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sirfrogsworth · 1 year

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Last week was crazy.

I honestly can't believe all of it happened in the span of a week. Well, I guess it was more like 10 days. But it was another... Alot.

It all started when I got my disability denial letter. I couldn't wait until I got into the house so I opened the envelope as I walked back from the mailbox. Once I saw the bad part I had an instant panic attack in my driveway.

I ran inside...

Okay, that isn't true.

I walked very quickly inside...

Nope, still not true.

Okay, I walked at my personal top speed which is probably still slow for most people... but the point I'm trying to make is that I was attempting to hurry despite only saving myself about 3 seconds of travel time.

But the hurrying made me feel better, okay?

Out of breath from my geriatric-style powerwalking, I called my lawyer's office immediately. And... he is on vacation. Won't be back until the next Thursday. I spent the entire weekend going through every panic state a body can feel. I go from angry to depressed to anxious to panicked to angry (again) to scared to more scared to extra more scared. Visions of homelessness danced in my head.

I can't sleep for over a day because my brain won't shut off. Finally my body gives out and I fall asleep on the couch watching random YouTube videos. But falling asleep on the couch is bad because I'm not hooked up to my CPAP machine. Then I finally do hook up my CPAP and my damned mask breaks. Thankfully it has happened before and I have a cool hot glue and duct tape solution. But it is hard to manage hot glue and tape when you haven't slept in days and your eyes will barely stay open. So a few burned fingers later, I am sleeping comfortably in my janky duct tape-laden CPAP mask.

Monday rolls around and I decide to go into problem solving mode. Problem solving is my superpower, so I was going to lean into that in an effort to reduce my anxiety. The denial letter said they had no records from before I was 22, so I put on my detective hat and began the hunt to prove I was sick before 2004. My aunt helped me dig through my mom's document drawer. I distinctly remember an essay I wrote to the disability people back when I first got sick. It was part of the paperwork they had me submit. It was a first hand account of my symptoms back in 2001. It also had an essay from my dad talking about how sick I was. I felt like if I could find that, the records surrounding it would all be related and from the same time period.

We go through the entire drawer and only find a few things that might be helpful. Then I realized my mom had a *second* drawer full of documents and my aunt was blocking it. So we start going through that and find a folder labeled "Ben's Disability Stuff." I would have never kept any of that stuff but my mom kept *everything* and it was all in chronological order.

She is still looking out for me.

And she may have kept me from being homeless.

We find the essay and records of my ECT treatments and the names of doctors and all kinds of evidence of my medical woes before 2004. And even if they won't accept it as direct evidence, I can use these documents to show doctors I was their patient. And my primary care doctor said he would be willing to talk to those past doctors to help me convince them to write a letter on my behalf. All they really have to say is they treated me for severe depression and fatigue. And because my mom kept a list of my prescriptions and my ECT treatments, I'm hoping that will be enough to convince them even if they don't remember treating me.

Wednesday I had my monthly checkup. And I got to peek at my main doctor's records from before 2004. It's all handwritten notes and a little hard to read (bad doctor handwriting is the most accurate stereotype in existence). But it clearly says I had depression and was undergoing ECT treatments. It even mentions one of the doctors I want to write me a letter. It's not a lot, but it is first hand, direct medical evidence from that time period. I think it will be very compelling to whoever reviews my case.

I also talked to the nurses/assistants in the office about copying my entire chart, and I thought we were on the same page, but as you will see later... we were not on the same page.

I exit the building and remember how far away I had parked. And once again I forgot to use my cane—even though I keep a spare in the car. The main lot was full and the disabled parking was occupied, so I had to park in the secondary lot. My legs were holding up so far, but it was already a lot of walking for me. Very slow walking.

His office is in the same complex as the hospital. Which is my next stop. It's the same hospital that I have been going to all of my life. And the hospital where both of my parents died.

But I need vintage medical records and that is where they keep them.

Or so I thought.

I drive from the medical office parking lot to the hospital parking lot and only the spots farthest away are empty. And because of goddamn global warming, it is 90 fucking degrees in late September. I park, lock my car, grab my man purse, and start hoofing it to the hospital entrance. I'm so nervous about getting these records that I forgot my damn cane again.

My thoughts are basically, "What if they only keep 7 years of records like everyone else? What if the records from Christian Northwest aren't kept with the records from Christian Northeast? (Christian NW doesn't exist anymore.) What if they won't send them to my lawyer? What if it costs a thousand bucks? What if, what if, what if..."

I get to the front desk and ask the lady where the records department is. She gives me directions that my brain is only capable of half paying attention to. Then I realized I left the records release form from my lawyer in the car. So I walk another half mile in the heat to my car without my cane. And initially, my thought was, "Well, at least I can grab my cane once I get the form." But by the time I got to my car my thought was, "AHHHHHHHHH THAT WAS A LONG FUCKING WALK. KILL ME!"

And so I forgot my cane.

Again.

I get back to the lobby and wave at the lady who gave me directions. I pretend like I remembered and confidently walk in the direction I recall her pointing to. I found the elevator. Thankfully this particular elevator only goes two places. Which seems like a waste of an elevator, but... whatever. I get off on the second floor and am met with a big sign with all the departments and little arrows next to them.

(I'm sure you knew what I was talking about but I'm trying to break up this wall of text with images because I am a professional blogger person.)

I see "Medical Records" and a leftward arrow. I used my keen detective skills to surmise I should probably veer left.

I find myself at the beginning of the world's longest hallway.

Without my cane.

And it is flooded with sterile florescent light and the walls are adorned with the world's most inoffensive art.

Here is a painting of a plant. Here is a painting of a bird. Here is a painting of a bird sitting on a plant. Wait, is that a... WATERFALL??

Suddenly Indiana Jones' voice shouts in my thoughts...

So, if you had to guess, do you think the records department was...

A.) near the beginning of the hallway? B.) in the middle of the hallway? C.) beyond the world's longest hallway in the world's second longest hallway?

As I enter the world's second longest hallway, I notice the art is repeating itself. I've seen that bird sitting on a plant before. I worried I was going in circles, but it turns out they probably just bought the inoffensive art in bulk and weren't concerned about repeats. I get about halfway down the second longest hallway and see a big sign sticking out... "MEDICAL RECORDS."

Note to God: The real world needs a fast travel mode.

I was a big sweaty mess and my legs were like jello. I lumber through the door and find a young woman scrolling through her phone and probably wishing she was anywhere else. She was behind a huge partition with a plexiglass divider—probably still there from COVID days.

I mean, it's still COVID days. But no one is acting like it so I am just pretending it is all over like everyone else seems to.

She notices an out-of-breath Hagrid towering over her and apathetically inquires, "Can I help you?"

I hold up a finger as I try to gain my composure and figure out exactly what I want to say. I usually rehearse this kind of thing beforehand but with all of the anxious thoughts spiraling through my brain, I totally forgot to do that.

"I need to ask questions about records." "What kind of questions?" "Well, how long are the records?" "I'm sorry?" "What year do they start?" "What year do you need?"

I'm suddenly realizing why I rehearse these things. So I take a moment and breathe deeply. I form the proper question in my mind.

"How far back do you keep medical records?" "30 years."

I shoot my hands up like I just scored a touchdown and say, "OH THANK GOD."

She is very confused.

"30 years, oh my god. 30 years just saved my life."

She is still very confused.

"And do you have records from Christian Northwest?" "Yes, we have everything from all Christian hospitals."

I try to give her a brief explanation of my situation and she cuts me off. "Fill out this form."

I look at the clipboard and it is a release form.

Do you remember way back when I walked an extra mile to and from the car to get a release form that my lawyer prepared? Well, turns out they have their own version of that and I walked all that way for nothing.

I finish the form and hand it to the bored, indifferent front desk lady. She tells me someone will be out in a moment. So I sit in the uncomfortable waiting chairs and try to rest a bit. A much tinier young woman walks to the front desk partition thingie and calls out my name. But due to her diminutive stature, she is completely obscured by a pillar and I have no idea where the voice is coming from. We do this little awkward dance on either side of the pillar, attempting to see each other, and finally we both end up on the same side. She starts looking over my form and seemed a little annoyed that I left a section blank. I wasn't sure what kind of records I needed and there was no box that said "everything everywhere all at once."

What I really wanted was any document with my name on it from the beginning of time.

But I was worried about asking for too much labor from this person so I started negotiating for some reason.

I was like, "Well, like, I really need like anything you have from before like 2004. And then maybe, like, some general records after 2004. Like, the pre-2004 records are super important. But, like, I also need to show I was sick all my adult life. So if there are like, summary records? Or, like, something?"

I couldn't stop saying like. I was turning into a Kardashian. Again, some rehearsal was probably warranted.

"I just don't want to be a burden and make you dig up all of my records. I mostly need my ECT records from 2001."

"What is ECT?"

"Shock therapy. It's for depression. I just need to show I was really sick before the age of 22."

"And who is this guy on the form?"

*ramble mode engaged*

"Oh, that is my disability attorney. You see, I'm trying to get a special kind of disability, but I need to prove I was sick before the age of 22. So anything like that before 2004 would be very helpful. But like, if you have less detailed records after 2004 that is good too. Because I may need to prove I've been sick my entire adult life."

*continued rambling until I notice she stopped paying attention*

She did not need to know all of this. And I was not answering the questions she needed answered. I was nervous and babbling and oversharing and I couldn't snap out of it. And I was really concerned if I asked for too much, she was going to be upset. But then she told me all of the records were in a warehouse and she would not actually be finding them for me. She just places an "order" for them. So this weird negotiation thing I was doing to keep her from being annoyed at me was pointless.

And I also realized... this is super important.

I yell at myself, "Ask for everything, stupid! Quit trying to get halfassed records because you're worried about inconveniencing someone."

Finally I just say, "I want every medical record you have from before I was 22 until now."

And she was like, "Sure."

Well... that was easy.

I thanked the tiny lady and the bored lady and exited back into the second longest hallway. My adrenaline was surging. I kept yelling, "30 YEARS!!" in my brain. I had to tell someone this amazing news. I had to tell them right that second or I might burst. So I grab my phone from my man purse and dial Katrina.

The thing is, I only call Katrina when something really bad happens. People don't make phone calls anymore. People text! So when she picked up the phone she answered with a very worried tone. As if somehow a third parent of mine died or something.

"THIRTY YEARS!!!!" "WHAT IS HAPPENING??" "They keep records for 30 years!" "OHHHHHHHHHH!!! That's amazing!"

She probably didn't hop for joy in real life, but in my mind I like to pretend she did. I start explaining everything that just happened and how they most likely have my ECT records and then I realize I am in the middle of the world's second longest hallway and I don't remember which direction leads back to the world's longest hallway. And because I am having unusual and extraordinarily good luck, a medical worker was walking by right at that moment.

"Which way back to the elevator?" "This way!" "Oh great! Thank you!" "Or that way. There are two elevators."

There is that normal luck I recognize.

I can feel the universe realigning itself. But that is okay, because...

THIRTY YEARS, BABY!

I talk to Katrina as I traverse the two longest hallways. Thankfully I was going in the correct direction and found the proper elevator. After a nice chat about various things including problematic 80s movies, we hung up and I decided to treat myself to a hospital cafeteria chicken quesadilla. They are surprisingly delicious and I ate them every single day while my dad was in hospice. Those quesadillas were a single bright spot during one of the hardest times of my life.

So I walk up to the grillmaster and look at the menu.

"Wait, where is the quesadilla?" "We stopped making those two weeks ago."

Universal realignment completed. Luck has returned to its original state.

A male nurse in front of me commiserated. "Yeah, man. I miss them too."

I walked back out to my car both happy and depressed. An odd combination of conflicted feelings. But my day was not over yet. I needed vaccines and groceries. Naturally, I went to the grocery store with the CVS. I got my dad his last booster there, so I was confident they could take care of me. I grab a shopping cart and pick up a few things on the way to the pharmacy. I get in line at the little vaccine check-in spot. The woman in front of me is getting her booster as well. Otherwise, the pharmacy is empty and the three employees are just scrolling through their phones.

After the previous booster seeker was taken care of, I tell the woman I need a booster and a flu vaccine.

"I can give the flu shot now and set an appointment for the booster." "You never required an appointment before." "We just started a few weeks ago." "Can I make an appointment for, like, now?" "No, sorry." "Do you have the booster in stock?" "Yes." "Do you have someone here qualified to give the booster?" "Yes." "Do you have any other appointments right now?" "No."

I tried very hard to keep my composure and remain polite.

"I am disabled. It is very hard for me to get out of the house. Returning another day would be very difficult. Can you please make an exception?"

"I can get you in tomorrow."

I probably should have asked for a manager at this point. But I had no energy for confrontation. She started preparing for me to get the flu shot, but I told her I was going somewhere else. My happy news was quickly being soured by weird rules that made no sense.

But I did see a cool robot.

I got my groceries and loaded them into my car. Some were frozen items so I made sure to turn the A/C on full blast. I called another pharmacy. It was the one run by the Jamaican family who came out to the house to give my parents boosters during the height of COVID. I asked if they could do walk-in vaccinations without an appointment. And in that beautiful accent, they replied, "Sure, come on by. We'll take care of you."

Their shop is in Ferguson. Which I'm sure the news has convinced people is a constant warzone or something. But the main street, West Florrisant, is actually really neat in spots. A lot of small businesses catering to the Black community. There was a soul food place and an African hair braiding place and a Taco Bell. Okay, it wasn't all Black-themed shops, but the pharmacy was directly next to the "Wumzy African Attire" tailoring shop that was combined with the party planning store.

And in the back was an African beauty supply depot.

Three shops in one! Just a very efficient use of space.

And looking through the window of the tailoring shop was like a feast of colors for the eyes. I don't know how they get fabric so bright and colorful. Really beautiful patterns too. I tried not to look like a creep while staring inside so I just walked reeeeeally slow toward the pharmacy entrance.

I just wish people knew that side of Ferguson. It's a beautiful community that was really dragged through the mud by the national media.

I digress.

I walked into the pharmacy and it was long and skinny. They had a few shelves with over-the-counter health products. But the main area was pretty empty. I guess they want to make sure they can accommodate long lines without people having to wait outside. But their working area seemed really cramped. There were some awards on the wall and news articles. Apparently, they are very involved with vaccinating the local refugee community. Something you won't see at pointless appointment-having CVS. I just felt like I was in the right place even if my frozen items were thawing and my legs were buckling from constantly forgetting my cane in the car.

The shop was run by the pharmacist and matriarch. Her son took my information. He looked about 18 and was a bit shy—but very kind and helpful. He directed me to this little partition they set up for vaccinations and they had a liquor bottle full of hand sanitizer. The label had a big "DO NOT DRINK" warning. I found a picture of the exact one on Google.

I washed my hands and rolled up my sleeve. The pharmacist greeted me with my shots prepared. Some people have a sort of magic touch when it comes to giving shots. I'm not sure if it is a special technique or just lots of experience, but aside from a little pressure, I didn't even feel the needles going in. And my arm was only mildly sore despite the double shots.

I really wanted to thank her for sending someone to vaccinate my parents when no one else would. But I was really tired and chickened out. So I just thanked her and drove home.

I unloaded my groceries and collapsed on the couch. I could barely move at that point. Everything hurt.

But... 30 years.

I was feeling good the next day despite everything. My body hurt, but my brain was contented from my success. But there was more to do and everything was trending downhill. I called those doctors mentioned in my personal medical records. I knew it was a long shot, but I asked if they kept records from 2001. They did not. However, I thought the psychiatrist who did my ECT was dead. And it turns out he is just old-as-heck and still practicing. So even though he doesn't have records and probably doesn't remember me, I am hopeful he will write me a letter.

My other psychiatrist from back then is also still practicing. No records there either.

So far my phone anxiety wasn't getting the better of me. But I still had more calls to make and I could feel my brain starting to get melty.

My pocket knife doesn't open correctly and I couldn't get anyone to email me back from SpyderCo. So I called their office in Colorado and tried to get someone to talk to me. I got bounced to three different people and finally a guy told me that model is just hard to open. So that was pointless.

Melt. Melt. Melt.

And finally, I had to call the dreaded CPAP supply place.

It did not go well. At all.

You can read more about it at that link, but the short version is I got angrily sighed at for asking reasonable questions about what the hell "chart notes" are. And the lady refused to answer those questions for no reason I can fathom. She eventually brought me to tears and got angry at me for doing so. And it turned out the call was pointless as well.

