#and then suddenly we started reading some Shakespeare plays in that class by some strange coincidence! i wonder what happened lmfao

[notjusthespongenextdoor]

Every single post about the american education system, at least, that's like "you did learn this in school you just weren't paying attention lol" severely overestimates the amount of things the average usamerican is actually taught in school

[infinites-chaser]

are you still doing the librarian thing? Can I request hmmm#14 with Lucien please? Thank you and I love your writing!!!!

this. is SO LATE but anon I was planning one thing and then finals came and then the holidays and then Lucien’s theater date happened and I was inspired to do another thing bc Shakespeare and tragedies is my absolute JAM. this is rly just an excuse to draw parallels and analyze characters and themes from both mlqc and lear and there is so much talking. and it ended up. a little very pretentious but I'm not sorry I love shakespeare there is a Kiss tho :> and I think. that counts for SOmething

14 + Lucien/MC (Second Person POV bc it just felt more right)

‘Hear the words like it’s the first time you’ve heard them.’- If We Were Villains, M. L. Rio.

lowkey spoilers for Lucien’s Theater Date, which you can read a translation of here <3 but rly the main thing I’m absolutely capitalizing on is the fact MC/Lucien were hosts for a production of King Lear so really, spoilers for King Lear long story short it’s arguably shakespeare’s biggest tragedy Everyone is Sad and Dies awiofjklsds

“It’s interesting, really.”

Lucien’s voice, as quiet as it is, is clearly audible to you over the scattered applause from where you both linger in the wings, waiting to re-emerge and close out the show. Onstage, the actors take their last bows amidst the cheers, their characters resurrected for one final moment of glory before the curtain falls.

You pause in your clapping to cast him a sidelong look.

“What is?”

“Why King Lear, of all plays?”

“For students to choose to perform, you mean?” You frown, suddenly thoughtful. “I guess you’re right, it is strange-- it’s not exactly a crowd-pleaser, not to mention it’d be hard to find a talented actor mature enough to play Lear, and be believable as an old man, too.”

“Their Lear did great, though,” you add on hastily, as the actor steps forward into the spotlight and sweeps into a deep, dramatic bow, fake beard clutched in one hand, Lear’s crown in the other. “I didn’t expect that from a twenty-year-old at all!”

“You think so?”

“Mm. I just--” you break off. Take a breath. Try to rearrange your thoughts.

"I guess I'm a little biased,” you say. “I like Lear. A lot."

Around Lucien, it’s not often that you feel you can keep up with his seemingly endless knowledge and his quick wit, but you’d read Lear in high school English class, and the teacher had made you all go over the lines with a fine-toothed comb.

You’d wrung the meaning out of each carefully-phrased soliloquy back then, and gotten full marks on the essay you’d written on it, on Cordelia and her sisters, and what it meant to be selfless, what it meant to love. But it hadn’t been until college that you’d understood it, understood Cordelia, felt every inch of her care for her father, her devotion to him, to her ideals, to honest, true love above all else.

You’d read Lear again, after one fateful night, one call from the hospital. The nurse’s I’m sorry. Your phone, falling from numb fingers.

The funeral.

You’d read Lear again in the dark, grey days that had followed, and it’d felt frustrating, it had all felt so futile, for Cordelia to love and love in her own way and not know how to properly express it, not until it was too late, not until the very end. (It had felt human, too human-- and you’d loved every word of it, despite the tragedy. You’d vowed to never be too late ever again.)

“Ah.” Lucien’s gentle interjection brings you back out of your thoughts.

Has he been waiting this whole time for me to continue? You wonder, your cheeks heating at the thought. You open her mouth, ready to apologize, but his next words cut you off.

“Your father,” he says, dark gaze unreadable. “That’s why you like Lear.”

You nod.

“I-- I like thinking I understand Cordelia,” you mumble.

“Do you think it should’ve turned out differently, then? Did she deserve her ending?”

“I don’t know,” you admit. “I just think... She and her father get to make up and maybe they finally understand one another, but then-- she just dies. For no reason.”

“Does death need a reason?”

There’s some dark undercurrent to his voice, a cold, lurking thing that nearly gives you pause, but you answer anyway.

“Maybe it doesn’t. Maybe it never really will ever make sense, no matter how much we think about it... What we could’ve done differently. What we did wrong. But I don’t think she had to die. Not her, or Lear, either.”

“So you think it should’ve ended differently. Happier?”

“No,” you start. You falter. “I don’t know, I guess. Not really.”

He shrugs. When he speaks again, his voice is warm again, tone light, teasing.

“Speak what you feel,” he quotes, “not what you ought to say.”

You huff. He smiles and waits. After a long moment, you finally reply.

“On one hand, it’s sad. There’s much death over a misunderstanding.”

“But?” He prompts. You swallow.

“But, maybe there’s more to it than just sadness. There’s some hope in the tragedy of it all. Or, at least, I like to think there is. After all, Cordelia and Lear-- they get their feelings across to each other, before the end.”

“Hope,” he murmurs. Then, more hesitant than you’ve ever heard him: “And what about Edmund?”

“The villain,” he says, half to himself, “Edmund.”

There’s a question hidden in his question, you know. There are parallels he’s trying to draw. You reach for his hand instinctively. He lets you take it, and you hope the warmth of your interlaced fingers takes the bite out of your next words.

“Edmund betrayed his kingdom,” you say, and Lucien’s hand stiffens under yours. “He betrayed his brother.“

“A traitor,” he agrees, detached and carefully calm. “A villain.”

“A villain on necessity,” you quote as response. Then, quieter, more gentle: “Yet Edmund was beloved.”

“Was he?”

You nod. His fingers tighten around yours, and he tugs you closer, deeper into the stage curtain’s shadows, ‘til there are bare inches between you and him. His eyes seek yours in the dim light.

“Is he still?” He asks, leaning in close, voice low. You know he’s asking about himself, not Edmund, he has been all along.

“He is,” you say. “He always will be.”

Your words are all the invitation he needs to close the remaining distance between his lips and yours. It’s a hungry kiss, almost desperate. as if at any moment he’s afraid this moment will end, but you loop your arms around his neck, deepen the kiss, draw him closer, memorize the feel of his mouth on yours, one hand gripping your waist, the other tracing down your back to the butterfly brooch, the nerves of your spine a wild flutter in his fingers’ wake.

He pauses at the small of your back, his hovering hand a silent question. You whisper a yes against his lips as answer. A smile ghosts over his lips. He kisses you even harder than before.

The butterfly falls.

[insfiringyou]

BTS - Catching up on Time (V x Cassandra)

This is the next chapter in V and Cassandra’s storyline, following the birth of their son, Gabriel in ‘Over Paradise’. This is set shortly after he finishes his enlistment. 

You can find out more about our headcanon universe and ongoing storyline here and more about our headcanon girlfriends here.

To read each member & their girlfriend’s headcanon universe fics in order, follow the links here: RM   /   Jin /   Suga /   J-Hope   /   Jimin  /   V   /   Jungkook & our full masterlist of fics and art can be found here

If you wish to follow all member’s storylines in chronological order from the beginning, you can find them listed here.

Content below the cut

She heard a struggle on the front steps and rushed to the hallway, swinging the heavy, wooden door open. The wind was sharp and brisk; its immediate gust taking her breath away as she stepped onto the porch. Taehyung’s hair had already started to grow back in thick, black waves which hung over his forehead, blocking his eyes from view as he bent down and lifted the front wheels of the pushchair up the thick stone steps. 

“Do you need any help?” Cassandra asked with a sinking heart, wondering whether allowing them go for a walk in such conditions had been a good idea. A quick look inside the bundle of blankets reassured her; the baby’s cheeks were a little reddened but he otherwise looked happy to be out. 

“I’ve got it…” Taehyung murmured a little breathless as he maneuvered the stroller and steadied it at the top of the stairs. Under normal circumstances, the walkway up to the apartment was easy to navigate but the wind was picking up, blowing dried leaves and debris onto the path.  

“Okay, we’re through here…” She grasped for the pram before he could argue and ushered them inside, where it was warm. Glancing back, she noticed his cheeks were blushed as he hesitated by the front door, looking around the narrow hallway. The apartment smelt of her; of jasmine and violet, along with the natural warmth of her skin and the floral shampoo she used. Beneath that, there was the faintest odour of sweet milk and the powdery, cosmetic scent of baby powder and fresh wipes. 

“He’s not here…” Cassandra gently reassured, gesturing for him to close the door behind them before the wind picked up again. He hesitated for a moment before complying. 

“Where is he?” 

She got to one knee once the break had been applied to the pushchair, beginning the task of unwrapping her son from the thick pile of knitwear which he had been bundled into.  “Work…” She looked up, sensing he was watching her carefully. “I don’t know why you’re so bothered...Max likes you.” She shrugged casually. “You can take your coat off...”

“Does he?” He sounded doubtful but complied in unraveling the long, striped scarf from around his neck before moving onto the long camel-coloured mac, making himself more at home.  

“Why wouldn’t he?” Cassandra couldn’t help but match her son’s bright smile as she untucked the edges from around his lap, smoothing the dark curls from his head with her palm. She saw Taehyung’s shoulders move from the edge of her vision, bottom lip pouting a little. 

“What does he do again?” He asked, sounding a little bored. 

She held back another eye-roll, knowing he was being awkward. “I told you…” Her dry tone was a little more evident, but she couldn’t help it. “He runs these art therapy classes at the community centre.”

“You’re dating a Swedish therapist?”

She almost expected the disapproval in his voice, but found it grating nonetheless. “He’s not a therapist…” She explained half-heartedly, feeling the point was lost on him. Wrapping her arms around her son, she brought herself to her feet with a small groan. The floor had been cold beneath her covered knees and he was heavier than he looked. “It’s just something for people to do. Other mothers…” She sensed he wasn’t getting the point and turned away, leading them down the hall and into the sitting room. “Gabriel likes to go...meet other kids.” She shrugged. “I hold the brush in his hand while he paints rainbows…he made one for you...”

“Does he teach in Swedish?” He interrupted. 

Now she was facing away, she did roll her eyes. He had clearly been paying more attention than he let on the last time he had visited, when he met the older man for the first time. The atmosphere had been painfully awkward and she was almost relieved when Taehyung had left, taking Gabriel out by himself for the first time. The thought of being away from her son for an entire afternoon had weight heavily on her mind all morning; she had visions of the younger man turning away for a moment and losing sight of the stroller, or of a kidnapper jumping out of the bushes and stealing the baby away, but the uncomfortable static which swam between the two men had been dense; almost matte, like a thick fog in the air. She hustled Taehyung and her son out of the building quicker than she was happy to admit. 

“No...he teaches in Korean. Sometimes English.”

“English?” The trace of denunciation was hard to ignore. 

“Language of Shakespeare.” She confirmed a little sarcastically, lowering Gabriel onto the sofa before turning back to look at Taehyung who had collected the bundle from the pushchair. “I thought you might like our son to grow up multilingual…”

A shadow crossed his features, knowing full-well this had been discussed and agreed on. He was silent for a moment and she anticipated one last jibe coming her way, knowing he couldn’t help himself.

“Does Max always date his students?”

She smiled cheerfully, almost enjoying herself. “No...just me.” She lowered her gaze to the striped knitwear in his hand. “Is that new?” 

He looked down, knowing the topic was closed and nodded. “I brought an extra blanket.” 

She smirked, feeling the tension dissipate. “I’m surprised he didn’t throw it on the floor.”

“He did…” He murmured drily. 

This made her laugh and she looked from the blanket to the baby. “He likes doing that. The place was a mess before you went out. I’ve spent all morning tidying…”

He looked around the living room, spotting a familiar jumble of plastic figures in one corner which had been righted and alighted by size in a way which suggested Cassandra had organised them. A miniature giraffe book-ended the line, followed by a hippopotamus, rhino, crocodile and monkey. “Does he like the animals I bought him?” He pointed towards them hopefully. 

She followed his gaze and nodded, a little put out. “He put the elephant in the washer, I couldn’t find it for days. And now he insists on sleeping with it.” 

The trace of a smile touched his lips and she gestured towards the sofa, sensing he didn’t quite know what to do with himself. It felt too rude to turn him away so soon, and she knew he would want to spend a little more time with Gabriel now they were in the warm. “Sit down…” She offered. “Do you want something to eat? I could make you a sandwich?”

He complied, slowly lowering himself and brushing his fingers softly through the loose strands of hair at the back of Gabriel’s neck. The baby was wriggling against the cushions, turning himself onto his front. “No…” He shook his head politely. “Thank you.”

Cassandra called from the doorway leading into the kitchen. “Tea?” She asked hopefully, watching them both with a gentle expression playing on her lips. She knew he was still playing catch up on their time together, having been kept from him for almost a year with only a few visits between. 

He nodded, eyes a little dreamy beneath his thick eyelashes. “Tea would be nice.” He said, voice almost a whisper as she bowed her head, cheeks a little warm as she ducked into the kitchen. He watched her go before turning to the giggling figure beside him, watching as he tried to stand against the back-rest of the sofa.

“Hey baby…” Taehyung grinned, clutching his waist and steadying him. It seemed crazy that he was already able to stand by himself and he wondered what else he had missed during their time apart. Cassandra had saved some mementos; a lock of dark, curly hair from his first haircut, a few videos of him attempting to crawl and failing massively as he rolled across the floor, a clip of him saying appa. That one he was watched during his final month of duty with tears in his eyes, wishing so hard that things had turned out differently. He looked up at the movement from the doorway as Cassandra poked her head around the frame. 

“Does he need changing?”

He shook his head as she came back into the room, clutching two steaming mugs which she placed in the centre of the coffee table, carefully out of reach. “I don’t think so. I did it just before we left.”

Reaching forward, she picked him up and gave a hesitant sniff. “We’re safe…” She confirmed, plonking him back down on Taehyung’s lap. 

“He liked the pudding you packed. He ate it all.”  

Cassandra lowered herself onto the opposite chair. “Were you followed?” She asked, suddenly nervous. 

He thought for a moment. “I don’t think so…”

She breathed a sigh of relief. “Okay…good.”

“I’d have taken him to mine, but the decorators are still in. The paint fumes are quite strong.” He explained casually, bouncing his knee and grinning when the baby started to laugh ecstatically; it was strangely contagious and Cassandra joined in after a moment, unable to help herself. 

“What are you having done?” She asked, holding back a snort. 

“The lounge.” He thought for a moment. “I bought a peacock.”

Cassandra raised an eyebrow. “A live one?”

He met her gaze, eyes swimming with humour. “No.”

“Oh.” She smirked, rolling her eyes with a small laugh. A taxidermy peacock in the lounge seemed too predictable, even for the man opposite. “At least he’ll learn about natural history.” She quipped. 

Taehyung leaned forward, kissing the dark hair on the top of Gabriel’s head delicately before moving him from his lap to rest against the cushion. “I was thinking of taking him to the Seodaemun Museum.” Lifting the brightly painted mug from the table, he took a few sips of tea; the cooling sensation of peppermint soothing his throat. 

Cassandra frowned. “He’s a little young…”

His finger wrapped around a curl, unaware of the concern in her voice. “They have changing facilities.”

She sighed. “I meant you’ll be spotted.”

He looked up suddenly. “He’s not a secret…”

“I know.” Cassandra whispered sadly, thinking through her next words. “I just thought it’d be easier if you…” She trailed off, before backtracking, shaking her head bleakly. “I don’t know.”

He watched her expression carefully, tone equally somber. “I’d ask you to come if things were different.”

She snorted humourlessly. “You mean if it wouldn’t cause a witch hunt?”

He was silent for a while, before whispering across the small space. “I’m sorry…” 

As though sensing the change in atmosphere, the baby let out a few strangled sobs and Taehyung reached for him automatically, putting the cup aside to set him back on his knee. 

“I never used to mind…” She murmured, as though talking to herself. “The thought of being spotted with you…”

“You do now?” He asked, sounding curious. She sensed a trace of hope in his voice but knew it was no use... 

“Gabriel…” She whispered in explanation; brow furrowed deeply into her forehead. A moment of silence passed between them before he sighed, nodding.  

“I know. I don’t want him to get hurt either.” He paused, looking from the soft, chubby bundle in his arms to the woman opposite. “Or you…” He said sincerely, voice strained. “It’d kill me Cass…” 

She didn’t need to reply and the quiet which once more settled over the room was suddenly unbearable. He let out a small cough, realising the time and the fact it had started to get dark outside. The wind had quietened down a little, but it was an unpleasant walk home either way. “It’s getting late…the contractors will be almost finished for the day.” He shifted on the sofa, breaking her trail of thought as he got to his feet. 

“Yeah…” She agreed quietly, a little relieved. “I was about to make dinner.”

“What are you having?”

“Chicken…” She stood up and walked around the side of the table, smiling a little when she saw that Gabriel had already started to nod against his chest. “He’ll be wanting a nap soon. He seems tired.”

“He’s grown so much…” Taehyung murmured, bending down to kiss his rosy cheek. 

“He’s gotten really chubby.” 

“All babies are chubby…” Straightening up, Taehyung looked at her softly. “He’s perfect though.”

“Yeah…” She agreed quietly as their eyes locked. “Get home safe…”

They were silent for a moment before moving forward in union to meet the other’s cheek. She pulled away as their noses brushed, realising he was going for the opposite corner, and tilted her head to the side before moving back in. He held her shoulders lightly as they tried again; her lips meeting his at the very corner of his mouth. They lingered for a moment as his fingertips moved softly under the edge of her sweater, brushing the back of her neck with a sigh; his lips were soft as he moved from the edge of her mouth to her cheek and kissed her lightly. His fragrance lingered on the collar of his shirt; tobacco and vanilla with the softest whisper of old, worn leather. It was comforting in contrast to the dark blue sky outside which she regarded with a shudder as he pulled away. 

“You’re sure you don’t want to take a cab home?” She asked, feeling a little tense as he stepped into the hallway.

He shook his head, giving one last glance towards the sleeping figure on the sofa. “I’d better not...I wouldn’t want anyone to know your address.”

She was silent as he gathered his coat and scarf from the hook in the hall, wrapping them over his long figure in the dim light cast from the living room. “Next Tuesday?” He called, fingers paused on the handle of the wooden door.

“Yeah, that’s fine.” She replied, giving a nod before he set off into the cold.  

