#actually stop writing working class characters as hating themselves for it and always seeing officers etc as like above them

[coldarena]

Please, I need to know at least a crumb of a Hillbilly thought 🙏

i have enuff thoughts and hcs on hillbilly jones to fill a library. its mainly me muggin the pple who only consider him in relation to ack ack and not the rest of him. or writing him as sullen or self hating??? bit tekky (especially before the whole 'he killed one of his own enlisted boys after being made lt' situation). this man took a guitar to a warzone he's actually so unserious. no helmet just vibes.

[ijustwant2write]

A Little Secret-Alfie Solomons x OC!Reader (Part 2/?)

(GIF credit to @call-me-nightwing​)

Part 1

Masterlist

Prompts List

Tags: @haphazardhufflepuff @mollybegger-blog @broitsriah @maryan028​ @peakascum​ @captivatedbycillianmurphy @jenepleurepasbaby @amirahiddleston @bloodorangemoonlight @haphazardhufflepuff @mzcrazy2

Summary: Izzy has no idea about the protection she is now under, causing her to panic when she spots men lingering outside her house. She needs Alfie’s help, but is hesitant, especially after she disappointed him. He has the power, and Izzy will never deny that.

Characters: Alfie Solomons x OC!Reader, Ollie x OC!Reader

Warnings: Swearing, panic attacks, violence, fighting, arguing, some fluff

                      ��              *~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Ollie was fully focused as he drove Izzy home, knowing that the men stationed at her home were already patrolling the area. Her home wasn’t in the safest neighbourhood, but Izzy had never brought up any troubles if she had any. Though when Ollie thought about it, she hardly talked about herself anyway. He really didn’t know who this woman was, only that she had some sort of tie to Alfie, probably the only woman his boss ever spoke about or was seen with.

"Sorry that Mr Solomons made you drop me off." Izzy apologised as they pulled up outside her house.

"Don't worry Izzy, I really didn't mind. Especially after what happened today."

He regretted saying that as he saw the panic appear on her face, cursing to himself when he realised that he was turning onto her street.

"You're safe you know, Alfie wouldn't let anything happen to you." Ollie calmly said.

"Why would something happen to me?"

"Izzy, it won't! Come on, I'll walk you to the door."

"No, don't worry. You've done enough for me Ollie. Good night."

Izzy climbed out of the car, hoping Ollie didn't notice how fast she was walking towards her front door. Her key was already out, and she hastily unlocked the door, but not before quickly waving to Ollie, acting as if everything was alright. As soon as he started driving away, she rushed inside, instantly locking and bolting the door shut (she had multiple locks that helped her sleep at night).

Her breathing was heavy as she practically tiptoed upstairs. She always hated noise, and something had always told her she needed to listen out in case anyone else had sneaked in. Izzy could always hear her neighbours either side of her. On the right, Mr Jeffrey was also alone in his old age, but his footsteps were heavy and dragged along the floor; then there was the Thomas's family, which consisted of a middle aged, married couple (who liked to shout at each other rather than talk) and their four feral children. Sometimes it was nice to know that there were people around her, but when she heard a random bump in the night, it frightened her to the core.

Laying in bed that night, Izzy couldn't stop her mind from flashing back to the events of that day. It had only just started to sink in. First the random man following her, humiliating herself in front of Mr Solomons and his business partners, all before someone was shot. It was supposed to be like any other day. Why was today different? Why was Izzy caught up in something like this when she had never done anything wrong?

The young woman bolted upright when she heard a cough outside. It was a simple cough, but who would be out at this time? There was actually a lot of explanations for that. It could be a homeless man, someone coming home from the pub. However, it still put Izzy on edge, and she just knew she had to check to put her mind at ease. Sliding out of bed, Izzy got onto all fours, crawling towards her window. Ever so slowly, she peaked through her curtains whilst on her knees, spotting a man stood in her back yard. Gasping, she fell back to the floor again, instantly beginning to panic. Izzy was too scared to move, but knew she had to get to the phone, even though it was downstairs. Continuing to crawl, she made it to the stairs, finally standing and going down the stairs as silently, but quickly as possible. She was extremely grateful that Alfie had installed a phone into the house as she reached up towards it, sitting on the cold floor beside the table it was set on.

Waiting for Alfie to pick up, Izzy prayed for some sort of noise from either neighbour, something to reassure her that they were awake and she could rush over there if needs be. Alfie still hadn’t answered when a shadow passed over her, casted from the small window in her front door. Her hand slapped over her mouth to silence her whimpers, trying to think of things in her house that could be used as a weapon. Were these men associates of the man who had been shot? What if they wanted revenge, so they were using her to get back at Alfie? 

“Who the fuck is this?” Alfie’s voice startled Izzy.

“Mr Solomons, there are two men at my house!” she exclaimed through a whisper. 

“There’s actually four Izzy.” he moaned, still half asleep.

“What?”

“I put them there, didn’t I?”

“W-why?”

“Just a precaution.”

Izzy hesitantly stood, staying close to the phone.“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Look, Izzy, it’s...it’s fucking three in the morning luv, I can’t think straight right now. We’ll talk about this later.”

Alfie put down the phone, leaving Izzy shocked with her mouth wide open. Although angry, she carefully put the phone back, only to yelp out when there was a knock at the door, despite it being soft. She opened it only by a crack, recognising one of Alfie’s men that dealt with anyone causing trouble for his boss.

“You alright miss?” he asked, his cockney accent think like Alfie’s.

Izzy just nodded, closing the door before he could say anything else. As she slumped off to bed again (dreading having to get up so early for work now she had less sleep), she thought of all the things she could scream in Mr Solomons’ face; however, that wasn’t going to happen, never in a million years. He would call her into his office, explain his reasons then send her away again. It was just easier that way.

No one noticed how tired Izzy looked that morning, though that was because she kept to herself as usual. Her eyes were bleary, straining when she checked through the documents she needed to fill out. Why was the writing always so small? Izzy distracted herself with the work load, wondering if Mr Solomons had forgotten about the call earlier that morning, or whether he just didn’t care. Either reason was fine with her, it meant not having to blush profusely in front of him whilst he explained himself.

“Izzy-”

She almost dropped the clipboard in her hands as Ollie showed up behind her. He held his hands up in surrender, backing away slightly as she caught her breath.

“What’s shaken you up?”

Izzy raised an eyebrow at him before looking back down at her papers.

“Oh right, sorry. Been so busy I just forgot about that and....” his words trailed off when he realised she wasn’t listening properly.“Mr Solomons wants you in his office, now.”

As Ollie walked away, Izzy quietly sighed to herself. The thing she had been avoiding was now here. Although at dawn it had seemed right to call him, she now felt stupid. Hopefully it was a light scolding before going back to work. 

Her light knocking on the door almost amused Alfie. If he had been talking to someone in his office, he would never have heard her. He called her in, seeing the bags under her eyes, and how she couldn’t seem to look at him. Gesturing to the seat across from him, he waited for her to sit before speaking.

“Look, last night-”

“I’m sorry Mr Solomons.”

They both spoke at the same time. Izzy shrunk further into her seat, scolding herself for being so rude. Of course he was going to speak first! Alfie waited a minute before an idea popped into his head.

“Izzy, please speak.”

Izzy was hesitant, thinking that this was maybe one of his mind games. He had a way of making people look a fool of themselves, she didn’t want to be one of them.

“I’m sorry for calling you so early. I overreacted, I should have just left it alone.” she mumbled.

Alfie groaned.“Come on girl, you fucking hate me right now, don’t ya?”

Her head shot up, eyes widening.“No! Of course I don’t!”

“Just tell me what you’re really thinking in that pretty little head of yours. We’ve known each other long enough for you to speak freely in my presence.”

She was still blushing from his (somewhat of a) compliment. Her mind was in two halves; one was stressing her not to say anything, thinking she would be in deep trouble if she did so, but on the other hand, she never had much chance to express herself, nor was she ever so tempted.

“Well...” Izzy thought for a moment,“I think I had a right to know your concerns for my safety. I should have known that those men were guarding me, b-because...because they scared me! There was a moment I thought you wouldn’t answer the phone and, and, I didn’t know how I was supposed to defend myself!”

Alfie had never heard her voice this loud, even though it would still be classed as her indoor voice. If the situation wasn’t so dangerous, he would have found it hard to contain a laugh. However, she seemed stressed, her voice wavering like it usually did when she became upset. Although she was now sat up straight, Alfie could see her shoulders slumped, hands clasped together to stop them visibly shaking. 

“Is there anything else you would like to add?” he quietly asked.

“Why didn’t you tell me in the first place?”

“Didn’t want to panic you. Didn’t work out that way did it?”

“What do I need to be worried about? Should I be looking out for someone coming to hurt me?”

Alfie sighed, running a hand down his face, a common habit of his. He wasn’t going to tell her the truth, he had seen what stress did to her when it took over, that wasn’t fair to send her spiraling again. 

“I was just paranoid after the other day. I should have told you.”

“So...will those men still be there tonight?”

“One more night. Just to make sure. I’ll get another lad to take you home again.”

They sat in silence, both unsure if the conversation was over now. Izzy was too nervous to stand in case it wasn’t, but the atmosphere was awkward. Her eyes cast down to her shoes, which were caked with dust from the floor. They would need cleaning later. Alfie still hadn’t said anything, he couldn’t look at Izzy either, staring at the wall off to his left. However, as both decided to do something about the silence, Izzy standing and Alfie beginning to speak, the awkwardness just increased. 

“Iz,” Alfie was surprised as she shot back down into her seat,“don’t stress, yeah? I don’t want to see you like that again, alright.”

Izzy didn’t reply, she didn’t even nod. 

“Right.” Alfie mumbled.“Well, that’s all I had to say really.”

Izzy said nothing as she stood again, swiftly leaving and almost sprinting away from the office. The humiliation made her feel sick, situations like those were her worst fear. But Alfie felt somewhat relieved it was over, thinking he would get away with hiding the truth for a little longer.

It was the last hour of the working day, and Izzy was finding it harder and harder to keep her eyes open. She had updated the stock numbers, happy to be out of the large, cold and daunting room. It was never her favourite part of the day. There were only a few light bulbs in there, they were always dim no matter how many times they had been replaced. Her shoulders were tense, keeping her eyes focused on the papers as to not notice the ominous shadows being casted around her. If she stared at a spot for too long, her mind would create something sinister that had plagued her nightmares. Suddenly the lights went out, darkness enveloping everything. It was pitch black, she was alone, she couldn’t stay there.

“Hello?!” she called out.“I’m still in here! Is anyone out there? Was there a power cut?!”

She stumbled her way through the dark, not making it very far when her skirt got caught on something, causing her to hastily tug on it. Izzy pulled too hard in a panic, falling onto her side on the stone floor. But she didn’t stay down for long, scrambling onto her feet. Feeling disorientated, Izzy clutched onto her chest as her breathing became rapid, heart beating fast and loud in her ears. Her hands felt around for the wooden door, but all she felt were barrels upon barrels, sometimes the stone wall. There was no way of knowing which way to go, she couldn't tell which way she was facing.

Pinning her back to the wall, she slowly slid down it, wrapping her arms around her knees and clutching onto her skin. She despised the dark, it held too many horrible memories, it was untrustworthy, anything could be lurking in it. Sobs racked her body, feeling completely forgotten, an all too familiar feeling to her. She was about to cry out again when the door burst open, light finally shining upon her;it had been further away than expected, but that didn't stop her from leaping up and dashing out of the room.

Izzy paid no attention to the men around her, coming to halt away from the group. Shaking hands cradled her face, as if she had to check that she was still there. Her cheeks were wet from the tears which she gently wiped away as she steadied her breathing, reminding herself over and over that she was safe again.

"You alright Izzy?" Ollie quietly asked as he stood in front her her.

She frantically nodded her head, moving away from him. She didn't want anyone near her just yet.

"What the fuck did you think you were doing?!" Aflie shouted in a worker's face.

"I didn't know she was in there!" the man protested.

"You should have checked before switching the fucking light off! Anyone could have been in there. What if a barrel fell on top of someone? Hm? You would have someone's death on your hands!"

"She would have been fine if she acted like an adult. Who on earth is still scared of the dark at her age?"

Ollie cringed as he finished his sentence. He knew what was coming. He held his arm out in front of Izzy, trying to turn her around or block her view of Alfie. However, Izzy didn't look away, she was never one for violence, but the shock of Alfie’s outburst had drawn her in.

The rage consuming Alfie was obvious. Alfie Solomons was an intimidating man when he was neutral, when someone made him angry, it was as if he were a monster out of a horror novel. The worker didn't even see Alfie pull his fist back before it punched him in the face, sending him flying to the floor. He had no time to even cry out as Alfie kicked him in the ribs, stumbling slightly before regaining his balance.

"Sort it out Ollie." he grumbled, walking away.

Izzy didn't feel as scared as she thought she would. Seeing someone being beaten up wasn't pleasurable to her, but she realised why she wasn't fearing Alfie again; he had an outburst because the man had disrespected her. He had stood up for her.

"Mr Solomons!" Izzy boldly called out, running after him.

"Izzy, don't!" Ollie tried to stop her.

Alfie stopped in his tracks, his fists clenching tightly. He heard her heels across the floor, getting closer and closer. He couldn't talk to her, not like this.

"Mr Solomons, I-" she started, but was soon interrupted.

"I don't want to hear it Izzy." he didn't even turn around and began walking away again.

Her voice became quieter."No, I just wanted to say-"

"I don't need your fucking opinion! I run this place, I discipline how I want to!" he shouted, storming into his office and slamming the door shut, causing the sound to echo out.

Every other man in the building had been listening (it was impossible not to). After staring at the door for a few more seconds, they knew the show was over, getting back to finishing their work for the day.

"Izzy, you shouldn't have done that." Ollie sighed once he caught up to her.

Her usual demeanour had returned now, ducking her head in embarrassment."I just wanted to thank him."

[passionate-reply]

This week on Great Albums, I finally explain the deal with that record you’ve seen in the background of these videos, with those dudes working in the office. These dudes used to be in the Human League! Oh, and they really hate fascism. Full transcript of the video after the break.

Welcome to Passionate Reply, and welcome to Great Albums! Today, I’ll be looking at the debut album of Heaven 17: 1981’s Penthouse & Pavement. While you may not be familiar with Heaven 17, chances are pretty good that if you know your Western pop, you’ve heard of the Human League! Before forming Heaven 17, Ian Craig Marsh and Martyn Ware were members of the Human League--and they were also the band’s creative core. But they had a very different artistic vision, and one that doesn’t exactly prefigure the success of hits like “Don’t You Want Me.”

Music: “Being Boiled”

Between its plodding electronics and inscrutable lyricism, “Being Boiled” is pretty far from a pop hit. When Marsh and Ware left the Human League, they were keen to continue pursuing this sort of underground, experimental, quasi-industrial direction. Initially, the two of them formed the British Electronic Foundation, or “B.E.F.” It was chiefly a production company that worked with other artists, though they also released some instrumental music under this name. With the recruitment of vocalist Glenn Gregory, who Marsh and Ware had initially intended to front the Human League in the first place, they were set to get right back into the groove of what they had been up to before.

Music: “Fascist Groove Thang”

“Fascist Groove Thang” is the opening track of Penthouse & Pavement, and was one of its chief singles. While it’s much less ambiguous than “Being Boiled,” and much easier to dance to, it’s still got a lot of that subversive, underground charm--enough to get banned by the BBC, anyway. I know they always say that history rhymes, but it’s one of those songs from this era that really feels like it belongs more in our time than the one it came from. I like to think that its unforgettable chorus sounds more like a chant you might hear at a protest march, as opposed to something that belongs in a proper song. “Fascist Groove Thang” is actually based on an instrumental track by BEF, which was simply called “Groove Thang” before being reworked into this political anthem. Both versions are indeed pretty groovy, thanks in large part to the bass guitar work of session musician John Wilson. Compared to their work with the Human League, Penthouse & Pavement has an overall richer sonic palate, with more of those traditional instruments, as well as backing vocals. You’ll hear a lot of those on the album’s title track:

Music: “Penthouse & Pavement”

Penthouse & Pavement’s title track is the longest track on the album, clocking in at over six minutes. Between that, the lush instrumentation, and the honour of being the title track, it certainly feels like an anti-capitalist epic, dramatizing and dignifying the inner thoughts of a common wage-slave. The first side of the album, dubbed the “Pavement Side,” is where you’ll find both of these tracks, and it seems to deal chiefly with working-class struggles, as well as having a bigger emphasis on that bass-heavy groove, musically. Naturally, then, the flip is the “Penthouse Side,” it’s more melodic, and it seems to focus more on the lives of the rich and famous...though it isn’t quite that straightforward.

Music: “We’re Going To Live For a Very Long Time”

“We’re Going To Live For a Very Long Time” is perhaps the clearest expression of the idea of the upper classes living in their own protected bubble, shielded from plebeian woes. There’s a religious dimension to it, in that the narrator manages to live without worries because of their assuredness that Heaven awaits them when they die...but, as the title reminds us, they’re also confident that Earth will be good to them, as well. In case you were worried this message might not be ironic, the song actually stops abruptly in the middle of its final refrain, providing a sudden end for that narrator--as well as closing out the entire LP with a bang, since this is the final track! The idea of the wealthy actively taunting those beneath them is also central to the most rhythmic track of the Penthouse Side, “The Height of the Fighting.”

Music: “The Height of the Fighting”

In “The Height of the Fighting,” that march-like chanting takes center stage again, but it feels very different here. Rather than embodying a sort of grassroots resistance to the consolidation of power, “The Height of the Fighting” seems to be the voice of authority and power coming downwards, fitting the theme of the Penthouse Side. The song’s assertions, like “if you can’t take it, fake it” and “they sent you to it, do it” could be interpreted as pithy, meaningless sayings--perhaps throwaway lyrics, taking up space on a single aimed squarely at the dance floor. However, if you know the context of the Penthouse Side, it’s hard not to see them as representations of the worthless advice the rich often give the poor. Get a job. Get a side hustle. Work harder. Eat out less. And so on. Much like the implicit messages about class in popular culture, “The Height of the Fighting” might seem disposable, but the thrust of what it’s saying is actually deeply warped. Another complex, and perhaps conflicted, track on the Penthouse Side is “Let’s All Make a Bomb”:

Music: “Let’s All Make a Bomb”

Songs against nuclear war were commonplace in Cold War-era music, but “Let’s All Make a Bomb” isn’t quite a typical example. At first, its slow pace and despondent melody make us think we’re getting the usual fare. But the return of that swelling, chant-like refrain style, as well as a closer inspection of the lyrics, reveal otherwise. As the title might imply, “Let’s All Make a Bomb” asks us what kind of character is actually crazy enough to *want* nuclear war, and the character Heaven 17 have chosen is a hedonistic libertine, who sees the end of the world as one big party. The atomic bomb is not a thing to be feared, but “a brand new toy, to idolize.” As dark as that is, the fact that it’s also part of the Penthouse Side, and ostensibly a representation of what those who hold influence and power believe, adds a whole new level of horror to it.

While I love album art, and my interest in it is the main reason I started collecting vintage vinyl, I think [the cover of Penthouse & Pavement just might be my favourite of all time. Penthouse & Pavement’s cover portrays the three members of Heaven 17 as though they were businessmen, co-opting motives like glass-paneled skyscrapers and the deal-making handshake straight from the 1980s corporate visual lexicon. They've even got cities they're allegedly based out of, one of which is their native Sheffield, England. If you look closely, there are a few hints that they’re actually a music band and not a firm, such as the reel-to-reel tape player in the upper right-hand corner, and the fact that in the lower left-hand corner, Martyn Ware is writing music in front of a keyboard. At the bottom, we also find the logo of B.E.F., which brings this grand “joke” full circle. As the “British Electronic Foundation,” they had also billed themselves as a faceless organisation, adopting a name that sounds more at home on a utility bill than an album cover. Here, the trio have done it again, in a bit of ruthless satire towards the rising “yuppie” culture of the 80s. Incidentally, the cover art is a traditional painting, credited to one Ray Smith. It wasn't unusual to commission paintings for album art at the time, but it does tickle me knowing a human being physically painted Heaven 17 as office workers. If the original ever came up for auction, I'd probably shell out for it. It would look great in my office!

Anyway, it’s also worth mentioning how the title “Penthouse & Pavement” adds to that corporate theme. The X-and-Y format recalls the names of many real-life firms and companies, such as Ernst & Young. A “penthouse” is an apartment located very high up in a tall, urban building. Such apartments are usually expensive, and are hence occupied by well-off tenants. “Pavement,” in this context, probably refers to what Americans call the “sidewalk,” the paved pathways where the less fortunate among us might walk past those penthouses, without ever getting too close. Each side functions as an ideal symbol of the kind of people it represents, and the physical gap between them is a visceral representation of economic inequality. The title is also quite pleasingly alliterative!

While Penthouse & Pavement maintains a certain underground integrity, which is consistent with Marsh and Ware’s track record as part of the Human League, it’s still much more of a pop record than anything they had done before. Heaven 17 never went quite as pop as the Human League did without them, and they certainly never saw the same level of mainstream success, but they did pursue an increasingly pop direction with their next several releases. Their 1983 followup, The Luxury Gap, delivers less of that hard-hitting critique of capital, but did produce some of their best-known singles, namely, “Temptation” and “Let Me Go.”

Music: “Let Me Go”

My favourite track on Penthouse & Pavement is “Geisha Boys & Temple Girls.” I like this track’s overall mysterious, otherworldly vibe--it’s not terribly easy to pin down what it’s really about, or what sort of mood it’s meant to convey. The intro to this song sounds more like Karlheinz Stockhausen than something you would hear in pop, and I love how strident and abrasive it is. Given its place as the opening track of the Penthouse Side, and its opening line, “look ahead, on the screen,” I’m tempted to interpret it as a representation of a fictional romance in television or film. It’s dramatic, unpredictable, exotic, and also completely fake and divorced from how people behave in the real world. The idea that entertainments and diversions are part of what shelters the rich from the consequences of their actions is another one of those things that makes this album continue to feel relevant. That’s all I have for today--thanks for listening!

Music: “Geisha Boys & Temple Girls”

[iconsumeheadcanons]

persona characters autism headcanons!

hi im autistic and i started my day with sun so now im !!!!!!!!! some of these headcanons are from elsewhere on tumbr, but i dont know where :(((  so i am hoping someone out there knows that n that everybody knows that i love them <3

(also go check out mollypaup and i think hypeswap if you havent already! they post some good stuff autism+adhd hc too!!! i think.. oh! and thieves-in-the-palace!!!)

