#and uh back to the topic of feedback + reception

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

I Knew You Were Trouble When You Walked In 2

Warnings: non/dubcon, medical procedures including dialysis and chronic illness, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

Characters: Pete Brenner, short!reader

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging.

Another appointment. The routine is both reassuring and defeating. That you have to devote so much time to sitting in one place having your blood cleansed just to function feels inhumane, almost oppressive. Yet those three or four hours also feel like an escape, an excuse to just be there and focus on a book or some work or even just close your eyes.

That day, you have an important report to get through. You find yourself fidgeting and tugging against the IV. You really can’t be late with this. You’re in budget season and your supervisor is on a Teams rampage. If she could stop messaging for two seconds, you might actually get something done.

The time passes in a dash. Louise brings you back to the present as she removes the tube from your arm and confirms your next appointment for Sunday. Not exactly how you like to spend your weekend but you don’t have anything else going on. Sometimes it feels like your condition is your entire existence.

You pack up, yawning. You’re impossibly tired. You didn’t sleep much and your blood pressure tends to dip at the end. You lift your bag and sling it over your shoulder, stifling another yawn as you say goodbye to the receptions and head out into the hall.

The building is mostly quiet. The businesses all operate on an appointment basis and walk-ins are uncommon. The jeweller near the back of the place never seems to be open but that day, the door is open and you hear voices coming from within. You keep your steps light as you pass, trying not to disturb the conversation.

“That’s a real Rolex, bud,” a man snorts, “your loss.”

You hit the wall with your shoulder as you dodge the body that emerges from the jeweller, the door snapping at his back. You cling to your bag and back up, blinking at the man who crowds you. Your chest sinks, no, not him.

It had been two weeks since your run-in with the stranger and maybe foolishly, you thought you’d dodged him for good. You press yourself against the plastic and sputter dumbly. You look down the hall towards the stairs.

“Sorry, excuse me,” you utter and go to slip by. 

You’re stopped as his arm stretches across the narrow hall and blocks you, his other hand on his hip, “hey, you again,” he intones, adding your name on the end.

You back up and cross your arms. There’s no alternative route out of here, he’s got you trapped.

“Pete,” he pats his chest, “you remember, don’t you, dolly?”

You flutter your lashes and look at your fitbit, trying to imply your rush.

“Er, no,” you lie, “sorry, I have somewhere to be–”

“No, no, I know you remember me,” he insists, keeping his arm in place, “you helped me find that wellness hoo haa whatever. Real con artists, those ones.”

“Sorry, I don’t–”

“I get it, you’re shy,” he chuckles, “you don’t gotta be. I’m a nice guy.” He looms over you, “how about I walk you to your train?”

You look up at him and he winks, the stubble of an ungrown goatee trims his jaw and mouth, “no thanks.”

You try to step to the other side and he quickly pens you in again. “Hey, hey, come on, I owe you. You were so helpful last time, how about a drink?”

“Uh, I don’t drink,” you touch the outside of your jacket pocket, feeling the shape of your phone, “really, it’s fine. It wasn’t a big deal.”

“So you do remember,” he smirks.

“N– look, I…” your head is swirling, you just want to get to the station and get on the train. Once you sit down, you’ll mellow out, “it’s a nice gesture but I’m not… I’m not interested.”

“Hmm,” he still doesn’t budge and his eyes flick up, scanning the wall behind you. “Oh, man, you’re here for that?”

“What, I–”

“Dialysis. Tough shit,” he sighs, “never would’ve guessed. Must be hard.”

“I don’t– I need to catch my train-”

“I got a car,” he offers, “so if you want a ride–”

You swallow as your neck itches with heat. You want him to get out of your way. You don’t like the way he’s got you trapped or how he seems to assume to know you.

“No, thank you,” you enunciate clearly, “please, I need to go.”

“Alright,” he puts his hands up, “like I said, I’ll walk you. Make sure you get there safe–”

“I don’t need you to do that,” you ring the strap of your bag and his gaze focuses on the gesture until you stop yourself.

“I make you nervous, sweetie?”

You don’t know what to say. You feel like you’re going to boil over. He’s frustrating and constantly changing the subject, never quite responding to what you’re actually saying. You swallow your breath and hold it in. You’re going.

You put your elbow out and jab it into his stomach as you force your way past him. You quickly scurry by as he grunts in surprise and you hurry towards the stairs, pushing through the door as he calls after you. You ignore him as the metal door clangs shut in your stead.

You catch yourself against the top of the railing and hear a cackle from the other side of the wall. He’s laughing. At you. Well, you don’t think he’s very funny. In fact, he’s a bit scary.

[sweetalnazar]

I saw your tags about people not reading fics bc its not smut but I just want to assure you you're underestimating the ammount of people who dont actually want smut in this fandom

Aaksjdhakjdas i didn't expect someone to read my vent post much less reply, so thanks for the reassurance, anon, it's very kind of you 💖

Don't worry, I don't think no one at all would read, it's more of the reception I'd receive I guess?

Statistically speaking, lemons (to use old fanfic speak) tend to perform much better than most fics. I wouldn't be surprised if reader fics were the same (fun fact: my most popular fic is both smutty and a reader fic lol). Those types of fic are just easier for a larger audience to get into imo, and as a result, will have a higher chance of getting more kudos/comments

It’s not a bad thing, but, well I have a lot of self esteem issues, particularly in regards to Validation™ (thank u childhood trauma). I compare myself against ppl automatically and if I don't 'perform as well‘, if there's an absence of sufficient Validation (in this case, a certain number of comments/kudos/etc), it feels like a rejection. I tend to take those quite hard and I almost always end up just quitting a project partway through when that happens

Good news is I'm getting a Lot better at managing my feelings and responses and being more mindful of my mental health in general, and preventing stuff like this from happening. 😁😁

That's why I'm doing my best to finish this entire fic so I can post the whole thing and not leave readers hanging (also bc i would rly rly like to finish a WIP one of these days 😂😂)

But I really appreciate the ask, and well, for the curious, here's the current summary I've come up for the fic:

“Let’s make a promise. From now on, let’s see each other again every year, no matter what. Even if it’s only once.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

This is a story of a love that was an almost, a nearly-meant-to-be.

This is a story of a quiet love that went unspoken, that could have been but never was.

This is the story of you and me.

Also another snippet from my (super duper extremely super) rough draft

Once, there was a little 5-year old, in his warm home with his parents. His mom had taken out her qanun, her most treasured possession, while his dad carried him, riq in the young child’s hand.

“Ready, habibi?”

The child bobbed his head excitedly.

“Just like I showed you,” his dad whispered, squeezing the child close.

Aisha began to play, and the small child joined in, his tiny hand slamming the riq as hard as he could while his dad laughed and sang snippets of Zadithi along with the melody.

The room grew brighter, pink light washing over the room, crystallizing the memory.

And then, Asra awoke.

[thriftlita]

I've been away from the fandom a while, so I'm a little out of the loop. I was just wondering, what's so controversial about the game you're making?

Uh...hoo.

So it’s about the ghosts of nations’ pasts coming back to haunt them, either in terms of personal, very human guilt, or literal ghosts going boogity boo and getting up to shit. The subject matter of Hetaculpa is heavy as fuck, and addresses such topics as the division of nationkind’s free will/human emotions and their boss’ directives, globalization, grief and mortality, generational trauma, American imperialism, monarchism, and the like. Most people when presented with this idea had no idea how Kyo and I were going to tackle these issues, and some people felt like we weren’t addressing their concerns when they approached us on stream. People have also assumed that certain characters were going to represent certain events in history that were never, EVER going to be present within the game itself (Anything ‘2P Japan’ related, N*zi Germany and N*zism in general, the Holocaust, anything and everything the Soviets did, for example), and it spiraled from there. Attempting to reassure people made things worse. One thing lead to another, and things were...scary, for a while. We’ve addressed many of these issues since, including adjusting dialog with direction/approval from people with experience with the history in question, fielded questions and asking for feedback, sending dialog samples out, tweaking character moments, ect. So far, after the dialog tweaking and initial blow-out, reception has been relatively positive.

...but I’m always afraid it’s not enough.

This was never intended to be a game made for shock value, but something educational, to push the limits of what we felt appropriate for a platform like this. It was an answer to the political debauchery going on over our heads. We are open to suggestions and concerns. We’re doing our best to be as accurate as possible. We’re always willing to learn. Its given us the chance to talk to other Hetalia history buffs, and people have been sharing their personal experiences with us. Their contributions have enriched this game well past what it originally was. I’m still scared to death though. Anxiety’s a bitch, and it likes to whisper that I haven’t read enough books, I haven’t watched enough documentaries, I’ve missed a paper somewhere, I haven’t seen enough movies or read enough autobiographies or enough chronicles, ect ect. It’s never enough. ...and I’ll still be scared even after it’s fully released. It’s made me kind of nervous to stream my work regarding HetaCulpa, but I’ve already made my bed. I have to lie in it, even if it’s on fire, and pray I don’t drag Kyo down with me.

[blueboyluca]

Uh can you explain the fenzi thing a little bit more? I do not have facebook anymore so I never see the latest dog drama and whatnots, but I certainly do not want to continue giving my money to a company that is ignorant to, and blatantly against, what is happening in America ATM.

Denise Fenzi, in her Alumni Group on Facebook, shut down a discussion about how white the dog training industry is and what could be done to change it. I did not see the original post, but apparently it was mostly constructive.

Fenzi then posted at least three follow up “apologies” excusing her silencing of BIPOC because it was “off topic”, she didn’t have the “bandwidth to moderate”, she was “being logical”... basically a bunch of racist bullshit. This made people angrier, and each subsequent post received a flurry of comments and reactions (unless she had comments turned off). Some people were also removed from the group. According to the admin team, they were removed for sharing screenshots. According to people that were removed, it was for pettier reasons, like adding a sad react to one of Denise’s fake apologies.

The final straw I guess you could say, is that Fenzi said that she was taking a step back from the company’s Facebook presence to “breathe”. This post showed very clearly how much Fenzi was wilfully misunderstanding and that she was electing to not be a leader for her own organisation, and in essence using her admin staff as a shield. The subtext, in my opinion, was that inclusivity is not important to FDSA and if you are a BIPOC and want to talk about your experiences with racism in the dog training industry, you are not welcome to do so in FDSA spaces.

The admin staff then had a few posts following that asked for feedback on how they could do better and what needed to change. It seems they were genuinely receptive, because Denise Fenzi finally posted yesterday with a real apology and an action plan for how to make FDSA more diverse and anti-racist.

That post can be read on the FDSA Facebook page here. I am pleased with this announcement, but deeply disturbed by what happened to get here.

