#it's finally done i cannot believe it. almost three years of working on this.... unreal

[calumthoodshands]

Days in the sun

Pairing: Luke Hemmings/Calum Hood

Word count: 200 k (50 Chapters)

Rating: Mature

Tags: slow burn, light enemies to lovers, fluff, hurt and comfort, see ao3 for more detail

Calum liked his life. He liked his tiny, old house, liked drinking wine with his friends and filling his notebook with sketches of whatever he came across. It suited him, and he didn’t expect anything — or rather anyone — to change it up. Until Luke, a singer, a man from a world that couldn’t be any more different from Calum’s, showed up. And changed, well, everything.

Read here on ao3.

[gabesapwhoreta]

Tell me the pattern! I swear I don't have any eggs! ;)

alright okay but it's metaphysical shit. it pertains to actual psychotic/psychic events i had after i was almost directly struck by lightning in 2021. i was Tripping.

the short version:

The Apocalypse. In 2020 was when everyone finally started to notice, all those metal beams and rafters casting huge shadows, stark contrast against the sky, ominous and mysterious and foreboding and creaking. People are climbing on it, camping out under it, gathering around it like a bridge about to collapse - sometimes parts collapse, and no matter how much you shout or try to warn people, they are crushed. They're just too far away to hear you.

In the sky and in the distance you can see figures building more, adding huge metal plates, reinforcing sections and rebuilding others. It's hard to tell who's doing what. It's hard to tell if they're helping or causing more problems. Some of them are people, but some of them have wings, some of them aren't quite human anymore, or maybe never were - angels and demons and ghosts working in absolute silence. But the creaking. There's so much creaking.

You leave, for now. You sense that it's better to leave it alone, or watch from a distance - if you cannot keep strangers from climbing on this thing, you can at least try to stop your loved ones.

Time passes. The creaking gets bad, and worse, and lots of people die. The thing gets so massive it's virtually impossible to avoid - all you can do is pay attention and pray. It's safest to stay around the edges, where at least if the thing collapses around you it won't be too heavy, won't crush you to death.

More time passes. You're almost used to the creaking now. You're more confident at navigating the new structure, but sometimes there are accidents that make you think that your confidence is not deserved. You keep praying.

More time passes. The creaking is constant, but you're starting to realize now that maybe it is not as loud as it used to be. Not as alarming. You start getting curious - you start exploring parts of the structure you never dared venture to before. Parts that have become stable, now.

It's dark. There are rooms. You can hear voices having conversations - not about anything in particular, but they're all different. You can smell perfume, faintly. You follow the perfume.

More time passes. Eventually, you come to a big black door. No one will tell you what's on the other side, but they all want you to go through it. You've never been more terrified in your life, but you're Pete Wentz, so you open the door.

The sunlight shines on your face, and you hear birds, and people cheering and laughing,

And you realize where you are, and you realize what the building is.

It's a stadium.

long version under the cut (possible cw for unreality):

so first the obvious: when i say i was tripping i really do mean it felt like i was tripping. i've never done psychedelics before, but it felt like i've always imagined psychedelics would, the main difference being that it came in cycles and kept waxing and waning for a total of 8 months before it finally stopped. i was dreaming while i was awake. i was manic. i was suicidal. i did some of the most amazing creative work i've ever done and experienced some really impressive psychic predictions but i was also so delusional that i landed myself in the hospital three times.

this is all going to be a bit disorganized in presentation i think so just bear with me

on the number 8, first: i believed when i got struck by lightning that i was recovering memories from 8 years ago. the psychosis lasted a total of 8 months. 8 represents the infinite - it can be a gateway to the infinite. this is fall out boy's 8th album. kanye also put out Hurricane during my trip (before the antisemitism) and the lyric "lightning strikes the beach, 88 degrees, warm enough for me" REALLY resonated with me at the time.

that ties in to pink seashell beach. i live in florida; the beach near me has pink sand. plenty of other florida beaches too, probably, plus of course there's the actual Pink Seashell Beach.

i've never seen field of dreams but i understand the feeling of a voice telling you to do something (not something evil, just something strange and massive) and promising results

now.... how to put this. you're free to Believe It Or Not, but there's this dream world, there is another side, and we all go there and we are all influenced by it to varying degrees. it's where creativity comes from. it's where inspiration comes from. it's where dreams and visions come from. when you take psychedelics you get to glimpse it.

we all have dreams about pete wentz and gabe saporta and whatever other bandom blorbos because their job as good musicians is to pull things from the other side and turn them into songs. when you listen to songs created with that energy all day, it helps you find your own way to that other side all by yourself. and the more you get there, the more you realize the part of that place that's reserved for you is full of people just like you, because it's created by people just like you.

we all have a collective consciousness. that extends to media, too. it extends to any creation. we dream about pete wentz telling us to follow our dreams sometimes, because pete wentz has spent most of his life using this divine energy of creation trying to tell us to follow our dreams. that same divine energy is what psychics tap into - it's both a place and a source of energy, as well as something that is actively affected by or affects what happens in the real world - it goes a little bit both ways.

hopefully you guys follow this so far.

all the trippy imagery in that claymation definitely felt like a representation of that energy/space, btw - hopefully we all realize that pete wentz probably does psychedelics, lol. i am somewhat making the assumption that he's a very tapped-in guy - he and gerard way in particular give the impression of people who spend a lot of time questioning and visiting and working with that space and energy, their intuition is just too good - gerard's supposedly wiccan so i suspect he does more traditional magic, pete wentz on the other hand strikes me as the type to just smoke up and introspect. none of this really matters it's just speculation.

now, in 2021, understandably, a lot of the energy on the other side was "apocalypse". but here's the thing about apocalypses - they are almost never as bad as everyone expects them to be, and there is always another "side". that's why, like, when i (and a lot of people) consider biblical references to apocalypse, i consider the language to be more symbolic or metaphorical in nature, and i also don't consider an apocalypse and the actual end of time to be the same two things, you know?

but coming close to an "apocalypse" can *feel* like end of times, especially in that psychic space. it's the end of something and the beginning of another - it is like the whole world being turned upside down. But eventually, the sand settles, and it's over, and there's another side. Sometimes it's even better on the other side.

So... how to describe this exactly, in a way that makes sense. I'm just going to try to explain what I think is going on in Pete's head, what I think he'd be seeing if he tripped on it I guess, lol. Or maybe this is just what goes on in *my* head when I think about it. So i dunno, expect lots of visuals. here we go

(refer to short version)

[punemy-spotted]

The Price You Pay Chapter 3: Counteroffer

Pairing: Mob!Steve Rogers x Reader, Senator!Andy Barber x Reader

Warnings: Rape/Non-Con elements, Dub-Con, Dark!Fic, Abuse of Legal System, Murder, Character Death (minor, possibly major), Love Triangle, Political AU, Mafia AU, Workplace Sexual Harassment, Abuse Mentions, Possessive/Obsessive Characters, Other Chapter-Specific Warnings May Apply, Possible Dead Dove: Would Not Eat

Chapter Warnings: Rape/Non-Con Elements Continue; Dub-Con; Angst; Politics; Possessive/Manipulative Behavior; Spanking; Choking; Crying; The Dove is Probably Dead: Do Not Eat

Chapter Summary: The return of an old friend brings back the ghosts of old memories.

Chapter 1; Chapter 2

Notes: Shorter chapters my ass, these outlines are getting unreal. Andy Barber has arrived, Steve Rogers does not approve, the Reader bears the consequences. Things are going to be angstier from here on out and I can feel it in my bones. Please don’t yell at me — or do, your feedback is well-loved and appreciated even if it’s yelly.

Not beta-read, these sins belong to me and me alone.

You met Andy Barber fresh from the ashes of his divorce, escaping the gossip and scandal and pain of his past life only to dive into the gossip and scandal and pain of politics. Senatorial campaign, in need of an aide and a law student desperate to do more for the people than hours in clinics and mock trials. Hungry for something grassroots, angling for the impossible.

A match. Whether made in Heaven or Hell feels irrelevant now, long ago as it was.

It was then. This… is now.

Hey Sunshine, didn’t think you’d be able to make it.

He looks the same. Keeps the same beard. Same hair. It’s uncanny and familiar and safe all at once and you slide into the booth with your purse by your side and feel genuinely smiley for the first time in a long time.

It’s been a while since I heard that name.

Yeah? It’s been a while since I got to use it.

The silence is heavy, unwelcome, unwieldy, a reminder of the space between what was and what is.

How’re you doing? Last I heard you were making a name for yourself taking down the…

He trails off, eyes fixed on the slide of your gaze, the sudden interest in a drink menu you wouldn’t normally touch, the tremor of your lips. A man doesn’t serve as Assistant District Attorney for the many years he has without picking up tells.

Sunshine.

Andy…

It’s a warning, a plea, a… confession, all at once, and all the dogged determination in the world can’t hold against the break in your voice, in your control. You’ve cried more in the past few weeks than you can recall and now here he is, soulful eyes and a worried expression and he’s never hugged you really, but suddenly you might want it just that much more.

Don’t be an idiot.

It’s dangerous, your stress, and you know it.

Dangerous enough to send you into the arms of the next safe thing — this is why you don’t do this, isn’t it, this reaching out bit, but no advocacy group on the planet is going to save you from yourself today.

I saw… I saw you win that case. Pretty brutal, standing up to the Syndicate, and getting what you did. He steamrolls past the way you wince, his thumb on that metaphorical bruise and pressing, the Prosecutor’s dogged determination demanding answers, I have a friend in the office, he was convinced you’d be climbing the ranks.

Every word is a twist of the knife, couched in quiet concern, gentle admonition, a warm hug in a smoky tenor and you want to tell him everything, you want to break down in his arms and tell him every word, every buried piece of you he never learned, everything that’s led you to this.

You don’t.

You know better than to trust him too. No one’s going to take care of you but you so instead you shake your head and wave it off and Decided going into the private sector was the better option — one big win doesn’t really make up for the stress, you know.

Private sector. That’s what you’re calling the SHIELD Syndicate now? C’mon, Sunshine…

Look. It’s the Syndicate’s New York, when he made the offer it was… safer than saying no. It’s a cushy position anyway, and I didn’t want anyth—

He doesn’t believe you. He doesn’t believe you and you’re digging a hole trying to explain your way out of it so you just… shut up, shaking your head, It’s not important. I’m fine. I’m more curious about you — what year is it now, your fourth? What are you doing in New York?

The deflection works, but the look on his face is obvious — you’re not getting out of this so easily. He gives in for now, just for now, for you.

Almost fifth, gearing up for re-election. Had a meeting up here… about the organized crime situation for both states, and I remembered you were in the area.

Oh. You… it’s been a while since we talked, you remembered?

You expect me to forget you, Sunshine?

That stops you in your tracks, or whatever road your mind had been racing on, thoroughly not enjoying the defensive you’ve been on since you met with Steve, constantly under watch and waiting for yet one more shoe to fall on you.

That’s fear, sweetness.

Andy…?

You were the best campaign aide I had — I told you then too, I would have made you Chief of Staff if you’d let me.

It’s a good save. A clever save, and you want to believe it more than anything, want to believe it was all business and no pleasure because the alternative makes your nails bite into the table and want to turn tail before he can say another word and he… sees that panic flicker over your face so keenly it’s almost embarrassing.

You’re not used to this.

You’re not used to the warmth of his eyes when he searches your face for the answers you can’t give voice to. You’re not used to the way he reaches for your hand and rests it over your fingers, curling around your palm like he might actually keep you close and keep you safe and keep you free of the demons you made a part of yourself too.

Sunshine, why does his voice have to be so soft, why does it have to sound like molten honey on your senses, why does he have to say your name like it’s the very definition of the word hope, If you’re not safe…

No. No you’re not, tell him tell him the truth, tell him you’re atoning for the girl you could not protect tell him you aren’t worth it tell him this is your penance tell him you signed a death warrant tell him tell him tell him.

Andy, really. I’m fine. It’s a good job.

It’s a shit lie.

He drops it. Drops it just long enough for a waiter to finally come by, for his hand to leave yours while he talks through the wine menu. Drops it long enough for you to check your phone, realizing with horror that you must have silenced it absentmindedly sometime on your way here.

Ten missed calls.

All from Steve.

And one text, stamped from just five minutes ago.

[SMS] Either you pick up your phone or I pick you up, Counsel.

The next one comes right before your eyes, a picture of a map and a GPS pin. Your location.

You glance up at Andy, still talking to the waiter about the small plates options, feign a smile and Go ahead and choose, you have better taste than me, and return to staring at the picture and the three dots at the bottom of your screen, waiting to see his next message.

[SMS] Make your choice.

The haptic feedback of your keyboard feels like an electric shock with every letter, hurried fingers until you manage to tap out something that won’t immediately put the man in front of you in the crosshairs of the most dangerous organization in New York.

