#fast and shitty is just a rough draft

[chirpybirdy]

i dont like ai art because i prefer my slop insane not derivative but the constant "do it fast! do it shitty! chatgpt will always be worse!" is so irritating... i dont understand why you would want to measure yourself against ai in the first place... but especially in the speed and shittiness categories lmao

[lilg16]

Note: Guys this is my first fic so go easy on me… with the encouragement of @maudesgf I finally wrote something 😵‍💫 Sooooo constructive criticisms only lol

🎀🧚 More Than a Bad Game🧚🎀

You had been invited to a game at Fenway by Jarren. Jarren had been your best friend since high school, but you had grown apart due to him getting drafted and moving to Boston. When you told Jarren that your work was sending you on a trip to Boston from LA, he was ecstatic. “Come to the game at Fenway! We’re playing the Yankees,” he enthusiastically yelled through the phone. “I’ll get you tickets behind home plate.”

Jarren sent you the tickets. He had gotten you two, one for you and one for your friend from work. You had just arrived to Fenway, in time for batting practice. You saw Jarren hitting, and he looked so much bigger from the last time you saw him. He had more tattoos, a different haircut, and had clearly been going to the gym more. You saw him and had a familiar feeling in your stomach, but brushed it off. He had been your best friend since high school. You couldn’t think of him like that.

Jarren saw you in the stands and waved; he had a huge grin on his face and invited you down to the field. He gave you a hug and told you how excited he was that you were there to watch. You had only seen him play baseball a handful of times in the past few years, never in Boston.

You make your way back to your seat and the game begins. Jarren begins the game with a strikeout. He looks upset, but still hustles to his left field position. You assure yourself that he will get a hit next time.

Fast forward to the ninth inning, and Jarren is 0-4 with two strikeouts. He had also made an error in left. After the game, he looks mad so you decide to leave and text him.

You: Thanks for the tickets! It was such a fun game to watch! If you’re free in the next few days, we should go to lunch or something.

Jarren: I’m sorry I played so shitty. It was nice seeing you and having you watch the game though.

You: Everyone has their rough days. You’ll do better next time!

Jarren: What are your plans for the rest of the night?

You: My friend from work is going out with some other coworkers, but I’m exhausted. I’m just planning on getting some dinner and hanging out at the hotel.

Jarren: You should come over to my place and we can get dinner and hang out.

You: Sure! It will be good to catch up!

You shower at the hotel and put on comfy clothes, some sweats and a Red Sox shirt that Jarren had given you, despite it being two sizes too big. You arrive at Jarren’s apartment. It is a small, cozy apartment about three blocks from Fenway.

He answers the door and lets you in. He looks visibly upset. “Hey, come on in. I haven’t ordered food yet, I’m not too hungry.”

”Okay! No worries! How has life been in Boston?”

Jarren looks at you with a frown. You are confused, wondering why he invited you over if he was so upset. It felt like he just wanted to be alone after the rough game. Jarren invites you to sit on the couch. He starts rambling about the game.

“I can’t believe I struck out twice. Its such an embarrassment. I get paid millions of dollars and perform like shit.” It pained you to hear the way Jarren talked about himself. He had always been hard on himself, unreasonably hard. You knew that baseball was a difficult sport, and players fail more times than they succeed. You just wish he realized that.

As you listened to him talk, your hand touched his arm, trying to provide some comfort. He grabs your hand and holds it while he’s talking. He starts rambling about how he is lonely and has not made many friends in Boston since moving. You felt for him, because he was your best friend and once he moved, you got busy with work and had not had time to make friends of your own. You had always liked Jarren, but he always had girlfriends in high school, so you accepted that he would never like you in that way. He finished talking and sighed: “I’m sorry. Want to get something to eat?”

“I’m not too hungry anymore… We could maybe just watch a movie?”

Jarren turns on the TV and picks a movie. The movie had just started and he was already asleep and snoring. You were feeling sleep consume you, but did not want to fall asleep at Jarren’s apartment. As you were about to get up and leave, Jarren’s head fell onto your shoulder. He was almost completely on top of you and weighing you down. Still asleep, he reaches his arms out and wraps them around your waist. Confused and not knowing what to do, you tap his head and tell him that he needs to go to bed. Once he wakes up, he’s visibly embarrassed. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean-“ “It’s okay,” you replied. “You had a rough day.”

You tell Jarren that you are about to go home and he opens his mouth like he wants to say something, but doesn’t. “Are you okay?” you ask. “Forget it, it’s stupid” he replies. “Jarren, we’ve been friends forever. Just tell me.” “Fine. It’s just that, it gets really lonely here at night, and I was wondering if you would stay over.”

You were taken aback by his words, but agreed. Jarren let you have his bed while he slept on the couch. At about midnight, you hear footsteps. Jarren walks into his room and sits on the edge of the bed. He looked distraught, and you didn’t know how to help. You told Jarren to lay down in his own bed and you tried to go sleep on the couch. As you’re getting up, he grabs your wrist. “No. Can you stay with me?” he asks. You feel a bit awkward, but you agree.

You and Jarren lay down and you feel him bury his head into your neck. You bring your hand to his hair and begin to scratch his scalp. You could feel the tension melt away from him as he relaxed into your body. You feel his head move and he plants a kiss on your jawline. You are surprised, but don’t fight it. Jarren starts to get handsy with you once he realizes that you were fine with the kiss. He makes his way down to your neck, and starts kissing and sucking, making a very noticeable hickey that you knew you would have to cover up for your meeting in the morning.

Jarren reaches for your breasts, and quickly realizes that you’re not wearing anything under your t-shirt. You heard him groan. His house was cold, and your nipples were hard under your shirt. Jarren reaches down to the hem of your shirt and reaches his hand under. Jarren reaches for your breasts and starts massaging them. You moan as you turn your head and your lips meet his. You start making out with him, as his hand is still massaging your breasts. You reach for his pants and he’s fully hard. You grab his dick through his pants and he groans. You reach into the waistband and grab his dick and start rubbing it. He removes your hand and tries to get on top.

“No,” you say. “Let me take care of you”. You get on top of him and start grinding. You can feel the wetness in your panties, but are determined to make Jarren feel good. He needed it after his rough day. Jarren grabs your hips and moves you back and forth. You get off of him and move between his legs. You grab the waistband of his pajamas and pull them down. His erection springs free and hits against his stomach. You grab his dick and begin to move your hand. You rub him for a few minutes, working up the courage to go further. Once you see precum leaking from the tip, you used it as motivation to put him in your mouth. Jarren groans loudly as you wrap your lips around the head of his cock. You slowly start to suck and use your hand to rub whatever your mouth can’t reach. Jarren is squirming, and you can tell he is getting close. You pull your lips off his cock and get up.

He looks disappointed, but then realizes that you are taking off your shirt and pants. Jarren is sitting with his back against the headboard, and you get on top. You grab his dick and rub the head in between your wet folds. You moan as you sit on his cock. Jarren tries to thrust into you, but once again you tell him that you want to take care of him.

