#i literally cannot wait until i finish this fic because the minute i hit post on that last chapter i am going to GO STRAIGHT TO THE LIBRARY

[rebornofstars]

AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH IVE TOLD YOU HOW I FEEL ABT THIS ARTWORK BEFORE AND I JUST. I LOVE IT MORE EVERY TIME I LOOK AT IT AHARUGHRUGH are you TRYING TO KILL ME ITS SO BEAUTIFUL

There was something under his skin.

* reposting this with the bg.

[yadds]

Another Geraskier Fix-it Fic, Part 2 Jaskier tells Geralt to fuck off, Geralt is forced into some self-reflection.

Part 1

I was going to wait until I finished this to post the rest, but that’s gonna be in approx. 3 million years at this point, so here’s part 2 if anyone is still interested.  Should only be one part left after this since I actually have an ending in mind!

.

Geralt was jostled from his meditation by a foot to the side of his head. He whirled around and caught the ankle, yanking until the perpetrator fell to the floor with a squawk. He had a knife to a throat before he realized it was Jaskier, hands up defenselessly and eyes wide. 

He tsked and released him. 

“Excuse me,” Jaskier said indignantly as he sat up, wincing, and brushed his hands across his bare back, which had been dragged across the dusty floor in the scuffle. “You’re annoyed at me? I don’t even rightly know what’s going on right now! I woke up and was just trying to get out of bed! What did you expect to happen when you took up post there like some looming lurker?”

“You seem to be feeling better,” Geralt muttered. 

“I can’t even tell; my bladder is about to explode and I literally cannot even think about anything else. So if you would kindly move your arse, I would like to fix that particular problem.”

Huffing, Geralt shifted to the side to allow Jaskier to go and relieve himself. 

Jaskier was soon collapsing back onto the bed with a sigh. “In answer to your non-question, yes, I am feeling better. Thank you for pretending you care. You’ve fulfilled whatever bizarre obligation you seem to have felt so please feel free to leave. Preferably without soul-searing insults this time, but that’s honestly up to you.”

Geralt scowled as he watched Jaskier watch the ceiling, one arm thrown over his forehead and partially obscuring his view. 

“You never answered me,” he said gruffly. 

Jaskier’s head tilted minutely in his direction. “You’ll have to remind me what exactly I didn’t answer. My memory of our conversation while I was bleeding out is a bit vague,” he said acerbically. 

“Those men,” Geralt clarified. When he saw Jaskier open his mouth with an expression of exasperation, Geralt continued. “You said they were after me.”

Jaskier nodded, peering through his fingers up at the ceiling again.

He didn’t offer any more information. Gritting his teeth, Geralt mustered all the patience he could and asked for it. “Why? And why are they after you?”

“Oh yes, I’m starting to remember now - I told you already that I. Don’t. Know,” Jaskier sneered.  “I have no idea who those men were.” 

“Stop the bullshit!” Geralt finally barked. “You also implied this was a regular occurrence. What the hell is going on, Jaskier?”

Jaskier continued glowering. Just as Geralt was ready to start physically demanding answers, Jaskier suddenly turned so that he was fully facing Geralt. 

“Okay. Fine. You want to get into this? Alright. This has been going on for years, Geralt. People have been trying to kidnap, kill, or maim me to get to you for years. Not the same people - sometimes it’s hired hands for rich people you’ve pissed off, sometimes it’s people that don’t want you stopping them from doing something, and sometimes it’s random folk that just don’t like you.”

Geralt felt as though he had ice water coursing through his veins, freezing the breath in his lungs and slowing his heart to a sluggish crawl. 

“Most of the time, I don’t have a clue who or why unless they’re successful,” Jaskier continued. 

Suddenly the ice in his blood was seared to steam by the raging fury that overtook him at the thought. “The fuck does that mean?” Geralt growled. 

“Oh, yes, I’ve been in some pretty precarious situations, my friend,” Jaskier pressed cruelly, noting how each new piece of information wound Geralt tighter. “Been attacked more times than I can count. Although, to be fair, I don’t know how many of those were just because I am such a delight to all those around me and how many were thanks to you. I’ve been kidnapped at least 3 or 4 times. That’s never enjoyable but has ended up being surprisingly relatively benign,” he mused. 

Geralt was trembling, strung tight enough to snap. 

“Oh relax,” Jaskier said, rolling his eyes. “I never tell them anything.” He rolled back to stare at the ceiling again, arms folded behind his head, appearing to tire of his game. “I can withstand a lot more than you might think.”

“Why?” he rasped. 

Jaskier shrugged. “Well most of the time I actually don’t know anything since you usually just ditch me with not a word of where I could find you again even if I needed to. But also because I’m not a heartless bastard; I used to consider us very good friends, you know. I would never do anything that might cause you harm. You do so much more good in this world than I do so if I had to sacrifice you to save myself…well, I’m not that kind of selfish.”

The sound that punched out of Geralt at the thought was choked and miserable. “Jaskier,” he croaked, then stopped, unable to find the words to continue. 

Jaskier turned his gaze back to Geralt again, a delighted, malicious grin stealing across his face. “Oh, my,” he crowed. “Does it hurt, Geralt? To know someone has suffered for you?”

“Yes,” he hissed, eyes narrow and intent on the bard perched above him. His hand lifted briefly towards Jaskier before he dropped it to fist in his lap. 

“Good,” Jaskier replied simply. His clenched jaw and the fire in his eyes belied the casual tone.

Geralt flinched slightly before lashing out. “What the fuck is your problem?”

Jaskier quickly rolled back towards him, pushing himself up to sit on the edge of the bed, looking down at Geralt, still seated on the floor, with contempt. “My problem?” he parroted incredulously. “You rip out my heart and tear it to shreds for no gods damned reason and I’m the one with the problem? I’m sorry, was I supposed to just roll over and take it? Beg for more?”

Geralt’s glare intensified.  “What bullshit are you spouting now?  I haven’t even seen your godsforsaken face in a year.”

“Were you dropped on your head sometime in the past year?  Gotten amnesia or dementia of some sort?  I feel like I should ask because this could be a legitimate issue before assuming -    No?” Jaskier asked facetiously before continuing.  “Okay, so you’re just willfully misremembering the way you very sincerely wished me out of your life?  I’ve done my part and stayed out of your way!  Yet here you are, still...maligning me.”

Geralt scoffed, immediately knowing that was the wrong thing to do but unable to stop.  “That’s not anywhere near the worst thing I’ve said to you.”

He saw the muscle in Jaskier’s jaw jump repeatedly, accentuating the slight tremor in his chin as he took a long moment before responding quietly.  “True.  But that was the first time I knew beyond a doubt that you really meant it.  Also, the fact that you think that’s a justification just proves what a fool I was to follow you for as long as I did.”

The silence that followed was oppressive and suffocating.

When Geralt made no move to refute, or even acknowledge, the accusations, the renewed expression of disappointment on Jaskier’s face hit him like a forging hammer to the chest.  

Jaskier’s mouth opened as if to say something, but all that came out was a heavy sigh before his lips pressed together tight.  He pushed himself off the bed, face drawn and shoulders slumping in defeat.

“Well, thanks for saving my life yet again.  I hope you don’t mind if I steal a drink before I’m off,” Jaskier said with forced nonchalance as he stumbled the two steps across the room to a pitcher on the small table.  

Geralt looked up when he heard the clangor of the cup clattering against the pitcher, both trembling and unsteady in Jaskier’s grip.  As water sloshed against his front, Jaskier slammed them both back down onto the table, breathing sharply through his nose in frustration.

Standing silently, Geralt stepped close and gently grabbed the cup from Jaskier.  Before he had grasped the pitcher, Jaskier snatched the cup back.  “I can pour my own damn drink, Geralt!” he snarled.

“Of course,” he agreed as he stepped back.  His eyes traced the tense lines of Jaskier’s back as he fumbled to get enough water into the cup for a long draught, somewhat surprised by the definition of hard muscle just visible beneath a shallow layer of softness.

Jaskier turned and brushed past Geralt to get to the door.  Geralt grabbed his arm.  “Jaskier.”

“What?” he replied curtly, still facing the door.

“Stay,” he said gruffly.

“No.  I don’t wish to add to my debt to you.”

“Since when do you care about such things?” Geralt asked mockingly.

“Since we’re not friends,” Jaskier bit out.

Geralt’s grip tightened with the pang of annoyance that pierced through him.  He quickly released his hand when he heard Jaskier hiss softly.

“You’re in no condition to be out there alone,” he said, frustrated with Jaskier’s stubbornness. 

“Who says I’m alone?” Jaskier replied. “Believe it or not, there are others who don’t find me so despicable.”  He watched as Jaskier stopped briefly to rummage through Geralt’s saddlebags to take one of his shirts, turning and showing Geralt quite pointedly that he was taking it, daring him to say something about it.

For once, there were many things Geralt wanted to say, ranging from groveling apologies to scathingly cruel remarks that made his previous ones sound like fucking love letters. But he remained silent as Jaskier turned and opened the door, jumbles of jagged words clamoring against the back of his teeth, shoved down his throat until he could scarcely breathe. 

Pausing, Jaskier looked back once more, eyes tracing Geralt’s features. “Goodbye, Geralt.”

Nothing had ever sounded so devastatingly final. 

.

Geralt left the inn with the rising sun, body still humming with pent up tension. 

Not knowing where Jaskier was or who he was with became Geralt’s newest form of personal torture. 

He would have stayed with Jaskier, traveled with him again, kept him safe. He didn’t like feeling responsible for Jaskier’s hardships. But apparently Jaskier’s pride was more important than his safety. Fucking idiot. 

He grit his teeth, hands clenching. Roach snorted and shook her head, making Geralt loosen his too-tight grip on her reins. “Sorry, girl,” he murmured. 

He dismounted and prowled beside her, unable to stomach sitting idle with his fuming thoughts. 

What right did Jaskier have to punish him? For all of his extravagant overtures of devotion, Jaskier was the one who left. And all it took was a few unkind words.  It certainly hadn’t been the first time he’d lashed out at Jaskier when his frustrations had lain elsewhere.  He wasn’t proud of how he’d acted, but it was far from the worst thing he’d done in the decades that they’d traveled together.  What kind of ‘friendship’ could be shattered by something so trivial?  

Geralt spent the next mile attempting to force his mind into silence.  He was unsuccessful like he hadn’t experienced since he’d first become a witcher all those years ago, his thoughts roiling and ranting violently.  

Geralt was not stupid - he knew that a distraction such as this would only result in a quick, needless death while on The Path. Fortunately, he was also not a coward.  If this required putting thought to the...feelings he was experiencing, he would do it.  

Geralt mounted Roach, trusting her to keep the path and warn him of any conspicuous threats.  He squared his shoulders as he turned his focus inwards.