In the meantime, some amazing people in the dog training world have made a new Facebook group called Inclusivity in Dog Training that has already had some really great discussions about issues with racism in the dog training world. It’s also nice to see some big name trainers in the group – I hope this means they will all work towards being more inclusive.

I am sharing these details because I think it’s important we hold the prominent figures in our community accountable for their actions and accept that they are flawed human beings like all of us who, if they wish to be leaders, need to do better by their communities.

[kasdeyathebitterwoman]

Running Mate Part 3

Welp. There’s going to be a part 4 and probably several other parts to continue this story…the response to part 1 has been insane and y’all definitely seem to be enjoying part 2 as well, so thank you! 

Description: While running in the English countryside, Henry meets a fun documentarian and sparks fly. 

Word Count: 2,255

CW: none, fluff

Every day after your coffee date, you and Henry had talked via text message. He was charming and sweet in a way that most others were not. When you weren’t running with him, you were talking about a variety of topics from PC gaming to Ancient Egypt. You found a common love of history which was rare for you. Not everyone enjoyed listening to you go on about some ancient Roman or Grecian fact that you’d learned.

And now a week later, you were standing in the reception area of a private theater chatting with a friend and film critic from the area. As a tradition, your team held a sort of cocktail party before a viewing to give your guests a chance to mingle and learn more about the film from the producers. You were dressed in a sleek black halter dress with black pumps and minimal gold jewelry while your hair tumbled down your shoulders in a half-up, half-down hairdo. You found this dress that very day and fell in love. It hugged your curves just right and made you feel sexy, without being obvious.

Nervously, you glanced around the room looking for evidence of him. It was still early in the evening, so he wasn’t there yet. You ended up in a conversation with one of the directors on your staff. They were talking about a recent experience with a project and you couldn’t help from laughing. You closed your eyes, tipped your head back, and laughed. When you opened your eyes, your gaze slid toward the front door where you saw Henry stride in. He was wearing black slacks, a gray button-down shirt with the top to buttons undone, and a plain black jacket. His normally curly locks were smoothed out into loose waves and smoothed back so he looked even more like Superman than he already did. Your breath caught in your lungs and for a moment. Henry peered around the room before his eyes landed on you and you swear you saw the same thing happen to him. Then a beaming smile grew across his face and then walked confidently to you.

“Hello there,” Henry said as he got closer to you. You accepted an embrace and a kiss on the cheek from him and you could easily smell this cologne. It was earthy and musky with a hint of floral that you couldn’t place, but you didn’t mind.

“Hey,” you said smiling as Henry leaned back up after kissing your cheek. “Thank you for coming,” you said, genuinely thankful he showed up.  

“Of course,” he replied. “I’m happy to be here,” he smiled down at you and your heart skipped several beats, but someone clearing their throat brought you back to reality. It was David, the director friend you’d been talking with.

“Uh, Henry this is one of our in-house directors, David,” you say, gesturing toward David who gently waves. “David, this is my friend Henry,” you continue, gesturing to Henry. The men shake hands and chuckle.

“Oh yeah, I know who he is,” David says and Henry raises an eyebrow. “How’s your support for England treating you, mate?” David asks and Henry laughs suddenly. The two begin discussing, you slowly figure out, rugby. “Y/n, what do you think?” David asks at one point, turning to you. Your eyes grow wide and you look between the two men.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” you reply and the men exchange a glance.

“Rugby,” David says slowly and you bob your head.

“Yeah, no clue,” you say and Henry chuckles as David shakes his head.

“Damn, Yank,” he says and you openly scoff.

“Hey now, to be fair, I don’t even understand American football that well,” you start. “I played soccer in high school,” you say and Henry bellows at that. You smile at the sound, feeling your heart flutter again. David shakes his head and says that he’s going to get another drink from the bar. Henry agrees to go with him to get his own drink and you continue to mingle around the room. This was your least favorite part of the film making process, but you knew it had to happen. Henry found you again and offered you a glass of champagne which you graciously accepted.

“I have to admit,” he started, after taking a gulp of his Guinness. “If movie premieres were like this, I think I’d enjoy them much more,” he smiles at you with an eyebrow raise and you laugh sardonically.

“Really? I’ve never actually been to a bonafide movie premiere,” you say and Henry bobs his head.

“They’re honestly just horse and pony shows, but I have to do them,” he says, a tinge of irritation in his voice. You smirk.

“Oh that’s what this is as well,” you say and Henry raises that eyebrow at you. “That group over there,” you say, tilting your head to your left a little and watch as Henry subtly checks them out. “Is a group of our backers. They gave us money to make this documentary, so we have to show them finished product so they can tear it to shreds before the festival season,” you say this sardonically and Henry chuckles. A sound causes you both to turn around. It’s an usher announcing that it’s time to enter the theater for the viewing. “Oh by the way,” you start suddenly. You open the little clutch you brought with you pulling out a ticket. “This is your seat. Sorry, I forgot to give it to you earlier,” you hand Henry the piece of card-stock and his finger brushes your skin. You feel your knees turn to jelly instantly. He smiles as he takes it, then gestures for you to go ahead of him like a true gentleman.

As Henry finds his seat, you move the front of the room where James is standing with a film critic and friend. He sees you and smiles gently. You walk up to him, giving him a half hug.

“And who’s your friend?” James asks, his eyes darting quickly in Henry’s direction. You squint at him, your nose twitching as you try not to smile.

“Just that - a friend,” you reply, though James clearly doesn’t believe you.

“Mhmm,” he muses and you roll your eyes at him. He accepts a microphone from an usher and begins the opening comments. “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you all for coming to another Bulldog Westley Production screening. I’m James and this is y/n, and we are the team behind this company. We are absolutely grateful to have each and every one of you here, but I’m going to let y/n take over because ultimately, this film was her project,” he says, turning to hand you the mic. You take it and smile at everyone.

“Hey y’all,” you say in your usual twang and several people chuckle. “As James said, we are very grateful to have all you here. For many of us, this ain’t our first rodeo,” you say, waving to all the backers in the audience and laughing with them. “For those that are new here, hi, I’m y/n. I’m from Texas and I love documentaries. I get to work with one of my best friends,” you say, glancing at James who is smiling gently. “And I’m honored that he lets me spend real time and effort on things that I’m truly passionate about,” you smile around the room at everyone. Your eyes land on Henry for just a moment and you feel your heart flutter. “Alright, ooey-gooey stuff aside, there is just a little housekeeping I have to go over,” you say, pausing to make sure everyone is paying attention. “Number one, please, please, please, make sure your cellphones are turned off. This is an advanced screening and we are really hoping this does well in the festival circuit. It can’t do that if someone leaks even one second of footage. And number two, under every seat there is a feedback card. I’d love to know your thoughts about this when we are done. It is anonymous, so if you do say something ugly, I’ll never know it was you, but remember this,” you pause, staring everyone down. “I will think about it every single day for the rest of my life,” you joke and the audience bursts out in laughter. “Okay, that’s it for the intro. Ladies and gentlemen, we are Bulldog Westley Productions and this is our latest documentary, Take Me Home Country Roads,” everyone claps as you and James walk off stage to your seats. You gave Henry the seat next to you and he was smiling wide when you walked up.

“You were incredible,” he murmurs as you take your seat. You smile wide, grateful that the lights are dimming so he can’t see you blushing like crazy. Your nerves are amplified as the doc begins and the opening bars of “Take Me Home (Country Roads)” by John Denver begin. Without realizing it, your hand reaches out to Henry’s hand for comfort. He accepts your hand willingly, squeezing your hand gently. You can see him smile at you out of the corner of your eye and you feel yourself smile in response.

What you hadn’t been able to explain to Henry before this night was that the documentary he was viewing was incredibly personal. It was more a personal diary about a trip you took with your dad and your grandmother back to her home town of Grant Town, West Virginia. The documentary was based around the fact that your grandmother was going home to bury the last of her six sisters. It had been years since she had seen anyone or her home town. You had never been and you wanted to learn more about your dad’s family, so you asked if you could come along and film the experience. James thought it would make a great documentary and thus, the project was born.  

An hour and fifty-two minutes later, there wasn’t a dry eye in the house when the lights came back on. Henry, who was still holding on to your hand by the end of the film, let go to dab at his eyes as you made your way to the front of the room again. You and James received a standing ovation from the audience, then watched as everyone began to head back out to the reception area. Henry lingered to the side as you thanked a few of the backers that came to congratulate you on a job well done. When the last backer had gone, Henry came up to you.

“That was incredible,” he said, a faraway look in his eye. You accepted a hug from him and smiled at the compliment.

“Thank you,” you reply into his chest, taking in his smell again which as lingered. He pulled back to compliment you, but he just kept opening and closing his mouth and shaking his head.

“I mean, just,” he started and stopped. “Wow, that is going to do amazing in the festival circuit, y/n,” he says and you blush.

“I certainly hope so,” you respond, smiling. You stare at Henry, who’s staring right back, with amusement and happiness. You can hear someone walking up to you and glance over your shoulder to see James walking over.

“Hey y/n,” he says quickly, smiling and waving at Henry. “Hi, I’m James,” he says. Henry introduces himself and they shake hands. “Y/n, we need to get back out there and talk to a few backers before they leave,” he says before turning and walking away. You nod and turn back to Henry. It’s just the two of you now in the theater.

“Sorry, duty calls,” you say and he smiles at you.

“I understand,” he replies. “I actually need to get going myself, but I was wondering. Do you think I could see you again tomorrow?” he asks and you smile wide.

“I’d like that,” you reply. Henry nods and leans down to kiss you on the cheek. “You missed,” you say. Henry looks at you puzzled. “You missed,” you repeat, but Henry’s brow is no less furrowed. Ever so slightly rolling your eyes, you grab the collar of Henry’s jacket, stand up on your tip-toes, and pull him in for a kiss. It’s a surprise at first and Henry isn’t ready. It’s all a shock for both of you and you take a step back. “I’m sorry, that was forward and impolite. I’m so sorry,” you say, but Henry is shaking his head no.

“No, no, that was,” he starts, a little breathless. “That was really good,” he finishes. Then he steps forward closing the gap between you and kisses you. It’s raw and passionate and delicious. You wrap your arms around his broad shoulders while his hands snake around your waist. After a moment, you release yourself from him and take a step back. Breathing heavy, you look at him and he’s smiling like a schoolboy after his first snog.

“I have to go,” you say, still breathing heavily. You move to hurry off, but you stop and look at Henry over your shoulder. “And don’t look at my butt as I walk away,” you say dramatically, before turning and running for the door. The sound of Henry’s laughter follows you and you can’t remove the smile that is now permanently attached to your face.