You can’t do that to him. You can’t.

[SMS] I’m at a dinner with a friend.

[SMS] And since I know there’s no emergencies pressing, I’d like my time, thank you.

You have the good sense to set it next to you this time, watching your screen light up with whatever furious response he sends next, glancing over only occasionally every time another one comes through. Don’t let him control you. Don’t let him think you’re at his beck and call.

You’re not.

You’re free, you’re free and you’re going to prove it.

Sunshine? What’s going on?

His voice cuts through the haze of panic like a knife and you swear you don’t mean to jump but you do and there’s no denying what he notices, eyes narrow and lips turned down in a sharp scowl, Sunshine…?

You are not that girl. You cannot be that girl, never again.

Steel. Steel yourself, flash him a smile, take a sip of the ice water left in front of you while you’d been checking your phone, reset yourself. Steady. Steady on.

Don’t let them know.

Nothing, nothing, just the boss — let him know I was busy.

Why is he texting you after hours? The Syndicate can’t be that busy.

He’s too watchful for your own good. Probably just making sure I’m staying out of trouble.

Are you?

Are you calling yourself trouble, Senator?

You like this. You can handle this, the trading of jokes, the crooked way he smiles. His eyes are a little more distant than you remember but you can still see them sparkle softly when he suppresses a laugh, lighting up properly when the joy reflects in them.

Briefly, you wonder when the last time he really laughed was.

By the time dinner is over, his hand, warm and steady, is back on yours as you talk — and for a moment you almost enjoy the way he runs his thumb over your knuckles absently, like he’s making careful appraisal of each one. Could use your skills for the re-election campaign, you know.

Really? You’ve got a gorgeous approval rating, what are you afraid of?

Not having my good luck charm on the staff.

Andy…

I’m dead serious, Sunshine, you ran that ship. You were what, a 2L? Rising 3? You had canvassing down to a science. We need that energy down on the Hill.

The curve of his fingers is a little tighter now, squeezing yours, like proof of his earnestness and oh, you want to keep believing him. You need to keep believing him.

There’s so much in New York I have to get done first. And besides, you know me. I want a life on the bench.

Justice Sunshine, and it sounds absurd when he uses your nickname and it sounds so real when he uses your nickname and in the warm smoke of his voice those contradictions can live together all at once.

That’s the one. Closest you’ll see me to Washington is when I’m appointed to the Supreme Court. It’s a dumb, arrogant, silly joke but it’s the same one you used to make with him over drinks, teasing him about his political goals and making him promise to “go easy on you” at your eventual Senate confirmation hearing.

It’s the one that makes him crack that too-beautiful crooked smile while he takes a sip of his drink — hiding the curve of his lips behind the rim of a heavy glass.

Well. If you ever decide to ditch—

Ever decide to ditch what?

The world moves in slow motion: hearing the low growl from behind you; Andy Barber looking up and rising to his feet, his hand slipping from yours with just the ghost of his comfortable touch to assure you; Steve Rogers coming into view as you turn, flanked by the not-entirely-unfamiliar faces of two of his enforcers — it looked like Wilson and Banner had been selected this evening — and the sudden pressure of knowing you’ve done something terribly, terribly wrong.

You stood me up, Counsel. Steve’s voice is a threat, a half-drawl as you stand up and face him, Andy right behind you, Something wrong with taking my phone calls?

She was busy, the sound of Andy’s voice is a balm to your soul and fuel to Steve’s fire, the muscle in his jaw jumping as he grits his teeth and resists the temptation to throw the first punch — you can see the fingers of his right hand curling into a fist, can’t you? The slow curve, the watching, wondering if you’ll make the right choice now that someone has chosen to try to lead you astray.

And who the fuck are you? If he can’t get you to respond, he’ll get something from the man talking for you, eyes trained on him like he’s debating whether his own frustration will make this interloper turn to nothingness and return you to his arms where you rightfullybelong.

Do you? Rightfully belong?

Senator Andy Barber. The title practically knocks the wind out of Steve’s sails and you can see it — he may be the Captain here, King of New York, ruler of his domain but he’s not stupid enough to openly attack a man with connections beyond the Syndicate’s web of influence. It’s a comfort and it’s not, all at once.

The room is still, vibrating with tension, the two men staring daggers at one another and you caught in the middle. I worked on Senator Barber’s campaign when he first ran for election, you manage out in some vain hope it might explain and mollify, only to be thoroughly disappointed — and judging by the way Banner winces, only to dig your grave further.

We’re talking about this later, Counsel. You’re coming home.

And what gives you the right to give her orders? You really are going to have to look back at Andy and beg him to not make this worse. You really are going to have to let him see your face, see that you’re afraid, sweetness. He’s not going to let you go easy and this should not terrify you as much as it does.

Senator Barber. It’s fine. Something must have come up,turning to face his burning eyes, until his face softens like he’s seeing you for the first time. And is he? Is he seeing how you just need him to let it go, let you go, drop the protectiveness and step back?

He has to, because he does, nodding before he grabs his coat and glances to the host station. If you say so, Sunshine. Take care of yourself. He doesn’t press, not knowing when he’s beat but knowing when you don’t want him to. When you’re not safe.

And Steve Rogers offers you his hand to walk you out.

And just what the hell did you think you were doing!?

Oh, and you control my time off the clock now too?

He dragged you back home.

No. Not to your apartment, that sanctuary away from all this you’d been allowed to keep as part of the “deal.” His home, the bedroom where you signed yourself away, the space he unraveled you and left you tangled in your new life.

He dragged you back home, in the grim silence of the backseat of his car and you waited. Waited for the inevitable explosion, the one prefaced by Wilson’s nervous looks and Banner’s cautious stare.

This explosion, where he rounds in on you, where livid is still too tame a term.

Meeting with a Senator? Ignoring my calls? I told you, you were mine tonight.

And I told you I had plans.

After I told you that you were mine, Counsel.

Okay. That’s true, even if you’re loathe to admit it.

Plans adjust. Andy wanted to—

Oh, Andy now? I thought it was Senator Barber? You’re really familiar with him, aren’t you, Counsel?

Just what the fuck are you implying?

Maybe you need a reminder of who you belong to.

He loves to do this. Wrap his big hand around your throat, remind you just how easily he can impose his power onto you, watch your protests die behind your eyes when you realize how useless words are in the face of his violence.

The furious look in your eyes is something to behold, the way you embed your nails into his wrist to try and drag him off you, all soft snarls and indignant huffs, You fucking asshole…

You’re mine, Counsel, and don’t you forget it. You gave yourself to me, remember?

Like I… like I had much of a choice, breathy, furious, and clawing at him.

Doesn’t matter. You’re mine, and clearly I need to make sure you know it…

Steve—!

Captain, sweetness, Captain, and don’t you forget it.

There’s a moment, when anger becomes transcendental, when it turns into something cold and calculating and prepared, when a plan forms behind his eyes and you watch as he looks down at you, so full of fury and fear all at once and you watch as he leans in so close and you feel his hand slide until he has you by the back of the neck, until his thumb is the thing pressing under your chin to keep your eyes on him, until the heel of his hand is the thing keeping you from shouting at him further. Such a stubborn little bitch…

You can almost see the words forming in his mind, the ones his mouth won’t say, I could be so good to you, but he doesn’t say them, sliding his lips over yours instead and it is… soft. A capturing of your mouth with his, not caring that you protest, only insistent on leaving you breathless and hazy-eyed from each tug of his lips on yours and there stokes the warmth of more than your rage, a different fire rising in your core, unbidden and unwelcome but yours to own and his to play with.

He can sense it, practically feel it, that mad serum racing through his veins and making his nostrils flare as he pulls back and watches you, lets the scent of your perfume fill his senses like a drug he can’t get enough of and, I should hate you too, for this, whispered low and hushed and you barely catch it, don’t you? Barely, but enough, enough to remember it was said just before he pulls you down with him into the depths of his own lust.

And into his lap, it seems, as he drags you down, sitting on the bed with you draped over his lap, an effortless shift in his skillful hands. You can protest, and you do, even daring to try to pull away with a kick of your legs and an indignant, What the hell do you think you’re doing?But you know it’s all futile, useless as he places one heavy hand on your back and lets the other slide over the smooth chiffon of your blouse, tracing a line along your spine with careful, practiced ease.

Would have preferred this with a little more… circumstance, sweetness, but you need to learn a lesson now and drastic times call for drastic measures.

You can turn your head slightly, to look at him, that wild-eyed fury so sweet on your face and you are still a wild creature he needs to tame but he is patient and he can do this for as long as it takes.

But you’re a sight like this, draped over his lap in a pencil skirt and blouse, so put together and proper and now so prone to him, helpless under the appraisal of his hands and the way he takes no time in hiking your skirt up around your waist. Captain! Your protest is met with a low chuckle, especially as he lets his palm curve around the round swell of your ass, before leaving a light swat on the soft flesh, to draw a yelp from your furious mouth.

If that’s all it takes to get you shouting, sweetness, you’re going to hate what comes next, smug and cruel, as you try to hold yourself up enough to look at him, met with his smirk and the simmering fury still bubbling in his eyes. To say you’re in danger still is an understatement, no doubt, and you know it.

I won’t make you count this time, but piss me off again, sweetness, and we’ll just see how much you can take, you hear me?

Oh you loathe him, really and truly loathe him, hissing with anger and embarrassment, so close to twisting in his arms and clawing at him but remembering his size and just how much worse it could get — but then there lies the undercurrent.

The one you loathe too, more than you hated him, that warmth. Seeping into your core, a low heat kindled by the sly softness of his lips on yours and the sure tenor of his voice, low and soothing even as he promised damnation. The one that — just like now — leaves you flushed and writhing while he purrs threats to you, massaging the soft skin and sliding the lace of your panties down to remove all barriers to the sex he owns so surely.

You open your mouth to argue with him but as you do, you feel his hand lift from your flesh and then the resounding SMACK of palm on skin, turning words into nothing but a sharp cry of pain, surprise, and lust. The heat rises just as your body tenses, reacting to the sudden attack on your delicate form, cheeks flushed. Even as your eyes well with tears your sex strives to betray you and — Oh do you like that, sweetness? — damn him for noticing.

Let me go, Captain, the threat is shaky, your voice wavering with something like want and panic all at once, and all it does is draw another laugh as he soothes the stinging mark left on your cheek, gentle as a lover and four times as cruel.

Do you know what I think, sweetness? And another raise of his palm, to strike you once more, listening to the way that cry of pain and surprise turns into a soft, involuntary moan the moment he begins to soothe the ache, I think you need this. Always so uptight, trying to be the head bitch in charge, aren’t you? Just looking for someone to take over, take control, remind you where your place is.

His fingers slip further, more interested in exploring the soft slickness of your sex, listening to your protests die in your throat with every press of his fingers into your plush folds. That’s why I’m here, to keep you in my lap, all fucked and soft, sweetness. Don’t you worry, I’m going to take care of you. Even if I have to teach you just like this.

You should hate the way he talks, hates how he finds your center with effortless ease, like he’s known your body for years. Holding you down in his lap still as he draws mewling moans from you with every curl of his fingers, finding the proof of his accusations in the slick need coating your thighs, soaking his fingers, You’re making such a mess of me, sweetness. Are you going to be good?

Hiss at him. Snarl at him, buck your hips and twist in his arms, push him away. Do something more than what you are now, with red-rimmed eyes and tears staining your face, do more than listen to him talk, feel his cock pressing against you as you lay in his lap, I’m going to ask it one more time, sweetness. Are. You. Going. To. Be. Good?

He punctuates each word of his question with a harsh smackagainst your ass, leaving little time for you to do more than cry out, until the last spank draws something like a moan from your perfect lips and therein lies your surrender for tonight, that soft mewl of pleasure born of pain and he soothes you again with soft shushes and gentle touches, back to inspecting the renewed slickness of your cunt, back to enjoying that plump tightness wrapped around his fingers and back to trying to control the shift of his own hips and you can feel him, hard against you, needing you as much as he is compelling your body to need him.

Captain… a low, desperate sort of mewl, the squirm of your body less to escape and more to enticeand he notices. Notices the way your fingers try to cling to him, notices how you look so very sweet when you’re so very desperate and in some way this is your own game of control, a push and pull and the curl of his fingers is suddenly so much angrier, driving you to the precipice of the fall and you are tumbling, tumbling down into a darkness of want you may never recover from.

Say it again. Tell me you need me, sweetness, tell me you need me and I’ll give you everything, and there’s an edge to the way he says everything, like he might meanit, like he might give you the world if you just gave in and you hate him, sweetness, you hate him but you need the things you hate once in a while and you can’t keep bearing his fury on your body and so you sob out your surrender and whine—

I need you, Captain, please…

And that is enough.

Let him believe you.

