#someday SOMEDAY!!! ill get my hands on a copy if it KILLS me

[lucys-pastry-shoppe]

What episodes of BSD would you consider to be your favorites? Are there any specific scenes in them that you really like? :D

Ahh this is gonna be long so I'll just kinda slide in here and answer now- I've seen every English and Japanese release out as of now, as well as most episodes in Spanish and Russian. Can confirm they have picked perfect voice actors no matter which language you watch <3

Season One

Ep. 01 Fortune Is Unpredictable and Mutable

I gotta admit, I knew about BSD long before I started this episode, so this was hardly my introduction to the anime (Looking at pictures of Dazai Osamu online, more like. |D) But most likely like most BSD fans, I've seen this episode hundreds of times. Obsessively. I love the sunset and the moonlight. I hate I mean love Dazai's dumb ass hoppin around with his hands in his pockets like copying Chuuya. (But that gets revealed much later----) and just. This episode reminds me of finally seeing Mr. Suicide moving around for the first time. He was enchantingly stupid. When I watch this episode now, I notice always that it's amateur nature is blaringly loud. It's not even a little bit daunting. It's exactly how it was when I left it and I cry OMG itrdersergsergesrgsergg

Ep. 02 A Certain Bomb

I'm.... gonna be here for a while.

I just love Atsushi in this episode so much. I guess a lot of people have an issue with his character here being too afraidy to be the protagonist, but you know that if he was all Asta strong and brave immediately after being out of the abusive orphanage for the first time ever, that would have been stupid as shit. LOL Also, he threw himself over what he thought was an active bomb. lol Soooooooo (Also I love Junichiro's performance, seeing that soft boi being so harsh and cruel for just a moment- he did great <3 If I could stand Naomi I'd congratulate her, too LOLLLLL)

Ep. 03 Yokohama Gangster Paradise

Ah yes Akutagawa (<- That's all LMAOOO)

Ep. 04 The Tragedy of the Fatalist

This is such a good episode.,,, Atsushi finally is allowed to be alive somewhere, but it threatens the lives of the people who ARE allowing his life to exist. Full Atsushi style he tries to run away. To me, this is neither brave nor cowardly of him. He has such a complex thought process but to me he wasn't "running away from the problem" OR "protecting the Armed Detective Agency". He honestly didn't know what he was doing. And he was hesitant because he was throwing himself in harms way. Idk I just love Complexsushi. XD This is such a cool episode so yeeeeeea (This is also the introduction of the strange ongoing occurrence of Dazai's disappearance whenever something horrible happens, which is for obvious reasons but ye, they never address it)

I'm gonna just list the other S1 episodes I like without giving a list bc my asker hasn't finished S1 yet. brb just gonna bold the best of the best, and add some for the best out of those! <3

S1 E5 · Murder on D Street

S1 E6 · The Azure Messenger

S1 E7 · Love for the Disease Called Ideals

S1 E8 · Teaching Them to Kill; Then to Die

S1 E10 · Rashomon and the Tiger (!!!!!!!!! BIG BIG BIG FAV)

S1 E12 · Borne Back Ceaselessly Into the Past (!!!!!!!!! BIG BIG BIG FAV)

Obviously, two of those favorites are there because they introduce two of the best characters ever made <3

Season two

S2 E1 · The Dark Age (!!!!!!!!! BIG BIG BIG FAV)

S2 E2 · Nowhere to Return

S2 E3 · A Room Where We Can Someday See the Ocean

S2 E4 · Bungo Stray Dogs

S2 E5 · Three Companies Conflict

S2 E6 · The Strategy of Conflict

S2 E8 · Though the Mind May Be Wrong

S2 E9 · Double Black (!!!!!!!!! BIG BIG BIG FAV)

S2 E10 · "Poe and Rampo" and "Moby Dick, Swimming in the Sky"

S2 E11 · Rashoumon, the Tiger, and the Last Emperor

S2 E12 · If I May Shed Away My Burden Now

Season three

S3 E1 · Dazai, Chuuya, Fifteen Years Old (!!!!!!!!! BIG BIG BIG FAV)

S3 E2 · God of Fire (!!!!!!!!! BIG BIG BIG FAV)

S3 E3 · Only a Diamond Can Polish a Diamond (!!!!!!!!! BIG BIG BIG FAV)

S3 E4 · My Ill Deeds Are the Work of God

S3 E7 · Fitzgerald Rising (!!!!!!!!! BIG BIG BIG FAV)

OK BUT NO HOMO (FULL HOMO) THIS IS MY FAVORITE BUNGO STRAY DOGS Episode EVER!!!!!!!! MY BOY FRANCIS IS SO FUCKING CUTE WHAT THE FUCK it's SO cute seeing his be adorable AND totally silly after having him as the main villain until the end of season two. I would marry this episode. <3

S3 E9 · Cannibalism (Part One)

S3 E10 · Cannibalism (Part Two)

S3 E11 · Cannibalism (Part Three)

Season four

S4 E1 · The Lone Swordsman and the Famous Detective

S4 E2 · The Day Is a Dream, The Night Is Real

S4 E3 · The Secret Founding of the Detective Agency

S4 E4 · A Perfect Murder and Murderer (Part 1)

S4 E5 · A Perfect Murderer and Murderer (Part 2)

S4 E6 · Tragic Sunday

S4 E11 · Jailbreak

S4 E12 · Bungo Hound Dogs

S4 E13 · Skyfall

Season five

S5 E1 · The Strongest Man

S5 E2 · The Answer to Everything

S5 E3 · Hero vs Criminal

S5 E4 · Hero War, Gang War

S5 E5 · At the Port in the Sky (Part 1)

That's everything that's aired right now~ <3

Et. Cetera stuff!

Walking Alone OVA

Dead Apple film

BEAST live action film

Welcome to the Hot Springs (Armed Detective Agency) Drama CD

...And whichever future feature shows Fukuchi Ouchi's eventual death. That one was good too. UwU

Bungo Reservoir Dogs Abridged series (It's gone now, though.)

Stormbringer stage play

Obv all manga and light novels <3 HIGH recommend you read the manga on this one, it's far superior to the anime. <3

WAN!

S1 E2 · Let's Go Flower Gazing!; To the Baths!

S1 E3 · Operation Errand Run; Finders Kyouka's; Rampo-san's Day Well Spent

S1 E7 · Bungo Stray Dogs Preschool

S1 E8 · Hang in There, Higuchi-san!; And the Tracks Go On and On; Operation Body Double Nom Nom

S1 E10 · Oden with the White Tiger; Elevator Panic; The Armed Detective Agency Beats the Heat

S1 E11 · The Dark Era

OMG I feel like I attacked you with Bungo Stray Dogs episodes gomen gomen

#bsd #mine #.txt #holy fuck #i am so sorry

[baepsaesbae]

Domestic Bliss: Min Yoongi

Pairing— Min Yoongi x reader  

Genre— Fluff, domestic au

Warnings— mentions of blood (it’s period blood)

Word Count— 954

Summary— Yoongi’s tough guy façade always melts away when he’s with you. This is especially true whenever you’re ill as Yoongi tenderly takes care of you.

A/N—  Hello! May I offer you some soft domestic Yoongi in these trying times? Hope you enjoy! 

Yoongi is very much the embodiment of ‘looks like he can kill you but is an actual cinnamon roll’.

Despite his hardworking nature, he’d drop everything in a heartbeat if you were in trouble.

For example, one day you both went out for a museum date and ice cream. The date was delightful and nothing was out of the ordinary. However, you came down with a sudden fever as soon as you both returned home.

Your fever worsened drastically, creeping its way up to 104 degrees Fahrenheit (40 degrees Celsius). Yoongi was distraught.

Despite wrapping you up in multiple blankets, you couldn’t stop shivering. Yoongi checked up on you as you retreated under the covers only to see steam rise as soon as he uncovered you.

Yoongi gave you medicine and made sure you were hydrating yourself; he refused to leave your side. He managed to curb your fever and watched over you until you dozed off.

That night you had planned to cook soup together, but the idea was thrown out the window for obvious reasons. After making sure your fever was under control, Yoongi scurried off to the kitchen. 

Yoongi woke you up after he finished making the soup with a bowl in hand. He sat you up in bed and attempted to spoon feed you.

“I’m not hungry,” You denied.

“You need to eat. How will your body defend itself? On an empty stomach? I think not,” Yoongi replied, waving a spoonful of food in front of you, “C’mon, say ahhhh.”

“Ahhhhh,” You caved in. How could you refuse such a sweet gesture?

He slowly spoon fed you the rest of the bowl. Tucking you back into a comfortable position, he played with your hair until you fell back asleep.

You woke up completely fine the next morning, minus a small lingering headache. Yoongi was ecstatic with your speedy recovery but was extra gentle with you for the remainder of the day.

That was just one of the many examples of Yoongi’s soft side that he reserves just for you.

Yoongi’s kindhearted nature truly shone after a particularly horrifying incident.

You were spending the night at Yoongi’s place while you were on your period. An abrupt warm gushing feeling jolted you awake and immediately that made your heart sink. You were so startled that you actually fell out of the bed in an attempt to prevent bleeding on Yoongi’s bed.

Your attempt to dodge disaster was futile and actually made it worse. Along with the huge puddle of blood in the middle of the bed, a smeared streak of red traced your every move as you toppled off the side. 

“Mmm...” Yoongi groggily groaned at the commotion.

“Don’t get up! I-I’ll clean everything up! I’m so sorry!” You said in a panic before running into the bathroom.

‘This is so embarrassing, how could I ever face him again?’ you thought. Tears streamed down your face as you cleaned yourself up in the bathroom.

You returned to the bed to assess the mess. It looked like a brutal murder had just occurred with the way blood was splattered across the bed and the floor (from where you landed hard on your ass earlier).

Yoongi was now sitting upright with a shocked look on his face as he too surveyed the crime scene.

“Baby are you okay?!” He asked when he saw your tear stained face.

“I’m fine. God, I’m so sorry Yoongi. I need to wash these sheets ASAP,” You tugged off the sheets from the bed.

“Do you need help?” He got off the bed to help you.

“No, this is my fault. You go back to sleep,” You sniffled as you dragged the sheets into the bathroom.

Yoongi tried to follow you in, but you locked the door.

“I can hear you crying. It’s okay, let me help you,” he pleaded on the other side of the door.

“No, that’s just the tub running,” You lied as you frantically scrubbed off as much blood as you could.

“Ok yes, I hear the tub running. But I also hear you crying. It’s truly okay sweetheart, I’m not mad,” he tried to calm you down.

You finally unlocked the door with the sheets in your arms.

“We need to put these in the washer now,” You said quietly as you cradled the sheets.

You both sat on his bed in silence as the sheets were being washed.

“Are you okay?” Yoongi broke the silence.

“Physically? Yeah. Emotionally? No, I’m so embarrassed,” You hid your face from Yoongi.

“Hey c’mere,” Yoongi pulled you into a tight embrace, “It’s really okay, ___. I promise. Accidents happen. I still love you silly,” he kissed your forehead.

“You don’t think I’m gross?” your question was muffled since your face was still smushed into Yoongi’s chest.

“Of course not,” he laughed, “Either you get your period or we have a child. I’d rather not have a kid right now, and I know you don’t want one either.”

“Excellent point,” you started to cheer up,

“I’ve never bled so badly onto a bed like that before. I’m so sorry,” you apologized again

“This’ll be a funny story to tell someday,” Yoongi rubbed your back.

“Who are we gonna tell? What are we gonna say? ‘Haha funny story, one day ___ accidentally bled all over my bed so much that I thought she died.’” You mocked.

“You left out the part where you fell off the bed,” Yoongi smiled.

“Shut up, my butt still hurts,” you pouted.

“Okay you big baby, let’s go eat something. I don’t think I can go back to sleep even if I wanted to,” Yoongi took you by the hand and kissed your forehead.

Published March 8, 2021. No editing, copying, translating, or reposting allowed. All Rights Reserved © 2021 Baepsaesbae.

#btswritingcafe #bangtanarmynet #btscreatorscorner #bts fluff #min yoongi fluff #kpop fanfic #kpop fluff #bts fanfic #yoongi fic #yoongi fanfic #suga fanfic #suga fic

[amispnrewatch]

SPN 1x06 “Skin”

Okay, I’m gonna try to type while I watch this time instead of forgetting this blog exists until the episode is almost over.

You can tell the footage for the previously on segment was saved on a VHS copy instead of the original film that the show was shot with because even in the HD iTunes version I have it looks low quality as fuck. And jumpy in the way that brings me back to my teens watching the WB all the damn time.

I love this song. WTF is this song. Shazam says “Good Deal” by Mommy and Daddy. I… have no comment, except that it sounds like everything I was listening to in college at the time this shit was airing.

Aaaaand not!Dean turns around to face the SWAT team after obviously torturing some woman. THAT is a cold open.

I wanna know what that car is in the background. It’s pretty. Maybe a convertible Impala? They have similar grills. This is not at all important.

Also, I love that with these higher definition versions of the episodes you can see that Sam’s email is lawboy and whatever dot com and that people in the fandom have started calling him Law Boy. It’s hilarious.

DEAN: Well, what exactly do you tell ‘em? You know, about where you’ve been, what you’ve been doin’?

SAM: I tell ‘em I’m on a road trip with my big brother. I tell ‘em I needed some time off after Jess.

DEAN: Oh, so you lie to ‘em.

SAM: No. I just don’t tell ‘em….everything.

DEAN: Yeah, that’s called lying. I mean, hey, man, I get it, tellin’ the truth is far worse.

SAM: So, what am I supposed to do, just cut everybody out of my life? (DEAN shrugs.) You’re serious?

DEAN: Look, it sucks, but in a job like this, you can’t get close to people, period.

Aaaaand now I have Dean and Cassie feelings again and we haven’t even gotten to her episode yet.

SAM: No, man, I know Zack. He’s no killer.