P5

Joker

there was some artwork from someone on tublr..where they pointed out that he doesnt really talk outside the metaverse so--hes hyperverbal as joker and just near nonverbal as akiren

he stims ALL THE TIME. that phone thing, the pencil thing, the little tappy tap of his foot, pulling at his bangs when hes embarrassed/smug. someone get him a fidget spinner. he’ll prob learn to do tricks with it

he probably sucks at focusing in class, like i know its just the game design but hes always surprised out of his daily “star out the window at the nearby office building” when his teachers ask him questions

mona mentions when the pt is at Wilton for the first time (after they run into shido) that joker eats like shit, and that could have multiple causes at the start of the story of course, but when i first played i thought that joker was a picky eater and that the variety (and amount of food) at the buffet would be an Ordeal...

tho mona makes that comment bc joker looked pale after having a little ptsd moment from shidos voice, but i didnt know that the first time i played

maybe when joker makes a face at ryuji putting so much ginger in his gyudon? joker probably does not like pickled ginger lol

his favortive foods are all spicy, which is why the curry he makes for his friends is always ‘overly spicy’, and why kasumi makes him a curry bento and joker kept going “...?” .... “....?!”

overly reflective glasses have been a great plus for him bc now he never has to make real eye contact every again!

mona Soft. play with Ann hair. maybe Braid. nice

puns (Gorou the Goroumet)

he has so many options to be straight up rude sometimes in game. he probably no clue on his own, which is why he defaults to Not Talking. people probably mention his constant scary face, which is just him being nonexpressive, squinting at all the fucking bright lights, and Tired

executive function who? we do everything last minute folks

high pain tolerance, which is why he was the kid that was always climbing trees in elementary school to get basketballs unstuck from the branches

his sixth sense lets him see treasure and possible places to climb/crawl bc 1. Shiny? Steal it. Steal it Now. and 2. Could i fit in that? Time to Find Out

probalby a bit of a klepto too oops. he’ll return it tho!! but he has to do it dramatically or he’ll die

cant sit properly to save his life

smells and touch are Great, they can keep him grounded when his brain goes off to police or dead rivals or guilt or

if a friend hung out with him and gave him total reigns of the agenda, he would choose to nap on the floor while his friend does something off to the side quietly

hyperfocuses on handy tasks (i.e. lockpicks, coffee brewing, cleaning, his part time jobs) and some things like movies and books. everything else is a tossup

his (normal) navigation app is his most used app bc he still doesnt know where hes going, even though he only goes to the same few places in the city

hates being sweaty, literally cannot stand it. probably double exhausted during the summer

but Needs Compression so hes often Struggling

Futaba

paraphrase from p5d “i have no motor skills so i cant play rhythm games :(” need i say more? (i will regardless)

echolalia all the time, from anime, memes, the PT

those headphones she wears all the time? noise cancelling ear protectors babey

only talks about her interests, “normal” talking is Not Easy, but she is still communicative w others despite her worries. shes not “hard to understand” at all but she feels the anxiety nonetheless

only talks informally, cannot talk ‘politely’ with out imitating someone around her

shes had meltdowns and anxiety attacks in game :( i relate so hard

Technology. thats it

def had an egypt phase that pops up every few months. probably came from yu-gi-oh

has Immune to Bright Lights buff.  joker is very jealous

“Time to make like a tree and leave!” and 30 other iterations

video game metaphors are the only ones that makes sense to her

probably relates hard to robot characters in anime for their general androgyny and confusion about human emotions and connections

probably gets told that shes “too smart to be on the spectrum” by teachers >:( she fails their classes on purpose

wakaba’s autistic too that just how it is

the Connection that she establishes with Joker is so Warm. my life goals include adopting an older brother like futaba has lsdkfjslkfj

also eater of 5 foods only, i mean, she brings cup ramen to the beach. i just really admire her...

hides in small spaces for comfort

doesnt she have like uhhhhh hyperthymesia or something like that?

Yusuke

art

his entire social link is learning how humans work, which i relate

talks seriously all the time

“sarcasm? who is that? are you saying I was sarcastic?...how?”

cant remember to take care of his body, and madarame did not help with that either

lot of uncomfortable staring, hes overdoing the eye contact thingy

infodumps all the time, doesnt know hes doing it

needs a lot of support even if he doesnt think he deserves it. no one ever complains about helping him out tho

visual stims my friends

he didnt know that you could look up pictures on the internet but he does know you can stream live videos of waterfalls and fluffy animales!!

I am certainly in the mood

for something salty today.

he and joker are scared of math. numbers do not interact

Yusuke, futaba, and akiren are a trio and i know this bc their first day of non-thievery interacts is Akiren clearing Futabas room w/o permission, futaba hyperfocusing on destroying medjed, and yusuke rearranging futabas figurines so they are more visually appealing

morgana is a support friend for all of them bc igor knows they need it

P4

Souji/Yu

yes, he mostly wears gray semi formal clothes bc parents tell him to, no, he will not changes this

Schedule or Death

“sorry, could you repeat that?” “huh? oh yeah, i was saying that--” “yeah that’d be cool.”

cats, fishing, he just likes to be quiet. you can literally spend a day at the beach just to think if you want, and that is what yu want

has a lot of scripts for things (of which he shares with nanako!) but if he runs out he just stops talking..

inaba is a godsend bc its so fucking quiet and warm

he Yearns to hold his friends hands, but he shies away from a lot of touch (excepting yosuke, teddie, and nanako)

Cooking and Cleaning makes the world better. he and joker vibe together with this

unlike akiren, he strong arms any executive dysfunction into Be Productive or Else. his punishment is feeling the pure anxiety of having to make up for ‘lost time’. (another symptom of his workaholic parents)

writes everything down, notes are very neat, has pages dedicated for bad doodles when hes not feeling his usual Super Classroom Focus

Cannot handle secondhand embarrassment (most often caused by yosuke) and will quietly slip away to random cats or origami folding

hungry, crunch crunch folks. probably needs chewelry bc he used to chew on his shirt collars when he was younger.

cleans up after everyone in the food court, constantly worries about them accidently hurting themselves. likely spends half of group conversations watching peoples hands

he canonically eats expired food, nanako plz help your brother

really clumsy, but people only notice after they decide that he is a cool person

video games are too chaotic for him

exhausted every night from the pure amount of masking he does, if a friend spends the night (or is like yosuke) they will know his more comfortable weirdo self (tho everyone knows hes a weirdo eventually)

hyperempathetic, sometimes just understands animals and children better than peeople his age or older

Yukiko

her jokes

she and souji get in ‘trouble’ together, she and joker commit crimes together

she and chie have to coordinate outfits, its important

actually understands metaphors, but does not understand people

like me, had no clue that creepy kid was flirting with her

she is very angry when she has meltdowns that might involve slamming doors and shouting. her parents call these ‘tantrums’ and ‘unfitting for a polite daughter’ but really thats because her meltdowns tend to be caused by arguments w her family after a long day of school and TV world traipsing

the metronome meme, except hers goes between Loudest Person in the Room to Quietest Pin Drop in the Planet. she is completely unaware of this

her atmosphere brightens when chie appears. that is not only the lesbian energy within her, but also because chie is like her Favorite Person

Cannot wear Pants. No (tho she wants to try it! but she puts them on and her soul instantly squashes)

happy flappy lesbian! watch out!

Naoto

the pouty face. all the time lskdfjlasdkf

hes really snappy sometimes and i love that for him. he and akechi should fight just to see what would happen (please read Bang Bang Shoot Shoot on AO3)

“do not touch me or my hat, thank you”

no one has ever seen him shutdown and no one ever will (except for his grandpa)(and kanji)(and rise)

probably likes certain food textures and will stand for nothing less, probably feels embarrassed about his preferences with friends

constantly jumps between ‘everybody hates me so i should act like them so they dont hate me’ to ‘i refuse to be anything but very comfortable as myself, and i dont care that im making you upset sir’

he and souji are the king and queen of subtle stims, but for unhappy reasons :(

does not make jokes. cannot joke around. understand? yes, do? no.

loose clothes are the only good clothes, but all tags and obtrusive seams will be obliterated by kanji tatsumi

not very empathetic so he probably comes off as an asshole to strangers (like when he throws away his classmates confession letters without reading them) but he tries so hard to sound comforting when his buds are struggling.

his understanding of others emotions/reactions come from his learning as a detective, which seems cold+clinical to others, especially compared to souji, whos completely unexpressive but very introverted people person

P3

Hamuko/Minako/Kotone

big personality!! very people-oriented!! koromaru and her are buddies!! when shes having a real bad time, shes very quiet and expressions turn off

interrupts herself in the middle of conversations all the time. no one knows where shes coming from. her brains is thousands of km ahead of her body

bouncey legs, swingin arms, twirlly skirt, little somersaults! when will she stop? never!

very obvious music stims with her hands and arms! people are like “oh there she goes! happy as usual!” shes listening to minatos heavy metal playlist

switches from exhausted to excited within milliseconds. no one can predict, not even her

SEES has to ask her for context all the time cuz she’ll just continue shit from 2 weeks ago without warning

professionals will assume shes very childish bc of how chipper she is, but she is beyond mature for her age and only feels comfortable enough to have serious conversations if a person has proved themself able to handle it

collects every little thing. her room is a mess and she has to get rid of most of it every time she moves :(

hates cleaning! smells bad, feels bad hhhhhgggg

dont let mitsuru-senpai see her bedroom

gets lost in the middle of conversations with others bc shes thinking about a story connected to one(1) word that was said earlier

 no sense of time and place, she just sees her friends and goes “ah, this is the right place, then” but junpei and akihiko are also lost so now theyre all screwed

Minato/Makoto/Sakuya

no talkies, no walkies

his story in the movies is him literally learning how to function around people he cares for

doesnt get jokes, expressions, body language, empathy, subtlety, metaphors, physical contact, or eye contact. aigis is probably the only person he truly understands right away

he is still nice to people because he doesnt see a reason not to be, but also he has very limited energy so only his senpai and old people get his most polite-kindnesses

cannot describe feelings for the life of him. the team wont know hes injured or sick until hes passed out

everything is too loud, time to drown it out with my loud ass music

rocking and chewing stims, ryoji is the first person to point him out for these subtle stims (not accusingly of course, just general pure curiosity and love for the uniqueness of humanity)

likes to cover his face with whatever is available, lives like a bat in a dark dry cave

will wear anything that has pockets and his blue/gray/black palette

sleepy at all times bc he never has much energy

when he was younger he probably needed a lot of support, especially after his parents died, because he wouldnt communicate like a neurotypical and would shutdown for hours in the middle of school without warning. probably missed a lot of lessons and field trips out of pure overstimulation

eating at all times. no preference, just whatevers closest

his meltdowns probalby include humming whining noises and curling up in a ball, which makes people want to touch him, but that is the LAST thing he wants. put a blanket on him! play some music! do not talk and do not expect him to speak

aigis is the only person who can touch him normally bc her hands are cold and he likes cold

never nude, feels mmmmmmmmm without clothes and probalby wears a full robe in the hotsprings

will not do things that take more than one step w/o someone else walking him thru it, which Same

[pretendcnco]

starcrossed - christopher velez

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ: *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* :･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ ･ﾟ:*

or the long awaited sequel to caminos destructivos

word count: 5.5k

note: currently feeling like this video lmao, but hi, I hope you’re all well, I haven't posted in the actual longest time. I did lose a lot of motivation for many things, writing being one of them but this has been in my drafts for months and I’m lowkey proud of it so I finally decided to post it. I hope y'all enjoy my own overplayed rendition of Romeo and juliet LMAO. im slowly getting back into the mindset of writing so just be patient with me, I do see the unanswered asks and will try my best to work on them but really, no promises. but again, hope u enjoy :)

tags: @ella-se-vuelve-loca @mepuserojito @yatusabess @estoy-enamorado-de-ti @richukisbb @smoljoelito @cnc-oh-boi @esmejha108 @h-bea92 @ericks-mala-actitud@undeadspazzattack @cncoh-damn @itsspelledbyannca@estefania723@cncogirl18 @pizzaspirits @miacha3xl @you-kinda-smell-like-christmas@jessenia-p@KitKat1328 @boundtobreakk @nochillnelly @cnco_bby @prettydamnmuchinlove @maggie-lunax @s4usagee @ericksmamita@wastedearth@ccnicole02 @apla-o-eaytos-mou @cncoaddicted @rosebud213@ruvaitkevicius@lover2448

join my taglist !

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ: *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* :･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ ･ﾟ:*

From the moment Christopher Velez stepped foot into town, rumours circulated around him. Rumours about his tough looking exterior, the tattoo on his hand, and the reasons as to why he had moved to town. Whispers were heard all around town about him. He didn’t fit in, it was obvious. His dark wardrobe contrasted immensely from the bright apparel most of the town's population donned. He was quiet, never really speaking unless spoken to, trying to make as little impact in his last year of high school as he could.

But that was until he met her.

He knew about her before he officially met her, of course. Most of the trophies in the school's front office held her name, her face adorned the many pictures hung up on the walls. Class president, Model UN, Debate Club, Environmental Rallies, Scholarships, Soccer, Cheer. Everyone knew her name, her face, she was the star student. But what surprised him was that she didn’t have a group of followers mindlessly trailing after her, rather she was always with just one other girl. This intrigued him because she didn’t seem larger than life, like how the school portrayed her, she seemed rather normal. She was humble, at first glance no one would think she was the Y/N L/N that everyone talked about. He supposed that was what intrigued him about her. He questioned how someone so accomplished in her young age could be so humble about it. Maybe because he grew up around people who would always brag about their accomplishments, no matter how horrible they were.

Christopher wouldn’t describe himself as someone who didn’t care about school, but some things presented themselves in his life that made it one of his lowest priorities. He always zoned out when the guidance counselor began talking to him about his future, because she always said the same: he didn’t have one. His grades were inconsistent, as was his attendance, and his test scores were, let’s just say, not the best. He knew he didn’t have a bright future, you didn’t need to tell him, but it wasn’t because he didn’t want one, he so badly did. He wanted to be able to provide for his family in the right way, he wanted to do something meaningful with his life, but ultimately the stars choose a different path for him.

Catching the school- no the town- angel’s attention was not what he had planned to do. He was okay with just watching her from afar, never in a million years believing a girl like her would go for a guy like him. But that night at the party, the night he decided to make his move, waiting to be rejected, he was surprised to find her kissing him back, with as much, if not more, want as he had.

She was intoxicating to say the least. Her innocence excited him, the idea that he knew things she didn’t, that he could teach her those things, excited him.

But the backlash of their relationship was immediate. Her brother was no fan of him, taking every chance he could to let Christopher know how much he didn’t deserve his sister. Chris didn’t take his threats seriously, knowing he could take him easily, but he tried to respect him, he was Y/N’s brother after all.

It was difficult, keeping their relationship discreet, especially when Chris couldn’t keep his hands off of her. Despite what her brother and most of the town believed, Christopher didn’t want Y/N just to sleep with her, to purposefully corrupt her. He wanted her because she was smart, care-free, and kind. Very different from the people he used to hang around back home. He could stay up late on the phone every night because she always had something interesting to talk about, he enjoyed listening to the way she thought, the things she cared about. But he also wasn’t going to deny that she was an amazing kisser, despite her lack of experience.

Christopher didn’t plan on breaking her heart. But he also didn’t plan on having all he ran from be unearthed in this new town. He ran from it for a reason. He looks back now and wishes he could have changed something, anything, to make things better, but in reality he had no idea what. He believed Y/N to be his saving grace, a gift from God in the hopes of turning Christopher’s life around, but now he assumed his actions had caught up to him, and God himself realized Christopher didn’t deserve something as good as Y/N.

ten days until zabdiel’s end of the year party

Christopher’s arm was slung over Y/N’s shoulder as they sat in the front seat of the truck Benito let him borrow. Her legs were tucked under her as she cuddles in close to him, both of them watching the movie being played that night at the drive-in. She lets out a small chuckle at the joke one of the characters say and he glances towards her. The light from the film lights up her face, her lips plastered in a permanent smile. She was so beautiful, he couldn’t believe she was his. And this is what prompts him to lean down and place a kiss on her cheek.

She looks up at him then.

“What was that for?” She questions, eyeing his small smile.

“Nada, you're just so beautiful.”

Her face heats up at his words, compliments from him always making butterflies erupt in her belly.

“Oh, stop.” She says with a small laugh, nervously moving her gaze down. At this, Christopher lets out a small chuckle and places a hand under her chin, lifting her head to meet his gaze. Their eyes meet and Y/N couldn’t help but get lost in them. And then he’s slowly meeting their lips together. She smiles into the kiss as he wraps his arms around her, pulling her onto his lap. His hands settle on the backs of her thighs, her arms wrapping around his neck. He begins trailing kisses down her neck, reveling in the way her eyes flutter shut at his actions. He sucks on the spot under her ear, earning a small gasp from her.

“Chris,” She breathes out, her hands gripping his shoulders at the sensations.

And suddenly, all that is heard is hoots and laughter as small pebbles hit the trucks windows. It was no secret in town that kids came to the drive-in to hook up, and of course there were the dumbasses who made a big deal whenever they saw a couple too close in the car.

Y/N jumps away from Chris, letting out a small laugh as more pebbles hit the car. She glances towards her window and her smile suddenly drops.

“Fuck,” she mutters. Chris eyes her warily as she gets off him and scoots to roll down the window. The boy outside's laughter immediately stops when he sees who the couple in the car was.

“Wait until your brother hears about this.” The boy says, shaking his head. Chris was utterly confused, did they know each other ?

Y/N scowls at the boy outside the window before speaking.

“Fuck off Johann, don’t you have something better to do than be Michael’s lap dog?”

The boy’s, Johann's, eyes widen in shock, mouth popping open at Y/N’s remark. Chris stifles a laugh upon seeing the boys face, and Johann turns to face him.

“You just wait, you don’t fucking belong here and we’ll show you.”

Y/N sticks up her middle finger in the boys face and rolls up the window. She lets out a loud sigh and straightens her shirt.

“I’m sorry about him. My brother and his friends are a pain in the ass, but you already knew.” She tells him and Chris shrugs.

“It’s okay, hermosa.” He tells her, leaning down to peck her cheek. “Let’s get out of here.” He mutters and she nods. Chris sets the car in drive and pulls out of the field, eyes meeting Johanns as he passes, the other boys gaze filled with hate.

Later that night, Chris finds himself looking after the supermarket as Benito had other matters to attend to. Y/N was long asleep at this point and he watches the clock, waiting for midnight to hit. When the clock read 12, he quickly gathers his stuff and heads out. He clicks the lock shut and shoves the key into his jacket pocket before beginning his walk back to Benito’s.

“Christopher.” A voice shakes Chris out of his thoughts and he turns to find the one person he didn’t want to see. Chris sighs heavily as Micheal, Y/N’s brother, jogs over to him.

“I’ve been meaning to talk to you.”

“I think I’ve heard enough.” Chris states simply. He heard all the things Micheal said about him, thought about him. They were whispered around town and he caught words as he walked by, he didn’t need to hear more. Christopher turns without another word and walks away, feeling Micheal’s burning stars like a target on his back.

seven days until zabdiel’s end of the year party

“Yo, who would’ve thought Y/N would end up with you?” Richard says with a laugh as he receives the newly rolled blunt from Zabdiel. The rest of the boys chuckle at his words and Chris just smiles, blowing out a puff of smoke from his mouth.

“I don’t even know.” He admits.

“You’re treating her right, right?” Erick asks, taking a sip of his drink. Chris looks up at the younger boy from where he was sitting. He knew Erick saw Y/N as a sister, so of course he was a little protective.

“Of course.” He states and Erick nods. If Y/N was happy, he was happy.

They were all currently chilling at the Camacho family’s mechanic shop, where Richard worked part-time. After hours they all gathered there to smoke and drink, unbeknownst to his father of course.

A knock at the metal garage doors brings all the boys attention to the group of people sauntering into the shop. Richard stands from his seat and quickly hides the blunt in his hand. Zabdiel and Joel fan the air, trying to rid the area of the obvious smell of weed.

“We’re closed, bro.” Richard says to the group of boys walking in.

“Yeah we know.” The tallest boy says, and when they finally step into the light, Christopher quickly sits up. Y/N’s brother and his pack of goons walk towards them, their sights set on him.

“We’re just looking for one person.” Micheal, simply states. Christopher’s jaw clenches as he sits up straighter.

Richard steps in between the two boys.

“Listen, you’re not gonna start this shit here.” The red-haired boy tells Y/N’s brother. “Now I’d really like if you all just turn around and get the fuck out of here.”

“We just wanna talk to him.” Micheal says, pointedly looking at Chris. The other boys turn to face him before looking back at Y/N’s brother and his friends.

“We know you guys don’t want to just talk.” Joel states.

“And if you’re trying to start something, piénsalo otra vez.” Zabdiel speaks up, standing and crossing his arms over his chest.

“Listen, you just let us have a talk with our friend here,” Micheal begins, motioning towards Christopher. “We don’t mean any harm to you guys.”

“Bro, we already told you, get outta here. If you want Christopher, you have us too.”

Now all the boys stood, staring down the other group.

“I suggest you back down Richard, unless you want the whole town knowing Joel passes your drug tests for you.” Richards stare was pure rage, and Joel shifts uncomfortably next to him.

“And you Zabdiel, how about that girl you knocked up last year? How is she doing?” Zabdiel pauses, fists clenched at his sides, not having expected that to come out of his mouth. Christopher watched the scene unfold, knowing exactly where this was going. Despite the small towns shiny exterior, there were heavy secrets lying just below the surface. Christopher’s was one of them. The life he ran from, the reason he moved to a completely new country, the thing he’s been trying to keep hidden for months. Christopher held his breath, just waiting for Micheal to spill his own secrets. His heart was beating so wildly in his chest he couldn’t hear, or didn’t want to hear, the rest of the conversation. Before he knew it, a punch was thrown. Christopher is thrown back into reality at Erick’s shout and he turns to see Johann and Richard in a violent embrace, both boys trying to get the other to back down, however bloody that left them. Somewhere on his left, this same messy dance was started by Zabdiel and another of Micheal’s friends. Joel and Erick watch with wide eyes as Micheal walks towards Christopher. Erick acts first, trying to push Micheal away, but to no avail. And before Chris knew, Micheal’s fist collided with his face. Joel and Erick were on him now, struggling to pry off Micheal from Christopher. Micheal manages to get in another hit before Joel and Erick completely pull him off. Chris was bleeding, he reaches up to wipe the blood from his mouth. His ears are ringing, the blows to the head he received not working in his favor.

“This is the last time I tell you. Stay the fuck away from my sister.” Micheal spits out as Joel and Erick push him away. Christopher looks around to see Zabdiel and Richard panting heavily, Richards eyebrow was split and Zabdiel had a bruise growing on his cheek.

“And the longer you guys protect him, the more likely all your secrets are gonna come out.” Micheal spits onto the ground next to Christopher, blood dripping from the one place Chris managed to land a punch. Without another word, Micheal and his boys depart. Chris and the others watch their figures depart, dark silhouettes against the stores warm yellow lights.

“Fuck,” Richard mutters. “Fuck!” He shouts, kicking a beer can so hard it hits the metal garage doors with a loud bang.

“How did he know about Zabdi? And Richard?” Joel whispers. No one answers, because no one had a clue. But they were all thinking the same, if he knew that, what else did he know?

“I’m sorry.” Chris says. Zabdiel shakes his head. He saunters over to the small refrigerator and tosses Chris a cold beer. Chris places the can on his face, hoping to lessen the swell before he got home, he didn’t want Benito to think he was doing the same things he was doing back in Ecuador.

“You didn’t do anything wrong.” Zabdiel tells him.

“Si, I don’t think loving a girl is wrong.” Erick mutters, and a silent agreement is shared throughout the room.

Chris leaves the shop that night with guilt hanging heavy on his mind. He apologized again and again to the boys, but they kept telling him it was okay. But it wasn’t, it wasn’t okay.

As he begins his walk back home, his phone pings. He hoped it was a message from Y/N, she was the only person that could cheer him up in an instant. But as he unlocked his phone, he saw the message wasn’t from Y/N, rather from an unknown number. He eyes his phone warily as he clicks on the message. There were pictures, pictures of Christopher. His throat instantly felt dry and he looked around him, a shiver running down his spine as he eyes the dark expanse behind him. He turns his attention back to his phone to examine the photos. They were pictures that didn’t put Chris in a very good looking position. Goosebumps erupt on his arms, and it wasn’t because of the cold. A message pops on his phone.

Unknown: leave her or this will be released.

Chris: fuck you

Unknown: you have until the end of the week.

Chris eyes his phone in disbelief. He ran from this, but here it was to be the end of him.

The next morning Chris was surprised to see Y/N at his door. Rushing to pull on a shirt and get to the door before Benito did, he slides out of his room, breathless when he finally opens the door. He opens it to reveal his angel. Y/N stood in front of him, a bright smile on her lips and a tray of cupcakes in her hands. Chris peeks outside, notices Benito’s truck is gone and looks back at Y/N, a sly smirk on his face. He reaches towards her and quickly pulls her in, maneuvering the cupcakes from between them and just as quickly placing their lips together. Y/N makes no complaints, wrapping her arms around his neck and pulling him close. Chris relaxes in her hold, the only place he has felt truly at peace since leaving Ecuador. Their lips meet in small, slow kisses, savoring the moment together. After a while, he pulls away, placing his head in the crook of her neck, inhaling her scent, the tropical smell of her perfume that always reminded him of her. Y/N places her hand in his hair as Chris holds her tight.

“Erick told me what happened.” She mutters, and Chris sighs. He pulls away and walks to the kitchen. “I’m sorry, Chris.” She says, following him into the kitchen. She leans against the doorframe and watches as he paces back and forth. He looks up at her, his big brown eyes caught in the morning light.

“You don’t have anything to be sorry about, hermosa.” He tells her before turning to pull out two mugs.