***

Thank you for reading. To read each member & their girlfriend’s headcanon universe fics in order, follow the links here: RM   /   Jin /   Suga  /   J-Hope   /   Jimin   /   V   /   Jungkook

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[cxmetery-gates]

OBSESSIVE TEACHINGS - DARK!TOM HIDDLESTON

CHAPTER THREE: A GOOD SCARY STORY

SUMMARY: With teases and friendly banter, Lynn can’t help but fall under Mr. Hiddleston’s charming spell. WORD COUNT: 2.1k NOTES: Thank you to everyone reading! Dark!fics get a lot of criticism and though the story has not turned into one ((yet)), I’m very humbled by all the likes and reblogs :) WARNINGS:  dark!tom hiddleston, teacher!tom hiddleston

OBSESSIVE TEACHINGS MASTERLIST

"I'M NOT ONE FOR COMPLAINING," I pant– while simultaneously lying with a straight face– dragging my feet up another flight. "But can I ask which floor your room is on?"

Only a step ahead of my slow pace, the male teacher smirks. "Not fond of stairs?"

I shrug. "Not really fond of anything involving exercise."

"I would agree," he glances back, a grin marking his face. He makes a huff, more than likely on my same page, but perhaps better off. He appears to be fit so I'm doubting three flights of stairs is killing him like it's slaughtering me. "But, a morning run isn't the worst way to start the day."

My nose wrinkles. "So you're one of those guys? Gotta make those gains, hm?" I'm not sure where my overly confident attitude is coming from. It's not like me to make comments like these to my teachers, Mrs. Gibbons being the exception but even then I am reserved. Something about being close to Mr. Hiddleston has completely altered my professionalism around people of a higher authority. Hopefully it doesn't last long and I don't run into the principle any time soon.

Finally, after what seemed like climbing Mount Doom, we reach the last step. Pausing, Mr. Hiddleston looks down to me. "You've got quite the nerve talking to your superior like a classmate."

It's obvious he's teasing, so I go along. "My superior? What, because you're a hundred thousand dollars in debt thanks to a fancy piece of paper and you've got a couple more decades on your shoulders?"

"'A couple decades?'" He repeats, quite amused.

I shrug with sass coating my entire being. "Give or take. What are you, forty? Nearing fifty?"

His gives a chuckle. "Try thirty-three."

"Really?" I ask doing a small run down while he looks away. I don't find myself in the company of thirty-somethings all that often but I can't lie; he's looking really good, especially from the backside. Mr. Hiddleston hums, and I'm not sure if that was a positive or negative sound. "You sure? Because I could have sworn I saw some grays up there."

"Oh, ha ha, you're so clever," he mocks, voice suddenly raising just a couple octaves. It causes me to jump but I giggle, feeling a strange girly feeling arise from my stomach. All I can do is tell myself not to throw up from nerves, over and over in my head.

Feeling just as confident, I reply with a whisper. "Shh! There are classes in session! You're going to get detention!"

He shakes his head. Mr. Hiddleston attempts to be serious but there's humor and teases filled between each word. "Funny you mention that: I happen to be the teacher in change of detention this week. And don't think I won't put you there because you're helping me: any other teacher would have landed you a weeks worth just from your comment on my age."

My eyes roll. "As if. You're too nice."

"Are you sure about that?"

"Positive," I reply, a smirk hanging on my lips.

He looks down, given my lack of height, and I move my face towards him comically. There's a smirk playing on his thin lips, the corners desperately trying to form a smile. Eye contact remains steady, but I see it more as a funny, friendly game of domination. A moment passes before he looks away, a small sigh parting his lips. "We'll see about that," Mr. Hiddleston retorts, causing me to chuckle.

From his belt, he wears one of those mini extendable cables that can hold all sorts of keys and chains. I'm honestly not quite sure what they're called. Fumbling with the keys, Mr. Hiddleston flips through several before find the the right one and pulling it towards the door, a thin wire keeping a hold on the instrument. When I was much younger, my mother would wear one clipped to the pocket of her scrubs, but hers was smaller, only allowing another clip for her RN tag. Each night consisted of me as a toddler pulling on the name tag and watching the cord return to the circular piece of plastic, unable to see the thin cable coil within. The small piece of nostalgia sets a comforting warmth in my chest.

Despite the insignificant memory, I snicker at his device. The sight of such a young and handsome man keeping his keys together with such an instrument is dorky, and definitely cute.

"Welcome to my humble abode," he sighs, flipping the fluorescent lights on. I follow him in while getting a look around his classroom.

It's relatively simple and mundane, surprisingly enough. Not like I was expecting red velvet walls or a jacuzzi, but maybe something with a bit more personality. The walls are neatly littered with the typical English teacher posters, from "Best Shakespeare Quotes" to the differences between "to," "too," and "two." There's a blank white board in front of rows of desks and a projection screen pulled down over it. Across the room are a few book shelves consisting of dictionaries, thesauruses, and books worth reading. From the distance I can easily spot several of my own favorite books, instantly earring couple brownie points from me.

I follow Mr. Hiddleston who takes a left, as a wall with a pencil sharpener blocks the right. We walk parallel to a wall which is entirely ceiling high cabinets, all closed to the curious eye. His desk sits catty corner and is much like his classroom: mess free and boring. I consider making a comment but stop myself when I notice a few photos on the filing cabinet. One is him with a graduation cap and gown, his hands bearing a diploma. The next looks like a guys night out with Mr. Hiddleston wearing a (distractingly tight) black shirt and two other men accompanying him. And last, and the one that is set before the others, is a picture of the teacher with an older woman. I can only assume it's his mother. This causes a heart warmed smile to etch across my face. It's always lovely and precious to see older men respecting and appreciating their mothers. My own tells me "mama's boys" are the worst type of man to date because in her mind, they are still children who cling to their mothers for support, emotion and financially. I have to remind her that it's not the case for every man, just for the guy she chose to marry.

"Please, set the books wherever you like." My random tangent gets interrupted by a voice, causing me to jump six feet. Mr. Hiddleston places his stack of books on his desk. I would follow suit but looking at the small space, I decide to give his personal bubble some room and I move to the nearest student desk.

Brushing my hands over my black jeans, I turn around. While the teacher shuffled through stacks of papers, I awkwardly and silently stand close to his desk. Only a few second pass do I actually realize my situation: me with the hottest teacher, all alone. I can only imagine all the jealous teenagers clawing at this chance. However, I have a job downstairs waiting for me. "Is there anything else I can help you with, Mr. Hiddleston?"

His eyes quickly shoot up. "Oh, uh no. No, thank you." Mr. Hiddleston pauses a moment to set his papers down. "I'm sorry for keeping you. I was looking to see what hour of the day I have you, but it appears there isn't one."

My eyebrows knit together at his comment. "Well, you'd have to look for a "Carolyn" if that were the case." I pause for a moment, confusion riddling my face. "Wait, whaddya mean?" Almost instantly, I'm repulsed by my southern slang, despite myself not having any drawl to my words. My voice is basically that of an incoherent cave woman compared to his smooth, charming accent. Aside from this, I feel myself floating; he's looking for a time to see me again. I have to contain a girlish squeal just as reality sets in. He's probably just curious if he actually has me or is considering making a "see you at this time" comment. Nonetheless, my heart skips a beat or two.

"Most seniors take my course as their final English requirement. Are you not a senior?"

I feel myself dimming at his comment. Unfortunately, it would appear reality strikes again. But it was honestly quite ridiculous for me to even consider the reason why he was looking for my name was for something other than educational. However, I simultaneously feel my body lighting up. "Oh, no, I definitely am a senior. I chose the writing class for my English elective. I, uh, want to be a writer so I figured it would help in the long run."

Mr. Hiddleston seems interested in what I have to say. Most tell me writing isn't a career or I have a one in a million chance in making it big. Well, if George Lucas can write the three prequels all alone and still make bank, I think I've got a pretty good shot. "Fascinating! What is your preferred genre?"

With some hesitation, I blurt out, "Fantasy, but also some horror and thrillers. I've tried sci-fi once; didn't work out too well."

"I love a good scary story," he comments, giving me a wink. I take this as a small gesture, but my insides are literally screaming. Never has a friendly wink turned me into a flustering mess. Part of me say he knows what he can do, and if that's the case, he's quite the cocky bastard.

Playing along, I give my shoulder a shrug and coolly reply, "Perhaps I can run a rough or final draft by you."

"I wouldn't mind that at all."

How does such a small statement cause all my organs and two hundred and six bones to turn into jelly?

Brushing my long hair from my face, I peek over at the clock. It's been a bit longer than I expected, the hands informing me I have five minutes left of my first class period. "Well, I ought to get going if there isn't anything else I can do for you?" I make sure to say this in the form of a question. I wouldn't mind being late to my next class just to see a gorgeous face a while longer.

Mr. Hiddleston's lips part for a moment just before clamming shut. The look in his blue eyes tell me he wants to say something, but doesn't. I'm not sure what would constitute such a hesitation; initially, I thought he would have asked me to help shelve the twenty-or-so books. The look is intense, or appears to be, just for a flash, less than a second. My own anxieties begin to shake just as a kind smile grows along his lips. "No, but I do appreciate the offer. Thank you, Carolyn."

I visibly cringe at my legal name, this look not going by the teacher so easily. He bursts a small laugh. "Not a fan or your name, are we?"

Shaking my head, I say, "No particularly. It's a bit vintage. Well, not terribly so, but I'm not over the moon about it." I pause awkwardly, my flustered nerves getting the better of me. I croak out some sounds before finishing my tangent. "I go by Lynn, though."

"Lynn it is then," Mr. Hiddleston announces. "I'll let you get going then. The bell will ring soon and I don't want you to be late on your first day back because of me."

I smirk while crossing over to the door. "Nah, I don't mind." Instantly I want to smack the back of my head. To anyone listening it would sound like I had been flirting with a teacher. Well, to be fair it would have sounded like it not matter what time someone were to jump in at. Even so, this comment I naturally came up with put me in a case of "oh fuck." With reddened cheeks, I take a look over my shoulder so see Mr. Hiddleston unfazed by my comment, thank the holy lord, except a ever growing smile. He takes his eyes off the paper in front of him, meeting me with his pretty blues.

"I'll see you around, Lynn."

"Likewise." And with that, I part down the hall, this time invested in taking the elevator.

☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆

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@khadineberry​

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[stylesgalaxy]

mastermind; chapter 5

It's Saturday morning and Harry walks out of Julia's room, shirtless. I almost spill my coffee all over the counter again.

"Morning," he says tiredly. I give a weak smile in response. He rubs his eyes and looks down, just noticing that he's shirtless. "Fuck."

I watch him walk back into Julia's room, probably looking for a t-shirt. I'm trying to calm my heart down before he comes back. I'd never seen Harry shirtless. He's never even slept over at ours. He stayed pretty late but I don't ever remember him sleeping over. To be fair, I did shut myself up in my room for all of last night to get my sculpture done, so I didn't notice any hanky panky they might have gotten around to.

It was a strange feeling. I knew Harry and Julia were in love and I knew two people in love at our age had sex. It wasn't wrong for them and it was ridiculous for me to feel anyway about that. But it was a harsh reminder of what I'd never have. On one side of the apartment I'm locked up in my room, tired and stressed; while on the other side, my best friend was living a carefree life with no worries, in the throes of passion with the man I was falling deeper in love with.

Stop thinking that, Aria!

But it was true. Becoming Harry's friend did exactly what I dreaded: made me love him even more. He was the most respectful guy I knew, he was polite and friendly, but also cheeky and funny. He was witty and quick with his responses and knew how to cheer me up better than anyone else. Though I don't think that's because of how well he knows me, I think it's just one of his character traits. I have yet to meet someone who isn't instantly charmed by Harry.

I wonder how many other girls are in love with him—

Harry walks back in, this time wearing a t-shirt. I turn my back to him to give myself another moment to calm down from earlier. He opens a cupboard next to my head to grab a mug for himself. I watch him fill our kettle with water while I decide whether or not I should show him my project. "I didn't see you at all yesterday. I was going to ask you if you wanted to sit us, but Julia told me not to bother you."

Thank god.

"Good thing, I was quite busy."

"What were you working on?" he leans his back against the counter in the position I often take.

"My sculpture, its all I have left." All my classes were done, and all my assignments except this one were submitted. I had one exam for my history class to write later this week. But my priority was the sculpture due tomorrow.

"And how is that going? Have you finished it? Can I see it?" he starts asking eagerly.

"I'm actually having a crisis," I admit. His eyebrows pinch.

"Oh no, what's wrong?"

"I'm stumped. I have artist's block. I don't want to do it anymore," I confess. I sigh heavily then motion for him to follow me to my room. I'm aware this is the second time he's in it, and since this time I'm not screaming and throwing things, he takes a moment to study everything. His eyes flitter around the photographs I have taped on one wall, the fairy lights draped across my bed, my packed bookshelf and my mess of a desk.

In the centre sits my deer head. The head was made out of malleable clay, the branches from a couple weeks ago neatly stuck on top of the head. I stuck beads in where it's eyes would be, and that was it. I tried to add countless things to spice it up but I just finished sculpting the head last night and I was too drained to continue working.

"Aria this is impressive... this is what you were doing last night?" he says in awe. Glee rushes through my body every time he compliments my work.

"I did some of it last night, yeah."

"Is this using that special clay you got a few weeks ago?"

"What special clay—?" I begin before I remember the lie I told him so he wouldn't look in the bag that held his present. "Oh, uh, no. It's not that one..." he looks at me expectantly. I shrug at him, "The clay got exposed to the air and I had to ditch it."

"Oh..."

Harry eyes the string of fake flowers I left abandoned on my desk. I had seen them in a bouquet of fake flowers in the lobby of the humanities building and nicked them to use for this project. I glued the dime-sized flowers on to dark brown string and tried to incorporate it into my work, but couldn't.

"What's this?" he picks it up.

"I was going wrap it around the neck like a necklace, but it looked like my deer was going on vacation so I didn't do that," I answer.

"Why don't you wrap it around the antlers? Like a halo."

"I tried that but it doesn't look right. Watch," I grab the flowers from him and gently wrap it around the antlers. "See?"

"Something's missing," Harry comments after a few seconds. "Wait," he says suddenly and walks out of my room, when he returns he's holding a bouquet of fake flowers we have in our living room for decoration. Harry detaches the rose from it's stem on one of the flowers and with a shaky hand he brings it closer to the deer's crown. He pulls a few more roses apart and hesitantly—almost as if he's expecting me to yell at him for ruining my project—he places them on the head around the antlers. I don't say anything. I let him do his thing and only watch in curiosity as he presents me with an idea I feel like I should have long ago come up with.

"That's amazing," I comment. "How do you do that?"

"Do what? I just put flowers on it, you sculpted the whole thing."

"No, how do you do that. You just come up with an idea that fits so perfectly. I feel like I should have thought about this."

He gives me a knowing smile. "I think you're overworking yourself. You think about everything you're doing so much you miss things you normally wouldn't." I gulp, knowing he's right. I've lost my touch, I'm not the way I was before and it was affecting me. "It's just the pressure of finals, I'm sure. You're still just as talented as always, you just have too much on your plate right now."

And just like that any insecurity I had vanished. He was right. It probably was the pressure of finals, nothing more. I haven't lost my touch, I've only lost sleep.

I pin him with a hard gaze, trying to understand how this boy seemingly knows how I feel, and what to say to calm me down. I don't even think he realized the internal panicking I was about to experience, but he somehow says the right words at the right time.

I can feel Harry getting uncomfortable under my gaze and look away.

"Y-you don't have to do it like this obviously, we can rearrange it," he moves to pick the flowers back out but I stop him.

"No, don't! I like them like that."

Instead I grab my hot glue gun and slowly dab a bit of glue under each flower, then place it back where Harry originally put them. Harry leans his hands on my desk and watches me complete this mundane yet precise task. I start to falter when I feel his breath on the side of my face, but in fear that he will notice and move away, I force myself to keep going.

"What else?" Harry asks clapping his hands. I daresay he thinks art is fun.

The deer head (mounted on a black stand) is a plain brown colour. On it's head it has a flower crown, but the rest is empty. The neck especially looks empty.

"Does the neck look too empty to you?" I ask.

Harry leans forward, squinting his eyes. He moves back and tilts his head as if it shows him a different image. Then he comes back closer and moves to look at it from thirty different angles. I roll my eyes at his overdramatic critiquing.

"It does," the Special Art Consultant finally concludes. "This is probably going to sound silly, but wouldn't it look cool if you ripped some pages from a book and glued it near it's neck? I mean you clearly read a lot."

I slap my arm against his chest and gasp. He looks at me shocked, but I don't have time to explain before I'm already pulling a book out of my shelf. Harry is a genius.

"You know, I'm convinced you're secretly an artist," I tell Harry, ripping pages from my copy of Shakespeare's A Midsummer Night's Dream. I almost miss Harry blushing. Just as I look up to see why he was so silent, I notice him biting his lip to keep from smiling and looking down at his shoes.

"That's not true," he says eventually. "I could never do that things you do."

"You don't have to know everything I know to be an artist."

He shakes his head, clearly against the thought. I shrug, "Well you definitely do have an artistic eye."

"What's the book? Is it your favourite Shakespeare play?"

"One of. I don't even need this anymore so I don't mind ripping it up. And this one would be more fitting because it takes place in a forest."

"I've never seen a Shakespeare play," he admits.

"Never?! Oh my God, I'm going to have to take you one day. You'll love them. We can see A Midsummer Night's Dream, or The Tempest, or—or King Lear!" I exclaim. "King Lear is really good."

He smiles at me cutely and then nods his head.

I take the pages I ripped out, and begin tearing them into uneven and irregular shapes. Harry helps me and we're about to start gluing it on papier mâché style when I hear sounds coming from Julia's room. Harry and I look at each other and I nod at him to go.

"I completely forgot about Julia, you should probably go have breakfast with her. I totally just dragged you in here and forced you to help," I smile sheepishly. "Sorry."

He looks at me like I'm being ridiculous and I know he's about to assure me it's not like that but then he smirks and says, "Well that is kind of true. Next time you want a second opinion, please book an appointment and pay me in advance."

My jaw drops at his sassiness, and he laughs as he saunters out of my room. I'm still laughing when he greets Julia and kisses her. It's then that I turn back to my pages and glue.

---

There's a thin sliver in between the end of classes and the start of exams. It's in this short span of time that Niall and Louis planned to throw a party. I say 'Niall and Louis' even though Harry lives there, because Harry is over at ours for most waking hours of his day, that he was invited to a party in his own house like the rest of us.

With the relief of all of my assignments—and most importantly my sculpture—being complete I'm more relaxed and like my usual self. Harry had never seen me like this, which is why he was so amused right now. On our way to the party, he looks at me in awe as I laugh at all of Julia's ridiculousness when I would usually be rolling my eyes.

"So you're going to get a car?" I exclaim in excitement after Julia tells us about how she told her father last night that she had a 4.0GPA going into the exams.

"For Christmas, yes!" she shouts, equally excited. We squeal and giggle together. Harry already knows Julia is like this, but seeing me like this has him grinning lightly and shaking his head.

"What?" I question him. "Julia having a car means she can drive me places. We won't need your or Louis anymore to get anywhere."