[lupin-for-president]

Scorbus Headcanons

(Please tell me if you would like me to write a short fic off of any of these, because I love them)

Scorpius is insanely affectionate, don’t even try to argue with me on this one, you know it’s true

Even when he and Albus are still “just friends” he is touching him All. The. Time.

The worst part is Albus doesn’t even realize Scorp is doing it at this point because he’s just so used to all of this affection from him

James passes them in the library one day and sees Scorpius with his arms wrapped around his brother’s waist while Albus is looking on the shelves for a book and he’s just like “????”

When James asks Albus about it later he is just like “Oh, I didn’t even notice.”

By the time they start their third year no one in the school is sure whether they’re dating or just friends because they’re with each other 24/7

Albus does weird motherly things for Scorpius like fold his clothes and wipes the crumbs off of his face at dinner

Albus also picks out all of Scorpius’ clothes for when they go to Hogsmeade or other trips and complains the entire time which drives Scorpius mad

“You’d think coming from a family like yours you’d have more class, Scorp. Really, it’s almost shameful.”

“Well I’m sorry that you took more after my own father than I did, Al.”

Even though he has better fashion sense, Albus literally just walks around in their dorm shirtless and in grey sweats which drives Scorpius up the fucking wall

Albus gets jealous as hell any time someone apart from his family talks to Scorpius for more than fifteen minutes at a time and will pull him away without an explanation

“Al, that was rude! She was in the middle of her sentence!”

“I don’t fucking care what she was in the middle of, she was basically undressing you with her eyes and it was bloody disgusting.”

Scorpius just smiles and throws an arm around Albus’ shoulders whispering things like “Jealous, love?” and “You want to do that yourself?”

Albus blushes like crazy any time he gets called out for showing any interest at all in Scorpius and you can’t change my mind

The amount of sass in this relationship is unmatched. I mean, their father’s are Draco I-didn’t-know-you-could-read Malfoy and Harry No-need-to-call-me-sir-Professor Potter, would you expect anything less???

Like when they’re sitting on the couch in the common room

“Hey Scorp, mind running up to the dorm and grabbing my book for me?”

“I wasn’t aware I was your errand boy, Al. Would you like me to fetch you some supper next?”

Or when they’re in the middle of class working on a new Potion

“Al, you think you could lend me an extra hand over here?”

“Sure, but I actually really fancy having two, ya know. And the blood would be a real bugger to get out of my robes.”

Albus doesn’t even know what a chair is anymore because he’s always sitting in Scorpius’ lap, regardless of where they are and who they’re in front of

There is so much unintentional PDA between the two of them it is unreal

The first time Scorpius kisses Albus on the cheek in public it’s a total accident

He was on his way to study but Albus had scored a detention for backtalking a Professor so he had to separate from him for a few hours

Without thinking, he just leans in and places a quick peck to Albus’ cheek

He doesn’t even realize what he’s done until he turns around and comes face to face with a wide eyed Rose

“Scorpius, did you just do what I think you just did?” Rose asks, bewildered.

Oh, both the boys are completely flustered

On any given afternoon Scorpius can be found curled up in one of Albus’ sweaters and his face buried into his chest/neck

Albus just pretends he’s not there or lightly rubs his back or runs his hands through his hair

When Scorpius goes through his “rebellious” phase about mid fourth year, he convinces Albus to pierce his ears at like midnight on a Tuesday

To make Scorpius stop crying, Albus pierces his too

You can only imagine the slightly mortified look on Ginny’s face (and the immensely proud one on Teddy’s) when Albus comes home for Christmas modeling black studs

Albus ends up liking it so much that by the end of the week he has Teddy pierce a second set of holes, as well as give him an industrial in his right ear

Scorpius finds it hot as hell

Albus is bad about leaving marks all over Scorpius at all the wrong times

For instance, the night that he had dinner over at the Malfoy’s for the first time, Scorpius had three dark purple kisses painted on his pale skin from just a few days prior

Draco was glaring at Albus througout the whole meal

You should’ve seen the look McGonagall gave him, he nearly thought he was going to turn to stone

Right before summer break their sixth year, Scorpius goes through a huge “I stan Teddy Lupin and everything he does” phase and decides he wants to dye his hair

Albus refuses to do it (he loves that diamond blonde way too much)

When he walks into his dorm room one day to find Teddy (“How the hell did you even get in here?”) knuckle deep in a bowl of neon blue hair dye, he nearly loses it, but they’re already halfway done so he had to let him finish

When they all leave Hogwarts a week later for summer vacation, Draco calls the Potter-Weasley household

“Potter!”

“What, Malfoy?” Harry nearly groans, blowing out a huff of air.

“Not you, the younger Potter, the one snogging my son. Put him on the phone, I need to ask why Scorpius’ hair is the color of a fruit loop.”

Albus and Draco have a very heated conversation about how they both absolutely cannot believe that Scorpius would do something like this

Scorpius is dying of laughter in the background the entire time

During their last year at Hogwarts, Albus shows up with a set of rings, each a simple silver band, one with a green gem and the other a diamond

Scorpius nearly cries when Albus gives him the green gem one during breakfast, full on kissing him in front of everyone in the Great Hall

“They’re the color of our eyes. Thought it might be nice to have,” Albus shrugs nonchalantly, but there’s a blush painting the tips of his ears

They both wear them on the middle finger of their right hand (Albus’ is displayed quite often because of how much he flips Rose the bird)

The day of their graduation from Hogwarts, Scorpius cries

When Albus asks him what’s wrong, he nearly feels his entire heart shatter

“This doesn’t mean we’re over, does it? We’re not over just cause we’re done with school, are we? We’re still going to be together?”

Oh Albus is having none of that

“Of course, Scorp! You can’t get rid of me that easily,” Albus teases, kissing Scorpius over and over until the tears finally stop rolling down his cheeks

After they arrive back on platform 9 3/4, they’re inseparable.

Harry and Draco are losing their bloody minds with how much of the other’s son they’re seeing now

“God, Potter. You’d think he practically lived here.”

“I could say the same for yours, I might start charging him rent.”

One day while both the families are out together at a diner (it was Scorpius’ idea), Ginny makes the comment that if they just got a house of their own then it wouldn’t be a problem

She was joking, of course, but the boys took it 100% seriously

So about a month later they bought a small but nice house not too far from either of their parents

And it was there, in the middle of their newly furnished living room, that Albus proposed to Scorpius with another silver band

But this time, it went on his ring finger.

(These are the headcanons I was talking about hahah @ellavaneck)

[shelbywanders]

Chapter 23: Infertile

So...let’s start from the beginning yeah?

February 2018, we found out the best news, we were expecting! With my past history, we thought for sure we would be trying for a while. So the fact that I was staring at a positive pregnancy test after just a mere two months trying to get pregnant was unreal. But 9 extremely long, tiring and definitely taken for granted months, out popped the greatest gift I’ve ever been given; my Adeline Mae! 

She was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever laid eyes on, I know that sounds so cliche. She came out looking like her daddy’s clone (go figure) except for that sweet little button nose & I just couldn’t believe that we had made something so damn perfect. 

I won’t get into the details of being a new mum and all that jazz in this post, but of course, there’s a lot that goes on in the first year. But one thing that started to get on me and my husband’s minds pretty quickly was growing our family. When Addy was around 6 months, we decided it was time to start trying again. We always talked about having our kiddos close in age and at the time, we wanted lots of them. I had a hard pregnancy with Addy, but that didn’t change my feelings about wanting that big family I always dreamed of having with the person I loved. I have three younger brothers who are 10, 8, & 7. I’ve grown to love how close they are in age and wanted that for my kids too. Me and my older sister are 4 years apart and while we’re super close now, there came a time where we weren't. We’ve always envisioned ourselves with kids just a couple years apart, and get all of our baby making years out of the way so that we can then stop, relax and watch all our kids grow up together. Of course, plans don’t always exactly go as planned. 

I exclusively breastfed Adeline until she was 20 months. When we started trying, my periods had returned but weren’t regular at all anymore. So I started my TTC journey a bit different than I did back in 2018. OPK’s became my best friend and little did I know how many I would go through the next almost two years and counting. But they did help me learn more about my cycle and I grew accustomed over constantly peeing on things every day. 

We were super excited in the beginning, it always is. It’s fun, it’s sexy, it’s exhilarating. The two week wait is exciting as you anxiously wait to pee on some more sticks. The first few times of getting your period, of course it’s a let down, but you keep on keeping on because surely...it will happen soon! Until it doesn’t...

Around Addy’s first birthday which was around 6/7 months of trying I started to get that aching feeling that was new to me. Why isn’t it happening? Shouldn't I be pregnant by now? What are we doing wrong? In our grand plan of our life, I was wanting to be pregnant by Addy’s first birthday and that came and went. Sex wasn’t much fun anymore, I was tired of having to buy more ovulation tests and tired of squinting at clearly negative but also wait, is that a line? tests over and over again. But of course...we just kept trying, praying that next month will be our month. 

December came, month 7/8. I was so busy creating orders for my small shop and we weren’t hardcore tracking. We did the the deed once, the day before my birthday. Two weeks later, I realized I was late. Two days late actually. What?! This hasn’t happened before...grabbed the nearest test to me and finally. Finally. Two pink little lines. A faint line, but a line nonetheless! We were pregnant!!! I remember running to the store to get more tests because I have to see the progression, ya know, peace of mind. I stopped in the kids clothing section and spotted a cute “Big Sister” shirt and grabbed it. I wanted Addy to wear it out and see how long it took my hubby to notice what her shirt said. Unfortunately, she never got to wear that shirt and it’s stashed in the bottom of her dresser three sizes too small now. 

To keep it short and sweet, we lost our squishy baby that should’ve stuck around for 9 months and created a family of four just a couple of weeks after finding out. Instead, it started a whirlwind of emotions that I didn’t even know I could feel and a fight that we’re still battling to as I type this all out. Maybe one day I’ll make another blog about the miscarriage and all the feelings that came with it, just not in this post. 

At this point, here we are entering 2020 grieving the loss of what would’ve been. We picked ourselves up as much as we could and kept on going. Trying. Praying. Crying. Trying. Praying. Crying. We hit a year TTC in May 2020 and I felt a new level of hopelessness. Chapter 23: Infertile?... But how? I’ve gotten pregnant easily in the past, I’ve carried a baby, my body has done this before...what is wrong? 13 months TTC and we had the talk. The talk about trying to find answers and get some help. I set up a costly consultation with a fertility clinic in June. Our insurance doesn’t cover anything so of course, it was a big decision we had to make. While waiting for my cycle to start so that we could start fertility treatments, I had my first chemical pregnancy. So that was another heartache...moving on. 

August 2020, I have my first medicated cycle with my RE. I was on Clomid 50mg, triggered with Ovidrel and progesterone supplements after ovulation. The first cycle was perfect. Absolutely beautiful. I was ecstatic! My body responded so well to the meds and I ovulated at the perfect time and everything seemed great. Didn’t get pregnant, which sucked. $1200 in the hole, but hey! The meds worked. Let’s try again. Second cycle, same thing. My body didn’t respond at all. Nothing. Cycle cancelled...$1200 done the drain again. At this point the holidays were quickly approaching and our wallets were struggling so we put a hold on fertility treatments and we haven’t done any since. The month after we stopped, I had another chemical. That felt like a big ol’ screw you. 

Hold tight, you’re almost caught up! We’re nearing the end of 2020, thank GOD. That hellish year needed to leave STAT. January 2021. New starts, new chances. I had an appt with my primary to talk about what I have been suspecting to be the problem of our infertility struggles. And that’s when a diagnosis came around. PCOS. I’m sure you’ve heard of it. it’s one of the most common reproductive conditions in women and one of the leading causes for infertility. It runs in my family, my symptoms matched, I just couldn’t see it being anything else. As for Addy? I truly think we just got lucky. Blessed. I will never question it. I’m beyond grateful because I cannot imagine not having her right now. I started on Metformin a couple of weeks ago, a drug that helps treat PCOS. I also started a diet and have lost about 15 lbs so far! My motivation is because after this we will probably start doing IUI’s and I want to make sure I’m in good health so that are chances are as good as they can be. But of course...we are praying and hoping that it doesn’t come to that and by some miracle, we get pregnant naturally again before we go down that road. 

So there it is! You’re caught up. I didn’t go into many details on individual experiences because I knew this post was already going to be long. I just felt like a little synopsis of our TTC & infertility journey was needed before I continue writing about my experiences! I’ve felt pretty alone, even though I have people around me who care and love for me but they just haven’t gone through this so it’s hard to relate to anyone. I find writing to help. Getting it out there even if no one reads it. I am absolutely determined to make 2021 beautiful and I believe in every inch of me that our rainbow baby is coming to us. This month. Next month. Maybe at the end of the year. But I know it will happen...I can’t lose hope even if I wanted to. I’m hoping by sharing our journey, we can all find hope within each other. You’re not alone. I’m not alone. Our wishes will come true. Our prayers will be answered. As they say...even miracles take a little time. 

xoxo shelby 

[writingwife-83]

Accidental Research, ch 7- A Conclusive Study in Marriage

Sherlolly Appreciation Week, day 7- Favorite HC

“Don’t even think about it.”