It was her turn to sigh now. She steps towards him, wrapping her arms around his waist from behind and resting her head on his shoulder as he prepares them coffee.

“I just wish things were easier.” She mutters. He chuckled softly before placing a kiss on her head.

“If everything was easy, there would be nothing to fight for, right?”

He just wanted to make her feel better, but how he wished things were easier too.

The rest of the morning was spent with Y/N and Chris wrapped in each other’s arms, tangled in his sheets. She had fallen asleep, huddled up into his side. He watched the way her chest slowly rose and fell as he drew small circles on her arm. He kept thinking about those photos, that threat, and what it could mean to him, what it could mean to Y/N. His head was full of what he could do, how he could fix this. He had no clue. Before he could think anymore, he felt Y/N stir in her sleep. She smiles when she notices him looking at her.

“Hi.” She says and he smiles, slightly giggling at how messy her hair was.

“Hola.” She sleepily grabs her phone off of his bedside table and in an instant sat up.

“Shit, I have practice in an hour.” She exclaims, quickly getting up to get her things in order. Chris sits up to watch her.

“Do you have to go?” He questions. At the moment he didn’t feel safe. Tough, punches-first-talking-later Christopher Veléz was afraid. He wasn’t sure what these people wanted, he didn’t know who they were. But they knew him, and they knew where he was and that was enough. He didn’t want to worry Y/N just yet, but he supposed because his nerves were so high, Y/N took notice anyway. She looks up at him, a worried look on her face. She promptly drops her bag at the foot of his bed and abandons her efforts to put her shoe on to approach him. She crawls across the bed to straddle his waist and without words Christopher pulls her close, wrapping his arms around her and snuggling his head in the crook of her neck.

“It’ll be okay, Chris. My brother can’t make decisions for me and I won’t let him continue tormenting you like this.” She unconsciously runs her hand through his hair, force of habit.

He chuckles a little at her words. His worries were much bigger than her brother, but he couldn’t tell her. He couldn’t.

“You’re so tough, hermosa, but you don’t need to protect me.” He says, lifting his head up to meet her eyes. She scoffs and rolls her eyes.

“Okay Macho Man.” She says, to which he laughs. “I love you, Chris, of course I’m going to try to protect you.” His heart physically hurt in that moment. Here he had someone so selfless, so beautiful, and she let him call her his. His past was catching up, but he hoped he could stop it in time. He leans up to press a kiss onto her lips, allowing himself to melt into her for a second.

“Vamos, you have to go.” He says, playfully pushing her off. She chuckles as she falls off him. Quickly she collects her stuff and gives him a quick peck before bounding out of his room. Christopher grudgingly follows her, never fond of seeing her go.

“I’ll see you later, okay.” She calls out as she walks out of the house.

“Bye, amor.” He responds, watching as she walks to her car. With one last wave, she’s gone, and Christopher is left alone.

three days until zabdiel’s end of the year party

The rest of the week was uneventful. The growing nerves of both fear and excitement loomed in the halls as the seniors got ready to graduate. Christopher doubted he would graduate, and if by some miracle he did, he had no idea what he wanted to do. He walked the halls and overheard his peers with their larger than life plans. Some were going to big schools in the big cities, others were planning on making it big in Hollywood, and others decided on staying close to home and attending local universities. Whatever their plans were, they were definitely more than what Chris had in mind, which was, at the moment, nothing.

He admired hearing Y/N’s plan for her future, she seemed to have everything prepared. She had laughed when he mentioned this to her now.

“Yeah, but I still feel like when I graduate I’m gonna spiral.” Chris chuckles and brings their entangled hands up to plant a kiss on hers.

“I doubt that, amor.” He mutters. She shakes her head, as if tossing the whole thought from her mind.

“What about you? What are you thinking about after graduation?” He clenches his jaw at her words. Did she want an honest answer? Christopher didn’t think he would have lived long enough to graduate highschool.

“We’re closed.” Chris calls out from behind a shelf. He waits a beat to hear a response, or even the store’s bell to tell him someone has left. Neither of that came. He sets down his inventory sheet and steps towards the front of the store. He turns towards the magazine rack to see someone scanning through the prints. “Hey, I said we’re closed.” He tells them. The person still did not respond. Christopher felt goosebumps prickle his skin. None of this situation sat right with him. Chris begins to approach the person.

“Hey,” He begins, reaching out to grab their shoulder. Catching Chris completely by surprise, he feels a fist collide with his side. On instinct he jumps away, pain coursing through his body. There were two people. He scoffs, unsurprised that Y/N’s brother would start something here. But as the two people approach him, he notices how big they were. These guys could not be Micheal and his friends. Chris tries to fight back but these guys were definitely stronger than him, deflecting his every blow and returning them with two of their own. Grunts sound through the small store as the mystery people deliver fist after fist to every square inch of Christopher’s body. He tried to fight back, but they easily overpowered him. It was in little time that Chris began to fall unconscious. He didn’t know how long it had lasted, but when he finally came to, the people were gone, and the clock read 3AM.

Sitting up was a nightmare, he could feel the deep green and purple bruises forming on his ribs and face. Chris manages to stand after several failed attempts and limps to where his phone was left discarded.

A couple calls and texts from the boys, several missed calls from Benito, and double from Y/N.

Painfully, he manages to drive home.

As Christopher locks the door behind him, Benito’s shouts greet him.

“Christopher Velez dónde cojones estabas?”

He turns to face Benito. His hearing was muffled, it was as if hearing through a wall.

“It’s three in the morning! I’ve been worried sick!” Benito flicks on the lights and prepares to yell some more when he stops, finally seeing Christopher’s face. The bruises were growing, ugly shades of purple and green spotted on his face.

“What happened?” Benito questions, slowly approaching Chris. Chris shakes his head, not wanting to discuss what had happened at the store. He walks past Benito into the kitchen.

“Christopher.” Benito warns, following close behind him.

“It’s nothing!” Chris tells him, but Benito shoots him a look, a look that Chris couldn’t ignore.

He sighs. “Some guys came into the store, and out of nowhere started beating me up.” As Chris says this, Benito retrieves some frozen peas from the freezer and alcohol from the medicine cabinet.

“They were trying to steal?” Benito questions, handing Chris the peas before pouring some rubbing alcohol onto a towel.

“I don’t know, I don’t think they took anything.” Chris tells him, wincing as he presses the cold bag to his bruising face.

“Chris,” Benito begins, a pensive look on his face that didn’t settle Chris’s nerves. “I promised your mother to take care of you, but it looks like I’m not doing a good job.”

Chris answers in silence, unsure of what to say.

“I hope you’re not messing with the wrong people.”

Chris glances up at his words, but doesn’t say anything, his silence was answer enough.

Benito goes to step out of the kitchen, but before he leaves, he places a hand on Christopher’s shoulder.

“Call Y/N, she’s worried.”

Chris rests his head on the cupboards and lets out a sigh.

He knew he had gotten himself into some deep shit, and the last thing he wanted to do was involve Y/N. But he needed to hear her voice.

“Hello?” She says when the call connects.

“Hi.” He responds.

“Hi? Hi? You go missing for hours and all you have to say is ‘hi’?” She’s exasperated, and she’s probably been up for hours waiting for him.

“I’m sorry.” He says.

“What happened?”

He wasn’t going to get her involved. Christopher’s number one goal was to keep Y/N safe, and he would do it no matter what.

“Some guys were trying to rob the store.”

“Oh my gosh, Chris, are you okay?”

“I’m fine, amor. It’s nothing.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, deberías ir a dormir.”

“Okay, I’ll see you tomorrow?”

There's a small pause.

“Yeah. Buena noches, hermosa.”

the day of zabdiel’s end of the year party

The next couple of days were difficult. Every call that came from Y/N, he ignored. Every text he left opened. He knew it wasn’t the best plan of action, but he needed her to let him go, and this was the only way. He knew she would hurt, but a broken heart was better than one that wasn’t beating. Chris hadn’t planned on getting deep with La Marquesa, but he needed money and working as a delivery boy back in Ecuador didn’t cut it. He was going to stop after he got enough so that his family could live somewhat comfortably, but that was a pretty lie he told himself. He knew this life, once you got in it, it was almost impossible to get out.

Friday night came by slowly. The pain it brought him to ignore Y/N’s calls was almost unbearable. But he needed to protect her at all costs. His phone then pings from where it lay on his bed.

zab: vas a la fiesta hoy?

He had forgotten about the party entirely.

zab: you said you’d help me with the beer

He sighed, he had promised that. Christopher sends a text back quickly before throwing on his jacket. He didn’t want to go tonight but he had promised a friend. He decided to just drop off the drinks and leave, not wanting the small possibility of facing Y/N.

After taking as much beer as he could find from Benito’s, promising to restock tomorrow morning, Christopher set off to the party. By the time he got there, the music could already be heard down the street. The pulsing lights shone through the windows and the silhouettes of drunk teenagers were visible.

“You made it!” He hears as he steps inside. Joel approaches him and slaps Chris on the back. Chris offers him a smile and lifts the boxes of beer in his arms. Joel nods and motions towards the kitchen.

“Zab is upstairs, he’s been looking for you.” Chris nods and sets down the boxes on the counter before heading up to Zabdiel’s bedroom.

“Aye! Llego el Christopher!” Zabdiel exclaims as Chris pushes the door of his bedroom open. He offers them a smile as he and Richard clap him up in greeting.

“Everything okay?” Richard questions, noticing fatigue in Christopher's eyes, the normal bright and effervescent look in his eyes was almost completely diminished.

“Si, si.” Chris mutters. They both nod his way, but don’t completely believe him. Zabdiel quickly finishes getting ready, as he was already more than fashionably late to his own party. After he sprays the last bit of cologne, he and Richard follow Christopher out of the room.

“Creo que me voy para la casa.” Chris says as he walks to the stairs.

“Que?” Zabdiel questions. “The party just started!”

“I know, I’m just tired.” Zabdiel and Richard share a quick look.

“Bueno loco, it was good seeing you even just for a second.” Richard says, patting Chris on the shoulder.

Christopher walks downstairs, ready to head home. He keeps his gaze in front of him, just wanting to get home as soon as possible. He steps out of the house, Zabdiel and Richard following to bid their farewells. Chris doesn’t look back as he approaches his truck, but he almost stops dead in his tracks when he hears someone calling his name.

“Christopher!” Y/N. He knew her voice anywhere. Christopher flinches at her voice, but he didn’t turn, he didn’t stop, he couldn’t. Zabdiel leans down to whisper something to him but he brushes the taller boy off.

“Christopher!” She yells again and in a moment, she grabs his arm and turns him to face her.

He made sure his expression revealed no emotions, despite the fact that his heart was a hurricane of them. He watched as the tears clung to her lash line, threatening to fall any second. Christopher’s heart hurt as he looked at her, wanting to console her, to tell her it would all be okay. But he couldn’t. Y/N then reaches up to touch his face, noticing the bruises. Before her fingertips could graze his skin, he moves his face away, sure he would collapse into her if he let her touch him. She recoils back and a large pang of hurt erupted in his heart.

“What are you doing?” She questions.

“What?” He questions back. “Did you really think this meant anything to me?”

Her mouth pops open at his words.

“Wh-what?” She stutters. He hated this, he hated it so much.

“You never meant anything to me.” He states. Those words were a double edged sword, hurting both him and her. “We’re over.”

The tears were falling soundlessly down her face, and Christopher swore he felt his heart crack in two.

“You know they’ve always talked about you.” She says in between tears. “They said you would never treat me right. Maybe they had a point.”

Hearing her say that almost knocked the entire facade off. Y/N, the one person who always told him he was capable of so much more than he thought, the person who made him feel like less of an outsider, the person who defied all rules to love him, was telling him this, hitting him right where it hurt. He knew he was never good for her, but she always made him see him through her eyes. But now she saw his as everyone else did, a criminal, an outsider.

[winchester90210]

The BH 90210 Rewrite. - Ch. 1: Baby’s First Pilot

What’s a rewrite? A rewrite is taking the show already written and inserting your new character/s and their storylines into it. It takes already known and loved (or hated) characters and gives you a chance to see how they react in situations they never would have faced otherwise. But in this case, I’m going further than the episodes that are there and adding my own, both to make the story flow more cohesively and because I enjoy writing it!

Chapter Summary: West Bev gains a new student, the Walshes gain a new friend.

Pairing: No one…yet.

Chapter Warnings: A few swear words, other than that nothing!

Word Count: roughly 1,500

Disclaimer: my work is not to be reposted in anyway without my expressed written consent. (Reblogging Is fine!)

Song: None this chapter! if there is, I’ll put it here with a link to the audio from youtube. If it goes with a specific part of the chapter, I’ll put a symbol to let you know when. 

A/N: Tags are under the cut! This is just a little intro chapter, once we move on from the reader’s pilot we’ll delve into the series starting with The Green Room! (1×02)

November 9th, 1990

“And if you go down to the Guidance Office, Brenda Walsh will be there to give you a tour.”

“Right. Okay. And the Guidance Office is…” You trail off, cocking your eyebrow at the principal.

“Down the hall, take the first left. It should be the first door on your right,” he continues, “Welcome to West Beverly High, Ms. Y/L/N.” You give him a smile and make your way down to the office. Down. Left. Right. Got it. As you walked down the hall you could swear every person looked straight from an issue of Vogue. Opening the door with a squeak, you see a girl with long, dark, brown hair and meticulously styled bangs. Hopefully, not everyone would look this perfect. Right? You became painfully aware of your own appearance, quickly messing with your hair and straightening your clothes. You spent an hour and a half getting ready this morning, and that’s after you picked your outfit. To say you were nervous about looking good enough was an understatement.

“Hey! You must be Y/N,” she smiles, standing from her chair.

“And you’re Brenda?”

“Yeah, that’s me. I’m here to show you around. The classes, the offices, the cutest guys,” Brenda began, a smirk on her face, “We can walk through your schedule first though. Later I’ll show you to the quad, that’s where me and my friends usually hang out.” You nod, a nervous glint in your eye. Brenda seems to pick up on the way you’re chewing your lip and fidgeting with your hands and adds “They’re totally cool, don’t worry. My brother Brandon can be incredibly annoying but other than that they’re great.”

“Oh, you have a brother? Older, younger?” You ask, following her as she starts to make her way through the halls to your classes. She introduces each room as she goes. You stay slightly behind her, being careful not to bump into anyone as you weave through. You could feel the intensity as soon as you stepped into the school, like you could make one false move and end up committing social suicide before you even got started. You saw the thousand dollar jackets, the shoes, the dresses, the way everyone carried themselves. It was like a false sense of arrogance, the good in them screaming, wanting to get out, rid themselves of the materialistic trap they found themselves in. Or maybe that was just you. You caught their stares, the way they eyed you up and down. They seemed to pick up on the fact you were new very quickly. How? Was it your hair? Your clothes? You’re dragged out of your thoughts from Brenda’s response.

“Twins, actually…although he likes to act like he’s my older brother,” She says. “Do you have any siblings?”

“Um, I have an older brother, Eric.” You pause before saying, “He’s more of a…free spirit.” You make small talk with Brenda until you reach your first period, learning little things about each other as you go. You tell her you’re from Wisconsin, you learn she moved down from Minnesota not too long ago. You feel the tension in your body go away the more you talk with her. It comes back though, geared into full swing as soon as you walk into class. Your hands are shaky, balancing yourself onto the wood desk and setting your backpack next to you. Sitting down, you gaze at the room. It’s covered in maps and pictures of places in Europe you couldn’t identify. The bell rings and students file into the room. Thankfully, it’s a smaller class for 11th grade World History. Here goes nothing.

The teacher gives a small lecture and hands out worksheets, a true or false quiz on the Spanish Empire. While you’re zoned into the quiz, two boys behind you murmur.

“Hey. Bran. Do you recognize that girl?” A boy, his head adorned with blond curls whispers, gesturing to you with a head nod. However, you don’t notice, too preoccupied with finishing and passing your first quiz at your new school.

The other boy shakes his head, “No, ‘she new?”

“She must be, I’m pretty sure I would remember her.”

“Yeah, no kidding…” They both pause, looking to you for a moment. Brandon continues his thought with a whisper, “Dibs.”

“Dude, come on!” Steve’s voice rang out in a whine, startling you. What was his problem?

“Steve Sanders.” She scolds. “Do we have to have this talk again?” You follow the teacher’s gaze behind you, and sparkling blue eyes meet yours, paired with coiffed dirty blond hair, and a denim outfit. He gives you a smile and you flash him your own, all while Steve tries to fend off the teacher.

“No, ma'am. I’ll be quiet, ma'am. Sorry. It won’t happen again… ma'am.” Brandon looks at you, both of you holding back rounds of giggles at Steve’s flustered retort.

“Don’t let it happen again.”

The rest of the class is peaceful, all of you silently doing your work. And while peaceful, there’s still a mischievous air in the room, you and Brandon catching glances at each other while you think the other person isn’t looking. You finish up your sheet and turn it in at the front of the room. Your shoes squeak a little too loudly, attracting a few stares as you walk back to your desk to pack up your things. You cringe at the sound but try to brush it off. The bell finally rings, but when you go to walk out you’re stopped in your tracks.

“Hey, gorgeous.” Well, that’s a way to talk to someone you’ve never met, I guess. You eye him up suspiciously. “I’m Sanders,” he takes an unneeded dramatic pause, “Steve Sanders.” You watch his friend from earlier roll his eyes and chuckle at his friend’s cocky introduction. You want to laugh too. Are you supposed to laugh? Is this Steve guy kidding? Cause he had to be. But what if he wasn’t? What if this is just him? Compose yourself, Y/N! Deep breath. In. Out.

You take a breath and speak, “So I’ve heard.”

“Yeah? You’ve heard about me?” His smirk is dripping with arrogance as he talks, leaning into you.

“Yeah like, literally just now…when the teacher totally grilled you?” You let out a laugh that time, holy shit. This guy was serious.

“Hey! She didn’t grill me, okay? She was just trying to act like she was in charge. It’s her job.” You study his face as he defends himself. Huh. He would be cute if he wasn’t being such a jackass, you think.

You sigh, “Look, I have a class to go to, and someone’s waiting for me. Sorry, Steve.” Apologizing, you slip past him and into the hallway.

“Good effort out there, Steve-o,” Brandon laughs, giving Steve a pat on the back and grabbing his bag, slinging it over his shoulder.

“Oh, there you are!” Brenda calls out, grabbing Brandon on the arm and pulling him outside of the class. “The girl I’m showing around is going to work on the West Beverly Blaze next period. Can you go with her? Kelly needs me, so I can’t. Wardrobe malfunction. It’s a total disaster.” Pleading eyes are shot Brandon’s way.

He hesitates for a moment but says “Yeah, alright…bring me to her and I can get her there.” His sister’s face immediately lights up, a grin on her face.

“Yes! Thank you! I owe you!” And with that, she’s dragging him over to you while you look over your schedule. “Y/N! This is Brandon, I told you about him earlier,” she starts. And then you lock eyes with him for the second time that morning and it’s as if time stops. Your stomach churns, feeling the butterflies wreaking havoc, fluttering around. And something about the way he shifts on his feet, messes with his hands, and has a goofy smile on his face tells you he’s just as uneasy as you are. Hopefully a good kind of uneasy. “Brandon? Y/N? Hello??” She had never seen her brother like this. He had always been a natural with girls. Cool and confident. But right now he was flustered, giddy even. He wasn’t sure why he was acting like this either. Maybe it was the anxiety of a new school, he thought. He just felt so…awkward.

“Oh, sorry, uh…nice to meet you, Brandon,” you smile and hold out your hand for him to shake.

“Nice to meet you too, Y/N.” Shaking your hand, he continues “Brenda wants to me to show you to the journalism room.” Before you get to respond, Brenda is already darting off without a word. You cock your head at the sight of Brenda bolting down the halls while Brandon just shakes his head and laughs.

“So, shall we?”

tag list: @be-patient-be-good @fangirl-imagines

[theentiregdtime]

bleasse can u write dee and dennis getting rlly high n coming out to eachother or dee somehow finding out mac and dennis r together 😳

PHILADELPHIA, PA

8:00 P.M.ON A FRIDAY

“Damn it, Deandra, what in the shit are you talking about?”

“Yeah, Dee, I’m not following this at all. But it’s getting late, and we haven’t had any customers since noon, so I was thinking me and Frank could just leave-”

“No, no one is leaving, okay?” Dee insists. “I called a meeting and you two are going to shut up and listen to me for once!”

Frank and Charlie exchange a glance. Charlie looks like he’s willing to make a run for it if they both do, and Frank is frowning at him like he knows there’s no way out. They’re not saying anything, but they always seem to know what the other is thinking- they have this weird, creepy telepathy thing.

“So…” Charlie whistles, gaping at Dee like like he thinks she might blow up at any moment (she might), “what’s up?”

“Is this about the ladies’ night thing? ‘Cause we already voted on that.” Frank waves his stubby, little arms through the air. “We get it, Deandra, you want puss, but we can’t just go givin’ out free drinks, this ain’t a charity!”

“For the love of-” Dee snarls in her throat and rubs at her face. She’s going to kill them. She’s going to kill all of them. But she can’t kill them yet, at least not for a couple more years, not until she knows she can get away with it- so she regains her composure with and sighs. Her bangs are all ruffled now. “That’s not what this is about. It’s about this.”

She holds her phone out for Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum to see.

“What am I looking at?”

“Well, Frank, she took a picture of a phone with her phone, which is cool, definitely worth the wait, but what would be even better is if we got a third phone and-”

“Not the phone, you boobs!” Dee spits. “The text!”

Charlie swipes her cell to squint at the picture.

“It’s… It says… milk…”

Frank pats Charlie’s shoulder and takes the phone from his hands. He adjusts his glasses and puts it up to his face- like, right up to his face. Like, he definitely has to be too close to read it now. Any closer and it’ll literally be on his face.

Again, Dee is going to kill them.

“Meet you at 9. Don’t say anything to Dee or Charlie. This is the best thing ever and I don’t want them to ruin it.” Frank pokes the screen. “Then there’s some sort of little yellow man smiling at me-”

“Give me that!” Dee snatches the phone back from Frank’s fat, grubby fingers. “The point is, Mac and Dennis are up to something and they don’t want us to know.”

“Yeah, okay, but why did you read Dennis’ texts…?” Charlie asks.

“Yeah, that’s shitty etiquette. You never know what Donald could be texting about- could be you see somethin’ you don’t wanna see.”

“It’s Dennis,” Dee corrects him knowing damn well he’ll re-forget within the hour, “and he left it on the bar! That’s fair game!”

“I don’t know.” Charlie shrugs. “I’m kind of starting not to take your side anymore, it’s like, you’re the bad guy here…”

“Yeah, yeah,” Frank agrees, talking with his mouth full and spitting crumbs. What is he even chewing? Is he eating loose saltines out of his pocket? “No one likes a sneaky bitch.”

Dee pinches the bridge of her nose.

She’s wasting her night for this! And why? So she can save the bar and keep these two dick nips in business? She should just walk right on out of here, pour some gasoline, light a match, burn them and this whole place down, go home, put on her pajamas, watch a movie…

She opens her eyes and remembers that she’s still in the back office, and she still hasn’t gotten her point across to these rabid weasel men.

“Listen, you little shit brains.” Dee pounds a fist on the desk. “I think it’s very obvious what’s happening here.”

Charlie nods. “Well, yeah, it’s been-”

“Mac and Dennis are selling the bar.”

Frank chokes on a cracker, hacks it back up, and swallows hard.

“Selling the bar? They only own half the damn thing!”

“Yeah, and like,” Charlie cuts in, “why would they sell it? I mean, what would we even do all day?”

“Look, I don’t know exactly how or why, but I think it’s pretty obvious what’s going on. They’re meeting with someone tonight and they’re gonna get rich off this deal and leave the rest of us out of it- and if it’s the best thing that ever happened, then it must be a shitload of money.”

Dee would actually be thrilled to get out of this dump. It’d finally give her the chance to focus on her acting career. She could leave these jerkwads behind, move away from this garbage town, meet some refined people who don’t consider chocolate mints high-class living… But she needs her cut, they owe her her cut.