"You shouldn't speak so soon," Harry warns. "When Julia gets busy, you're gonna need me."

I open my mouth to ask when Julia is ever busy when the girl herself speaks up.

"You can drive it, too!" she says to me without hesitation. "I trust you! And besides, I wouldn't have had it without you."

"That's not true, you're very smart. You did it all on your own," I assure her.

Julia links her arm through mine as we walk, "Oh, Aria. I wouldn't have half the things I do now without you by my side."

Not really thinking about what she's saying and just accepting the compliment, I lean my head on her shoulder and we walk ahead forgetting about Harry. Harry voices how we abandoned him, and in my cheery mood I start bantering with him. It's so nice to finally be myself with Harry around Julia. It was so draining before when I had to hold things back, or act all broody to get Harry to ignore me.

It isn't until we get to the house that I realize how silent Julia has been. I notice her looking between Harry and I and just listening to us talk to each other. There isn't any time to think about it when the door opens to reveal Niall in a loose sweater and dark blue skinny jeans, hollering and waving us in.

"You guys are early!" he comments. As I take off my jacket, I look around the house and see that we actually are the first ones here. Louis was prepping snacks on their kitchen counter and lining up a bunch on red solo cups. He can't say hello to us because he put too many pretzels in his mouth. I watch in amusement as he tries to wash it down with a drink but can't because there's too many in his mouth and the liquid drips down his face. Idiot.

"I had to come early to make sure all my stuff was hidden away and my room is locked," Harry glares at Niall. "Because someone decided to tell me we were throwing a party on the day of."

"Don't you dare take credit for the party Niall and Louis clearly worked so hard to organize," I chastise Harry, inspecting the lame decorations the boys set up. Louis tries to agree with me but starts choking so I go over to thump him on his back. "Don't pass out so early! Niall and I can't take shots without you, it's tradition."

Niall laughs and Louis grins wide once his air pipe is clear.

"Wouldn't dream of it, love," he pulls me in a hug.

Julia awkwardly stands by while Harry scolds Niall for leaving his expensive vase out in the open where it could easily break. Harry moves around the picking up random items that are too valuable for a party, and makes Niall help him hide them in his room. I'm helping Louis pour chips in bowls when I notice Julia.

While we were all friends, Julia never got close to Niall and Louis. She never saw them because Harry always went to her, and when we all did hang out, her and Harry were always left alone. Since I tried to do anything to distance myself from Harry even when I had to be in the same room as him and Julia, I befriended Niall and Louis. They became my biggest distraction and source of entertainment.

"Wanna help me?" I ask her. She nods and works on what I was doing while I look for something else to do. Louis tries to make conversation with her to help her feel more comfortable, and soon they're talking about their plans for the holidays. Then Niall calls Louis over to help him with the keg and other things.

"You're very close with them," Julia comments. I look up at her in surprise. She said that almost as if she was envious. Julia was never envious of me—I had nothing to be envious of.

"Yeah, they're fun to hang around when you and Harry are off on your own," I reply. I never told Julia about how I felt abandoned when she would leave me to be alone with Harry in our first year. Back when I was still getting used to this new home and the people, Julia was all I had. But I understood her position, she had a new boyfriend she wanted to hang out with him. So I just made the best of the situation. I wasn't going to be a baby and complain, I was an adult. And since Niall and Louis were friends with Harry, they were around often. I hovered around them for a while until they took notice of me and pulled me into their drinking games or conversation. Every party after that, I hung out with them. They loved me especially after they found out how good of a wingwoman I was.

"I meant Harry, too. You get along really well with all of them. They love you."

My mouth dries up. Julia doesn't say this accusingly, but it still shakes me up.

"Don't be ridiculous, it's not that deep. I'm just easy to get along with," I say, hoping to eradicate any insecurity she was feeling. She stares at me for a while, then nods her head.

I'm about to force her to tell me how she really feels because Julia has a habit of not sharing these thoughts sometimes, and she needs to learn to communicate her feelings. But just as I open my mouth, all three boys come bounding down the stairs.

"All of our rooms are locked up, nobody's having sex in this house," Niall says proudly.

"No," Louis counters. "Nobody's having sex in our rooms, who knows what they want to do around the rest of the house."

"We'll just tell them they can't have sex," Harry suggests.

"And how well did you ever follow that?" Louis quips. Harry is left speechless, while the rest of us (minus Julia) laugh.

"Is Zayn coming?" I ask eventually. I've been wondering about it since we were told about the party. I haven't seen Zayn in weeks and I admit I missed talking with him. I was lucky nobody noticed my that my outfit was a bit racier then what I usually wear to parties.

"Yes!" burst Louis. "I texted him the details a few days ago, he said he'll be here."

"Who's Zayn?" Harry questions. Everyone (including Julia) pauses and looks at him. "What? Does everyone know him but me?"

It probably shouldn't have come as that big of a surprise considering Harry does spend most of his day with Julia at our house, and only came home to sleep.

"You don't know Zayn?" Niall asks in wonder. "Mate, he's come over so many times, though. He's really good at FIFA, a fucking legend!"

"Harry's never home," Louis answers Niall's question, then turns to Harry, "You would have met him if you remembered you lived here," he sings teasingly.

Harry rolls his eyes, and huffs in defense.

"I'm too busy to meet some guy you probably picked off the street to play video games with," he mutters.

"Too busy doing what? Catching up on Real Housewives?" I can't help but scoff. Everyone's attention now turns to me and I falter. "Zayn is my friend, not some guy they picked up off the streets."

Julia finally decides to break her silence. "Very special friend," she wiggles her eyebrows. Niall and Louis howl with laughter as my face reddens. Harry quirks an eyebrow and looks between me and Louis questioningly. God, was he still under the impression that I had a crush on Louis?

"I don't like him like that," I mutter towards Julia, looking away. I could take teasing like this all the time, I didn't care. Everyone knew Zayn was hot. But with Harry in the room it felt weird.

"Uh huh, then why did you go to the art shop three times one week?" Julia smirks. Niall and Louis continue laughing at me, and I want to smack Julia for exposing me like this. At least Zayn isn't here to hear this.

"Wait, art shop?" Harry questions.

"Zayn works at the art shop," Louis says. "I met him when I took Aria there 'cause you weren't home. He's really cool. Has all these wicked tattoos and he even said he'd draw me one--"

"Okay, that's enough on tattoos, thanks Louis," Harry shuts him before Louis drives all of us insane again. "Well, I can't wait to meet this Zayn fellow."

---

The party was thriving, Niall and Louis were really good hosts, ensuring everyone always had a drink with them. If they weren't drinking alcohol, Louis would shove a can of coke in their hands. Niall was overseeing the keg line and hyping everyone up over something as boring as beer. Harry and Julia stayed away from most of the madness. Being a couple for two years makes them act like they're married.

I feel a guy's eyes on me. He has a creepy smile and when I make eye contact with him, he walks over towards. I swiftly turn around and head towards the kitchen where Harry and Julia are. Zayn has yet to arrive even though its close to midnight.

I guess I look at them with a troubled expression because both of them stop smiling at each other and look at me with worry.

"Are you alright?" Julia asks.

"Fine," I croak, trying not to check if the creepy guy followed me. "I just want a drink."

"Coming right up," Harry offers and begins mixing a drink for me. He gives me cranberry juice with a splash of vodka in it. I give him a look that says 'seriously?' but he only grins.

"You'll thank me in the morning," he says. I scoff and pour myself more vodka. He doesn't know my tolerance.

I'm happily sipping my drink while Julia tells me about a dress she saw a girl wearing, when I notice Harry's demeanor changing. He stands straighter and glares at someone behind me. I turn around and see the creeper's gaze move from my ass to my face in surprise. Then his eyes flit to Harry and he begins to back away and leave. I look back at Harry who still has a sour look on his face. It softens when he meets my eyes and I silently thank him.

"Who was that?" Julia asks.

"Just some weirdo," I say dismissively. My eyes scan across the living room and stop when I spot a dark haired boy in a denim jacket. "I'm going, I see a friend."

"Stay safe!" Julia calls after me as I move in between people. Zayn is on the other side of the room now, watching other people with a drink in his hand.

"Hey," I smirk, leaning against the wall beside him.

"Hey, Aria! It's been a while," his smiles widely. "You haven't been coming around the shop as much."

"Didn't need anything," I shrug.

"You didn't want to see me?" he says flirtatiously. My eyes almost widen.

"See, that's why you give a girl your number."

He chuckles and turns so his shoulder is against the wall and leans closer to me. Looking into his gorgeous, sparking eyes, I forget all about any of my frustrations and worries. I forget all about Harry and how he's enjoying his night with Julia.

And I'd like to feel like this longer.

"Do you want to go somewhere a bit more private?" I whisper.

Zayn's eyes light up and in response he closes his hand around mine. I down my drink and leave it on the coffee table nearby, before scooting him away.

---

He presses me up against the wall kisses me ferociously. His hands roam around until they stop at exposed waist. My own hands tightly grasp his denim jacket. It feels nice to kiss Zayn. He kisses better than other guys I've made out with. Not as good a certain curly-haired guy, but no one can kiss better than him.

I let one hand travel up his collarbone and neck to really lose myself in this kiss. Zayn responds by slipping his hand under the velvet material of my top. He's hesitant to move any further just yet, so I let out a quiet moan and push his hand further. The kiss deepens and I can taste the alcohol on his tongue.

"Aria."

The voice startles me and a weird feeling erupts in my stomach. Zayn and I instantly pull away to look at Harry who stands a few feet away regarding Zayn with a scowl on his face. His eyes moved to where Zayn still has his hands on my waist.

"Harry?" I breathe. "What are you doing here?"

Harry's gaze snaps to mine and softens again. He walks closer to me and reaches his arm out.

"Are you okay? Do you want to go home?"

Why is he here? Why can't I just be free of him for a couple minutes? All I want is to live my life like everyone else: kiss hot guys at parties and not think about my best friend's boyfriend. But apparently that's too much to ask.

Zayn, being intuitive, senses my anger and tries to help.

"Mate, it's alright, we're okay here. Aria is fine," he says. Harry's eyes darken.

"Aria, is he making you do this? Come away from him, I'll take you home," he says more firmly and holds his hand out to me.

Fury begins to bubble inside me as I continue staring at him. Why does everyone think I'm a child? Or a prude who is scared of doing anything intimate? I flashback to the conversation I had with Julia when she was worried her and Harry "traumatized" me when I sort of walked in on them. I get angrier thinking that they probably talked about me amongst themselves and that's why they both see me like this.

"What are you doing here?" I grit through my teeth. Zayn, squeezes my hip lightly, to make me calm down but I can't.

Harry's expression hardens again.

"I was looking for you. I'm taking Julia home, I can take you too," he responds.

"No, thank you," I say and turn Zayn back to me to block my view of Harry.

"Aria!" Harry scowls.

"What?" I yell in frustration. Does he not see how awkward he's making this? Harry doesn't know how to respond, so I roll my eyes. "I'm not a child you have to watch over. Go home."

He breathes heavily for a few seconds, clearly conflicted on whether or not he should leave me with a guy he doesn't know, or take me home.

"Alright, call me if you need me. I'll come get you."

I roll my eyes again knowing I won't do that, but I don't say anything just place my hands around Zayn's neck. Harry finally leaves and I let my head drop on Zayn's shoulder.

"Fuck, I'm so sorry about that," I apologize, no longer in the mood.

"It's alright," Zayn rubs his hand up and down my back.

"It's not! That was so embarrassing!"

"He's a friend?"

"That was Harry," I say. Zayn's eyes light up in recognition. I'm sure he's heard about him from the boys. "He lives here with Niall and Louis."

"And he's with Julia now?" he confirms. I nod. "I'm kind of hungry, do you want to go get food?" he says suddenly.

I look up at him slowly and see him smiling at me. A laugh escapes my throat and I nod. I could eat.

===

New chapter is up! Sorry for the slow updates, I will try to update faster. Also is anyone here a Game of Thrones fan? Omg what did you think about the Arya thing? Btw I named Aria after Arya because I love her so much :)))

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[ginnyzero]

Being a Fanfic Writer is Okay

AKA I love Fanfiction

Fan Fiction, a bit controversial and a bit time worn topic in writing and fandom circles. But let’s face it, fan fiction is older than dirt (Shakespeare anyone?) and isn’t about to go away any time soon. So, we might as well face the pink elephant in the room and address the issue. Besides, fan fiction is really personal to me. Of course, before I get all maudlin about my experiences with fan fiction, maybe we better discuss what fan fiction is, a bit of history and where to find it.

Fan fiction is at its core, a story written by someone who isn’t the original owner of a story. They are simply a fan writing in someone else’s world using someone else’s characters. After that, the possibilities are pretty much limitless and maybe we can discuss some of the more interesting aspects of fan fiction later. Some of our favorite classic stories might be considered fan fiction, Homer’s take on the Trojan War for example. Shakespeare wrote wild interpretations of the lives of British Kings. And modern day published fan fiction would be the books based on favorite television shows or popular games, video, role playing or even board games. A type of visual fan fiction would be the movie Clue! Based on the popular Clue board game. (Sadly not really an action movie, drat.) Star Wars Expanded Universe is a type of authorized published fan fiction. And who can forget the hundreds and hundreds of Star Trek novels based upon the episodes and later expounding upon the universe.

Speaking of Star Trek, the modern take on fan fiction really took off with the introduction of Gene Roddenberry's Star Trek. Before the internet (what a phrase,) ambitious Trekkies created magazines that writers could submit their own stories about the Starship Enterprise and her crew and receive subscriptions of them in the mail. Many of these stories revolved around Kirk and Spock in a romantic relationship, which is still a huge pairing today. Other fandom groups copied this magazine model and later as the internet took off, they created online email groups, forums, journaling sites, chat rooms and individual sites, until someone got ambitious enough to create the first fan fiction archive. And suddenly, there was a place where any writer of any talent could post their work to one place and read everyone else’s work no matter the quality or fandom. And with the introduction of Japanese anime to America, the concept of fan fiction exploded.

And Sturgeon’s Law reared its ugly head. 90% of it is crap.

But that’s okay.

A lot of archives came and went. There are only a few that stayed the course; fanfiction.net, mediaminer.org, adult-fanfiction.org and the baby of the family, archiveofourown.org (AO3). Each of these rather interesting archives have a tumultuous history and interesting backstories, which I really don’t want to get into right now. Just saying, if you have a bunch of free time, want to read some free stories and have some fandoms you really love, then these are the places to go. It might take some time to wade through the truly awful stories to find the gems, but the side effect of fan fiction archives, are fan fiction recommendation lists! These handy lists have the best fan fiction from certain fandoms in the compliers subjective viewpoint! Always a good starting place.

As I said, fan fiction is really personal to me. As it says in my bio, I have no formal education about writing outside some interesting English classes in college. I got a C in research papers and grammar; a B in creating a pitch and an A in narrative storytelling. This probably should have told me something. What I do have, is a very long history and experience in fan fiction. I’m not comfortable with putting my pen name out there, let’s just say I’ve been writing fan fiction for over fifteen years in a variety of fandoms under a couple of different names. And in the beginning, I was one of those probably writing crap. And I didn’t care. I was writing and I was having fun. Writing fan fiction helped me through my bad high school experience (a lot of people have them) and it helped others too. And that was important to me. Is still important to me. I grew. I improved. I got to focus on things in fan fiction that I would never have focused on if I had been trying to write original works. And it helped me churn out idea after idea and see how I could string these ideas together to create good concepts and make better stories.

The greatest thing about fan fiction in my opinion, is that it gets people of every age (I have met as many forty year olds as I have twelve year olds) writing. And when people write, they also tend to read. Okay, so maybe they are reading in this vacuum bubble of fan fiction where 90% of it is crap and they may or may not improve, yet, they are reading and you know, that is okay. Because, let’s face it, 90% of the published world of books is crap too. And let us not get started on this idea of self-publishing. Seriously, anything that introduces a little bit of literacy to the world I’m all for. I’m not going to discourage anyone from taking up a pen or sitting down at a computer or type writer and taking these ideas they have in their head and getting them out there. Because, there is a certain magic to it. Let’s not stifle any form of creativity of the arts here.

Now writing and posting fan fiction are two completely different things. And if someone wants to write a story based on 10 Things I Hate About You (which in itself was an authorized fan fiction of the Taming of the Shrew, which is based on classic literature tropes) and keep on their computer for only themselves to read. That is fine! However, if they want to take that fantastical leap of courage and post it the internet in one fashion or another for the public to see, then that, is inspirational. Posting, which in this case is essentially publishing, something you have created from your heart for others to see and consume is perhaps one of the scariest things you can do. And I applaud them for their courage because the public is not a safe place and you never know what will happen. Now, I will say that a lot of fandom communities can be nice and welcoming. And then there are the communities that are insular and full of drama. And sometimes, publishing in the fan fiction world is like shouting into a canyon and hearing the echo and you might have to shout several times (meaning publish more than one story or more than one chapter of a story) to get any sort of response. Hey, being popular in one fandom, doesn’t automatically guarantee being popular in another fandom!

And that is where the sense of community steps in. Sure, you will probably get a lot of ‘squee, I love it, write more!’ responses, which are good for the ego and the soul. But there will be rare times, where you will meet people who love the same things you do and want to squee and discuss writing. About characterization, and plot bunnies hopping out of control and multiplying and isn’t so and so just hot as this character. And suddenly, one isn’t so alone anymore. You don’t feel exactly strange or like a hermit who sits alone in their bedroom typing for hours at a time. Out there, in the world, there are people just like you, doing the same things. And it is okay. People, as a community who like a certain thing, are being creative and sharing ideas. And that is wonderful. So, the execution of said ideas might not be wonderful, but now, the idea is out there in the universal consciousness waiting to be picked up by someone else, tinkered with and fine-tuned and maybe a better version of it, or maybe one just as bad, will be published to be seen and shared by more people so more interesting and diverse stories can be born. (Or, as it is so easy to see in fan fiction if you pay attention, a new fad of fiction tropes and mish mash of nonsensical ideas put together to create something absolutely crazy but mind numbingly fun that you have to go ‘what the fuck, who came up with this bullshit and how did it become so popular and why wasn’t it me? [Superwholock, Omegaverse, Soulbonding])

Now we could discuss the legality of fan fiction, or some of the crazy views that published authors have about fan fiction (Anne McCaffery, George RR Martin), or some of the awesome things that have happened to people because of their fan fiction and the original creators being okay with it (Avatar: The Last Air Bender, Joss Whedon). Or the crazy things that some fan fiction writers do to take their fan fiction and make it into original fiction (Cassandra Claire, 50 Shades of Grey.) But those could take a couple thousand more words and some of it sincerely bewilders me.

