A/N: Hey, gang! So, you guys may remember that I went on a long hiatus a little while back, and I never really explained why I disappeared. This fic is the Logicality version of an accident I got into that caused my physical health to deteriorate so that I couldn’t be online for a few weeks. Without revealing the plot, I was involved in a robbery (not as a robber you hooligans) and I got injured. I took some creative license in that I had to fill in some gaps that I don’t remember very well. I hope you enjoy it!
Summary:It was only a matter of time until Logan Sanders and his partner Patton Thompson had their first semi-idyllic semester living in their own apartment disrupted by unforeseen events. However, as a new homeowner, Logan expected unforeseen events to be something along the lines of a burst pipe or peeling wallpaper. But when one lives in a crime ridden neighborhood on the edge of campus, one can never underestimate the capacity for violence to strike close to home…and to heart.
Bad Warnings: Graphic depictions of violence, blood, physical wounds, stitches, swearing, gun violence, trauma, police activity, widespread panic, Logan sasses the police, angst
Good Warnings: Protective Logan, Emotional (and Physical) Hurt/Comfort
Tagging people at the end. Please message me if you want to be added to my taglist! Reblogs and comments are deeply appreciated, and who knows? You might be tricking me into writing more fics if you do that *wink wonk*
From atop a cracked open biology textbook a phone vibrated. Absently, a slender hand with pale fingers curled around the shaking device and swiped the screen unlocked.
<Patton>: Just got out of class im hitting up the mart before coming home need anything?
The gleam of the screen left a bluish sheen on the thick lenses of a pair of glasses. The wearer of the glasses smiled and typed out a response.
<Logan>: I don’t believe so thanks anyway
The response came before the man could even put the phone down.
<Patton>: OK! did you eat lunch yet?
A guilty pause.
The phone buzzed with what the man most certainly imagined to be more vehemence than usual.
<Logan>: I’m just about to start my paper!!
The next few messages came in rapid succession.
<Patton>: ill fite u
<Patton>: with love
The man smiled and chuckled dryly.
<Logan>: I’m eating it now I promise :)
<Patton>: Look at you with the emojis im so proud
<Patton>: Be home soon ily
<Logan>: ok love you too safe travels
Logan’s mouth quirked into a smile as he placed his phone back into his pocket. He settled down into the rickety chair at the kitchen table, sighing in contentment as he shuffled through the disorganized piles of papers. From his battered bookbag he withdrew his meager lunch of a sandwich and an apple as well as his laptop; switching the bulky device on and taking a bite out of the apple, he pulled up a blank document. Putting the apple aside, he read through his prompt once more and settled down to type.
‘One never quite understands just how desensitized to violence one is until violence strikes far too close to home.’
Logan paused in his typing, taking a moment to scrutinize the opening sentence of his midterm paper and to unwrap his sandwich. His topic was gun control, and he could feel his passion for debate rising up in his mind. He nibbled his sandwich and glanced at his outline, a formless haze of ideas in his mind slowly taking shape and gaining clarity as he traced his plan of attack. He licked the mayonnaise off of his fingers before flexing them, and then hunched forward, the clacking of the keys mingling with the faint ticking of the clock.
‘In a world full of seemingly ubiquitous pro-gun coalitions, violence-ridden movies, and political unrest in regards to ‘the gun debate’, it is seemingly impossible to escape images and talks of guns and violence.’
hi peyton i know you've given writing advice before and i was wondering if you had any tips on how to hone your prose?
something i’ve learned in the past year is that it’s really best to start by writing absolute shit. you know, sometimes beautiful prose strikes you like lightning and just flows forth without any resistance, but that is… a rare occurrence. and you can’t depend on those moments if you want to write with any kind of consistency. so instead of sitting down and typing and re-typing one sentence in an effort to write The Perfect Opening Sentence, just write the simplest possible version of the thing. like, “he said this. she went there. he stood up. she ate a sandwich. the sandwich was bad.” write as much as you can as simply as you can, and then come back to it the next day and revise it.
it’s like. when people are taught to paint, it is understood and built into the learning process that you have to start with a sketch. before you even pick up a brush, you pick up a pencil, and you draw out the bare bones of the thing you want to paint. and then you paint your large chunks of flat colour, and then you start to incorporate shading, and then you add the fine details.
but nobody really teaches writers to do the same thing. i mean, it’s become more accepted to be like, “don’t worry, first drafts are always shit! nobody writes a good first draft!” but shit first drafts are considered like, a necessary evil rather than an important part of the process. nobody thinks of the first draft as a sketch, the Simplest Possible Version Of The Thing on which you will then lay down colour and shading and detail. maybe writing would be easier if we just accepted that we begin with sketching because sketching eases our way, instead of just setting out to paint the ceiling of the sistine chapel in one go.
