#This was supposed to be short and pithy

[furrywithfourlegs]

tfw shower thoughts happen during services

I accidentally wrote an entire dvar Torah during shul yesterday and the only appropriate place I could think of to share was here, on Tumblr, so here I've come to share it.

There is no one type of Jew. In fact if anyone tells you there is you can immediately discount whatever they're saying, because they've already proven their ignorance. We can't even agree on how to categorize and group ourselves; the only common denominator among Jews is we worship the One G-d, Unique in His Oneness. Everything else depends on circumstances.

There's a common Jewish joke to this effect: "Two Jews, three opinions." I rather think our history of debate is one of our great strengths - it forms the basis of our quintessential and almost instantly recognizable learning style. We sit in pairs or groups with a holy book on the table between us and read it aloud... And we argue over what exactly, precisely, the author meant. What did he mean by this word, this phrase, this parallel structure, this reference? What can we learn from the text to apply to our daily lives?

Jewish study halls are loud.

And believe me, they're not necessarily polite, either. Some full-time scholars treat arguing like a beloved hobby. The magnum opus of the Jewish academic world, the Talmud, contains the collected opinions of the greatest ancient sages, written down when the chain of oral transmission was threatened. To our great fortune, they also preserved the lively discussion (source) and passionate name-calling that came with it: "empty-headed", "scatterbrained", even "a first-born son of Satan" come up more than once. (Source) They insulted each other, each other's wives, each other's entire generations to prove a point.

So how do we resolve these conflicts? How does the study hall ring in harmony, rather than strife?

The answer lies in another Jewish maxim (we love our proverbs):

שבעים פנים לתורה / Shiv'im panim la-Torah. / There are seventy faces to the Torah.

Biblical context: The Torah refers to 70 languages, 70 nations, and means "all the people in the world." So when we say there are 70 faces to the Torah, we leapfrog off that concept and say "The Torah encompasses all possible permutations and interpretations in the world." (Recall the scene in Fiddler on the Roof where someone says, "They can't both be right!" and Tevye responds, "You know, you're also right..." Source.)

The Talmud is a unified text because the sages recorded in it were debating toward a common goal. Their opinions may have been equally valid (peep the story of Rav Eliezer vs the majority, source), but at the end of the day they agreed on a deciding factor and made a final decision. The study hall rings in harmony because we argue and debate not toward a common goal but for a common purpose: to increase our knowledge and understanding, and to deepen our love and relationship with G-d. With this as our guiding principle, differences of individual interpretation melt under the overriding truth that all are facets of G-d's World.

How does this apply to us? Let me make this very, very Jewish and end with a parable.

So, nu, you're sitting in the study hall and your partner has just spent the last twenty minutes trying to explain a fakakta idea and you KNOW he's meshugana but you don't have time to reason with him because the rabbi just hammered on his desk to call for the afternoon prayer service. You take a deep breath and remember - shivim panim laTorah. He can keep his ideas, and maybe next time it'll be your turn to rant, because the Word of G-d is infinite and encompasses all interpretations.

And another:

You stand with the prayerbook in your hands and stare at the paragraphs written by sages hundreds and thousands of years ago and you struggle to relate to the words, even though your teachers and rabbis have lectured about how meaningful they are over and over again. You take a deep breath and remember - shivim panim laTorah. These words were codified with a particular set of meanings in mind, but you have a unique relationship with G-d. You can use these words OR their original intention to inspire your own, private prayer, and it is equally valid. Because the Word of G-d is infinite, and encompasses all possible permutations of prayer.

70 whole and unique faces to the Word of G-d.

Whether you're in the midst of an emotional crisis, a spiritual crisis, an existential crisis, or a motivational crisis, may each of us merit to see the conflict we are feeling, and find a new face to study instead.

[ginshi-san]

I had a panic attack at work because I accidentally tried to move a trailer that was open & already slotted in a door. Doing that is serious enough that it's DA (disciplinary action) & will automatically put you on a final. I immediately reported it & cancelled it. Then I had to work another 8hrs with that panic hangover lingering in my stomach. I persevered though and kept going.

You know what snapped me out of it? My fellow department lead deciding to get on his bullshit again by shirking his responsibilities. He has a nasty habit of fucking off in the office (usually) for at least the last 30 mins of shift. That leaves me to cover calls. This time it was only 10mins til he left. It especially chapped my ass nine ways to Sunday because he ordered me to pull the remaining 6 people out of production.

First off, we're peers. Don't fucking order me around. Especially don't do that when you have seemingly sabotaged any ounce of trust/respect/goodwill I might have given you. You're the reason why our manager shadowed each of us for 5hrs & brought in another manager to run the department for the day. You are also the reason why we no longer have the privilege of choosing when we take our breaks (with or separate from the team) because you took advantage and pushed it to where you wouldn't return to the floor for the last 1.5 hours. Because of him, we also can no longer spend a few mins in the office for admin stuff.

He is a grade A bullshit artist and I'm convinced that's how he was promoted. He is able to regurgitate all the right verbiage & jargon when it's in front of the right salaried people. When it comes to actually doing those things? He's all hat and no cattle.

Somehow, he's unaware that he's being managed out. Did he wonder why we were being audited & another manager was brought in? Probably not or, worse, he thought his shit don't stink (more than likely). I've also never heard of another lead (or manager!) getting as much additional training outside of the initial 6 week ramp of period. He was even sent to another key for another lead to train him and only seemed to absorb the wrong things.

I keep escalating to my manager because all these issues directly and negatively impact my ability to carry out my responsibilities on my side of the business. At least my manager seems to be following proper procedure in handling him and the issues he creates.

[birchsugarisles]

uhhhhhhhhh I was supposed to post this a while ago, so here's a concept that. Pete dragged Joshie to a house party and ditched Joshie after seeing a cute girl. Joshie sat alone in the backyard getting away from the loud noise, weird lighting, and stench. Later that night, Pete begged Bill to go on a drinks for the party and Bill reluctantly agreed. Bill put the beers in the kitchen, and noticing Joshie outside, Bill decided to make fun of her. They have a pithy little spat, but before Bill would be able to leave in all his smugness after having won an argument, Joshie grabs his arm and says "please don't leave," breaking past Bill's meta irony for a second and Bill sighs in annoyance taking Joshie on a short walk back to Bill's shitty apartment were they argued for 3 hours and took a nap on the floor from exhaustion.

[vixstarria]

Apples

Alright, so this is actually going to be included in a future chapter of my longfic as a flashback, but the readership of that is a small fraction of that on my one-shots, and I giggled too much writing it to not show it to the masses.

Astarion x Tav, Act 1

Humour, ponderings on the topic of vampire physiology, my Tav being a gremlin

Rated M, I guess.

Approx. 600 words

Somewhere along the Risen Road

Astarion sat with a book, trying to ignore Asmodea as she perched next to him, loudly crunching on an apple. It was proving to be impossible to concentrate under her inquisitive stare. 

“Yes?” he said, sighing. 

“So does pussy taste like ash to you?” 

Astarion wrinkled his nose in distaste. 

“Must you be so crass?” 

“You’re really going to continue the ‘uptight noble’ act after last night?” she said with a smirk. “And I’m actually being considerate, not crass – it was only after, that I remembered vampire taste buds have certain quirks.” She shifted where she sat. “I wouldn’t shove your face into an ash tray,” she said, sounding almost apologetic, before biting into the apple again.  

“Very well,” Astarion said, shutting his book. “No, pussy tastes like pussy. And yours tastes like-” 

“The finest nectar, divine ambrosia, blah blah,” she interrupted him with a dismissive wave of her hand, talking with her mouth full. “But why?” 

“I... I don’t know,” he said. “I suppose it’s all similar to blood in that it’s still produced by the body. And-” he cut himself off, with a shake of his head. “Do you really want to talk about this?” 

“Just trying to understand you better, that’s all,” she said, swallowing. “Hmm,” she hummed, before leaning towards him with a grin and beckoning him with a finger.  

Astarion glanced in the direction Wyll and Karlach had walked off. The group was taking a short break. Their tryst in the night seemed to have gone unnoticed by anyone, and he didn’t want to make it known, at least not yet. Satisfied that they were alone, he pressed his lips against hers in a kiss. Her tongue cautiously sought his own, and he let it, before pulling away.  

“Did that taste like ash?” she asked. 

“No, that... tasted the way an apple smells,” he answered. 

“So it tasted like apple.” 

“No, it tasted like the smell.” 

“That’s the same thing,” she argued. “And do you like the smell of apples?” 

“No, it’s not the same thing,” he sighed. “And I suppose, but... Hells, how do I explain it? ...You enjoy the smell of roses, yes? But you wouldn’t want to eat one, now would you? And if you did – it would not taste the way it smelled anyway. ...Do you understand?” 

Astarion supposed he should have been annoyed by her questioning, but something in her earnestness placated him.  

Asmodea let out a prolonged “ahh” of comprehension, and he thought that would be the end of it, but then she extended her half-eaten apple towards him. 

“Lick it.” 

“What?” Now he was getting irritated.  

