#that night as a whole should not take up so much of my brainspace

[justinefrischmanngf]

it is EMBARRASSING how much i lose my mind when people notice things about me

[mondsphere]

Luo Binghe: Original Drafts Edition! Who and why?

“[…] in fact, in his original outline, Bing-gē hadn’t even had a romance plotline; he had been doomed to fade away, alone and unaging forever.” — The Scum Villain’s Self-Saving System, Vol. 4 (Mo Xiang Tong Xiu)

The drafts version of Binghe! Not Bing-gē, nor Bing-mei, but a secret, third thing! (I’m partial to Bing-xióng (兄) myself, just for thematic cohesion. Bing-mei remains as he is: Shizun’s special glass-heart maiden.)

So! Who is this elusive, mythical Binghe we never got the chance to meet? What is he? How do I get to pick this one’s brains?

Why is he haunting me! What does he want! So much to think about.

Listen: I love my trash sons, both the racoon and wet dog variations, but I am curious about this handsome demon lord who did not bed thousands, and did not steal his shizun to lovingly coax him into a loving and respectful marriage. Alas, Airplane-bro, as is custom, has left me hanging.

The solitary quote above has been floating around my brainspace for months. Intermittently, I would look up at the sky and sigh a big sad dog sigh, and think of this lonely demon-man emperor who seems to be both perfectly representative of No-Shizunitis Suffering Binghe, and on the exact opposite end of the line. I have spent many a night trying to rearrange the blocks of both SVSSS and PIDW like a sad toddler with no plan but plenty of amorphous longing.

Thus, Bing-xiong. My beloved new toy.

We know he is left alone and unaging. This means that:

He does not marry even once. (Sorry, Other Bing Variants. This one came broken.)

He is not defeated, killed, or left to suffer his not-father’s fate of sulking under a mountain.

From 1) we can assume two more things! Xin Mo either gets fixed/doesn’t influence this Binghe the same way, or: Xin Mo is completely written off à la Airplane Retconning, making Binghe potentially even more individually powerful than his younger counterparts.

(Or he just. Takes people’s cultivation ad-infinitum. Interesting thought, but too straight-forward for my tastes. Airplane’s thoughts? Unknowable.)

From 2) we can also assume Binghe cannot die, is under the influence of the Protagonist Halo unto infinity, and will only be put out of his misery once the heat death of the universe deems it a worthwhile endeavour. Either that or the story ends, but. It tickles a miserable part of my brain pink to think Binghe will not be let off even then.

Anyway. Bing-xiong, of course, has the same source material to work off of. Up until the Abyss, and including it, the plotline should be if not the same, adjacent enough to be indistinguishable.

However. This means:

Bing-xiong never got coerced into sex by Qin Wanyue, thus not starting him on the path of sex-dependency/addiction, avoiding Bing-gē’s fate by virtue of the Butterfly Effect. (Read this post because it explains Bing-ge's whole thing better than a lot of things I've seen.)

Again, Xin Mo implications.

Alternate Universe Shenanigans make an appearance. (Shen Jiu’s fever and death was actually meant to happen, Bing-ge just got very, very unlucky and his Universe’s Yue Qingyuan very, very lucky. For a few years. Either that or there is a Shen Yuan for every Binghe! Again: sorry, Bing-ge. You need to find your own. Middle child issues…)

Once the drafts/original outline got lost, all bets are off and now the characters become real people, without narrative influence. This also has the very fucked up implication that Bing-ge is actually a result of exclusively external forces and would have never gone down that path if not forced onto it by Airplane’s unwitting hands. I do and do not love this version. Very Mo Ran-esque, if looked at from afar and squinting.

Other options I’m either too not-high to think, or too high to put together. (Cold medicine is insane?)

I am fascinated by this… Schrödinger’s Binghe. A jaded, lonely emperor left in the ashes of his world, gazing upon his own history and finding fucking nothing and no one. Metaphorically and, like, practically, if I’m understanding Airplane’s musings correctly. Isolated, cursed by his own blood in a completely new and fucked up way!

I need Airplane to speak with me for like, half an hour. This is paramount to my mental health, I’m losing my braincells by the hour.

What happened to this impervious, cocky, badass demon bastard lord to become so alone? How did it happen? Why did it not happen to the other two, or at least Bing-ge, who has had every horrible and shitty thing possible and impossible piled onto his head? What the fuck is up with Xin Mo? Why isn’t it eating away at Big Bro Luo? Or, worse: why is it eating away at him in such a way that instead of turning into a violent yet charismatic, horror-creature of a man, it turns him into the existential terror-fate I’ve contemplated and abhorred since I was seven?

Tianlang-jun as the final boss. Discovering Huan Hua Palace Master’s crimes, deceit and… stuff. Perhaps even uncovering Shen Jiu’s backstory.

Ooh! Worse! Or better? What if he finds out everything, after having followed Bing-gē’s path, and simply… gives up? A grown up Bing-ge, minus the marriage and surrogate-lover part(s).

(More unlikely than other options, but still there, I guess.)

Fucking insane of MXTX to do this to me, personally and specifically.

I can only speculate forever, I guess! Left… alone and pondering forever.

So. Not a Bing-ge, and not a Bing-mei. A Bing-xiong, if you will.

[six-of-ravens]

daily update:

for some reason since last night my brain has decided to get Big Mad about something that happened like 6 months ago. just basically trying to Constantly Distract Myself lol. Idk why my brain is this fucked up but I blame it on the weather, the wild swings between sunny and warm spring weather and dark cold winter are brutal on the mental health lol.

also i haven't left the apartment since Monday (except a quick trip down to the mailbox today) so that might be why my brain is acting up. my anxiety gets real bad if I don't leave the house for more than 1 day in a row (lockdown was a FUN time in this brain) and I think for lack of anything real to be anxious about my brain is just going "hey remember that asshole from July? let's be mad at him again!!"

on the plus side, was actually able to be productive at work today! the past 2 days were just a lot of spinning my wheels while the PM for this project works herself into a tizzy, because I don't know what I need to do (if anything) and I can't handle her ranting anymore. Apparently the boss is getting pretty tired of her too tho so I think he had A Talk with her about not skype-spamming with her whole thought process. Also, she always intersperses her updates with "I have other things to work on too!" type comments which are driving everyone insane bc like yeah, we all do too! so just fkn get this last list of revisions sent over so we can finish this!!