Jarren wraps his arms around your waist and puts his face into your breasts as you grind and bounce on his lap. He groans as you pull his curls as you get closer to orgasm. “Doing so well, baby” you say as you notice he’s becoming closer to his release. “So close” he whines into your chest as you feel his dick twitch inside of you. You cum shortly after, and stay hugging Jarren for a few minutes afterwards.

When you finally get up, you try to get dressed to leave. “No, stay.” Jarren says to you, voice barely above a whisper. You don’t take much convincing and lay down with him, his head in the crook of your arm, face on your chest. You bring your hand to his curls and begin playing with them while massaging his scalp. You can feel him drift off to sleep, but before he does, he says something: “When are you moving to Boston?”

[avissapiens]

Jockbull Summer Week 4 Set C (3/12/23-10/12/23)

Model used is Onome Egger

1.

I have continued the trend of fasting+cardio day. It’s actually not that bad. What was bad was the decision to bake while fasting. It’s not that I wanted the food. I don’t eat most of what I bake. But I couldn’t realistically test things too much to make sure they came out well. Luckily they were quite good the next day. Only half of one. It’s still cutting season.

2.

I got two in again! The first one was just kind of a general muscle flash. Brain producing lovely images for myself. Who needs AI when your head is already so full of muscle.

The second one however was a deeper introspection done together with Abg. We’re both POC but in many senses we are atypical. And yet still the presence of stereotypes still kind of gets in the way of both of our minds, and in particular our muscular journeys. We are both dead-set on breaking stereotypes and still coming out on top, so that was the seed for this meditation. There’s a lot of stereotypes for Black folks. And I know they are nonsense because not only do I not embody them, but most of my friends, relatives, peers etc from back home don’t either. But every time that one encounters a situation where you do meet that stereotype in yourself or in others, you pause for a second. Because especially while living in a mostly white country, you become extremely aware of the fact that everything you do is a form of ambassadorship for anyone who looks like you and visa versa. Which is a shitty burden to bear. Even after coming from a background of Black excellence in the Caribbean, there’s still so many stereotypes that come to mind. The perception of black people being unattractive, or if we are, it can only be in a brutish, animalistic, unrefined non-aesthetic way that doesn’t adhere to societal norms.

The mental stereotypes of underperformance and stupidity. The lack of ambition.

So many stereotypes are strangely contradictory too

That we're just needlessly loud and confrontational all the time but still get portrayed as servile slaves.

That we can only be good at sports but still deserve to be excluded from them. That we can't perform well at anything else. The strange juxtaposition of the athletic achievement that many POC are forced into because they lack the resources to pursue other interests and the idea that Ethnic food is unhealthy, dirty. And the very real reality of unequal access and outcomes for healthcare. The idea, often reinforced within the community, that we do not belong in certain places. In certain professions. In nature, in the world at large. That we should remain forever in this conservative slave mentality while we exist in the west.

Frankly, I see muscle and hypnosis as ways of outgrowing and defeating these stereotypes. Of changing perceptions not only for me but for my community. Perception is everything because it means that those who come after can see something different for themselves.

3.

Anyway on a lighter note. Yup, we’ve entered an edging period. It always feels so fucking good after a full week of building that erotic energy. It takes you to new and darker places and makes you vulnerable to things you might not have been before. Sometimes thats good. Sometimes its dangerous. But even that danger comes with a certain appeal.

4.

Its been a rough and busy week working on the first comm. I have some ideas brainstormed with Jockrs for an avis abstraction, it’s just always a whole different story putting pen to paper. Wish me better luck for the next week.

5.

So this one’s been interesting. It’s less been a process of drafting and then sticking. More a progressive building of momentum. Incorporating more and more things until the morning and myself feels more whole. I’ve ordered a bunch of supplements to take. A bunch of skincare stuff to harden my routine. I’ve expanded my already existing routine and even incorporated some new concepts from the world of Looksmaxxing. Truthfully, there is this deep desire in me to grow so much more in so many dimensions.And the himbo programming has definitely made one of those dimensions my aesthetics. Not for anyone else’s pleasure but for my own. I already know i’m gorgeous to other people. I want to be brilliant for myself and to be able to use that element of me like a tool and a weapon.

[its-a-hil]

ok. random question. literally from the random question generator at randomwordgenerator dot cahm: What's your go-to funny story now, but was horrendous at that moment?

(i think it gave me a question i already know but eh shoot)

hm.

alright i think this is actually more of the reverse than the forward direction, but sure

when i was in middle school, i was such a horrible procrastinator (note: i am still one of those) that i often wrote rough drafts of essays during lunch

(the one year in middle school i didnt do this was when i had english 1st period. tbh i wish my schedule had worked out like that all 3 years, but alas)

but i got so comfortable just throwing out words with a pencil that i kept doing it and now i almost never edit anything bc i need to write it all in one go or it's wrong

but final drafts still had to be typed & printed, so it was only my rough drafts that were like this

fast forward to high school, and rough drafts became less of a thing

my compulsion to procrastinate did not.

oh also relevant here is that i was emotionally incapable of asking for an extension or submitting online after class or anything

so.

senior year of high school. we had an essay to write on Twelfth Night, where we had to pick a word that was repeated a few times and discuss its effect on the story

i picked 'fancy' and used it to argue the absolute bullshit point that it meant the whole thing was a dream, because i had no other ideas and my brain refused to set aside time to do something more reasonable

except.

i did not begin writing until lunch of that day.

i did not have access to the computer lab i had planned to write the essay in.

i pleaded with a friend to lend me his laptop, on which i did the most frantic writing of my life. i dont remember if i ate any food during that lunch period.

(according to my diary i also said something shitty to that friend even as he was doing me a massive favor, which. god.)

looking at the document now (ty google drive), it seems that i didnt actually finish the essay, just wrote notes on the different uses of the word

im not sure if it was just a rough draft or notes kind of thing that was due, or if i lucked out and the essay was extended or something? unclear

but what is clear is that i wrote 440 words in just over an hour, and that's not counting the quotes i had to transcribe (which also made up over 400 words)

the following night i turned it into an actual 750ish word essay in also about an hour, bc. yeah. (i still didn't write an intro until i printed it out during study hall the next day lmao)

so anyway the essay was shit, the teacher was genuinely confused and pulled me aside after the class where she handed the essays back

note: she was also the theater teacher & that semester i was doing the play afterschool, and i think she knew i was better than what i handed in

:/

in my defense i was fairly depressed that couple of months, partially due to an responsibility that i did not realize i could easily say no to. the only consequence that refusing that responsibility would have had is that i would have hated myself less and possibly liked engineering more

oh also looking at my diary apparently that was also the week that i taught precalc bc the teacher's partner was suddenly out for paternity leave and i had an essentially free period during the precalc class

so yeah that's probably the third most interesting week of my senior after the week that we had the play performances and the week i was out in the hospital when my lungs spontaneously collapsed

the funniest part of that story is that it took me another 3ish years to realize that i wanted to be a teacher, and another 2 years after that to act on that desire. lmao

anyway bc im sure you freaks want to see it, im putting the essay under the cut

Actual essay:

Twelfth Night is one of Shakespeare’s most fantastical plays. Even without the use of magic, the supposedly realistic events are completely improbable. There is evidence that the play was intended to be a fantasy, and throughout the play, the word “fancy” is used to suggest to the audience that the events of the play are little more than a fanciful construction of Orsino’s mind. 