Putting a name to the emotions that were clamoring below the surface was a trying task for one who only experienced pale shades of their human counterparts.  He approached each tangle of sentiment marring the dreary landscape of his inner mind, prepared to unravel it, acknowledge it, and move the fuck on. There was anger, yes, that he was all too familiar with.  Some hurt, he supposed, if he had to admit it.  But the biggest beast was a deep-seated sense of betrayal.

The realization made him snarl; betrayal to this extent wasn’t possible without a level of trust that he thought himself incapable of. How could he be so fucking stupid?  Geralt was forced to acknowledge that Jaksier had, despite his valiant efforts to keep him at arms length, insinuated himself as the closest anything came to a permanent fixture in Geralt’s life.  He’d trusted Jaskier in a way he’d not done since he’d been a boy, been so unquestionably sure of Jaskier’s loyalty.  

And he fucking knew better.  Nothing was permanent and nobody could truly be trusted.  How many times must he learn that gods damned lesson in his endlessly long life? Apparently at least once more, it seemed. 

Fury reared its head once more, searing through his nerves until he could think of nothing else. Partially at Jaskier, at destiny, at this shithole of a Continent. But mostly at himself.

But self-castigation was of no use to him. He drew a deep breath and pushed through it, finding that he was once again placing his misdirected anger firmly on Jaskier’s shoulders, something he’d been doing so long that he didn’t even think about it.

Perhaps he’d been needlessly cruel for too long. Jaskier was an easy target, one who would take a beating with nothing but a cheeky comeback or sullen silence. And wasn’t that on Jaskier, not standing up for himself? Perhaps a little, but no, he had to admit that this was his own shortcoming. It only incensed him further to realize just how much he’d taken advantage of...yes, his friend. If he had ever had a single friend in his life, it would have been Jaskier. 

But despite his self-involvement and constant reparation of the thick stone walls protecting his inner self from the rest of the world, Jaskier had grown like weeds through any cracks in the mortar. Though he’d stopped the spread, the sprouts of greenery stubbornly remained in the endless brown and gray of dirty stone, demanding his attention.  And as the mulish weeds started to finally die, the color fading, Geralt was forced to recognize the beauty of a bit of color in a colorless life.  

Just another story of too little too late.

_______________________________________________________________________

So you’d think quarantine would be the optimal time for writing, but I’m finding I have less time/energy than ever between keeping up with a 3 year old and a 1 year old that are cooped up inside while trying to work from home and not neglect our little bit of husband/wife time.  

Not having any time to myself is the hardest part of all this for me (for which I’m so incredibly grateful, that that’s my biggest problem) and makes me want to just curl up and do nothing the few moments I’m able to steal for myself.  So, plan on me being EVEN SLOWER THAN USUAL.  Yes, that’s possible.  And it’s happening.

Despite my complaining, things in general are good for us - Husband and I have job security, are continuing to get paid normally, and have bosses that understand our need to juggle family/work balance, and we’re all in good health.  

Stay safe and well out there, y’all, both physically and mentally, as much as you can!  

[a-lil-perspective]

I don’t want to be that person—

But I really need to get this off my chest. This is the culmination of two months buildup of thoughts that have been screaming far too loud for me to continue simply taking in stride. I can’t do it. I apologize in advance, for anyone who actually reads this, if this is a deterrent to you about my character or my minuscule space taken up here on Tumblr. Again, I really can no longer remain silent. If it’s any solace:

I tried.

Where to begin. First off—as much as I’d love for this to be an update on the next chapter of Remember Me, it is not. For those of you who’ve kept up with the story, I’m sure you’ve noticed my uploading pattern these past few weeks has been reduced to solely weekends—and barely that, might I add. While I will try to have Chapter 9 up within the next few days, I cannot guarantee when. At this point in time, it’s not a lack of creative streak, it’s a lack of time. I have all these outlines and segments in my head but can’t seem to even catch a breath much less put the story down in my notes or in Word for later edit and upload. But I’m trying. I really am. As I’ve said before: I will finish this story, come hell or high water. But currently being engulfed in the former has been a huge burden.

Per my past psa’s: My health? Two giant thumbs down (nothing to do with COVID-19). Personal aspects? Two giant thumbs down. Both are and have been slowly corroding me. To avoid this post seemingly grabbing for sympathy, I’m going to just stop there with that. But I’m truly suffocating in this corner.

Next point in case: I’m going to be completely candid here. It’s extremely difficult and utterly exhausting to continue posting fics. Mentally and Emotionally. The pressure to post. The pressure to post because if you don’t in a timely manner, you lose your momentum and “fall behind” when you post again. Then you’re right back to square one thereafter because people have grown absent in your absence. It’s exhausting and stressful to spin in that wheel.

It’s difficult when you pour every drop of energy into a work, only for it to sit largely unnoticed on your blog. To stay up literally all night making sure your punctuation is impeccable, re-reading the same fic over and over before you post until your brain explodes and you utterly forsake the fic the minute you hit that post button. To take up space on a post tagging and adding those notes and engaging flares that go unrequited. It’s... well, it’s detrimental. It gets you down. It gets me down. I’m not going to lie about that. We all want validation and I will be the first to shoot my hand up in acknowledgement.

I’m going to stop right there as you’re reading to clarify: This is not a call-out post. This is not a guilt post. This is not me giving an ultimatum. This is not me demanding reblogs. This is not me telling you “your likes don’t matter” (I have literally seen that on posts and it kind of disgusts me. That’s all I’m going to say about that for now).

Reblogs, while unanimously appreciated, are not a priority to me. Comments and feedback and communication are invaluable to me. That’s it. That coveted and intimate interaction between the Writer and the Reader. One is not more important than the other. We’re a team, a unit, a force that balances each other on a broad, diverse scale.

I don’t ask for much—I don’t ask for anything here, actually (unless it’s directed towards the general audience over what y’all would like to see, which largely goes unengaged whenever I bring up). No, I don’t post fics that frequently. No, I don’t crank them out as quick. No, I don’t have that many. Yes, I’m new to fanfic writing. But I work quietly and solely with all my own plots and dialogues and ideas (I love prompts and requests, though). Thus my usually hefty works. Y’all get the whole nine yards. But I don’t feel like I really get to bounce my ideas around to others, which can further exacerbate that sense of isolation for me around here. I put myself through a really long process for every single thing I write because, the quality of my work matters to me. A lot. So I try to take my time to deliver that. And... I guess I just hope you know that or can discern that as you read each time.

Another astronomically exhausting aspect is this platform itself. It’s painfully evident to me, in my four meager months here, that Tumblr is just one big popularity contest. Who can upload the most, the fastest, the most efficiently. Who has the most followers. Who accumulates them the quickest. A place where your “exposure” is literally at the mercy of others. And when people purposely don’t want to aid in that, it spirals into this really toxic mindset causing friction between Writers and other Writers, causing unnecessary strain, avoidance, insecurities, and hinderances to YOUR precious work. And I’m not about that. It’s a no from me.

Also, I’ve just got to interject with this bit: Bad Batch Writers. Bad Batch Writers struggle. In my opinion, from what I’ve seen, it’s like if you aren’t writing for a popular Clone like Wolffe or Fives or Jesse, you don’t get traffic. Which I think is just... kind of corny. Okay. I think it’s really corny and ridiculous. Please know that I’m not saying anything bad about those Clone babies, the people who write them, or anything like that. Please don’t hear what I’m not saying. I’m just making a point. Bad Batch does NOT get enough love. And the Writers ultimately suffer because of it. That’s all there.

We’re all supposed to be in this together. Your work—your writing—is neither good nor bad. There’s no such thing. There’s only YOUR writing; your unique, beautiful words that I LOVE more than anything, that only YOU speak. We all speak a different dialect and flow through our storytelling. And it’s a beautiful, wholesome thing. It always has been. It should never be this detrimental stage Tumblr has made for content creators. Let’s be honest: Tumblr is not the ideal place to thrive. And I’m just... sick of it.

I’m beyond an exhausted state. I can’t remember that last time I wasn’t. (I know everyone is, with the ebb and flow of our world’s daily uncertainties during these unprecedented times). But for me, personally, it’s getting increasingly harder to keep up with the reblogs and comments and blogs of all the stories I love, while updating my work and trying to interact on my blog, while battling my health and nonexistent energy, and constantly be exposed to the “Tumblr Tumbles”, as I call it—the overbearing popularity and the waiting and the wondering and the silent seething because of it. It’s just too much. And it doesn’t take a detective to pick up on that attitudinal shift around here. It’s all just one big, pernicious cycle. And seeing that here nearly every day, exhausts me. I don’t know how else to convey as much. But I just can’t do it. And honestly, I get this overwhelming loneliness just being here.

I don’t know what I’m trying to say. I’m going to continue doing my thing until my engine sputters out. I’m going to keep up with storytelling, because I love it more than anything. I just needed to get this off my chest. I’m just rambling. I might delete this but, I might not. Who knows.

I just... Geez. I need to know that I’m not just shouting into the void over here like always.

Communication to me is key. If you don’t want me to tag you anymore: tell me. If you don’t want me to message you: tell me. Please. Just don’t like me? Cool. Tell me. It’s better to know and communicate than to walk on eggshells around everyone and everything. I’ve applied that flawed strategy throughout my whole life and I strongly dislike doing so. It adds no benefit to either party. Just be honest with yourself and others. That’s always super important.

For those of you, my handful of regulars who are around... you know who you are. Thank you. My thanks is but a meager conveyance of my undying gratitude for you. But I want you to know how much I appreciate your presence here. Words cannot express.

@halzore... You are a real mate. You are an incredible being who is not only insightful but, a true muse here. I look to you as more than just a devoted Reader of mine, and you should know that I would NOT have gotten this far with my Bad Batch Post Order: 66 series—or any of my Bad Batch works, for that matter—without your encouraging words. Holy cow. You’re a dearest friend. Your writing, art, and musical talent leaves me in awe. (A truly brilliant mind, please go love her y’all). Thank you for seeing all the good, little things in me and my work. It makes this all worth it. You make it all worth it. I get really overwhelmed thinking about it. But I just want you to know I appreciate you so much.

To anyone who’s ever left me kind, encouraging, and wonderful comments... I remember them. I do. I think of them when I’m down, and I think of them now as I write this—which is in my dispirited state, ironically. But I appreciate it. I think it is so SO important to lift each other up with words. You don’t have to reblog and all that (only speaking for myself here). Just take a moment to say something kind to someone. It makes someone’s entire day, week, month, year. Please... love other Writers. Love yourself. We all struggle. But let’s do it together. Let’s be there for each other.

Come talk to me. I don’t bite, I promise. Tell me about your day. Tell me something about yourself. I care. I love that interaction, because you are MORE than just a Reader to me. You are a valued human being with feelings, desires, wants, needs... come share that with me. If there’s something you’d like to see in my future works, something that would engage you more; please, come tell me.