Fan fiction is great. I enjoy writing it. And I also enjoy reading it when I have time. There is nothing wrong with people, in their spare time, writing fluffy and sometimes not so fluffy stories about their favorite characters in their favorite universes. There are a lot more horrible things they could be doing than writing stories about fictional people and posting it on the internet.

Now, when I get published (and I say when, not if because I must believe in the when), as a matter of course and a, for your information, I won’t be reading any fan fiction of my own works. (Though, I’d love to keep track of statistics for it, that would be amusing.) It comes down to the universal consciousness once again. If one of those stories someone writes about my work has an amazing idea and I read it, later forget about it, and then think I come up with it on my own and use that idea, then, well, I could be sued. (It has happened.) It is unlikely that the fan fiction writer will win (there is precedent about this), but I would still feel awful. So it is just better all around if I don’t read fan fiction of my own work. Which for me is kind of sadness, but hey, it is a fact of life.

That being said. I hope that I do inspire people to write their own crazy times using my characters or creating their own characters and putting them in my world, or crossing my world into their other favorite worlds. Because, if I wasn’t so busy writing the original world, I’d probably be doing the same thing. There is nothing wrong with people having a good time and enjoying themselves. In fact, if it helps get them through a bad place in their life, then good for them.

Not that the die hard fan fiction writers need permission from me. But those who aren’t so certain, and maybe worry a bit too much or have been told that writing original is superior to writing fan fiction and believed it. Writing fan fiction is okay. Don’t beat yourself up over it and go out there and have fun. Go on, get your fanfic on!

[emmisays]

I’m Scared Stupid! (No, really...)

Hey you! 

It’s been a while since I’ve vomited some words on a page to you lot. And I happen to have my laptop open and a coffee in my hand and an hour to spare here in New York, so I thought I would tap something out to you. Prepare yourself. I’m feeling verbose…

Firstly, let me start with saying how grateful I am to you guys for all the love you’ve shown for ’Scared Stupid’. I’m really glad you’re feeling it! But before we move on to Chapter 4 (FRIDAY!) I wanted to share with you guys what inspired me to write it. Because while it absolutely is a tongue in cheek, neurotic little pop tune, underneath that is a very real and serious theme that’s quite personal to me. And I wanted to speak about a thing called anxiety and share my own story with you. I’ve been deliberating as to whether I should go there or not, but on the off chance that it might resonate with you or help you in some way or even just be of interest as we get to know each other, here goes…

I’ve been afraid of death since I first understood what it was. I’d think about it. Obsess about it even. I was constantly imagining horrible things happening as a child. My mum would be all of 10 minutes late to pick me up from a class and by the time she arrived I’d have already imagined at least three tragic reasons for the delay, played them out in my mind and attended both her funeral and my own. I’ve had a sense of pending doom for as long as I can remember. And for the longest time I just put that down to being a conscious human… aware of my own mortality and powerlessness in this life. But a few years ago I realised that wasn’t the whole truth. I, like so many of us, have anxiety. That feels strange to admit publicly even now.

See when I was a kid my parents worked for a missionary organisation that saw us living in the developing world for some time. And I’d say there is a healthy dose of adrenaline required when you are dropped off in a village on a mountain top next to an active volcano without knowing a word of that tribe’s language and told “see you next week”. I don’t remember being afraid. Mum and Dad made us feeling like everything we encountered was an exciting adventure, something to explore not fear. But any fear or ‘fight or flight’ hormones coursing through my veins (or indeed my parents) then would have, under the circumstances, be considered justified. We had some ttiimmmmesss....

The first instance of irrational fear probably started when I was around 8 years old. We were in Papua New Guinea and I asked my folks if I could go on a sleepover with my school friends at a dorm house at the local American mission school. They said yes. That night us girls went roller skating (yes, in line skates… and we still wore scrunchies because we were frozen in time over there!) had dinner and went to bed, only to be woken up in the middle of the night by the sound of sobbing and wailing. We went out to see what was happening and the teacher informed us that the father of one of the girls there, who had been held captive by militia for some time, had been assassinated. In that moment, stood amidst the shock and grief around me but perhaps not fully understanding it, I developed a fairly illogical (but understandable) idea I would hold onto for many many years to come: when you are away from your parents they die. I didn’t go on another sleepover until I left home at 16 years later. I would make myself sick to get out of school camps. The feeling was real. The thinking was not. 

A few years ago, now living in London and worlds away from that time, that feeling of pending doom I’d carried with me as a dull ache all my life started becoming more prominent. Quietly at first, as a knot in my stomach and then in a more noticeable way (shortness of breath, tightness in my chest, pounding heart). And I would feel that rush of adrenaline and be flummoxed because I’M ACTUALLY SAT IN A LOVELY CAFE IN SOHO! So what was there to be afraid of? I was confused and terrified by these very real physical symptoms that were suddenly presenting themselves in me with seemingly zero cause. And the more confused I became, the more mad at myself I got. This is ridiculous. Pull yourself together! You’re a smart person. There’s no sense to this!  And the madder I got with me, the worst more extreme the symptoms became...

I had my first anxiety attack at home in Oz with my family. Nobody knew what to do. Least of all me. My family knew me as a bit of a jittery character ...  but hyperventilating and publicly falling apart in a pizza joint was a new one on all of us. I was so embarrassed. I felt like I was losing my mind. But I shrugged it off the next day as a ‘one off’ thing and hoped that was the end of it.

Back in London, however, as the weeks passed and I started opting to stay indoors all day because of that heavy feeling in my stomach… and then the next…. and the next…  I knew things had gone from bad to worse. My relationships were suffering too. I wasn’t letting love in, because I had shut down, so I couldn’t have been giving much out either. Much like the videos I made for Scared Stupid, moments of joy or moments with my family and friends would pass me by because they would be immediately accompanied by a sense of foreboding. How will this go wrong? Not only was this thing stealing my own joy, but it was stealing the joy of the people around me too.

So I eventually decided to talk to someone. And I wanted to share my experience of how that went down because a) I want you guys to know me and b) what I was told in that time has helped me no end ever since, and I don’t want to keep that all to myself. 

Perhaps you are sitting there reading this now thinking you’d like to see someone but perhaps it feels ridiculous, or unnecessary, or maybe you just can’t afford it! (That was a struggle for me too) Or perhaps you’re sitting there and you know someone who suffers from anxiety. Well, whatever the case, I hope what I tell you now can be of some help to you, or if nothing else an education. 

When I started therapy it took five minutes to realise that there was a lot more than that pesky knot in my stomach to address here. A whole lot more. I unpacked the whole darn attic of my life and mind and realised I spent most of my life apologising for taking up the space I inhabit... among many other things. And in just a few sessions I was a changed me. (No… correction… I didn’t actually change at all. I was still the same me, but now I was conscious of myself and who I was and WHY and of the people in my life and who they were and why.) And I left with more love and forgiveness for everyone in my life and everyone I encountered because, yep!, you guessed it, I had more love and forgiveness for myself. Bingo!

Then came the day we spoke about my anxiety. I happened to be having a day of it and so she asked me to close my eyes and actually feel what I was feeling and sit with it. So I sat there and closed my eyes and just felt … and tears immediately rolled down my face in the silence. I’d never done that before. Really sat with it. Anxiety was always a war with me. Something I fought. Hard. Something violent. And I was surprised at how sad the feeling was. How tired and weak it felt in the silence now that I’d given it permission to exist. She asked me where I felt it and I pointed to my tummy. She asked me what it looked like and I told her it was a swirling green and yellow blob thing. She then asked me to draw it on a piece of paper. When I finished she said “Well that’s a kidney.” Makes sense I guess.  

(Geeky side note: green and yellow are two recurring colours Shakespeare uses  to describe anxiety or pining too.  “She pined in thought, and with a green and yellow melancholy, she sat like patience on a monument smiling at grief.” - Twelfth Night. Thus ends my geek aside…)

Then she asked me: “What would you like to say to your anxiety?” 

The fight came back in me immediately. I took a deep breath and said clearly and loudly... 

“Fuck off. Just fuck off.” 

“Why?” She asked. (I figured she was being the kidney thing so I went into improv mode. You can take the girl out of acting...) 

“Because you shouldn’t be here.” I said. “I’m a smart person. And you are ruining my life. And you have no point. And you need to fuck. right. off.” 

I opened one eye to catch the lady smiling at me in that all knowing way that counsellors do which is half annoying, half comforting like a parent. 

“So do you feel better now?” she asked.

“No. Worse.” 

“I know.” She said. “We can stop now.”

What she then told me both saddened me then saved me.

“You have anxiety. And you will always have anxiety.” 

WHAAATTTT?!? 

“But see the thing is this. Your anxiety is a good thing. It was there for you when you needed it. It was a survival defence. And as long as it made sense to you, you didn’t mind it sticking around. But now you don’t feel there is a point to it, you don’t want it. And that is totally understandable. But you have to learn to listen to it. Even if you think it is pointless. Even if you think it has nothing to say.” 

I’m a sucker for images and what she said next really hit things home for me. 

“See… anxiety is like a small child. A little kid who will come up to the table while you’re at dinner with friends, or in the bath… or at the most surprising of moments and just tug at you. “Mum! Mum!” It wants your attention. It’ll start as a whisper. Now if your first reaction to that tug is at a 10…  “FUCK OFF! GO AWAY!” and you ignore it, the child won’t understand. They’ll do one of two things. They will get louder and louder until you notice them and give them the attention they crave. “MUM! MUMMMMMM!” Or they will cry and make a scene. Maybe even have a tantrum. But the one thing they will not do is GO AWAY.” 

“Balls. So what do I do then?” I asked. “You listen.” She replied. 

“When that child tugs, you stop what you’re doing and say …oh hey… there you are again… what’s up?” And you spend some time with it and close your eyes and just see if they have something to say. You let them have their moment. Sometimes they will have nothing to say. (Much like kids coming to the table “What is it darling?” …”Ummmm…. I like kittens!” (they skip off into the distance).) They’re  just content to have had your attention. And they will eventually take a seat next to you quietly. Or get on with a jig saw puzzle or something. But sometimes they will have something to say. Something important that you may need to hear. And they may stay with you an hour or even a day, or even a few, and that’s ok. But you take the child’s hand and let it walk with you. And you listen. And let it be what it needs to. Because if you don’t, that child will grow and grow until it’s a giant next to you that you are looking up at and screaming at. No, it’s not going anywhere and that’s not in your control. But you can choose how it stays with you. Hold it’s hand. IT IS SMALLER THAN YOU.” 

For whatever reason that image helped everything. I stopped fighting and started listening. (By the way, I was never really yelling at my ‘anxiety’ ... I was yelling at myself, which was never going to work. Be careful how you speak to yourself. Negative company can be toxic, especially when it’s with you 24/7.) 

And I’ve been holding this child’s hand for a long time now. People close to me have also learned to hold it’s hand with me too, which has helped me no end and I am so grateful. Because when that kid turns up at a family dinner uninvited, or takes over my face while we’re watching a film…  it makes all the difference that someone might notice and say “Are you ok Em?” or just hug me without saying anything because they know. Or maybe we exchange a knowing smile that says “here we go again” ... the way you might if a naughty toddler cousin or your weird uncle started playing up. Cos’ you can’t choose your family. And you can’t choose anxiety either. But neither are going anywhere so you gotta get along right?

But above all... no-one asks WHY? anymore. No one asks me to stop feeling what I’m feeling. And I’m learning not to ask that of myself either. Anxiety is not the enemy. It’s just a part of me that makes me brilliantly sensitive and expressive and aware as much as it can be a negative sometimes. You can’t fix anyone. You can only ever be with them. 

That’s all I got. I have to get on with my day and this has become a blog of EPIC proportions!

But I wanted to share this with you because it helped me so much. And for all the fun videos of me ‘not enjoying myself’ in ball pits and on carousels and around kittens and puppies and cheese… underneath it all is a very real thing. That so many of us deal with. And I want to say, if this is you too I get it! And I hear you. And it’s ALWAYS good to talk about this stuff. And nothing is ever too silly.

I think we have to choose to feel the pain and the fear when it comes. And to sit with it a while. And give yourself time to cry on a bad day. And time to think. And talk it out. That way you stay open. So that when happiness does sneak up on you, or laughter, or love, or joy… you can really sit with those feelings too and really feel those highs and take pleasure in the moment and in the eyes of the people around you and stop time for a second. 

Enjoy that ice-cream and that puppy and that grumpy cat! (Actually… on second thoughts don’t worry about the cat. He was a bully.) But just feel it all. Because it’s a privilege to be alive and feeling anything at all. 

We’re all going to die. Most freeing fact there is! (And this is officially the worst end to a blog. Ever. In the history of blogs.)

EMMI “We’re all going to die.” 

You’re welcome. 

Happy Tuesday folks! Looking forward to seeing you guys on my live feed for more chats. I’ll hit you with a time ASAP.

Em

xxxx

FULL VIDEO OF SCARED STUPID NOW ONLINE: https://youtu.be/hfBYW28bEAU

[magic-magpie]

I’d Give Anything to be the One You Love

I haven’t written anything in a while. Well, I have, but they’re kinda larger fics that take a bit more time. And I wanted to write something quick and easy, so I wrote this. I like writing these kind of letters. Also, I’ve been considering a career in journalism in case I don’t get good enough grades for medical school, but I’m really disappointed with the annual salary. I mean, I live for money and aspire to be one of those people who live in manors, and journalism just wouldn’t let me do that. Which is sad, because I like writing and journalism really does sound interesting. Anyway, you’re probably not interested in my career woes, so here’s the story. UsUk, as per usual.

Word count - 2,093

Dear Alfred,

I finally succumbed. I finally gave in to Francis' constant pestering.

I'm finally writing this letter to you.

I'm not going to send it, of course. I mean, what sort of idiocy would THAT be?! I've worked so hard for two-and-a-half years to keep my feelings a secret – do you honestly think I'd just throw all that away in a hastily-scribbled letter?

Okay, well, I'm lying about the hastily-scribbled part. I'm using my best cursive here (the type of cursive that you can actually read, because I know you and your problem with my copperplate), along with the parchment I bought from the Harry Potter Studios that time we went together, and my best ink and quill. This letter is a work of art that shall never see the light of day, but shall forever be locked away in my easily-accessible drawer.

Perhaps I should invest in a padlock.

Francis would call it a shame, locking this letter away. He'd tell me to send it to you, to slide it into your bag one day when you're not paying attention (which, let's be real, is a lot of the time). But... that's easy for him to say. Remember when he confessed to Matthew with one of those Valentine's Day roses school did, and Matthew accepted? Francis has never been rejected before, he doesn't know what it feels like. Nor do I, for that matter... you're the only one I've ever had feelings for.

But that's beside the point; the point being that Francis is so sure of himself, so sure of his charm and irresistibility. He knows he's conventionally attractive, and he knows that people have had crushes on him. Me, on the other hand? My hair's wiry and messy and the kind of blond that nobody writes about. It's not platinum blond, not golden, not dirty blond. It's just... my hair. And who on Earth would find THAT attractive? More importantly, why would YOU find that attractive, when you have golden hair that shines distractingly in the sunlight? And then there's my eyes. Sure, they're green, which is interesting I suppose, but they're not the brilliant green people fall in love with. My eyes wouldn't remind you of a forest on a summer's day or some such romantic shit; they'd probably remind you of murky waters or empty wine bottles.

Your eyes, on the other hand... God, your eyes. This probably sounds strange, but from the very first moment I met you your eyes have captivated me. Not in a romantic way (at first), but... there's just something about them that makes me feel I can get lost in them. They're so blue. And they sparkle. And shine. And shimmer. Like an ocean on a sunny day, or a night sky out in the countryside. They're two widely different blues, but... you have them both. And you also have these little flecks of green. I first noticed them a couple of years ago (when I'd just realised that I'd fallen for you) and... they made me absurdly happy? Like... there was a little part of my eyes within yours. Honestly though, the green in your eyes looks so good. The flecks are like little leaves drifting across a wide, shimmering ocean.

In case you hadn’t already realised what the subject of this letter is about, I'll go ahead and state it.

I, Arthur Kirkland, am hopelessly in love with you, Alfred Foster Jones.

I don't even know how it HAPPENED. One minute we were meeting in English class in Year Seven, then we became good friends, then REALLY good friends, then I suddenly realised that the thoughts I'm having concerning you aren't entirely friend-like. I started craving your company more and more, wanting to sit opposite you in the lunch hall before anyone else could, looking for excuses to spend time as just the two of us. At the time I just thought that you'd become a really close friend, but then... I don't know when exactly it hit. All I know is that I started thinking about how fun it would be to go on a date with you, to hold you in my arms and stroke your soft blond hair as we lament over exams and watch 'Harry Potter' and discuss Shakespeare but in space.

I think other people noticed how much I thrived on your company – Francis noticed to the point that he figured out that I like you. When you were absent for one reason or another our friends would be quick to remark how I looked 'lost' without you. Personally, I don't think I looked lost, but I can't deny that I was quieter when you weren't around. Still am, apparently. And, well, I kind of FEEL a little... lonelier? It's as if there's something... missing, when you're not around. Of course, I never feel like this when you're not supposed to be there. My free periods without you, for example. I never miss you then. But lunchtime when you're not there? It's fun, but I definitely feel the difference. And it's not a nice difference. I like having you around; you make me want to try new things, you make me want to be daring, you make me want to put myself out there without worrying about the consequences. I suppose... I suppose you make me want to improve myself into someone who stands a chance with you.

Then there’s the matter of, well... of me. Oh God, this feels so awkward to write, but you’re, well, you’re bisexual. Which means that you... like sex. And me? I don’t.

I really don’t want sex.

I like... the IDEA of sex. As in, bondage is cool. Handcuffs and blindfolds are fucking hot, let me tell you. Humiliation play? Magnificent masturbation material. And don’t even get me started on the notion of slowly dragging a riding crop down someone’s body. But that’s the thing. I like all this, but in THEORY. I like the idea of it, the notion. Actually doing all this, though?

No thank you.

And, well... I worry that if, by some sort of miracle, you actually love me back, you’ll... get bored of me. I wouldn’t be able to sexually satisfy you. I’d probably try, but I wouldn’t be able to. I know that you’re not the type to cheat, and I’d never say there was even a possibility, but... look, I know full well that you wouldn’t ever even think of falling out of love with me (or anyone, for that matter) just because I’m asexual, but I can’t help but worry, you know? I don't like the thought of being dropped because I can't give you everything you want. Rejection, I... I don't like it. It was bad enough when my father left us all, claiming that he couldn't deal with such a large family because there were 'too many mouths to feed'. I get where he was coming from, but if he had kids he should've been prepared to look after them all their lives. But no, instead he leaves us, leaves me just a few months before my GCSEs, leaves me feeling like shit and wondering if he would've stayed if I, as the fourth and last child, hadn't been born. It was a situation out of my control, but it still left me with a bitter sense of inadequacy. And if you leave me just because I can't make love to you... it'd hurt like hell. You're not that type of person, I know you're not, but you can't fault a bloke for worrying, not when he's already had a sense of inadequacy planted in him.