so like. in my view, it is always easier to revise than to draft. always. so lower the bar to the fucking floor and write the simplest sketch of a first draft that you can, and then come back the next day to make it less simple, and then the next and the next, until you realize that you have something you’re proud of. i mean, obviously if Inspiration Strikes and every word you’re typing is pure genius, ride that for as long as it lasts and don’t let go, but if you’re trying to build a consistent writing practice and develop your skill - start simple, build up.
and also this is an obvious one but just. read good prose because it will make you a better writer by osmosis.
It’s Wednesday. 10pm. Crutchie sits on the couch, computer in his lap, large iced coffee in his hand. Thank god the Starbucks is open 24 hours. He has two hours to write an essay for his English class. He opens a word document.
Zero words. 10:03pm.
Crutchie takes a sip of his coffee. Cracks his knuckles. Places his fingers on the keyboard.
Wait, he needs some music to really get him motivated.
Crutchie spends ten minutes scrolling through his Spotify, trying to find the perfect playlist.
Zero words. 10:13pm.
Another sip of coffee. He’s finally found some good music. Crutchie starts typing.
Thirty-two words. 10:15pm.
Crutchie reaches for his coffee. Shit. It’s empty.
He has no choice. He gets up. Goes to the refrigerator. Grabs the milk. Grabs the chocolate powder. Stirs.
Crutchie takes his glass and sets it down next to his laptop. Wait, now he’s hungry. He doesn’t feel like making anything, so he grabs a jar of peanut butter from the pantry and a spoon. Sets it next to the chocolate milk. Grabs his laptop. Types a little more.
One-hundred-and-three words. 10:24pm.
This is so boring. Crutchie glances at the little clock in the corner of his screen. He’s got a little time and only about nine-hundred words to go. Time for a break.
He opens a new tag. Searches for a vine compilation. Manages to find one he actually hasn’t seen before. Sip of chocolate milk. Scoop of peanut butter. Fifteen minutes pass. Good thing he didn’t choose a longer compilation.
One-hundred-and-sixty-six words. 10:42pm.
Crutchie wills himself to write a little more. His phone buzzes, but he ignores it.
Two-hundred-and-ninety-nine words. 10:45pm.
His phone buzzes again. This time Crutchie picks it up. It’s a text from Jack. He’s out with Davey and won’t be home tonight. Crutchie isn’t worried. After all, if Jack isn’t home, where else would he be? With Davey, of course.
Three-hundred-and-fifty-seven words. 10:49pm.
Time for another vine compilation.
Crutchie’s in the middle of laughing at “I could have dropped my croissant!” when he remembers that he actually has homework to do.
Four-hundred-and-ninety-five words. 11:10pm.
Shit, it’s getting late. Crutchie isn’t much of a worrier, but now the minutes seem to be ticking by a little faster. He types.
Six-hundred-and-eighty-six words. 11:16pm.
Crutchie drains his glass. Shoves more peanut butter in his mouth. He’s stressed.
Eight-hundred-and-four words. 11:23pm.
Almost there. Crutchie opens up his browser again. Watches three more vines…and then a fourth. He can never resist that road work one.
“Uh, yeah, I sure hope it does,” Crutchie mumbles as he types. He accidentally adds that phrase. Deletes it. He’s not sure his biology professor appreciates unintentional vine references.
Nine-hundred-and-fifty-seven words. 11:39pm.
Crutchie’s tired. And hungry. More peanut butter. He could watch another vine…
One more. Then back to typing.
One-thousand-and-two words. 11:46pm.
Crutchie types the last sentence. Saves it. Opens up a dropbox. The essay won’t send. He refreshes and tries again. The essay won’t send. Shit.
He thinks, trying to ignore the time.
Nine minutes to submit this stupid essay.
Crutchie has an idea. He attaches the essay to an email. Sends the email to himself. Opens the email on his phone. Download.
He opens up the dropbox on his phone. If this doesn’t work, he’s screwed. His professor doesn’t accept late work under any circumstances.
Crutchie sighs in relief, closes his eyes for a second. Then they shoot open.
Trans Kakashi anon from last night. I think I may be writing this story out? A word document is open with sentences typed in it and everything. I’m pretty sure it’s all for the moments Kakashi despairingly wonders what he did wrong to end up with team 7. Sometimes the answer is “I trolled the elders about getting married, worth it” sometimes his thoughts get a lot more depressing and- Kakashi, Kakashi no.
xD That sounds like a Kakashi fic. Equal parts crushing angst and hilarious troll.
