#i'd rather spend most of my time writing about the stuff i love instead of refuting all of the opinions i don't agree with

[panharmonium]

What do you think about this: "Kakashi was never interested in Sasuke as an individual, he only projected himself into him and saw a smaller version of himself on Sasuke, Sasuke was never Sasuke to him, just a little Kakashi". I wanted to know your opinion because I miss your meta posts and I feel like lately people are hating Kakashi for things that aren't real :/, also you are really good at explaining and I feel that both characters need love

Hello! Thanks for the question!

The answer to "what do i think about this" is, honestly, that I don't think about it X) I watched the whole show without engaging with the fandom at all (for fear of spoilers, initially), so I was able to experience it without being exposed to anyone else's thoughts, and now that I'm done I generally still avoid poking around, because devoting mental energy to opinions that I find bizarre/not supported by the text doesn't enhance my fandom experience.

Kakashi and Sasuke's relationship is one of the most compelling things about the series to me. I was very surprised when I finished the show/manga and first exposed myself to the fandom only to find so few people invested in them, but at this point I've (mostly) stopped asking myself "what show was everyone else watching" and just settled into enjoying the show that I watched, because that's more fun for me. I can't convince people not to dislike Kakashi if that's what they want to do. I do find it a little weird, because I don't think that's what the story is asking from us, but as long as people mind their business and aren't bugging me on my own blog, they're free to do what they want.

I know it can be frustrating when there are people hating various characters for "things that aren't real," but the fact that these criticisms aren't "real" is precisely why I generally avoid engaging with them. For Kakashi, specifically, there are certain things people can say that will immediately make me stop taking them seriously - "projecting" is one. "Bootlicking" is another, but again, these terms are so wildly inaccurate that I'm not interested in talking about them. The manga and the show are easily accessible; if people want to rewatch/re-read them, they can.

In general, I just prefer to avoid engaging with most of the fandom negativity I see. I think overall most of the rancor I've stumbled across boils down to people engaging with the story in very ungenerous ways, if that makes sense, and that's not how I prefer to read/watch things. Like - back when I was still in the middle of watching the show, I remember someone sent me a message saying that they loved seeing me talk about the story with earnestness/joy, and it was such a lovely message to receive, but it also made me pause and wonder for a second if this was really an uncommon enough thing to be remarked upon. Wouldn't that be the default? Aren't we all here because we love the story and the characters so much? But the truth is that sometimes it does feel like large chunks of fandom spaces (not just Naruto, I mean; I've certainly experienced this elsewhere) are very focused on being negative about "things that aren't real," as you said. Like - people calling Sakura "abusive" for bopping Naruto on the head when he says something rude, when this is not something the text is even remotely trying to say about her. People writing off Jiraiya's entire storyline because of the non-consensual spying on women - which, yes, of course, is disgusting and wrong. Obviously. I am very aware of that. However, I can simultaneously recognize that the story isn't really interested in that or intending me to read it like that; the voyeurism is written as a joke (yes, I understand how gross that is) and there are a hundred potential personal and/or patriarchal and/or genre-related and/or cultural factors that may have gone into Kishimoto writing this particular fail. If I want to understand and appreciate what the story was ACTUALLY trying to communicate with Jiraiya (that he's an idealist who gave up on the world when everything went wrong, who turned to shallow pleasures of the flesh to distract him from the pain of his disillusionment, and who was finally restored to his former faith after meeting Naruto), then I have to mindfully set the voyeurism aside and go, "This writer wrote a gross thing, and I recognize that, but I'm also not going to fixate on it, because I can simultaneously appreciate/find meaning in what he was really trying to say."

I think some of the Kakashi complaints out there very much fall under this umbrella. If I have to see one more person frothing at the mouth about Kakashi briefly tying Sasuke (a qualified ninja who has already demonstrated his ability to escape rope restraints and whom Kakashi has been individually mentoring, sparring against, and connecting with for a month) to a tree for approximately sixty seconds - honestly. I don't know how to tell people they're missing the point, so I don't bother.

Ultimately, the fact of the matter is that people are entitled to dislike any character that they want, even for contrived reasons. As long as they're doing their own thing in their own space and letting me do my thing in mine, we're good.

[ladamedusoif]

Rockford, P.I.

Or: the one where Tim Rockford is a ghost hunter

Inspired by the incredible PPCU AU moodboards by @almostfoxglove!

Pairing: Paranormal Investigator!Tim Rockford x F!Reader

Word Count: 5.6k

Content notes/warnings: 18+ MDNI; F!Reader; no physical description of Reader; Tim Rockford AU; Reader is Tim’s occasional partner in the business; established working relationship and friendship; friends to lovers; spooky shenanigans; implied smut; fluff; ghosts; references to death; references to alcohol use; references to drug use; strong language; cliches and most likely a lot of stuff that’s not correct about paranormal investigations.

Author's note: I loved @almostfoxglove's PPCU AU moodboards so much and I've been thinking about this story for a while, so when better to finish and post it than Halloween? I know I haven't written in a long time - since the summer, I think - and at the weekend certain discourse made me want to just give up completely and delete every word I'd ever posted. But this was nearly done, and I feel like at least some people might like to see it. So here you are. Happy Halloween, Oíche Shamhna shona daoibh.

And thank you to @mescalpascal for beta-ing this and not letting me get away with just giving up - with writing, fandom, everything.

To find more of my work and get alerts when I post new writing (which will hopefully be more frequently!), follow my writing blog @ladameecrit and turn on notifications.

Ghost divider by @wethairjoel

“Rockford, PI - Tim speaking. How can I be of assistance?”

Tim spins in his battered desk chair, phone tucked against his shoulder and box of leftover takeout still in hand as he listens to the person on the other end of the line, nodding and “uh huh”-ing every so often.

He stops spinning. He puts down the box of cold lo mein. He grabs a pen, and frantically begins taking notes. He asks the caller to send as much information as they can via email.

And then he calls you.

Other little girls at school wanted to be princesses or singers or models or movie stars. You? You wanted to be a Ghostbuster. Forget clean-cut TV stars or the latest cookie-cutter boyband member, your first love was Dr Egon Spengler.

Fast forward a few decades, and your dream had become reality - kind of. Your doctoral thesis on the interplay between reported paranormal activity and its representation in popular culture had produced a few well-received articles and earned you a positive reputation in the admittedly rather specialised world of paranormal and psychical research. It had not, unfortunately, led to a glittering academic career.

Instead, you made a living with a part-time teaching gig at a university combined with a little freelance consultancy work for movies and TV shows, almost all of which ditched your nuanced advice and produced yet another cliched depiction of “ghost hunters” screaming on camera.

And then there was Tim. You’d met a long time back, after a talk you’d given in the city about change and continuity in the concept of the “haunted house”. He was sitting in the front, diligently taking notes and nodding along as you spoke, eyes warm and encouraging - and he immediately made a beeline to ask you for coffee as soon as the Q&A wrapped up. 

Before you parted that evening, he handed you his card.

”Rockford, PI. You’re a private investigator?”

Tim shook his head. “Paranormal investigator. Helps to have most people think it’s the other kind of PI, though.” He called you from time to time, asking for your help on specific cases, sometimes enlisting you as a partner for the duration of an investigation. You always welcomed the extra income, but in truth you helped him out for the sheer love of it - for the chance to feel like a real Ghostbuster, even if Tim worked in business attire instead of boiler suits, and to spend time with one of the few people in the world you felt really got you.

You peer out at the English countryside from the window of the car Tim hired at Heathrow, straining to see something of the allegedly “green and pleasant” land through the miserable grey haze and sheets of rain. The navigation on your phone announces the final turn for your destination. Tim, still getting used to driving on the other side of the road, approaches cautiously and takes the left turn onto the long driveway.

“Whoa.” His voice is awestruck as the car arrives at the enormous country house, now a luxury boutique hotel catering to the rich and famous in search of an exclusive retreat. “We’re a long way from poltergeists in Poughkeepsie.”

You shrug as Tim drives into the small, discreet parking lot to one side of the building. “I’ve done some work on a couple of Gilded Age mansions. This isn’t going to be all that different, right?”

“True,” he muses, climbing out of the car and setting to work unpacking your luggage: a suitcase each, plus several hard-sided cases of vital equipment for conducting the investigation, labelled ‘Scientific Instruments’. “And they did say they think it’s only one manifestation.”

You chuckle as you help him wheel the cases from the car towards the hotel entrance, where a man in elegant livery is already rushing to greet you with a brass luggage trolley. “One manifestation? Please. We got this, Rockford.”

That evening, unpacked, freshened up, and after a dinner meeting with the hotel owner, you and Tim decamp to the library - now a comfortably-appointed lounge with its own bar - to compare notes. The two of you are the only residents, the hotel having temporarily suspended operations in order to deal with the spectral guest.

He hands you a glass of whiskey and settles beside you on the Chesterfield sofa, hair still damp from his earlier shower and his customary attire replaced by a long-sleeved Henley shirt and a pair of jeans. He looks more boyish, the grey patches in his beard notwithstanding, and you find yourself smiling softly at him.

“So: first impressions?”

You take a sip of your drink and reach for your notebook. “First impressions: they must be pretty freaked out to temporarily close down a hotel over one spirit, don’t you think?”

He shrugs. “Maybe? Or maybe it’s unusually troublesome - they mentioned strange things appearing on bedroom walls, guests waking to the sound of a voice shouting for help, weird stuff turning up on TV channels... And they do pride themselves on the whole ‘idyllic rural retreat’ brand, which a ghost doesn’t exactly fit with.” He sips his whiskey and thinks. “Did you find out any more about the death here a couple of years ago?”

”I did - it was weirdly under-reported, given that a celebrity was involved, but I guess people had much bigger things to worry about during the pandemic.” You flip to a different page. “Nothing I found out seemed to contradict the owner’s version of events, though I’m sure they’d be careful to control the narrative if there was anything to hide.”

Tim sucks his cheek, deep in thought, and nods. “I guess we can’t proceed until we see how this thing is manifesting for ourselves. You have everything you need for the surveillance in your room overnight?”

You nod. “And we’ve got the kit set up in the other parts of the hotel the owner mentioned. I think we’re good to go, Timothy.”

He grins, eyes sparkling, and clinks your glass.

Jetlag doesn’t stop you waking as soon as the first rays of sunlight begin to peek around the heavy drapes that adorn the windows of your large bedroom. You’re checking the recordings and readings taken in the room overnight, looking for any indication of paranormal activity, when your phone buzzes with a message from Tim.

Nothing in my room overnight. Anything in yours? 

Not that I can see. You want to check the other equipment before breakfast?

Sure thing. Race you to the Full English.

“Oh, it’s on, Rockford,” you murmur to yourself, reaching for leggings and an old hoodie. You slip on a pair of Crocs, already bracing yourself for Tim’s inevitable comments about your choice of footwear, grab your keycard, and slip out of the room.

It’s quiet in your absence, save for the gentle sound of birds singing outside, the wind occasionally rattling your windows - and the increasingly steady beeping now being emitted from a little device Tim had given you, designed to measure sudden shifts in psychical energy. 

None of the other devices set up elsewhere in the hotel had registered anything out of the ordinary. Tim, typically, is philosophical.

“We just have to wait, do some more research in the meantime, speak to the staff. How’s that breakfast?” He sips his coffee, mug looking comically small in his large hand, and gives you a mischievous look.

“The bacon’s delicious, the mushrooms are great, the eggs are perfect… but I don’t think Cumberland sausages are for me.” You poke at the thick, half-eaten link sausage on the plate. “Not least because ‘Cumberland sausage’ sounds like a fuckin’ euphemism if ever I heard one.”

Tim laughs, the warm sound resonating in the empty dining room. He tops up his coffee and reaches for another slice of toast, and you realise that he seems…different.

“Rockford?” He looks up at you, toast crumbs in his moustache. “What’s going on with you? You aren’t normally this, uh, jolly on a job.”

He swallows his toast and drinks his coffee thoughtfully. “It’s a fascinating case, and I guess I’m just really happy that we’re working together again. Even if you’re wearing those.”

Tim gestures with mock scorn towards your brightly-coloured Crocs, before giving you a sly wink. 

“Are you absolutely sure you want to comment on my sartorial choices, Rockford? Or do you want me to talk about your rotating selection of striped ties from Sears?”

After breakfast, Tim decides to take advantage of the on-site pool and you return to your room for a quick shower before beginning the first round of interviews with hotel staff. The beeping noise is audible before you’ve even reached the door.

You steel yourself and gently enter the room, slowly moving in the direction of the little device on its tripod, various alert lights flashing in sync with the rhythm of its insistent beeps. You transcribe the codes on its screen into your notebook and take a quick video, ready to show Tim as soon as possible. Cross-legged on the floor, you close your eyes for a moment, steadying your breathing.

“I can’t believe they let in someone else wearing Crocs. So much for their fuckin’ dress code.”

Your eyes snap wide open at the sound of the male voice behind you, on the other side of the room. American. West coast, you think. A little…affected? 

In other words: that’s probably not a member of staff.

You get to your feet and turn, slowly, in the direction of the voice.

There, on the other side of the room, sprawled on the sofa, is a man you think must be in his early 40s. His hair is wild, wavy, dark; his eyes obscured by a pair of vintage Ray-Bans. He’s wearing a brown teddy coat, which has slipped open to reveal a shirtless torso and a flash of tummy. A pair of loose grey shorts, wooly socks, and fucking Crocs complete his outfit. 

Definitely not staff.

Though your heart is pounding out of your chest, you find the strength to speak. “Are you a spirit?”

The man slips his glasses down his nose and gives you a withering look. “What the fuck else do you think I am? And while we’re here - why is that…thing making so much noise?”

“It’s to read changes in psychical activity,” you explain. “So it’s probably picking you up.”

The man thinks about this for a couple of moments, as if chewing it over. With a jolt, you realise two things: firstly, that in all your years of working with the paranormal, you’ve never actually seen a ghost, at least not in this form; and secondly, that you recognise this figure.

“So you do know who I am,” he drawls, pushing his glasses back up his nose and lying back on the couch. Shit, he’s more powerful than you suspected - he can pick up on what you’re thinking.

