#edited to clarify my thoughts because I reread it and realized what I was saying didn’t make sense | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

gleamglows · 3 years

Note

How about Sirius finding out the reader has a crush on him...and gives her her first kiss? 😘

cigarettes and firewhisky

pairing: sirius/reader

word count: 2.4k

summary: amortentia is no fun to make when you’re partnered up with the person you know it’s going to end up smelling like.

content: fluff, me being bad at writing slughorn, very brief mention of sirius’s family issues, confessions in an empty classroom, kissing but nothing spicy (edit: rereading this i realized i made the reader pretty gender neutral! no pronouns or anything like that :)

you know i had to pull the amortentia trope. this was a cute request, thank you so much! also thank you to my anons who sent in what they thought sirius smelled like, you guys were a lot of help! (except the person who suggested that sirius smells like wet dog. you know who you are.)

This was the worst thing that could possibly happen to you. Surely some higher power was laughing at you from above, taunting you and your dreadful luck.

Your heart was beating a million miles a minute. How on earth did you end up being paired up with Sirius Black of all people?! And - even worse - making the worst potion ever concocted?!

If you weren’t in public you’re sure you’d be letting out a crazed laugh out of pure mania.

So far you’ve been able to dodge all of his attempts at conversation, quickly sending him off to find another ingredient as soon as he got too chatty. You’d hardly made any eye contact at all, and any time he handed you something you were careful not to have his fingertips even slightly graze your own.

In truth, you’ve had an enormous crush on Sirius Black since third year, and it had only gotten worse as the years went by. This meant that by now, you had become a bit of an expert at avoiding him at all costs.

But now it was all ruined. Years of hard work spiraling down the drain all because of fucking Amortentia.

Why couldn’t it have been a simple calming draught? Or a shrinking solution? Hell, you would’ve even preferred to make Slughorn his lunch!

And it’s not as if you can sabotage the potion, either! That would mean Sirius’s grade suffering too. You just couldn’t bring yourself to do it.

There was no way out but to lie about what the potion smells of if he asks. Simple! That way no one finds out - more importantly, that way Sirius doesn’t find out - about your silly little crush. Foolproof. Genius. Inspired-!

“Do you like me?”

“What?!” You jolt as panic overtakes you, snapping your head up to meet Sirius’s eyes.

“Do you like me?” he repeats, smiling slightly. “I can’t help but feel like you hate me, seeing as you haven’t looked at me or talked to me at all.”

Internally, you breathe out a sigh of relief, glad you had misinterpreted the question.

“No! I-” Your voice is much too high, you stop to clear your throat. “I do! I do like you, I um... Sorry! I promise I don’t hate you, I guess I’m just... shy.” You finish your blabbering by looking away, pretending to inspect the fire below your cauldron.

When you raise your gaze again Sirius is still looking at you - observing you as if you’re an interesting puzzle that he can’t quite figure out.

“Um!” you quickly turn your attention to the potion, hoping he does the same. “Nearly done, right? Here.” You hold out the wooden spoon for him to take. “Five more clockwise stirs.”

He looks at the spoon but then folds his hands behind his back. “You do it,” he offers instead.

You purse your lips but nod anyway, bringing the wood up to the cauldron’s opening. The pearlescent liquid shifts under the spoon as it touches the surface, and once it’s fully submerged you take a deep breath and start stirring.

One... Two... Three... Four...

As soon as you finish the fifth stir your nose is assaulted by a suffocating aroma of cigarettes and firewhisky. You quickly step back, coughing and tossing the spoon on the table, but the scent follows you.

That doesn’t smell very appealing! Had you done something wrong? You could have sworn you’d followed the recipe exactly!

But then suddenly the scent changes, rapidly becoming much more welcoming. Cigarettes and firewhisky quickly turns into the undertone to something different... Cinnamon shampoo? But also... cologne, and... You could also catch the faint whiff of a brand new leather jacket.

“I think...” you start, eyes trained on the potion that now has delicate tendrils of steam coming off its surface. “I think we did it.” You laugh a bit in astonishment, proud of the fact that you’d managed to make such an advanced potion.

When you turn your head Sirius is looking at you again, in that infuriating way with his gorgeous eyes and stupid grin. You desperately want to look away but just can’t bring yourself to do so.

“How can you tell?” he asks quietly, and you suddenly feel everything else in the room slip away until it’s just him in front of you.

“I... It-”

“What’s it smell like?”

His low voice puts you in such a trance that for a moment you think you’re about to tell him the truth, but you quickly remember what you’d decided on earlier. Lie.

“Ban-” Bananas? No! “Bal-” Balloons? What would that even mean?! “Bu... bblegum. Bubblegum.” You finally land on, and then give a minuscule wince.

Bubblegum?! Although, you suppose it’s better than balloons...

“Bubblegum?” Sirius repeats, brows furrowed.

“Yep! And is that...? Oh! Firewood!” you continue, pulling lies out of thin air. Sirius’s furrowed brows fade away, and an amused smile starts to form on his features instead.

“And, um... And sun cream! Huh, weird.”

“Bubblegum, firewood, and sun cream?” Sirius lists, as if needing clarification from you.

“Well, I-”

“And look what we have here!” Professor Slughorn’s booming voice is suddenly feet away from the two of you, standing right beside your cauldron. “I do believe we have our first finished brew of Amortentia! Although I can’t say I’m surprised, Mr. Black,” Slughorn beams, giving Sirius a knowing look.

Sirius just shuffles awkwardly.

If Slughorn notices Sirius’s discomfort, he doesn’t show it. Instead, he continues, “You know, your father was an exceptional potion maker. Very talented indeed, and you and your brother seem to be following in his footsteps! Although I must say, young Regulus has been a bit unfocused lately, he-”

“Uh, professor?” you speak up when Sirius flinches at his brother’s name.

Slughorn blinks and then looks at you as if he’s just noticed you were there. “Oh- Yes?”

“So... The potion? Did we do it right?”

“Oh, yes, yes, of course! Full marks!” He waves you off, as if you were being silly for even asking. “And ten points for each of you!” he adds for good measure before strolling off, most likely to go torment some other student with a famous surname.

After that, Sirius doesn’t much seem to be up for talking anymore. He focuses all his attention on cleaning up your station, closing up jars of rose petals and pearl dust. You follow his lead, albeit a bit sluggishly.

A few minutes ago you would’ve been okay with Sirius’s silence - happy, even, if it meant you didn’t have to deal with your little crush. But now you would give anything to have him cheerful and smiling again - even if he looked at you with those annoyingly pretty eyes.

Once class is over you’re quick to duck out of the room, desperately wanting to leave Slughorn and Amortentia and the smell of cigarettes and firewhisky behind you.

It’s all over now, everything went according to plan and you can finally go back to doing what you do best. Secretly pining after Sirius Black from a distance.

It’s safe. It’s what you’re good at.

You’re just about ready to forget about this day entirely when you hear a familiar voice calling your name.

...Maybe you were hearing things.

You speed up your steps but then he calls your name again and you’re forced to slow down, waiting for him to catch up. When he does he gives you another winning smile and your heart does a flip.

“Hey, listen,” he starts, and you listen intently. “Sorry about uh... Just... Thanks.”

You’re a bit taken aback. You’re not sure what you were expecting, but it certainly wasn’t a ‘thank you’.

“I... For what?” you ask, genuinely perplexed, but trying not to sound rude.

“Getting Slughorn to leave,” he clarifies with a grin. “He’s always been the same... I’ve been dealing with that for seven years now.”

There’s laughter in his voice but you can tell it’s a bit frayed at the edges. He’s clearly trying - and failing - to play it off as no big deal.

“Sorry,” you offer lamely. “That doesn’t sound fun.”

It really doesn’t.

You don’t know much about Sirius’s family, but you know enough to understand that he probably doesn’t like to be constantly reminded of them. Sharing their last name and seeing his brother in the halls was probably more than enough.

“It’s fine. And, I didn’t just want to thank you,” he says quickly, realizing that the conversation had gotten gloomy.

“Oh?” you voice with a bit of a nervous smile.

“I wanted to ask what it smelled like. The Amortentia.”

There goes your heart again. A million miles a minute.

“What do you mean?” you ask, laughing a bit. “I told you. Bubblegum and um...”

Shoot! What were the other two?!

“Firewood and sun cream?” Sirius prompts, and you nod frantically.

“Yep! That was it!” you’re quick to blurt out. Unconsciously, you pick up your pace, now traveling at a slight speed walk.

Sirius keeps up easily. “But you’re lying,” he accuses, pointing a finger at you, and you swear you start to sweat. “You started coughing when you finished stirring. What did you smell then?”

“I-! Well-! The bubblegum was very pungent, and I-”

“And it looked to me like you were just naming anything that came to your head. Were you about to say balloons at one point?”

“You know, I don’t appreciate being interrogated like this, and quite frankly I- woah!”

You suddenly find that you’re being pulled somewhere by the elbow, and only when you hear a door close behind you do you realize that Sirius has dragged you into an empty classroom. You don’t even have time to take in your surroundings, because Sirius is asking you again:

“So what did you smell?”

You consider lying again, but he’s staring at you with his big, pretty eyes, just waiting for you to tell the truth and all of a sudden you really, really want to.

You thought - you really thought - that you would be content to just go back to crushing on him from a safe distance, but then the Amortentia had happened and he had looked at you different. He was looking at you differently even now - eyes glittering, listening attentively for your answer. And suddenly pining from a distance doesn’t seem so appealing.

You groan in frustration, bringing both of your hands up to cover your face. You just can’t believe what this boy is doing to you.

“It’s so stupid,” you admit, feeling your cheeks head up beneath your palms.

“It’s not,” he assures you, gently wrapping both his hands around each of your wrists, silently asking you to stop covering your face.

You shake you head. “It is, and if you’re asking then you already know.”

“So humor me.”

You abruptly drop your hands to look up at him and, woah - had he always been that close? He’d definitely gotten a bit closer since you’d closed your eyes.

You let out a shaky breath. “Cigarette smoke... Firewhisky...” you trail off. You mean to keep going, but decide to wait for Sirius’s initial reaction first.

Sirius blinks. “Gross,” he says after a beat, and it startles a laugh out of you.

“Yeah, a bit. I thought we messed it up, but then... Um, it changed.”

You search his features for any signs of discomfort, but find none. In fact, Sirius seems to be basking in every word you tell him.

So you keep going, very quietly, “Cologne and...” Without thinking you bring a hand up to rest delicately on his shoulder. “Leather and... Cinnamon...”

You hand moves of it’s own volition, resting on the junction of Sirius’s shoulder and neck and you stare dazedly at it for a moment. You blink and then realize what you’re doing.

You pull your hand away as if you’ve been burned. “Sorry, I-”

But then Sirius is leaning forward fast and - Merlin, was he about to kiss you?!

You panic for a moment, knowing you have to think quick. Your hand darts up again, this time landing on his collarbone, putting your palm flat up against him and pressing firmly, willing him to stop.

He gets the message and quickly pulls back. “I’m sorry-”

“No!” you blurt out so fast that it sounds more like a squeak. “No, no, it’s not that I don’t... I mean I want to, I do I just...” You screw your eyes shut. “I’ve never kissed anyone.”

“Fuck,” Sirius lets out a laugh.

Your heart sinks as you open your eyes. Was he laughing at you?

“Sorry, I’m not laughing at you,” he clarifies quick, as if reading your mind. “For a second I thought the Amortentia was a big coincidence and you didn’t like me at all.” he smiles, and you realize his laugh was a laugh of relief.

“No! I-!” You groan again and lean against the closed door. Was it confession day or something?! “No, I’ve... I’ve liked you since third year.”

“What about first and second?” he fires back quick, grinning stupidly.

You don’t miss a beat. “I was scared of you, then. You were too loud.”

He barks out a laugh and you suddenly feel the urge to look away, feeling as if you’re intruding. And then you remember you’re not. It’s just you and Sirius here. So many times you’d seen that laugh from a distance, across a crowded Great Hall but now it was just for you.

Sirius speaks up once his laughter dies down. “Look, you don’t have to-”

“No, I want to-”

“I don’t wanna make you uncomfortable-”

“You haven’t! I just-”

“We can just go to class-”

“Sirius!” you say sharply, and he looks at you with wide eyes. “Kiss me. Please,” you say with a laugh, wanting him to shut up already.

He grins and then wastes no time in leaning forward, taking your face in his hands and pressing his lips to yours. You smell it again - cinnamon shampoo, cologne, new leather, and - very faintly - cigarettes and firewhisky.

You melt into the kiss, bringing you hands up to rest at the nape of his neck, idly playing with the strands of hair you find. It’s awkward at first, but you try your best to relax into it, following Sirius’s lead and just doing whatever comes naturally.