Orsino speaks four of the six instances of “fancy” or “fantasy.” Two of these instances come in his first monologue, right at the beginning of the play. He claims that “so full of shapes is fancy that it alone is high fantastical” (1.1.14-15). As Adams says, in this passage Orsino claims “that his own imagination is so fertile that it is supremely capricious and whimsical.” (Adams 58). It is odd that the play would start with this double mention of fancy, especially when the word is not mentioned again until the end of Act two. It is even stranger that the plot concludes with Orsino making Viola/Cesario his “fancy’s queen” (5.1.415). Although Feste finishes the play with his final song, this line is the last spoken by any other character, and is a natural conclusion to the play nonetheless. There must be a reason why the play both begins and ends with a word only used six times throughout. This is the most direct clue that the play does not merely describe events in Shakespeare’s mind, but instead describes events in Orsino’s mind. 

More clues can be found by examining the other uses of fancy in the play. Sebastian remarks “Let fancy still my sense in Lethe steep” after encountering a smitten, and unfamiliar Olivia (4.1.65). This line comes in one of the more fantastical scenes in the play, where Sebastian enters Illyria and is mistaken by everyone for Cesario. Sebastian can only conclude “this is a dream,” and calls upon fancy - imagination - to keep him from waking up. Sebastian addresses fancy as a powerful being, that has the ability to manipulate the world he sees. If the play does take place in Orsino’s imagination, fancy would have this power. Another thing to note about Sebastian’s mention of fancy is that it is in reference to Olivia. Her love for him, and reproach of the men who were dueling him, is the only reason he would want to continue living in this dream.

Olivia is a common subject of fancy, as used in its alternate definition of love. Malvolio, just before seeing Maria’s letter, thinks aloud that “should [Olivia] fancy, it should be one of my complexion” (2.5.24-25). Almost all references to fancy are directly related to Olivia. In fact, every major male character, except her uncle, is in love with Olivia. It is difficult for Orsino to conceive of a character who is not enamored when in the presence of the beautiful lady Olivia.  To him, when Olivia enters, “heaven walks on earth” (5.1.99). 

Regarding the rest of Malvolio’s scene, it is no less strange than Sebastian’s. The dour puritan begins with a statement of love for his lady, and then follows the insane directions of a letter that apparently describes her love for him, while the pranksters hide and watch in a nearby bush. Orsino’s mentions of “fancy” also take place in strange scenes. Without touching on the chaotic mess that is 5.1, 1.1 regards a Duke, who has been laid low grieving over his unrequited love for Olivia. She, in turn, decides not to admit any suitors until she has spent seven entire years mourning her dead brother. This scene feels almost surreal, setting the stage for the play that is to follow. Since almost every instance of the word fancy comes during a surreal scene, it can be inferred that the word is an indicator - a message to the audience that this play is a fantasy in the mind of Orsino.

There is one more use of “fancy,” however. During the argument between Orsino and Viola, Orsino speaks of men’s fancies as “more longing, wavering… than women’s are” (2.4.41-42). Twelfth Night is certainly long, spanning three months in Illyria, and the play constantly wavers from uplifting to demeaning, from reasonable to insane. The play as a whole fits so well with Orsino’s description of his “fancies” that one must wonder why that particular description was used. Interpreting Twelfth Night as a fancy conjured up by Orsino’s stricken mind makes a good deal more sense than attempting to reconcile the events with the real world. 

Work Cited:Adams, B. (1978). Orsino and the Spirit of Love: Text, Syntax, and Sense In Twelfth Night, I. i. 1-15. Shakespeare Quarterly,29(1), 52-59. doi:10.2307/2869169

The notes i wrote during the lunch period:

The first appearance of the word comes during Orsino’s monologue. The grief-stricken man describes his lovesickness by referring to his imagining of fantasies involving Olivia. Fancy is “full of shapes” to hear him tell it, filled with all kinds of images (1.1.14). This implies an interesting idea of the plot; it may be nothing more than a lovesick dream conjured by Orsino’s mind. After all, the plot is as “high fantastical” as something a distressed lover might imagine. (1.1.15). 

Malvolio’s mention of fancy is also about love and imagining it. He talks about “her [Olivia’s] fancy,” but the context of the scene and the rest of his dialogue imply that he is the one who fancies Olivia (2.5.24).. Malvolio claims that Olivia has said she would fancy “one of my complexion,” indicating that Malvolio has, through confirmation bias and imagination, convinced himself that Olivia was in love with him even before reading Maria’s letter (2.5.25). The fact that Malvolio, the outwardly stalwart Puritan, is as fanciful and in love as Orsino is a strong device for making fun of the Puritans as Shakespeare was wont to do. 

Sebastian has his reference to fancy when he meets Olivia and finds that he is the object of her fancy. 

[Discussing of the other two quotes]

In Twelfth Night, characters mention fancy when in fantastical scenes. Orsino had neglected his duties as a Duke to be lovesick over Olivia, Malvolio convinced himself that Olivia was in love with him moments before happening upon a letter regarding Olivia’s love, Sebastian came to a foreign city and found that a woman he had never seen was madly in love with him, and the final scene is perhaps the most fanciful of them all. Everything comes together in a hilarious, satisfying, and utterly unrealistic way. The use of the word fancy indicates that a scene either was or will be fanciful. This implies that Shakespeare is breaking the fourth wall, drawing attention to works of the imagination when the audience may be considering the play as imagination. In that way, Shakespeare implies that this comedy, however nice it may seem, is just a lovesick fantasy in the mind of Duke Orsino. 

Note also that almost every mention of the word is in reference to Olivia. The only exception is when Orsino calls Viola his “fancy’s queen,” but Orsino could just be (Inception-style) trying to prove to himself that he can love another. That is why the timeline does not make sense; Orsino needed to believe that his mind was not so changeable, that he would need three months with another woman to move past his love for Olivia. 

Quotes:

1.1.14-15:

Orsino: “So full of shapes is fancy 

That it alone is high fantastical.”

Context: These lines conclude Orsino’s opening monologue about his lovesickness and passion for Olivia. The monologue is discordant throughout, and this line sounds very arrogant, that nobody but a lover could have an extreme imagination.

This quote illustrates Orsino’s arrogance about his position (which is expanded upon in his later argument with Viola) and tells the audience that Orsino has spent some time cooped up in his mansion thinking of Olivia. 

2.5.23-25

Malvolio: “I have heard herself come

thus near, that, should she fancy, it should be one

of my complexion.“

Context: This comes just before Malvolio finds Maria’s letter, when he is fancying that Olivia might be in love with him. He has almost convinced himself of her love even before he sees Maria’s letter, which would be a strange coincidence if Twelfth Night was not a comedy. 

This quote describes Malvolio’s desperation to be loved by Olivia. He uses a few choice words and actions of Olivia as a justification for her love, indicating confirmation bias and lack of perspective. 

