#just talking aloud. notes for ourselves

[euclydya]

mhmmm. That didn't take long

[literaryvein-reblogs]

more notes on: writer's block

It is an anxiety we feel when we are unable to transfer ideas from our heads to the page.

It is a feeling of inadequacy—that whatever we write will be unoriginal, unimaginative, or have very little value.

It is a temporary state in which we are so overwhelmed with the expectations of an assignment, instructor, ourselves (inner editor) that we can’t get started.

Techniques to Combat Writer's Block

Stream of consciousness writing

There are variations to this type of writing. In general, the ideas are the same: writing freely without considering grammar, punctuation, sentence structure, etc.

The most important aspect of this exercise is to just write.

Variations include: write what comes to your mind as you focus on your topic; write with your eyes closed; cover your computer screen and type freely; write slowly while focusing on each shaping of the letters; or set a timer/alarm and write non-stop for 10-15 minutes.

Change your location

If you usually write at a computer, try the kitchen or dining room table.

If you usually write at a desk, try a seat by a window. Or how about a coffee shop, a park, or the library?

Relaxation techniques

Take a break from trying to write. This will help you to rejuvenate (but come back soon)!

Take some deep breaths. People who tell you that physical exercise is important for mental activity are telling the truth.

If nothing's happening on the computer screen or paper, take a walk around the block. Hit the treadmill or tennis courts or drive to the gym. But take your notebook with you.

Fresh blood will be flowing through your brain and jogging might just jog something loose in your head. It happens.

Start in the middle of your writing project

Avoid the problem of getting started by starting on a part of the project that interests you more and then come back to the introductory matter later.

After all, your readers will never know you wrote the introduction last (another joy of word-processing technology!).

Talking aloud

Talk over your paper with a friend, or just blab away into a tape recorder (even better).

Play the tape back and write down what you hear in clusters of ideas or free write about them.

Accountability & community

Set up a time and place to write with someone else or a few other writers.

Start by talking about what you are working on, your struggle, and what needs to be done.

You can set a specific amount of time for everyone to write silently (an hour or a few).

Then come back together in the end to vocalize what you accomplished (and what you still want to accomplish if more needs to be done).

This goal setting, accountability, and community are highly valuable for the writing process.

more on: writer's block

[fashionteahouse]

Holaaaaa

So her me out

can you do reader x paul

When the pack get back from something they were do and they find out the house ( Emily and sam house obvi cuz That's where they gathering) is empty and find a note said the girls (their imprint) are going for a girls trip to new York for the weekend 😗😗😗😗

holaaa yes i would love to do this 🙂‍↕️ hope you enjoy :)

radical - reader x paul

The sky was darkening with daylight dying down. What didn’t die down was the pack’s high energy. Walking out of the theater, feeling the high of seeing a great action movie, their stomachs begin to growl with hunger.

“You think the girls cooked anything?” Jacob asks Sam as he walks towards the truck that waited for them.

“Of course they have.” he says as he closed the driver door and starts the car, revving the engine to life.

On the road, they kept talking recaps of the movie. Paul even telling the boys what he would’ve done had he have been in it.

The drive comes to a stop when the house that Sam and Emily shared, came into clear view. Sam steps out with a stretch, the other boys run up the steps, excited about which meal the girls had whipped up.

Not smelling anything, they look around the house in confusion. They also don’t hear anything. It’s very quiet in the home. Too quiet. No sounds of heartbeats, chatter, or anything. Just pure silence.

Paul calls out for you, looking for you. Hearing no answer, he hears someone say, “They left a note.”

Coming back to the kitchen to find on the table, a sheet of paper was in Sam’s hands. He read the note aloud.

“Sorry if you guys get back and we’re gone. There’s food in the oven for you guys to eat. We have decided to treat ourselves to a weekend trip! I know it’s last minute and we promise to explain it all (gush all about our amazing trip) when we get back. We love you and we’re safe. There was just no way we were missing out on cheap plane tickets to new york! Hugs and kisses xoxo”

All of your signatures were signed at the bottom, solidifying all of the imprint’s agreement on the trip.

Paul shakes his head as Sam leaves the paper to float onto the table. He grabs his phone to dial his imprint’s number. With no answer he texts you.

“Y/N”

“Call me”

You glance at the phone with nervousness as you walk through the new york atmosphere with the imprints at your sides. Your phone buzzes again with Paul calling. It should be fine. You left a note with the other imprints.

“Hello?” you answer innocently.

“Y/N, what’s this about you being in New York? For a week?” Paul questions through the speaker of the phone.

“The tickets were cheap and we just needed a girls trip.” you say to him.

“For an entire weekend! You could’ve told me before you left.” he says on the phone and he sounds a bit sad.

“That’s too radical. New York is soo amazing already.” you gush and told him while smiling. The buildings soared in the sky and the lively, diverse cultures surrounded you.

“What am I supposed to do with you gone for the whole weekend.” Paul says, you haven’t spend time apart this long in a very long time.

“You will be okay. Don’t worry I will tell you more about it when I get home.” You tell him.

“Y/N, Come on! It’s time for shopping!” Paul heard in the background.

“Gotta go! Talk to you later!” you quickly say.

“Wait, Y/N-“ Paul starts, but he was met with a dead line. He was already eyeing the clock. Counting down and waiting for the weekend to be over.

[coinandcandle]

Paradigm Time! - What is a Paradigm?

TL;DR: Paradigms are how you make sense of magic and how it fits into the world in your experiences. They aren't right or wrong and they often change!

Paradigm: a philosophical or theoretical framework of any kind

Note: There are a few different definitions of paradigm depending on the field you're talking about. In the case of magic, we are using the definition above.

Paradigms are essentially how you make sense of the world around you. In magic, these paradigms are ways in which someone understands magic, how it works, and how it is used in the world.

Other people have used words like “framework”, or “beliefs/belief system”. Whatever you call it is fine!

Paradigms can and often do change over time, maybe you used to believe “xyz”, but now you’re thinking more “abc”. This doesn't make everything that you did while you believed in “xyz” invalid, it just means you understand it differently now.

Since paradigms are basically belief systems, they are not factual and are not “right” or “wrong” they simply are. One person may disagree with another, who may disagree with someone else, who may have similar but slightly different experiences than another. More than anything else, paradigms are fluid.

Furthermore, paradigms are fluid not just within ourselves but within communities too!

Here’s an example:

Say everyone in x community generally agrees that crystals hold power. However, some may believe that crystals only hold power once charged, like how a cup can only hold water once filled. While others may believe there is an inherent power within the crystal. Others in turn might believe that some crystals hold power and others don’t. Yet they all still believe the paradigm that crystals hold power.

Now let’s take a few paradigms about correspondences as another example.

In one witch’s paradigm, they might be used as ingredients that hold inherent power. -> “I am using the magical properties inherent to basil to power my money jar.” In another, the correspondences are spirits that you petition to help power the magical working. -> “I am working with the spirit of basil and asking them to help with my money jar.” In another, the correspondences are offerings that you give to a spirit that you’re petitioning. -> “I am using basil as an offering to a spirit to help with my money jar.” In yet another the correspondences are spirits that you don’t even need to petition, their very presence influences the spell. -> “I’m using basil in this spell because the spirit of basil will help influence my money jar.”

Here are some other examples of paradigms:

Spirit-Working sorcery, where spirits are petitioned for aid, and the strength of workings tends to depend on the depth of the relationship developed with the spirit, and/or success in evoking them in that instance.

Thinking or focusing on your intent in your head is fine, writing it down is better, but speaking it aloud is best.

Energy is the battery of magic. Magic is the change caused by whatever you’re doing but energy is what powers that change, be it a spell, prayer, whatever.

Gods can be called upon and petitioned for help with a spell, but the relationship between the caster and the god will determine the strength of the spell or their willingness to help. Otherwise, you can try to appeal to them with offerings to make up for the lack of a relationship, though their help will still not be as strong as if there were a pre-existing relationship.

Inanimate objects do not have spirits, but animals, plants, fungi, and humans do.

Again, these are not universal paradigms, they are just examples. I honestly don't think there even is a universal paradigm when it comes to magic and witchcraft.

Thank you to @windvexer @friend-crow @stagkingswife and @rose-colored-tarot for your help in writing this post!

[that-sokovian-bastard]

Late Night Report - Dick Grayson x (f)Reader

Words: 1189 Pairing: Dick Grayson x (f)Reader Warnings: Mentions canon-typical violence, sappy Summary: Dick can’t wait to see you after patrol, and he starts daydreaming aloud to his sulking brother. Author’s Note: There is no actual dick and yn interaction in this, he just talks about how much he loves you. Jason also has a girlfriend. This is based entirely on the photo above, and it came from this Pinterest post. This is also like really based on the daydreaming and headcanoning @cafeacademia and I have been doing the last week. 

And, if you’re more of a Jason lover, I have written his perspective of this photo about him missing his girlfriend (you ;) )

Dick / Full Masterlist

—

It was nearing the end of patrol, and Dick was so thankful. It was supposed to be a simple, quick patrol around Gotham to tie up some loose ends on a case with Jason. But when those loose ends turned into fighting two separate gangs, the two hours out of the apartment quickly became closer to five. 

He was exhausted.

Dick was also upset that he couldn’t head home yet. All he wanted was to see you and end the night doing what you two were planning after the “short” patrol. He wanted to eat some takeout, watch some TV, cuddle, and probably kiss (a lot). 

But no, he had to wait for Batman to be done with the police so he could give him his report, and then he can go home. And Dick knows that Gordon likes to get every detail from Batman as possible, and with how big this night was, it was going to take a while.