“It’s…it’s you. The dead guest.”

He exhales dramatically and flops his arm over the side of the sofa. “I have a name.”

You rack your brains, afraid to look away to grab your notebook in case he disappears.

“You’re…you’re Dieter Bravo.”

Tim Rockford is on his twentieth lap of the pool when a slow, steady buzzing noise catches his ear, coming from the direction of the tote bag he’d left poolside with towels, a t-shirt, and shorts. He hauls himself out of the water and roughly dries off his face, hair, and hands before rummaging in the bag. “Fuck!”

He’s half-wet and breathless when you open the door to your room, his fist still raised as if ready to continue the frantic hammering that had signalled his arrival. 

“Jesus! You okay?”

He’s turning and twirling around the room, glasses on and fogged up from the residual humidity of his body, holding up one of his own psychical activity detectors. “You…fuck,” Tim hisses as he tries to catch his breath. “You saw it? Where is it?”

“So I’m an it now?”, Dieter drawls, now hovering - literally - in the area of the large bay window. 

“He’s there,” you gesture, calmly, as if being in a room with the spectral manifestation of a dead Hollywood actor was an everyday occurrence. “By the window.”

Tim stares directly at Dieter, but doesn’t register anything. Dieter roars with laughter.

“Oh, babe! Looks like you’re special.”

“I’m special?”

Tim swivels at the sound of your voice, confusion written all over his face. Dieter sidles up to the other man, resting his head on Tim’s shoulder, and you’re struck by a kind of resemblance. Tim shivers.

“He can’t see or hear me. Most people can’t, which makes haunting the fuck out of this place hilarious,” the actor explains. He takes a seat on a vanity table near the window and looks a little wistful. “Annika was the last person who could see and hear me,” he sighs. “Kinda nice to be…” - he wiggles his hands in the air - “visible again.”

“He…he says I’m special because I can see and hear him, and you can’t. Most people can’t. Is this…normal? Am I normal?”

Tim crosses the room and puts a hand on your shoulder, gently caressing it in a gesture of reassurance. “I mean, none of what we do is normal. But yes, this is not unusual.”

Dieter immediately launches into a Tom Jones impersonation, gyrating in exaggerated fashion towards Tim, and you roll your eyes involuntarily. Tim looks hurt.

“Oh! Oh, Tim, no, I was rolling my eyes at him. Not you. Shit, this is going to be confusing, isn’t it?”

The crinkles that form around Tim’s eyes when he smiles make a welcome appearance, and his dark eyes twinkle behind his glasses. “I’m sure we can work out a system for keeping communication clear. Usually, when a manifestation is only visible to one or two people, it means they have some kind of need, or something unfulfilled. And, I guess, they think the witness can give it to them.”

You glance over at Dieter, who is still gyrating. He lowers his sunglasses and grins at you lasciviously.

Over the next couple of days, you and Tim interview hotel staff and examine some of the areas affected by the haunting, to establish a pattern for the manifestation’s - for Dieter’s - behaviour. 

“The random murals appearing overnight aren’t that disturbing, I suppose,” you muse, noting down the details of the artwork Dieter had left in one guest bedroom.

“Depends on what you consider disturbing, though.” Tim rubs a finger against the paint, examining the powdery residue. “I wouldn’t like to wake up to an extra-large rendering of Hieronymus Bosch’s ‘Garden of Earthly Delights’ on my hotel room wall.”

You giggle and nod in agreement. “Well, fair. Though it’s weirdly good, for a ghost.” 

Your psychical activity detectors start to beep in unison and you turn to each other before you spy Dieter, lounging on top of a wardrobe. He’s clad differently, today, this time sporting a green robe, a baggy purple t-shirt, and striped lounge pants. 

And the Crocs.

“I am good. Honestly, if they��d got my heart going again I think I’d have quit Hollywood, y’know? Jacked it all in, got clean, got into art properly. Make sculptures, paint, run a gallery or some shit.”

“He’s talking to me,” you explain to Tim, before turning back to Dieter. “So you’re hanging around here because you didn’t get to make the art you dreamed of?”

“Ugh. I don’t have to explain myself to you people.”

And he’s gone.

In the evenings, the hotel insists on serving you and Tim dinner as if you were ordinary guests, not paranormal investigators tasked with eradicating the ghost of an Oscar-winning Hollywood enfant terrible from the property. The lone waiter serves your five-course meal with the kind of exaggerated formality you had only ever seen in films or TV shows about royalty, respectfully pointing out the various cutlery and accoutrements needed for each course in a low, somewhat fawning voice.

“And voilà, Mr Rockford, your seabass.” He lifts the dome from Tim’s plate and does a little bow. 

Tim is chewing the inside of his cheek and turning pink as the waiter leans closer to his ear.

“A reminder, sir, should you require it, that the fishknife is that delicate little marvel on the right. Bon appétit.”

Tim says nothing as the waiter makes his way across the vast, empty dining room, watching for the door to the kitchens to close properly before he lets out a belly laugh so huge it almost rocks the table you’re seated at. You raise an eyebrow and pour him a fresh glass of water.

“Are you quite well, Tim?”

He’s taken off his glasses and is rubbing tears from his eyes, unable to control his laughter. “Why did he say that about the fishknife? And the fucking dome? I shouldn’t laugh but…”

“You mean you didn’t need to be reminded that the fishknife is a delicate little marvel?” 

Your attempt to replicate the waiter’s tone sets the two of you off this time, and you’re still laughing about it by the time you retreat to the lounge with a gin and tonic each. 

This was the longest you’d ever spent in Tim’s company, you realised one night, sitting with your feet tucked under you on the large leather sofa. There was a lot that you didn’t know about each other, but being stuck in a haunted hotel is nothing if not an ideal opportunity for getting to know someone better. 

You are listening to Tim animatedly telling you about one of his strangest cases. His face lights up when he talks about his work, big hands gesturing for emphasis, eyes bright and focused on you. He listens to you with the same commitment and interest, keenly asking questions and taking in your every word.

When you lean in for a goodnight hug before parting ways, he seems surprised - but pleased, somehow, as he returns your embrace.

Your TV is on when you return to your room. The tell-tale beeping from the psychical activity monitor gives him away immediately.

“Dieter.”

He’s lying on your bed, propped up on one arm, green robe wrapped around him. “Heyyyyyyy. Hope you don’t mind. Wanted some company and I’ve haunted the fuck out of everyone else around here.”

You shake your head and pour yourself a glass of water. “I don’t mind. But if I let you hang out with me you have to answer my questions.”

He groans and flops back onto the bed, though his body makes no indentation in the bedclothes. “FINE. But you have to answer mine.”

“Fair.” You settle beside him on the bed, trying not to overthink the fact that you were literally hanging out with a dead man. “What the fuck are you watching?”

He runs his fingers through his hair in irritation and points at the 90s sitcom he’s watching on some random-ass cable channel. “Allegedly this is a British remake of Who’s The Boss but like, it’s fucking shit. No Danza, no party.”

You pause for a moment. “Speaking of party…can you do drugs, if you’re a ghost? All the evidence would suggest you can’t, but I’ve never actually heard from someone with first-hand experience.”

“I tried.”

“And?”

Dieter grimaces. “I literally threw a couple of tabs of acid through my stupid fuckin’ ghost body, didn’t I. Just…whoosh.” He gestures with his hand. “I feel so real, y’know? All corporeal. But then you try to get high and bam. No can do. I can’t eat or drink, either.”

“You didn’t answer my question earlier.”

He stares at you. “Why do you get to ask two questions in a row? My turn.”

You roll your eyes and take a sip of your water, noticing Dieter staring longingly at the glass.

“Fine.”

He cackles and claps his hands together. They make no sound.

“Are you and Magnum P.I. fucking? You’re fucking, right?”

“Um, no?” You take another sip of water and swallow hard. “No, we are not fucking. We’re colleagues.”

Dieter mimics you, note-perfect, and cackles again. “Bullshit. He’s down so fuckin’ bad for you.”

“Tim is not ‘down bad’ for me, as you put it.”

He sits up, moving into a kind of lotus position. “He is.”

“He’s not.”

“He is, and I know he is because I can literally sense this shit. And I can definitely sense that you’ve got a crush on ol’ Columbo down the hall. Which is fair, I guess. He’s pretty hot.”

You can feel the heat rising to your face, but maintain what you hope is a neutral expression. 

“Oh, Scully is trying so hard not to let her crush on Mulder show.” He smiles a smug, satisfied grin.

“Is he Magnum, Columbo, or Mulder, Dieter?”

“All three, baby.” He hovers about a foot above the bed, pointing at you accusingly. “And you should put him out of his misery. Want me to go check on him for you, see if he’s thinking about you right now?” Dieter wiggles his eyebrows suggestively.

“If you don’t shut up I’m going to get a ghost trap and put you in it.”

“Like in Ghostbusters?!” Dieter seems unreasonably excited. 

“Do you want to be sealed up in a little trap, or would you prefer to continue having free rein?”

He sighs and descends back to the bed. “Ugh. Okay. I’m sorry. But I’m not wrong.”

Dieter fucking Bravo. He was haunting your brain, as well as this hotel.

His insistence that Tim had a thing for you - and vice versa - now coloured every interaction, every conversation between you and your colleague as you tried to discern any evidence that Dieter was right, or that disproved his theory. To your horror, you began to unconsciously hope that he wasn’t just winding you up.

He quickly got in the habit of appearing in your room just before bedtime: staying for a little chat, dodging any of your questions that veered too close to the essential truth of why he hadn’t completely passed over to the great beyond, and asking repeatedly if you and Tim had “got around to fucking” yet. 

“It would be kinda hard for us to get around to fucking with a fucking ghost in my room, don’t you think?”

He laughs his wheezy rasp of a laugh and crosses his hands over his tummy. “Listen, the more the merrier, babe.”

A few moments pass before you break the silence. “Why are you so obsessed with us, with me and Tim, with us getting together?”

He pouts and stares into the middle distance. “I guess…hmm. I want people to get what they want, love-wise.” Dieter discerns your incredulous glance. “What? I mean it! I’m a big fan of romance and happy endings.”

“You can’t blame me for being sceptical, Dieter.”

Tension crackles in the air. When he speaks again, he’s very quiet. 

“Just because I didn’t get a happy ending in life doesn’t mean I can’t believe in them.”

Dieter’s big, dark eyes - or the spectral impression of his big, dark eyes, now trapped in some in-between place, neither here nor there - look at you with absolute sincerity. 

“Is that why you’re still here?”

He turns away. 

“I don’t know why I can see you, Dieter, or what you need me for, but there’s got to be a reason for it. And I can’t help you until you talk to me.”

He huddles deeper into his green robe, and you exhale. 

“Fine. You’re not wrong. You’re right, in fact.”

He doesn’t move, but you can almost feel his ghostly ears pricking up.

“I’m right?”

You close your eyes and bite your lip. “Fuck it. You’re right, I… I think I do have a crush on him.”

This time, you swear you can hear Dieter smile.

“On who?”

“You know who.”

“Say it.” He chuckles to himself.

“Oh, fuck.” You bury your head in your hands. “Why do I need to say it, when you can sense what I’m thinking?”

Dieter rolls over and props himself up, grinning like a Cheshire cat. “Because it’s very fucking satisfying. For me.”

“Fuck you, Dieter Bravo. Fine. I - I have a crush on Tim. Happy?”

He nods, and points in the direction of Tim’s room, down the hall. “Mmm. And now you need to tell Timmy so that he can tell you he has a crush on you and then you can go off and have lots of weirdo paranormal-obsessed babies. If that’s a thing you want, of course.”

“Okay.”

Dieter’s eyes widen. “Okay? So, you’re just gonna tell him?”

“I’ll tell him… but only if you let me help you.”

“No deal. Fuck you two, keep on being idiots.”

“I thought you loved happy endings, romance, all that?”

“Nope.” 

You shift on the mattress to face Dieter, and speak more gently this time. “Do you want to be stuck here forever, Dieter?”

He hesitates. “Nope.”

“So, should we make a deal?”

He talks and talks all night, floating around the room, resting on the vanity, on the armchair, on the bed, and at one point drifting in and out of the bathroom - even with the door closed.

And you listen. You listen like Tim listens to you: engaged, curious, open, kind, even, trying to get to the root of what’s keeping this man trapped in between worlds in a luxury hotel in the English countryside.

Unfinished business is a common explanation for why ghosts hang around, you’ve realised. A desire for vengeance, too. Sometimes spirits just want to stay around their families and friends. Once, a long time ago, a client of Tim’s described the work as being like a kind of doula, for ghosts. 

“You help them get out of the in-between,” the lady had said, after Tim had solved the ongoing hauntings in her family’s ranch house. “They just need someone to hold their hand, I guess. Well, maybe not literally.”

Watching and listening as Dieter talks about his life, his death, his successes, his failures, you become ever more keenly aware of how right she was, and more focused on getting him to where he needs to be. To peace.

He descends gently to the ground in front of the TV set. “I can’t deny that the whole Beetlejuice shtick has been fun, most of the time,” he says, sadly. “But you’re right, I don’t wanna be stuck here for the rest of my life. I mean, the rest of my death. I mean -”

“The rest of your afterlife.”

He grins. “Exactly.”

“Dieter… do you think you might just be afraid?”

“Afraid?” His eyes are wide and frightened, giving you his answer without a word.

“Afraid to let go. Afraid to move to the next stage, whatever that is.”

“But that’s just it.” Dieter stares at his Crocs. “You said it. ‘Whatever that is.’ I don’t know what’s there.”

“No one does, though. And most spirits don’t end up haunting entire hotels, they just…pass through.”

He nods. “I guess I always had to stand out, huh?”

“Nothing wrong with that,” you agree. 

He takes a couple of moments to compose himself. “I… I saw whatever the fuck comes next when my heart stopped. Bright light, all that shit. Fuckin’ near-death experience, except I was actually dead.”

“But you didn’t pass through?”

“I feel like my entire self just went ‘fuck this, I’m not done’. But I couldn’t come back, y’know?” He tugs at an errant curl. “I guess…fuck. I didn’t want to be forgotten. Wanted to know I could live on, maybe.”