“Don’t chew it, just lick it. Have you tried regular food since getting tadpoled, anyway?” 

He had, and he had immediately regretted it, but he obliged her anyway.  

“Ugh,” he grimaced. “Now it tastes like ash.” 

“Fascinating,” she said, biting back into the apple. “Perhaps it’s the juice being mixed with human saliva that makes it palatable for you. I wonder if there is a minimum ratio of spit to plant liquid that is required...” 

He opened his book again, determined to ignore her.  

“I could feed you like a mama bird feeds her hatchlings,” she continued thoughtfully, looking off into the distance.  

Astarion snapped the book shut again.  

“I do not need to be fed apples!” he exclaimed. “And you are the most ridiculous person I have ever met.” 

“Thank you,” she smiled. 

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[eggcompany]

DiaBilly

Billy felt weird. Tired and thirst and hungry. There was just... something weird. Made his head feel funny. He tells Steve that he's fine. And Steve believes him. Until he's getting called at work that Billy's been brought to the hospital. A short story about a LONG road. Diabetic fic from a Diabetic <3

Billy didn’t know why he felt so fucking weird. Not weird like when he first had sex or weird like when Steve Harrington kissed him in the rain behind the high school gym or even weird like when his mom died or when Neil finally left and he got to stay with Susan. He felt like he was drowning in the desert, dizzy and heavy. He just felt… off. His head was slow, his eyes were fuzzy, he was so thirsty and he was always starving, and worst of all he felt like he was.. Fading away. He kept telling himself it was the flu or a head cold, but it wasn’t. It was just weird. 

Steve noticed, of course he noticed they’d been living together for over a year and dating for another. He noticed when Billy started to eat more, catching him in the kitchen eating pieces of bread or entire sleeves of crackers in one sitting. He noticed Billy having to go to the bathroom at every single place they stopped at, the gas station, the grocery store, pulling off the side of the road, at every single bathroom in the mall. He noticed how much soda and beer and water and gatorade and everything else Billy was drinking, triple of what he usually did. He noticed how many times Billy got up at night. He noticed the dark circles around his eyes and how his muscles were shrinking, his stomach sinking in. 

Billy just kept saying the same thing though. 

“‘M fine, Steve. Just tired.” And Steve believed him. For weeks. And weeks. 

Steve was at work, puttering away at the Family Video. He didn’t go to college, Billy was working at the body shop while he got his mechanics certificates so he took part time hours. It was a good combo.

He was wiping down shelves when he got the phone call. Billy was supposed to be working on Eddie’s van, a trade for some pot. It was a normal day, a normal thing, Eddie’s van always needed something done to it and Billy always ransacked Eddie’s record collection, it was an easy thing between them. Steve had left before Billy woke up, getting dressed in their living room so Billy could stay wrapped up in their blankets in the dark. He didn’t think anything of it. 

But one phone, just one, and Steve was lost. 

“Family Video, how can I-” Steve started when the work phone buzzed, hip leaned against the counter, what he was supposed to say memorized. Eddie’s voice cut him off, pithy and cawing as always when he was flustered. 

“Hey Steve, I just had to call 911 for Billy. No idea his name was William, um anyway, he is super sick they’re taking him to the hospital.” Eddie said in a rush. Steve could practically hear him fidgeting but was just frozen. 

“Is he okay?” Steve asked, the words coming from his throat without his brain coming back online yet. Eddie swallowed before answering. 

“No dude, he’s not okay. He was like just standing in my driveway, all red faced like he’d ran a mile, not breathing right, he didn’t know what was going on and then he was puking. His eyes were like… way messed up. Did you smell that like… I dunno, cereal smell on him? You need to go to the hospital ‘cause I don’t think he was even talking when they took him. Um… Hawkins Unity Hospital. That’s where they went.” Eddie said, voice serious as he explained. Steve felt ice cold as he stood there, looking at the front of the empty store. 

He put the phone down, not saying goodbye, not saying anything. He locked the store doors behind him, barely sane enough to grab his keys. He felt… out of his body. He didn’t even know how he drove, didn’t remember getting to his car or anything until he was standing in front of the welcome desk at the hospital, its bright white lights blinding. 

“William Hargrove?” Steve felt weird saying Billy’s name. He didn’t know what else to say to the woman at the desk. He just stared at her, watching her mouth move but he couldn’t hear her. He looked at her for a long time before saying ‘huh?’. 

“Are you Steve? You were on his forms, you can go see him. The nurse is with him right now, she can fill you in.” The lady repeated and Steve nodded, good. Good. He turned to look at the hallways but the lady was saying something else to him. 

“Take the elevator up to pediatrics, he’ll be in room 16B, that’s the ICU room in the endocrinology unit. You can get his intake forms and his paperwork at the nurse’s station up there.” The woman told him and Steve tried to remember it all. Pediatrics, Billy was 19 that’s too old isn’t? What did she say.. Endocrinology? What was that? Broke bones? Brain stuff? Steve felt the elevator stop and the walls were a light blue in the corridor. ICU room… twelve, thirteen, fourteen,

“Can I help you?” A nurse asked as she passed Steve, coming up beside him. He looked around at the doors. 

Suddenly he was right there in the hospital hallway, standing in his shoes, his family video vest still on, looking at a nurse, everything happening around him. It was like a ton of bricks were dumped on him at once. He just wanted Billy. 

“Ha-Hargrove” He said, feeling like he was suffocating, staring at the nurse’s green eyes as she gave him a sad smile. He followed until she reached the room closest to the nurse’s station. He didn’t wanna look, he didn’t wanna see the papers on the door or the board on the wall “Billy” written in blue. 

Steve couldn’t move as he stood just inside the doorway. 

Billy was right there, blonde hair still pulled back in a loose bun, eyes closed, dark lashes perfect against his cheek, blanket pulled up to his collar, bare chested, he looked… Why didn’t Steve see it before? He felt sick as he looked at the way Billy’s collar stuck up, the black rings around his eyes, his sunken in cheeks, the smell. Like nail polish remover. It was so heavy in the sterile air. Steve didn’t wanna look at the IVs, the tubes creeping under Billy’s blanket on either side of him. 

“He’s just resting right now. He didn’t get hurt when he fell down but he’s very sick. You can come sit down.” The nurse that had been sitting nearby in the room, a small desk to the side. Steve walked in, there was a beeping that sounded so loud. Too loud. He couldn’t pull his eyes away from his boyfriend, even as he sat down, he just… looked at him. 

“Are you… Steve Harrington?” The woman asked after a moment, looking at a sheet of paper in front of her. Steve nodded, mumbling an answer. 

“Yes ma’am.” Steve remembered when Billy had gone in to get his senior shots and had to fill out his paperwork. He’d asked to put Steve down as his emergency contact, that he had access to all his medical information. Steve had been tickled and joked that he was going to abuse the power when it came up. He didn’t think it would come up. 

“He’s in diabetic ketoacidosis. DKA, which is a life threatening condition, most people come in sooner. We don’t think he’ll have any lasting effects though.” The nurse explained and Steve turned to her. Dia what?

“It’s an autoimmune condition. The immune system kills off the pancreas, to say in the simplest terms. The pancreas makes insulin, which breaks down carbohydrates that we eat. Carbs give us energy, and it handles much more than that but that is the core idea. Without insulin the blood sugar rises, which causes this.” She said and waved a hand to Billy, breathing easy, resting. Steve didn’t understand. Billy was healthy, super healthy especially after he stopped smoking and drinking as much. 

“We administer insulin to bring down the blood sugar slowly, he gets back into range, his body will heal. However there isn’t a cure. Insulin injections are needed daily to keep the blood sugar levels within range. This is something he’ll deal with for the rest of his life.” The nurse said, her voice cold, solemn. Steve blinked and took it in. Tried to take it in. 

“Is he gonna be okay?” Steve said, forcing his jaw to open, the words an effort, every syllable a struggle. He looked at the nurse’s face, staring into her eyes, because he was lost. 

“It will be… It’s not easy. He’ll be back again and again, he has to monitor his every dose, everything he eats. It will not be easy for him. Are you his.. roommate?” The nurse explained before opening a drawer in her desk. Steve nodded as tears welled up in his eyes. How could something so horrible happen? How could- Why would this happen to Billy?

The nurse sat back up and held out two pamphlets. ‘Dealing with loved ones Newly Diagnosed with T1D’ and a second one ‘Living with T1D- Partner’s guide’. Steve stared down at them and looked at the nurse. What’s T1D? He thought. 

“In medical terms what William-” The nurse started but Steve shook his head. That- They shouldn’t call him that. 

“His name’s Billy.” Steve said and looked back at his lover. The nurse nodded and gave another sad smile. 

“Of course. What Billy has is called diabetes mellitus, but it’s commonly known as type one diabetes. T1D, as you’ll see almost everywhere, is the abbreviation. Now, why don’t you read through those while we wait for his next blood draw. Every hour we’re going to be checking his blood sugar with a finger prick, every three we do a blood draw. He can’t eat anything but you’re welcome to go to the family room down the hall, there’s vending machines and coffee. I’ll have you fill out his paperwork once he's awake. Let’s let him rest now, yeah?” The nurse said and stood up, gathering up her paperwork she’d been working on. Steve watched her, looking at the papers in his hands. 