Dick decided that instead of trucking it all the way back to the Batcave (and then all the way back to his apartment), he’d just wait on the rooftop nearby. He sent Batman his location and waited, kicking his feet over the edge of the building and looking around the city from above. He was sweating and tired, and it was late with very few people out on the street, so he took his mask off to let his face breathe a bit. He’s always very aware of his surroundings, so if, by some miracle, someone got onto the roof, he would have his mask on before they saw him.

“You waiting for him, too?” Dick heard the deep voice he recognized as Jason. Though, he’d be lying if he said he didn’t slightly jump. Dick turned his head to see Jason approaching from the other side of the building. They were supposed to be working together tonight, and did for about ten minutes until all hell broke loose.

“Yeah, he’s still talking to Gordon. I didn’t want to go back to the Cave, would rather just give him my verbal report here then head home,” Dick explained, watching as Jason walked closer to him and eventually sat next to him. “I promised I’d be home like three hours ago. I did call to say I was going to be late, but I always feel bad.”

Jason tore off his helmet and domino mask, sitting them behind him. “Yeah, but at least they’re understanding. Hell, to date any of us, you have to be. Especially when they aren’t in the same business,” He sighed. “I’ll make sure you get to talk to him first since I don’t have to be home by any specific time.”

“I appreciate that,” Dick said and looked away from Jason and up at the sky. “But yeah, she’s always very understanding. Always has been. I don’t know how I got so lucky.” Once Dick started thinking and talking about you, it’s nearly impossible to get him to stop. Jason knows this, and no matter how much he’s sulking tonight, he’ll let Dick talk it all out. Jason has learned how to tune him out and has been for years, and Dick won’t even notice.

Dick kept going. “We’re going to watch some TV reruns, she’ll order some takeout, and we’ll eat the greasy takeout on the couch while watching the reruns,” He explained his to-do list for the rest of the night. “I always love our more elaborate date nights, but I adore the time we get to ourselves in the apartment. The cute, intimate moments just between us. I love showing her off to the rest of the city and the press, but there’s just something about being able to be us in our own space, you know?”

Jason hummed in response, not listening at all to what Dick had to say. Dick noted the hum from Jason as one he has heard far too many times when Jason tunes him out, so he moved his view of the sky to look at Jason. “Are you listening to me?” Dick asked.

“Mhm,” Jason nodded again, his chin resting on one of his hands while he looked like he just watched someone kill a kitten.

“I think you’re ignoring me,” Dick crossed his arms.

Though Jason can tune Dick out, he knows the gist of what was said. It’s the same idea of what he says every time he talks about you. “No, I heard it. Not like I haven’t heard it before,” Jason sighed again. “Why do you always say the same things about her? You’re like a broken record.”

“Because I love her,” Dick revealed. “I should probably tell her that, shouldn’t I?” He asked.

Jason only half-heartedly shrugged in response. “Come on, give me more than just that. I know you’re upset your girlfriend is out of town, but can’t you at least pretend to be interested in what I have to say?” Dick asked.

Jason contemplated the best way to answer that question. Again, he’s heard the same spiel about you a million times, and you’ve only been together for a few months. He worries about what Dick will be like further along in your relationship: will he stay this sappy? Will it get worse? Could he possibly ever mellow out a bit? Well, only time will tell, he guesses.

Luckily, Jason was saved from having to answer the question Dick asked by boots landing on the roof. Before they even looked over, they both knew it was Bruce. He can be as stealthy as he wants, but they will always know. “What are you still doing here, Dick?” Bruce asked as he stood looking down at his two helplessly in love sons.

“Uh, waiting to give you my report,” Dick said as he grabbed his mask and clamored to stand up. “Isn’t that what you wanted?”

Dick could barely see it, but Bruce’s eyes squinted in what he thought was confusion. “I thought you would’ve left to get home. Considering you had plans, I mean,” He said. “But if you want to go ahead and give me your report now, I’m all ears.”

He knew the verbal report would take a good chunk of time, and Dick never looks a gift horse in the mouth. Without hesitation, Dick threw his mask back on, turned to face the edge of the building, and smiled. “I’ll email you my report tomorrow!” He said. “Bye, guys!” Dick shouted as he fell from the building, catching himself before he reached the ground. 

Both Bruce and Jason watched Dick disappear as he headed back home. Bruce looked down at Jason, still sulking, and stifled a laugh. “Well, considering you have nowhere to be, do you want to give me your report now?”

Jason groaned. “Sure, sit down, old man,” He said, patting the concrete that Dick had just vacated. “You never let me leave before giving reports.”

“You don’t ever wait around long enough for me to let you,” Bruce shot back as he sat down. “So, how’d things go on your end?”

---

tags

@i-am-not-the-real-alice @designer--sunglasses @cirrec @glossierkisscs @ineffablebean @rloyal @criminalmindsmoodrn @iamninaanna @super-multifandom @ifilwtmfc @sitherin-mxschief

[my-own-walker]

hii can you do a james smut where he and the reader are a couple and during the devil's night the reader talks a lot with one of the guests and james gets jealous?

If You Were A Blood-Letter

note: yes indeedy anon, i can give it a stab for ya

warnings: sm*t duh, fem!reader, murder mentions and stuff, violence mentions, dom JPM, low-key degradation maybe??, choking, James being rough, etc

+++

It was the night we had been looking forward to for the whole year.

Before James, it was just Halloween to me. A night of children knocking on doors in cheap costumes begging for candy from strangers. It was drinking too much at some party in a slutty costume to impress some guy. It was carving pumpkins and corny movies and the doorbell ringing all night.

But with James, it wasn’t ‘Halloween.’ It was Devil’s Night. It was our special day. All of our heroes came to celebrate in a night of utterly disturbing splendor. We reveled in the chaos and the indecent.

We were an infamous duo known around the Cortez. Our murder sprees were revered by many. James didn't expect me to be so ruthless when we met. I truly appreciated regular nights of the old 'ultra-violence.' It made James crazy for me.

The first time I killed someone was under the careful supervision of my dear James. It was exhilarating. An immediate addiction. As he drank in the flash of sinful delight that flashed across my eyes when I plunged the knife into the repairman's chest, he knew he had found a soulmate in me.

We, as partners in crime, took great pride in our Devil's Night celebration. I adopted James' tradition. Took to it like a duck to water. I was awe-struck meeting the likes of Richard Ramirez and Aileen Wuornos.

This particular year, we were more than excited to welcome the Zodiac Killer for the first time. The actual Zodiac, maskless. He had attended the soiree some years prior, but James implored him not to return unless he would shed his cowardice. Hiding behind a mask was a sign of weakness in James' eyes.

The Zodiac's RSVP to the event was a welcome arrival at our door. And when he showed up the night of, we were more than elated to see the man behind the murder. We, arm-in-arm, greeted him at the door with bright smiles. We fashioned ourselves to be a bit like Morticia and Gomez Addams, in a way. In short, I'll admit, we were slightly corny. A caricature of murderers in love.

I was entranced by our new guest, though. As the night roared on, I couldn't help but gravitate toward The Zodiac Killer. His tales of murder and woe were of much interest to me. Gacy droned on about the same clown costume story he did every year. I had heard Ramirez's cool-guy act before. I wanted to know all about the new guest. What made him tick.

James shot me a glance across the room as I took up a seat right next to our guest of honor for the fifth time that night. I couldn't quite make out his expression. I assumed it was one of pride and admiration. After minutes of listening to another one of The Zodiac's stories, James approached the table.

'My, you two are fast friends, now, aren't you?' he cooed, a slight edge to his voice. His eyes screwed shut ever so slightly at the word 'fast.'

'He is quite an interesting man, James,' I replied.

'Interesting, you say. Interesting....' he weighed the word aloud as if he didn't quite understand what I meant by it.

'I- I wouldn't say interesting, just new,' The Zodiac clamored shyly. He was being all too modest.

'Y/N, my dear, may I speak with you in the bedroom? At once?' James gritted, extending a hand to help me up. I took it and followed him through the suite, weaving around the sick and twisted activities of the night.

'Ohhhhh! They're gonna fuck!' Ramirez shouted childishly after us. Wuornos cackled obnoxiously.

James held the bedroom door opened and gestured for me to enter. He slammed the door behind him and rounded on me.

'Whatever do you think you're doing?' he whispered harshly, standing so close to me I could hardly breathe. I looked up at him with pleading eyes.

'What do you mean?' I asked, baffled.

'Dallying and toying with our guest of honor,' he spat. 'Like some sort of floozy. Are you trying to embarrass me?'

'No, James, it wasn't like that. At all,' I declared, keeping as level a head as I could. 'I admire him, is all.'

'Admire, you say?' James challenged.

'Oh, stop being a pest!' I cried. 'You're taking everything I'm saying the wrong way on purpose, like a petulant child.'

'I am not being petulant. I am simply protecting what is mine,' he asserted lowly.

'I can handle myself perfectly well, James.'

'You do know you're mine, yes?' he breathed. 'All mine.'

'James-'

I was cut off by him hungrily putting his lips on mine. He grabbed the neckline of my off-the-shoulder gown and tore it brutishly, forgoing the readily available zipper. The fabric fell heavily, pooling at my ankles. He whisked me off my feet and threw me down onto the bed. I sank into the top of the plush duvet, which felt extra soft against my naked skin. Goosebumps covered my whole body.

James stood at the edge of the bed, drinking me in as he briskly took his own clothing off. I panted, awaiting my fate. He joined me, poised just atop me, supporting his weight on his hands. I grabbed his bare shoulders and pulled him in, resuming our kissing.

He lined himself up with my entrance and thrust into me impatiently. I gasped sharply at the sudden contact. His massive cock penetrated me powerfully. He ran his finger over my lips, then dragged it down my body, continuing to drive into me. The other found its place rigidly around my throat. I choked quietly, reveling in the moment. My eyes rolled back in my head as I felt myself start to lose consciousness.