Even if she doesn’t technically own any shares of the bar, those sons of bitches owe her for putting up with them and their stupid schemes and their verbal abuse for years and years and years. She could give a shit about what happens to Frank and Charlie, but she needs them on her side for this, or she’s never going to get anywhere.

“But I’ve got a plan. I turned on Dennis’ location sharing weeks ago and he hasn’t noticed, so we can track him and-”

“Jeez, Dee, what the hell is this?”

“You are not coming out on top here, Deandra.”

“I mean, this is saying more about you than Mac and Dennis.”

“Just- Shut up for five minutes!” Dee yelps, then switches to squatting and baby-talking down to them. “Can you do that? Can you shut your mouths for five whole minutes while I talk? Or do you want to be out of a job? Do you want to live in the sewers? Do you? Huh?”

Neither of them gives her any lip.

“Good. Now, Dennis should arrive wherever they’re meeting in about,” -she glances at the clock- “forty-five minutes, which gives us just enough time to stop by my apartment, work on some disguises, figure out our characters-”

“Wait- Wh- Our characters?” Charlie stammers.

“Well, yeah. See, we need to intercept the deal, disguise ourselves as Paddy’s customers… you know, tell some stories about what a piece of shit the bar is!” Dee throws her hands in the air. “It’ll be easy, because the bar is a piece of shit.”

Frank raises a skeptical eyebrow. “So to save the bar… we’re gonna make everyone hate the bar. Do you hear yourself right now?”

“Oh, like it’s going to jeopardize our flourishing business.” Dee paces to the other side of the room. “I bet no one’s even in here right now, and if they are, we sure as shit aren’t serving them!”

Dee swings the door open and peeks out into the bar. Aside from one of the regulars fast asleep in a booth (he’s old, he mostly comes here to nap), there’s only one customer. He notices Dee and perks up, waving in her direction.

“Hey, can I get a Jack and Coke, or…?”

“Can’t you see I’m busy?” she snaps and slams the door shut, spinning back around to finish detailing her plan.

“Anyways, here’s what I’m thinking…”

—–

“This is so cool.”

Dennis glances up from his Riesling to find Mac gawking at him across the table. He has both elbows on it like some sort of barbarian, leaning forward onto his arms and grinning so wide that it tugs at the wrinkles around his eyes. He looks completely normal, and not at all like Jack Nicholson in The Shining.

“It’s, aha…” -he chuckles and sets his glass down- “the same as it always is.”

“Well, I know, but it’s… different now.” Mac reaches across the table and brushes their fingers together, just the ghost of a touch. He leans on his free hand and makes a face like his entire brain has turned to mashed potatoes and all that’s left is Dennis. Dennis pretends to think it’s stupid. “S'awesome.”

Mac’s right, it isn’t the same, not exactly. All of the usual pieces are there. Everything is as it is every month- the uncomfortable chairs are the same, the wait staff is the same (he assumes, he can never remember), the menu is the same, and they’ll spend twenty minutes looking at it before ordering the same meals they always do.

The only thing that separates this from a regular monthly dinner is that little feeling in Dennis’ chest like something is swirling around inside of him, like something’s been filled- like it’s overflowing, in fact- and it’s going to spill out of him at any moment. It’s a good feeling, surprisingly. The air conditioner is blasting directly on his back, and his chair is wobbly, but he’s warmer and more comfortable than he’s ever been in his life.

“You know, I was thinking…”

“Are we ready to order-”

“Begone!” Dennis snaps at the waiter, flitting a hand through the air in a shooing motion. “Can’t you see we’re busy here?”

“Yeah, don’t interrupt my boyfriend, asshole!” Mac shouts so loudly that people five tables from them turn their heads. He seems so giddy to say it that he can hardly keep still in his seat.

The waiter rolls his eyes, huffs, and stomps away. He’s mumbling something under his breath, and typically, Dennis would demand he turn around and say it to his face like a man, but it’s not worth it tonight.

“See, that’s what I’m talking about!” Mac all but giggles. “That was badass, dude.”

“You know what? It was.” Dennis drinks the last sip of his wine, then holds the glass out over the edge of the table. “But the service here is absolutely unacceptable, I mean, have you even seen a waiter?”

—–

It’s almost 9:20 when they arrive at Guigino’s.

They would have made it on time if not for Frank and Charlie changing costumes every ten seconds. They didn’t listen to Dee’s suggestions at all. Why listen to her? That would almost make too much sense, it would be too reasonable.

In the end, they seem pretty happy with what they’ve settled on.

Frank is wearing a dark wig, a feather boa, and what he thought was a very expensive dress, but is in fact a red bathrobe- and to make matters worse, he has his Crocs on under it. Charlie’s sporting a purple suit with too-small sleeves and pretending to smoke from a pipe. They’ve single-handedly managed to make themselves the two most conspicuous people on the planet, but Dee couldn’t change their minds. They said if they were going to do this whole mystery thing, they really wanted to pull the classy Clue vibe.

So Dee is the only one dressed like an actual waiter, rocking a fake mustache (not that you can tell) and a three-piece suit she thinks matches the Guigino’s attire (she can never remember what the wait staff looks like). She’s got it all planned out. She’s going to intercept orders, drop in on Mac and Dennis’ little exchange, and get some patrons talking about what a shithole Paddy’s Pub is.

And Frank and Charlie are going to do… whatever it is that they’re doing.

Before they go their separate ways, they duck in front of one of the windows and peer inside. It’s a crowded night, which is good- it’ll make it easier for them to blend in. Dee scans the restaurant until she spots Mac and Dennis seated near the kitchen.

“What the hell, why are they alone?” Dee whispers, her breath fogging up the glass.

“Well, maybe they’re just on a-”

“They must be keeping it on the down-low,” Frank cuts Charlie off. “Don’t want to be seen together.”

“That doesn’t make any sense, how would they even communicate?”

“I don’t know, through the waiter or something. You know, passin’ notes, sendin’ messages- encrypted messages. They buy their table fish, that’s code for let’s make this deal, they have ‘em bring the chicken instead, that’s like, how about you up the ante a little bit?”

Goddamn it. These goddamn sons of bitches. They’re going to tank this whole thing before it begins, they aren’t helping at all, and Charlie is actually pretending to take puffs on the pipe even though there’s no one out here!

“What are you talking about?” Dee asks, knowing it’s futile before she even finishes the question.

“The chicken is sub-par, Deandra.”

“Yeah, everybody knows that,” Charlie agrees.

“It’s very dry.”

“No, about the secret messages!” she hisses.

Frank shrugs. “All I’m saying is, must be some pretty high-profile characters.”

Dee isn’t so sure there’s a sale happening anymore. There’s definitely something going on, but she doesn’t know what it is. Looking in, it kind of seems like it’s just one of their lame monthly dinners, but there must be something else… and she’s going to have to figure it out on her own.

But she’s not completely alone. She and her character, Alfredo, a waiter with a dark past who can take any order but the order of his own heart, who can clear any table but can’t turn the tables of fate, are in this together.

“You guys go do your Nancy Drew thing or whatever.” Dee stands up and twirls the tip of her mustache. “I’m going to hit this place from the back.”

—–

Frank and Charlie make their way inside as Dee sneaks around through the back entrance and into the kitchen. They look pretty damn classy, if Frank says so himself.

Dressed like this, they can sit at any table they want and blend right in with the rich folk. Frank should know, he used to be one of them- he knows how to look the part.

His Crocs squeak against the tile with every step up to the hostess’ podium.

“Good even-”

“Yes, darling!” Frank announces and flips his hair. “I’m Miss Scarlett, and this is my lover, Professor-”

“Professor Purple,” Charlie finishes his sentence for him, taking a drag from his pipe.

“It’s Plum, Charlie,” Frank whispers.

“What the hell is a plum?”

“It’s a fruit.”

“That doesn’t sound right. That’s not a thing.”

“Anyways!” Frank turns back to the hostess, voice booming again. “We’re meeting with some associates, so if you don’t mind, we’ll just make our way to their table.”

Before she can object, they’ve already passed the podium and are approaching the nearest family. They’ve got to start somewhere, so they might as well go in order. After all, you can never know an undercover agent just from looking at ‘em. They invade right under your nose, like Red Dawn.

They drag a couple of empty chairs up to the first table, a suspiciously average-looking couple with a small child (they’re starting younger and younger, these child spies). The scooting noise echoes through the restaurant, and it’s loud as shit, but Frank isn’t picking a chair up off the ground- not with his nails freshly-cleaned.

“Boy,” he starts as they both plop themselves down, “have we had a rough night.”

The supposed 'mother’ narrows her eyes at them. “I’m sorry, who are…?”

“We just came in from Paddy’s Pub,” Charlie elaborates, crossing his legs and taking another fake puff. He looks fancy as shit. “Let me tell ya’, that place is a hole- literally! There are glory holes in every wall!”

The woman gasps. The man beside her pulls their alleged child towards him and covers his ears.

“I got bit by a rat there once,” Frank says, “now look at me- I’m covered in hair! And I used to be beautiful.”

“Yeah, and this is just the hair you can see,” Charlie adds.

“Here,” Frank hikes up his skirt and lifts his leg up, with a bit of a struggle, on top of the table. His heel lands in a very warm carbonara. “Let me show ya’ my ankles.”

—–

Dee pokes her head out of the kitchen door, a plate of fried artichokes or some shit in her hand. She’s close enough to Mac and Dennis that she can mostly make out their conversation over the clattering and steaming noises in the room.

“I don’t know, I was just surprised you didn’t want to tell them,” Dennis is saying. “I assumed you’d be screaming about it every day for a week.”

“It’s not that I don’t want to, Dennis, but you know how they are, they’re gonna be jealous of us, 'cause they’re all sad and alone, and they’re gonna be total assholes about it.”

This is it. This is going somewhere. Dee picks one of the breaded green things off the plate and pops it in her mouth. It’s mushy and it tastes like the underside of a pickled boot.

“So what? Since when do you care?”

“I’m just- I’m worried they’re gonna talk you out of it.”

A pause.

“Mac, baby, this has been a long time coming, nothing is going to-”

Dee misses the rest when a waiter bumps into her from behind. Fuck.

“Oh, uh, excuse me,” she says in her gruffest voice, standing up straight. She brushes the panko crumbs out of her mustache.

The waiter is just squinting at her for some reason- perv.

“Do I know you…?” he asks.

“Not possible,” Dee answers, shaking her head. “I just started here yesterday. And before that…” -she gazes into the distance- “well, that’s a story of another time, another place, a story of love and betrayal and murder-”

“You know what? I don’t care.” The waiter pushes past her and stops at Mac and Dennis’ table.

What an asshole. If he were the one talking, she’d listen to him! That goddamn jerk! She should teach him a lesson. If she weren’t so busy with this mission, she’d pants him or tie his shoelaces together or something.

This is a problem, too. If he’s Mac and Dennis’ waiter, Dee is never going to be able to spy on them without him calling her out.

She sneaks past the three of them and stops beside a family a few tables down, setting the cursed plate of artichokes between them.

“Your appetizer,” she grumbles.

“We didn’t have a-”

“It’s on the house. They’re fantastic, you’re gonna love 'em, they taste nothing at all like a live octopus.”

Dee stays put at the end of their table, trying to listen in on the conversation. They’re still talking to the waiter- they always have so many goddamn questions. They can’t just order food, no, that would be too simple, it’s always what’s the soup of the day and can you make me Tuesday’s soup instead and how fresh is the fish and where are the tomatoes in your bolognese from?

“Did you… need something or…?” the man at the table questions.

“Shh,” she hushes him without looking.

They’re discussing their little scheme again, but Dee can’t make out what they’re saying. Damn it. She’s going to have to get closer.

She swipes a carafe of water and winds around the half-wall, shimmying down until she’s hidden by one of the faux plants. She pretends to water it, pouring cold chunks of ice down into the pot as she eavesdrops.

“I just can’t believe it took so long.”

“Well, maybe if you hadn’t spent the better part of your life raving about how sinful and unnatural- Why are you picking off my salad? You hate salad.”

“Yeah, but I like croutons, dude. You should have asked for chicken on this.”

“That’s absurd, Mac, everybody knows the chicken here is sub-par.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Dee catches a red blob and a purple blob whipping across the restaurant. They’re making it hard for her to focus. She turns to watch them for a second, and in that short time, witnesses Charlie eating spaghetti with his hands and Frank showing a very uncomfortable-looking woman his teeth.

“Oh, goddamn it!” she whispers.

Dee was going to leave them to their own devices, but they’re going to make a scene and get themselves kicked out. If Mac and Dennis spot them, they’re going to know Dee’s here, too, even if she’s wearing an incredible disguise. She can’t let that happen- she’s going to have to go interfere.

—–

“So…” -Charlie picks up a spaghetti noodle and drops it into his mouth, sauce dripping onto his shirt- “which one of you gentlemen is looking to make a deal?”

He’s managed to ditch Frank, who’s started with this weird 'the beer at Paddy’s shrinks your teeth’ angle, and has decided to act out his own plan instead. See, he has a good thing going at the bar, but these are some very money-having people they’re talking to, people looking for investments, people with lots and lots of shiny coins… and Charlie has plenty of ideas.

The well-dressed men across the table exchange a look, then turn back to him with their hands folded.

“We’re listening,” one of them says. He has a funny voice- he sounds like an evil cat.

This is new. Charlie almost doesn’t know where to go from here. The last three groups asked him to leave or threatened to have him kicked out, and he’d bounced between them with a 'very well then, good day!’ and a tip of his pipe.

But now, these are smart people. They’re actually listening to what Charlie has to say- no one ever listens to what Charlie has to say! If they did, they wouldn’t be here right now. They’d know that there is no scheme and this is just a stupid date they’re crashing!

So he might as well take advantage of the situation and make himself some coins, or rubies, or chalk, or you know, whatever the currency is where these dudes are from. Either way, it works for him.

“My good men…” -he slaps his hands down on the table for dramatic effect- “have you ever thought gee, I sure am a big fan of red cheese, but it’s hard to eat all this wax? Well-”

“No, no, we’re not interested in any of that,” the other guy interrupts. “We’re interested in her.”

Charlie’s eyes follow the path of his finger, which at first, he thinks might be directed at Dee (but who would want that?).

He sees that he’s, in fact, talking about Frank, who’s busy pulling hairs out of his eyebrow and showing them to a child. Charlie isn’t sure what that is, probably some kind of 'Paddy’s is radioactive’ thing.

“What?” he asks in disbelief. “No way, man, I could never sell-”

A fat stack of money is slammed down on the table. Green money. Paper money. Soft money!

Charlie sneers and leans in.

“I’m listening…”

—–

“Why are we still talking about this, dude? It’s not a big deal.”

“Oh no, you do not get to decide that,” Dennis bites back, jamming his glass in Mac’s direction and spilling a few drops. He’ll admit, he’s a little wine drunk. “If I say it’s a big deal, then it’s a big deal! This is a relationship, Mac.”

Mac seems stunned by that. Maybe that’s the first time they’ve used that word- Dennis isn’t sure anymore. This new bottle of Pinot Blanc he’s ordered is fantastic and his fish is overcooked, so he’s just been drinking… and at this point, everything is starting to blur.

“I know, Dennis.” His tone is softer now, but he’s still arguing. Son of a bitch. Beautiful son of a bitch. “It’s just, this is our thing, and people are always trying to get in the middle of it, and for once, just for like a week, I didn’t want it to be anyone else’s.”

Dennis had really pictured this being the other way around. He’s always the one hushing Mac and urging him to keep things just between the two of them. He assumed Mac would be harassing friends and strangers alike, telling them what an outstanding boyfriend Dennis Reynolds is, to the point of annoyance.

Dennis has always been the one who’s wanted to scream his feelings at the top of his lungs, but didn’t for fear that someone else would hear him. Now that person is Mac, who has so boldly decided to reverse the roles without warning, and Dennis doesn’t know how to be in this position.

He doesn’t even know how to answer. Instead, he swirls his glass, watching the liquid slosh around and around so that he doesn’t have to look up at Mac’s dumb, tender puppy dog eyes.

“You know what?” Mac says, and scoots his chair out. “Fuck it.”

He assumes Mac’s going to walk out of the restaurant. That would be apropos, wouldn’t it? Dennis walks out of the bar for a year and Mac walks out on their dinner date for the night. It’s not even a drop of his own medicine and it still burns like acid.

Whatever. He slugs down the rest of his drink and pours himself another- might as well get hammered.

—–

“Excuse me, Sir, may I refill your water?” Dee asks, doing a shitty voice that sounds like Batman, as she approaches Frank’s table.

He waves her out of the way. “Fuck off, I’m trying to watch Charlie.”

It doesn’t work and she only leans in closer. Her breath smells like old sauerkraut.

“Goddamn it, Frank,” -she’s back to her normal squawking voice- “you two cock socks are going to blow my whole cover here. What are you even doing? Why are you sitting by yourself?”

Frank gives her a shove so he can spy on Charlie’s negotiations. He’s pretty good at reading lips. Like right now, one of the guys is saying something about marrying a horse. Twisted sack of shit.

“Because! Charlie is trying to sell me to those mafia-lookin’ guys. He’s a damn double agent!” Frank hollers through a mouth of bread. “But don’t worry, I solved the problem. As soon as those sons of bitches stand up-”

“For the love of- I don’t care!” Dee flaps her hands around. She looks like a chicken. “I was fine with you two doing your stupid costumes, and pretending to be a couple, and putting your body parts in peoples’ soup, but you cannot make a scene! I am this close to figuring out what Mac and Dennis are up to.”

Frank dips another breadstick in his soda and crams it down his gullet whole.

“Who gives a shit?” he tries to say, but mostly what comes out is root beer bread. He’s already reaching for another. “Charlie double-crossed me-”

Dee snatches him by his feather boa and digs her talons into his collarbone. It does not feel great. Frank swallows his food in fear.

“Listen, you son of a bitch, I don’t care if Charlie sells you, because you know what? You’re worth nothing! If he trades you for a shiny paperclip, which he probably will, it will still be more than you’re worth. You guys had one job! All you had to do was shut up while I spied on Mac and Dennis, but no, you’ve somehow gotten yourselves involved with some foreign investors who clearly don’t mind a short, foul, hairy woman who reeks of salami! I swear to god, if you can’t just sit here and keep a low profile for the next fifteen minutes, I will come down upon you like-”

There are a couple of taps on a microphone, and high-pitched feedback fills the restaurant. Most of the patrons moan and cover their ears.

“Shit, sorry, that was loud. But also, I’m not sorry, because I’ve got shit to say.”

That’s Mac talking.

Dee lets go of Frank and he drops back onto his seat. Both of them turn to watch Mac where he’s standing by the piano. He’s whispering to the pianist- actually, it looks more like he’s threatening him- who starts playing a song that sounds vaguely familiar, but Frank can’t place.

“Look, you’re all here tonight because you have people who love you and care about you and take you on dates and aren’t afraid to let you know how they feel. But let me tell each and every one of you motherfuckers… that person you’re with, that person across the table from you, who seems like the only person in the whole, entire world… they’re a piece of shit compared to Dennis Reynolds.”

Oh, yeah, they’re doing the gay speech thing again. Always a classic. Dee looks surprised as shit even though they’ve been through this, like, eight times.

Frank loses interest and dips another breadstick into his drink. They’re made for each other, they always have been- bread and root beer- he doesn’t get how everybody doesn’t see that.

“The first day I met him, I thought Dennis was the smartest, handsomest, most awesome-est guy I’d ever met- but I was wrong. Because every day I wake up, I meet a new version of him that’s somehow even better than he was yesterday. But I’ve been acting so stupid and scared and lame… because all my life, I thought if I just wasn’t loud about something, it would go away. But I don’t want this to go away, so I’m gonna be loud!”

Daniel (is that his name?) is making a stupid face. He looks like he just won the lottery or some shit.

“Dennis, look, I didn’t tell people about us because I didn’t even think about other people! I almost never do! You’re, like, everything to me, man. And I’m so lucky this happened. You’re the meaning in my life. You’re the inspiration.”

“When you love somebody,” Mac sings along to the piano, except he’s really just yelling, “til the end of time!”

The music fades out, and is immediately replaced by the confused chatter of irritated customers. One of the waiters says something about how he’s got to find another job before he finally ends it all.

“Oh, they’re just bangin’,” Frank says with a shrug.

“Ohhh,” Dee draws out, “that makes sense. Well, see, that- that’s nothing. I don’t care about that.”

“I just can’t believe Charlie didn’t know.”

“Right? He’s usually on top of this kind of stuff.”

They both start to blow the joint, but they don’t get far before a symphony of chairs falling and plates shattering resounds across Guigino’s. Frank looks over to see both of the investors have fallen to the floor atop each other, shoelaces tied together, covered in broken glass. Charlie stops counting the money in his hands and stares, wide-eyed, at Frank.

“You’ll never take me alive!” Frank roars, whipping a wrench out of the back of his dress. If you’re gonna look the part, you gotta act the part!

He charges towards Charlie’s table with the wrench above his head, his wig flying off in the process. “Someone’s got to get bludgeoned!”

“Wait,” Mac says into the microphone, “Frank? Charlie?”

“Oh, goddamn it!” Dennis shrieks. “What are you people doing here?!”

“Wait, actually, that’s pretty funny, Charlie,” Mac chuckles. “Did you do that?”

“No, man!” Charlie shouts back. “That was all Frank! That’s hilarious, man!”

Charlie reaches out to give Frank a high-five… and eh, he decides he’ll forgive him. He tosses the wrench to the floor and gives Charlie’s hand a slap. No one can split up the gruesome twosome, not even a couple of men in black looking to buy a glamorous whore.

“Well, that’s just…” -Dennis chugs the rest of his wine straight from the bottle, half of it ending up on his shirt- “that’s awesome.”

“I know, why hasn’t anyone thought of that before?” Mac laughs into the microphone.

Before either of them realizes she was ever even there, Dee storms out of the restaurant with a growl.

Dennis raises his glass, flinging wine on the couple next to him. “Monthly dinner, baby!”

The four of them hoot and holler together, and yeah, Frank thinks, bread and root beer make a pretty good couple.

[justhereforseverus]

A rose by any other name would smell as sweet

Chapter 5: Thy spirit within thee hath been so at war

During your first "lesson" with Severus Snape, you get a flashback of something long forgotten and avoided.

Notes:

This is angsty. TW: for shouting abuse, horrible teachers, classmates, and almost passing out.

Yes, I know a real flashback doesn't work that way but this is what I can produce with my limited writing abilities. Thank you so much for reading! I've also wrote some very emotional, romantic, loving, intense scenes for the future chapters and I can't wait to share them.

Chapter Text

I slept like a sweet little lion cub. Ok, no idea if they sleep well but that was the first thing that came into my mind this morning. I felt refreshed, full of energy and entirely at peace. Gosh, that sleeping potion was truly magic. I basically hopped into the great hall for breakfast and Remus looked at me like I’ve turned myself into a unicorn and exclaime: “What the hell happened to you? You look almost like a normal person today. Are you the real (y/n) or did you simply have a good night’s sleep?” I sat next to him and eagerly poured myself some pumpkin juice. “Yes, actually I slept like a baby. Severus’ sleeping potion is really something. Highly recommendable 10/10. Might work for you, too, you scruffy little dog.” He jokingly stuck his tongue out and finished eating his pancake before saying: “First of all: I’m anything BUT a little dog and I think scruffiness is not a negative thing because it makes me look cute – I let out a small ironic haha at this – “and secondly: Congrats! He didn’t poison you! That means he tolerates you, which is better than what the rests of us get: pure loath and hatred.”

“Doesn’t he also make your wolfsbane potion?”

Yes, but I’m convinced he’s putting something in there that causes headaches afterwards just because he can.”

“But you can’t prove it, dear! Anyway, any plans for the weekend?” “Yes, I have a date with my very attractive girlfriend Tonks so sorry no intercourse this time unless you’re open for a threesome.”

“Stop it! No, thank you, I’m good! You’re hanging out way too much with Sirius. I haven’t forgotten how he flirted with me the first time we’ve met. Worst pick up lines ever! But I’m happy for you. I don’t have any plans, yet but we’ll see. Might get a bit of reading done.”

“How boring but that might be just the perfect weekend for you. If you want to you can ask our dungeon bat to join. Maybe he feels social for once.”

“Haha, very funny. But either way I’m glad to have a bit of a break from teaching.”