...All this worrying over a non-existent relationship. Wow. I’ve sunk to a new low.

Also, as a point of interest, I just read this letter back to myself and now I’m blushing heavily because I just told you my kinks. Who even has the stupidity to write their kinks in a letter?

Moving on from kinks...

So... yeah. I’m not entirely sure of what else to write. I’ve already said that I’m hopelessly in love with you, haven’t I? God, you don’t make it easy to fall out of love with you, do you? You laugh in such an obnoxious, sincere way at my sarcastic quips and dry humour that makes my chest feel funny. Your laugh, it’s... it’s kind of cute. It starts off with this loud, sudden ‘Ha!’ and then you dissolve into raucous giggles, having to steady yourself on the nearest solid thing you can find, the corners of your eyes crinkling and your glasses sliding down the bridge of your nose. When you’ve got a bright idea it almost... takes over you. In a good way. You almost... shine. You talk about it as if it's an idea you’ve been passionately advocating for since forever, as opposed to five minutes ago. And when you’re talking about your latest achievement? God, you’re adorable.

And then sometimes you wear tight tee-shirts that emphasise your rather impressive physique and my mouth goes dry and I momentarily forget how to function. On other occasions you wear baggy hoodies with floppy sleeves and I still momentarily forget how to function.

I think there’s just something about you which makes me momentarily forget how to function.

Also, you’re cute when you’re sleepy. You sort of forget that I hate being touched (by anyone but you, but I’ll never admit that anywhere but here) and just... flop all over me. Sometimes it’s your head in my lap, sometimes it’s your legs. Sometimes your head’s on my shoulder, sometimes your arm’s draped around them. I act disgruntled, but honestly... I like it. I like the fact that I’m the person you flop all over when tired. I like the fact that when something exciting happens, I’m the first person you tell. I like the fact that, well, you value me so much. It feels... nice.

Honestly, I know these unrequited feelings are going to kill me one day (not literally, don’t worry). I can picture myself forcing smiles at your wedding to a beautiful stranger with bright eyes and soft hair, see myself drinking myself silly whilst you’re on your honeymoon and making love to the person of your dreams, see myself letting envy consume me as I wallow in self-pity and wonder where I went wrong in not managing to gain your romantic affections.

But... that’s my headache. I’ll never let on that I love you. I’ll only tell you if you tell me that you return my feelings. Because I know you. You’ll feel bad about rejecting me. And the last thing I want to do is make you feel bad.

Just know, Alfred, that whoever you fall in love with, I’ll support you through the ups and the downs of your relationship. You can cry on my shoulder if need be. I’ll help plan your wedding, if you want me to. I’ll only try and end it if your partner is abusive, or an arsehole, or treats you like shit, because you don’t deserve that. You deserve someone who will love you as wholeheartedly as you’ll love them.

...Marvellous, now I want to give this to you so that you see my nice supportive messages. But no, I won’t. Because then you’d see everything else, and that would go against every single one of my morals. So, I just hope that you know all that already. You should, theoretically. I can’t imagine you would keep me so close to you if you thought that I’d ever stop being supportive of you.

So, well, here ends my letter. My letter that I’m just going to stuff in my drawer and hope that none of my brothers ransack it. I suppose I feel a little bit more... at ease about all this.

I love you, Alfred. I hope you know that. Even if you just think it’s platonic.

Love,

Arthur.

P.S. Is it bad that I’ve imagined what our first date would be? I imagine that we’d go to a theme park and ride all the rollercoasters, then we’d go to McDonalds. Then we'd go back to your house and we'd hang out in your room and drink hot chocolate with marshmallows and rainbow sprinkles in our favourite mugs and play video games and board games and watch films on your bed until we end up falling asleep on each other.

P.P.S. God, I'd give anything for you to love me back.

P.P.P.S. Anything.

[volleygifs]

Haikyuu Fic Recs #2!

BACK WITH ANOTHER BATCH OF FIC RECS! Wow... I’m amazed with how many of these have E or M ratings... so just... make sure you read the tags and stuff... 

(Fics with a ♡ beside them are my 100% must-reads.)

Recs are under the cut, happy reading! ᕕ( ᐛ )ᕗ 

Lust and Lies – 36K - E - Tensemi

When Tendou hooks up with a stranger at a club, he expects their one-night stand to be only that: One night. By unexpected circumstance, he discovers Eita is an employee of Tendou's best friend, Ushijima.

You Make It Sound So Easy To Be Alive – 12K - E - Tensemi

Sometimes death just seems easier. Semi Eita has struggled for a long time, and one night he decides that living just isn't worth it. Before he can take the plunge, he's interrupted by a strange man who introduces himself as Tendou Satori.

♡  Chase This Light – 22K – E - DaiSuga

Daichi loves making music. But it will never be his life, not after he graduates from university and leaves behind the years he spent playing his guitar to pursue his accounting degree, his desk job, the dull acoustics of computer keys.

He Always Starts Something – 38K – M - KuroTsuk

In his third year of high school, Kei is recruited by Kuroo's university to play volleyball. A weekend on campus is plenty of time to check out the team, meet the coaches, see a game from the bench... and see if his two-year-old crush on Kuroo has any chance at all.

Petals of Pining – 42K – E - KuroTsuk

Tsukishima wouldn’t say he was pining. He didn’t know what he was feeling towards anyone anymore. Or what was right. Or what he should do. But he does know what feels good and what doesn’t.

Falling Aint The Half of It – 20K – M - Bokuaka

He remembered having power. Remembered being limitless, what it felt like to hold the world in the palm of his hand. He remembered his wings, wide and white, imbued with all the light of his being. And he remembered flying with all of his siblings. He remembered pain. He remembered the Fall.

The Jacket You Never Returned – 5K – G - Bokuaka

He leaned over, kissed Bokuto on the cheek, and smiled bitterly, eyes watery. He will never remember. Not now, not ever. What they were will now forever be forgotten. "You used to call me Keiji, Koutarou."

Namaste – 8K – E - Bokuaka

When Bokuto’s mood swings become a problem for his team, the coach orders Bokuto to attend yoga classes to try and relax. It’s difficult to relax, however, when Bokuto can’t stop staring at his impossibly attractive yoga teacher. Akaashi is a perfect, extremely flexible specimen of a man, Bokuto is smitten, and private lessons go much better than expected.

Il Mio Ragazzo Falso – 18K – T - BokuAka

With his grandparents’ fiftieth wedding anniversary looming fast and large, Akaashi finds himself urged to bring a date and not quite to the point where his family knows that said date will not be of the female variety. At some point, he has to decide which will be the least frightening prospect — braving coming out to his family or endure Operation: Find Keiji A Girlfriend 2k15. And why is the only person he can think of to drag along to this thing his overly-spirited volleyball captain?

♡  No Words – 12K – M - KinKage

Kageyama Tobio is surprised to receive a text message from Kindaichi Yuutarou, saying that they have landed in the same college. But Kindaichi isn't looking for space or to pick a fight, and what they find together changes both of them.

Monster Nut – 7K – M -  IwaTen (crack)

In which Iwaizumi works at Panera Bread and there's always this one annoying customer coming in asking for "that Monster Nut".

Summer Lovin’ – 6K - E - Oikuroo

He kisses like he’s just as starved for it, as if a year hadn’t passed between them without exchanging anything more than obligatory ‘happy birthday’ messages. It feels natural; the way their bodies melt together, Kuroo’s fingers fitting perfectly in the slots of Oikawa’s splayed hand.

A Game We Both Could Win – 7K – E - Kagehina

If he were a decent guy, he’d pretend this wasn’t happening, but apparently he's not really a decent guy. It's an accident, initially. But it spirals into something else, and it's incredibly easy to get lost in it.

Talk It Out – 4K – M - Iwaoi

There’s just something about him that rubs Iwaizumi the wrong way. He’s always way too close, leaning into Tooru’s space and leaning his elbow on his shoulder.

Film Reel Life – 8K – T - Iwaoi

The only person Iwaizumi is lying to is himself, when he insists: I am not in love with Oikawa Tooru.

♡  The Courtship Ritual of the Hercules Beetle – 66K – T - Iwaoi

Tooru is pretty sure he could manage the mating habits of a mosquito. It’s the mating habits of people he can’t seem to get right.

♡  Walking The Dog – 11K - E - Iwaoi

“Basset hound?” Oikawa asks, bending over to scratch behind Itchy’s ears. “Basset hound,” Iwaizumi confirms. He’s suddenly forgot where he usually puts his arms when he's talking.

No Touching Allowed – 10K – E - Iwaoi

“You’ve got one rule,” Iwaizumi winks at him.

Different Strokes (3 parts) – 19k total – Akakage

Broke-ass art school graduate Akaashi Keiji couldn’t turn down a paying job in the art world, even if it meant sitting naked in front of strangers. However, one of them wouldn’t stop staring, but meh . . . what the hell. He was kind of cute.

You Have 105 Saved Messages – 6K – G - Iwakin

In a panic about what to do with his newfound responsibility on the team, Kindaichi makes a desperate call to his old senpai. However, he doesn't realize that his daily updates about his life could change things for both of them. 

Our Birthday – 2K – E - KamaFuta

“What? I just wanted to ask if you wanted to get together for my birthday.”

“At least,” Kamasaki says, “say our birthday.”

“Oh, is yours coming up?”

Sincerely Yours – M - (WIP) – Bokuaka, Kuroken, Iwaoi

Saturday detention isn’t normally a place you go in order to find the answers to your problems. It’s where you go when you’ve fucked up bad enough you have to lose an entire Saturday to make up for what you’ve done. The Prince and The Criminal were caught cutting class. The Outsider cursed out his Shakespeare professor. The Jock and The Brain got into a fist fight. And the Birthday Boy, he’s not even supposed to be here...

Courtship of the Owl – M - (WIP) – Bokuaka

The Akaashi family estate hires a new stablehand to help with the newborn foal come spring;A man with a beaming smile, bright eyes, and owlish hair. Akaashi loves owls.

♡  Cotton Breathing – 13K – E - Iwaoi

It’s disgustingly hot by the middle of July. Tooru can feel his shirt sticking to his back the longer he sits. He loves it, though. The heat, the whoosh of air through the cracked window, and the fact that he’s taking an actual old-fashioned train should have lulled him into a hazy state of happiness but he’s already on the edge of his seat.

h(a)unting - 15K - T - Bokuaka

Bokuto and Akaashi are ghost hunters with more mystery between them than in the work they do. The new case they take on, however, may force them to change that - or they risk having everything unravel.

[poorquentyn]

I'm re reading IT right now (slowly, as adult life is getting in the way) and was wondering what other bad storytelling choices you thought king made besides the. Uh. Sewer scene? Its been years since ive read it and nothing else really stood out to me as poor storytelling that i can remember. I'll read it for myself eventually but was curious of your thoughts. Love your blog!

Thanks! Stephen King often veers into caricature with his supporting characters, and It is no exception. The way he describes Eddie’s mom and wife physically goes well beyond the narratively useful purpose of establishing how their weight disorders have intertwined with Eddie’s hypochondria and into “ugh fat people are gross” territory. I don’t think King has conscious malignance in this area, because he finds a proper balance with Ben: the latter describes in realistic detail how he lost weight over time, his mom is upset that he’s eating less but is presented humanely (as someone who associates her son eating a lot with her doing well as a single mother), and King manages to avoid shaming Ben for his weight while also acknowledging that Ben personally feels a lot better about himself after having shed it–or rather, because of the confidence he gained in himself by taking charge of the situation. The idea here is not “Ben needs to lose weight because gross” but rather “Ben needs to be in control of his body.” 

The good doesn’t wipe out the bad, nor vice versa; gotta consider them both in context. Main characters are naturally going to get more nuance than supporting characters, but necessary shorthand can easily turn into harmful caricature. And of course, a storytelling choice that seems solid in isolation can become a problem within the work as a whole. Beverly is sexualized throughout It in a way that’s often very unpleasant to read, associated throughout with violence and misogyny. Sometimes this works, as a way of peeling back the layers of petty ego driving a man’s man like her husband Tom; he explodes at her in their introductory scene because her paying attention to Mike’s call instead of him makes him feel like he’s literally not there. Other times it doesn’t, like when King lingers on the “smell” that Bev and her father “make together” now that she’s reaching puberty. We don’t need that to get the point that Bev’s father has inappropriate feelings for her–we got that from Bev’s mom asking if he ever touches her. When you put both sides of the coin together with the infamous sex scene in the sewers and the amount of time spent on whether Bev will choose Ben or Bill, it starts to look less like King was taking a stand against objectification by showing its omnipresence than that he simply didn’t know what to do with Bev as a character without constantly making reference to sex, rape, assault, and molestation. While she does get some right to response on these matters, I don’t think it’s nearly enough. It pushes back against a mindset that casually treats women like objects, but fails to establish a counter-narrative rooted in the female characters as individuals, fleshed out beyond their relationships to the men around them. It’s less a question of Does Stephen King Hate Women than one of imagination and empathy. 

Of course, some flaws are lessened by context, rather than enhanced by it. Take, for example, our protagonist William Denbrough, a blatant author insert. Bill is a popular horror author (check) whose books are increasingly being adapted for TV and film (check) and who has a rather tense relationship with critics and academics (double check). The latter is spelled out in an extended flashback to Bill’s college days, in which he takes a stand that ought to be very familiar to anyone steeped in modern media discourse:

Here is a poor boy from the state of Maine who goes to the University on a scholarship. All his life he has wanted to be a writer, but when he enrolls in the writing courses he finds himself lost without a compass in a strange and frightening land. There’s one guy who wants to be Updike. There’s another one who wants to be a New England version of Faulkner-only he wants to write novels about the grim lives of the poor in blank verse. There’s a girl who admires Joyce Carol Gates but feels that because Oates was nurtured in a sexist society she is “radioactive in a literary sense.” Oates is unable to be clean, this girl says. She will be cleaner. There’s the short fat grad student who can’t or won’t speak above a mutter. This guy has written a play in which there are nine characters. Each of them says only a single word. Little by little the playgoers realize that when you put the single words together you come out with “War is the tool of the sexist death merchants.” This fellow’s play receives an A from the man who teaches Eh-141 (Creative Writing Honors Seminar). This instructor has published four books of poetry and his master’s thesis, all with the University Press. He smokes pot and wears a peace medallion. The fat mutterer’s play is produced by a guerrilla theater group during the strike to end the war which shuts down the campus in May of 1970. The instructor plays one of the characters.

Bill Denbrough, meanwhile, has written one locked-room mystery tale, three science-fiction stories, and several horror tales which owe a great deal to Edgar Allan Poe, H. P. Lovecraft, and Richard Matheson-in later years he will say those stories resembled a mid-1800s funeral hack equipped with a supercharger and painted Day-Glo red.

One of the sf tales earns him a B.

“This is better,” the instructor writes on the title page. “In the alien counterstrike we see the vicious circle in which violence begets violence; I particularly liked the “needle-nosed” spacecraft as a symbol of socio-sexual incursion. While this remains a slightly confused undertone throughout, it is interesting.”

All the others do no better than a C.

Finally he stands up in class one day, after the discussion of a sallow young woman’s vignette about a cow’s examination of a discarded engine block in a deserted field (this may or may not be after a nuclear war) has gone on for seventy minutes or so. The sallow girl, who smokes one Winston after another and picks occasionally at the pimples which nestle in the hollows of her temples, insists that the vignette is a socio-political statement in the manner of the early Orwell. Most of the class-and the instructor-agree, but still the discussion drones on.

When Bill stands up, the class looks at him. He is tail, and has a certain presence.

Speaking carefully, not stuttering (he has not stuttered in better than five years), he says: “I don’t understand this at all. I don’t understand any of this. Why does a story have to be socio-anything? Politics… culture… history… aren’t those natural ingredients in any story, if it’s told well? I mean… ” He looks around, sees hostile eyes, and realizes dimly that they see this as some sort of attack. Maybe it even is. They are thinking, he realizes, that maybe there is a sexist death merchant in their midst. “I mean… can’t you guys just let a story be a story?”

No one replies. Silence spins out. He stands there looking from one cool set of eyes to the next. The sallow girl chuffs out smoke and snubs her cigarette in an ashtray she has brought along in her backpack.

Finally the instructor says softly, as if to a child having an inexplicable tantrum, “do you believe William Faulkner was ‘just telling stories’? Do you believe Shakespeare was just interested in making a buck? Come now, Bill. Tell us what you think.”

“I think that’s pretty close to the truth,” Bill says after a long moment in which he honestly considers the question, and in their eyes he reads a kind of damnation.

“I suggest,” the instructor says, toying with his pen and smiling at Bill with half-lidded eyes, “that you have a great deal to learn.”

The applause starts somewhere in the back of the room.

Bill leaves… but returns the next week, determined to stick with it. In the time between he has written a story called “The Dark,” a tale about a small boy who discovers a monster in the cellar of his house. The little boy faces it, battles it, finally kills it. He feels a land of holy exaltation as he goes about the business of writing this story; he even feels that he is not so much telling the story as he is allowing the story to flow through him. At one point he puts his pen down and takes his hot and aching hand out into ten-degree December cold where it nearly smokes from the temperature change. He walks around, green cut-off boots squeaking in the snow like tiny shutter-hinges which need oil, and his head seems to bulge with the story; it is a little scary, the way it needs to get out. He feels that if it cannot escape by way of his racing hand that it will pop his eyes out in its urgency to escape and be concrete. “Going to knock the shit out of it,” he confides to the blowing winter dark, and laughs a little-a shaky laugh. He is aware that he has finally discovered how to do just that-after ten years of trying he has suddenly found the starter button on the vast dead bulldozer taking up so much space inside his head. It has started up. It is revving, revving. It is nothing pretty, this big machine. It was not made for taking pretty girls to proms. It is not a status symbol. It means business. It can knock things down. If he isn’t careful, it will knock him down.

He rushes inside and finishes “The Dark” at white heat, writing until four o'clock in the morning and finally falling asleep over his ring-binder. If someone had suggested to him that he was really writing about his brother, George, he would have been surprised. He has not thought about George in years-or so he honestly believes.

The story comes back from the instructor with an F slashed into the tide page. Two words are scrawled beneath, in capital letters. PULP, screams one. CRAP, screams the other.

Bill takes the fifteen-page sheaf of manuscript over to the wood-stove and opens the door. He is within a bare inch of tossing it in when the absurdity of what he is doing strikes him. He sits down in his rocking chair, looks at a Grateful Dead poster, and starts to laugh. Pulp? Fine! Let it be pulp! The woods were full of it!

