"I think I packed everything Bec, I…I checked the list you made… it’s all…" Magnus pulled his hands out of his pockets and stood with his hands on his hips, all his weight on his left leg his right leg slightly popped out.
"I brought your sushi pajama top and the new toothbrush, and your perfume and hairbrush…" he went on, looking from her to the large bag of things packed and ready for the hospital.
Rebecka smiled at him, her hand on her large belly. He didn’t even know he did it. He had no idea how his weight shifted on his hip made her want to climb him like a tree. It made his body look long and lean in his blue t shirt, the sleeves pulled up past his elbows.
She was looking at him and smiling.
"What? Bec…what are you…? Did I for get something?" he said as he looked down at the bag he had packed.
Rebecka’s smile disappeared as she felt a tightening in her abdomen and she reached for it and looked away from him. It was another braxton hicks contraction, but they were getting more intense.
Magnus was holding her in a second, crossing the distance between them with preternatural speed.
"Bec!" he said as he held her up.
Rebecka held onto him and she breathed the way they had practiced until the feeling had passed.
"I’m okay…it was just another braxton hicks…"
He moved her to the bed and he rested her on the edge, lifting her legs up and letting her lie down. She was on her side, the only way she could lay now, the heavy weight of the baby too much for her to lay on her back for too long. Magnus knelt next to the bed, looking in her eyes, smoothing her hair back with one hand, smoothing her belly with the other. There was worry in his eyes and Rebecka touched his face.
"I’m okay. Not long now…" she said with a smile.
Magnus’ smile grew. It was going to be so difficult to watch her go through it. He was going to want to take her pain away every minute of however long it took, but in the end they would have their baby.
ISFPs are beautiful, fragile butterflies.
INFJs are crystal balls in human form.
ENFPs are manic pixie dream people.
ISTJs are like fanatically religious cats with schedules for everything.
INFPs are hummingbirds lying on the ground after flying into a window.
ENFJs are the Mufasas of the world.
ENTPs are like debate coaches who believe life is a misfit orphanage and they are the caretaker.
ESFPs are flying squirrels.
ESTJs are either Dolores Umbridge or your loyal guard dog, there is no in between.
ISFJs are moms.
INTJs are the ones no one can understand.
ENTJs will be president someday.
ESTPs are Kanye West in a laser tag game.
ISTPs are American flags flapping in the wind.
ESFJs are like pioneer women churning butter.
A/N-Magnus asks Rebecka to tell him a story. M is written by detektivmartinsson, R is written by me! Enjoy!
M: *crawls and lies down on her lap* Bec, tell me a story.
R: *Rebecka smiles down at him and smooth’s his hair* What kind of a story?
M: *closes his eyes* any story.
R: Any story, huh? How about one from when I was little? *She puts her stack of papers she’s reading through aside* I was forever asking my parents to tell me stories…This is called The Girl and the Snake.
Once upon a time there was a girl who was to go to the wood and drive the cattle home; but she did not find the herd, and losing her way instead, came to a great hill. It had gates and doors and she went in.
There stood a table covered with all sorts of good things to eat. And there stood a bed as well, and in the bed lay a great snake.
The snake said to the girl: “Sit down, if you choose! Eat, if you choose! Come and lie down in the bed, if you choose! But if you do not choose, then do not do so.”
So the girl did nothing at all. At last the snake said: “Some people are coming now who want you to dance with them. But do not go along with them.”
Straightway people arrived who wanted to dance with the girl; but she would hear nothing of it. Then they began to eat and drink; but the girl left the hill and went home.
*Rebecka dragged her fingers through his hair while she spoke, pulling lightly from the scalp*
M:*Magnus closes his eyes, starting to fall asleep* what happened to the snake?
R: *Laughs* There is more story love…
The following day she again went to the wood to look for the cattle, did not find them, lost her way again, and came to the same hill. This time she also entered, and found everything as it had been the first time, the well-spread table and the bed with the snake in it. And the snake said to her, as before: “Sit down, if you choose! Eat, if you choose! Come, and lie down in the bed if you choose! But if you do not choose, then do not do so! Now a great many more people are coming who will want to dance with you, but do not go with them.”
The snake had scarcely concluded before a great many people arrived, who began to dance, eat and drink; but the girl did not keep them company; instead she left the hill and went home.
*continues to play with his hair*
M:*Hums happily* What’s up with that snake, creepy.
R: *Laughs and leans down to kiss him* Do you think he’s creepy? I always liked him. He was very polite and he gave the girl very clear choices and made it clear they were her choices to make… there’s a little more, do you want to hear? *kisses his forehead*
M:I don’t like his attitude, he’s too… enigmatic. Is that the right word? *Humms and puts her hand in his hair again* I like it when you play with my hair.
R: *Smiles as she looks down at his handsome face* Yes, that’s the word, enigmatic.
