This is a post about loving betas.
I started an English class today, nothing too advanced or interesting. The professor had a ‘Ten Commandments’ list for writing, most of which I’d already heard from different sources.
But it made me really appreciate the people I’ve had in my life who beta for me on a variety of levels. So much of my work changes and adapts not because they influence the story I want to tell, but because they open my mind to endless possibilities, and they make me want to be better.
I know not all of them will see this (because Tumblr tags are dumb sometimes), but I wanted to make a post to say thank you for all that you do for me, and for my work. To zombicorns, penguinutopia, hedgerose, hollyandvice, glitterdammerung, drblaine, innypocket, aspiringtoeloquence, whenidance, controlofwhatido, missparker, and anyone else who has ever offered me a helping hand before. We would not be the same without you.
6, 12, 17!
6. Favorite band
I don’t have just one, so have a list.
The Spice Girls, The Backstreet Boys, N’Sync, The Fray, The Script, OneRepublic, Grace Potter and the Nocturnals, The White Tie Affair, Hey Monday, The Civil Wars.
12. Ideas of a perfect date
Our standard ‘date’ is usually dinner and a movie, but I don’t think I particularly care? I just enjoy spending time with him.
17. A fact about my life
My main source of entertainment these days is my cats.
i just beta’d sarah’s spn fic in a british accent and oh my god, i haven’t laughed that hard or that much in ages.
burt and carole are getting married and we are WEEPING.
cup of coffee and two of my best friends? i’d say it’s a pretty fantastic sunday morning.
rewatching never been kissed. initial meeting and teenage dream and we all burst into tears.
i miss klaine.
nessyschu asked you: <3 (heart)
From a companion piece to sarah’s (def)inition verse:
The raised voices get drowned out by his father’s familiar bellowing (— don’t care, get the goddamn faggot out of my house —) and Luke squeezes his eyes shut, tugging his legs closer to his chest and resting his chin on his knees. It’s almost over; he’s this close to getting out of here, away from his father and the hell the last fourteen years have been. He stops to breathe, in and out to steady himself and he waits, shifts against the wall.
Luke winces as some of the more recent bruises ache as he twists his back; he’s not worried about them, not worried about what they’ll say at intake because they’re old and faint, brown and they can’t prove anything —
The door clicks open and light floods the room; Luke blinks blearily as a figure walks towards him, heels clacking against the wood on the floor. It stops and kneels slowly in front of him, hand reaching out and then jerking back quickly. Luke’s eyes focus and he realizes it’s a woman, long, dark hair tidied up into several tiny braids and swept back into a ponytail. His father’s voice echos down the hallway and the woman’s mouth sets into a thin line, eyes fixing on Luke. Pity, there’s pity in her eyes and it’s all going so wrong, she’s not going to believe him, they’re not going to mark him —
“I’m surprised you’re still in one piece.” Luke shrugs noncommitally, desperate not to give anything away. Three days, fourteen years and three days he’s waited and this is his chance, his way out, his choice — “You know we can help you,” she says softly. “You know the DoL won’t mark you if he’s mistreated you, if —”
“My father doesn’t beat me.”
The woman blinks at him, surprise evident on her face. She inhales, steadying herself, and Luke can see determination settle into the lines of her face. It won’t do her any good. “It’s Luke, right? We can help you, Luke, if you just talk to us. My partner is out there talking to your father, and frankly we both think that —”
“My father doesn’t beat me,” Luke repeats, flat and firm. He doesn’t blink as her eyes roam his figure; he knows he’s small, tiny and frail and thin. He’s on the mend, though, bruises barely showing and his ribs have healed and the scar on the back of his neck is just a scar; they can’t prove anything, they can’t prevent this from happening if he doesn’t talk. He just has to keep his mouth shut. He has to choose to be silent. Fourteen years and three days, he’s kept himself alive the last three days so they can do this.
“You understand, then,” the woman says slowly, fingers clutching at her clipboard, “that your father is marking you as non-conforming? As Defective?” Luke nods once and the woman sighs. “I can’t do much for you after this, Luke. Maybe put in a word to get you a good Foster, but-“
“Please,” Luke says thinly, his patience tested, “if the three days are up, take me to the Department.”
It’s the please, he thinks, that convinces her in the end.
They slap a silver bracelet on his left wrist the next day, and Luke has never felt more free.