But that wasn't enough.

He pulled out of me and flipped me over harshly, positioning me on my hands and knees.

'Who owns you? Say my name, dearest,' he purred.

'James,' I breathed. He tutted disapprovingly.

'Now now, I won't give you what you want until you say it how I like you to say it,' he scolded. He ran his hand through my hair and tugged tightly, pulling my head back just enough that I could cast my gaze up at him. It was a grip so tight I couldn't help but whimper.

'James,' I pleaded, whining slightly.

'Nuh-uh,' he taunted, 'not quite.' His other hand gripped my ass. His fingers dug into me greedily.

'James!' I cried loudly. It was exactly what he wanted. His hard dick re-entered me from behind, sending shockwaves throughout my middle. He ravaged me, making me squeal and squirm with every pump. The waves of orgasm overtook me, making my vision go blurry and my limbs feel weak, but James wasn't quite finished.

I whimpered loudly as he continued to plunge into me. With a few final thrusts, he came with a stifled groan. He, as a man of class, never came too loudly. After all, we did have guests.

I collapsed onto my stomach much like a ragdoll as James pulled out of me. I felt the pressure on the bed change as James got up to retrieve his undergarments. the man of class also never lounged in the nude. He returned to me and gently coaxed me to turn over. I looked at him through the strands of hair that had fallen into my face.

'My angel,' he sighed. 'All mine.' He grabbed me by my chin and kissed me, softer this time.

I hummed in contentment.

'Are we clear? You are mine,' he asked, pulling away.

'You're my one and only, and I am yours,' I assured with a soft smile.

'Now, shall we return and show them what a united front we are?' he suggested.

'Fuck 'em,' I growled, having regained enough strength to mount him and go for a second round.

+++

I really had a tough time writing this week. Hope I can get back into the swing VERY soon!!

[meiiuka]

hi Mod Toko!! <3 can I request rantaro and nagito finding out that the reader has a crush on them and how they both would react??

of course, that's such a cute idea!!

rantaro amami and nagito komaeda finding out that you have feelings for them:

category: headcanons, fluff

notes: i hope i didn’t stray from the prompt too much, i tried my best to make the scenarios entertaining lol

Rantaro Amami:

• you, rantaro, and your mutual friend were having a conversation with just the three of you in a casual group setting

• the third party had accidentally mentioned that you had feelings for him while telling a “funny story” 💀 • rantaro’s first reaction is to chuckle at the news but he doesn’t really fully process what’s being said until he notices the flustered reaction on your face

• he has this moment where his eyes just kind of go out of focus and he thinks about the fact that your mutual friend just said it aloud without thinking

• he’s normally a very composed guy but this time, he can’t help but react by widely grinning and letting his excitement show in his face 😭

• the normally chill, sociable guy that you fell for is bubbling with excitement and is struggling to think of how to phrase what he wants to say smoothly

• “can the two of us have a minute to ourselves? i uh… might need a second”

• “hey y/n, so about that. when were you gonna tell me you had feelings for me?”

as you held your breath in anticipation, he completed his thought

“i wasn’t sure how i was going to tell you about my feelings, so i take this as a good way to break it to you”

• you two are both laughing at the situation (and at your mutual friend who has zero idea what they just revealed), rantaro putting his hand on your shoulder for leverage as he struggles to compose himself

• “what do you say a date for tomorrow night? it’s my turn to take initiative and put effort into this”

Nagito Komaeda:

• it started when you wrote a message to your friend about nagito: “i just don’t know what to do… i like him, but what if he doesn’t like me?”

… and accidentally sent it to nagito 💀

• the first reaction you get from him is “?” (that is, the first reaction you can see)

• on the other side of the phone he is freaking out, wishfully thinking that it might be about him, blushing PROFUSELY, pacing around, and is unsure of what the hell is going on

• you immediately send him a follow up message trying to cover your tracks but you get the feeling that he already knows

• in a way, you also want him to know so that you could just get it out there, but it’s extremely nerve racking for everyone involved

• meanwhile every single fiber of his soul is hoping that the message was about him, and that somehow you’d reveal it to be

• “not to pry but could i ask you something y/n? who is this person you have feelings for? we’re friends and i want to help you, if i can”

• this evolves into a conversation about you practically describing the aspects of nagito without actually naming anyone— but it’s exactly what he needs to deduce that you’re talking about him

• you two have the same moment of realization where the tension is so high that you just can’t ignore what you both already know

• “i think i’ll just be honest at this point,,

i’ve been talking about you, nagito. you’re the one i have feelings for.”

• he literally cannot type words. he’s paralyzed by the fact that you of all people??? liking him? no way. he must be dreaming

• his reply reads:

“if i wasn’t already obvious, i have feelings for you too… sorry if it was awkward for me to ask you that. i want to go further but i think i’m worried about ruining our friendship. i want to watch movies with you and maybe even hold hands, i wanna be closer with you. agh. i can’t even think… what am i saying??? just ignore this”

• you reassure him that it’s okay and that these are things you’ll figure out with him along the way. he buries his face into a pillow and sighs with a mixed feeling of excitement, joy, relief, and nervousness. but above all, he’s happy to know his feelings are reciprocated

[tanadrin]

[epistemic status: a bunch of semi-related thoughts I am trying to work out aloud] It has been noted countless times that reactionary politics rely on a feeling of threat: our enemies are strong and we are weak (but we are virtuous and they are not, which is why they’re our enemies!); we must defend ourselves, we must not be afraid of doing what needs to be done; we must not shie away from power generally, and violence specifically.

And there are lots of contexts--like when talking about the appeal of reactionary politics in the US before and at the beginning of Trump’s rise to prominence, or when talking about hard-on-crime policies that are a springboard to police militarization, or (the central example of all this in the 21st century) the post 9/11 PATRIOT-act terrorism paranoia that was a boon to authoritarians everywhere, and spurred a massive expansion of both control and surveillance in everyday life--where critics of reactionary rhetoric are chastised for their failure to appeal to the other side, because they come off as callous towards their concerns and their real fears and anxieties.

And while this might not be strategically correct, frankly, I think there’s a sense in which it is justified to be callous towards those concerns. Because those concerns are lies. They may be lies borne out of a seed of real experience (9/11 did happen, of course), but the way that seed is cultivated by focused paranoia, by contempt toward cultivating any sense of proportionality or any honest comparison of risk, the way it is dragooned into the service of completely orthogonal political goals (”the CIA/NSA/FBI must be able to monitor all private communications everywhere in the world, just in case it might prevent another 9/11″) chokes off any possible sympathy I might otherwise feel. American paranoia about another couple thousand lives being lost in a 9/11 like event resulted in a number of deaths literally multiple orders of magnitude larger in Iraq and Afghanistan. During the former, some years Iraq was suffering the equivalent of six or seven 9/11s a year.

So, any fear-driven policy must not (for example) say “to prevent disaster X happening again, we’re going to make it happen 270 times over to someone else.” That’s not reasonable. And “fear is a bad basis for crafting policy” is not exactly a revolutionary observation. There’s that probably-apocryphal story of a Chinese professor responding to Blackstone’s Ratio--you know, “better that ten guilty persons go free than one innocent person suffer”--with “better for whom?” Which is supposed to be this trenchant and penetrating question that makes you reexamine your assumptions. But it’s always struck me as idiotic. Better for society! For everyone! Because the law only functions well if it is seen as a source of order and justice, not as an authoritarian cudgel; because a society in which anxiety drives policymaking and legal responses to social ills is one that is in the process of actively devouring itself; because flooding the public discourse with language that dehumanizes criminals and makes it easy to separate the individual from universal principles like civil rights is an acid that destroys the social fabric.

Fear as a germ of reactionary politics manifests itself in lots of ways outside of both historical examples, like fascism, or more recent examples, like US foreign policy during the war on terror. Fear and its link to purity-attitudes, with a low level of scientific literacy in general, drives stuff like the organized anti-vaccine movement. In the Hertzsprung-Russel diagram of political tendencies, I’d argue it’s a big factor in the wellness-to-Qanon track. It’s a big part of tough-on-crime rhetoric, which in the American instance in particular also draws on an especially racialized form (cf. the “Willie Horton” ad). Fear and purity and anti-contamination anxieties are even big in opposition to nuclear power, because most of the public just has a really bad sense of what the comparative dangers of nuclear vs fossil fuel are; and because the former has been culturally salient since 1945 in a way the latter hasn’t, nuclear contamination feels much more threatening than fossil fuel waste, despite by any measurable harm the latter causing far worse problems, even before you factor in any risks from climate change.

I would like to argue in particular that true crime as an entertainment genre, and wellness culture, and fears about child abuse all contribute to reactionary politics--they are in themselves major reactionary political currents--in a way that cuts across the political spectrum because they are not strongly marked for political factionalism. A lot of the rhetoric both from and around true crime entertainment promotes the idea that violent crime exists, or at least can flourish, because of an insufficiently punitive attitude toward crime; one that can only be fixed by centering victims’ desire (or putative desire) for retribution in the legal process, by eroding the civil rights of the accused, and by giving the police and prosecutors more power. Obviously, this is just 80s and 90s tough on crime rhetoric repackaged for millennials; it centers individual experience a bit more and deemphasizes the racial component that made the “Willie Horton” ad so successful, but it posits that there is only one cause for crime, a spontaneous choice by criminals that has no causal relationship with the rest of the world, and only one solution, which is authoritarianism.