He pulls away and you slowly blink your eyes back open, willing yourself out of the trance Sirius’s lips had just put you in.

“Fast learner,” he whispers, smiling, and you laugh.

“We should get to class...” you suggest halfheartedly, not stepping away or making any move to leave.

“Yeah,” Sirius agrees, tucking a strand of your hair behind your ear. “Probably...”

You both look at each other for a few beats, but then you each break into a smile.

And he kisses you again.

taglist <3 // @isxfisticated @l-adysansa @tomshollandz

#requests #sirius black fluff #sirius black x reader #sirius black

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derekmorganscrocs · 3 years

Text

Galentines Gone Wrong

Pairing: Wendell Bray x Reader, Valentine’s Special.

Word Count: 2,623

Summary: Y/n Booth is an FBI agent who works under her brother Seeley Booth and is also partnered with the Jeffersonian. Valentines rolls around and Cam, Daisy, and Y/n are all painfully single. Brennen and Angela join in and the group decides it’s girls night, get absolutely smashed, cause major chaos and get arrested for disturbing the peace. When their counterparts show up to bail them out, girls night turns to date night... or whatever this is.

Edit, March 11th: I hate the end of this. I reread it and it’s lowkey trash, but I’m going to keep it up because people seem to be enjoying it. Just a disclaimer that this is not my best work.

Notes: Tbh I second guessed this yesterday, hence the late post. I want to clarify that Wendell IS NOT preying on a drunk girl, and there was no drunk hookup. This is definitely not my favourite thing I’ve written and I was so out of ideas for the ending, but fck it, I have a migraine and feel like the personification of death. ALSO I WOULD NEVER USE GALENTINES IRL IK ITS LAME BUT I SIMPLY DO NOT CARE. HOLDIDAY SPIRIT BABES. Anyway, on with the show.

It’s been a long night. Fun, but long. You wake up against Daisy’s side, stretching lazily, and still partially drunkenly. As you sit up, you recall the events that led to your current seat in a drunk tank.

The five of you ended up in a biker bar, huge leather-clad and big bearded dudes all over the damn place. Despite being big scary bikers, they were chill and actually bought half of your drinks. Then you and Daisy got a little too close to an attractive younger biker, and his girlfriend was not having it. So an argument turned full on brawl caused the lot of you to bail out of the bar and trek back into town.

Only you were real rowdy, laughing and singing, a little to loudly for anyone’s liking. And got the cops called on you. And got thrown in a dunk tank. Unfortunately “you can’t arrest me, I am the law” doesn’t work if you’re drunk. The cops weren’t a fan of your badge, either.

You’re torn from your thoughts at the sound of voices down the hall, and you stumble over the the bars of the cell, holding onto them for balance. A half-hour nap didn’t do much to sober you up. The voices get closer, and your friends and brother walk in. Wendell’s the first one you notice, your eyes immediately darting to him. He’s wearing a hot ass black jacket, jeans and a white T-shirt, and you stare at him for a lot longer than you should.

“Hey, BJ. Never thought I’d see you on the other side of the bars.” Hodgins laughs at your expression of annoyance, and lets the cop they’re with open the cell door. He walks over to grab Angela, and you scoff.

“I told you to stop calling me BJ. I know you mean Booth Junior, but other people might think something else,” you mutter, much less than impressed at the innuendo tied to the nickname.

Your brother and Sweets go collect Brennan and Daisy, and Cam stands up on her own. She’s the most level-headed of all of you, and she’s completely sobered up now. Wendell walks to your side, your brother is too occupied with his (much less coordinated than you are) wife. Wendell puts an arm around you, and you gladly lean into him, hands settling on his chest.

“You’ll never guess what we did,” you giggle drunkenly against Wendell’s chest, overcome with the giddiness of a schoolgirl with a crush.

“Apparently you guys disturbed a lot of peace.” Wendell has somewhat of an impressed/concerned/entertained smirk on his face. He looks down at you, massively interested in the story as to how you got here. Not that he’ll hear it anytime soon.

“How’d you know?!” You look up at him with surprise written all over your face, a gasp escaping your lips, and it takes a lot for him not to burst out laughing.

“The sheriff told me. Let’s take you home, okay?”

“Okay,” you mumble, much more sullenly than five seconds ago.

Wendell keeps an arm around you, more than a little worried that you’re gonna fall over, and takes you to his car. You get in the front seat, smacking his hand away as he tries to help with your seatbelt. After successfully buckling the seatbelt, you glance back at him with a smirk.

“You know if you wanted to get on top of me all you had to do was ask.”

Wendell nearly chokes and dies at what you’re insinuating. He’s also not sure if this is the tequila talking or if it’s you talking. Composing himself quickly, he lets out a chuckle, saying something along the lines of ‘okay then,’ and closes the door for you. He walks around the front of the car, making his way to the driver’s seat. Hodgins drives by, Angela and Cam in the car with him, and waves as he heads home.

Seeley pulls up beside Wendell, looking at him sternly. Daisy and Brennen are singing in the back seat, and Wendell can see Sweets in the front seat, holding back laughter. It’s a funny sight really, the usually stoic Dr. Brennen and overly excitable Daisy, swaying together in the back seat singing an off-key rendition of piano man. Seeley makes a face at a certain piercing high note that comes from Dr. Brennan, before turning to Wendell.

“Listen man, I appreciate it. If we didn’t live on the opposite side of town, I’d take her home.” Seeley leans out the window slightly, looking at Wendell.

“It’s no problem, really.” Wendell smiles, giving your brother a small wave as he turns to get in his car. “I’ll make sure she gets home safe.”

“Wait! Not that I think you will, but don’t try anything. Alright?”

“Course not, man. Don’t worry, I got this. Head home, I’ll text you when I get Y/n home.” Wendell knows your brother means no harm, obviously, yet can’t help but think about why he’d even think to say that to him.

When he gets back in the car, seeing you sleeping soundly in the passenger seat, curled up and leaning against the window, his worries melt away and he smiles. He turns the car on and lowers the radio volume before driving off.

Tonight summarizes the two of you pretty well, actually. Y/n, the chaotic do-good-er badass, and Wendell, the (sometimes also chaotic) best friend, who always has your back. Sometimes it pains him that you only see him as that, a best friend, but he’s okay with just being that. A friend. Because it means he gets to see you happy. Little does he know, you wouldn’t have gotten so sauced tonight if you weren’t drinking away the thoughts of his lips on yours, his skin pressed against yours as the night turns to morning, the idea of a spark that doesn’t exist. The day of love sucks.

And for some reason, neither of you can see that you’re crazy about each other. Maybe it’s because you’re afraid to ruin what you have, or maybe it’s because you’re both just oblivious, but it doesn’t make a huge difference. Nothing seems to be happening.

Wendell is occupied with a lot of thoughts as he drives to your place. His mind bounces all over the place. He thinks about how you met, when you first walked into the Jeffersonian covered in dirt and sweat (in a cute way... even though he thinks anything is cute on you) after a chase in the desert, just to see your brother and make sure he was okay. He also thinks about the time he literally ran into you and the two of you fell down the platform stairs. The alarms went off, and everyone stared at the pair of you tangled up on the floor. Needless to say it took a while to live that one down. He thinks about every time he’s seen you laugh, and the few that he’s seen you cry. Not that you really even cried, you just couldn’t hold back the tears anymore. You don’t exactly do emotions, not out in the open at least.

He thinks about every reason he’s so smitten with you. You’re courageous, selfless, you protect your friends and family, you’re cutthroat and ferocious, yet simultaneously the sweetest person he’s ever met. You care about every detail of his day when you ask how he’s doing, and you can tell when the slightest thing is off with him, or anyone else at the lab, except for noticing his flaming crush on you. And as he thinks about all the little things, he realizes it can’t stay bottled up forever. He has to tell you.

Before long, you’re home. The two and a half hour drive have Wendell a lot of time to think, yet somehow it also feels like he’s had no time at all. The time has also started your trail toward sobriety, and you can at least think coherently. Wendell wakes you, and when you wake up, your hand goes to your head.

“Good god. Did I get hit by a bus?” Your words are still slightly jumbled together, but you’re getting back to business as usual, and that’s good enough.

“There she is,” he singsongs playfully, glad to see your usual demeanour starting to return. You unbuckle your seatbelt, groaning when you go to move. Wendell offers you a hand, and you take it.

Helping you up, he puts an arm around your waist again. You stumble slightly, and when he catches you, you fall against him, leaning against his chest. He ends up just scooping you up off the ground and carrying you inside, placing you on the couch. You’re mostly in good shape, just awful clumsy and distracted due to your headache. Wendell heads into the kitchen, grabbing a glass of water and some crackers.

“How you doing?” He sits by your thigh, putting an arm on the back of the couch and looking over at you. You cover your face with your hands, laughing gently.

“Ugh, please tell me I didn’t actually make the worst sex implication joke ever.”

“Um...”

“Oh shit. This is embarrassing.” You sit up, still a little tipsy, but not as messed up as you were at the police station. Maybe if things go off you can play it off as Valentine’s tequila. “Fuck it. I’m just gonna go for it. Tonight was fun or whatever, but I really wanted to spend it with you.”

“We could’ve done that. We can hang out this weekend if you want.”

“No, no. You really are a blonde.” You laugh, nudging his shoulder with your fist. Suddenly nervous, you start to ramble. “Not that that’s bad, because you’re definitely pretty. You’re a cute blonde, and you do have really nice arms, they’re really toned, and you know, at the garage you wear these tight shirts and sometimes I just stare and I worry you see, but-“

“Y/n! You’re getting off track here.” He puts a hand on your shoulder, laughing at your rambles. “Maybe we should talk about this tomorrow.”

“I like you a lot.” The words are out of your mouth before he’s even finished his sentence. “Like I have feelings for you?” It comes out like a question, but it’s meant as more of a fearful statement.

“Wait, really?” His eyes widen and his smile falls. At first you think he’s about to run for the hills, but when a small smile appears on his face you’re not so sure.

“Ah, shit, I shouldn’t have said anything,” you curse, rolling your eyes at your own stupidity. That’s fuckin embarrassing.

“No, I like you, too. A lot.” Wendell takes your hand, and you lay against his side as he keeps talking. “We can talk more, when you’re sober. But I do like you. And I think that if we decided that this weekend’s hangout was more ‘ice skating in the park’ instead of ‘trying to kill each other at the rink’, I’d be more than okay with that. I’d like that a lot, actually.” He lets out a small, nervous chuckle, and he glances down at you, fingers grazing your cheek as he contemplates if it would be weird to cup your face with his hand and run his thumb over your cheek.

“Really?” You look up at him with an adorable awestruck expression, and he nearly bursts out laughing.

“Yeah, really.” A smile stays glued to his face, and he shifts slightly, which causes you to sit up. “Now, you should probably go to bed, so that you’re not completely useless tomorrow.”

Wendell plants a small kiss on the top of your head, before standing and scooping you up, bringing you to your room. He drops you gently on your bed, and you let out a small giggle as you bounce slightly with the impact. You banish him from your room so that you can change, and not really paying attention, grab a black hoodie and shorts out of your closet. When you open the door again, he’s just leaning against the wall outside.

“Sorry, I didn’t know where you wanted me to set up- is that my hoodie? I’ve been looking for that!”

“Huh?” You look down at the sweater, seeing the small Jeffersonian logo on the left side of the chest, and the initials on the sleeve. “Oh, I guess it is.” You remember when he gave it to you, he couldn’t stand the idea of you remaining in your blood soaked T-shirt, the grey had become a sticky maroon, too much so to be comfortable. “You can have it back-“

“No, you keep it.” He steps closer, lifting your chin so that you look at him, and brushing a stray hair out of your face. His voice drops, becoming softer and breathy. “It’s much cuter on you anyway,” he murmurs, making you blush profusely, a little laugh escaping your lips.

The two of you fall silent, each staring at the other’s lips. A hum comes from the furnace, causing you both to startle slightly, and it ends the moment. You glance back at Wendell again, before sitting on your bed. He tilts his head at you, mildly confused as to what you’re doing.

“Where did you want me to sleep?”

“Wherever you want. There’s blankets and a few pillows in the closet.”

He thanks you and walks out, and you breathe in deeply, not realizing how shallow your breathing had become. Your mind is racing, and so is your heart. This is simultaneously about the best and worst Valentine’s you’ve ever had. As you mull over the events of tonight, you slide under the blankets, laying back and staring at the ceiling. The shuffling in your living room comes to a stop, and you can hear Wendell coming back to your room. He stops in the doorway.

“Came back to say goodnight,” he says softly, making your heart melt.

“You mind staying for a while?” You sit up, looking at him. He glances over his shoulder at you, a perplexed expression plastered on his face. “What?! I’ve had a rough night,” you say, pretending to be offended. He makes his way over, laying on your bed, on top of the blankets. You roll over and face him, looking up at him lazily. “Goodnight, Wendell.”