Oh, and my lawyer was sick. Remember him? Vacation guy? Who skipped town at the exact moment I got my disability denial letter? Yeah, I had been waiting for 7 grueling, anxiety-filled days to speak with him and he gets sick the day he returns.

Brain is melty goo.

Hey, Universe! I think you are overcorrecting with that luck realignment. I appreciate the 30 years of records thing, but can you let me enjoy it a little?

Friday arrives and I still have calls to make. The CPAP lady really messed up my brain and so just dialing the numbers was freaking me out. But I decided to start with the worst first. I called the CPAP lady and she finally had her precious "chart notes" and put my order through. She was cheerful and helpful and I was confused but thankful.

I thought maybe things were looking up in my phone call adventures.

My next call was to my primary care doctor's office.

One thing you need to know about my doctor is he is a bit of a... hot mess. A very smart, capable doctor. He knows his stuff. I suspect he has an eidetic memory due to his instant recall of medication names and doses and things that happened 8 years ago and detailed descriptions of medical conditions he only heard about in school 40 years ago. Aside from that, he is kind and compassionate and he has my back no matter what.

But he is technologically stuck in the 80s. His personal life is a roller coaster of drama. He once hired his girlfriend of 2 months to work at the office and his regular staff secretly whispered "She's so awful" behind his back. (They broke up soon after.) He is disorganized and constantly running late. And he takes on tons of frustrating patients because they have nowhere else to go. I admire him for treating so many poor elderly folks without any family to take care of them, but you can tell it is extremely challenging at times and a lot of that labor is delegated to his staff.

His office manager is probably the only person on the planet who can tolerate him being a hot mess.

Unfortunately, she is also a hot mess in completely different ways.

She tries to speedrun through everything. It's probably because she has a million things to do and is trying to fit 12 hours of work into an 8 hour workday. I try to be sympathetic and understanding of that. But one of her methods for speeding things along is attempting to use her psychic powers. You will start telling her what you need and she will do this thing where she cuts you off and tries to predict said need.

"I need a prescription for..." "Your thyroid meds are due, right? I'll send it over to the pharmacy." "...insulin. But I have a question about..." "So thyroid and insulin? No problem. I'll send it over." "...increasing my dosage." "Wait, what's yer question, hon?" "Was it 50 units..." "No, it's says 100. Okay? I'll send it over. Take care." "...twice per day or 100 units once in the morning?"

Often her predictions are so bad that it actually takes a lot more time to correct her than it would if she had just let you finish speaking. And this is especially problematic for me because I rehearse everything I need to say and she constantly interrupts and so I have to end up improvising new things to say that I never accounted for. And I'm already anxious and not thinking clearly so I do a poor job of explaining my needs and it just ends up in disaster.

So I have a complicated situation. I need my entire written chart copied and sent to my lawyer. I know it is a lot of work for the office staff. They probably have to copy several hundred pages. But this is probably the most important evidence in my disability case. And my lawyer has already volunteered to pay the several hundred dollars it will cost. It's worth it because if my case goes well, I could get years of back pay.

I call and get the young woman whom I really like on his staff. She is very quiet and unassuming but secretly the star of the office. Like a ninja of competence. If you really need something done properly without mistakes, she is the best one to go to. But her job does not include handling the records, so she transfers me to the office nurse. The office nurse does not process new information well. You often have to explain things several times. And if she gives up trying to understand, she hands you off to the office manager.

The Final Boss, if you will. I was really hoping I could avoid that.

"Okay, so my lawyer needs all of my written records..."

"He needs to fax a form saying what he needs, okay honey?"

"He already faxed a release form asking for records and I brought in a new copy yesterday with all of his mailing information..."

"He didn't fax anything. He needs to tell us what he needs. I'm not seeing any form. Just tell him to call me."

"He is out sick today and he already faxed the form and I brought a second one just in case. I signed it and dated it and I watched Competence Ninja put it in my chart. It asks for everything..."

"Okay, I see it here. This doesn't look right. He needs to tell us what he needs us to send him."

"It says in the letter, 'to release any medical information, including medical records, written letters, treatment reports, testing results, or similar information.' Should it say something different?"

"I've been doing this 20 years and I've never seen anything like this. He needs to be more specific. I ain't sending him all that, hon."

"So, this is for my disability case. I already talked to the nurse about this. And I know it is a lot, but the doctor's records are the only direct evidence that I've been sick since 2001."

"So you just need something from 2001? Okay, the lawyer needs to fax something saying that."

"I need the entire handwritten chart copied and sent to the lawyer. We need a full record of my illness because..."

"This is ridiculous. You're lawyer is fucking lazy. I've never seen anything like this. And I'm worried he is not going to represent your interests."

"This is not a normal disability claim. If you'd allow me to explain I think you'd understand why I need..."

"Disability should already have all this. We shouldn't need to send this. This is fucking ridiculous and you need a new lawyer. You're going to lose your case with his lazy ass."

"This isn't normal disability. I need to prove that I've been sick for a long time and..."

"This is going to cost a fortune, you know? We charge 50 cents per page. You're going to be out hundreds of dollars."

"Okay, but I will be out thousands of dollars if I don't get this copied."

"Fuck it. I am going to copy this ONCE. No more after this. UNDERSTOOD?"

And... she hung up on me.

My heart was beating out of my chest with panic and my eyes were blurry with tears. And in that moment, I thought I had done something wrong. My doctor gave me his personal mobile number so I call him up with tears apparent in my voice. I explain what just happened and that I was really sorry and that I didn't mean to upset her. He told me she is "just like that sometimes" and I shouldn't take it to heart. They have a very serious deadline for something due that day and she was very upset and I was collateral damage. I asked him to apologize for me and he said there was no need. He said we'd work it all out on Monday when this deadline wasn't stressing everyone out.

It wasn't until I calmed down a bit that I realized I did absolutely nothing wrong. That she was just being a big jerk and taking her other problems out on me. And I was probably the one deserving of an apology. I also remembered this is not the first time she has blown up at me. She was the one who tried to make me get a ventilator instead of a proper CPAP machine years ago. She said, "My mom has one and it works fine." And I was like, "So if I travel I'm supposed to take 12 pounds of medical equipment instead of a 1 pound device that fits neatly into a backpack?"

I get why my doctor made excuses for her. She works very hard and puts up with him. He'd never be able to find anyone that would last a week doing that job. And I have a feeling he probably defended me after I called. I played what he said back in my brain and noticed a frustrated tone. Despite what he said, it seems clear he was pissed.

I can make amends and figure things out with her. That isn't an issue. But I am worried that between her and CPAP lady, all of the progress I've made trying to reduce my telephobia was erased. I really was getting better calling people. I used to need Katrina hanging out on Skype while I called anyone as moral support. And while it still helps, I've gotten a lot better at calling strangers on my own. But now, I'm not so sure.

I might ask if there is an office email address I can use from now on. If I can write out what I need there is no way to get interrupted. I can be clear and detailed and use my writing skills to communicate way better than my phone skills.

I don't know.

It was just a crappy way to end a stressful, exhausting week.

But it wasn't the end!

Friday evening my sick lawyer finally called. I had rehearsed all kinds of things I wanted to say to him. But it turns out, all of my emails already did most of the talking—proof that I write a great email. He was really impressed with all of my detective work. And he said if those records pan out, he is very optimistic about my case going forward. He also said that he was expecting a denial. And it was probably good that we got that out of the way quickly. And now we get to mount more of a defense, which is what lawyers are good at. We talked for about 20 minutes and came up with a battle plan. He explained the process going forward. But he mentioned one thing that worried me.

This could take a while.

A lot longer than I was expecting.

I explained that I currently have a runway until about June 2024. That's when the mortgage money runs out. However, my brother should be willing to release my inheritance in March. I hope. I have a hard time trusting anything my brother says anymore. But if he does, then I should have another year of mortgage payments. But I am definitely going to have a Plan B just in case my brother finds a new way to disrespect my father's wishes.

The lawyer said there is a quick thing and a long thing. The quick thing has a low chance of success. But it is worth trying. The long thing is a hearing with a Social Security lawyer. He said a lot of these lawyers are miserable and don't want to be there and don't really care. Which is a good thing because they'll just be like, "Fine, whatever." But it can take a long time to get a hearing due to backlogs.

So, as long as I can gather all the evidence and the hospital records have my ECT stuff, I think there is room for hope. A little hope. After years of chronic illness I know hope is sometimes dangerous. So I allot a tiny bit of hope to keep me going forward, but not enough hope to leave me devastated if things go tits up.

So... umm... I think that is the end of this novel of a post. I feel bad that I don't have a big climax or twist or cliffhanger. Should I add a big CGI dragon fight?

Even though a more down-to-earth kung fu fight with my brother would be a more satisfying conclusion?

Or I could pull an M. Night Shyamalan and reveal that I've been dead for quite some time.

This post is getting really long.

Why are you still reading this?

I am thankful that you are. I just needed to get all of that out. I hope I wrote it in a compelling way and you weren't bored.

I love you all.

#long post #i see dead frogpeople

217 notes · View notes

valeriianz · 3 months

Note

For the fic writer asks:

4. Obviously you did research for BitB. I'd love you to ramble about it if you like I'm sure you've got STORIES

5. Did you outline it?

7. How'd you decide it would be Hob's pov?

25-27 I'd love to know a/some favorite lines, details, and any lore you might want to share

omg TJ what wonderful questions! thank you!! this is going to get LONG!

4: Rambling about research!

do you wanna see a screen shot of my bookmarks under my "band au" folder?

man, and that's only what could fit on the screen.

there is... SO MUCH i chose to ignore for this fic. ideas that i had to drop, lines or extra details about the other band members equipment. more logistics, what Lucienne actually does, what Mervyn has to put up with as the new touring stage manager... i realized very early on that i couldn't possibly cram all this (super cool and eye opening) information into the fic and still keep reader's interest and, most importantly, to not stray away from the fact that this is a dreamling fic. whenever i felt myself getting carried away with a side character or job or even social media numbers, gossip, outside POVs, i had to reign myself in and get back on track. there will be time for exploring everything i missed in side stories after BitB is finished. i just hope i still have the energy to write it all.

once, i was so deep into research that after publishing chapter 2, i went into work and when my chef asked what "GA" meant on my prep list, i answered with full confidence, "general admission."

(it means "get ahead.")

the worst part of this entire writing process is im still learning new shit. i havent rewatched or read a lot of what i've saved because, to be very honest, i was feeling a little burnt out. it's why we're kinda full steam dreamling now. it's why ive been glossing over a lot of technical stuff and being vague about conversations amongst the crew/not including it at all. i don't prefer ignoring my research, but at the end of the day i want to still enjoy writing this fic and finish it. even if i can't be as descriptive and detailed and nuanced as i used to be.

5: Did you outline the fic?

(also asked by @hardly-an-escape!)

i wouldn't call what i have a proper "outline," it's more like a 20k word document filled to the brim with notes that i skim at least a dozen times while i'm writing a new chapter (being in my brain is literally hell). i live multichapter life very dangerously. i copy and paste lines or sections (always scattered, never together! augh!) that are meant to go together and plop them in a new document titled "band au ch.#" and then i structure the chapter around what i want to happen.

but to answer this question in the plainest of terms: yeah. i know exactly what's going to happen up until the very end. even if its all in my head and the only concrete shit that's written down are beats/plot points. i'll figure out the rest later!

7: How'd you decide it would be Hob's POV?

i actually never even considered writing it from Dream's POV. this was my first fic in the fandom (which is so nuts to think about lol) and writing in Dream's POV sounded so scary lol. i also just thought Hob's would be easier because i have worked a few backstage shows, back in my college years. i figured eh, i can make this work. and i loved exploring how weird and mysterious musicians can be, from a normie's POV. making Hob a fan first and having him worry about developing a parasocial relationship... it was fun to explore.

25: Share your favorite line

oh god, i have so many haha.

“What are you thinking about?” starting in ch.2 and onward lmao

“It’s–” Dream laughs quietly, bitterly. “I don’t like change.” He says each word with emphasis, eyes trailing down to fixate somewhere past Hob. “And I still hold onto the things I can control, like my instruments–” his eyes swing up to regard Hob apologetically. “Or my clothes or my–” he brings a hand up and wiggles his fingers around his head. “My hair.” ch.4

"His majesty is pleased." ch.5

“You are obsessive,” he states, slow and cool and with a quiet smile cracking through his composure. “Just like me.” ch.7

“You look good.” Hob has to lean in to say so, unwilling to raise his voice amongst the roar of the fans. ch.11

“Del looks like porcelain, but she’s actually made of steel.” Desire swirls the contents of their glass before pushing their shoulders back with a deep breath. “She's tougher than all of us.” ch.11

“Everything. I want…” his fingers tighten in Hob’s hair, pulling him closer, speaking against his lips. “…Everything.” ch.14

26: Share your favorite detail

how intentionally coy Dream behaves. i love keeping him a mystery and deciding when and how much to allow his intentions to peek through has been so fun lol.

Despair is in fact covered in tattoos and piercings! i say this because i feel like sometimes i forget lmao. (but also her and Hob don't interact much so. my bad haha).

Delirium's constant explosion of color in the way she dresses <3

Hob's dedication to his job, Dream, and the people he cares about the most. i don't care if people think i'm making him too soft and good, im gonna project on that man and make him a sweet, sweet simp lmao

and ah, this doesn't matter anymore, and i kinda regret doing it but. i originally had Dream's favorite bass all black but the pickguard was white. so it actually looked like Jessamy. not gonna lie when @designtheendless drew it all black i decided i liked it better that way. and truly i do. that's when i went back to ch.1 and changed it haha. to actually see the guitar with Dream, all done up sparkling black and purple flecks... gosh it's just so him. but then i got up to the reveal that the guitar's name was Jessamy and i was like, "oh, right." lmao. no one seems to care so i'll leave it be.

27: Share a piece of lore you made up for the story

i have a lot lmao. and this post is already so long... im hoping i can get to some if not all of it in side fics in the future. but for now, here's some that's more like headcanons but:

Dream hates flying. he can full on go into panic attacks on the plane if he allows himself to get into his own head.

this was mentioned briefly in ch.4, while Dream was discussing the formation of the band, but Despair was in another band before joining Endless. she is the only character in the fic who gets to keep her English roots (lol sorry) and is the oldest in the band (30).

all of the band members ages: Dream, Desire, and Death are all 28 and Delirium is 22.

Dream can experience subdrop after going too hard during a performance.

Dream paints his own nails, it's very therapeutic.

as an exercise, i explored my own headcanons for Dream in this verse in a word doc, and one thing i will share from it that you might find interesting: If I were to ever give Dream a theological values, I would describe him as a satanist. He is a physical and pragmatic person, nonconforming, and although he is introverted, he enjoys being a part of a community (he loves his band).

also found this in my notes: How Desire and Dream got along was Death making them fight it out. Hob raises an eyebrow “like in a brawl?” He couldn't imagine Desire throwing hands. “No, in a pillow fight that escalated in hair pulling and verbal taunts.”

fic writer asks

#yooooo #this took me a long time to answer lol #i gotta go to bed but #THANK YOU SO MUCH TJ!!#dreamling #(why not. there's a lot here let put it out into the main tag!)#fic: bolt in the blue #im so satisfied ahhh thanks again #:)

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farfromstrange · 8 months

Text

Lizzi’s Valentine’s Special & Follower Celebration

Dear Everyone,

Valentine’s Day is just around the corner, and I thought, since this silly little blog hit over 1.1k followers yesterday, I want to give you something special.

First of all, though, I want to thank you. I’ve been on here since (and I checked with the archive) July 19, 2022. I can't believe that it has been almost two years. I started watching Daredevil after watching Spider-Man: No Way Home in December of 2021 and hearing Matt Murdock say, "I'm a really good lawyer," after catching a brick. So, I started watching the show, and that was during a time I was really miserable. Mentally and physically, I wasn't in a good place, but after watching Daredevil for the first time and falling in love with Charlie Cox as a genuine person and an actor, it felt like I found a reason to keep going.

I started writing fanfiction again, which I kind of neglected because I felt like this hobby of mine wasn't going anywhere. I wasn't inspired at all until I watched the show. If I hadn't, I probably would not have gotten back into writing and using it as an outlet for my feelings, and I probably wouldn't be where I am today. Thanks to Charlie's portrayal of Matt Murdock, and watching his interviews, I felt like I could do the things that I love again and follow my dreams. He's the reason I chose to major in English. And while I owe him that much, I owe you guys here on Tumblr and AO3 even more.