“Come get me or ring the bell if anything happens. A nurse will be in at 2:15.” She said as she left and Steve nodded. He looked back at Billy, waiting till the door was closed to drag his chair right up to the side of the bed. 

He looked down at Billy’s hand, an IV on the top of it, he let the tears slip down his face as he looked at it. Billy hated the doctor. Threw a complete fit, even though he wasn’t scared of needles or blood draws, just hated the smell of it. And he’d hate not being able to eat. He loved eating. Especially lately. 

Steve wiped his face on his vest. He’d clean it if he ever went back to work. He’d have to go back to work. He should call and say he wasn’t going to be in for a while. How long would this last? When was Billy going to come home? When was he going to be… okay again? 

“I can hear you thinkin’ Harrington.” Billy mumbled as his eyes opened. His eyes hurt still. Everything hurt. He’d puked his guts out. Steve looked up at him, eyes all watery, and smiled. Billy felt like shit he couldn’t even appreciate how dorky Steve looked in his uniform. 

“Hey, hey, how do you feel? Are you okay? Comfortable?” Steve asked, not wanting to touch Billy just in case he was hurt, or didn’t want to be touched. He ended up just holding the edge of the bed. Billy took a breath and blinked up at the ceiling. He was cold, his belt was too tight, and he had to piss. He always had to piss these days. And his shoes were still on. 

“I’d make a sex joke but I feel too fucking bad. Can you take my shoes off for me? Belt too. Where’s my shirt?” Billy asked and Steve nodded, moving to the end of the bed, pulling the blanket to the side. Jesus, how’d he not notice the way Billy’s muscles had gone down so badly. He undid the laces of his blue and white sneakers and pushed them under the bed. Billy huffed and looked at his arms, IV in one hand, crook of his other arm. Gross. He watched as Steve flicked open his belt with hands so practiced he could feel a joke at the tip of his tongue, his brain was just… too slow to catch it. 

“There we go! Much better.” Steve said and smiled, trying to be positive but then he looked at Billy, thin and sick in the white sheeted bed, the smell of medicine thick, the smell of sickness even thicker, eyes unfocused and struggling. He couldn’t help as he cried, sobs wracking through him as he fell back into his chair beside Billy. 

“I’m so sorry, baby, I should’ve seen- I should’ve made you come in sooner. I’m sorry.” Steve said as he cried, forehead on the edge of the bed, crying so hard he was sucking in air. There was a hand on his head, fingers in his hair. 

“Quit crying, you big sissy.” Billy said but there was no force behind it. Steve cried until he was done, wiping his face with most of the box of tissues on the bedside. He just looked at Billy after, resolute that he’d make it up to him. To be there as they figured this whole thing out. 

Billy never got sick. He didn’t get colds, he didn’t get the flu, he’d never had chicken pox. So sitting in the hospital for the third day in a row, he was broken down. As much as he hated to admit it, he wasn’t a grisly grown man. He was in the pediatrics department surrounded by nice lady nurses and he was a blubbery mess by day three. 

Steve stayed. He went home once to get some clean clothes for them both, even though Billy kept his shirt off for the IVs. He slept on the shitty chair in the room, he called his boss, he called their friends, he called Billy’s step mom and talked to Max. He read his pamphlets. He read the enormous pink and white book they had highlighted and marked for him. He cried in the family room away from Billy, lying and saying he was making coffee. He talked to an older woman who’s twelve year old daughter was going through the same thing, lamenting that ‘why didn’t we see it’. He ate shitty sandwiches in the cafeteria before going and sitting next to Billy. 

It was around the clock. Every three hours for three days straight. Every hour for three days straight. Billy was exhausted, Billy hurt, Billy had a screaming fit at 6am when a new nurse turned on all his lights when everyone else tried their best to let him get some rest, the lovely sympathetic nurses. He was falling apart at the seams. 

Day three was the worst one they had. Three days they had been slowly thrown into the roaring ocean. Injections with everything you eat, how to see what food has what carbs, what is a carb, what is insulin, how to store insulin, how to calculate how much to take, what happens when you take too much, what to do when you don’t take enough, where to inject, how to inject, what to do when you’re sick, what to do if you get a stomachache, remember to take your medicine, if you need help, ask. 

If you need help, ask. 

Day three was the worst day they had because Billy was on edge, and Steve didn’t know how to help when Billy looked at him, those eyes glittering with tears, no one else around and just whimpered a heartbreaking “Help me”. 

Day four was better. Day four Billy got his IVs taken away. Day four Billy got to eat. Day four Billy got to have a Steve assisted shower, put on clean clothes, and eat. He got to walk to the window and look out at the street below. Day four he got to have visitors since he was dressed. Day four it was every eight hours on blood draws and every other hour on his finger pokes. He was getting pretty good with the finger pricks. He could dial down the lancet, or “poker” as everyone called it, and went on the sides of his fingers which hurt less. 

Steve made an excuse saying Billy was shy around girls so he helped in the shower, making him sit down, his legs a little shaky, and scrubbed his hair, having ran home to bring his hair care and other hygiene products to the hospital. Billy felt a lot better, being clean helped, but his blood sugar was down. He just had to take his first injection. 

“You can have anything you want. For the first six months no concentrated sugars, soda, candy, juice, really sweet cereals, that kind of stuff. After that you can eat whatever you want. We’re gonna let you eat whatever you want now, and then dose you after but after that it’s dose then eat. Got it?” The main doctor, a redheaded woman, explained to Billy as he sat up in his bed, table pulled in front of him. He’d never had a girl doctor before, but he liked her. She was no nonsense but… tender. Steve liked her too. Trusted her. 

“I’d fuc-” Billy started with a toothy smile but she snapped her fingers at him, a finger pointed at his face. 

“Don’t swear.” The doctor said and Steve covered a laugh. 

“I’d kill for a beer and a pizza.” Billy said he almost sounded… hopeful. Looking at the doctor, waiting for her to answer. She huffed and rolled her eyes before cocking her head as she looked back at him. Steve was waiting, pizza was a lot and could Billy even-

“I do not want to see a beer enter or leave this room. Pizza’s fine. Eat as much as you want, I know you’re starving.” The doctor said and left, leaving Billy grinning and Steve with his mouth hanging open. She didn’t say no to a beer? Billy turned to him with a twinkle in his eye, something that Steve hadn’t seen in a long while. 

“She said not to see it. Put it in your pants, I don't care. I want a tall boy and a supreme from pizza hut. Now.” Billy said and Steve was standing up, making sure his wallet was in his pocket. Max would be around after school, he’d be able to pick her up since he knew Susan worked. He checked the door before leaning down to kiss Billy, not missing the sugar smell that was finally cleared away from his breath. 

The nurses came in with Steve, tailing him as he returned with a large Pizza and a paper bag. Billy looked like a rabid dog once he saw the pizza box. The nurses made sure to tell him to keep count of how many slices he ate and if there was anything else he ate or drank. They closed the door behind them. 

Billy ate like, well, a man starved. He ate an entire pizza, drinking his cold beer happily before crushing the can and putting it back in the bag, not before looking at the label, 15 carbs. He sat back in his bed, content and happy, as Steve dampened a tissue to clean his face off, mumbling about being a dog. 

“I love you Steve, you don’t have to watch them do this.” Billy said when he rang his call button. Steve wasn’t a big fan of shots. Steve stood by his bed, holding his hand for a minute. They were in this together. Plus Steve had been practicing on oranges in the family room with some of the student nurses. 

“Nah, I’ve got you. Always.” Steve answered and gave Billy’s hand a squeeze. 

The first one is the worst one, they’d been warned. But Billy was surprised that it wasn’t… Well, it wasn’t bad. He’d had more painful tattoos. The needle was tiny, though the medicine was cold and burned a little in his arm, it wasn’t bad. Steve was relieved because it was easy. Simple math, addition, division. Air in the vial, then draw it up in the syringe, try not to waste any, clean the spot, little poke, done. 

“You’ll have to give yourself one before you leave, but I think this is a good first step.” The nurse had said when Billy rubbed his arm and gave them a thumbs up. Max showed up, letting Billy give her shit for an hour, and left, leaving her radio in her chair without a word. 

Day five was better too, Steve gave Billy his first dose, waiting happily as they got to eat together finally, to-go boxes from the diner in front of them, Max’s radio humming in the corner. It was nice. 

And for the next three days it was pretty good. Especially when Billy finally gave himself his first dose, stuck in the measly fat on his stomach, his first. 

They got lecture after lecture, information overload, reassured that they’ll figure it out as they go because every case, and at once point an older woman came in sat on Billy’s bed with him and told him that she’d been diagnosed only a year after the medicine that kept them both alive was first administered. That had really hit Billy. He relied on a medicine to keep him alive and it had only been around for sixty years. Without it he’d die. And there are people who were there when it was invented, still around today. It made him quiet for a long time. 