“Let them fucking trees fall!” Bill exclaims, and laughs until tears spurt from his eyes and roll down his face.

He retypes the title page, the one with the instructor’s judgment on it, and sends it off to a men’s magazine named White Tie (although from what Bill can see, it really should be titled Naked Girls Who Look Like Drug Users). Yet his battered Writer’s Market says they buy horror stories, and the two issues he has bought down at the local mom-and-pop store have indeed contained four horror stories sandwiched between the naked girls and the ads for dirty movies and potency pills. One of them, by a man named Dennis Etchison, is actually quite good.

He sends “The Dark” off with no real hopes-he has submitted a good many stories to magazines before with nothing to show for it but rejection slips-and is flabbergasted and delighted when the fiction editor of White Tie buys it for two hundred dollars, payment on publication. The assistant editor adds a short note which calls it “the best damned horror story since Ray Bradbury’s "The Jar.” He adds, “Too bad only about seventy people coast to coast will read it,” but Bill Denbrough does not care. Two hundred dollars!

He goes to his advisor with a drop card for Eh-141. His advisor initials it. Bill Denbrough staples the drop card to the assistant fiction editor’s congratulatory note and tacks both to the bulletin board on the creative-writing instructor’s door. In the corner of the bulletin board he sees an anti-war cartoon. And suddenly, as if moving of its own accord, his fingers pluck his pen from his breast pocket and across the cartoon he writes this: If fiction and politics ever really do become interchangeable, I’m going to kill myself, because I won’t know what else to do. You see, politics always change. Stories never do. He pauses, and then, feeling a bit small (but unable to help himself), he adds: I suggest you have a lot to learn.

You can easily imagine this argument–a timeless appeal is being ruined by lefty college kids and their postmodern analyses–being made today by an alt-right YouTuber out to cleanse the game industry of SJWs. Throughout It, King keeps cutting back to an image of a librarian reading “The Billy Goats Gruff” to a group of kids, the latter enthralled (King tells us) by the primal purity of the kind of monster stories upon which both King and Denbrough have built their careers. “Will the monster be bested…or will It feed?” That’s King declaring that Bill’s his professors were wrong to wave aside his short horror stories. See? See?! I made it, and you pretentious eggheads were wrong to ever doubt me! This aspect of It is frankly embarrassing, especially as time marches on and we see how this mindset has taken root in the next generation.

But! While King very clearly believes this stuff, he’s also self-aware enough to include auto-critiques in his writing. Stan’s wife Patty picks up one of Bill’s novels and dismisses it as practically pornographic in its horror imagery. King goes too far in casting Patty’s dislike of Bill’s work as reflecting a lack of imagination on her part, but he then goes on to sympathetically explore how the grounded relatable struggles Patty has faced (anti-Semitism, her father mocking and dismissing Stan, their inability to have children) have led her to consider “horrorbooks” as shallow escapism. The real world, It admits, has horrors beyond anything the Kings and Denbroughs can come up with. “Werewolves, shit. What did a man like that know about werewolves?” 

Later on, when Ben is telling his triumphant story about calling out a high school coach who taunted him for his weight, Bill gently notes that as an author, he has trouble believing any kid really talked like that. That’s King using his self-insert to wryly poke fun at his own oft-overheated dialogue. Self-awareness and self-deprecation are absolutely vital to making a book as thematically and structurally ambitious as this one work. 

And while some of It’s politics make me cringe, other aspects make me perk up and take notice. King wrote It over the course of four years in which HIV and AIDS became a national crisis that was being largely ignored by said nation’s government. There was a growing conventional wisdom that the afflicted deserved their punishment and should be more or less left to rot. This was all part and parcel with the ascension of the religious right in American politics, especially within the Reagan White House. A huge part of the Reagan narrative (as we see in the “Morning in America” ad, also released while King was writing It) was a portrait of lily-white small-town America as a social ideal being beset by all sorts of ills that the left was either letting happen or actively supporting, and The Gays were most certainly among them.

It opens with a scene that seems to dovetail with that narrative: an idealized ‘50s small town in which an adorable innocent white boy from a good Christian family is horribly murdered by (what seems to be) a nightmarish external force that takes advantage of that innocence. Already, you can see a potential Reaganite spin–It as the Other, the “bear in the woods” threatening the ideal of Derry. 

But that’s not what It is about. The second chapter jumps forward a generation, into the mid-1980s in which King was writing, and onto a scene of violence that cannot be wrapped into the meta-narrative of the religious right. Three men attack a gay man on a bridge, their delicate sensibilities offended by his flamboyance. They beat him within an inch of his life and toss him over the side…where he finds It waiting for him with a gleaming sharp-toothed smile. Both the victim’s boyfriend and one of the assailants tell the cops and lawyers involved about the demon clown who finished the victim off, but the powers that be cover it up for the sake of a successful prosecution.

The idea being that they’re dealing with the symptoms, not the disease–the violence, but not the hand-me-down hate driving it. The bereft boyfriend tells the cops that he tried to warn his new-to-town lover that despite its cheery appearance, Derry is a “bad place,” one positively crawling with “AIDS is God’s punishment” homophobia. Moreover, he whispers through his tears, he realized while staring into Its silver eyes as It ate his true love that “It was Derry…It was this town.” 

So while the first chapter seemingly wrapped the era’s conservative politics in a cozy semiotic blanket, it was only baiting the hook so that the second can rip that blanket off like a Band-Aid. As Reagan strolled to re-election with 49 states at his back, as the Democrats’ convictions wavered and they began to drift rightward, as thousands of Americans wasted away while their government and so many of their fellow citizens watched pitilessly, here comes Stevie King to stick his middle finger in the Moral Majority’s face and say: gays aren’t the monsters, you are the monsters, you are the ones eating your children. He built a thousand-page Lovecraftian epic around that idea, and made it a bestseller. How fucking awesome is that?

Again, it’s all always going to be complicated. The good not only coexists with the bad–they’re often inextricable. The author who slipped a rant against leftist academics ruinin’ his storybooks into It is also the guy who now declares his support for BLM and his disgust for Trump, and It is both a deeply flawed work and one of my very favorite novels.

[astridthevalkyrie]

Axe to the Heart: Chapter 2

Astrid Hofferson/Steve Harrington. “Maybe I hate a lot of things here in Hawkins but I suppose you’re not one of them.”

Chapter 1

Edit: Thank you very much to @warrior-of-httyd and @ashleybenlove for giving this trash pair a chance and for the lovely reviews. :D

The next few days became worse and worse. She did nothing but paperwork at the station, the only one who really acknowledged her there was Florence (who said to call her Flo), school was getting tougher by the day (what could she expect, it was senior year), and for some Thorforsaken fucking reason, Steve Harrington was still walking around like someone killed his cat (honestly, what a drama queen).

And Astrid hated the gut feeling she had that paperwork was all she’d ever do in her life, her grades would find a way to mess up eventually, and that she was the one who murdered the fucking kitten.

She was working her ass off to try to get past the first two problems. She could not let her grades slip, or her parents would take an interest in her, but not in a good way. And maybe, just maybe, she’d get Chief Hopper’s seal of approval.

The Steve Harrington thing she could just forget. Right? Right?

Wrong. Apparently, fate was working against her.

“Byers and Campbell, Harrington and Hofferson, Jackson and Brown…”

Everything, Astrid decided as she saw Harrington coming towards her, was shit. Her teacher, and this project in general were part of that everything.

Harrington dropped his bag and slumped in the chair next to her, before looking at her expectantly. She bit back a grimace and shifted her seat closer.

“I hope you know what we’re doing, Hofferson, because I have no clue what the hell she just said.”

Astrid snorted despite herself. Typical.

“We need to choose any Shakespearean work and act out a five minute scene of something we believed should have happened. That was the basic stuff. Everything else was her telling us in fancy terms how much she’d love to fail us if we screwed this up.”

“Wow, I didn’t know you spoke Shakespeare.” He flashed a grin at her, and Astrid bit her lip to stop a sigh of relief from escaping her.

He didn’t hold hard feelings - whatever he was upset about had nothing to do with her.

But then, maybe that was worse. Now she felt even more guilty, because he didn’t hold a grudge. Couldn't he just hate her and get on with it?

“So, when do you want to meet up to plan this thing?”

Astrid thought about what she had remembered last night. For someone who was dubbed a king, he sure didn't have that many friends. Since she'd been here she’d only seen him sitting with Nancy Wheeler, but yesterday, Nancy had sat with Jonathan, and Astrid had seen Harrington sitting by himself. There wasn't any need for him to - half the girls in the school would be more than willing to help him move on.

But what the hell. They might as well just spend the period together. She certainly didn't have anyone vying for her attention.

“Why don't we do it at lunch?” Then, to clear it up lest he think she watched him while she ate, she quickly said, “If you're not too busy.”

“Nah. I'm not. You know...too busy dreaming about girls who like photography nerds.” He shot her a smirk. Asshole. “I’ll find you there, then?” Harrington extended a hand.

He still looked like a fucking wreck. Astrid shook his hand and they didn’t say anymore to each other for the last five minutes of class.

They could have planned right then, but honestly...Astrid was looking forward to not sitting alone at lunch, and when she threw a quick glance to Harrington who was smiling at his phone, she thought he might be too.

“So…”

“So.”

“Why don’t we choose a book?” Astrid suggested, taking out her notebook and pencil. “We’ve read - well, I’ve read - most of them.”

“Hey,” Harrington cut in, looking affronted, “I’ve read them too. I’ve read...Romeo and Juliet. Oh, and Macbeth.”

“Hamlet? Midsummer Night’s Dream? Julius Caesar?” Astrid raised a brow at him as she listed some of her favorites (there was a reason she was in Shakespearean Literature and it wasn’t because she needed the credits).

“Maybe we could stick to Romeo and Juliet and Macbeth?” he asked, looking hopeful. Astrid nearly laughed - but she caught herself.

“Fine. Any ideas?” She bent down, ready to write. They could probably jot down notes and maybe even start a script by the end of the period.

“Not a one.”

Astrid snapped her head up and blew her bangs out of her face as she stared at him. “Okay, so I’ll be doing the work. Whatever. Just practice your lines when I give you them.” She stood up with her tray, taking her things in the other hand (and realized she really should have put her things in her bag before she stood up. She blamed Harrington and his floofy hair for distracting her).

“Hey, hey, no, I’ll help!” He stood up so quickly and with such wide eyes that Astrid relented (she relented? She relented? Just when the fuck was the last time she relented to anyone?) and sat down. Harrington sat back down as well, looking satisfied. “Okay, so I think we should do Romeo and Juliet. It’s everyone’s favorite.”

“But if it’s everyone’s favorite, everyone will be doing it. Maybe we should go with Macbeth.” She leaned back before realizing there was no wall behind her.

Okay, whatever this new idiotic side of her was, it needed to stop popping up in front of Steve fucking Harrington. First she had the gall to feel guilty, and now she was doing dumb stuff like relenting - if she didn’t look out she might start joking around with him.

“What scene could we add to Macbeth?”

“What scene could we add to Romeo and Juliet?” Astrid shot back. If he said that they should show the sex scene in greater detail then Thor help him, she would murder him.

“Maybe a scene with the parents mourning. You could be Lady Capulet and I’d be Lord Montague since Lady Montague died.”

It...wasn’t a bad idea. It was okay. More than she expected.

“Okay…” She wrote the idea down. “Mourning parents. I can work with that.”

“We can work with that,” Harrington insisted, leaning forward and reading her notes upside down. “You know, Lady Capulet really suits you.”

Astrid looked up at him. There was a small smile on his face and testily she asked, “Why do you say that?”

He shook his head, seemingly holding back a laugh. “Lady Capulet was stuffy as hell, you’d play her really well.”

Astrid glared at him, stuffed her notebook and pencil in her bag (ha, she thought ahead this time), and stood up, storming away from him.

Five people. Five people in the whole world were allowed to make fun of her about her personality...her “stuffiness.” And Harrington wasn’t one of those five people. So he could go screw himself.

“Hey...hey!”

She ignored him, leaving the lunch room even though she heard whispers. Astrid didn’t want anyone whispering about her, but if she turned around and snapped at him in front of everyone, whispers would be the least of her problems.

It was when she stopped at her locker that Harrington caught up with her. “Okay. I’m sorry. Be Montague. Lady Montague, that is. We can bring her back from the dead. Sorry.”

“You don’t need to apologize,” Astrid snarled - could he let her be irritated with him in piece? - as she shoved her bag in the locker and took out what she would need for the next period. “Tell me I’m being a drama queen and go away.”

“Hey, I’m the queen of drama queens.” He peered at her and gave her a charming grin (which, damn it all to hell, was pretty charming). “Just don’t stop talk - uh, brainstorming with me. Please? I just...really wanna work hard to get this grade.”

What the hell was wrong with him? Usually guys called her out for being a bitch or being dramatic, which she usually was. On purpose. The only guy who hadn’t done that who she’d been romantically involved with was Hiccup, and no one was like him. Certainly not King Steve.

Astrid slammed her locker shut and looked up at him (she blamed his hair for the extra foot he had on her). “Don’t call me stuffy again.”

“Won’t.” He looked completely serious. “Definitely...will not. At all. Um...I don’t think we should go back to the cafeteria because there are people who saw us leave -”

“Yeah, thanks for that, Romeo.”

“ - Welcome, Lady Montague. Hey, maybe we should have that instead! A scene between Romeo and his mom where they talk some stuff out.”

Astrid shook her head, hiding her smile as she hugged her books close to her chest. Well, that was strange. All the anger had evaporated. But he had called her stuffy. And he wasn’t allowed to.

But it wasn’t as though she was suddenly close to him, it was just nice to...talk to someone like this again. Like a friend.

“Next.”

“A scene between Nurse and some random cook and we just make it pure comedy.”

“Next!”

“Secretly Paris was having an affair with Paris from the Iliad.”

“Next!”

I have never written a second chapter this quickly, do you need any more proof that this ship owns my body and soul now?

[stuffminusthings]

SomeWordsFromAMillenialTurning30InAWaySoHipsterYou’llNeverGetTo

Last year on my birthday, on my phone before I got out of bed, I read a story in the local news about an 11-year-old boy who, like me, had a birthday. Just on a different day. But his birthday came early on his clock, and with a condition that makes basic motion incredibly difficult. His family was selling lemonade to buy him a bicycle so that he could enjoy life at a speed of his own discretion.

I couldn't stop crying, so I got my things together, called my mom to find out how to get to the softball field where the lemonade stand was set up, and dropped off a fraction of a bike payment for a boy who really, really should ride like all kids should, but was maybe a bit bashful about all of the attention, and went on my way.

And now it's birthday season again, and, surprisingly I'm still in the same town.

Surprising.

Sure, in my 30 years I've lived in 8 states. From ages 18-28 I usually moved within a month of my birthday. Getting a job post-90's isn't the 90's. Spending my youth around different sets of people every few years makes moving on something I've already gotten over.

When I turned 29, I could have moved to another state again, sure. And a few months later, waking up in a different bed, I was sure I was going to have to move again to find a new job.

But it only took a few months from my birthday to find out why the boy was bashful.

It's a strange thing to spend nearly 30 years doing whatever you damn well please, and then to wake up covered in drool in a hospital needing a wheelchair with no recollection why. After spending most of my life viewing accommodations for accessibility as an excuse, I was determined to not let my injuries get in my way. Give me fentanyl, and, I know for a fact that I will be caught on foot, trying to escape the hospital hours after fracturing my pelvis in 2 places, and also my pubic bone, and my ribs, and a couple vertebrae.

But after the comedown, something hit me more powerfully than an F-150.

The millennial are the first generation in centuries to be raised before society could react to itself. We were only just barely hanging on before then. The industrial revolution changed everything. Work happens without human energy now.

But, nothing happens without energy.

Anyone offering help for energy we can't measure often receives the only tangible rewards. Sure, we're all hanging around for the after life, but if I know anything about death now, it's that it's lights out. I can't account for energy I can't understand, so I'm not going to.

Sure, you can bet on whatever you want after the lights go off, but you're only allowed to account for your own energy while reading this. Oh, you're screen is on? Guess you accounted for your own electricity. That's about how much effort you need to put into the afterlife. Oh no power?

It's not like you like reading this crap anyways.

But if you're not suddenly checking the weather...

We can create our own intelligent design by helping those around  us with the things we've already done.

I can't stand that it's been 30 fucking years and we're still selling lemonade to buy a kid a bike so he can feel the wind in his hair

There is a life to be made in caring for what you do have, not for your own sake, but for the sake of the things you are caring for.

Often times, we don't notice the things we need to care for until they need care.

It's tough to feel the need to care about anything you don't know when you go to kindergarten in Hollywood Hills.

If you look at older maps, the Negaunee, Michigan neighborhood where I played tag in at recess was Labeled “Hollywood Hills.” The modest midwest print map relics represent a lingering resentfulness between elements of the working class taken to the highest degree of sarcasm.

I love where I come from. But it takes actually standing in California and on the shores of Teal Lake to really get the joke. Otherwise it's just second hand.

And thanks to the internet, we can do anything second hand. #vanlife

Van life, if you're doing it for anything other than recreation, is fucking stupid. It gets old when you're on your fourth stint in a van and sick of the fact that it takes an hour and a half to find a safe place to take a shit in the morning. Just to start working. You were cavalier enough pissing onto the sidewalks of what was questionably marked a school zone the night before.

Tell that to anyone who hasn't had to do that yet in their van adventures, and well, they'll tell you what.

I lost my license for 6 months thanks to Michigan's Graduated License Program after 3 speeding tickets where I was definitely speeding all three times, but all three police officers got arguments about me speeding “not that much.”

The last time, I even argued that I'd been in the car with my police officer father and watched him use his badge to get out of speeding, and that it was bullshit that I was getting a ticket.

I got my license back the day before I moved into a van for the first time. I felt so cool chasing the sun West into the wild unknown just like on TV.

I wasn't wrong then, if I've learned anything from my poetry degree, it's that we're all living our own home videos.

Pure objectivity isn't possible. We make objective nature shows, and then forget that we're in one.

What other species spends all of it's time making better and better dioramas?

We are surrounded by people who go on the news to talk about fake news, while the average citizen with a cellphone is often the most unbiased source. Tourists expect to do the things they see in tourist videos, because they want to know. Know what they are supposed to do. Pride in knowledge can be blinding. Anyone who works at a tourist destination will tell you that.

Go to Mackinaw Island after dark, and don't bother trying to sleep. The bison in Yellowstone? Not quite as annoying than the cattle in Oregon. For sure.

If a sign of intelligence is recognizing ones self in the mirror, but what about the ability to pull away?