so yeah, work is a...joy. right now. at least we got to work from home today too lol, we got waaaaay more snow than they predicted.

i did take a 3 hour nap after work today tho (necessary, bc last night I was up until 2am and my brain would not get off this spiral) and had those good good adventure-quest dreams, so.

oh also I finally checked the mail and my laika pin from pangur-and-grim arrived!! she is baby 🥺 she lives on the pin jacket now:

anyway, plan for tonight is to try and decompress by listening to music and maybe writing. i also *still* haven't really started Fellowship bc I just haven't been in the brainspace for it (though maybe I should try...having to intensely focus on a book with very small print might be what my brain needs)

also, going from reading children's books with like 18pt font to a dense fantasy novel with like 8pt font is quite the change. highly intimidating!

I have made progress on ToTK and FFIII though, in totk I beat Master Kogha and then finally got my purah pad upgraded with the sensor, travel medallions, etc etc. I can't believe i missed all of this stuff at the beginning of the game lol. in FFIII I'm back at the Nepto Temple, which is one of my least favourite levels due to having to use Mini which makes your weapons useless. Ah well, the quests after this are interesting at least.

oh and finally, I got some sprouts in my garden! I'm kind of amazed at how much stuff has already sprouted, most notably the lettuce (but also a half-dozen other random things):

[jubilantwriter]

Heart Shaped like Sea Glass

(Part 1) (Part 2)  (Next)

Part 3 - Comfort Feeding

Summary:  Jasper forgets what it’s like to hunger, but a certain siren refuses to leave him alone until his very basic need is satisfied.

i hope this came out as funny as i had it imagined in my brainspace

// // // // //

It was all a dream.  That's what he finds himself thinking when he wakes up, once again, to the sun shining in through his window.  It was all a dream - how else would he explain away the disappointment that seeps into his chest at the thought of David?  That vision he had, where he heard and felt and held David in his arms, it was all but a dream.

Because David is dead.

No matter how much he wishes it isn't so.

He rolls onto his side and stares at the wall.  The shack remains quiet as the world continues to bustle around him.  Sounds of the ocean are distant, despite it being right outside.  He should get up, get something to eat, but he finds himself unable to move.  It's not like he's hungry, and even if he was, he'd have no food to eat.  Granted, all it would take is a quick trip into the nearby town, but the thought of having to fake pleasantries and wave off concerns from people he doesn't know is... a bit too much for him at the moment.

And anyways, he can go on without food for a little bit longer.  If he's desperate, he can seek out the local fisherman.  The old man would always hand him a fish or two, but once he insists on cooking it for Jasper, whatever energy the brunette has left is sapped, and he simply shakes his head and leaves the old man behind.

The fish then gets left in a pot that boils over, and whatever flavor the fish had is lost to the fire.  Not like he could taste anything anyways.  Everything tastes dull, flat, like parchment, and the thought of tasting anything sweet again leaves a roiling in his stomach that never seems to go away.

He's about to curl back up to sleep his day away when a loud slam gets his attention.

"Hello!"  A voice from his dream has him sitting up in confusion.  There, standing in the doorway with a smirk is... a siren?  His head throbs as blonde hair and blue eyes triggers something in his memories.  That... that wasn't a dream?  Then, did he really-?

Ah.

No.

Of course not.

He clenches his shirt as he looks at the siren with a tired gaze.

"Oh."

"I said I'd be back.  Good to see that my meal is still alive!"  The siren cocks his head to the side, smile still in place as he studies Jasper.  "Although, still not thriving I see."

"What are you talking about."

"I meant what I said, you know."  The siren stalks close to Jasper, talons clicking against the wooden floor as he folds his arms behind him.  "I am going to make you a meal to simply die for."

Jasper rubs his eyes as the dreamlike memories become more and more... vivid.  He was tricked, lured by the siren's song last night.  That would explain his hazy memories, his throbbing head, and the siren standing before him.  He should be dead - why isn't he dead?

And then.  A promise.  A deal.  

Right, of course.  Of course he would agree to that.  It's not like he had much to live for anyways.

"I believe you."

The siren's smirk falters a bit.  Jasper's probably the most boring prey the blonde has ever encountered.  He would apologize except, he really doesn't care.

"Hm.  Well, I can see that you're still resting in your... nest.  Have you not eaten yet?"

"No."  And he doesn't really plan to.  The siren frowns, looking around the near empty shack with distaste.  

"I see.  I've heard that you humans tend to keep food stocked up somewhere.  Where is your food storage?"

"Don't have one."  

The siren's frown deepens, talons clicking against the floorboards loudly.  "...No food storage?  So you have no food then."

"Yeah."

"Well, go out and get some!"

Jasper curls back under his thin blanket.  "Not hungry."  An irritated growl answers him as the clicking talons move away from him and towards the door.  He closes his eyes with a sigh.  Good.  Now he can be left alone.

The sounds of the ocean are a little clearer now as waves crash against the sandy beach.  A distant splash mingles with the call of the gulls, but he ignores it in favor of going back to sleep.  Maybe if he's lucky, the siren will feel hungry instead-

The only warning he gets is the heavy flap of wings before something wet slaps against his face.  He jolts upright with a yelp, and a fish falls into his lap.

"Gods!"  A dead eyed fish stares up at him as a soft rumble comes from the siren.

"Food."  The siren looks much too proud about a single fish.  "Eat it now."  Jasper looks down at the fish as its glassy stare stares back at him.  At least it's dead.  

...Still.  

"I can't eat this."  The satisfied smile on the siren's face drops as he glares at Jasper.

"And why's that?"

"I... I just can't."  He gingerly picks up the dead fish.  Five deep gouge marks are embedded in the fish's sides.  Jasper takes a peek down the siren's feet.  What looks like blood decorates the talons of one foot.  Oh.  Neat.

"Oh you've- give that to me."  The siren snatches the fish back from Jasper with a look of disgust.  "I thought you humans eat fish all the time!  Don't tell me you don't know how to eat this."

Uh.  "What?"  