[raulsparza]

The Abyss and Wonderful Things

Summary:  Windom invites Dale over for chess and dinner following Dale's first kill in the FBI. Dale seeks comfort, praise, and reassurance that Windom is so readily able to provide.

Notes: This is entirely inspired by my recent reading of The Autobiography of FBI Special Agent Dale Cooper: My Life, My Tapes in which Dale reports that Windom invited him over after he first discharged his weapon in the field. Before Windom became who is in the show, he proved to be a mentor and confidante for Dale that Dale cared deeply for. I took this a bit further...I see Windom as possessive and more than excited to have a young protegee at his fingertips. Dale, eager for praise in his new career, takes to this quickly.

Windom excitedly ushered Dale into the back room for a game of chess right when Dale arrived. The first game was over in seven moves, with Windom coming out on top. This wasn’t Dale’s first time playing chess, but he clearly had much to learn. Rather than be annoyed at Windom’s clear display of arrogance and superiority, Dale was happy to start another game, this time asking for advice.

And Windom taught and Dale listened. Eager to be partnered with someone who had so much knowledge to give. He was curious by nature; Earle knew this and wanted to train Dale up. To reinforce his questions and insights. Windom loved having a pupil, both at work and in the game, and the wide-eyed, tracking look Dale would give him during a lesson energized him like no other.

“Rook to E6” Dale announced, lifting his rook between two slight fingers and moving it to hover over a space occupied by one of Windom’s pawns. Dale lifted the pawn in his same hand, maneuvering the rook down as he did so. He was about to pull away when suddenly Windom’s hand was on top of his own.

“Uh uh uh,” Windom chided him, the warmth of his hand radiating into Dale’s skin. “You must think ahead, young Dale. In a move or two, your king will be completely exposed! The game will be over so soon after that. Tragically short, no fun at all for you.”

“Here.” Windom guided Dale’s hand back down, and Dale released the pawn. “Try again.”

Windom put his hands on his chin and smiled toothily, carefully watching as Dale swallowed his pride, returned the rook to its original spot, and simply inched a pawn forward instead. His cheeks were warm from being chastised, and a tingling in his body spread as Windom watched his amendment.

“Much better. Simple, safe, but it will promote longevity.” Earle moved forward in his seat, and his knee brushed up against Dale’s. “There’s not always a need to sprint in chess. Take time to figure out what you're doing. What you hope to accomplish.”

Dale exhaled and tried not to focus all his attention on the pressure Windom was inducing against his knee. He was surprised at how much he craved this feedback, this approval. He really looked up to Earle. The man who solidified his interest in the FBI in the first place. The man he would work hard to become equals with.

The game continued in silence. Once Windom got into the swing of things he stayed focused on the board. Though he was always able to partition his attention enough to alternatively watch the competitive glint in Dale’s eyes and the way his slender hands manipulated the pieces. Dale fidgeted with a pawn of Windom’s he had eventually captured to Windom’s liking, and Windom felt his gaze drawn time and again, watching Dale turn it absentmindedly.

Dale observed the board, calculating his next move, and Windom’s move after that, proving that he had the foresight to be a worthy opponent after all. Minutes passed, moves were completed, and Dale relaxed his leg against Windom’s. He hadn’t been tensing it consciously, but it felt better to noticeably unclench the muscles and allow more weight to surrender to the space Windom was inhabiting.

Chess was an intimate game. Windom had said so himself. Learning the way a person thinks, learning to predict how they will act in a certain situation, why that’s how you truly get to know someone. Dale was willing to show his new partner his mind. Was eager to know each other well enough to communicate in the field without words. He was used to working alone, but the idea of connecting with someone wholly, as this opportunity bid him, was exhilarating.

Dale lost. He had expected to lose, so he didn’t mind so much. He found himself simply hoping the game had continued on well enough for Windom’s liking. Windom hadn’t moved his legs away, but he also hadn’t moved any closer. An impasse, devoid of new information. Alas.

“Well played.”

Dale raised an eyebrow. Unused to this condition-less praise.

“For now,” Windom followed up and Dale blinked in agreement, acceptance.

Windom stood and Dale’s leg felt cold against the air. He remained seated, eyes transfixed, as Windom walked to the bar in the back of the room. Two glasses of whiskey were poured and carried to the armchairs by the fireplace. Dale stood obediently and took the seat across Windom, dutifully receiving the glass that was handed to him.

Windom took a dramatic sip, drawn out, making a show of exhaling as he swallowed, before he spoke. Dale was usually talkative, happy to prove himself and experience the world interactively, but he was comfortable deferring to Windom when they were alone.

“Now Dale,” Windom began, his voice low and thick. “As alluring as chess is, we both know why you’re really here. You’ve had your first kill!” His voice escalated, almost imperceptibly. If Dale didn’t know any better he would have said his partner was excited.

Coop took a breath, allowing himself to shift gears into this conversation topic. “It’s awful, isn’t it? How quickly it can happen? My gun felt so much heavier after.” His voice was quiet, and felt far away from his body.

“Dale…Dale, Dale, Dale,” Windom drawled, as he placed his glass on the table next to him and walked over to his mentee. Dale leaned his head up to keep an eye on Earle’s face. “You were just doing your job, Dale. Doing what you had to.”

“I’ve seen men dead before and wondered about the evil in the world that allows that to happen….to think I’m the cause…” Dale trailed off, afraid and self-pitying. The FBI hadn’t prepared him for this at all. He re-met Earle’s eyes but was unable to read his facial expression. “Windom, I can still hear the shots ringing in my ears.”

Dale felt weak, exposed, dirty. Chess had been a useful distraction but it was all coming back. He fixed his stare on the fire lapping around the wooden logs, reducing Windom’s nearby presence to a looming feeling rather than concrete knowledge.

Until, suddenly, Dale felt a weight on his shoulders. His mind caught up, realizing Windom must have taken a few steps closer still, and was now directly behind Dale, gently rubbing his upper back. Dale could feel tears behind his eyes he willed to keep at bay, the physical contact much more comforting than he could have anticipated. He focused on his breathing. Watched the fire. A particularly thin part of the log broke off, erupting in sparks. Windom continued rubbing soft circles into his back.

“You were doing your job Dale. Keeping yourself safe—keeping me safe—not to mention the hostages. You know we ordered the men to drop their guns. Who knows what would have happened if you hadn’t acted so quickly. So instinctively.”

Dale tensed at the last word and Windom paused, his hands hovering above Dale’s shoulders.

“Windom, let me be frank here—I appreciate the platitudes but this isn’t an instinct I want. I entered the Bureau to save lives, not take them.”

“Of course you did. We all did. But not everyone is capable of saving. Much better to lose one, to preserve many.” He rested his hands back on Dale’s shoulders, waiting for Dale to melt back into his touch. He liked how receptive Dale could be. He felt his hands rise and fall as Dale forced deep breaths through his system again. The tension remained.

“I fear this will never leave me.”

“And it might not.” Windom swapped his left hand out for his right on Dale’s shoulder, as he stepped around and rested himself down onto the arm of Dale’s chair. “Listen, when I first had to discharge my weapon it was a shock to me too. It’s an indescribably different feeling. Nothing can prepare you for it.”

Dale felt a heightened awareness of the closeness of the man next to him. But, there were too many thoughts to catalog at once. He decided not to focus on that too much. He turned his head slightly and peeked up to meet Windom’s face once again. “Has it changed you?”

Windom laughed, unexpectedly and out of place. “Caroline says it has. I don’t think she quite understands the intricacies of the experience. If anything, it’s made me a better agent. You’re well on your way, Coop.”

Earle stood, and Dale’s eyes followed him up. “Speaking of which, dinner is probably just about ready. I’m very excited for you to meet Caroline. You’re going to love her.” Windom lent down and pressed a quick kiss to Dale’s forehead before patting his shoulder once and walking towards the doorway.

Dazed, fatigued from their conversation, confused by the displays of affection, Dale stood slowly and followed.

[blustersquall]

Only Make Believe // Chapter 12: The Weight of Words

Please be advised that tumblr no longer allows posts with links to outgoing sites to appear in tags. So, to try and get around this, you can read this fic on AO3 by clicking on the source link at the bottom of the post. Alternatively, you can find the master post on my blog, with links to all chapters on tumblr, AO3, and ffnet. [Though, ffnet is having some technical difficulties right now, and won’t let me upload the chapter, so it might be a day or so before it’s up on ffnet]

December 21st

--

Cullen reclined on to couch, mug of coffee in hand. His laptop was open in front of him on the coffee table, the light of the webcam shining a steady green. Though there was no one on the opposite camera visible, Cullen could hear two lowered voices off screen.

"It's your publisher," one said, female with a distinctive accent.

"Tell her I'm not here," the second voice, male and impatient. "Better yet, tell her I died."

"Varric!" the female voice growled. "You can't avoid her forever."

"Yes, I can," Varric retorted. Cullen smirked to himself hearing the exchange. "Just... tell her I'll call her back. Please, Cassandra?"

Cassandra sighed heavily off screen. "Fine," she snapped. "But next time, I'm just going to hand you the phone and not tell you who it is."

"Sounds great." Varric was sometimes frustratingly cheerful and glib. Given how short Cassandra's temper could be, Cullen wondered just how their relationship worked so well and how the two of them didn't drive each other crazy. As it was, they'd been together almost eighteen months and showed no signs of boring each other or of any cracks in their relationship. Cullen was glad of it. They worked well, and they cared about each other. Though they would both declare the contrary if confronted with it.

Varric's face appeared on screen and he sat back in his seat. "Sorry about that Curly."

"Avoiding your responsibilities again, Varric?" Cullen smirked.

"For as long as I can," Varric replied with a wry smile.

He was older than Cullen  but by how much Cullen wasn't certain, he had never asked - but age had not dulled the sharpness of Varric's mind or tongue. A was a writer by trade, on the best sellers list, and one of the few friends Cullen was still in contact with from Kirkwall, while he was stationed there Varric was almost always around during the week. He had been on friendly terms with a large number of Cullen's squad and for the first few years, Cullen's reception to Varric was icy, cool at best. Somehow, through events that involved drinking and Cullen had tried to blank from his memory, Varric became Cullen's closest friend for a long time.

It was through Varric he met Cassandra. The two of them were instrumental in the relief effort for Kirkwall following the explosion, and they both helped Cullen get back on his feet after his discharge and the events that followed. He was indebted to them. He considered them as close as his own family, despite the distance.

"You really need to get an assistant," remarked Cullen. "Or at least pay Cassandra to avoid your publisher for you."

"I pay her with love and sneak previews," Varric said, his grin increasing. "What more does she want?"