Day eight they were told discharge papers would be waiting when they got up in the morning. And they were out of there by noon. A new chapter. 

Steve drove them home, glad to have Billy back where he belonged. He’d gone through the house and deep cleaned it the day before while some of Billy’s friends visited him. He cleaned everything with lemon scented soaps, getting the fruity smell out. He tossed their sodas (gave them to Dustin), candy (Eddie), and anything else that counted as ‘concentrated sugars’. He’d stocked up on snacks, jerky, peanuts, cheesesticks, anything Billy ate that didn’t have carbs. He made sure there was a space for Billy’s medicine in the fridge and a spot in their cabinets for his supplies, containers for his lancets and test strips. 

And they got on with life. Steve went back to work, picking up more shifts. Billy was slowly getting better. He did odd jobs fixing cars, just to help pay the bills. Sometimes it was harder, of course it was. Some nights they were up all night, crying and struggling, Billy cried a lot at night, away from all the eyes, weeping in Steve’s arms because why did it have to be him. Why did this happen to him? And Steve was always there to cry with him, whispering that he didn’t know and that he wished he could take it instead. But in the morning they ignored their puffy eyes and kept going. Going through it all. 

Billy’s sugar high and making him a raging maniac before coming down and making him feel like the worst person who ever lived. Sometimes his sugar went low and became the most vile and hateful person Steve had ever seen only for it to come back up and Billy couldn’t remember any of it. 

They had their fights. Billy not being careful enough, Steve overstepping, Billy doing all he could and still feeling like a failure, Steve unable to help at all. But the thing was about them both. 

They were both stubborn bastards in their own ways. So no matter what, they still huffed and grumbled, sitting together in the doctor’s waiting room. Because there was no one else who got it. It was just them. 

[savagewildnerness]

Not another surge in Nicolas de Lenfent hate, a week from when I am planning to post a 70,000 word deep dive into his psyche based panic attack...

I wish so much that we could have discussions about characters from a point of view where we have opposite opinions on them. That's what's interesting about life! And it was surely the foundation of much of Lestat and Nicolas' Conversation!

But the thing is - it's fine for people to hate Nicki! No one would say he was difficult to love more than Nicolas himself.

And it's fine to interpret the books how you wish. The thing about the books is - there's the facts of them, and then there's your own interpretation and then there's the truth the author intended... and then there's the character's own truth... so I suppose it literally isn't as simple as it might appear. Although it feels simple to me when I read it.

But it feels simple to us all when we read. The fact is we take from art what's meaningful to us too. Art is in the interpretation of it and our own feelings about it as well as in the facts of itself.

But I can't lie - it still hurts me. It hurts me when it's implied people who like Nicolas are delusional.

It hurts me when Nicolas is accused of never loving Lestat or of being abusive to Lestat. Because I strongly believe neither of those things are true. Does he despise Lestat by the end? Yes. Is he cruel to Lestat? Incredibly! But that's not the same as never loving Lestat, or as abusing him. And Lestat certainly does his own deep wounding of Nicolas, all the worse as all Lestat tries to do is love him, but Nicolas has no frame within which to know that.

Anyway, my perverse self hopes someone who does hate Nicolas reads my fic, because I'm actually really curious what they in particular would think of how I have written him. Although I'm sure it would be torture to be in his mind so deeply if you hate him. ALAS. But I would still be very curious...

Obviously, he's only my version of Nicolas, as we're never in his perspective in Anne's books.

But yeah... I believe in Nicki so much that even though there's one chapter in particular that he was annoying me too I wrote him being so insufferable to a character who doesn't deserve it, I believe if you could just see inside his head and heart and understand him, surely everyone would love him as I do!

But I don't need everyone to love him. It's fine to hate him. I just need people to not minimise him or think my perspective a fantasy.

What did I say before... that the thing that hurts me most is when people are deemed delusional? *Does textbook definition of delusional idealism* hehehe! OOOPS.

But I genuinely *do* feel a bit panicked about posting the thing now... but I need not be... because no one will read it anyway! 😂

Generally speaking though, I really do have a question for everyone in the fandom - do you think there is a way, or a place we could encourage discussion of characters that never veers into criticising each other and only stays on the character themselves?

I wonder if part of the problem is that most areas only allow for short sentences and minimal conversation and then maybe it isn't that people have these pithy views, it's just the nuance of what people really feel is lost, or it all becomes misinterpreted in brevity and then it turns into something sharper?

I don't know.

Anyway.

*Shallow breathing*!

PANIC!

ETA: Also, I don't get why this topic is a battleground at all. I've spoken before of how I feel Nickistat enriches Loustat... but between Lestat and Nicolas - it isn't a battle for which one hurts the other more, or who is more justified in their feelings or actions.

Nicolas hurts and damages Lestat, and his own deep mental health struggles do not lessen the damage on Lestat at all.

And Lestat hurts Nicolas. And the fact that he didn't intend to hurt him, and that a lot is driven by desire to protect doesn't lessen the damage he does to Nicolas at all.

I find beautiful gothic tragedy in the fact that Lestat, the person who loves Nicolas most of all is actually largely responsible for the shattering of Nicolas' mind. That's not calling Lestat cruel. Lestat acts only from love. But it happens anyway.

That's literally why it's tragic. They BOTH hurt each other AND love each other. And the fact that there are reasons for the pain they inflict, if anything, only deepens its damage on each other.

And neither of them deserve any of the hurt they receive... and yet they both feel they do deserve it. And they chose this difficult love.

And that's why it's beautiful and terrible.

And that's why it ends in tragedy.

And that's why I love them.

[wraheathcliff]

The Lawyer

Ms. Nubbin existed to dance. Not in gilded halls or on a glittered stage but under the wall of disdain and forum of lies which adorned the Silvermoon justice system. Past the heroic, hypocritical idealization of its eager street enforcers, knights, military ambitions and nepo leaders lay a web of vile lawyers and nobles keeping the pockets of magistrates filled and the peasants in check.

Luckily for Nubbin, she was no peasant. But she was no full-blooded elf, nor was she even alive. This should have made it impossible to work in the city, let alone argue and WIN in the courts. So her success in getting Heathcliff’s revolting fortune protected from taxes, fees, fines and general outrage gave her a particular reputation. For being a fucking crafty bitch.

Her methods weren’t always clear, but the results always were. She just waited until they got emotional, dropped their pants in front of the courtroom. Especially if they started moralizing. How stupid the righteous were to preach and scream and banter about their own judgements. Who gives a shit with that approach? Morals were merely perspective, and she was happy to awkwardly expose any bias to unlucky people on the stand for jurors just waiting for their next lunch break. 

And she made headlines. Whenever a case involving the rights and crimes of those accused to be among the “wretched” —a word she has fiercely condemned as unreasonably cruel and biased— came into focus, there she was, ready to defend and present far more juicy dirt on the supposed victims than her wrongfully accused client. 

Was it crimes fueled by an arcane addiction or did a medical condition long ignored by healers finally result in tragedy for all? Did a gang of criminals steal and terrorize a caravan of shipments from Pandaria or was that peach just too juicy to resist in a community starved for healthy alternatives while magistrates ate off tits and golden banquet tables? Here, try this one, take a bite. She’ll have a whole crate delivered privately to your home before you bring down that gavel. 

Her advertising was a cringe fest of pithy cliches and gaudy promises, yet it yielded results. 

"Better Summon Nubbin - they got NUBBIN on you!”

In addition to the atrocious graphic design, photos of her most notable connections crowded the wall of her office. Smiling handshakes and proud grins from the famous to the formidable. This and way too many action shots of hawkstriders she was constantly betting on, the only real hole in her pocket and favorite weakness. That and killer suits, all hand-tailored to her specifications to deliver maximum results. 

She was glued to a radio broadcast of today's heated race, pacing and smoking up a storm in her office when she heard a knock on the door. It was probably “her”. Heathcliff warned Nubbins by crow with a hastily written note, instructing her to spare no expense on the escort and to expect her unannounced arrival. Fucking crows. She hated how they always shat on her balcony. At least his pay was worth the shit she cleaned up for him, both in and out of the courtroom.

She hoped he gambled right on this one, unlike the fucking strider with a sprained toe hemorrhaging all her money as she listened impatiently. But it wouldn’t be the first wheel she greased, and she was looking forward to making this one move. Heathcliff’s plan was stupid, but money doesn’t have to be smart. Only she needed to be.  

(Art by coax 콕스)

@lillandyrshadowglade

[winterbirb]

In 2015 a Russian media outlet (Izvestia I think?) accused the State Department of writing an email commissioning an activist to accuse certain Russian political figures of being homosexuals and the US Embassy in Moscow responded by marking up the supposed email with corrections because it didn't fit the necessary bureaucratic format and then asked Izvestia to send the Embassy a copy to proof-read first if they were going to make up emails

Go on, pop this bad boy into a translator, I know you want to

And here's an image for funsies:

(The signoff, Госдеп, is short for State Department and honestly so much easier to say than State Department, DoS, or the short-but-confusing "State." Tragically, the paragraph a NYTimes article from 2017 devoted to the existence of the word was not so pithy.)