The siren rolls his eyes.  "Look at me."

He really doesn't want to.

But he isn't given much of a choice as the siren tilts his head back and opens his maw.  The fish is dropped head first into his gaping mouth, much to Jasper's horror.  He shrieks as the siren looks to be choking on the fish- can't sirens chew??  They chew right??  The siren has teeth- look, he has teeth!  Why is he- 

"Why are you swallowing that whole?!"  Jasper jumps out of his bed and smacks the siren's back roughly.  The siren makes a startled gagging noise as the fish comes flying out of his mouth, only to be caught haphazardly by the siren's taloned hands.  Feathers fluff up in a rage as the siren shakes the fish in Jasper's face.

"Why did you do that for?!"

"You were gonna choke-!"

"No you idiot, I was showing you how to eat fish because apparently, you don't know how-"

"I know how to eat fish!"

"Then eat it!"  The fish gets shoved against Jasper's mouth as he recoils.

"Ugh!  Gross!"

"Wha-"  The siren pulls back, insulted as he looks between the fish and Jasper.  "Excuse me, but this is mackerel, and it is a delicious fucking fish, so apologize!"

"No- I- what??"  Jasper looks at the silver fish flopping sadly around in the siren's talons.  He blinks at the dead thing before muttering softly, "I... I'm sorry?"

"Good."  The fish is thrust back into his face.  "Now eat."

"I can't!"  He pushes the siren's hand away from him.  "It's raw!"

"It's... what?"  The siren looks back at the fish, scrutinizing it closer before looking back at Jasper, completely baffled.  "No, I told you, it's mackerel."

"No, I mean-"  Jasper runs his hand through his thick hair.  Of course the siren has no concept of raw or cooked food.  He just eats whatever he wants as is.  But Jasper can't do that!  He'll get sick and maybe die, and if he is to die, he refuses to go out by the means of a dead, slimy fish disagreeing with his stomach.  "I can't... eat the fish like this.  The flesh, as it is, will hurt my stomach and make me sick!"  The siren once again looks between the poor fish and Jasper before a look of exasperated understanding crosses his features.

"I understand now."  Jasper slumps his shoulders in relief as the siren nods.  "Humans have the stomach of a chick.  No wonder you creatures never live long."

"...What?"

"You need chick food."  The siren slaps the fish down on Jasper's table and quickly turns around.  "Wait here."

"No, wait-"  But the siren is already dashing out of his shack before Jasper can stop him.  He looks towards the dead fish with a sense of unease.  Chick... food?  Jasper trudges out of his shack and looks around the beach.  

No siren.

He looks up into the sky and shades his eyes.  Squinting, he sees a flying figure circling above him before flying off towards... the town?  Quickly, Jasper dashes after the siren, following his shadow as the siren heads towards the more wooded areas of the town.  The siren lands not too far from where Jasper skids to a stop, slumping over and panting as he watches the siren eye the grassy ground.  Before the brunette can process another thought, the siren begins to stomp on the ground, moving this way and that as he focuses on the task at hand.

...Whatever the task may be.  

The siren continues to stomp as Jasper watches with a tired mind.  The blonde stops for a moment, peers at the ground, before bending down to pluck something out.  He continues in this manner as Jasper idly watches, not really understanding this strange ritual the siren is doing, but also refusing to have the energy to try and decipher it.  After a few moments pass, the siren huffs in satisfaction and turns around.  His hands are carefully cupped around something as he stumbles back in surprise, his wings spreading slightly as he catches sight of Jasper.  He huffs again, but with a more irritated edge to it as he stomps over to Jasper.

“I told you to wait.”

Jasper shrugs as the siren comes to a halt in front of him.  “Got worried.”

"You’re impossible, but at least this will save me the trouble of having to travel back with live grub.”  He nods towards Jasper impatiently.  “Open your mouth."

Oh.  Oh no.  The words “live grub” makes Jasper take a step back.

"No."

"Human," he growls, "stop being difficult and let me feed you."

"What..."  He looks over the siren's shoulder to where he had been standing previously.  Whatever it was that he plucked from the ground, it can't possibly be for human consumption.  "What did you-"

The siren's eyes brighten as he quickly shoves something wet and squirming and alive into Jasper's open mouth.  He spits it out immediately and starts scraping his tongue.

"AUGH!"  He looks at what he had spit out onto the siren's fuming face and shrieks again.  Worms!  He was trying to feed Jasper living worms!  "AAGH!"

"What is your problem?!"  The siren shrieks at him as he carefully collects the worm off his face and adds it to his pile.  "I found you chick food!"

"Humans don't eat WORMS!"  Jasper spits some dirt onto the ground and groans loudly.  "Humans aren't like sirens at all!"

"Oh for fucks sake-"  The siren nearly trembles with fury as he keeps the worms carefully cupped in his hands.  "This wouldn't be a fucking problem if you'd just eat something!" 

"Okay!  Okay!  Gods, if I ate something, would you leave me alone?!"

"Yes!"  

"Fine!  Fuck!"  Jasper stomps off towards the beach.  The ruffling of feathers alerts him to the siren's following as he leads them back to his shack.  The door is still open as they trudge through, Jasper sitting on his bed as the siren dumps the squirming worms onto his table.  Jasper looks between the worms and the dead fish and contemplates his choices.  The siren crosses his arms at Jasper's delayed eating.

"Well?"

Jasper stares at the fish covered in the siren's slobber.  "...Can you get me a new fish?"

"You're so damn picky."

"You can eat that one!  You already started to!"

"Fine!  Whatever!"  The siren tosses his hands up in the air as he stomps out.  "I do all this work, and for what?!"

"You can have the worms too!"  Jasper yells to the retreating figure as the siren squawks back in irritation.  With the siren gone, Jasper gets to work stoking his fireplace.  The hanging pot is removed as he considers his choices.

Boiled fish is quick and easy.  He can just descale, gut, and chop up whatever fish the siren gets him and eat that.  But...

He looks back at the slimy fish that the worms are starting to crawl all over.  Turning back to the fireplace, he thinks that maybe the texture of boiled fish might not feel so great in his mouth.  What other choices does he have?  As he looks around the fireplace, he finds a stack of sharpened sticks that the fisherman had given to him.