I’m going to try and get better. At writing, at navigating this strange place, with my health, with life. I’ve been at my breaking point for so long that my barely held together pieces and exposed, worn chinks are almost uneffected and unresponsive to any help or healing. But I’m going to try.

Thank you for being here. I’m sure it can be hard to have patience with me and my nonexistent uploading schedule, but, I do have several wips in the works (teases in my masterlist in case you’re wondering). They’ll come around. :’)

Keep your head up and shining, lovelies. And I’ll try to do the same.

[melodious-madrigals]

big spoon, little spoon 

Prompt fill for @wondertrevnet‘s Lockout Bingo. 

Fandom: Wonder Woman  Pairing: Diana/Steve Prompt: Fluff  Word Count: 3351 Rating: T? (Some really obliquely referenced sexism, I guess.) Summary:  5 times Diana and Steve were disgustingly cute and very happy (+0 times that they weren't because this is fluff). Literally just fluff, Steve & Diana loving each other a lot. Idk what else to tell you. This is part ii of lost love (sweeter when it’s finally found), and you can read the first chapter here. 

Find this fic below the cut or on AO3. 

***

Notes: Takes place a year or two after Hades deposits Steve in Diana's living room. I'd planned a vaguely angstier fic for my next release, but then I had such a shitty 72 hours that I did not want anyone to feel anything but fluffy, so I rearranged the line-up. please enjoy 3k words of wondertrev being happy and loving each other very much.

***

i.

Even in the modern age, Diana remains partial to keeping track of things the old fashioned way. She has a Google calendar like every professional, of course, but all her meetings are also written neatly in a little diary she keeps; her personal life and JL extracurriculars are also neatly coded and transcribed in their own colors in the planner. She writes grocery lists and to-do lists on spare bits of paper, and takes meeting notes in a leatherbound notebook, unless specifically required to be working on an electronic document. She finds there's something satisfying about seeing the ink in front of her.

Yesterday, for example, she jotted a quick to-do list on a sheet of notepaper, and then tacked it to the fridge, so she'd remember to do items three (water succulents on the kitchen and bathroom window sills) and five (check cream level after Steve finishes his coffee) before she leaves in the morning.

She glances over the other eleven items, mentally ticking off what can be completed today while she's running errands on her way to work, and her eyes land on the last line.

There, scrawled in curling letters under her own tight font, is an addition that certainly wasn't there last night: 14. Kiss your husband.

She smiles. That one she'll have no problem checking off.

Steve's out on the terrace, still sipping his coffee, halfway through a crossword puzzle. She swoops in without warning, dropping a quick kiss to his lips, and then another to the top of his head, before whipping out her list and checking off number fourteen.

"Wait, come back," says Steve, setting down the paper.

"I don't know; I'm having a very productive morning and I've already checked it off," Diana teases. "I might have to move on to other things."

"No fair," he pouts.

"The post office is open already," she continues blithely, brandishing the to-do list. "I should probably go there directly."

In a flash, Steve has leaned forward and snatched the list right out of her hands.

"Steve!" she cries, and lunges for it, but by the time their little scuffle is over and it's back in her hands, 15. Let your husband kiss you is scrawled messily along the bottom.

"Well," she says, smirking despite herself, "if the list says so, I can't argue."

"I'm glad you've seen sense," says Steve, leaning in with a gleam in his eye.

She doesn't manage to tick anything else off before work—ends up rushing not to be late, in fact—but she's always felt it's important to be thorough when completing tasks.

***

ii.

It's rainy and gross, the weather just cold enough that it's unpleasant, but not so cold that the rain has turned into snow or sleet. Unfortunately, it's a Thursday.

When Diana's alarm goes off, she groans, and sticks her head under a pillow, and then pulls the duvet over them both.

"Play hooky with me," Steve says sleepily from next to her.  

"I cannot just skip work."

"And how many sick days do you have accrued?" asks Steve, who knows perfectly well that the number is high, because Diana doesn't get sick the way mortals do.

Diana mumbles something from under the pillow.

"What was that?"

"...a lot," she says, grudgingly. "But that would be lying; I'm not sick."

"Mental health days are a thing now," reasons Steve. "And how many projects are due today?"

"You know perfectly well there's nothing big until next Wednesday."

Steve burrows under the duvet, so that they're face to face and hidden from the outside world.

"Are we going to do anything productive?"

"Not a damn thing."

"Yes, I suppose that does sound nice."

"Excellent! I lie for a living. I'll telephone both our jobs."

Steve gets up, and Diana rolls into the warm spot he left behind. She can hear the soft murmur of his voice though the wall, and five minutes later he's slipping back into bed, a self-satisfied smile on his face.

"All set."

She snuggles into him, and they fall back to sleep to the patter of the rain.

*

When Diana wakes up the second time, it's raining harder still, but there's the soft glow of the bedside lamp. Steve's sitting up, still in pajamas, reading.

She must've been more tired than she thought, because it's rare that Steve wakes up first.

Diana blinks back the sleep in her eyes and takes a moment to appreciate the picture Steve paints, with his tousled hair and reading glasses. He looks soft and sleepy and perfect, and suddenly she's extremely glad he convinced her to take the day off.  

Steve glances over at her, and looks mildly surprised to find she's awake.

He bookmarks his page with care, and then leans over and grabs a steaming mug that was outside her line of vision, offering it to her.

"I did not even hear you get up to make coffee."

"You clearly needed the sleep," Steve says.

"Maybe." Diana sighs, "I suppose I should not lay in bed all day."

"Then I've got just the thing." ��He offers her a hand, and she lets him lead her out of the bedroom.

In their living room, instead of the normal furniture configuration, there's a glowing mass of sheets. It seems that Steve has taken it upon himself to make a blanket fort, and has decorated it with a string of lights he must have found at the back of the closet. She really can't believe she slept through this.

"You have been looking at Pinterest again, haven't you?"

"No comment."

"It's lovely."

"There's nothing inside, yet. I thought we could do that bit together."

It's perfect, so she says so.

They pull some cushions off the couch and drag their duvet in too, and all of a sudden, the blanket fort is complete and they have a wonderful little rainy-day nest.

"Breakfast in blanket fort?"

She bites her lip and nods. "But in a minute," she adds, catching his hand in hers before he can move away, and for a moment, they lay on their backs, enjoying the flickering lights.

***

iii.

Diana walks into a massacre.

"What happened here?" Deep red stains cover half the visible surfaces.

Steve looks up, guiltily.

"I spilled cold water on one of the hot jars, and it exploded."

"So just to confirm, none of it is your blood?"

"It's one hundred percent cherry preserves."

Diana breathes a sigh of relief. "That is far easier to fix," she says, slipping her arms around his waist from the back and swooping in to kiss his cheek.

Steve spins in her arms to face her. "It was a rookie mistake. With the amount of jam I've made in my lives, it should never have happened."

Diana sweeps a bit of the exploded cherry preserve off of his cheek with her thumb, and then ducks out of his hold to taste it.

"It is excellent."

Steve grins affably, and rinses both his hands and the rag he's holding. "Good, there are a dozen more jars of it cooling in the dining room."

"Only a dozen?" asks Diana in genuine surprise, because Steve has been known to go a little overboard when it comes to making jams.

"Plus a dozen each of raspberry and blueberry preserves."

"Ahh," she says, nodding. That makes a great deal more sense.

"I already cleaned up the glass, and was going to wipe everything down and start on the peaches. Care to join me?"

Diana knows next to nothing about canning and preserving and jellying, but she missed it last year when the Justice League called her out of town unexpectedly. There's no way she's missing it again this year.

"Tell me where to start," she says, smiling.

"With clothes you don't mind getting dirty, for one. As I've clearly demonstrated," Steve jokes, gesturing at his aproned (and sticky) body.  

Diana glances down at her several-hundred euro suit, and then makes for the bedroom. "I'll only be a moment."

"I've got nothing but time!" Steve calls after her, jovially.

When she comes back out—now dressed in an ancient t-shirt that she's stolen back from Steve (after he stole it from her last year) and jeans so soft they're practically threadbare—she pauses in the doorframe, watching Steve. He's mostly mopped up the cherry preserves, and he's humming as he towels up the bit that somehow managed to get on the backsplash.

He's probably been at this for hours, and despite the mishap, he's still in an excellent mood. It makes her smile softly.

He catches her eye just as he hits the chorus of the soft '80s song he's singing, and he pulls her behind the island and spins her around. She laughs and plays along, and they rock back and forth a few times, Diana joining him on the last chorus as he hands her an apron.

"If you want to start pitting the peaches, I'll finish cleaning the pot."

They chat about their days as they work (Diana gets a play-by-play of the events leading up to the exploding jar, and Steve gets a run-down on the passive-aggressive email war she's having with the British Museum), and eventually Steve comes over to help her pit and cut the fruit.

Once everything has been dumped into the large copper jam pot, they turn up the radio and dance around the kitchen to old music, stirring intermittently until the peach compote has simmered down and thickened enough that it's time to jar and let it set.

"That was fun," Diana says, as they finish the washing up. Their dining room table has been completely overtaken by jams and preserves cooling in quaint-looking Mason jars, but it's worth it.

"I'm hoping to make elderberry jam still this year, and apple jelly in the late autumn, if you'd like to join me," Steve says, a dish-towel flung over his shoulder. (It's very cute.)

"It's a date," Diana declares, and she sees his eyes flick to her lips.

A second later, their lips meet, slow and languid, and Diana sighs into the kiss. Steve's lips taste vaguely sweet, a little like the peach jam they'd swiped samples of while they worked, and hers probably do too.

If Steve's lucky, he might be able to steal the t-shirt back yet this evening.

***

iv.

There's tittering outside her office, which—if Diana had been paying attention—would've tipped her off twenty minutes ago to the fact that Steve is here. Her interns are a bit of a gossipy bunch this year, and they've all taken a shine to Steve. (Apparently he's the most interesting thing to happen to the office, and the presence of the seemingly straight-laced Mme. Prince's charming significant other is always cause for news in a way little else is.)

As it happens, she's in the middle of updating the care manuals for several artifacts that are about to be going on loan, and misses all the signs until there's a distinctive tap on her door, and Steve lets himself in.

She's always pleased to see him, and doubly so since he's been away for the past ten days on a mission with ARGUS.

"Hello, my love," she says, and leans forward over the desk to give him a quick kiss, before returning to her paper.

A moment later, she looks up, doing a spectacular double take. "You are home early!" exclaims Diana, moving out from behind her desk to give him a proper hug and another kiss.

Steve laughs, and kisses her a third time, on the nose.

"We were in and out without any loose ends to take care of. It went as smoothly as could be expected."

"I'm glad you're home."

"Me too. Care to celebrate with a quick dinner?"