“You don’t have to stay in the in-between to live on, Dieter. The work speaks for itself.”

He groans. “Some of it does. Never got to rebuild properly, though. Whole lotta shlock in there and one fuckin’ Oscar.”

You bring yourself to the ground beside the spectre. “That’s one Oscar more than most of us will ever have. And plenty of people who died before their time still live on in their work.”

“If you mention the 27 Club to me I will actually haunt you for the rest of your life.” 

“Noted.” You smile at him, cheered by the sight of a little grin on Dieter’s lips. “But you know it’s true.”

“I just never got the happy ending.”

He looks so sorrowful in that moment that you wish, more than anything, that you could hug him - make him flesh and blood, just for an instant again, so he could know the comfort of a warm embrace.

“Maybe the happy ending is off there in the hereafter.”

Dieter arches an eyebrow. “Do you actually believe that?”

You grin and chuckle. “Honestly? Fuck knows what’s after all this. I think I’d rather not know. But even if it’s just a bright light and bam, that’s it - you’ll live forever, Dieter Bravo.”

Tim is bed-headed and bleary-eyed when he opens his door to you at 6.30am, but he smiles widely when his vision focuses and he recognises your face. 

“Have a seat, have a seat,” he gestures to the bed, before blushing a little. “Or I can move my clothes off the armchair, if you’d prefer.”

You perch on the edge of the mattress and shake your head. “It’s perfect here, thank you. I just wanted to tell you that I think Dieter’s…”

Funny how, in spite of doing this job and researching these phenomena for so many years, some cases just get to you. A sob catches in your throat as you try to find the words.

“I think the haunting problem is solved, I guess.”

Tim’s eyes widen in amazement and he sits beside you on the edge of the bed. “Your doula skills, right?”

You nod, tears still threatening to fall at any moment. His strong arms wrap around you and hold you close, keeping you safe as you cry against his broad chest.

“Please do feel free to stay for the next couple of days, of course.” The hotel manager is effusive and grateful as you wrap up the debriefing session later that morning, standing up to shake your and Tim’s hands in turn. “The rooms are booked, we won’t be reopening to other guests until we can redecorate the affected bedrooms. It’s on us, an extra little thank you for dealing with our, uh, friend.”

After lunch, the two of you walk through the property’s walled gardens and admire the various topiaries and water features. All the while, your promise to Dieter lingers at the forefront of your mind.

You said you would tell Tim how you felt, if Dieter let you help him. And he did. And now…

Fuck. And you wouldn’t put it past Dieter Bravo to somehow find his way back from the hereafter, just to haunt you out of spite.

You look over at Tim, who’s taking a photo of the hotel buildings from the gardens, and feel a surge of affection, mingled with anxiety. What if Dieter had got you right, but Tim wrong?

He catches your eye and grins at you. “Hey, come in for a photo?”

You pose beside an ornamental fountain, Tim concentrating as he sets up the shot. He beckons to you. 

“How about a selfie, maybe?”

His arm snakes around your shoulders as he angles the phone towards the two of you and captures the moment: he, suit on but tie loosened, eyes twinkling; you, smiling broadly into the lens.

He brings you a gin and tonic, settling in beside you on the Chesterfield sofa and clinking his glass of whiskey to yours. In the last few days the ritual has become familiar and comforting; and with a jolt you worry that this might be the last time you enjoy it together.

Tim sips his drink in contented silence, watching the flames of the large, open fire. 

“You’re quiet. Is everything okay?”

His dark eyes meet yours as you turn to face him. “I’m…”

Dieter Bravo is going to haunt you if you don’t do this.

What if this is your happy ending?

A large swig of G&T, to fortify your resolve.

“Um, I’ve really enjoyed this whole case, working with…being with you.”

Tim smiles softly. “Me too. It was nice to get the chance to get to know each other better.”

Another fortifying sip. 

“I was wondering…uh. Shit. Maybe, when we get back, would you -”

Your voice dries up in your throat. The next words are barely more than a whisper.

“Would you maybe like to get a drink or dinner sometime? With me?”

For an instant, you can see that Tim is on the verge of brushing it off, of asking why you're being so strange about this, of saying that you regularly meet for coffee if you’re both free, talking about that diner you sometimes go to.

And then the realisation sinks in, and his face softens into a huge smile.

“I would love to take you for dinner. And drinks. Whenever you want, wherever you want.”

He puts his glass down and moves closer to you. Your fingers reach for the end of his tie as your bodies shift ever closer, until he’s holding your face in his hands and his mouth is on yours, kissing you with warm intent.

You’re about to pull him down to the couch, his hands already snaking up under your blouse, when a stern cough makes the two of you jump.

The hotel’s only waiter casts a disapproving glance in your direction and shakes his head as he processes through the lounge to the main bar. 

Your hand reaches for Tim’s and you lead him towards the hallway and the main staircase leading to the bedrooms.

The morning is grey and dreary, rain already pelting against the windowpanes as the dawn light struggles to break through the dark clouds. You press a kiss to Tim’s bare chest as you slip out of bed to use the bathroom, padding swiftly across the deep-pile carpet so as not to wake him. 

The green robe hanging from the hook on the tiled wall of your bathroom is unmistakable, but even so you have to pause for a moment to be sure it’s real. You run your fingers over the textured weave and fabric, noting how (surprisingly) good it smells - faint whiff of weed notwithstanding.

Tim stirs as you close the bathroom door and walk back to the bed, blinking awake and greeting you with a delighted smile.

“Good morning. Nice robe.”

“A movie star gave it to me,” you explain, shedding the soft green garment and pulling Tim’s naked body to yours before he can ask any further questions.

(Sorry, Dieter. Love you.)

[rinny-rae]

I am obsessed with Gortash's psychological/emotional development throughout his life so uh yea, here's a writeup no one asked for

Part 1 - pre HoH

Early Childhood (toddler to 8 yo)

Family life

As a little kid he started out affectionate, cuddly & eager to please as most kids are.

His parents were cold toward him and would snap at him for seeking physical comfort and doing normal kid things. They were overly critical and harsh in correcting his "bad" behaviors. They weren't outright abusive as in they didn't beat/berate him for it's own sake. However, they didn't want or like children in general. Their marriage was that of convenience and their parenthood was an obligation. They were authoritarian - dismissive at best, outright hostile at worst when he voiced his ideas and opinions. This caused him to become increasingly quiet and awkward around other people since it didn't exactly nurture healthy self esteem.

Gortash was a precocious, curious kid. His parents, of course, didn't appreciate or encourage his budding intellect. They took his cleverness as an affront and outright disrespect. As he got a older, he learned to suppress his affectionate nature & withdrew into his "hobbies". This furthered the emotional disconnect between him and his parents as now they began to see him as sullen, defiant and, eventually, hateful.

Hobbies

These were twofold & fed into one another.

He learned that he didn't enjoy spending time around his parents and turned avoiding them and his household responsibilities into a game. He got quite good at sneaking away and hiding.

Since his parents had such disproportionately negative reactions to the smallest transgressions, he also learned to lie. At first he lied in a genuine effort to avoid punishment but eventually started to have fun with it and push things further to see how much he could get away with.

He spent most of his free time exploring the world around him. His interest in how things work is apparent even this early in life. He didn't have access to a formal education or many resources. It would be cute if he had some mentor adult in his life that taught him & showed him sciency stuff but that's more of a writing prompt than headcannon.

He delighted in taking things apart to see how they worked. That, of course, translated to some rather morbid pursuits. Let's just say he played with a lot of insects and small animals and leave it at that.

Initially he didn't understand that he was hurting living beings but as he got older, he began to find his acts of cruelty cathartic. He also began to savor the power he held over his play things and used it to feign a semblance of control over his own unstable life.

Friendships

I'd love to hear what others have to say about this cause my own ideas are all over the place.

My first instinct is to say he had no close friends his own age. Lower city had no formal daycare/kindergartens/schools afaik so he wouldn't be in any environment with a bunch of other children. Instead, he would interact with whoever was in the vicinity of the family's shop. That would have exposed him to kids all different ages. Also, I think he was shy and awkward which didn't lend itself to making friends easily.

Did he get bullied by older children? Did he meet durge and/or tav when both of them were young? Did he get in a lot of fights? Did he have adults that took care of him and mentored him? So many wonderful possibilities.

[revasserium]

a rumination on falling in love; aka the terrifying and strange reality of "dream girl" becoming "real girl"

or, what happens when an only child who has only ever loved in fiction falls in love in real life instead

this is not for you. unless, of course. you, like me, have felt like this before. which is to say, this might be for you. but it most definitely is, 100%, for me. so read on if you'd like. or, close out and move right along.

i am very lucky, i think, to have had the childhood that i had -- only child, two loving parents. but not only that, two loving parents who were good at loving and also good at parenting (which are two very distinct and different things and somehow, at least in my semi-limited exposure to people around my age, is becoming rarer and rarer these days). i am lucky to have been allowed to grow as i have -- to never question that i am loved, unconditionally and endlessly, to never question whether or not i have something -- because of course it's mine -- i've got no siblings to have to share anything with.

now, to some, that might be a sad, lonely thing, but i never thought about it that way. because i was never taught to think about it that way. and contrary to popular belief, it hasn't made me (or at least so i think) stingy or "bad at sharing" -- it's actually made me rather an over-sharer. i always have snacks at the office, i try to offer advice freely, i spot dinners/outings when i can, i like the joy it brings to share things not only to the people being shared with, but also to me -- the person doing the sharing.

but the double-edged sword of only-child-dom in upper-middle class america is time -- the huge, gaping excess of it, giant swaths of it after school, great big chunks of it on the weekends, the seemingly unbridgeable chasm between turning off the light and falling asleep. later, i'd learn that undiagnosed adhd and very high performing manic depression are to blame for most of my vibrating sense of need to fill every hour of every day with some kind of productivity (this, unironically, is why i love new york city -- the frenetic energy of it matches my mental wavelength so that i can feel "productive" even when i'm just walking down the street or sitting in a bar).

but back then, i -- and by extension my lovely parents -- tried to fill it with stuff -- 2 different art classes, ballet, swimming, piano, debate club, singing, chinese school, and of course, with my still yet unfilled hours -- reading and writing. to say i was raised by the books i read would be an understatement. to say i am nothing more than a massive conglomerate of those characters that resonated most with me in those books would be parenthetical to the fact that i'm also built by all those characters i've ever admired or wanted to be. i am, in the most cliche, literal, non-lampshaded sense "that nerdy book girl" who made it her entire fucking personality to be... that nerdy book girl. and this, amidst the stratospheric rise of "not like other girls" media and rhetoric -- it was not healthy (it still isn't), but it was a large part of who i was. and a lingering part of who i am today.

my overactive, adhd-driven imagination served me well, then. into the stories i delved, and what i couldn't find in my normal every day life, i found in narrative. long before the tiktok-ification of "book boyfriends" came the voices in my head that sounded like all the would-be book boyfriends i'd ever have -- everyone from edward cullen to kakashi to four (that one guy from divergent who only has like 4 fears, which in retrospect is so, so cringe, but alas) to fictionalized versions of one direction members. the list goes on. i used to be able to hold entire conversations, play out entire scenes with these mental constructs with impudent ease. spend hours in my room by myself just imagining.

it was like astral projection -- my body, here, my mind and my soul, somewhere else entirely. and this i believe (to this day) is the core of a lot of my writing and creativity. and also the core of a lot of my philosophies and beliefs. the ability to sink into a dream, a scene, a story.

and then. i fell in love.

and sure, it would be much too cliche to say that misery breeds good art so a happy artist would (at best) produce mediocre art/writing/whatever. because i've also seen fantastic art produced by very, very happy artists. the sad truth is only that it's much rarer than the alternative of the painfully mainstream tortured artist.

but to some degree, i think there's an inkling of truth in that saying. because having a real-life boyfriend, with all the real-life machinations and strings of having said real-life boyfriend has made it, somehow, much harder to access that old imaginary part of me. like a child growing up and losing the ability to "make believe" the way they used to. except, i know it's still there. there are still moments where i touch it, where i dip my toes in and it always feels like coming home.

and it's more than just the normal adult-ish responsibilities of going to work and paying bills, making dinner and shopping for groceries. doing laundry and investing in your roth ira. because before real-life boyfriend, i still did those things and i was still able to seamlessly get to that "elsewhere place". somehow, it is the physical presence of real-life boyfriend that seems to act as a "grounding agent". he is home, so i can't go to that other place. or, i can kind of get there, but i've always still got one foot steeped in reality.

it is not a necessarily good or bad thing, just an observation at most. but it does create this new "space" for the "want" of that elsewhere. for the want to being able to slip into that creative asphodel like i used to -- blink and i'm there. so i find myself often sitting at my desk, wishing, and then wondering what it means that i can't. that it isn't always and immediately accessible to me anymore.

perhaps absolute solitude was the unquestioned prerequisite for so long that i'd never noticed it until the solitude was no longer available to me. or perhaps the book-boyfriends are just shy creatures, afraid of the blaring daylight that real-life boyfriend might shed on their ultimate two-dimensional beings.

or perhaps that was always a "safe space" that i'd created for myself, and now real-life boyfriend has created a safe space for me too, and the venne-diagram of the two space spaces overlap just so, making a less singular space of each of them in turn. i don't know, but it's an interesting thought.

it's always struck me, now thinking back, that i've never been even remotely interested in having a real-life relationship before now. but that i've also never questioned if i wanted the current one that i'm in, if this was "the one" or if it was "good for me". and in that too, i know i am very lucky. few people can say that they struck gold the first time they've ever tried.

i know for a fact i wouldn't be this happy, have this good of a life if real-life boyfriend weren't here. he has made me better in ways that i do not have words to describe. but i'm also terrified of the earthen grounding-ness of him. i've spent my entire childhood and most of my adult life with my head in the clouds, taking the necessary trips back down to earth when i had to but... it feels strange to be "here" more and more. there's a hole inside of me where "that" heaven should be.

but two things can be true -- i am happy here; i still yearn for that elsewhere.

[touloserlautrec]

Get To Know Your Moots Writeblr Interview

Thanks for the tag, @mk-writes-stuff (here) and @ceph-the-ghost-writer (here)!