I drove through Wisconsin, Illinois, Iowa, Nebraska, Colorado, Utah, California, New Mexico, Colorado, New Mexico, and finally got pulled over  and didn't get a ticket in Nebraska where I was going exactly 5 over while exiting a construction zone. I didn't argue that time because my parents had just split up, and only one of them knew, and I needed to get home. I didn't get a ticket for the first time in my life.

The point of creating a god was to remind us that an alternate, objective perspective is possible. But in a species full of “C” students reading spark notes, the details of the message gets lost.

The crime isn't failing to understand the content, the crime is failing to make something for the “C” students to become “A” students. If they like video better, that isn't going to change. You stubborn teachers. If everyone gets an “A,” we'd probably just move on to better things to teach.

I know because I probably got a “D” senior English, where I was told I “couldn't possibly” have read Macbeth in Elementary School in Arizona. I don't know for sure because I still haven't picked up my last report card or my diploma. I knew that in the scale of things, passing tests from that school didn't mean register.

Power, not technology, kept church services in dead languages until only recently. I was taught Macbeth by a teacher who moonlighted as a Comedian, who censored out the scenes with the porter. The only words of the play I actually read in high school were “nose-painting, sleep and

urine.”  I knew the rest already from a man whose dreams, I hope, consisted largely of telling jokes.

We're getting closer to realizing objectivity now with media. Security cameras already see everything as it happens, but limited only to where they are pointed and what their sensors can record.

God creates man in his own image and vice versa. And that's all anything is, an image, sure we make “better images” that show more and more of what's happening, but we can't even physically see what's happening. We know this only because we have instruments that we made to look for things we think of in a way we comprehend. Things Fall Apart.

Sure there might be evidence of a higher power somewhere. Regardless, it's not going to affect how anyone feels unless it changes the way they feel happy. Thanks to the progression of cave paintings to the printing press, emoji's still make the most sense. People who spend all their time writing will take offense to this, but as emoji's are more accessible across a variety of languages across the world, reading text-based communication will soon become an education of luxury.

There's no need to burn books if people don't know how to read them. Try burning the Aztec Calendar that literally everyone has seen—or at least thinks they have. Try reading the hidden features on a LaserDisc.

If it's a sign of intelligence to pull away from the mirror, where is it that the same species makes a video camera, and then realizes that it is only part of a bigger movie?

If some species is watching me right now, on my 30th birthday, it would probably comment “That one sure went a whole lot of places before going nowhere.”

But I'm only a container of ideas. As long as they spill out well I'll be satisfied no matter where I am.

It's the idea that the best ideas should be kept at the top that keeps them from spreading.

Shakespeare, makes South Park make sense, but I grew up being told not to watch one and hating the other. And I had to figure out for myself that together, they are wonderful. But that's the age we live in. Embracing the past while denying the inevitable future is irresponsible. The Swedish skier kid on TV in the  Olympics was right, Wu-Tang is for the children, but not the way most of us experience it as Americans.

It's probably a good thing Americans don't care about big guns as much these days. The world's largest shotgun, parked right next to the world's largest chainsaw, didn't even make the local news when I almost died in sight of them.

But, it was a foggy day.

I'm just guessing that the most excessive of consumerism burned itself out in the 90's—I was there. My parents built a house and a pool out of loans with jobs that they were sure would satisfy them forever. Everybody was doing it. The fountain-of-whatever-you-want was made in a hill range that was there before the fountain but only named after it.

You can't just build a house and get a job every few years forever. Materials run out. The incredible concentration of our Nation’s wealth, and the mismanagement of it, created dozens of artificial populations that don't produce their own food or energy. I know. I spent a decade in Arizona. At one time, Gilbert, where I lived was the fastest growing city in the U.S. We went from 1, to 5 high schools where I was one of over 2000 kids. That was never gonna work. At some point creation for the point of consumption burns out in the desert. Just ask the Hohokam.

My next run in with the law was 8 years and a couple continents later in New Mexico. I was speeding through a canyon between Raton and Angel Fire totally lost and with a nearly empty tank while driving my grandmother's Anti-Abortion sticker laden jeep. I explained that I was speeding, and I was confused.  I got directions to the nearest gas station.

When it was my turn to crash came I felt so slick to be at home in a place that worked off a crash with the cold-war-hype and was making the best of it.

Now I live in a place where there is more fresh water than anywhere else on earth, there are more trees and forests and trails than almost anywhere on earth. And nobody noticed that in the 90's because the winters here are too cold, and construction too remote. In fact almost everything we use is imported.

It took a lot of wandering around to see that. But in 30 years of traveling, I'm still on the same ground. Earth.

On my 30th birthday I want to stop trying to be like anyone but myself, but that person knows it takes other people being themselves to do that.

I'm doing my best just to feel normal, when I was already fucking weird.  But if I don't accept the new me, and embrace the changes I need to make in myself to be able to embrace those around me as well, well I'll be just that.

Fucking Weird. With no patience for lemonade stands.

[thefancyspin]

spill yourself in fearing to be spilt, isak/even, teen.

(jealous!even, someone flirts with isak and even gets jealous/possessive - for anonymous. the title is a reworked shakespeare quote because I’m a hack :D)

For a moment, or two, Even just watches. Jonas and Mahdi are arguing about a girl across the room, and Magnus is madly texting Vilde to find out how long she’s going to be, and Isak -  Isak is talking to a boy. He has short hair and dark skin and he’s wearing reading glasses that he has to keep pushing back up his nose.

He’s cute.

“That’s Arvid,” Sana says quietly into Even’s ear, suddenly next to him. He jumps with his surprise and Sana smiles. “He’s in our biology class.”

“Oh.” Even feels suddenly stupid. Isak has a lot of friends. He talks to a lot of people. It doesn’t bother Even. It shouldn’t. “Nice guy?”

“Very,” Sana says, an affirmative dip of her head and a knowing smile. She’s switched on, Sana, she watches, and she understands. Even likes that about her. Not many people are so present. “You should go say hello.”

“No, no, they’re talking.”

“Right. Just talking. I’m sure they won’t mind.”

Even knows a lot about Isak. He knows big things, like the lies he once told and how the truth of it ate away at him for a long time. He knows the little things like how he likes his tea and coffee, and where to press his fingers to make him laugh, or to make him gasp, or to make him beg for more.

He knows the real things, like how Isak would never touch another guy as long as he was with Even. How Even has nothing to worry about. He knows. 

And yet.

“Halla,” Even says when he goes over to greet them, putting a hand on Isak’s back and pressing his mouth to Isak’s jaw. He just breathes him in for a moment, the familiar smell, the coming home.

“Uh, hi,” Isak says with an awkward laugh, squirming to get some space and introduce his friend. “Arvid, this is Even. Even this is Arvid.”

“Hi,” Even says with a smile, shaking the boy’s hand. He has nice eyes, and a sweet smile and the sudden need to step away from this clutches at Even’s throat. “Nice to meet you.”

“You too,” Arvid says with a nod. 

Even tries to pull away, tries to make some room, but he can’t. Isak’s so warm beneath his hand, and the sound of his laughter pricks at Even’s skin, and the thought of leaving to let some strange boy revel in it all - Even can’t move. 

“What’s wrong with you?” Isak scolds when Arvid politely leaves the conversation, roughly jabbing at Even’s shoulder. Even grins at him, trying to lighten the mood, but he knows it’s too late now. The credits are rolling on Even’s Weird Jealous Episode, he can’t hide from the critical review. 

“What?”

“Seriously? Jesus, come on.”

Isak pushes Even all the way to his bedroom, ignoring Magnus’ catcalls and slamming the door behind them. He’s not wearing his snap-back tonight, and his hair looks so soft, and Even so desperately wants to run his hands through it. Shit. He’s always so desperate for Isak.

“I’m sorry,” he blurts, before Isak can start on him. “I don’t know what that was about. I just saw you talking to a cute boy and I got all...”

“What? Territorial? God, Even, I’m not something you can just piss on whenever you think someone’s getting too close!”

“I know that! I wasn’t trying to ...”

“Scare him off? Because you did.”

“I’m sorry, Isak,” Even says again, softly, crowding close to Isak and Isak letting him. He rests their foreheads together, and tugs at the front of isak’s t-shirt and listens to Isak’s annoyed little sigh. “He seems like a nice guy.”

“He is,” Isak mutters at the ground. “He lets us borrow his notes sometimes. And all his school stuff has Star Wars all over it.”

Even laughs. “That’s cool.”

“I’m only friends with cool people,” Isak tells him matter-of-factly, tilting his head back. 

“That’s true. You were just friends with me once.”

Isak scoffs. “We were never just friends.”

“No,” Even agrees. and watches as Isak’s eyes go a little darker, as his tongue plays at the corner of his mouth. “You’re right.” 

Even imagines there’s plenty of reasons to feel jealous. He might have self doubt - some days he’s just waiting for Isak to say he’s had enough - or he might have distrust or he might be some twisted version of both. Entitled, possessive, territorial. 

Except it’s none of that, really, it’s just.

“Sometimes I want you so much my head can’t keep up with my body,” Even tells him, dragging his thumb across Isak’s cheek, pulling him closer. “I know I shouldn’t say things, or do things, but I see you and I want you and nothing else matters.”

“Okay,” is all Isak says, eyelashes fluttering and mouth slightly open. Even traces his bottom lip with a finger, pink and wet and wanting. His hand trails down over Isak’s jaw and his neck and he holds.

“So I just - when I saw you talking to your friend I just wanted that to be me. I didn’t want to make him go away, I didn’t think you suddenly liked him better, I didn’t think anything bad was going to happen - I just wanted that to be me.”

Even presses his nose in close, feeling the dip of Isak’s throat beneath his hand. “Do you know what I mean?”

“Yeah. I think.”

Even tries to gather him closer, always wants him closer. Maybe this is possessiveness, or maybe he’s just possessed - he’s never had a love that haunts him like this.“I’m sorry,” he says, honestly, pressing a kiss to Isak’s forehead, and his cheek and his chin. “I am,” he tells him again, both hands at his face and bracing.

“Don’t do it again,” Isak tells him, but it’s breathless and pulling and he’s opening his mouth for another kiss, wet and warm and beautiful. Even pushes in and Isak bows back and they tumble onto the bed with rattling laughter.

“It’s always you,” Isak promises, and Even knows what he means. They don’t talk about forever, but they always say right now. And right now it’s just this. And just them.

So Even holds on tight.

[anneedmonds]

Life Update: Linen Changes and Losing My Sh*t

This could be interesting; I’ve given myself forty-five minutes to write my monthly life update and I’m writing it, perhaps unwisely, from bed. Because it’s bloody freezing isn’t it? And we have now entered the month of May, which means that it is now illegal to turn the heating on. In this house, anyway. So I am wearing two cardigans and have scurried upstairs to put my legs under the duvet, which is why I have broken my self-imposed rule of never writing from bed.

It just feels wrong, writing from bed. Like I’m doing fake work. Mind you, I can’t eat or drink in bed either – unless it’s a hotel bed. I think it’s because the thought of having to change the bedding if I spill something is so utterly horrifying to me; it’s bad enough having to wrestle with the mattress cover and the fitted sheet and the duvet cover on the designated linen-change day, I’m not going to risk putting myself in the position where an additional change is necessary. No hot drink is worth that. Changing the duvet alone takes about eight days and that’s once you’ve worked out which way around it goes. Snapping the fitted sheet back on requires the strength and dexterity of twelve world class athletes and don’t even get me started on the complexities of the mattress protector. The only part of linen changing that I find remotely compatible with my skillset is the pillow cases, so I take my time with those and hope that Mr AMR will do the rest.

Anyway, life update: I have forty-five minutes because I am determined to be reading my Kindle and ready for sleep by 11pm and I want to fit a quick bath in before then too. I’ve been taking nightly baths with loads of epsom salts and they’ve been completely knocking me out! It’s brilliant! The deep sleeps coupled with my new exercise regime (I try to do two exercise classes a week, one pilates and one barre class) mean that I’m feeling significantly better than I did at the start of the year. Slightly less stressed (I’m developing something of a c’est la vie sort of attitude towards petty things that are out of my control) and definitely physically fitter, although I must admit that I type this with my belly lying across my lap like a weird, smooth, boneless pet.

It’s actually quite amazing that I think I’m less stressed because when I analyse my actions over the last week, I’ve blown my top at least five times. All with the kids. Can someone please advise on how it’s possible to deal with two simultaneous toddler/small child breakdowns and not completely lose their sh*t? Honestly, when one of them is screaming about an apple not being the right sort of apple and the other is using a chair to climb up into the sink that is filled with dirty pans and sharp knives, and then the doorbell goes and the dog barks and also a work email pops up asking if you’ve remembered the 4pm deadline for the post that needs to be with a client for approval and then the first child starts crying because they are hungry and they really, really need the correct type of apple, peeled and chopped into seven chunks, HOW IS IT POSSIBLE NOT TO COMPLETELY LOSE THE PLOT?

Other battles we’ve had this week; the requests for what amounts to a continuous supply of snacks. Even if they eat loads at mealtimes, they want crackers with peanut butter. Fruit. Not any fruit, just the sort of fruit that’s pricier than gold leaf – blueberries, raspberries, mango. They want slices of ham, small pieces of cheese – “just a tiny piece Mummy!” – and I stand at the cupboard like a big bird feeding morsels to my baby birds, their heads tilted upwards and mouths open, squawking loudly between drops.

Bless them.

How, also, is it possible to feel such gigantic swings of emotion? Elation one moment, when you get a spontaneous cuddle, or there’s a genuine heartfelt laugh at something, and deep despair the next, when you realise that the shadow on the carpet is, in fact, an entire beaker of spilt milk and that both children have been dancing in it whilst you’ve been on the phone to the electricity company.

Angelica (three years and nine months old) has a new hobby: rhyming. She can sing a made-up song for well over half an hour with lyrics made from utter nonsense, but each line ends with perfect rhymes. She’s like a tiny modern Shakespeare – she even adopts a strange, thespian sort of voice to deliver her poetic musings. I don’t know where she’s witnessed this, because she hasn’t yet been to a theatre, but it’s uncanny – she sounds like she’s been on tour with the RSC. Though I have to say that I listen with my heart in my mouth when she gets to certain sounds – “the wizard he likes ducks, in forests he does mucks, and I like doing lucks, and I don’t give two -“

So she likes rhyming, and she also likes throwing herself around in really dramatic power-move sorts of dances. Sometimes at the same time. I’ve had to hide the microphone. Although that’s mainly because Ted (two years and three months old) gets it in his little chubby grip and screams into it with his entire mouth wrapped around the top. It’s excruciating – like nails down a blackboard.

“LOOK MAMA!” he says, now. “LOOK, DADA!” At everything – cars, trees, birds. Objects that have been in the house since the day we moved, that suddenly become a great source of interest, as though they’ve just appeared from a different dimension. “SAUR, MAMA!” he says, pointing at the dinosaur head on his bedroom wall. “BOOKS, MAMA!” “DRAWER, MAMA!”

We’re still safety-pinning Ted into his sleeping bag – forget the pin at your own peril, because you will go up an hour later to find him still awake, naked bottom in the air, mattress soaked in wee and his clothes, nappy and sleeping bag completely dry and neatly cast aside on the floor at the foot of the cot.

Ted’s favourite object of the month: books. Any and all. Angelica’s favourite thing: the kitchen timer. Actually they both love the kitchen timer and they’re always going off with it and twisting the dial to set the alarm. It puts my nerves on edge, I tell you – always dinging at some random moment so that I’m half-expecting a pan of pasta to boil over or a cake to burn in the AGA. (Don’t make me laugh: I’ve never baked a cake in the AGA. I can’t remember the last time I baked a cake full stop!)

It has been an excellent month for non-bribed cuddles – Angelica has thrown herself around me a number of times and not just when I’ve been playing (under duress) the Prince from Cinderella. My most hated role. I even prefer being the evil stepmother. My favourite role of all is being the patient in the doctor’s surgery, because I get to lie down – although you have to be careful when Ted is the doctor because he hits you with the wooden hammer really hard. Clonk! on the knee. Clonk! on the ribcage. Clonk! on the top of your head.

It’s actually quite terrifying when Ted plays the GP – waddling over with his little red bag of tricks. “Teeth!” he says, so that he can check your teeth with the plastic mirror. It’s amazing I have any teeth still in place, the force with which he rips the mirror back out. And he’s a menace with the injection – good God! The look on his face when he administers the shot. Pure sadism.

Ted is the master of cuddles, despite also being a very convincing psychopathic doctor. The way he drapes himself around my shoulders and asks to be carried down the stairs utterly melts me. I still think of him as a baby, but it’s a coping strategy if I’m entirely honest; it’s hard to accept that your babies are no longer babies and then that’s it. When you have babies, you think that they will be like that forever and – although it’s a bloody good job they’re not babies forever – it’s a shock when you realise that you’ll never be needed in the same sort of way again.

Ho hum, moving on – my bath awaits and I have the latest Shardlake book (book seven!) waiting for me on my Kindle. A salt soak, a ten minute snoozy read and I’m off to the land of nod. I wish you all a wonderful bank holiday weekend if you’re in the UK – and a very happy birthday to Rach, my right hand woman and wonderful friend. I’m pretty sure Angelica’s rhyming obsession is your fault, Rach…

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Life Update: Linen Changes and Losing My Sh*t was first posted on May 3, 2019 at 11:16 pm. ©2018 "A Model Recommends". Use of this feed is for personal non-commercial use only. If you are not reading this article in your feed reader, then the site is guilty of copyright infringement. Please contact me at contact@amodelrecommends.com Life Update: Linen Changes and Losing My Sh*t published first on https://medium.com/@SkinAlley

[infinitetao]

From the Somme to the Blind Side Blitz

As a small boy of two years old my mother's dad, or 'Dada' as she called him, came over from Ireland to stay with us. He had worked at Cork Railway Station for many years. His main past times were reading the racing section of the Derby Telegraph, drinking Guinness from the bottle, and watching the racing in the afternoon, which for some reason used to get him 'giving out' to the tv. This was where our wills crossed, and I wasn't to be messed with. He would want to watch the 12:00pm at Doncaster and I wanted to watch 'Bill and Ben the Flowerpot Men' or 'Spotty Dog' on 'Watch with Mother' , which perversely was scheduled always at the same time. Unluckily for me he had a few tricks up his sleeve. ..