DEAN: Well, maybe you know Zack as well as he knows you.

Aaaaaand now I have Dean and Lee feelings and we’re nowhere near Lee’s episode in season 15.

YOU JUST BLEW THROUGH A STOP SIGN DEAN WTF.

Little Becky. Oi with the reusing of names.

Of course Sam made friends with a bunch of rich kids while he was at college in a desperate attempt to try to be normal.

SAM: You know, maybe we could see the crime scene. Zack’s house.

DEAN: We could.

REBECCA: Why? I mean, what could you do?

SAM: Well, me, not much. But Dean’s a cop. (DEAN laughs.)

DEAN: Detective, actually.

I love that Dean was like “how dare you call me that.”

Okay, after a bit of research, I totally want to take a day trip to Bisbee, Arizona, but it’s already in the 90s here in the desert and it’s not even May so that trip is going to have to wait until… winter or something. There is no way in hell I’m going deeper into the desert when the weather gets hotter.

It’s a historic mining town tourist trap looking place now which is exactly the kind of shit I love.

SAM: Bec, look, I know Zack didn’t do this. Now, we have to find a way to prove that he’s innocent.

I mean, not technically, technically you would 1) NOT FUCK WITH A MURDER INVESTIGATION YOU’RE NOT LEGALLY INVOLVED IN BECAUSE ANYTHING YOU FIND WOULD BE INADMISSABLE IN COURT 2) find evidence to provide a reasonable doubt for the jury that he did commit the crime. You know, like a lawyer would need to do, Law Boy.

DEAN: I just don’t think this is our kind of problem.

When I made my husband watch this show with me (he’s seen it all at least once now over the years) this is the recurring thing that drove him crazy.

You guys can’t even go in through the back door? Or shut the front door behind you? Really?

REBECCA: (tearfully) Well, there’s no sign of a break-in. They say that Emily let her attacker in.

Yeah, that doesn’t even really mean that she knew her attacker. Just that it was someone she let her guard down around or got in some other way. See: The Son of Sam and Nightstalker, etc.

Love the pinup magnet on the fridge. I’d throw shade at that, but I have a pinup magnet on my fridge too so… pot kettle and all that.

Okay, both people in the next couple are gorgeous.

And oh wow those special effects changing eyes… wow.

This poor couple. I feel so bad for them in this episode.

How… how are the police gonna explain the way he was able to beat himself over the head with a bat??? I…

I love that 5:30 in the morning on TV is clearly like… 10 AM.

Okay, this is a really unrelated point, but the graffiti on the dumpster here reminds me of the Teen Wolf fandoms use of the name Void!Stiles when Stiles Stilinski was possessed by a Nogitsune… I just spent way too long digging through YouTube and my Tumblr tags from back when those episodes were airing looking for a few specific videos and couldn’t find them. The TL;DR reason I bring it up here is goofball, bi-coded main character guy getting possessed by an entity set on destroying the people he loves. SOUNDS LIKE THIS EPISODE AND A WHOLE LOT OF SPN RIGHT. I love that all these monster hunting shows call out to each other.

This scene haunts me years later and I don’t even WATCH Teen Wolf. I just watched the fandom on Tumblr collectively lose it’s shit then tripped down a Hale Pack fanfiction rabbit hole.

ANYWAY

Back to Supernatural, a show that also treated its fan base, cast, and characters like garbage! Huzzah!

DEAN: Well, there’s another way to go—down. (They look down and notice a manhole.)

I’m gonna be mature and ignore the double entendre there…

But I love that Dean thinks of the world in 3D. Which sounds like a dumb statement to make, but this is honestly a good example of that in action.

SAM: I bet this runs right by Zack’s house, too.

Really Sam, sewers run by houses? SO WEIRD. I WOULD HAVE NEVER GUESSED.

DEAN: You know, I just had a sick thought. When the shapeshifter changes shape—maybe it sheds.

SAM: That is sick. (DEAN puts the bloody pile back on the ground.)

Guys, there is a WHOLE ASS EAR in that pile of yuck you’re looking at. I think it’s pretty safe to assume the shapeshifter indeed sheds its skin like a snake. A much… gooier snake.

Sam’s friend is rightfully pissed at him for fucking with the crime scene.

This is before the pearl gripped guns?! Wow. I never noticed that before.

Also, this whole episode gives me feelings.

++++

Cool. Tumblr mobile ate a whole section of my notes on this when it crashed for NO APPARENT REASON. Love that.

It always boggles my mind that actors can trust the people they’re working with enough to let people “tie” ropes around their neck or put them in actually dangerous positions in a scene.

SHAPESHIFTER: He’s sure got issues with you. You got to go to college. He had to stay home. I mean, I had to stay home. With Dad. You don’t think I had dreams of my own? But Dad needed me. Where the hell were you?

SAM: Where is my brother? (The shapeshifter leans in close to SAM.)

SHAPESHIFTER: I am your brother. See, deep down, I’m just jealous. You got friends. You could have a life. Me? I know I’m a freak. And sooner or later, everybody’s gonna leave me. (He backs away.)

SAM: What are you talkin’ about?

SHAPESHIFTER: You left. Hell, I did everything Dad asked me to, and he ditched me, too. No explanation, nothin’, just poof. Left me with your sorry ass. But, still, this life? It’s not without its perks. (He laughs.) I meet the nicest people. Like little Becky. You know, Dean would bang her if he had the chance. Let’s see what happens. (He smiles and covers SAM with a sheet.)

This exchange is just… so much. So many feelings. And I will forever (unless we magically get a fix-it fic mini season someday…) be SO MAD that none of this got resolved in that pointless, trash heap of a finale.

REBECCA: Okay, so, this thing—it can make itself look like anybody?

SHAPESHIFTER: That’s right. (She chuckles.)

REBECCA: Well, what is it, like a genetic freak? (The shapeshifter laughs.)

SHAPESHIFTER: Maybe. Evolution is about mutation, right? So, maybe this thing was born human but was different. Hideous and hated. Until he learned to become someone else. (REBECCA looks around, uncomfortable. The shapeshifter’s eyes glint silver, and he smiles.)

It always amazes me how much of this show is a pile of accidental queer allegories parading around in an ill-fitting toxic masculinity suit.

Vulcan mind meld! I love nerd!Dean. Also, I’m rewatching Star Trek: TOS with my husband, because that is what my life amounts to these days, rewatching comfort TV and flailing over the bits I love.

This post does a better job than I can do of pairing up screen caps with the dialogue of this next scene. SIX EPISODES IN. They’re dumping all of this character depth SIX EPISODES IN. FUCK THIS SHOW FOR NOT EMBRACING ITSELF.

Okay, I love that he screams back in her face after he threw the phone. It’s not something to laugh at because the situation is horrifying, but I can’t help laughing at it every time.

AND THE WAY THEY CUT THESE SCENES. Going from him winding his hand back to backslap her directly to him dropping the chains on the table to show how hard he must have hit her without actually making the actors hit each other. Good job editing department!

I… don’t understand the shifter’s motivation for killing people. If he can take over people’s identities without killing them, why kill them? Is it just because he’s a homicidal, rapist piece of shit? Cause that’s all it seems like.

How did the SWAT team even know she was being attacked? Why can the snipers aim no better than Storm Troopers?

Ugh, these kind of transformation body horror scenes are exactly why werewolf stories have never really appealed to me much. Like, I could do without watching your ribs move and teeth fall out, dude.

BUT.

THIS FUCKING SCENE.

I looked up the song that’s playing over shapeshifter!Dean being caught by the SWAT team and then going through the grotesque transformation. (And as far as I know, the iTunes version has the original music from the episodes.)

It’s a song called “Mary” by The Death Riders

Who's your mother, who's your mother here boy // Who's your mother, whos your mommy dear // Who's your father, who's your father here boy // Who's your father, who's your daddy dear

Silently screaming // Where everyone knows // Daddy's always watchin' // Where everywhere - everywhere I go

I don't wanna be a freak show pretty boy anymore // I don't wanna be a full time slave // I don't wanna be your midnight cowboy anymore // I just want to be Mary

This is… a fascinating choice. Here are the rest of the lyrics. The song as a whole has a weird incesty kinda vibe to it? Kinda like when SPN tries to straight-wash itself and misses the mark wildly. (Like Dean’s male siren episode.)

The midnight cowboy line reminded me of 12x11 and the bull riding scene with “Broomstick Cowboy” by Bobby Goldsboro playing over it

Dream on, little Broomstick Cowboy, // Dream while you can; // Of big green frogs, // And puppy dogs, // And castles in the sand.

For, all too soon you'll awaken; // Your toys will all be gone. // Your broomstick horse will ride away, // To find another home. // And you'll have grown into a man, // With cowboys of your own. // And then you'll have to go to war, // To try and save your home.

And then you'll have to learn to hate; // You'll have to learn to kill. // It's always been that way, my son; // I guess it always will.

Because, you know, why not add tons of feelings into the lyrics, right?

Props to the people who can embrace their rewatches and reclamations of the show with ease. Because every episode seems to remind me of how hollow and tragic Dean’s ending was and I just… struggle all over again.

Anyway, back to the episode so I can move on with my day.

REPORTER: An anonymous tip led police to a home in the Central West End, where a S.W.A.T team discovered a local woman bound and gagged. Her attacker, a white male, approximately twenty-four to thirty years of age, was discovered hiding in her home. (A sketch of DEAN appears on the screen.)

DEAN: Man! That’s not even a good picture. (SAM looks around cautiously.)

SAM: It’s good enough. (He walks away.)

DEAN: Man! (He follows SAM.)

(CUT TO: Alley. DEAN and SAM are walking. DEAN steps into a puddle.)

DEAN: Ugh, come on.

I love that we get two tiny little back-to-back vanity moments for Dean here. One commenting on the sketch artist rendition of him being broadcasted on the news and the other tripping in the puddle. There is literally someone running around the city trying to kill people while wearing Dean’s face, but Dean is still concerned with how he looks appears to others. He’s still concerned with keeping up his own performance. The shifter left him with just a t-shirt, so he doesn’t even have his usual comfort layers on and at any moment someone could spot him and call the police or try to kill him for assaulting Sam’s friend. His life is wildly out of control in that moment and the only thing he can try to focus on is his appearance (something semi-controllable) and finding the shifter before any of that other shit can happen.

One day I want to put together a like top 10 episodes focusing on / explaining each TFW character from the series. Like the kind of list you could show someone who’s never seen the show, but has OPINIONS about the characters (or who hasn’t seen the whole show and seen the growth they went through… you know, like the people responsible for the travesty of 15x20). This episode would be on that list. I’m not sure how I could manage to make a list of only 10 episodes to understand Dean Winchester by, but eh.

SAM: What are you gonna do to me?

SHAPESHIFTER: Oh, I’m not gonna do anything. Dean will, though.

SAM: They’ll never catch him.

SHAPESHIFTER: Oh, doesn’t matter. Murder in the first of his own brother? He’ll be hunted the rest of his life. (He picks up a sharp knife and examines it.)

Speaking of season 15 in general, this right here. This was Chuck’s villain story arc thesis statement. AND THEY DROPPED THE GODDAMN BALL WITH IT. I think that’s the thing that honestly pisses me off the most these days (about 5 1/2 months from when the finale aired) is that they tried making the whole thing a tragedy but did such an awful job with it that it just ended up like a deflating condom balloon at a dive bar concert. Disappointing and gross. The finale for season 14 set them up SO FUCKING WELL and it just… didn’t get there.

Becky’s parents are gonna be pissed at how torn up their house is after all this shit…

And you’re not shooting him when you first see him strangling Sam because…?????

I like that he took the necklace back. Also, is this kinda Dean death number .5 of the show? Like it wasn’t him but it was also kinda him. Eh.

At least they left the windshield on Baby this time. Reflections are better than tearing her apart.

#SPN 1x06 #amispnrewatch #reclaiming spn #performing!dean #lawboy #bi!dean #dean x cassie #dean x lee #stiles stilinski #void!stiles #teen wolf #dean deserved better

[lazyevaluationranch]

I was wondering if you would be willing to share the titles of your resilience-inspiring lesbian farm books? My google search led me to a book titled “Attack of the Lesbian Farmers” which, while certainly inspiring, is not exactly what I was looking for.

Here are two very different books in the Farm Lesbians Write Honestly About What Went Wrong And How They Got Through It genre. Hopefully at least one is to your taste.

It's nearly fifty years old now, and can be hard to find, but Country Women: A Handbook for the New Farmer is deeply important to me. Country Women was a black and white xeroxed magazine written by a collective of woman-run farms in California in the 1960s. (There are some issues scanned at the Lesbian Poetry Archive). Each issue was half articles about feminism and half articles about small-scale farming. In the 1970s, the how-to articles on farming were expanded and organized to make the book, along with some scattered journal entries, lovely hippie-style line drawings and poetry about wood splitting, bees, and gazing at one's beloved while fixing the tractor on a summer day. The contributors have names like Jean and Ruth Mountaingrove, Ellen Chanterelle, and Sam♀ Thomas. 

It's written in an informal and pragmatic style, mostly organic hippie farming, but using pesticides or conventional medications when necessary.

This afternoon the Anderson brothers began teaching me how to graft fruit trees - the careful joining of life with life. Even more than I loved gaining a new skill, I loved learning from two old men who have so very much to teach me. I admire the audacity of eighty-three-year-old men setting grafts that will not bear fruit for years: the total involvement in a process they love. Those trees will stand and live; I doubt whether Jake or Fred even stop to wonder if they'll pick the fruit. I want to live my life with that kind of harmony and purpose. I want to be planting seeds the day I die.

The first lamb was born today. Premature and dead. Olivia, the mother, seems to be all right though. I had a dream a few weeks ago that the lambs were born tiny (like mice) and pink. And that I struggled to save them, but they were too small to feed. The lamb today was small and pink, its fleece plastered against its body, thin and sparse. For a moment it was nightmareishly like my dream... This is my first animal death. The beginning of a long cycle. It seems even harder to have death come before life, than to have an old one die giving birth. Hopes for the future stillborn.