[thanatologie]

@deathwalkerr - "who was this?" aristide casually surveying emmrich's shelves. and all the skulls there. why do you have so many. are they friends or are they just cool. 

FROM VARIOUS POINTS ENCIRCLING THE ROOM ON SHELVES HIGH AND LOW hollow eye sockets peer out into the room, the light from innumerable candles flickering over dry, aged bones, giving the illusion of movement, of life.  It's nonsensical imagination conjuring such an image, of course; these skulls typically stay where he puts them, though a mischievous wisp or two have made attempts since his arrival.

“I see you've found Bastian.  An absolute cad, but his understanding of the textures the Fade warps itself into is second to none.  Incredibly recalcitrant with strangers, more's the pity.  It took ages to coax more than pithy insults out of him."  Death, as it seems, does not encourage one to listen to the angels of their better nature.  In truth, the vitriol Bastian had hurled at Emmrich after he'd first acquired his skull had sorely tested his patience, until they'd finally come to something of an accord.

He pauses, in front of one of the lower shelves and lifts one of the skulls from its place among the others.  “Others simply have no name at all.  Either they refuse to answer inquiries or are so old the connection is…Tenuous.”  

These are, for lack of a better phrasing, his problem children.  Some have finally come round to conversing with relative ease, and it's no longer an uphill battle with metaphorical tooth and claw to glean anything at all from them.  Others…The unnamed individual he now holds is one of those that refuse to speak almost at all.  He can reach out and grasp what was, he can hold it for a short time, but like a feral cat determined to remain uncaged they will invariably claw their way free.  His grasp has gotten stronger from where they started but they still have an exceptionally long way to go before they're fit for meeting polite company.

He gives the skull a long, contemplative look for a moment longer, searching the empty eye sockets as though the answer to the riddle this particular specimen taunts him with will be provided in the dark hollows, before gently replacing it.  “But not impossible, given time, and enough patience to draw them out."

And, he supposes, to be stubborn enough to keep picking at the knotted string they are, loosening the tightened portions bit by bit, loop by loop, until it eventually unravels.  Not every corpse is as willing to share their secrets as those housed in the vaults of the Necropolis.

“These, for the most part, represent those forgotten by the world of the living, found mostly among the charnel pits and the occasional mass grave, and I do what I can, to extract their histories so they may be remembered and recorded, and a proper resting place in the Necropolis can be found.”

[all-pacas]

anyway here's the first little bit of my durge fanfic (where i'm actually trying to make tav. a character. and not. self insert. but also play with the blank slate thing. anyway it's fun.)

-

She wakes up to the bracing familiarity of pain. First clue: she.

Stumbling from her knees, ichor and bile in her mouth. Her hands are mottled with blood and bruises, fingernails jagged short. Arms: grayish blue. Purple with bruises. Face: wet, her palms black and red when she pulls them away.

She. Clothes: a shirt that may have once been bone white or ash gray. Trousers, dark. Boots, red soled and worn. Pouch at her hip: wet. Sticky. Red. Her stomach twists. She feels satisfied. She wants to taste it. To lick her fingers, suck marrow from her own bones.

Satisfied?

Something twists behind her eye. Sharp-bright in her head. You must move.

She does.

-

The evening after the crash, the five of them make camp in the woods, amidst arguments on where to go. But it’s dark, and they don’t know where they’re headed, and the air is filled with ash and putrefaction from the rotting ship.

Their parasites hum. Names are exchanged. Wizard, male, human. Abnormally pale high elf; a magistrate in the city. Cleric with a disinterest in small talk. Githyanki warrior with even less. Gale does his best. Shadowheart is at least polite in her dismissals; Astarion pithy. Everyone’s gaze is watchful.

Their last is silent. Gale asks her something simple, something innocuous. She looks up from the fire, eyes wide and startled. “I don’t know,” she says.

“Memory loss isn’t as uncommon as you might think,” Shadowheart tells her. The knowledge of the other woman’s amnesia has somehow softened her. “It could be the parasite, certainly. But that doesn’t appear to be the case with the rest of us…” her mouth almost, nearly twitches. “I don’t suppose you remember if your memory was better before the crash?”

“At least a name,” Astarion hums across the fire. “A name as delicate and beautiful as you are?”

She looks at him and imagines him in the flames between them, screaming and twisting and crackling to ash. Choking on his own boiling blood, his tongue —

Astarion sees her shudder of disgust. He feels a twinge of anxiety and suppresses it.

“What do you know of yourself?” Gale asks. It is interesting in itself, of course: a mystery to solve, a puzzle to poke at. It is hardly casual dinner conversation, and yet beggars and choosers: Goddess knows the small talk isn’t exactly forthcoming.

The woman is a long time answering such a simple question. “I am… female.” She looks down at her bare forearms. Under the blood and bruises, her skin steel silver, knife white, ice blue. “I believe I am most likely Drow. Perhaps half.”

“Full blood, I’d wager,” Gale says: he sees what she can not. Her hair has been hacked and cropped, but is silvery under the dried blood. Her eyes a pale white: there is no color at all to her besides the bruises and stains. But her ears are too sharp to be part-human, her features too strong.

She nods. Relieved to have more to add to her list.

Lae’zel watches with little interest: she can barely understand the myriad distinctions those of the mortal plane use to classify herself. All four of these people look alike to her: fleshy and bulbous and unnatural shades of pink and gray. She pities the woman for her lack of knowledge and heritage.

But she remembers, too, the Mindflayer ship. Leaping upon the woman to strike first, and watching her dart back, her hands bloody to the elbows and strange, pale eyes void of all intent. Remembers watching her hold an imp down with her boot as she tore the thing’s wings from its back.

It is not the savagery that strikes Lae’zel. It is no more than the creatures deserved. It is her eyes, the emptiness in her expression. Her strange, round pupils had been pinpricks in a sea of ice. It is at odds with this humanoid now. Her fingers digging into her knees.

“Tav,” the woman says suddenly. “I think… that sounds right. I think… I might have been called Tav.”

She was not.

-

They push inland at the first strike of dawn, having rested fitfully or not at all. Gale takes lead but finds it immediately tiring: to need consider others and communicate his plans, rather than strike off alone. But the others are even less inclined. “We must find people,” he decides for them all. “They will perhaps have a healer among them, a shrine to some useful goddess - or better knowledge of the area, at least.” He says this to pacify Lae’zel, who scowls.

“A crèche remains our only option, but you are not incorrect that the locals around here might point us in the correct direction.”

Gale forces a smile. This is exactly what he just said, he refrains from pointing out. Did she really need to rephrase it for the sake of her ego? Beggers, he reminds himself. Choosers.

Shadowheart and Tav do not object to this plan, the former for whatever reasons of her own and the latter because Gale suspects she barely has agency, let alone a name.

They find a dirt track soon enough, helpfully laden with cart tracks. Unfortunately, they are city folk to the last, and none of them have any real idea how to determine which way to follow: Lae’zel confidentially proclaims north, Gale throws in with her for the appearance of unity, and the rest go along.

Astarion is chatty in the morning sunlight, trying out lines on the women and complaining genially about mud and dirt on his boots. He is the first to make a crucial discovery, as they all suddenly feel a flash of incredulity and disbelief, pain and flushed cheeks.

“You have a sunburn, I think,” Shadowheart says dryly.

Astarion blinks. His cheeks red and striking. “I confess, I do not spend much time... traipsing about the countryside.”

“Did anyone else feel that?” Tav asks, suddenly excited: to feel, for the surprise of pain and heat and confusion. It is almost like a memory.

“It appears our little friends are still sharing information between them,” Gale surmises, familiar enough with the concept.

Within an hour, Astarion has figured out how to do it on purpose, sending every little ache and blister to the rest of them until, exasperated, Shadowheart suggests a break.

[contreparry]

happy dadwc Ann! "imagine if we really did like each other that way, huh?" from the romantic yearning prompts?

Here's some CassandraxVarric for @dadrunkwriting!

It was a careless bit of teasing, some pithy comment Dorian shot off because Varric made a joke- more of a casual remark, technically- so Dorian had to react. Action, reaction, pretty standard stuff. But when Varric observed that Dorian and The Iron Bull weren't being subtle about their arrangement, Dorian retorted that Varric and Cassandra were doing a poor job of hiding their pining. Awkwardness descended, though Varric did his best to hide the shock, the trickle of fear that ran down his spine. His gaze shifted to the bar, where Cassandra was speaking with one of the field scouts. He hoped that she hadn't heard that. But she probably had, because she had sharp hearing. Varric was proven correct when Cassandra rose from her seat and walked out of the tavern. Varric made his excuses and followed, facing the cold and the wet and the dark so he could-

So he could do something, he supposed. Better than doing nothing.

"Hey, Seeker," Varric said once he joined Cassandra near the fence that enclosed the training grounds.

"Varric," Cassandra replied, her words short and crisp.

