Right. Instead of faffing about with a masterpost right now (which I swear I will do in time) I'll just post the link to my A03. My tagging system for fic is fairly easy to understand on my LJ, so feel free to browse through it!
I post on comment_fic rather often, so you'll find a couple of small things over there that aren't archived anywhere else.
Currently studying for a law degree in Scotland. If you like Merlin, Harry Potter, Doctor Who, Supernatural, Hawaii Five-0 or pretty much any other show or book, chances are I'll like you! I haven't restricted my LJ to friends-only because I only really post fannish stuff, so feel free to add me.
I'm sorry for not updating in the LONGEST TIME - I've been really busy with studying and working. Good news though: I've not only left my job, but have a new one lined up with better pay and better hours. I've been really lucky. ( Discussion of working in a betting shop. TW for mental health stuff and creepinessCollapse )
As a few of you may know, I was working at one of the many bookmakers (of which there aren't many in America) which plague the high streets of Britain. I don't know if you've ever seen the episode of Black Books where Bernard bets at a bookies, but it's pretty much still a lot like that. We have four gaming machines lining one wall, and screens of all the racing on the other. We put up the papers for the horses and dog racing all around the walls, and there are some seats and tables for the punters. People have to smoke outside, but they can bring in pets. In many ways, it's similar to a pub, in that we get the old dears who are just in for some company and hot coffee, the regulars who fancy a flutter, and then the addicts.
I absolutely adore some aspects of my job. I made a list of the customers who I want to get a wee going-away present for, and I can't afford to spend that much money because there are just SO MANY of them who I love. We get people coming in with cakes and biscuits for us, aul mannies with their wee dugs and flatcaps, and even cards and presents on our birthdays. There's this one customer called Jenny who's like a Homeric side character, full of stock phrases and epithets: "Ah dinna ken fit ah'm DEEin!", "Aw, yer as thick as shite in a bottle", "Dinna bother me!". (Note: I am from Scotland. This is how people in North-East Scotland talk. I don't intend to mock or Hagridise it; Doric and Aberdonian is a well-recognised dialect which is written this way because otherwise it makes no sense.)
But ultimately, my job involves catering to addicts. There's an old man who comes in every day at 9pm and stays until just about closing time (10pm). He bets unwisely on the gaming machines - covering every square on the roulette wheel, that sort of thing - and can lose up to £200 per night. Me and my coworkers have tried everything possible to get him to acknowledge he has a problem, but we can't stop serving him unless he decides to self-exclude. So I see this guy come in every day in his ratty, dirty jacket and the same trousers every day, and it's extremely depressing to know that I can't help him no matter what I do. Gambling is a symptom of the human condition (and I know I'm getting all grandiose and weird here, but hear me out) because everyone thinks they're special. How can you not, when the entire world is viewed through your lens? People view themselves as the protagonists in their stories, and they think the world owes them a win.
We're both a haven and a trap for the vulnerable in society, and sometimes that makes us a target. We were robbed almost a year ago - a huge guy came in with a knife. Since then, we've had a bandit screen put up, but no one knows if it's effective. A maximum of two of us work in a shop at a time, and more often than not it's just me in the shop alone. If something happens, I could be left behind the counter dying or dead whilst customers try to place their bets and wonder where I am. Someone was, not too long ago.
A man who, for a number of reasons, we believe to be having issues with undiagnosed schizophrenia (obviously, not a judgement to take lightly) has sent my coworker an extremely scary letter. The police have been notified and he's now under the care of the system, we believe, but some people aren't so cordial as to send letters of their intent. I know of at least three people who have been followed places by customers, and I myself was followed back to the place I was staying, just over a month ago, by a man who wouldn't stop talking about how God talks to him and tells him to do what he wants. The police are now also aware of him.
I know it can happen in any job, but in a bookies especially I need to be careful. I can't give my friendliest smile as I serve a customer, because sometimes a customer will take that to mean that we have a connection. As our working practices are changing in the near future and we close up alone, I decided I just can't take that risk of a customer waiting in or nearby the shop until we close and then following me somewhere. Unlike in most retail jobs, here customers are encouraged to linger.