Wellness culture leverages purity concerns and scientific illiteracy in ways which are so grifty and so transparently stupid that it’s by far the least interesting thing on this list to me; its most direct harm is in giving an environment for the anti-vaccine movement to flourish, and I’m always incredibly annoyed when people talk about how the medical establishment needs to do more to reassure the public about vaccines’ safety and efficacy. Again, strategically, this may be correct; people dying of preventable disease is really bad. But doctors as a body didn’t promote Andrew Wakefield’s nonsense; doctors as a body didn’t run breathless article after breathless article about vaccines maybe causing autism; doctors as a body didn’t scare the bejezus out of folks in the 90s and then act all surprised when preventable childhood diseases started breaking out all over the place.

Although outside the whole anti-vax thing, I think there are lots of other harms that wellness culture creates. It tends to be fairly antiscientific; in order to sell people nonsense (because as a subculture it exists almost exclusively to sell people things) it has to discredit anything that might point out that it is selling nonsense. Whether the anti-intellectualism that flourishes in these quarters is a result of intentional deceit or just a kind of natural rhetorical evolution probably varies. But it is an important component of wellness culture to be able to play a shell game between “big pharma doesn’t have your best interests at heart,” “you don’t need your anti-depressants,” and “laetrile cures cancer.”

The way in which fears of child abuse are turned into a reactionary political cudgel probably actually annoys me the most; whether it’s Wayfair conspiracy theories, conservatives trying to turn “groomer” into an anti-queer slur, or just antis on tumblr, the portrayal of sadistic sexual threat aimed at children from an outside malevolent force is compelling only because the vast majority of child abuse and CSA comes from within families and within culturally privileged structures of authority like churches, and this fact makes everyone really uncomfortable, and no one wants to talk about it. I remember getting really annoyed during the Obama years when the White House wanted to talk about bullying and anti-LGBT bullying in particular, while studiously avoiding blaming parents and teachers in any way for it, despite the fact that all the coming out horror stories I know are from people’s parents turning on them.

Now, very conservative politics have always opposed dilution of a kind of privilege for the family structure; they envision a family structure which is patriarchal, and so dilution of this privilege is dilution of the status of patriarch. Very insular communities which cannot survive their members having many options or alternative viewpoints available to them, including controlling religions but also just abusive parents who want to retain control over their kids, also bristle at the idea of any kind of general society-wide capacity for people to notice how parents treat their children. But beyond that, I think our society still treats parents as having a right of possession over their children and their children’s identities, especially when they’re young, and bolsters that idea with an idea that the purity of children is constantly under threat from the outside world, and it is the parents’ job to safeguard that purity. The result is the nuclear family as a kind of sacred structure which the rest of society has no right to observe or pry open; and this is a massive engine of enabling the abuse of children. To no other relationship in our society do we apply this idea, that it should be free from “interference” (read: basic accountability) from the rest of society.

Moreover, the idea of childhood as a time of purity and innocence, which not only must be protected from but during which children must be actively lied to about major aspects of how the world works, is one of the last ways remaining to an increasingly secular culture to justify censorious and puritanical Victorian morality. It is hard to advocate for censorship to protect the Morals of the Christian Public, when nobody believes in the Morals of the Christian Public anymore; but “think of the children!” still works as a rallying cry, because of this nagging sense we have that age-appropriate conversations with children about adult topics will cause them to melt or explode.

In many ways, these anxieties on behalf of theoretical children are the ones I am most contemptuous of. Not because child abuse isn’t a serious problem--it is--but because the vector imagined for it is almost entirely opposite the one it actually tends to occur along. People who pretend that the primary danger to children is from strangers are usually woefully misinformed; people who pretend it is from media are either idiots or liars seeking a cover for their craving for censorship.

In conclusion: while it’s not possible to exorcise all our neuroses from our politics, anymore than we will ever exercise all our neuroses from our aesthetics, there are some we should be especially on guard against. A sense of threat, and anxieties which tie into concerns about purity and fears of contamination, are two big ones. These produce policies that are not only badly correlated with the outcomes they ostensibly want, but actually and severely destructive to them, in the same way that invading Iraq was actively destructive to any notion of preventing terrorism, saving American or Iraqi lives, or promoting political stability in the Middle East. And we should hold in healthy suspicion anybody whose politics seem to be driven by similar neuroses. Some merely believe very harmful things. Some are actually actively deceptive. None will achieve any of the higher aims they claim as justification for their beliefs.

[bloshik]

“Drown.”

Tashi Duncan x fem!reader

TW: angst; reflection; inner monologue; feelings-thoughts-feelings about thoughts-thoughts about feelings; endless circle of self-consciousness and self-hatred established into ourselves from that tricky thing called genetics. Fuck genetics. wc: 1,3k Author’s notes: I’m drunk and in my feelings rn + listening to Russian songs that don’t help the cause. English isn’t my native language, for that matter. (Something short to let out after a shitty week.)

If anyone ever told you two months ago that THE Tashi Duncan would let her eye fall upon you, a mere mortal that was just entering the field of sports—tennis, precisely—in this myriad of chaos and chronic prostration, you would’ve let out a laugh of the week from how impossible and absurd the thought sounded aloud. Because what the fuck? Have you seen Tashi? Have you seen yourself? No, but really... when was the last time you really looked into the mirror and saw something more than the reflection of the person you remember was running down the halls of the middle school, gossiping about boys who you totally ‘didn’t’ like—what was there to like about them?—or the halls full of voices that didn’t give you a migraine or two from just needing to spend another second thinking,

Am I the only one who doesn’t want to know anything about all of this? ...about all of them?

What was your life about if you were not thinking, weighing your options, thinking about the options you weighed, weighing if the options you weighed were even worth weighting, or if it was in your damn head? Always your head.

Head... where was your head exactly when you graduated? Tashi liked to joke, ‘shoved up the crevices of your ass, apparently,’ which wouldn’t be so far away from the truth, considering all of this started because of your head. Not your heart, no—because you didn’t have one.

Remember when your mom used to say you were meant to do something greater than where you are right now? What was that greater exactly now? Slipping into the covers with the wife of your best friend? Seeing their friend, Patrick, stealing drunken kisses and leaving sweaty marks on Tashi’s latest Gucci—she could not deserve anything less—cashmere jacket, and then grabbing those calloused, manly hands and guiding, sliding, them into your underwear, while judging Tashi’s dishonesty? You were anything but truthful, and less to your own self.

What was there about ‘friendship codex’ which you heard years ago in one of the bathroom stalls when you first kissed your friend’s ex? Seems like a pattern no, doesn’t it? Thought you learned the lesson even though your eyes always seemed to strike away from Art’s? Out of pure respect or utter guilt—unknown.

What is good? What is bad? What is correct? What defines it? Humans? The engrained morals we’ve been carrying within ourselves since the origins of our birth? Was it what our parents used to yell into our faces when we would ‘accidentally’ let out a curse or two to our teachers under our breaths and they would ‘accidentally’ overhear them? Was it the recognition that the apple, indeed, doesn’t fall far from the tree? No matter how hard you might try and fail, over and over, and over, and over, and over, and over, and...

What are we if not sinners meant to work for what we did in Sodom and Gomorrah? Was it fair if it happened centuries ago when humans couldn’t possibly imagine if they were gonna be able to survive, and to procreate for more masses that would eventually lead to this?

“Swallowed your tongue?” You remember Tashi asking you one day after yet another strenuous practice in which the ball hit your head so hard that you must’ve forgotten who you were talking to if the first thing leaving your mouth was,

—Patrick told me you two had broken up.

The following silence was accompanied by a feeling that you couldn’t properly describe now, but it was something akin to when your parents pushed you into the water so you would learn—by sheer instinct—how to swim. The utter panic. The terrific realization that you are, indeed, falling into the pit that was about to drown you if you don’t move your ass and fucking do something. Was it a dream? Another example of your overdrawn imagination that you never lacked, even when you were alone? When weren’t you? Don’t we come alone and go alone in this life? What was the point of trying to make friends if anything was meant to end like this... with Tashi staring at you as if you’d disappointed not her— her entire line of thinking that was practically built around both of you these two months that you knew were meant to end. What hasn’t ended if this life is all about the natural order of things: creating — ending it.

“I’m just thinking,” you told her in the most sincere way you could manage through the gathering tears that you wanted to scratch out of your eyes, because what the fuck, weren’t you enough,, haven’t you done enough to deserve this tone thrown into your face like the bag that you saw was pushed under Patrick’s feet with Tashi’s heel? After all, we all are dispensable and meant to be thrown away, isn’t it? It was good while it lasted... right?

“Why’re you looking at me like this?” Gosh, you sounded pathetic—get it together, girl; were your trembling hands, your prickling eyes, your thrown to the brim feelings, the seemingly unstoppable sensation of trying to make your way out of that water that seemed to grow hands and claw their way over your sinking body worth it? Your overcompensated circle of victim-victimizer: ‘I’m not worse than Tashi if she does the same’?

And blurting out, unthinking, really, “I haven’t done anything you wouldn’t in my place, too. Weren’t it us from the beginning?”

“You were never in the equation.” Okay, shoot her, it would’ve hurt less than whatever the hell Tashi just straight-up shitted in her face. “You want to feel special, want to be part of something?” That questioning hm felt like a finger being put on the trigger about to be shot, and not just anywhere. At you.

“Then play like you are something; I have no interest in playing with a person who can’t see their own worth.” The way Tashi crossed her arms and tilted her head felt like a mother disapproving of a child who just said they haven’t studied in the time given for that same purpose— but Tashi wasn’t a Mother Theresa, nor was she a lifeline, or the hand that you saw blurry waving out of the water for you to grab. Help yourself yourself. “What worth can be there if you can’t even focus on something as basic as not sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong?” she muttered the last part to herself. Ouch, for fuck’s sake.