For roasting fish, if he recalls correctly.  He picks up a stick and turns it between his fingers idly.

It wouldn't be too much work, he thinks.  Sure, he still needs to descale and gut the fish, but after that, he can just jab the stick in and roast it.  Easier than chopping, and it won't have the potential to feel slimy.

...Yeah.  This could work.

"I'm back."  The siren stomps into the shack, thrusting a new but similar fish into Jasper's face.  "And you had better eat this one."

"I will."  He takes the fish carefully and heads to his table, grabbing a knife as he does so.

"Really?"  The siren creeps towards him in surprise as Jasper sits down.  "No more protests?"

"As long as I get to eat it normally like a human, then yes."  The brunette begins to remove the scales with his knife, scraping it methodically as the siren begins plucking the worms off and slurping them into his mouth.  As the last worm is eaten, Jasper begins to gut the fish, removing its insides as the siren sighs.

"You're wasting food."

"Then you can eat it."  A taloned hand swipes the guts up as the siren shoves the intestines into his mouth.  Jasper watches curiously as the creature actually chews.  So they do use their fangs and teeth for something.  Quietly, he jabs the stick through the head of the fish and into its stomach.  He heads over to his crackling fire with the siren trailing behind him.

"What are you doing?"  Jasper sticks the stick in front of the fire as he turns back to the siren.  The fish from before is clutched tight in the siren's hand as he brings it up to his mouth and chomps off the head.  Confusion rings loudly in Jasper's head as he tries to reason why the siren switched from swallowing the fish whole to just eating chunks of it, before shaking his head and refusing to think any further.

"I'm cooking it."

"Cooking?"

"Yeah."  He settles down on the floor and watches the fish roast.  "I'm making it edible for my chick stomach to handle."

The siren snorts as he sits down next to Jasper, loud schmacking noises included.  "You humans have such weak stomachs."

"Can't help it."

The two of them watch as the fish slowly roasts.  A nice, pleasant smell wafts through the air as Jasper's stomach growls.

...Oh.

He's.

He's hungry.

The siren sniffs and makes an interested hum.  "That smells good."

"Yeah, cooking does that."  Carefully, he reaches forward and plucks the roasted fish from the fire.  The siren leans in close to the cooked fish, raw one already devoured, and sniffs it again.

"It's hot."

"Yeah."  Jasper carefully breaks off a piece and offers it to the siren.  "You wanna try it?"

"Food is food."  Despite his blasé tone, the siren eagerly takes the offering from Jasper.  "Mmm..."  He watches as the siren's eyes brighten happily as he savors the taste.  "It's good."

"Better than raw fish?"

"I wouldn't say better," the siren sniffs, "but it is good."

"Right."  Jasper rolls his eyes and begins to eat.  Every once in a while, he offers the siren a piece, to which the siren happily accepts.  They eat together in a peaceful quiet until the bones are licked clean and Jasper finds himself feeling surprisingly full.  He blinks as he stares at the fish's skeleton.

"Well, that's one meal done."  The siren gets up and stretches, looking over Jasper with a smirk.  "Once I'm done with you, perhaps I should try this cooking thing to make your flesh taste even more superb."

Jasper shrugs as he lays down on the floor.  The siren clicks his tongue with annoyance as he nudges Jasper's head off the ground.  "Sure," he says with a shrug.  "Whatever you say."

"I'll be back later to make sure you have another fish to eat."  Jasper closes his eyes as he listens to the tap of talons against wood.  "You'd have better moved from this spot when I get back."

"No promises."  A distant huff is the only response he gets before he hears the heavy flap of wings.  All that's left is the sound of the fire crackling before him, and soft crashing of the waves behind him.

And for the first time in what feels like forever.

He feels... kind of warm.

[helloamhere]

thank you @mediawhorefics for this tag, distraction was needed today, bless FANDOMS:

To write: 1d (aus!!), I dabbled in the direction of MCU and consider doing that again although the general tenor of a lot of the fic there doesn’t appeal to me and only some of the characters? Have plunged directly into Star Wars like a dying meteor screeching through the atmosphere  Side things I want to write: I REALLY love Star Trek, but it’s such an intimidatingly classic ship world that that’s scary; a strong side love lately has been Roswell New Mexico; I have this idea for an Inception fic kicking around my head like crazy; I have a massive massive thing for OT3s so fandoms like Man From UNCLE occasionally re-assert themselves in my brainspace and I imagine writing for them....I have this first half of a Buffy!! fic written and I know the shape of it if only I had nothing to do but write  To read:  I read anything that’s really good and hits my buttons, most random is possibly Transformers hahahah, I have enjoyed a bunch of podsa rpf, I went through phases of reading a decent amount of Sherlock/johnlock, I’ve dabbled in Supernatural even though I don’t watch the show but just for reading! Sometimes I’ll read harry potter but it has to be really good TROPES:

What even are tropes? Is a question I ask myself. I think people would say hurt/comfort but I think my take on it is often sort of like....what hurts us could give us insight? Found family is a big one, telepathy is a big one, ummmmm characters who are defensive and afraid to show their emotions being forced to show their emotions is a big one; I really like nontraditional ABO and nontraditional soulmates and things like that? I am surprised by how much I have fun writing sff settings over real life, more and more these days

NUMBER OF FICS:

21 ! 

FIC I SPENT THE MOST TIME ON:

As a series it’s definitely The Woods are Lovely, Dark and Deep which like I feel like I should apologize to the universe for how long it’s taken me but I’ve been doing it very slowly bit by bit for my own indulgence. Um I think.....I mean SSH is the longest so probably realistically that one, but I actually agonized pretty hard over Make Your Words a Weapon and I vividly remember thinking that it was so strange and stuffed so full of my own feelings about things that no one would read it and it’s been very lovely to have shared it! 

FIC I SPENT THE LEAST TIME ON:

Out of my fics over 10k let’s say, Lambing Season because it has absolutely no plot besides describing a farm, and describing a farm is pretty easy for me because I have been on many! Even though it’s a very fairytale farm :). That one was so pleasant to write and I basically did it over two days.