The question template by @davycoquette is here!

On the Tumblr Writing Community

How long have you had your writing Tumblr/Writeblr? Uh... Hmm. Me and time measurement don't mix great. Haha maybe about a year ish?

What led you to create it? My partner/co-writer, @sunset-a-story pulled me in and I'm grateful they did! I'm always resistant to joining social media sites, but this one was well worth it.

What’s your favorite thing about the Writeblr community? All the kindness and interaction. It's the one place on the internet I feel like I'm interacting with real humans and engaging with creativity anymore, rather than just shouting into the void. It's a great community.

What’s one thing you’d like your mutuals to know about you? I am an introvert with a deeply people-focused job, so sometimes I don't interact as much as I'd like to because of The Tired. But I love seeing your posts and reading your stories and thinking about your characters!

Is there anything you’d like to see more of on your dash? I pretty much always want more stories and characters and art. There is plenty of it on my dash, but I am a glutton for blorbos and stories.

What tips/advice do you have for someone who made a Writeblr today? Don't be afraid to comment, reblog, send asks-- I was super nervous about that at first because on other sites it can be a minefield, but the writeblr community is wonderful!

WIP it Good

Which Works-in-Progress (WIPs) or writing projects are you noodling about, lately? Pretty much I'm working on Sunset all the time. It's the only WIP I'm actively writing/editing and I'm rotating it in my head for most of my days. But I do have a handful of OCs from other stories/'verses that live strictly in my brain. Lately, that's included an alien Mech pilot named Lux; a head-empty reincarnation of a trickster fae, named Axel; and a reluctant superhero who travels through people's dreams, named Piper.

How long have you been working on them? I've been working on Sunset with @sunset-a-story for about 17 years. The last several years (8, by their count) it's been more seriously dedicated writing. Axel has lived in my head for probably a decade, and Lux is less than a year in. Piper came into being a couple weeks ago.

Do you remember what inspired them/what got you started? Sunset started as a TTRPG that grew into a much larger story. It definitely had anime influences at the time and has evolved from there.

How much time, in your best estimation, do you spend thinking about them? If I'm not focusing on work, then... all of it.

When someone asks the dreaded, “What do you write about,” question, what do you usually say? I have a bad habit of downplaying it that I'm trying to break, so usually it starts as something like, "A silly genre serial," and then I try to course correct to something like, "It's a science-fantasy serial about people with powers, corrupt, problematic corporations, and espionage, with romance and horror elements and lots of intertwined storylines."

What do you want to say (if it’s different from what you do say)? I'd like to, without cringing, just be like "Listen, it sounds bananas but it's like the best dump cake you ever ate. It's so delicious. It has everything. It has super powers, it has deeply flawed and morally grey characters, it has horrible cannibal vampires and people who hunt them, it has cult-like corporations, it's queer and diverse as hell, there's romance and steamy scenes, and it has SPIES. It's hilarious sometimes and devastating others. It will hurt your feelings. You'll love it."

Let’s Rotate Blorbos

Name any characters you created. Listen, our cast is enormous enough that we have a Dramatis Personae. So Instead of listing them, here's a link to my art, which is 99.9% exclusively of our OCs.

Who’s the most unhinged? Sunset's cast falls into one of three categories: OCs I created, OCs @sunset-a-story created, and OCs we both created and the origin is murky at best. I'm gonna choose one that I created here-- Emmett. He pretty much an unhinged, driven, competitive hurricane.

Who comes the most naturally for you to write? Alex. Alex is my baby and is the closest to my heart. He was the first character in Sunset I created.

Do you ever cringe at them? Oh, all the time. They don't make good choices, but that's how you build a great story.

How much control do you feel you have over your characters? Only some. They mostly take off themselves. I just kind of get a seed of imagination germinating and see where it grows.

Do you enjoy people asking questions about your characters? YES. I love asks, reblogs, tags, comments... Being a writer/artist/creative online feels like shouting into an empty void most of the time, so when I get a comment or a reblog or an ask it's like the biggest battery charge for me. It's easy to get discouraged, so those moments are life savers sometimes.

On Writeblr Engagement

What makes you want to follow another Writeblr account? If their WIP seems to vibe with me (especially science-fantasy, queer, romantic, dark stories), if they post a lot of their own work and reblog other original creators' work, if there's art involved too, or if they generally seem like someone I'd vibe with.

What makes you decide against following? Usually it's either because a blog is too dedicated to fandoms I don't know, or if it's all just reblogs of memes--then it depends on the vibe. But the biggest reason I don't follow is, unfortunately, that I get tired and can't focus enough to scope new people out. BUT I do keep tabs on new blogs in my activity notifications to come back to and check out when I've recouped some energy.

Do you interact with non-mutuals often? ...Maybe? TBH I forget sometimes who are moots and who I just follow. I interact with people that seem neat and friendly and I'm brave enough to try. Some of them are for sure moots. Some of them aren't. And then there are those who seem really cool and I need to build up confidence enough to interact with more than just liking and reblogging. Which is silly, because almost all of us say all the time that we love interaction from others, so...why do we let anxiety do this to us??

Do your mutuals’ characters occupy space in your noodle? YES. BLORBOS. I think about them regularly. It's the best.

I'll gently tag @revenantlore @littlemoondarling @scribe-of-stories and open tag!

[leonawriter]

I've had several thoughts of P5/DCMK crossovers lately, and one of the biggest roadblocks has often been how diametrically opposed their views often are, in ways that would cause a lot of conflict.

Namely, the DCMK side being primarily (Kaito notwithstanding) about upholding the law; Shinichi's hand in hand with the cops since before the series began, and when it's suspected that the Black Organisation might have a member (or more) in the police my recollection is that they were shocked, rather than, y'know, "ah, for a criminal conspiracy that only makes sense."

Detectives in the series have a very strong sense of right and wrong, which is good - in the context of their own series. However, there's a sense of... while they do sometimes show other outcomes, and they do sometimes "bend the rules" when a case calls for it (fudging the details of a crime on a report so that an innocent but used party doesn't feel guilty for something that wasn't her fault, not arresting a man who'd been stealing and giving him a job instead so that it improved his life so he didn't have to), the general outcome is "bad people (murderers, usually) go to jail."

The police are usually shown as Always Good Guys. There are a many police protagonist-adjacent characters (Takagi and Sato, Shiratori, each of the Inspectors from each region). Most of them are shown to be good-hearted. Bourbon, who's in Public Safety, is one of the good guys - more of a grey area than some, but still there. Even the incompetent ones have their hearts in the right place. They tend to want to believe the best in people (the Red Horse arson case, for example).

The Kaitou Kid Task Force, too, is largely considered to just be playing tag with the thief rather than... anything harmful. They know he's (mostly) harmless, so they treat him with respect. Nakamori is angry when he thinks someone's out to hurt Kid.

DCMK shows what people want the police to be like, in an almost ideal world. Yeah, there's bad apples (ha) but they don't soil the overall sense of what the Force is. In some ways I like it, because it's like a fairy tale - a glimpse of how things should be. Very easy to see where the lines of good and evil are, here.

But compare that to Persona 5, and like... of course there's going to be conflict, because the two series are set in the same location, but have a wildly different take and experience with the police.

Detective Conan doesn't tend to go into "what happens when the police arrest the wrong person" much, because the genius detectives get there first - the closest tends to be "oh no, we have to solve this fast!" - compare to Persona 5, where the whole premise is built on "what happens to someone whose crime isn't even a major one, but whose reputation gets tarnished with the stain of a conviction."

It's difficult to imagine the cops from P5 existing within DCMK at times. Akira spends the entire game traumatised by his experiences; first from his (falsified) assault conviction, during which he must have been protesting that he wasn't guilty and not a single person listened to him, and again on 11/20 when he was arrested and treated as someone who'd done far worse, along with the cops in the interrogation room being under Shido's pay, and not afraid to assault him.

So... although I'd personally love to write fun adventure stuff where the casts meet and get along, with shrunken people and long-lost relations and so on, the idea that came to me with all this in mind is more akin to that scene near the start of P5 Strikers, with Zenkichi talking to the Phantom Thieves, and Haru bluntly stating "We simply hate the police, is all."

Like - how would that go down? How would they get along - or not, as the case may be?

Would Shinichi/Conan (as the protagonist) understand their stances, or would he have a hard time accepting that anyone could hate the police for entirely justified reasons? Would they constantly butt heads due to the idea that Criminals Should Go To Jail, or would he understand that some things have to be done?

If he does understand some of that, then how far can he take it before he reaches his limit?

What about any of the other teen detectives (Hattori, Hakuba, I know Sera's a quantity but I don't know her so well)?

How would Akechi factor into any of this? As someone who's killed (regardless of how, or why, or whether he was under duress) there's the risk that these detectives may or may not see "murder" and Akechi's own desire to pay his time and not... see that it's what would actually benefit him to grow and become a better, more free and healthy person.

Often I feel like Shinichi gets a murderer (or an attempted one) arrested, and then it's just... maybe they'll get a mention of "there's a trial in progress" but- the implication of the consequences of it all? How many of them are going to prison, how many are going to get the death sentence? How many won't be able to move past their mistake? The series doesn't tend to look beyond that arrest, so we don't tend... know, really. There are a few times (lemon tea bride is one, but the victim recovered) but not many.

So - would Akira start arguing with a (supposed) seven year old? Because of how (canonically) attached he is to Akechi, they'd have different views on how things should go.

At the very leat, I figure that Makoto would have a good time, because this, I think, is how she sees "how the police should be."

[somethinabouttwistedwonderland]

Hello! Could I get a romantic matchup for twst? I understand that there might be a ton of other requests, so take all the time you need :))

I'm an INFJ 1w9, Libra! I tend to change the way I act depending on the person I'm talking to, and I have this bad habit of saying what others want to hear instead of saying my own opinion,, I'm also quiet reserved most of the time. (my friends' first impression of me was that I was intimidating?? 😭) I try to keep up a good image most of the time, but I'm naturally very clumsy so my efforts are futile 😔 with the people I'm comfortable with, I'm a lot more enthusiastic! I end up being the one rambling about my interests to them and apparently I joke a lot with them. During school breaks I prefer staying in my room hanging out by myself. I get very tired of interacting with people (not that I don't like them, i just get tired!) and I need time to recover. I'm also a pretty hard worker and people say I push myself too hard sometimes 😅 I'm generally someone who's calm and not very prone to anger, but once I do get angry everything just starts to spill out.

In my free time, I like making art and do creative writing! . And if I'm not doing that, then I'm probably busy reading a book, playing RPG/Rhythm games or watching anime :) I also like to indulge myself in new knowledge? For example if I don't know much about Chinese mythology I'd end up just researching and learning more about it for hoursssss until I get a good grasp of it I really like well-written stories, RPG + rhythm games, all kinds of animals, coffee, art supplies, museums, aquariums, libraries/bookstores and shopping <3 I dislike overwhelming situations (like a loud party or fireworks) and people who are rude and inconsiderate for no reason,,

As for a partner, I'd like someone who's wits can keep up with mine, have a great sense of humor, and is willing to listen to me and understand me without judgement either— A sense of security would be nice. My love language is gift giving + words of affirmation, while I'd prefer to receive quality time and acts of service!

I'm so sorry for writing so much 😭 thank you in advance!

I match you with...

IDIA SHROUD

What a shocker, hm? I chose Idia for you because of your shared interests and characteristics. I would've chosen Lilia, except I wondered if you'd prefer a more quiet company (who isn't surrounded by figures like those in Diasomnia). However, I did have a hard time, as Idia is pretty hardcore when it comes to his shut-in-ness.

Despite Idia saying that he'd want nothing to do with romance, we'll just say that he was a little bit emotional due to what happened in the ghost bride event, and ignore this.

Idia is the type of guy to not interact with others, and prefer to stay in his room, and since you enjoy spending time in your room, you could possibly stay in the same room and recharge together, but that's just an idea.

Gaming? RPGs? Anime? Sign him right up. Expect to go on anime binges with him, or spend the night playing games with him. While you might not be as hardcore as he is when it comes to these things, spending time with him will be satisfying, even if he would get rather embarrassed.

In the start of the relationship, it might not come as a surprise if Idia can barely look you in the eyes. I mean, someone like you with someone like him? He wouldn't be able to understand it. However, once further along in the relationship, it would be much easier to have a conversation with him.

Idia, when in the zone, can be a great conversationalist, taking some inspiration from the dating sims he plays, he'll try to do some "cringy romance stuff" if that's something you'd want, but please don't expect too much from this poor shut-in.

He most likely won't go on outings with you, but he'll gladly send Ortho with you if you need the company. You'll likely end up spending quite a lot of time with Ortho when you go outside. You'll need to accommodate for Idia's agoraphobia, but all in all, it should be a fulfilling relationship if you don't mind going into the family business with him.

Thank you for the request!! Sorry it's a tad short, I hope you enjoyed it!

Other character(s) considered: Lilia, Silver

[apocalypticavolition]

Let's (re)Read The Eye of the World: Prologue

I haven't reread the whole of the series ever (my last reread was in preparation for the finale), so with the books getting more popular and the show simultaneously entertaining me and getting my goat I figured I'd jump onto the bandwagon and maybe get some validation from internet strangers. As the title states, this is a reread, so I will be spoilering the hell out of everything, so if you're a show only fan or still working your way through the books, please run away screaming (but tell your friends!).

...

Okay now that I can no longer hear any screams, let's get into things. I first started reading The Wheel of Time in 2003 in middle school, catching up in time to read New Spring when it debuted and the subsequent novels after (except oddly, Towers of Midnight, which I didn't get around to until the finale was right around the corner, so I guess my longest reread only goes up to book 12 technically). It's probably my outright favorite fantasy world and has a lot of characters I love - in fact, at times I feel I don't quite fit into the fandom because I don't have an irrational disdain of any of the common hate sinks bar maybe Gawyn, and even then some people are making me like him a little bit more so I don't know what I'm going to do then.