You drift off to sleep fairly quickly, but not before you subconsciously lay your head on his chest. He’s terrified at first, frozen in place and afraid to breathe, but after a few minutes he collects himself and calms down. You sleep soundly, curled up beside Wendell. He’s warm and he smells good, and he’s pretty comfortable. By the morning, the two of you are completely intertwined, tangled in blankets and each others’ arms.

The two of you grab a greasy breakfast (and some Advil) and spend the day together, actually talking about what happened the night before. Most of the day is spent at your place, you and Wendell lounging around on your couch as you binge watch your favourite series and try to overcome your hangover.

The next days and weeks fly by, you and Wendell getting closer and closer. The pair of you go on a few dates before things are made official, Wendell going as far as taking you on a walk in the snow and officially asking you out by the outdoor rink. He even reserved ice time so the two of you could skate around like idiots and pass a puck around.

And eventually, when people start to see you’re together, and ask about your story, you have to tell them he bailed you out of jail after Galantine’s gone wrong.

#bones #wendell bray x reader #wendell bray #seeley booth #cam saroyan #temperance brennan #angela montenegro #daisy wick #y/n #bonestv #x reader #wendell bray x you #happy galentines #happy valentine’s #valentines

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deiitaelric · 4 years

Text

Soulmates bakudeku / kirikami au part 9

Part 8

“What time is it? I wanna go home” Kirishima asked, looking at his feet.

Izuku took out his phone and tapped it’s screen. “It’s too early” He unlocked the device and the photo from before was still on the screen. “Uh. I told you I was going to find out, but I don’t know how. Should I just come out and ask?”

“That would screw up the mood. And honestly, I don’t know if I wanna know”

“That only would lengthen your suffering if they’re truly a thing”

Kirishima made himself small inside the hoodie. “Maybe we’re just misunderstanding everything”

“You started this” Izuku said, but he sighed. “If you don’t want me to ask, then what? Why don’t you do something? Just talk to him. Flirt a little”

“I can’t do that! If they are dating that would be so wrong”

“Kiri, think about it. They didn’t tell us, so even if it’s true, we don’t know”

“Well, yeah, you’re right, but...” He sighed. “I’m gonna go get another drink first. Want something?”

“I’m fine”

But it wasn’t true. And even if it were true, he wouldn’t be fine for long. The two blondes were walking his way, Denki pulling off the hoodie and moving to lay it on the ground.

“My fucking hoodie, man”

“Sorry. Here” He said to Izuku, who took the hoodie though he didn’t know why. “Where’s Kirishima?”

“Getting another drink”

“And he left you here alone?”

“Yeah?” The question had caught him off guard. Was it really that surprising?

“Uh. So… Yeah, you two… Hmm-” Izuku tilted his head. What was Denki getting at? They two, what? Denki turned to Katsuki, who met his gaze with a dangerous glare. Fuck, Izuku loved that glare. But that wasn’t the point. Denki turned again to face him and kept studying him.

“What?”

“No, nothing” Denki shrugged and Katsuki rolled his eyes. Denki leaned against the wall and started counting with his fingers. “I’ve hugged eight people”

“Good for you” Katsuki congratulated sarcastically.

“Did you hug eight strangers tonight?” asked Izuku, just to clarify.

“Yep. I wanted to hug people, so I hugged people. Do you want a hug?”

“I… don’t know? It that okay?”

“We’re friends, of course it’s okay. But it’s okay if you don’t want to, there are plenty people here”

“No, I mean, we can hug… I just-”

“Yay!” And Denki threw himself into Izuku. Katsuki watched them as Izuku rested his hands on Kaminari’s back. Denki was now only wearing a shirt, so his bare arms were touching Izuku’s. Katsuki felt jealous, but it didn't make sense, right? Izuku already had a stain, so he could touch him. He could hug Deku or rub his hair. But how? How was he supposed to bring himself to take the risk? He was in love with Izuku, but Izuku was someone else’s soulmate. It was hurtful enough this way, not knowing how soft he other’s skin was, or how it felt to hug him, or the texture of his hair. Things were already painful enough.

Denki released Izuku and came back to Katsuki smiling. “I really like hugging people”

“Tell me about it” Katsuki rolled his eyes for what felt like the millionth time that night. The number of times Denki had hugged him wasn’t low. Katsuki’s eyes fell on Izuku, who was gazing back, frowning, but the eye contact was broken when Denki fell on him.

“Come on! Don’t be so grumpy”

“You need to stop doing this, Kami. For fuck’s sake. You just don’t throw yourself at people” Katsuki admonished, pushing Denki away, though he grabbed the blonde’s arms so he didn’t lose his balance.

“You’re the only one complaining”

“Tch!”

“Don’t ‘tch’ me. And like you always say, stop touching me” Katsuki released the shorter, realizing he was right. But who cared, anyway? They looked at each other, frowning, Katsuki silently scolding him with his glare.

“Hey, where’s Midoriya?”

The blondes looked up at the newly arrived Kirishima, confused. Izuku was just there. But, looking around, no, he wasn’t there. When did he leave?

----

Izuku dodged between people, not looking back. He felt unshed tears burning at his eyes. If he’d thought he was prepared to see Kacchan with someone else, he could not have been more wrong. He stopped after he finally passed the last of the stragglers and sank to the ground, rapping his arms tightly around himself. He noticed he was still clutching the hoodie. Kacchan’s hoodie. He stuck his face in the fabric seeking for comfort and found it smelled like Denki, and realized he expected it to smell like Kacchan.

A buzzing pulled Izuku out of his thoughts. He pulled his phone out of his back pocket and opened the messenger app, reading Eijirou’s text.

Kiri: “Where are you?”

Me: “I needed to leave”

Kiri: “Are you still at the party?”

Me: “Yes. But I need a moment alone. Sorry”

Kiri: “Hey, I know they’re touching, but it doesn’t mean anything. We touch each other because we are friends”

Me: “But he’s not like this with anyone”

Me: “Kacchan, I mean”

Kiri: “I will ask, okay?”

Me: “Just don’t”

Kirishima looked up from his phone at the two boys. “He’s still here somewhere”

“Why did he leave? Was it because I hugged him?” Denki asked, with a worried expression on his face.

“You hugged him?” asked Kirishima, raising his eyebrows.

“I hugged eight people. Wait. Nine” Denki corrected himself, looking back at Katsuki. “Well, ten. Fuck fate, huh?” Denki laughed weakly and Katsuki seemed to agree, shrugging lightly with one shoulder.

“What?” Kirishima asked, curious.

“Uh. Nothing. It’s my motto now”

“And what it means?”

“It’s… just that. Fuck destiny. I don’t care anymore, so I’m just gonna do whatever I want” A dark-haired man from the group beside them looked at him, exclaiming. “Well said” as he raised his drink. Denki met the can with his own and sat beside him. They started talking and eventually the dark-haired boy asked something that Kirishima, who may or may not have been eavesdropping, was dying to know.

“Do you have a stain?”

“Nope. You?” Denki angled himself to face him a little more.

“Yeah, but it didn't end well”

“Oh my gosh. Is it that possible?” Denki’s face was a mask of shock, and Kirishima was sure he looked much the same.

“Having a stain doesn’t mean you have to stay with them. In my case, well, there are people who considered other things to be more important than relationships” the man shrugged. “And that doesn’t mean I can’t date anyone else” The boy glanced up and down Denki’s body and the latter smiled at that.

“Kami, stop,” Katsuki barked as he pushed Denki’s head away from the ravenette. “Come here” Before Denki could object, Katsuki had pulled him to his feet and out of hearing range of the man still sitting on the step, so they could speak privately.

Part 10

Author note: my editor is not having the time to look at it lately, so... Do you prefer I’ll keep updating here anyway, unedited, so you can finish the story sooner... or do you want me to wait until I have it edited?

I have the first half already posted on AO3 and I'll update there only the edited version, so... and I also can edit the text in here when it's edited, so you can reread in here the edited version. Idk! Help! Let me know what you think is the best way! ILY

#bakudeku #bkdk #kirikami #krkm #bakudeku fic #kirikami fic #angst #miscommunication

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alwaysaliceangel · 3 years

Text

Call for solidarity! -Cherik-

I don't know what I'm doing writing this - and even more asking. But almost three weeks ago I found among comments (from a Cherik fic that I read) a fic called: "Dark Flower". The description they gave interested me, it was quite interesting, promising and emotionally bleeding. The actual promise of a "Protector Erik" was the only one that convinced me. That got me. And I downloaded it. However, I ran into the difficulty that it was in English, of course (my language is Spanish). Then I thought: "I translate the first two chapters and if it looks promising I will continue." I clarify, because part of this is about my dilemma: the only way to be able to read it (without translating and editing) was to edit it in AO3 and have access as a draft. * Thanks Google Translate, until now I have never had a problem, whatever they say *

But...

From there everything went to hell.

The fic was and is, better than I imagined. I can say that one of the best and excellent of this fandom. The author was not wrong when she said it in her notes. I want to spill honey and flowers but I would exempt myself in the praise for Dark Flowers. I cried a whole river. They all did. I would like all Spanish speakers to do it too, because as someone wise said: “I will not say: do not weep; for not all tears are an evil. "

If you got this far, the following is one of the issues of all these annoyances that I am taking doing this: for those who use AO3 they know that the drafts are only available (as far as I know) for 30 days. Needless to say, I edited everything. Compared to other fics, this one required special care, due to the way it was written.

It wasn't until chapter 27 that I knew I wanted to reread it as many times as you read the ones you like without difficulty. But after those 30 days, I would have to edit it again and like this ... exhausting work, did I mention that it is 183356 words long?

I could take the dare to upload it without attracting so much attention, but if you didn't realize it until now, I will perhaps answer your question: No, the fic is not anywhere. I don't know anything about the author other than his nickname (Niphrehdil), and from what is known, the author deleted the fic and his own account, I don't know the reasons, but I have my suspicions.

To the author, I tell you: I will upload "Dark Flowers" in its original language. If by this means you get to see this message and you agree to do so, do not say anything, otherwise a word from you will be enough to eliminate it.

A precious piece like that cannot be forgotten.

I'd like to think that I honor you by taking this job, but the credit has to be all yours.

* For those who think I exaggerated, you can continue browsing, there is nothing here that interests you. *

Countdown: 8-03-21

____

I found an unfinished Spanish version ... too bad.

#erik lehnsherr #charles xavier #x-men first class #x-men days of future past #x-men (movieverse)#dark flowers #looking for the author #the best fic in fandom #my humble request #i dont know as much english as i would like #sorry.#be nice

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lifeonashelf · 3 years

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COHEN, LEONARD

So, here’s the thing: I don’t know anything about Leonard Cohen.

I do own two of his most acclaimed albums, but don’t get too excited. I bought both of them the week of Cohen’s passing solely because learning of his passing made me realize I didn’t have anything by him in my collection, and he’s always been on my radar as an artist I should probably know some things about, you know? I listened to those two discs one day while I was cleaning my apartment or something, and they were lovely and pleasant and sounded great, but then I filed them away on my shelf and that was essentially the extent of my immersion into the world of Leonard Cohen. I know the reissues I purchased are noteworthy entries in his discography, because they’re housed in these rather attractive hardcover digipacks with booklets that feature lengthy contextual essays written by people way smarter than me. I suppose I could read those essays and glean a little information about Cohen that way, but then I’d just be offering you disingenuous regurgitation, and I don’t want to fake anything in these pages; that’s kind of counteractive to the entire purpose of me writing these dumb things. So if you want to read a thoughtful essay about Leonard Cohen constructed by someone who I assume knows enough about Leonard Cohen to warrant being paid to write an essay about him, you should definitely seek out the striking deluxe editions of Songs From a Room and Songs of Love and Hate I’m referring to, because both have essays in them, and they’re printed on glossy paper so they’re probably pretty good (very few crappy essays get preserved on glossy paper).

No one is paying me to write this essay about Leonard Cohen—they’d be pretty stupid to do so, since I don’t know anything about Leonard Cohen—but I have that pair of records and he’s the next artist on alphabetical deck. So here we are.

Actually, you know what? Before we get started, I’m going to go ahead and advise you to just skip this piece altogether.