LONGEST FIC:

By far Saving Symphony Hall (124+)

SHORTEST FIC:

Let’s say out of the fic that I count as “real,” in which case You’re Never Alone with a Moon this Bright which similar to @mediawhorefics‘ comment I actually really enjoy this one and I love where it ends and the whole setup of it. I wrote this one really fast too mostly in one night during a snowstorm.

MOST HITS/KUDOS/COMMENT THREADS/BOOKMARKS:

I’m not gonna do this because it makes me a little socially anxious!!! why I dunno!!!

TOTAL WORD COUNT:

487,931

FAVORITE FIC I WROTE:

Etched in Salt is definitely up there. Saving Symphony Hall in terms of how much it seems to have been there for some people when they needed it which I just love profoundly. Alien Roadtrip! is actually still one that brings me a lot of joy. Make Your Words a Weapon feels like it says something very heartfelt about how I think of artistic expression in the world.

FIC YOU WANT TO REWRITE/EXPAND ON:

noooooone baby give me the new stuff 

SHARE A BIT OF A WIP OR A STORY IDEA YOU’RE PLANNING ON:

Despite the world being a disaster and my new job and a thousand and one family obligations and also my increasing desire to sit on the couch and play video games I’m working on my star wars fic just a lil bit every single morning and I LOVE IT!!!! Here are some questions in this story:  - what is this thing that we call trust  - is this thing we call trust actually trust when it comes out of necessity  - do you have to be similar to the people in your life in order to feel loved by them  - what if you are never going to feel similar to the people in your life  - what is this thing we call anger  - what if this thing we call anger never goes away  - how long can we pretend that we’re talking about politics when we’re actually talking about relationships  - how long can we pretend that we’re talking about relationships when we’re actually dealing politics  - should this fic have sex in it and if so how much  I should like to tag @phd-mama and @indiaalphawhiskey and @hereforlou and @lululawrence and @disgruntledkittenface!

[captain-aralias]

Creators: give a “behind the scenes” look at one of your works. This could be things that got removed or changed, the origins of ideas/details, whatever you like!

oh hey - it’s trivia tuesday already (i guess it’s been a long two days back at work this week). i know everyone is still working their way through the remixes that are finished and posted - and i say, do this! some cracking stuff. i’m over half way through now, and i want to write up some thoughts about how these 26 stories approached remix - because it’s super inventive. i think people benefited from not being familiar with the format.

but i also wanted to share my thinking around why i picked the fic to remix that i did - and what else i was considering from @bazzybelle‘s ficlist, because i think the thought process around remix is interesting. AND i wanted to show you the 500 words i wrote almost immediately of a completely different remix that i definitely won’t finish. it would have been... a publishing AU, fake relationship with too-early-in-the-relationship sex. all good things in a fic, right?

so - read on for deleted scenes, and discussion of thought process. and don’t read on, if that’s not your jam. 

(in general remember - i’m keen to leave stuff in the original that’s good, rather than just thieve everything. so that’s my thought process here.) 

first idea: 

I Just Want Your Extra Time And Your .....

(texting, sex chat). i already really liked this fic, and i have IRL experience of working in publishing (which you’ll see to some extent in the fic - i worked very near people who worked on celebrity cookbooks, which is what baz works on in the fic) (the launch party is not revealed to be at the groucho club in the bit i wrote, but would have been - and i’ve been there/i know soho, so ... that was all appealing)

my idea was: the original is a text fic, mine isn’t, although they still only know each other through the sex chat set-up. so instead of simon and baz having text-sex (as in the fic), baz asks simon [who he's never met] to come and be his fake date at a publishing launch party where he sees lamb, his former boyfriend. 

the trigger for simon and baz progressing with their relationship/having sex (Because they were going to have sex but IRL) would be the same - baz seeing lamb and freaking out. and some of the texts would be literally copied and pasted in my fic as backstory. 

here were my original notes:

in the original fic there's a bit where baz sees lamb, his ex boyfriend, and then is like - hey, simon distract me and they have phone sex

my fic will essentially start there - baz is at a launch party for one of his books, lamb is there - dating the author. it is awful. baz wants to leave, but can't. also, it's time for the text slot with simon - he goes and hides in a cloakroom

and is texting simon, it's terrible - i am so drunk and it's still terrible. and i think simon offers (rather than baz asks) to come and pretend to be his boyfriend

for some sort of plausible denial reason like baz will text him a lot over hte next few days so he'll get a lot of extra money or some shit, but also because simon thinks lamb is a dick even through teh messages

simon shows up - they both drink a lot. they like each other, simon punches lamb (probably). baz asks if he can take simon to a restaurant, they talk more - they kiss. they go back to a hotel together. they discuss whether or not this means that simon is a prostitute (no). they have sex IRL

baz wakes up - and leaves immediately, obviously.

they text again the next day - it's awkward. simon thinks about how he could track baz down if he wanted to - but he feels like baz doesn't want him to, so he doesn't

simon gets out of his horrible job - baz probably tries to get in touch with him, but can't because he's gone. simon gets a message from baz ....... this is still to be determined

anyway - i will probably steal the meet cute in the elevator, it's nice.

why i stopped writing it: 

i knew it was going to take ages to write - i didn’t have the time or brainspace to write 20k of fic. i’d assumed going in that i could lean on the original fic to provide the meetcute, but realised that since it was an AU, i still needed to sell the relationship - particularly given that they were meeting in real life for the first time in my fic. 

also, it would have been my first mundane AU for the fandom, and my first thing where they weren’t enemies first. (so i was trying to think about how i could get them not to like each other a bit WHILE STILL doing fake dating - and it was throwing me off). it was all just too much.

everything i’ve written is pasted for you at the bottom.

other ideas: 

a month passed. i didn’t write any more on my original remix, but went back to greener grass instead. i sent out the month warning email to remixees and thought - i am not going to finish this fic. 

so, i went back to the list of bazzybelle’s fic and thought what can i write that i can definitely write in a month? 

1. You're F***in' Perfect to Me - daphne POV

i thought, i could write this from malcolm's POV.  in the fic daphne talks a lot about how she and malcolm are just friends, rather than true love, and it's baz she has real (motherly) feelings for, not malcolm. so i thought i could write 'the courtship of mrs grimm' where malcolm gets a wake-up call from this argument, and thinks, i actually do love daphne but she likes my son more than me. he's been hiding behind not wanting to sully natasha's memory, etc, etc. fiona would probably be in it. 