Diana sighs. "I would love to, but these need to be sent out early tomorrow morning."

"Oh, come on. You need to eat at some point. Besides," says Steve. "I've still got the time dilator we found on mission if you need to get the reports done later."

"Steve," she scolds, although there's very little heat to it. "You are not considering used banned tech just for a little extra time with me tonight."

"To have dinner with you at a reasonable hour? I absolutely am." He looks at her imploringly. "We'll just slip out to the little Thai place you love and be back in an hour or two."

Diana has known she was going to give in from the moment he suggested it, but she still scrunches her face a little. "Oh, all right." Steve's victorious smile is actually adorable, and they pass a lovely couple of hours catching up on the last few days.

They get back to her office around 21h00, and instead of leaving, Steve pulls out his laptop.

"You don't have to," Diana protests. "It's late."

Steve just shrugs. "I need to work on my mission report anyways."

Diana acquiesces, simply because she's not-so-secretly pleased to have the company.

(They only have to use the time dilator once.)

Later, after Diana has everything squared away, they decide to walk home, despite the distance and the hour.

They amble along the Seine, arm in arm. The soft light of Paris never gets old, especially the way the hazy reflections ripple in the river. For all the madness of the afternoon, it's been a good day. Diana leans her head on Steve's shoulder, and they stroll on.

***

v.

Midway through her diatribe, Diana flops down in front of him, and leans against his legs, seeking comfort in her frustration. Steve's hands immediately find her hair, and he gently starts rubbing circles into her scalp as she continues the impassioned rant that began a while ago in the kitchen, "—and it is infuriating, because it is not my department, you understand? The only recourse is to file an official complaint, but that could take ages and ages and until then, they are using an outdated method that could potentially cause lasting damage to the artifacts!"

Steve hums sympathetically when Diana pauses to take a sip (well, a swig) of wine, and he splits a bit of her hair to start braiding as she adds, "These are pieces of cultural history, Steve. They should be treated with the utmost respect so that they last for generations to come to tell our history, and instead Michel is going to keep using a compound that will eventually compromise the integrity of the color!"

Steve knows there's a lot of complicated inter-departmental politics and squabbles that mean there's no good way to address the problem.

"—and the way he treats Sophie!" Diana huffs, a clear indication that they're back to Michel—a frequent source of frustration—but on a personal note this time.

"Hair tie," interjects Steve, and without missing a beat, she flicks one off her wrist and hands it to him so he can finish off the braid neatly.  

"It is disgusting, and she does not wish to file a complaint, which I understand is her choice, but it still makes me cringe. I wish he would try it on me, because I would break his—"

Diana's phone pings, cutting her off, and she sags against Steve.  

"You know you can keep going," Steve says, trying to keep the amusement out of his voice, because the content of the rant isn't funny, but the situation is. Several weeks ago, they'd decided to try cutting back on work talk in an effort to keep a healthier work-/home-life balance, and almost invariably, one of them blows through the artificially-imposed time limit. (For reference, Diana holds more blow-throughs, but it was him yesterday, and the day before.) "You don't actually have to stop just because the timer went off."

"It was my idea," Diana says ruefully, running her hand down the tight French braid, subconsciously checking it, "and I still maintain it is a good plan, I am just—"

"Very passionate about things you perceive to be injustices, big or small, yeah, I know," Steve grins. This isn't anything new.

Diana twists around to face him, and rolls her eyes at his expression. "You love me for it."

"Yeah, I do," says Steve, still smiling.

Diana sighs. "The conversation will still be here tomorrow, and I will probably still be annoyed. There is little use in continuing now."

"Unless you want to rant," Steve points out. "That's valid."

"I do, but it will not actually make me feel better. It is not cathartic if it just makes me angrier," says Diana. "Best to step away."

"Want me to set up a bath?"

"No, just come cuddle with me in bed."

"I'll never say no to that."

"Yes, but you have to be the big spoon this time," Diana says.

"I still won't say no, even if little spoon is by far the superior of the two."

Her ensuing laugh rings through the apartment, and her hand skims along the plait again.

"Almost as good as Selene's," she muses, and Steve takes it as the compliment that it is: Selene is an Amazon friend known for the intricacy and skill of her braiding techniques.

*

"Okay, one good thing about today?" prompts Steve, once they're curled up in bed. They've begun making it a habit to practice gratefulness each evening before bed. Steve read about it in a mindfulness book, and when he'd mentioned it offhandedly, Diana had immediately been on board. "Other than the fact that it's over," he adds, seeing the look on Diana's face.

"You," says Diana, reflexively.

"You say that every night," laughs Steve.

"It does not stop being true."  

"I think it's supposed to be something different, each time. To accumulate things you're grateful for."

Diana grumbles, but does pause to come up with something else. "The magnolia trees I pass on my walk to work," she says, finally. "They are in bloom right now, and they brighten my day."

If Steve could answer you, or even say the little smile on Diana's face as she speaks, without sounding like a hypocrite, he would. "I found a little patisserie up by the Bastille that has these lovely little raspberry pastries."

"Mmmm," says Diana, smiling. "You do love raspberries." Then, after a pause, in a softer voice: "The fact that I get to take little things for granted, now, and pretend I do not have to specify the little things for which I am grateful. I know I am not supposed to say you, but I am grateful that you are holding me now."

They talk drowsily for a bit, but soon succumb to sleep.

*

Here's the thing.

It's Steve's personal policy to never lie to Diana. That's, like, a pretty basic relationship foundation thing, and it's not something he's ever had trouble with.

But there's one white lie that he doesn't suspect he'll ever come clean about: despite what he tells Diana, he doesn't actually think being little spoon is better than being big spoon.

He likes to hold her, likes getting to nose at her neck and loop his arm around her waist. (Big spoon is also less prone to overheating, which does happen sometimes.)

But Steve also knows that Diana sleeps better as big spoon, that being able to physically hold on to him in her sleep is comforting, a balm after years of night terrors and bad dreams and waking up to empty sheets. It's a small price to pay, in the end, knowing that him being the little spoon makes her happy.

It's a secret he'll take with him to the grave.

*

Steve wakes up in the dead of night, the shadows still long over the bed, the ambient light from Paris's streetlamps a soft glow along the bottom of the windows. It's the foggy sort of waking that means it'll be easy to slip back under, a mere footnote in the night. Just before he drifts off again, he notices that he's now the little spoon. He sighs contentedly, smiles, and falls back asleep.

[thelightofthingshopedfor]

it took me a little while to write anything summarizing the past decade (more impressive than just the previous year) and then I still meant to write something about goals for 2020, and now it’s February and I only just finished writing this post but you know what, that is fine, especially given that I’ve been thinking about some of this stuff for...I don’t know, a while.

so...goals. I don’t think I’ve ever made actual New Year resolutions because I know myself well enough to know I’d be setting myself up for failure, but I’ve usually had some vague goals in mind anyway. and if I focus on specific things, most of it really isn’t new. it’s like…finish more fics (especially short fics). finish more games (especially short games, free games, and walking simulators, double-especially when those categories overlap). get ADHD help. exercise consistently. figure out more stuff to list on Etsy that hits the magic sweet spot of reasonable effort-to-profit ratio (ideally, something I can make a lot of and then just sell, which I was hoping the Pride Cap stuff would be but there hasn’t been a lot of interest). somehow get my room into functional shape, which means organizing but also requires getting rid of a ton of shit so I actually have room for things. finish more personal customizing/craft projects, particularly more Loki figures. do what I can for the 2020 elections, gulp. but also, get enough sleep so I’m not exhausted ALL THE TIME, and try to manage my stress levels better, so basically if I want to do all of this, it boils down to “learn to manage my time perfectly, somehow”.

and like…those are good goals, in theory. I will definitely at least do some of those things. ideally I will do all of them, although that seems kind of unlikely, given that “more” is really not specific enough (but being specific is also hard, because it requires a lot of thought and decisions ahead of time and that’s also stressful…and it means I can concretely fall short, instead of being able to decide “no, actually, I did do enough to qualify for my vague goals so guess what brain, you can shut up”). on one level or another these are all things I want to do, even.

but the thing about a list like this is…well, it’s a list of goals, first of all, not a plan for achieving those goals, and that’s hard for the same reason being more specific is hard. Trying to make plans and concrete goals kind of makes my brain panic, which I hope is part of the whole ADHD thing so maybe I can get help for that, who knows. The bigger thing is that this list of goals isn’t really new, as I mentioned, which indicates I haven’t done too well in recent years at knocking off anything on the list, and it’s also...missing the bigger picture.

I have this idea, right, that if I let myself get away with not doing things I should do, I’ll have no motivation to do the things. in theory that sounds kind of reasonable, but what it means in practice is that when I fuck up, I hate myself for it. I’m a little better about this than I used to be–back in college I distinctly remember that I would berate myself for stuff as small as not finding the closest parking spot, and I recognized how ridiculous that was and mostly managed to stop. but I still do it with the chronic issues I can’t seem to get away from, like always being tired because I never get to bed at a good time, or often being late to appointments, or getting stressed over deadlines because I wait until the last minute to do most of the work, or how my room is a disaster and I hate the fact that I can’t find anything but I don’t know what to do about it because there’s not enough room for everything and I want to keep all of it, or meaning to work out but instead scrolling Tumblr on my phone for a while until it’s so late I just need to go home, or frequently getting charged interest on my credit cards because I don’t stay on top of paying them off, or spending a ton of time re-reading fic or scrolling Tumblr and using up all the time I could’ve spent on things I actually needed or wanted to do, or losing money because I didn’t think of something obvious or slacked off on preventative measures or forgot about a good coupon/deal until after it expired, or missing out on an opportunity because I forgot about it or kept putting it off, or getting awful headaches every weekend because I spend too much time in bed and then too much time just kind of fucking around on the computer or my phone and let myself get dehydrated, or having big plans of actually accomplishing things over the weekend and not doing them for the same reason, or…well, any of the other ways I fall short. and if the specific instance is unusually bad/consequential, or my brain is already bad from something else and I get into a spiral of fixating on all the ways I fall short, I basically just…get stuck on the self-loathing. and even when I recognize I’m doing this and it’s not good, I think part of the reason I have such a hard time breaking out of the spiral is that idea that I can’t just let myself get away with fucking up and failing to do things because how else will I learn to stop?