Hear me out. I can’t imagine this is going to be one of my better entries; considering my not knowing anything about the person I’m supposed to be writing about and all, the odds of my somehow summoning literary gold here aren’t particularly strong. Also, Leonard Cohen is a highly respected artist, and based on the listening I’m doing right now, he definitely deserves that respect—I’m on my second spin of Songs from a Room and it is an absolutely beautiful record. But what am I accomplishing by telling you that? You probably already know Songs From a Room is an absolutely beautiful record, and if you don’t, you should totally listen to it right this minute instead of reading anything I might observe about it, because the album is a whole lot better than this essay is going to be. I’ve been down this road before, so I can tell you exactly what’s about to happen here: I’m going to keep prattling on with gibberish just like this and end up embarrassing myself by blowing yet another chance to write something substantial about a substantial artist. I guess I could comment on how much I like the two Cohen songs that were used to bookend the mindfuck of a film Natural Born Killers or something, but what purpose will that serve? There, I commented on it, and biting into those ‘member berries hasn’t magically ignited some spirited dissertation, has it? Look, I’m saying this because I care: I really think you should call it quits on this piece right here and now, before you get in too deep. I’m already doomed, but it’s not too late to save yourself. Run, go, get to the choppah. Fly away, Clarice, fly fly fly. ‘Member?

Okay, you’ve been duly warned. So if you do decide to continue on, I’m not going to feel terribly bad about wasting your time, especially since I essentially just promised you anything I write from this point forward is going to be a waste of your time. I mean, everything I’ve written so far has also been a waste of your time, but I haven’t written that much yet. And at least the stuff I wrote so far has served a purpose: it cautioned you that everything to come is going to be an even bigger waste of your time. I can’t promise any of the supplemental paragraphs I’m about to compose will be worth even that much, so I really have to advise you to take a moment here and consider your situation carefully. Weighing everything I’ve just told you about my not knowing anything about Leonard Cohen (and, just to be clear, I’m not playfully minimizing that disposition; I honestly don’t know shit about him), along with my stated unambiguous surety that I am about to waste an indefinite amount of your time (you must be familiar with my work by now; it’s totally plausible this thing could end up running 15 pages)—do you really want to read any of more of this? It’s still not too late to back out. Your time investment thus far is minimal. You can just move right along to the next piece (it’s about Coldplay, so I’m sure that essay is going to be way funnier than this one). My feelings won’t be hurt, I promise. I can hardly fault you for not reading this, because there isn’t any reason at all you should read this. Unless you just really enjoy reading these entries in general, but that seems highly unlikely because nobody enjoys reading them—shit, I only enjoy every fifth one or so, and I write the fucking things.

Check it out: usually by this point in a composition, I would be painstakingly rereading what I’ve written so far to make sure I’m off to an okay start, right? But I haven’t done that in this case because I already know everything I’ve written so far is garbage. This piece isn’t going to improve, either. And that’s what I’m really trying to get across to you here: I am woefully ill-equipped to write anything about Leonard Cohen that is as excellent as his music—I just listened to Songs of Love and Hate a couple times, and holy shit, that’s an absolutely beautiful record too. You may assume I’m continuing this obnoxious diatribe because I’m setting you up for some grand gag (granted, it’s a fair guess, because I’ve done that a few times in entries past). But I’m not joking when I say that I’m not joking in this instance. This rambling philological self-fellation is not going to coalesce into something worthwhile; it’s just going to go on and on like this until I decide I’m done fucking with you and then this essay will just sort of… end, without preamble or satisfaction. I’m telling you, if you keep reading this, you are going to be super pissed off when you finish it. You’ll get to the conclusion, and you’ll grumble, “That’s it…? That was stupid.” And you will be right, because that will be it and it will be stupid.

Since that will be transpiring soon, we should probably clarify that at this point, when it does it’s going to be entirely your fault. If you go all the way back to the beginning of this twaddle, you’ll clearly see the very first thing I wrote was, “So, here’s the thing: I don’t know anything about Leonard Cohen.” That was the opening fucking sentence, dude. Seriously, what did you think was going to happen after that? And only a few lines later, I wrote: “I’m going to go ahead and advise you to just skip this piece altogether.” Then came that whole part about how reading this was going to be a total waste of your time, blah blah blah. You can check if you want; it’s all totally in there. I’m sure you didn’t think I’d be reprinting complete sentences you already read—and, you know what, yes, that’s kind of a low blow, I’m realizing now—but after I took the time to explain in detail that this essay would likely end up serving no purpose whatsoever, surely that must have given you pause. I mean, didn’t you think to yourself, “Wait a minute, before I read this essay, is it going to serve some purpose?” As I’ve made abundantly clear, the answer is: No. No, it is not. I was pretty up front about that. In fact, I specifically told you not to read it—“there isn’t any reason at all you should read this”; is that ringing a bell at all? So if you are still reading it, that’s kind of on you, dude. Sure, I could have stopped writing a long time ago and spared you from all of this bullshit, but let’s not get caught up in semantics.

Have you seen the movie Reservoir Dogs? I’m assuming you have, but if you haven’t, you can add that to the list of far more fulfilling things you could be doing right now instead of reading this essay. Anyway, the film is centered around the aftermath of a jewelry store robbery gone horrifically wrong. We don’t actually see the caper take place, but the characters reference it enough along the way for us to get a clear sense of things devolving into a bloodbath after one of the robbers, Mr. Blonde (played by Michael Madsen) shoots numerous people inside the establishment. Is it coming back to you now? Good. There’s a reason I’m bringing this up.

Since Madsen is absent for a lot of the movie, the audience’s understanding of the storyline relies mostly on what the characters played by Steve Buscemi and Harvey Keitel share with us about what has occurred. Their perspective is clear: Mr. Blonde went crazy and started killing people, and that’s why the whole heist went tits up. However, when Madsen finally appears at the warehouse where the bulk of the plot’s action takes place, he presents an entirely different assessment of the exact same incident. It is here that the movie shifts into the subtle employment of a narrative device known as the “Rashomon Effect,” so-named because this formula’s introduction to Western film-goers is commonly credited to the 1950 Akira Kurosawa film Rashomon—a picture which we can assume in hindsight Reservoir Dogs creator Quentin Tarantino was consciously invoking since his filmography has since revealed a heart-on-sleeve fandom for the work of that storied Japanese director (several Tarantino flicks make reference to this allegiance, but his Kill Bill films in particular are at their core unashamed modern reimaginings of Kurosawa’s legendary Samurai epics). I won’t recount the entire plot of Rashomon, since doing so would be superfluous here (as opposed to all of this shit I’m writing about Reservoir Dogs, which is obviously vitally important to this essay about Leonard Cohen). All you really need to know for our purposes is that the crux of the story is a singular event which is assigned completely disparate interpretations by the various people in the film who witness it. Which is precisely what happens when Michael Madsen makes his entrance.

Now, I’ve seen Reservoir Dogs many times, but not enough times to have the dialogue faithfully memorized; you’ll have to forgive me if I paraphrase a bit here. Essentially, Keitel’s character calls Mr. Blonde a “maniac” or something to that effect, a designation based on Madsen’s character opening fire upon one of the store’s clerks for what Keitel perceives as “no reason at all.” Madsen’s response to this slanted accusation is fascinating. In direct repudiation of his labelling as a “maniac” seconds before, he continues calmly drinking his soda as he amends Keitel’s analysis of the murder by providing a remarkably lucid and utilitarian explanation for the killing: “I told her not to press the alarm, but she did. If she hadn’t done the thing that I told her not to do, then I wouldn’t have shot her.”

It seems we are sharing our own Rashomon moment, my friends. You may feel like your time has been wasted, and it certainly has. But I am not the one who wasted it. That was you. I told you not to read this essay, but you did. If you hadn’t done the thing I told you not to do…

Mr. Cohen: I am truly sorry. Your music is stunning, and you deserve far better than this.

As for the rest of you: I mean, dude, I fucking told you.

March 31, 2019

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wiseabsol · 4 years

Note

3. What is your favorite/least favorite part about writing? 6. Favorite character you’ve written? 14. What does it take for you to be ready to write a book? (i.e. do you research? outline? make a playlist or pinterest board? wing it?) 15. How do you deal with self-doubt when writing? 19. How do you cope with writer’s block? 24. Do you remember the moment you decided to become a writer/author? 33. What’s your revision/rewriting process like? 34. Unpopular writing thoughts/opinions?

3. What is your favorite/least favorite part about writing?

My favorite part is when you make discoveries about your world and your characters as you write the story down, and when you write something and go, “Oh, there we go, there’s the solution to this problem that was going to come up later.” For example, I recently had an evil mentor toying with a magical item while giving a lecture to his pupils. The magical item was mundane--essentially, just putty that you could mold into whatever shape you wanted, then solidify, then switch back to putty to reshape. And as I was writing that down, I went, “Oh, THAT’S what my protagonist is going to knock him out with down the line. That’s way better than her using a lamp. Excellent.”

My least favorite part about writing is getting started. Once I’ve cleared the hurtle of the blank page, writing becomes much easier and more exciting. But getting myself to start has become much harder since I developed my editor/critic’s brain.

6. Favorite character you’ve written?

In one of the text-based rps I’m writing with my best friend, I’m playing a shapeshifter named Sparrow, who is charming, funny, flirty, politically-savvy, and super vain about his appearance (think a courtesan-type character). He also has one of the most gut-wrenching backstories of any character I’ve ever written, and is struggling with triggers from that backstory. His romance with my best friend’s character is also my favorite romance that I’ve written with her, and it came as a surprise to both of us, since we were just testing out the characters at the time.

14. What does it take for you to be ready to write a book? (i.e. do you research? outline? make a playlist or pinterest board? wing it?)

I do a lot of brainstorming and outlining, though my outlines aren’t plot-related ones so much as very detailed character summaries. I’ve honestly been struggling with plot lately, but I’ve been doing better character work, so I’m winging it more now. While I usually have a general idea of how the story goes, the actual writing of it clarifies the details and makes changes to my plans. On the bright side, the results are less stilted than my old work, since they’re not chained to plot outlines, but stem from the characters more organically.

15. How do you deal with self-doubt when writing?

I’ve started telling myself, “Fuck it, let it be messy, I’ll fix it later.” Letting go of perfectionism is hard for me, but doing so has been helping.

19. How do you cope with writer’s block?

Honestly, the best way to cope with writer’s block is to just try something and see if it sticks, or leave yourself a note and skip ahead in the story to something you want to write. However, as I mentioned in an earlier ask, I haven’t been able to do much writing lately. And that’s hard, because I feel guilty for not writing, and I know if I just do it, I’ll feel better. Which is a bad mindframe to be in, especially because this year has been awful. I’ve been telling other writers to be gentle on themselves, because it’s hard to be creative when you’re stressed, but I struggle to take my own advice. So right now, I’m trying to give myself permission not to write, and to instead focus on other things. Editing. Reading. Playing videogames. Baking. Doing house/yardwork. Something to still ticks things off of my to do list, but also things that I can look at and see, “Yes, you did get something done.” It’s not a perfect system, and it does fall into the productivity trap, but it’s what I’m trying. When the stress passes, maybe then I can dive back into writing.

24. Do you remember the moment you decided to become a writer/author?

I think it was when I was applying for undergraduate college. I wrote in my application essay that I wanted to write stories that would show my readers that things can get better for them. I was writing as a hobby before then, but I think that’s when I decided that yeah, I wanted making stories to be a part of my future, and I wanted to write stories that I could publish someday.

33. What’s your revision/rewriting process like?

Mostly I end up rewriting the chapter or story in question. Draft one is for realizing and getting down the idea of the thing. Draft two is refining it to that thing and losing all of the flab that the story doesn’t need. Often I have another file on the side where I paste in what I’ve cut out, in case I change my mind and want to add it back in later, or in case I can use it in another project. I also save the original messy draft and do the cutting in a copied file. That way, I can reassure myself that the original still exists for me, and I can reread it when I’m feeling self-indulgent, but I’m also only giving the best version to my readers.

34. Unpopular writing thoughts/opinions?

-- Writing every day is a good idea, and does work well for the writing process, but it’s an unrealistic standard to hold yourself to, especially if you have a day job, kids, and other adult responsibilities. Don’t feel guilty if you can’t write every day. The guilt is just going to make you freeze up instead of returning to the work. Be gentle with your expectations for yourself.

-- If you’re including triggering or sensitive subjects in your work, and are planning to share that work with others (and ESPECIALLY if you’re planning to profit from that work), you should be doing your research about those subjects, portraying them as accurately as possible, and asking yourself if your story really needs that content to work. It is also a good idea to employ sensitivity screeners for that content, especially if you’re writing from a place of privilege and/or don’t have personal experience with the issues that you’re depicting.

-- Once the work is out there, no one has the right to ban it. They can be critical of it, yes. But not ban it.

-- Writers of privilege must include diversity within their work, even if they’re scared of getting their depictions of people from other genders, races, classes, religions, and so on wrong. And they will get it wrong. When that happens, just apologize and try to do better in the future. But staying in your lane is a bad idea, for three reasons: 1.) You should be striving to have empathy for others, and you can’t do that if you’re only writing about people who are similar to you. 2.) Writers of privilege have an easier time getting their work published, and so should be trying to push the market/publishing industry into a more diverse direction. And 3.) You should be showing readers of privilege that the world is a diverse one, rather than catering to their narrow worldview.