2. bat baz

i also had a bit of a naff idea where instead of baz turning into a bat, in bat baz, he would turn into bat man... 

(interestingly one of the remixes was about baz turning into a cat) 

3. If I Fell In Love With You - which i eventually chose

i took the dancing and the music, the set up, and the theme of communication - also some dialogue. pushed some of the focus onto baz’s relationship with niall, pushed the action back in time towards wayward son, added a truth spell (based on a spell in the original) to force communication.

i think this is one of the most interesting remixes i’ve ever done, btw. i’m really pleased with my take on it. 

i chose this to remix because i thought - it’s only a few scenes, rather than a whole get-together arc, and it felt achievable in the timespan. i also had a strong idea about what i could do that was different - the relationship with niall and the spell, and what i would leave for people to discover in the original (simon’s POV - including the warmth he feels when baz cooks for him, the two of the resolving the initial fight when simon comes home in a bad mood). 

the title is a combination of - another line from ‘if i fell’ but one that is about not talking to each other/not putting yourself out there... and ‘where words fail’ - which is the spell i used, and also picks up on what baz says to niall - that telling simon wasn’t enough. even if he’d had the right words, they wouldn’t have been believable. but - through the music/magic, they were able to communicate. 

i also considered using a line from ‘into my arms’ instead (I believe in some kind of path), since that was the song that the magic is cast on - but it didn’t work as well thematically. 

here’s the fic i wrote: Don’t Run and Hide (The ‘Where Words Fail’ Remix’)

and here’s the remix i didn’t write. i think i almost wanted to finish it just for the elvis gag. alas, alas.

I Just Want your Extra Time: remix, not written

BAZ

I don’t smoke as much as my father thinks I do. And I don’t drink – not usually. This evening, though, I’ve already had several glasses of champagne and I’m on my fourth cigarette, the second this smoke break. Because it’s that or go back inside. And I definitely don’t want to go back inside.

I should have known he’d be here.

Not that he was invited. Not that he’s on the guest list. Not that there’s any reason at all, in fact, for him to be here, except that my life is an absolute disaster. Today definitely not an exception.

If anything, it’s worse than usual. I thought I’d already hit bottom when Dev told me I had to ring our printers – in China – and get them to promise to ship one of our new titles three weeks early, as some idiot had sent the press release out with the wrong date. That was excruciating, but things seemed to be improving.

It’s a launch party night. I’m not sure why, but I always look forward to them, even though I hate crowds. (Niall would probably say, other people in general. And he wouldn’t be far wrong.)

But I get to wear a suit. (Tonight’s is Spencer Hart. Dark grey. Green tie.) And I know Snow is going to text after the first hour. And even though no one ever remembers to thank the editor – not unprompted, anyway – I do enjoy the satisfaction of knowing that I’m responsible for turning whatever dross we’ve been told to sell into something that could loosely be called a book.

This one is a cookbook by an actor (not a chef, in other words. I had to hire someone else to write the recipes and then we just photographed him next to the result.) It should be a triumph. It is – we’ve already sold several thousand copies. I should be enjoying myself. But then I heard a voice next to my ear.

“Baz.” And someone put a hand on my waist. “Don’t you look rosy?”

Not someone. Lambert. (I never called him Francois, even when we were intimate.) As irritatingly handsome as ever. And just as confident I’ll do whatever he wants.

I haven’t seen him for months. Not since he left me Las Vegas to go off with one of the better-looking Elvis impersonators. (And if that isn’t the most humiliating break-up story you’ve ever heard, then I really don’t want to know what is. Dumped. And for Elvis.) (Not even the real Elvis - not that it makes a difference.)

“I hoped I’d see you here,” he – Lambert – told me. “It’s been far too long.”

“Since you left me.”

He gave me a hurt look. “Baz. We said Auf Wiedersehen, not goodbye.”

“Who are you really here with?”

The author, of course. I watched their eyes meet across the room and Lambert smiling, before he told me it wasn’t serious. And that he’d be interested in taking me to dinner.

“Unless you’re seeing someone?”

I raised an eyebrow – even though I know Lambert knows I only do that when I can’t think of anything to say. Which means he probably knows the truth, which is that there isn’t anyone else. Not anyone else real, anyway.  

Which reminds me …

I check my watch – it’s later than I thought.

[deniigi]

so I had to delete that post from that anon because it was making me furious and taking up too much brainspace and I have grading to do and going into that with my current mindset would be unfair to my students.

so. just for the record (and to cleanse my palate of this discussion): if smth doesn’t resonate with you, 99% of the time, it probably isn’t for you.

And that is okay. Not all media is going to be created with you in mind.

And also I don’t play that game of taking quotes from my work out of their context. I think that is why I have spent the last several hours agitated out of my mind.

So I’m gonna say this one last time and this is going to be the end of this because I have better things to waste my time thinking about:

Peter chooses to pursue photography as his major in where from here because it allows him to keep his identity hidden more easily and because he is choosing to be a compassionate normal person over pursuing a career in a field which will guarantee him future success and notoriety. Tony specifically says multiple times in that piece that if Peter just keeps going along with what everyone is telling him to do, he will have a set and stable career ahead of him. But that is too easy for Peter and that doesn’t show Peter exercising any kind of agency.

The whole point of the DFV has been to emphasize Peter’s growth, from a 15yo kid who has to listen and learn from others, to a young person who is capable of thinking and making decisions on his own.

This is not a discussion in which I am setting up a STEM vs. Humanities debate.

This is a discussion about coming into one’s own and making decisions which fit one’s life choices, values, personal tastes, requirements, and passions, etc. And yes, I am making a case for the Arts in this piece. I am an artist. I am a researcher of the humanities. But in no way would I ever say that STEM fields have no place in our world. Arts and the Humanities should be employed in STEM fields and vice versa, friends.

Blending them does nothing but benefit us.

So yes. This is what I meant to say last night but couldn’t because I didn’t have enough processing capacity.

[moteloleander]

I tried to call a meeting in the Planning Stage between the two fandoms currently clashing for brainspace.

[The Angel skitters past the front row.  I grab her by the elbow.]