Add to that the day-to-day reality of putting up with drunks, abuse, and anger, and I just had to get out. The machines customers are taking up a higher proportion of my time, and more often than not they're where problem gambling lies. Even in the short 14 months since I've had this job, the industry has changed.
So I'm off to a bank. Slightly less morally corrupt, one would hope - but not by much. At least hopefully there will still be regulars, and I can do my best to help people get the most from their bank.
In other news
I've been losing weight! 22lb down and counting (though I could easily lose another 30 before I'm looking how I want to, haha). I think a lot of it's to do with getting a handle on my depression. I'm still having huge issues with depression, anxiety, and panic attacks, don't get me wrong, but I have a support network in place and know to reach out to it if I need help. I can tentatively state that I'm progressing slowly but surely to the mental and physical place I want to be at.
Not got long to go before uni's done. I don't really have a concrete plan for afterwards. I've applied for a couple of graduate schemes but in all honesty I want a year out just to work and get a cat and get settled somewhere. I'm applying for masters programmes next year too, and what I do when is just a question of money (ha, 'just'. I am so broke it hurts). Hopefully one day I'll have enough for a masters in Classics, but I know there are grants available.
I think that's all there is to update everyone on... I've been more involved in art and photography lately too. I turn 21 on Sunday, excited. It's the work night out on the Saturday so I'll probably turn 21 in some dive of a nightclub.
Haven't written fic in forever. I'm doing nano this year (almost at 50k! Can't believe it) and it's making me nostalgic for fic, so I think you might be seeing some Merlin, Supernatural, Harry Potter or Torchwood stuff coming your way pretty soon. I'm still way behind on Supernatural, but I'm going through a rewatch just now so I should be caught up soon enough.
Hope everyone's doing well and if you read all this, thank you!
Title: The Good Fight
Summary: Merlin knows better than anyone that he has to keep the magic secret. Magic users should be registered, with the penalty for not doing so harsh indeed, and thaumists are growing in influence. Tensions are high as the country is teetering on the brink of another Purge. Merlin has always said that violence is not the answer, but vigilante attacks from both sides, not to mention a string of grisly murders, suggest that no one is listening to him, let alone reading his blog. Cue spandex and talking statues and a whole lot of sexual tension with Arthur, son of the most bigoted thaumist around.
Pairing: Arthur/Merlin (preslash)
Warnings: Violence, I suppose. Minor horror, and some naughty words.
Notes: Thank you to my fabulous and amazing and all-round beautiful artist (and mixer!), suchaprince. Go check out her art and mixes, because they are absolutely awesome. Thanks also to my beta, caerosa, who reassured me that I was not in fact being silly (or, if I were, that it was the good kind). Thanks also to tygermine for cheering me on! Final thanks to my irl friend Amelia, who put up with my facebook messages at two in the morning when this idea struck.
The art itself contains spoilers for the fic, and will be embedded in it. :)
Summary: Starting up where season three left off, this is a story about rejecting the fate laid out for you and about forging your own destiny. Most of all, though, this is a story about rain.
Morgana has disappeared, taking her half-dead sister with her, and Uther won't wake up. As Arthur tries to come to grips with ruling Camelot, he's hindered by the unnatural rains which are trying to conquer all of Albion. Quests! Mordred! Magical plots!
Rating: R (but no sex ;_;)
Warnings: Depiction of injury, death of supporting character.
Notes: Title from a Nick Drake song. Firstly, massive thanks to my artist, nane0, who took scenes and gave them life. Prolific, talented, and hard-working, nane0 deserves a massive round of applause. My fic would not be here without the art she created, because it inspired me and spurred me on.
Secondly, an equally-large thank you to my beta, caerosa. Her help has been prompt, thorough, unflinching, and exactly what I needed. Without her, this fic would be languishing somewhere on my computer, drowning in unwarranted dashes.
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