-- Getting defensive when someone is critical of your work is perfectly natural, but it’s also dumb. It’s so, so dumb. You have made a product, and no product made by human hands is perfect, and every writer has blind spots. So when someone is critical of your work, try to keep this in mind: this is not an attack on you. Let yourself feel the hurt in private, and eat lots of ice cream, and when you’re feeling better, look at the criticism and ask yourself: What led the reader to this conclusion? How can I fix it? What can I learn from this? This is assuming that the critic is working with you in good faith, by the way; sometimes they’re completely off of the mark, or are upset because you didn’t give them the story that they wanted. But if someone is going, “Hey, this is a little racist/sexist/homophobic/ableist/etc.,” sit up and listen. And for the love of god, don’t fight them over it. You’ll make yourself look like an ass.

-- Don’t workshop your story too early. Try to get a full draft down before you submit something for consideration. For one thing, you’re still figuring out what your story actually is. For another, writing workshops, while useful, have a tendency to pull your work to the middle / make it more acceptable to a general audience. Sometimes this will soften and even kill your bravest writing. Instead, use writing workshops as an opportunity to find writers who understand the themes you’re aiming for and the subjects that you’re discussing. Their input will be what you need.

-- With the current laws about copyright infringement, getting paid for your fanfic is a bad idea. If you want that to change, then fight to make the laws more lenient. As if it, you’re risking screwing over other fanfic writers by doing that. Does that suck? Yeah. But that’s also the reality we live in right now, and you’re not going to have a good time if a corporation like Disney slams you with lawsuits.

-- Genres like fantasy, science fiction, horror, romance/erotica, and murder mysteries are real literature. Saying they’re not has its roots in classism.

-- There is no such thing as apolitical writing.

-- Poets are underrated. Support them. Most of the time, they’re doing braver and more socially-important work than you are, and they’re doing it concisely, too.

-- Your first draft is going to suck. This is a good thing. You learn a lot more from bad prose than from good prose, more often than not.

-- Having your work rejected by publishers really is nothing personal. Sometimes it just wasn’t a good fit for them at that moment in time. If they’re interested in seeing more from you in the future, though, keep them on your list and send them something else during their next screening period. They don’t say that unless they mean it.

#technopanzer #Writing #I'm not sure all of these are unpopular opinions but some of them definitely are

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honeypiehotchner · 5 years

Text

Covered Memories -- part 1

TW for mentions of suicide, suicidal thoughts/tendencies, paranoia(?), sadness. Stay safe lovelies.

Here is the Sherlock I promised. It has a couple parts, so I’m going to let this one settle before I give you the next (I’m also editing it as I reread it haha). This was inspired by Billie Eilish’s song “listen before i go” but you don’t need to listen to it while reading or anything. Enjoy! Love you guys xx.

I went to sleep watching Sherlock and woke up on a bus in London.

It sounds crazier than it actually is, I promise.

Just kidding, it’s absolutely insane. I’m on a fucking bus in London and I’m from Ohio. I’m from the United States of fucking America, and I somehow woke up on a bus in England.

I didn’t realize where I was at first, to be completely honest. I didn’t recognize it. The first dead giveaway was that the bus was driving on the wrong side of the road – well, the correct side here, but the wrong side to me completely.

I’m still in my pajamas, and I’m a little more than thankful that last night I fell asleep in a hoodie and leggings. At least I’m not half naked on a bus in downtown London.

Things could be a lot worse than they are, that’s for sure.

But the situation I’m in also isn’t exactly okay. I don’t have my purse, my phone, or any damn shoes on my feet. I don’t even have my damn glasses, so walking around is going to be a little more than challenging, which is partly why I’ve stayed on this bus for longer than I should.

Eventually, though, I figure I’ve been on here for long enough, so I decide to step down and onto the sidewalk.

Okay, bad idea. Foreign city, foreign person, and I have no earthly idea where I’m at or where I should go.

One piece at a time. Okay, I have no money, so a cab ride is out of the park. And so is…basically everything else.

Okay.

When one wakes up in London, what does one do – especially if one has never been to London before?

I have no earthly idea.

The only knowledge I have of London is from the show I fell asleep watching – Sherlock – and even then, it’s a TV show. It’s fiction.

My eyes widen at the idea that just came into my head.

I know, logically, that Sherlock Holmes does not exist. He’s a fictional character, but in knowing that, I know that the show itself is pretty popular. I know a lot about said show. And I know that Baker Street is actually a real place. There’s a museum there now, or something.

Well, if I’m going to be stuck here, I might as well take advantage. I’ve always wanted to come to the museum, and since I’m here basically for free, I’m going to go see it.

Strange that I’m not freaking out right now, I know. I don’t know why I’m not freaking out either. I don’t think it has sunk in just yet. It always takes me a good week to really process things, actually, but who knows what that’s about.

Okay, Baker Street. I need to find my way to Baker Street.

Because I have no other option, I walk up to the least scary looking woman on the sidewalk with me, tapping her shoulder. Thankfully, she looks to be around my age, so she doesn’t seem too alarmed by me tapping her.

“Hi, you wouldn’t happen to know where the Sherlock Holmes museum is, would you?”

She smiles, sort of knowingly and nods. “You’re lookin’ for Sherlock Holmes?”

“Yes…” I nod slowly, not sure if she’s messing with me and is about to tell me to get lost, but she doesn’t.

“Come on, I’ll walk with you.”

If she wasn’t also a female and young, then I would not have followed her, but she looks like she means well, and knows where she’s going, which is evident when I vaguely see the awning to the museum in the distance.

“So, what’s up with you?”

I blink, letting out a weak laugh. “What?”

“Why do you need to see Sherlock Holmes?” She clarifies. “What’s your case?”

Okay, now I’m not sure if she’s the one who knows Sherlock Holmes doesn’t exist. I don’t even know how to respond to her.

“Oh, I’m not supposed to be here right now,” I shrug. “Just wondering if maybe he could…help me out.”

“Sounds interesting,” she nods seriously. “Well, it’s just up there. I’ve gotta get to work. Nice meeting you.”

“Yeah, you too…” I furrow my eyebrows, watching her cross the street.

I shake my head, rubbing my face with my hands. This no longer feels as concerning as it feels strange. Especially after that interaction.

I continue walking, continue feeling the concrete underneath my bare feet as I walk. I come up on the awning of the museum only to find it’s…it’s not the museum. It’s Speedy’s Café.

But Speedy’s isn’t here. Speedy’s isn’t supposed to be on this street – They don’t actually film the show at the exact 221B Baker Street. They film it on North Gower Street, everyone knows that.

I look up at the brick building, and sure enough, she led me to Baker Street, where the museum should be, but it’s Speedy’s.

I shake my head again, walking past the building to find someone else. I cast a quick glance at the door next to it, doing a doubletake when I see the golden 221B on the outside.

“This day is just getting weirder and weirder,” I sigh.

I rub at my eyes, stepping closer to see if it’s my eyes just playing a trick on me, but it’s not. It really does say 221B on the outside. Complete with the knocker turned to the side like Sherlock keeps it.

Okay, stop it. Sherlock Holmes is fictional. He keeps it that way in his fictional world. This is the real world, and yes, it’s short circuiting right now, it’s still reality.

It’s short circuiting? Really? I just woke up on a bus halfway across the globe after going to sleep in my apartment, and the best answer my brain can come up with is that the world is short circuiting?

Just for that, I’m going to ring the doorbell. Just once. If nothing happens, then I’ll go…find the police station, I don’t know.

Without giving it a single second thought, I step up, and briefly press the doorbell.

Nothing happens. Literally, nothing. Which gives me the impression that this is the flat they film in, and that it’s just made to look like it really is Baker Street, even though everyone knows it’s just North Gower.

I scoff to myself, feeling silly for even entertaining the idea, turning around to walk the other way. It’s when I turn my back that I hear the sound of the door opening, followed by an all too familiar voice.

“Ma’am, wait!”

I freeze. Absolutely not. There’s no absolute way that could be him.

I take a deep breath, slowly turning myself back around, coming face to face with the man I’ve only ever seen on my laptop or phone screen.

John Watson.

No…it’s not. It’s Martin Freeman, come on, John Watson doesn’t actually exist. He’s a fictional character.

“Would you like to come in?” He asks, stepping back and gesturing inside.

My legs move before I tell them to, walking me inside the flat. I wait until John closes the door, before I turn back around to look at him.

I probably look more than startled because he returns the expression, furrowing his eyebrows.

“Are you alright?”

“…no.”

“Alright, well, come upstairs. I’ll get Mrs. Hudson to make you a cuppa.”

I let him guide me up the stairs, checking on me every few steps to make sure I haven’t fainted, I’m sure. I’m not feeling faint, but I know I must look white as a sheet.

This is just wrong. And not real. I’m dreaming. Surely, this is just a dream.

“Mrs. Hudson, would you make…”

He looks to me for my name, so I answer him. “Liz.”

“Liz here a cuppa, please?”

Mrs. Hudson – yes, the Mrs. Hudson I’ve seen in the show, Una Stubbs – nods, frowning. “Of course, dear. Are you alright? You look a little spooked.”

“Yeah…I’m…I’m spooked,” I let out a breathy chuckle.

I glance around the apartment – flat, they’re flats here – with wide eyes. Everything is the same. The yellow smiley face ridden with bullet holes is on the wall above the couch. The messy coffee table that Sherlock always steps over is in front of the couch. The wall itself has various pictures and things pinned up, but I can’t see them clearly enough to know if it’s anything I’d recognize.

“Here you go, dear,” Mrs. Hudson hands me a cup of steaming tea. “Drink that and it should make you feel better.”

“Thanks, Mrs. H.”

John freezes, staring at me with wide eyes. “Mrs. H?”

“I’m sorry, force of habit,” I grimace. I’m ruining this already.

“Habit? Do you know Mrs. Hudson?”

“No, I—” I sigh. “It’s not a long story, but it’s really complicated, and I’m still trying to process everything right now and— Oh my God.”

The grip on my tea loosens completely, the cup falling from my hands and shattering at my feet. Standing before me is the man I’ve watched on a screen for years. Sherlock Holmes.

He finishes buttoning his blazer, raising an eyebrow. “Client?”

John answers, whilst cleaning up the broken shards of the teacup. “Yeah, I think. She said it’s complicated.” He stands, tossing them into the trashcan that Mrs. Hudson brought over before taking the towel from her to soak up the tea.

“It always is,” Sherlock dismisses John’s answer, holding his hand out to you. “Sherlock Holmes.”

“I know,” I blurt, immediately smacking myself in the forehead. I take his hand, giving it a firm shake. “I mean, I’ve heard a lot about you. I’m Liz. Liz Singleton.”

“Singleton,” he repeats, narrowing his eyes. “I know that name.”

“You do?”

“Yes…I’m not sure from where. Well, it’ll come to me soon enough.” He walks around me, pulling the chair out from under the table and sitting it in the middle of the floor. “Have a seat, Miss Singleton and I’ll see what I can do for you.”

“I want to stand, actually,” I say, the past moments’ events coming back to me. “I’m sorry about the cup, Mrs. H. I’m having delayed reactions to things.”

“It’s alright, dear, I’ve got plenty others. Sherlock has a bad habit of breaking them.”

I smile softly, turning back to Sherlock, only to find him staring me down. Deducing me, most likely, so I brace myself for the onslaught of accusations and truths I’m not aware of.

“Why do you speak to Mrs. Hudson with such familiarity?”

I pause, nodding slowly. “That’s part of my story.”

Sherlock sighs tiredly. “Go on, then.” He stays standing as well, continuing to look me over while John sits down in his chair.

“I’m not from here.”

“Yes, I gathered that from your alarming American accent.”

Ignoring the ‘alarming’ adjective, I continue. “I’m from Ohio. The state in the U.S. Thing is, I went to sleep there last night. But I woke up about an hour ago on a bus in downtown London.” My heart is pounding in my chest, the severity of what’s happening finally settling in now that I’ve said it aloud. “Any ideas, Mr. Holmes?”

“A few,” he mutters. “Those are clearly pajamas and judging by your lack of shoes, the sleeping bit does make sense.” He crosses his arms over his chest. “What were you doing last night?”

“That’s,” I pause to chuckle. “That’s the kicker, really, because I was watching you.”

His arms fall to his sides. “I’m sorry?”

“There’s a show, on BBC, it’s called Sherlock. It’s about you and John and Mrs. Hudson,” I swallow thickly. “And Molly, and Lestrade, and Mary.”

“Mary? Who’s Mary?”