When I first posted here, I didn't think people would even be interested in what I had to say and write. But then more and more people started visiting my profile, you guys started following me, and it kept me motivated to keep writing, even when I'm miserable, and I sometimes only post once every blue moon.

I feel so honored that you guys chose to follow a silly little blog run by a silly little 20-something-year-old whose first language isn't even English (but made it her entire personality), and who chose to write about traumatized dark-haired characters portrayed by Charlie Cox. I'm overwhelmed by the love you continue to show me, and every time one of you chooses to reblog or comment on one of my works, saying that it resonated with you, I feel like I'm doing something right. I'm sharing my ideas, my own experiences, my wishes, and even my deepest, darkest dreams through my writing like it's a fucking diary, and you eat it up every single time.

I'm just so glad that this community exists, as chaotic as it sometimes is, and that you chose to stick around, even when I suck at keeping promises sometimes. You keep teaching me new things about who I am, my writing, and how important it is to put myself first. I don't know if you've heard it lately, but you guys are incredible and I appreciate the hell out of every single one of you.

Thanks to Tumblr, I made lifelong friends (especially looking at you, @blackshadowswriter) and found like-minded people that made me feel less alone. That alone was worth making this account and continuing to post on here.

You may think that I'm being dramatic, but for someone who has never really experienced the kind of validation this community gives me, I want to celebrate this milestone. It means more to me than I can even put into words. Thank you, from the bottom of my heart. I love you all so much! Please, don't ever forget how amazing you are.

That being said, I've got some exciting things planned.

The other day, I found a folder in my Docs titled "the vault". I completely forgot about it because I usually keep my WIPs in a different folder. As it turns out, I made that folder for fics that I originally never planned to post, or ones that I'd finished but wasn't happy with. It’s many, but it’s a few. Some are deeper than others. I also jotted down rough ideas and outlines last year that I stuffed in there, some of which I've actually shared with you but never started working on. Until now. And the contents of that vault are what I want to give to you now.

INTRODUCING: The Vault

6 stories from the vault. 1 bonus fic. 7 days.

I went through a myriad of emotions while I wrote these. For some, I actually bled my soul onto paper. For others, it was merely a brain fart that led to their existence. They're sad, horny, and at times angry, but some of those were originally written for me, and only me. Those that weren't started as a few sentences in a folder before I forgot they existed. Either way, I don't want them to catch dust. And I wouldn't want to share them with anyone else.

Starting February 14th, I will be posting one fic every day until February 20th. My “The Vault” works are Matt Murdock x Reader works, but I've made an exception for the bonus fic. I won't tell you what they are about, but I will give you a list of installments and what kind of fic they are so you know what to be excited about (and maybe which ones are not your cup of tea).

-> The number at the end tells you the date I will be posting it on, but I put it in chronological order as well.

INSTALLMENTS:

1. If You Need To Be Mean (angst, hurt/comfort) 14.

2. Mismatched Bridesmaid (fluff, smut) 15.

3. Weed Cookies (humor, fluff, cw: accidental drug use) 16.

4. the grudge (songfic, angst, hurt/comfort, cw: death of a parent) 17.

5. Halloween (Smut) 18.

6. I Want To Fuck A Priest (Smut, cw: priest!Matt) 19.

BONUS:

7. Now That We Don’t Talk (Part 2 of Is It Over Now?) -> Frank Castle x Reader (smut, angst) 20.

A few more words: You are free to send me an ask if you want to know more, but be prepared that I won't be answering in much detail. I don't want to spoil the fun. I would, however, not mind talking about them as vaguely as possible (if you’re interested).

Thank you all. For everything. And I hope you stick around to read these little gems.

With love from yours truly,

Lizzi <3

#lizzi writes #follower celebration #valentine’s day #matt murdock x reader #matt murdock #daredevil #matt murdock x f!reader #matt murdock x you #frank castle x reader #matt murdock smut #matt murdock fluff #matt murdock angst #charlie cox

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roleplayhonestybox · 2 months

Note

Just had the weirdest experience ever of my RPing career.

Dude I’ve been writing with for a long time, probably the better part of half-a-year, just sent me a zip file. Inside of it, it contained one document and then a folder. The document said READMEFIRST, so I did. He also reiterated when he sent it to me to read the doc first.

Let me preface that this guy has been nothing but a gentleman for the entire half year I’ve known him. We’ve vibed together since day one. We’ve never shared photos of one another. He’s literally been my best friend and best RP partner for the span of time. Our writing styles work so well together and I just. I really thought he was awesome. And now, I’m just sort of broken and at a loss as to what I should do.

The document I opened started with a single-typed page. He essentially went into detail saying this was a half-year anniversary gift. I couldn’t remember for the life of me the day that we met, but he remembered, which I thought was shocking. He said that he’d been collecting these for a long time as sort of like a memento/gift of our time together, which I thought was so super cute. I literally thought this man was rizzing me.

He went on about how he loves how open I am, how we mesh, great partner, blah blah blah. All the usual stuff. Says how excited he is for the next six months, and hopes I enjoy.

I open the next folder, and it contains another document and 134 images.

I have my settings to where my image icons are set to small so I just see the file and the name, so I didn’t see the images immediately, but they were numbered 1-134. So, I go to open the document. My brain was on overdrive by this point. I thought he somehow was commissioning people for artwork of our characters (he told me he’s loaded prior and loves to support artists), and I was just so excited.

Open the document. And it’s just. Pages and pages and pages of detailed descriptions of him LITERALLY. GETTING OFF.

It would be, like: “[date it happened] 1. [roleplay excerpt of mine]” and then it would go into gratuitous detail of how his orgasm felt, what he was thinking of, and imagining me as my OC in that instance, and then rate it out of 10.

I only skimmed, but I caught sight of him sometimes going back to previous passages that he denoted as his “favourites”. So he’d go into detail about how different or better it felt.

I thanked the good Lord above that I had my image files small because that meant that I had over 100 unsolicited dick pics (including…him finishing) sent to me immediately. I didn’t open a single file to check and see if it’s not just an elaborate prank because this happened probably an hour ago and I don’t know what to do.

He messaged me about 20 minutes after I said I was unzipping the file and basically said: “Well, what do you think?”

I honestly don’t know what to think. I haven’t said anything back to him, and he hasn’t messaged me, again. I don’t know what to do, either. I really love what we have and our characters. If he would have told me he liked me, I may have felt flattered and maybe beige flags but still, like…he has never once said or done anything out of line. He’s been so patient and great and just. I am literally sitting here in shock.

I even cried a little bit because I just feel?? Extremely violated?? And it’s just so out there and strange and I don’t know what to do. I just needed somewhere to vent. I feel like I have to block him, but now I’m wondering it he’s capable of anything else? I use a VPN and haven’t given him any information that could dox me. And, also thank God that I use a separate account to RP with.

Should I just ghost him? Should I confront him? Should I just block? Should I change my RP account completely? Has this happened to anyone else before? 😭 If anyone has any advice, I will surely take it…

BLOCK HIM. REPORT HIM.

I wouldn’t confront. I would remove yourself entirely from that situation and prioritise your safety.

Please anybody add advice. The mods here are more than happy to try and help the anon if they want to contact us in DMs.

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summercourtship · 5 months

Note

Hiii, I love your work!

Could I request something like prompt 96 (“You look a bit tied up, want me to come back later?”) and expanding on Jonathan being very excited about the reader being his patient at the asylum 😳

Thank you! Okay, so what I imagine happened here was that Jonathan managed to get her committed to the asylum after the whole ‘helping Edward escape and keeping him in her apartment and also stealing medical records’. Does it make sense that she’d be committed? Not really, but this is also Gotham and he’s also very persuasive (see: Batman Begins). This backstory doesn’t matter but I like to have it. Tbh might have to expand this bc I’m obsessed with this (not me thinking about writing an AU of my own gd fic)

Warnings: dubcon, obvious power imbalance, restraints, possessive behavior, a solid mature rating. minimal proofreading.

stbotdi anniversary special

Jonathan watched from outside of the cell, his face carefully composed and expressionless as he looked through the small window into the derelict room. Any passing nurse or orderly would think he was just observing the patient inside, doing his duty before deciding on her treatment. After all, her transition into the asylum had been shaky and he was her doctor. Not that any nurses or orderelies would be passing by her room, anyway.

Bracing himself, he entered the cell.

At the slow metal creak of the door opening, her head lifted up off the bed, taking in his appearance for a second before her expression twisted into a snarl, her teeth bared.

“Get me out of here.” She was carefully still now, though he knew her mind was almost entirely preoccupied with the restraints on her wrists and ankles keeping her virtually immobile. But she was being a good girl, staying still and trying to show that she could be trusted enough to be untied. He sighed her name, looking down towards the thin folder he had clasped in his arms which was labeled with her name and patient number.

“You committed some pretty heinous crimes-”

“Heinous, my ass.” She spat, dropping her head back on the flat mattress with a dull thud. “You know I don’t belong here, Jon-”

“Dr. Crane.”

“Fuck you.”

She’s lashing out like a fox with its foot caught in a trap.

Jonathan blinked once at her, letting silence fall over the tiny cell again until the only sound was the slight hissing from the rusty pipes that ran along the ceiling. With his eyes, he traced the lines of the pipes around the room, his head tilted back so he wasn’t looking at her when he spoke. A perfected imitation of distraction, one that worked all too well on her.

“You look a bit tied up right now, I’ll come back later-” He turned, lingering at the door handle and counting down the seconds until-

“Wait!” He looked back over her shoulder at her, unwilling to give her the satisfaction of completely turning around. She was struggling against her restraints again. He preened at the fact that even though she hated him- but only in that moment, she’d come back around to her infatuation- she was desperate to keep him in the room with her. Afraid of being alone. “Can you-” She fell back against the bed, exhausted. The sedative they’d administered upon her arrival must still be in her system, though it was clearly working its way out if her earlier viciousness was anything to go by. “Can you at least untie me?”

She’d put an affectation over her voice, something she’d used a few times when they’d been intimate before. Pitiful, pouting, pleading. Jonathan weighed his choices carefully, torn between the trust he would gain by releasing her with the control he would maintain by keeping her tied up.

But then again, he had her here indefinitely. He had plenty of time to try both options, and more. No one wanted to be the one to defend the girl who helped the Riddler escape. Not even the Batman was coming to save her from the shackles she’d forged herself.

Deciding then and there, he spun around.

Jonathan could practically feel her sigh of relief as he sat at the edge of her bed, placing her file on the floor next to it, even though she was pointedly not looking at him. He reached down to her leg, running his hand down her bare calf. He could feel her shiver beneath his touch, though she was barely acknowledging his presence.

He fiddled with the ankle restraint, moving his eyes from the leather strap up her body. She was staring at him now, her chest rising and falling steadily like she was carefully regulating her breath. Deftly, he undid the restraint before he could change his mind. But instead of letting her leg go, he kept it in his hand. He brought her ankle to his mouth, pressing a kiss to the tender skin before finally placing it onto the bed.

Turning his attention to the other restraint, he repeated the process. Caressing her leg, undoing her binding, bending to place a kiss on her skin. She watched, the entire time, lips parted.

He shifted, moving so he lay halfway on top of her, slotting one of his legs between hers.

“What about my arms?” She said, once his face was close enough to hers that she could get away with whispering.

“I think I’ll leave them bound.” Jonathan whispered back, watching as her face turned from confusion to dread. “I thought about this months ago, before I even took you home that first time. Locking you away, where only I could get to you.” He brushed a stray lock of her hair away from her sweaty face, her eyes bewildered as she looked up at him. He pressed a kiss to her forehead, to the tip of her nose, to the corner of her lips.

His hand moved down her body, briefly lingering on her breast before venturing to the hem of the hospital gown they had her wearing. He much preferred the gown on her than Arkham’s typical uniform, especially since it made it so easy to slip his hand underneath and find her clothed cunt, already damp from her arousal.

Her legs, no longer bound, fell apart at his touch. Jonathan pushed the fabric of her underwear aside, exposing her wet folds to his touch. She gasped, a loud inhale, when he finally ran his fingers over her with no barriers to soften his touch.

“Jon-” She stopped speaking at the sharp look he gave her, quickly correcting herself. “Dr. Crane.”

He wondered if she could feel his hard length pressing against her thigh, if she could feel the way it twitched when she called him by his earned title.

“Fuck me, please.”

Oh, he was glad to oblige her request.

And he was even more glad that she had been put at the end of a seldom-used hallway in the asylum, so that when he fucked her so that the bed creaked against the screws it was secured to the floor with, that when her gasps became shouts, that when his possessive whispers turned into low growls, no one would be around to hear it.

#this could have been much longer but I'm stopping myself from writing too much so I can do a lot of these #but this one was fun :3 #i take ur ideas and i run away with them until i realize maybe that isnt what you meant lmao #jonathan crane x reader #jonathan crane #scarecrow x reader #my fic

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snowyslytherinowl · 4 months

Text

Perfect Prefect - Part 1

PAIRING: George Weasley x Reader or George Weasley x OC

SUMMARY: You’re Miss Moore of Ravenclaw, a sixth-year prefect and one of the house’s best and brightest. You don’t know who to go to the Yule Ball with, but luckily for you, George has secretly had a crush on you for a while and charms you into being his date. But there’s one slight problem that’s holding you back from sharing the news of your budding romance: your best friend and Fred Weasley are far from friends.

This work can be read either as George Weasley x OC or a reader-insert since the main character’s physical characteristics and first name remain ambiguous. I usually only publish the first part of a work when I finish the entire story or have most of it worked out, but I’m tired of having this sit in my WIP folder (and maybe it’ll motivate me to stop playing Supermarket Simulator and start writing LMAO). I’m not entirely sure when the second part will be released since I’m kinda struggling with it; nonetheless, I hope you enjoy!

*GIF isn't mine; credit to @jamilelucato

We all hold our breaths as the door creaks open and Sinclair even dips her head under the water. If it’s a boy opening the door, we’d most likely scream. If it’s Professor McGonagall, it’s guaranteed we’d be reprimanded for allowing Edwards into the Prefects’ Bathroom since she technically isn’t allowed in here.

Pritchard and Lloyd emerge from the other side of the door and we all let out a breath. Sinclair pops up from underneath the water and she sighs. “We thought you two weren’t joining us today!”

“Sorry we’re late! Professor Sprout held us back to tell her two favorite Hufflepuffs a little secret,” Lloyd says slyly. Pritchard stands behind her, making a poor attempt to suppress a smile.

“Wait, what are you talking about?” I ask them. Professor Sprout frequently tells Lloyd and Pritchard information that only the staff are supposed to know and swears them to secrecy. Of course, their seal of secrecy doesn’t extend to us.

“Whenever the Triwizard Tournament takes place, the school that hosts the event also hosts the Yule Ball! It’s a dance that takes place during Christmas!” Pritchard squeals.

When the two of them join us in the bath, they divulge everything they know about the Yule Ball. Hogwarts hasn’t hosted a Yule Ball for over a century, so we’re all dying to know what the Great Hall will look like, who will be performing, and which teachers will get on the dance floor. Even Sinclair has to laugh when we imagine Professors Snape and McGonagall dancing together. Our conversation then steers to who we want to go to the ball with.

“When the Yule Ball is publicly announced, I think I’m going to ask Matthew.” Ainsworth’s cheeks blush as she says his name and it becomes my turn to smile. She’s fancied him since the beginning of the year when they partnered up in Transfiguration. She mentions him at least once during our daily debriefings in the Prefects’ Bathroom.

“Now that is the true embodiment of the Gryffindor spirit. I second that.” Sinclair nods in approval and also grins when she notices Ainsworth blushing.

Ainsworth smirks and swims over to sit next to Sinclair. Sinclair awkwardly scoots over as Ainsworth nudges her and rests her head on her shoulder. “Are you telling us that you also plan to ask a boy?” she asks with a sing-song voice.

“No. I meant that if you like a boy, you should ask him out. What’s the point of sitting around and waiting for a boy to make the first move when a girl is just as capable of taking the initiative?” Sinclair says with conviction.

“So does that mean you’ll take the initiative to ask Fred yourself?” Ainsworth asks with a poke to Sinclair’s shoulder. She typically gives murderous looks when someone displeases her, but this look to Ainsworth would rip her to shreds and feed her soul to the dementors. She snatches her towel and stomps out of the bath.

“Don’t joke about that! There is no one low enough for that empty-minded, snarky tosser! All of us deserve someone better than him!” Sinclair wraps her towel around her body and heads to one of the bathroom stalls to change out of her bathing suit, ignoring the laughter that follows her. She has a vendetta against Fred Weasley, and just Fred. He bothers her in every class they have together and pairs up with her just to get on her nerves. Since she became a prefect, Fred has plotted endless pranks against her and always escapes from the scene of the crime before she can report him. Every day, we have to hear her rage about him or her plans to best him.