Driving home today, I suddenly realized that this really is going to be a sheep ranch, that I have done, and am doing, and will do it. That I'm making my livelihood from the land. The canyon is fenced now. There are  sheep out there on pastures that were open hillsides two years ago. 

The very act of building this place, the simple actions of tamping dirt, stretching wire, dumping hay in feeders, has profoundly changed my sense of self. I'm doing things I never dreamed I could do, and I'm doing them easily without even considering whether I really can. Last night I was talking with Susan about fencing the front meadow for feeder calves, and I realized that I could say that realistically, no fantasizing, no bragging: I can fence the front meadow as soon as I get done with the hay barn and get a little more money.

Like almost every other farmer in America today, I'm in debt and hoping for a good season. I'm only at the beginning now, and I know there are many struggles to come and overcome and come again: Someday I too, like my neighbours, will be counting carcasses killed by a marauding dog or watching the spring oats be wash away in an "unheard of" late storm. No matter how prepared I am, there us always that vulnerability - to the weather, other animals, disease - that seems to strike when things are finally going smoothly. But inside me there is also this incredible joy: This life is real and good, and it has made me strong and real and good too. 

I gotta stop or I'll type the whole book into this post. One more: 

My father is here this week ... working on the truck whose engine has been alien to me. I am learning now what I could have learned at 7, 11, 15. Beneath my truck, side by side, lie his seven-year-old son and his twenty-five-year-old daughter, both of us learning for the first time how bearings fit together, how to remove pistons. And here beneath this truck the patriarchy stops: he has passed his knowledge to his daughter, and from me  it will pass to sisters, from sister to sister to sister. 

That's this book. The things women weren't supposed to know in the sixties. They found people to teach them; they taught each other; they learned through bitter loss. The book says: we have gone before you and you are not alone. Here is what we have learned, and here is how we have learned it. We have failed, and we have wept, and we have gotten up and gone on, and it was alright. Here is the fire, passed from hand to hand to hand. Here is the light that will never be put out. 

The week after we first got goats, we received a package in the mail from my coolest relative, a veterinarian who was the first woman to graduate with a specialization in large animal medicine at her school. People thought that women just weren't physically capable of handling large animals. (Hint: the bull weights 1100 kilograms. It doesn't much matter if the veterinarian weighs 50 kilograms or 150 kilograms.) I remember staying with her a child, in summer, laying on the stainless steel operating table in the barn; it always felt cool when the heat was unbearable.

The package, of course, contained Country Women. An old well-loved copy, with notes on long-ago calving dates penciled in the margins, and random scraps of paper with sketches of possible gardens and goat sheds as bookmarks.  A light passed from hand to hand, a light that will not go out. It was like receiving a video game quest artifact.

Country Women is rooted in second wave feminism, which is not everyone's cup of tea. For something more modern and story-focussed, consider Hit By A Farm or Sheepish by Catherine Friend. These are collections of short, funny autobiographical essays about farming and relationships. Their tone is honest and wry, self-deprecating. You can see Catherine Friend's blog here and decide if you like her writing style. She wanted to call Hit By A Farm "Sheep Sex and Other Disasters" but her editor didn't think it would sell. 

In Hit By A Farm, Catherine - a professional writer - goes along with her partner Melissa's lifelong desire to ranch sheep, and describes the results from the perspective of the slightly reluctant farmer's wife as they start a farm in Minnesota.  Sheepish is written fifteen years later, when they're thinking about quitting the farm, after all the shiny newness of farming and the relationship has worn off. There are different mistakes then, different sorrows, and new joys. 

From Sheepish: 

We rarely pay attention to middles. Perhaps we ignore them because they're problematic. The middles of our beds often sag. The middles of our bodies sag. The middle of a long story told by your brother-in-law is likely to sag, and so you'll need another beer to stay focused. Everyone needs a reason to keep going when they're in the middle. 

And:

Don't expect a farm to fix your life, for once the romance dims, you must still muck out the barn and stack hay bales and give that sick goat an enema...Although there are tons of stories about starting something new, there just aren't that many about how to keep doing something, about how to slog through the middle when the going gets tough.

The quotes are all from Sheepish; I can't find our copy of Hit By A Farm:

My spinning wheel continues to torture and confound me. I realize I'm not interested enough in the craft to really commit to learning it. After a few more tries, I tuck the wheel into a corner of our living room and turn it into what Melissa likes to call a Dust Accumulation Research Project. Clearly our wool market will continue to be the wildly unlucrative wholesale warehouse.

The patron saint of spinners is, interestingly enough, Saint Catherine. She was a Christian martyr in Alexandria. In 307 AD, she was condemned to be torn apart by the spokes of the wheel.

Well. No wonder.

Spoiler: things get pretty rough, there’s illness and hard winters and financial issues, but they do not, in fact, give up the farm or each other. 

The book says: We made it. You will too.

#the-revolution-will-be-feminized

[elytrafemme]

hi mare! hope you're doin well! i genuinely had no idea that today was tuesday, i literally woke up this morning and realized i didn't know what day it was (though i decided to not try and figure it out). that being said, it was quite nice to find out that it was a cough syrup tuesday.

okay first off, title for this chapter? fucking immaculate, i saw it and got so excited you have no idea. i just really like the song, it's on my cranboo playlist

starting off the chapter with dream and my thoughts reading that short bit of text are just "fuck you fuck you i hope you die you piece of shit bastard" and honestly i feel like that means you've absolutely done a great job with making cs!dream accurately terrible and bad! /pos im looking forward to seeing where this all goes (but i also want him to be killed :D )

the conversation about religion was so so interesting. growing up agnostic its always fascinating to me how different writers have their characters talk about religion and their beliefs, especially if they have contrasting perspectives and ideas. its something i dont think i'll ever get tired of hearing about, and the respective takes on religion for their characters i think are really fitting.

yooooooo cs!bench playing wii sports finally????? holy shit im so excited for that

also i love the way you write tommy its just so accurate and i smile every time he comes up cause like. that's one of my boys <3 hes fucked up and annoying and way too loud but he's also sort of endearing and cares so much for people. i love him dearly

"Ranboo wonders, idly, if Tubbo will ever become the sky to him, someday."

this line. irl i literally covered my mouth with my hand, fully turned off my phone screen, and laid down on my bed with my face in my hands. like genuinely had to take a moment to process. anyway i'm writing this as i read the fic and as of right now it's my favorite line and i know that there are so many other good ones but just for the sheer effect this had on my current emotional state (/pos dw) i'm calling it my favorite

"His eyes catch the moon, and, for the strangest reason, he feels a twinge of sadness in him. There's something about the moon when it's in crescent- waning today, he believes- that reminds him of memories he can't capture. A sense of absent longing, some kind of attachment to the crescent moon. He wishes he could remember more. He wishes the pieces he has of his childhood weren't fickle, and weren't simple things like playing piano, or stargazing, or having blackberries."

okay so right after that line i just said was my favorite you went ahead and wrote a whole paragraph that i deeply resonate with. what the fuck dude i literally cannot keep reading these chapters and going "oh this is my favorite line/scene!" and then proceed to copy and paste close to the entirety of the goddamn chapter into my little notes here. i simply cannot. but honestly i think its just going to keep happening anyway.

"Is it worth sacrificing his own memory to be loved?"

FUCKKK ohmt god ohh my god jsgfsddfdds

their little stargazing call :(( i care about them so much

manifesting more stargazing content <- this wont work but one can dream

"But Tubbo still listens. He may not understand, but he listens.

And Ranboo would like to believe that's enough."

!!!!!!!!!!!! FNFGFDFHDFGDGFGGFJK

i think there's something about reading this fic with each chapter update that makes me exhibit mentally ill behavior but i genuinely think that that just means its a really great fic

i really loved this chapter, i think its probably my favorite so far. i think i say that often but i honestly cant remember. i just really enjoy your characterization of ranboo in this. i feel like the more i learn about him the more i learn about myself if that makes sense? the way that you talk about how he feels about the world and his existence in it is something that i can never put words to for myself, but i often discover that i'm able to find those words after a little bit of thinking when i read his (or even sometimes tubbo's) perspective. its a funny thing, figuring out how to talk about your own thoughts through other people's interpretations of fictional characters. it all just seems kinda silly, y'know? i think it's just that it can be easier seeing someone else come up with the words for the things you're trying to describe for yourself sometimes. written media has always been my favorite for that reason.

the imagery was beautiful too, i really enjoyed it. i always enjoy everything about your writing honestly, but i know you're fully aware of that. you're just very good at what you do, you know?

anyway i'm looking forward to the next chapter! i know you said that the release of this chapter means we're really gearing up for the main plot and everything now and that's super exciting!

take care of yourself, and i hope you have a good day/night whenever you get around to reading this <3

HI LIV :]

it's SUCH a good song!!! reminds me of nina cos apologies from the intercom but yeah! i had it on loop during the last scene of the chapter, and i had already planned to use it for a later chapter but decided i should swap it to be this chapter. whether this was a good decision or not is pending but regardless its SUCH a good song :D

HELP CS!DREAM SUCKS SO BAD FR...

YEAH! people seemed to really like the discussion of religion in the chapter and it's been really interesting to hear what people have said about it! i'm a religious person myself (though me and religion have a complicated history) but i absolutely love writing about people's perspective on religion, i like seeing how everyone's worldviews meet and collide and everything

YES I'M SO EXCITED... Wii Sports Resort my fucking ADORED

god i love writing cs!tommy so much. SO much. he's just such a genuinely good guy and he's so earnest and he just wants to be okay. i love him so bad i'm so glad people like him

i love seeing what lines are your favorites :D there's going to be a lot more of this celestial imagery, i'm obsessed with it and i'm so glad that you like it :] your compliments make me grin lots

i can't remember if i told u this or not but cmon liv look at me. consider everything u know about me. i'm not ending this fic without at least two more stargazing scenes PROMISE.

"i think there's something about reading this fic with each chapter update that makes me exhibit mentally ill behavior" this is one of the funniest fucking things anyone has ever said about cough syrup thank you for this

augh liv you're the sweetest thank you so much, i'm glad you can see yourself in cs!ranboo :] he's such a nice character to write because there's so much about himself he's trying to piece together and discover and that makes such a messy process (a very messy process jesus christ writing it is a whole hell of a ride) but what i hope to be a very realistic one? he's just. i care about him a lot and it means a lot that people like him, he's just my guy :] i'm so so happy you liked the chapter liv, hope you have a wonderful morning whenever you wake up and see this (ik its pretty early for u rn)

#nightmare.ask #liv tag <3 #nightmare.fave #cough syrup spoilers

[let-the-dream-begin]

A Place to Belong Chapter 31: Patchwork

Chapter 30

Read on AO3

January 27, 1750

Moonlight and the fire were the only things illuminating Brianna’s sleeping face as Claire rocked her gently in their usual nighttime chair in their bedroom. She had just finished tucking her in when there was a little knock on the door. She pulled a shawl over her shoulders and tiptoed to the door, expecting a hungry little Maggie to greet her. Instead, wee Jamie was looking up at her with those big doe eyes, his cheeks stained with tears.

“Jamie?” Claire said. “What’s the matter, darling?” She crouched down before him, feeling his head. “Do you feel ill? Is it your tummy?”

He sniffled, shaking his head. “My heart hurts, Auntie.”

Claire’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean, sweetheart?” She held onto his shoulder and pushed back some of his hair.

Fresh tears trickled down his ruddy cheeks, and he sniffled loudly.

“Did I kill the bairn, Auntie?”

Realization hit her like a ton of bricks, and her eyes immediately swam with tears.

“Jamie…Come here…” Claire wrapped her arms around him and held him tightly. He quietly blubbered into her shawl, and she rocked him gently in the doorway.

“It’s alright, darling…I’m here…” She swallowed thickly and blinked back her own tears. “Come on, let’s sit down. It’s alright.” She released him to take his hand, and shut the door behind them. She led him to the hearth and pulled him into her lap in the armchair, as she’d done every night with Brianna. He curled into her reflexively, resting his head in the crook of her neck.

“You didn’t hurt the baby, Jamie,” Claire said softly, stroking his head and rubbing his back.

“But I made the Redcoat angry. And Mam had the bairn because the Redcoat hit me.”

“Your mother had the baby because she was ready to come out,” Claire said, deciding to not explain stress-induced labor to an eight year old boy. “Little Caitlin was very, very sick, even before she came out. And that has nothing to do with what happened with the Redcoats. Do you understand?”

He hesitated a bit before he nodded against her.

“Da and Mam hate me.”

“What?” Claire adjusted him in her lap so she could look into his eyes. “Your parents do not hate you, Jamie. They could never, ever hate you.”

“But Da doesna play wi’ me anymore, and Ma doesna sing anymore. They’re mad because I hurt the bairn.”

“No, no, darling. You’ve got it all wrong.” Claire used the edge of her shawl to wipe his face clean of tears. “It’s like I said, you did not hurt the baby, and your mother and father know that. They don’t blame you, not at all. They’re just…” Her voice broke, and she swallowed and wet her lips. “They’re just very sad, sweetheart. Because they miss little Caitlin so much. When people are sad, it…it takes a long time for them to…to do the things they used to do before they were sad.” She sniffled quickly, wiping her own eyes. 

She knew too damn well what she was talking about.

“Your Da wants to play with you, and your Ma wants to sing to you. But it’s just…very hard for them. Because their…their hearts hurt, Jamie. Like yours.” I poked gently at his chest, and then placed a hand over her own heart. “My heart hurts too, love. For Caitlin, for your Uncle Jamie. When I lost your Uncle, I thought my heart would hurt forever, and I thought I’d never want to sing again.” She knew there were tears falling out of her eyes in earnest now, but she was powerless to stop it.