My policeman, of course you distrust him because he seems to be…not in keeping with the nature of a snake? Perhaps he is being sneaky…but who are all the other people was always my question. Who came to his home in the hill and tried to make her dance with them?
*puts her hand back in his hair* I like to play with your hair…
M:*smiles* I just don’t like that he doesn’t offer an explanation, and who are the people that keep coming to the house when he says they will? How does he know they’re coming? It’s all very suspicious to this dumb policeman. *smiles* Don’t play too much or I’ll go bald.
R:*Rebecka laughs and pulls at his hair* I will love you when you are bald as well. *pats hair*
Sometimes we don’t get an explanation, sometimes we just have to trust how something feels, and that snake doesn’t seem to be trying to trick her, he isn’t giving her much information, but he always tells her it is her choice…and when she makes it he neither applauds nor censures her.
And you are not a dumb policeman, you are a brilliant policeman. *she leans down and kisses his lips* All very good questions Detektive Martinsson…shall we see what happens? *Rebecka’s fingertips move on his face, his cheekbone and his jaw*
M: Of course he can’t applaud, snakes don’t have hands. *chuckles* Hmm… I want to know what happens.
R:*Laughs and squeezes his face*
On the third day when she once more went to the wood, everything happened exactly as on the first and second day. The snake invited her to eat and drink, and this time she did so, with a hearty appetite. Then the snake told her to lie down beside him and the girl obeyed.
*Rebecka raised her eyebrow at him waiting to hear his reaction to this new wrinkle*
M:*with his eyes still closed* what the fuck sort of story is this Bec?
R: *Laughs out loud* It’s an old Swedish folktale. What? Do you think it’s unwise to tell little girls that they can lie down with snakes? *whispering* It gets better...
Then the snake said: “Put your arm about me!” She did so. “And now kiss me,” said the snake, “but if you are afraid, put your apron between us.”
*Rebecka smiled and bit her lip*
M:*starts laughing* I think if a little girl sees a snake she should call someone to kill it. *looks up at her, eyes narrowed* I don’t want to know what kind of stories you listened to when you were a kid Bec.
R: HEEEEY?! *she pulls back from him in mock indignation* Fine, I won’t tell you the rest then…*crosses arms and makes a stern face, very difficult to keep up when he laughter is bubbling to the surface*
M:I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. *grabs her hands and puts it on his face as he smiles* Tell me what happens, please. I want to know. *kisses her hand*
R: *Rebecka tries not to but can’t help but smile at him. She looks at him with narrowed eyes, enjoying his kisses on her hand*
The girl did so, and in a moment the snake was turned into a marvellously handsome youth, who was really a prince, bewitched in the form of a snake by magic spells, and now delivered by the girl’s courage.
Then both of them went away and there was nothing further heard of them.
*She smiled at him, knowing that was not going to be good enough for him*
M: But what about the cattle? And the people that kept coming by? Was the food magical? Beeec….
R: I know, I know *she says nodding her head, agreeing with him*
The story was criticized for being flat and lacking richness and depth. It was written from the same germ as a very famous Danish folktale called “King Dragon” which was probably a much better story. But really, if you think about it, this is a good story as well! It doesn’t spoon feed you answers, you have to make leaps, you have to fill in the cracks and use your own imagination. *she looks at him and smiles* I used to make up different details everytime.
The cattle found their own way home on the fourth day, and the girl’s father, who was harsh and cold, never even missed the girl. The food was only there to entice the girl into making a decision with something other than her heart and her head. It was testing her character. And I think, if she had eaten it any time before that third day, it would have all disappeared and she would heve been alone in the hill, no snake, no people coming to try to make her dance. Those people were enchanted too. They were trying to lure her away from what she felt and what she knew was right.
And when the Prince transformed, the girl was surprised but not completely, because she saw him for who he was underneath, not just the enchantment.
*Rebecka leaned down and kissed him again* So that is how I spent my childhood, taking stories that critics thought were thin and shallow and turning them into long detail filled tales. It usually took me longer to tell my parents all of my made up detail than it took them to tell the original story… *she smiled, not sure if he would ask her to tell him a story again…*
M:Mmm *holds her hand* I like your stories more. *yawns* I’m tired, can we go to bed?
R: *Rebecka smiles at him and then looks at the pile of papers she was supposed to read through tonight and sucks air in through her teeth, making a decision*
Bed, come on, let’s go Detektive I washed and changed the sheets today…I love clean sheets…
*Rebecka grabs the papers as she turns off the light, leaving her teacup on the table, just like everynight*
I don’t know if you like Tom Hiddleston, but if you want an Amanda Seyfried head canon story, you need to go check out the Rebecka and Magnus stories that neverthesamelove and detektivmartinsson write together. They use her as their Rebecka face claim and the story is beautiful.
Thank you so much for the recommendation! You are such a talented writer and coming from you, this is a huge compliment!