there’s probably a lot of mess in my upbringing (conservative evangelical/fundie stuff in general, my family specifically, and then the ways all those issues were exacerbated or at least perpetuated by my two years at a private Christian school and four years in a weird leadership track of the Honors program in college) that could be blamed for this, and it’s the sort of thing I’ve unpacked some with therapists and should do so again, assuming I can ever find a long-term therapist lolsob. and again, there’s a kernel of a reasonable idea in there: there are loads of things I don’t necessarily want to do but that are important to do anyway, and other things where the process isn’t necessarily the most fun but the end result is genuinely worth it, so I can’t just...decide that it’s fine if I never do anything. like, for extremely obvious reasons, I can’t decide I’m going to practice self-care by quitting my job and spending every day on the couch playing video games, or that I’m never going to walk my dog unless I feel like it, or that I’m going to stop doing the exercises that might help my neck/head pain in the long term because I dislike them in the short term. equally, I don’t want to quit every game I play the second I get a little frustrated, because then I would literally never finish any of them, including all my favorites; I don’t want to quit writing just because some parts aren’t actively fun; I want to complete more customizing/craft projects even if that process also isn’t always actively fun. and sometimes it’s tough to recognize the difference, when it’s healthy to say “actually I’m not going to push myself on this” and when it’s important to say “yeah, this isn’t fun, but the result is worth it so we’re gonna push it anyway”. it’s often really tough, in fact! probably trying to figure out this difference is something else I need to bring up with a therapist, because obviously I have a very hard time identifying it!

but. but. engaging in what is essentially (mostly subconscious, but still) self-harm by hating myself for fucking up–well, even if we’re looking at it from a solely practical perspective, there’s a big and obvious problem that you may have noticed from the long list of things I keep doing even as I know I shouldn’t:

if punishing myself with self-loathing is a necessary deterrent for various ways of fucking up, but also I keep fucking up in the exact same ways, then obviously it doesn’t fucking work. not only that, it’s actively counter-productive, because when I start hating myself for fucking up, I become incapable of doing pretty much anything—all my energy gets absorbed into the spiral of self-loathing. and honestly I’m probably also teaching my brain to associate these things I need to do with the pain of hating myself for not doing them, which makes my negative response to those things even stronger.

this boils down to something really simple that I’ve been trying to get through my skull: I cannot hate myself into becoming a better person. I shouldn’t, for many reasons, but I also just can’t, as in it literally isn’t possible, and I think I’ve pretty conclusively proven that, based on the fact that...you know...I’m still fucking up in all the exact same ways. so I can’t hate myself into becoming a better person. and that leaves, maybe, trying to forgive myself more, and work with myself instead of focusing on how I should be doing things, and trying not to feel apologetic or guilty for having preferences or not being “good enough” or what the fuck ever.

I want to work on a lot of things, yeah. I’m dissatisfied with a lot of things that are, in theory, within my power to fix, so I would like to do what I can to fix them. but instead of constantly getting down on myself for being slow with everything, for instance, maybe I can say that I tend to be methodical and I like to take my time. (and also for instance, instead of shitting on myself for posting this at the beginning of February, I can just shrug because years are a human construct and it seriously doesn’t matter.) instead of feeling like I should preface anything I say about most of my interests with a disclaimer that I know it’s silly, maybe I can...not do that, and just have hobbies and preferences. instead of hating myself every time I fuck up, maybe I can forgive myself and try again.

so. that’s what I want to try to do more in 2020. apologize less for existing. forgive myself more. maybe get some shit done in the process.

[eyesontheskyline]

(about the whole fic writer asks, except those answered now) the story specific ones have to be about 'but if you really hold me tight' - I love all your cxg fics and it's the longest one :D) it's just I'm thinking of getting back to writing and since you're of my favorites authors out there now i'd love to get some insight. kudos for being cool about it!

Hello!  Okay first of all thank you so much, that is a ridiculously big compliment and my face hurts.  And yes yes yes you should definitely write if you feel like writing - just go for it!  If you have any specific questions or you want a pep talk or whatever, message any time :) 

Okay I’m gonna put these under a Read More because wall of text.

2) What fandoms do you write for and do you have a particular favourite if you write for more than one?Right now only Crazy Ex Girlfriend.  I wrote for Criminal Minds under a different name then had a gap of several years.  I’m pretty far removed from CM now but I can safely say writing for CXG has been a nicer experience community wise (partly a smaller fandom thing and I suspect partly a demographic thing), and there’s more established character stuff to work with because all the character development isn’t like…  Crammed in the five minutes they have to work with either side of the crime solving.

3) Do you prefer writing OC’s or reader inserts? Explain your answer.I don’t really do either, but reader inserts are kind of a squick of mine honestly, so I’m gonna say OCs.  I’ve only written OC kids though.

4) What is your favourite genre to write for?I am not entirely sure what this means…  Fic genre?  Original media genre?  I have only ever written romance or friendship stuff for TV shows, an odd balance of fluff and angst?

5) If you had to choose a favourite out of all of your multi chaptered stories, which would it be and why?Mmm let the sun inside has a special place in my heart because it was the thing that got me back into writing after a really long gap and turned out pretty much how I wanted it to.  Writing it was just a very intense ‘I am writing again and my brain is on fire’ experience for me.

7) When is your preferred time to write?I would love to have a less dysfunctional answer to this, but probably between 1 and 4am unfortunately?  That can’t be a thing on work nights because I get up at 6.30.  If I can get myself on a roll early afternoon in a coffee shop though, that’s a better feeling.  Just… Less common than ‘the rest of the world around me is asleep and my brain just woke up’.

8) Where do you take your inspiration from?Oh everywhere.  The media I write fic about.  The stories I read.  My life, my friends.  The world.

9) In but if you really hold me tight, what’s your favourite scene that you wrote?Oh god I really don’t know.  This story is really hard for me to have perspective on because of the ridiculously time pressured way I wrote and published it.  I’m probably proudest of chapter 12, where they discuss the ‘do we want a baby’ question properly, because that just…  Is an important conversation that you don’t really see in media?  I’m not sure it’s the best writing in the story, but I’m glad I didn’t chicken out of it.  I also enjoyed writing Rebecca meeting Plimpton Senior in chapter 19, because that feels like an opportunity the show missed and I will never see enough versions of it in fic honestly.  (Do you have a favourite?)

10) In but if you really hold me tight, why did you decide to end it like that? Did you have an alternative ending in mind?That one was pretty much always going to end where it did – just because of the format, it was always going to end in a fluffy happy place around midnight on the 1st of January 2021. The last chapter was going to be longer originally, with more characters getting a moment, but it was just getting kind of unfocused – Rebecca POV can handle tone shifts pretty well I think because of the way her brain is wired, but at some point it all just got a bit messy so I pared it back.  I think I’m pleased with how it turned out, but the chaos of writing it is still fresh enough that it’s hard to tell!

11) Have you ever amended a story due to criticisms you’ve received after posting it?Nah, but I’ve fixed typos (thank you @what-the-elle-n!)

13) Who is your least favourite character to write for? Why?I find Valencia and Paula pretty difficult.  I love them, but I struggle.

14) How did you come up with the title - You can ask about multiple stories.(Since it says multiple and since I only have 3 currently…)  Everything I’ve published for CXG so far has had song lyric titles – mostly because I am not good at poetic turns of phrase, and I like lyricists who are.  (I’m also not a particularly romantic person, and I like lyricists who are!)

let the sun inside is from Ribcage by elbow.  The full line is ‘I wanted to explode – to pull my ribs apart and let the sun inside’, which feels to me like that feeling of having bottled everything up for so long that you just can’t feel anything anymore until you kind of break down and come out the other side?  And Rebecca = sunshine, so.  That is basically the premise of the story, so that was a stroke of luck.

the landing light is from K2 by elbow (I swear I listen to other music, they just have words that really lend themselves to fanfic titles lol).  I have a whole meta thing written to publish alongside the last chapter about why this song for this story, but basically the line is ‘Dickhead’s done a runner and he’s wondering if anyone cares – is the landing light on?’ which is just someone far from home feeling a bit stupid and homesick and wondering if there’s anybody waiting at home for him.  And of course Nathaniel comes home to a totally miserable situation and there Rebecca is.

but if you really hold me tight…  It had to be a lyric from a Christmas song, preferably one Frank Sinatra sang at some point, because that was the playlist I started listening to in mid-October while outlining this madness.  So it’s from Let It Snow, obviously, although that exact line is not in that version, ssshhhhhh (he sings ‘but if you’ll only hold me tight’).  I chose it because R&N being a team and getting through stuff together in a mostly-fluff-but-not-entirely way was kind of what I was aiming for, and it just felt like it fit.

15) If you write OC’s, how do you decide on their names?I kind of have an OC coming up in a story I’m writing now, and I just… Knew who named them, and tried to choose a name those people would choose.  I don’t really do OCs much in fic, but in not-fic (it’s been a while!) I try to go for a name that (1) means something, and importantly (2) I can imagine their parents having named them.

16) How did you come up with the idea for but if you really hold me tight?So a writer I used to read a lot from the Criminal Minds fandom did a Christmas fic a couple of years in a row – one short, mostly fluffy chapter for each day from the 1st-25th of December.  So that was the plan.  Except as soon as I started outlining it, I knew I couldn’t write an entire month fluffy and problem-free for these two (for anyone, but especially these two), so short and fluffy didn’t stick!

17) Post a line from a WIP that you’re working on.“I’ve gotten better at a lot of things since you’ve been away, but my self-deception skills have taken a real hit.”

18) Do you have any abandoned WIP’s? What made you abandon them?Yeah, I abandoned a few Criminal Minds fics.  I still feel bad about them actually – I get comments on them occasionally. (On the offchance anyone reading this is someone who feels nervous about commenting on old stories – these delight me in ways you cannot imagine.)  I ran out of steam in a lot of ways – I started them without any real idea where I was going and wrote myself into a corner, mostly, but also I was starting to really struggle to write unprompted.  I am not the most mentally well person, and I just got my brain into this spirally tangle where I thought nobody wanted to read anything they hadn’t asked for, so I filled a lot of prompts but couldn’t convince myself to write anything else.  It feels really weird to think about that now, which I guess is a good sign…

19) Are there any stories that you’ve written that you’d really love to do a sequel to?I toy with following the emotional arc of S4 but following let the sun inside sometimes – that was the plan, when I originally finished it and was panicking that I would never get another idea.  Also, but if you really hold me tight created a world of warm domesticity for R&N that I felt really sad leaving behind, so I would probably like to write in the timeline again.  And the landing light might get a oneshot sequel, depending on whether I end it the way I think I’m going to or the way I was originally planning to…

20) Are there any stories that you wished you’d ended differently?No, not in this fandom.  I’ve only written two endings though!  I’ve ended on some real cheeseball final lines in the past though.

21) Tell me about another writer(s) who you admire? What is it about them that you admire?@heartbash, who can do plot and slow-burn in a way my impatient ass will never be capable of.  @justwanted2dance who deserves a million flame emojis and writes BDSM stuff in a way that makes my anxious brain comfy enough to enjoy it (literally nobody else has achieved this).  @pictureofsoph1sticatedgrace who writes the loveliest fluff and is a badass individual.  @notbang and @anthropologicalhands and @catty-words and @akisazame and @romansuzume who write beautifully and can do those poetic turns of phrase I am not good at.  I’ve got to be forgetting someone but wowww there is so much talent and creativity in this lil room.  So many people to be inspired by.