“But slowly, with time, the pain became easier to bear, and all of a sudden, I wanted to sing again.” She stroked his hair again, running her hand down his face to caress his cheek. “Your Da and Ma will be better again, someday. But even now, they still love you. So, very much. Do you understand?”

He nodded, sniffling again.

“Good lad.” She kissed his forehead. “You’re very, very brave, Jamie. Did you know that?”

He shrugged and averted his gaze.

“D’ye…d’ye want to sing now, Auntie Claire?”

Claire’s heart constricted in her chest. “Do you want me to sing to you, darling?”

He nodded, and then curled himself back into her, not at all different from the way his baby cousin did. Claire decided on a lilting French lullaby, rocking him gently as she sang. She waited for his breathing to become heavy and even before she allowed herself to weep quietly, stifling her tears in her shawl.

This poor, dear boy.

How long had he carried this guilt? How long had he felt like he couldn’t share it with anyone?

God, how she loved him. How she loved them all.

Claire debated not getting up at all, but eventually decided to try her hand at maneuvering her grip on him to get him into her bed. He only stirred a bit as she moved him, and he was out cold again by the time she pulled the blankets up to his chin. She nestled herself in between the two little ones and kissed both of their heads before falling asleep herself.

The next morning after breakfast, Claire pulled Ian aside and told him what had transpired the night before. The pain in his eyes upon hearing what Jamie had said to Claire was indescribable. He pulled her into his arms, hugging her perhaps tighter than he ever had.

“Thank ye fer giving him comfort, Claire. When I couldna.”

Ian brought his son outside to talk to him shortly after, presumably for a heart-to-heart that was a long time coming. Jenny was none the wiser, and Claire kept it that way. She was burdened with enough guilt; she didn’t need Jamie’s anguish added to the list.

And slowly, so very slowly, the family rebuilt, stitching together the fraying pieces of each other’s grief like a patchwork of hearts.

Gradually, they healed.

——

March 1750

A loud clap of thunder tore through the air, sudden and startling enough to cause Claire to drop her knitting needles. All three little girls on the rug gave shriek, and little Michael and Janet stiffened with shock, quickly bursting into tears, their red faces screwed up comically.

“Och, dinna fash, Michael,” Maggie crooned, gathering her baby brother into her lap as expertly as a mother of three. Claire could tell she was still nervous at the loud noise, but she was channeling that energy into comforting her little brother.

“Kitty,” Maggie chided as she rocked Michael. “Hold Janet, like I’m holdin’ Michael.”

Michael was still weeping, but had considerably calmed, while Janet was still openly wailing.

“Dinna want tae!” Kitty blurted directly into Maggie’s face, causing Michael to cry out again, and Janet to wail all the harder. Brianna tossed her head back in a ruthless giggle.

“Och, that’s enough ye wee devils,” Jenny tutted, setting aside her knitting to join them on the rug and gather Janet up herself. “When are ye going tae learn to be a good sister, Katherine? If ye keep makin’ the weans jump, they’ll grow to hate ye someday.”

Kitty just laughed again, echoed by Brianna.

“I want them to hate me!” she exclaimed, standing up and pulling Brianna off the floor as well.

“What a thing to say!” Jenny exclaimed, aghast at her daughter’s tongue.

“I’m bored, Mam,” Kitty ignored her, going on. “I dinna want tae sit in the house like a bairn.” She gestured emphatically at the whimpering toddlers in Jenny’s and Maggie’s arms. Apparently four years old was no longer a bairn in Katherine’s eyes, and recently having turned four was getting to her head.

“Well it’s storming something fierce outside. If ye’d like the wind tae carry ye away into the sky, ne’er to be seen again, be my guest,” Jenny quipped, kissing Janet’s head and stroking her cheek.

“Really, Mam?” Kitty’s eyes lit up, and Claire had to bite her lip to stifle laughter. She made eye contact with Ian, who was sitting at the hearth, showing wee Jamie how to carve wood. Ian, too, was desperately trying to hide his amusement at the absurdity that was his daughter.

“Come on, Banna! Let’s fly on the wind like faeries!” Kitty seized Brianna’s hand and dragged her roughly behind her, causing her to shriek with giggles.

“Faeries!” Brianna repeated enthusiastically.

“Oh, no you don’t!” Claire interjected, quickly throwing her knitting aside to stop the little heathens from marching right out the door. “You’ll catch your death from the cold, wet rain.” Claire caught both of their little arms in the hallway.

“Ye’ll heal me, Auntie. Dinna fash.” Kitty tugged against her grip, and Brianna copied, even repeating: “Dinna fash, Mummy.”

Soon, they were both grunting with the effort of breaking free of Claire, clearly not getting very far.

Claire opened her mouth to chastise them, but another loud thunder clap suddenly sounded, causing them both to squeal and stop pulling away, burying their little bodies in her skirt. Claire laughed softly, shaking her head.

“Still want to go outside?”

“Aye, Mummy,” Brianna said dubiously, her resolve having weakened considerably.

“Fergus and Rabbie are outside,” Kitty said stubbornly, despite the obvious fear still lingering in her blue eyes.

“They’re in the barn, silly girl,” Claire corrected.

“We’ll go in the barn. Right, Banna?” Brianna nodded.

“And get underfoot of the lads? I don’t think so.” Claire started ushering them back into the parlor, and they did not much attempt to fight her.

“Why do they get tae go outside when it storms?” Kitty complained.

“Because they’re big lads now, Kitty.”

“Da’s a big lad,” Kitty quipped. “Da’s inside wi’ the bairns.”

“That’s ’cause yer auld Da will lose his footing in the mud,” Ian interjected, patting his pegleg knowingly. “Come here to me, ye wild wee heathen.”

Kitty bounded over to him and scrambled into his lap, and Ian handed his block of wood and carving knife over to wee Jamie.

“Can ye teach me, Da?” Kitty said, pointedly staring at Jamie and the carving tools. Claire settled onto the rug with Brianna in her lap, joining the circle that Jenny and Maggie had started with the little ones.

“No, he canna," Jenny interjected quickly. "I'll no' have ye losing any fingers."

"Auntie will heal me!" Kitty said for the second time that day, sounding exasperated that nobody seemed to agree with her that it was as simple as that.

"Ye're too wee, Caitríona," Ian crooned.

"Because I'm a lass?" she challenged, jutting her chin up. A wide grin spread over Claire's face. Her own little voice echoed in her memory, an ingrained response for when she was advised against — or strictly forbidden from — doing something she felt she should be allowed to do.

"Because I'm a girl, Uncle?”

“Och, ’course no’,” Ian said. “I’ll no’ be coddlin’ ye because ye’re a lass, Kitty.” Jenny fired a look at him, and he just winked in return. “Ye can carve as much wood as any lad, but no’ today. Yer wee fingers need to grow a bit first, aye?”

Kitty pouted dramatically, crossing her arms with a loud huff. Janet and Michael began squirming; it was about time for their feeding and their nap, but there wasn’t any chance of them sleeping with the howling wind and the clapping thunder.

“I have an idea,” Claire suddenly piped up. “Why don’t we play a game?”

“A game, Auntie?” Maggie said, her soft voice pitched higher with excitement.

“Yes, a game we can play inside the house. No need to get all wet or carried away by the wind.” Claire tickled Brianna’s side, and she giggled, nuzzling into her breast affectionately.

Jenny threw Claire a look that could only be described as: God bless you. She departed shortly after with Janet, then returned with Mrs. Crook, who took Michael from Maggie. They disappeared upstairs together, presumably to get them fed and put down for at least an attempt at a nap.

“Alright, if you want to play, you must join me on the rug in a circle, and listen to the rules,” Claire commanded, gently pushing Brianna out of her lap. Claire got up on her knees, sitting back on her heels. Jamie looked to his father for approval, and he nodded, and the little boy scrambled to the rug, nestling between Maggie and Brianna. Claire made a big show about starting to talk, but then stopped, letting her eyes fall on Kitty.

“Kitty! Don’t you want to play?” Claire said, aghast.

She shook her head. “Games are for bairns, Auntie.”

“Ye are a bairn!” Jamie shot back, an edge of blatant annoyance to his voice.

“Am no’, clotheid!” Kitty shouted.

“Oi!” Ian cut in, clamping a hand on Kitty’s shoulder. “Ye’ll no’ speak to yer brother that way. Like it or no’, ye’re still a wee lass. And ye can either sit here and be a grump wi’ yer auld man, or ye can have fun wi’ yer Auntie and yer sister and yer cousin. And yer brother, clotheid that he is.” He whispered that final bit into her temple, coaxing the tiniest of smiles from her stubborn little face.

“C’mon, Kitty,” Brianna said, her diamond eyes wide with pleading, her little lips downturned in a begging pout. “Wan’ you play.”

Kitty looked at Brianna, then back at Ian. Ian whispered something softly in Gaelic, and another grin broke out over her face before she slid off his lap and plopped to her knees next to Brianna.

“Alright!” Claire said, pitching her voice higher for the children’s sakes. “This game is called hide-and-seek.”

“How d’ye play?” Jamie blurted.

“If you’ll be patient,” she playfully poked his nose. “I’ll tell you.”

Claire proceeded to enlighten them on the rules of this coveted childhood game, their eyes wide with wonder. She was occasionally interrupted by another clap of thunder, or a particularly loud gust of wind, but the children didn’t seem all that bothered, too engrossed in the new game.

“We can hide anywhere we want?” Jamie said.

“Anywhere inside,” Claire said emphatically, looking directly at Kitty, then Brianna. “If you leave the house, you lose the game. And your mother will punish you.”

They all stiffened, nodding in understanding. Apparently one of those statements was far more weighty than the other.

“Alright. I will count first, all the way to twenty.” Claire stood up and tapped the empty chair by the hearth. “This is where we’ll go to count. Home base. Alright?”

Ian’s eyes were sparkling with affection from the other chair, a calm, peaceful smile having settled over his features.

“You have to close your eyes too, Ian,” Claire said, hands on her hips. “Can’t have you cheating and telling me where the children hid.”

“Aye, Da! Close yer eyes!”

“No cheating, Da!”

“Alright, alright,” Ian acquiesced, folding his hands and closing his eyes.

“Good! Now, are we ready?”

“Aye, Auntie!”

“Yes, Mummy!”

Her ears were assaulted with a cacophony of excitement, and Claire could not help but laugh.

“Alright! I’m closing my eyes…” She dramatically brought her hands to her eyes, and the four children squealed. “One…two…three…”

“Come on, Banna!” Claire heard Kitty hiss, and there was a great bustling of little feet.

They each giggled like mad when Claire found them, hiding in trunks, wardrobes, under beds, behind curtains or tapestry. Kitty and Brianna were always found stuffed in the same hiding places, hands clasped together and eyes squeezed shut. They played several rounds for almost an hour, the house full with pitter-pattering, squealing laughter, and not-so-quiet whispers. Ian helped the smaller ones count, Brianna especially never having counted so high. There was even a point where Ian gave up his carving and joined in, much to the excitement of all the children.

It hit Claire halfway through Ian’s second round: This was the first time he was playing with the children again, the way he did before Caitlin.

It’ll be alright, little darlings. Da is playing again, and maybe your mother will sing again soon.

——

April 16, 1750

Claire, Fergus, and Brianna were sitting on a blanket for their second annual picnic with Jamie. This year, Brianna’s vocabulary had vastly expanded, and she babbled on and on to the gravestone, most of it hardly understood by either Claire or Fergus. She proudly showed off her lamb again, describing all of the games they liked to play together, all of the things she did with Kitty and her other cousins. She eventually became restless, and Fergus took the cue.

“Alright, ma petit, time to go,” he said, putting a hand on the stone. “Say goodbye.”

“Bye, Da.” She blew a kiss at the stone as she had last time. Fergus stooped to kiss Claire’s cheek before erupting with a ridiculous growl to chase Brianna with. She squealed and scampered out of the graveyard, laughing her little head off. Claire turned around and watched them go, her heart warming as she watched her boy, not at all so little anymore, chase after his baby sister.

When they disappeared from view, their laughter still echoing through the fields, Claire turned back to the stone.

“Hello, love,” she said softly, resting a hand on the stone. “Somehow, I…” She sighed with a shudder, quickly swiping at her tears. “I feel weaker today than I did last year.”

“Christ, I don’t have any right to be so shaken by this, do I? I didn’t carry her for months and hold her as she lay dying…” Her voice broke. “But I suppose I know what that’s like.” She was crying in earnest now, her body trembling. “It’s so fucking unfair, Jamie. Hasn’t this family suffered enough…? It feels like…God, it feels like I’m the only one that can’t move past this. Your sister…she’s so strong, Jamie. She’s stronger than I’ll ever be. She’s…handling this all so much better than I could have hoped she would. So it makes no fucking sense that I’m so…”

She stopped herself in frustration.

Broken.

She wept quietly for a few minutes, unable to muster any more words, her hands aching to fist his shirt in her hands, her body pulsing with the need to be held by him.

“I just…I feel like I was holding it together, you know? Before I…I saw another baby buried.” She wiped her eyes again, finally catching her breath. “Now everything hurts again as terribly as it did after I lost you, after I lost Faith. I finally learned to live without her, without you…and then I had to hold my dying goddaughter in my arms.”

“Most of the time, I already know what you’d say. I can hear it in my head. But right now…I don’t know what you’d say, Jamie. I don’t know how you’d handle watching your family starve, watching your sister lose her child. I just…I don’t know.”

As she often found herself doing, Claire took hold of the rosary, squeezing it into her palm as if trying to permanently imprint God’s grace into her skin.

“But,” she said, lightly stroking the top of the stone with her free hand. “I do know a few things. I know that our daughter loves me, and needs me. I know that our son loves me, though he doesn’t need me as much as he used to.” She smiled a tiny bit for the first time in several minutes. “I know that all of our nieces and nephews love me, and they need me in a different way than they need their mother and father. And I know that Jenny and Ian love me and need me, too. Especially now.”