Sherlock’s brow lifted. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Yes you do. You were thinking about how long till Anderson returns to the morgue and whether you have time to kiss me.”

He smirked. “If we bother discussing it, of course there won’t be any time.”

Molly lifted a warning finger as she saw him take a step closer, clearing her throat as she heard Anderson returning. Sherlock rolled his eyes and motioned for her to follow him.

“You! Keep working,” Molly instructed Anderson gruffly. “We’ve got to get some supplies out back.”

They’d barely rounded the corner before Sherlock had her in his arms, pressing a kiss to as much of her mouth as he could manage around the inconvenience of the mustache.

“Mr Holmes, that is quite enough,” she whispered. “You cannot take these sort of risks!”

“I agree, but these two months have been absolute torment!”

“It’s been six weeks.”

“Actually, it’ll be seven weeks tomorrow, which is very nearly two months.”

Molly laughed, shaking her head as she caressed his face. “It’s endearing, the way you can’t endure this process.”

Sherlock very intentionally dropped his voice to a low rumble, leaning in to whisper in her ear as his hand perched on her waist.

“And you can?”

Pulling back to see her half lidded eyes staring back at him with pupils blown wide, he gave her a smug little smile.

Molly licked her lips, squaring her shoulders in an attempt to maintain composure. She gave him a somewhat playful glare.

“The fact is that you and I both need to endure if we want to do this right.”

Something hit him at her wording, like a bolt of lightning, and suddenly...he knew.

Sherlock grasped her hands, staring at her intently. “What if we already have?”

Molly’s expression was definitely one of confusion. “Pardon? Already have...what?”

“You said we needed to do this right. Well, what if we already have? For us! Perhaps for us, courtship has long since been done and over with!”

“Holmes, do be serious,” she laughed.

“I have never been more so,” he replied, and by the shift in her features, she was beginning to believe it.

“Marry me,” Sherlock added, soft but insistent. “Come to the courthouse with me this evening. Or tomorrow.”

“Wh-what?” Molly stammered, her jaw hanging open and cheeks getting pink. “Marry you?!”

Sherlock paused, pressing his lips together in thought for a moment. “Forgive me, I forgot the question aspect. Don’t think I’ve forgotten your instructions after that case some months ago,” He cleared his throat. “Miss Molly Hooper...will you marry me?”

Molly lifted their joined hands and kissed his knuckles. “Holmes, you know I want to marry you. But...rushing off? Just like that?”

“Just like that!” His eyes brightened with the thrill of it, and if he wasn’t mistaken, he saw that light reflecting in hers as well. “What more do the two of us need to know of one another? How many more weeks and months of agonizing chaperoned dinners at the Watson’s?”

Molly snorted a little laugh.

“Have we not learned more about each other even before courting than most do after two years of these silly little rituals?” Sherlock dropped his voice. “I know I want you, I know I want to make you happy, I know the rest of my living days will be better having you with me,...and I know I love you.”

Molly swiped at her eyes. “Good heavens, I never thought I’d be proposed to while looking like this.”

“Well?” he prompted, peering at her, feeling on the edge of his seat. “What do you say?”