22) Do you have a story that you look back on and cringe when you reread it?God yes, but not in this fandom.  It’s fine, 19 or 20 year old me, you were learning.

23) Do you prefer listening to music when you’re writing or do you need silence?Silence.  Or like white noise or the Hufflepuff Common Room 10 hour ASMR video on youtube or something lol.  Anything with words just ruins me – my attention span is laughable.

25) Have you ever cried whilst writing a story?Ha yes actually, but I’m really not entirely sure why.  Sometimes my brain is just a really weird place to be.

26) Which part of but if you really hold me tight was the hardest to write?It depends how you measure hardest, I guess.  Several of the smut scenes just said ‘[insert sex]’ for the longest time, sometimes with descriptions?  So like ‘[insert feelingsy sex]’ or whatever lol.  In terms of getting voices right (like to the point of still being unsure whether it’s any good), this gurl group chapter.  

27) Do you make a general outline for your stories or do you just go with the flow?It really depends.  Usually I know roughly where I’m going and how I’m getting there and that’s good enough for me, but my NaNo fic got an outline because of the format and timescale. And I’m planning a thing with an actual plot arc (gasp!) so that’s getting an outline, in the hope of making it look vaguely romance novel shaped.  Basically it depends on the length of the thing for me, and how plotty it is.

28) What is something you wished you’d known before you started posting fanfiction?Writing advice: if you’re struggling to move past a particular point, the thing you need to change is probably a few lines back.  It’s rarely the last line that painted you into the corner. If you think something needs to come out, paste it into an outtakes document – you might want to put it somewhere else later, or salvage lines from it or whatever, and it’s just easier to let go if you’re not actually hitting delete.

Posting advice: remember fandom is community – everyone is here because they love the thing you love.  They’re gonna be excited there’s a new story to read, and they’re rooting for you!  (Write the thing!)

29) Do you have a story that you feel doesn’t get as much love as you’d like?Nahh I mean, it’s a smaallll fandom.

30) In contrast to 29 is there a story which gets lots of love which you kinda eye roll at?Again, smaaalll.  (Also I try not to publicly eye roll at things other people love even if they are my things – there’s nothing quite like loving a song just for the band to be like ‘ugh I fucking hate that song’, so I always try to keep that in mind.)

31) Send me a fic recommendation and I’ll post it for my followers to see! (The asker is to send the rec not the answerer)You did not send me a rec!  Feel free to send me one now!  In fact, open call, everyone send me fic recs, even if I’ve definitely read them.

32) Are any of your characters based on real people?Mm no I don’t do OCs.

33) What’s the biggest compliment you’ve gotten?I mean, I enjoyed hearing that someone read my story in the corner at a party lol, especially because it was a chapter I was pretty pleased with and nervous about.  Also any time anybody says something I wrote is a headcanon or ‘this should have happened in the show’ is a glittery feeling. When somebody notices a little clue or detail that isn’t obvious, it makes me ridiculously happy.  Humans reading my thing then saying something about it is still crazy, so, yeah.

34) What’s the harshest criticism you’ve gotten?Story time: my old fandom has this one character who has a lot of pretty hardcore stans.  I mostly dislike the word stan but like…  Yeah.  So anyway, I got an email saying I had a new comment on my ficlet collection (keeping in mind I was in my ‘very unhealthy relationship with feedback’ stage at this point), and clicked on it all happy, and all it said was ‘I didn’t read this because another comment said it doesn’t contain enough *stanned character* and you really should warn people upfront that he isn’t gonna be in it, I’m glad I didn’t waste my time on it’.  Which was just…  A bizarre comment.  Like, commenting to say you didn’t read the thing is weird in itself, but also you list the characters who are in the thing, not all the ones who aren’t?? Anyway, I then went on my tumblr and I had several anon messages that were just straight up hate along the same lines and…  Yeah.  The Criminal Minds fandom was a strange place. On a related note, have I told you today that I love you, CXG people?  I love you.

35) Do you share your story ideas with anyone else or do you keep them close to your chest?I am basically always up with talking stuff through with people.

36) Can you give us a spoiler for one of your WIP’s?This is actually difficult to do right now.  There’s a baby?

37) What’s the funniest story you’ve written?I mean, I made myself laugh a couple of times in my festive fic, but I’m more of a ‘this one line is funny’ writer than a ‘this story is funny’ writer.  I’m too angsty!

38) If you could collab with any other writer on here, who would it be? (Perhaps this question will inspire some collabs!) If you’re shy, don’t tag the blog, just name it.This question is faaar too terrifying.  I’ve actually never collabed with anyone, I’d love to though.

39) Do you prefer first, second or third person?Third.  I think because I’ve only written for TV shows, no matter how closely you’re following one character, if you’re seeing them on a screen, you’re in third person.  So it’s just an extra struggle to make that jump to another POV for me.  I have written my not-fanfic mostly in first though, and I’ve read some lovely fic in first and second.  I’m just not good at it.

40) Do people know you write fanfiction?One person.

41) What’s your favourite minor character you’ve written?Hmmmm who is minor, really?  I find AJ difficult but fun.

43) Has anyone ever guessed the plot twist of one of your fics before you posted it?I don’t write anything plotty enough for this to be a thing!

44) What is the last line you wrote?“Mm, because you know how irresistible your weird old timey voices are.”

45) What spurs you on during the writing process?I want people to read the thing, honestly.  It’s a ‘reach out my lonely haaand’ moment with a little less melodrama.  I want it to be out in the world doing what it’s meant to do.  I also want it to be finished so I can read it – I get a very particular kind of happy feeling from reading a good sentence I wrote.

46) I really loved but if you really hold me tight. If you were ever to do a sequel, what do you think might happen in it?Lol it felt really weird to type that in there when you didn’t actually say it directly, but you said all so here we are!  I’m just gonna take that compliment even though I wrote it…  When I started coming to the end of writing that story, I started to feel really sad about leaving behind the warm domestic feel of it, so if I ever feel more domestic fluff coming on, probably it’ll be set after that.  

47) Here’s a fic title - insert a made up title. What would this story be about?You did not insert a made up title!  Although insert a made up title has potential for Rebecca hounding everyone she knows to help her title a song she wrote.

48) What’s your favourite trope to write?Is ‘let’s have an actual conversation about this’ a trope because that’s my brand so far!  I haven’t written anything particularly tropey, I don’t think, although the pull of ‘omg there was only one bed’ is strong right now!

49) Can you remember the first fic you read? What was it about?Yes!  It was a Criminal Minds fic, Hotch/Prentiss, canon compliant (ish) missing scenes kind of deal.  I can’t remember the first CXG fic I read, which is ridiculous because it was a lot more recent.  I started writing CXG fic before I started looking for it, because I hadn’t been inspired to write in so long that I didn’t want to scare myself away.  I read some before publishing, but I can’t remember where I started.

50) If you could write only angst, fluff or smut for the rest of your writing life, which would it be and why?I can only dream of being mentally stable enough to have a consistent answer to this lol.  Angst comes more naturally to me, but writing angsty characters into happy situations is one of the ways I make sense of the world, so…  Fluff, maybe, as long as I can keep the characters screwed up, because they just…  Are.  And like, same.

[swimmingseafish]

Sanderstale Prequel: Jen

So, this is a Sanderstale prequel fic that I wrote in literally one day. It’s somewhat OC-focused, but I’m pretty proud of it, so I’m posting it here too.

tagged: @hideyseek @ironwoman359 @shrimpangie

summary: The journal of the second heir to the human throne, before the human-monster war. Could also be described as the personal accounts of Princen Cal of Medeis, featuring their family and monster friends and one particularly violent Entity.

CW: violence (mentioned at least), several implied deaths, possession, and an almost-drowning (but very vague). 

(Please let me know if I need to tag anything else for this fic. I don’t think I’m leaving anything out, but I’m not positive.)

Read it on ao3!

Entry 1

(I have a strange urge to write this like a letter, and no one’s going to read this anyways, so they won’t care if I’m a dork.)

Hi, book of blank lined pages.

Father says I should keep a journal and write an entry once a week. He thinks it’ll help me prepare to help rule the kingdom one day. Or at least, I suppose, to deal with paperwork.

I mean, I guess it isn’t a bad idea. We’ll see how this goes.

It was nice to meet you.

- Cal

Entry 2

Greetings, still-mostly-blank journal.

People write important events down in journals, right? I think that’s how it works.

Well, I had my naming day this week! I’d been SO looking forward to turning eighteen. I finally got to stand in front of the kingdom and introduce myself to the world as Calyx, they/them, second heir to the throne of Medeis. Immy was very proud of her little sibling (me).

Prince Emile of Bellua was there, too, out of royal formality and respect. His naming day was a few months ago. I still don’t know him very well, but he seems nice, and so do his parents, which is good. Eventually, Immy and I will have to negotiate with him on things like borders and taxes, so we better at least kind of get along.

Hey, you know what? Since it’s my naming day and I insist on writing these like letters, I might as well name you, too. How about Jen?

(So, I like alliteration. Sue me.)

See you next week,

Cal

Entry 3

Dear Jen,

Mother and Father have been particularly stressed this week.

We’ve been working with Bellua to build and maintain a reservoir on the Regio, which is the largest river in the area and also happens to be the border between our two kingdoms. But the negotiation of exactly where to put the dam has been an absolute nightmare.

Why can’t we just put it by Lake Aureus? That makes the most sense. It’s basically a reservoir on its own already—just dam the river and add supporting structures to make the lake deeper. And that lake’s relatively empty of life for some reason, even though the water’s clean, so we wouldn’t be encroaching on protected species or monster homes.

But no one asked me, so.

Actually, hold on a second. I’m going to try something.

***

Back two hours later to say that Immy absolutely loved my idea and will be pitching it to our parents tomorrow morning. Huh. Maybe I should speak up more.

Good night, Jen.

- Cal

Entry 4

Dear Jen,

I’m no longer sure if speaking up was a good idea or not.

It’s managed to convince Immy and my parents that it’s time for me to handle a project on my own. Which should be a good thing! And I’m happy that they consider me responsible enough for that! It’s just that the project in question happens to be this infernal DAM. It’s fascinating, but the paperwork and scheduling and negotiations for workers and who does what when are absolutely EXCRUCIATING.

Also, I’ve spent nearly every day this week with Diana, the royal architect, which, again, SHOULD have been fine, if we hadn’t gotten into an argument five years ago with her daughter that led to us completely cutting off communication. Diana would not stop talking about Daisy.

“Yes, your highness, I agree that we should add more supports on that side. By the way, have you considered asking my daughter to help? She’s becoming quite a skilled architect herself.”

