eyes shooting me with that look of mistrust and dislike, my heart sinks to see her look at me that way. She doesn’t speak to me that day.

Katniss wheezes her hand clutching the bow, her face covered in welts as she struggles to stay conscious. I try to pull her forwards we need to keep moving, she flinches away from my touch, falling to her knees. She screams and the sound sets my teeth on edge as I glance around the forest pulling a knife free in case anyone hears and attacks. Through the haze of her hallucinations she seems to sense my knife for she shrinks away eyes on my full of utter terror. I shake my head take her cheek in my hand falling to my knees beside her. “I’m not going to hurt you.” I tell her over and over she struggles against me her lips trembling. She starts talking, babbling at first but soon forming fill sentences describing the horrors she can see. “It’s not real.” I pull her towards me my knife falling to the ground. She whimpers against my chest curling into me before losing consciousness. “It’s not real.” I whisper burying my face in the top of her head. I carry her further away I know Cato and Marvel will be looking for us. The bow she was so desperate to acquire slung over my shoulder alongside the quiver of arrows. My own body is in agony as I move. Tracker jacker stings litter my skin. The venom clouding my mind and making me see things that aren’t there, fear courses through my bloodstream. I gasp tripping over my own feet. “It’s not real.” I whisper to myself as my head falls onto Katniss’ chest the world becomes dark.

Something is different between us. I’m not sure what it is but since waking from the tracker jacker induced nightmare Katniss has opened up a little, her eyes no longer carry the same mistrust they once did when they look at me. Instead I often find her watching me with curiousity. It turns out she is skilled with a bow, incredibly so. I find myself staring when she hunts, unable to breathe as the sun shines gently through trees illuminating her, making her look more like a goddess than a poor, underfed girl from District 12. She catches me watching a few times, when she does I’m gifted with a head tilt and a half smile. Her eyes soft and maybe holding a question. I help her hunt, although throwing knives do not have the range of arrows. She pauses one day and surprises me by placing the bow in my hands without explanation she moves my arms into position showing me how to stand and line up a shot, hands lingering perhaps a moment more than necessary on my arm and hip. The fire returns full force and when I release the arrow it hits a tree and snaps. We decide to keep to our own weapons after that.

“Why are you always looking at me like that?” The question catches me off guard, I hadn’t realised I’d been staring again. She sits against the cave wall one leg outstretched the other bent under her. She watches me with genuine curiosity. I shrug, mouth going dry, turning away to examine my knife. She’s expecting an answer, I don’t know what to say. I’m drawn to her although why I don’t know. She huffs at my silence turning away shivering in the cold air. I find myself moving closer to her, she doesn’t resist when I wrap an arm around her instead resting her head on my shoulder as I rub her arm trying to encourage some heat back into it. She shivers again drawing herself closer to me. “You stare at me too.” I point out, she nods her shoulders tensing. “You’re nice to look at.” Is all she says, heat floods through me and I’m infinity glad she can’t see my face. “You’re nice to look at too.” I squeeze her shoulder, she doesn’t respond. I wonder if she has the same inexplicable grin on her face as I do.