“I pretended long enough to believe it last time, so I can do it again, I suppose. As always, I’ll carry on, Jamie. Even though people starve and beautiful children pass away…there’s nothing else to do.”

She bent and pressed a kiss to the stone, gently returning the rosary to its proper place.

“Keep them close, my love,” she whispered. “Both of those little angels.”

#outlander #outlander fanfic #outlander fanfiction #claire fraser #jamie fraser #brianna randall #brianna fraser #ian murray #jenny murray

[wanderinginksplot]

Something with hondo and aurra?

Ahh! My first request! Thank you so much! It got away from me a little bit, but here’s a fic about the first time Hondo and Aurra met - and why Aurra has even less of a moral code than most bounty hunters.

The Meeting

The room was quiet, tense, but Hondo was having a wonderful time. He was sitting comfortably at the table, across from Jango Fett and his apprentice Zam Wesell. Despite the unease hanging in the air - a common feeling when more than one bounty hunter was gathering in one area - Hondo had already drained one cup of highly-intoxicating brew and was working his way through another. Rather than risk boredom, Hondo decided to make conversation with his silent companions.

“And how are you enjoying your apprenticeship, young one?” Hondo asked politely. He was always polite - except when he was rude. His dear mother had always taught him that manners were the mark of someone in complete charge of a situation, which Hondo always was.

“I’m learning a great deal,” Zam Wesell said after glancing at the fully-armored Jango Fett for approval to answer.

Well, there was not much he could say to that, but never let it be said that Hondo Ohnaka let silence live unbroken!

“How is the job going, Jango?” he asked instead, draining his second cup.

Fett shrugged. “I let them take bio samples and they deposit credits into my account. Easiest job I’ve ever taken.”

That did sound simple. Hondo was filled with jealousy, though he took care to keep it from his expression. A face as handsome as his shouldn’t be marred with such an unsightful emotion.

“Ah, but I’ve heard you have been taking other jobs as well,” he said, wagging a finger at Fett. “The word around the Outer Rim is that you’ve been a busy man.”

“Always good to keep your skills sharp,” Fett said evasively. “No job lasts forever.”

“True, too true!” Hondo agreed loudly. “Keep that in mind, young Wesell! The best bounty hunters-”

“The best bounty hunters don’t take advice from pirates,” Fett finished, speaking over Hondo. Wesell nodded as if this were the best advice she had ever received. Hondo, on the other hand, was insulted.

“Ach! Tch! I can only hope you do not teach such nonsense to young Boba! He must learn to listen to his godfather if I am to apprentice him someday.”

“I’d better be dead if you try to apprentice my son, pirate,” Fett growled. “And you are not Boba’s godfather.”

“And where is the man you thought would be a better guardian than me, hmm? Late, as always,” Hondo said petulantly.

“Keep yer shirt on, Ohnaka,” ordered the rough voice of Cad Bane, shortly before he rounded the corner and narrowed his red Duros eyes in Hondo’s direction. “An’ I’ve told ya a hundred times: I got no interest in bein’ da brat’s godfather.”

Hondo turned victoriously to Fett. “I would never call my godson a brat.”

“Stars,” Fett muttered. Before Hondo could blink, the Mandalorian had a blaster in his hand. Only a second later, Wesell had one aimed as well.

Hondo turned, alarm coursing through his body, and found himself looking at a young Palliduvan female. She was also holding a blaster, though her strengths clearly came from confidence and bravado rather than skill. 

Hondo could relate.

“Who’d you bring along, Bane?” Fett asked sharply.

“Her name’s Sing. She’s been workin’ as a bounty hunter in some of da remote systems for a couple-a years. Already built herself a nice reputation,” Bane explained, glancing back in Sing’s direction. “Put it away, kid. Yer outclassed. That’s Jango Fett, one-a da best bounty hunters in da galaxy.”

Hondo cleared his throat and Bane stared at him for a moment. 

“An’ dats Zam Wesell, Fett’s apprentice.”

Undaunted, Hondo cleared his throat again and Bane grimaced, the tubes attached to his cheeks moving oddly with the expression. “An’ dat’s Ohnaka, a worthless pirate Fett keeps around for da entertainment value.”

Sing holstered her blaster while Hondo made noises of outrage.

Fett, having holstered his own blaster, ignored Hondo completely. “Why is she here?”

“Now, is that any way to treat a guest?” Hondo asked, clicking his tongue disparagingly. “Come in, come in! Take a seat. What can we do for you?”

She narrowed green eyes at Hondo. “I don’t need anything from you, pirate.”

Hondo made more outraged noises, but moved to pour the ill-tempered Sing a drink anyway. Bane chuckled at her venomous response, and a smile passed over Wesell’s face, but Fett was unamused. “What do you need, Sing?”

“Bane says I need a mentor,” she said brashly, taking a seat at the table and swigging at the drink Hondo handed her.

“Does he, now?” Fett drawled. “Just so happens, I already have an apprentice.”

Sing’s gaze slid over to Wesell and she scoffed. “I can tell you right now that I’m better than her.”

“Wesell,” Fett said simply.

Wesell’s face changed smoothly, rapidly, and an exact copy of Sing was sitting by Fett’s side a moment later. “I can tell you right now that I’m better than her,” the copy said in a precise mimicry of Sing’s confident smirk.

“Ever met a Clawdite?” Fett asked, not waiting for Sing to answer. “There’s a lot you don’t know and I don’t have the patience to teach someone so obviously green.”

“I haven’t been green in a long time,” Sing said, the confidence clear in her strident voice. “I might not know how to identify every species in the galaxy, but I know how to capture or kill them.”

“Without getting killed, yourself?” Fett shook his head. “You walked into a den of unknown bounty hunters with only one weapon and it wasn’t even drawn. You put your blaster away without noticing the emergency blaster Wesell had pointed your direction since you stepped to the table, and you took a drink from that cup without checking for poison. Most importantly, you sat down with your back to half the room. Ohnaka could have put that vibroblade through your skull before you had known what happened.”

Sing whipped around to stare at Hondo, who held both hands up to show that he was not actually holding a weapon. When she turned back around, clawing reddish hair from her face, Fett had both of his dual blaster pistols drawn and aimed - one at her head and one at her chest. “And now you’d be dead.”

“Teach me,” Sing commanded.

Fett only gave a derisive laugh as he holstered his pistols again. “Why would I do that? Like I said: you’re green. Not my job to fix years of cocky mistakes.”

Hondo felt an unexpected surge of pity for the young bounty hunter. “Come now, Jango. Surely it wouldn’t be so difficult to train her? Not for a man of your skills and renown.” 

A tilt of Fett’s helmeted head was all the warning Hondo received, and he knew he was being carefully considered. “Why don’t you train her?”

“Him?” Sing asked, clearly disgusted.

“Him?” Bane asked, even more disgusted.

“Me?” Hondo asked, most disgusted of all.

“Yeah,” Fett said, satisfaction in his tone. “Get her a little less green and I’ll consider taking her on.”

“And what do I stand to gain from such a deal?” Hondo demanded. 

“I’ll make you Boba’s godfather,” Fett answered with the air of a man who had laid a perfect trap. Bane scoffed and pulled his hat a little further down over his eyes.

Hondo watched Fett for a moment through narrowed eyes and finished his third drink. “Come, Sing. We have much to do and very little time to get it done.”

Sing pushed back from the table and made to follow Hondo, a stunned look on her pale face, but Fett stopped her with a single word:

“Sing.” She turned back slightly and he crossed his arms over his armored chest. “Here’s a free piece of advice: get the karkin’ hair out of your face. A weakness like that will get you killed.”

When they were outside, Sing spoke again. Her confidence had clearly been shaken, but it was coming back. “Why did you agree to this? What does a pirate know about bounty hunting?”

“Not much,” Hondo admitted freely. “But I can teach you to be tricky and suspicious and mean. From everything I know about bounty hunters, that will be a good start. Now, come along. I have visitation rights to earn and a child to corrupt.”

“Double-cross me and I’ll kill you,” she warned, and Hondo grinned. He liked her already.

#hondo ohnaka #aurra sing #first meeting #jango fett #zam wesell #cad bane #bounty hunter #pirate #fic request #i had so much fun writing this

[ieatmorecrispsthanyou]

1919, nineteen again

This story was written by me for a short story prize. Disclaimer: I am basing all depictions of mental illness on research. Feel free to correct me and no offence in any way is meant.

I want to kill her.

Right now.

Down on paper, it doesn’t sound so bad.  

Oh, if you could hear the meaning behind those words. Contrast the carnage, the horrific devil-thoughts, the war inside tearing my mind apart - sirens and screams, bare perfect skin ripped, raw ugliness… visions of me, maiming my revenge, the velvet blood dribbling down my chin and into my mouth as I smile - on paper the words seem innocent and wipe-clean. Psychosis is nothing!

It isn’t. It won’t be. It never was.

I must steel myself, or they will come again. They are not justice - nobody on earth can escape them, even with a good alias and rich parents and the miasma of apparent safety. Believe me, I know.

The dresses are so pretty. Vikman and Co, department store and dressmakers for the elite of the elite. She would wear the store if she could.

Suddenly she is everywhere. Long black hair twisted into conservative ringlets you ache to ping; her face a picture of careful nonchalance and endearing disdain; her lithe body clothed in this dress, reaching down to her feet - no, this skirt (see her twirl?) - this necklace, the beads draped where her heart should be….

I close my eyes. Snapshots of a past long buried are resurfacing, and I am drowning in pain once more.  

Words whispered and tears shed

Control yourself, no one should see you, I wish you were gone

Don’t go yet, I love you

No one would love you, you’re insane

I will never leave you

Don't touch me there stop it you’re hurting me

The hopelessly hopeful feeling that… this is all right and perfectly normal after all

It isn’t.

…she will be gone someday

She won’t be.

….this is all my imagination, why did I leave? Was it love after all?  

It never was.

I can see them creeping in… I must run now before they catch me. Big men and wolves and guns who want to lock me up, you won’t get me again and what are you doing leave me alone go away oh no not again why is everyone staring  

I’m at her house, six years since I was first there, two months since I left. It’s the dead of night and wounds don’t heal.

Mr and Mrs Kilner needed someone to teach the children, someone schooled and “strictly no debauchery”. They could rely on me, the fresh-faced young tutor: short brown hair, impeccable credentials and no experience. No family to turn to, no church or synagogue teachings to know right from wrong. I was only nineteen.

Little Jim and Eva, aged five and seven. How I loved to teach them the world - so attentive, never rude or loud, perfect small citizens. They grew horns sometimes, but were kind enough to never point them out.

She was…. she was their elder sister. Out of a marriage lasting just one month. He had been killed in the Great War. Yes, she liked to talk about him and his fate until my hands came over my ears, exactly where she wanted them. I was lucky not to have lost more, only my sanity, and didn’t she know it!

Just three years older than me but so much more experienced. I can see her weaving spells now, binding me with her charms. A smile. A wink. A word or two of comfort when they were following me again, scaring them off. Her parents saw nothing because they were never there. Did I make them up?  

I practically fell into her arms and she built a cage around me with my delusions and her coercions until I was trapped in my mind and her heart.  

Thinking about what happened next tips me over the edge.

So I don’t.

I knock and  

she

opens

I have a knife. Does she see? She may do. I don’t care.

We’re inside and she says my name, each syllable distinct and melting on her tongue. I can barely see her.

“Hon-or John-son how-nice-to-see-you”

I copy her because they are here again and they will take me away, why can’t they just leave me alone?

“Ma-ry Kil-ner rem-em-ber me”

I take out my knife and the visions cloud me again but it’s fine because she’s there and she carries me gently over to the chaise-lounge.  

She leans over and for a moment I think she wants to kiss me. Quite apart from how wrong this is in so many impossible ways, I still have my knife and I -

She has my knife now.

Why is she crying?

“Honor....”

Now I want to cry. But the hatred is too strong, pushing all other emotions away until there’s just fear and confusion and a burning.

“Y-you...”

She is still crying, opposite me in a beautiful chair.

“Honor, it’s me, Mary.  Can you hear me? When this happened last time I had to call the police but they said they were going to take you away and I couldn’t bear that...”

There was... a last time? The throbbing in my head is too great, I can’t hear her properly. This is hurting me -

“Honor, I would never hurt you and seeing you like this is killing me, all I want is for you to remember, to come back to me again...”

The throbbing is getting louder and there’s panic laced underneath it, because they are back and they are coming to take me away...

But her voice is clear and dragging me back into reality.

“Honor, the children miss you so much... little Jim and Eva cry for Miss Johnson, but you never visit...”

“You.... you put spells on me and told me you loved me but it wasn’t real and you hurt me so much and -”

She is sobbing with her head in her hands. I am crying too because the pain is back and the memories are swimming and bobbing before my eyes like a river but there’s new memories too and everything is so confusing and I just want to sleep...

“Honor listen to me, please Honor, I know you’re in there, please – come - back – to - me”

It’s all hazy but I can hear her and I nod even though I want to vomit.

“Honor, you’re very sick, and you’ve always been sick. The only person who hurt you is yourself. You say I say those things but I’ve only ever loved you and you must know that. I know you hear voices and see things and I’ve tried my best but I had to let you go because -”

I want to tell her to stop, there’s a voice telling her to stop – is it coming from me?

“You say you’re insane, you say I said no-one would love you, but it breaks my heart because you’re not insane, just ill, and all I want to do is take care of you and love you forever, but I couldn’t.. I can’t... after...after you tried to hurt Father...”

My mind is white noise but there’s something struggling to the surface.  