That said, like most readers who came of age in the 21st century, I do have a lot of problems with Jordan's worldview. It's a rather interesting friction: the man was definitely trying to write a world without the sexism of our modern era (and to a lesser extent other prejudices as well), and yet he could never rise above them himself. I'll probably spend a lot of time talking about this kind of stuff and what might have been done instead.

Likewise, when we reach the inevitable Slog (and sorry people who didn't start reading until the series was finished, it's real), I'll be talking a lot about how the plot might be adjusted for brevity and, once we reach the Sanderson era virtually everything I want to talk about will be magnified tenfold because as much as I enjoyed his efforts at the time, I've greatly soured on him as an author in general and as Jordan's heir in specific since.

But for now, let's focus on what's important: The Eye of the World's first prologue: Dragonmount.

The palace still shook occasionally as the earth rumbled in memory, groaned as if it would deny what had happened.

As first sentences go, I'm not in love. It's not bad, but it's just a little too vague; "the palace" doesn't really give my mind's eye much to work with because they can vary so much depending on when and where they were built. It ends well though.

The dead lay everywhere, men and women and children, struck down in attempted flight by the lightnings that had flashed down every corridor, or seized by the fires that had stalked them, or sunken into stone of the palace, the stones that had flowed and sought, almost alive, before stillness came again.

Despite its length, a sentence like this would work better to me as the start. It's shocking and terrifying; this is a level of violence we won't see channelers pull off until much later in the series.

The mind-twisting had struck at the core, ignoring peripheral things.

This feels pretty on-theme for the story, really. The Shadow tries to subvert the major powers of the world but its defeat is primarily orchestrated by a bunch of farmers.

The edge of his pale gray cloak trailed through blood as he stepped across the body of a woman, her golden-haired beauty marred by the horror of her last moments, her still-open eyes frozen in disbelief.

Well I made it four quotations before we needed to talk about feminism so that's... more than I expected, really. Meet Ilyena, a character so posthumous that despite being part of a prologue 3,500 years before the main story she's still already dead by the time it starts! Obsessing over dead women is probably one of the biggest complaints this series gets and boy does it deserve it. Despite electricity being long gone, our characters have no shortage of fridges.

That said, I do want to note that as it stands in this book, things aren't that bad. In this book. See, in this book, Ilyena isn't the only victim - the children she and Lews had are also among the dead, as are quite a lot of other people who just happened to live or work in the palace or were visiting. Except for the use of LTT's title "Kinslayer", none of them will be mentioned again after this book - in fact, the non-family members are completely forgotten after the prologue. But again, that's jumping ahead. In this book, Ilyena is about providing a specific name and face to the tragedy, humanizing all of the victims by proxy in a way that, "Twelve hours after saving the world, Lews Therin went insane and killed two hundred and sixty-five people including all of his blood relatives," does not.

...brought by merchants from across the World Sea...

We talk a lot about how Jordan was too immersed in southern culture to understand how its gender roles were about as universal as Mongolian throat singing, but not enough about how he's too immersed in globalized petro-fascist markets based on maximizing inefficiencies for the global elite to use to extract wealth to understand why a real planetary utopia living in harmony with nature wouldn't be shipping luxury goods across the ocean when there's perfectly fancy fabrics to make at home and anyway the Green Men should be able to help silkworms thrive anywhere if you're that desperate for something breathable.

On the other hand, points to him for not going crazy about Gateways and assuming that all global trade could be handled by teleportation just because they're a fun tool. I will have a lot to say about Gateways as we approach the authorial transition.

For a moment he fingered the symbol on his cloak, a circle half white and half black, the colors separated by a sinuous line. It meant something, that symbol.

Even now though, it means something other than what it once meant (being the sign of the seals on the Dark One's prison) and before too much longer it will pick up two more meanings, one for each half. The Wheel turns and the world changes.

Behind him the air rippled, shimmered, solidified into a man who looked around, his mouth twisting briefly with distaste.

Props to Ishamael for clearly Traveling with the True Power even this early on in the series.

Not so tall as Lews Therin, he was clothed all in black, save for the snow-white lace at his throat and the silverwork on the turned-down tops of his thigh-high boots.

Thigh-high boots! <3 (Seriously Ishy how can you want to destroy the world you can express your fashion sense in?)

Also note how this contrasts the Aes Sedai symbol described earlier. There's a little bit of white though, because it can't be helped even by the Shadow.

It will soon be time for the Singing, and here all are welcome to take part.

One detail from the Sanderson novels whose origin I'm uncertain of but like regardless of who came up with it is Rand's claim that the AoL was NOT paradise and that it was rotting from within even before the Dark One got involved. The latter half of this sentence suggests one such flaw: having the Voice is a hell of a talent, but apparently there were places that did not welcome all potential Singers. This could just be a result of the War, but maybe it speaks to something deeper.

“Shai’tan take you, does the taint already have you so far in its grip?”

Ish here is mostly pissed that he doesn't get to enjoy his gloating, because for all his talk about nihilism, he is petty first and foremost.

Dangerous for you, fool, not for me.

Ironically, all things considered it's really the other way around - Shai'tan is no threat at all to the Dragon soul and will utterly ruin Ish by the end. Ish really isn't anywhere near as clever as he makes himself out to be, he just looks smart because he's the last survivor of Academia.

“So you do remember some things. Yes, Betrayer of Hope. So have men named me, just as they named you Dragon, but unlike you I embrace the name.

This is an odd detail, all things considered. LTT's fatal flaw was pride (this very prologue says as much), so why wouldn't he be proud of a flattering name? I wonder if we get any more details on this in the books or if it's just a little detail that was lost in the shuffle.

But it is not enough. You humbled me in the Hall of Servants. You defeated me at the Gates of Paaran Disen. But I am the greater, now. I will not let you die without knowing that. When you die, your last thought will be the full knowledge of your defeat, of how complete and utter it is. If I let you die at all

See what I mean about Ish? This is not the behavior of someone who is tired of existence and wants everything to end, it's the behavior of a dude with a petty grudge that he dresses up in fancy terms and fancier boots.

[Ilyena] will give me the rough side of her tongue if she thinks I have been hiding a guest from her. I hope you enjoy conversation, for she surely does. Be forewarned. Ilyena will ask you so many questions you may end up telling her everything you know.

Quick, name a female WoT character that Jordan doesn't think this description applies to! Can it be done? I doubt it. Another common criticism is that for all of his 3,000 characters, all of the women were just his wife. I don't think it's quite true, but I do think that the women he knew well were all cut from pretty much the same cloth.

“A pity for you,” he mused, “that one of your Sisters is not here.

This is another oddity. AoL healing required all five kinds of weaves and they didn't divide things up by gender anyway, so why wouldn't a Brother suffice? There's plenty of male Aes Sedai who haven't gone crazy at this point, and it's been only a couple days at most so you wouldn't think people would have time to reflexively assume men wouldn't be helpful. Is this another kind of healing that works better when you do it cross-gender? Maybe Towers of Midnight mentioned that?

Helplessly he convulsed, thrashing, his skull a sphere of purest agony on the point of bursting.

Good to know that every incarnation of the Dragon suffers horribly for no good reason, I guess. Rand's nihilism is a lot more understandable to me than Ish's is, considering how little suffering the latter actually endures.

“You can have her back, Kinslayer. The Great Lord of the Dark can make her live again, if you will serve him. If you will serve me.”

"Your kids are fucked though. We put their souls in vacuoles and then jettisoned them towards Sindhol, so we can't fix that even if we wanted to. Also you balefired half of them repeatedly, we think. Hard to be sure because there's no record of them left except some silhouettes on that doorway over there."

(More seriously, they're being left out right now because LTT isn't cognizant of their demise, making this the only excusable omission.)

“Ten years your foul master has wracked the world. And now this. I will. . . .”

Plus a whole century of societal collapse, but I guess RJ hadn't come up with that detail yet. Hell at this point maybe Shai'tan was still supposed to be ET's son.

You and I have fought a thousand battles with the turning of the Wheel, a thousand times a thousand, and we will fight until time dies and the Shadow is triumphant!

Ish says this and the fandom as a whole treats it as true but... we don't actually know this! Third Agers often state that they HOPE to be reborn, which suggests that's it's possible the Wheel stops reincarnating some souls (replacing them, presumably) - and who better to retire than the people who stop being grateful for existence and start actively trying to undermine you?

Further, Rand's epiphany is about how despite the crushing cycle of everything, anyone can still hope to live a better life - there's no guarantee that Ishamael falls to the shadow every time, or that he ever has before or will again! Hell, he could just repent even after he falls. Bro has choices, he just refuses to see them.

His own sons and daughters, sprawled like broken dolls, play stilled forever.

This is actually another odd detail. I don't know how Aes Sedai fertility works, but while it's not implausible that LTT & IS could have children who were of the age where their play is the most notable thing about them, they should also have kids old enough to have grandkids by now! Lews' murders could potentially number in the hundreds without starting on the servants and faithful companions.

Also note that while Ilyena's demise horrified LTT and left him with nothing to live for according to the narration, it isn't until he sees that he's killed all of these people he loved that he actually tries to commit suicide. This is the sort of thing that's completely neglected going forward, but it is nice that things were a little more complex than him finding his girlfriend in the fridge and his mom in the oven.

The land around him was flat and empty. A river flowed nearby, straight and broad, but he could sense there were no people within a hundred leagues.

This is a pretty subtle sign of just how much death the last ten years must have entailed: the Erinin is flowing through a temperate part of the planet (there being no indication that the Earth's axis was significantly affected by the Breaking) yet there are no cities nor farms within a hundred leagues. By all rights there should be, but now they're gone. One can see why balefire was banned.

He did not believe it could come, forgiveness. Not for what he had done.

Maybe it's just my own weird moral code speaking but I think stuff one does while literally and entirely involuntarily corrupted by the source of all evil shouldn't really count against them. Obviously he's in shock, but it seems like something that carries on into Rand's behavior as well and it's a little depressing that in a series about free will vs. determinism there's such a common attitude that the stuff you're doomed to do regardless counts against you more than the things you had a choice in.

Because in his pride he had believed that men could match the Creator, could mend what the Creator had made and they had broken. In his pride he had believed.

And he wasn't wrong to believe that, he just did it wrong and doesn't consider that there might be other approaches. Tunnel vision is a real affliction in this series.

Only a heartbeat did the shining bar exist, connecting ground and sky, but even after it vanished the earth yet heaved like the sea in a storm. Molten rock fountained five hundred feet into the air, and the groaning ground rose, thrusting the burning spray ever upward, ever higher.

No denial on the earth's part here, just straight up compliance.

Of Lewis Therin Telamon, no sign remained. Where he had stood a mountain now rose miles into the sky, molten lava still gushing from its broken peak.

Now imagine a million more dudes doing this and you start to see why the Breaking was as destructive as it was.

Then [Ishamael] was gone, and the mountain and the island stood alone. Waiting.

Presumably Ishamael went off and told someone about LTT's suicide before being vacuum sealed for a millennium and change, cuz otherwise there's no way people would know what Dragonmount was.

The oceans fled, and the mountains were swallowed up, and the nations were scattered to the eight corners of the World.

The west, the Waste, Shara, the sea, the Mad Lands, north Seanchan, southwest Seanchan, and southeast Seanchan. There, we've turned what was obviously an odd turn of phrase into a literal statement with all eight items acccounted for!

Let the Prince of the Morning sing to the land that green things will grow and the valleys give forth lambs. Let the arm of the Lord of the Dawn shelter us from the Dark, and the great sword of justice defend us. Let the Dragon ride again on the winds of time.

Well Rand did most of those things, but I don't remember any lambs, so I guess really he lost the war and the whole of the epilogue was a taunting dream the Dark One wove for him to distract him.

(God I hate those kinds of theories. If your assumption is that nothing is true, your theory is dumb and you should feel bad.)

From Charal Drianaan te Calamon,The Cycle of the Dragon.

So a lot of people talk about the conlanging in this setting and I just want to point one thing out: the fact that we go from the Old Tongue in the AoL to this New Tongue in the Fourth Age suggests very, very strongly that Randlanders are not inexplicably speaking English or anything close to it but something in between the two fake Tongues. We have a clear transition from things like "Telamon" and "siswai'aman" to "Calamon" for example, that dragon doesn't really fit into except as a distant ancestor/descendant.

Anyway, that right there is the prologue! I would compare and contrast it to Amazon's adaptation, but I cannot because they have not adapted this sequence yet. It's something of a shame, because I think the prologue is very important for making it clear that we're not actually doing a Tolkien-esque story like the early chapters suggest, but after seeing Winter Dragon I can also sympathize with not wanting to lead with this. That said, I am deeply depressed we couldn't keep Billy Zane and hope against hope that Rafe will find a role for him to be crazy in.

The TV show does do a sequence set in the AoL, but it's closer to being an adaptation of part of The Strike at Shayol Ghul than anything else, so I will hold off until we get there after A Crown of Swords.

[myheartalivewrites]

Fic Writing Review 2023

thanks for the tags @kiwiana-writes @stereopticons 💚

Rules: Feel free to show whatever stats you have. Only want to show Ao3 stats? Rock on. Want to include some quantitative info instead of stats? Please do this. Want to change how yours is presented? Absolutely do that. Would rather eat glass than do this? Please don’t eat glass but don’t feel like you have to do this either.

Words and Fics

New fics on ao3: 12

Words published on ao3: 220,095

BONUS STAT 120,433 UNPUBLISHED words (holy fuck, I went to add this up because I was curious, but I was not prepared for this... No wonder I hate having all these WIPs hanging over my head right now. They are A LOT)

Fandoms: just RWRB

Most recent fic: "Please, I need you to." (also the shortest fic!)

Longest fic: Deep Blue, 76,031 words

Longest one shot: Love and War, 11,430

Top fics by kudos

(WELL, I wanted to do a mix of stats, but Deep Blue is my top fic in all the metrics--and we don't fuck with ratios in this house--so instead I'm doing by kudos)

Deep Blue (well, well, well. I love this baby so much)

Just Like That. (shocking outlier! It started as smutty crack in my mind!)

In His Wildest Dreams (love this with my whole entire heart)

Oxford Days (look here, kids! the things you can achieve with sleep deprivation and crazy hyperfocus!)