It’s down to the last three. Myself, Katniss, and Cato. I know I should’ve left her a long time ago. This alliance can only last so long and now it’s getting increasingly likely we’ll be the last two. The areas darkens although it’s far from night time. The wolf mutts come soon after. White fangs snapping towards us, drool spraying in white froth as they shake their heads. It’s the eyes that are the true horror. Eyes that are human, hold human intelligence and human hate. Eyes of the dead tributes,some dead by my own hand, stare at us from within the mutts. I grab her hand pulling her forward as we run, they are too large to fight and we do not have enough knives or arrows. They chase us to a clearing Cato bursts out the other side spotting us immediately. The mutts hang around the edges snapping from the bushes if anyone goes to near. The fight is short Katniss and I automatically acting as a team, each predicting the others actions accurately. As the cannon sounds I realise what I’ve done. Slowly I raise my head to meet Katniss’ gaze. She knows too, she hesitates half raising her bow an arrow already nocked but lowers it again before it even points my way. We’re the last two one of us must die. My knife is still in my hand I could throw it into her skill. I could end it now. I could go home and yet… My hand shakes I drop the knife, Katniss’ eyes widen she frowns fiddling with her bow before dropping it. “Why?” The question falls from her lips, her eyes showing confusion. I stare at her the question echoing through my mind over and over. Why did I want an alliance with her? Why did I stay with her? Why didn’t I kill her a long time ago? Why am I not killing her now? The answer is not one I’d have expected in a million years but when it enters my mind I know it is true. Unable to stop myself I move forwards towards her. She tenses taking a step back l, eyes showing some of that old mistrust. I’m not sure what I plan to do when I stand in front of her. My body almost acting on autopilot. I lean in standing on my toes so my lips can reach hers. Our lips graze eachother, she pulls back her eyes wide her mouth open slightly. Her arms move slowly, wrapping around my waist and suddenly I’m pulled close to her, her lips crashing against mine sending a explosion through my entire body. I’m on fire, I’m burning but I don’t care. I’m drawn to her, every inch of her. Somewhere at the back of my mind I note how stupid this is. How dangerous this is but a far larger part of my mind just wants to let the flames engulf me. Like a moth to a flame I know this will cause my demise and yet I still crave the fire, her fire. We part panting, foreheads leant against each other. I meet her gaze, she lets out a long breath her hands slipping into mine as if that’s where they belong. We both know this cannot be. We both know one must die and soon the yapping of the mutts is getting louder they close in on us. She searches my eyes looking for something. “Together?” Her voice is soft her gaze not leaving mine for a second. I understand what she means I take a deep breath nodding. “Together.” I agree her fingers tighten on mine I feel her hands tremble. One hand slips out of mine while the other grips my hand tightly. We stare over to the wolf pack that snarls and paces. She turns to me raising the hand clasped in mine and kissing my knuckles. I close my eyes just as teeth sink into my throat. A cannon sounds signalling her death. Tears spring to my eyes despite myself. The wolf mutts shakes its head an almighty pain shoots through my body and then I feel nothing at all.

[red-5]

Dog Person - Derek x OC/reader(ish)

Summary: Derek and Parrish share an awkward moment, Stiles makes Derek’s life a living hell. 

Pairings: Derek x OC/reader, slight Parrish x OC/reader

Wrote it as an OC, but it can be read as a reader insert if you turn your head and squint. Slight AU. The idea came and I didn’t think too much about it.

Derek watched her through the small window leading to the back-treatment area, headphones crammed in her ears as she poured over the old books and ancient texts spread out across the exam table in front of her. A small cot had been set up for her in the corner, near the vent so it was dark and warm. It had remained untouched since it had been made, even her bag set in the chair next to her. It didn’t matter that it was 3 AM. It didn’t matter she hadn’t slept in days, the dark bags hanging under her eyes betraying her when she insisted she wasn’t tired.

His hard gaze followed her movements, sometimes collected as her eyes scanned a page or passage, sometimes erratic as she tracked down another leather-bound text, unmasking her otherwise concealed Stilinski heritage. His ears tracked her heartbeat, ebbing, and flowing with her motions, and the trace of the much too loud music blasting through her ear buds.

               She’s a little complicated

               Make her mind up just to change it

His eyebrows furrowed together. Country? His relationship with Stilinski spawn the elder had grown and evolved since their triumphant return to Beacon Hills to answer Scott’s call to arms, but even through their necessity based former relationship he had never known her to listen to country music. A voice sounding from behind him voiced his thoughts, breaking him out of his own mind.

 “Ten bucks says its country.”

Derek turned to face the deputy, out of uniform and nursing another cup of steaming coffee, the number undoubtedly unhealthy even for a hellhound. Confusion must have been written all over Derek’s face, as Parrish motioned through the window with his mug.

“Country music. I listen to it when I’m stressed, she picked up from me when we were, you know…together.” He finished with a bashful chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck with his free hand. He reeked of discomfort, and it took all Derek had not to turn up his nose at the stench.

“Yeah,” he mumbled after an awkward moment. “It is.”

Parrish nodded, blowing on the molten liquid more out of habit than necessity before taking a sip. They stood, side by side, watching the woman on the other side of the door scramble around in her sleep deprived haze. It wasn’t long before curiosity and need to break the uncomfortable silence got the better of the werewolf.

“Country?” Derek asked with a raised eyebrow.

Parrish released a genuine chuckle this time, taking a step back to turn to the larger man a fraction.

“Yeah, it’s all anyone listened to on deployment.” His eyes glazed over slightly as images only he could see flashed in behind his eyes. “It was…grounding.” His small, nostalgic smile didn’t reach the rest of his face, Derek understood instantly and Parrish must have sensed this. He broke out of his trance, clearing his throat with a grateful smile.

“Anyway,” he continued, less gracefully than he had intended, “she hardly needs a hound hanging around when she has a wolf. Not that a witch really needed either one in the first place.”

He answered Derek’s questioning eyebrow with a knowing smirk.