“No one,” I cover quickly, not entirely sure what I’ve done, but I know it isn’t good. It sounds ridiculous, but I must be in the world before he met Mary, so before…before the Reichenbach. “Just a random person. But my point is, it’s a TV show. I was watching it when I fell asleep last night, and I woke up on a bus here, in London. And now I’m talking to you. And you’re not supposed to exist – none of you are. You’re fictional characters. I thought when I first got here that it was a little weird, but I was coming here to see the museum. There’s supposed to be a Sherlock Holmes museum here, not this flat. This flat isn’t supposed to exist – none of it is.”

I turn in a circle, looking at everything I’ve seen over the years. I used to dream about visiting this flat – visiting the set and sitting down in John’s chair or grazing my fingers over the smiley face on the wall, but now I’m here and I don’t even want to be. Now I’m here, and this is the worst nightmare I could ever imagine.

I stop, pointing at John, my mind spinning. “You. Your name isn’t John Watson, it’s supposed to be Martin Freeman. And you,” I point at Sherlock. “Your name isn’t Sherlock Holmes, it’s supposed to be Benedict Cumberbatch.”

John laughs loudly. “What kind of a name is that?”

“You played Bilbo Baggins in The Hobbit,” I tell John—Martin. He’s Martin. “And Ian McKelpie in Whiskey Tango Foxtrot. And you,” I turn back around to Benedict. “You played Khan in Star Trek. And Alan Turing in The Imitation Game. You guys are actors.” I cover my face with my hands. “This is one weird dream. I need to wake up.” I open my eyes, looking dead at Benedict. “Punch me.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Punch me. Right now. Knock me out in here, so it’ll wake me up back home.”

“I’m not going to punch you, Miss Singleton.” He pauses. “Because I think I know what’s going on here.”

John looks as surprised as I am. “You’re serious?”

“Yes, John, I’m quite serious,” Sherlock tucks his hands behind him. “I’m at the height of my fame. You know that because we’ve been in the papers almost every day for the last month.”

“No idea where you’re going with this, Sherlock.”

“Oh, come on, open your eyes,” Sherlock cries. “Look at her outfit, look at her eyes. She’s an addict, clearly still high, and one of her delusions is that there’s a TV show starring the both of us. The TV show is incredibly popular, I’m assuming, which falls into the current pattern of my own popularity.” He turns to me. “I suggest you find your own way back home.”

“What—”

“Leave,” he points to the door. “I don’t have time to solve the delusions of an addict when there are more pressing issues on my mind.”

I stare at him, thinking maybe he’s kidding with me, but it’s clear on his face that he’s not. I look to John and he doesn’t say anything. Why would he? They don’t know who I am here. I’m not supposed to be here.

“Fine,” I mutter. “Sorry for bothering you.”

I turn and exit the flat, stepping slowly down the stairs. I let myself focus on how the wood feels beneath my bare feet, something I was too dazed to feel when I first walked up. Now I’m feeling entirely too many emotions all at once and the stairs don’t feel magical beneath my feet, they just hurt. Like a million splinters being stabbed into my skin all at once. It’s not a dream like I wanted it to be. This is a literal nightmare.

I stop at the bottom, letting my hand linger on the railing for just a moment longer. This is the first and last time I’ll ever be in 221B Baker Street and it couldn’t have gone any further from how I wanted.

“Wait!”

I ignore the voice – it’s John, but why does he care? – and pull open the front door, slamming it as I step out onto the sidewalk. I barely get past Speedy’s when I feel an arm on my shoulder, turning me around, making me face John Watson – stupid John Watson—

“What do you want?”

He removes his hand rather quickly, holding both up in surrender. “Hey, sorry.”

I cross my arms over my chest. “What?”

He hesitates, gathering his words. “Is what you said—Is it true? Is there a TV show about us?”

I roll my eyes. “I’m not having this conversation right now.” I turn around, walking down the sidewalk, and much to my dissatisfaction, John follows beside me.

“I just… I know what an addict looks like, and you’re not one. You looked too scared when I opened the door earlier and you walked around the flat like you’ve been there before—”

“You know what?” I stop walking, turning to face him. “The show – You two idiots have gotten me through the roughest points of my life, alright? I’ve watched the show over and over until I could speak Sherlock’s dialogue in perfect timing, I’ve paused scenes to examine the background, I’ve even paused scenes to try to deduce things that Sherlock doesn’t to see what piece of the puzzle he doesn’t explain. So yes, I walked in there like I’d been there before, because I feel like I have. I used to want to live in this world more than my own, but that was a mistake because now that I am here – I don’t even want to be. I just want to go home. So, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go throw myself off a building and hope I wake up back in my bed. In my home. Because this doesn’t feel like home anymore. And I was so stupid to think it could’ve been.”

John’s frown deepens the more that I speak, and part of me thinks I see tears in his eyes when I finish. But it doesn’t matter what I see because this isn’t real, and it never is going to be.

“Good night, Dr. Watson,” I breathe, blinking and realizing the tears I see are actually in my own eyes. I sniffle, pressure rising in my chest as I try to hold back a sob. And I can’t cry about this in front of him, so I turn and leave, biting my sleeve to keep myself under control until I turn the corner, collapsing against the building in a fit of sobs that wrack my body.

This is the biggest mess I’ve ever been in. If this is some trick the universe is trying to play on me to tell me that I had it good back home, despite the shit I went through, then that’s fine. I get it, Universe. Lesson learned. Take me back home now, please.

#tw suicide #tw mentions of suicide #tw paranoia #tw sadness #bbc sherlock #bbc sherlock fanfic #bbc sherlock fanfiction #sherlock holmes #john watson #mrs hudson #sherlock

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redbeanboi · 4 years

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Kind of a random little question but have you always had beta readers even from the start of your fics? How did you find your beta readers? Any insight would help. Thank you! Hope you're doing well.

hi anon !!!! sorry this is so late— I just got back from my studying hole !!

I’ve only started using betas around maybe last fall?? so the only chapter that’s been beta read so far is Chapter 7 of BBP. :-) before that, I just read and reread everything on my own and just hoped for the best that I was getting my point across. I really only decided to enlist some help when I realized I wanted to write the hug scene and make it very special!

To clarify: I have about three betas and one of them sort of works as a writing partner of mine. In other words, this beta does NOT write the fic with me, but they sort of lend a listening ear when I try to work out plot stuff out loud or just need to get another push of encouragement and cheer me on while I write. I actually prefer the term “writing buddy.” :’)

as for finding them—I’ve been really lucky! A few people befriended me when I started up this blog last summer saying that they really liked BBP and just loved talking to me about the story and where it could go and such. They love my characters as much as I do and we have fun talking about the story. I consider them friends above all else. :D When the time came that I decided to get betas, the choice was obvious—I asked my new friends if they could look at my writing and tell me what they thought, if certain things felt out of place, etc. I actually ended up adding the bedtime scene in Chapter 7 because a few mentioned wanting to see more interactions like that in the future and I decided to spoil everyone haha! Judging by Chapter 7’s enthusiastic reception, I’d say they all did a really wonderful job!! Some claps please, for my sweet anonymous betas 👏

I’m going to assume you are curious about finding betas for fanfiction, but from what I’ve learned from friends who are publishing their work, these are pretty standard guidelines.

Now I wouldn’t call these tips “the Bible” or a “Rule Book” by any means, but I hope these tips are very useful for you:

Find out what you would like from a beta first. Me personally—I just want people who are going to cheer me on and give some loose suggestions. I made it clear that I was not looking for an editor or fact checker, etc., and that I would only send certain scenes (and would only require small sections to be beta read). Know what you want first so that you can communicate that to any potential beta readers. Betas can fact-check/spell-check, edit, look for plot holes, cheer you on, etc. They can do all of this or they can just do some of these things. Find out what you need and want from one before determining whether or not you’d like to look for one.

Next! Find people who you can trust, who love your writing and are as passionate about your stories as you are. Enthusiastic betas will make you want to write more. You can post on tumblr, writing forums (I’ve seen people look for betas on reddit), look for the fandom online (tumblr, perhaps?) and connect with other fic writers, or even just stick a little note in the author’s section for the next chapter of your fic saying that you’d like a beta. You cannot afford to be shy here! You must have the courage to approach people yourself. Rejection is a little scary but I’m glad I asked for help when I needed it.

On the other hand, you can simply ask friends (who read your work and love your writing and want to help) to beta for you. You don’t need someone who’s strictly designated themselves a beta reader to have them beta for you! :) My betas had not beta-read before and they have given such helpful feedback that gave me another much needed push to keep working. Sometimes that’s all you need!

ALSO make sure that you get along with them. Betas who give “good advice” but irritate the fuck out of you are not worth it. I’m lucky to not have experienced that problem, but I figured it’s worth saying. You should be excited to talk to them and share your WIP, not dreading their advice.

Make sure they give back feedback that is useful and encouraging. They should make you want to keep writing and working on your story. A beta who makes you insecure and doesn’t know how to deal helpful and encouraging advice isn’t going to help you. (Gauge the person and please use your better judgement!)

Make sure they can answer questions in regard to feedback. If you’re confused about some feedback and they can’t explain why they think “x” won’t work then their advice is not helpful for your writing.

Giving detailed feedback. Anyone can give back feedback, and if you’ve written a story and posted it somewhere or shared it with anyone, you’ve probably gotten a comment on it. A beta is there to give you detailed feedback. Absolutely not helpful to be told “this was good/bad” if there’s no in depth explanation to accompany it.

Set some rules (refer to the first step)! Let them know what you expect, if you want someone to edit for you, someone to just bounce ideas off of, or someone to fact-check or search for translations for you, etc. It’s important that you’re clear on this so in the event that the prospective beta cannot provide what you need, you can go back to searching again.

Set a schedule. Slow betas might not be a problem for some, but it might be a problem for a writer who’s set themselves a deadline. Make sure you can both work around the same schedule.

I say that it’s important to have people who are encouraging and love your work, but also make sure there’s a balance between “sugar-sweet” and “bitter truth.” You need someone who knows how to give advice without being an asshole, but you should also have someone who isn’t afraid to tell you that your writing has the potential to do “x” instead of being stuck at “y,” so to speak.

Going to repeat this again: find someone who loves your work! Writing can be a very solitary activity and it’s nice to share part of that journey with someone who is enthusiastic as your work as you are. When you find your beta, cherish them !!!

I hope this is helpful! I tried to keep it short, but I was really lucky to just find my betas by coincidence. I wanted to include some tips that I kept on hand in the event that I wanted to search for more. I hope you find your beta readers, anon ! They are out there somewhere. :-)

#anon #asks #betas #finding beta readers #beta readers #long post

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thelightningawardsofficial · 5 years

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Review | The Price of Ignorance

Judged by Mary Seph (ArimaMary)

Category: Simple Is Best

[ Author: Irisviel101]

>Title 4/5: "The Price of Ignorance" is a very interesting title while not as astounding as it could be. My first impression was of hesitation because the cover didn't match the seriousness and importance of the title, nevertheless, the title encapsulates the story and theme really well to the point of being a recurrent phrase that entrances the reader.

>Plot 22/25: The story is heavily reliant on introspection and flashbacks, the plot being explaning the events that led Gouenji to the place is standing. The heart-wrenching twists were shocking because it was an AU. It was engaging overall and hard to predict. I couldn't help but reluctantly agree that Gouenji indeed became the one that gave Fubuki the last push despite the latter's relationship Someoka being more intimate; I was slapped in the face and I painfully accepted it. Bringing up this fact made the story much more tragic. I like how it's all so subtle: the theme of abuse and Fubuki's end. It's a story about loss and regret through and through. However, yes, there are enough details to keep the readers engaged, but it can be better, more grounded in reality if the narrator allows it. For example, as I reread, I realized the only piece of dialogue wasn't set in any specific time. When did that take place? At first I thought it was the beginning of Fubuki's hell, but now I am not sure.

>Characterization 16/20: Gouenji's characterization is among the best I have seen. His mourning and regret feels realistic and in-character, not a hint of self-pity but guilt and regret, just like how he internalized what happened to Yuuka. The glimpses of Fubuki's actions were rather believable as well: asking for help, his smile. Unfortunately, I can't give you full points because most of the characterization was indirect, Fubuki's in particular. Gouenji wasn't an active character; he was a narrator. The plot and the tragedy kept it engaging, and the theme was delivered in a way the only thing that needed to carry it were the flashbacks. And it worked. The narrator didn't have much solid exposition of their characters to have a clear image of Gouenji and Fubuki; this comes back to the story not being grounded to a setting. Personally, this is a matter of personal taste so take this as a commentary rather than critisism. And as I will expand in Feels Factor, I found odd Gouenji compared Fubuki to a toy, as it seems the story is told from an older self. This metaphor is crucial to the message so it has to be credible for it to be believable.