Ainsworth turns to the rest of us and blows bubbles into the air. “So, Moore, who do you have in mind?”

Everyone turns to look at me and I shrug in response. “I don’t know.” That’s the truth. I don’t have a boyfriend or a crush. I’ve been too caught up in my prefect duties and my classes to even think about romance.

“There really is no one you fancy?” Edwards asks, giving me a suspicious look. “I don’t believe that.”

“Look, the selection here isn’t prime.” There’s a long list of abominable boys that I can think of: Zacharias Smith since all he does is complain, Oscar May because he only talks about himself, and at least a dozen Slytherins with pure-blood ideals. “Even a lot of the cute ones act like they’re still first-years.”

“Spot on, Moore,” Sinclair comments as she emerges from the stall. She’s fully changed, but her wet hair walls around her face. She folds her towel and throws her bag around her shoulders.

“Where are you going?” Ainsworth asks, shocked. “We’ve still got a quarter of an hour left!”

“Professor Snape wants to talk to me about something and I will not be late,” Sinclair says with a sigh. She points at Ainsworth before leaving the room. “Don’t forget that we have prefect duties tonight!”

Edwards and Pritchard spend the rest of our daily debriefing talking about guys they think are attractive. After I change and dry my hair, I head to the library to finish Flitwick’s essay on the limitations of portkeys. Sentence after sentence is written and page after page is flipped and I’m so caught up in my essay that I don’t notice that someone joins me at the end of the table.

A pop and a slam bring me back to the library. I look over to see one of the Weasley twins pressing something down on the table with the palm of his hand. Whatever he’s holding down is wiggling furiously and desperately attempting to escape. Since nothing explodes or disfigures his face, I return to reading and try not to get distracted.

Not a minute goes by when the sound of hopping and a scraping chair rips my attention from my work yet again. I almost jump out of my seat when I see a miniature frog jumping to the ceiling and landing on the table. Although it doesn’t move forward significantly each time it jumps and lands, it progressively inches closer to me. The last thing I want is for my work to be destroyed, so I cast a charm that knocks it back down to the table and disables its movement.

Weasley approaches me and I hold out my hand so he can retrieve his frog. “Sorry about that,” he apologizes with a nervous laugh.

“It’s fine. Are you trying to sell these?” Ainsworth has told us about Fred and George’s plans for a prank shop. I always see them huddled together in the hallways, probably developing devious new products.

“Yeah. You see, I had this brilliant idea all worked out, but it hasn’t been going as I planned. Tap the frog with your wand and boom! It hops all around and chaos ensues! But no, they jump too high and get squashed by the ceiling.”

“Can I take a look at it?” He nods and I turn the tiny frog in my hands. They look so realistic that I almost didn’t notice that they’re painted frogs that croak “ribbit.” “What charms are you using for this?”

“A Jumping Jinx.” When I shake my head, he asks, “What’s wrong?”

I summon a book off a nearby shelf about locomotion charms, from flying and gliding to running and twirling. After turning to the page about the Jumping Jinx, I beckon Weasley over. He sits in the chair next to me and leans towards me so we both can see the opened page. I gulp before reciting an excerpt, “‘The Jumping Jinx is a clever way to curse those you want to imbue with frog-like qualities. Beware of using this jinx on inanimate objects, however, since it can cause the object to hop around erratically and turn laughter into screams.’ Quite dramatic, but there you go.”

Weasley turns to me and grins. I blush and look back down at the book. “I had no idea. So what do you suggest?”

I check the index for the sections on inanimate objects and turn to page 179. “The sounds coming from your frog sound fine, so do whatever you’re already doing. These two, that’s what you should use for the jumping.” I point at the 360 Charm and the Height Hex. “Do you have a spare frog you haven’t charmed yet?”

Weasley digs through his pocket to find one and places it on the table. “Watch what I do. You’ll charm the frog to make sounds later since I’d rather not get us kicked out,” I say. He scooches his seat even closer to me and focuses attentively on my hands. I take a deep breath to calm myself before beginning.

I tap the frog with my wand twice and utter “progressio height.” “This will only jump to one foot. Every time you tap it with your wand, it will jump one foot higher until it reaches ten feet. Then it’ll reset back to one foot. Just put that in the instructions and any kid can change the height.” Then, I swish my wand in a figure-eight motion. “The 360 Charm will make the frog change directions randomly so it’ll give Filch a hard time getting his hands on one.”

Both of us laugh and Weasley proclaims, “You’re bloody brilliant! I’d definitely hire you for my shop if we even had a place to set up shop.”

I blush at his compliment. “You’re one of the Weasley twins, aren’t you?”

“George. The better looking one, that is.” I giggle and internally breathe a sigh of relief. Although Sinclair thinks that George is pesky, she ignores him for the most part. All her hatred is directed at his twin, and I’d rather not deal with the drama of fraternizing with Fred. “Moore, isn’t it? A Ravenclaw with both brains and beauty.”

I blush an even deeper crimson and bite my lower lip as I nod. George stuffs his frogs in his pocket and stands to leave the library. “I’ve got to go. I’ll see you around.”

“Bye.” I wave at him and my eyes follow his back as he leaves the library.

XXX

Over the next few days, two of my friends find dates. We were all in the courtyard when Pritchard was asked by a Durmstrang boy, who bowed to her twice and kissed her hand! We weren’t there to see Ainsworth ask Matthew since she cornered him outside the greenhouse to pop the question. Though whenever I pass by the two of them cuddling up, I’m unable to hide my grin.

I sat at the same table in the library after dinner for two days in a row, eagerly waiting for George. I felt silly for shooting my head up whenever someone walked nearby, and even more the fool for when he didn’t show up. Now on the third day, when I mistook another ginger boy for George, I internally chide myself for thinking he was being anything more than friendly.

“Hey, you think you can lend a hand on some constipation magic?”

I look up from my numerical charts to see no one other than George Weasley smiling and holding a jar full of chewy candies. I laugh at his question and reply, “Not too much, honestly.”

“That’s fine. I’m here to talk to you, anyway.” He doesn’t give me much time to think about what he said since he sits directly next to me again and unscrews the lid of the jar. “These are meant to give you a case of constipation. Instead, they’re making you diarrhea your trousers in the middle of the corridors.”

“I’ll make sure not to eat one.” I squeeze a candy between my fingers, which oozes a gooey filling and sticks to my thumb and pointer fingers. “I don’t know, you should make the outer coating hard? I can’t believe I’m even saying this, but maybe if the candy is hard then your poo will be hard?”

“How about that?” We comb through books on potions for bodily fluids and I learn more about those potions than I ever wanted to know. Dozens of pages cover graphic ways to clear boils, and an entire section is devoted to making snot gush out of a nose like a raging waterfall. Gross. Eventually, George finds a page on potions for solid and liquid bodily fluids.

“You were right!” he exclaims and pushes the book toward me. It’s some law about making potions for food that will either help or hurt your bowel movement.

I encouragingly smile at him, but still say, “You should’ve looked for this yourself. I can’t believe you convinced me to read about all these gross potions.”

He wiggles his eyebrows at me and slicks back his hair, just like those cheesy characters on Muggle television shows. “What can I say? I’m irresistible.”

The library is about to close, so we head out before Madam Pince kicks us out. George offers to walk me to Ravenclaw Tower and along the way, we brainstorm ideas for sweets that are magically compatible with U-No-Poo. Popular sweets sold at Honeydukes also give us an idea of marketable candies, so we agree that chocolate with a hard outer shell will sell the best.

When we reach the top of the spiral staircase, George asks me, “Aren’t you going to say your password? Or would you rather stick around for some extra quality time with me?”

Smiling shyly, I explain, “You have to answer a riddle to get in.”

I knock the bronze knocker, which asks, “I never leave your body, but I’m easily lost and given away. What am I?”

I curse the knocker, who likely proposed this riddle since George is standing next to me. I lean in and whisper “heart” so only the knocker can hear it. The door swings open.

“What was the answer?” George asks, looking quite cute with his brows furrowed and a jar held against his chest.

I push the thought aside and say, “Don’t worry. I’ll see you tomorrow?”

George smiles. “You bet.”

XXX

Throughout the next week, George and I meet either at the library or the Black Lake. Most of the time, we discuss ideas he and Fred have for the joke shop; other times, we speak about our other hobbies, friends, and funny stories. He tells me the stories that Fred told him about Sinclair and each time, there are always little details that don’t line up with the stories I’ve heard.

December weather is freezing, so a warmth charm helps when I’m sitting under a beech tree near the Black Lake. As I wait for George, I take a piece of dark blue fabric out of my bag and use my wand to sprinkle on twinkling stars and colorful rotating planets. Thin lines connecting the stars form constellations across the fabric, resembling the paintings of the night sky in my grandmum’s house.

Someone shouts my first name and I look up to see George waving at me from afar. Resting the fabric on my lap, I wave back and pat the ground next to me. He plops down so close to me that our shoulders nearly touch.

“You made that? It’s gorgeous!” George runs a hand through the fabric and traces his finger over the constellations.

“Thanks,” I reply, blushing. Even after spending almost every day with him, I still blush around him, especially since he doesn’t seem to believe in personal space.

“Do you have more with you?”

I pull out three more sheets of fabric, all different designs. The one on top shows Hogwarts Castle on a sunny day with puffy clouds lazily floating past. George smiles at the fabric showing my red Scottish Fold, Peanut, napping on our favorite couch in the Ravenclaw Common Room. But George’s favorite fabric is one of Rubik’s Cube repeatedly solving and shuffling itself on a plain white background.

“What is that thing?” George wonders, staring at the little cube in awe.

I laugh at his amazement and tell him that it’s a Muggle Rubik’s Cube. My family owns at least four. My cousin and I used to compete over which one of us could solve it faster and it was always me, but I’m pretty sure that’s because he let me win.

“I can imagine the look on my dad’s face if he got his hands on one of those,” George remarks and hands the fabrics back to me.

George has told me about his father’s love for everything Muggle and I can’t help but smile at how cute that is. It reminds me of George’s fascination with jokes and pranks. “I’ll show him one if I meet him.”

“Why didn’t you tell me about these before? The fabrics.”

I shrug and watch a group of first-year Ravenclaws making a snowman right at the edge of the lake. “I don’t know. It’s just something I do in the meantime. The girls do it too. Sinclair makes jewelry, Ainsworth paints, Edwards makes bags, and I sew designs on random pieces of fabric. Sometimes I add designs to Edwards’s bags. And if I have enough fabrics that all match a theme, I make a quilt.”

George huffs a laugh and I raise my eyebrows at him. “You lot are quite peculiar. I don’t get it. Why do you call each other by your last names?”

“Sinclair thought that calling each other by our last names was more ‘business-like’ and ‘appropriate for talented students worthy of future greatness.’” We both chuckle before I continue, “I think that’s only half the reason. Pritchard hates her first name, so she prefers to be called by her last name anyway. Sinclair didn’t want her to feel singled out.”

“She seems to be the ringleader of your bunch.”

“Definitely, but only because she’s so protective of us.” I nod at George’s bag and poke a hand inside the smaller pouch. “Enough about me. What are we working on today? Something to make your skin turn orange?”

“Do I need an excuse to talk to my favorite girl?” He moves impossibly closer to me and our faces are so close that my mind jumps to him kissing me. Honestly, I wouldn’t mind if he did. “You’re always helping me. Last night, it occurred to me I never do anything for you.”

“I’m not here because I expect anything in return,” I answer honestly.

“You should’ve been sorted into Hufflepuff because of how kind you are.” George nudges me on my shoulder and I look down and bite my lower lip. “But I was thinking we could make a deal.”

A deal? Is he proposing that I get a cut for perfecting his products if his dream of opening a joke shop comes true? “Like what?”

“You continue to work on the joke products with me and in return, Fred and I don’t play pranks in front of you or your prefect friends. That way, there’s no need to report us. Seriously, why would a prefect participate in this pranking business?”

“Send me to Azkaban for liking problem-solving.” I playfully smack George’s arm and he rubs his hands in faux pain. “That’s hardly a deal, anyway.”

“Fine, you’ve got a point. How about this? Fred and I don’t play pranks in front of you and your friends, even Sinclair. For added benefit, the two of us go to the Yule Ball together. I’d say it’s a mutually beneficial transaction.” A hopeful sparkle appears in George’s eye. In the corner of my vision, I see George’s hands gripping his knees in nervousness.

Before I can give him more time to feel anxious, I kiss George’s cheek and reply, “I’d love to go to the ball with you.”

George beams at me and my face mirrors his smile. “Fantastic! Now how about we head back inside? It’s getting chilly out here.” His body heat has been providing some warmth, but a slight breeze has me sticking my hands in the pockets of my coat.

“Sure.” George stands first and offers a hand to help me up. Instead of letting go after I balance myself, I lean into him and hold his hand as we walk back to the warmth of Hogwarts Castle.

XXX

Cold air fills the corridors of Hogwarts, forcing me to rub my hands together and cast a warmth charm. I press the tip of my wand onto my stiff fingers, finally regaining feeling in them.

“Are you all right?” Sinclair asks. She grabs my hand and squeezes it, feeling how my hand is only beginning to warm.

“Yeah, don’t worry. I just wish we didn’t have rounds tonight. It’s freezing,” I say. Ainsworth, Sinclair, Pritchard, and I prefer to complete our rounds together. Sticking together prevents us from getting bored, all while providing extra protection in case anything dangerous is lurking in these halls. With Harry Potter inside these castle walls, something may pop out and try to eat us.

“If you say so. We can always stop by the kitchens and sit by the fire.” We turn the corner and hear water drop onto the stone floor.

I don’t want her to worry about me, so I change the topic. “Are you excited for the Yule Ball?”

“I suppose. It’s something different than being home for Christmas,” she replies. After a moment’s pause, she turns to me. “Is this about Yule Ball dates?”

“Maybe.” Something moves at the end of the corridor, but I relax when I realize it’s only a mouse.

“Wait, don’t tell me you already have a date?” she asks and smirks at me.

“No, not yet,” I lie. “I do have someone in mind, though, and I want your opinion.” I wouldn’t ditch George even if Sinclair attempts to dissuade me from going with him. On the other hand, I want to at least gauge her true opinion of him and avoid a future fight.

“Listen, I know that you’ll ask me if I approve of him. However, I don’t want you to feel tense over or think that I’ll get upset by your choice of men. I won’t stop you from going with him regardless of whether I like him or not. That’s only as long you aren’t going with Fred Weasley, of course.”

“Ok, so what if I told you I’m interested in someone like him?”

Sinclair furrows her brow and chews on the inside of her mouth. “What do you mean? Like McLaggen, Smith, or Malfoy? Aren’t the latter two too young for you?”

Why does she associate McLaggen, Smith, and Malfoy with Fred? “Um, no.”

“Then who do you mean?” Sinclair asks, her features mirroring an even deeper sense of confusion.

“Honestly, it’s-”

I’m cut off by the Head Boy, who waves at the two of us. His voice booms from the foot of the stairs as he calls, “Hey, Sinclair! Come down here! Crehan threw up his dinner.”

“Coming!” Sinclair shouts back. She turns to me and says, “Let’s discuss boy business tomorrow, okay?” Before I can reply, she runs down the stairs and starts walking with the Head Boy.

XXX

“I hate working in groups of four,” Sinclair sighs as the Charms class divides itself into quartets. Our friends at the next table naturally pair together, leaving the two of us with the awkward task of finding two other partners.

I clutch the textbook to my chest as Sinclair and I walk around the classroom, asking people to work with us. Unfortunately for us, everyone already has partners in mind. Sinclair stands on her tippy-toes, attempting to look through the hubbub of the moving classroom. Her efforts aren’t necessary, though, because Fred and George stand taller than anyone else in the class and they conveniently look partnerless as well. George waves me over when we lock eyes, so I turn to Sinclair to say, “Come on, I found us partners.”

“Are you kidding me?” she groans when she sees who I’m dragging her to. “Is there no one else to work with?”

“Not unless you want to work with your slimy housemates. Warrington and Pucey are also partnerless.”

Sinclair completely ignores Fred when we reach the twins’ corner of the room and looks only at George. “Good morning, Weasley. How are you? I’m glad we could find one competent partner.”

“And who am I?” Fred scoffs at her. He rolls his eyes and sits at the nearby table to avoid standing next to her for too long.