“You wanted to be alone? Felt overly confident in your strengths, saw an opportunity and struck like the snake that you always were? I taught you this, after all, I should probably feel proud ‘n shit—but the only thing that comes to mind is that I want to choke you right now.” Your eyes could only watch how Tashi grabbed that cursed bag with big cursive capital “Art” sewn into the fabric, before throwing it over her shoulder like it weighed nothing. It probably didn’t in comparison to the weight that was left on your shoulders, leaving you grasping the doorframe as if it would’ve saved you from the undone damage. ‘No, it wouldn’t,’ whispered your consciousness, ‘you started this — now watch her finish it.’

“Please; be fucking alone.” Tashi never said a mere thank you to you, so to hear a simple please felt like everything you had and couldn’t have.

You could have if you had a heart, which you don’t.

[imaginingmoonlight]

Hastie Lanyon was a Dead Man: a Lanyon/Jekyll oneshot

Word count: 1485

Notes:

Guess who’s been fixating on silly Victorian men? ME! Yeah I had fun with this. I’m so sorry it will get a bit angsty. This is up on ao3! My account is under the same name as here :) Warning: major character death.

Hastie Lanyon was a dead man. These shaking gulps of air, these slow and rhythmic heartbeats would be his very last. He could feel it- his life slipping through his fingers like water off a duck's back. It would be gone soon, gone like the sunlight slipping into the horizon or clouds whisked away by the wind. Would anyone care? Would anyone notice? Would anyone miss him once he was gone? Utterson, perhaps. He was a good chap. Loyal, he was, albeit a little dull. Hastie had always considered the lawyer to be one of his closest friends, whether the feeling was reciprocated or not. He had even visited a day ago, the very second he had heard of the illness. That was hard. Oh so hard. To know you were dying? That was one story. To admit it aloud? That was another story entirely. Lanyon remembered how the tears had stabbed at his eyes, how his chest had tightened, how his hands trembled with fear. Utterson was patient, sympathetic, even a little teary himself. But when he had mentioned Jekyll...

Jekyll.

Where would he be now? Was he even Jekyll anymore? No doubt, that Hyde character had probably taken over completely now. Lanyon was considerably more upset at the thought than he should have been. He hated the man, don't get him wrong. The very thought of him made his blood boil and his skin crawl with an army of spiders. Yet... the thought also made his heart swell. A swell of memories, joy, happiness, love . Jekyll, before his downfall, had been much more than a friend. Much, much more. "Just a friend" wouldn't stay up until first light drinking wine and talking about their deepest, darkest secrets. "Just a friend" wouldn't brush their knuckles against yours while walking just a little too often to be accidental. "Just a friend" wouldn't share a kiss, soft and tender, with you in a moonlit study. No, Jekyll was not a friend, not by a long shot.

When was the last time he had seen him, before the incident? Well, it must have been winter, at least 9 or 10 years ago. They were much younger, of course. Reckless. The two were in Jekyll's house, sat huddled together in the same armchair. It was cold outside, deathly cold, yet they were heated by the hearth both in the centre of the room and the ones hidden in their hearts. It was silent, but a comfortable silent. Silent like the calm right after a storm. Silent like the early morning. Words were whispered, lingering on steady breaths and gentle gazes. It was a perfect night. Until it wasn't.

"Hastie?" Jekyll's voice had a shaken quality behind it, the usual sweetness cracking. Immediately, Lanyon could tell something was wrong.

"Yes, dear?" He had replied, pretending to be none the wiser while the worry gripped his gut like a vice.

"Do you ever think about... You know,"

"No, I don't know. Go on?"

"Running away?" The words could barely be heard as they escaped his lips. Lanyon had been taken aback. What were you supposed to say to that? What could he possibly answer?

"Well, no, not really." Why would he? Life here was perfect. He had a blossoming career. He had a blossoming love. What more could he ask for? What more could he want?

"Not really? Not once?"

"I have no reason to. I have everything I need right here." He leaned over to rest his head on his partner's shoulder, fighting to keep his tired eyes open. Jekyll had smiled, genuine and warm, but there had been a slight sadness hiding at the very corners of his mouth.

"Of course. Of course. But what about freedom? What about the liberty to be ourselves out on the streets? We have to hide from the public eye every day, Hastie. Why should we? Why should we have to cater to a world that looks down on us?" Oh. Lanyon looked down at his feet, shoes still on from a day working.

"Because that's life, Henry. Not everyone will accept us and that's okay."

"How can you be okay with hiding this? Surely you can't bear to live the rest of your life hiding a secret? Hiding the most beautiful truth to exist?"

"Henry, we can't just leave. That's absurd."

"But is it?"

"Yes, it is." Lanyon sat up straight, gaze hardening ever so slightly. It was enough for Jekyll to see, though; he recoiled a little, flinching with a grimace. "What about our jobs, Henry? What about our lives?"

"Hastie, you are my life!"

"Then why isn't this enough? Why do you want more?"

"You know why. I may have you but we'd still be shunned if we so much as linked arms in public. Is that the life you want to live?"

“I-“ the words wouldn’t come out.

“So come with me!”

“…I can’t.” He choked the sounds out, barely a whisper. “I can’t just leave my life’s work.”

Jekyll shook his head. The disappointment and anger and hurt grew in his eyes, a distant inferno swirling in his irises.

“Henry, I’m so sorry-“

“No. It’s fine.”

And with that, Henry Jekyll had strode out the door.

It would be years until he heard from Jekyll again. It had gotten worse over time. It turns out time doesn’t bring fondness; like a grape in a barrel, it brings bitterness and sucks the sweetness out. Lanyon could barely take hearing Jekyll’s name in public again. Ever since he’d left, the man had completely thrown himself into his work. Immoral work. The devil’s work. Utter scientific balderdash. This didn’t really bother Lanyon too much, of course, but at least he had an excuse to publicly hate the scientist. No one had to know about their… past relations.

But oh, how he missed him desperately.

One can forgive. One can move past. But one can never forget. And god, he’d never forget those nights, just the two of them, spilling secrets like water through open fingers and sharing sweet, lovesick looks lit by candlelight. They were the best nights of his life. And they were gone now.

At least, that’s what Lanyon thought. Then came that December night. The night was suffocating, a thick fog laying over the city like a distasteful throw. A thick air of mystery loitered. That mystery only built when a letter was delivered to his door. A letter from none other than Henry Jekyll.

So eagerly had Lanyon sliced open the envelope and delved in. So quickly had his heart skipped a beat or two.

“Dear Lanyon, You are one of my oldest friends; and although we may have differed at times on scientific questions, I cannot remember, at least on my side, any break in our affection. There was never a day when, if you had said to me, ‘Jekyll, my life, my honour, my reason, depend upon you,’ I would not have sacrificed my left hand to help you. Lanyon, my life, my honour my reason…”

Lanyon had hardly been able to read the rest with a clear head. His life. His honour. His reason. Did he really still mean that much to him after everything that had happened? So of course, without a doubt in his mind, Lanyon followed the cryptic, quite possibly dangerous instructions detailed.

He so desperately wished he hadn’t.

He had driven straight to Jekyll’s house, despite every ounce of reason screaming at him from his core. He met with Poole, got the drawer and went straight back to Cavendish Square. Even when that strange little man- Mr Hyde- had shown up, he still pushed aside any doubts and focused on the task at hand: saving Jekyll’s life. However that may be. It was all so confusing.

He hadn’t expected Mr Hyde, after promptly taking that potion, to transform into Jekyll. It was horrific. Such horrors he had never seen before. Every time he shut his eyes, all he could see was the way that man’s features had grotesquely contorted, agonisingly slow, into the face that once brought him the most comfort in his life. He felt no comfort then. Just fear. Pure fear, raw and acidic in his stomach. It had scared him half to death. Quite literally. Now look at him. He was laying on his death bed, slowly fading away. Wasted. Lost. Soon he would be gone forever. He had so many regrets. He should have just ran away with Jekyll when he had the chance. Maybe then the man never would have turned to such horrific experiments.

"Jekyll? If you can hear me-" his words sounded so pathetic, so weak, hanging limp in the air of his room.

His answer was silence. Still, he continued.

" I love you."

And just like that, a lantern flickering to darkness, Hastie Lanyon was well and truly a dead man.

[dandelion-delusion]

Mute Pt.1

I've been with Rick's group since the run to the city when they met Rick and I, we had been in the same hospital room, he'd gotten shot and I had damaged my vocal cords. Together we met a man named Morgan and his son Duane. They informed us about the state of the world and how to keep ourselves safe from the dead roaming the streets. 

Even if these people had kept me alive and taught me many valuable skills, I wanted them to stop talking to me about anything and everything. If I was able to speak I would most likely tell them to shut up. 

I was helping Lori with the collecting eggs from the chicken coop as she ranted about her life. She shed tears that had been suppressed by the pressure of surviving in this world. I could visibly see the sweat seeping through her skin and her eyes screaming for help, but I can't give it to her, I can't speak. How could she talk to me like she's speaking to a therapist only to have no response? How come she doesn't talk to the man she married? "I hate not knowing," She stated, without giving context, then vomited in an empty bucket on the coop's floor. "No need to worry over that, I can rinse it out later, just the morning sickness," Lori noted. That must be what she meant by "I hate not knowing"?

Once Lori's therapy, and my torture, ended I headed over to the Greene house for a checkup Hershel promised me. I sat down on the bed in a guest room as he looked me over for any major injuries. He sat beside me on the bed and asked me basic "yes" or "no" questions to which I nodded "yes" or "no". "Have you ever been able to speak?" he questioned. I nod and he continued with the questions. "Y/n, does it hurt to use your voice?" I nodded and he excused himself. The Greene's never ranted or tried too hard to keep me in the conversation, but they never made me feel like I wasn't there like the rest of the group did.