>Grammar and Writing Style 13/15: There's very little to say here. You got the basics covered! There's some words here and there that should be singular instead of plural, minor mistakes that I am not taking into account on the score but feel the need to at least mention it. Now, onto the feedback. For starters, I believe the hook can be more gripping. There is a disconnection between it and the next paragraph which gives an image and actually kicks off the story. I am not saying the line is bad, in fact, I recommend you move it somewhere else. One option you can take to improve the beginning is to remove the current hook (erase or move, your choice) and start with the image. It will give an immediate sense of mystery over the events surrounding the present situation which is currently delayed. The most important thing to note here is that Gouenji himself wasn't properly addressed inside the story many times. So, at some instances, pinpointing the subject in a sentence was a challenge as they were vague, too many [he]'s. Specify when the subject changes, when it has to be clarified, and when you have mentioned more than one previously. For example, "But they didn't know, didn't understand what he was going through. After guiding him through the darkness, after showing him the path he needed to take, he had chosen to ignore him afterwards." Edited would be: "But [his friends] didn't know, didn't understand what [Gouenji] was going through. After guiding [Fubuki] through the darkness, after showing him the path he needed to take, [Gouenji] had chosen to ignore him afterwards." This is one option of course. Play around and make it clear who is the story refering to. Same with the plural subjects, who are "they"?

>Originality 8/10: A particular fic with Gouenji and Fubuki with tragedy at its center comes to mind after reading this piece. The plot is fairly straightforward but originality isn't what makes this piece stand out.

>Feels Factor 13/15: I have a big recommendation for you. As the title kept repeating, it began to lost its impact, slowing down the emotional investment on the story. I recommend you use it as a punchline at the end or in the middle and go full blown angst from there. The emotion and pain felt real, and I was honestly surprised with its quality. As I mentioned in Plot, some flashbacks lacked details and settings. I understand Gouenji now feels a dull pain because of the years and his emotional maturity but it would be a step up if you manage to inserts some similes and metaphors to make the pain more relatable. The toy metaphor was effective but I believe comparing Fubuki to an object is rather dehumanizing and it wasn't explained why it was specifically chosen. Gouenji is much more mature after all.

[Raw] 76/90 [Final] 84.4%

#review #third critique #the price of ignorance #simple is best #gouenji shuuya #fubuki shirou #mentions of abuse #regret #tragedy #drama #metaphors #thelightningawardsseason3 #angst #karma #au #alternate ending

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sighingstarbeam · 3 years

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Spies and Gods Chapter 13

Word Count: 3,988

A/N: I am SO sorry for the late update! I have a million excuses but the top two are work and writer's block. Needless to say I am back and hopefully I can crank out more chapters of this as well as a few chapters of new works. School is getting back in session soon but this will quench y'alls thirst for a little bit. Also, I edited some parts in a few chapters since I wasn't totally satisfied with them after rereading a few. I don't remember what I changed, but it shouldn't be anything major except for the name Nick changing to Nate. Stay safe and happy readings!

Chapter 12 | Chapter 14

He stood in front of you, arm outstretched as flames engulfed his entire being. His black eyes reflected the flames as they bore into your soul. You wanted to run from the boy on fire, yet your legs refused to work in your favor. The heat was unbearable as he inched closer, and closer, and closer. With a shaky hand his grip was near your throat until a familiar voice whispered your name in your ear, causing the boy in flames to recede back into the darkness.

You woke up from your deep, yet stressful sleep. Usually you wouldn’t get hangovers, but considering what happened the night before your body was heavy from exhaustion. Your head didn’t hurt as much as you thought it would, but there was a consistent, dull throb that surfaced every so often. The dream you had crept back into your mind, especially the voice that called your name. Even though it was so clear, you couldn’t place whose it was. The boy in flames was all too familiar. He was there almost every night. A sharp knock at the door distracted you from your thoughts.

You checked your phone to see the time; eight in the morning on the dot. Rubbing the sleep from your eyes you shuffled out of bed. Your head pounded harder when you got to your feet, then it settled down after a moment getting yourself oriented. There was a second knock, faster this time, signaling you to hurry up. You opened the door allowing the light from the hallway to flow in your room, causing you to squint your eyes to adjust from the sudden brightness. Even though your eyes felt like they were being stabbed by light, you could still see the tall figure standing in the doorway.

“Loki, what are you doing here? It’s too early.” You asked, rubbing your eye hoping it would help adjust to the light faster.

“Good morning to you as well.” He replied, “You’re looking awfully unprepared for today. First impressions are everything on your first day. You’re lucky I even let you sleep in.” Loki visibly eyed you up and down. Your hair was a mess, there was leftover makeup smudged on your face, and your pajamas were days overdue for a wash.

This time when you squinted it was in confusion, “First day for what?” After you spoke you remembered the agreement you made with Loki the night before. “I completely forgot. Can you give me, like, thirty minutes so I can shower and eat?”

Loki tapped his chin, pondering your question, “I’ll allow it. However, if I have to wait for you again, I may have to resort to a suitable punishment.”

You rolled your eyes, “Cool, whatever. Just let me shower so I don’t smell like overpriced liquor.” You shut the door on Loki before he had a chance to say anything else. His foot halted the door before it could close entirely. Loki barged through, closing the door behind him so it was just the two of you in your room.

“Allow me to clarify the terms of our bargain,” Loki stated, “even though I changed our agreement, the fact stays that I am still the one who is in a higher position no matter which deal you chose. I would highly advise you to be a little more respectful if you don’t want your dear Avenger friends to know that you and I were outside of these walls.”

You tilted your head in a mix of confusion and annoyance, “Are you blackmailing me?” You scoffed, “You realize that if you tattle on me you’re tattling on yourself.”

“I’m highly aware. However, I’m already dealing with my punishment.”” Loki paced around the room, eyeing your belongings like it was his own personal museum, granted you didn’t have much on display. Dirty clothes were here and there, thankfully nothing embarrassing other than some shirts and a pair of pants. The only thing worth looking at was a framed photo of you, Maya, and Lilly on your dresser. Loki picked up the frame, inspecting the photo, “They refuse to put me in anyone else’s care other than their own for safety measures, so they can’t send me somewhere else. You on the other hand are disposable.”

You snatched the picture from his hand as if he was contaminating it somehow, “I’m not disposable,” you mocked his accent, “I have value here, they even said I could be part of the team. True I’m still gaining some trust, but...” Loki’s words were starting to make sense to you. They see Loki as a bigger threat than you, and with many of the members having personal experiences with him of course the Avengers refuse to let anyone else have custody. You on the other hand showed up out of the blue with a sob story and no trust to be earned. If they had to choose between the lesser of two evils, ironically you would be first on the list to kick out. Even if they don’t force you to leave, the respect you did manage to earn would be tossed out and you would have to start from square one. Once again, Loki was backing you into a corner of choices with only one viable answer.

Loki noticed you were putting the pieces together in your head, “Are we in agreement?”

You shrugged in exasperation, “Yes, fine we’re in agreement. Just don’t rat us out.” You put the photo back in it’s spot while you were on your way to the bathroom, stopping at the door, “Can you wait a minute so I can shower now?”

“Yes, you may.” Loki said, gesturing his arm out as if verbal permission wasn’t enough.

Upon entering the bathroom with your makeup still scattered around the counter from the night before, you slammed the door to make sure Loki got the hint that you weren’t completely satisfied with your deal.

You turned the handles in the shower, filling the room with the sound of flowing water and hot steam. Still sore from the night prior, you slowly undressed down to your bare skin. Looking in the mirror, you observed the bruises Nate left when he was dragging you into his car. Shame, embarrassment, regret, so many emotions filled you to the point your stomach began to churn. How could you be so stupid? You were a trained spy taught to spot any sign of danger to protect yourself. The moment a guy you thought you had a chance with came into your life, you let your guard down for one second, leading to everything going to shit. The reason you were put into that position in the first place was because you let your pride get to you after your fight with Loki. If you would have sucked it up and gone back to the party you could have at least pretended to enjoy the rest of the night. You wanted to blame Loki so bad. Blame him for putting you into that position. Yet deep down you know no one was truly at fault. Loki even saved you the second he knew something was wrong. The only thing you could do now was forget the whole ordeal happened.

You stepped into the hot shower, the soreness in your body melting away. You promised yourself to quit thinking about the attack or anything to do with it, but your mind kept slipping to the thought of Loki saving you. You know he carried you to the car, and from what you pieced together you know he messed Nate up pretty good. Perhaps there is some kindness in that god’s heart. Yet again, you were his ride home, and if you ended up missing on his accord you had a feeling that the team wouldn’t like that at all, so he was obliged to rescue you.

It was all over and done with, so there is no reason for you to dwell on it any longer.

You stepped out of the shower, wrapping a towel around yourself. You proceeded to brush your teeth and prepare for the “highly” anticipated day ahead of you. Opening the door, you didn’t expect Loki to still be in your room, sitting on your bed.

“Loki! What are you still doing here?” Making sure your towel was on securely, you hid halfway behind the bathroom door, “When I said to wait while I get ready I didn’t mean for you to wait here.”

“It wasn’t my intention on being here when you were finished,” Loki said, making eye contact with you but not daring to look anywhere else, “but your father is waiting for you outside.”

Your eyes widened, “What does he want?”

“I’m not sure, but I told him you were changing to buy you some time.”

If you could, your eyes widened even more, “You talked to him? Did it even occur to you what Tony would think as to why you’re in my room this early in the morning?”

“Don’t be obscure, I answered as you.” He turned his head to the door, “I suggest you hurry though, it’s been a little over five minutes since I, I mean you, spoke to him.”

You let out an annoyed groan. Opening the bathroom door fully, you stepped forward and grabbed Loki by the arm, forcing him to stand and walk with you. “Hide. If he sees you- me… us, we’re dead.” With that you shoved him in your bathroom and shut the door. Quickly you found a pair of pants and shirt to throw on, even if they were from the dirty pile of clothes.

“Sorry about that, when did you get back-” You opened your door not to be greeted by Tony, but one of his Iron Man suits. “...Why are you suited up?”

“I’m not,” the suit said as the helmet opened, revealing no one inside, “I’m still in Norway.” His suit took a few steps into your room. When he entered you closed the door behind you leaving a small gap in between the door and the frame. “We don’t have the nitty gritty details in stone but we have the green light to relocate the Asgardians. Your idea is getting somewhere, kid.”

“Really?” you beamed, “That’s great news, what’s the next step?”

“Thor is mapping out an old town named Tønsberg. It’s practically abandoned and has plenty of houses and stuff for them to get started. A lot of the buildings are worn down and need updates, but in a few months we should have everything set up for a new society.”

You were lost for words, but in the best of ways. An idea of yours was going to impact an entire civilization, to give them a second chance on an alien world. In some ways, you could compare yourself to the Asgardians. Both you and them had to watch the world around go to ruins, only to arrive somewhere new in hopes of sanctuary, or at least a stepping stone to carry on with life. Funny enough, with your situation Loki directly destroyed New York to rule it, but indirectly destroyed Asgard to save the people. Not that you were going to thank him for nearly enslaving the planet, but it was an odd comparison.

“When can the people of Asgard move to Tønsberg?” You ask, “Or are they going to call it something new since they’re calling dibs. Asgard two-point-oh?”

You could hear a static chuckle from his end, “Something like that. They’re going to send groups at a time to help with the renovations, then we can send families and such.” A moment of silence filled the room, as you thought that’d be the end of your conversation, until Tony spoke up again, “So about lunch plans-”

“We don’t have to plan it now,” you interrupt, “I understand that you and Thor have a lot of planning to do, we can talk about it when you’re really here.”

Tony nodded, “Alright then, I’ll just go break the news to your gothic neighbor and I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Ha, your gothic neighbor. Oh fu- “Or! Before you talk to him, if you do have the time, we can talk about ideas on where to go.” You tried to nonchalantly change the subject. Two things could go down if Tony found that Loki wasn’t in his room; number one, Loki stayed hidden in the bathroom and you get blamed for losing him on your watch, which you technically didn’t. Number two, Loki reveals he was in the bathroom the whole time, leading Tony to ask why the hell he was in there when you said you were getting dressed, leading to a bigger branch of possibilities that could all explode in your face. Either option you despised. “I’ve been living in New York for a few months, but I’ve only been to so many places that fit with my budget. I’d like to explore and try new things.”

Tony tilted his head, you thought he was calling your bluff until he shrugged, “There’s a ton of local places that are pretty good, but if you want to be adventurous there’s a seafood place on 51st…” As Tony went on about restaurants, you prayed to whoever Loki got the hint to get back to his room or you’re both in deep shit. And as if on cue, someone listened. You saw the door creep open just a couple of inches, and on the ground a small, green and black snake slithered behind Tony’s feet, out of your barely opened door, and out of sight. You tried to keep your composure and eyes focused on the suit until you heard the hardly noticeable sound of Loki’s door opening then closing. You finally relaxed the tension in your shoulders knowing that you were home free. “Any of those sound good to you?”