I appreciate that Remus is so open and easy to be around with. Sometimes I fear we became best friends way too fast but it’s like in school. You click with someone and it’s you and your best friend against the world. His girlfriend Tonks has been in his life for a couple of months now and gosh they are so in love it makes me happy. Makes me miss having a crush and a relationship sometimes. I haven’t been in one for ages. I’m just scared and don’t connect that way with people. Well, unless you count celebrity crushes, fictional characters and poets long dead and gone. Hopeless indeed. I wish Franz Kafka’s ghost would actually be available, but he wasn’t a wizard so anyway...

When I passed my pidgeon hole in the faculty office I saw a tiny parchment roll bound with a green band. I opened it and read: “If you’re free this weekend, we can begin our lessons tomorrow at noon. Research which potions you’d like to learn and prepare their specific names. If you’re unable to come let me know through an owl, as I’m not coming into the teacher’s offices anymore for today. Yours Sincerely, S. Snape.” Ok, that’s my weekend settled then.

On Saturday, I arrived at the potion classroom with a long roll of parchment containing the potions I’d like to make, a thick notebook so I can make notes, and my fluttering nerves bundled together in my stomach. To be honest, I was nervous and this felt like a math exam. Perhaps this wasn’t the best idea after all. However, upon entering the classroom, Severus presence calmed me somewhat. I know others wouldn’t feel that way when entering the classroom. Yet, I simply feel like meeting someone familiar. Is that strange? Am I making sense? Probably not.

We discussed some of the potions I had in mind and he chose one of the simplest for a start. He put the instructions on the Black Board and I, as his temporary student, sat at the front table. I felt nervous and it was difficult to not see myself as a teenager again. Here and there did he tell me how to put ingredients into the pot or how to cut them rightly but apart from that he focused more on supervising. The potion was easy but I’ve never dared to try it myself without equipment, ingredients or someone to look after me. Unfortunately, I also forgot why my self-confidence and trust in potion making has disappeared. While looking at the flask turning a bright green with reddish streaks, I remembered something. It felt like I’ve seen this before. I’ve been here before. I started shaking and my mind went blank. It was like a deja-vu, a flashback to something I’ve completely forgot and actively pushed away from memory. How could I forget the main reason why I’m not doing this? I heard shouting in the back of my mind, my equipment pushed to the floor, glass breaking, a man shouting, screaming in my face and the entire class laughing. How could I ever forget this? I started shaking and the knife, which I used to cut some radish looking things fell from my hand to the floor. My vision went black and my knees became weak. Suddenly, I felt arms around me, heard a voice calling my name from very far away. I looked around and saw Severus with panic on his face, trying to lead me to a bench that was put against the wall. I remember sitting and he giving me a cup of something warm to drink. Slowly I got back to reality and my vision normalised. I felt Severus holding both my shoulders to make sure I don’t fall to the floor. When it came to me what happened, I only muttered an apology and held my face in my hands. He didn’t say anything for a while, put his long coat over me and then proceeded to finish the potion and put the equipment away. He then returned to my side still silent. After some minutes, he asked: “How are you?”

I was embarrassed and felt nothing but shame. I apologised again and stood up wanting to leave the classroom but he stopped me in saying: “Please don’t leave. We don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to. We can simply forget that happened or not. That is your choice. I won’t ask. I’m not mad. But stay. I don’t think it’s wise to go up all the stairs when you haven’t recovered, yet. I don’t want to be responsible for any deaths in this castle.” I looked at him and he sat, arms and legs crossed on the wooden bench looking towards the floor. I obliged and got back next to him. “I forgot.” I said “I forgot why I gave up on potions. Why my grades have been mediocre or down right only passing. I forgot otherwise I wouldn’t have put you in this position. I’m sorry.” “You’ve apologised two times already that’s more than enough.”

“Sor -I mean. Yes.”

“I can be a horrible teacher. I know that. It’s not a profession I chose willingly, not that this would be an excuse. I know it’s not right. Yet, I never scream. I try to control my emotions at any times and let words speak for themselves. Whoever was responsible for this memory didn’t have the right to do what he did. Don’t beat yourself up about it. You outgrew him.”

“Thank you but… how?

“Obvious when you’re holding your hands over your ears and mutter ‘Please stop shouting’.

“Oh…..”

“As I’ve said: It’s fine.”

We sat in silence for a while and I sipped at my tea. When my spirits came back, I tried to lighten the mood as I always do in these awkward situations: “Are you giving tea to your frightened students, too or am I an exception?”

“My students usually hate and fear me behind my back so I’m afraid I can’t offer them this. Furthermore, it would ruin my reputation. If they want to be cuddled they can go to Minerva with her endless supply of biscuits. No, this is something reserved for grown-ups. English courtesy you might even say. When you don’t know what to do. Make tea.”

“I see. You’re not that frightening to me so far.”

“As I said. You’re my colleague, not my student.”

“Yet, you seem to be nicer to me than to the rest of my colleagues.”

“Maybe. However, I’d argue I’m a role model of courtesy and politeness.”

I chuckled at this “Remus wouldn’t agree.”

“Well, me and Remus have a difficult relationship.”

“He said exactly the same and yet I like you both.”

“Interesting indeed. We’ve barely talked.”

“Just a feeling. Thank you, Professor Snape."

“Call me Severus. No need for useless titles here.”

[johnroycomic]

Entirely Free Comedy Class - Week Three Revised

Been a while, but here is the new updated version of Week Three.

My Entirely Free Comedy Class, Week Three

Welcome back.  Hope you enjoyed Anthony Jeselnik and James Adomian.  I also hope the lesson about different comedy styles and basic joke structure sunk in.

First, I wanted you to see how different comics can be from each other and still achieve greatness. Previous works on standup bothered me in that they seemed to suggest there was a right way or best way to do it. From the outset, I wanted to choose people that would show this was clearly false without me having to come out and say it.

For the Jeselnik video, I wanted you to see the setup/punch structure in its most basic form. I wanted you to see the “setup=expectation, Punchline=surprising fulfillment of that expectation" formula in an easy-to-identify state. You can’t get a much clearer (or funnier) example of the classic joke form than in Anthony’s work.

I also wanted you to see a dead-pan comedy style to contrast with Greg Giraldo’s emotive style. I wanted you to see that both were equally valid options while understanding their differences.

As for James Adomian, I wanted you to be able to recognize those same essential structural elements when they are not as naked as they are in Anthony’s work. You spotted them when they were out in the open. Now let’s see if you can spot them when they are cleverly hidden in a conversational style.

Give It Up For Everyone You Saw Tonight

With your first two weeks complete, you should now have at least six sets under your belt.  And you  most likely have seen more standup comedians in those two weeks than you have in your entire life leading up to this point.  Think about the other performers you saw at your Open Mics this week. Who was the best? Think about their set and then answer the same questions you answered after watching Greg Giraldo's “Midlife Vices.”

How would you describe the comic's stage character, that is to say, the personality they present in their act?

Were the jokes presented as true stories from life?  Or clearly false “jokes?”

What made you laugh in their act? Why?

What didn’t work for you? Why? Why do you think it may have worked for others?

How did the comic use their body to get laughs?

How did the comic use their face to get laughs?

How did the comic use their voice to get laughs?

What did you notice that made their act unique?

How did the comic structure the jokes that they wrote?

They're Not All Winners, Folks

Now, of all the comics you saw this week, who was the least successful? Answer the questions “backwards,” just like last week.

How would you describe the comic's stage character, that is to say, the personality they present in their act?

Were the jokes presented as true stories from life?  Or clearly false “jokes?”

Why do you think you didn't laugh?

Did anything work in their act?  Why do you think those bits worked and not the others?

How did the comic's use of their body fail to get laughs?

How did the comic's use of their face fail to get laughs?

How did their voice work fail to get laughs?

What did you notice that made their act uniquely unappealing?

How did the comic structure the jokes that they wrote?

Did the same person have the best set both weeks? If so, did their sets have anything in common? Write down what elements their sets had in common.  How did those elements factor in their success?

If the best comedian this week was different than the best from last week, how did were there acts different?  Were any elements to their successful performances similar?  Ask the same questions about  the performers who were least successful.

Assignment One

Remember when I said you had to write down anything funny that you may have said over the week?  I was serious.  Pull out your notes.  Look over the funny things you said and wrote down last week.  Can any of them be made into jokes? Make as many as you can into bits for this week’s set. As always, spend no more than five hours writing this material.

If you didn't write anything down, make sure you start this week.  Your jokes won't write themselves.  This is the most important element of building a successful act.  Write down anything with even a hint of humor in it.  Or even a hint of irony or just something you noticed that seemed out of the ordinary.  Don't doubt or censor yourself at this stage.  Write down anything and everything that strikes you. You will have time to be critical later when you decide which thoughts will go in your act.

Assignment Two

Look over the jokes you've performed so far..  What's your best joke?  I know it's only been two weeks, but what joke has gotten the most laughs consistently?  If none of your jokes were particularly successful, don't panic, you're doing fine.  You've only done this for two weeks. Just pick the one that got any laughs at all.  Read it over, watch or listen to any recordings you may have of it, and then ask yourself the following questions.

Without changing the words of the joke, how can I improve its effectiveness?

How can I use my voice to emphasize the important points of this joke?

How can I use movement to communicate this joke more effectively?

Write down the other jokes from your act that got laughs.  Answer the above questions for all of them.

What Am I Doing Up Here?

Think about your performances this week.  Your stage performance is equally as important to your effectiveness as a comic as your writing. If performance didn't matter, standups would simply print out the jokes, hand them to the crowd to read at their leisure, and it would be just as entertaining.

You need to make sure that, in addition to the words you have carefully crafted to get your laughs, you are doing everything you can with your body and voice to sell your bits to the audience.  Make sure that you are thinking actively about what these “non-word” elements are in your act. How are you saying what you are saying? What are you doing while you say it? Are you adding additional power to the words you have written?

I am not asking you to scream and jump around the stage like a lunatic.  Your goal is to enhance the effect of your writing, not distract from it.  Of course, if you think jumping around like a lunatic is exactly what needs to happen, I'm not going to tell you not to.  

However, a non-word element in your act doesn’t need to be big and hammy. It could be as simple as casually walking around the stage and then stopping for effect when it is time to deliver a punchline. Or doing a small double-take when you want to show that something surprised you. Or maybe you want nothing to distract from your words so you remain entirely motionless during a bit. Or whisper the set up and turn your volume up on the punchline for effect. You don’t have to make a lot of noise or over the top motions to make an impact on the audience.

Can You Feel Me?

Now ask yourself this:

How does my stage character feel about what they are saying?

You may find yourself objecting to that frame. “Stage character? My stage character is me!  What are you talking about?”  I just mean the slice of yourself that you are presentng on the stage.  Your “stage character” is the persona you are giving to the audience in the time you have to perform.  It's the part of you that you want them to see during your set.  This could be as close to you as it is possible to be while being under lights and talking through a sound system.  It could be as radically different from your day to day self as Bobcat Goldthwait's early persona was from the way he ordered food at a restaurant.  How does this version of you feel about what they are saying?  What is their emotional viewpoint towards their words? Do they love that “Their mother is always on Twitter” or do they hate it?  Are they afraid when people talk to them in the gym or are they flattered.  

Once you are sure which feelings you want to present in your material, ask yourself, “How can I convey these emotions using my face, body, and voice?”

Say you have a bit about how annoying your local post office branch is. When you tell the audience you went to the post office, is there an inflection you could use that might let them know you hate it there? How would you say it if it was your favorite place on Earth? Is there a facial expression you might use? This doesn’t have to be extreme. Yelling every sentence where you are angry and sniffling through every sentence where you are sad would look bizarre. In general, think about how you would convey these emotions in regular speech, and try to do that on stage as well.

There are many ways of relating emotionally to your material. What do I mean by this? Greg Giraldo does his best to infuse his jokes with the emotional state he is conveying. Think of his portrayal of the flabbergasted McCain pointing out Obama’s blackness to the crowd. it is straight forward, direct, and heightened. McCain is baffled and panicked and so Greg acts baffled and panicked when he says McCain's line in the bit.This is his approach throughout his entire act. While he may be sad on one joke and happy on the next, he is going to act out those emotions fully, mirroring with his body and voice the emotion suggested by his words.

By contrast, Anthony Jeselnik uses the same detached attitude towards all his jokes, investing no emotion in the specifics of his stories. No matter what the words coming out of his mouth might suggest, Anthony delivers them with the same cold distance.  He then exxaggerates his arrogance to such a degree that the audience gets a sense he doesn't mean any of this.  And, every third sentence or so, he gives them a slight smile in between the jokes. The cumulative effect of all this gives a clear message: this isn’t serious. It allows the audience to enjoy his dark jokes, safe in the knowledge that these aren't his actual experiences or opinions.  

You will find that in general, standups have a consistent approach to emotion in their act. If they are easily irritated by small things in one joke, they will be that way in their other jokes as well. This helps the audience figure them out, understand their point of view, and invest themselves in the performance.  Once you know Lewis Black is prone to working himself into a rage, you get used to it, and learn to anticipate it in the act.  You know what's coming and you start to enjoy wondering just how angry he is going to get once he starts a bit.  Just like you do with a joke, his character has set an expectation (he's going to get angry) and is fullfilling it in a surprising way every time he explodes with a new burst of creative profanity.

It is beneficial to stick with your approach to emotion throughout the act.  You want the audience to get used to you and comfortable with your presence.  Performing one joke from Anthony’s detached perspective, and the next from Giraldo’s highly emotional point of view without any justification for the switch will be jarring to the audience. It will work against the crowd's ability to connect with your comedy. This may seem confusing and abstract. It’s OK. Don’t think about it too much.  Just start considering how your stage character feels about what they are saying.

Assignment Three Now that you have written down the jokes from your first two weeks that worked, write down the jokes that didn’t.

Did anything work last week that didn’t work this week? Ask yourself why this may have been. Did you perform it differently? Change the writing? What can you do to make it successful again?

Write down the premise of each joke that didn’t work as a declarative sentence.

For example, this classic Tom Papa joke : “Pet owners say pets love being pets.  Really? Open the door...”

Becomes “Pets will sieze any opportunity to escape your house.” It feels gross to ruin a joke breaking it down like this, but it helps you understand the foundation your joke is built on and see if it needs fixing.

Look at each sentence and ask yourself:

Does the sentence make sense?

Does the joke you wrote express that idea clearly?

Did your performance help that idea to be understood?

Does it have an element of expectation and a surprising fulfillment of that expectation?

Is the expectation clearly set up before the surprising element is revealed?

Modify your jokes so that you can answer “yes” to all of the above questions.  

Take the most promising of these jokes and write it down in its new form. Put the rest of the jokes that didn’t work in the “In the Shop” file you started last week. Every month or so, read the bits in the file. See if a new angle on how something might be fixed presents itself, either from the performance or the writing side. Give it a shot. Sometimes your mind sees a new solution after some time away from the idea.

Assignment Four

Make your set list for the open mics this week.

Last week you went through your jokes from Week One and kept the ones that worked. Do this again for Week Two.  Even if you’ve already done a joke six times, you need to get used to repeating the same bit over and over, infusing it with new energy each time. You will be surprised how much better at delivering it you can be once the words are second nature. Jokes improve dramatically when you start with confidence in the material and a knowledge of how people tend to react to it.  And it takes many repetitions of a bit before you are no longer worried at all about remembering words and can turn all of your attention towards nailing the proper timing and inflection.

If you had enough jokes that worked these last two weeks, you may find yourself looking at a list that's nothing but bits you've already told.  Good for you!  But don't just write out a set list full of oldies and go out for your victory lap.  Make sure you have room for at least one of the jokes you wrote down as sentences in Assignment Three.  And make sure you have room for at least brand new joke you wrote this week in Assignment One.

Fill up the rest of your set with new jokes from this week. You will notice that this is the same process as last week. It will be the same next week, and every week you do standup. This is the never ending “joke refinery” that leads to a great standup act. I call it the Comedy Refinement Process, but that sounds pretensious and gross, like I am teaching graduate science and not the art of making drunks laugh.  Maybe you'd prefer calling it the “Cotton Candy Machine” or “The Laugh Grinder,”  Call it what ever you like, but respect it.  This process has produced every joke I have ever told onstage. This process works. Get used to it, and let it work for you.

How Much Time Do I Have?

It can be hard to predict how long your set will take while you are planning what jokes to do.  I am constantly telling you to put five minute sets together, but until you perform the jokes, how do you know how long they take?  You don’t want to plan too many jokes to get to, or end up with too few to fill your time. No one wants to find themselves uttering the deadly “So what else is going on... halfway through a five minute open mic set.

Eventually, you will learn to judge the duration of a bit off the page. For now, you have to do it the hard way. Once you have your jokes in order, time yourself saying them out loud. But how do you time how long they are going to laugh?  This next thing sounds beyond stupid, but you can allow time for the audience to laugh by saying the words “laugh laugh laugh” out loud after each Punchline. For big, fat, bit-ending punchlines, or if you are preforming for a big audience, say “laugh laugh laugh” THREE TIMES after the last word of your joke. It is possible for a fat applause break to take longer, but if this happens at an Open Mic, you will be so happy you won’t give a shit if you got to all your bits. You will probably want to just get off the stage right then and look like a genius.

It is a crude system, but the “laugh laugh laugh” method is a shockingly accurate predictor of how long it takes a crowd to laugh. I have used this to time sets within seconds. But it is a rare Open Mic audience that will give you the kind of response reserved for the triple “laugh laugh laugh.” Saying it once after each Punchline when you practice your set should give you a good idea what is going to fit in the time you have.

Any One From Out of Town Here Tonight?

If you feel a real call to do crowd work, to get laughs off interacting with the audience, I understand. Please hold off another couple weeks. Get used to the material generating process until it is second nature. Open mic sets are very short, and I want to make sure you get to practice the most successful jokes, the “fixed” jokes, AND the brand new jokes in every set. In a few weeks, when you’ve gotten the hang of it, it will be OK to add a minute or two of crowd work to your set.  Keep in mind, though, that a comedy open mic is perhaps the worst place on Earth to do crowd work.  It's an audience full of comedians.  They are not going to act in any way like a regular person at a comedy show would.  Expect resistance, silence, or constant one-up-manship if you attempt to “Spritz” at an open mic.

The “Shit Sandwich” Structure.

“Okay, so I have selected my jokes for the week. What order should I do them in?” Good question. I like a set structure I named after a line in “This is Spinal Tap.”  In the movie, the fake rock band made an album called “Shark Sandwich” and a critic wrote a one word review: “Shit Sandwich.”  Funny, and also a great discription for the way I structure my standup performances.  You can use it in any length of set and it will serve you well. It is by no means the only way to structure a set list. It may not be right for you down the road, but try it for now.

This structure is based on the psychology of the audience. It is great for open mics because it gives your new bits the best possible chance at being well-received by the listeners.

I call it the “Shit Sandwich” because your best jokes are at each end (the bread) and your newest, most unsure stuff is in the middle (not that any of your jokes are shit, of course, but you get the idea.) You open with your biggest, quickest laugh. This establishes that you are funny, winning the audience’s confidence and trust. Do another bit that you know works after that, so the audience builds a positive impression of your act.

Then, do the newer jokes dead center. The crowd will be more willing to take in your new stuff with an open mind now that you have built some trust and good will at the top of the act. Also, If they don’t work, it won’t ruin the good feeling you built at the beginning enough to derail your whole set.

Close with another thing that usually works, so you reward the crowd for sticking through the experimental stuff and leave them with a positive impression of your act.  Give the good seals a fish treat for their patience.

This structure allows the audience the maximum chance of enjoying your set while creating a safe space in your performance for you to take a risk.

You are simply arranging your set so the most unsure material is in the center, with the best stuff on either end.  This way, the Sandwich can expand or contract to fill any length of show you desire. It is simple, elegant, and versatile.

Assignment Five

Arrange the set list you made in Assignment Four into a Shit Sandwich.  Put the joke that worked the best in the last two weeks at the top.  The second most successful joke second.  The one you're trying to fix after that, Then a new one or two.  Finally close with something that worked last week.  If you are ony getting two or three minutes, obviously, you have less room.  Do the best joke, then a new one, then the one you are trying to fix.  If you have enough time, close with another joke that has worked for you before.

Assignment Six

Watch the following videos:

Google “Patton Oswalt KFC Bowls.”  Then Google “Jay Larson Wrong Number Laugh Factory.” Then Google “Dan Mintz Letterman.”

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tfan5MacmsI

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gvHZBlHbN3c

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fFO0CkSiZfI

As always, answer our favorite questions after watching their sets.

Video Questions

How would you describe the comic's stage character, that is to say, the personality they present in their act?

Were the jokes presented as true stories from life?  Or clearly false “jokes?”What made you laugh in their act? Why?

What didn’t work for you? Why? Why do you think it may have worked for others?

How did the comic use their body to get laughs?

How did the comic use their face to get laughs?

How did the comic use their voice to get laughs?

What did you notice that made their act unique?

How did the comic structure the jokes that they wrote?

It is important to try and understand as many different approaches to comedy as you can. Now that you have thought about each comic’s approach, answer this:

How do the two comedians use non-verbal elements in their act?

Write down one thing each comedian does  with their face or body to make their material connect.

What is their approach to emotion?

Find one line from each comedian’s act that conveys a strong emotion. How did they deliver this line? Did they do anything with their voice to enhance or to downplay the emotion in their words? What?

Patton Oswalt presents many characters who all feel differently about the KFC Bowls.

How many different viewpoints does he present?

How do you know they are different characters?

How does he underline this with his performance? How does he show you when he’s switched parts?

Which point of view does Patton seem to agree with?

How does he let you know?

What can you learn from this set about differentiating between characters in a joke?

What can you learn about clearly presenting conflicting emotions?

Watch Dan Mintz on Letterman.

What is Dan Mintz’s emotional relationship to his jokes?

Hint: He definitely has one.

It is well chosen and specific. Does it seem appropriate to what he is talking about? Is he closer to Anthony Jeselnik’s approach to emotion or Greg Giraldo’s?

Describe the mood and emotional state of Dan’s stage character.

In what ways is it unusual?

How does he make subtle use of his body, face, and voice to convey this?

How does this affect the way the things he says are viewed by the audience?

Find a laugh Dan gets from the disconnect between what he is saying and how he seems to feel about it.

Look at your own bits from the last two weeks. Do you use any similar techniques to the comedians you watched this week? Do you know how you are using emotion in each of your jokes?

Assignment Seven

Write down a list of the emotions you convey in each joke. Ask yourself how you can convey it clearly, both verbally and non verbally. If all this stufff about emotional viewpoints seems like too much to pile on to material that you are still working to just get out clearly, don’t deal with it this week. Work on what we learned last week until it feels comfortable before adding new elements. It is ALWAYS cool to skip a week, as long as you keep going to your Open Mics, writing new jokes, and refining your set the way I taught you. It’s an on-line course after all. Move ahead at your own pace.

But when you are ready, I want you to begin to consider the following elements when you develop your jokes:

Can the audience understand your premise?

Do they know how your stage character feels about this premise?

Do you use the most concise and colorful language you can?

Does it have elements of expectation and surprise?

Do you use your voice and body to perform it clearly and effectively?

All of these elements will ensure that your material has the highest chance of success.

And that’s it. Give the “Comedy Refinement Process” another week. Think a little about emotion in standup comedy. Try and make a Shit Sandwich. Perform this set at least three times. Record your observations. Kill ‘em! Contact me with any questions and I’ll see you in a week.

[willow-salix]

Mistakes Novice Writers Make - Day 2 Characters

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Hi guys, nice to see you back again my little lovelies.

We’re here for the second part of the mistakes that novice writers make series. These are based on long experience, trial and error from me, wisdom from writing classes and from other readers and writers themselves.

If you didn’t catch the first video on story structure, then check that out later.

Today we’re going to look at character problems. I’ve covered in another video how to create believable characters but today I’m going to focus on how mistakes in the way they are actually written can look amateurish.

Bland characters are something I’ve heard about a lot. Some writers seem to equate secondary with bland. Not so. Secondary characters should be just as alive and fully formed as your mains, especially if, like me, you are creating an entire world with the intention of writing a series of books.