Rolling his eyes, Cullen laughed into his mug. He took a swallow of coffee, placed the mug on the table and leaned forward. "You're terrible."

"I know, I know," sighed Varric. "A burden I must bear." He looked momentarily remorseful, before a wicked smile lit up his face. "Anyway, enough about me. Tell me about this girl."

"There's nothing to tell," Cullen shrugged. "She's a client. A friend."

"Oh, come on Curly." Varric shook his head. "You're calling in a favour to get her a copy of her favourite book. She's got to be more than a client or a friend."

"Why?"

"Huh?"

"Why does she need to be more than a client or a friend? Can't I just do something nice for someone who I think deserves it?" asked Cullen, his voice becoming a little sharper and his defences rising. He was only just beginning to figure out how to put some distance between himself and Nevena so his tumultuous feelings towards her could calm down. He did not need Varric riling him or those feelings up by baiting him.

"I'm not judging, Curly," Varric lifted his hands in defence. "Sorry if I touched a nerve."

Cullen breathed through his nose, trying to relax. "It's fine."

"Is she there?"

"If she was, do you think we'd be having the conversation?"

"I guess not." Varric nodded. "Well, the book is on its way to you as we speak. I sent it off today, airmail. Should be delivered right to the cabin door tomorrow afternoon, sometime."

"Thank you, Varric," Cullen half smiled. "She'll really love it. I owe you."

Varric waved a dismissive hand. "Nah, we're square." He paused for a moment. Cullen watched him purse his lips and fiddle with a gold earring hanging off his right ear. "Not going to tell me anything about her, huh? This girl whose favourite book is the first one I wrote?"

"Why so curious?"

"Not a lot of my readers even remember 'The Viper's Nest'. It's kind of nostalgic to know someone out there still likes it," explained Varric with a slow, lingering smile. "She like the other ones?"

"Actually... I don't think so." Cullen frowned, thinking back to that early morning conversation where he found her reading at the kitchen table. "She didn't say she disliked them, I just think she liked 'The Viper's Nest' more."

"Oh," Varric's brow furrowed. "Did she say why?"

Cullen shrugged, "No."

"Maybe I should ask her."

"I haven't told her I know you. I didn't want her to get over excited, or something like that. I know how much you value your privacy."

"Oh please," scoffed Varric. "I'm an open book - no pun intended. And it would be nice to hear the opinion of a genuine fan of my early work."

"You hate being critiqued."

"I hate being critiqued by critics," Varric said. "If an actual fan were to give me their feedback in a decent way, not in one-hundred-and-forty-characters of abuse on twitter, then I'd be more than happy to listen." He snorted. "I might even take on some of what she says."

Cullen laughed, "Maybe when the oceans freeze over."

Varric moved on screen, turning his attention to another monitor Cullen knew he used to keep up pages of notes and research when he was writing. There was the sound of fingers on the keyboard and few mouse clicks.

"What's her name again?"

Lifting a brow, Cullen leaned back. "Why?"

"I want to check I spelled it right inside the book." Varric shot him a look. "Why do you think?"

"Sure, Varric." Cullen gave an exasperated bark of laughter but spelled out Nevena's name for him regardless. Varric went quiet for a minute or two. In that time, Cullen checked his emails and started to type a reply to his sister, who was berating him about not being available to come to her house for Christmas. The past few years, he had spent the day with his siblings and their families. Since their parents died, the four of them were closer than they ever were as children. Cullen felt a pang of guilt for the fact he would not be there. He had already apologized, but another would not go amiss, and he promised Mia he would come stay for a weekend in January to make it up to her.

"She's cute," Varric remarked. His comment caused Cullen to look up from his email. "Pretty."

Cullen squinted at the webcam and therefore, Varric, "You've googled her, haven't you? Are you stalking her on Facebook or something?"

"No, nothing like that." Again, Varric waved a dismissive hand. "Just wanted to know what she looked like. I didn't realise she was one of those Trevelyan's."

"Neither did I," Cullen groaned. He ran a hand across his face, rolling his thumb and forefinger along his brow. "I'd never heard of them until she told me."

"They're not exactly celebrities," Varric explained. A few clicks of a mouse and his attention returned fully to Cullen. "I met Nevan and Katrin at a charity event about a year ago. Weird people. Very, uh..." Cullen waited; it was rare for Varric to be at a loss for words. "Very intense."

"That's one way to put it," Cullen laughed heartily and ran his hands back through his hair. "Honestly, Varric these people... Her family are..." He leaned his head back, shaking it while staring at the ceiling. "It's astounding that she's related to them. She's nothing like them. And given some of things she endured... I'm amazed she's as kind as she is."

"Oh?"

"Right now, she's out in Edgehall with her older sister," Cullen sat up. "An older sister who has tormented her for years and who, in no uncertain terms, despises her. And she's with her because she wants to do right by her niece who, according to Nevena, 'is feeling unloved'."

"Sounds like she's a nice person."

"She's is. She's more than nice." After rubbing his chin and stubble, Cullen grabbed his coffee and drained the last few mouthfuls. "These people, Varric. You should meet them. I would love for you and Cassandra to meet them and see how horrific they are."

"All of them?" asked Varric.

"No, not all of them... The kids seem great, and one or two of the husbands are nice. I'm still on the bench about one sister. But the parents - fuck, the parents." With a sigh, Cullen placed his mug on the table. He was on a roll, letting go of all the comments he was keeping tightly contained. "Her mother is something out of a horror story, I swear. She threatened Nevana with a pole to straighten her posture at dinner, like she's five-year-old! Who does that to their adult daughter?"

"Someone with expectations," Varric snorted. "My parents had the same of me." That had a poor relationship with his parents was common knowledge to most of his close friends. It was a topic Varric often used to make off-handed comments or to deflect. Through their long friendship, Cullen had never heard Varric discuss his parents seriously. Perhaps he did in private, with Cassandra, but  for the most part Varric's past was something he kept very close to his chest.

"The two older sisters, as they were digging their claws in, no one told them to back off. In fact, it was like everyone else was pretending it wasn't happening."

"You didn't though, right?" asked Varric. "You jumped in Mister knight-in-shining armour?"

"Sadly not... I was just in shock. I didn’t know what to say, and when I thought of something I decided against it, in case it made matters worse." Cullen rubbed the back of his neck. "Honestly, she's a great girl. Given everything she's dealt with and things I suspect she's experienced... That she is a warm hearted and kind person is a testament to how strong and resilient she actually is." He sighed, flopping back onto the sofa. "She just doesn't believe it herself. She actually thinks she's a terrible person."

"Uh huh..." Varric's tone drawled out and there was a distinct smugness to his voice. Cullen arched a brow at the laptop screen. "Tell me again how she's just a friend and a client? Certainly sounds like that's the extent of your relationship and your feelings towards her."

"Shut it," retorted Cullen, rolling his eyes. "We're friends. Adding anything else to this... It would make things more complicated.”

"’More complicated’? Meaning... you've thought about acting on you--"

"Varric."

"Sorry, Curly," Varric smirked. "Just want to look out for you. You know if things get too shitty there you can take the tunnel under the Waking Sea, or a ferry, and come to Kirkwall for Christmas and New Year. You never did reply to the invite me and Cass sent out."

"I know," groaned Cullen sitting up. His back twinged, a small reminder of his tumble on the ice a few days previous. "I'm sorry. I was in a rush when I was arranging all of this." Cullen suddenly felt tired and weary. Everything was getting confused again.

Who was he kidding? Everything was always confused. His talk with Nevena the night before was just to protect himself, and her. He didn't want to get involved beyond their arrangement, he didn't know what doing that would mean, or what it might entail. He didn't want to get hurt. He didn't want to hurt her. He cared for her. He told himself putting a figurative wall up between them, setting barriers and boundaries was for the best. It would prevent things from going any further. It didn't matter. The night before all he could think about as he tried to fall asleep was the kiss in the kitchen and knowing that she slept in another room, with only a door between them. He wondered if Nevena had thought about the kiss as she tried to fall asleep, too. If she’d struggled to sleep as much as he had.

Cullen wasn't sure what was happening. He'd never experienced a sudden loss of sense when it came to love before. With women in the past, it was always gradual before his feelings began to stir. Dates upon dates, phone calls, and text conversations of getting to know one another. Cullen prided himself on rarely, if ever, giving into base instinct and desire. Falling hard and fast for someone was unknown and uncharted territory, and it didn't help that he wasn't sure if it was real or not.

"Varric," he groaned pushing his face into his hands. "Do you think I'm in over my head?"

"Possibly," Varric said. "But you should ride it out. You might be surprised with the outcome."

"Nice and vague," laughed Cullen. "Thanks."

"That's what I'm here for. Now," Varric clapped his hands together, "aside from my book, which is an amazing gift admittedly, what else have you bought your friend-client?"

"Nothing?" Cullen shrugged his shoulders, meeting Varric's eyes through the webcam. "I thought the book would be enough."

"No, Curly. No," Varric shook his head like a concerned uncle. "The book is a great gift, don't get me wrong. And I'm not just saying that as the author, but you can't give her something that personal in front of her family."

"Why not?"

"You just can't, okay. Don't fight me on this, trust me. I know what I’m taking about."

"Okay, okay." Cullen relented. "So, what, get her something else?"

"Not a thing. A few things." Varric hummed thoughtfully. "You don't want anything that's going to overshadow the book, but get her a few things that will go over well. Hollow gifts, y'know? Sweets she likes. Something for her apartment. If you're feeling daring and want to give the impression to her family everything is great between you, lingerie."

"I am not buying her underwear," Cullen growled, hoping the camera did not pick up the way his cheeks flared. "I don't even know what size she'd be."

Varric chuckled, rubbing his hands together in a gleeful way that put Cullen on edge. "Just, take my advice, get her some small things that are pretty basic. Nice smelling soap or something. Or just joke gifts."

"I'll do that." Cullen reached towards the lid of his laptop. "I'll go now."

"Great idea." Varric leaned back in his chair. "I should probably call my publisher back anyway..."

"Thanks for sending the book, Varric. I'll let you know how it goes over."

"You better." Varric shot him a look. "And, seriously Cullen." The tone of his voice gave Cullen pause as he was closing the laptop. "If you need to get out of there, my place is always open. The invite for New Year stands. And that extends to your friend-client-not-girlfriend."

Touched, Cullen smiled, "Thanks. I'll keep that in mind."

"Good." Varric waved briefly. "Let me know how the book goes down. Talk later, Curly."

"Bye, Varric."