That man she called Father... he tried to touch me. Eva watched which is how I know it’s real. I tried to tell Mary but she wouldn’t hear it and after that everything is out of reach and far away and I’m up in space again -

When I come to, there are voices but not the ones I fear. A soft, lilting tongue saying words like “She’s with me, Mother, it’s ok, she’s better now” and another harsher tone, words grating, “She tried to kill your father. She’s criminally insane. She wants to kill you, or maybe you don’t remember last month?”  

A pause.

“She can stay, but you must make sure she’s...safe”

The sound of a door.

Mary back again, eyes glinting.

I don’t like this.

But when she smiles, there’s no hint of knives. Maybe... maybe I need help. Maybe I’m really, really sick and broken and I need to be locked up for everyone’s safety -

“I love you. I will always love you, and you will always be safe here.”

We embrace. I remember how it felt to love her and I really try.

The scene dissolves. Did it really happen? I can never tell.

I’m in a room. I think it’s a hospital but I’m not sure. Sparse and bare and bars on the window, a teddy bear on my narrow bed. Everything is white and I’m not alone.

A girl, thin and pale, no more than a ghost. Her name is Evelyn and she won’t eat.  

A man washing over and over again for a cleanness that never comes. The War made Kieran like this, and I want to comfort him but I am still somehow too dirty.

A woman with a misshapen face, the most normal of them all. Nothing is wrong with Hannah, the authorities just don’t like her looks. She and I are the closest to friends this place allows.

And over there on another bed, is my Mary.

Why is she in hospital clothes?

And why is she screaming and crying and insisting her name is Alice and-

Oh my God.

I remember now oh my God oh my God

She’s Mary but sometimes she’s Alice and I can never tell and I was mad before but this sent me to hell -

The last words I hear before I black out are “Electroconvulsive therapy trials”.

#mental illness #short story #1919 #gay #lesbian fiction #lgbtq #psychosis #multiple personalities #multiple personality disorder #short fiction #inclusive feminism #historical fic #horror #thriller #short story prize #hospital #electroconvulsive therapy

[houseplant-central]

if John Green wrote me as a character in one of his novels

Quick trigger warning: this post includes spoilers for John Green's "Looking for Alaska", as well as discussion of writing that glorifies mental illness and suicide.  

My younger sister told me this morning that she had started reading a novel by John Green. No disrespect intended to the man, but I was concerned.

Among a variety of other media I consumed in my pre-teen years, it was likely the anthology of John Green's works I owned that contributed to my obsession with the collective "manic pixie dream girl" fetish of 2013. (An anthology of works that is still sitting on a bookshelf at my mother's house, hence where my sister must have found "An Abundance of Katherines"). Again, no disrespect to the man, but when all of your books (with the exception of "The Fault In Our Stars") have a "quirky" but "tragically mentally ill" teenage girl who is somehow also super fit and always looking attractive (despite afore mentioned mental illness she's supposedly dealing with), who will either pretend to die or actually die by the halfway point of the book to inspire your male lead to go on a soul searching journey-- something's going on.

Case in point, "Looking For Alaska", which (spoiler alert), I am going to spoil the plot of in the next few paragraphs. Alaska has the potential to be one of the most interesting female leads I've ever come across in teen literature. She's enigmatic, ridiculously quick-witted and undeniably beautiful. She's recovering from a complicated family trauma, and has moved out on her own to attend university, determined to carve out a meaningful life for herself, despite struggling with complex PTSD and manic depression.

Except the story is told from the point of view of a young boy named Miles, whose only real character trait is that he's hopelessly fascinated by Alaska. This could still work as a novel mostly about Alaska, but told through the eyes of her first love, Miles. Or as a chronicle of their friendship and love story. But for either of those to work, it would require Green to use Miles' point of view to flesh out both Miles' and Alaska's character. Instead, Miles remains a stand in for literally any teenage boy, with very little character qualities, and Alaska's "quirkiness" and attractive qualities elevate her to the most amazing person Miles has ever come across. Despite Miles and Alaska only being very briefly romantically involved, Miles spends the entirety of the book chronicling his attraction to Alaska and everyone else's love for her.

But it doesn't stop there.

All of Alaska's quirks are considered attractive, including her toxicity to her friends, her long disappearances, and jokes about her suicidal ideation and depression. Her mental illness is glorified as another thing that separates her from the "other girls" which hold no interest for Miles. Ultimately it's this glorification of her mental illness, especially her manic depression, that makes me comfortable labelling this work as one that falls into the "manic pixie dream girl" trope.

But it doesn't stop there.

Because Alaska kills herself. And this only creates more intrigue for Miles, who dedicates the rest of the novel to better understanding her, even when she is gone. Which again, could be quite a compelling, if depressing, narrative. But ultimately Green makes it so Alaska's death only makes Miles more in love with her. The friends who were once side characters express to Miles how much they miss her now that she's gone. The bully characters admit to Miles that they've realized they should have befriended her when she was alive, but could only realize that now that she's dead. Far from a warning that your loved ones will miss you when you're gone, "Looking for Alaska" was "13 Reasons Why" before "13 Reasons Why". It promised young readers that people who kill themselves teach their friends and their bullies their worth: the absolute last messaging any author should be sending to young readers.

This was indeed sub-par messaging for tiny, clinically depressed pre-teen me.

Back to the crux of the point, however. For a long time I was in love with this book, and the character of Alaska. I supposed I looked at her and her family trauma, similar to mine, and thought: "damn, my trauma just makes me cry whenever adults raise their voice, but this girl uses it to be smart, skinny, well-dressed, well-read, a little provocative, AND relatable. I must be doing something wrong." Thus, with Alaska and a collection of Tumblr posts and Arctic Monkey's lyrics in mind, I set about my several year long quest to become just that variety of manic pixie dream girl.

Enter: several problems. I did not struggle with mania, rather sluggishness and a loss of enthusiasm for life outside of novels and the internet; this meant I did not feel like running around in short skirts and knee socks being the life of the party in every situation like Alaska. I wasn't pixie sized; I struggled with my relationship to my body my entire teenage years, and I could never hop up on a table to give a drunken toast like Alaska, it might break. "Dream" is a little less quantifiable, but I never talked to anyone outside my handful of friends, so I had slim chances of becoming anyone's impossible dream. "Girl" I thought I at least fit, for the entirety of high school, but I came out as non-binary in my first year of university; so all together taking a look at "manic pixie dream girl" I was 0 for 4.

Nonetheless aspects of that romanticism of a broken childhood and that touch-and-go relationship with self-identity stuck with me through high school into college, and my greatest fear is either promoting that romanticization of real issues in real life, or in my writing. Because often I look at myself, or an aspect of my life and go "heh, that doesn't sound like a real personality trait, that sounds like something a female John Green novel character would do or say. Get over yourself."

So here, without further ado, is a look into that guilty pleasure of romanticization. John Green would start with something like: "they* liked used books that already had annotation in them." It's always a little detail with him, one that's considered a character "quirk". That's the one thing of his I picked up and is still in far too much in my writing today. A list of quirks instead of an actual character. (But that's a blogpost on writing for another time).

So: "They liked used books that already had annotation in them. They kept a collection of books on astrology, numerology, and tarot. They grew outdoor plants indoors under a lamp they bought from a weed dealer, though they didn't smoke. The plants were mostly herbs, and they used them in cooking. They had houseplants too. Their eyes were deep set. When they wore mascara it smudged near instantly underneath, but it still looked good. They had some sort of tragic backstory, that explained their oversized sweaters, and their late nights and their dark art, but the backstory was desperate and sweaty and felt like fingernails making bloody crescents in hands, and wasn't aesthetic, so it wasn't important. They owned a polaroid camera. They'd read the entirety of Beowulf for fun. They would somedays stare into nothingness for hours on end if uninterrupted, not thinking of anything at all, and be startled by the way time still continued to pass. But that wasn't terrifying, it was only quirky, somehow. They smelled like coffee. They couldn't seem to make themselves yell, even when they were angry or in danger, but that was also quirky, somehow, and cute, and not a huge safety issue. They liked the smell of pine trees."

I think it's important to romanticize some aspects of your own life. If it's important to you, then it's important to you. Liking your own quirks is much better than hating them. And romanticizing quirks like smelling of coffee is valid. But romanticizing your bad or difficult qualities as "quirky" is not good. (A note to fourteen year old me: "romanticize your love of already annotated books! But not your mental illness! Take that shit seriously instead, yo.") And thinking you're going to make your life better or more meaningful by copying Alaska is never a good idea; she didn't have a very good ending.

*they/them are my preferred pronouns!

Edit: I looked up "Looking for Alaska" and realized it's banned in some highschools in Canada and the states. I was about to redact some of my harsh standpoint that it's not a good read for younger teens, who might become too blindly attached to the negative messaging like I did, because I don't think banning books outright for heavy content is ever a good idea (banning books for hate speech is another debate for another time). But then I saw the suggested ban has nothing to do with the glorification of suicide and everything to do with the "offensive language, sexually explicit scenes, homosexuality and unsuitable religious viewpoints", which is ridiculous. I don't think it should be banned in any capacity-- I think reading it now (if I'd never read it before) would give me context for the manic pixie dream girl craze, and be somewhat of an enjoyable read. My hesitance about my sister reading it now is because she reminds me too much of myself at that age.

[shirtlesssammy]

7x03 : The Girl Next Door

Then:

A meme was born for many fans

Now:

Dean Winchester is at Sioux Falls General getting his broken leg set and cast. Sam is getting an MRI due to potentially severe head trauma. Yeah, whatever is happening in Sam’s head isn’t going to show up on an MRI. Dean needs to get out of there but they dose him with a sedative. He wakes still at Sioux Falls General, groggy and determined to get the fuck out of there.

(Sidenote: Season 7 Grief Dean might be Peak Dean, guh

)

In his attempt to escape, he falls out of bed. Bobby shows up and Dean can’t believe that he’s alive (Oh, Dean, hold on to that feeling). Bobby hands him his clothes and tells him to meet him at the ambulance bay. He’s going to find Sam.

While Dean makes his escape, Dr. Leviathan learns about the WInchesters. Bobby finds Sam and they make a mad dash to escape the leviathan on their asses. They make it just in time.

Whitefish, Montana

Three Weeks Later

In a cabin in the woods, Sam’s busy reading books on lore and Dean’s busy watching telenovelas. Bobby comes in and Dean fills him in on what he’s missed (Ricardo. Suicidio.) I don’t know why I love this so much, but MY GOD DO I LOVE IT.

Bobby fills the boys in on what’s been going on in the world. Leviathan are like shapeshifters and nothing can kill them. “Good times.” Sam has a brief dissociative moment, but grounds himself by pushing on his hand wound. Ugh. Lucifer. Bobby says that he’s going out to collect all the copies of books he had in his now burned down house. Dean kicks Sam out to get rations (Pie specifically). He wants to talk about Sam’s state of mind. Bobby doesn’t think there’s anything to worry about.

Sam’s at the local Gas ‘n Sip (I love the woodsy Gas ‘n Sip aesthetic. I’ve spent many a vacation in rural, woodsy areas and this would fit right in). He finds a newspaper with a headline about the “Ice Pick Killer Strikes Again” (Sam, your love of serial killers is showing), and then pays for his stuff with a credit card (Sam, your lack of street smarts is showing).

That swipe alerted the leviathan as to where they are.

Sam gets back to the cabin (sans pie) and Bobby is gone. Dean asks how he’s doing and he admits that he’s still seeing things that aren’t there, but he’s managing.

Much later, after Dean’s passed out on the couch, Sam pulls out the paper to read it. We flash back to baby Sam talking to Dean on an ancient cell phone about a Kitsune. Present Sam heads out while Dean sleeps (Things of note: Dean ate some of the cake, there’s a slasher flick playing on the TV --oh, I think this was the movie Jensen was in.)

In a shady part of the outskirts of town, a drug dealer is a gross, awful, and disgusting asshole to a local washout. Sirens blare and they both take off. As drug dealer man runs through a skate park, he’s attacked, blood oozing from his head.

Dean wakes the next morning to see the note Sam left him: “Back in a few days. I’m fine. Sam.” I mean, great, but Dean’s got a broken leg, what’s he going to do all alone? Oh, he calls Bobby (and drops a Rear Window reference. My heart. Also, my ass he hasn’t seen It’s a Wonderful Life. If he’s seen one Jimmy Stewart movie, he’s seen them all.) Bobby tells Dean to cool it and wait until he gets his cast off to hunt down Sam. (Uh, A) where are all these cars they need to drive coming from? B) How is Dean supposed to get to the doctor to remove his cast alone?)

Cut to Dean cutting his own cast off. (I should have known.)

Sam’s busy investigating the Ice Pick Killer. All the victims are stabbed right behind the ear. Sam wonders if their brains are missing.

Dean heads to the local Gas ‘n Sip (where the attendant is watching Looney Tunes!) Dean asks about Sam and learns that he bought a newspaper.

At the morgue, Sam finds out that all the victims are missing their pituitary glands.

While at the library, Baby Sam discovers the Kitsune need pituitary glands to survive.

Adult Sam makes a murder board.

Baby Sam figures out that these murders are happening on the outskirts of town, one town at a time.

Adult Sam guesses where the next killing will happen.

Baby Sam gets his Triple Red Eye coffee and follows a girl back into the library. He’s not so subtle as he watches her in the library.

Adult Sam sees someone pull up at the abandoned park he’s staking out.

Baby Sam finds books and love in the library stacks. He also tells Dean on the phone that to kill a Kitsune, “You stab it in the heart!” He gets a “shush” for that, which doesn’t necessarily warrant it but it is kind of disturbing to hear. Also, Sam asks Dean how to talk to girls. #Bless.

Sam approaches said girl - moderately awkwardly - and tries to say “hi.” She shuts him down immediately; she’s not supposed to talk to boys. She leaves the library and Sam watches two creepy teens trail her. He follows THEM and when they threaten her Sam (who has yet to hit his growth spurt) kicks their asses. Sam, meet Amy!