Oh my god, why do you hate Middlemarch? I was just about to read it haha.
OKAY RIGHT SO
I did a module on Victorian lit last year at uni, right? And I fucking loved it, like, I am 100% here for people wandering around in weird clothes bitching about each other, dying in the rain, and being shocked by ankles, like, that’s my fucking aesthetic, but Middlemarch is literally the worst piece of Victorian literature ever written.
There’s quite a few styles of Victorian lit, like there are quite a few styles of modern lit. People forget this because it’s all lumped together into one big collection of OLD, but there’s sci-fi novels, romance novels, sensation novels, there’s even erotica (I recommend reading Victorian porn purely for it’s entertainment value, btw, that shit is HILARIOUS). But there’s also this fucking evil style of Victorian literature, which, thankfully, has died a death, and it’s called the “Victorian Multiplot Novel” and they are shite and make me want to kill myself and everyone around me with a blunt trowel.
The Victorian Multiplot Novel is basically a bit like Game of Thrones, in that you follow lots of interconnected stories at once, sounds cool, right? ONLY NOT. Because, unlike in Game of Thrones FUCK ALL HAPPENS IN THE VICTORIAN MULTIPLOT NOVEL (that’s a bit mean, some are kind of tolerable and things do happen, but not in Middlemarch, okay, Middlemarch can SUCK IT). It’s literally what happens if you got a list of all the things that are shit about Victorian literature and compressed it into one enormous papery brick of pure evil.
Okay, so let’s talk more specifically about Middlemarch, so one contemporary critic called it a “loose baggy monster” (I’d cite it but that’d mean going through my notes from the lectures on Middlemarch and tbh I’d rather die, but trust me, it’s true, the quote is actually the title of one of the lectures we had on it so it’s stuck in my memory). This is because Eliott was just… not very good at tying it all together. It was originally two separate novels that she jammed into one another, and it kind of shows, the whole plotline with Casaubon and Dorothea was originally it’s own novel, but for some reason she jammed it into another book she was writing that was, frankly, shit, and then she tried to make this whole shitty conglomeration into a character study of an entire English village, and in doing so manages to under develop every character and plot line. Also, everything that happens is just like, talked about. We’re there when a couple of things happen, but the rest is just… talked about by people.
This book is literally the same dimensions as a house brick, depending on the edition you get and how it’s edited, it runs anywhere between 310,000 and 325,000 words. There is only so much of people talking about boring shit that happens in a provincial village that I can deal with. It’s also written in a fucking annoying style that I do not get on with, like, you know that thing that Dickens does where he describes shit for 400 million words because he gets paid by the word? You know that? Eliott does that, but five million times worse and with no excuse because she was not paid by the word. I’m literally gonna go and get my copy and open it to a random page and type out a sentence or two and I GUARANTEE whatever it is will make me want to remove my own eyes with a spoon, you ready?
“This had always been the conclusion of Will’s hesitations. But he was not without contradictoriness and rebellion even towards his own resolve. He had often got irritated, as he was on this particular night, by some outside demonstration that his public exertions with Mr Brooke as a chief could not seem as heroic as he would like them to be, and this was always associated with the other ground of irritation - that notwithstanding his sacrifice of dignity for Dorothea’s sake, he could hardly ever see her. Whereupon, not being able to contradict these unpleasant facts, he contradicted his own strongest bias and said, ‘I am a fool.’“
I promise I did not cheat, that is the first paragraph I stumbled on (and it is FAR from the most boring thing in that book). Also, don’t worry about spoilers, because there are none, because NOTHING HAPPENS IN THIS FUCKING BOOK. Like, yeah, some people get married, one dude dies, and people argue about inheritance, but you don’t see any of it, you just get old Victorian women discussing it in parlours for THREE HUNDRED THOUSAND WORDS.
I’m going to be completely honest with you now, I read the first couple of chapters of Middlemarch, the ones that were originally a different book, about Casaubon and Dorothea, and it was pretty ok, and then it just randomly changed! Like, they got married, and you turned the page and some dude Fred is buying a horse and WHO THE FUCK IS FRED AND WHY AM I SUPPOSED TO CARE ABOUT HIS HORSE?!?! And then about three chapters later we get back to Casuabon and Dorothea, but suddenly they’re abroad, and there’s some random German dude, and like, I gave in. I got the audio book, the funny voices got me almost half way through the 37.4hr audio book, but after seventeen hours of listening, I gave in on that too. I just bullshitted in my final, and I got a 2:1. This book is shit. It is badly constructed, and ponderously written. The characters do not engender sympathy, or interest, and the plot is ambitious, but ultimately nonexistent. Do yourself a favour and just burn your copy ritualistically on a rooftop.