Cullen shut his laptop and got to his feet. He quickly smoothed his hands through his hair and over his shirt, easing away wrinkles in the clothing. After a quick glance around, he found his set of keys to the cabin, his phone, wallet, and car keys. He piled them up on the table in the kitchen paused, staring hard at the door to the bedroom.

It wouldn't be considered snooping if he was looking for ideas for small gifts, would it? And really, as long as he didn't move anything, Nevena would never know he'd been in the bedroom. He chewed his lip and the inside of his cheek for several moments before breathing in deeply and striding towards the room. A brief look, to get a few ideas, he wouldn't touch anything.

As he turned the door handle he half expected Nevena to walk in the front door and catch him. Even though his intentions were innocent, his stomach was near his feet as he inched the door open and peered inside. He had only seen the bedroom once, when he and Nevena first arrived. It was the largest room in the cabin, aside from the main living area. The focus was the large double bed in the middle. Made of wood, it looked like some kind of sleigh from the way it was carved. The bedding was a soft duck-egg blue, complimented by walls of a similar colour. There were pictures of landscapes hung on the wall and a large double window that opened out onto the road and pathway leading up to the cabin itself.

Though Cullen did not know what to expect, he was surprised to find the room as tidy as it was. For some reason, he expected Nevena to keep things in an organised chaos - this was... neat. The bed was made, and the covers pulled back to let them air. Sitting in the middle of the bed were two cuddly toys, a dinosaur of some description and a bright cobalt blue manta ray. Cullen smirked looking at them, finding it endearing Nevena brought them all the way from home. Her pyjamas were folded on the mattress, glasses on a night stand, sitting beside her tablet.

Pyjamas would be too personal, and he was already getting a book shipped in, so another book was out of the question. He went to the dressing table where various items were laid out. A make-up bag, several different hair brushes. He wasn't getting many clues and went to the bathroom to get an idea what she liked to use on her skin.

The en suite bathroom was really a large shower room, all tiled walls with smart, warm stones, a silver shower head the size of a dinner plate was suspended from the ceiling. The floor sloped slightly in one corner so the water all ran down to the plug hole, there was a screen between the shower and the sink, but that was it. In the shower cubicle, Cullen examined the shower gel on the floor. Bright yellow, spicy smelling with an underlying sweetness. Not an offensive smell at all, and one Cullen had grown accustomed to, being around Nevena and was sure he would recognise if he needed to. He glanced at the label to see if it was named.

“Loveswept Sunset…” he read and laughed to himself. “Are you kidding me? Sounds like something Varric would name one of his books. Who comes up with this stuff…”

It wasn't much, but it was something to keep in mind. He left the bedroom, closing the door securely behind him. After picking up his bits from the table and taking his jacket off the coat hooks by the door, Cullen went quickly to his car and began the journey to Edgehall. He hoped he might luck out and some random items might jump out at him. He'd never been particularly imaginative when it came to gift giving, but whatever he bought now, he knew the book would make up for it.

[Quick note for those of a sensitive nature, there are some mentions of panic/anxiety attacks, some hints at physical sibling abuse, and minor mentions of injury, so please be warned. It’s not graphic, but be warned].

Nevena patted her satchel as she set it down on the ground beside her. Inside was Cullen's gift and while it was sturdy and heavy, she didn't want it to get scuffed or damaged in any way, so she was being particularly careful with it. Ineria sat opposite her, stirring sugars into her coffee while tutting at her phone, mumbling about one thing or another.

They'd been in Edgehall together for almost four hours, and despite the rift in their relationship and the confrontation only two nights before, things were cordial between them. Cordial but cool. It was about as good as their relationship ever got. Nevena had learned never to expect an apology from Ineria as children and now was no different. There was not even a whisper of an apology or admittance of guilt for her behaviour that evening. Nevena knew Ineria well enough to know she'd likely brush it under the carpet for now, and bring it up again when it suited her.

Edgehall was busy as the Christmas day approached and shopping days diminished. The market was still going strong but Ineria's needs took them into the small shopping centre situated in the middle of the town. Made up of two floors, most of the shops were a part of large chains. There were gaudy Christmas lights hanging over head, with tinsel, and sparkling glass snowflakes while over the Tannoy system Christmas songs were played on repeat. Nevena was sure she heard the same one play five times in an hour and would be glad when they left.

Despite her going into Edgehall the day before and buying more than enough food, Ineria was still grabbing things left and right. Every shop they walked past, Ineria peered in the window, hummed, went in, spoke to the frazzled sales assistants and if they could not accommodate her, she demanded to speak to a manager while Nevena cringed in the background, often mouthing ‘sorry’ to the employee durrently under duress. She wasn't sure how Ineria did it. It was like she was not in possession of shame. She lacked the empathy and patience required for the Christmas season and the stress those people working were under. If she was not able to obtain what she wanted, it was someone else's fault and she threatened to complain. Every shop they left, Ineria came out with a voucher or promise of good will.

Nevena was beginning to wonder how many of these people knew Ineria by reputation. A small community like Edgehall, and a problem customer like Ineria, news was bound to travel. Nevena kept her mouth shut, even if she wanted to step in on multiple occasions. She wanted to keep Ineria calm and receptive for when she approached the subject of Matilda, and getting in the way while she was laying into some poor temporary member of Christmas staff was not the way to do it.

When they stopped at one of the various chain coffee shops, Nevena was glad for the rest. She stretched her legs out and turned her glass of water around in her hands while waiting for Ineria to get whatever she was ordering. The night before Nevena had made a few bullet points, topics she wanted to mention to Ineria about Matilda and quickly went over them. Even as Ineria sat down, Nevena checked over her talking points on her phone, trying to memorize them so she could be more confident.

"Successful trip," Ineria remarked. She never looked directly at Nevena for too long, preferring to glance around and watch passersby. "We'll have these and go back to Haven. You can help me start prepping for Christmas Eve."

Nevena bit her tongue to stop from commenting. Never a request, always an order. "Sure," she said, clenching her jaw. She took a sip of water. "Ineria, I need to talk to you about something."

"If it's about the other night, don't worry about it," Ineria said, breezily, smiling. "I accept your apology without you having to make it. You always do like to make a scene."

"Uh..." Nevena squeezed her hands around her glass. "That wasn't..." A pause. It wasn't worth getting into. "It's about Matilda," she said slowly. "I want to talk about Matilda."

That got Ineria's attention. Her sharp gaze snapped to Nevena and she placed her coffee cup down in the saucer in such a deliberately slow way, Nevena was sure it was done in an attempt to frighten her somehow. Ineria dabbed her mouth with a paper napkin. "What about Matilda?" Her voice was tight and her tone sharp. Nevena's stomach grew heavy. She knew she was stepping on sensitive ground.

"Yesterday while we were baking, we were chatting about school." Nevena began, keeping her tone calm and as non-confrontational as possible. "She's said some things that are… well, they’re a bit troubling."

"What things?" Ineria asked primly. "If it's about the school play, I already know."

"You do?"

"Yes." Ineria sighed with an exaggerated roll of her eyes. "I went to the principle about it and got her the bigger part she deserved. My daughter is too good for chorus, just like I was. The girl who had the part initially began to cause Matilda trouble, and I went and dealt with it. It's fine now."

Nevena laughed nervously, remarking, "I don't think it is." Ineria's eyes narrowed as she continued, "Did you take into consideration that Matilda was happy with her chorus part? Or that she actually wanted to be involved backstage and only auditioned for a part because you showed an iota of interest in her because it was something you wanted?"

"Nonsense. She's immensely talented an-"

"Of course she is talented," Nevena said, cutting Ineria off. She saw her sister's nostrils flare in anger. "But she's talented in a different way than you. Matilda is not an actress. She doesn't relish being on the stage, like you did."

"Don't be stupid. She was wonderful."

"I don't doubt that she was." Nevena held her jaw tight. "But Matilda doesn't like being on stage or the centre of attention. Do you realise how clever she is? She's practically a math genius. She can do complicated equations in her head. She's been invited to do an advanced math class next semester. And she's twelve."

"So?"

Nevena blinked hard, several times. "So... why don't you embrace and support what she's clearly likes and has a passion for? She feels like you don't appreciate or like the things she enjoys and is passionate about."

"That's silly." Folding her arms, Ineria straightened her back. It was a gesture Nevena knew well. It was how Ineria signalled she was setting down for a long haul. This would not end well, but Nevena was already in too deep to back out of the conversation now. "I appreciate the things she's good at."

"Really?" Nevena snorted and copied Ineria's stance. "Did you know she got an award for math excellence at school? Or that the Mathlete team she's a part of came first in their age range?"

"I knew."

"And did you say anything?"

Ineria fidgeted in her seat. "No, but--"

"No," Nevena snapped. She realised then, noticing a flare in Ineria’s eye, that she was allowing her concern for Matilda and her annoyance at Ineria get the better of her. She took a long breath and felt her shoulders relax. "Because it's not something that interests you." She watched as Ineria smoothed an imaginary wrinkle out of her shirt. "She actually asked me something really heartbreaking yesterday."

"Oh?" Ineria rolled her eyes again. "And what was that?"

"She asked if I ever felt like our parents never wanted me. Or didn't like me." Nevena leaned forward. "She was referring to you. She doesn't think you like her, or even wanted her. And she's twelve-years-old, Ineria. Twelve! She's a child, and children shouldn't be thinking or wondering those kinds of things about their parents."

There was a shift in Ineria's expression, a softness - almost like remorse - that appeared and then disappeared in moments. Nevena saw her sister's face harden again. She set her jaw, her arms tightened a little across her chest and she lowered her shoulders. Though she would not look outwardly angry to anyone else, Nevena could see the rage building behind Ineria's eyes. She was outraged, insulted.

"I know you love her, Ineria," Nevena said, trying to subdue her. "I know you love all of your children but--"

"No," Ineria hissed. "You've said your piece."

"Ineria. I'm trying t-"

"How dare you lecture me about my own child!" Ineria glowered, her eyes blazing with barely controlled anger. "You have no idea how hard I work. How much I do. I don't know everything about my daughter, but I love her immensely. You come here for a few days and think you can lecture me! You don't have children, Nevena. What makes you think you're qualified to tell me, a parent, how I am doing?"

"I work with kids on a daily basis, Ineria," Nevena replied in a steady voice. "I see kids every single day whose parents don't appreciate or even acknowledge their achievements, and instead brush them aside because their achievements do not mesh with their parents'. It's what you're doing with Matilda now, and if you're not careful, the damage to your relationship will be irreparable."

"You have no idea what you're talking about," Ineria's fingers clenched on her clothes.