In the present, a woman walks through the woods. Sam trails her like a PANTHER.

The woman approaches a drunk guy trying to get in his car and drive (what a lowlife) but Sam stops her and she turns, revealing her face. It’s Kaylee! I mean, Amy! His old library pal. “You got tall, huh?” she asks him. Flattery will get you nowhere, lady. Sam wants to know what she’s up to. She protests that she has a steady job, a mortgage, and a cat. And therefore she’s up to absolutely nothing shady in the woods at night.

In the past, Amy patches up Baby Sam after his fight. She grabs a cool drink from the totally normal fridge. They bond over moving around the country.

Present Amy begs Sam for mercy. She’s not a murderer, she’s desperate. When he hesitates, she knocks him out. (Ticks another check on the ol’ Sam brain injury chart.)

Dean, meanwhile, is busy following in Sam’s footsteps. At the morgue, he examines the dealer’s body for clues and the morgue attendant clues him in on the missing pituitary glands. Now he knows that they’re hunting a kitsune.

For Pidgeon-Cam Dean Science:

Amy frantically goes through her house, hiding family photos and packing, when Sam shows up in her bedroom like some murdery Edward Cullen.

She’s got fresh blood on her hand, indicating that she’s killed while on her way back to her house. Sam tells her that he’s going to have to kill her. Once again, she implores for him to remember her in the past.

Baby Sam spills a drink and in the flurry to clean it up, we learn that both their parents have bad tempers. “You don’t want to see [my dad] when he’s drinking,” Sam reveals. YIKES EMOJI. Sam insists that she’s a good person - he can just tell.

Present Amy shows Sam why she’s killing - she has a son.

Her kid got sick and the dead people’s pituitary glands she gets from her mortician job weren’t enough to help him. She needed live glands to help him get better. She swears up, down, and sideways that she’s done killing now that his fever has broken. She reminds Sam of something she’d done in the past for him….

Flashback. Amy’s mom bursts in and Baby Sam hides while she begins to pack up. Some hunters in an Impala have tracked her down and it’s time to blow town fast. Her mom heads out again to gas up the van while Amy vows to pack. Sam emerges with a knife, puts two and two together, and they learn the truth about each other. A family of hunters and a family of monsters! Ah, ill-fated young love.

Adult Sam heads for his motel room some indeterminate amount of time later and gets walloped in the face by big bro Dean.

Dean, there are healthier ways to deal with your feelings. Dean’s pissed that Sam stole his car to go hunt on his own for a few days. Sam insists that the case is over and he, uh, let her go.

In the past, Amy’s mom sniffs out Baby Sam. She tells her daughter that Sam’s food, not a friend.

Baby Sam’s about to get his brains carved out when Amy stabs her mom from behind, killing her and saving Sam. Sam tells her to grab as much cash as she can and get on the first bus out of town.

Dean tries to wrap his head around Sam’s story. He insists that Sam’s thinking is messed up. To make it clear, Dean insists on monster bad. Human good. If she’s killing people, they have to kill her. Sam insists that it isn’t that simple. He’s a freak and so is Amy - but they’re managing their lives. “You don’t trust her...fine. Trust me.” Dean reluctantly agrees.

Sam and Dean blow town. In another town, Dean sends Sam into a motel office to get them booked and makes up an excuse to drive off on his own. He tracks Amy to her motel room.

Dean confronts her. “People...they are who they are.” Dean paints her as a killer who will kill again someday - it’s only a matter of time. And then he stabs her. Her kid, Jacob, walks in to find Dean standing over his mother’s body. (This episode always wounds me because Dean is so messed up but determined that his judgment is the only one intact. This scene does such a great job of turning this vigilante hunter show into something brutal and incredibly tragic.)

Dean interrogates Jacob and tells him that if he kills anyone, then Dean will kill him. There’s only one person Jacob plans to kill, and that’s Dean. (I’m still patiently waiting for Dabb to bring this story around again.)

In the convenience store where Sam and Dean bought newspapers, a leviathan updates the head office about his Winchester hunt right before he pours molten cheese over the desk clerk and eats him.

_________________________________________________________________

Don’t Worry, Everything’s Quotey, Captain:

They still making spleenburgers?

Hey, look, a monster broke my leg

Do you see any other strange charges on your statement? The May 27th charge to "Mistress Magda," perhaps? Oh. Sorry for asking.

Where's the pie?

All the coolest people are freaks

I’ve been around enough bad to know good when I see it.

Plain old people taste fine, but everything is better... with cheese.

_________________________________________________________________

Want to read more? Check out our Recap Archive! 

#spn recap #spn rewatch #spn 7x03 #the girl next door #dean winchester #sam winchester #bobby singer #supernatural season 7

[deepfriedtwinkie]

Kingsman: A Trainee’s Mission (Pt. I)

PREQUEL FIC, this section ~2kw—THIS WILL BE MULTIPART; please like and most importantly REBLOG if you enjoy, babes <3

note: ignores TGC’s two-second mention of Harry having been in the army. I already had my own ideas about his backstory way before that, so whoops, I accidentally disregarded canon, imagine that

.

.

“Fall in.”

They’re the words he’s been waiting for. Hands behind his back, Harry steps into line with the fifteen other proposals. A subtle glance over his shoulder takes stock of them. Some look to have come to life from the brochures of Oxford, Cambridge, Leeds. Others look prepared for a rock-&-roll concert on a quad somewhere. He wonders which will be his future colleague.

The old man who gave the order, ruddy and silver-white haired, sporting elbow-patched tweed, comes two paces forward. He adjusts his black-rimmed glasses, folding his arms over his burdened clipboard.

“Gentlemen. My name is Arthur,” he begins. “I welcome you to the interview process; very likely the most extreme interview process in the world. Have no doubt of that.” Pausing, he lightly clears his throat. “Now, ordinarily, as per the Kingsman tradition, these trials are overseen by our resident Merlin.”

Merlin the Wizard, Harry thinks. Tech wizard. The agents’ handler. His smile is hard to repress.

“However. Circumstances being as they are, may our dear friend rest in peace, I will be testing the lot of you myself.”

In the back row, there’s the faintest snort, and fainter muttering; Harry picks up something to the effect of how this ought to be cake, then. Arthur’s caught it as well. He levels a halfheartedly-scathing gaze, but moves along.

“If you’ve taken notice of your company, which I hope to God will never again need be asked of you, you will have counted sixteen applicants in this room. On this rare occasion, we are seeking to fill two positions. The very same incident that claimed the life of our Merlin has also laid to rest our dearly missed Agent Galahad.” The old man studies them, his eyes demanding postures of stone. “If any of you are perturbed by the possibility of someday greeting the same fate, this moment will be your final chance to leave.”

Harry waits, still as a pond. Nobody moves.

One brusque nod from Arthur. “Good. In that case, I look forward to finding out which two of you, and only two of you, will become the newest members of Kingsman. I wish a great deal of luck to you all.”

Hardly necessary, Harry thinks.

“Now then.” Arthur’s pen points out the perimeter of the room in a slow circle, and the candidates’ eyes follow. Against the walls are bunks beds, four to the left, four to the right, a metre or so between each. “In a moment, you will go and find your name on an index card attached to one of these bunks. These designate your assigned sleeping arrangements. On your cot, you will find one of these.” He points his pen at the nearest lower bunk, sporting a lump of thick canvas. “Can anyone identify this item?”

Ten or so hands go up. Arthur lights on the nebbish thing to Harry’s immediate right, already sweating through his ill-fitting sport coat.

“It’s a sleeping bag, sir?”

Snickers blossom around the error. You twit, it’s a body bag.

“It’s a body bag,” says Arthur. “Lyle, isn’t it?”

Lyle gives a quivering nod, Adam’s apple plunging. Arthur makes a note. Well he’ll be gone by the week-end.

“At your station, you will write your name on the bag provided. You will also write the names of any and all next-of-kin. This represents your acknowledgement of the extraordinary risk you are about to face, as well as your very binding agreement to our incredibly strict confidentiality policy. It is your contract. Should you break this contract at any time, I regret to say, and hope you understand, that the names on your bag will henceforth, and without fail, become its inhabitants.” Like the army, then. I’ve read about this. “Have I made myself clear?”

Fifteen heads bob. The outlier is at the far end of Harry’s row. He’s a slight thing with a close haircut, wearing a coat of blue and green tartan plaid. From the look of him, he can’t possibly be out of secondary school. His arm is raised.

So is Arthur’s eyebrow. “Yes?”

“Isn’t that an army technique, sir?” The question comes in a Scot’s brogue.

“Beg pardon?”

“The army. God save the Queen.” Even with his eyes forward again, Harry can hear repressed amusement in the words, albeit not repressed very hard. “Is it not typical for army recruits to be given the same exercise as a scare tactic?”

A look passes Arthur’s face that suggests how very much done he is with all of them. The young man goes without an answer, not that he seemed to be too seriously curious in the first place. Arthur pokes the bridge of his glasses, turning away.

“Fall out.”

Harry waits until he’s gone, then sets himself upon the nearest bunks with the famished eyes of a wild man.

His name isn’t on the first frame, so he moves left. It isn’t on the second, third, fourth, or fifth, either. It’s on the sixth. Only his card is there; his bunkmate’s has already been removed, leaving behind a bent thumbtack.

“Hope you don’t mind I had my heart set on the top bunk,” comes the brogue.

Harry looks up, only to retrace his visual steps as the young man above him hops back to solid ground. A grin comes over him—Yes, this will do fine, I’m sure this will be interesting—and he proffers his hand. His fellow recruit accepts, and he shakes enthusiastically.

“Harry Hart.”

“Pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

The silence that follows outlasts the handshake. Harry blinks. He chalks the missed cue up to possible excitement or nerves, at least until his companion turns away with an amicable nod, retrieving his body bag like nothing else is happening.

“Aren’t you going to tell me your name?” Harry asks.

The thought must be genuinely foreign to the lad, going by the way his brow serpentines. “Why would I do that?”

Why on earth would you ask a thing like that? “I…well, I told you mine.”

“Yes, and I appreciated that. It’s very pretty. I like alliteration.”

Harry follows him around the other side of the bunks as he goes about searching for a pen, utterly bewildered to be having this conversation. “So you aren’t going to tell me yours? That doesn’t seem very fair. How should I know what I’m meant to call you?”

“When you think about it, do you really have to call me anything at all?” He pulls the cap off a felt marker. “I’ll know it’s me you’re talking to if you’re looking at me. It’s a basic measure of respect, eye contact. Very valuable in many situations.”

“Oh, come now, don’t be ridiculous.” Harry’s tone is still brightly convivial, which he’s rather proud of, considering he’s rapidly approaching a state of active frustration. “Just tell me your name.”

“All right, fine,” the other one exhales. “You can call me Merlin, if you like.”

Merlin. “Merlin.”

“Yes.”

It’s too preposterous to abide. “But you don’t know that you’ll get the position! You’re no more Merlin at this point than anyone else in this room.”

The young man flips a shoulder, looking blasé. “It’s only a matter of time. And it’s not like the last one’s still using it. He’s dead, what does he care? Seems up for grabs to me.”

The marker squeaks across the cardstock on the body bag. Harry attempts to read over his bunkmate’s shoulder, but the stubborn little shit’s concealing it from him. “You’re certainly quite confident, aren’t you?”

“Well, I don’t like to brag.”

“Please, now, come on, I insist you give me something to call you other than Merlin. What if one of us gets a position and the other doesn’t? I’d like to think we may be friends by the end of this; how will I keep in touch with you?”

Would-Be Merlin chuckles to himself, not unkindly replying, “If one of us gets a position and the other doesn’t, something tells me there won’t be any keeping in touch. Matter of fact, the loser may be unlikely to remember any of this. Have you seen those amnesia darts yet?”

“Oh yes, they’re brilliant.” Briefly he feels the thrill of this afternoon again. Hundreds of gadgets, dozens of all manner of vehicles, all hidden below the earth while regular people go about their lives, walking dogs, pushing prams, shopping at Tesco… He shakes his head. “That’s not the point.”

“All right, all right. You can call me…M.”

M.

“M. M, as in, M from the James Bond films?”

“Yes. M as in M from the James Bond films.” He caps the marker, holding it out. “If you wanna use this, I’m all through with it.”

Harry takes it, but makes no move toward his bag. He stares at M-Not-Merlin for a few moments, standing there as unmoved as he is, squared off with him. Unblinking. Assured. Something calmly challenging in it, almost. And his body bag over his arm with the card on front obscured conveniently to the underside.

The conclusion’s a slap in the skull he should’ve picked up minutes ago. “You really can’t stand your name whatsoever, can you?”

“No. No I can’t.”

His grin returns for having won the prize. He walks around him. “If it’s all that traumatic of an embarrassment for you, why not go by something else?” His palm braces the index card for writing on. “Or have it changed entirely, for that matter. I’m sure it couldn’t be very complicated.”

“Oh, couldn’t it, then?”

“Ah. So you’ve thought of that.”

“More than once, believe you me. It’d kill my auntie.” The lad’s climbing back up the ladder now, the frame creaking after him. “Raised me from a boy, that woman did. Christ knows why she loves the hideous thing, but it’s a family name.” He parks himself at the foot of his cot, legs swaying just slightly. “So I’m a bit stuck with it, y’see.”

“Yes, I do.”

Tilting his head, Harry admires the careful scrawl of his mothers’ names. Contrary to frightening him, he almost wishes he could cut out this patch and frame it, along with perhaps mailing them a copy. Imagine how a thing like this would look next to my nursery school handprints.

“Well then.” He, too, smoothly folds his bag, cheerful as he looks up. “I suppose M is as good as anything. Lovely to meet you, M.”

“Much appreciated. And likewise.”

Harry extends the marker. “You can have this back now. Thank you very kindly.”

“Oh, no skin off mine.” M points to bunk seven. “It’s his.”