Unfortunately, it’s not just secondary characters who can get the bland treatment, bland friends, love interests, bosses and family are all a thing too. Many novice writers focus so much on their protagonist, the one the whole story revolves around, that they forget to flesh out the rest of the cast.

Imagine your book is a movie, if the main character was the star, a big-name celebrity with all the lines and an awesome wardrobe but everyone else was unknowns who barely got any action or lines it would be boring as hell. And your book will be the same without you meaning it to.

Along with bland characters comes characters who lack purpose. They are either there just to bulk out the background, to make your character look popular and loved, or just as filler.

This can happen in a number of ways, for example:

The random best friend that follows your protagonist around like a lost puppy.

The boyfriend/girlfriend that seems to do nothing but fawn over the main character and make them look good.

The kinda enemy who throws the odd nasty comment at the protagonist, maybe trips them in the corridor but never advances past that.

The neighbour that yells at your main character over the back fence for no apparent reason and nothing ever comes of it.

Characters who lack purpose, whoa re used as filler, are boring and unnecessary. Characters can be used as plot devices, yes, but they shouldn’t be there just for that, your plot should work on its own.

I see characters as fitting into certain levels.

-Your mains, which includes your protagonist, so the person the book focuses on, and those who really feature in the story, so maybe the love interest, a best friend or maybe a child.

- Secondary Characters, so characters that are less important than the mains, but who need more purpose, more details and more personality than our next level, which is background characters. Secondaries are those that have a place in the story, a purpose and interact more with the mains.

-Backgrounds Characters are the ones that are quite literally in the background, they don’t need huge histories and page time, but again, they need a reason to be there.

Think of a movie, if the main character is in a bar and the barmaid serves them a drink they aren’t then going to just stand there, still as a statue, staring at nothing. They will be bustling around serving others, wiping down the bar, cleaning glasses or something like that.

She could go on to serve a table full of rowdy lads who get a bit too handsy as she passes and that is when the main character gets up and punches one of the lads. This turns into a large fight and the main character gets arrested. Or the character could notice her and think that she reminds him of his little sister, which makes him decide to go back home, or maybe his sister died and it still affects him. All from a simple background character, she then has a purpose.

If you don’t intend to do anything like that, and you just want to show your main character as a brooding, drunken anti-hero, then just have him drinking and introspective.

And lastly, we have what I call the abstract character. This would be one that isn’t an active player in your story, is never seen, but is referenced or used in some way. Say your main character became a police officer because someone shot his father in a store robbery and was never caught. Your characters motivation is his father, the lack of conviction, the killer going free. The father was the man he always looked up to and aspired to be like and they frequently recall things about him, and everyone says he looks like him.

The father is an important character, but an abstract one. That doesn’t mean they don’t need history, backstory and a purpose.

Characters who lack story goals are another thing that was mentioned to me a lot, this basically means when you have a protagonist or main character that lacks goals.

Your character has to have something that they are working towards, something that motivates them. This could be a number of things, such as:

-something emotional, family, friends, sexual intimacy etc

- something to do with them as a person, self-esteem, lack of confidence, a personal achievement, a career goal, something related to their safety, the safety of others around them, financial security, health issues or even the safety of home.

These goals can come in many forms, for example:

-the risk of losing their home

-lack of confidence stops them doing anything they aren’t sure about, so they now push themselves to take risks.

- someone at work is actively plotting against them and they must be stopped.

The goal of your story is as important as the story itself.

Now I’m going to touch on weak character voices as I intend to cover this in another video on dialogue, but the lack of clear and distinctive character voices can have a massive impact on your novel.

If all your characters sound the same, or even all sound like your authors voice this results in a story that has a lack of flow and depth, not to mention being harder to follow and to relate to the characters themselves.

The characters are the driving force of your story and if its hard to tell them apart your readers will quickly lose interest, finding it hard to connect with them.

And lastly, character reactions. Over-reactive characters and under-reactive characters are a sure-fire way to show yourself as a novice writer.

Your characters are supposed to be realistic, like people and to react the way that real people do.

Having a character that never reacts is boring, not strong and indifferent as you may be trying to portray them.

Having one that over-reacts all the time can be exhausting and annoying to read. You need a good balance between the two.

Conflict between characters is often used within a story, in fact it’s a very important part of it. Everywhere in life we have conflict and confrontation, we cannot avoid it no matter how hard we try, so why should it be any different for your characters?

The problem occurs when there is either too much, or too little. Conflict between characters is often a driving force of a novel, but it still has to be realistic. A common theme of many romance novels is to have two characters that seem to hate each other, constantly arguing and falling out with each other, who end up admitting that they only do this because they like each other and didn’t know how to act. Ok, I get that, sexual tension can be a pain in the backside at times, but honestly, that isn’t that true to life is it? Would you get in a relationship with someone that you hated? With someone that you couldn’t agree on anything with, someone that was nasty to you and just plain mean? If you said yes to any of this, then I’m sorry, but you’re gonna have problems, because that is not a healthy relationship. I’m going to touch on this more in a forthcoming video, so I won’t go too far in depth with it today.

Now, I understand that in some books this can work, in my third book the two main characters were complete opposites of each other and if they hadn’t of had to work together, they never would have managed to get to know each other enough to realise that they weren’t all that different after all. They argued, they had moments of hating each other, but that was also broken up with times of laughing together, of seeing the lighter side of the other, of realising that they both had reasons for acting the way that they did. It was resolved in a way that worked for everyone.

Characters that are constantly getting into conflict with each other and everyone around them quickly become annoying. This type of character is often augmentative, opinionated, aggressive, egotistical, overconfident and cocky. And honestly, do you like that type of person? They are annoying to be around, impossible to work with and just hard work in general.

When your entire book is full of conflict, petty arguments and shit, all caused by your main character, well that just makes them an arsehole quite honestly. I mean, that’s cool if that’s what you were going for, but most of the time it’s not.

But then we can swing the other way, with a lack of conflict that just makes the book boring to read. Nothing ever goes wrong, nothing is ever hard, nothing is ever working against your characters, in short, it’s got no substance to it. Conflict does not just mean physical or verbal conflict, it can take the form of anything that slows down or tries to stop your protagonist reaching their goal. In the book world we call this dramatic conflict, because any kind of drama is included.

There is a fine line between too much and too little, but if you follow a basic story formula, it should be easy enough to notice when you need it, when the pace of your story is dropping and when its running too fast and needs to hit the brakes.

That’s all I have for today, please pop back tomorrow when I’ll be chatting about common mistakes with POV.

Until then, Blessed Be and happy writing.

[words-writ-in-starlight]

for the character ask meme: one member of the IPRE (your pick!)

*slams my fists down* L U C R E T I A.  This is just gonna be…it’s just gonna be rough.  I’ve made a few goofs about the Director here and there but I literally have not written a happy headcanon here.

Send me a character and I’ll write 10 headcanons!

Lucretia’s hair has been white all her life.  Her mother suffered a bit of a magical mishap halfway through her pregnancy and there was a lot of concern that Lucretia would die, or be born with three heads, or the gods only know what else, but instead she was a perfect, healthy baby girl with skin like black walnut wood and tightly crimped white curls and all the usual number of limbs.  She wore her hair long for all her childhood and all her time in the IPRE, usually tied back into a ponytail that poofed out into a snowy cloud like a halo behind her.  On the Starblaster, as the crew grew closer, she let the others come up with new ways for her to wear it, letting Lup cast spells to turn it straight as bone (and long enough to brush her knees), or teaching Magnus how to twist it into dreadlocks, or letting Merle braid it with flowers and oils that kept it soft and strong.  Sometimes Lup and Taako would team up with two Mage Hands each and she’d have eight hands turning her hair into a thousand tiny perfect plaits.  It reset after each cycle, after all–Lucretia was game for anything, as long as it didn’t require her to cut her hair.  

After Lucretia became Madame Director, after the Bureau had been founded and the moon base was under construction and all her journals were gone, the Director stood in front of her mirror and took a razor to her hair until it was a cap of curls less than half an inch long, and all the glorious clouds of white lay littered around her feet.

Lucretia’s resume might say ‘biographer’ but it would be more accurate to call her a ‘war correspondent’.  A universe where a significant majority of the population has powerful magic means that even a minor civil dispute can be some pretty impressive hijinks, and Lucretia was kind of like Angus, a wayward twelve-year-old wandering into the local dragon-vs-hero battle and writing furiously in the background while dodging fireballs without looking up.  By the time she got recruited by the IPRE as a young twenty-something, she’d ghostwritten about fifteen books and every journalist worth their salt knew that, if you needed someone to go somewhere horribly dangerous and write something about it with no concern for their own safety, you wanted Lucretia.  Lucretia’s class is Multitasker and she’s level 450 with a prestige class in Unflappable and she didn’t exclusively get that from her time on the Starblaster.

Lucretia and Magnus were an odd pair, as far as most people could tell, but they fell in together immediately and with a vengeance.  It was never an issue of romance or sex–Lucretia only occasionally remembers that those are things that people experience–but Magnus was big and jovial and seemed to fill a room with his booming voice, and Lucretia leaned toward him like gravity and was surprised to find that he could be quiet and soothing as easily as loud and boisterous.  Lucretia never had a brother, before, but she thought sometimes that Magnus was what brothers were like, affectionate and rough and protective.  So protective.  Magnus died in almost one in five cycles, more than anyone except Merle–and Merle’s many deaths were quick, painless things.  Magnus died trying to find the Light, bled out as they tried to save him or fell protecting their backs as they ran, and after his tenth death Lucretia hurled herself at him, at the start of the next cycle, and burst into tears.  He had to be more careful, she said as he hesitantly rubbed her back.  He had to remember that they were waiting for him to come back, he had to remember that the crew was waiting for him.  Sometimes Lucretia thinks about telling Magnus those exact words and she hates herself.

Lucretia couldn’t stand the idea of abandoning her crew, even after the voidfish took their memories at her behest.  Davenport, of course, she took on as an assistant–she didn’t know, she had never imagined that she would reduce him so far, her brilliant, competent, well-spoken captain.  She cried for an hour and a half, locked alone in a room, before she could stand to face him again.  She attended Merle’s wedding, took a private bet with herself that it wouldn’t last more than two years.  She attended Magnus’ wedding, too, and that one, oh, that one she thought would last–news of the destruction of Ravensroost came just months later, and Lucretia’s chest hurt with the need to go and hug Magnus and let him cry into her shoulder the way he had when worlds died.  Barry was…a problem to track, to say the least, and Lucretia was never quite sure if he was alive or dead or just a very competent illusionist.  Liches are such a pain.  Seeing Taako playing up to an audience without Lup at his shoulder was jarring, but he seemed…not happy, but like he was enjoying himself, at the very least, and then Glamour Springs happened and Taako dropped off the map and Lucretia’s heart stopped.  Lup was dead and if Taako died too, she would never forgive herself.

Lucretia hired Magic Brian for a lot of reasons, among them his competence, but his voice–his voice reminded her so much of the twins.  On her better days, she would listen to him talk and her wistfulness would be a small part of her, not enough to really distract her.  On her worse days, she would hear Brian laugh from across the room and there would be a lurch in her chest as her head snapped up and she looked for a flash of red and identical smirks, and the crashing revelation was like losing them all over again.

In theory, the Bureau of Balance uniform is blue and silver.  Lucretia chose it on purpose, because she couldn’t take the way her throat closed up every time Davenport wore a red coat.  She doesn’t enforce it, but generally speaking people don’t wear a lot of red because it makes them stick out like a sore thumb.  She should have known that Magnus and Merle and Taako wouldn’t give a damn one way or another.  Merle still dresses a little bit like a train crash in a tropical print shirt, and Taako’s sense of style remains Unique, but they both usually have at least one item of red clothing on at all times.  Magnus has a red bandana that he wears around his neck like it’s sewn in place.  When it’s pointed out to them, Carey making a joke about how “well, no one ever has to wonder who you are, you all dress in red!”, they laugh it off and make excuses about how it’s just what’s in their closet.  They just don’t feel right without some red.  Lucretia, overhearing this, has to excuse herself, because she can’t tell if she’s going to laugh or cry.

Lucretia is tired a lot of the time.  She can’t tell if it’s because her body is older, now, older than she’s ever been but also nowhere near the age she really is, or because she’s so lonely.  There are days where she’s just numb, where the only thing that gets her out of bed is Davenport standing there looking expectant, and other days where she breaks everything in her office, until she runs out of things to throw and is left staring at a room full of shards through a haze of tears she doesn’t remember crying.  It shocks her, a little bit, to wake up on the first day after she’s recruited the boys, and actually think I can’t wait to see what happens today.  It’s the first time in years that her reflection smiles at her.

Lucretia sits with Junior sometimes and just…talks to them.  Tells them about all the things that no one knows, that no one remembers, talks about the Starblaster and all the worlds they visited.  She talks about how Lup and Taako could cook an entire feast with a bunch of shitty phosphorescent mushrooms, and how Davenport banned the pair of them from piloting the ship except in a crisis because while Taako was learning the controls Lup shouted do a barrel roll and he almost killed them all.  She talks about Magnus and his huge stupid heart that he always wore on his sleeve, and how it broke every year that they failed to save a world.  She talks about Barry and the way he once accidentally became the messianic leader of a necromantic cult, and about how Merle had to swoop in and save him from being sacrificed by riding a treant into battle.  She talks about the year where she was alone because they had all died, they died and she escaped and she thought that this would be like that year, but this is worse.  Seeing them see her and not know her, knowing they’re literally inches away, it’s so much worse.  Junior presses their tentacles against the glass when Lucretia starts crying, and she presses her hands back.

Lucretia hasn’t slept for more than three hours straight in a decade.  She has nightmares, you see.  This is a known, but unspoken, thing at the Bureau.  The Director wanders the halls like a homeless ghost at odd hours, not really checking up on anything so much as just…drifting.  Sometimes she finds another person, wandering, and brings them back to her office for tea, but there’s never any discussion of it.  One night, after Refuge, she passes the Reclaimers’ dorm and hears the sound of clattering and murmured voices, a familiar ramble about who the fuck makes powdered chocolate why do people not love themselves Magnus do not FUCKING touch that pot, and she has her hand on the doorknob and is about to walk inside on weary autopilot before she remembers.

After the dust settles, Lucretia goes and sits on the floor in the mostly-dark voidfish room.  Not very Directorly, perhaps, to be sat on the floor in the light of the voidfish tank with her old jacket in her lap, but she’s finished her task and she’ll be unDirectorly if she wants to.  Besides, there are tearful reunions happening, and she feels horribly out of place.  This is their victory, this is what she worked for all these years, what she sacrificed everything for, and she just feels empty, because even after all this, her crew, her family, is still outside and she’s in here, in this base that has been more or less her self-made prison.  It is, she thinks, no more than she deserves, but the part of her that’s still a reserved twenty-something biographer newly thrust into the spotlight had wished for something else.  The sound of footsteps takes her off-guard, and she looks back over her shoulder, away from the voidfishes, to see Davenport.  He looks sharp and alert in a way she’s sorely missed, but he also looks…unsure.

“You, ah.  You cut your hair,” he says, and Lucretia raises a hand thoughtlessly, as if she’s not used to the short length.

“It was too much work to take care of it alone,” she says, the lie she always tells about why she keeps it so short, and Davenport huffs at her, cracks a faint smile.  She’s a very tall human, and sitting, they’re almost on eye level.  

His eyes fall to her jacket, in her lap, and he sighs.  “Come on,” he says.  “Everyone’s getting drunk.  You’d better join us or they’ll come get drunk here, instead.”

“I thought maybe–”

“We’re still going to have a talk,” he says sharply, interrupting her.  “But get up off that floor and come have a goddamn drink, Lucretia.”

“Yes, Captain,” she says softly, and after she stands, he takes her hand and leads her back into the light.

[tiredstarryeyes]

2011

This is incredibly long overdue. I’ve been meaning to post this for a while now, but fear has always stopped me. It’s a relief to finally feel and hear my voice, regardless if it’s only in written form. Warning: Mention of DV, suicidal thoughts, and depression. 

When I was 18, I had a roommate that was in a physically violent relationship. I heard, and at times witnessed these acts, for roughly a year and a half.

I had just moved to Sydney to start my journey as an Actor, and I was scared shitless, broke as hell, and so naive it was pathetic. After a mere few weeks, I was all of sudden thrown into the deep end of adulthood, and faced with the choice of standing up for myself and this victim. It really didn’t hit me at first. The weight of what was really going on. It’s a part of my life that I’ve not talked about, a trauma that eventually chipped away at my psyche, and turned my mental state into mush. It’s safe to say because of this, I now have a love-hate relationship with my past, as it’s something that I will always be in therapy for, but I’m not ashamed to admit the struggle. I’m not the only one in this world who has been through something like this, and definitely not the only one who has been through depression and trauma.

The reason I stayed, was because coming home and starting again, would mean that I had failed. My biggest fear in life. I had planned to move out of home since I was 15. Worked at a crappy part time job for over 3 years and saved every penny I made. People at the bank knew me by my first name, praising me for being so diligent with my money. I auditioned for a school and got in, so did my best friend at the time with hers, respectively. Everything about the plan was put into motion, and then here we were, ready to start our new lives. Thinking back on it, I was just young and dumb and selfish, yet understandably, I was also in shock. Having been so isolated and protected from the harsh realities of the world, then immediately faced with this type of responsibility, I simply could not cope. I’m ashamed to admit I sat in mostly stunned silence until it was over, then just went to sleep. I remember everyone waking up the next morning, exchanging awkward small talk, ignoring the bruises, and pretending nothing had happened. The repercussions of telling my family, and sticking up for myself and this girl all at once, stuffing up my best friends plans as well, was seemingly too much to bare. I had no experience in the latter, so I drowned within the uncertainty of it all. I think I was in denial as well, but I really had no idea what to do, so I simply did nothing.

Sadly, because of this, all good memories of my first apartment, my early 20’s, and living out of home for the first time, are tainted with sounds of screams. 

Before I sound like more of a wet blanket, I know that everything happens for a reason, and I’ve made this part of my journey the reason for my strength and resilience, and that’s something to be proud of. 

As they they say with trauma, the mind may forget, but the body doesn’t. The PTSD, PTD, anxiety, depression, and emotional triggers that came from this experience, didn’t just go away once I left. Doors were slammed in my face, things were thrown, people were slapped and beaten, furniture was pulled to pieces. It took five years to talk about it without crying, and I still do to this day at times. It’s a trigger for so many things, and I still feel guilty over it. I think I always will to an extent, and I’ve had to work really hard to be at peace with that. If it had affected me this badly to just see and hear it, I can’t imagine what internal struggle and pain was inflicted to the person at the other end of those fists. The aftermath seamed worse than the actual event, and that was a hard thing to accept. I walked around angry for too many years. Too much time wasted hating the world for what was happening to her, how I couldn’t just get over it once I finally bit the bullet and crawled back home. Rather than enjoying my life, like so many people told me to do, I know I let the experience, and my reaction to it, rob those years from me. 

I eventually did call the police after a few months, though.

I asked her one morning if she was scared. She said yes. So I kept going with the questions. I asked her if she wanted it to be over. She said yes. I asked her if she wanted to leave this person. She said yes. I asked her if she was afraid. She said yes. I asked her how long it had been happening. It was way longer than I expected or could wrap my head around. I told her that I had heard everything and that I was scared too. She said she was sorry and we both hugged and cried and fell to the floor. I’ll never forget that moment. Two bits of broken pieces finding each other on dirty carpet. A mess of feelings. Both numb and drained at the environment we were in, feeling stuck and desperate to get out. I made a pact with her and told her to scream for me next time things got heated, and when she did, I ran in and got her just as I had promised. We waited in the dark and I called the police. A few weeks passed, and we went to court. I was standing there in front of the double doors, ready to go in, my scripts clutched to my chest for the acting class I’d have to attend afterwards, (because I moved to Sydney to become an Actor, and a court hearing wasn’t going to stop me. That was my thinking process while in the midst of losing my god damn mind, naturally.) standing there willing to testify for what was right, was one of the scariest moments of my life, staring at the judge in the court room, full of other people who didn't give a shit if I was having a meltdown or not, including the police officers, though are we surprised?  

Then, sadly, nothing really came of it. Except my $30 check for making an appearance. The officer then gave me their business card and told me to send them an email if I needed anything. Like a fucking email was going to stop someone from getting beaten up? But lol ok you do you boo.

Relationships like that are messy and complicated and don’t make sense unless you’re in it. I get it now in retrospect, as I’ve put up with bad behaviour and my fair share of narcissism from men, so I get how hard it is to break things off. 

Boy, do I get it. 

I’ve spent the last 9 years of my life putting myself through therapy because of what I didn’t do, because I didn’t reach out, living in fear. When I couldn’t stop ruminating over the guilt and self loathing and self pity of not making better choices, not feeling I was smart enough, good enough, worthy enough of anything in life because I let this happen. 

One night, thinking about what happened in that room, I drank too much wine, blacked out, and told my doctor I wanted to go on antidepressants the following morning. I was sick and tired of not feeling like these thoughts were coming from my own brain. It didn’t feel like mine and I didn’t feel like me. I was on them for 8 months.

I can’t deny I’ve never thought about not being here either. What this world, my family, or what my friends would do if I were suddenly no longer here, had started to cross my mind a lot in those days. I don’t have those thoughts anymore, but I have had them clear as day, and it has to be said.

I remember the moment it felt like my thoughts were finally back to how they were before it all happened. That moment in the movie when the character is called too adventure, before it all goes to shit? That alive, happy person full of hope and ambition. I wanted to be her again, and I finally started to recognise the old me in this moment. 

I remember breaking down in the shower at the gym, during the fourth day of taking Citalopram. Sobbing happy tears because I finally recognised this thing in my head that was making me think and navigate my consciousness again. Like I had woken up from a bad dream. I literally felt the imbalance of chemicals changing over in my brain, re-wiring itself so I could finally function again. 

This memory, is why I am who I am, and I wear my mental illness that at times seams non existent, but at other times is emotionally and physically debilitating, really fucking proudly, and everyone else can as well. Apparently 1 in 7 people in Australia suffer from depression sometime in their life, so this is not a rare occurrence, just a rare conversation topic to be had because of the stigma against mental illness. 

It’s 2020. Let’s change that. 

I write this because these dark parts are the realest, rawest bits of myself that I relate too more than anything else. They give me strength and drive and motivate me to always do better for my past self who hated herself too much. 

Also, not a lot of people may fully understand the fact that I have depression and anxiety, without really knowing the extent, nor how it came about. I guess it’s because I lost my younger years to this very rough and draining experience, so I think I’ll always appear young at heart and seam more innocent and plain than I actually am, as I’ll always feel like I need to make up for all that lost time. Watching everyone else live through their early 20′s so positively. Because I never did, and this may possibly be my anxiety talking, it may affect how people perceive me. In the Acting world, seaming younger than I am has worked to my advantage, but in reality, people may misunderstand and judge me for it, too. I just hope this post will help make people understand why I have not had certain experiences, and to not judge other people if they have been through the same. There is always more to a person. To sound cheesy as fuck, we are all just the tips of the Icebergs above the water, and you may never know what's been endured beneath the surface of someone, or why they are only showing you certain parts of themselves because there’s not a simple answer for it, and that’s not a bad thing. They are not lazy, boring, or inexperienced. I am not an open book, and I don’t care if you can’t find the patience to try and understand why. 

Depression, to me, feels like this:

It’s like a dark storm cloud that follows you over your shoulders everyday. I can’t sense it on the good days. But, when it’s there, I struggle to see through the fog and it’s like I’m suffocating or choking. When it’s triggered and starts to rumble, all of a sudden you can feel it tingling down your spine. It’s similar to a foreboding like feeling that is all encompassing and knocks you around, mentally and physically. It’s like a presence that gets more difficult and heavy the longer I ignore it. I usually have an inkling that something has been triggered, even if it’s not obvious right away, and I soon come to know that I have some work to do for myself over the following weeks when I have this certain feeling.