My mam loved a good shop, and would get the 32 bus from the Cavendish just outside our house into the town to the market place most days. She took the opportunity of my grandad being around to pop about unencumbered by her smallest blue eyed boy, so with a 'Mind the boy' she was off and the games began. I was a precocious child and would quickly turn the channel over before my grandad could launch his folded newspaper at my head. After a short bout of this he would then use trick one; to banish me to the kitchen. He would shoo me out using the newspaper and close the door which was stiff and I couldn't open. Then things would escalate. I would use all the power in my lungs to drown out the commentator naming horses and their placement at ten to the dozen. My grandad was hard of hearing, something to do with all the artillery shelling he'd endured, so the tv would always be at full blast, but that was nothing compared to me! Later in life I was trained as a singer and my powerful lungs came in quite handy. This is when he used trick two, which sounds terrible today but most parents were happy to use back then, though he was a little more forthright than most, giving me Guinness. He would pass out a bottle of the dark heavy stout, and I would gladly gulp it down. My mam would often find me sleepy and grizzling in the kitchen on her return, I'm sure curious as to why I wasn't in the garden playing as usual...

I remember my first day at school vividly. I was so desperate for learning that somehow we actually arrived a day early and I was placed in a class with the year above me. I seemed to cope so they left me there for the next two years! I was pretty sad when my friends left and I had to stay another year. Normanton Infants School had been a Victorian village school in Old Normanton, and still had the separate entrances for boys and girls and a totally un-child friendly workhouse air about it. Unbeknownst to me at this time the Northern Ireland Conflict had just begun. The first effect it had on me was that soon after I had started school an older boy had for some reason dragged me across the playground laughing while scraping away all the skin from my right elbow. At this time I had a strong Irish accent and this seemed to upset some people, including teachers. I had to visit a clinic to have it checked every week and couldn't use my right arm for a few months, so I started to write with my left hand. Strangely enough this seemed to be the start of my ambidextrous quest; I began doing everything on both sides purposefully and in later life this really helped me in my endeavours.

I was a natural leader and soon had a little gang of guys who would follow me around the playground. The posher Sunny Hill kids stayed well away. I was a rough kid, though I didn't know it, and scared the bejeezus out of them even though I was smaller and scruffier. My compadres came from the same part of Normanton towards the town centre and had more of an affinity for my rough and tumble ways.

I would run home, yes five year olds would make their own way to and from school back then, and recount my adventures to my grandad. He was in his way a nice old man. He never hit me or raised his voice, in fact he was very quiet and didn't talk much. I think it was to do with his experiences in the First World War at the Somme. The Battle of the Somme was one of the bloodiest battles in history. By it's end the Allies and Central Powers had lost 1.5 million men. It was a miracle he survived, this fact was probably due to being captured and becoming a prisoner of war, but he never talked about it, though he would let me play with his medals. It was ironic that after everything he had done his grandchild was being bullied by British kids...

I mentioned to grandad that I had Indian friends at my school. We had a 'reverse Columbus scenario' happening. Columbus mistook the indigenous Americans for Indians, reasoning that he was in India so they must be Indians. Why that was never corrected I'll never know! Grandad had watched a lot of cowboy movies and assumed I meant Comanches and was just fantasising. So he would say 'Did ya foight the Comanches today?' and I would assure him I had. This was when I took to jumping of walls on to my Indian friends as if in battle with a knife in my teeth; this was the best way to deal with Comanches Grandad said. I often ended up banished to the verandah, which was the worst punishment for a boy with too much energy, only allowed to watch the other kids play. Eventually my older sister Yvonne worked out what was going on and put grandad straight telling him to stop inciting me to fight the Indian kids!

When I was eight I arrived at Normanton Junior School and things really kicked off. The troubles in Ireland had expanded to England and anti-Irish sentiment was high. I would have teachers calling me a 'little Irish bastard' and was attacked by the older boys. I remember being pushed down some icy concrete banks and being knocked out, then coming too with them kicking my bag around. Big mistake! I was from a large Irish family and fighting for survival with my older brothers was second nature. This is when I developed the 'Blitz'. I decided my best course of action was to get as close as I could and hit them so fast and so often that they wouldn't be able to defend themselves. It worked, and those Sunny Hill boys didn't know what hit them and they made a bee line for a teacher and I got detention.

The Blitz worked really well. Even after I started martial arts this was my go to strategy for winning a fight. I would naturally end up on their right hand side, little did I know that later in life Grandmaster Cheung would teach me how to get to the blind side and properly control it! I started incorporating knees in to my routine and when I was at Comprehensive school I began to get a name for myself as a tough fighter around Derby. It's a fact that sometimes I would fight with someone and ten minutes later we would be best friends, I'm not sure what that is but I suppose with literally hundreds of kids around you shouting 'fight' you have managed to come through the ordeal and it's a shared experience that you are glad is over!

The last time I use the Blitz was when I was sixteen. I was a prefect as now I was an older boy and we had duties and responsibilities around the school to stop kids running in corridors, making sure they went into class, and also to move kids out of areas they shouldn't be in... very Hogwartien! Myself, Trevor Cherry and Ronnie Stanley who were both well over six feet tall and who were the guards in my basketball team, me being the ball handler, were sent into the toilets to move out some Jamaican kids who were smoking. Trevor and Ronnie weren't to be messed with and easily pushed them out and on to class, they were also from Jamaica and were giving it full 'patois' as they went. I was warned by the kids as they left that I was in trouble but didn't think much about it.

I was sitting in the lower sixth rec room, which was part of what used to be the Colonel of the Sherwood Foresters house, brown brick and long tall ornate chimneys, when there was a bang on the window coming from the stable yard. Outside was a boy called Winston, I say boy but he was about six feet tall and heavily built. He had recently arrived from Jamaica and was probably a couple of years older than me. He called me out 'Ryan, come outside!' I went outside and said 'What are you doing here? This place is off limits'. I noticed Mr Ludlum the form head peering out from his office through a gap in the curtains, looking a bit unnerved. 'I'm going to teach you a lesson!' In a way I felt sorry for him as he was new and I told him 'Those guys aren't your friends they're just using you to do their dirty work, so just go now while you can'. I had a flair for the dramatic even then! He was standing with his legs astride and arms behind his back. Suddenly he swung at me with a long heavy pole that he had hidden behind him. I can't actual remember what happened then, even immediately after the fight. I was so incensed that he would use a weapon, which just wasn't done then, that I lost it. When I came to my senses I had the pole in my hand and he was lying on the floor. Apparently I had Blitzed his ass then taken the pole and finished him off then chased his 'mates' around the stable yard! This was the last time I would use the Blitz strategy.

Mr Ludlam was I think secretly impressed. He didn't report what happened but somehow word got out to the deputy head, the dreaded Mr Done, and I was summoned to his office. Mr Done taught me English. He could dissect Shakespeare with aplomb. I'm pretty sure he could also dissect people just as easily. I once saw him hammer fist a wooden desk and split it in two. He once ushered us back into class while smacking the head of a claw hammer repetitively into his hand with a strange look in his eye... Winston was already there. Whoever tended to his wounds liked to watch Tom and Jerry as he had criss cross band aids stuck all over. After hearing the full story Mr Done told us to 'shake hands boys' and let us leave. Winston whispered on his way out 'You're Kung Fu was no good!' I went home, being distantly followed by Winston...

This following continued for about a week. His follow team grew larger and larger until it eventually became a few hundred people. I would stand in my front garden as they would traipse by down Derby Lane hoping to see some action. Winston had by this time removed the band aids and perhaps this helped him forget what had happened as he eventually stopped in front of my house and again called me out. 'Ryan! Ryan! You're Kung Fu was no good!' To have hundreds of people outside your house is pretty intimidating, but I'd been used to having large crowds watch me fight in tournaments by now. My younger brother Declan was so worried he ran out with an ornamental Scottish Claymore, I told him to bring it back inside! I was told by one guy 'Ryan, why don't you just go home?' I told him 'I am home!' Something had to be done and I was the one to do it. I walked over to Winston and the crowd roared. Again Winston said 'Ryan, you're Kung Fu is no good' this time I said, and I quote 'You want Kung Fu, I'll show you Kung Fu!' and cracked him in the temple with a spinning axe kick. He was out on his feet, but he was a big strong lad and didn't fall, his mates helped him away. The crowd went wild but sadly no video exists, no mobile phones back then. My big sis Deirdra came out I ushered her back in as she was going to try and chase him and give him a slapping for attacking her little brother!

About four years later I came down from London to visit and was at the house in Derby Lane. There was a ring on the door bell. It was a real bell with a pull device at the front door and it would ring in the living room. Someone had pulled it violently. I went out to answer, opened the door and there was Winston! He'd obviously held a bit of a grudge. He said 'I heard you were back. Since I last saw you I have been training, training hard for four years, every day, in Karate. I have been running and doing conditioning and sparring waiting for this day and...' I said that's nice good for you!' and closed the door. He never rang the door bell again and that was the last time I saw him! Hopefully all that training will have forged him into a better person...

[theliterateape]

This New Road Will Some Day Be the Old Road, Too

by Don Hall

There were many things I enjoyed about London but London was not one of them.

It was best in the earliest hours on either end of the day - before anyone has risen from sleep, as the streets are slightly abandoned or after most sensible people have retired for them night and the only folks out are the desperate or the lucky.  Even then, however, the place was too jammed in like an entire city population too fat for the skinny jeans they had been squeezed into.  And dirty.  Not dusty.  Wichita is dusty.  Sedona is dusty.  This was grimey as if a layer of greasy soot coated the cracks and spaces untouched and made your skin feel like you were being slightly prepped for sautéing.  

It was decades ago but the realization that I only love New York City for a maximum of two days in a row before I want nothing more than to leave solidified over several trips to The Big Apple.  To fully enjoy NYC, I need to not be staying in the city but just outside of it and for as few days as possible.

Leading up to our third wedding anniversary, DMJ and I decided at first we wanted to go to Edinburgh, Scotland for the Edinburgh Festival Fringe but decided that August was a bit too early for the trip and we didn't want to be landlocked to the non-stop activity that takes over Edinburgh that time of year.  We talked it over and decided it would be London in September with a day trip to Scotland if we wanted to in the moment.

I perused the Priceline deals and things went from a $4800 trip to a $2600 trip and we nailed down flights (the cheap tickets included a seven hour layover in Detroit going there) and our modest hotel and we were set.  Travel guides were read, plans were planned and discarded and planned again.  Ten days in London, England.  Rock On. 

CHAPTER ONE: NAKED TV and PLUSH PLAGUE RATS

We stayed in a small 3-star hotel on Bayswater (a few blocks from Hyde Park and the Paddington Station hub for trains and the Tube.)  The room was tiny but the bed was adequate.  The bathroom, however, was so Lilliputian that I could rest my chin on the sink while dropping a deuce (seated sideways because of spacial constraints...) 

The first night found us watching British television.  We landed on a strange dating show called "Naked Attraction."  Like any other dating show except that the choser gets to see the six possible dates naked before he/she chooses, starting with the feet and working up.  Obviously, it's the genitals that get the most on-air attention.  And, of course, we were fascinated.

This show set a stage for some fairly bizarre stuff we encountered on our stay.  

The documentary on penis size.  I mean, a whole documentary about guys with giant dicks.  DMJ loved it.

The random Persian guy who was suddenly very friendly, who thought he'd ingratiate himself to us by telling us how much he loved Trump, who tried to get us to hang out with him by quoting his father "Where there is a contact, there is a contract." Insisting that we have coffee with him.  He was holding a book - “From MTV to Mecca” - and insisted that the author was his girlfriend but the book seemed brand new, she hadn’t signed it and maybe the Trump-love colored my perceptions but he seemed off.  I'd watched enough Better Call Saul to know where that was going so we got away from him and felt certain at coffee there would arrive a friend of his and the task of separating our money from our persons would be in play.

And, at the Globe, in the gift shop, the plush toy Plague Rats.  Seriously.  Someone thought in a store filled with reminders of Shakespeare, a cuddly stuffed rat that had brought the bubonic plaque to England was a real seller.

CHAPTER TWO: Finding Wonder in a World of the Driven

DMJ and I always have a specific source of dissonance when we go on holiday: she prefers to avoid anything touristy and enjoys walking about the place discovering things that make her smile while I prefer to immerse myself into those historic and/or gaudy places that give me a sense of the history of the city.  In other words, DMJ is all about the present as discovered in the now and I am all about the past as discovered by paying a serious fee to enter and avoid being sold plastic bullshit along with the history.

There were many things we both loved about London but London itself was not among these things.  The city felt like New York City 200 years after the Empire had fallen - the Center of the Universe, the Hotbed of Commerce and International Focus Left Behind.  The sense of seas of unhappy faces streaming into the Tube or along the streets to their jobs, dressed for business rather than comfort, the rat race embodied, was far more standard than my expectation of Europe.

On the other hand, amidst the hustle of the business class swarming the city in search of pounds, we discovered or paid for a series of lovely experiences in London.

Madame Tussauds was the London version of the place and sort of like Wax Museum Central worldwide.  For some unexplained reason, I LOVE wax museums.  So, of course, we had to go.  DMJ had never been to one and now can say she's been to the best, therefore she never has to go to one with me again.  This one provided one of my favorite photo ops of the entire trip:

Sir John Soane's House was one of DMJ's planned outings.  An architect and collector, his house was three floors and a basement of the most meticulous hoarder or architectural ephemera imaginable (including a sarcophagus.)

The British Museum was one that DMJ passed on but I had to go experience.  One of the oldest museums in the world and free at that, this place could've taken me two days to truly explore but I managed to get a solid visit in under four hours and was amply blown away by the sight of ancient shit, mostly taken legally, from all over the known world.  Mummies, busts, the Rosetta Stone, a clock made by Copernicus.

Shakespeare's Globe Theatre was kind of amazing.

Hyde Park/Kensington Gardens.  DMJ loves to be outside in the sun among green stuff and people.  Therefore, we toured almost every park and every garden (including an incredible little Oriental Garden in the center of Holland Park) in London but the biggest and best was the giant park just blocks from our hotel.  The Kensington Palace, tributes to Diana, an Italian Gardens, the Serpentine Gallery with an extraordinary exhibit on the nature of being black by Arthur Jafa.  We also managed to run into Robert Neuhaus and his wife Amy - we agreed that after me leaving "Wait Wait...Don't Tell Me!" it was far more likely to hang out in London than in Chicago.

Covent Garden Market was one of several open-air marketplaces in the city that we visited.  This included a woman singing opera in the courtyard, some of the best gelato ever, and a Moomin store.  I had never heard of Moomin but DMJ went apeshit when she saw there was a store.  Of course, we bought things there.

Of course there were more minuscule and grandiose pockets of extraordinary places we encountered.  Buckingham Palace, the Tower Bridge, the Tower of London, and the Leighton House Gallery with a unique Alma-Tadema exhibit that DMJ had a Moomin-like reaction to as well.

And fucking Abbey Road.

CHAPTER THREE: Wherein I Realize That, While I Am in Relatively Good Shape, My Body is as Fragile as a Fucking Faberge Egg

Sunday afternoon, after a quick nap from walking all creation and back, I get up, bend over to put on my shoes and my lower back goes into a spasm that is an eight on the OMG Pain Scale.  Later, my mother tells me that, in her opinion, these back spasms hurt worse than childbirth.  Having never given birth, I can't corroborate but it fucking hurt in a huge WTF?! surprise that left my brain spinning and my body immobile.

DMJ went out and bought me heat packs, ibuprofen, and made a makeshift cold pack.  I lay on my back with my legs elevated.  I slept on the floor in agony that night.  The next morning, I was in pain but could get up.  We went out but I realized pretty shortly that , while I could walk, I couldn't sit down for more than 20 seconds before a shooting pain went from my back down my legs and up again.

I felt like I was suddenly 94 years old.

We ate in a restaurant on Portobello Road called The Distillery.  The food was maybe the best meal we had the whole time and they were gracious enough to allow me to stand at the bar to eat instead of stand at a table like a bizarre jackass.

I was just a walking ache but managed to muscle through it for the most part.  I mean, what the fuck are you gonna do?  Stay in your hotel room, lying on the goddamn floor, 6,000 miles from home?  Nah.

The worst I had it was three days after.  The pain was rough and I had eaten something odd the night before.  We were walking around downtown London, checking things out, when I was suddenly hit with some intestinal distress.  Like most major cities, there are no public toilets in London.  DMJ suggested a church.

Which is how I found myself dropping a massive deuce in 15-second increments because it hurt so much to sit down and shit that I had to keep standing up in the bathroom of a 500-year old place of worship and stretch my back.

Back in the States, I've mostly recovered with the exception that the skin on my right thigh up to the right half of my crotch is numb.  Which is weird.

CHAPTER FOUR: Scotland Makes Me Wish I Had Been Born There

The afternoon three days before we were to head back to Chicago, London had begun to take her toll.  DMJ had wanted to go to Somerset House and, while it was fine, between her missing home and/or Paris and me feeling like I was being twisted in half 65% of the time from the waist down, we were both feeling less than upbeat.

I decided to head off on my own to the British Museum, she decided to go back to the hotel.  I did go to the museum and loved it, she instead drank red wine for a few hours.  When she came back to the room she was a bit lit and in a rotten mood.

"Let's go to Edinburgh tomorrow.  Anyplace but here!"

So I booked our high-speed rail tickets and splurged on a $400 a night hotel room smack dab in the center of the city.  The next morning, we packed for an overnight stay and headed to Scotland.

I had been to Edinburgh for a month in 1995 when I took two shows to the Fringe and had maintained a sense that Scotland was magical.  I frequently told people that Edinburgh was the one other place on the planet I could live outside of Chicago.  As we trained our way across the beautiful, green countryside, I wondered how much of my love for the place was an exaggerated thing exacerbated by the distance of 22 years.

It was not overblown.  From the second we pulled into the station, I felt a unique calm and delight.  I felt like I was home again.  The hills.  The green.  The castle turrets.  The craggy rocks.  The brick streets.  The sights and sounds.  The smell.  And DMJ felt it, too.  Suddenly, the trip took on the wonder of traveling someplace amazing that we had hoped we'd experience in London.

It was lovely.  We went and toured Edinburgh Castle.  We had whisky and I had a deconstructed haggis that was outstanding.  We walked through cemeteries and up hills and drank and talked about the things we loved about London.  It turned out we had enjoyed ourselves more than the last few days seemed.

And then again, back to our little hotel room and out the next day to fly ten hours home.

EPILOGUE

The most important thing on this entire trip was that we flew out to the United Kingdom to celebrate our third anniversary and we did.  The night of September 12, we walked a few blocks to a traditional pub called "The Swan," went upstairs, ordered drinks and food and dessert and toasted our good fortune at finding one another.

In Edinburgh, in a quaint courtyard square that housed the Writer's Museum, there were engraved stones peppered about on the walkway.  One of them nailed exactly how I was feeling:

"And yet - And yet, this New Road will some day be the Old Road, too." - Neil Munro (1863-1930)

My life with DMJ is just that - a series of New Roads that quickly become Old Roads (or at least roads we have travelled upon together) - and in my imagination of what has come before and what new roads and adventures lay ahead, it is the together part that makes it worth doing.