She drew a deep breath and released it, smiling at him. “What else can I say but that I echo every one of your sentiments. I love you too, so so dearly. And yes...let’s get married.”

~~~~~~~~~

Molly rolled over, squinting at the unrelenting sunshine streaming in through the uncovered window. She wasn’t the only one offended by its intrusion.

She smiled to herself, hearing Sherlock curse softly under his breath before standing from the bed and pulling the drapes tightly together, once again wrapping the room in the comfort of darkness.

When he climbed back under the covers, she shifted over, sliding an arm over his middle and letting out a contented little groan as she settled her cheek against his chest.

“Forgive me, I didn’t think to shut the drapes last night,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to her rumpled hair.

Molly tilted her head up, lifting a brow at him. “I can’t imagine what else commanded your rapt attention before falling asleep.”

“Oh, can you not, Mrs. Holmes?”

Molly let out a little squeal of laughter as she found herself very suddenly shifted to her back as her husband’s lips descended to the side of her neck. Not just anywhere of course, but the exact right spot. Because of course it had taken Sherlock Holmes less than three bloody days to pinpoint what turned her to absolute mush in his arms.

“Mm, that’s right...now I remember,” she murmured.

Sherlock left the side of her neck, instead bringing his lips to hers, slanting one way and then the other, kissing and releasing over and over again in a teasing little dance. Unable to endure a moment more, Molly’s fingers threaded into his hair, closing in a fist as she brought him in for a much more substantial kiss. All evidence taken into consideration, he seemed to very much appreciate her initiative.

Molly smiled inwardly, thinking she might just be learning how to turn him into mush as well.

As quickly as their passion had ignited though, a blanket was thrown over the flame when they both heard footsteps on the creaking steps up to 221B.

Sherlock inclined his head a bit, still hovering over her as he listened carefully. After a moment of subtle noises, followed by then descending footsteps back down the creaking steps, he turned back to his wife and smiled.

“Just Mrs. Hudson, bringing the morning post and tea.”

“Ah,” Molly breathed in relief. “I admit some tea sounds delightful.”

“Ask and you shall receive!” Sherlock proclaimed, pressing a kiss to her forehead before throwing his dressing gown on and leaving the bedroom.

Molly stretched languidly in Sherlock’s- well, their bed. It still felt unreal and almost as if she were doing something wrong, having spent the past three nights in this bed with him, doing things that made her blush to remember. But she kept reminding herself with a smile that this really was now her bed, her husband, and the celebration of their new life together.

Sherlock returned quickly, balancing the tray of tea and the post.

“I believe Mrs Hudson is taking things a bit too sentimentally, since she’s included flowers on the tray.”

“I think that’s sweet!” Molly leaned in and took an appreciative sniff as he set it down on the bed.

As she poured the tea, Sherlock was silent for a moment, sitting next to her and thumbing through the post.

“Anything interesting?” Molly asked, taking the first warm sip.

Sherlock didn’t respond at first, his eyes riveted to one particular envelope. Finally, he grinned, holding it out to her.

“Actually yes. It seems you’ve received your first post. And I do believe it’s someone who has decided to send us, and especially you, a gift.”

“Really?” Molly cocked her head. “I thought only your family and the Watsons and Mrs. Hudson knew.”

“Yes, that’s right. This gift is, strangely enough I believe, from my brother.”

“Oh! How lovely of him.”

“It is, yes,” Sherlock agreed, nodding and handing the envelope over.

Her eyes first took in the name written meticulously on the front- Mrs. Molly Holmes.

Sherlock set the post aside and scooted over as Molly opened it up and took out the paper to begin reading, seeing that the heading read, “a gift, dear sister.” She began scanning the words, barely getting through the first paragraph before clasping a hand over her mouth. What she read was far too good to be true.

“Can this really be?” Molly questioned in ecstatic disbelief. “I’ll be working at St Bart’s hospital? Really me!”

“Congratulations,” Sherlock replied softly, giving her a little kiss on the cheek.

“Did you do this?”

He pursed his lips. “Not exactly. But a few days ago when we decided to marry, I did go to my brother and explain that living as a married couple would make your current professional situation considerably more difficult. I told him this was a concern of ours, and if it was possible to remove that concern completely, starting married life might be much improved. I suggested that perhaps he try to speed things along regarding your employment.”

Molly’s smile spread slowly, and she managed to carefully place the letter from Mycroft and the tea tray aside before leaping back onto the bed and practically tackling her husband back against the pillows, sprinkling words between kisses.

“If I thought...I couldn’t love you...more than I already did...I was wrong! And I definitely need to thank your brother!”

“In a very different way, I hope.”

Molly laughed, curling up against him, her hand comfortably nestled inside his dressing gown and atop his heart.

“A week ago I never would have believed this would be my life,” she whispered.

“It does all seem rather sudden I suppose,” Sherlock admitted, his arms locking around her and fingers nestling in her undone hair.

“Though...in a way I feel as if we’ve been building up to this for quite some time. Even before we knew it. As if the evidence was slowly gathering around us until suddenly it all just pointed to one undeniable conclusion.”

“Undeniable indeed,” Sherlock agreed, turning to kiss her soundly.

One kiss led to another, and then another, and very soon they sunk back down into the world of pillows and covers together. Both husband and wife found they were in complete agreement, albeit nonverbal, that despite a conclusion having been most certainly reached...there was always plenty more research to be done.

[trashy-croud]

Jungle - India 🗺️🐒

So, where do we start? So I did initially start this game with the Manor run, seeing how well I did the assault course and the driving and I did pretty okay. I mean, I remember them clear as day as this croft manor was the one I played the most as a child on the PC, whilst my dad was at work so I didn't lose his progress. After getting used to all the controls again, and finding out there was a sprint button, I decided to start this game up for real. I won't say much about croft manor, may look at it more after all of this but I'll focus on the main story for now.

So let’s begin on this new adventure with Lara. In the very beginning cutscene, before the menu appears, we see a meteor crashing onto Earth. It landed in Antarctica, had to look this up, as during the time it crashed, Antarctica was tropical. This very first cinematic is set over a million years ago, long before our little adventurer had anything to do with it. As we move onto the present day, we’re in the Antarctica that we all known and love to well as there seems to be some people doing research there, some digging and whatnot. One man who is there is named Willard, he’s totally not the bad guy. I sweaaar.  Anywho a lot of the machinery goes wrong, from what I can tell, they basically made a discovery of a set of stone heads, very much like the ones on Easter Island in Antarctica. It is a huuuge wild ride in one cutscene alone! And then we are shown at the end, the discovery of a handmade grave/post/thing, for one Mr Paul Caulfield. I suppose he’s going to have quite the impact on our adventure and like Willard says, "This place has a busy history." I don’t think he’s too far from the tree, ya know.

So after all that, we finally begin, woo, finally talking about the first level of this game and boy, was I struggling to get used to this and had to go through it several times to obtain all the secrets. Yes, I know about you “All Hallows” and I will not make the same mistake as I did in the previous game! So in this first level, we start off in India, off in the jungles. It doesn’t specify where precisely, we’ll perhaps get more information on all of that as we progress further through these few levels, but all I know is that things have changed and boy, do I gotta talk about them!

So for starters, we have a mixed save system. Playing on the playstation, I don’t get unlimited saves like on the PC or like the second instalment of the game, well, not anymore. Instead we have a combination of the first game with the save crystals and the second game with getting to save whenever we please. But, now we have limitations on the saves, which means someone is going to have to be extra careful with her saves from now on and not waste all of her save crystals carelessly~ Note to self: if they are anything like the flares or how many times I saved in the previous game, these crystals will not be lasting long.

Also, I don’t have a button to use my flares constantly either. I have to actually open my backpack up and then think, I have to think about whether I need them or not. Do we understand how this is a mind-blowing mechanic for someone like me who wasted them all in the early levels of the game and never got them again?! On one hand, it’s super helpful for people like me, but on the other hand, it’s also annoying because I can’t access them within a second of needing them. So you know, there are pros and cons to this little feature. But I will have to adapt!

Final note before I actually talk about the level itself. Heh. Secrets. I mentioned earlier that I was going to collect them all to get the secret level but did I mention that it’s not like the second game anymore? I’m so used to the idea I only have to collect three secrets that when it popped up with the statistics screen, when it said “3 of 6″, I think I about lost it? Like, it’s gone back to the first instalment’s idea of secrets, which I ain’t complaining about. It just threw a huge spanner in the works and goes to show that this is going to take ten times longer for me to complete! So don’t expect a finale any time soon! I feel like, in particular levels, I’m going to miss the obviousness which was the dragon statues you had to find previously. I’m sure I’ll complain about it all soon enough, just you wait.

Anyway, right, so let’s actually talk about the level itself! As the first level of this game, it really did not pull any punches. You are literally given three secrets to find at the very start of the level, that later two I found much easier but the first one was so dang hard. Like, I kid you not, I was trying everything, looking everywhere I could and how I was supposed to find this secret was beyond me. Like I was just jumping around on the slope, hoping I’d find something and low and behold, I bloody well did! This was only the beginning of my struggles as the level pressed forward. After finding the first three secrets, which were quite literally one after the other, we’re introduced to something new. And oh dear god, I’m gonna hate it. It’s quicksand! Yaaaay.

After overcoming the quicksand, we met new... enemies? Well, we met some monkeys, but they seem friendly, at least for now but that is bound to change very quickly. Because it’s a Tomb Raider game. And nice enemies don’t happen often. Y’know, like the tigers that try to maul us to death later on and the addition to some new watery enemies, yeah, watery. I used that word. Piranhas. Oh boy, I don’t like this. Water is meant to be my safe zone, although there are sometimes shark and crocodiles/alligators, I can cope. Even with the odd barracuda and the like, I can cope. But piranhas? Oh no. We are done. Because these awkward little swines cannot be killed as far as I know, and I’m ready to absolutely weep at them! But nonetheless, we somehow still trudged on. We’re just plodding along.

We encountered traps like never before, we met boulders and spikes and more boulders, oh and zip lines. Now, you may be thinking, “But Croud, how are zip lines traps? They help you?” And now here’s the part where I prove you wrong because I cannot use zip lines to save my life. The amount of times I died in the floating island level due to zip lines is unreal, and they’re here in this game too? Oh they are certainly classed as traps on my list. You can make sure of that!

To make a long story short this level put me through the works. Like so many works it’s unreal. 

This level did not pull on any punches and really got you involved in it. I thought “The Great Wall” was a wacky trap filled first level, but this. This wasn’t just filled with traps, no, we got multiple routes, more exploration. It felt much less linear yet you still knew the way to go. It almost made the level more expansive? I believe that’s the right way to put it. Was probably the reason this level took me so long. I’ll hopefully make the next post much more structured compared to this one, but right now, I want to just gush over how many flare I have. 34! That’s right, ya girls’ been good with ‘em. It won’t last long so took a picture to commemorate it. 

Over all, I greatly enjoyed this first level, it has truly set a tone for the rest of the game to come. Finished it in style by jumping into more quicksand in the end, which really did make me panic - all before we were given the final cutscene, one where Willard makes his appearance once more, or at least an audio appearance rather than a physical one.

During this last cutscene, Lara comes across a campsite and a radio from which we can hear Willard talking, or better yet, trying to get into contact with someone from this site. That is when we are introduced to the “loon” known as Tony. He did not hold back with our Lara, though I’m sure he was suffering from jungle madness with the way he spoke and his attitude. After going in a bit of a circle with him about how many there were of her, we finally get to the point as to why Lara is in this jungle. The Infada artifact. Finally we get a name for the mysterious artifact we’ve been searching for and it sure does sound mysterious. Though Tony doesn’t seem to agree with us completely, summarising it plainly as “voodoo magic and all that”. Perhaps he has seen it before or witnessed what it can do? Though that summary definitely did not impress our Lara as she was asking about anyone else who could talk to her on a more intellectual level, or without brushing off what she was talking about as just “voodoo magic”.

Tony certainly doesn’t have his way with women, we can see that for certain. And he didn’t impress Lara further with the mention of Randy and Rory, who he said was staying put in that temple. Now that ain’t boding too well. Nor do the last words Tony leaves us with, which are quite literally “die” as he jumps off a ledge, disappearing with giggles galore. He was right when he said the jungle was truly rotting his brain, or perhaps it is actually something else that is causing this? Now as someone who hasn’t played the game, nor gotten further than literally this level alone, this cutscene has always been one to make me believe that Tony ain’t a trustworthy guy, and boy was my gut instincts as a child were right. Because I still don’t trust this giggly arse! 

But now that’s it! At least for now. This has been the jungle levels as we explore more of the India levels, now moving onto the Temple Ruins. This game is giving me a different kind of feeling to the previous instalment and oh god, I’m currently enjoying it. Though I’m petrified because this is new territory. Hopefully we can get all these secrets! But see you all soon in the temple ruins, where we’re sure to meet Randy and Rory, or at east whatever is left of them from the sounds of it?

[dayfoxx-fic]

Ch. 17 - half in rage, half in love

Title: I’ll Unfold Before You Chapter: 17 Rating: M (for cursing, themes, etc) Summary: Misty comes to a strange, but compellingly, devastatingly realization. Cordelia tries to understand, but isn't quite there yet, Dark forces have been at work, and they have yet to finish watching their show. A/N: OMG guys, I am so sorry I haven't updated this in forever and a half. I've been incredibly busy finishing my graduate degree!, trying desperately to find a job, and generally letting animals take over my life. But Florence put me in a writing mood for the first time in ages. I really hope you like how this story concludes. It's not finished yet, though! Get your tushes ready, because this is gonna be a ride. Title is from Station Eleven.  https://archiveofourown.org/works/1615310/chapters/37499330

The rain was spitting gently when Misty finally made it over. Her eyes quickly scanned the house, pinpointing dim candlelight illuminating Delia's bedroom. Of course, she knew the window to the other girl's room by heart. She'd spent enough time considering throwing pebbles up at the glass, carrying a jukebox over her shoulder. She shook her head of the thoughts. This was serious. Misty knew the other girl preferred to sleep in the pitch darkness. It gave Misty nightmares, except for the nights when she slept by Cordelia's side; it reminded her too much... she blinked slowly, swallowed back tears, and moved at a glacial pace to the front door. Cordelia had deposited a now damp sticky note with brief key locating instructions. She smiled to herself a bit, allowing the moment to be overly sentimental, the girl, the woman she knew was still there. Still had the same mannerisms. She was still the same. 

Enough dilly-dallying. It was time to bear her truths. Misty didn't even know how to convey the words she'd been smothering down her own throat, going on for three long years, blinded by this horrible, fuck, curse? Spell_? __Enchantment? _Whatever had fucking been cast had cascaded her mind into a barely penetrable haze of existence without Her. She couldn't believe years had gone by, Hell, really it'd been more like seventeen years, where her mind had barely existed -- the ghost of memory that was Misty Day in the valiant throes of un-ending, agonizing Death and darkness. Endless anguish. Because she'd been forcibly abandoned. Her mighty power of resurgence only being capable of saving Cordelia's life, with a return to life that mean severing their connection, the ties that bound her to Misty, severed, for what had threatened to be forever.

Raindrops drizzled down Misty's face in rivulets, over the curves of her delicate cheeks and the sleek line of her jaw. She grimaced, she couldn't move herself, standing in the muddy front lawn of the only person who ever mattered to her. Somehow, as she had done as Supreme countless years ago, she saw through Misty's ethereal facade to see the person desperate to be saved from their own demons. Somehow, Delia knew her more intimately than she realized she knew herself. 

Before she was distinctly aware of her own feet, she ended up standing, alert, outside Cordelia's bedroom. _They had shared a bed once, one that they could call their own, forever ago. The night before The Seven Wonders. _Misty ached. And several weeks ago. Now they had shared a bedroom countless times. Well, she counted, it was about half of the baby rearing project, the beautiful, magical beginning where anything seemed possible with this impossible girl. She'd stayed over every night, almost, thirteen days, over the course of two weeks. Oh, how quickly she had succumbed to the gentle, familiar, painfully familiar intimacy, unable to put the pieces together. And she had never ever... how had she not known? Immediately? The very power of the embodiment of inevitability and probability and magical energy repercussions resonated in her bones. Things had to be restored over time, or she would have been plunged into eternal despair. The thought of seeing the centuries pass alone, unable to remember the only love that had truly illuminated her life, was initially too much to bear. But then... Their instantaneous connection, after years of feeling strangely driven apart from the mysterious Cordelia Goode, was explosive. She hadn't been able to get enough of Cordelia's time. When she was working, or volunteering, doing her homework, studying for any test that Misty was not also taking, Misty just wanted to be there beside her, listening to her 8-track and dancing around to entertain the other blonde. What had taken her so long? It wasn't that she hadn't noticed Cordelia. How could anyone not notice the girl, she was the epitome of classy and transcendent beauty. No, she was something rarer than that, something only Stevie's music could describe. Ethereal. Everything. So, what had it been? 

_When Misty had come to, naturally, she emerged from her beloved swamp. Covered in murky water and mud and gator dung, she breathed a sigh of a relief. Because she didn't realize anything was wrong. She stumbled about, barefoot along the river, in less than her tattered lace dress and her faded shawl from Stevie, when Mrs. Day (looking back now, it had all been a ploy, of course she would have Misty's name; she was meant to be a part of the simulated, yet not unreal, reality she had been thrust into) who was plucking river rocks from the water found her. "My God, you sweet Angel, let me get you out of here." Disoriented and in that deep haze, she figured the woman seemed like a safe bet. They shared the same name, after all. Although her predecessors who were Day's were less than pleasant people, she was glad to have replaced, or well, supplemented, the memory of them with new love from Penelope and Henry Day._

She had been afraid, intimidated by the pretty girl, but of what really, she couldn't say. But she just felt like if she ever let herself get close to Cordelia Goode, something bad was going to happen. And she didn't want anything bad to happen to Cordelia. Not ever. 

But she cosmically could not not get close to Cordelia. Cordelia was her inevitability. Her singularity. And so that propelled her through the door, because she had been plunged into mentally clarifying the hard truth of her life:

"Cordelia, I know that this is gonna be a trip, but..." she stops, when she sees Nan. Her vision, which had warped slightly into rose-coloured glasses upon her realizations that she had found her long lost love vibrated with distortion around the small brunette girl. 

"Hello, Misty. It's been way too long, and I apologize for that. Are you feeling ok?"

"I don't know how your damn name didn't click in my head. Did the Shadow Man protect you?"

"He's been protecting me for a long time, now, Misty. I hope you know that I have nothing to do with any of this, well, except for the excellent and positive parts of it. But, really, I gotta respect the boss. He's the only reason I'm even still..."

"Yeah. I guess me, too, in a way. If he hadn't given the Power to to us, I wouldn't be here." 

"Neither would she." Nan looks pointedly at Cordelia. The darker blonde lifts an eyebrow, inquisitive, bewildered. 

"Could either of you please explain what on Earth you are talking about?"

"It's your responsibility, Misty. You have to earn it. It doesn't matter who you are now, or how much you can feel  your powers expanding like a supernova from your core. If you don't earn it, you don't get what you want. I'm sorry. Those are the rules."

"What? But... I already remember everything! How else can I earn it? I spent years, years alone in the swamp, listening to the radio about the hunters. How they wiped every last one of us out. What else am I supposed to do?"

"What do you think?" Nan smirked. Misty's brows furrowed so closely together, they almost formed a slender golden caterpillar. 

"But even if I... if I say it, there's disbelief, incredulity. I've been without her for almost eighteen years. But I can't say it. I can't! Because what if it doesn't work? What if I don't get her back. What if he's just been toying with my mind for the last two decades and I've got nothing to show for it but the briefest hints of intimacy? I lost everything only to gain the falsity of everything. The ruler of nothing and no-one. No one left. Not even you, not really." Misty stared pointedly at the brunette. The smaller girl cannot do anything but shrug a shoulder in agreement. In her frantic panic of word jumble, Cordelia had made her way over to the now shaking woman with a thick, fluffy blanket in hand. 

Instead of the words she was expecting, Misty simply received a coy, "You're going to have to take all of that off, you know. I have spare clothes for you in the closet. As you know." She gently pressed the chenille fabric into Misty's damp hands. The pale blonde stared slightly (obviously) in amazement at the woman in front of her. Always, with the composure. The sheer restraint. She knew the questions were dying at Cordelia's lips, but instead, the other girl had decided to flirt with her. 

Misty was scared, still, so Misty was okay with that.

[skyywalkerfen]

If you are still taking kiss.meme prompts; 14 for obiqui?

~~~

He couldn’t think. For a long, long moment he couldn’t even breathe. “You’re going to what?“

“Take Anakin out of the Temple. He – ” Qui-Gon’s serenity was holding. Strained but holding. “The Temple… This is not the correct place for him.” Qui-Gon’s shoulders were set beneath rumpled beige tunics, his back straight as he stood in front of the window in Obi-Wan’s quarters, his face to Coruscant’s eternal traffic. “I was wrong, Obi-Wan. He should not be a part of this Order.”

The floor cracked beneath Obi-Wan’s feet.

[also here on AO3]

“You’re saying – ” Obi-Wan gulped, breathed,and released his utter shock into the Force. Or enough that he could think again, anyway. “You’re saying that after all this – after three years of battles with the Council to keep him here and you nearly dying to get him here in the first place – that you were wrong.” After pushing you and I to the breaking point –  “That Anakin is not meant to be a Jedi.”

“Oh, he is meant to be a Jedi, that is no mistake. But not here.”

“ … here.”

Finally, Qui-Gon turned. “I’m not taking him out of the Jedi, just out of this Order. I’m taking him to Master Altis,” he said, as calmly as if he hadn’t just announced his plans to shatter Obi-Wan’s world.

All the air had gone out of the room. “Djinn Altis. The break-away.” The renegade. Hundred little gods of space, he needed to sit down. Now.

Obi-Wan yanked a chair to him with the Force and sank into it with little grace, and stared at the man who’d been his teacher. “You’re going to take your padawan out to Force only knows where, to be trained by the heretic.”