"You are living vicariously through your daughter. You were the star of every school production and you want Matilda to be just like you." The stillness in Nevena's voice was giving way to her frustration. Ineria wouldn't listen. She never listened. "But Matilda isn't like you. Matilda is her own person, and she is a brilliant, intelligent, generous, sensitive, bright person. But you refuse to see that in her, unless it's in doing what you expect of her."

"You have no idea what you're talking about," Ineria said again, more fiercely. Her hands flew to Nevena's, knuckles white as she gripped and dug her nails into top of Nevena's hands. Nevena flinched at the quick movement and at the way the table jerked. As children a gesture like that often meant Ineria slapping her around the face. She wouldn’t do it in public, but Nevena still felt a familiar, phantom sting in her cheek. She saw Ineria's lips curl into an unpleasant smirk and tried to pull her hands away. "You think you can lecture me on children and family? Please, that's laughable. What do you know about family, Nevena?"

"I--"

"Nothing. At least nothing of real note," Ineria released her, leaving crescent moon shaped divots in Nevena’s skin,  and began to gather up her things, collecting bags and checking that nothing was missing. Even as she did, her eyes did not leave Nevena's face for longer than a second. Nevena could feel a throb in her hands where Ineria had pushed her fingernails deep. "You don't have your own family. You weren't even wanted by this one," Ineria sneered. "You are a poor, unworthy replacement who has nothing to offer. You are worthless. You always have been worthless. You always will be worthless, and it’s high time you realised it." She didn't raise her voice - she didn't even change the cadence of her words. She simply spoke them, each syllable sharp and dripping with venom that seeped into Nevena's conscious. The space behind Nevena's eyes prickled sharply. She clenched her jaw to keep her chin from shaking but she could feel her eyes welling up. Ineria always knew where to attack, where she was most sensitive, and she could bring Nevena to nothing with so little. Ineria knew it too. But this...The look of triumph on her face made Nevena's skin crawl and go cold. Ineria got to her feet. "You should really look in the mirror before you go trying to fix other people. Especially when you’re the only one that needs fixing.

Nevena took a slow breath, "Matilda--"

"Is my daughter, and nothing to do with you," Ineria said coldly. She stood, and approached Nevena, bags in one hand. The other she placed on Nevena's shoulder and squeezed, hard. "Thank you for your insight," Ineria murmured to her. "However, just like you, it is unwanted."

A cold chill ran down Nevena's spine. She shivered as Ineria dug her fingers into her shoulder and released. She didn't move for at least thirty seconds. Her eyes were wide and painful when she finally blinked. Tears ran down her face and she quickly wiped them away. She would not make a spectacle of herself out in the open for everyone to see. If she was going to cry then she'd at least do it somewhere secluded.

She just needed to remember how to move.

Nevena's whole body felt like it was locked up. Her legs were almost solid and she struggled with remembering how get out of her chair. Breathing was hard too; her chest felt constricted and squeezed, every breath a hard gasp of sheer desperation. Her chest wouldn't expand enough to fill her lungs. She fought to stay calm, at least until she was away from everyone. If she could manage that, she could get through this and make her way back to Haven.

To Skyhold, and privacy.

To Cullen; the safety and comfort he provided would be the panacea to everything.

Her mind was spinning. Ineria was never nice to her, but what just passed between them was vicious. The malice and the anger was almost palpable. Ineria had never made her distain for Nevena secret, but it was like she was unleashing everything now. All the years of resentment and pain building up and being allowed to fester like an infected woundhad become a bubbling over cauldron of hate.

And that was it. Ineria hated her. Nevena realised that now. It wasn't simple sibling rivalry or differences. It was legitimate, unabashed hatred.

Aware that her tears were coming quicker, Nevena forced herself to her feet. She grabbed her satchel and swung it onto her shoulder, rubbing her eyes quickly on her sleeve. Someone behind her yelled and they whacked her bag.

"Sorry! Sorry!" Nevena choked out. Her throat was closing over, as if it wasn't hard enough to breathe already. She took a desperate gulp of air, tucked her head down and started walking.

Breathe. She told herself, trying to remember how to bring herself out of the panic and anxiety threatening to drown her. Drowning. She was drowning. How did that happen? Drowning in a sea of people and silently screaming. There were faces all around her, a cold floor underneath her. Glances of confusion, distain, disgust. Someone touching her. Hands. Too many hands. Too many voices. Too much was happening.

Her vision clouded at the corners, her clothes constricted around her, limiting her movement. They reduced the air she could get. They stuck to her like glue. She was uncomfortable, itchy. Every inch of her skin felt like it was crawling and there was something underneath, digging frantically to get out. Wherever she was, she forced herself to her feet and ran. Her lungs were burning with every forced breath as she weaved and ducked around people, and pillars, and decorations. She didn't know where she was going, what she doing - even where she was seemed like a distant memory, forgettable within the pain.

Every step was hard. The ground was hard, but it felt like she was trying to wade through mud. People were still staring. She heard them ask after her, saw their eyes see her face, tear stains and red cheeked. Several people reached out to grab her as she ran. Nevena recoiled and flinched from each hand, every finger. What if they caught her? What then? She could hardly breathe, let alone form words. She knew she needed to find somewhere isolated and safe. If she could do that she could bring herself down, bring herself out of the panic and everything would be fine. She would be fine. She could do this. She'd done it before.

Ducking down a hallway that seemed more deserted than the rest of the shopping centre, Nevena's vision darkened because of the lower light. There were no bright, white festive lights in the corridor and the merry tingling of music was quieter here. Everything was already dulled by the blood pumping in her ears, but the rest of her senses were in overdrive. Nevena ripped up the sleeves of her jumper and checked her skin. There was nothing moving, nothing trying to dig out, yet she scratched for good measure - just to make sure. The sensation of her fingernails raking over her skin was a pleasant, sharp sensation. It gave her clarity, just enough.

Finding a corner - a wall, somewhere that she felt safer and not quite so open - Nevena dug around in her bag for her phone. She fumbled with it, struggled with her security code several times and just managed not to throw it against the wall on her third failed attempt.

"Come on, Nevena," she gasped angrily at herself. "Think!" She slammed her head back against the wall. It hurt, pain ricocheting down her neck and over the top of her skull. The pain throbbed. Nevena entered her passcode successfully.

She wiped her eyes and nose on her sleeve as she scrolled through names with trembling fingers. Her eyes hurt when she rubbed them. Her eyes lashes were clumped together and she could taste salt on her lips when she licked them.

When she found the name she wanted she began to type. It was more difficult than she remembered, trying to spell a word correctly. She managed it after a several attempts. With the message sent, Nevena pulled her knees into her chest and buried her face into her legs.

"I'm alright," she told to herself in a low whisper. "I'm alright. I'm alright." She just needed to believe it.

I know this chapter takes quite a different turn to the one before, but still - I hope you enjoyed it. 

Ineria has issues. If that wasn’t obvious. They’ll be addressed. Also, just to let you know, uploads may slow down a bit. I have a lot of chapters already written, so they won’t slow down too much, but I don’t want to hit my buffer, because I’m having A LOT of trouble on the later chapters, which has put me behind schedule. I’m hoping I’ll get some inspiration soon, but for now, for my own sanity, uploads may be every three weeks, rather than every two.

I hope you understand. 

Thanks for reading. As always, your support means so much to me, and I love hearing your thoughts. So please don’t be shy. Reblog with your comments, tags, comment on the post or on AO3, or you can just send me a not on tumblr on anon if you prefer. Just let me know what you think.

See you guys in the next chapter. <3

[rpedia]

[Ask RPedia] Anxious About My Writing: Help?

Anonymous asked: I know this is normal for writers and that there isn't a real solution but I'm gonna ask anyway: Any advice on how to stop feeling insecure about what/how I write?

Oh man, this is gonna sound like such an asshole move, but my favorite way to help myself is to write to spite everyone else. Seriously. Write like you hate everyone else in the world. Write like they mean fucking nothing to you. Write because they’re gonna get what you write, and they’re gonna like it, if they know what’s good for them. Write to make that mental editor representing the ‘them’ in your head mad as hell.

It’s always energized me to flippantly declare to myself that if people don’t like something I like, they can go fuck themselves in some fancy new way, because I’m busy writing and I don’t see them getting off their ass! They’re reading anyways ain’t they? Then they god damn don’t have anything better to do than let me shove words, and ideas, and mental pictures into their heads rapidly. Them complaining? Hah, you mean leaving impassioned responses because I hit a nerve. I CONTROL them. 𝕀 𝔸𝕄 𝔸𝕊 𝔸 𝔾𝕆𝔻.

...ahem. There’s other things to think about. I just, really like getting pumped about that concept because getting pumped makes it really awesome. Lemme uh... lemme try talking about ... other things... next. Instead of declaring my godhood, wow, that is so ‘famous last words’ material for a character to say.

So forgiving my earlier outburst, I’m going to natter about the subject! Writing confidence comes around slowly, really, you were right. This is normal for writers, and there’s not always a solution. A lot of posts have been made on Tumblr about decreasing anxiety as a whole. Everything from taking a long bath with some scented candles, to breathing and meditation exercises, to radical acceptance. This can all soothe you, making it easier to write, or at least post your writing somewhere. That’s a good start. A lot of it though really, is understanding what you’re doing from new angles instead of just ‘am I good enough’ and ‘in my head about it editor mode’.

Going back a half step, I love radical acceptance, let’s focus on that for a moment. Basically, it’s just saying ‘I am who I am. These things have happened. Now that they have happened, they are passed, and while they are real, I can now experience other things. I give myself permission for this. I have permission to move on to something else because I accept what has happened entirely and cannot change it. I can only change what reality is in the now, and I can only do that by moving forwards and altering my behavior or other people’s ideas with fresh words and actions. The past remains, real and behind me. I accept it and step forward.’ This would be great if you put it to writing. ‘I accept my writing may not be the best, there is always someone better, and I do not need to care. I am writing what is meaningful to me. It is what it is.' 

Writing is also a performance art. Which means, writing is not complete until an audience, not necessarily the intended one, has read and reacted to it. It’s not whole. It hungers to be read and understood, and for the feedback on that writing works to complete the circuit. To explain what the writing did for someone else. Regularly we find that it was close to our intention, but sometimes wildly out of left field, they’ll point out something you may not have even noticed. This is secondary to knowing it is read. While they may never interact with you, it doesn’t matter. Your writing will evoke something in another person, one way or another, and that is the point at which it becomes complete. Kudos and comments and likes, and thumbs ups and everything are not a way to measure success. Sometimes someone never directly tells you how they feel at all. Page views are interactions, are chances for it to have been read. To know that someone has looked at it means it has been read. It’s finished.