Tumbled Down and Tangled Up (with thanks to whoever it was who shared it on twitter that one time and led to me spending one very confused day--nine months after this fic was first published--watching all the ao3 emails coming in like, WHAT THE HELL IS HAPPENING)

Every single number on this list blows my mind.

Fandom/Fic events

Doing events is a new thing for me this year! I've just finished my @rwrbnygiftexchange fic and am super excited to put it out there (Jan 1st feels so far away!)

And I did a quick thing for Smutsgiving 2023

Just for fun

Most amusing stat: the fact that THIS has more kudos than actual words in it. Love you all 😘

Highest proportion of private bookmarks: just edging this, it's Happy NY! I was sure it would be In His Wildest Dreams lol. It only just lost out by 0.3%

Leader by POV: Alex, with 6 fics to his name. Then it's 3 for Henry and 3 in split POV, though Henry would lead this if I was doing it by word count lol

Things that moved me beyond words: everything Deep Blue related, but especially the comments (and I'd never done this before, but last week I sorted all fics in the RWRB tag by comments and there it was... on the first page 😱 *Of course almost half of those comments are from me, replying to people. Timely reminder of how all these metrics are not necessarily a true reflection of a work or a writer’s value). Anyway, whether it's people relating to Alex's confusion when working out his sexuality (hi 🙋‍♀️), or people who see themselves in Henry and his paralysing fear of being hurt again (hi again 🙋‍♀️), and everyone who dropped into the comments to commiserate about wanting to quit their jobs and fuck off to the coast to write full time (🙋‍♀️🙋‍♀️🙋‍♀️), they all mean so much.

New Year's resolutions:

to finish a bunch of WIPs

to work on fewer things at once and not stress myself out by having a bunch of unfinished things

to crack on with my original writing

This post ran a lot longer than I was expecting! I'm not tagging anyone because I don't want anyone to feel pressured to share numbers and compare themselves to others. The last four months have been CRAZY in the RWRB fandom, and to be honest looking at numbers and stats is a surefire way to feel small or slow or just plain not enough when you start comparing yourself to others.

But if you feel proud of something you've done (the first thing you've ever written! the first fic you've ever shared! some sort of stat breakthrough! your first ao3 subscribers!), whatever it is, please share. And tag me! Doing all of this online stuff can be fun, but it can sometimes feel lonely too. The best thing about it is talking to people, whether it be in discord or ao3 comments or on tumblr posts and messages or getting tagged on WIP posts just because people think I might like to see what they're writing, or because they want to see what I'm working on.

Anyway, my point is: don't be lonely. Bang on that tag. 😉❤️

Now, who's going to teach me how to use code and shit so I can have a nice spreadsheet with all these stats on? I did it all by hand and now I need a nap.

[anjumbai]

Deep Work by Cal Newport - Thoughts

"I'll live the focused life, because it's the best kind there is." - Winfred Gallagher

Rating: very useful out of 10

I knew I heard the name Cal Newport somewhere before. It turns out he wrote that book named "How to Become a Straight A-student"; which I read back in 2021. Although I did not finish it, it was filled with a lot of practicality and very useful instructions. And this book, while focusing more on the fact that why going deep is necessary, is also filled with equal amount of well-explained examples.

The book argues why you should not drown in shallow activities which yield little to no impact on your life, but rather spend more time going deep and practicing deep work. Deep work refers to the practice of committing to a work with intense focus, reducing all sorts of distractions while you're going at it. While I approached this to learn more bout student life and the uses of deep work, it turned out to target knowledge workers more. But that wouldn't stop me from extracting something from the book now, would it? Well anyways, I won't go into much details about the book. I sometimes forget that I'm writing about my thoughts and not on a critical review of how the book is structured or anything like that.

So what did I like about the book? The fact that it advised you to quit social media. I liked how he said if you wanna do something different, if you wanna be able to focus more and get distracted less, you should be harder to reach. You shouldn't be available just by one email, or be just one instagram notification away. And I liked how he said that most people would argue that "I'm connected with my friends over there etc etc" and how it does have some validity, he names it the "any benefit" approach. Which means if something provides you with even just one benefit, you'll cling to it despite the overwhelming difference of the damages it can cause.

I agree with him on this part and being difficult to reach has now proven to be a good part of my life. I love it. You can even say I liked this because he mentioned something I already do. Which is true. I worked for it, so some recognition from an inanimate object feels nice.

He also states how deep work should be practiced on a daily basis. Which gives natural idiots like me hope cause even though I might be an idiot, I can still practice something daily without much issue ( thanks to atomic habits ). And like James Clear said, habits build up like compound interests do. I liked the book. I disliked some of it for the overwhelming office related examples but perhaps I should've understood students aren't the key target audience in this book. As he already has a rather amazing book for students. Check it out, I'd say.

A common argument that comes up would be that- I don't need to read a whole damn book to learn basic stuff like this. True. You don't. You can just learn em by scrolling through your Instagram food, or YouTube; maybe if you try hard enough you can resist clicking on that youtube short too. I'd still advise reading the book. It teaches you to practice something on a long term basis, and each chapter happens to have something new instead of all of it one, so you can gradually learn and apply. That's how self-help books work for me. You read and apply, learn something new, apply again. This book might encourage some to become delusional. Just reading self-help books don't take you particularly anywhere. So if this is your 14th self-help book, maybe seek therapy. Or you can ignore me, which is the natural order.

Atomic Habits and Deep Work, both happen to be helpful in their own ways. But I'd prefer Atomic Habits over this, due to how much more practical the first one is. But if you really wanna understand the need of deep work and eventually apply it in your life, or maybe you lack focus like me- try it out. It has boosted my focus span. Or maybe the fact that I don't really have much to do daily is what made my focus span increase but hey, nobody is looking into that.

Next read: The Subtle Art of not giving a damn about the books title. (or grammar)

[hesbuckcompton-baby]

🏰📜 and 🎓 for the academia asks, please! have a lovely day helena :)

Thanks, JJ!! <3

🏰 what's a medieval or ancient site you'd love to visit in your lifetime?

I'm really lucky to live somewhere with quite a lot of accessible historical sites, as well as being able to travel to visit a bunch, so I've seen a lot of my favourites already! The Forum in Rome was absolutely wonderful, and I'd love to go again, but I'd really love to see the Acropolis of Athens in person someday

📜 what time period in history do you find the most fascinating or would like to study the most?

I've always been super interested in the late medieval/emerging early modern period of British history - (think the Wars of the Roses, Tudor dynasty). That's certainly the period that I was first drawn to as a kid, and it holds a really special place in my heart as a sort of gateway to the stuff I write about now. I think a lot of my studies are more based on theme than time period (I write a lot of women's history, supernatural/religious history etc.), but I definitely do tend to stick to the earlier half of the early modern period, as modern history doesn't interest me as much.

🎓 share a study tip that works really well for you, even if it's unconventional!

One thing I've found useful when studying is to separate the work you want to do by how much you want to get done instead of how much time you want to spend doing it. As someone with ADHD, studying within a set time frame can become a problem, as I can get easily distracted and end up not doing as much as I need to. Setting myself reasonable goals for how much work I want to do in one sitting rather than how long I want to do it for (e.g. 'read fifteen pages' instead of 'read for half an hour') tends to be a much better way of making sure stuff actually gets done

[kahaluada]

Breakable heaven

A/N: This is a part of chapter 23 from my fanfiction A Bond do survive. It's a big chapter about 25 pages, but I'd like to share the last part (smut hehe) . Sam was initially a ReaderxDaryl, but I don't know how to write like that and she had way too much BG to be a "y/n". Context: they are fighting at his garage and things get steamy. I put the middle of the scene already, if you wanna read all, you can click here! Paring: Daryl Dixon x OFC Word Count: 4.570 Warnings: First experiences/ smut/ 18+/minors don't interact. Daryl is 18 / Graphic description / Feelings and angst

A Bond to survive | Chapter 23: Breakable heaven

.... Daryl rolled his eyes, he swear sometimes he rather be with his ass on the mud hunting a fucking coyote than have those talks. “What’s wrong with you?”

“With me? You came here, asking me to help with somethin’, and now yer’ tryin’ to turn me somethin’ I’m not!”

He hated how he sounded like Merle when his temper was winning him over. 

“That’s not true at all! I’m just showing you options, you jerk!”

“It’s so ridiculous, not even you know why you are goin’ there” Sam blinked, furiously “ Don’t ya’ see ya’ have money to spend and figure out what the fuck you want and I don’t? Ain’t no option f’me! Only one!” 

He shook his head, trying not to scream and feeling everything at once. 

“Oh, you know so much about life, don’t you? Spending it in the middle of the woods instead of with people!” He rolled his eyes and she frowned at him. “Don’t roll your eyes at me! It’s rude and unnecessary”

“And take us nowhere!” He mocked in a high-pitched voice, the way he used when they were younger and seeing her all red. Why he did do that? 

Jesus, would kill him to think before acting for once? 

“What is it you want? kisses? Damn girl!! What do you want from me?!!?” He touched his temple, fuming, and went in her direction “Think of yourself for a change!”

“Fine!” She answered like the most petulant creature in the world and took her stuff. Daryl frowned “Die alone, prick!”

He clenched his jaw, almost breaking his teeth. His face was burning. Why couldn’t he just express himself like a normal person? It was so infuriating. 

Daryl just wanted to tell her he wanted to be with her and not think about this stuff because it hurts! He saw her going to the door, which hurt even more. 

“Please, please, don’t go!” his younger self screamed inside of him. 

“Where you goin’?” He said with fear. 

“Home. I don’t like when you talk to me like your brother! Have some manners!” He hated even more when she was angrily assertive with him. This means he pushed some boundaries he shouldn’t have.

“Sam.” She looked at him and Daryl frowned. “Why are we fighting?” 

“I don’t know!!!” She raised her voice “But I want you to remember that I’m not a girl you are dating for a month! I’m your oldest friend!” He was unable to say a word. She shook her head and swallowed, ready to go.  

“Don't let her go like that you fucking idiot!” he screamed, inwardly. He just wanted to explain things! How had this turned into this stupid argument?

Daryl watched as Sam hugged her binder and tried to leave. He couldn't let her go like that!

He took her wrist and pulled her towards him, feeling like a caveman, unable to express himself properly. He was afraid she would leave him, so he acted on impulse, snatching the binder from her arms and throwing it on the table.

“Daryl!”

“Shut up!”  He murmured trying to steady his voice, taking her in his arms and kissing her. Her body melted at the same second and he never felt desire as strong as this time. 

The fear and frustration vanished. Nothing felt like kissing her, nothing compared, not even being in the middle of the woods alone with himself. He pulled her to him, reassuring her they were still in love, needing to feel her, to have her, to consume all this flame and relight all over and over again. 

He blindly pushed her against the table, some car tools going to the ground together with that fucking binder. His crossbow almost fell on the floor, but he pushed it out of the way. 

Daryl kissed her the way he wanted and knew she liked. Using his force against her, feeling strong, he took her by her ass, lifting her up and placing her on the table. 

He was rewarded with the most feminine and sexy sounds she made and her legs opening to let him between them. The way she melted against his hands, the way her legs opened to accommodate him, and how she pulled his hair and kissed him, was paradise again. 

Shivers after shivers coursed through his body, making his mind foggy and sending his senses into overdrive. He was so overstimulated but it was good, so delicious. 

Between heated kisses, his hands fumbled against her body.

Her skin was warm under his cold lips, he took a deep breath, his nose passing by her neck and his tongue slow and wet making a trail until his teeth took a strip of her dress down. 

Sam moved against him, taken by instinct she closed her thighs on his hips and this alone made his whole body tremble. 

Her nails dug into his skin making him moan, it was so good. Daryl balanced on the edge of control, kissing her neck, her lips, and her whole face. He slowed, trying to breathe,  caressing her face with love. 

“I’m sorry” He murmured, unable to stop touching and kissing her “Sorry for being a jerk” She nodded, frantic, kissing him back. Their lips met and she opened her mouth, Daryl let out a strangled moan when her tongue found his. 

Her legs tangled around his waist, their hips touched and he felt her warm center against his erection. There was no space for shame and guilt when he was feeling such good things.

Sam pulled him to her with her knees and his hands on her hair pulled her closer, harder. His arms tingled and a wave of pleasure surged right to his cock.  

“Oh, fuck!”  He cried when she rubbed herself against him. Her soft low moans were his perdition. Was he really making her feel this good? 

She was so welcoming, soft, and perfect under his hands. His fingers slid to her back, then played with the base of her chest, going back to her hair. 

Sam moaned, frustrated as he slowed down.  Daryl kissed her skin, going up to her jaw, nibbling her ear, and finally biting her bottom lip. Sam smiled against his mouth, her nails scratching his neck, making him shiver.  

Warm waves of pleasure were going down his skin, concentrating inside of his pants. He grinded against her, feeling her warm fast breath on his face, their kisses getting sloppy.   

He wanted her so badly. 

“Sorry, sorry!” He murmured again, grabbing her face, and sucking her bottom lip. 

Oh this was so fucking good!. 

He was devouring her and being rewarded with her hands looking for gaps between his shirt buttons. Her frantic breath was nectar to his ears.

“S’okay” she answered fumbling with his flannel, her hands going to his arms again “Don’t you dare to stop touching me now!” She murmured with a smile. 

But he did, for a second, looking at her eyes and face. Her dress was pulled up, her thighs exposed, her hard nipples against the fabric of her green dress. Gosh, she was not wearing a bra! 

Daryl’s mouth watered with such a vision and he swallowed, drinking in every single detail. He wanted to go down on her nipples and suck them, but also to kiss her and do everything at once. 

A deep warm feeling took all over his body and slowly he put a hand on her bare thighs, his face getting hot. 

Sam nodded slowly, her brown eyes on his, her chest going up and down with anticipation.  He stroked her soft thighs and she let a loud breath under his advances. Daryl went back to kissing her. 

Once they kissed, his soft fingertips were replaced by a firm grab on her skin, going up and up and she let out a beautiful moan.

“I want you’’ he murmured in a shameless cry, noises of their passionate kiss and her good smell making it holy. How had she turned him into this needy mess? 