4.1.63-66

Sebastian: “What relish is in this? how runs the stream?

Or I am mad, or else this is a dream:

Let fancy still my sense in Lethe steep;

If it be thus to dream, still let me sleep!”

Context: This comes just after Sebastian enters Illyria and finds a beautiful woman suddenly wish to marry him. It is so illogical that he believes he must be dreaming, and he wishes for fancy to keep him from waking up. 

This quote tells us that Sebastian is wondrous at his entrance to Illyria. He forgets about Antonio as soon as strange men wish to duel and a strange beautiful woman claims to be in love with him. Sebastian is far more relaxed than most people would be in this context, especially if they could not find Antonio, the only person he was close with for the past three months.

5.1.412-415

Orsino: “Cesario, come;

For so you shall be, while you are a man;

But when in other habits you are seen,

Orsino's mistress and his fancy's queen.”

Context: This is the last line spoken by any character except Feste. It comes after Orsino learns of Viola’s true identity and gives up his love for Olivia. 

This quote implies that Orsino still thinks of Viola as Cesario, at least while she is in men’s clothing. 

[andrewbelindo]

When I started out, I'd spend lots of time carefully crafting each scene. I'd labor over each sentence until I felt it was perfect before moving on. But then, by the time I reached the end, I'd have new ideas that didn't fit, or I'd change my mind about certain plot points and get frustrated that all my hard work would have to be tossed out.

I now am a "shitty first drafter." I write as fast as possible, not really caring how things look. Once I finish, I can then evaluate what works with my plot and what doesn't. Only after I get the plot hammered out do I try to make the sentences look good.

This new method and its multiple fast, careless drafts takes me about as much time as crafting one careful, slow draft, but I don't have to feel like I'm throwing away a bunch of beautiful sentences. I get a chance to try new things with the plot rapid fire and can decide if it works without feeling like I wasted my time. And often, all the experimenting takes me down new routes I never would've tried if I felt I had to commit to a draft long-term.

Also, I used to be much more of a pantser, but I've since learned that I can reduce my number of rough drafts by just writing really detailed outlines. Like, I'm talking 10k words for what ends up being a 50-80k draft. An outline for me has turned into a micro rough, where I get to see how the plot flows and the characters develop without having to type the whole thing out. I now even do multiple drafts of my outlines, usually averaging around 3.

Things will still end up changing when I finally get around to drafting, though. I may lean heavily toward planner now, but sometimes my characters take the wheel, or I randomly get a new idea late in the draft that fits so well but means I have to change a lot of stuff.

And then another change to my process was actually from a writing class. I used to just tinker with my revisions and change little things, but it always frustrated me. I felt like my writing was a brick wall, and changing one part meant dismantling large portions of wall that then would leave other parts looking wonky, so then I'd have to dismantle those, and it was a never ending loop. But then a writing class suggested just...a full rewrite for revisions. From scratch. Blank page. Start over. You can use the first draft as a guide. If there's a part you like, you can rewrite it word for word. But odds are, even the best sentences will be changed and made stronger just by writing them a second time. So that's what I do now. All my revisions are from-scratch rewrites, and they're easier and feel so much stronger than doing it the way I used to.

Another writing class suggestion I've embraced is the reverse outline for after I finish a draft so I can see how the actual draft differs from the outline that created it and just get a little snapshot of my book. Helps me track character development and test my pacing without having to reread the draft 50 times.

So now my current process looks something like this:

Brainstorm > outline > revise the outline > revise the outline again > speed-write a shitty first draft > reverse outline the draft > use the reverse outline to create an outline for the revision > revise the revision outline > speed rewrite the revision (from scratch) > reverse outline the revision > (etc)

But I'm also working on about ten WIPs in various stages of this process and am constantly cycling through them all, so it still takes a while for me to get a final draft...

Writers' Chat: Let's talk about how we've changed!

How have you changed as a writer over time? Is your writing process different? Have you ventured into different genres? Is there something else you've learned from experience that you'd like to share?

The questions above are meant to get you thinking; answer them, skip them, whatever you'd like!

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[tteokdoroki]

*ੈ🌩️‧₊˚— twenty something + eren jaeger.

⭑ warnings — please read + mdni ! characters aged up to 30s, smut, fluff, virginity loss, soft sex, oral sex (f!recieving), established relationship, fem!reader - not beta read !

⭑ words — 1K.

⭑ notes — hii my lurvs! i found this in my drafts and decided to finish it off! i think its cute okok <3!! enjoy! - m.list ✩

i feel like sex with eren is goofy. the first time he gets you into his bed, you’re giggling and pressing kisses to one another’s hairlines because you’ve knocked skulls while trying to kiss in the middle of frenzied shirts and kicked off sweat pants and his big eyes, in a colour that you can’t quite describe (are they grey? mixed with blue perhaps? or maybe a shade of green?), crinkle at the corner while he whines above you. “don’t laugh at me, i-i’m trying!” because your boyfriend, your first love, is a child at heart— he grew up too fast and eren gets to feel like a kid with you again— so you reach up and kiss him and tell him that he’s doing great so far.

the first time is clumsy of course, your legs are over his broad and tanned shoulders and eren’s trying so hard not to bust while slipping inside of you for the first time ever— poor baby hissing into your neck and kissing at your flesh to calm himself ( and you ) down because it feels so good and he knows that it hurts for you...just a little. fingers are laced together, squeezing every once and a while, tiny i love yous breathed hotly into skin and then when eren’s all the way in his emerald eyes look down at you with so much love, you know then that neither of you will last long.

and eren will hold you close, like no other. slipping inside of you with gentle thrusts as if you might break or fall to pieces if he’s too rough with you— asking quietly if you like the way it feels when your ankles hook around the small of his back or when you pout just a little bit with your eyes closed. “it feels good, eren. i love you,” comes your affirmation from between lips that bruised with loving kisses and the poor boy stutters and stumbles and almost loses it right there.

you’re both twenty something, out of college and eren is still asking you if you’re okay— seated in his lap on your tatty second hand couch— two broke graduates who need to feel each other more than anything to get rid of the days stressors. you don’t need to verbalise how shitty your day was, because he knows already… he saw it from the moment you stepped into your shitty apartment with the creaky walls and leaky taps. he knows you. 

and eren, like always, asks if you’re okay before you take him— throbbing cock between your sore thighs, bobbing at your entrance until you nod and sink down on him. he doesn’t care that you use him for pleasure, to let the ecstasy burn away at your stresses— because eren loves you oh so much, he has to tell you every time your hips lift from his and every second it takes for you to slam back down after. bodies that know each other’s symphonies off by heart work together like a pianist and their fingers against the keys. every touch, he knows just where to put it and every kiss he knows just where to place it. every thrust, eren makes sure it hits all the right spots inside of your tight little hole to make your head flop back and thighs quiver as you make love and lewd noises into the deep night.

twenty something years later, eren’s giving you the life he promised on your wedding day— there’s kids that sleep down the hall, one in their crib and the others in their respective bedrooms. there’s a school run early in the morning but eren’s as insatiable as can be. no matter how much time has passed, there’s still an undying flame that flickers between yourself and the man with the muddled coloured but pretty eyes and soft brown hair. eren jaeger loves you all the same, makes love to you all the same— sinking into silk sheets gifted to you on your wedding night and between your thighs to lap and suck at your sex like a starved man.

your taste is a blessing to him every time, a flavour he could never grow tired of having spread across his tongue. to eren jaeger, his little corner of heaven is right between your thighs—he could be shackled her, banished to your pretty sex that flutters for him, for all of eternity if he didn’t love every other part of you too. like your cherry-bitten lips, kitten like mewls, the curves that came with ageing and maturing together. your body is a temple, it’s given eren so much, and he’s just a man who worships you. slides his tongue over your slippery sex and devours you with everything he has to offer— your fingers find him in the soiled sheets, hips chasing his face, rutting into it with the desperation for more and like always eren says.