If I don’t have the time to reflect however, (in my case, I was filming for my first TV show a few months ago, and didn’t want to focus on anything but the work, and boy did I pay for it afterwards) the storm always becomes louder and I become more lethargic or more sensitive or angry, and it feels like my limbs are constantly dragging me towards the ground. I’m exhausted when I wake up because my anxiety hits me at night and I can’t sleep. And then the cycle repeats itself and I am, a mess. It can be a very temperamental thing when you’re out of your routine. It’s also hard sometimes to differentiate between having off days and feeling down, which is fine, but then if I’m waking up and realising it’s been a week and I can’t stop crying, that’s a warning sign I’m on the precipice of an episode. I know then that this is the beginning of just a bad few weeks, and I need to figure out how to get out of this dark place in my mind. 

The last few months, it’s been my anxiety that’s gone and unsettled me to my core, and after a few sessions of therapy, some Valium, keeping my boundaries up, I’ve mentally been able to reset myself, and can look at life more clearly for what it is. 

This year has been stressful for the entire planet, but I think it was probably a mixture of self doubt, paranoia, staring at the age of 30, maybe, and feeling more isolated than I actually am because of covid. Many reasons I’m sure I’ll figure out later, but I stopped crying a few weeks ago, and don’t feel down anymore, so it’s going to be a good month rather than a hectic one. There’s also a lot to look forward to as well now, and positive thinking is feeling less like a chore. (You know you’re out of the storm when feeling happy ain’t draining! Am I right!)

One thing that has helped is the BLM movement here in Aus, and connecting more to my heritage. Unpacking my childhood in relation to that is going to take a bit more strength, but I know more about my people at this point in my life then I ever have before, and it’s helped shaped my identity and made me feel more closer to myself. I know now, it may always feel like there are missing links to an eternal puzzle that may never be completely put together, or understood. But, I know that's not my fault. It’s because of what this country did to my people. Their voices were taken, their lives erased and destroyed, and thus, were not given to me to learn about and pass on like other generations had the privilege of doing. 

I feel like we are louder and stronger than ever before, but that’s probably because we have had no choice and have never given up. 

At times, all I can do is read about them online, listen to my friends stories who have lived with culture around them, watch our movies, read our books, and feel something I cannot name. That’s not to say I have not experienced racism. I have, and do and always will, and I already feel fear for my future children because it is inevitable. But, I find comfort from the fact that I know this essence of myself has been, and is always going to be there inside me to help make me strong. No matter who I am or what I become, my Aboriginal identity will always be something I can treasure and protect and claim no matter what someone may think of me. I can talk to my ancestors however I want, defend my people whenever I want, because it is no one else’s journey but my own.

[blueboxesandtrafficcones]

Written on Your Heart - Chapter 1

12 year old Rose finds her soulmate in 15 year old James.  This is their story.

Now titled ‘Written on Your Heart’ and available on AO3!

Masterlist

Written for @doctorroseprompts Soulmate September.

10/Rose AU.  Will feature: Sarah Jane, Jackie, Donna, Wilf, Mickey, and others

Chapter 1/??

Every soulmated couple was marked in their own unique way.  Some couples, arguably the luckiest, had each other’s names inked on their skin; others would only be marked upon a shared touch, or speaking to each other.  There was no way of knowing how, or when, a person would be marked until it occurred, if it ever did.

There were two broad categories of the looking – those that knew they were mated but had not yet met, and those that were dependent on luck.  Those that knew typically had clues to follow, or at least to eliminate potentials, based on their mark.  The levels of contact for those that knew varied depending on their type of bond. Some had a name to be on the lookout for, but nothing else – others were in contact from a young age, but had not been able or allowed to meet until they were of age.  They were the lucky ones.

The other category, those who were only marked upon meeting, were not so fortunate.  They had no information about their mate; it was quite possible to meet them, even perhaps know them for years, without stumbling upon the trigger for the mark to appear.  There were stories, of couples who would work in the same office building and speak every day, and not know they were mated until they actually introduced themselves.  Others would be marked upon merely the brushing of the fingers; it was not uncommon to see someone running along the platform of the tube, yelling for their mate, only known of because of the brush of fingers.

Family didn’t seem to have anything to do with the type of mark you would receive; even in large groups of siblings, no two would have the same type of identifier.  If your ancestors tended to ‘know’, it was a higher likelihood that you would as well, but certainly no guarantee.

As a child, Rose had always been fascinated by her mother’s mark.  Jackie and Pete Tyler had been those with the first words they would ever say to each other imprinted on their skin.  After Pete’s death, Jackie’s marks had faded to a faint silver, almost impossible to see but still present.

Rose is twelve when the words first appear on her left palm, accompanied by a slight tickle.

Buy the new Harry Potter book.

What?

She was in the middle of math class, staring out the window, when she glanced down and saw the message. At first, she wasn’t certain how it had gotten there, as it most certainly wasn’t her handwriting.  It wasn’t until the bell rang, and she was halfway to her next class the most likely explanation hit her, and she stopped dead in the hallway.

In a fog, giddy with excitement, she had enough presence of mind to make her way to the nearest toilet, heedless of the bell ringing for the next period to begin.  Instead, she locked herself in a stall and sat on the toilet lid, staring at her hand in awe, gently tracing the letters.

Eventually, it occurred to her that if she could see his writing, he would likely be able to see if she responded.  Digging in her bag for a pen that wouldn’t hurt, she held it poised over her palm, lacking only something to write.

This was it – her first communication with her soulmate!  She’d been worried that she would be one of the searchers; that she’d never know if she had a mate, or worse, that she would only know when she lost him.  She wanted something special, dazzling; she wanted to charm him, make him fall hopelessly in love with her with only a few letters written on her skin and transferred to his.  But what was right?

In the end, she decided to make one thing clear – she was her own person, capable of thinking and deciding for herself.  Even though she knew in the back of her mind it was most likely only a note to himself (or herself – it happened), she still wanted to establish herself as independent. So, with a trembling hand, she printed four characters below his message.

Why?

Dropping the pen with a nervous giggle, she waited with baited breath to see what her soulmate would respond with.  It took the longest two minutes of Rose’s life, but eventually he (she assumed it was a he; most girls had far better handwriting) replied.

Hello?

Hi!  She quickly scribbled back.

This is Came through after a moment, though it seemed like an unfinished thought.

weird strange different new.  Her mate seemed perplexed, though she appreciated that he seemed to be trying not to insult her right off the bat.

Yep.  Do you write notes on your hand often?  She asked. This was the first time she’d noticed it, but that didn’t necessarily mean anything without knowing what was the trigger to initiate the bond.

Sometimes, if it’s important.  You?

Drawings, but that’s it.  She admitted.

You draw?

Yes.

Well?

At this point, Rose had to roll up her sleeve to continue the conversation, considering her response all the while.  After a few moments hesitation, she doodled a simple rose.

Is that a rose?

Yes.

Why?

She paused only for a second, before reminding herself that they were soulmates – even if they’d never met, she could trust him.

It’s me.

You’re a flower?

No – it’s my name.

Rose?

Yeah.

Your name is Rose?

Yeah.

She briefly considered leaving it there, but decided to go for broke.

Tyler.

Uh, actually, I’m James.

No, Rose Tyler.

Oh.  James Noble. Hi.

Hi!

Can I ask you something?  He replied after a minute.

Sure.

How old are you?  She froze, nervous.

How old are you?  Rose asked instead of answering.

15. She instantly blushed, sure that he would think she was just a kid.

12.

After that, she didn’t hear from him, though she spent twenty minutes staring at her arm, hoping for a reaction.  Finally the bell rang, signaling the end of the period she skipped and the start of her lunch break; shouldering her bag, she walked quickly to the cafeteria, going through the lunch line by rote and finding her friends.  A little hurt at his lack of response, she resolutely decided to focus on the rest of the school day, and maybe check when she got home.

In the end, she made it ten minutes into history class before checking her arm, pleasantly surprised to find a response.

Oh.  Ok.

I was just a little worried – the exclamation points made me think you might be a bit younger, which would be weird.

Well, it’d be weird now – not in like, 10 years.

Well, maybe still in 10 years – it would’ve depended on how much younger.

But 3 years isn’t that big a deal now.  At least for talking.

Hello?

Rose?

I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings – also, for disappearing. I was trying to figure out what to say when my teacher announced a pop quiz.  I hope you don’t think

The writing stopped there, but there was an arrow pointing to the left.  It took a moment, but then she realized what it meant and twisted to see her forearm, where the message finished.

that I was rejecting you.  Because I’m not.  I was just a little thrown.

Rose?

I really am sorry – once we meet (if we meet – was that too presumptuous?) you’ll realize that I’ve got a bit of a gob, and it can sometimes take off without me.

Though, I suppose, in this case it’s my hand that’s got away from me.

Please, Rose, don’t let me have ruined this on day one…

It was the final message that truly got her, and she practically knocked all of her books off her desk to scramble for her pen.

Sorry!  Remembering belatedly his comment about the exclamation points, she quickly scribbled the whole word out, replacing it with, Sorry.  I was at lunch, and didn’t see your message til now.

So you don’t hate me already?  It was his fastest response yet, and Rose felt bad for making him worry.

No.  Not at all.  She only hesitated a moment, before adding a smiley face.

Good!

“Something to share with the class, Miss Tyler?”

Rose’s head jerked up, her smile falling as she realized the entire class, including her teacher, were staring at her.

“Uh, no?”  She said meekly.

The teacher raised an eyebrow, but moved on.  “Please try to pay more attention, Miss Tyler – the test is on Friday, as you’ll recall.”

As subtly as she could, Rose glanced down at her arm, ready to tell James that she couldn’t talk until after school, only to see a note from him.

Don’t want to randomly disappear on you again – I don’t think I can talk write until after classes are done for the day.  Can we speak write tonight?

She managed to scrawl back a hasty OK before turning her attention to the front of the class.  History was not her best subject, and she needed to ace the test on Friday to pass with an acceptable grade.

That didn’t stop her from daydreaming about life with her soulmate, though.

Thanks for reading so far!  I’m excited about what I’ve got coming up for our young couple - I’m already written up through chapter 8 :)

Any suggestions for a title would be appreciated.  (No, seriously - please help!!)  

Also, if anyone would be interested in being a beta, please let me know.

[tenroseforeverandever]

Dear Father Christmas... Chapter 12: December 24, 2027

MASTERPOST

Characters:  Tentoo; Rose Tyler; Jackie Tyler; Pete Tyler; Tony Tyler; OC Hope Tyler-Noble; OC Charlotte Tyler-Noble; OC Wilfred Tyler-Noble

Rated: Teen

Tags: Family!Fic; Kid!Fic; Pete’s World; Letters to Santa; Christmas Fic; Family; Fluff; Hurt/Comfort; Angst; Romance; Love; gun violence; violence resulting in death; life-threatening injury; life threatening situations

Summary: When Rose Tyler was little, she always wrote a Christmas wish list to Father Christmas. As she grew older, the wish list became more of a letter to someone she could confide in once a year, but she fell out of the habit somewhere along the way. Now, as a new mum, celebrating her daughter’s first Christmas, Rose takes up writing her Christmas letter to Father Christmas once again.

Rose’s Christmas letters are excerpts from her life with her beloved Tentoo and their children in Pete’s World, written once a year, for each of 31 years.

Chapter Summary: When Charlie makes a new friend, it opens her eyes up to the world around her, and her life is changed forever.

Notes: This was a long one, and along with a bloody awful cold, set me back from my schedule by a few days. I’m trying to make it up and get ahead again, but I fear the time is nigh when I will not be able to post on schedule.

 @rose–nebula and mrsbertucci deserve all the hugs. Thanks so much for all your support, ladies.

Thanks to @doctorroseprompts for their 31 Days of Ficmas prompts. A reminder that I am using the prompts very much out of order, but I intend to use them all. The prompt I used today was Feast.

Also read at: AO3; FF.net; Teaspoon

December 24th, 2027

Dear Father Christmas,

I am always proud of my children. I’m their mum. It’s only natural. But this year my pride for Charlie is absolutely overflowing, above and beyond the pride that normally comes from being a parent. It has nothing to do with her intelligence, but everything to do with her compassion and her determination. This year, I am just so proud to know this wonderful little person, a glowing example of the best that humanity has to offer.

This year marked the twentieth anniversary of the formation of the People’s Republic and the dismantling of the Army Blockades and curfews imposed on the poorest parts of London and other major centres around Britain. I have to say, despite the Doctor’s misgivings, from what I could see, Harriet Jones was truly the people’s president. In her three consecutive terms in office, she made huge strides to create jobs and educational opportunities for so many people who had been controlled and subjugated for years, all the while driving the economy to new highs, and making a huge impact in combating the damage to the environment caused by cross-dimensional travel.

It was the Golden Age of Britain.

But it wasn’t perfect. Many people had still slipped through the cracks, and without Harriet Jones’ leadership in the years following her retirement, conditions worsened again, and people without proper means of support found themselves forced to live in the sector of the city that had once been behind the barricades. It was the only place they could hope to find a home they could afford. Many couldn’t afford even that, and subsisted however and wherever they could.

Enough of the history lesson, though. The point is there are many thousands of people in the London area who are living in poverty, and it is far too easy to turn a blind eye to things you don’t want to believe.

Fortunately, my little Charlie, nine years old, refuses to turn a blind eye. I think I’ve mentioned before that she’s my little activist. She’s the shit-disturber. If she has latched onto the idea that she wants something to get done, don’t stand in her road, because she’s coming through. This Christmas season, with the very enthusiastic aid of her brother and sister, she disturbed a whole lot of shit, and made a difference in the lives of an awful lot of people.

This story starts about three months back. Charlie wasn’t feeling very well, and we kept her back from school. But the Doctor decided to take her in to work with him for a quiet day of tinkering on some new gadgets from Torchwood’s as yet unsorted collection of alien artifacts. I was going to concentrate on my course work from home.

It was a warm autumn day, and Charlie claimed she was feeling (miraculously!) quite a bit better, so the Doctor took her to have lunch on the benches along the pavement by the river. I had sent her packed lunch for school with her. She was not at all happy. Apparently, she hated chicken salad sandwiches (news to me: they were her favourites the week prior.) She flew into a tantrum and made to throw her sandwich away. Clearly she still wasn’t feeling quite like herself, because as fierce as she is, she would normally never lose control of her temper like that.

The Doctor told me he’d been shouting at her to stop (not his most brilliant parenting moment, he admitted), and she was determinedly poised to throw the sandwich in the rubbish bin, when a small, stammering voice spoke up from behind the next bench: “Please… may I have it? That is, if you really don’t want it.”

Charlie had gone silent and just stared at the ragged little soul who belonged to the voice: a boy, dressed in filthy, tattered clothes, around Hope’s age, according to the Doctor. Wide-eyed, she’d passed him the sandwich, and introduced herself and her dad, and invited the lad to sit with them. Over the course of the following forty-five minutes, Hope had dragged his name out of him (Therin Thomson), given him her water (which he gulped down), and her apple (which he tucked into one of his grimy pockets for later.)

The Doctor had jogged away down the boardwalk to get the children 99s, and by the time he returned, Charlie was letting Therin have a go at flying one of her little drones. She’s always creating brilliant little gadgets from bits and bobs, and her favourites are the remote control drones. There’s always one tucked in her pocket, ready to play with. They were laughing their hearts out and chatting away like they’d been friends forever, as the drone swooped out over the Thames.

The Doctor had returned to work, and left them to play, but Charlie had come up to the lab about an hour later saying Therin had had to go, but she’d given him the drone. On the way home she peppered the Doctor with questions and comments: Do you think I’ll ever see him again? I wish we could have bought him supper. Where do you think he lives? Why is he so hungry and dressed in those awful clothes?

The following day, sometime after lunch, I got a call from her school to tell us she hadn’t been present when the teacher had called the register, and couldn’t be located on school grounds. They even admitted that she may not have been in class for some time. The students had been doing group work away from their desks so her presence and/or absence had been overlooked in the chaotic classroom.

Now, when I was young, I was notorious for skiving off, especially in secondary school (there’s a long story about me, my mate Shareen, and a school trip to France... But that’s another story for another time.) Now, secondary school is one thing, but it’s really difficult to get away with skiving off in Primary, as the teachers at that level are vigilant about the safety of the children. Needless to say, I was harbouring a rather grudging admiration for Charlie in that moment, even as I was fighting down the sheer panic. She wasn’t even nine years old yet, and here she was lost in the world, but it appeared she had done it with style!

The Doctor had called me before I’d even had a chance to dial his number. He’d sensed my emotional state, even though we were separated by quite a distance. I must have been broadcasting rather intensely through our bond. He said he would be home straight away. Meanwhile, Hope (who had been working on her Uni coursework in her room) checked the TARDIS and I started a search around the neighborhood on foot.

It was only five minutes later when the Doctor called me back. He’d found her. He’d been pacing in front of the lift doors, impatiently waiting for them to reach his floor when he’d glanced out the window. It overlooked the spot where he, Charlie, and Therin had had lunch the previous day. He’d looked down at the benches, and sure enough, there she was, sitting with her friend, playing with another couple of her drones.

Santa, I can’t begin to describe the relief I felt. Honestly, as much as I wanted to wring her neck, I really just wanted to see her face and hold her close to my heart. The Doctor had bypassed the hugging, and gone straight to the neck-wringing (well not actual neck-wringing, but you get the picture. He was furious!) Of course Charlie had stood up to him, tough little customer that she is, and Therin had run off, no doubt terrified of being caught in the middle of not one but two Oncoming Storms. The Doctor had eventually managed to stuff Charlie in the back of the car and haul her home.

When she got here, she wasn’t in any mood for being held “close to my heart”, but she did flop down on the sofa at my insistence. I perched on the coffee table in front of her, while the Doctor paced angrily, back and forth, in front of the fireplace. I began by asking her if she wanted to tell us what had happened.

But does she answer? Nope! Not her. Instead, she narrows her eyes, and shoots daggers at her pacing father, and says, “Does he really have to do that?”

I’m opening my mouth to explain that it helped him to think, when I’m cut off by what I can best describe as an explosion of anger from the Doctor. It flared across our bond, and I all I could do was watch as he lunged at Charlie, eyes blazing, and a lot of accusations about thoughtlessness, stupidity, and a few others flying from his mouth. I’ve rarely ever seen him so angry and frightened.

Charlie looked really shocked and a bit scared for just for a second, but then her face hardened again. She had the nerve to just stare him down and wait for his tirade to finish. Then she says: “Well, I guess we’re done here,” and gets up and walks toward the stairs.

Well, the Doctor flew completely off the trolley, and I did all I could over our bond to soothe him, but I was keeping one eye firmly on Charlie. I could feel my grudging admiration for her surfacing again, but I couldn’t let her leave on her own terms like that. I knew from personal experience the rift that can cause. When I left school (and home) to live with Jimmy Stone, my mum had been livid, and the row we had was monumental, but in the end she had just thrown her arms in the air and let me leave. At the time, I felt like I’d won the battle, but it was months before we even saw each other again, and then only because I realized I had actually won nothing and lost so much. Fortunately I was able to swallow my pride and admit I’d been wrong, that I needed her. But it could have gone so differently. I was sixteen at the time, and was able to rationalize and make a mature decision. Charlie is still so young. She needs us to make sure her boundaries are firmly set until she’s old enough to set her own... responsibly. And right now she couldn’t let her walk away.

Over our bond, I shouted at the Doctor to stop. He was absolutely seething, but he backed off. I called Charlie back, and she ignored me. “Now!” (Loud, firm, but not shouting. I had this.) “You have until I get to three.” And then I started counting. (I don’t know why counting works, but in ninety-nine percent of cases it does… mysterious but effective.) It worked this time, although Charlie waited a few seconds after I got to three before she sat herself back on the sofa. (Fine, I’d let her take that little bit of control if it made her feel better.)

She still refused to speak to us about her panic-inducing excursion, and I eventually told her she was grounded until further notice. She would stay in her room. She could read or study, but she was not to tinker or play or watch telly. The Doctor agreed to keep an eye on the websites she visited when she was studying online. She would eat with the family, and go to school where she would be watched like a hawk. Lunches and breaks would be spent at the school office. And above all, I let her know me and her dad were always there to talk to when she was ready.

It took a few days, and we didn’t push her, just kept reminding her we were there to listen, but she eventually opened up. Me and the Doctor were watching telly, and suddenly there was Charlie, scrambling over the back of the sofa to plop down between us. We all just snuggled for a few minutes, the two of us pressing kisses to the top of her head.

“Sorry I scared you…”

The Doctor apologized too for reacting the way he did and for saying the things he had.

“I know, Daddy. You told me two days ago!”

“Weeeell, it bears repeating.” He was tugging on his ear and I received his mental eye roll over our bond.

We share another special parental telepathic bond with our children, that we only ever open when both parties consent. It is activated through touch, and by mutual agreement, the Doctor and I each took one of Charlie’s hands, offering to share our thoughts with her. She bit her lip and nodded, squeezing each of our hands in return. We spent an hour or so sharing our love for one another, and Charlie finally told us what had happened.

She had been really worried about her new friend, Therin. He was homeless. His father had abandoned him and his mum when he was still a baby. He had grown up on the Powell Estate, of all places, but in this universe, it was little more than a high-rise slum. It jarred me to hear that. The Prime Universe’s version of the Estates hadn’t exactly been luxury accommodations, far from it, but they had kept us warm and dry, and there was a sense of community among the tenants. We struggled to make ends meet sometimes, but we got by. I knew Peckham, in this version of London, was one of the poorest parts of town, a part that had previously been deep behind the blockades, but I hadn’t realized conditions there had been so dire.

Therin’s mum had died a few years back. The flu, he thought. She had never received any medical attention. Since that time, Therin had been on his own. He begged for food. Being young, he mostly did pretty well for himself. People were more apt to be kind to a cute kid. He’d never gone to school that Charlie knew of. But his mum had taught him to read and write and do some basic math. And she’d taught him to play the guitar. Music was his passion, but his guitar had been stolen last year by some thugs, and he hasn't played since.

The three of us sat there on the sofa sobbing. “I just wanted to be his friend, and give him some food so he didn’t have to beg,” Charlie explained. “So I borrowed your Oyster card, Mum, and took the bus into town, and then the tube to the Torchwood stop.”

Both me and the Doctor heaved a sigh, a quiet plea that we find the patience to deal with our middle child. It was difficult to keep our cool and not reprimand her again for her rash actions. But given the circumstances, we knew we would have done the same thing in her shoes. She was our daughter; there was no doubt about it.

Our curiosity was piqued, though, and we spent the rest of the day researching the history of the areas that had been segregated behind the army blockades. Hope joined us, and Wilfred when he came in from football practice. Apparently while Harriet Jones had been in office, the previously blockaded districts had been listed for redevelopment and refurbishment, to be conducted one area at a time. New housing was planned and built, new communities created complete with businesses and schools. Training programs were set up to prepare residents to live independently in the state-provided homes. There were medical and dental clinics, shops and restaurants, salons and garages, banks and police stations. Big businesses were given incentives to move into the area to provide employment. Vitex, Pete’s company, it turned out was one of those businesses, having built a warehouse in one community, and a production plant in another. It was a monumental undertaking, unlike anything ever seen before.

But when Harriet Jones retired, most of the outstanding redevelopments had been put on hold or cancelled outright. The communities that had been converted were thriving as well as any other London community. But the ones that had been shifted to the back-burner, including Peckham, had only worsened over time. Now, they were, simply put, slums: third-world living conditions right smack in the heart of London.

“But why would they stop?” Wilfred asked about the government pulling funding from the project.

The Doctor explained how it all came down to money in the end, and the lack of will to make sure everything happened properly. Harriet Jones had been someone who was very good at making things happen; she was good at motivating people and making sure people stayed on task. She was also very clever about ensuring that, in the end, all of the redevelopment was profitable. She ensured no one took advantage and was an enthusiastic fundraiser. And she made sure she knew everyone and everyone knew who she was; that helped keep everyone accountable.

I explained that the worst part of it was that the government must be fully aware of the conditions in the un-redeveloped areas and were not only turning a blind eye, but also sweeping it under the rug.

We decided a visit to Peckham was warranted. We would take the TARDIS.

When we stepped out onto the courtyard at the Powell Estate, I nearly broke down in tears. The Doctor held me in his arms for a full five minutes before I could bear to look around again. It looked like a war zone. Not only were most of the flats completely exposed to the elements with missing doors and windows, but the buildings themselves looked structurally unsound. There were no safe dwellings. Any residents living there should be considered homeless, as far as I could tell.