Sam gave a soft laugh, her breath on his face, while her hand went into his hair. Their foreheads touched and they teased each other, going to kisses, avoiding it and back to a heated mess of tongues and needs. 

He was so hard now that he wanted just to feel the heat from her pants against him. Their breaths turned frantic and kisses and hands were his allies, making her forgive him swiftly.

Like magic, everything was forgotten. When his hands were almost touching her breasts he stopped and looked at her. 

“Daryl” She murmured, her soft hands covering his “Would you touch me, please?” Oh, the sweet way she looked at his eyes like she was innocent and evil, all at once. 

“Yeah” He nodded, eager. “Here?” His fingertips touched the base of her breasts and Daryl uses all his power to wait for her answer. She nodded and pulled his hand up. 

He touched his forehead on hers on the time his hand covered her warm skin. He felt her nipples getting hard under his palm.  His erection got even harder. 

Fuck, he wanted to lay her down on that table and worship her. His clumsy fingers went beneath the fabric, while she kissed him, starved for his touch. 

He finally touched her nipples and saw her eyes getting clouded with pleasure. Daryl let out a low moan, no space to feel awkward. Her hard nipples under his palm were making her shiver against him. 

How could she be so perfect? 

Sam rubbed herself against him and he swallowed, leaning in and kissing her slowly. He squeezed her tits, feeling how soft they were against his calloused hands. 

He swallowed, dying in need to taste them in his mouth. Would she moan his name? He went forward, his hands going back to her hips, squeezing them and feeling how soft she was. Then, not thinking, he just grabbed her round ass, his dick pulsed with this move and he left her lips with a “pop’

“Humn, fuck. You’re so hot!” He murmured not even on this plane of existence anymore. He was taken by desire, he loved her, he would die for her, and he would do anything to make her happy. 

Sam stopped their kiss and looked at him with those fucking beautiful brown eyes. Her lips were parted, swollen and the way she blinked at him sent chills down his spine.

“You never let me touch you too” He frowned. Was this really happening? Was she asking him? He was almost coming in his pants, would she...? 

“Ya’ never asked”

She blushed and pulled him for a kiss. Her tongue was so soft against his, she tasted so damn good. Sam had this thing when she was kissing him, where her body would move against him without her knowledge as if she was kissing him with her whole body. It was so subtle and so hot. The way her hand would tangle in his hair in sync with how heated the kiss was going and as if a whole pleasurable dance was taking place to make him a madman. 

“Yeah, I am now” She broke the kiss with tiny bites on his lower lip, her hand going down his belly, above his shirt. 

Daryl’s belly rippled and he closed his eyes, a shiver making him tremble and his hips went forward, looking for her. When his hardness touched her warm center he let out a shameful loud moan filled with anticipation.

His hands slipped from her hips to the inside of her thighs, kissing her again, feeling her tasty soft, and wet tongue against him, sending him shiver after shiver.  

His fingers were slowly putting her dress up higher, exposing more of her skin. 

“No.” He bit her chin, gently, looking at her with pleading eyes  “Lemme touch you first. Please” He would beg, not an atom of pride in him, only the need to worship her, to show how much he adored her.  

“Why?”

He held her face between his hands, looking into her eyes with confidence. 

“Cause I’m obsessed with ya’ girl!” He confessed in a soft moan the exact moment her nails touched his happy trail. He trembled and she nodded, opening her legs further to accommodate him. His heartbeat was so loud now. 

It was as if time had stopped only to whirl back again when her brown eyes teased him. As she did, every single inch of her dress was sliding up as her fingers tangled, nearly tearing the dark green fabric.

His eyes were following her movement and he saw her white underwear all soaked. Daryl licked his lower lip, his fevered eyes devouring her vision. 

“Fucking pretty” He murmured while his grip tightened on her skin.  At this point, he was completely gone, sweating, his chest rising, falling so fast and taken by desire. 

He devoured her lips, his hands sliding from her legs to her hair, arms and her small back. One hand went fast behind her bare knee, a little aggressively, making Sam slide to the edge of the table. His free hand  went down on the hot skin of her internal thighs. 

They had never gone this far before.

Sure, they had a lot of make-out sessions, they would grind against each other and once she moaned so loud he wondered if she got off on his thigh. But nothing like this! 

He could feel his tip escaping from his underwear and getting him wet with pre cum. It was possible to feel this hard, to feel this much pleasure, right? He was melting in a pool of desire.  

His fingers touched her underwear and he froze. Daryl didn’t know what to do and felt panic. Was she going to laugh at him? Her vulnerable eyes were hypnotizing him. 

“I can show you” She murmured while taking his hand. She was trembling as much as him “It’s ok for you?”

“Yeah” He nodded, stealing a kiss from her. With his eyes closed and his heart completely in her hands he let her guide his hand on her. First, he touched above the fabric. She was soaking wet and he felt pride and desire at how he was pleasing her. When she touched her, her rose lips opened and she threw her head a little, giving him a wonderful view. 

He buried his face on her exposed shoulder, he wanted to prove all of her, he wanted to mark her body with his kisses and make sure she felt loved, wanted, and his.  Because at this point, there was no doubt he was completely hers. 

Suddenly all he could hear was her heartbeat and their frantic breaths.  With eyes closed, blinded by immeasurable pleasure, Daryl’s breath caught when she pushed her underwear to the side, guiding him to slide his finger into her wet entrance. 

Her soft hair, the warmth, he could feel her on his fingertips and his mouth was full of water, his heart aflame with desire and need. Trembling, he kissed her shoulder and moaned, out loud and slow, as a little bitch, completely devoted to her.

The feeling of her on the tips of his two digits was heavenly. She guided his now-soaked fingers up, letting him feel her clit, and showed him how she liked it. 

Slowly, steady, maddening. 

When he played with her clit, she squeezed her tighs and bit her bottom lip, completely gone. To his delight, his palm was getting soaked by her sweet warm pussy. She was making a mess. 

“You’re dripping” He murmured in her ear and she let out a strangled moan at his provocation. Daryl smirked, biting her ear, following her moves and feeling pleasure pulses in his cock.  Oh he could die happy with his hands on her right now. 

He was so ready for her, still....

Daryl swallowed and raised his face from her shoulder, looking at her face. It was the most beautiful vision of his life. Sam was there, eyes closed, legs open, her dress all up on her belly, biting her lower lip, her brows together, and the most beautiful and amazing expression of need and pleasure. 

He could see the red marks on her shoulder, her hard nipples against the fabric, and his hand under her pants. He wanted to see more of her. Should he ask? 

“Fuck, you are so beautiful.” She opened her eyes, shy. He spread her legs, accommodating himself and letting her guide his fingers to her own pleasure. 

Now she was looking into his eyes while making low sexy moans. God, he would come anytime, he could feel the pressure on his lower belly. Daryl never felt his pants as tight as now. 

While moving slow firm circles on her clit, he heard, with eyes half-closed, her breathing getting fast, her chest going up and down, the amazing erotic show she was giving him. 

“Is this right?” He asked in a trembling raspy voice, she nodded, fast, squeezing her eyes once he found the perfect pace. 

“Yes, please. Don’t stop, Daryl.” 

He had never heard a more perfect sound in his life than her moans calling his name and asking please, please, please, for him to never stop. 

They fumbled, kissing, hot, maddening. It was addictive, the way her mouth moved against him, how warm and wet she was. At some point she let go of his hand and pulled his hair, kissing him with a passion they had never shared before. 

She was repeatedly saying she needed him and he almost came in his pants. Sam was a wet mess under his touch and he wanted to go down and lick her, kiss her there the way he was doing with her mouth. 

But he didn’t know if he should or even if it was normal. 

“Daryl, please, please, I need to feel you too.” She asked between sobs of pleasure and a slow kiss. Oh, her smell was so fucking good.  “Please, please, I wanna feel you so bad”

He stopped, looking at her with a red face and serious eyes. This girl would be the death of him.  

“Everything ya’ want, Sam” Was all he could answer before taking her swollen lips in another kiss. How could he spend so many years without knowing how good she was with her mouth? 

He let out a loud moan of frustration when she took his hand off her. 

“No, no. Please” She just laughed. An evil creature trying to make him a madman. Sam fixed her posture on the table, when she did it her tits bounced and Daryl frowned in desire, wetting his lower lip. As she looked at him with those eyes all he could do was wait for her next move. 

Her hand went to his pants and he almost closed his eyes, letting a low moan at the feeling of her hands taking his pants down. Daryl looked at her and Sam was looking right at his cock, making its own wet outline in his underwear. 

Daryl felt shy, but at the same time, he was so horny he could only swallow and hope she would touch him. And she did. Oh, she did, so eager! 

Sam let out a sexy sound of pleasure when she touched him and he saw her pants getting wetter, making her pussy almost visible to him.  It was the most erotic moment of his existence. 

Jesus, he was doomed. His chest was going up and down so fast that he felt like passing out. He couldn’t help but kiss her more and more. There was so much stuff he wanted to tell her, so much! But all he could do was focus on her warm hand around his dick, feeling him. 

“It’s your turn to show me” She murmured and he nearly fainted in his cloud of pleasure, nodding and putting his hand over her. “Not fair. There was nothing between your fingers and me” She murmured making a pout, hand on the cotton covering his cock. 

“You’re killing me” He murmured with a smirk and she smiled, teasing him, nibbling his lower lip. Daryl took a deep breath, his hand moved her hair out of the way and his lips touched her ear. “Be good to me please” 

He didn’t know what had gotten him to say that, but he was rewarded with a shy moan from her after this whisper. She leaned her chest against his, almost like a cat contorting on him,  moving on the edge of the table. 

She was so hot! 

Daryl swallowed, seeing how hard her nipples were. 

“Ask me again, please” She murmured almost purring in his ear and his fingers squeezed her waist. 

“Be good to me, please” 

She looked into his eyes while pulling his underwear down. Sam got the courage to wet her lips, showing him she wanted to suck him. There was no other explanation for the way she looked at his cock. Only thinking on her mouth on his tip was almost making him come. 

Daryl swallowed when she looked down. She was so red now. His trembling hands took hers to him. When she touched his skin he closed his eyes, he then made her squeeze and move up and down. 

When she touched him the way he liked, Daryl let out a loud, long, and needy moan transforming the single syllable of her name into a sonnet of need and love.  

Thinking of it later would definitely leave him in shock, but now all he could do was move his hips against her hand, holding her hair, and hide his face in the crease of her shoulder. 

“Fuck, please, Sam. Please!” He had never been this vocal in his life, but if he didn’t talk he would explode, and he would die out of pleasure right there in her hands. “Yeah, babe, please, don’t stop now!” 

He couldn’t just receive, he needed her to feel what he was feeling. So he kissed her, his free hand going back to her wet entrance. Sam shivered, biting his lips. 

His finger slid so easily, she was dripping between his knuckles and she moved against his hand when he touched her. Pressure and pleasure were mixing on his lower belly and his cock pulsed on her hands. 

They found a frantic rhythm where he was thrusting against her hand and touching her clit, making Sam call his name more than a few times. 

In one frantic, sloppy move, the tip of his cock touched her wet entrance and in a bliss of pleasure Sam rubbed against his dick.

“Oh, fuck” He let out a slow, feral moan and they both stopped, looking at each other in shock. 

It.was.so.fucking.good. 

Sam wet her lips and pulled his hair, kissing him almost aggressively. That move unlock something on her and  she held his cock right on her hand.  They forgot they almost fucked for the first time in his garage because there were so many things happening now. 

Anything, anything she wanted he would give her if she kept stroking his hard cock like that. Precum was wetting her hand and Daryl couldn’t stop.

“Yes, like this” he murmured when she squeezed him harder.  His fingers slipped to her clit and she squeaked in pleasure and need.  After some awkward tries, they found a new pace, pleasuring each other in a way he never felt his entire life. 

She was his drug, she was his world, his heaven, and hell. Daryl was feeling everything at once. His face got hotter, the kisses sloppy, his hips faster against her hand, his fingers clumsy on her clit. 

She called his name, low, in a sinful whisper. Daryl, feeling his palm soaking wet, trembling against her and the realization almost made him cum. He was looking at her eyes as her movements against his fingers quickened and Daryl slid his hand deeper as he felt her quivering against him, flooding his hand with hot wetness. She gasped his name, her face red, her eyes closed, fucking beautiful needy mess because of him.  

That was all he needed…

The pressure was too much and explosion after explosion rocked him, everything turned white and hot.  He was loud enough for anyone near that garage to hear them and he bit her shoulder, unable to control himself while hot cum was rolling over her thighs. 

His softer cries were then the only sound between them. Daryl shivered, burying his face on her shoulder, showering her with kisses while they both tried to absorb what they had done. 

His hands caressed her arms with love and devotion, while his lips kissed her shoulder and neck. He felt her fingers stroking his back, which only fueled his desire for her. Daryl swallowed hard, moving his lips up to hers. 

They shared a slow and lazy kiss, both smiling in bliss while she helped him put his pants up. He kissed her with such passion that he felt like crying. She was so sweet and calm that he felt at peace. Finally, he cupped her face in his hands and looked into her eyes.

Sam was gazing at him as if he were her world and her world only. He could see a billion words reflected in her eyes, yet she simply smiled in contentment, running her fingers through his hair to clear it from his eyes.

“Daryl” she murmured a little sad and he looked at her confused. Did he cross a line? Did he hurt her? “Never fall for anyone else, please. Say you will only look and touch and kiss me like that and no one else”

He felt the emotion and insecurity in her voice. He knew he was the one to blame, fighting with her because she was taking care of him. He was such a jerk, god! 

“I could never!” He confessed, kissing her. He felt her salty tears on his lips and looked at her with his heart full of love “I won't. I was afraid you would leave and….” He held his words. She looked at him, vulnerable. 

He kissed her again, letting her for some seconds, looking for a clean rag to wipe her thighs. He went back to her personal space, feeling a bit bashful about how far they had gone together.  While cleaning her, he looked at her with devotion, kissing her here and there with love. 

She was a mess in front of him, but he couldn't take his eyes off her perfect, swollen lips. He then took her hands in his, kissing her knuckles and looking into her eyes. 