“i love you baby, you okay?” 

and even twenty something years later, it still makes your heart flutter with love.

you nod, just as bashful as you were the first time you made love to eren jaeger. only this time you have his last name, only this time your wedding bands glint on your ring finger as you take control and take hold of your husband’s throbbing cock, thumbing at his slit until he’s putty beneath you. eren’s cheeks flush red, his lips parting in a soft ‘o’ and he looks up at you like you’re worth the entire world and then some.

“i love you, eren.” you tell him like it’s official word, straddling his lap — rolling your hips over his cock sensually and in the way that he likes. calloused fingertips that would never dare to hurt you sink into your fatty hips with stretch marks gifted to you by your children. he tries not to moan and cry out for the love of his life, the mother of his children. it’s so cute. and you slip your hand over his mouth to keep him quiet. “i always will.” 

he whimpers behind your hand as you lean down to kiss him over it — never breaking eye contact. 

twenty something years later you’re both hopeless romantics, extremely in love and will be forever more.

[missathlete31]

Work In Progress.... Thursday?

This little conversation came to me when, (shockingly) I was thinking about Hangman angst. Basically it's a conversation between Javy and Nat after the mission, where Javy can't seem to take everyone bashing his best friend anymore (aka fandom Javy is the best Javy).

It paints Hangman in a good but sad light, (sorry I can't help it, I'm VERY BIAS towards him). But I would love to hear what people think about it.

Fair Warning: It's a very rough first draft! Also some adult language in here.

"Are you really all that fucking blind" Coyote spat, an unusual show of animosity dripping from his tone.

"Excuse me?"

"It's an act, Jesus Christ, it's a fucking act" Coyote looked her right in the eyes, any drunkeness she thought she saw was long gone, "he acts like a dick, he acts like the world's cockiest asshole but god he doesn't know any better."

"Don't excuse his bullying-"

"It's how he gets you all to fly better Phoenix, and don't even try to deny that it didn't work. He a shitty communicator but he gets results."

"Why would he bother-“

"Because he cares, shit he cares. He worries non-stop about all of you, about all of us. He brought up Bradshaw's father, a dick move I know" he cut in before Natasha could, "because he was petrified that Rooster wouldn't fly fast enough without it. He knew Mitchell was picking him for the mission and he needed to get him motivated."

"Maverick wasn't even team leader then, don't tell me Hangman knew-"

"Of course he knew, we all did. Everyone saw there was history, everyone saw the way Maverick chased after Rooster on the tarmac that first day. It was obvious he was on some sort of apology tour and was going to use the wingman spot to curry favor- I'm not saying Bradshaw didn't deliver in the end" Javy raised a hand to stop the argument she was about to make, "but you cannot tell me that he was the right choice prior. He never made it through the course under the time. He constantly ignored his group to make a point that slower was fine."

Natasha's gaze turned to Rooster who was chatting with Omaha, Fitz, Fanboy and Payback at the pool table. All was good now but Phoenix remembered the fear in Payback's voice over the comms when he knew Rooster wasn't flying fast enough; wasn't leading them fast enough. Coyote was right; she was blinded by her loyalty at the time but choosing Rooster was clearly Maverick's attempt at making amends, a decision that could have resulted in people not making it home. She turned back to see the other pilot was watching her gaze, "You knew it too,” Coyote told her softly some of his anger burned away, “you just didn't want to accept it."

"I couldn't" she looked down, "not at the time."

"I get it."

But Natasha raised her head, her own anger coming back, "Of course you do," she chided, "you’re blinded by your best friend too. You can't honestly convince me that his actions are because he cares. He insults us regularly.” she spat bitterly.

“He pushes you, in the only way he knows how.”

“Coyote-“

"Believe whatever you want" Javy shrugged, "he prefers you think the worst of him anyway."

"I mean it's just- he's-"

"I know what he is" and again that sobering look was on the man's face, "I know better than anyone and if you or any of the other's would bother to take a second to really look, you'd see it too."

"He's horrible to everyone, can you blame them-"

"Who is always the first one to text you for your birthday Natasha, no matter where either of you are stationed?"

"Okay but-"

"Who sent flowers for your grandmother's funeral? Who drove you six hours to your parents that time you were stuck four years ago? Who helped Yale get the leave he needed by trading in his own? Who made sure Rooster got to the hospital the night of his car accident in flight school? Who salvaged Halo's birthday party when everyone got reassigned at the last minute? Who fought those guys that jumped Omaha despite having no other backup? Who cleaned up when we all got trashed after the dogfight football game so Penny didn't have to on her own? I know it's easier to think of Jake Seresin as a dick but don't deny he hasn't been a friend all these years as well. I thought better of you."

"That's not fair-"

"Isn't it?” His eyes narrowed dangerously, “tell me, do you know when Jake's birthday is?"

The woman couldn't help the heat that rushed to her face from her lack of answer, "I- I don't" she admitted.

"Do you know anything about him? His family? His hometown? Anything? Did you know he never goes back home during leaves or holidays? He stays on base alone or he goes with me if I'm off the same time."

Again Nat shook her head, "I- I never realized-"

"Yeah" Coyote finished his drink and stood up from his barstool, "I didn't think so."

"Where are you going?"

"I'm going to go check on him. I want to make sure he's alright-"

Her brow furrowed, "Why wouldn't he be?"

"Just forget it."

"No wait," she pulled at Javy's arm so he couldn't walk away, "I’m serious. I know he didn’t come out tonight but I figured he had other plans or something. Is that not the case?”

Coyote looked her dead in the eye for a moment and Phoenix felt like she was taking a test she didn’t know how to pass. Finally Javy seemed to lower his defensives, “He didn’t come out because he was trying to get some sleep” the man shared carefully.

“Oh-“ Nat couldn’t contain the surprise, “he’s having trouble sleeping?”

“Something like that.”

“You’re worried about him” she observed softly.

“Someone has to” he shot back tightly, “because he sure as shit isn’t going to worry about himself.”

The statement caught Natasha off guard but she opted to not question it. She always thought of Jake Seresin as self centered but clearly from the stress in Javy’s posture, it seemed that cockiness was just another part of the Hangman show. Phoenix cleared her throat to get her companion’s attention, “do you think-“ she huffed out a breath, not sure how her request would be received, “do you want some company to go check on him? Maybe I can help?”