“She always was a dog person, if you know what I mean.” The grin that spread across his face and small bit of pride building up in his chest at his own wit faltered at the withering look Derek focused in his direction. He pinched his lips together, grip tightening on the handle of his mug as he moved backwards.

“Right. I’m just going to…” He averted his eyes, clearing his throat as he turned away and scurried out of Derek’s sight.

With a deep breath of long-practiced, all shall endure patience he turned his focus away from the retreating example of Beacon Hill’s finest back to why he was in this mountain ash trap of a building in the first place. He wished she would sleep, but the battle to get her to eat was still fresh in his mind. The remainder of the evidence of his victory was discarded by the sink, and he winced as he remembered what it took to get her to consume what she did. She felt responsible. He knew she did because he knew he would if he were in her position. The coven currently hunting down members of the pack had been drawn to her, to her power. Her deep connection to the werewolves and place in the pack had been viewed a personal offense, and now the people she loved were paying the price. A knot formed in his chest, he desperately wished he could make her understand the depths the pack would go, the depths he would go, to ensure her safety.

He observed her from bottom to top, her converse-clad feet tapping nervously on the floor whenever she remained stationary, her legs tense under her worn blue jeans, but her hips, her hips were where her body began to betray her. In stark contrast to her lower body, her upper body responded to the assault on her eardrums. Hips swaying ever so slightly, shoulders bouncing, head bobbing, lips moving along with the lyrics. His eyes froze there, becoming entranced with the way they moved, stretched, slid along her teeth as she lip-synced. The sudden wish to hear her voice, hear her sing to him as she threaded her fingers through his hair forced its way to the front of his mind and he found himself without breath for a moment.

The familiar, endlessly irritating, make the blood run cold ‘good God what now’ voice that rang in his left ear caused him to suck in a sharp breath, shoulders squaring as he snapped his eyes away and came to a crash landing back into reality. How many other people were still here? She was just so damn distracting.

“Enjoying the show?”

Oh, how he wanted to sucker-punch the smug smirk that had taken root upon the face of the one person that always seemed to make it his mission in life to sour the werewolf’s already foul mood right off his stupid, stupid face. He stared the bane of his existence down for a long moment before speaking.

“I’m here to protect your sister.”

Stiles raised an eyebrow.

“If she needed you to protect her, which at this point might actually be a reality because I’m pretty positive she’s gonna go down any second, is creeping really the best approach?”

Derek’s eyes slid closed, if for no other reason than to remove Stiles from his sight even if just for a moment.

“I wasn’t creeping.”

Stiles narrowed his eyes.

“You were creeping.”

Green eyes flew open, brimming with irritation that only grew like a wildfire sprinkled with gasoline at the twinkle in the younger man’s eyes. He knew Derek would endure whatever he dished out. To the massive misfortune of the former Alpha, Stiles had discovered his Achilles heel. The words had never been spoken outright, but there was much to be said about the Stilinski detective gene. While he had never mentioned his discovery to his sister, or anyone if they hadn’t already worked it out for themselves as Parrish seemed to, Stiles did not hesitate to dangle it over Derek’s head.

 “I could leave, if you think you could do a better job.” An empty threat, but the only one Derek could come up with.

That stupid smirk never faltered, never wavered as Stiles slid past him to grip the handle to the door he had been rooted in front of for hours.

“Whatever you say.”

With a wink, he slipped into the room, alerting his sister to his presence by reaching forward and plucking an ear bud out of her ear. Her look of agitation melted as she turned to her little brother.

“Hey monkey,” she mumbled as he gathered her in his arms, readying himself to give convincing her to rest another go.

The door shut with a click, once again separating Derek from the scene in front of him. The last waves of irritation faded away as he watched her face stretch into a sleepy yawn, feebly swatting Stiles away as he tried to drag her away from her fervid research to the cot. A new emotion surged through him. A new-found appreciation for the sheriff for not only surviving one Stilinski spawn, but two.

[glitterisevil-blog]

Regrets, I Have a Few....

Feeling unsettled about your completely transformed life with your newborn? Wishing that you could wave a magic wand and just go back to the way things were? You could be suffering from WHID Syndrome.

Which of course, is a completely fictional, unrecognised condition - but as everyone seems way more comfortable if a new mum’s feelings can be labelled as something, then let’s call it WHID or What Have I Done Syndrome for now.

Throughout pregnancy I was told countless times about this overwhelming rush of love that I would feel upon meeting my new baby. By the time my due date was approaching, I’d imagined what this amazing rush would be like. I suspected that if it didn’t arrive the second he was born, then it would catch me up later. I’d be doing something fairly mundane like hanging out washing, or perusing varieties of digestive biscuits in Tesco when all of a sudden this luminescent, ethereal figure would descend from the sky, sprinkle me with magical dust and I’d get this amazing glowing feeling that would leave me tingling from head to toe. Once I’d been sprinkled, I’d know I’d felt “it” for sure and I would never see, hear or feel things in the same way ever again. I would then spend the next few years floating around in this loved up, post-partum haze of joy.