We began to attract some attention. Hungry, poverty-stricken souls, peering out from behind crumbling walls; the more aggressive gangs challenged us, but one look from the Oncoming Storm sent them scattering. We had come prepared with loads of food, and spent much of the afternoon handing it out to the ragtag families and individuals who approached us once the gangs had backed down.

My heart leaped into my throat at one point when I saw Charlie speaking to one of the gang members, a heap of sandwiches in her arms. “You know,” she pointed out to the one who was clearly the leader (he was certainly the most dangerous looking), “if you would help people instead of threatening them, everyone would be happier, even you.” She glared up at him, challenging him. If her arms hadn’t been full of sandwiches she probably would have poked him in the chest, even though he towered over her. I could see him softening around the edges, just a little at the sight of the feisty little girl in front of him.

“So are you going to give me those sandwiches, or not?” he growled at her.

She stood up to him. My God, Santa! She was so impressive. She told him he and his friends would have to earn those sandwiches. She told him she figured he knew where everyone lived, and enlisted him to make sure all of the elderly residents had something to eat. She handed him all the sandwiches, telling him there were more and that he could have one when his job was done. She handed a bundle of them to each of the other gang members, shooing them off to do their jobs.

“If you help people,” she called after them, “and treat others with respect, you can get things done, because everyone is working toward a common goal.”

I couldn’t hold back a chuckle at my little force of nature, but I admit I spent the bulk of the day trying to hold back the tears.

Charlie came to my side and took my hand. “Don’t worry, Mummy. I’ll fix this. I’ll make it all better. Promise.”

--ooOoo--

Today, three months later, she is well on her way to making good on that promise.

We took her out of school, permanently, nearly two years earlier than planned. There are many other ways to get an education and to learn about the world, than from behind the walls of a classroom. We took Wilfred out too, it was only fair. And Charlie took full advantage of every moment she was given to work on her project, and her brother and sister were right there to help her out in any way they could.  

She spoke to many people, starting with her Grandad, who had a great deal of pull with a lot of people in important positions, and a ton of knowledge about managing a big organization. She spoke to her Gran about her charity, the Big Yellow Truck. She spoke to Harriet Jones, who had retired to her home in her original constituency, Flydale North, and while she knew her redevelopment scheme had been essentially scuppered, she had been unaware that the people living in the underprivileged areas had been reduced to such a deplorable state. She hopped back on board in an instant, coming out of retirement to work with Charlie (and not asking for a cent in return) and speaking with her at length about the whos, whys, and wherefors of what would be involved in kick-starting her endeavour. With Harriet’s help, Charlie developed a long-term plan and spoke with many government officials, working hard to get their support. It was tough on that little girl, and there were more setbacks than there were payoffs, but I have to give her credit where credit is due, she never talked about throwing in the towel, not once.

The first step of her plan was to start her own charitable organization, but by law, she was far too young for such a venture. So me and the Doctor stepped up and became co-founders and chairs of Hand in Hand, although our titles were in name only. We knew who was really in charge: Charlotte Tyler-Noble.

She planned to start small, organizing events to bring knowledge of the plight of the homeless people of London to the rest of the world. Her first event was a Festive Feast on Christmas day. Her vision was to bring together the people and businesses of London to provide food and fun for all the underprivileged souls in the slums of Peckham and the other areas awaiting redevelopment. She needed to hire event managers, accountants, and lot of other people, but Harriet Jones was more than happy to help out with that.

Charlie also enlisted her Grandad to speak on her behalf to big business owners to donate what they could to the event. Vitex was, of course, the leading sponsor of the event. Large grocery chains offered to supply literally tons of food in exchange for advertising. She and her siblings pounded the pavement, knocking on doors and talking with restaurant owners, convincing them to donate their time and resources to prepare a Christmas dinner, the scale of which had never before been seen. A kitchen supply company donated huge industrial ovens to be set up in a disused warehouse we had sourced as the location for the event.

And she got a lot of press. The granddaughter of the Vitex President taking on a project of this scale was big news, very big news, and she used it to her advantage, getting her message out to world. Unfortunately, it also meant the paparazzi were out in their droves. I don’t think we’d ever been subjected to such intense scrutiny before. It was a huge challenge just trying to go about our daily business. We were fortunate our little blue house was quite remote, but I admit, we used the TARDIS to get around rather a lot, and she was very clever at disguising herself, having a perfectly functioning Chameleon Circuit.

The press had a field day when several big name recording artists offered to attend the event. There was no venue where they could put on a concert, but they offered to busk, singing popular songs and Christmas music throughout the day.

Everything has come together beautifully and Charlie’s been over the moon for the last few days, so excited she’s been unable to sleep or eat. Tomorrow can’t come soon enough.

Oh my god, Santa, I don’t think I told you what happened with Therin Thomson. I just got so carried away telling you about Hand in Hand and Charlie’s Festive Feast, I completely forgot. Not that he’s forgettable. He’s been there with Charlie every step of the way. Therin showed up to see us that day we first went to visit Peckham, and (with the gang members) helped get sandwiches to all the people who were unable come to us. But when we were making to leave at the end of the afternoon, and I saw him hugging Charlie, I couldn’t just leave him behind in that destitute place.

“You can’t save them all, Rose,” the Doctor warned me.

“No, but I can save this one,” I told him. “We can work on the others later.”

So Therin came home with us for a few nights, but our house is small, and we are always taking off and travelling in the TARDIS on educational expeditions, and as much as we loved the young man, we didn’t feel we were able to give him the stability he needed at this point in his life.

Enter Jackie and Pete Tyler, empty-nesters with a whole lot of love to offer. Mum took him under her wing, and she and Dad happily became his legal guardians.

Mum allowed him to remain out of school until after the winter break so he could help Charlie with Hand in Hand. Earlier today, he was listening to Charlie’s rehearsal of her big speech. She is opening the event tomorrow in front of hundreds of reporters and cameras.

I was walking by her room just as she was practising, and I admit, I did a little eavesdropping. When I came by she was talking about how she learned from her mum and dad “…that the thing you need most to get across the universe is a hand to hold. And I challenge everyone to extend their hands to help bring hope to those in need. If everyone lends a hand, and works together, we can change the world…”

The Doctor slipped up behind me, kissing me behind the ear and accused me of spying on our daughter. I just told him how proud I was of her, of everything she’d accomplished; how strong and compassionate and determined she was, never letting anything stand in her way.

The Doctor just laughed. “Remind you of anyone, love?” he asked. “You realize, of course, she gets all of that from you.”

Santa, I have never received a lovelier compliment in my life.

A very happy Christmas to you and Mrs. Claus, and the elves and reindeer, too. I hope you have a hand to hold to help you get safely around the world tonight.

love, Rose

[couldnt-think-of-a-funny-name]

I've been to Wildwood. The Jersey Shore is crazy in general but wildwood is next level. The board walk has like 200 of the same t-shirt store, feels like you're walking through the fires of hell, and is jam packed with kids on camp trips. I've only ever done the board walk there but I've seen the walk you have to take to get out to the beach, it's insane. I can only imagine what it's like with family. How old are your cousins and what are they like?

My family has literally been coming to Wildwood every year since, like, at LEAST the 1930’s, I’m not sure on anyone earlier than that, and my family is insane, so let’s dive into this.

The Main Characters In My Life On Vacation Are:

-My Grandmother, who was a child dancer star (she tapped on the radio!) who’s been coming down here her whole life- her parents used to come down the same day there would be a talent show, enter her in it, and then use her first prize reward for the money they’d spend throughout the week. Has been in the old person stage of “I’m an elder, who cares what I say or do” for the past 15 years. Has eight living kids and Too Many Descendants. Loud and refuses to admit she can’t walk half the time.

- My Mother, who gets confused very easily, overshares and breaks off into meaningless tangents in the middle of stories, snores like a literal demon, always wants to be asleep, keeps pushing for family activities, doesn’t realize all the kids think she’s lame.

- Me, who is always Extra Depressed in the summer months, and is the Sole Person In This Family My Age- everyone just stopped having babies for a few years when my mother decided to have me (Everyone is either over 25 or under 16). Because of this I’m usually confined to my room, unable to really do anything on the boardwalk because going on rides alone is depressing and my mother has heart problems. Just wants to read and write, but the children keep Screaming.

- My Aunt and Her Husband- A Very Loud Couple, she likes to control everything and he’s the only one who ever bothers to yell back at her. They always fight exactly once, every year, and every year somehow I always end up being the only other person in the apartment while its happening, so I just have to sit in awkward silence until my aunt finally huffs out “I can’t believe you’re doing this in front of my goddaughter!” and storms out to go find her kids. They make a lot of jokes and think their children are very dramatic.

- Jenna, the 14 year old cousin. Very dramatic. Mastered the art of the eye roll at a young age. Has literally looked like a mini model since she was born. Can’t be bothered to deal with anyone. We usually have one (1) tiny girl-bonding moment each vacation and then she promptly acts like she doesn’t care even though it’s clear she does. Athletic and artistic and musically/theatrically gifted. Very sarcastic. Always doing cartwheels.

- Seanie, the 12 year old cousin. Middle child syndrome. Tries to hard to be funny for attention. VERY dramatic. Will cry at the drop of a dime (I’m typing this and I literally just heard him burst into tears in the other room??). Super adorable, you can tell he’s gonna be one of those high school boys that pulls Ridiculous Shit but after one charming smile the teachers can’t bring themselves to stay mad. Very loud. Currently addicted to video game youtubers.

-Zack, the 7 year old cousin. Adorable. Loud. Lowkey a prodigy child but they can’t afford to get him into Special Schools so he’s always bored in class. Baby Of The Family syndrome. Currently in an aggressive pokemon phase. Doesn’t understand he’s literally a child, he acts like an old man half the time.

We’re all shoved into a small apartment for a week, but there are Others:

- Kathy, Grandmom’s second oldest. Literally the most bland person I have ever encountered on this planet. Very, very into trying to plan ‘fun’ family events. Thinks any conversation is a riveting conversation.

- Kathy’s husband, who is just a plain old guy who’s lowkey a hoarder and jokes around a lot, but every time someone mentions his past or his family it gets more and more confusing??? He may have a brother who was in the CIA??? He may have been homeless or he may have lived with his sister???? He may have killed a man???? I literally know nothing concrete about this man other than he’s apparently been with my aunt since they were teens but I. D. K. Every new piece of information I receive just scatters the puzzle more.

- Their eldest daughter and her husband spend most of the summer down here but always make sure to match up the schedule for when we come down. Loud, energetic couple. I have no idea what either of them do for work? They might currently be unemployed? Really into alcohol. At some point in the week every year, everyone in my apartment bonds together to diss them after we get back from the beach. Like, they’ll do something or another EVERY YEAR that sets EVERYONE off.

- The 16 year old. Tries to show everyone memes on his phone. Never really talks to people. Does NOT get along with his parents because he’s kinda an outlier in the family. I feel like he might be a stoner, but if I find out he’s got a hidden gun collection, I wouldn’t be surprised? That probably sounds awful but he’s a good kid I promise.

- Danny, 12. Adorable. Quiet. Mini golden boy. Makes jokes when you aren’t expecting them. Very resigned to the fact he has to hug me and my mother when he sees us.

- Kathy and Mystery Man’s youngest daughter, a librarian, and her stand up comedian husband, and now their three month old who is ADORABLE and everyone was surprised to learn they hadn’t named her Hermione.

Other recurring family members are prone to popping up throughout the vacation- Aunt Margie, Grandmom’s sister-in-law, who, I love her, but remember that chocolate episode of spongebob with the old woman that was essentially a stick in a wheelchair and had a chain smoker voice??? Put that in the tiniest bikini you can imagine and add a wheezing laugh and you got her. Her daughter who I could not recognize on a street if I tried. Her son Michael, who is best friends with my mom and apparently Not Gay (no one’s really convinced). A step-cousin sometimes pops by, she’s very breezy and easy-going and you can’t distinguish her Actual Talking Voice with her Talking To Little Kids Voice.

Anyway, Wildwood itself is just. Goddamn ridiculous.

The aesthetic of this place is somewhere between the 1950’s, a trailer park, and the kind of developed land you get when a moustache-twirling man wants to convince all the old people he can to retire to his buildings. Some buildings are harsh metal, and others are bright pastels, but the only thing joining them together is the fact that it looks like no one has cleaned anything here in years. EVERYTHING, even the knew stuff, looks worn and faded. Even like…the AIR is faded. It’s not just the sun being too bright, everything you’re looking at looks like it’s an old photograph. If you stay too long, you might start to fade into the landscape yourself.

I have never once seen an animal that wasn’t a seagull here. Most towns, islands, places, whatever- you usually have at least squirrels running around, maybe some variations of birds, just. ANYTHING. But it’s all seagulls all the time. You cannot exist in a spot for longer than a few moments without one of them dive bombing you. They are not mere birds. They are feathered demons that Hath No Fear Of The Foolish Mortals Of Mankind.

The song “Wildwood Days” plays on the Boardwalk every half hour. It is the only way to appease the spirits. It’s the modern, New Jersey-ian version of painting lamb blood over your door frame. As much as I’ve grown to hate the song, to twitch and clench my fist at each note, I deeply fear for the day the song doesn’t play on time and the curse is unleashed. I have a deep, sinking feeling that this moment will come within my life time.

If You Don’t Stop To Watch The Fireworks, Your Bones Shall Never Be Found.

You hear the ongoing chant of “Watch the Tram Car, Please!”, and look around, but there isn’t a Tram Car coming. The order grows louder and louder. You realize you aren’t even on the Boardwalk any more. The sound is right behind you, but you can’t find the source. “Watch the Tram Car, Please!” you realize, to your horror, the sound is now coming from inside you. You never find your true voice again.

Despite The Fact That This Place Is A Mosh Pit Of Families From All Over The World, If You Can’t Immediately Place My Accent Or Figure Out What Language I’m Speaking, I Have Legal Grounds To Kill You.

The sand simply isn’t normal. It’s ADVANCED sand. It doesn’t make sense. It never truly washes off. The more you scrub, the more appears.

Ancient gods from multiple pantheons like to chill out on the beach, have a few beers. You never know for sure who is who, but you Know they aren’t the same as you, and you know they know more about you than you’re comfortable with. For your own sake, NEVER ask them to turn their music down.

There is always at least one plane flying over with a sign reading “Jen, will you marry Sean?”. It’s been decades. Will Jen ever say yes?

Elevators Are For The Weak And We Use Them To Judge Who To Do Away With First.

The ocean goes back and forth between green and grey, and you know the color makes a significant difference but you can never quite put your finger on what.

Fish Are Fake.

All the stores sell everything you want, but nothing you need.

King Kong Is Our Fierce Protector, Loving Hero, And Just Enforcer

All the police officers and firemen and general ‘in charge’ jobs seemed to be run completely by 18 years olds

No one truly knows who pulls the shots when it comes to deciding the Boardwalks style each year. Every store sells the same Designated Style, and each year they make less and less sense. You buy a specialized hoodie anyway, and you have no idea why.

I could keep going on with that list, but the point is, Wildwood is a Strange Place and I have a Ridiculous Family, so every year is always a bit of an experience.

Like, no one in my family really has anything in common other than everyone’s always loud and everyone’s always right and everyone is always ready to loudly fight over the fact that they’re definitely right, but like. Imagine crawling through some Hillbilly Murder Showers in the garage of a condo, using all of your force to pry open a suspiciously heavy and questionably mechanized door, walking under the boardwalk and trekking over sand dunes just to find a bunch of screaming yet physically relaxed people under the flag for Montserrat. Some guy’s cracking stand up jokes while no less than three children are fighting each other, your mother is promising for the 14th year in a row that you’re gonna go on a whale watching trip and everyone knows she’s lying, some woman’s trying to hold a conversation about buying applesauce in bulk while her husband and children get drunk, there’s a skinny pale guy with horrible sunburn blasting songs from N.W.A., a girl’s cartwheeling around the site to the point you think she doesn’t know how to move any other way, a boy’s quietly drinking pickle juice, there’s a 7 year old literally trapped in a giant hole that he dug, your mother is snoring loud enough to alarm the people around you, and just when you’re starting to get a little comfortable about the feathered demons and start to relax, a tide comes in so strongly your chair literally starts getting pulled out to sea with you in in. It’s average. It's fading into the landscape with the rest of the place.

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Image: Sophie Treadwell GARRY by Sophie Treadwell White Bear Theatre, Kennington, 4th – 22nd June 2019 Interview with director GRAHAM WATTS Graham Watts is directing and producing the world premiere of Sophie Treadwell’s play GARRY. Sophie Treadwell wrote more plays than Shakespeare. Her play Machinal is looked upon as one of the great plays of the 20th century. “Everybody’s done it, from Broadway to the Almeida”, says Watts, “her other plays are there, they’re just ignored.” Like a man on a mission, Watts is determined to raise the profile of brilliant female writers’ who have been overlooked. Last year he premiered THE UNNATURAL TRAGEDY at The White Bear, 350 years after it was written by Margaret Cavendish. It received five-star reviews and an OFFIE nomination for Best Direction. Yet when he tried to get THE UNNATURAL TRAGEDY published, nobody would do it. It’s a clever restoration comedy, with 14 characters. Watts points out that it’s ideal for “universities, amateur groups could do it, students could study it, so many things you could do with it, but they just won’t publish”. It’s a problem which appears to be endemic. Timberlake Wertenbaker wrote 41 plus, operas, radio plays and screenplay. “You’ll see OUR COUNTRY’S GOOD And if you’re lucky you might see THREE BIRDS, ALIGHTING ON A FIELD”, says Watts. “If you’re telling me that’s not gender discrimination, it’s a bit suspicious, particularly when you’re comparing with productions for male writers.” “We need to enrich the repertoire. If we don’t produce plays written by women then we reduce it by 51% It’s not about a condescending concern for the “Little Ladies.” These are fantastic plays that have been neglected for years. Nobody does them. If I do them it will encourage other people to put them on, otherwise no one knows they exist. They’ll just keep doing the same productions like TOP GIRLS. If someone told you Carol Churchill only wrote TOP GIRLS you’re going to believe it.” Naturally, taking a play which has never been produced before does have challenges of its own. GARRY is a hard-hitting modern play. “It’s very 21st century, it’s the Weisberg situation except with a twist.” Set in 50s New York. Garry, an unemployed man is lured from a bar to a hotel room with the promise of a job. Watts explains: “It’s that prominent rich guy situation. When Garry comes back to the hotel room in the Waldorf, he’s sexually assaulted by the guy with repercussions for him and his new wife Wilma in particular – a reporter turns up looking for a scoop and events build to a shattering conclusion. She’s a small town girl from Oklahoma, believing in the American dream but life’s a bit more complex than that. The big thing she learns is that people are all a little bit different.” “It’s not showing graphic subject matter” says Watts, “it’s not gross, we’re talking 1954 in certain parts of America where homosexuality isn’t accepted, now there’s an attempted rape, and the changing role of women - It’s anti the American dream. The character’s feel chocked, they can’t breathe, they can’t express themselves”. The play is actually about Wilma, she’s on stage from the very first gong, and never leaves the stage for two hours. All four character’s in the play are aged 18 – 22, so Watts’ cast is very young. Two of them have worked with him before. “It has to be a stepping stone for people to move on. They won’t do something like this for the rest of their careers. An American giant of a playwright in a pub in south London … you can never take that away from them.” Phebe Alys is playing the role of Wilma. Phebe was last seen at the White Bear in The Unnatural Tragedy as Amor. She is currently filming Harlots for Sky TV. Also, in The Unnatural Tragedy was Alice Welby. In this production she takes on the part of Peggy, a tough New York prostitute and Garry’s sister. She was also Juliet in Graham Watts’ Romeo & Juliet. “Why not give them a break?” says Watts. “Particularly for Phebe - Wilma is a hell of a challenge, she’s carrying the play. These actors leave drama school with high expectations and then nothing … if people have done a good job before, I stay loyal to them”. Watts doesn’t believe in imposing a style on the play, the script is a gift. “It just comes because it’s the right thing to say, if you listen to the other actor, the response is already in your head” Watts’ explains. “Rather than grammatical sentences she splits it up into thoughts and of course New Yorkers are quick thinkers, quick speakers.” The fact that the play has never had an audience does raise a few difficulties and is disconcerting for Watts’. “I’m never sure whether it’s going to be safe. For example, will an audience understand it? Will they be offended, confused? We might know the play well but there’s no Ouija board in rehearsals for Sophie Treadwell to help us through.” At the same time Watts concedes that “the script always gets the story and language across, so she’s there holding my hand in rehearsals.” Although the Treadwell estate allows no changes to be made to the script, it is possible to slightly rearrange, and cut material, so there are some choices to make. However, Watts is always keen to honour the authors intensions. “I hate productions when you see the director on stage. Ivo Van Hove is like that his work is full of gimmicks, for me its gimmickry. With UNNATURAL TRAGEDY I used a recognised modern Shakespeare approach, keeping it fluid, not out of keeping with the RSC. GARRY is a psychological play, it’s 50s method acting, that’s what I’m driving for, that intensity that Marlon Brando had.” Watts describes himself as one of the ‘one in ten directors’ who are from a working class background’. “To be honest with you, I was ignored, that’s why I went to work abroad. I worked a lot in America. They see me for who I am and what I’ve achieved and here they don’t do that. The White Bear is different, they are so supportive, one hundred percent behind the project.” Artistic Director of White Bear, Michael Kingsbury welcomed the play. “He cares about the plays that are put on and all the new writing he’s putting on” says Watts. Watts also praises the pub, and its atmosphere. “It’s nice to sit here. Really friendly. You don’t have to try and get served, and it’s not a tenner for a drink and a fiver for a programme”. Sophie Treadwell “GARRY deserves to be seen. I want audiences to have a new respect for Sophie Treadwell, she’s not a one act wonder. She’s another female author who wrote great plays being ignored. We can’t let it go on, we’ve got to change the system”. Graham Watts in rehearsal He also praises Sophie Treadwell’s humanitarianism. “She wasn’t religious but she left the Rights to her plays with the Roman Catholic Church (Diocese of Tucson, Arizona) with specific instructions. Her estate was to be used to care for migrant children from Mexico and Latin America who come across the Border, where they are split up from their parents”. After negotiating with the church and Sophie Treadwell’s estate, Royalty payments are based on a percentage of gross box office. “Any rights and any future rights of this particular production will go to helping their kids” says Watts. Whilst Treadwell was sixty-eight when she wrote the play, Watts believes “she knows what she’s doing, at a certain age people suddenly think writers don’t know what you’re doing, the opposite is true. She’s an experienced author, let her speak.” As a director Watts has certain methods which are anecdotal but its not really about making jokes, its sharing and only if relevant to the play. “It sounds like it’s just faffing about and wasting time, it’s not, it relaxes the atmosphere. You’re not saying ‘I want it now’. Trevor Nunn is like that, I’ve worked with Trevor and that’s what he does. He’ll take about football and they’d do the best hour of rehearsal you’ve ever seen. He’s so on the money.” Watts best advice to actors is to forget about the money and think about the play. “If you want to do that play don’t let your agent stop you from doing it. So often actors go away from their passion play to work on … ‘Father Brown’. Too often with young actor’s agents will actively stop them from doing theatre, Hold on, what have you being doing for the last year? Nothing! You could have been here working.” Watts concedes that the route into directing has changed. “When I started from university, I became ASM, watched other directors work, watched lunch-time shows, then did some fringe. That was the pathway, people are denied that now.” His advice would be to “run box office, lighting, costume, don’t get a degree from Cambridge, do basic stage craft. Get your hands dirty.” It’s all about believing in the work you are doing. “GARRY deserves to be seen” says Watts. He’s looking forward to sharing it with an audience. “I want them to have a new respect for Sophie Treadwell, she’s not a one act wonder. She’s another female author who wrote great plays being ignored. We can’t let it go on, we’ve got to change the system”. THIS SHOW HAS ENDED GARRY White Bear Theatre, Kennington 4th – 22nd June 2019 1954. New York. An unemployed man is lured from a bar to the hotel room of a “prominent citizen” with the promise of a job. A sexual assault is attempted which has devastating consequences for newlyweds Wilma and Garry. When a reporter turns up looking for a scoop, events build to a shattering conclusion.