“We are not a religion, Obi-Wan,” Qui-Gon said with a touch of asperity, “the term ‘heresy’ doesn’t apply. Altis believes – ”

“I know what Altis believes!” Obi-Wan snapped, something hot and dangerous firing under his skin. “He thinks a master can somehow handle more than one student at a time! He thinks adults can be trained! He believes attachments are good, Qui-Gon – if that’s not heresy then what else would you call it?!”

“Perhaps sanity?!” Qui-Gon snapped back, before he caught himself and breathed, his anger released in a heartbeat.

“Sanity.” This just got better and better. Obi-Wan’s childhood bad habit of grinding the heels of his hands against his eyes, long since rooted out, was making a viciously successful comeback. “Oh, Force.”

The low sounds of boots across the floor, Qui-Gon’s Force-Presence settling in front on him. “Obi-Wan.” Familiar voice. Beloved voice. Soft, even; familiar tones that asked for his attention.

His own anger released to the Force, what Obi-Wan had left was exhaustion.  He let his hands fall into his lap and blinked at Qui-Gon, now crouched in front of him. Looked at the craggy, familiar face as though he’d never seen it before.

“What are you doing, Master? What is this?” Please tell me something, anything, that makes sense, some kind, any kind of sense, please don’t destroy – “This flies in the face of the Code, of everything we’re for, everything you ever taught me.”

“Does it?”

Oooh, no. “Don’t,” Obi-Wan said tartly. “We’re not playing that game now, Qui-Gon. Answers, please.”

A hint of a smile beneath the mustache. “Obi-Wan. Think. We were taught, you and I and every crècheling, about the dangers of attachment. How to serve the Force was our highest and only goal. We should love nothing but that, have nothing more than that; nothing close to us that we might serve, through love or fear, above the Force. Why? Because we are powerful, and dangerous with it. Divide loyalty with attachments and there is no peace – there is havoc and destruction. So we are raised and taught not to love but in the abstract, and so we believe, and it has apparently worked in the Order for a thousand years.”

Obi-Wan swallowed again, catching on specific words and phrasing. “'In.’ ‘We believe.’ Master, a thousand years would seem to imply some level of success.”

The skin around Qui-Gon’s eyes crinkled. “It would.”

“Then why…?”

“Why do I question it now? Because I’ve come to realize what it is that has felt wrong to me for many years. That in a way, a quite fundamental way, our rejection of attachments is a lie.”

“A lie –!”

“Sssh, no, wait.” Qui-Gon gripped Obi-Wan’s knees and squeezed, gently. “Wait. It’s a lie, Padawan, because we are attached, all of us. To here. To this. To the Order and what it has, all it holds. It is parent and sibling and teacher, with the Code as law and lifeblood. And it has worked because we are not truly giving up attachment, merely trading one form for another.”

Qui-Gon’s conviction was a solid pillar in the Force. All Obi-Wan could do was stare at him.

“We keep our emotional security, our connections, the things we tell ourselves we do not keep, right here. Here, with the only family most have ever known. And no matter where the Force guides us, we retain that – we know that our family is here. And that it will be here no matter what happens to us as individual Jedi.”

The big hands on his knees squeezed again. “This is our attachment, Obi-Wan. Our bedrock. And this is what Anakin does not have.”

Yes, staring was still all Obi-Wan could do.

“This is why he is different and why he is not thriving here. He had – has – family, foundation, support from which I – deafened by the Force and my own blindness – took him away and gave him nothing to replace it with.”

Obi-Wan blinked. Which was progress, he supposed, but his stomach was twisting in a most peculiar way. “But – he has the Order now too, he… ”

But Qui-Gon was shaking his head. “The Order – does not support him,” Qui-Gon said softly, “not truly. And you know this; I believe that you feel it as I do.”

And the Sith-hell of it was, Obi-Wan did feel it. Had become aware of it every time he was back in the Temple, and how it had shifted. Grown.

The – “holding away,” sensation, subtle and yet not, when Anakin’s name was mentioned. How rarely the boy was spoken of in terms of the great leaps and strides he’d made and the things he knew, but rather in the things he did not yet know – as though it was Anakin’s “fault” for not becoming instantly a proper Jedi child and crèche-raised padawan. As though his ease and blaze and instinctive confidence in the Force were unbecoming because it was not the Order which had fostered them.

Distrusted. Feared, almost.

The way Anakin was “disapproved of” in correct, properly serene Jedi fashion.

Oh, Obi-Wan knew that feeling, from the inside out.

Most peculiar was rapidly becoming utterly horrible.

“I must,” Qui-Gon said, “I must, find the way to give him that support before it’s too late. I cannot do it – alone, and I cannot do it here, where his needs contradict the very tenets we teach.”

Obi-Wan was back to staring, now with the interesting addition of a sick, sour stomach. “And you think – Djinn Altis can. You would take your padawan and give him up. After – ”

 After you gave me up for him.

“Not give him up, no. We would both learn there, Anakin and I. I don’t know – when I would return.” And there was something there, something seeking, something pleading in the depthless indigo of Qui-Gon’s eyes and Obi-Wan just couldn’t look at it anymore.

He knew his master when he got like this. He knew. He’d seen it before, after all, time and again: the only words that hadn’t yet been uttered were “It’s the will of the Force.”

“Why are you telling me this, Qui-Gon?” he whispered, his own eyes closed, the words falling like stones in the space of his tiny common room. “You would have been better – to just leave.”

A small sound, a tiny shift of air like a reach, ruthlessly stifled. “Because… “

Silence. In words and in the Force.

And that brought Obi-Wan’s eyes back open, because Qui-Gon Jinn was never at a loss for words.

His old master was looking through him, deep-water eyes fixed to some point on Obi-Wan’s right shoulder, and unease tickled through Obi-Wan’s mind and Force-sense because Qui-Gon looked…

“Because I had a hope,” Qui-Gon said at last, slow and worn, “a foolish one perhaps, I see, that I – might not need to do this alone.”

“Alone?”

“I wanted… ” Resolution, firming in the Force, and Qui-Gon’s gaze rose to his. “I want you to come with me.”

Obi-Wan would be willing to swear later on, on those most revered Jedi texts frozen forever at the top of the Spire, that his heart – disobedient organ, irrepressible, eternally hopeful past any reasoning and all sanity – actually skipped a few beats before his training clamped down and wrestled it back into line. “… with you?”

This was unreal. Even for Obi-Wan’s “maverick Master,” this was far out and beyond Wild Space. That Qui-Gon would ask him to – “You want me to leave the Order, and come with you, to help you train your Chosen One as a heretic.”

“No.” Qui-Gon’s mouth tightened, but he didn’t protest the term again. “Not to train Anakin. I have been and always will be grateful for the help you’ve given me with him. Your support, your knowledge – your unfailing kindnesses with him – have been beyond price, and still more-so in the light of the needless pain I inflicted on you at the start.”

Obi-Wan took a careful breath, his heart giving another warning thump. They had worked that through long ago, he and Qui-Gon. He knew Qui-Gon’s regrets, but rarely had his old master stated them so plainly. “I have done only what is right, Qui-Gon. Anakin is blameless in all that; I’ve welcomed him as any Jedi would do.”

Qui-Gon’s mouth pulled up in his familiar, wry half-smile. “Were that true, Obi-Wan, we’d not be having this conversation at all,” he said, humor rumbling in his voice and warming in the Force and hundred little gods, would it be the last time Obi-Wan would feel this?  Feel him?

Because Qui-Gon was utterly set on this course, that was plain – and in his reasons ran a thread of truth that Obi-Wan couldn’t deny. That felt true, as much as all his training wanted to recoil from it.

And Qui-Gon – wanted Obi-Wan with him, on this course, in this madness. To leave the Order and take up with the break-away Jedi Master who had himself left because he believed that no one should be denied Force-training because of age. Who believed that attachment was not always, automatically to be denied – that it was possible – that it could be good – for a Jedi to love. Not just as in the Force and compassion for all, but love in specific: for a parent, or a child or a family. A dear one.

For a desired one. For a –

For a lover.

“Obi-Wan?”

Obi-Wan blinked and found Qui-Gon closer, up on his knees and warm body pressing against Obi-Wan’s, concern on his face and those powerful, gentle hands gripping Obi-Wan’s forearms. Enormous hands, really – capable hands, whether wielding a lightsabre or a delicate teacup, or pressing tiny seeds into the gossamer-fine soil-medium he used to add yet another plant to the jungle of his quarters.

His teacher’s hands, now the hands of his /wished to be, oh!/ closest friend. His –

Obi-Wan stared into blue eyes. Serene, so loving: the same things that had been there for literally years whenever Qui-Gon had looked at him. “Why?”

It was Qui-Gon’s turn to blink. Well, he was past-due.

Something was lightening, cautiously, in Obi-Wan’s chest, fueled by that stubborn, ever-resurrecting hope. “Why me? There are other rebels in this Temple and they’re better suited to this; why are you asking me to come with you?”

“I have told you – ”

“You have not,” Obi-Wan cut him off, and Qui-Gon stilled. “You’ve told me why you’re going, and you’ve told me that your reason for asking me is not because of Anakin. And if that’s not the reason, then what is? Why me, Qui-Gon?”

Qui-Gon’s lips parted and closed again and something clicked deep in his throat, and this was surely some sort of record: twice speechless now, a man who was never, never at a loss for words. And in the Force…

The Force felt – tense. Anticipating. A kind of nervous trepidation Obi-Wan had in no way ever associated with this man. And beneath that, long obscured but growing stronger, something old and cherished but never sprouted was blooming now into a new growth, pushing up from beneath the snow.

Obi-Wan turned his hands and cupped his former master’s elbows, and leaned a little nearer. His fingers were trembling, he realized. He didn’t care. The air he breathed was full of Qui-Gon, and he pulled it in deep and held it. “Why me?”

This close, Qui-Gon’s eyes were like flame, so intensely blue they burned. Then they were too close, and the world blurred and went up in fire as Qui-Gon kissed him.

They were on the floor, kneeling together, locked tight body to body and Obi-Wan had no clue when that had happened and cared far, far less. The only reality was Qui-Gon Jinn, in his arms, kissing him. Drowning him in joy and love and lust in the Force and kissing him as if he, Obi-Wan Kenobi, were the most precious and desirable thing in the galaxy.

It felt like years, but the sun was little lower in the window when Qui-Gon pulled back. Not far; only enough to cup Obi-Wan’s face with those wonderful hands and lean their foreheads together, his breath warm and real across Obi-Wan’s skin. “That’s why,” Qui-Gon murmured; roughly, like something had been broken and was being remade. “That’s why.”

Obi-Wan’s smile felt like it would split his face. “You’ve always had a way with words, my Master.”

[yashuved]

How To Make Your Dragon

First thing’s first: Dear United States of America, how the hell are you still tolerating Nazis in your country? The world defeated Nazism over 70 years ago, and you played a big part in that. The birthplace of Nazism is more intolerant to it than you. Everyone in the world knows it, condemns it and vehemently opposes it. Everyone but you, it seems. 

The World hopes that for your own sake, you use your sense, just the common one in this case will be good for a start. 

On to happier things…

Last weekend I watched one of the greatest comedians in the world perform live. Jerry Seinfeld graced our shores with a one night only stand-up act and me and the wife were lucky enough to be a part of it.  

He has been doing stand-up shows for 40 years now and he is still the best. He doesn’t do sex. He doesn’t do race. He doesn’t do accents. He doesn’t do impressions. He doesn’t do politics (he didn’t mention Donald Trump at all!). 

90 minutes of non-stop gut wrenching laughter was all about observational humour. Much like his sitcom Seinfeld, which aired 20 years ago, the stand-up act is much about nothing. It just looks at people’s lives, as it goes by each day. The writing is so tight, the performance is so nuanced that you can almost see how much work must’ve gone behind it. He knows how to time the punch lines, he knows exactly when to pause, when to raise and lower his pitch. He knows how to draw the audience in and then take them on a journey.

There is so much class about everything that goes on about the show. Right from the moment you enter the arena. You walk in and there’s Frank Sinatra’s New York, New York blasting on the sound system. You hear that and you know, you’re in for something special. The set decor is simple, yet elegant. Everyone, from the announcer, to the opening act, to Seinfeld himself are dressed in very stylish suits - jacket, tie et al. 

Best of all, there is no fanfare before Jerry’s entrance. No DJ spinning some gangsta shit or some band announcing his entrance. Hell, even the announcer doesn’t do anything at that moment. The lights go out and Jerry just walks on to the stage. 

It was a dream, I never thought would come true. If I could, I would do it all over again. And if you ever get a chance, Do. Not. Miss. It!

Now, on to this week’s GOT. There are spoilers from S7, E6. If you haven’t watched it, you know what to do…

The penultimate episode came with big expectations. This series has been so huge - so many characters, places, houses, lineages, story lines, relations, alliances, enmities and deaths. So many deaths, and bringing-back-from-the-deads.