Sinclair slides into the seat across from him before setting a scrutinizing gaze at him and replying, “Gum on the bottom of my shoes.” She will only make eye contact with him if he’s sitting down since she refuses to “look up to him.”

“They’re insufferable,” George leans down to whisper into my ear. I smack him on the shoulder as I sit next to Sinclair.

“Come on, try your hardest to keep up with me,” Fred teases her and opens up his textbook. Sinclair glares at him and mutters “as if” under her breath.

George glances at his brother and Sinclair, who are now debating who will complete the assignment the fastest. George leans across the table to tell me, “I’ve been waiting to work with you for the longest time.”

“Really? How long?”

He scrunches his face as he pauses to think for a moment. “I’d say at least two months.”

I blush and look at the board to the side of him. Rowena, if I keep this up, I’ll be known as Blush. The textbook page for the Anti-Alohamora Charm is written on the board, so I flip to it with the flick of my wand. “Then why didn’t you start talking to me two months ago? You act like you never get a bout of shyness.”

“Around pretty girls like you I do,” he replies and winks. He cranes his head to look at the board behind him and returns with another one of his smiles. “I bet you already know this one.”

“Yup. Now let’s get started as these two have another row. I’m sure the two of us can manage it on our own.” I stand up to grab a set of four locks for each group member, but Sinclair and Fred are too busy arguing to notice that I’ve placed locks in the center of the table.

George grabs the blue lock and turns to me expectantly. “Show me how it’s done, beautiful.” He doesn’t pay a lick of attention to what I’m doing to my lock; instead, he’s staring at me with a goofy grin. My cheeks burn as I remember that his brother and my best friend are sitting right next to us.

I cast the final spell to ensure that the lock doesn’t open with physical force. I then use my hand to turn George’s head to gaze at the table. “Step one: pay attention to the lock,” I joke, and an adorable pink hue colors his cheeks.

“Step two: place the hand that isn’t your wand hand over the lock. That’ll make sure that the lock recognizes your touch when you attempt to open it.” George ignores my directions again, so I put my hand over his and lead us both to the blue lock. “Now you’re just being cheeky.”

He leans across the table and whispers in my ear, “I do prefer learning spells with a hands-on approach.” His breath tickles my ear, so I pull back with a shiver and a laugh.

“That’s convenient considering today’s assignment. As you complete this spell, you have to focus and will for it to work.” I stand behind him and press my chest to his back. My breath hitches as I take his wand hand and trace the movements he’s supposed to make with my hand. “Now, swish your wand in a figure-eight motion twice, then swish it clockwise. Each time, say ‘contra alohomora.’”

I let go of George so he can attempt the spell on his own. His hand movements are precise and finally, the firm click of the lock is heard. “Alohomora,” I say while pointing at the blue lock with my wand, but it doesn’t open. “You did fantastic!”

“What can I say? Clearly, I’m quite talented.” He flashes me a cheeky grin.

“You really are, George.” I cup his cheek with my hand and return his smile. Rowena, I’m so excited to be his date for the Yule Ball.

“Before you distract me again, there is one more thing I should teach you. Only you can open the lock by touching it or casting ‘alohomora,’ but you can allow other people to open it too. You just have to place their hand on the lock and say ‘amicos alohomora.’”

George intertwines his fingers with mine and moves my hand to the blue lock. “Let’s give it a shot with you.”

I pry my fingers from his. “Actually, it has to be someone else since I’m the one testing your spells.”

“Alrighty then.” George turns to Fred and Sinclair, who have been going at it this entire time. Fred is mocking her for something that happened in Defence Against the Dark Arts, which riles her up since her marks are her greatest pride. Fred doesn’t seem to care or notice that George presses his hand to the blue lock and grants him permission to open the lock.

Professor Flitwick stops by our table and inspects George’s blue lock and my purple lock. “Wonderful job you two! Ten points each to Gryffindor and Ravenclaw.” His eyes then wander over to Fred and Sinclair and he points at their locks. “Have you two been participating in the work your partners have completed? Ah, Miss Sinclair, excellent work on the Anti-Alohamora Charm. Next time, Mister Weasley, please assist your partners and pay more attention to the task at hand.”

Satisfaction is written all over Sinclair’s face as Professor Flitwick stops at the next table. “You should seriously consider listening to Professor Flitwick’s advice.”

“Please! You were distracting me!” Fred retorts. “How did you manage to pull off the spell in the middle of our row?”

“Back at it again, I see,” I remark to George.

George rolls his eyes. “It’ll be like this until we graduate. I just hope they don’t have a row during the ball.”

“And if they do, I won’t get involved. Rowena knows how passionate Sinclair can get.” Last year, Fred set up an intricate trap that dumped brown goo under the passerby, which just so happened to activate only if Sinclair walked under it. I had to hold her by her robes to prevent her from sprinting away and jinxing the life out of Fred.

“Can’t blame her half the time with the pranks my brother gets up to. I’d also try to chop off his head if I was her.” George laughs and shakes his head. He crouches down and begins to doodle something in his textbook. When I bend forward to see what he’s drawing, he pulls his textbook closer to him and wags his finger. “No peeking, now. Don’t spoil the surprise for yourself.”

“I bet you’re either drawing me or Peanut,” I joke.

George throws his head back and groans. “How do you manage to always be one step ahead of me?”

“Clearly, I’m quite talented,” I tease, echoing the same thing he said minutes before.

He scribbles his quill, scrunches his brow, and then presents the sketch of Peanut to me. I laugh as I trace a hand over Peanut’s exaggerated long whiskers and chunky red body. “She looks goofy and fat, but adorable as ever.”

“No need to call her hefty, now. Let the cat enjoy her treats in peace,” George teases. Every time Peanut sees George, she jumps onto his lap and rubs herself all over him. She likes him so much that she gives him a dirty cat glare if he even stands up to go to the lavatory.

I’m laughing at his joke when I realize that Sinclair is silent and gawking at George and me. Once she notices me looking, she tilts her head in George’s direction. No words need to be spoken for me to understand what she’s trying to ask.

Fred sighs and slaps his green lock. He looks up from his textbook and then at Sinclair. But when he notices the expression on her face, he smirks and looks over at George and me. “What secret have I been left out of? Care to tell me something, Georgie?”

“Freddie, may I proudly present my Yule Ball date? This is Miss Moore of Ravenclaw,” George proclaims and waves his hands with great pomp and circumstance.

I bury my face in my hands, embarrassed by George’s comments. Fred extends a hand for me to shake as though we haven’t known each other for years. Regardless, I take his hand and shake it. Fred smiles at me and then slaps George’s arm. “I knew you’d find a pretty date, Georgie.”

Sinclair watches the exchange in silence, her face neutral other than raised eyebrows. But even if she tries to keep a poker face, I know her head is probably spinning at the new revelation.

Rowena, I do not look forward to whatever she has to say once class ends.

#george weasley x reader #george weasley #george weasley x oc #george weasley x original character #george weasley x you #george weasley x y/n #harry potter #reader insert #ravenclaw #ravenclaw reader #fluff #yule ball #prefect #romance #original character #hogwarts

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tamelee · 7 months

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I love the way you write, you're so articulate, I wish I could write like that 😭 I'm guessing you get good grades in school? Do you have advice on how to write articulately and clearly while also sounding professional? Like in essay writing?

Huuuu, that’s very kind of you 🥹;-; I’d never imagine anyone saying that to me… ever.

Well, my grades are good, I have my last exams soon ^^

I do have a few tips! Or rather, there are things I’m still currently learning that may be helpful to you as well📝:

(Sentence) Structure: I read a book called ‘elements of style’ by William Strunk (revised edition) recently and I learned that no matter how grammatically correct your sentences are, there are still ways to improve its structure. (I had to learn it all over again in English -.-) This is a big topic so I'll name a few specifics you can dive into.

Learn the difference between active and passive voice (passive isn’t bad and sometimes necessary, but active is almost always preferred). Don’t mind all this on your first draft though. It’ll only hinder you.

Study MRU (motivation-reaction units), often used in Fiction writing, but it helped me for essays as well. It is the logical pattern of cause and effect introduced by Dwight V. Swain and I read about it in 'techniques of the selling writer'. Here's an article on the topic as well.

Mind paragraphs. There are different rules for this depending on what you’re writing, but it helps its readability. For Essays especially it’s always good to keep topics separate and lead the reader to your conclusion in a way that makes sense. (It's sorta like holding their hand and going like "because of this... there is this... and therefore... and so.... that's why....") This may need some reorganizing of your premises/subjects at times. I especially need to organize my thoughts before I even start writing.

Understand what it is that you need to write about and delete everything that isn’t relevant. If you’re like me and you get a ton of new ideas once you delve into a subject, then it’s good to keep a folder (or something similar) for these new ideas. Often these are entire topics on its own and including these into another will only make both unclear and your conclusion muddy. So, ask yourself whether it strengthens your point, or if it’ll make it more confusing. If it won’t make a difference then delete it anyway or save it in your folder for later.

I always learned that objectivity is important in order to sound professional, though it depends on the kind of essay you’re writing. If you need to convince the reader of something then transparency about your own opinions can help your conclusion be more honest, but be careful of sounding preachy as well. I had to learn all these things when I still studied marketing/communication in entertainment, but it often makes me feel slimy because it’s all very manipulative. (Hence, I quit that path.) It's in fiction as well. Some authors let their own views bleed through their characters in such a way it becomes uncomfortable because it doesn’t argue for the story nor adds to the character— it attacks the reader’s personal morals which possibly gives them an ass-spanking while they’re at it which just really isn’t necessary. Emotional language is fine I think. Sometimes I got compliments from teachers especially because I didn't sound too professional, it requires a bit of knowledge when you can get away with it probably. Just make sure you can back up your arguments/statements and possibly add different views as well. In a way it's more about the confidence in which you present an idea than sounding professional and not being able to understand all the 'why's' I believe.

This one isn't that relevant for school-essays, but sometimes when writing one the question isn't clear. It helps both you and the reader to reformulate it in the beginning. Essays as well as stories are often nothing more than a problem you need to give an answer to. Even if there's no question, it helps to make one anyway so you don't wander off endlessly and drown in a sea of possible subjects you could write about.

Something that may help you as well— I created a roadmap for myself and the different types of things I have to write. That way I always know what to do first and it helps me structure both the essay and my process as I can get easily distracted otherwise. Making more decisions than necessary makes me freeze up, but with a roadmap I don’t have to do either.

Uuh, I've probably picked up on tons of helpful things lately, but I think these are great to start with. I hope they are helpful to you.

I always wanted to (story-)write, but gave up on it and decided to learn how to draw instead. Then, I sort of realized that I was being an idiot, because that desire never left and I had to write other things anyway— like this for example, and simply accepting the fact that no one can understand the load of incomprehensible rubbish I wrote, just wouldn’t do. You can check my older posts… it’s awful. If I ever intentionally want to give myself another headache, I’ll go and read those.

It’s definitely not perfect now, but hopefully I improved though. I think so. Sometimes I still get scolded as I tend to ping-pong between thoughts suddenly and I can hardly tell the difference between BrE/AmE. (As I grew up I learned English mostly through a sort-of-aunt figure from Canada that always forced me to watch British tv with her.) But, the past few months I especially had to write many essays and (argumentative) case studies so I decided to learn and become better in writing. If that translated back to Tumblr then I'm happy and you’ve made my day ><

#asktamelee #talk about writing #essay writing

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aristocratic-otter · 9 months

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Thank you, @cutestkilla, @nausikaaa, @that-disabled-princess, @youarenevertooold, @fatalfangirl and @whatevertheweather for the tags!

So, once again, no snippets from Saving Simon Snow or The Heart in the Well (still reviewing them to figure out where I want to go), but I've got double chunks of TikTok Dancer and Stars, Flowers, and Children for you (and a normal sized slice of Snow Fox. The next chapter is so close to being ready for posting!).

Then there's COBB and Erotic Gropefest coming. I've got my idea for COBB, and I've already outlined a fic for EG. Big hint...it was one of the unfinished fics I teased in a 'what are your WIPs' last year. And the one I got the most feedback saying people wanted me to write it! I reviewed my fic ideas folder and decided this one is perfect for EG.

And, I've got a question. I've got more than enough content on both TikTok Dancer and Stars, Flowers, and Children, and I know where I'm going on what's left for each, so I'll likely start posting one of them soon. Feel free to leave your vote on which one in the tags, and I'll consider it!

With no further ado, here's 12 sentences from TikTok Dancer

I frown. Surely a troop of dancers on Santa Monica pier isn’t that extraordinary. “Why wouldn’t I believe it?” I ask.

Dev’s hardly listening to me. “I mean, I knew that there was a chance we’d see celebrities in LA. I mean, this is a celebrity breeding ground, right? But right in front of our hotel? And we get to see them filming?” He turns to me as if expecting me to enthusiastically agree with him. I’m beginning to understand that I’m missing some context here.

“What celebrities?” I ask weakly.

Dev and Niall both freeze, goggling at me in disbelief. This time, Niall recovers first. “You mean you’ve been watching them through the window and didn’t recognise Simon Snow, Agatha Wellbelove and Shepard Love?”

I wrinkle my nose. “Those sound like made-up names.”

Some young Baz yearning, from Stars, Flowers, and Children:

It’s in our fifteenth year that we both finally have growth spurts. Simon’s indignant that, even after he grows several inches, I’m still taller than him by at least three inches. But, not that I’ve got anything but memory to judge by, but I think we’re both man-high.

But height isn’t the only thing that changes about Simon Snow. I wish it was.

But no, Simon has now grown from the freckled street urchin with shorn hair that I first saw on board the SS Watford to a full-grown man, with everything that goes with that. He’s powerfully muscular because of all his building work, and his skin is burnished gold from hours in the sun. His bronze hair is grown out into ringlets that are also kissed by the sun. And all the stars of the universe are scattered across his skin in a host of golden-brown freckles and moles.

Even his blue eyes, though they’re nothing special when it comes to colour, are such a contrast to his sun-darkened skin that they stand out from his face with a lambent light.

From Snow Fox (the smut is done, I just have to get Baz out of the sticky situation I've put him in).

Tarleton is a horrific bore. The arse only talks about himself–his achievements, his family background, his personal wealth. He hasn’t asked a single thing about me this entire time. When our steaks are dropped in front of us by a bellicose server, I’m grateful for a chance to look at something other than his insipid face. I eat slowly, delicately. I don’t want to get to the part of this ‘date’ where Tarleton suggests we retire to a paid room in the local hotel.

Tags and encouraging pats on the back to the friends above (we'll make it through January) and to:

@artsyunderstudy, @angelsfalling16, @bazzybelle, @bookish-bogwitch, @best--dress, @carryonsimoncarryonbaz, @captain-aralias, @confused-bi-queer, @dragoneggos, @erzbethluna, @palimpsessed, @skee3000, @frjsti, @facewithoutheart, @gekkoinapeartree, @giishu, @hushed-chorus, @ileadacharmedlife, @ivelovedhimthroughworse, @j-nipper-95, @jasonfunderberkerthefrogexists, @krisrix, @messofthejess, @martsonmars, @moments-au-crayon22, @moodandmist, @mostlymaudlin, @nightimedreamersghost, @raenestee, @rimeswithpurple, @shrekgogurt, @stardustasincocaine, @thehoneyedhufflepuff, @tea-brigade, @upuntil6am, @whogaveyoupermission, @you-remind-me-of-the-babe

#cotta 2023 #normal au #tiktok dance au #Age of Sail au #Blue Lagoon Au #co/ws/awtwb #six sentence sunday

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namorslut · 2 years

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NAMOR / PEARLS OF JADE

SUMMARY: you're a marine biologist sojourning in the Yucatán Peninsula and stumble upon an underwater cave in the clearing of a dense rainforest. expecting to make an amazing scientific discovery you're swept into a spell down the abyss into the reach of a loveless serpent feathered god who will go to any length to claim you as his.

WARNING: yandere!namor, body worshipping!namor, gift giving!namor, thigh gripping, sub!namor (if you squint) hc!siren!entrancing!namor, human!reader, dub-con (i think)

NOTE: after reading @jottositto 's post i've included some yucatan maya using a translator although it's not 100% accurate. if this came across a native speaker could you maybe give me corrections as i'd like to be as respectful and accurate as possible. ofc the people living in the peninsula will be speaking spanish as this area was colonised and y/n only has an understanding of spanish. thank u and enjoy!! ps: namor?? more like "mi amor" that man had me kicking my toes and twirling my hair in the cinema on friday. this is dirty af i feel like i'm teasing y'all. might write a part two laterrr. no beta so there are 100% spelling errors which i'll check when i got time.