"Sorry for the trouble back there," he said with a shrug, and he was grateful for the darkness. Grateful that humans had poor night vision. Grateful that Cassandra hadn't looked at him, her gaze fixed on the slowly rising moon, a sliver of yellow-gold hanging low in the sky. if she had, she might see that he was flustered, that he was blushing, that he wasn't... himself.

"It was hardly trouble. I've heard worse," Cassandra snorted, her way of trying to hide the fact that she was about to crack and let out a genuine laugh. Varric learned a lot of Cassandra-isms in their time together. She wasn't as serious as she acted. She had a soft spot for little creatures. She liked sugary sweets. She hid the soft parts of her under armor and a sharp tongue.

Varric understood what it was to hide by putting on a show. He did it every day. Maybe that was why he liked her, despite it all. Kindred spirits had a way of finding each other.

"Imagine if we really did like each other that way," Cassandra murmured, almost to herself. "It would be a disaster."

"Hey, I'm a catch. You’ll have to fight half the Coterie to claim me as a prize," Varric protested, even though he privately agreed. It would be ridiculous if they, well, got together. If they were a partnership. If they meant anything to each other beyond a casual friendship.

It was funny. It would be funny someday, when he was old and reminiscing over his past indiscretions and the follies of youth. Someday he’d look back on this conversation in the darkness and have a wry chuckle, but for now… right now his heart hurt.

"As I said. A disaster," Cassandra sighed.

"You'd win," Varric retorted. "Counts for something, yeah?"

"I suppose so," Cassandra frowned, then glowered down at Varric. "If you put this in one of your novels..."

"Wouldn't dream of it, Seeker," Varric lied. If he couldn’t have a reality with Cassandra Pentaghast, at least let him write some damn good fiction about it.

He wouldn’t even publish it, because he had some manners.

"See that you don't. Unless..." Cassandra hesitated.

"Unless?"

"... give me a good sword. Something memorable,” she finally said, and Varric laughed.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he promised. And he would. He found that he liked keeping promises when he made them to Cassandra.

[thinkingofmikey]

This book was published in 1999 - 24 years ago. It's no longer talking about "kids these days", it's literally talking about the last generation of "kids these days" -- the Millennials. We're about 40 now, most of us, and I'd say my peers are no more cynical about love than any usual folks, but more cynical than a poet I suppose.

I'd bet you were thinking about cynicism from online dating or Grindr culture -- but this book predates both by more than a decade. Maybe the short attention spans "caused" by Snapchat and TikTok? Again, the book predates them by two decades.

It's a pithy quote, but complete nonsense.

bell hooks, All About Love

[twilight-town-zombies]

writing patterns

Rules: List the first line of your last 10 (posted) fics and see if there's a pattern!

I want to play!

Tagging: @snowflake-of-destruction ; @localcryptideli ; @government-assigned-riku-kinnie ; everyone else - I am tired and can't remember usernames right now but I think this is really cool and want to see more of them

(1) Striding through the grand, cream-colored, high ceilinged hallways of the Destiny Kingdom palace, hung with sharply fragrant garlands of woven branches of evergreens and berries, threaded with glittering fairy lights, Axel expertly balances a tray of rapidly cooling hot chocolates on his shoulder and forgives himself for committing petty theft twice in the past half hour.  - Invitation Only

(2) The tapping sound is ceaseless, like a downpour pelting a window pane, and even from the depths of the sleep of the dead and the damned, wrapped in satin sheets and surrounded by lusciously thick curtains that don’t spill a drip of sun, Ansem hears it. – The Coffin

(3) Ansem the Wise doesn’t like to use phrases like “human sacrifice” or “lamb for the slaughter.” – Songs of Sunset

(4) Xehanort opens the portal of light and steps through without waiting to see if Eraqus will follow, the dark cloak billowing out behind him his only farewell.  – Sink or Swim

(5) The air already smelled sharp with rain, but Riku was wearing reliably worn hiking boots, and the September morning was a warm one, so he decided to go on the date alone.  – Enshrined

(6) Strickler is not sure the flowers are going to cover it, but he brings them anyway. – Disaster Uncle

(7) “Don’t burn your tongue.” – There’s No Place Like Hell for the Holidays

(8) The summer sun burns the color of a blood orange against the hazy dove gray of the Halloween Town sky, and Roxas imagines as he stares up at it that, if she could, Sally the Ragdoll would pluck it from beyond the atmosphere and use it in one of her potions. – Please Do Not Feed the Heartless

(9) “As we’re all in unanimous agreement regarding launching the Hatching Dragons Initiative as this year’s senior prank—aside, of course, from myself—I suppose that concludes our final order of new business on the agenda.” - Selfless By Technicality

(10) “I should call and tell them I can’t pick up the cake.”  - Indulge Me

I see three styles here. One is what I learned in creative writing class: character + location + intrigue, with some flowery scene setting description for immersion. Another is short, pithy, and unexpected, makes you want to know more and easy to read a few more sentences since the first was brief. The third, starts with dialogue, tosses you right into a scene, but still lays the ground work for what the conversation might be about and, again, is unexpected enough that you want to know more about the situation.

Do you notice any patterns I missed?

[jeanjauthor]

I agree 100% with Diane here. Some stories require regular-sized chapters (and some publishers' formats demand them, too!) where there's a certain wordcount or pagecount range you stay within.

Some stories require each scene being its own chapter, while others insert paragraph breaks. Some break up the story per character viewpoint (limited 3rd person to one person per scene, but you're writing a story that needs more than one POV, etc, etc).

Some are just "Oh crap, forgot to throw in some paragraph breaks. Uhh...here looks good!" And some are "I want to drag this poor reader forward with so many (hopefully good) cliffhangers that they just can't put down the book until they've read every last little bit of it!!1!"

Some do a whole mix of things...and some use chapter sizes as a genuine comedy beat. Jo Clayton wrote the Skeen trilogy, and in one of them (I think the 2nd book?)...well, she put header sentences for chapter titles on each chapter. And one chapter had a chapter titlee that was over a page and a half long--the chapter title itself--and then the prose text of the actual chapter itself was just a couple paragraphs long. Not even half a page!

But it was hilariously well-done, because she had led up to it with increasingly humorous, verbose, and/or brief but pithy chapter titles prior to that point. She literally used the chapter title to summarize what was going on outside of the scenes being written officially into the story. And then she backed down and most of the rest of the chapter titles/headers were reasonably short and to the point...but still hilarious in context.

She, and I, and Diane, all come out of the school of "However long your chapter needs to be, to make your story make sense."

I wrote my milSF quintiloty, Theirs Not To Reason Why with over 250,000 words when it was supposed to be a quadrilogy, but we decided that the last book could be split into 2 books because one set of scenes took place on a planet without a starship (just under 100k words), and the rest had a starship (over 150k words).

That last book had 8 chapters. Because that's how many chapters I had for telling the story. Were there a lot of time skips and scene breaks? Yes. Could I have made the chapters shorter? Probably not, because all five books of the story were written with an epigraph at the start of each chapter.

This is something the reader omnly finds out in the last book (sorry, spoilers, but it's been many years since their release!) that are all quotes taken from an interview the main character gives toward the end of the series--ever single one of the quotes across five novels. Those interview quotes were the reason for each chapter break, because each had something to do with what was happening in the story.

Including them--and short-sheeting my chapters to a mere handful that were each tens of thousands of words in length--helped tie all of those events together into one narrative whole. In this sense, that makes sense when you realize that the main character is a massive precognitive who knew (almost) every possibility that was coming. We the reader were reading those epigraphs from the moment in the future when the interview was given, which is the MC's pregognitive perspective, but the events we learn as the reader (the main text of each chapter) were allowed to unfold "in real time" as it were.

But that was that story, my military science fiction. My fantasy romances...were literally me hitting Page Down in my .doc file, counting out X number of taps, and then finding a good scene break somewhere around there, plus or minus a few pages.

Sometimes I did already have a good scene break! Sometimes I had to wedge open a spot for a good chapter break without needing a scene break. And sometimes I had to end the chapter on a cliffhanger. Sometimes that was a deliberate choice on my part, but I tried not to do it too often, because it gets stale and irritating. However, if a story required it, I would have done it a bit more.

So. How long should any of our chapters be? As long as the story scenes, and that writer, need them to be.

Above all else, understand that you will never please every single reader out there. Please your story. Write the story how it needs to be written. With or without epigraph quotes, with or without increasingly elaborate chapter titles, with or without scene breaks.

Write the story that needs to be written.

And if you're not sure, hire a story editor. Pay someone whose writing skills, reading comprehension, and critiquing eloquence you can trust to help you figure out what you need to do.

Hi, Diane, I have a technical writing question for you: How do you decide how long a chapter is?

I've noticed a trend among mass market books of authors adopting the James Patterson style of chapters lasting a page & a half to three pages, but sometimes not even half a page. It's infuriating, especially when action on a single scene is split amongst them. I grew up learning that a chapter is an association of scenes, & that breaks were left for major scene and/or expository changes. If a book had 30 chapters, it'd be 400 pages long. Now I have 215-pages novels with 45 chapters!