Now it is nearing towards an end. We know it, the writers know it and they need to do bring it all together in pure GOT style, in GRRM style. 

But I am not sure what is their approach for this though. Are they bringing it as the fans want it? or as they want it, as George RR Martin would want it? GRRM is involved in it, no doubt. But the plot seems to distance itself from GRRM’s style. 

My gripe is not with the writing per se. It is with the plotting of the episode, the narrative style and structure. GOT has taken TV to a new level and in doing so, continuously built and delivered on new expectations. And this is working against them a little bit at this point.

Here are some of my observations/questions/WTFs…My 2 Cents

- Tyrion started off well on his attempt to get Dany to cool down on the people burning part. He was starting to get through to Dany when out of the blue, he started talking about succession! WTF man? She’s right - first get me on the throne and then we can talk about who will succeed me! Plus, what about my ships that Euron Grejoy stole/burnt? What about my important allies that are captured/dead/presumed dead? It was an awkward dialogue between the two with no logical conclusion in sight. The only thing it showed was that tensions between Tyrion and Dany increased further, which was evident when Dany left for North against Tyrion’s advice.

- Speaking of North, what’s up with Arya and Sansa? Haven’t they lost enough to be fighting now? Sure, sister jealousy and whatnot but they cannot make it this easy for Littlefinger. Arya, for all her new wisdom should’ve sensed that. They argue about the moment when Ned was beheaded. Both were there. For her to insinuate that Sansa was there, and not affected by it all is a bad jab at the viewers! Yes, a lot of this is setup for the finale and the next season but come on guys, please set it up a bit better. They teased the audience with the unsheathed Valyrian dagger and then did nothing with it! And where was Three Eyed Raven 2.0? Ya, we know he doesn’t care about any of this now but he can clear the air out. He can now see what happened. So see, clear the air.

- Moving further up North, North of the Wall, the first 10 min or so felt like The Fellowship of The Rings. Unknown companions on a quest to save the world from evil. But it was weird to see that at this stage of the series they were trying to build rapport between the characters. 

- There was a nice tongue-in-cheek moment between Jon and Beric (Dondarrion). Beric tells Jon he doesn’t look like his father at all. Kinda true for the show. However, in the books, Jon Snow was more Stark looking than any of his half-siblings. However, we the viewers know that Jon is Rhaegar and Lyanna’s son so from that POV, yes, he doesn’t look like his father at all!! Would Beric know something or was that an unintentional coincidence?

- How convenient was it for a small party of un-dead to be wandering separate from the main group? Just what they wanted, right. And how easy was it for them to capture an un-dead. But we all knew it was not going to end there. That confrontation between the living and the dead was so very one sided. There was no way out of it. But we have Gendry, the character who returned after four seasons to get a quick exit yet again! We also have a frozen lake. It’s not that frozen - BTW; we can buy you some time until the message reaches Dany. You just hold tight and don’t do anything stupid. Enter, The Hound, throwing rocks in a lake like a bored kid on a family picnic. The rest was an unconvincing fight sequence. But then what to do until the dragons show up? How silly would it look that the dragons show up and the two groups are just sitting quietly :D

- Why did Dany take all three of them up North? Drogon has already shown his power. Plus, it was not an attack. It was a rescue mission. Yes, I know it was necessary for a major, probably the biggest plot twist of the series. But that too came too easily. Are we to believe that the Night King has a spear more powerful than the scorpion and an arm more powerful than the scorpion? Lets say the former has magic involved. But the force with which the spear pierces Viserion was unreal. This means in battle, the dragons are essentially useless against the Night King! 

- Waddup, Uncle Benjen! Where did you come up from, yo? That was the most convenient placement for a Jon getaway. He just came there, out of nowhere to get Jon to escape and then he just gets himself killed! I guess the actor was just bored and the writers didn’t know what more to do with him.

 - There is an undead Dragon now. How strong is the Night King’s army now? Think about it - GRRM’s original title - A Song of Ice and Fire seems to refer more and more to a final showdown between dragons - two (until now) spitting fire and the one spitting snow! Obviously, the Night King will ride it into the battle. Does this mean they now have the weapon to bring the Wall down? Hell, as such they don’t need to bring it down anymore, they can just fly over!

Look, I am still excited and committed to the show. I even got a HBO subscription. The fans are very invested with the characters and want to know how it all ends. Jon and Dany obviously have a thing for each other. Even though I noticed that she withdrew her hand three times when Jon held it, I also saw the look on her face when Jon asked them to leave him in the North. 

We have picked our sides and we have spirited debates around the lunch room, with the Non-GOTs looking at us with blank looks! But as per my last post, we want entertainment. Game of Thrones delivers entertainment at a certain standard. While it is known for its violence and sex, it is admired for its characters, the plots and the politics. We want to see a final showdown. But we want to see it done with finesse and with justified motivations for actions as per the characters. They have kept Tyrion, Varys and Littlefinger in the background for most of this season. Remember when they ruled the plot-lines in the earlier seasons. It was so much fun to watch!

Since S4, E2 - The Lion and the Rose, GRRM has not written a single episode. He is currently busy writing the books (apparently), which are already way behind schedule. But that would mean an even more reduced input from him in the writing process of the episodes. 

Maybe there is a need for bit of an impetus from the man himself - a bit of course correction, if you will. 

Maybe he needs to…

[wolfiefics]

WIP Wednesday-A Vampire Knight Tale

Tentatively titled “How to Get a Life, by Takuma Ichijo, Bookworm”, which I kind of like but I’m not sure I’ll keep. I have not kept up with the Vampire Knight series of late and have been relying heavily on the Wiki. So it’s a bit of an AU, more than likely, but takes place 400 years after the first series ends. Snippet under the cut. Would appreciate feedback as I’m not sure about it at the moment. I know where it’s leading and whatnot but I’ve so much on my plate at the moment, it’s unreal.

This is Takuma meeting with the ‘heroine/love interest’. I’m horrible at creating Japanese names, especially as the author of Vampire Knight uses kanji meanings for hers, so I’m just ballsing it. It’s fanfic. Treat it like Firefly did English and Cantonese/Mandarin.

Just to let you know, I do accept anon but flames and rudeness will just either get you mocked publicly or ignored, depending on my mood. It’s fanfic, make-believe, fiction. If you’re so offended by fictional stories that you have to treat someone like garbage on the street, I feel really, really sorry for you. You must have had no friends to play with as a child, real or pretend. I suggest therapy. Constructive, USEFUL criticism accepted gladly...as well as gushing praise. LOL! Goddess knows I need a cheering squad.

Abigail O’Malley was ready to tear her hair out. This freaking chapter just wasn’t working. It was the sixth time she’d written it and it still wasn’t right. Was it too early for the second victim? Did she need more social interaction between the killer and the investigator? More cat and mouse?

“Ugh!” she groused. She got up from her swivel desk chair, purgatorial thing that it was, and was heading for her kitchenette when she realized someone was knocking at her door. From the determination and strength behind the knocks, the person had been there awhile.

Grimacing at having to deal with people when she was late for her deadline and stuck in the middle of the damned book as well, Abigail stalked to the door, intending to give her visitor a tongue-lashing. She twisted the knob, jerked, found the door locked, undid the dead bolt, and tried again. The door creaked open like from some ancient tomb, and she gave a bit of a grunt as she exerted force to open it enough to peer out.

“What?” she snapped. “I’m busy.”

“Ms. Abigail O’Malley?” The voice was male, low, calm and friendly. No trace of irritation at having been knocking on her door for so long was evident.

“As I said, I’m busy. Can you come back another time?” She wasn’t paying any attention to the man, eyeballing the hinges of the door, wondering when they’d gotten so gunked up. What cleared up door hinge gunk? Oil? Rust cleaner?

“I am Takuma Ichijo. I am interested in purchasing the shop space you have for rent in this building,” the stranger was saying.

“Not for sale,” she said absently, still not looking at him and concentrating on the what definitely looked like rust on the hinges. She sighed. She hated all this home owner crap. She needed to use all this money she had to hire a maid but then that maid would want to straighten up the place and thus dislodge Abby’s chaotic filing system.

“I am very interested in that space, Ms. O’Malley,” the stranger persisted, his voice still friendly, not forceful or angry. “I want to open a bookshop and I plan on being there for quite some time.”

At the word ‘bookshop’ Abby’s gaze finally focused on the man standing in front of her. He was stunningly handsome and didn’t look at all like any bookworm she’d ever met. And as an author, she’d met a ton of them.

Abby hiked a skeptical eyebrow. “A bookshop?” she asked.

He smiled as if relieved to finally have her full attention. “Yes, mostly rare, out-of-print, or signed books but I do plan on catering to popular titles and new releases to augment sales. I’m quite fond of pulp thrillers, mangas, and murder mysteries, so I expect I’ll have a nice collection of those.”

Abby narrowed her eyes at him and gave him a more thorough once over. Late twenties, early thirties at the most, tousled light blond hair, absolutely gorgeous green eyes that brought to mind descriptors such as ‘grass’ or ‘verdant’, a tall build with an edge of masculine power, pale skin that looked like he refused to set foot in the sun, and clothing of fine make but worn for comfort not style. Again, not someone she would peg as a book nerd.

But then, she reasoned, everyone was always surprised that a half-dead, cancer-ridden twenty-something woman was the author of more than fifteen best-selling murder thrillers. Appearances were more than deceiving.

Abby opened the door wider, inviting him in. “You’ve intrigued me, Mr. – “ She hesitated, realizing she missed his name.

“Ichijo, but please, call me Takuma,” he said with a cheerful smile, stepping past her into the cramped apartment.

“Um, call me Abby. Abigail is reserved for my grandmother when she’s getting ready to yell at me for doing something stupid,” she replied, looking about with a stranger’s eye the state of her apartment. Hmm. Maybe she should rethink the maid idea.

She shuffled by him, gathered up some print outs she used for reference for one of the last books she’d published, looked around for somewhere to put them, and wound up stacking the papers on some notebooks in another chair. Ah well, at least he had somewhere to sit.

He sat down, oozing elegance, and gave her an amiable smile. “Mr. Yakata told me you are an author,” he said with a hint of eagerness. “Is all of this your research for your book?” He waved a hand at the mess.

She grimaced. “Books, actually. I think I used that stuff,” she gestured to the stack she just moved, “in either the last book or the book before. I don’t remember,” she confessed. “They kind of run together after awhile.”

He looked intrigued, staring at her as if she were a fascinating specimen. Having such narrow regard on her flustered Abby a bit and she cast about for something else to say. “I was getting ready to make tea. Want some? Then we can discuss your proposition regarding the rental space.”

“Tea would be lovely,” he said with a wide, blinding white smile. Good Lord. Was he a statue come to life of someone’s ideal human being? He was damned near perfect in every way. And he smiled a lot. Nothing looked awkward, out-of-place or, well, human about him. An angel?

She scowled at her fanciful thoughts. Angels were make believe. She should know. She’d been begging for one to save her, help her, since she’d been diagnosed three years ago. The supernatural was fairy tales. Pain, fear and misery was life.

She clanged about the kitchen, heating water in her electric kettle, setting up a tray with a tea pot, the delicate cups to match that belonged to her great-grandmother, and a little bit of cream and sugar in case this Ichijo guy took it in his tea. She put her favorite cherry jam on there for her own use and once everything was assembled, took a deep breath as she prayed she wouldn’t have a bout of weakness and drop the damned thing.

She managed to set the tray down on the coffee table and it perched precariously on some almanacs and forensic reports she’d gathered for research. Unsure of etiquette with a guy this gorgeous, Abby hesitated and was relieved when he took the lead.

He poured the steeped tea into the cups with great delicacy and practice. His nostrils flared when he caught scent of the flavor and then he put a healthy dab of the jam in both their cups before handing her one.

“You like jam in your tea?” she asked in surprise.

He smiled wistfully. “A friend taught me to drink it that way. I’ve found I prefer it more than anything else. You have good taste in teas and jam, I must say.”

‘Okay, points to this guy for liking jam in his tea,’ Abby thought as she sipped at her tea a couple of times. She watched him look around her apartment with great interest. Those beautiful eyes missed nothing, she noted. He was sharp as a tack and undoubtedly highly intelligent.

And extremely handsome. She was starting to get light-headed just looking at him. Or maybe that was the new cancer treatment catching up.

“So, Takuma,” she said, clasping her cup in both hands when they began to shake. “The shop. Why buy when you can lease?”

He turned his attention back to Abby. “I found your space perfect for my needs. Just what I pictured my little shop to be, in fact. The location is ideal as well. I do not want to lease, however. I plan on being in whatever spot I choose for a very long time. Purchasing is imminently more practical,” he explained.