"Me gustaría ayudarla pero en el tiempo que he vivido en ese pueblo, los que se han atrevido a salir de la seguridad de ese pueblo y dentro de la jungla nunca más fueron vistos. Estarías en mucho peligro si te fueras. No creo que tu proyecto de ciencia valga la pena el riesgo.” The short Mexican woman explained.

Her thinning, silver hair was pulled down into two long braids down her protruding collarbones. Her brows were pulled in a frown, revealing creases running the length of her forehead and the outer creases of her beady, mud-brown eyes.

You pleaded with her, your coffee stained research folder clutched in one hand, as you made contact with her elbow gently.

"Pero señora, forma parte de mi trabajo. Fui enviada para investigar los ecosistemas marinos de esta península."

She considered you for a good minute. Searching your unwavering eyes. She sighed and leant toward you, dropping her wobbling voice to a whisper.

"Has lo que deseas, Cariño. Pero que tengas cuidado." she warned, using her eyes to signal you in the general direction to take to enter the forbidden forest. You trailed her eye line and saw a wooden bridge not so far off camp. You bowed to her as a sign of respect.

The journey through the rainforest was an arduous one as the way was shielded by a mass of coiled, everlasting lianas, strangler figs and long, shallow buttress roots along the soil of the shrub layer of the forest which you tripped over several times. You had to slice through the layers of tropical plants in your way with a machete you "borrowed" from a fruit cutter that was left around camp, making your hiking backpack even considerably heavier than it already was. You didn't stop once to admire and take in the smells of passion flowers or orchids as you moved through the brush; you knew better than to let yourself become the prey of the several species of venomous snakes and amphibians native to this rainforest.

It looked to be late afternoon when you stopped by a tributary, crouching over the crystalline water, you followed the stream with your gaze to check for growths of algae when you noticed a dark entrance. You stood up rigid as your breath stilled, you noticed the eerie silence of the clearing. The sounds of bushes rustling, frogs croaking and flapping wings had died down entirely.

There was utter tranquillity.

You heard a low, rich brassy voice hum a melody from the rocky cave, the sound reverberating to your spot on the damp soil. You dug the heels of your mountain boots as you felt your body being tugged slowly to the body of water, your heartbeat drumming in your ears, your breaths becoming shallower.

The song sounded like one you would hear as a premonition for bad things taking place in urban legends told around campfires, it spoke of men searching to mine riches out of foreign land to find fool's gold instead and meeting their demise at the hand of otherworldly things. Despite the warning behind the unspoken lyrics, you felt your body lull into relaxation.

You saw him rising from the dark aquamarine pool beyond, his eyes glistening a tawny shade of brown. You didn't miss his long ethereal pointy ears and his full lips. His tanned muscular body was slick with droplets as the rest of his body appeared from out of the water. He was adorned in golden bangles and a thick necklace dating from an ancient civilisation, encrusted with what looks like azurite and pearls of jade.

He floated above the surface and toward you. You felt your mouth dry and heart drop to your stomach as a human-looking man flew slightly above the land slowly in your direction. You fought back a scream as the soles of his foot made contact with the ground, and still towered over you despite that. He scrutinised every detail of your face with an unreadable expression.

You breathed in, mustering the courage to speak.

"What are yo-"

He raised a large hand over your face, your vision darkening and body tumbling forward.

You awoke in what seemed to be an underwater cave with overhanging stalactites, you sat up abruptly from the makeshift bed out of bamboo. You noticed the absence of your backpack beside you. Remembering your phone in the jean pocket of your shorts and pulled them out. Scrambling to get a signal.

"Teech ch'íijsajil despierto." a female voice enunciated in a foreign tongue. You flinched, your pocket phone nearly flying out of your reach. Your eyes landed on a blue skinned woman. A respiratory mask covered her nose and mask.

She wore indigenous print robes and held a spear encrusted in emerald jewels. You noticed how her mouth didn’t move, her voice seemed to have come from inside your head as she stood alone in the middle of the rocky cavern.

"I don't understand" you thought, testing your theory out.

A female voice penetrated in your brain again, speaking to you in what sounded like an ancient Mayan tongue.

"Kukulkán in tu k'áataj a buscara. Búukint le, ku leti'. '' the woman seemed to lecture as she crossed the round room and reached into a clam basket by the foot of your mat and pulled out folded sheets of cream coloured linen, extending them to you. You accepted and forced a small smile to show gratitude.

You put the robe on and the beaded necklaces of jade over the dress, which ran up to your mid thigh and was sleeveless. The material was comfortable and baggy over your body but you felt uncomfortable at the lack of bralette you had underneath, leaving your breast exposed. You found a pair of golden strappy sandals at the bottom of the pile which you put on as well.

The woman from earlier came back for you and beckoned you with her hand out of the round room and past hung tapestries depicting ancient Yucatan gods and monsters. She stood behind you, ushering you to go into the room.

"Cha' k" a familiar voice spoke out. The man from the cave turned from his spot facing the painted mural, his back shifting as he smiled at you as you shivered in fear.

"Teech wilik ki'ichpam yéetel a prendas, a wilik ti' beyo' utia'al in reina” he flirted, in a deep, suave tone advancing toward you, you took a step back. Your eyes caught a glimpse of his rigidly sculpted chest, welded in the image of a divinity and the sleek look of his tanned copper skin.

"Look, I don't know where I am or what you want with me but I certainly didn't mean any harm by stumbling on your cave. I'm not a threat to your people but I wish to be let go." you raised your hand to your chest, gesticulating as clearly as possible your words, shaking your head. The mythical man let out a boisterous laugh at your words, startling you. He grasped your hand in his firm one, raising it in front of him.

"Oh my little angel, I do know that. But I haven't taken you for that reason." he admitted, speaking to you in English as he interlaced your fingers together.

Fucking bastard.

You shook your hand out of his.

"You can speak my language." you pointed, growing irritated with the man.

"Of course, a dutiful ruler needs to be educated of the world around him." he boasted proudly.

"What is your name?" you asked as politely as you could muster

"My people praise me as Ku'kul'kan but my enemies call me Namor." he tucked a strand of your hair behind your head as his eyes traced your figure, wandering down from your budding breast to your legs.

"Why did you take me? What is it you need?" you defied. He cupped your chin gently with his smooth thumb, inclining your head up to his.

You shrugged against him but felt another hand slithering to your lower back, his touch cementing your body in place. His brown irises dilated as his gaze softened.

"Well if it isn't obvious, I want you. I want you to rule beside me and light a match that will burn the world from underneath their inconspicuous feet. Be my queen and I'll give you all that which your heart could desire."

You shook your head frantically.

He's insane.

His eyebrows quirked at your lack of cooperation.

"I see it in your eyes, that spark of passion and resentment. You've been underestimated your whole life. Your life's work is meaningless to the people around you, you're not getting the recognition you deserve." you grunted, bothered by his assumptions.

"You know nothing about me or my life.” you stated.

“I hate to disappoint you my angel but you can either bend to my desire of your own will or we can do things my way.” he remarked as he traced his thumb over your lips, pressing a chaste kiss to them. You felt as if every inch of your body was set aflame at his touch. You reclined your head in disgust.

“St-”

Your mouth betrayed you as it parted open to receive the soft ones of the God before you as his palms felt their way treacherously down your body to the back of your thighs and your nape. You felt your knees buckling together, the flesh of your upper thighs pressing together as you felt heat pulsating from between your legs. You bit back a moan of pleasure as his imposing form bent down to kneel before you. Your eyes widened as his lips pressed against your vee line. You saw a flash of green in his eyes as he looked up to you. You pressed your eyes tightly shut.

No.

Suddenly you pushed against the invisible boundaries around you, stumbling backwards out of whatever spell Namor had put on you. You breathed out painfully.

“Fuck you.” you whispered.

“Oh?” he enquired, surprised at your incredible amount of resistance.

She has the spirit of a warrior queen, he thought. I must bind her to me forever.

Namor arose, striding to you. In a single movement, he coiled his arm around your throat; putting some pressure down onto your windpipes as you clawed at his hand.

He moved you easily against the wall rubbing his nose onto yours, turning his face toward your ear as he whispered:

“We’ll have to go for that second option then.”

#mcu phase 4 #mcu namor #mcu fic #tenoch huerta namor #namor #black panther 2 #wakanda forever #wakanda por siempre #tenoch huerta #namor the sub mariner #wakanda forever spoilers

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anxiousgaypanicking · 9 months

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Comfort Items

Part Three: Baggage Synopsis: Twin princes had been cursed centuries ago, forced to become mere items and subjected to whatever their owners wanted them to endure. Cuddles, pressure, or even being tossed out or passed down, until they could overcome their own arrogance and learn what it's like to love and to be loved, in all senses of the word. Ships: Intrulogical/Roceit Taglist: @arodynamic-enby @arizona-tate @asdfghjklicia @hypnossanders @transmanrayner @under-the-blue-moonlight

The older twin prince had the entire world spoon-fed to him, with the utensil being made out of only the finest silver. Everywhere he went he was reminded of his inevitable fate - that of which to be crowned and clothed in gold and jewels, and being handed control over everything and everyone.

So, he decided he could use his status.

He would dress up and look down on the citizens that he was supposed to be caring for. He would sneak them into the garden and recite poetry while on his knees. One by one he would kiss their knuckles, and one by one he would shatter their hearts. Their pain was exhilarating, and he loved their cries of desperation. They loved him. They needed him.

Around town, people could hear him beckoning, that love was a hole in their hearts that he could easily fill, promising splendors and fun and a tragic ending.

And this was a story children were told. And children told their children. And everyone knew it. So it was fabled.

…

He’s alive. He’s alive and not ripped to shreds. He’s alive.

“The purpose of poetry is to convey and evoke certain emotions while keeping a somewhat ambiguous tone throughout. Melancholic but rhythmic.”

Janus scoffs at the description. “That’s not always true. Some people write poetry in order to express themselves or the hardships they’re dealing with. Not everything has hidden meanings; some things can be written for the sole purpose of being blunt.”

Logan eyes him. “Is that the kind of poetry you write?”

“What makes you think I write poetry?”

“You’re defensive,” Logan states. “You also know a lot about the subject, and you’re simply poetic by nature. If you don’t write poetry, I recommend you take it up as a hobby. You’d be good at it.”

Once more, Janus scoffs. “Yeah, sure. Perhaps I will.”

He’s alive. He’s alive, and wasn’t handed to some spoiled, jam-covered kid. He’s alive.

Logan adjusts his backpack, turning to the side to avoid touching a group of kids crowded in the hallway. His bag then hits somebody’s arm, and they shoot Logan a scowl. Logan utters an apology, but otherwise keeps walking.

“Why is your bag bigger than normal?” Janus asks, as they round a corner. He’s looking back at Logan’s bag, which seems stretched past its usual limits (which is already an impressive feat, considering the folders and textbooks he already keeps in there).

Logan looks embarrassed at the question, but clears his throat as he mumbles “Remus is in there.”

Janus snickers, adjusting his own bag. “Really, Logan? Bringing toys to school?” Janus teases, and watches as Janus huffs and rolls his eyes.

Little does Logan know, Roman is snugly packed into Janus’s bag as well, it’s just not as obvious.

Janus frankly didn’t see the point in bringing every textbook he was given to school; he hardly used them. Why waste the extra space?

“If anybody sees, you’ll never hear the end of it,” Janus then states, which has Logan sighing.

“I know, I know,” Logan sighs, as he adjusts the straps of his bag. “I just felt bad about leaving him at home!” Logan bites his lip as they head into the classroom, and is even careful when setting his bag down. “I’ve never owned a stuffed animal before. Even when I was little, my parents preferred building blocks and books over plush toys.”

“Separation anxiety?” Janus blinks his eyelashes mockingly, and grins when Logan huffs.

“I don’t have separation anxiety, especially over a stuffed animal. That’s absurd.” Logan clears his throat, before making a waving motion with his hand, sweeping across the hallway. “Now, back to the topic at hand: poetry.”

“Logan, please, I’m not going to get into poetry.”

Logan looks as though he wants to stomp his foot on the ground. “I’m not saying you have to, I’m just saying that you might find some enjoyment out of it, whether that be through writing or reading it.”

“Oh yeah? Then name a poem right now that you think I’d like.”

Stopping in his tracks, Logan looks at Janus like he’s absurd. “What?”

Janus smiles smugly. “You heard me.”

“You’re putting me on the spot. I can’t just… come up with a poem I think you’d like.”

Smiling as though he’s won - despite having made no actual argument at all - Janus shrugs and proclaims “there. Poetry is not for me. End of discussion.”

They move into a classroom, and sit down side by side. Both of them gingerly set their bags onto the floor, but neither of them notice their care echoed in the other. That is, until Logan struggles to press his bag against his desk enough for it not to present as an obstacle to people walking past. Someone’s bound to trip on the bulging backpack, and Logan would rather not have that happen.

“If you’d just left Remus at home, you wouldn’t be having this issue.”

“I’m just worried my parents will see it and believe it to be… misplaced. Or lost.” Logan presses his fingers together, looking away from Janus’s playfully judgemental eyes as he speaks. “They might try and donate it, and I won’t be home to offer them the explanation that I’d fixed it up and was intending to… keep it. Or something.”

“Your parents are hardly ever even home.”

Logan’s lips quirk into a frown, as he stares at his hands, which he folds neatly on his desk. “They come home sometimes.”

Janus leans against his hand, resting his cheek against his knuckles as he adds “and when they are, they usually retreat into their room, and go right to sleep.”

“They work long hours.” Logan adjusts his glasses. “You try performing surgeries or practicing law, and then tell me how often you’re home and awake.”

“I don’t even have a job and I’m hardly ever even home as is,” Janus retorts. “Your house is much nicer, anyway. Did I tell you I’m pretty sure we have termites?”

If the bear in Janus’s bag could scream, it would. Sure, Janus’s voice was muffled through the thick material of the backpack, but that didn’t mean he was completely unintelligible. And though Janus looked put together and well-groomed, Roman didn’t want to be stuck in a house with a bug infestation! Termites?!

“You did not.”

Janus huffs, and twirls a chipped faux-gold ring on one of his fingers. “I don’t know if we’ll be able to call a pest control company.”

“If you need money-”

Janus stares at Logan. Logan abruptly stops talking, and sighs as he turns back to his desk with a muttered “right.”

There’s silence between them, but not in the classroom, as it slowly starts to fill with students eager to chat, and annoyed to learn. One of them accidentally kicks Janus’s bag on their way to their seat, making Janus quickly scramble to gather it up and glare at the kid.

“Idiot,” Janus hisses, as he adjusts the zipper on the bag. It’s Janus’s fiddling that admittedly draws Logan’s attention to the item, which has him noticing it looks… fuller than usual.

“Did you take an extra textbook home with you or something?”

“Hm?”

Janus glances between Logan and the bag, before a light pink blush quickly spreads over Janus’s cheeks. He quickly says “yes,” before clearing his throat and more calmly adding “I’ve got to get better grades if I’m going to make it anywhere in life,” but his response leaves Logan unimpressed.

Raising an eyebrow at the display, Logan holds his hand out. Begrudgingly, Janus forks over his bag.

Logan opens it without asking - which, frankly, Janus expected he’d do - and gasps as he peeks inside and sees Roman’s soft red fur. Lip jutting out in disapproval, Logan looks between it and Janus, before stating “and you had the audacity to criticize me? Hypocrite.”

“I told you! Termites!” Janus snatches his bag back, and reaches inside to pet over Roman’s head before he quickly zips the bag back up. “I don’t want the bear that… I am holding on to-”

“Nice save.”

“-to be covered in bugs! That’s disgusting.”

Logan adjusts his glasses, smug as ever. “Uh-huh. Will that be your excuse tomorrow, too?”

“It’s better than yours.”

Logan gives an unimpressed smile, before the teacher walks in, and punctually addresses the class. Immediately, Janus slides his phone out and hides it beneath the desk, while Logan leans forward in his seat, clearly invested in whatever their teacher has to say.

Stuffed in their bags, both bears are thinking completely different things. While Roman is intensely focused on the muffled mention of “termites” he’s heard exchanged between the two men holding onto them, Remus is more shocked that both him and his brother have persisted the test of time.

Sure, at first he believed this stupid curse would only last a few years and they’d come out of this with minimal harm done and a life lesson or something, but it’s been way more than a few years. So much time that Remus couldn’t even guesstimate how long they’ve been alive. If being confined into an inanimate prison even qualified as being alive - Remus wasn’t really sure it did.