And then he arrived. Ta-daaaa! And all I felt was knackered, emotionally hollow, and like someone had punched me in the fanny whilst wearing a knuckle-duster.

But I wasn’t too concerned about the absence of the love dust at first. It’ll all come after you’ve had a bit of sleep, they assured me. So I slept….nope, still nothing. Sore fanny – check.  Knackered – check. Emotionally hollow – check. And that was it.

For the next few days I just stared with bewilderment at this tiny human who I suddenly found myself sharing my life and my boobs with, feeling a steadily growing, rather uncomfortable mixture of resentment, regret and…well, just nothing much else really. Where was this massive thunderbolt that was supposed to happen? Wasn’t this thunderbolt/magic dust/rush of love the only thing that would help me get through the trauma and the sleep deprivation and all the crying? Why had Mother Nature fucked up my order?

I turned to my trusted pal Google for some answers, creating a browsing history that would surely have seen me on Trafford Social Services watch list had it fallen into the wrong hands;

Not bonding with newborn

Don’t feel love for new baby

Hate new baby

Missing old life post-baby

Regretting having baby

British Airways flights to New York (yes really – at 3 am one morning, I contemplated a flit to another country as an actual feasible solution to all of this!)

A trusty internet search engine can normally solve most modern day problems, from what the fuck “on fleek” actually means, to how to cook the perfect Beef Wellington. However on this occasion it just wasn’t coming up with the goods. Nobody else seemed to be in the same place as me, feeling vast amounts of nothingness, mourning a life left behind and just generally feeling, well, a bit sad.  

Everybody else on the internet was either having very serious feelings on a clinical scale, or else they were more loved up than Hacienda-goers circa 1992. Why was there no middle ground?

Let’s start first with those happy, loved up baby-bearers. Social media was full of friends, acquaintances and celebrities who’d had babies around the same time as me, but nobody seemed to be finding it that hard to adjust. In stark contrast, the rest of the childbearing world seemed to be cracking on very nicely with new parenthood thank you very much. I trawled through all the Instagram pics of smiling mums in fresh pyjamas, clutching their new additions with grins as wide as their c-section scars. Every hashtag compounded the fact that I was clearly just crap. Each #Blessed felt like a smack in the face. My hashtag would’ve said #thisisfuckingshit

Then there were the people who were at the other end of the spectrum. I read article after article about that condition that I might’ve had but dare not speak its name in case it came true. It was like Candyman – if I said Post Natal Depression out loud then it might just appear. Did I have PND? I didn’t think so, but I wasn’t deliriously happy about the arrival of my baby, so surely I fell into this category? Did I have to pick a side? After a week of going through symptom checklists I eventually came to the conclusion that I probably didn’t have it for a variety of reasons. And so I continued, and just got up each day, cared for my baby in a functional way, but felt no connection whatsoever with him because I just wanted my old life back.

I was one of the lucky ones, I was reminded. I’d had a textbook birth, which resulted in a beautiful happy healthy baby boy, I should be happy. I should be grateful. Didn’t I know about all the people who longed to have what I’m so nonchalant about? Of course, I knew this was true, but it still left me unable to explain why I felt so empty about everything. The only answers I could find lay in chat room discussions at ridiculous hours of the morning, because let’s face it – 4am is the witching hour of the new parent! I discovered a myriad of mummies (and a few dads as well) who were speaking out about how they felt about the arrival of their new baby and – just like me – they weren’t particularly over the moon about the disruption, the chaos or the sleep deprivation that had been thrust upon them. One mum wrote something like “We planned our baby, she is well cared for and loved but I wasn’t prepared for how much she would dominate our lives. I continually find myself missing how things used to be and feeling I’ve made a huge mistake that can’t be undone now.” Another lady described it as all the pieces of her life being thrown up in the air and falling back down in a random mess that she just didn’t recognise.

Yes, I thought! This is me, and exactly how I feel! As I read further, more and more people were saying the same thing. Once someone started off sharing, it gave courage to all the others that were previously afraid to speak. Here we all were at 4am - Selfish Arseholes Anonymous. One mum of a three week old baby owned up to having a packed suitcase full of essentials in her car boot, ready for the day when it all got too much. 