Coyote stayed silent for a moment as he watched her with a frown. His eyes shifted to the other Daggers still having fun before they rested back on the female aviator, “don’t you want to get back to the others?”

“I want to check on my friend” she amended with a raised brow, relieved when Javy matched her expression but didn’t exactly contradict her. “He’s not going to like it” Coyote offered instead, “Jake didn’t want anyone to know.”

“When have I ever done what Hangman likes” she tried to joke. It barely landed but Phoenix counted it as a win when Javy gave the tiniest of a nod towards the door, “alright, let’s go.”

Part 2:

Javy headed into the gym quickly, immediately reaching for the speed controls on the treadmill and slowing it to a walking pace. Hangman offered a weak nod as he staggered off the machine. "Thanks man" the man's voice was breathy as he panted, "went a little too hard."

"'A little hard?'" Coyote mocked, "you look ready to collapse-"

The blonde waved him off, reaching for his water bottle and taking a big sip, "I'm fine- what you doing here anyway?"

"When I didn’t see you in your bunk, I figured your dumbass would head to the gym, do you have any idea what time it is? What are you doing Jake? The treadmill says you’ve been running for 11 miles already! Are you crazy?”

The blonde pilot bristled in indignation but Javy could see the touch of embarrassment that colored Hangman's cheeks, "It’s fine” Jake argued, “It’s just a work out, don’t get all upset-"

"I will get upset because you’re meant to be trying to get some sleep" he emphasized the other man’s sweating body, "this doesn't look like sleeping."

"Just needed to get my body a little more tired before I try again-"

"Jake this is the fifth night in a row-"

"It's getting better, I was able to get twenty minutes before-"

Javy shook his head sadly, "You need to talk to someone man,"

"I'm handling it-"

"No you're not, you haven't gotten a decent night sleep since we docked and I'm getting worried.”

Hangman opened his mouth to respond but stopped when he noticed another figure in the gym, a dark haired woman standing just a few feet back, "Phoenix?" he gaped out in surprise, “what are you doing here?"

Nat offered a weak wave as she stepped closer, "Hey Bagman-"

Jake’s green eyes narrowed onto his best friend, cold with betrayal, "Why did you bring her?” He asked sternly.

Javy shrugged, "She insisted."

"For what?” Hangman asked, “ I texted you before that I was fine. I told you to enjoy your night-"

"And I wasn't. Not with you here not sleeping- come on man, let me help-"

"There's nothing to help" Jake turned to Phoenix, his voice short but with more emotions than he normally showed, “I don't know why you felt the need to come but you can head on back to the bar now, nothing to see here."

The woman refused to be deterred, "I heard you’re having trouble sleeping-“ she began.

Jake’s shot Javy another nasty look before turning back to Nat with a smirk on his face, “no actually,” he retorted icily, “I felt like a late night workout. It takes a lot to look this good-“

"Jake-" she couldn’t contain her eye roll, “you don’t have to lie”

“Lie about what Natasha?" He opened his arms like he welcomed her argument, “I’m sleeping fine okay? Javy is just being ridiculous. I’m good-“ but he cut off when Natasha’s hands grabbed his. “Jake” she whispered, waiting until his green eyes finally met hers, “please. I'm not here to judge you. It’s okay.” she motion to Javy and herself, “we both just want to help you.”

“I don’t need help!” The man continued to argue. “I told you I’m good- I can sleep anytime I want okay,” his composure started to slip, his words becoming more frantic, “I can. It’s fine. I’m fine-“

She squeezed his hand tighter, “it’s normal what you’re going through” she reasoned but the blonde aviator only shook his head, “it’s not” he finally admitted, voice broken, “I don’t know what’s wrong with me” he let out a loose sob.

“Oh Jake” Nat pulled him into her chest despite their size difference, “there’s nothing wrong with you. I get nightmares too you know-"

But it was clear she said the wrong thing as Hangman jumped from her embrace as though burned. He scrubbed at his face, erasing any evidence of his breakdown. “It makes sense you have nightmares” the man explained, his tone softened at the woman’s admission, but he kept his distance. “You had the bird strike, you flew the mission. Your nightmares are warranted.” He shook his head, “I was just the spare, I never flew the course-“

Nat's eyes widen as she stared at the exhausted man in front of her. One look at Javy and she could tell that he felt just as horrified at Hangman's rationale. “Jake- you flew the mission-"

"I didn't. I was just a dick to everyone and compromised the team.”

She shook her head, "You saved Bradley and Mav, you got a confirmed kill, you saved the day-"

"And I was almost too late, the missile... I-" he trailed off, his face contorting with emotions before he was able to pull the Hangman mask back on. Jake steeled his features, “look I don't need your concern alright? Go back to the others, both of you. I'm fine-"

"Jake-" Javy argued reaching forward and gripping his best friend's arm. Jake gave it a second before he shook of the touch, "Leave me alone, I mean it."

TO BE CONTINUED: (Maybe?)

[your-highnessmarvel]

Always You

Requested by Anonymous: Do you think you could do a prompt where the reader is 20 years younger than Chris and of course happy ending, but he thinks he’s taking away her prime years when he really isn’t and there’s a temporary break before they get back together. (Non famous reader, met at a bar?) please and thank you!

AN: i was watching a star is born when i made this ahahaha so meeting in a bar is thematic here.

Warnings: language

*gif not mine

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MASTERLIST

The door of the cab banged shut and you walked away without a last glance, your boots scuffing the gravel. You’d ended in some shit butt town off the border of Boston, and now you needed a drink. The guy you’d been seeing had just dumped you because “things were moving too fast”, and now you needed to drown your anger in some gin. 

The said bar - Jack’s Watering Hole - had a sign hanging off one hinge at the door that read “WE CARD ALL MINORS” and a LED sign flashing ladies night. Well, just your luck. 

This was not how you planned to spend your twentieth birthday night. 

The door opened and out came a draft of cigarette smoke and bad breath. You could barely see when you walked in, what with the low lighting and cloud of smoke curling around your leather jacket. Some guy at the bar turned on his rusty stool to stare at you, belly jutted out under a crumby grey wife-beater. 

There were two women in their thirties standing on six-inch heels by a shitty arcade game, giggling, swaying to the intrinsic music. A few lonely birds had flocked on the other side of the bar, staring into their beers. And a fellow with a Red Sox cap sitting alone in a booth, trying really hard not to stare at you but ultimately failing. 

You walked to the bar and ordered straight fucking gin because this was a shit night. 

“And give me whatever that guy sitting in the booth is having,” you added, watching as the bartender - who wore a sleeveless plaid - looked over your shoulder and shrugged. 

You clicked your nails on the bar as you waited, considering if what you were about to do was a good idea or the dumbest. Who knows? Serial killers are just about around every corner these days.

You took your gin and the stranger’s Budweiser - really? - and handed the bartender his money. You took a breath of good luck and twirled on your heel, headed towards the stranger.

He stared at you with open astonishment as you sat down right in front of him, smiling awkwardly, offering him his beer.

“Rough night?” you opened, mentally stabbing yourself for choosing such a cliche line. 