After learning that Hershel could only hope that I could get my voice back by adjusting to using it again, I headed to the R.V to clean the guns. I looked up to see Shane stomping in, cursing out Rick quite freely. Eventually he realized he wasn't alone and a look of panic flashed across his face. He looked up to identify the person, and once recognized me, rolled his eyes and continued his rant to himself aloud. He couldn't care less about what he said around me, I wouldn't be able to repeat it to someone else.

Above me, on the roof of the R.V sat Dale, keeping watch. I joined him after finishing with the guns, leaving Shane to talk as he was. A sigh escaped Dale's lips before speaking."There has been no activity all day, you sure it's worth spending your free time up here with me?" I Nodded my head, not bothering to check if he saw it or not.

 I didn't come up here to spend time with him, I came up here to enjoy the silence, glad to be a part of it. This is where I went to escape the headache that this group gave me. I felt like when I was up this high up I didn't need to be able to communicate, I was just me, as I was before. myself. The group didn't know me, I was just some girl who was capable of pulling through, incapable of simple speech. To them I was a Nobody.

When I could see the stars in the sky, long after Dale had left for bed I attempted to use my voice. It hurt, like the knife was tearing through my throat all over again, and the sound that I forced out wasn't right. At first I thought there was a walker out here with me, in the dark. It had been so long since I had made a sound that I forgot how it sounded to hear a noise of my own, instead of words from every person who wasn't me.

[godsfavdarling]

09 wedding day delight

list of chapters, also available on wattpad and Ao3, my masterlist pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!oc summary: Wedding time (not Spencer's) warnings: none for this chapter words: 2,2k

In front of the vanity, Brittany meticulously applied her makeup, the soft glow of morning light illuminating her features. She was dressed in a backless, sleek black dress that hugged her figure, its simplicity accentuated by long sleeves.

Her hair cascaded freely around her shoulders, its natural waves adding an effortless elegance to her appearance. Spencer sat on the bed, quietly observing her with a mix of admiration and intrigue.

"Why does this room feel so... basic and empty?" Spencer mused aloud, his curiosity piqued.

She glanced at Spencer, a wistful smile playing at the corners of her lips.

"That's because it's not really my room," Brittany explained, her voice tinged with nostalgia. "When my family moved here, I was already in college."

Spencer's eyebrows furrowed in surprise. "So, you never had a room here?"

Brittany shook her head, her expression wistful. "Nope. I guess I've always been a bit of a nomad when it comes to this house."

Spencer's gaze softened with understanding as he took in Brittany's words. He couldn't imagine what it must have been like for her, never having a permanent space to call her own in her family home.

"So, where are all your childhood things?" Spencer's inquiry broke the quiet hum of the room, his tone gentle yet curious.

Brittany paused, her hands stilling as she considered his question. "Somewhere in a box, probably," she replied with a shrug, her gaze distant as she recalled memories tucked away in the recesses of her mind. "And yours, Dr. Reid?”

Spencer's expression softened at the mention of home, a fleeting shadow crossing his features. "Probably... somewhere in a box," he echoed, his voice tinged with a hint of melancholy. 

"Exactly… Since your mom is in Virginia, do you still have a home here?" Brittany's inquiry was gentle, her concern evident in her voice.

His breath caught in his throat, the mention of her mother stirring a mix of emotions within. 

"No... well... she... I took her to DC a few years ago," he began, his voice faltering slightly as he spoke. "She's there in a mental health facility. She was in Vegas for years, and now… it's just easier to have her closer."

"And your dad?" Brittany's question hung in the air, the unspoken tension palpable between them as he hesitated.

"He's... still here," Spencer admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.

Her eyes widened in shock, “Oh my god, why didn't you say? We can make time so you can go see him."

"No need," he replied quietly, his voice tinged with sadness. "We don't talk."

Brittany found herself at a loss for words. 

"It's fine. He's been out of the picture since I was 10," he finally managed to say, his voice tinged with a hint of resignation.

She nodded in understanding, a flicker of sympathy crossing his features. 

"So, when did you move to DC?" she asked, shifting the conversation to lighter territory.

"I was 22, and I had just started working for the FBI..."

"Wait... what year was that?" Her brow furrowed in confusion.

"2003. Why?" Spencer replied, his curiosity piqued.

Brittany's puzzled expression deepened as she processed his response. "Did you always live in that same apartment?" she asked, a note of uncertainty creeping into her voice.

"Um... yeah," Spencer admitted, his gaze drifting to the floor. "It's a good location, and I don't like change very much, so..."

Brittany's eyes widened in realization, her features morphing into a mixture of shock and disbelief. 

"I moved to DC in 2003... So you're telling me we were both born in 1981 in Las Vegas, then at 22 we both moved to DC, lived in the same neighborhood for all this time, and then we found ourselves in the same office. And after all those years, that was the first time we met..."

Spencer's own astonishment mirrored Brittany's as he processed the coincidence. "Yeah... That is strange," he agreed, a bemused smile tugging at his lips. 

"So, you lived in the same apartment all those years?"

Brittany nodded, a wry smile playing at the corners of her lips. "Yeah... At first I was with a guy, but then he cheated on me, so I kicked him out. If he was going to be a cheater, I might as well keep the apartment," she explained with a shrug. 

Spencer's expression softened with sympathy as he listened to Brittany's recounting of her past. 

"As you said, great localization. And I don't like change either...What?" Brittany prompted, catching the puzzled look in his eyes.

The air hung heavy with unspoken words as Spencer's gaze lingered on Brittany, his mind swirling with a mixture of confusion and disbelief. "Nothing," he finally muttered, his voice barely above a whisper.

Brittany arched an eyebrow, her expression a mix of amusement and curiosity. "Come on!" she prodded, a playful glint in her eye. "You just gave me such a look! What's going on in that head of yours?"

Spencer hesitated, his thoughts racing as he struggled to find the right words. "I just... I find it hard to believe that someone would ever cheat on you," he admitted quietly, his gaze never leaving hers.

A shadow passed over Brittany's features, her smile faltering slightly at his words. "Well... he did," she confessed, her voice tinged with resignation.

"That's not what I meant," Spencer rushed to clarify, his words tumbling out in a jumble as he struggled to articulate his thoughts. "It's just... Why would anyone do that?"

"Well, he was stupid," Brittany replied with a wry chuckle, attempting to lighten the mood.

His heart was heavy with sympathy. "I'm sorry," he murmured, his voice filled with genuine concern.

Brittany offered him a small smile, a silent acknowledgment of his compassion. "It's okay. It was a long time ago." she replied softly. 

With a deft hand, she added a final touch of sophistication, swiping on a bold red lipstick that adds a pop of color to her understated elegance.

As they arrived at the wedding venue, Spencer couldn't help but notice the abundance of pink and red hearts adorning every corner. 

The air was filled with an unmistakable aura of love and romance, fitting for a Valentine's Day celebration. The venue was transformed into a whimsical wonderland, with twinkling fairy lights and delicate floral arrangements adding to the enchanting atmosphere.

As Spencer and Brittany made their way inside, they were greeted by the sight of the ceremony space, beautifully decorated with cascading ribbons and elegant floral arches. The room seemed to glow with warmth and anticipation, a perfect setting for the union of two hearts.

The ceremony began, and Spencer found himself entranced by the heartfelt vows exchanged between the bride and groom. Love filled the air, palpable and contagious, as the couple promised to cherish each other for eternity.

Amidst the joyous celebration, Spencer couldn't help but notice the absence of Brittany among the bridesmaids.

"I noticed you're not one of the bridesmaids," Spencer remarked quietly.

Brittany flashed him a wry smile. "Good riddance," she replied with a hint of amusement. "I'm perfectly content not to be up there.”

“Besides," she added, her gaze flickering towards the bridesmaids' pastel pink dresses, "I don't think I could pull off that color even if I tried. Pink just isn't my thing, you know?"

Spencer nodded in understanding, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. He couldn't help but admire Brittany's confidence and authenticity.

As Spencer and Brittany settled in at their table for the reception, the atmosphere buzzed with excitement and merriment. The room was alive with laughter and chatter, the clinking of glasses and the sound of music filling the air.

The music shifted to a familiar melody and Brittany's eyes lit up with recognition. "Oh, I love this song," she exclaimed, a smile spreading across her face as the opening notes of "Linger" by The Cranberries filled the air.

Turning to Spencer, she grabbed his hand excitedly. "Come on Handsome, we're gonna dance,"

"Umm... I can't... I can't dance," Spencer protested, his voice tinged with uncertainty.

"What do you mean? It's easy. We'll just sway side to side. Come on," Brittany encouraged, her smile infectious as she led him to the dance floor.

As they reached the dance floor, Brittany placed her hand in his and rested the other on his shoulder. 

Spencer reciprocated, but his hand brushed against her bare back, causing him to recoil slightly.

"Sorry, my hands are cold," he apologized sheepishly.

"It's okay," Brittany reassured him, taking his hand and placing it on her back. "I'm gonna warm it up."

"Ooh… that is cold," she remarked, a playful grin tugging at her lips as she felt the coldness of his skin against hers.

Face to face, their proximity intensified, and Spencer found himself unable to look away from Brittany's captivating gaze. His heart raced with each breath, the electric tension between them palpable.

"Sorry... am I making you uncomfortable?" Brittany asked playfully.

"Umm... no. No, you don't," Spencer replied, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Are you sure? I can stop if you want," Brittany offered, her tone gentle and sincere.

"Stop what?" Spencer questioned, confusion flickering in his eyes.