You snap back to the conversation between Tony and yourself, “Uh, yeah those sound good. Any of those Italian?”

“I mentioned a couple, but I can set us up with something nice.” Tony said as he headed towards the door, “I’ll catch you around, kid.” With that he closed the door behind him to tell Loki the news, unbeknownst to Tony he already did.

You let out a sigh of relief as you plopped yourself onto your bed. You desperately wanted to crawl back under the covers and sleep, but you knew you’d have to deal with the wrath of Loki again, which was quite annoying the first time. Forcing yourself up, you decided to face the day, even if it meant spending time with a stupid face.

---

Once again you found yourself in the sparring arena where you fought Bucky. This time you were facing an annoying god from another world that happens to have leverage over you, at least for the time being. You kept thinking to yourself it would only be two weeks that you would have to endure this stupid deal you stupidly made that you never thought through since you were being so stupid. If you could endure years of torturous training with Hydra, you could last a couple weeks with the trickster god.

For now you have to try to grin and bear it. Maybe once this was all over you could try to gain the upper hand in your complicated partnership, if you wanted to call it that.

“Are you familiar with Asgardian style combat?” Loki asked, adjusting the gauntlets on his wrists. You shook your head ‘no’, “Of course not.” He said under his breath, “Warriors from Asgard are taught to be resourceful in their surroundings as well as use their talents to their advantage. One would normally prefer a weapon that best suits an ability they excel in. For example, someone who uses brute strength would wield something to channel that energy, like my brother and his hammer. Or someone who has a keen eye would use something with precision such as a bow and arrow, like your friend Barton.”

You stretched your arms as you listened to Loki rambling about Asgardian fighting. The more he spoke the more you realized how he had some passion behind his teaching. The way he described the history and methods of Asgardian fighting was almost like he was retelling tales that he either lived through or were told as a child. You noticed a glint behind those green eyes of his.

“What do you use?” You interrupt Loki mid-rant.

Loki raised an eyebrow, “I’m sorry?”

“If Thor has a hammer and Clint has a bow, what’s your weapon that suits you?”

Loki sighed, disappointed that you broke him off from his history lesson, “Personally I use-” He stopped mid sentence, “On second thought, how about I show you and you can come to your conclusion.” Loki conjured a dagger in each hand, without warning he lunged for the attack.

By startled instinct, you countered Loki’s movements with every stab and slice he threw at you. You were all too familiar with daggers and knives. A knife was an accessible weapon that could be used up close or at a distance with proper aim. Hydra made sure that every child could work up close and personal or throw with the aim of a marksman in order to finish the job. You couldn’t help but be reminded of the first butterfly knife you were given to practice with. The same knife you were given a week after being released from solitary confinement when you were forced to murder your best friend. Specially given to you by Kilcher himself, now forever buried under the rubble of a building. More should have been lost and forgotten in the debris. Your pain, memories, nightmares that you have every night of the torments you had to endure and bestow to others. Engulfed under concrete with Kilcher and the other Hydra men who well deserved their deaths.

Now wasn’t the best of times to brood. You snapped back to reality when you miscalculated an incoming attack, giving Loki advantage to catch you off guard. You knew he was a god, but you didn’t anticipate how strong he was. Fortunately for you, you had already disarmed Loki of both daggers.

“I’m impressed,” he said, pinning you down, “I was told that you already possessed some skill in hand to hand combat. No wonder you chose a fight with the Captain’s lackey.”

That’s right, you remembered he mentioned at the club that somebody told him about your predicament. Who told him and how much they told, you had no idea, but you didn’t really appreciate someone going around gossiping about you, particularly to the guy kicking your ass.

“Who?-” You grunted, struggling under his weight, “Who’s been telling you all of this? There’s no way anyone from the team explicitly told you my life story.”

“You’re right, no one told me directly,” he replied, “however, people like to talk when they think no one else is around to the people they trust most. If one were to look like their trusted person, you can get them to tell you anything. And you might have slipped some information to me here and there.” Confused, you didn’t know what he was implying. Then you remembered he was a shapeshifter. He was disguising himself as the other members to talk to them. Whether it was to gain intel or to ease his loneliness you weren’t positive, either option was sad. For all you knew, instead of talking to Natasha or Thor you were really talking to Loki. You hoped to whoever that you didn’t say anything embarrassing to possibly/possibly not Loki.

Throwing your hips to the side, you managed to slide your leg over his waist, allowing you to get out from under him. You were at the advantage now; blocking his attacks, reacting to his movements, you refused to let Loki beat you. Just like we used to spar, remember? His voice shot through your mind. Marcus, the boy who brought light to a blackened prison. The boy who taught you how to make good moments count.

The boy whose death was brought by your hands.

Memories flashed before your eyes. The two of you practicing in the courtyard the new moves that were taught. You don’t know why but in this moment with Loki you felt a wave of nostalgia. Seeing your guard go down, Loki took the opportunity to not hold back. You could barely keep up with the attacks as you pushed your intrusive thoughts away.

Before making your next move, a voice from the intercom startled you, “What are you two doing?” The voice boomed.

Startled by the sudden noise, you missed an attack that sent you tumbling to the ground. You regained your composure before looking up to see Steve, and he looked pissed. “Anyone care to explain what the hell I just witnessed?” Steve asked, his usual go-lucky demeanor long gone.

Loki stepped back from you, showing off his charismatic smile to woo the Captain, “If I may-”

“I don’t want to hear a word from you.” Steve snapped, “I want to hear from her.”

All eyes on you, time seemed to slow down and speed up as you tried to think of a valid excuse. “It was my idea,” you began, “I was feeling rusty with fighting and everyone was busy with missions and stuff, so Loki is my voluntary human punching bag.”

Loki looked offended, “I’m not a human nor a punching bag, but yes she requested my assistance in sparring and as I clearly have nothing else to do I said yes.”

Steve rubbed his chin in thought. He trusted you way more than Loki, but he couldn’t help but feel like Loki was up to something. “Alright. I don’t have a say in this since it’s not my call, but I don’t want to see this happen again until you get Tony’s permission.”

You rolled your eyes and sighed, “Fine, I’ll ask him.” Steve nodded, then glared at Loki before leaving the gallery.

“You’re distracted.” said Loki, offering his hand to help you up.

“Of course I am,” you pointed up towards the gallery, “I totally would have had you if he didn’t interrupt.” You ignored his gesture and stood up on your own. Your body was already aching, you were sure there would be bruises by tomorrow.

“That’s not what I’m talking about. There is something else intruding your thoughts. Allowing your memories to surface during combat can be beneficial, but also a distraction. You need to only think of your training and what drives you to fight.” Loki’s words were sincere. This was one of the few times his tone felt mocking or sarcastic. “If there are memories or something that you need to get off your chest, you need to find peace with it even if it’s for a few minutes.”

“What are you, my shrink?” You dusted yourself off of dirt from the mats, “Listen, I appreciate the lectures and words or wisdom, but I need to deal with my personal problems on my own. It’s nothing against you, honest. It’s just a thing I need to do. And quit shapeshifting into my friends. If you want to talk to someone you can always ask.”

Loki nodded, “I will respect that.” You were surprised with how mature he was handling this. It was almost sweet. “Now that I’ve seen exactly how much you can handle, I can determine our future sessions from this point forward.” he said as you both exited the arena.

“Right, if we even have future sessions. I need to talk to Tony and get his blessing.”

“I’m sure he will allow you to use me as a ‘human punching bag’.” He smiled, and you couldn’t help but smile back.

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luvkirby4ever · 4 years

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#15 on the Identity Ask thing! :3

Thank you anon!

#15: 5 most influential books over my lifetime.

Number 5: “The Ersatz Elevator” by Lemony Snicket

Among my various “milestone” books, such as the first chapter book I read (The Trumpet of the Swan), books that made a flip switch inside my brain to like reading (The Hatchet, Frindle), or “book I stayed up so late reading that I dropped it on my face like an idiot” (Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire), I choose The Ersatz Elevator because it was a book I successfully read back when I was very reluctant about reading.

One thing that always stuck with me is that the style in which Lemony would write the teaser for the next book (/his narration style) actually made me question whether or not the series was fictional. I was probably about 10 or 11 at the time and was pretty firm on the stance of “there’s no way this happened, that’s impossible” but the fake notes to the editor at the end were so convincing that I kinda started to believe it.

It’s also worth noting that even though it’s #6 in the series it was the first one I read- I didn’t like reading back in elementary school. I ended up reading the whole series because of this book, though!

Number 4: “Wicked” by Gregory Maguire

This book is weird and I take quite a bit of issue with it. For starters, I usually dislike large time skips, and there’s like 4 of them. Another issue I have is that the author writes with a sort of emotional/thematic detachment in such a way that it feels like he’s trying to say something meaningful/important but it ends up boiling down to feeling like the “if there were two guys on the moon” copypasta. I reread it for the first time after many years and was disappointed in the direction the story went after the school arc tbh.

But all that aside, I read this during a time when I was starting to awaken to the idea that things that were “girly” weren’t necessarily bad by nature. And I should clarify that I would not consider this a “girly” book by any stretch of nature! It’s just that I used to be so staunchly against narratives about women (no less about women showing genuine tenderness) that reading Wicked was a big step towards trying to drink respect women juice.

Wicked’s MVP was definitely Glinda- she was a character who I immediately wrote off as “the shallow girly ditz” and was surprised at how invested I had become in her at the end of the school arc. I feel like there was a lot of wasted story potential in Wicked and Glinda was definitely a character who I’d want to write a fanfic about. So much wasted potential.

Number 3: “My Lesbian Experience With Lonlieness” by Kabi Nagata

WTNV may have been my gateway drug into LGBT+ culture, but just like the dumb f*** that I am it wasn’t until a few months after I first read this book that I realized that I’m gay. The book constantly rested in the back of my mind so one day as I was staring up at my ceiling in bed I thought about it again and thought “wait… I think I’m gay”.

(Shoutout to “My Brother’s Husband” for also helping, too. From a story perspective I prefer “My Brother’s Husband” but “My Lesbian Experience With Loneliness” is the one that keeps returning to my thoughts about stuff. Both are so good though I highly recommend them both!)

Number 2: Genki (Second Edition)

I know it’s not a “book” book, but I’ve had this textbook for years now and I have emotional attachment to this thing. I’m going to be taking my first JLPT this year so I literally study with it for an hour every day. It (along with my first signed WTNV novel) is my most treasured book. It represents a lot of my hope and dreams.

Number 1: “To Kill a Mockingbird” by Harper Lee

This book. If you’re American, there’s a good chance that you were forced to read it. And there’s a good chance you didn’t like it. As a kid, there was a lot to slog through. And it’s a book that truly shows its age.

I was 15 or 16 when I first had to read it. My teacher had given an assignment/test question on the some themes from the book, and one that I remember very vividly was the topic of innocence. Stuff about losing innocence, protecting it, characters like Jem vs characters like Boo. And as someone who endured a lot of really horrible things in my childhood, I was particularly drawn to examining the narrative’s opinion on innocence.

…And refuting it! Don’t get me wrong- I actually like the book, believe it or not. The prose at end about Scout walking Boo back home and seeing the neighborhood through his point of view evokes a powerful sort of emotion in my stomach (sadness? nostalgia? fondness?). But this book constantly makes me think about the theme of innocence and how it’s portrayed in media (and how my teacher put a spin on what he thinks innocence is). And I actually really hate the notion!

As someone who experienced a lot of childhood trauma, the notion that “once innocence is lost we are bitter jaded adults” is a bleak one. I don’t disagree that children are innocent and that they should be protected. I disagree with the sentiment that the spark of childlike wonder and awe disappears when you mature and that in order to properly grow into an adult you must eschew it. That innocence will die and you’ll never be innocent again.

It is true that we can never really unknow things. And as adults we hold responsibilities that children aren’t developed enough to bear. But we live in a universe so vast and in a world so wide that there is so much we don’t know. There are things we haven’t tried, people we haven’t met, cultures we aren’t familiar with. Right now, there could be your new favorite thing out there waiting for you to discover it.

Being an adult working at a science lab with other adults is odd because I’m surrounded by many people who believe that it’s completely normal to just go through the motions of marrying/having kids so that you can complain about how jaded your spouse/kids makes you. And to be fair, that *is* normal in this culture. But it doesn’t have to be that way! The innocence and joy of living and experiencing new things doesn’t have to die when you get a nine-to-five!!!

Tldr: I like the book and examining/deconstructing innocence as a construct is very important to me as someone who got depression at 14 and was led to believe that life was never going to better because once innocence is lost that spark never comes back

#anon #long post #books #ask meme #sorry about the long rant at the end i'm tired but have very strong opinions on this #do people realize how depressing that narrative of innocence is for people with childhood trauma

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