She nodded. “I get that,” she said honestly, “but I can’t just sell that little corner. I’d have to sell the whole building.” She grimaced. “Some weird city ordinance,” she added. “I mean, it’s never been a problem before, but with you wanting to buy not lease…” She trailed off and gave a shrug.

“I would find it no hardship to purchase the building and give you a very generous price for it,” Takuma told her.

Abby frowned at that. “Well, first of all, I live here. I don’t really want to be a renter on property I used to own. Second of all, most of the other residents are elderly or disabled. I’m not exactly hurting for money so when they are a little late on the rent and such, I’ve got no problem giving leeway.”

Takuma nodded thoughtfully. “I see no reason why such an arrangement cannot remain with the current tenants,” he noted.

“And lastly my family has owned this building for a long, long time. I’m pretty sure if I sold it, my great-great-great grandfather would rise from his grave and do what my cancer hasn’t done yet and that’s kill me.” She tried to joke but knew it fell flat when his gaze sharpened and those keen eyes gave her a more thorough once over.

“You are ill?” His voice was sharp, almost disapproving.

She stiffened. “Not everyone gets lucky and has a long life,” she snapped. “Some of us have to deal with the shit poker hand life has given us.”

Takuma was taken aback by her tone and set his cup carefully down on the tray. “I meant no disrespect,” he assured her calmly. “It’s just – “ Here he faltered, frowning as if trying to find the right words.

But Abby had enough. She was beginning to feel worse by the second and having this healthy, beautiful man in her apartment made her feel like some sort of defect. When was the last time she ate?

“Lease or leave, Mr…” She blanked on his last name, “Takuma. Make your arrangement with the real estate agent or find somewhere else. Please leave.” She didn’t add ‘and don’t let the door hit you on the way out’ but she was positive he picked up on it, if the narrowed gaze he gave her was any indication.

He rose with a wounded dignity that raised Abby’s ire just a bit more. He walked with an even pace to the door and paused before opening it. “I offer $4 million for the entire building,” he told her. “I will change no agreements the tenants currently have for their residences. The other businesses are also allowed to keep their existing arrangements. Furthermore, I will charge you no rent at all, until either you move or…” His voice caught and she scowled. What did he have to be upset about? “Or until you pass.”

“Get out,” she snapped.

“Please consider my offer, Ms. O’Malley,” he said in a soft voice. “I make it in good faith. I am willing to let you look over my finances and credit to assure you I can uphold my end of the bargain.”

“I said get the fuck out.”

He stood there for a long moment but she refused to look at him. Hot tears were threatening to spill down her cheeks and she didn’t want to look weak and frail in front of that perfect human being standing at her front door.

“Very well. Again, please reconsider.” He opened the door and left, the door closing with a gentle click behind him.

Abby looked around her. This apartment was her refuge. It was a place to hide from the poking and prodding of doctors and the interminable tests that offered hope only to snatch it away over and over again. It was a safe place that well-meaning but morose family members wouldn’t go with their platitudes, remember-whens, and sad-eyed, mournful looks. Here she could defeat evil, overcome adversity, and create a happy ending with her stories. The happy ending that would be denied her.

Angrily, Abby dashed away the tears that finally fell, stood up and marched on unsteady feet to her desk.

She had a chapter to write. Many chapters. And the next victim was going to be a green-eyed, blond, too-good-to-be-true, insensitive jerk.

With relish, she began to type and soon immersed herself in murder and the investigation that would bring a bad guy to justice.

[snowinkling]

Teachers.

There has only been one teacher I’ve had who has been so bad at teaching a classroom full of students that I’ve come out of it learning nothing but hard life lessons. That is, until now. These two teachers are, in my opinion, some of the worst people you could ever have teaching you in your entire life.

I’ve had some OK teachers before, who go into class, do their jobs, help students out who don't understand the lesson they’re being taught, and then go home for the day.  I’ve also had some great teachers before too, who do all of that, and actually try their hardest to get their students to pass their classes and help them in any way they can. I’ve also had bad teachers too, who either can't control a classroom full of students, can’t teach students a group setting, are too quiet, or some combination of the three. These two teachers are so bad, so unprofessional, that those who I have told this story to feel like they were taught by these same teachers and feel disgusted to have even heard of their names.

In my academic life, I was by no means a smart kid, but I wasn’t dumb either. No one is, really. You either understand a subject to excel in it, enough to get by in life with it, struggle with it, or you just flat out do not understand how it works. And that’s OK. I was able to get by in math well enough to get at least a B in, until I reached grade 7. This is where I first had what I had considered the worst teacher I’ve had in my entire life. Her math classes consisted of going up to the front of the class, writing down what page she wanted us to read from our textbooks, write down what questions to answer on what page in said textbook, and then say “ok do this and if you have any questions, feel free to ask.” and then went to her desk. That was it. Nothing else. This was also the year where the answers were printed in the back of the book, too, and I kid you not, every single one of my classmates took a look at the back of the book at one point during the entire school year. Hell, one of my former classmates even swears he had seen the teacher paint her toe nails during our work period in math, instead of teaching us math like she was supposed to. Other classes she taught were either mediocre at best, or she wasn’t really trying to teach it at all. Religion class was the only exception, because as students attending catholic school, teaching us students how to be closer to Jesus Christ meant more to her than teaching us how to solve math problems herself, apparently.

One more thing I’ll say about this teacher: She never liked anyone, but she really did not like me, for one reason I will believe until the day I die: she hated my brother. Oh yes, she’s one of those teachers that if you’re related to someone she’s taught, she will shove her opinion of your siblings onto you. The year my brother had her as a teacher was the same year she divorced her husband, and had shoved her anger onto him, and since I am related by blood to him, I was the teacher’s new target for her disdain. She has also been known to make her students cry, and for me, this had happened several times, too. This all happened 9 years ago. To this day, I will always be thankful my younger sister never had a teacher - not jealous, god no, I would never want her to go through what my brother and I did - for she was never a subject of this teacher’s wrath.

The sad truth I learned from this particular teacher is that if the teacher doesn't  care enough to teach their students properly, then why should the students care enough to learn the course material? One of the most earliest signs of this I can recall is when I was in grade 8, when I and five other people in my grade were told to stay in the class instead of go to recess because we had failed our first math test of the year. I can’t really recall what exactly had transpired then, but I wouldn’t have been surprised if another student told our grade 8 teacher what we had learned, or lack thereof, the year before.

Today, I am a college student in their final semester of their program of choice - Game Programming. Getting to this point was difficult, but I'm on the final stretch. This semester of my program is dedicated to working on the final project for our entire program. our final project? Make an entire game either using a pre-made game engine (eg. Unity or Unreal), or by making a custom-built engine. Doesn't matter how, just make a game. Simple enough, I’ve been learning how to code since I was in grade 11, so this shouldn't be too hard. What makes this easier is that almost all of our classes are designed around helping us with making our final project in time for when we have to present them to potential employers. And then, there’s my Mobile Programming class - which will be known hereafter as iOS Programming.

This teacher, on the first day of classes, has told us that he has failed at least half the class the year prior, and has said that he’s gotten bad reviews on how he’s taught the class in the past because he doesn't “hold your hand” throughout the course. Ok, sure, teacher’s shouldn't be “holding their students hands” throughout the entire semester, as we need some room to learn how to program things on our own. There’s really only one problem with his statement though: Up to this point, the only other mobile programming class we, as college students, had taken before his class was Android Programming.

For a little background, Android Programming involves using Android Studios to create apps/games in, and uses the Java coding language while iOS programming involves using a program called Xcode, used for programming applications for a variety of Apple devices, and uses a variation of the C++ coding language. On the same day, my iOS teacher has said “you’re third years, you should know this by now” when in reality this is our first time dealing with programming for iOS devices. He has also told us that he doesn’t have a good outlook on the gaming industry either. This teacher also expects us to present him material at industry level - which is fine if we were in the industry already. We are not, as we are still students in the program learning how to use Xcode for the first time. He has also threatened to kick students out of class, knowing full well there's only a limited amount of rooms with Mac computers in the entire school for us to use to get work in his class done. He treats us students like we are his employees and also like middle school children. It’s insane.

In my second class with him, he was teaching us how to use Xcode in a way none of us could follow, followed by how to use GitHub to upload our projects onto. Knowing how to use GitHub is great for us to know, since it’s the only way we could store our projects somewhere without losing progress. The way he taught us was through slides, but it wasn’t until a certain slide came up that became an issue. The slide contained a picture of a man giving the middle finger to the camera, and to myself and anyone that knows me, I thought nothing of it and went back to looking at whatever was on my screen, until I felt the urge to pee. My first mistake was to get up to go to the washroom while that slide was still up. On my way out, my teacher asks me if I’ll be back. In verbatim, I answered, “Yes, I have to pee.” and then left for the washroom. My second mistake was not to ask him why he asked. Only after I left did he explain why he asked me if I was coming back, as he thought I was offended at the picture in the slide. If I had stayed and asked, I would have gotten the same answer, and I would have told him off by saying “If you think that picture would be offensive to some people, then do not include it in your slides. I am not offended at it, but I am disappointed that you assumed I was.”

That incident shouldn't have been such a big deal to me were it not for the fact that I cannot let go of things easily - or at all in some cases - and if it were not the day before aunt flow came to visit. For the third week, he had taught us about using sprites and the UI kit in Xcode, again in a way none of us could follow - and through slides too. At that point, I tried following along, but no matter what he was saying nothing made sense to me, and asking him for help would lead me nowhere; to me, he doesn't come off as the type of teacher who would help you to save your life. After that, there was some time left in class for some of us to pitch our app ideas. Yes, the teacher’s course for the entire semester is dedicated to building an app that he finds complex enough for us to do. I did not present that day, as I was more focused on ironing out my app idea.

The next week, the first half of the class was dedicated to presenting our app ideas to the class. I was the last to present, and I had given a decent pitch for what I wanted to do in his class, detailing all I wanted to add into it. Some of my classmates had given me more ideas to work with, which I appreciated. The teacher had asked me a question I had already addressed in my pitch, too, and I had to explicitly tell him that yes, I planned to include it in, and that I had also mentioned it in there too. So he apparently didn’t hear me say that, and judging by the fact that I also had that same answer to his question up for the whole class to see, his eyesight is worse than his prescription. Once I had sat down, he had told everyone present in my class that we, as a block full of students, that we had done a better job at presenting our app ideas than the other block - who are in the same year as us and being taught the same class. From what a friend in the other class told me, he had said that my class had done a better job than them. I told him that as a teacher, he should not be saying that, which he said, “it’s true, this class presented your ideas better than the other class” to which I reminded him that, as a teacher, he really should not be saying those things. After that, we went on with the class.

And now, this brings us to what had transpired about 12 hours ago. The teacher had told us that he wanted us to put our projects onto GitHub though an application called SourceTree and to integrate a kit called Firebase into our project from the Firebase website. There was really only one problem: I had no idea how to start my app, as my app was a bit unique to what my peers were doing. Xcode has different application types to choose from: Single View App, Game AR app, Document-Based App, Page-Based App, Tabbed App, Sticker Pack App, and iMessage App, and these are just for iOS development, which we were stuck with using. From this list, I know my app idea wasn’t a game, an AR app, a tabbed app, a sticker pack app, or an iMessage app. That left me with single view, document-based, and page-based. My app idea deals with documents in a certain way, so I was under the inclination that it was document-based, but I wanted to know what my teacher thought. Remember when I said that I had made two mistakes? Here was my third; asking my teacher for help.

To be honest, I was giving him sass, which wasn’t smart, but any respect I had for him was gone the second his classed started at the beginning of the semester. He had told me to stop giving him attitude, since he was being unhelpful with solving my problem, so I retaliated by saying “wow, you sound like my dad.” It’s the same thing my dad would tell me to try to get me to stop giving him attitude, which never works. This teacher then said “do you want me to kick you out of the classroom?” in a tone which scared me to be completely honest. I shut up and just started dissociating while he reluctantly helped me with a completely different issue: uploading my non-existent project onto GitHub. I was just so out of it that I started putting in credentials to what he wanted me to use that I know I wouldn’t remember. At that point I didn’t care about that. While the teacher was busy doing whatever to get my project onto GitHub, I was holding back tears. I didn't want to stay in that class anymore, and I don’t ever want to go back into that class again. Not while he’s the teacher. Once everything was said and done, I packed up my things, got up, and left. Thankfully this time I wasn’t questioned, though it was hard to keep tears from flowing. I barely made it out of the building before I started to cry.

This post has gotten really long, and it may have diverted from its original course, but both my grade 7 teacher and my iOS programming teacher are prefect examples of people who don’t care enough to teach their students the course material. Don’t put in the effort to teach, don't expect perfect results from your students. Don’t be unprofessional in front of your students. If you want them to present you with work that exceeds expectations, then teach them the tools to get them to create it.