I HATE IT SO FUCKING MUCH.
Go read Lady Audley’s Secret, or The Woman in White, or No Name, or Frankenstein, or 20,000 Leagues Under The Sea, or, frankly, literally anything else from the Victorian era.
I’m not the best at writing, and I’m unfortunately on mobile.
Alexander silently sat in his office at work, staring at the screen of his computer. The computer wasn’t even on. He just stared at his blurry reflection in the blank, black screen. He’d been at work all night. He was avoiding going home, for one reason, and one reason only: Eliza, his beloved wife was there. It’s not that he didn’t want to be around her per se. He’d just done something he regretted tremendously, and felt guilty for it.
A few days before now, Alexander ran into Thomas Jefferson, which brought him color, meaning only one thing. Jefferson was his soulmate. At first, they both denied it: “There’s no way we could be soulmates.” A week ago, he despised the man. But that mistake they made…
Alexander slept with him. He felt so much remorse over it, having cheated on his wife, who hadn’t even known his enemy made him see color. But at the same time, he didn’t regret it. He found his soulmate. He could see color.
But he felt extremely guilty, and angry with himself.
Reaching up slowly, he turned the computer on. He sat there, tapping his fingers on the table while waiting for the desktop to load. His face held a dark, determined look. He looked… well, mad. Crazy. Insane. When the computer finally came on and revealed his desktop background—a picture of him with his beautiful family—he growled in frustration.
The small man opened the writing program and began typing. He typed two sentences, before pausing and staring at the screen. “In the eye of a hurricane there is quiet,” Alexander murmured to himself. “For just a moment: a yellow sky.” He got up quietly made his way to the window, staring down at all of the people roaming the busy New York streets, trying to get out of the heavy rain that had just suddenly began. He clasped his hands behind his back.
“When I was seventeen a hurricane destroyed my town. I didn’t drown—I couldn’t seem to die.” Alexander’s rested his head against the window, his eyes taking on a distant look. “I wrote my way out. Wrote everything down far as I could see. I wrote my way out. I looked up and the town had its eyes on me.” The man took a deep sigh, shutting his eyes. “We passed a plate around and total strangers moved kindness by my story. Raised enough for me to book a passage on a ship that was New York bound.”
Alexander straightened and opened his eyes. Quickly, he made his way over to his computer once more and sat down. “I wrote my way out of hell, I wrote my way to my position. I was louder than the crack in the bell. I wrote Eliza and John love letters until they fell. I wrote about our successful company and defended it well. And in the face of ignorance and resistance, I wrote financial systems into existence. And when my prayers to God were met with indifference, I picked up a pen, I wrote my own deliverance.”
Staring at the computer screen once again, he exhaled quietly. “In the eye of a hurricane there is quiet for just a moment; a yellow sky.” his gaze darkened. “I was twelve when my mother died. She was holding me. We were sick and she was holding me. I couldn’t seem to die.”
Aaron Burr, who had peeked into Alexander’s office to check up on him (he’d been rather quiet in the meeting) narrowed his eyes and whispered quietly. “Wait for it.” Without a sound, he shut the door back and walked off.
Alexander noticed nothing. He began typing on his keyboard quietly. “I’ll write my way out. Wrote everything down far as I can see. I’ll write my way out, overwhelm them with honesty. This is the eye of the hurricane, this is the only way I can get rid of my misery.” he paused for a moment, looking at the screen. He clicked in the title box and typed one last thing: “The Jefferson Pamphlet.”
Summary: Visiting Tom on the set of Thor, Gemma gets a taste of Loki’s wardrobe.
Author Note: We all deserve some funny fluff right now, so enjoy some Gemma and Tom.
Gemma let herself be distracted by her work as she sat in Tom’s trailer on the set of Thor. She was too curious about the scenes that were being filmed, but with the insanity of the crowd around the blocks the set covered, she had fled to the trailer instead of watching each take. Ever since walking the red carpet at the Emmy’s, she had gotten used to being Tom Hiddleston’s girlfriend in public. But it still wasn’t easy, and if she could keep herself away from thousands of screaming fans who likely had a very strong opinion about who Tom dated, she sure as hell would.
When the door to the trailer clicked open, she barely looked up as she typed out the last sentence in the email before she could enjoy her vacation time.