"Well, you know... being myself," Brittany clarified, a hint of vulnerability creeping into her voice.

"I don't want you to stop that. I love... everyone should be themselves," Spencer affirmed, a soft smile playing on his lips.

"You're sweet," Brittany remarked, her eyes sparkling with affection."So you're okay with this?" her voice soft and tentative as she glanced at Spencer, seeking reassurance.

"With what?" Spencer replied, a hint of confusion coloring his tone.

"Me flirting with you," Brittany confessed, her words hanging in the air as she waited for his response.

Spencer's heart sank at her admission. "Is that what you've been doing?" he questioned, his voice tinged with a mix of surprise and uncertainty.

As Spencer's heart sank, he gathered his courage to add. "I don't... I don't mind it,”

"Really?" Brittany's voice held a mix of surprise and relief.

"Yeah..." Spencer nodded, "You can keep being... you... you know?" 

"Was it really not obvious?" Brittany questioned, her brow furrowing slightly as she searched Spencer's eyes for an answer.

"Maybe it was... it's just..." Spencer hesitated, grappling with his thoughts before continuing. "Well... why would you? I kind of thought that's just the way you talk to everyone."

Brittany's expression softened with understanding as she processed his words. "I don't talk like that to everyone," she clarified gently, a hint of vulnerability in her voice.

Brittany leaned in closer, her face nearing his neck. As her fingers traced the scar, a sense of intimacy enveloped them, drawing them closer together. His breath catching as he noticed the concern etched on her features.

"Oh my god... what happened?" she asked, her voice filled with concern as she traced the scar with her fingers.

"I got shot," Spencer replied, his tone somber as he recalled the painful memory.

"In the neck?" Brittany's eyes widened in shock.

"Yeah... it was close," Spencer confirmed, a shiver running down his spine at the memory of the near miss.

"Oh wow. That's scary. Where else did you get shot?" Brittany inquired, her curiosity getting the better of her.

"In my knee," Spencer replied with a wry smile. 

"Knee?" Brittany's laughter bubbled up despite herself.

"Yeah... I had to walk with a cane for months."

Spencer chuckled, the tension easing as he joined in her laughter. "It was quite the sight. A twenty-something with a cane. It was kinda funny.”

"So... you enjoy when I flirt with you?" Brittany asked, a playful glint in her eyes as she sought confirmation.

"I mean... yeah... you make me nervous," Spencer admitted, a shy smile playing on his lips.

"Nervous?" Brittany raised an eyebrow in mock disbelief, her tone filled with amusement.

"Yeah?" Spencer chuckled, his laughter mingling with her teasing.

"Little old me?" Brittany teased further, her eyes sparkling with mischief.

"Yeah," Spencer laughed, feeling a warmth spread through him at their banter.

"Why don't you flirt back?" Brittany questioned, genuine curiosity coloring her words as she leaned in closer.

"I'm not sure I know how to," Spencer confessed, his voice tinged with self-doubt.

"Fair enough," Brittany replied with a gentle smile, her understanding evident in her tone.

As Brittany's eyes lingered on Spencer's lips, a surge of courage propelled her forward. With a nervous flutter in her chest, she leaned in and kissed him softly, her heart pounding with anticipation. 

Their lips met and Brittany sensed a hesitance in Spencer's movements, a subtle restraint that dampened her excitement.

Did he share her feelings, or was this merely a fleeting moment for him? With a pang of disappointment, she pulled away, a veil of resignation falling over her features.

Spencer's heart sank. He had wanted nothing more than to lose himself in the kiss, to reciprocate Brittany's boldness with his own passion.

As Brittany withdrew, Spencer's heart ached with regret. He had failed to convey the depth of his feelings, and now, it seemed, he had lost her. 

Brittany laughed softly, her eyes dancing with amusement as she noticed his lipstick-stained lips. 

With a gentle touch, she brought her hand to his face, using her thumb to wipe away the smudge of red lipstick. "Sorry," she murmured, her voice tinged with a mix of apology and affection.

He stared at her in a daze as she cleaned his lips, his mind swirling with a mix of confusion and exhilaration. 

[vikings-til-valhalla]

When I was in kindergarten, my music teacher showed the class the famous movie "The Sound of Music". It took several classes to finish it, but I didn't remember anything about it except for one scene where Maria stood on a hill singing that line, "The hills are alive with the sound of music." Everything else became a total blank.

Today, I rewatched it with my mother for the first time in almost 20 years. And all I can say is this:

1. I'm damn surprised a teacher was allowed to show this to kindergarteners.

2. I'm damn mad at myself for not remembering the literal entire point of the movie, which is love and loyalty through love, whether for better or worse.

The horrors of Nazi Germany, and escaping them, it makes me think of what my family had to go through to escape themselves. That's right. I had several family members who, back in the 1940s, fled Germany to avoid being forced into Naziism. They made it onto a boat, and went to Canada, but that's as far as I was ever told. My grandma, old as she was, couldn't remember much more, so she hadn't told any of her kids beyond this.

But it makes me think. My grandma, too, was part of a convent of nuns. She also fell in love and left, married, and had 5 children, although they'd lived in America at the time and continued to do so until this day. Just like Maria fell in love with Georg despite being a nun, and together, as a family, they all fled. Because they loved each other, and they prevailed for the sake of love. It was horrifying, their escape. Traumatic, and full of fear. Fear that, to me, was real. Because somewhere, in the past, my family experienced it firsthand themselves, and were too horrified to tell anyone the whole story.

I remember in 5th grade, a kid in my class had either a grandfather or an uncle (I forget which) who'd escaped a concentration camp. That relative published a book on the experience, came into class, and read it aloud to us, or at least part of it. And... it was just as terrifying to me as when I'd met former slaves who came to my class years beforehand to talk about their experiences as well. It was the 2000s. And yet, these people lived, had stories to tell, experiences to share, and I'm damn lucky I had the opportunity to meet them, hear them out, and learn about history at such a young age specifically from those who'd experienced it themselves.

For years as a kid, I knew Nazis were awful. I felt horrible about being a huge part German growing up because of this. But when I learned my family's story, or what little of it that I know, I started to take pride. Pride in the fact that they actively went against oppression, and gave life to a legacy that continues today where, even though I'm just one person long descended from them, I have experienced all kinds of oppression myself, and met people whose experiences are parallel but distant from my own, and we've stuck together for our lives to fight oppression ourselves.

I've met folks from all walks of life. I've seen everyone who's gone through everything imaginable. I've gone through a lot of stuff myself, things I can barely speak of because they're horrifying to me. And it's because of this that I choose to do whatever it takes to help anyone and everyone find safety, happiness, and freedom.

My distant relatives did the same, and created a family with the hopes that they'd live better lives someday, as everyone who becomes a parent hopes. And thus, I fight for a future of the same desire: make it better for everyone. When you leave, make sure things are better than when you arrived.

Fuck Nazis. Fuck oppression. Fuck supremacy.

Fight for freedom. And, on that note, free Palestine. For the love of everything, free them. This is a more than a massacre, it's a genocide. I've been through massacres myself. This is far worse than that.

Keep taking action, keep protesting, keep fighting, keep flooding politicians with messages, keep donating to Palestinian organizations, keep hearing the voices of Palestinians because they're here and they will tell you what must be done to help them. Do not stop. Ever. The future depends on everyone together fighting for the safety and freedom of one another.

From the river to the sea. Free Palestine.

[selmasemlan]

Sacrifice

Summary: Luna and Marcel are trying to save Davina, Freya and Elijah only care for their own, so our super couple step up

Pairing: Marcel Gerard x Luna Salvatore (OFC)

Author note: I´m a little sad that this series is ending

Warning: none

Word count: 1504

Series Masterlist

Sacrifice

The dimly lit room was charged with mystical tension, each flicker of candlelight casting shadows that seemed to pulse with the ancestral power closing in on Davina. She sat, pale and shaken, within the boundary of the circle—marked with symbols meant to keep her safe, though they felt fragile against the immense magic surrounding them. Marcel paced nearby, frustration and worry darkening his gaze as he tried to find a way to protect her from the ancestors’ wrath.

Luna stood a few feet away, her own expression tense but calm, her brow creased in thought. Her hands glowed faintly with her scarlet magic, ready to be deployed if necessary. Isaac was by her side, his posture protective, his hand twitching toward the weapon at his side even though he knew it was useless against the kind of magic that filled the room.

Marcel finally dropped to his knees beside Davina, cupping her face in his hands, his tone soft but urgent. “We’re going to get you out of this, Davina. I swear. We just… need more time.” He looked to Luna, his eyes filled with a plea for reassurance.

Luna crouched beside them, her hands glowing slightly brighter with each heartbeat, her voice calm but resolute. “We’re working on it. Freya’s doing everything she can to break the connection to the ancestors. You just have to hang in there a little longer.”

Isaac leaned forward, offering a warm smile to Davina. “Yeah, Davina. You’ve got this. And if anyone tries anything, I’ll punch right through them, magic or no magic.”

A weak smile flickered across Davina’s lips, her gaze shifting between her friends, but the dread was still present in her eyes. “I trust you,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. But there was an undeniable tremor of fear there, one that seeped into the air around them.

Marcel took Luna’s arm gently, leading her a short distance away, his gaze troubled as he looked over his shoulder at Davina. “Luna,” he murmured, his voice low, “maybe we need to get her out of here. Move her somewhere the ancestors can’t reach.”

Luna shook her head, casting a quick glance back at Davina. “We don’t need to. Freya’s protections should be enough.” But the doubt was starting to creep into her voice, and Marcel didn’t miss it.