He smiled. Huffed. He had a full, brown beard that shadowed the bottom half of his jaw. A straight nose. Blue eyes. Handsome. What the hell was a J-Krew model doing in this asscrack of a town, in this bum fuck bar?

“Trying to be unnoticeable,” he said, grabbing the beer you offered him. 

You took of sip of gin. “Can’t really go unnoticed when you look like that,” you confessed. Maybe it was your ex’s betrayal or the lonely one hundred dollars sitting in your bank account or your left tire blowing out, but whatever it was that was giving you this much confidence, you loved it. 

“Look like what?” he asked. He tugged, nervously, at the seam of his black sweater sleeve. 

“Like a god,” you mumbled, dipping your lips into your drink.

“Well,” he laughed, “that’s officially the first time I’ve heard someone refer to me as a god.”

His smile was addicting. His laugh was close to dying over. 

You felt the pinch of attraction in your belly. “What do they refer to you as, then?”

He mimicked being in deep thought. “Hunk,” he said, pointing the tip of his beer at you. “Hollywood’s hottest single.”

Your face went hot. Flames were literally burning under your flesh. 

Hollywood?

“What?”

He smiled knowingly. 

“What?”

You scanned him briefly. He had the military-cut-out body type. The clear as a baby’s butt skin. The clothes with tags like Lacoste and Levi. 

Oh. 

Oh God.

“You’re...” you breathed out, finally putting two and two together. “My God. Chris fucking Evans.”

He threw his head back and laughed. “That’s a hell of an introduction,” he laughed. Holy Christ in Heaven, his laugh was like a waterfall of gold. 

Your face was hot. “I’m so sorry,” you said. “It barely registered. I’ve been having the shittiest week of my life.”

“Boyfriend?”

“Ex,” you corrected. “But also my boss smells like hotdog water. Oh, and my ex left a bunch of skidmarked underwear in my room. My left tire blew out. I can’t seem to save up any money. And I’m being kicked out of my apartment if I can’t get rid of my cat.”

Chris frowned, shaking his head. “Animals before anything,” he said, taking a sip. “I get that.”

“Yeah, as if I’d give away Looney Tunes for a three and a half with barely any hot water.”

“I know a few apartment blocks near my house that allow animals,” he said, slowly taking a sip. 

Your brow rose. “Am I about to know the super secret location of a celebrity’s house?”

Chris laughed. “If you want, you could come over for tea,” he suggested, cheeks pink.

Your mouth fell open. “You drink tea?”

“Of course.”

“We need to get married right away,” you deadpanned.

Chris roared with laughter, left-boob-grabbing and all. 

By the time the night ended, your number was in Chris’s phone and you were on your way to his house

TWO YEARS LATER

You took your bags from the bed, trying to keep the feeling of dread from crawling up and out of your throat.

“You’re okay?” he asked, sitting in the corner, elbows on his knees. 

You couldn’t look at him. You couldn’t comprehend the idea that he was letting you go, that you would never see him again. The hurt crawled through your ribs and bled into your lungs. 

“No,” you said, keeping a sob in your throat. “I just don’t...” you trailed off, sighing. 

Chris got up, smoothing his hands on his pants. “I just think it’s better this way,” he whispered.

Your eyes snapped to his, teary-eyed, cheeks blotchy. “Better?” you gritted. “Better!?”

“Y/N,” he said, calmly. “You’re twenty-two. I’m forty. Do you not see that I’m doing this for you?”

“Oh, right, the righteous older man,” you grumbled.

“No,” he sighed. “I’m just trying to not take away the best years of your life.”

“These were the best years of my life because of you!” you exclaimed, tears spilling hot over your cheeks. 

You saw the strain in his face, the strain to remain stoic. “You should be out with your friends, in bars, in clubs, staying out late and eating takeout half-asleep, drunk as hell. Not here at nine in the evening, curling up in a face mask with me. Not here, every night, reading.”

“God,” you groaned, throwing your hands up. “You really can’t see that this is what I want. You are what I want. I don’t care that I’m missing out. I don’t want to go out until 4 am, drunk off my ass, every night.”

Chris shook his head. 

You blew out a breath. “I see,” you whispered. “You’ve made up your mind.”

You picked up your bags, not letting him have the last word, and stormed out of his room, of his house, not even saying goodbye to Dodger.

SIX MONTHS LATER

“Ericka!” you called. No answer. “Ericka! Do you have my hair straightener!?”

You stormed across the flat, coming to your roommate’s door, knocking. 

“No! Go away!”

She wasn’t just your roommate, but also your best friend.

After Chris had all but broken your heart, she’d offered a place in her apartment. She’d also held you every night as you cried, stroking your hair. She’d also talked you out of calling Chris, or texting him, or sending him some cryptic letter with a bunch of cut-out magazine letters. 

“Oh my God, you have it!?” you yelled, storming into her room. She was running across her bed, the said item in her left hand. 

“NO, LEAVE!”

You ran across the room, trying to tackle her.

“GIVE IT BACK!”

Someone yelled. Ericka fell off the bed. She kicked you by accident in the ribs and you fell off the bed, knocking your head harshly against the floor. It made a sickening thud and you momentarily went blind.

Ericka yelled. “Oh my God!”

When you came too, you were strapped to stretcher, a paramedic telling you not to fall asleep. But you did. 

You don’t know how long you were out, but when you awaoke, there was a doctor there.

“Hello Miss,” she said, smiling broadly. “I’m just going to shine a light in your eyes, okay?” 

You nodded, groggy, looking around. 

She shone the light in your eyes, humming, seeming content and unalarmed by what she saw. 

“So looks like you had a little concussion from your fall,” she said. “We’ll keep you here overnight, just to make sure you’re all right.”

“Um, okay,” you muttered. “Can I get water?”

“Of course, I’ll send a nurse.” She got up. “Someone is here to see you. Are you willing?”

You frowned. It was probably Ericka. “Sure.”

But it wasn’t your best friend to walk into your room. 

And it’s at that moment, when Chris walked in, that you realized you were in a private room. You didn’t have that kind of money....

“Y/N,” Chris sighed, rushing to your bedside, his voice laced with worry. 

Your mouth moved, a rising tide of something coming up in your throat. God, even after six months, you were still so in love with him. 

His warm fingers grazed your cheek and you flinched, realizing you probably had a bruise. 

“God, I was so worried,” he said, eyes searching yours. “Does your head hurt?”

You sat up, straightening your neck. “Chris,” you said, tone harsh. You saw the way he inched away, hands going into his pockets. “You... you broke up with me. What are you doing here?”

The question hit. He put his hand to his mouth, sighing, sitting on the edge of the bed and hanging his head. 

“I didn’t... I didn’t break up with you. I just... set you free.” He sighed heavily, shaking his head slowly. “And I regret it. I wish I could take it back, Y/N.”

You frowned. “You... you set me free?”

Tears gathered behind your lashes.

When he rose his head and saw the tears, he reached out and wiped his thumb under your eye, stopping the fresh tears from staining your skin. 

“No,” he whispered, his own blue eyes glinting. “I was a complete idiot. I shouldn’t...” He didn’t dare finish that sentence.