You've always delivered a really good, fairly even, page & word per chapter count. So what's your thoughts on how it should be defined, & perhaps any on this metastasizing trend?

I haven't been entirely clear about what to do about this since I first started seeing this divergence of chapter lengths happening. (And bear in mind, this is a wide spectrum to be dealing with. There are books of Terry Pratchett's that have no clearly defined chapter breaks at all.)

My own take on it in the short term has varied depending on what book I was writing, and what rhythm the interactions among the characters were expressing. Sometimes written character business can happen very quickly, over a few pages: sometimes it has to happen more slowly, as it does among real people—a series of interactions, a pause, then further ripening developments and interactions.

Patterson is well known (I think) for having a house style... because I'm sure it'll have been a good while since he wrote anything but the high points of any given book himself. It wouldn't surprise me at all if the house style reinforces his own preferences, which would seem to be for very short interactions... that "short attention span" we've seen being discussed for so long, and getting shorter and shorter all the time.

I think it's safe to say I refuse to go that road. I want to allow readers time to sit in the characters' business (as it were) and think about what might happen next. I'm not afraid to allow the readership time to speculate about what might be about to occur before the next sequence of events sets in.

Is Patterson afraid to allow this? (sigh) I may have been a psych nurse, but I decline to attempt to read another writer's mind: that's a sure path to a headache. Is it possible that writers are as susceptible as their readers to that short-attention-span problem... and unwilling to attempt to slow it down for fear of being seen as somehow "behind the times?"

Damned if I know. Again, I decline to judge. But I sure as hell know how I'll behave on my own ground.

...Let me suggest a possibility to you, looking forward. Patterson's rhythms have all become the same because his (for certain values of "his") books have all become the same. ...And who's to blame for that? Readers are well known, in the industry, for wanting to read the same thing again and again, just a little bit different. That's not the readers' fault any more. They've been trained to it. And the market reflects their training.

You, meanwhile, get to set your own rhythms, and (ideally) allow the reader to settle into them, if they find other aspects of your voice congenial. Just because the Patterson modality seems to be all over the place at the moment, doesn't mean that it will continue to be. The market, gods help us, is all about the New. Someday (gasp) Patterson will be Old. And then what? Will slow slowly start to become cool? Tough to tell.

For myself, I write in a lot of different modes (gods help me, right now over on Bluesky we're discussing the possibility of a paranormal travel agency German [or maybe Swiss] Christmas market cozy murder mystery); and every single one of them requires a different rhythm according to the subject matter, the thought processes of the characters, the rhythm of the story itself and of the characters making their way through it, the way the action expresses itself throughout this story, etc etc. I can't imagine what doing it the same way all the time, regardless of the story's and the characters' imperatives, would feel like. Deadening, at the very least. And isn't writing about being, and becoming, more alive, not less??

If I've got a message, it's this: Let Patterson go his own way (for whatever values of "his"). None of us are going to be him, any time soon.*

I think you should write in the rhythm, and with the chapter breaks, that best suit the story you're telling. If some of your readers don't like those... fine. Others will. Whether they like to hear it or not—and some of them won't—like books, readers too are ephemera: they come and go. Your job is to be faithful to the story as you conceive it, and the rhythms and chapter breaks you feel it needs. The story has no one else to depend on.

So: get busy being God in your own creative universe, and ignore what other gods are doing in theirs.

HTH!

*Though do we want to be?

[nimuetheseawitch]

2, 3, 14, 15, 29

2. Do you read/reread your own fics?

Yes. All the time. I pretty much write entirely for me (and am pleasantly surprised when other people like it too).

3. What’s your favorite fic that you’ve written?

Gosh, this is really hard. They're all my babies. If I really have to pick one, I guess it would be Sitting here tonight because I'm a sucker for pining and love letters and this series is really dear to me, even if I'm super blocked on it right now and cannot manage to work on the next installment.

14. If you could see one of your fics adapted into a visual medium, such as comic or film, which fan fic would you pick?

I don't think most of them have anywhere near enough plot to make much of a film, but I think Autopilot would make a really cute comic.

15. How do you come up with titles for your fics/chapters?

I almost always go looking for lyrics that work. I don't usually bother naming chapters unless I'm really trying to use lyrics throughout. Sometimes though, I try for something pithy. If I can't find a good song or a pithy title that works, I usually just go for something basically descriptive.

29. Share a bit from a fic you’ll never post OR from a scene that was cut from an already posted fic. (If you don’t have either, just share a random fic idea you have that you don’t plan on getting to.)

Oh man, I dug into the archives for this one. This is a WIP that hasn't seen the light of day in ages, and that I'm never planning on finishing. I think I already started using it for spare parts because apparently this is from chapter 6, and I have absolutely no clue what was supposed to come before this. I also have no idea what I had planned as an actual plot. But this was supposed to be a MASH post-war reunion fic. I'll put it under the cut since this post is getting long.

Hawkeye slowly opens the door and calls out "Beej?"

The room is dark, but the light is on in the bathroom, and there's the damp scent of a recent shower and hotel soap. After looking around the room to make sure, Hawkeye gently knocks on the door. "Hey Beej, it's me and Father Mulcahy, can we come in?"

"I'm not really dressed for church." Hawkeye cringes, that wasn't even close to funny. But he gently pushes open the door and finds BJ sitting on the floor in his shorts and undershirt holding a razor and wearing half a mustache. He tries really, really hard not to laugh, but after letting in Father Mulcahy and seeing the look on his face, he just can't.

In no time, he's holding onto the edge of the sink in a futile attempt to keep himself upright because he's laughing so hard. He just keeps pointing and then miming a mustache on his own face while Mulcahy looks completely at a loss and BJ turns bright pink. It looks like he's trapped somewhere between joining in or punching something.

Mulcahy takes the plunge and asks, "What happened?"

"I thought I should get rid of it, but then I got halfway through and I couldn't recognize myself without it."

"I'm not sure half a mustache is going to do you much good."

Hawkeye realizes he's being left out of the conversation and stops laughing enough to open his eyes, free up his hands and contribute, "Remember that time when I did that to you in your sleep? I think it's perfect. You should keep it!"

Father Mulcahy adds, "Well, it is quite a showstopper."

At that, BJ gives in and starts laughing too. Then he catches a look at himself in the mirror and laughs again and again until he's crying too. Then he pulls Hawkeye and Father Mulcahy into an awkward hug as the laughter turns a little bit more into tears. He holds onto them loosely and somehow manages to get them all through the door and finally lets go in order to pull on his pants.

[steviesunrises]

steal away at sundown (pick a place to hide)

Rating: Mature

Relationship: Steve Rogers/Bucky Barnes

Major Tags: Canon Compliant - CA: TFA, angst, emotional sex, implied top Steve Rogers, implied bottom Bucky Barnes

Length: 2.1k

Summary:

Just for a moment, Bucky can convince himself that someday, the war will be over. He wraps himself in Steve’s warmth and commits the embrace to memory. Someday, he promises himself, I will build myself up from patchy switchgrass and razed earth, and we will have this again.

Or, the first touch after war is always the hardest.

Notes:

I expanded this drabble into a short fic because I couldn't get it out of my head.

It's based on this post by @turtle-steverogers (screenshot attached)

Warnings for a short mention of eugenics, but nothing drawn out.

Read it on ao3 or under the cut

Bucky smokes. He smokes more than he ever remembered smoking back home. During lulls in the fighting, he’d bet his cigarettes on card games with the other scared infantrymen of the 107th and hustle them out of their own smoke rations. Bucky cleans his gun. Over and over. More than the upkeep mandated during Basic. It’s algorithmic: check the chamber, clean the bolt, apply lubricant, repeat.

The smoking, the compulsive cleaning, none of it’s necessary, but he needs it. In the trenches, he takes whatever quiets his mind for any single, solitary minute. The procedure of it all calms him, letting his mind drift into nothingness.

It doesn’t let him think of Steve. Stevie. Safe in Brooklyn, not here. Not here, where the smell of mud and blood and piss sinks into the marrow of your bones, so deep that your hands itch to scratch at your own skin with the dull side of a blade, knowing, despite it, that the smell would never wash off. Not here, where the only sound is of the pained wail of the private shot twice in the stomach and his leaden gasp as you put him out of his misery. Not here, where the only touch to be found is the frantic slap of skin between two men carrying the illicit air of darkness, desperately trying to give each other what they cannot give themselves.

But now, it's three days after Azzano, and Steve is here.

****

Steve is not supposed to be here, but Bucky can almost make out the heated arguments between him, Agent Carter, and Colonel Phillips in the meeting room. The War isn’t supposed to touch him, isn’t supposed to dim the light in his eyes, isn’t supposed to break him apart and leave him with mismatched pieces.

It’s not that he thinks Steve is weak. He’s capable – he’s always been capable, even when he was picking ill-timed fights with men twice his weight. God, does Bucky hate everyone who underestimates Steve because of his size. He thinks back to the Eugenics Record Office; thinks of the people they sent to the Manhattan slums, looking for the “feeble-minded.” Fuckers would’ve taken Steve away if they knew everything his body tried killing him for. Asthma. Arrhythmia. Nervous trouble. As if Steve wasn’t the smartest goddamn person he knew, eating through history books and war stories; art alongside strategy. Try to hustle little Stevie Rogers in a game of chess and say goodbye to your pocket money.