But just like my unbooked flight to New York, she never quite made it either. Once the murky mists of sleep deprivation had passed, and once the 4am outpourings had been shared we all had one thing in common; we all got up in the morning and carried on. We fed, we changed nappies, and we tried to do our best to keep our new hatchlings alive and well for another day. And whilst we did it we probably cried a bit, or shouted at our partners, or possibly even both because deep down we were wishing we could just go out for a spontaneous run, or nip to the pub, or sit down and watch TV for half an hour completely uninterrupted, and have a brew that we actually manage to drink before it goes cold. I’m fairly sure that nobody ever stares at a shitty nappy thinking they’ve totally won at life. No, we actually feel a bit pissed off and a bit sad that this is our life now for the next few years at least. And actually – what I wish someone had told me is this: It’s OK to feel a bit sad because sometimes, being a parent IS a bit crap and life pre-baby WAS probably much easier!

So if you’re reading this at 4am, staring at your baby and feeling shit that you’re not in the New Mummy Delight Club, and worrying that you might have PND because of this then relax – embrace the diagnosis of WHID Syndrome and be assured that there are some easy ways to treat it:-  

1.       Firstly, accept that it’s pretty normal and that you shouldn’t feel guilty about it. It doesn’t make you ungrateful or a bad person for lamenting over your old life. Your old life was probably a pretty great one involving gin, a disposable income and being able to go for a shit in peace. Well who wouldn’t miss that?!

2.       Keep the channels of communication open with your midwife, your health visitor and your partner/friends/family. Contrary to popular belief, health professionals don’t have social services on speed dial, on standby to whip your baby off you the minute you admit you’re not loving life. They actually recognise that this upheaval is pretty normal. If they (or you) spot anything that just might be PND then they will be able to support you. Similarly your partner or friends might actually be relieved to hear you say “Christ this is grim” and then everyone can drop the façade that becoming a new parent is all just snuggling your baby and eating lemon drizzle cake all day, because it’s actually fucking hard!

3.       Disregard all social media posts that depict the perfect life and the wonders of being a parent. It’s not reality and serves only to make you feel as though you’re doing it all wrong. In the same way that nobody’s Facebook profile picture is ever a photo of them hungover, vomiting into the cat litter tray with their Disney pyjamas on, nobody is going to show the gritty, shitty side of new motherhood which usually involve eye bags you could use for your entire Aldi shop, and the toilet bowl looking like a scene from Hostel every time you attempt a poo. It’s all bollocks, and in the words of Public Enemy “Don’t Believe the Hype”

4.       Do what makes YOU feel normal and ignore the Should Sharks. You know the ones who say things like “Oh, you should go to Baby Massage and get out the house because you need fresh air really” or “Going back to the gym so soon? You really should rest you know, because new mums shouldn’t exercise so soon…blah blah fucking blah!” So go to baby massage, or don’t. Go to the gym, or don’t. Abseil from a building dressed as Batman, or don’t. Stay holed up at home, or go out and paint the town – just find your normal, whatever that happens to be.

I got through the worst of my WHID Syndrome by having frank and open chats with my Health Visitor, staying off Instagram for a bit, and establishing a near-sexual relationship with white chocolate Magnums that lasted most of summer. I’ll never be completely cured though, as WHID is recognised as a chronic condition that will probably stay with you until the day you wave your baby off to Uni and turn his room into a walk-in wardrobe. I’m afraid to say that symptoms can only be managed and not completely eradicated. Things that are known to cause the odd flare up are:

-          Those rare English sunny hot days, which result in the temptation to sit in beer gardens and drink Corona all day rather than breastfeed/be responsible for a child

-          Indie bands from your youth getting their act together for a comeback gig that’s not in your hometown but technically still near enough for you to attend. If you could stay away for the whole night, obviously. Or get really pissed on Red Stripe. Or were able to do Britpop-style bouncing up and down without your uterus falling out in the middle of Leeds Academy.

-          Awareness of purchases that would have once been doable. Admittedly extravagant purchases that would’ve meant beans on toast for dinner until the next payday, but still doable. Sort of. But on maternity pay? Massive LOLZ!!

So when an attack of WHID strikes, allow yourself a bit of wallowing time (anything from an hour to a day is OK, any more than that and you might want to have a chat with your Health Visitor ) and then I’m afraid you’ll just have to suck it up buttercup. That Corona isn’t going to be sipped in the sunshine, that designer bag isn’t coming to live with you, and you might just have to download the band’s latest album on iTunes. Your time will come again, but those things aren’t gonna happen for you right at this moment. You have a far greater and more important task to focus on, and you’re the centre of that little person’s universe. That’s feeling has got to taste better than warm Red Stripe!