Perspiring Lyle is flitting around the bunk adjacent, upending his toiletry kit, quite plainly frantic. It’s difficult to contain a laugh as Harry taps the poor sod on the shoulder with a “Pardon me,” then slips the marker into his clammy hand. “Take this one. All finished.”

The relief from the poor thing just about rattles the woodwork. “Oh—oh good, thank you. Thanks very much.”

“Not at all. Happy to help,” M contributes.

Good God, it’s a toss-up who’s the cheekier shit between the two of us. “Come on.” It’s time to get out of here before their neighbor wonders what’s funny. “Let’s go and find out where to hand these in, shall we?”

M hops down again with a grunt. “Every time I sit down.”

The body bags go in a heap on a table in the corner. Once there, Harry watches with some mild degree of amazement as M begins to separate them, unasked, glancing only fleetingly at each card, sorting out a new pile by alphabet.

He makes a mental note to get to know M better in the coming days. Already, it seems the wisest investment in the room.

.

pt. II | pt. III | pt. IV | pt. V | pt. VI  | pt. VII  | pt. VIII  | pt. IX

#Kingsman #Harry Hart #Agent Merlin #Kingsman: The Secret Service #Kingsman: The Golden Circle #fanfic #oh look Aud did a thing

[sagealex]

the post about banned books is obviously in reference to books banned on local and state levels, in schools, but even so, public school is likely where most people do the majority of their thoughtful reading in their life.

discussion of this issue brings back memories of a very specific time in my schooling, and, for some reason, I feel like sharing them.

i graduated from high school a couple years ago, and the whole black lives matter movement got up and going while i was in school. the george zimmerman trial happened while i was in my sophomore year of high school, and in class we were reading Fahrenheit 451, and on my own time, I was reading The Complete Transcript of the Martin Luther King, Jr. Assasination Conspiracy Trial.

I had heard of the hashtag #blacklivesmatter already, and I had already formed an opinion about it, but there’s always this anxious few-to-several months between when I hear about something and when my parents see it enough times on the news to get angry and talk about it. So there was a lot of time between when I realized what was happening, and when I realized what everyone else thought was happening.

I remember the day it started. It started in English class.

I remember talking about Jesus on TV in Fahrenheit 451, the morality or immorality was irrelevant when he was only meant for entertainment and advertisement. TV was allowed, but thinking about ideas with any depth wasn’t. And then I remember going home and hearing, for the first time, what my family had decided was true about Trayvon Martin. And then the morning after that I realized the reality of the fact that, despite the information being publicly available for years, most people didn’t know that MLK was killed by agents of the federal government. 

And while the connection between these things doesn’t seem immediately obvious even now, that same morning, the pledge of allegiance made me sick. Students were allowed to stay silent during the pledge in my school, so I stood up like I had for nearly every day of my life up to that point, and I put my hand over my heart and opened my mouth, and physically gagged on the pledge. I just let my hand drop, and I looked down, literally in shame, because I couldn’t do it anymore.

I had been an incredibly patriotic person my whole life, and then suddenly I couldn’t do it anymore.

And when I went to English class later that day, we discussed book burning, and how the information that is destroyed and hidden is probably the most important information to dig into, and I felt

Awful. Just awful.

And after that I started making my own posters and flyers for protests. I had a binder with a hand-drawn pair of black hands upright, with that quote attributed to Alex Hamilton (the British sports commentator), I had my friends hand-copy posters I had drawn up about freedom of speech and net neutrality and such things, I brought articles about recent shootings and protests into my human relations class, as that teacher had a recap of the news every week. And I thought it would all make me feel better. I thought it would make it all better.

It didn’t. I still feel awful. I feel awful and sick, and even though I’m outspoken in some spheres, in others I have to sit by silently in order to be allowed to stay under the roof I have right now, and to keep from earning suspicion from my highly controlling family. I’m the one who watches my siblings right now, one of whom isn’t allowed to go anywhere or do anything without supervision.

The reading of Fahrenheit 451, along with other books on this list, in high school, while I was coming into adulthood and society at large, created some sort of space in my mind. The space created by Fahrenheit 451 was the exact size and shape of the knowledge that, even though we’re taught about Martin Luther King, Jr. in school, even though anyone could see video of so many murders of black people, even though the books are there! They’re right there!

Information is denied by those for whom it is inconvenient.

When we can’t read To Kill a Mockingbird, we don’t get the chance to empathize with people who are blamed by all of their society for something they clearly did not do. When we can’t read Steinbeck’s books about the Great Depression, we don’t get the chance to face the bitter reality faced by refugees of situations they had no hand in. Uncle Tom’s Cabin was a nail in the fucking coffin of America’s ability to defend slavery, and for a school to ban it is to deny history, and further obscure the reality of the darkness of America’s history.

For every book I read in my AP classes in my junior and senior years of high school, my English teacher had a different story about how the conservative powers that be in my city would come to him, as head of the English department, and scream at him over the contents of the books he’d have the students read. He told us that, every time, those adults would come prepared with quotes from the books that someone else had given them, since they had never opened the books themselves.

I still haven’t found a way to put this experience fully into words, but in high school English class, a net in the vague shape of the unfairness of the world was weaved to catch onto the ideas that people didn’t want to discuss. Before I had even finished Fahrenheit 451, I lost my faith in the information presented by the TV, I lost faith in the possibility that i might someday reconcile my beliefs with those of the adults in my community, and I lost faith in my country. I lost faith in the idea that everyone will someday come around to the objective truth, and this made me feel ill in a way that hasn’t relented since.

But, in the end of Fahrenheit 451, they talk about the Phoenix, and how people will go on burning themselves down, generation after generation, and how all we have to do is to remember. As long as there’s someone here paying attention, and making it their job to remember what really happened, and to recall the information that was contained by books that others burned, there’s still hope for humanity.

I still don’t know whether things will be okay. I don’t know whether my participation in politics will make any impact, whether I’ll ever have an idea that would really make the world a better place, whether I’ll always live my life in alternate bouts of proud protest and cowed silence, whether people will keep on dying for no reason.

But I know that I can definitely make information more available, and take information from behind paywalls and give it freely to those who are searching for it. And that’s what I’m doing here.

#freedom of press #censoring #documents #banned books #literature #mine

[colubrina]

Hi. A humble request for the 5 sentences thing. Dramione. Curiosity killed the cat, Granger.

The Wrong Strain

“Curiosity killed the cat, Granger.”

Hermione almost leapt back from the book she’d been eyeing.  Narcissa Malfoy had let her into the library to wait, her customary sneer curling her lip.  She’d wanted to tell the woman that was likely to create wrinkles, but this meeting was too important and she didn’t want to get thrown out before she’d even had a chance to talk to Malfoy.

Not that she really had much hope.  Her best prediction was that he’d listen to her, laugh with delight, and tell her he’d send flowers.  Then he’d show her the door and she’d go home and see how long potions could stave off the inevitable.  Harry swore he could use Snape’s old textbook to brew a better remedy than the one she could buy at the apothecary, but she could already feel the itch of her heritage between her shoulders. A better potion might buy her an extra month, but that was all.

She tried not to wring her hands as she faced her schoolyard nemesis.   Life after the war had been good to him.  The haunted look he’d had their sixth year had faded, and the terrified boy who’d watched his aunt torture her had been replaced by a confident man, albeit one who had on long sleeves despite the heat of the day.

She told herself it was the unusually warm day that made sweat drip down her neck but she knew that was a lie.  She’d dreaded this meeting from the moment she’d found out.  So much for Gryffindor courage, she thought as she studied him.   She’d never thought he was especially handsome in school.  Too pointy, too pale, too mean.  Handsome is as handsome does her mother had always said, and Hermione had agreed, especially when it came to bullies like Malfoy.   Was it her blood that made him seem attractive now, all part of this curse, or had he truly aged into an agreeable looking sort?  She doubted she’d ever really know.  Everything about Malfoy was subjective now.

“I have a problem,” she said.

“So your owl said,” he said, and waved her to a chair.  “It must be truly diabolical for you to come groveling to me.”

She wanted to tell him she wasn’t groveling.  She wanted to tell him to sod off. She wanted to climb into his lap and sit there like a cat and let him stoke her. Damn this.  “How much do you know about Veela?” she asked.

He shrugged.  “Magical creatures, breathtakingly beautiful, captivate men with a single look.  Why?”

“That’s one strain, yes,” she said.    It would have been nice to have been that strain.  She’d talked to Fleur at length and the woman had apologized over and over again as if Hermione’s condition were somehow her fault.  “There’s another.”

Draco began to look interested.  She handed over the research she’d done and he skimmed it quickly, his eyes widening at one point.  He began to laugh when he reached the end and she could feel herself shrivel into the beautiful, antique chair.  It had been a long shot and now that he was opening his mouth to tell her hell would freeze first, she wished she hadn’t taken it. Dying would be bad.  Dying with the knowledge Draco Malfoy would be able to gloat about it was worse.  Watching him gloat worse still.

“This has to be a joke,” he said.  One look at her greying face, though, and he knew it wasn’t. “Granger,” he said, pain in his voice.  Pity, even.  She hadn’t expected that.  Somehow that was worse than scorn.   “You must have done the research wrong.”

She shook her head. That had been her first thought too.  It was absurd. Infected by a magical creature and doomed not to live eternally like a vampire, or even to turn to a wolf like poor Professor Lupin, but to be dependent, utterly dependent, on a mate just to stay alive.  Who had even heard of such a thing?  It was like some perversion of what Fleur was.  Instead of captivating all men, she was captivated by one.  She’d pine.  She’d wither. She’d die without him.   She was already in almost constant pain.

“I double checked everything,” she said in a whisper.  “Triple.”

He stared at her in horror and she shrugged. “It was a last hope,” she said.  “I know we aren’t… but I had to try.”

“Of course you did.”  He said the words automatically.  “I would have done the same.”

“Now that I’m here, of course, I see my… I see this was ill-advised.” She stood to go.  She’d try Harry’s potion.  She’d travel in the time she had left.   At least, she thought with bitter humor, I won’t need to save for retirement.

She made it halfway to the door only to find him blocking her path.  He’d filled out since school and the slender seeker she’d loathed seemed more solid than she remembered.  The urge to fling herself into his arms and cry was almost overwhelming and she had to fight it off.  “Granger,” he said.  “If I’m reading that right, you’ll have a very short life without me.”

“Quite,” she said.  

She tried to step around him and he blocked her path.  “We should at least talk about this over tea,” he said.

She began to laugh.  “Tea?”  she asked giving in at last to the hysterics she’d avoided since she’d learned what was plaguing her.  “Could you be any more British?  I’m going to die without you and you think we should have tea?”

“I prefer tea to murder,” he said with implacable calm as he took her by the elbow and guided her back to the chair she’d perched on nervously before.  The touch made her nerves settle and the prickles that had been running along her skin for months fell into silence.  She hadn’t even realized how much they’d bothered her until they were gone.  Even her emotions calmed under his hand.  When he released her, she felt the absence at once and she braced against the return of all the pings and whispers of her fate but they remained dormant.   

He picked up a bell, quite literally rang for tea, and she watched him.  This wasn’t what she’d expected at all.  She’d hardly dared hope he’d do more than throw her out.  

He’d poured her a cup and asked how she took it, adding a single sugar cube with tongs she assumed were silver, before he returned to the subject that mattered.  He regarded her over the rim of his cup and asked, “Does Potter know?”

“Yes,” she said.

“He must hate it,” Draco said.  “Not being able to fix you, I mean,” he added when she narrowed her eyes at him.  “He likes saving people.”  He took a sip and seemed to think.  “It never was my specialty.”

“No,” she said.   

He set the cup down and frowned at her.   “Pity you didn’t get the strain that makes a woman irresistible, or that there wasn’t at least a bit of that in this version.”

She had no idea what to say to that.  She was quite sure he’d just insulted her, but before she could formulate a response he shrugged and added something that took her breath away.  “Well, we can’t live here.  I’ve been meaning to get my own flat anyway.  I assume anyplace you already have is some kind of hovel so I won’t even bother to look at it, but Mum’s relator can have us in an acceptable address by nightfall tomorrow if I throw enough galleons at her.”

“I live with Harry,” she said faintly.  She took a sip of the tea and tried to figure out why the edges of the room were going white.  Merlin, he was an arrogant bastard.  Any place she had wouldn’t be good enough indeed.

“Definitely a hovel, then,” Draco said.  “Are there doxies in the curtains?”

“I… I don’t think so?” she said, the words coming out as a question.  She couldn’t believe what was happening.  Harry had told her Draco couldn’t possibly be so horrid as to let her die, but she’d been sure that was Harry projecting his own generous nature onto others.  Relief from pain, and relief from the fear that had been pressing her down, made her woozy.  She managed to set the cup down before she collapsed and the room tilted sideways.   When she came to, Draco was kneeling over her, an annoyed look on his face.  She was pretty sure he’d slapped her back into consciousness.   Gallantry only went so far, apparently.

“It’s really very unflattering that you thought I’d let you die,” he said.  “You were so sure I would, you fainted at the idea I’m not a total bastard.”  He helped her sit up and she tried not to curl into his shoulder but she was pretty sure he saw the aborted movement because he wrapped an arm around her shoulder with only a faint grimace of distaste.  “I’ve yet to murder anyone, you know, and I don’t plan to start with you.”

“I don’t know how to thank you,” she said.  

“Lots of fabulous sex?” he suggested.  She started to pull away from him and he sighed and tightened his grip on her.  “It was a joke, Granger.”

That was when she started to cry.

from the send me a Harry Potter ship and a sentence and I’ll write the next five game. (no more please)

(ETA: I expanded this to a multi-chapter of the samename. It’s on FFN. Someday I’ll manage to get a copy to AO3.)

#tiny ship drabbles and teasers #you use this word tiny #i do not think it means what you think it means #veela!hermione #i think i may think about continuing this one #stackninigi