“It’s such a shame that you and Daisy don’t talk anymore, your highness.”

“Daisy actually came up with this particular design. Isn’t she doing such a good job?”

“Did you hear

I was going to keep writing out things that she said, but I got frustrated, so nope.

I like Diana, but I had good reason to stop talking to Daisy. So, also a big nope on talking to her.

I wish just one thing in my life was straightforward. Wait, no, definitely not. Nothing about me is straight.

***

I just laughed for a good five minutes over a pun I’ve made a billion times. I’m definitely exhausted. I need to at least try to get some sleep.

Night, Jen.

- Cal

Entry 5

Dear Jen,

Sorry, I know it’s been a month since I’ve last written, but I’ve gotten so much done!

Diana and I completed the plans for the Vis Dam three weeks ago, and it’s been under construction ever since. I’m due to go and supervise the end of construction in a few days.

I’m, quite frankly, a little nervous. I’ve put so much time and effort into this project, and it actually seems like it’s paying off.

As long as it’s not like the Cat Herding Incident of 1845, I think we’ll be good.

I’ll update this more once I can finally say the project’s complete.

- Cal

Entry 6

Dear Jen,

So! Things have happened. The Vis Dam is finished, thank goodness, but that didn’t quite go as planned.

Let me break this down for you:

I, in my ridiculous ceremonial robes, arrive at the dam. Prince Emile’s there, along with several other monster nobles that I don’t know and a host of human and monster workers.

I make small talk with Emile for the next hour or so until the dam’s officially complete. I learn that he really likes tea and that we both enjoyed this one children’s book series about space gem people. He is incredibly pleased to learn that I’d read it and that I am actually willing to listen to him talk about it. (People need to give this guy a place to nerd out more often, clearly.)

Both Diana and Daisy are there. I say hi to Diana and then proceed to ignore them as politely as possible.

It’s time for me to dedicate the dam, and I make my speech from the second-floor platform, just underneath the area that would vent water. It should be noted, and it cannot be emphasized enough, that this was not my idea. I would have been fine giving my speech from the top of the dam. But Diana decided, along with my parents, that it would be better to give a speech about the two kingdoms getting along if everyone was on the same level, literally. So, she added in a large, retractable platform lower on the structure. Why it was beneath the water vents, I have no idea. It might just be because that was in the center. Regardless, that’s beside the point.

Everyone else stands around me, while I stand with my back to the dam. It should be noted that the water vents were supposed to be OFF.

I finish my dedication of the dam to peace and harmony between humans and monsters, and everyone starts applauding. The vent directly above my head, determined to ruin my day, opens, blasting me and a dozen other assorted monsters and humans off of the dam and into the reservoir below.

This was not a short fall, by the way. It was a good 200 feet down at least. The only reason we didn’t all die was that someone caught us with blue magic just before we hit the water, holding us still for a brief second and then letting us drop 2 feet instead.

I, also, am terrible at swimming. We—Immy and I—had to take classes as children, but we only ever had to get good enough to be able to survive. Immy’s a swimming champion. I can tread water for five minutes. I was not (and am not) equipped to survive in a raging river.

Fortunately, just as I was about to go under for good, I felt my SOUL turn blue again. I was forcibly yanked from the water so hard that I flew over the water and smacked into my very furry rescuer. He felt so guilty that he couldn’t stop apologizing, despite the fact that he’d saved my life and he had no reason to feel sorry (as I promptly told him).

Turns out, his name was Patton, and he’d been practicing his blue magic by working on the dam—moving parts into place alongside the other workers. His specialty is healing magic, but his parents both served in high positions in the Belluan military, so they had insisted he learn more combative magic as well. He’d done great with fire magic, he told me, but the specific SOUL magic types had proven more difficult, hence the practice.

Right then, Emile, who’d apparently escaped being thrown off the platform by the waterfall of death, ran over, asking if I was okay. I quickly assured him that I was and that he didn’t need to worry, though it was appreciated.

And then:

“Oh! Prince Emile Dreemurr, meet Patton Hart. He saved my life.”

“Ah, n-nice to meet you, Patton.” Emile’s cheeks turned bright red as he dipped his head to Patton.

“It’s nice to meet you too, your highness!” Patton said, bowing and then bouncing back up. He glanced at me, still soaking wet, and then at Emile, standing there in pristine royal robes. “I see you’re not a go with the flow kind of prince.”

All three of us immediately burst out laughing, but Emile couldn’t stop staring at Patton the whole time. Prince Emile, who I’d officially decided was my friend now, clearly had a GIANT crush on the boy who saved my life.

I went home after talking to both of them for a little while longer—and after getting a towel. My robes were soaked. I think I’m going to need new ones; I don’t trust that velvet to last after that much exposure to dubious-quality water.

Patton, Emile, and I are planning on meeting up next week. I’m determined to play matchmaker. Also, they both seem like amazing people, and I haven’t had a close friend outside of Immy in years. (Don’t be offended, Jen—I’m counting humans and monsters, not journals).

Wow, this entry got long. I’ll be back sometime soon. It’s after midnight and I have to debrief Mother and Father tomorrow on this whole fiasco.

But overall, a successful day, don’t you think?

Night!

- Cal

Entry 7

Dear Jen,

I love these two.

First of all, there was an absolutely GOLD moment that I have to share.

We all met up at my home, the castle in Medeis, since neither Emile nor Patton regularly made trips to the human kingdom, so I figured it’d be fun for them. Patton got there first, and we were sitting in what is best described as the living room and chatting.

Emile, arriving next, didn’t know that Patton was there already, and for reasons unknown decided to open the door while making what were arguably the strangest noises I have ever heard in my life. It was like he was trying to be an entire orchestra introducing the beginning of a children’s play but could only generate notes via his own voice and using the vowel “da” at various pitches and intensities.

I actually didn’t even know it was him at first, to be honest, until he stopped, popped his head around the door frame, and instantly turned bright red upon seeing both me and Patton.

Does he just enter every room that way? Is that something he reserves for friends? Not the blushing thing, but the singing thing. I didn’t ask because he was already embarrassed, but now I REALLY want to know.

Second, on a more general level, things I learned from this experience:

1. Patton probably has a crush on Emile too, based on the evidence of my own eyes. (No, Jen, I refuse to elaborate. That would take up at LEAST all the rest of your pages.)

2. Patton will make puns endlessly unless he is stopped. (And Emile will definitely not stop him ever.)

3. Emile will reference various fantasy books endlessly and cannot be stopped. (This is not a bad thing. He clearly loves them.)

4. Patton, despite being the only one out of the three of us that isn’t an heir to a throne (and the youngest by a couple weeks), has the best head for leadership and politics.

5. All three of us care too much, apparently, and have been told so several times by our family and friends, especially Emile. He says not to hold it against his parents, though.

6. Patton’s a pacifist and refuses to fight anyone in a real battle, though he is trained for it. Luckily, there aren’t really any real battles he’d need to fight in. We’re lucky enough to live in a remarkably peaceful time.

7. Emile is simultaneously stronger and weaker than you’d think. He’s built, with broad shoulders and muscles clearly built up from years of training. But we practiced fighting together, and he’s the most skilled at magical attacks. His trident is really something else. I’m a skilled martial artist, but I’m not a mage, so I can only beat him about half the time.

8. Emile is trying to grow a beard with only VERY limited success. I asked him why he bothers when he already has more than enough hair, and he bopped me (very lightly!) on the head with his trident.

9. I laugh a whole lot more around Emile and Patton than I normally do.

The only other person I’ve been this close to was Daisy, but she broke my heart at age thirteen and I have no desire to revisit that experience. (Maybe the fact that I’m still stuck on it five years later is an issue. There really should be like…mind doctors or something to help with things like that.)

But anyways, I’m not in love with either of them, for sure. Though Immy would get a kick out of it if I fell in love with Emile—she’d say I managed to arrange my own marriage.

I do love them as friends, though, even though we haven’t spent too much time together. I think I get attached quick.

Hopefully we’ll get to do this again a lot in the future.

I’m not sure how much time I’ll have to write in the next few months. Harvest season’s coming up, and I still have to do maintenance on the dam. But I’m dedicated to this now, even though I think my dad’s forgotten he suggested it. Don’t worry, Jen. I won’t abandon you.

Have a good few months,

Cal

Entry 8

Hey, Jen. It’s been a while, huh?

I had a feeling it was going to be hard to keep this up consistently.

Anyways, I’m nineteen now, so there’s that! And yes, past me, you did get to hang out with Patton and Emile much more, don’t worry—I’m now confident in calling them my best friends. And they’re still dancing around each other like the goofballs they are. (To be fair, they’ve had more pressing concerns recently.) Even Emile’s little sister, Princess Linda, needles him about Patton constantly. That’s a good sister right there, and I say this with the full knowledge that I would hate it if Immy did this to me.

I also got to meet Patton’s friend Camden, a tortoise monster, and Camden’s little brother Gerson, who is the most optimistic child (and potentially person) on the face of the planet. Camden wants to be a professional photographer someday, and his work is excellent. He’s hilarious and laughs at pretty much any badly planned joke, which I’m starting to think is a prerequisite for being Patton’s friend.

And Gerson—I still cannot get over him. He’s seven years old and knows so much about the world and current events, but he never lets it affect him negatively. He always looks at the bright side. A monster kid like that, even if he’s not a boss monster, is going to live for centuries.

Oh yeah, current events. I guess I should put that in here too. God knows I need to talk to someone about it.

Tensions between humans and monsters are on the rise and have been pretty consistently for the past year. I didn’t know until three months ago when a skirmish broke out on the border—right by the Vis Dam, in fact. Three humans were grievously injured, and one was killed, but five monsters in total were turned to dust.

Immy and my parents had been trying to handle it quietly with Emile and his parents, but there have been an increasing number of humans terrified of monsters in recent years.

Someone—a palace worker named Silenda—went through the records from the long-ago battles between humans and monsters. She found out that monsters could absorb human SOULs while humans couldn’t absorb monster ones, and she told her brother, who unfortunately was both unable to keep his mouth shut and worked for a very popular newspaper. The information spread quickly, and there are some in our kingdom who have used it to stir up fear.

I actually was a little hurt that my parents didn’t trust me or Immy with this information. And that once they did let us know, they only told Immy. She had to tell me. But I do understand. She’s the Crown Princess. She’ll be queen one day.

But I’ll be her advisor and strongest supporter. Shouldn’t I know, too?

Ugh. I’m still bitter about this and it’s not remotely the point.

The point is that we’re starting to see skirmishes on the border, and neither ruling party wants that. But both countries have so far been unable to stop the fighting. The small factions are operating independently of the leadership.

We might have to call in the military to calm down the situation if it gets any worse, and I can’t see that going remotely well.