 - What are you doing here?

A:  Well, Quinn’s here, and I very much informed Quinn, so I should be here.

[Jim slopes by while I have my hands full with her]

J:  Yeah, and you used your experience with me for writing Shrike, and likely would again on White Rose so - Dani, love, come on, I’m saving a seat here.

- Oh, and who did you influence so heartily they can’t be discussed without you?

D:  In this pack, I’m not sure.  But there’s usually someone.  Oh, look, there’s Annaliese

 - COME ON!  I wrote Annaliese last night, there’s no way-

D:  Ah, but she’s been around since last summer when you decided you wanted to give Allen a present, and you did roll around in here pissed one night declaring that her and I would have shared classes at university had I not dropped out.  Thanks for that.

[In the meantime I’ve been occupied with that lot, the room has gotten rather more full than was ever expected.]

- No.  No.  I only requested the presence of two groups, count ‘ em, two!  What are you four doing here?!

[Dessie, Lee, Mercy and Nora are leaning against the back wall.]

Mercy:  You said ‘horsemen’.

- Magicolegal horsemen not apocalyptica horsemen, my mistake.  Now fuck off.

[Quinn and Petey Scooby around the edge of a door]

Q:  Is clown attendance required?

- NO!

Q:  Why the hell not?

[In they come and sit down with arms folded looking wildly unimpressed.  By now the sheer size of the crowd is drawing more crowd.  Anna Dante sticks her head through the wall, Laura Howlett is perched on the back of a chair in the back row, Jessica Apple thinks its a party, Seb has brought popcorn and Charlie is throwing it into Dani’s hair.  I am behind a pillar having a sobbing breakdown.  One of the few characters I actually wanted to talk to comes and slumps in front of me.]

Darlene:  You want me to slap you?

 - Yes please, love.

[A swift sharp crack and I am back on my feet]

 - RIGHT!  If I do not call your name you are not welcome and shall fuck off, alright?  All magicolegal Horsemen, Allen and Annaliese, Chase, Mandy-  [A woman shuffling out of the third row in pig mask and red-lined robe sits back down] - ...McKinney!

[Ragged Semi-Feral Barely-Socialized Mandy tugs ont he sleeve of Second-Generation-Charming-Mentalist Mandy and mumbles something through a Texas accent so thick no one else can make it out]

2nd-G-C-M-M:  Good point.  She wants to know which of us you mean?

- Both, for now.  I’ll have decided on one or the other of you soon enough...

[large collective gasp, relative quiet.]

Petrova:  Oh, please.  It’s what she does.  There’s so many of me in me it’s a miracle I’m not totally schizo.   [Elliot shifts uncomfortably.  Darlene gets ready to go to war but he tugs her back down in her seat.  He is, for the record, sporting a rather charming pair of brass-framed goggles]   ...No offence.

- You were told to leave!

P:  You can’t talk to me like that anymore!

[By now Dessie has fetched Cal to come and take her away]

-  ...And anybody belonging directly to the Season One Robot-verse.  Ray, get out of here before I tell everybody in whatever horrible federal prison is too good for you that you used to be a warden!  Everybody else fuck off!

[As a great number shuffle out, Big Phil and White Rose appear on my left, Dylan and Allen on my right.  They have been watching all of this, being cat-herders themselves.  John Kramer was with them but has politely left, considering he’s not in either of the required fandoms and knows I will consult him on mechanics as and when.  He’s a good lad, our Jigsaw]

Rosie:  ...Would you like to know how we would have handled it?

- ...Y’know what, you two are barely in season one, you can fuck off about your business and all.  I don’t need to consult you.

[It does not pain them to leave because they know everything anyway.]

Allen:  We had a few ideas too, how that might have gone better...

 - Well, big son, you I need.  And you, I like.  But if you don’t shut up and join your mates down there in the stalls by the count of ten I swear to God I will rip the moustache clean off your face, how’s that?

[Dylan and Allen join their side of the aisle.  It’s not like a wedding, more a reading of the will.]

- As you all know my brainspace is limited and rather preoccupied at the moment.  I need to work and can’t work on anything real but feel guilty about working on something not real.  Therefore, it is out of the question to work on both of you.

[Edward is listening from the other side of the door to the backstairs]

E:  Oh, it’s us!  Come on, she’s built a whole Tesla-punk zone down in the basement, it’s like the Crystal Maze down there!  Screw you, magic man!  We’re gonna party like it’s 1899!

[Darlene sits up straighter, turning in her seat]

D:  Who was that?

- Darlene, no!

D:  Darlene yes!

- Darlene you can’t, you’ll break the universe!

[The Wellick bodyguard positions himself in front of the door.  He is in full pinstripes-and-brass already.  He is an early adopter and looks chuffed with himself.  I gave him some Pringles.  Darlene sits back down.]

Jack:  It’s not you anyway.  

Merritt  He’s right.  You heard the lady.  her head’s all messed up just at the mo...  And she finds us comforting.

Henley:  We’re easy like that.  [Danny blushes fiercely...]

Dylan:  Straightforward threat-and-reward, just twisty enough that she can still feel smart while she works.

Mobley:  Our season is written, it’s just a tech translation.

Lula:  Exactly.  How much fun could that possibly be?  Not to mention, you people are really depressing, I mean-

Darlene:  What did you say?  What did this bitch just say about us?

[And that’s how I ended up slipping out the back while Darlene and Lula tried to claw each others eyes out and Jack and Elliot tried to break it up.  I figure whoever’s left standing I’ll just write about.]

[bsides-of-roygbiv]

a lady.

She came crashing into my life like some sort of crazy enigma. True, the catalyst of this was strictly through my own procurement, through my own words coming out of my own mouth. Directions by my mind to move certain steps, lift my legs up certain stairs, to get certain words to come out of my certain mouth. I’ve always been grasping, with two hands stretched right out in front of me—enduringly curious, and I’ve never been able to help it. So the thing is, that when I reached I felt her. All at once and entirely consuming, she shot herself into my brainspace so unapologetically, but so beautifully that I don’t dare desire my consumption to be placed in any other finger tips.