"I'm all yours as long as you want me," he promised, and she began to cry. "Did I say something wrong? Did I hurt you?" he asked, concerned, his hand all over her face and his thumb cleaning her tears.

"No," she whispered, and he kissed her knuckles again before pulling her into a hug. They stayed like that for a while. "I'm just happy," she finally  said, and he felt his heart racing with joy. 

[runicmagitek]

2, 13, and/or 33?

Thanks a bunch, Rayless!! 💖

2) How do you spend your time when it comes to fanfiction? Are you primarily a fic reader, writer, or a perfect 50/50 split of both?

I try my best to be a 50/50 split, but it's probably more of a 75/25 split, leaning towards writer. I predominately read fics from writers I already know, friends, and recs from friends. There's just SO much fic out there in all the fandoms I'm invested in and I can only juggle so much, so I'd rather spend my time reading something I'm familiar with prose-wise instead of taking a gamble as to whether or not I'll actually enjoy it. Not to say I outright never hunt for fics and read from authors I've never read from before anymore, but it's definitely a rare occurrence.

13) Do you outline your fics? How much of a headache would someone get if they just looked at an outline of yours without reading the fic?

It depends on the fic. Most of my oneshots and smaller multichapter fics (like under 50k) have very quick summaries as an outline and nothing else. Like for No U-Turns, which ended up being 8 chapters over 50k~ words, I literally had a sentence or two for each chapter and that was it. I typically figure out those stories as I'm going, then clean things up during revisions before I post so it's more coherent.

For my actual longfics (I say this like I have tons of them; it's only 2 that are finished and 1 I'm working on lolsob), it's more or less the same thing, but Just More Of It. I'll write down bullet points of like, a scene wishlist and try to string things together into a vague map so I know where I'm going. But even then, as I'm writing, I'll connect SO many dots and have a ton of epiphanies, which I then add to the outline somewhere. I also keep an ongoing email chain to myself of prose and other motifs/themes I want to incorporate throughout the story. When I wrote What Leads You Here, I had over 60 emails to myself. And with my No Deimos/Sentinels AU right now, I have almost 20 emails to myself. So I'd imagine my outlines are pretty comprehensible, albeit brief and vague. The emails are a bit chaotic, but also readable.

33) What do you like writing better: one shots or multi-chapter stuff?

Oneshots, because then I don't get consumed by the idea for months, if not years lolsob. But if I'm being honest with myself, probably multichapter fics. I like developing ideas and showing the progression over time and multiple scenarios. And considering I like writing about heavier/darker themes, I don't feel it does those stories justice to bang them out in a oneshot. Sometimes you need to simmer and marinate and forcing your reader to slow down in these scenarios and REALLY sit with both the characters' sentiments and their own is a huge reason why I love reading stories. I can only hope my readers feel the same with the fics I share.

[be-good-be-safe-be-kind]

journal

today's been… okay, i guess. had to do another ptsd eval as a check-up/update for insurance, one of those 'on a scale of zero to four, rank these things' which is never fun because while i can figure out the 'never's and 'every day's, it's the bits in between that are harder to place. and also the wording of rank how these things impacted 'you' in the past month. kinda hard when 'you' is somehow a constant presence and absence at the same time. and then there's also the nuances of each question, which i had to ask therapist for clarification and we couldn't really settle things. like how often are you impacted by memories of event vs impacted by body sensations of shakes and things like that and it's like what do you mean memories don't always have visceral physical reactions? then we briefly discussed the upcoming chag and how that's probably gonna shake some things loose up here -taps forehead- and not looking forward to that. with or without the weather being cold, or actively participating in holiday things, winter is winter, and it's a hate/love thing. managed to go to the grocery store after and tried tuning out the christmas carols and blocking out the holiday stuff everywhere, but then i still had to walk back to the house and pass up decorations on every storefront and every other lawn (shout out to the house with a giant inflatable pink unicorn, no tinsel or cheesy slogan or anything else up) and it fucking sucks. not the decorations themselves, those are mostly cool (see ^) but that i can't exist for more than a few hours at most because everything is a fucking trigger and i'm exhausted after a day of not even doing much.

speaking of memories. i went looking on youtube for something to listen to while working on nanowrimo, and stumbled upon a full set of a sort of reunion tour set from what might be my favorite band. put earbuds in instead of quietly using the laptop's speakers because i could tell there were going to be 'dial it up to eleven' moments, and also because i needed to drown out the holiday music. and it's nice, real energetic and familiar but also it's hard to listen to. not from a musical perspective, exactly, (there's maybe one song on piano and the stage banter is all right) but because of how many memories it's bringing up and things i didn't even realize were things. like i'm ten now, with a secondhand cd player and headphones with crackling foam snuck under my pillow, keeping the volume on minimum to keep one ear on the door and another on the baby in case we had to move. that's wild, man. not entirely unsurprising, especially considering mentioned other sounds as negative triggers while doing the eval, so why does it seems shocking that there are kinda positive sounds as well? not that hypervigilance is exactly happy, and some of the specific songs are associated with specific places less warm than a couple coats on a mattress, but some are also with the bittersweet shit. humming along with the records to shush the baby. letting the lyrics wash over me, wanting to be optimistic of there being a possibility of a great escape and knowing even as a kid that it's just a high school fantasy.

i'm fourteen now and doing sit-ups in the dingy school gym to avoid lunch, tiny ipod in my hoodie sleeve, rolling my eyes at the irony of listening to a song about running from jesus while hiding in the corner of orthodox school. i'm eighteen and rather than writing my tehillim final about which chapter and specific verses i'd recite every day or which one always gives me hope, i pick the final track off the album with the bleeding heart and, in typical emo kid fashion, say that if i did have to select a psalm it would be lines 2-3 of 22 ('my god, why have you forsaken me…'). sure, i knew as well as i knew at ten that just go is easier said than done, that you shouldn't spend your whole life holding on, but i also knew no one was listening to me, anyway, so i might as well doodle around some lyrics and call it a day. i also had absolutely no vocabulary or concept of trauma (aside from having shoah survivors visit our classrooms since kindergarten, and i obviously didn't experience anything like that, so there's nothing for me to complain about), and by extension, the words to say that i can't simply go because everything means something to me and fucks with my head. i'm twentysomething and sitting on a park swing, music on my phone, kicking leaves and mentally kicking myself for ever thinking there's a possibility of being anything other than stuck in the middle. 

i'm sitting here today, all of these things flowing in and out of my head and through my body during the course of an hour and forty-five minutes. i've felt more in the past day than i have in a while, and i don't know how to feel about that.

[gabrielwritessometimes]

Hi Big Bro !

For the ask, what about : 3, 7, 10, 18, 19, 36 and 39 ?

Take your time to answer ! Hope you have a good day/evening/night 💖

LIL BRO I missed you in my asks too 🥺 ! I'll answer under the cut !

3. What is your writing ritual and why is it cursed ?

Of course it is cursed. It starts with a white page of google docs. Then I can spend hours or days until I write something. Usually it's a -, followed by a list of miscleanous stuff : quotes, "I want them to kissy kissy umbrella shared ;w; !", sets of clothes to describe, ANYTHING. And then I organise it. It takes so little time. Then I give up, since I'm satisfied. Then it haunts my dreams until I open the page turned WIP. And then I write 20k in 5h or so and I post it UNPROOFED and I let you read while I sleep or go to work. I don't even check the reactions afterwards, I'm that mother who doesn't look at the crying baby but is just happy it isn't inside anymore I'm so sorry.

7. What is your deepest joy about writing ?

That's gonna be a weird one, but : feeling. Feeling stuff I never felt in real life or on the contrary writing about raw unrestrained feelings I got to experience. Even weirder : panic attacks make me so much more able to write angst and characters losing it because I know what it is. I know what bounds are like, I know what love feels like for I cherish a few selected people, but as an aro/ace I don't love that way. That's why I feel so happy writing about feelings, all kind of them.

10. Has a piece of writing ever “haunted” you ? Has your own writing haunted you? What does that mean to you ?

Oh I get haunted a LOT. Daydreams, dreams, little bits of dialogues running through my head at work, a song making me jolt because it'd be perfect... that's why I do lists before writing, it's like vacuuming all these haunting parts and create a puppet out of it for you to see. I perceive that as "this is something worth writing and showing to the world", it's a green light and a good omen !

18. Choose a passage from your writing. Tell me about the backstory of this moment. How you came up with it, how it changed from start to end.

"There are two things that make the God of Winter feel alive : the pure unrestrained happiness to see his children and the pure unrestrained pleasure to know deep down that he isn’t the one who suffers the most."

I'd rather use an original work for this one if you'll allow me. This glimpse of Léviatha'n's crooked sense of joy if both a foreshadowing (of what will happen because of him in Esporys) and a mirror shot from Aleksiel in He Who Rules Above the Snow ("His sleep was fit for he knew the turmoil he caused in his close family's minds, and their toss and turns turned into wicked lullabys soothing his heart.").

At first it was more straightforward, showing only Léviatha'n's malignity but it didn't work : Léviatha'n is both extremes, the dead quiet mirror sea and the tide tearing everything apart. He had to be balanced by something equally unbalanced which is the love for his children. Just like Zaga'n is everything to Suzak, Lantide and Léviath are everything for Léviatha'n and the wicked sense of pleasure he gets out of Suzak's endless mourning comes back to bite him when his children die in front of him. Did he learn anything from it ? Of course not, the sea doesn't learn to evade people to avoid suffering, it only restore the bodies to shore sometimes. That was the feeling I wanted for him and I think it turned out well !

19. Tell me a story about your writing journey. When did you start ? Why did you start ? Were there bumps along the way ? Where are you now and where are you going ?

I started when I was 5 or 6. My childhood wasn't really a happy one, so instead I wrote stories of things that didn't happen to me to brighten it : winged bunnies hopping next to the bus like dolphins do close to boats, imaginary friends I was the only one able to see who laughed as they stole apples from the neighbour's tree with me, ... my father always indulged me in these fantasies, my mother way less.

There have been a few bumpses like right now because I am drained from work and just WISH I could chill and do nothing, slowing down all my creative process. I also had a few in middleschool when I became terrified of writing, one of my bullies reading texts she found aloud for everyone to laugh at me.

I have two solid novels I can share with the world though, a visual novel planned and many novels to write about the lore of the Life Marble, stories of unconsequential characters to show their daily life, insights of the Gods' minds, diaries found after the End, ... I also started drawing to be able to give my characters some realness. Will I be able to do it ? Wait and see !

36. They say to Write What You Know. Setting aside for a moment the fact that this is terrible advice…what do you Know ?

I know of loss, grief and not belonging. I know of secrets unshared gnawing at your insides and invasive thoughts. Of the fear of lies colliding between two worlds you tried to keep separate. Of panic attacks of being too much and too less at the same time, of blaming looks and punching walls and yelling to get people to look at me. I know of being put aside because I asked for basic decency.

I also know of softness and joy, of shared looks and desires, of joined hands kissed softly under an apple tree. I know of aspirations, of setting a clear way and being patted on the back after offering the word they needed or a hot chocolate. I know of the silent gratitude in shared looks after discovering someone did something for you the way you wanted it done.

I know of baby steps and the pride of keeping balance when everything starts to tip. I know of taking commands or receiving them without arguing, because sometimes people should really let their ego aside and stop feeling attacked out of thin air. I know of putting myself first, saying no and biting back too.

39. What keeps you writing when you feel like giving up ?

Writing is as necessary as breathing for me. It comes easily, trained since childhood, and no matter the support or the time I'll always be able to do it. I am tired but will still write a description of a peculiar plant in my lore or find a new way to sign documents for Aksel. Because you don't need to write 450 pages to be writing. Just like reading comics is still reading, roleplaying, creating charasheets and lore is still writing.

[x-amanda]

"Why do I have the feeling that I'm going to be the only one earning money?"

My boyfriend said that last night when we were talking, it made me feel stupid and like I wasn't good at anything, I cried and then thought I'd write all of this. My grades are really bad because I'm never in school, my dream job is to be a writer or a therapist and other things similar to that, I love writing and helping people, whenever someone isn't doing very well, they talk to me about it and I help them and give them the best advice I can, I've been praised and told I could be a good therapist because of my "skills" and I've come to realize that being a therapist wouldn't be so bad after all! but then there are grades.. I will work my hardest to get the grades needed and if I don't succeed with that then writing it is, or McDonald's hahah!

Is it bad that I'm more worried about what my boyfriend thinks about me? He can be rather judgemental most of the time, and he for some reason asked me the other day if he could get HALF of MY pay from MY future job.. we are still in school, he hasn't even started upper secondary yet and he's already asking me if he can get half my pay and I keep the rest to myself and that I can spend it on whatever I want. Who earned that money? Who worked their ass off for it? ME, it's my money, you want to work as an Economic officer because they have good pay so I see no reason in giving you half my pay that will probably be under $500 while yours is a lot higher. I don't feel like he truly cares about me and how I feel, he never asks me how I'm doing, he never says goodnight or good morning, instead he says "Cya" and "wsg".. I want to confront him about it because it does make me really sad and upset but I'm afraid he'll get mad at me, I wouldn't be surprised if he did.

I love him so much, the first thing I do in the morning is check my phone to see if he's texted me, it's usually some random shit but still, I think of him all the time, he's one of my only friends besides 2 others and one who's basically like a brother to me now. He's been both good and bad to me, we started off as "Enemies" to friends and eventually lovers on May 20th. I'm afraid he'll leave me for someone else someday, there is this other girl that he seems to be really good friends with, I hate her so much, he even called her "My love" in a group chat me, him, that girl and some other people were in.. I was so mad and I felt so anxious after that, I had to close down the chat for a while, I couldn't look at it without feeling anger and sadness, and even fear that he might leave me for her. I don't know what I'd do if he left me, he's said that if it ever happenes, we could still be friends but.. I've never loved someone like this before, sure I've been inlove but he's different for some reason..

--That was all for now, I don't know what I'll talk about next time, perhaps about my mental health, I do have some stuff to say about that, I tried telling 'him' but he changed the subject rather quickly which was expected..

// Amanda - Aug 24th 9:46 pm