Bucky thinks back to Steve’s pithy little phrase – I can do this all day, muttered with conviction, even with blood spilling out the corner of his mouth – and it makes him want to cry. Yell. Fuck, anything to get the black tar pit in his lungs out. I know you can do this all day Steve, he thinks, I just don’t know if I can.

But Bucky presses on.

Even if Steve is big and broad and can do this all day while Bucky just wants to lie down in the blood-soaked dirt until 3-2-5-5-7-0-3-8 is a meaningless set of numbers and nothing more.

He will smoke and clean his guns and clutch a thrice-assembled rifle just to stand next to Steve. He presses on because what is he if not an essential component of his friend’s blinding light. What use is a limb without a body?

****

And Steve is here. And Bucky is tucked into the corner of Steve’s private quarters, smoking through his last pack of Lucky Strikes, and cleaning his rifle for the nth time since his capture.

The door opens with a quiet snick and Bucky hears the gentle whirr of its gears. He’s never been able to hear it before; it’s just another reminder of how things have changed. Soft steps inch closer to where he’s sitting.

Without looking up, he knows it’s Steve. Even if Steve’s body has changed. Even if other people see him like Bucky always has, Bucky will always know it’s him. His gait, hampered by years of scoliosis, his particular way of breathing, mastered to overcome pernicious asthma. Steve is carved indelibly into the grooves of Bucky’s soul.

They haven’t talked since they fled Azzano.

Steve has been holed up in meeting after meeting, too busy getting chewed out by Colonel Phillips to spend time watching Bucky assemble the same goddamn rifle over and over.

But Steve is here now. And he’s sitting next to Bucky.

Bucky sets down his cleaning rod and the partially disassembled rifle and looks up at Steve.

“Hey pal,” Steve whispers, as if afraid to spook him. “It’s late.”

Bucky looks into Steve’s eyes for a moment, staring into that deep, familiar, blue. He turns to gaze at his feet again. Tentatively, he touches his pinky to where Steve’s hand is splayed out in front of him. It’s the first time they’ve touched –really touched, not the short, utilitarian assurances in Azzano– since the night Bucky shipped out.

“Yeah Steve, it is.”

“Can you sleep here with me? Just tonight.” Steve takes his hand, turning the hesitant contact between them into something solid and real.

Bucky tightens his grip on Steve’s hand and tries to give him the same cocky, self-assured grin he’d give to girls back home. He fails, and Steve knows it too. “Okay Stevie. Just tonight.”

They both putter about the room, preparing to go to bed in silence. Bucky finishes reassembling his rifle and puts it away. Steve changes out of his uniform into something more comfortable, but no less unfamiliar. The tension between them is a taut string, as though acknowledging the reality of their situation, that they’re just two boys from Brooklyn stuck in the European front, would cause it to snap.

It’s taut with something else too, an expectant air, just waiting for them to act on it.

Eventually, they find themselves lying in the same bed. Bucky’s front is pressed along the line of Steve’s broad back, his arms wrapped around Steve’s torso. Their legs twine together under the scratchy blanket. He can feel Steve’s breathing: it’s even and steady, unlike every time they’ve laid together in Brooklyn under the guise of keeping warm.

Steve turns to face him, tucking his face into Bucky’s chest; he can feel the warm wetness of Steve’s breath through his military-issue shirt. He kisses the depression right underneath the swell of Bucky’s pecs before pushing himself up his body, drawing a thin line with his lips as he goes. When he reaches Bucky’s neck he scrapes the thin skin with his teeth – not enough pressure to leave a mark, but enough to sting – and pauses, as if waiting for Bucky to object.

Oh. Bucky knows what this is. The kissing and the petting – it’s something they do sometimes, when they feel filled to the brim with emotion. Like a too-tight sweater pulled over a hollow and brittle skeleton. Their touch is always rough and harried, done in the dark shadows without any of the endearments, no sweetheart or baby, no ‘I love you’s whispered into sweat-slick skin.

Bucky’s bones have felt like dust since he was first laid out on Zola’s cold metal table, fire racing through his veins and burning his insides to ash.

He feels Steve kiss the space behind his ear, obviously having taken Bucky’s lack of protest for acquiescence. A half-choked sound makes its way out of Bucky’s mouth.

“You really wanna do this here?” Bucky can hear the rest of the base’s men, suddenly all too conscious of the thin walls.

Steve merely shushes him by pressing a wisp of a kiss to his lips. “Just be a good boy, Buck. Silent.”

Steve’s hands settle on Bucky’s waist like a firebrand, pushing his shirt up. Taking the hint, Bucky strips it off quickly, leaving his chest bare and arching his back to meet Steve’s gaze. Steve takes advantage of the newly-revealed skin, rubbing his face into Bucky’s flat stomach before pressing the flat of his own tongue into the valley of his pecs through to his adonis belt.

Bucky pulls at the hem of Steve’s shirt, wanting him to take it off, but Steve bats his hands away.

“Patience,” he whispers, “let me take my time.”

Steve’s words make Bucky feel unmoored, and he’s hit with the realization that this touch feels different from all the other times they’ve sought comfort in each other’s bodies. It’s heavy with meaning Bucky cannot discern, bogged down by an uncharacteristic softness.

Every other time they’ve touched each other, it was rough, the quick release of two boys bathing in the aftermath of adrenaline, trying to shore up pieces of themselves before they wither into sand. It’s desperate and unwise suckjobs in dark alleys, frantic fucks after fights.

It’s always a vicious cycle. They wait until right before they break, when the threads holding them together start to fray.

They fuck.

Then it's waiting again. Until they’re butting right up against the edge of a ravine.

They don’t kiss. They don’t take their time– and they sure as hell don’t talk about it.

The first time they comforted each other like this was after Sarah Rogers’ funeral. Bucky remembers it clearly– Steve, all 5’4 of him in his ill-fitting suit, pressing Bucky to the wall of his apartment and sinking down to his knees. Steve gave him a suckjob, fast and dirty, before wiping his lips off with a grin and a cheeky “thanks.” He stood up and walked away, like it never even happened.

It’s a far cry from the Steve mouthing quiet kisses into every scar he can find and carding fingers through his hair.

To Bucky, every breath shared between them feels stolen. Steve is a righteous slip of morning, beautiful in his dissonance against Bucky’s dark concrete and flood lights. He is a boy playing with matches against Steve’s bright forest fire.

Bucky pulls away from the sweet kisses, instead sinking his fingers into Steve’s blonde hair and pulling, trying to wrest control of the situation. He doesn’t understand the softness; he needs to make it hurt.

Bucky tugs at Steve’s trousers forcefully, leaving no room for negotiation. He mouths at the tent of Steve’s cock, still clothed in his underwear, and inhales the virile scent of him in the crease of his pelvis.

Bucky lifts a hand to squeeze at Steve’s ass, feeling the plush softness there before dipping his fingers across his waistband. Steve’s hand covers Bucky’s for a moment, just holding it there before Bucky pulls away and Steve finally pushes down his boxers.

Every second makes him feel more and more desperate, so when Steve’s fingers grab his hair tightly and tug his face back, he feels nothing but relief. Relief that Steve’s misplaced softness will stay saved up for the right person, kept safe and tucked away from his greedy hands.

Bucky can’t help but trace his tongue against the prominent vein of Steve’s cock. In response, Steve lets out a quiet growl, pushing his hips in, forcing himself further down Bucky’s throat until he gags on it.

Two fingers make their way into Bucky’s mouth, petting at his tongue and making him choke.

Steve’s return to familiar roughness is medicine and poison, intertwined and inseparable. Bucky will take whatever he can get until it burns right through him.

****

Sometime in the dark of night, after they’ve both cleaned up any trace of their coupling, Bucky blinks awake. They’re both in bed together, Steve spooning him from behind, a mocking parody of their earlier connection. This too, feels stolen, but Bucky lost all his will to resist Steve’s tenderness after the waves of his pleasure crested and crashed.

He pushes himself deeper into the curve of Steve’s frame and doesn’t try to leave. Instead, he closes his eyes and tries not to wake his companion, too afraid Steve will realize that he’s surrendering all this softness to a tainted man and pull away.

Just for a moment, Bucky can convince himself that someday, the war will be over.

He wraps himself in Steve’s warmth and breathes in his scent. Someday, he will have this again– not in between bouts of gunfire and dangerous missions, but after a day at the office, or at the docks. For Steve, he’ll build himself up from patchy switchgrass and burned down weeds. He’ll walk into their shared apartment and find his Stevie safe, smelling of the same paint that dusts his coveralls. Steve will smile at him, and they’ll both laugh. Someday, he swears to himself, when the war is over, we’ll be together.

In the meantime, he closes his eyes, and shifts closer to Steve, committing the embrace to memory.