When I first saw her, I swear I thought I’d never seen anything so beautiful in my whole life. While the creation of this sentence; it’s genesis in the pink crevices within my skill, to it’s finale as words flowing out of my fingertips, make me want to vomit the summation of all foods in my stomach—it is truth that can not be denied or made any less important. I saw her sitting across the room and my heart felt like it was falling out of me all at once, all over the floor. It remained like that for months, I was practically mopping it up everywhere I went at once…it caused quite a commotion, though there was nothing to be done, absolutely nothing to be done except permit the descent and to brace for the eventual encounter with the bottom. I mopped it up mostly when I was with her, compartmentalizing and conserving, only ever letting it really slip out of me with my hands jammed down my pants, all fast and messy, praying my roommates didn’t walk in. I didn’t really mind mopping all of the substance that was falling out of me—for it was only a small price to pay to watch her incredulousness at my insanity, to watch her unfold in my palms, to watch myself unfold in hers.

One time we were in the forest, my mind has made it’s way to the very pits of myself and deciphering between left and right made little sense, it made little of anything—no noise, unspeaking and unbreathing staring back at me in the mirror: the wintertime. We were in the forest, I sat sitting, she stood standing, and I almost let all of myself spill over…have you ever cooked pasta and watched the water boil all over the stove? I was the water and she was the stove and I wonder if she would have hissed and reeled and screamed at my spilling, but there was my spilling, so there it was—absolutely nonexistent and nonessential.

Sometimes I still look at her and there, plastered onto the back of my brain, in some small and secret places is one word. It is claimed by certainty and a lack of confusion, an undeniable fact and figure—only exponentially growing, never really slowing, never really knowing, just sort of being. I’m sitting in audiences, I’m slumped in the middle of my floor, I’m flying in the opposite direction of her and my spaces are all invaded, all used up but it’s not the kind of use that feels bad and worn out the next morning, it’s the kind of use that you couldn’t ever feel bad about—like diving into the ocean at eight thirty at night and only meeting the air when entirely necessary, my lungs are screaming thank you thank you thank you.

I’m longing for her on my porch, I’m longing to see the world upside down for hours at a time, frozen with novelty (the good kind), immobilized and endlessly suspended on wooden planks—is time really linear or are they just telling us that? I’m longing for her in the middle of the night because I’m still reaching with my two arms out in front of me (kind of like a zombie or a monster) and she’s still the only one I’m touching. Even though I’m still reaching she’s the only one my fingertips conceivably desire (alright). The sun is going down (the day is dying), and that certain kind of light is flooding my bathtub, but I’m standing in the shower with my eyes split and transfixed between grout and she’s split and fixed between my all of my matter, so I’m not really feeling pulled, not really feeling like doing too much mopping (too much cleaning, cleansing).

Literacy must be sustained and kept shiny when there is a grand inability to evade, like missing a step and falling into the canyon, I’ve got only one thing to say and I’ve only got one thing I’m so certain about so here I go, listen up: shesbeautifulshesbeautifulholyshitshesbeautifulshesfuckingbeautiful. Operating impossibly from single meaning, my statement (my words, my significance) is wholly and it is wholly encompassing meant to PERMEATE and DRENCH every bone of her, every breath (shallow), every goddamn fiber and thread—the statement remains, unshakeable. Therefore, it seems like my elaborate plans, built in with new and wild contraptions to shake are only achievable in the ways I thought I didn’t know how. The shaking only comes when she isn’t with me and for the love of God, I wish it would stop—because, didn’t you know that it’s really fucking hard to do anything when you’ve been shaken, when you’re shaking and it’s like you’re at the bottom of some really big and dark place with no ladder, no light, and sure as fuck nothing to write on! My certainty of meaning and significance would rather not be represented through grand gestures and tradition, this constant reconfiguration and preservation has me sprinting back and forth, drenched in my own desire and I’m realizing that my legs are a hell of a lot stronger than I thought them to be.

So, habitually, here I am moving faster than I ever thought was possible, my breath is sucking me into a vortex creating positives and negatives out of my shape. I wonder if she’ll ever catch me? The faster I move, the more I feel like she’ll try to grab me, try to nag me out of thin air and put me in some jar next to her bed to look at when the sun rises through her window and then when the day dies later on. If she ever catches me, I wonder what form I’ll have ended up in. When I was little, my Dad used to take me to this place that was covered in granite. There it was on the floor and towering ten times as big as I was into the sky, unrelenting and unmoving. Sometimes I think part of her is hidden there. Six hundred feet under ground, locked in the granite, in the black and the white, part of her is there and I can’t reach. My arms are reaching right out in front of me, maybe my fingers are like traffic conductors, but I still can’t really find this piece (did you know, she’s good at puzzles?, she knows where all the pieces go, she does). Maybe one day I’ll force her to draw me a map six hundred feet under the earth, with details about lefts and rights, slight rotations and considerations of climate, slight considerations of surrounding, of our surroundings—and I’ll find it. Habitually, here I am moving faster than I ever thought was possible, but my tires are rubbing, my legs aren’t working and the great Big Ocean keeps staring back at me, waiting for some explanation—some reason or conceptualization…some answers ( I don’t have any).

Her pensiveness is well called for, but I can’t help but fold all over myself in the middle of the day, with the sun blaring outside and my insides on the upside but more turning downward and facing a little bit to the back left corner—there’s no more mopping to be done today, just some shredding. Her pensiveness is falling out of her and I wonder if she knows the blatancy to which her movements and configurations (even the lack of) create summations equaling obvious pacing back and forth, all the while avoiding the cracks but maybe stepping on them anyways.  I’m watching her hair blow in the breeze and I’m thinking about the concreteness and I’m thinking about the lack and the frame, and the framing of the lack, the frame and  the lack thereof—so I’m still folding, but in unfamiliar and possibly unsavory directions unsatisfactory to her at alarming rates, ALARMING. This folding is occurring, maybe we should smash our heads together as hard as we can, meshing and intertwining all of our matter, because who says my threads can’t be hers and why can’t my fibers be her fibers too? What is to become of all of our matter?, for this loveliness is leaving me eight weeks dry on the beach without a surfboard or any kind of water to drink, I’m all dried up, I’m all dry—ready to go running with my legs stronger that I though some 560 miles FAST in the other direction.