The audience changes depending on the type of writing too. That audience may only be one person, it might even be yourself. A diary is like that, it forces us to complete the circuit by contemplating what is written and what it means about us, or towards us, on another day, at another time. It is a mirror of who we are, and we’ll judge the shit out of it because we’re fucking ruthless and don’t have any feelings to save when it comes to us. We’ll word it nicely to others, but to us. fuck you self, you’re not good enough. How demoralizing. 

This is important to note here! We’re so used to being our main audience, so used to analyzing everything we do or say and how it effects others, we’re stuck in that eternal loop of ‘If no one likes it (or shows they like it) I did something wrong and I need to fix it.’  We blame ourselves for things that seem like they ‘broke’ it, but really we’re dealing with way more circumstances besides ‘did I do it good’.

Truth is, we can do everything right, and still not get a response. We can write brilliantly, and not have it get to the right audiences. We can get people who are oversensitive to certain topics going batshit about them, and disregarding the writing or intent. We can accidentally hit that one guy who tells his friend, who shares a link with a room of supporters, and suddenly we have a fanbase, and now everything we write is ‘good’ to them, and outsiders get attacked for being wrong if they don’t like it. We can get folks who just don’t say anything because they’re shy, and you’ve genuinely made them feel good but they can’t explain it. 

Not everyone has the talent of putting their thoughts into writing, and that’s what comments are essentially. That’s why people read, to see someone who can do it, do it in front of them as a performance they can stare at in awe and pleasure. All those kudos on AO3 are made of this. This feeling of ‘not matching up’ or ‘not having the time or prowess to respond to something they love.’

You need to remember, you can’t please everyone. Think about the people you know, think about their favorite pairings. Do all of them have the same pairing? Does everyone you meet, without hesitation, name exactly the same couple in your favorite show? Not by a fuckin’ long shot unless somebody’s fucking with your Causality. If you loaned dice to any Gods, maybe take them back is all I’m saying. The point is, rambling aside, no one ships the same shit. No one even fucking agrees on pizza toppings. Why would they all agree your writing did something for them? Or means things exactly the way you intended it? 

Language is imprecise, the job of a writer is to write things in the way that makes sense to their context of the world, and then let it loose to see if it works. If it doesn’t on a large scale, write something else and leave the first alone as an example. Don’t give up. They’re all tests, and somewhere, somehow, it’s gonna hit someone else just right. You might even hit a large section of the audience just right and make them all react like you intended. That’s the sign of a good writer who has also found serendipity has favored them. A good crowd, nicely warmed up and receptive instead of following an act that makes them hard and cold. Even if your writing is a couple hundred years old, you can still suddenly hit that audience one day.

It’s not always your writing that changes how people react to things either. People have lives. You’re a writer, you know that. Every character you write should have a backstory, a name, emotions, reasons for those emotions. These characters map onto real people. They had an ex that treated them like trash and called them Kitten. Well suddenly your cute little nickname for a character, which makes perfect sense to you, is a pun, feels right, and gives the feeling you want, suddenly hits a person wrong and is wrong. They don’t like what you wrote, not because you’re a bad writer, but because they have bad associations with things you cannot control.

Writing is a pot shot of hoping that what you want works with what someone else wants without ever meeting them. That’s why a lot of famous bullshit people love enmasse is kinda... blurry. It’s not precise because if you scattershot and allow the audience to make up half of it, everyone loves it for what they read into it. Look at popular fandoms, Homestuck took the world by force because everything was incomplete. This is a visual medium that managed to make characters that nobody knew what they actually looked like precisely. So some people drew the main characters are POC, and represented themselves, and loved them so much deeper for that. Some people drew them fat, or thin, or special. People expanded on their histories in ways that worked with the story, but voiced something in their own hearts. 

Homestuck is a fantastic show of people getting a bunch of nonsense, that they’ve somehow turned into patterns that deeply changed their lives. That’s how a person reading it could come out on the other side either thinking, “Wow, I want to be a troll, they can be mean and classist, and they don’t fit in just like me. I’m gonna go be like my favorite character and hurt someone else by saying fuck a lot and spitting in a bucket.” just as much as we could get “Wow, this is a story about friendship, and different forms of love regardless of how different of socially ingrained it is to hate one another when we don’t understand. We can all work together and make things beautiful because the little things, like a can donation to food banks, can have a butterfly effect!” Like. Holy shit. Those are very different outcomes, but you saw both of them happen in the Fandom!

If you remember that writing, once set free, has such a huge life beyond the artist’s work? it can help the anxiety, because it’s not completely on you to do it right. It’s not your fault if no one reads it, well, not your writing’s fault anyways, go advertise for goodness sake. Self promote! Your writing doesn’t even have to be really fantastic technically to be adored and loved. Stephen King’s 11/22/63 has an example of this. No major spoilers, but a teacher reads a paper done by a student. That paper is written horribly. The grammar is shit, the wording is terrible, the spelling came out of a trash compactor, the punctuation is a masterclass in how not to do it. That story sticks with that teacher though, the whole book, it nags at him. It tickles him, because it made him feel a certain way. It gave him a motive, an imagination. It set something going in him. The writing was terrible from a technical point of view, but from an emotive empathy inducing view, holy shit. it worked. It was good.

So, that means, the value of your work changes depending on the metric you use to evaluate it. I’m sure technical specification manuals are all written wonderfully, with precise language and information by the bucketful. Hell that’s why they exist. But are they considered dry reads? Do classics lose that shiny new language feel, or connection to people via the words alone, because they can be a bit boxed in by the era’s acceptable standards of what made for good writing? Yep. 100%.

But what gets read, over and over again, every single generation? Things that make us feel because they have meaning. Things that strike a nerve. Monsters, and romances, and stories about the human condition. Sure fine grammar and spelling will get you more readers, which is important on a small-scale level like a roleplay, or a fanfic, but they aren’t the heart of good writing. Good writing makes you feel, relate, and love the characters. It brings a world to life. I can’t tell you how often I’ve ignored shitty skills and kept reading because they had me hooked on what was going to happen.

So instead engage with your project on different levels than ‘is it good’ because Jesus Christ, that is such a hard thing to measure. Ask yourself instead: Did it feel right? Do these words bring a clear mental image of what I want? Do the characters feel like people? Do I create a sense of ‘questions to be answered’ and do I answer them with enough regularity to keep people invested, while supplying more? Do I solve all the problems that come up, or suggest they can be solved easily? Do I feel engaged with this work, does it represent part of me? Is it easy to read, or does the pace stutter, is that what I want? Working on these instead of some non-solid idea of ‘good’ and instead ‘is it what I intended’ will give you fresh eyes, and help eliminate some anxiety because...

All writing is good for something.

All of it.

Somewhere, it will have an audience that needs it. Don’t stress about finding that audience, don’t stress about making it perfect for them. Make it perfect for you, and deign to allow others to read it. Your writing is your voice. It is you unique vision. Only you can write things in ways that play on your personal vision of the world. Seriously. We can’t even map minds at a level that allows us to pull stories out of it. Not even dreams can be recorded. You know what your dreams are. You know what you want on the paper. As long as you feel like it brings what you want to the table, you can write anything and it is good.

Think of yourself as a pioneer, forging new ideas into the world. No one gets it perfect the first time. You’ll throw an axle occasionally, or a horse will die, or a party member gets dysentery. But the point is you made the effort, and can change or recover. Writing is what it is. It exists waiting to be seen and translated into part of another person’s life. Try to pick a good idea of what you want to share, and then share it.

You’re golden. Don’t let one or two comments get to you. Don’t let your inner editor scream you down. Don’t engage with the ideas that you can’t write, or you aren’t good enough, or that this is easier for other people. Accept them as your personal doubts, not as your personal truths. Accept they are worries. Then let them go, they are worries, not truths. They exist, but they do not have to be what you base things on. Breathe. Think. Writers generally feel like shit, especially when they have been trying to write and finish a novel for 2 years and can’t even pick up a pencil to do it, god damn it self, get in gear can’t reach goals they set for themselves. If you disappoint yourself, that’s where anxiety sets in that you can’t live up to your ideals.

That’s actually good for one thing. If you can see flaws, you’re getting better at the job. Writing is practice. Editing is putting that practice to use. Like, seriously. If you had a piece of art, and you went back years later after a hundred more pieces of art, you could do a better sketch or version of it. Writing is very similar. You can figure out what went wrong, rewrite the sentences, the story, the flow, something you’ve learned doesn’t work. It’s not solid, I have to point that out. Writing can change, even if it felt perfect at the time. Not because it wasn’t right, because it was right for the you who wrote it, the mysterious past you who was in a certain mindset. It’s because the you now who read it, wants to say something different because they’ve seen the future. They’ve read ahead in the story. They’ve got spoilers, and you could set up for those spoilers a little better.

At a certain point though you have to say, ‘look, either I edit forever, like I’m going to do to myself as I grow and learn. Or I set it down now, call it history, and use it as a reference point in the future when I get even better.’ The second one is better, less stress. History isn’t something we can change, we can only change the perceptions of those around us with additional words and actions. It is what it is. You, and everyone around you, can accept that. Even if it means dealing with hard truths, or hiding something that got a less than stellar reputation. (Never fully delete anything, it’s painful, and makes you not want to do more. Just set it to private or something. Let your messed up creations hide in the dark places, because someday you might grow enough to want to visit them and love them as they are, when they remind you less of current immediate failure, and have a more sentimental feel.)

Remember too, your writing will not meet anyone, not finalize, can be changed and edited and fixed, all the way up and past you showing it to an audience. Read it in different fonts, in color changes, to catch it in new lights. Edit the shit out of it. Make it closer to your intent. Refine, and examine it until you feel like it’s good enough to share, and then share it. But until then, no one is judging you. No one sees it. No one is out to get you except that fucking little editor voice in your head trying to give you SHIT. Well fuck that voice, you can change it later. Get your ideas down now, and let them grow and evolve with your progress. Don’t worry about what it says, it could say anything. The important part is not the writing, but the experience of having written it.

A story is an idea, written down. You can’t change an idea, until there’s enough solid parts to interact with them. A vague idea you’re nurturing to growth is great, but you have to write it down before it becomes solid and real and you can trim the branches and shape it into something more. Don’t be intimidated. Nothing has to be perfect the first go around, it’s just a draft. You have a story inside you, a life, a creation. Something about you, a part of you that longs to be free and shared and alive. It doesn’t have to be perfect, long, or well-written. It just has to bloom on paper, and then expand and grow and seed and birth new stories. You can do it, you really can. It’s just planting that idea that scares people.

You matter. Your writing matters. Regardless of anything else, everything you write is real, and it matters. It’s one of the steps you take to get somewhere else. Every step is important, even if you never reference that step again.