I said at the beginning of this entry that I’ve still been seeing Patton and Emile. And I have. But it’s gotten a lot less frequent over the last three months.

Patton’s been working with the medical corps of the Belluan military and volunteering on the “front lines” of the skirmishes, healing whoever he can. Camden’s out there with him, documenting everything for posterity. Gerson mostly stays home, but Camden’s had to bring him once or twice.

Emile’s doing his best as Crown Prince, but it’s been hard on him. He doesn’t hold much power on his own yet, and he feels like if his parents can’t do anything, what could he possibly do?

I’ve been reaching out diplomatically to the leaders of the small factions as best I can to try to get them to stop. Silenda’s been helping me; she’s a surprisingly fast writer, and incredibly brave and strong and a true believer in justice. She also blames herself for everything that’s been going on.

I’ve told her repeatedly that I, at least, don’t blame her, which is true, I don’t. I blame her brother, a little, and the newspaper some, but mostly I blame the people who decided that the only answer to being scared is to kill.

Why did I have to jinx everything by writing that we live in peaceful times?

I wish I could have a conversation about this with someone besides you, Jen, but everyone’s just so busy and overwhelmed and stressed. All I can do with them is endlessly throw solutions around and have none of them work out. At least I can get my thoughts out this way.

Until next time.

- Cal

[On the next three pages, several entries were started and then scratched out.]

Entry 9

Jen—

I turned twenty, and I think I might be losing my mind.

We tried military intervention. It didn’t work. Our soldiers, instead of holding the monsters back and protecting our own citizens, decided to go rogue and wipe out the entire monster battalion.

Bellua and its rulers were rightfully devastated and furious, and they were about to declare war on us.

My parents, Immy, me, and several other councilors held a meeting in the throne room to determine our best course of action. Eventually, they got around to asking my opinion.

I opened my mouth to suggest literally anything other than war. Reparations, peace talks, giving up territory. My best friends were monsters and I had—and still have—absolutely no desire to fight or kill them or their families.

But then I felt like my body was taken over by a stranger. I couldn’t control my movements or my voice. I watched, a horrified passenger in my body, as my voice made a persuasive argument for declaring war before Bellua could.

And they listened.

My parents. My sister. All the councilors.

They listened.

And they declared war.

What’s wrong with me?

I couldn’t—didn’t—say those things.

I love my friends so much that it feels like I have a star living in my chest.

Sil almost slapped me when she found out what I’d done. Instead, she quietly gathered her things and left, tears running down her face. I love her too, and I’ve never told her.

And I might have just lost all of them.

Who do I go to for help? Who would believe me? Even if they did, what could they do?

What the hell is going on, Jen?

Entry 10

It happens nearly every day now.

The Entity—that’s what I’ve chosen to call it—comes for me in the morning. I go through my routine mechanically, or, at least, my body does. Then the Entity and I join the royal council to make plans and move troops.

I’m a general now. Me. All I thought I would ever do was help Immy and run paperwork. And maybe build more dams.

I fight on the field, too. The Entity favors lightweight javelins and shatters SOUL after SOUL with them.

I think dust is permanently stuck to my boots.

I can’t make it stop.

Entry 11

Immy’s worried about me. But she’s all for the war now. And the Entity exerts control even when it’s not speaking for me. I can’t take its words back, so I can’t tell her what’s wrong.

Patton’s worried about me. He’s tried to send me messages using the little spiders that serve the matriarch of the Spider Clans. The Entity won’t let me write back or even read them, and it hurts every single time. The most I’ve managed to do is protect the spiders. The Entity wanted to squish them.

I don’t know if Emile’s worried about me or if he even cares. I’ve seen him leading charges on the battlefield, too. I don’t know if he’s seen me, but I hope not.

I haven’t heard from Sil. The Entity won’t let me reach out to her, either. But I thought I saw her next to Emile, once. I hope she’s safe, or as safe as anyone can be in this broken world.

Entry 12

I caught my reflection in the mirror today when the Entity was in control. They turn my eyes this weird pale red color. It’s not even pink. They just dull my eyes.

Appropriate, I guess.

I’m twenty-one today, for whatever it’s worth.

Entry 13

The Entity can control time.

Today, I managed to break free of their control for a split second and shatter a bottle of squid ink on a table filled with valuable intelligence. I could sense how angry they were. And, of course, how angry everyone else was. Immy just about took my head off.

But then I felt a warm sensation in my chest, blinked, and somehow it was 7 AM that morning again. I saw a flicker of bright golden light for just a second before the Entity, still irritated, quickly ran through my morning tasks again and headed back to the throne room. They kept me on a tighter leash this time, and I didn’t have another chance to break free.

How did they do that?

More importantly, if they’re controlling MY body, is that something THEY can do or something I can do? Because if I’m the one who can do that…

I need to conduct some research.

Entry 14

I’m exhausted. I’ve been doing most of my research at night. The Entity has far less control at night.

I still try to stay awake all day, though. I need to keep tabs on what they’re doing with my body.

Hence why my brain is dead right now. But I need to catalog what I’ve found.

My SOUL is red. I’ve known this since I was a small child. SOUL colors are logged at age five, as soon as it’s definitely safe enough to enter into the sort of magical connection necessary for a SOUL to appear on someone’s chest.

No one else in my family has a red SOUL. Immy’s is purple, Mother’s is dark blue, and Father’s is green. (Sil, though not my family, has a yellow SOUL.)

I’ve never met anyone else, as far as I know, with a red SOUL. That’s what started me on the track of thinking that SOUL colors might be important.

According to the old texts I found in the library, all the other SOUL colors are thought to be linked to personality traits or convictions. Light blue is patience, orange is bravery, dark blue is integrity, purple is perseverance, green is kindness, and yellow is justice. But red is never labeled, not in any of the texts I looked at.

Finally, at the very back of the library, just as the sun was coming up, I found a book so old and covered in dust that I was worried I wouldn’t be able to read it before it fell apart.

That book said that red SOULs store immense power, but they’re not linked to any specific trait. Red SOULs are said to be blank slates. People used to be afraid of them, apparently, because they feared they could be possessed by demons.

Well, if the Entity isn’t a demon, I don’t know what the fuck it is.

The part I still don’t get is the “immense power” line. The only humans who can use magic are mages. I’m not a mage. I know I’m not a mage. We’re tested for that as kids.

But I’ve never tried to see if I could control time because as far as I knew, that was impossible, and it’s a little late to learn.

And there’s always the chance that this could in fact be the Entity’s power, not mine, and I’m going on a wild goose chase in the middle of a war.

I don’t have much else to do, though, do I, Jen?

[The next pages are filled with tally marks and scribbled notes in various different pencils and markers. There are drawings of SOULs on several of the pages, and spilled candle wax and dried tears adorn a few as well.]

Entry 15

Well, I still can’t make those glowing time-points. But I do actually have a surprising amount of stored magic. It was just sitting in the center of my SOUL. I would never have figured out how to access it if it weren’t for the Entity.

I’ve seen and felt them reset a couple more times since that first day, usually when they say something that they consider less than optimal. They’ll just reset and repeat that moment over and over again until it meets whatever the fuck their standards are.

We’re four years into the war, now. I skipped noting a couple of birthdays in there, somewhere, but I’m twenty-four now. Twenty-four, and there’s still a demon living in my head, forcing me to kill.

Emile’s parents were assassinated last year. Not by me, but the Entity supported it. My parents are still alive, but I’m not sure how long that will last, giving the blood-and-dust nature of the world right now.

I know Sil’s one of Emile’s top tacticians now, thanks to the intelligence the Entity has gathered. I’ve seen Camden’s war photography, including a photo of Gerson, much taller than he used to be but still just a kid, standing out in front of their home with a giant hammer in his arms. Patton’s still working on the front lines, healing as many people as he can. He still refuses to fight. I admire him so much for being able to make that choice and stick to it. I wish my hands were still clean.

Linda’s serving under Emile now, too, but as a soldier. She’s far too young for this.

Maybe we’re all too young for this.

Immy scares me the most. She still supports the war, but more out of fear than anything else. She sounds like those fearmongering men from so long ago.

She makes me wonder if the war is even the Entity’s fault.

Maybe it would have happened anyway.

Entry 16

I found my power.

But I don’t control time—or at least, I don’t know how.

I erase memories.

The Entity stayed down in the dungeons—that’s another thing we never used to have, or at least use, here, really. But anyways, the Entity stayed down in the dungeons for too long, and night fell. So, I had a little bit more control than usual.

I reached out with just a little bit of my magic and tried to make one of those glowing stars that allow the Entity to reset. Instead, one of the prisoners cried out.

“Where am I? What happened?” They looked around wildly. “Wait…WHO am I?!”

That absolutely wasn’t what I meant to do. And I couldn’t figure out how to bring the memories back. It looks like, when I erase memories, they’re gone for good.

But I needed to figure this out. I tested my power on one more prisoner and figured out that I can erase only specific memories if I try hard enough.

Writing this out, I’m shocked at myself. I’m experimenting on people. And I don’t even feel that bad about it.

What’s wrong with me? I’m so numb to suffering at this point. I’m numb to the world.

I miss Patton, Emile, Camden, and Gerson…and Sil. But they’re better off without me.

I don’t know what I can do with this power. I’ll keep fighting the Entity. Maybe I can break free. Maybe that’ll be enough.

What else can I erase?

[There’s an interval of at least twenty blank, crisp pages.]

Entry 17

It’s almost over. After five years, it’s almost over.

I managed to free myself from the Entity for now. I won’t say how because I don’t have time, but they’re not happy.

Medeis won, if you can call it that. Sil, as the monster ambassador, and I managed to get Immy to agree to seal the monsters underground rather than exterminate them. The war’s done a number on us all.

Sil still hates me. She doesn’t understand. She can’t. She never will. Neither will any of them. They’ll all hate me forever.

Sil has teamed up with a group of other mages to create the Barrier. With me, that makes seven.

The Entity doesn’t like this. They want to kill all the monsters.

I won’t let that happen.

Camden’s dead. Linda’s dead. My parents are dead. Immy, Gerson, Patton, and Emile are still alive, and so are thousands of others. You don’t get to take them too, do you hear me, you absolute sack of shit?

You think this is a game.

You think that what you do doesn’t matter.

It matters to me. It matters to Immy, and Sil, and everyone else in my world.

After we seal the monsters underground, I’m going to erase you from this world. I’ll erase you, and I’ll erase the memory of monsters and magic ever existing from the minds of every human on this planet.

I’ll almost certainly die in the process, but I don’t care. They’ll have a future, and the monsters will be safe from you and the humans like you.

There’s no future for me anymore.

You’ll have no host and no memory of your purpose or identity. You’ll be gone for good.

They’ll be safe. They’ll be safe. They’ll be safe.

I love you. All of you. More than words could ever say.

Goodbye.

- Princen Calyx of Medeis