“Luna,” he interrupted gently but firmly, his gaze serious, “I just… I get the feeling we really do need to. The Mikaelsons—they’re paranoid, always have been, and they don’t take risks without a reason. If Freya thought there was any chance the ancestors could find a way around her protections, she wouldn’t be relying on magic alone.”

Luna studied him, searching his eyes, trying to understand what he wasn’t saying aloud. His hands tightened on her shoulders, and he leaned closer, his voice barely a whisper. “They’ll do anything to protect their own. And if they think moving Davina will help, I don’t think they’d hesitate to do it without telling us. If Freya runs out of time…”

Luna’s gaze sharpened, her lips pressed in a thin line. “You think someone might try something reckless,” she finished for him, understanding dawning in her eyes.

Marcel nodded, his expression grim. “Yes. And if it happens, we need to be ready to act, quickly. I don’t want Davina getting caught in the crossfire of anyone’s desperate move.” He glanced back at the trembling circle, then turned his attention to Luna, his voice barely more than a murmur. “Maybe we should move her ourselves, before it comes to that.”

Just as Marcel finishes talking, a gust of cold air blew into the room, signaling the arrival of Elijah and Freya Mikaelson. Their presence immediately made the room feel more oppressive, as if all the hope was being sucked out by their cold determination.

Marcel turned to face them, his eyes flashing with anger. “What are you doing here?”

Elijah’s calm and deadly gaze fixed on Marcel. "This isn’t a negotiation, Marcel. The ancestors’ power is too dangerous in Davina’s hands. We have no choice."

Freya stepped forward, her fingers already weaving a spell in the air. “We need that magic to stop Lucien before he destroys us all.”

Isaac instinctively moved to stand in front of Luna and Davina, but in an instant, Elijah knocked him aside with a swift blow that sent him crashing into the wall. Marcel lunged forward, but Elijah was faster, grabbing him by the throat and pinning him against the wall. Marcel struggled, his eyes wild as he tried to break free.

"Don’t do this!" Marcel growled, his voice strained. "This isn’t the way!"

Freya ignored him, advancing toward Davina with her hand raised. Luna, who had been thrown off balance by a magical push from Freya, stumbled backward, hitting the wall hard and crumpling to the floor.

“No! Please!” Davina’s panicked voice echoed as she saw Freya step closer, her hand reaching toward her to drain the ancestral magic she had been trying to keep under control. “Stop! Reconsider!”

Elijah tightened his grip on Marcel, holding him back as he shouted for them to stop. “She doesn’t deserve this! You can’t just sacrifice her!”

Freya’s eyes, cold and focused, locked on Davina, and she ignored the screams of protest. But before she could make the final move, the room suddenly pulsed with a surge of red energy.

Out of nowhere, Luna’s magic exploded, tendrils of crimson light wrapping around Freya and Elijah, dragging them to their knees. The Mikaelson siblings gasped, stunned as they struggled against the magic now holding them down. Luna, though unsteady, rose to her feet, her hands glowing bright with power.

Davina let out a shaky breath, the pressure around her circle lifting as Luna’s magic reinforced it with a new red glow.

Freya looked up, her voice strained as she realized what was happening. “Luna… what are you doing?”

Luna’s eyes were fierce, her expression calm yet deadly. She raised one hand toward Davina and the other toward Freya, her voice low but commanding. “You want ancestral magic, Freya? Fine. I’ll give it to you.”

Freya winced as green magic began to flow from Davina toward her, mingling with the red tendrils of Luna’s power. Davina gasped, worried for Luna as the strain on her friend became clear.

“Luna, stop!” Davina pleaded, fear filling her voice. “Don’t do this! You’re going to hurt yourself!”

Freya, now in visible pain, looked at Elijah in confusion and worry. “She’s... she’s giving me the ancestral magic. But this—this shouldn’t be possible.”

Elijah’s usually calm demeanor faltered as he saw Freya struggle. “Luna, enough! This isn’t necessary!”

But Luna didn’t stop. Her magic continued to pour into the room, overwhelming even the Mikaelsons’ combined strength. She was pouring everything into protecting Davina, determined not to let her fall victim to their plan.

And then, just as quickly as it began, Luna’s power flickered out. She collapsed, her body drained and weak, just as Marcel broke free from Elijah’s grip and rushed forward, catching her before she hit the ground.

Freya and Elijah rose slowly, shaking off the remnants of Luna’s magic. Elijah immediately went to Freya, concern etched on his face. “Are you alright?”

Freya nodded slowly, though the pain lingered. “She... gave me the magic I needed to fight Lucien,” Freya said, still processing what had happened. “She did it. But how?”

Isaac ran over to Luna, his face pale with worry. “Luna, is she okay?”

Marcel held Luna close, his expression fierce as he looked at the Mikaelsons. “She’s fine. Just exhausted. She used a lot of magic.”

Davina knelt by Luna’s side, panic in her voice. “Is she really okay? Luna fixed the circle and made it stronger. She saved me.”

Marcel cradled Luna in his arms, his gaze softening as he looked at her pale face. “She’ll be alright,” he said softly, brushing a strand of hair away from her face. “She always finds a way.”

Isaac let out a shaky breath, kneeling beside Marcel. “She’s incredible.”

Elijah, standing a few feet away, looked at Freya. “We got what we came for,” he said quietly. “But I doubt we’ll be welcome here much longer.”

Marcel’s voice, though calm, carried an underlying threat. “Leave. Now.”

Elijah opened his mouth to respond, but Marcel’s hard stare made him think twice. Instead, he gave a nod, and the Mikaelsons slowly began to exit the room.

Marcel held Luna close, watching them leave. His focus then shifted back to her, his anger melting into deep concern. He leaned down, his forehead gently pressing against hers.

“Thank you, Luna,” Davina whispered, her eyes filled with gratitude and concern.

Marcel nodded, still cradling Luna in his arms. “She fixed the circle, Davina. You’re safe now. She made sure of that.”

As the room settled, Marcel held Luna close, the protective circle around Davina glowing stronger than ever with Luna’s magic, while the exhausted witch rested, safe in the arms of the man she loved.

[chikaras-garden]

tips for dialogue in fics please?

If it’s any consolation, this was a really hard (but interesting!) question to answer. For me, dialogue is the first thing I think of—so often, it just comes to me and I write everything else around or based on the conversation I imagine. 

That said, it was a neat challenge to pick apart how I do that, so here are some tips:

Read dialogue and watch conversations in shows and movies to get a feel for what sounds compelling and natural to you. Not all professionally written dialogue is good dialogue (I have one particular film writer whose dialogue makes me want to commit acts of violence); and if it doesn’t sound natural to you—it isn’t natural. Take note of things you like, and try to use those tools in your own writing.

For clarity, I omit filler words like “um” or “uh,” and I also never use dialect words. If you’re familiar with the Highlander romance subgenre, you know what I mean, but dialect words are basically phonetic interpretations of how words sound in a particular accent. I find filler and dialect words are hard to follow as a reader, so I choose not to use them.

But on the other hand, feel free to write messy sentences. Sometimes, we cut ourselves off in speech, or we use informal contractions. “You’re gonna— You’re gonna do what?” Allowing yourself to break rules of prose within dialogue makes what your characters are saying feel more human.

Think about what your character knows and what they want their conversation partner to know. This is where dialogue can be interesting. Would your character lie or omit information? Why? How would they conceal that? Does your character believe what they’re saying—even if you, the writer, know it isn’t true? How would you convey that to your reader? 

Think about the words your character, specifically, would use to describe something, and also consider their emotions at the time. A character who’s sad or angry might have difficulty getting words out. A character who’s usually quiet wouldn’t use a lot of words to convey a thought.

Just like how you, the writer, have an audience—your character has an audience and would consider them when speaking. Think about who your character’s conversation partner is and what their relationship is like. They would most likely be more casual and open when talking with a friend, or more guarded with someone they don’t know well. If your character is talking to a loved one or a child, they might sugar-coat or soften what they’re saying out of consideration for the other person's feelings or safety.

Simplify your dialogue tags. A tag is something like “he said” or “she asked” before or after your dialogue. Not every piece of dialogue needs a tag. If it does, it probably only needs a simple tag of a verb with (maybe) an adverb. Too much description around your dialogue distracts from what’s actually being said.

Read your own dialogue aloud or in your head. Does it sound like something a real human being would say? Does it flow naturally off your own tongue?

[eating-the-inedible]

OH GUYS

I am NOT in fact broken up with by someone i'm not even dating!! I'm in a QPR now even??? like. whaaaaaaaat??? (<-no idea how i pulled this off)

the weekend+monday has been deleted

and we had a talk about feelings and what we want from this

and we even made ourselves a little contract (it's a list) so there's no confusion on what we are comfortable with

we have a Yes column (including things like hugs, cuddles, and pokes)

a No column (which includes pet names (for now) and apologizing and running away (which my QPP put "i'm looking at you ella" in parentheses))

and a Maybe column with only one bullet which is "biting 😂" (yes the emoji is included)

im really happy

and i can't help but think about how many problems my blorbos would solve if they just sat their asses down and had a conversation about what they want

to which i must note—anytime i had an important question to ask but for some reason felt too self-conscious to say aloud, i wrote it down on a post-it note and handed to them to read (we were snuggling during this conversation) and then we'd discuss out loud after the question was out there. I found it very helpful

my point with that is, if the blorbos can't just sit and talk, the least they could do is sit and write/read notes. like. (OFMD S2 Kinda Spoiler below cut)

we all saw how much of an effect stede's letter had on ed

so much so that he angry shouted "YOU WROTE ME A LOVELY LETTER!"

and i stand my belief that the letter helped

anyway. idk how i turned this from a "hey turns out im not dumped, in fact im now in a QPR" to "my blorbos need to communicate" to "now im having emotions about gentlebeard and the finale again"