Let yourself fall in love with your writing. Let yourself put it away, and come back to it with fresh eyes, and experience it for the first time as an audience. Fix what doesn’t work, but love what does and focus on it, because that’s what an audience will remember. What they loved.

Good luck. You’re fantastic, and I cannot put into words what kind of pride, and joy, and this... big budding feeling in my chest is. This bubbling need to tell you that every action you take towards becoming a writer makes me kinda tear up and have hope. Because... I need writers. I need them badly. Whether they’re roleplayers writing ephemeral stories back and forth across electrons that expire after they’re spoken, or writers who sit down and write novels that will last and last and last. All of you give me hope, all of your words touch me, and mean something to me. Ones I disagree with, ones I love, ones I hate, ones that impassioned me, or bring me closer to understanding myself.

Just write. I love it, whatever it is. Thank you.

[emilysnell]

What to do when your dentist makes you uncomfortable

I’ve finally had enough. I’m finding a new dentist. But I’m gonna say a few words before I ditch this guy.

For years now, I’ve been going to the same dentist - someone I didn’t originally choose but got stuck with when my real dentist moved on to start her own practice. The guy I got stuck with has always made me feel uncomfortable with his jokes/comments and unwanted hugs. But I tried to push those feelings aside because I like everything else about the office. The office itself (reception area, equipment, etc) is really high quality, the ladies at the front desk and all of the hygienists are very kind, everyone (even my creepy dentist) seems to be good at taking care of teeth. The location of their office was close to my work. They have gorgeous huge windows so that you have a nice view while you’re sitting in the chair trying not to think of the sound of the drill or the fact that you’ve been holding your mouth open for 20 minutes. Everything about it was great. Except the dentist and his creepy comments.

So, because everything else was great, I put up with the comments. I tried not to be too tense about the uncomfortable hug at the end. I made excuses for him: he doesn’t mean any harm; he’s not dangerous; he doesn’t realize he’s making me uncomfortable.

But 6 months ago when I went to my appointment, on the way there, I found myself rehearsing a whole speech that I was trying to work up the courage to say. A speech about why I didn’t want a hug, about why he really shouldn’t hug his clients. Thankfully, surprisingly, at the end of my appointment, he didn’t hug me. I was so relieved!

And then I went back yesterday. Again no hug (thankfully!) but he maintained his usual uncomfortable comments. This time, I finally decided to speak up (although, I wish I had been more direct). Let me paint a little picture for you and then we’ll get to the real moral of this whole story:

Dentist (while checking the lymph nodes in my neck): “This is my excuse to play with your neck.”

Me: *silence*

Dentist: “Uh oh. You didn’t laugh. That means I’m in trouble.” *for several minutes tries to make me laugh and yet also continues with awkward topics*

Dentist (compliments me on the smell of my lotion): “Don’t worry I won’t chase you down the hall.” *ensues telling story about another client who always smells good*

Finally, several minutes later after he continues talking about trying to make me laugh, 

I say: “I think you have too many jokes. Maybe you should get rid of some of them.”

Dentist: “The second you start believing my jokes, you can reach up and slap me.”

I don’t know how that conversation makes you feel, but in addition to making me feel uncomfortable, it made me angry.

It made me angry because he’s an adult man who should have enough professionalism to know when jokes are appropriate or inappropriate. 

It made me angry because I don’t think he would say those same comments if a patient’s husband/boyfriend/brother/dad was in the room. And I don’t think he’d make those comments if his own wife was in the room.

It made me angry because he obviously knows the comments have the potential to make people uncomfortable but he chooses to say them anyway AND he puts the pressure on the client to do something about it rather than taking responsibility for the fact that he’s the one in the wrong.

Just to be clear: If you have to give people an out like “you can reach up and slap me,” you shouldn’t be saying it in the first place. Don’t make me have to react to your inappropriate behavior. Use your own professional/logical sense and don’t make those kinds of comments.

The whole episode has me thinking about cultural expectations, about manners, about harassment, about confronting inappropriate behavior, about power differentials, about making decisions to leave - even if you’re just leaving your dentist.

I’m not the only woman who feels uncomfortable about this man’s conduct. (I have friends who go to the same dentist and have told me that he’s a little creepy.) And yet, we all made excuses for him. We all just put up with the comments because he’s “harmless.” While I do think (hope), he would never actually do anything inappropriate, I would argue that words are far from harmless. And I think it’s important for us - especially women - to speak up and not make excuses when inappropriate behavior is happening. 

Before posting this, I asked a friend to read and offer feedback. She asked if I had considering mentioning #metoo. I told her that I didn’t really consider this a #metoo moment because it seems so “minor.” Red flag. As soon as I said it, I realized that’s the exact reason I need to mention it. The #metoo movement is all about bringing awareness to the prevalence of sexual harassment. And too often most of us are silent because the things we experience seem “minor” or “harmless.” But the reality is that these types of comments or unwanted physical contact aren’t ok. And we shouldn’t minimize them or dismiss them.

(Side note, I tend to be very gracious and forgiving about physical contact. I’m a touchy person. I often hug people or put a hand on someone’s arm. I skipped right over the fact that my dentist put his hand on my knee - just for a second. I didn’t mention it because it didn’t really bother me very much. And like I said, since I’m a touchy person, I tend to be forgiving about that. But I also know that it’s not professional in this context or any similar context.)

Even if it’s something small, if we are going to change the culture in this country, we have to start speaking up. And for me, that starts with yesterday’s comment to my dentist but also a phone call this week to tell them I’m not coming back - and to tell them exactly why I’m not coming back.

What to do when your dentist makes you uncomfortable:

1. Speak up. Say something.

2. Leave. Find a new dentist.

3. Please don’t put up with it for as long as I did. 

Men and women, we have to work together on this. We have to raise our kids to view others with respect and dignity and to speak and act in ways that honor others. We have to raise our kids to speak up, get help, walk away when inappropriate behavior happens. 

Men and women, we need to look at our own hearts. Where are we making excuses for ourselves and for others? 

Men and women, we need to learn how to respond when we are confronted. If someone tells you that you’re being inappropriate, listen. Apologize. Most importantly, change. Do better. Be better.

We’re in this together. Let’s make the world a safer place, a place where people are valued and honored and celebrated.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Crossed Wires 2

Warnings: non/dubcon, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Characters: silverfox!Andy Barber, Cole Turner

Summary: you try to balance your work with your private life as your boss and a new client try to blur the lines. (short!reader)

Part of the Backwoods AU

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging.

As you drive off the former Orson property, your phone rings. You slow to a crawl as you answer, hit speaker and toss it on the passenger’s seat. It’s the same person who only calls. The only one who does.

“So, how’d it go?” Cole asks, his voice patching in and out over the erratic countryside reception.

“Typical,” you answer.

“Been a while since we got a new customer. Were they nice?”

“Eh,” you mutter.

“She friendly?” He prompts further.

“He was fine. Tipped well.”

“He? Interesting. Just one guy or–”

“I guess,” you shrug at the road as you drive. “I’ll bring the check tomorrow.”

“Sure, uh, you going to The Horn tonight?” He asks as you steer along a board curve and rev a little as the road inclines.

You sigh. You were thinking about it but if he’s asking, “no.”

“Oh, alright,” he replies, his disappointment plain. 

You don’t mind a nice cold pint at the end of a hot day like this but he’s a lightweight and he gets obnoxious. Sometimes you forget he’s almost forty, more than a decade your senior. He seems to forget too.

“Might get a call for a door opener install,” you break the silence.

“Uh, okay, I’ll keep an ear out. What’re you doing for dinner?”

You stare ahead at the road. You get that the village isn’t very big but you’re not into socializing with your boss and only other coworker. You’re lucky he can’t see the dimness in your eyes.

“Leftovers,” you mutter, “you’re cutting in and out. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

You pull onto the apron as you reach for your phone. You hang up and drop it back to the seat. He’s a nice guy, you can’t fault him for being just that, but you keep to yourself. That’s how you’re comfortable and you’re not spending your time off pretending otherwise.

✨

The next day, you drive out to the Turner farm. Ethan greets you as he sweeps the porch steps. You apprenticed with him right before he retired and passed on the business to his son. So far, junior has yet to live up to senior.

You get out and decline his offer of a coffee as you climb the stairs. You prefer the elder Turner, he doesn’t chit chat so much. You go inside and leave your boots on the mat, not wanting to draw Beverly’s wrath and press on to the little office behind the kitchen, refusing a second offer of a coffee; you have a thermos in the truck.

You knock and wait for an answer. There’s a groan.

“Honey, you can probably just go in,” Beverly says.

You nod and let yourself into the office. Cole has his head on the desk and winces as you shut the door behind you. You take out the wad of bills you got from Mr. Crayford and the check from that other man, Barber? You put them just above his head and step back to cross your arms.

“Shit,” Cole sits up and rubs his temples, “bit too much fun at The Horn last night.”

“Mm,” you hum. “There’s the money.”

“Ugh, right,” he reaches for the check and squints at the narrow writing. He grumbles and drops it back to the desk, “my head.”

“Any calls?” You ignore his obvious struggle. “I have Lynette marked down for the afternoon–”

“She canceled,” Cole reaches to flutter through the heavy ledger, “but… Odinson called. They’re having an issue with a whole floor. I was thinking we could tag team it, it’ll be a bigger job.”

He speaks gingerly as he cradles his head between his hands. You stare at him dully. He is in no state to do anything more than whine.

“Are you sure?” You ask.

“I just need a coffee,” he says as he rubs his forehead, “I’ll be okay.”

“What time?” You check your watch.

“What time…” he repeats thinly.

“What time are we headed out? I got errands I could run–”

“You’re not going to hang around?”

“Depends,” you huff and drop your arm, putting your hands on your hips as you push back your open flannel shirt, only the button in the middle hooked. His eyes follow the movement.

“In an hour?” He gurgles, “I’ll have to call and confirm.”

“Right,” you take a breath and turn on your heel.

“Where are you going?” He asks.

“Grabbing my thermos,” you say without looking back.

You leave him, letting Beverly pass as she approaches with a full steaming mug. She does tend to coddle him. His helplessness isn’t very surprising. You stop to step into your boots and tuck the laces in.

Ethan is sitting on the porch bench, a newspaper in hand. You give a small wave as you emerge and head off to your truck. You get in the front seat and roll down the window. You grab your thermos and uncap it. You can wait out here until Cole gets his shit together.

You put the thermos back in the cup holder and look down. You button up the front of your shirt, skin crawling as you recall the way he stared at your hips. He does that sometimes but you’re not even sure he realises. He just watches you…

Whatever. You got a job to do and having him with you will only double it.