But, having also experienced his fabric being torn, he was aware that pain was real, and it was intense. So much so he couldn’t even deem it pleasurable, as each tear in his plush body felt like an open wound until it was thankfully stitched shut (and even still, the needle felt giant as it slid in and out of him).

Surely, if pain was still possible, death was too.

And Roman wasn’t dead! That’s what fascinated him. He’s alive. He’s alive, Remus thought, the two words looping in his mind as his beady eyes were forced to stare at the thick material surrounding him, feeling the pressure of being squished between books and folders alike.

Roman could have been ripped up, thrown to a dog, shipped overseas; he could have been an unfortunate byproduct to circumstances outside of his control. And yet, out of sheer luck , he was tucked safely into the bag directly across from him.

But, well, Roman wouldn’t call that luck. He’d define it as “fate.”

After he gets over his internal screaming over termites, he begins thinking as a way to block out the annoying droning of their teacher that he can hear even through Janus’s bag.

It makes him think of being home, all those years ago, drooling over a beautifully carved table as intelligent wizards and so-called doctors would come and speak to him and Remus, attempting to teach them things they very simply just didn’t want to learn. Those men would always get so angry with the two of them. Roman doesn’t miss that one aspect of life one bit.

But even being forced to listen to the incomprehensible philosophies of men in weird cloaks would beat being unable to do anything at all. No speaking, singing, dancing; no method of creating or sculpting things, which absolutely beat Roman’s heart to a pulp.

He aches to create. He aches to build. He aches to do anything but sit and wait until this owner passes him along to the next, who gives him to the next, who eventually donates him again.

Maybe, though, just maybe - and Roman truly does put emphasis on that word, as it’s a struggle for him to get his hopes up after centuries of disappointment - the fact that he and Remus were brought together once more was some sort of sign. Some blessing from the stars above that perhaps their freedom was just around the corner. Just a couple of days, maybe a week even, away. An arm’s length.

Fate. Much better than luck.

***

A slur is shouted in Logan’s general direction, and Logan was truly starting to wish his parents didn’t need both of the cars they owned. He had a license, but with no vehicle to drive, it was admittedly useless.

But the group of kids stalking behind them saw Janus and Logan walking the sidewalk together as an invitation to be imbeciles, it seemed.

“You think they’d grow out of this,” Logan mutters, as he ignores a snide comment regarding his body type. He’d heard all of their insults before, and while they might affect someone else, Logan genuinely could care less about what his classmates had to say. He’d seen their test scores, and thus would take any statement made by them with a metaphorical grain of salt. “Or at least get some new material.”

“I mean, throwing you in the dumpster was new.”

Logan glances at Janus, as a smile slowly spreads onto his lips. “And impressive. You wouldn’t think kids that scrawny would be capable of lifting an air mattress, let alone a whole person.”

A sudden thud alerts Logan to the fact a rock has hit his bag, which has his lips falling immediately into a more annoyed frown. Janus looks at the rocks on the side of the road.

“I could always toss one back.”

Logan shakes his head. “They’re not worth it; you’ll just encourage their behavior. They’re being childish.”

Another rock is tossed at them, hitting Janus’s bag this time.

“Yeah, well, they’re pissing me off.”

Janus moves to turn around, perhaps shout at them or something, but Logan grabs his upper arm and holds him steady. Firmly, Logan responds with “no, Janus. Stop it. Unless you want them to follow us around the entirety of senior year, it’s best to just ignore it. They’ll get bored of us eventually.”

Truly, it was mystifying how some other kids their age - almost legal adults - could still be so immature. Logan believed that bullying should have died out four years ago, back in junior high, but clearly some people just had nothing better to do.

How Janus and Logan became targets of that bullying was a mystery in itself. Both of them generally kept to themselves; Janus didn’t like people (for reasons that seemed very obvious as he and Logan are followed down the street), and Logan typically preferred people he could have intelligent conversations with (which eliminated a majority of the people they went to school with).

The two of them pass two large houses, and nudge each other in the direction of their backyards. They slip between the houses, and hop one of their fences, cutting through their yards in order to skip a block over, to Logan’s street.

There’s no car in Logan’s driveway when they reach it, but neither of the two boys expected there to be.

The house is silent as they make their way up the stairs and into Logan’s bedroom, but the serenity is quickly cut off by Janus groaning as he falls face first onto Logan’s bed.

“I hate people.”

Logan lets out a closed mouth laugh, though it’s less amused and more deflated, as he sets his bag against the side of his bed and crouches down to pull Remus out. “You’re being dramatic. Certainly there’s some people you like. Like me.”

“You’re pushing your luck,” Janus responds, rolling onto his side to watch Logan set Remus against his pillow. Janus stares at the bear as Logan zips his bag back up, and then moves it to the side of his desk instead. Janus pokes Remus’s stomach right as Logan turns around, which has Logan setting his arm between Janus and the stuffed animal.

“Hey! Don’t jab him.”

Janus snorts, before he fetches Roman too. He sits up in order to set Roman on his lap, making the bears face each other. Logan slides behind Remus, and sits him up too, wrapping his arms around Remus and squeezing tightly. Remus feels pressure build up in his body, but strangely it doesn’t feel bad. He still mentally sticks his tongue out at the affection though, wishing this creep his age (or, what would be his age if he hadn’t existed as a plush toy for a couple hundred years) would get a hobby aside from fetching stuffed animals from a dumpster.

“We look like we’re set up for a tea party,” Janus quips, as he holds Roman loosely in his arms. Despite Janus’s supposed indifference towards the bear, it looks to be in good condition. The bright white prince suit the bear is in seems to be even more pristine than it was when Janus had first found the bear. Perhaps he washed it?

And once more, Remus and Roman are facing each other. Directly across from one another, and unable to say a word.

Luck.

Fate.

#sanders sides #agp fic #agp fluff #intrulogical #roceit #sanders sides fic #sorry its been like a year lmao

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malice-and-macarons · 1 year

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Sharing The TPS Drama

TLDR: Gruvu stop lying about me, I did not steal an AU from you and I am sick to death of your petty behaviour over fanfiction of all things.

Evidence drive: https://drive.google.com/drive/folders/1Wmib2VgbdSSK6kLL8n5uyf5_L5ARliKy?usp=share_link

Hi everyone, it’s tea time (annoyingly) As I said in my last post, I am going to share with you my experience with the tumblr user Gruvu. Some base context, about five years ago while beginning work on The Prodigal Son, the second part of my Bishock fanfiction series, Rapture Falls - I approached the user Gruvu to request permission to use a prompt they had suggested in a tumblr post. The long and short of it is that they agreed and I began writing TPS soon after. Since then Gruvu has claimed I stole their story, their AU, their ideas, refused to give credit, ect. None of which is true. In fact to this very day their credit is STILL on the fanfiction. I never hid or removed it and as I told them previously, I will not remove the credit unless they specifically ask me to. That is all I ever owed them. After three separate confrontations were initiated by Gruvu (one for not mentioning them when responding to someone praising my work, a second for daring to not tell them about fanart a friend was making and a third where they outright asked me to discontinue the series entirely) we cut contact. It was a very unpleasant experience that did not have an amicable ending. Gruvu (in my opinion I cannot prove this) was actively utilising the anon system on tumblr to send asks to me and themselves to both hurt me and victimise themselves. I have noticed that they tend to get in drama with former friends and every time they get an influx of hate on anon. Again, I can prove literally none of that, I can only acknowledge the pattern and have my opinion on it. And my opinion is that it is petty and dumb so I didn’t engage with that behaviour in turn and tried to just move on from it all. This is a very brief explanation of what occurred and there’s more detail in the drive. Since then I kept it moving, continued writing TPS (despite my slow ass upload schedule), and let it rest. Gruvu however has not been satisfied to do the same.

As of this week I became aware of them once again publicly claiming I had stolen from them. I reached out to tell them to knock it off and leave me alone or I’d publicly speak up myself, as I declined to do when they first lashed out at me. They refused and so now I am writing this and sharing a drive with most all our interactions (some were cut for Gruvu’s privacy) as well as the nonsense surrounding the whole situation. I have removed most the other parties usernames and pfp because honestly this drama isn’t all that deep and they all deserve to be left out of it. Leave them alone and, I hope I dont have to say this but I will, leave Gruvu alone too.

The whole reason this is even being shared is because they couldn’t leave me alone so I would hope you lot don’t completely fail to notice how wildly out of pocket it would be to behave the same way to them. The evidence drive is listed here and contains anything else you might need to know. I might edit the drive a bit over the next few days if there’s a need for clearer screenshots or better censorship. But otherwise it is all done. If you read all that, thank you. Enjoy the dumb fanfiction drama. And to Gruvu: You’re a whole ass adult. Act like it. Love Mali

#shut up Malice #TPS #The Prodigal Son #Bioshock #Long post #Actual drama #but its petty #Could have just left me the fuck alone Gruvu.#Gruvu

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aro-throughyourchest · 1 year

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inspired by this art by @skretri

PAPERWORK // A tntduo swap fic

WORDS: 1530 / No Warnings

TNTduo but less heavy on the, "I wanna kill you"

A small pounding on the door grabbed Wilbur's attention. He registered the kind of knocking, the pattern, and all kinds of dread began to fill him. 'Please no. I ask of one thing, not let it be him, please please please'

Just like God to not answer his prayers, an undead duck burst into Wilbur's office to make his life hell. "Wilbur, you slimy fuck, why didn't you show up yesterday? I had such a fun get together for us planned!"

Wilbur scowled, removing his eyes from his desk work. "Well, Mr. Quackity, you seem to misunderstand the concept of responsibility, something I can't just write off." He gestured to the mountain of paperwork on his desk. "Also, I never agreed."

Quackity leveled him as he was in fact, talking bullshit, and he would not deny that. Not about the paperwork, which was very much real, but the idea that he did not flake on him last night. Because he did. Tommy even pointed it out when he found him sitting in his office. But he wouldn't just admit that. God no. So to prove himself, or at least, the very real work, Wilbur began rifling through the papers and reading aloud.

"Alright, let's see.. The fountain in the east wing of L'Manberg is due for unveiling with my name required in pen-"

Before he could finish, Quackity snatched the felt-tip from Wilbur's desk, along with the document and scribbled down Wilbur Soot in perfect cursive. Wilbur's eyes widened.

"What-"

“That it?”

He snatched it back, straightening his glasses to read, and he flushed a confounded red.

"When'd you learn to copy my signature?!"

"Doesn't matter." Quackity pointed down at the line. "You should really invest in a stamp or something if this is all you do all day."

Wilbur frowned, still concerned of all the crimes in his name and other what have you, but that was an actual fantastic idea. (It was times like this he couldn't stand Quackity.) He grumbled and leaned towards the intercom to his secretary. "Willow, could you please put down 'stamps' in my-"

The duck's eyes lit up, and he exploded into laughter, and if they had it, Wilbur would be one step away from calling security. "See? See? I have good ideas!"

"Fuck off, Quackity."

He leaned against the desk, Wilbur instinctively pushing away, and smiled. "Ah, can't get rid of me that easily, Soot."

Wilbur rolled his eyes. "God," he spat, "I wish I could sometimes."

He laughed, duck teeth on full display. "Oh yeah?"

Wilbur bit back any more foul words, instead electing to grab a paper off the pile and ignore the duck shooting him a self-righteous gaze hidden behind perfectly-framed magenta glasses.

He picked up his pen, trying to read the small print (that was definitely small and nothing else in the room that was making it difficult to read.) Both of these were snatched out of his hands as Quackity started scribbling down answers and all Wilbur could do was watch.

"Quackity, that's not just my signature-"

"Oh, I know."

Within record time, the paper was handed back to Wilbur, and he quickly scanned over it. He realized in both dawning horror and fascination that Quackity had not only his name but his entire form of handwriting down. He looked up, the man's smug smile on full display.

"That was for the new apartment complex right?" Quackity asked.

"Uh- Yes," Wilbur swallowed, reading over the paper just one more time. Everything was perfectly in order, exactly how he would've done it.

"Yes actually..."

His mouth went dry. Quackity was in fact, very good at this. All the shafting he had done of Las Nevadas while it still stood seemed to be extremely unjustified. Before he could reach a conclusion that would've given Quackity the second ego trip of a lifetime, Tommy, his second in command, rolled in a cart's worth of assorted binders and folders. And for once in his life, Wilbur was both grateful and anguished at the idea of more paperwork. For all the wrong reasons.

"Alright," he said, huffing and puffing as though they didn't have an elevator that cut down half the travel, "The blue folders are specifically supposed to be filed and accounted for by end of the month while the red-"

He stopped, seemingly registering Quackity in the room, and a Wilbur in despair.

" 'Ello, Big Q."

Quackity smiled. "Afternoon, Tommy."

Tommy looked between them, as if trying to get a grasp on the situation. What were little brothers for?

In an instant, his face went from mild curiousity to horror as he ran out the room, and Wilbur remembered, 'Oh right, literally everything but help.'

"Tommy, get back here!!"

Quackity made eye contact with Wilbur, a clear question in his head, and Wilbur mouthed for him to ignore it.

A very suspicious Tommy poked back in, looking between the two, and Wilbur answered for him, bridge of his nose pinched between his fingers. "Quackity was just helping me with paperwork."

And god, he wished he wasn't.

"Oh." He scanned the two of them. "Really? That's all?"

Wilbur and Quackity both nodded.

"Oh, oh good!" Tommy motioned to the cart again. "Because these are a two person job."

Wilbur frowned. "I thought you were my second person?"

"Yeah, but with Q here, I don't have to be!"

Goddamnit.

With no reason to stay, a very happy Tommy dropped off the last of the files, remarking, “The red folders are due by next week but you should really get them done tonight and if you need anything call Juno- the binders should all be proofread,” before wheeling out the cart and waving goodbye to the both of them.

Wilbur's counterpart grabbed a pen, his again, only pen, and smiled. “Let’s get to work!”

Wilbur groaned and picked up the first copy.

And so, because there was no reasonable way to say, “Actually, I want to do all this paperwork by myself tonight, mhm, you can leave now,” the two were sat next to each other, Quackity rambling on and on about the work he used to do in Las Nevadas and Wilbur very subtly trying to scoot to the edge of the desk.

“You can stop avoiding me like I have the goddamn plague,” the duck said without looking up, and Wilbur finally noticed just the amount of unconscious space he put between them. “Seriously, just because I'm dead doesn't mean I'm diseased.”

He colored. “My apologies.”

Quackity shrugged, and Wilbur attempted to very carefully find a spot that wasn’t too close nor too far from him. Quackity took one look at him, said, “Fuck that,” and dragged him into spot himself. He shot Wilbur a look.

"Right, right, haha, could you hand me—"

He glanced at his now work partner and laughed, nervous giddy all but bubbling in his stomach. “I’ll just get it myself..”

He reached across the table and tried to grab a red folder labelled, “Manchester Square,” but crashed out of his seat.

“Jesus, Soot, even baby ducks aren’t this helpless.”

Wilbur glared.

Quackity held out his hand and as he took it, he realized how coarse revival could make a person.

Now realizing that, he blinked. “This isn’t going to pop off if I pull too hard right?”

“If it does, it’ll be news to the both of us.”

Quackity lugged Wilbur up, the momentum nearly knocking both of them over.

“Christ,” he said, “You are so fucking tall.”

“Fuck you,” Wilbur spat. Quackity shoved him back into his chair before placing the red folder in his hands. Falling back into silence and the monotony of work, Wilbur’s mind began to wander.

“So..” He began flipping through the papers and clicking his pen. “How’s being ‘revived’ going for you?”

“What?”

Wilbur blinked, suddenly aware of what he asked and how it looked. “I’m— I apologize if that was too blunt—“

“No, no, you’re fine..”

Quackity leaned back in his chair while fiddling with the pen in his hand. “It’s..”

He let out a long, drawn sigh and brushed hair between his fingers.

"It's better than being dead."

“That doesn’t sound very positive, Big Q.”

Quackity chortled.

“No, I guess it doesn’t.”

Despite his relaxed posture and expression, there hid a flurry of emotions hiding behind his eyes Wilbur couldn't place; a storm brewing made of maelstrom winds and thunder as loud as lions on top of what used been a calm ocean. What was being dead like?

They made eye contact, and Wilbur quickly dove himself back into his work. Quackity laughed. "That paper on employee tax more interesting than me?"