Amanda Seyfried & Tom Hiddleston [Request]
A/N- Another Claire Fletcher story about Magnus and Maria. I was just in the mood for this tonight… : )
“I’m tired Magnus,” Maria said to him as he dragged her down the hall of the ship. “Can’t we just stay in the room tonight? We have 6 more nights, do we really have to do this tonight?” He turned to her and smiled, spinning around and catching her around the waist as he lifted her from behind in his arms.
On Twitter today — and everyday — there was some chatter and scuffle about Some Authors’ Careers and Some Authors’ Fame and whether they had deserved it. Some folks invariably said the chatter and scuffle was jealousy. Some others invariably said not everything is jealousy.
Here’s what I think: having a writing career is like driving a race car.
I’m not really a grand race car driver, mostly because I’ve discovered that I don’t really care about winning against anyone but myself, which turns out to be not the point of organized sports. But I have been in race cars, and on race tracks, and have spent many hours doing classwork at over 70 mph. Enough to know that a writing career is a lot like driving a race car.
One of the things they teach you in every single form of car racing is to keep your eyes up. Up. Upper than that. Upper than even that. Don’t look at the dash, because then you won’t see what’s happening on the road. Don’t look at the road right in front of you, because you won’t see that the turn you’re going into links into another turn and you could set yourself up for both. Put your eyes up as far as you can see down the road, and look there. Only when you see the absolute farthest point can you start to calculate the best way of getting there.
(this is great advice to use when you’re driving normally, by the way)
A writing career is like that. Use your peripheral vision to look at the things that are coming at you day to day, but never forget that every decision should contribute that farthest-away-point you want to get to. Never forget that every tiny success and failure is just a steer or counter steer toward the real point of the thing.
And here’s the other thing they tell you about keeping your eyes up: don’t fixate on the person in front of you. If there’s another driver just in front of you, the tendency is to stare at their bumper and then take the turn just like they do. But guess what? Then the absolute best scenario is that you will take the turn just like they do. So if they’re taking it wrong, you’ll take it wrong too. If there’s a better way, a faster way, a cooler way, a way that involves painting a giant knife on the side of your car and listening to Finnish rap very loudly, you’ll never know.
Eyes up, drivers, they say: look past the car in front of you. All you need to do is to note them well enough that you can pass them when you find a better way to take the turn.
Don’t fixate, writers. Eyes up, writers. I don’t care if x or y is doing a or b. What does that have to do with me? I have my eyes on where I want to go, and no one else matters.
The race is Maggie vs. Maggie. Who are you competing with?
reblogging this because the writer-envy piece in yesterday’s Salon hurts my soul on a most basic level.
It’s ludicrous to go comparing yourself to/being jealous of other writers. It’s meaningless. No one is going to write like you, even if they use the same themes and tropes, and there is no telling why one writer’s thing hits big and why the same ballpark thing, two years earlier, didn’t. You may as well get angry because Jonathan Livingston Seagull hit big and your pelican book didn’t, or for my generation, Harry Potter. It doesn’t work.
You could put twenty writers in a room, give them the same idea, and they would write twenty different things. It’s absurd to be jealous. And the person who strives to write what the market demands or what is “hot” right now will fail, because markets and audiences change faster than the publishing system can turn books out.
All we can do is write what we want to write and understand that making ourselves happy is all we may get to do. And, if we’re lucky, we’ll make a bit of money. But we can’t guarantee we’ll write a bestseller. No one can. If you’re jealous of other writers, you’re simply wasting your own time and energy. If you compare yourself to other writers, the same applies. The only writer you should worry about, apart from reading for pleasure, is you. You’re the only writer who matters then.
A reading I did of Edgar Allen Poe’s A Dream, using my Tom Hiddleston voice.
If you don’t know your personality type, take the test here.
Tagged by: sweetoceanclouds
Rules: Find out what characters share the same personality type as you here and list the characters that you find relevant below. Then tag five friends and let them know you tagged them!
Rebecka had honestly never been happier in her whole life. Not when she got the typewriter, the one like her grandparents had and she played with as a child, not when her parents took her to England, not when she first saw Magnus chopping wood in the Swedish summer sunshine, not even when she spent that night with him in the abandoned cabin. She had never been as happy as she was in this moment, as he played with her, as he leaned over and kissed her and a camera flash went off again.
The planner pulled them behind the cake and she was smiling as Magnus kissed her again and the crowd applauded. She held his hand as he held the knife for the cake and she looked at the planner.
"Hey hey," Ansgar said as he approached the table and Dagny looked at him and then at Magnus, confused.
Rebecka didn’t say anything. She didn’t move.
It was happening again, only this time, it was even more ridiculous. There was nothing, or no one, who could cast any doubt on how Magnus felt today…or any other day for that matter.
Dagny could accuse her of stealing writing, try to ruin her career, but if she was trying to insinuate that Magnus…somehow…with her…