Caught off guard, Wilbur cleared his throat and fidgeted with the papers nervously in his hand.

"No, it's- Wait, fuck- Y- No-"

As Wilbur dug his way into a hole, he smiled.

"Shut up."

"You're really something you know that, Wil?"

He stopped, nearly dropping the pen. "I'm what?"

Quackity however, didn't leave time to linger as he got back to work. When Wilbur found Tommy, he thought that boy was gonna be the death of him. But this? This was a whole new ordeal.

#yeah it's not exactly a one-to-one AU #if it were they would in fact be so incredibly unfunctional that being in the same room would be disastrous #I headcanon though Quackity after revival channels his energy into being a wild card #and Wilbur turns out less fucked up (but still kinda)#tntduo #c!tntduo #swap au #slight quackbur but it's not really pushing it #dsmp fic #dsmp #dream smp #c!wilbur #c!quackity #wilbur soot #quackity #not a lot of crme boys so I'm not tagging it

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ashen-crest · 1 year

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a stats report on the rk ashwick books (as of April 2023)

some folks responded positively to the idea of seeing data on how my books have done (for indie author research and benchmark purposes), so here you go!

I'll put everything under the cut:

📚 What do I write?

Cozy fantasy romance under the pen name R.K. Ashwick.

📚 Why do I write?

Because I love it. I have a full-time job that isn't related to writing, so I write in my spare time. I should also note that I do not have dependents, am not a caregiver, and I do have anxiety and ADHD. I am not certain that I want to be a full-time writer, given the financial instability and the joy it could take away from writing. However, I want my books to be and perform the best they can, so I try to be professional about my product and methods.

(To me, this is all important context to be up-front about. Finances, family size, and health all have a huge impact on an author's goals and strategies.)

📚 How many books do I have out?

The Stray Spirit: released August 2022. First in a planned trilogy.

A Rival Most Vial: released March 2023. First in a planned trilogy.

📚 Online Visibility

Here's what I have going on:

Paid:

Website (requires $ for hosting)

BookFunnel for newsletter promos, sales promos, and ARC distribution (site requires $ to join)

Unpaid:

Newsletter (currently managing on free version of Mailerlite, since I'm under 1000 followers)

Facebook page (not consistently maintained, mostly for SEO)

Instagram, posting 5x/wk

TikTok, posting 5k/wk

Tumblr- hi!

using things like LibraryThing, GoodReads forums, Reddit, and FB pages to find more ARC readers

I was doing Amazon ads, but recently nixed them, as I didn't feel they were really getting me anything. I'll likely return to them once I have more books out.

A Note on Follower Count: I have, like 10 FB followers, 400-ish Insta followers, 1500 TikTok folders, and almost 1600 Tumblr followers. I've been on Tumblr the longest and TikTok second longest. TikTok had the fastest growth, Insta the slowest. However, general advice is that engagement rate is more important than follower count. I'll be real, I'm not doing that hot on that front. I'll consistently get around 20 likes on Insta posts and TikTok often caps my video views at around 200 or 300. The videos that do the best on TT often aren't the ones related to my books. Fun times.

A Note on Newsletter Stats: I have a pretty consistent open rate of 25-30%, which I think is okay. I'd like for it to be closer to 40%. (It's also hard to actually track open rates, so that number isn't entirely reliable.)

A Note on ARC Reader Stats: I got 100 readers for TSS and almost 200 for ARMV. This resulted in a ballpark count of 20 reviews for TSS and 30 reviews for ARMV around release time.

📚 Other Marketing Strategies

What you see above under Visibility is my ongoing work. I also do more limited-run strategies, like:

occasional free book giveaways on social media

pre-order gifts for my book

I sent out around 20 pre-order gift envelopes for TSS and 45 for ARMV. I operate the pre-order gifts at a loss, but I really enjoy doing it, so I'm okay with it. I also have lots of leftover stickers and bookmarks that I can bundle with giveaways.

📚 Distribution

I distribute wide through:

Amazon: both ebook and paperback

IngramSpark: paperback only

Draft2Digital: ebook only

📚 Orders & Royalties

So, what did all this work and shennanery get me?

From July 2022-April 2023 (10 months):

Books Sold: 575

Total Royalties, paid and unpaid: $1543.49 ($2.68 per book)

📚 Is that good or bad?

I have no idea!! And I think in the end, it all depends on your goals.

If my goal was to make a living: welp, it's def not enough.

If my goal was to break even: between website set up, DBA set up, cover cost, editing cost, illustrator cost: nah. I'd have to make about $4,000 more to safely say I've broken even.

If my goal was to get strangers, and not just family and friends, to read my books: oh hey, I did that!!

I hope this information helps you set a goal, so you're not mentally wandering around like I am.

📚 Other Notes

A big factor in having a financially successful indie book is fitting genre conventions in your chosen subgenre, or 'writing to market.' I will say that A Rival Most Vial is more written to market than The Stray Spirit is. The Stray Spirit sort of straddles cozy, historical, and academic fantasy without actually leaning in to any of those things, so it's a little harder to market.

I also spent a lot on cover, editing, and illustration. That makes it harder to be a financially viable business, but it's what I wanted to do to have a strong finished product. I am lucky in that my full-time job can cover these expenses.

I'm not very good at social media. I've never had anything go viral on any of the sites.

The most rewarding part of all this is seeing how people react to the book: reviews, videos where they're almost crying over the book, podcast invitations, and [something a bit bigger than I'll announce in the summer.] At the end of the day, if I have a small group of buyers who are vocal in engaging with my books, that's far more rewarding than a large group of buyers who don't engage.

📚 Parting Thoughts

I'm happy to talk about any and all aspects of my self-publishing experience. If you have more questions or want more details, feel free to reply, send an ask, or DM me!

#writeblr #writblr #indie authors #self publishing

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faejilly · 1 year

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once upon a time I was doing a gift exchange for 7kpp and nothing I wrote work so I did a fanmix and made some TEA instead! (Did you like any of the tea, @awaylaughing? I don't recall) and then today, for no apparent reason, I was looping Hozier and feeling bad about how I keep wanting to write but then don't actually do it... and found a Sheltered Princess/Emmett thing from the POV's of the Chaperones in my WIP folder and finished it! Because Brains! Are Crazy-Cakes! (affectionate) Please Enjoy some observations re: Princess Wilhelmina Temperance of Arland and her Earl.

Emmett had known that he would see her.

Of course The Princess would be here. Even before Katyia herself, this is exactly what Arland Princesses always did. Who they always were.

He'd even known it would be difficult, was aware of his own weaknesses, his own flaws, but he hadn't realized it would hit him so hard, just seeing her walk into the Main Hall, seeing the Skalt Lady approach, watching other people see – her. See her, the way no one else in Arland ever had. The Princess was a wonderful young lady, of course everyone else would eventually see it too. It wasn't as if he didn't want her to succeed, didn't want people to know how amazing she was. He just –

It hurt, a little, to know that he would probably never have his friend by his side again, to know that there had never been a chance that he would, despite how fondly he remembered her, how much he'd looked forward to seeing her again, even if just at formal events at Court.

This was worse than Court.

This was going to be good-bye, and he hadn't even managed to say hello yet.

He was afraid that she'd see his worry and think he wasn't pleased to see her, wasn't always happy at the thought of her.

But then she came toward him, and he was glad enough at the sight of pleased recognition she didn't try to hide that he forgot about the future entirely and smiled at the present instead.

It was quite entertaining to realize that he’d been wrong about the Arland Princess. That didn’t happen to Woodly very often. But here she was, holding her own quite successfully through the formal introductions, alert and observant and with a smile almost as engaging as his own niece’s.

He’d dismissed her entirely at the Welcome Feast, convinced she was an even paler and quieter echo of her sister, the one who’d let herself be sold to Corval despite being smart enough to recognize how pleasant her soon-to-be-husband wasn’t.

To be fair, if Penelope had been of an age with Constance, the King and Queen might very well have tried to do the same with her, and Penelope would undoubtedly have agreed, despite also being smart enough to recognize a man who wouldn’t care a bit for her own preferences in the least. (Sometimes Woodly despaired of his sister’s sense, but that was neither here nor there.) Lisle would have fought it though, so it was well that hadn’t been an option.

But here young Princess Wilhelmina was, exquisitely formal with the one deeply unpirate-like Hisean, then listening to the Skalt Princess to call her Mina without looking the least bit upset by the informality. Penelope adored her, which required a bit of a gentle touch, and yet she was vibrant enough that neither the actual pirates nor the Corvali thought her dull. Even the Jiyel delegates were willing to converse with her, and Duke Lyon didn’t like anyone, and Lady Avalie only liked people she could play with.

She was singularly useless for any of the games Woodly himself liked to play, of course, but she was, nonetheless, a singular and effective delegate for Arland. Much more useful than that Earl, who refused to allow an unkind word about anyone, regardless of how much they might deserve it.

Would wonders never cease. An Arland Princess with a hint of a spine.

This Summit was certainly never boring.

Yvette thought her Princess deserved better. Such a bright young woman ought to be able to reach for more than her status as a gift Arland would bestow upon an ally who was willing to put up with her. (Perhaps they all deserved better than Summit machinations and noble politics, but that was a question for future generations to answer, not a single Duchess in her private thoughts.)

The Princess was quiet and polite, exactly as she had been trained to be. But she caught the eye, shone with her own inner light, a light that was already brighter than it had been at the Welcome Feast, and she’d handled that particular challenge with grace, deprecation, and a surprisingly charismatic and self-aware touch of humor, even when that young Zarad had dragged her into a highly inappropriate dance in front of everyone.

Constance would have been so proud of Mina if she’d seen it. Not that Yvette allowed herself to consider Princess Constance too often; that led to worrying about how she was doing, trapped at Prince Aamir’s side.

Yvette swallowed a sigh, and made sure her hands stayed loose in her lap, no tension visible anywhere in her body, even as she had to fight not to squint against the light of a rising sun. She’d managed to place herself outside the stable before anyone else, but the chaperones and servants and delegates would be here soon for the ride, and she could not let her worry show. Not for Arland or the Summit, past, present or future, not for the Princess as Princess or simply as a young lady in a difficult place.

Most especially not for her poor darling Earl, who she knew was painfully aware that half the Isle could tell that he was hopelessly in love with his Princess, by far the least eligible match for either of them to attempt here at this Summit.

Katyia would probably have insisted they be matched regardless; this time Yvette had to swallow a smile at the thought. Perhaps, somehow, even without Katyia, they’d manage a small bit of happiness, at least for awhile.

Yvette’s smile escaped her control, that thought too sweet to entirely dismiss.

Perhaps she had more hope left in her bones for this Summit than she’d thought.

Falon thought the boat race was the least painful activity of the Summit. It required actual effort and forethought and tactics from the delegates, and did not require he make small-talk about things he couldn’t possibly know anything about, and wouldn’t want to chatter about even if he did.

A Hisean team always won it, of course, but it was interesting to watch what the other delegates decided to do. Did they choose to forego it entirely and network among the spectators? Did they back Hise and their easy victory? Did they put on a show of their own boat, costumes or decorations or fancy tricks to draw the eye? Did they fight for that second place spot, did they try and make Hise work for their victory?

It was fascinating, and a good way to see how all the different delegations were starting to relate to each other, an idea of who could work with who, who might be able to reach a hand across a bargaining table by the end of the Summit and have someone grasp it back.

He had never expected two of the Hise delegates to agree to back an Arlish Captain though. One who had somehow managed to entice his damnable Duke out of the library to participate! And a Wellin Princess. It was the most cosmopolitan ship in the competition.

And then it won.

Hise lost.

Hise lost the boat race to Arland.

Falon didn’t know what to do with that. He couldn’t figure out what it meant, it was too improbable to have even considered it as a possible conclusion. Falon was so disconcerted, he didn’t even manage to catch Lyon before he retreated back inside after the race. Not that it would probably have worked, but Falon didn’t even manage to try.

He did manage to congratulate the rest of the team however, and he didn’t think he sounded nearly as bewildered as he felt.

On the one hand, it was good that there were delegates with the strength of will and character to actually make things happen.

On the other, he had a feeling he was going to spend the next five weeks wishing he’d been assigned as Chaperone for a less interesting Summit.

Jaslen loved the Matchmaker’s breakfast. The only real chance anyone had to see what of the Matchmaker’s opinions she was willing to let be seen in public, and so close to the one banquet at the Summit that still held so tightly to Katyia’s dreams rather than everyone else’s fears; there was always something to learn about how well the behind-the-scenes maneuvering was going.

Plus the delegates were always so delightfully chaotic, the stresses of the Summit and the anticipation of the remaining weeks only getting worse…

When Jaslen had flitted through the dining hall prior to any of the delegates arriving, she’d thought placing the poor Arland Princess in between the Revaire Prince and that idiot Blain was uncharacteristically cruel of the Matchmaker. She had no patience for incompetence, but she didn’t usually twist the knife after (metaphorically) stabbing some delegate who hadn’t impressed her.

But then breakfast actually happened, and Wilhelmina was fine! Calm and polite even while her seatmates bickered and everyone stared at her; she even smiled at that Earl of hers without appearing at all self-conscious when she escaped after Blain’s unsubtle attack.

It was such a nice surprise. Jaslen might have underestimated the Princess, but she wasn’t wrong about the Matchmaker, and that would have been disturbing, after all these years.

Watching Blain fumble his way through the Summit was excruciating enough for one year, she didn’t need to add an absolute failure in her usually impeccable people skills on top of that.

This really was the best morning. She wished she could be a chaperone for every Summit.

Jasper had been quite honored to realize he was assigned to Princess Wilhelmina of Arland herself. The Princesses were always such lovely guests, dutiful but seldom dull, young and hopeful and exactly the sort of people Katyia had most wanted to help.

He met his Princess and she was a joy to serve. Not just for the Summit or his duty or Arland, but for herself, complete and entire. He wished her well, and he saw her rise to every occasion, and for all he knew he could not take the credit, he was so proud.

But it was tinged with fear, not just for the Summit, or the Isle, and definitely not for Arland, but for her and her countryman, her childhood friend, Yvette's young assistant, Earl Emmett of Arland. He was as kind and dutiful as any Arlish Lord could have ever desired, and every time he smiled Jasper could see the Princess light up, and yet.

And yet.

They were both of Arland, and had been excessively well trained. Earl Emmet had traveled enough to be able to bring home a bride from anywhere and be kind to her in a way she'd understand, and the Princess. Well. The Princesses of Arland always left.

Always.

And then the night of the Matchmaker’s banquet he almost missed it, distracted by everything else that had happened (everything that shouldn’t have happened). He barely made himself settle before the Matchmaker stood, but he managed it just in time, standing quiet in his shadows as she began her announcement.

Which included the love match of Princess Wilhelmina of Arland to Earl Emmet of Arland.

There was an instant of total silence in the Hall, regardless of the number of people, regardless of servants and cutlery and food and conversation, regardless of high ceilings and the usual whispers of acoustics designed specifically to pick up everything so it would be almost impossible to overhear any one thing out of all the rest beyond one’s seatmate.

Arland to Arland.

Jasper’s eyes closed, and he didn’t know if it was joy or shock, horror or hope. He opened them to the much more familiar incoherence of a room full of whispering delegations, not a single person without an opinion on that match.

Arland to Arland.

He let himself smile, just a little, and let himself imagine it, a Summit that celebrated a match like that, Arland to Arland, for love and happiness rather than politics and duty.

Mina was sure she was blushing, but she’d noticed the shock after the Matchmaker’s announcement, heard the whispers a moment later, and she couldn’t quite contain it.

She also couldn’t hold in the lift of outright glee at hearing their names announced like that, one after the other. She had no idea how they were going to make this work, but oh, she didn’t regret a moment of choosing her best friend to be her partner, to be her future, no matter what anyone else thought of it. Not even her parents.

And she knew, every time she saw him, every time she thought of him, every time he smiled, or ducked his head, or pushed his sleeves up his arm as if this time they were going to stay, despite all the evidence to the contrary, that Emmett didn’t regret it either.

They only managed one quick moment before they were sent their separate ways, but she could live through a dozen more Summits, and she’d never forget the brilliance of his smile in that moment. Proof, if she’d needed it, that it was worth every effort over the next four weeks to keep him with her, to keep herself with him, to make it out the other side of this Summit

Together.

#jilly writes #7kpp #wilhelmina of arland #earl emmett of arland #sheltered princess #CHILDHOOD FRIENDS TO BELOVEDS #the most adorable #and the chaperones #I love them #so many of them are terrible at this chaperone concept #and yet #😅

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