“But you did,” you said, biting your lip. 

He looked up, breathing in, looking around the room. “So, how did you get in here?” he asked. “Did you forget how to walk down the stairs or something?”

You laughed. The surprised yourself and giggled. Then you thought twice and covered your mouth with your hand. 

Chris smiled softly. “Missed that,” he rasped. 

“I ran after Ericka cause she stole my hair straightener, then she kicked me in the ribs and I fell.”

Chris chuckled. “I remember how savage you get when your things are misplaced.”

You smiled, reminiscing on that time Chris did some cleaning and put your elastics in another drawer and you lost it. 

Chris reached out and tentatively took your hand. “Y/N, I just... I’ll leave right after, but I want you back.”

The admission was so raw, so honest and cold, that you just stared at him. 

“If that’s not what you want, I promise, I will walk out and you will never see me again.”

You nodded, biting your lip, eyes cast down to avoid shedding more tears. 

The bed dipped as Chris got to his feet, the smell of him lingering long after he’d left.

You dropped your head into your hands, sigh turning into a sob. 

A few minutes passed, your heart beating erratically in your chest. 

“Dammit,” you mumbled, grabbing your phone. 

You pressed on the contact info you still kept despite Ericka telling you to delete it. 

He picked up on the first ring. 

“Get back in here and help me get my hair done,” you ordered.

There was a soft chuckle. “Anything for you, baby,” Chris said, and you heard him laughing in the hallway.  

[ligercat]

I doubt the wounded excerpt is shitty, rough or not.

Okay. The only way I'm getting all these words is if I take from Ocean Deep. My unposted wips lack (most of) them.

Beneath:

He spread out the files on the counter and got to work. This was something he was good at, finding patterns and connections in records.

Mers had a written language, but outside of scientific fields, it wasn't used for much beyond factual records and marking territory borders, since most things were still passed down by oral tradition. It was how they were taught. Enlisting was when he'd had his first real experience with human language, and not just seeing it on the side of boats or on human items that had sunk beneath the waves, and he'd been expected to sign agreements and disclosures about the training. Back then, it'd been about keeping animal rights groups from claiming exploitation. He'd been allowed to look at the forms and been frustrated that he couldn't read them himself, forcing him to trust they were being honest about what it said.

Danger:

"You drag me out of my house at a moment's notice because things are dangerous?" Maddie dropped her overnight bag on the counter. "What? Sam isn't enough protection?"

"I'm just trying to lock things down as fast as I can. I'll feel better if you're somewhere safer than the house."

"Safer? Here?"

Sam had to agree with her. "She's got a point, Mike, this place ain't exactly secure."

Dark (okay! This one is actually from a rough, unpost draft for a AU one-shot):

The hammock swung more forcefully for a second as Sam poked his head over the side, dark hair casting his face in shadow. "Why, Mikey? Need me to hold your hand?"

Michael snorted, burying the blade of his knife into the dirt at his side. "You going to be there or not?"

"...Not unless you need me there."

Wound (and back to Ocean Deep):

"Okay. Alright." He flashed the folder, seeing the hint of interest take hold as Mike sat up straighter. "Look, Mike, I know you've been a little wound up, so I brought a little present, something to cheer you up." He hoped.

Mike made a grab for the folder, and Sam yanked it back, holding it out and above his head. "Oh, no, no, no. This is way too good. I'm gonna do a show-and-tell." For a second, he wondered if Mike was going to get up and try to take it. If it came to a standing game of keep away, Sam wasn't sure he'd win it. Wasn't sure he'd want to try either. Last time, Mike ended up elbowing him in the ribs. Granted, he had a decent amount of padding there now that he lacked during his active duty days, but it didn't make him want a repeat.

Mike had some bony elbows, and there was a whole lot of force behind them.

Tags: @popcornfairy28 @renegadebraveheart (do you do these?)

WIP Word Game

Rules: you will be given four words. Share pieces from your WIPs that contain each of the words.

(I just realised that the person who starts this tag doesn’t get to participate😭 because they’re the one who gives the first group of words)

Your Words are: Beneath, danger, darkly, wound

Tagging @justabigoldnerd @too-young-to-fall-in-love @freddiepurrcury @bighandsforabigheart @fandom-meet-fanthem @falling-into-peril

@prettyboynapoleonsolo @huggiebird @deerilkka @the-golden-comet @riveriafalll @willtheweaver and anyone else who wants to join x

[ganondoodle]

Hey, I adore your artstyle mate, I loveeee all the vivid colors and the fact that most of it lacks lines?? You doing the hard stuff, but it paying off 💜

can I ask, as I’d like to get into comic making, how long does it take you to finish a a single panel?

Hi!! thank you very much!! drawing lineart is incredibly frustrating to me so im very glad i was able to make the jump to mostly lineless artwork, tho im very much still at the beginning to learn how to do it xD

to answer your question, i .. cant say really, it depends on what is on the panel, and i always jump around when working on a page, i draw half of the very last panel, then jump to another, maybe i see something i want to change right away and work on the third besides i ... dont know anything about panel composition, i think in movies so i play it and try to pause it on a frame that could work as a panel, whichs is probably why it goes alot slower than normal comics, idk how much to skip gndfjknvgfdjk

im by no means an expert in making comics, you kinda have to find your own way of what works for you, i have done many in the past but all failed, i gave up before getting even one chapter done many times

general advice i can give you is, most importantly, dont wait, i know its daunting to start, but you have to start, even if you dont think you are good enough, you will always change and improve anyway, better start now or you might do it never, and remember, when a page is done its done, i know how tempting it is to go back and redo it, but if you start with that it will only lead to an endless cycle of remaking it over and over

a cause that made me abandon my old projects, was partly lack of support/recognition, but mostly that i was forcing myself to things that werent fun, like one i made in black and white bc i thought you had to do it bc color takes too long, but i live for colors, so it drained the fun out of it immediately

the only "rules" i have set for myself is that its understandable, the flow of the action doesnt flip around too much, speech bubbles are aligned in a way that guides you (of course im not perfect at that either and always learn); i dont jump between pages, i jump between working on panels, but i dont start another page before the previous is at least acceptable, otherwise id get ahead of myself and get impatient, just wanting to skip ahead and neglect older pages; and that i only work on a panel/page as long as it has acceptable quality and is fun to draw, when i notice im getting bored or frustrated i finish it quickly as best as i can and move on, otherwise it might drag the entire project down, which is why each panel or page in 'Destiny' varies alot in quality

i can barely look at the first pages .. or even at the last one i made for that matter, but its also fascinating, how much my art changes within even one update which takes me about a month for 4 pages, since i have set my 'fun' rules at least, it used to take much longer (i wish i was faster, and i could be, but i have a job, and have to look out for my health, both physically and mentally, so i take whatever time i need and draw however much i feel like drawing, no rushing)

my progress so far is that i write a rough script, what happens, what dialog, where it ends, and so on, it doesnt have to sound good, god knows mine are shitty xD but its a good guideline, even if rough! then i make a rough draft, basic panel layout, dialog (it always changes fro mthe script, again its more liek a guideline than a rule ;) ) then i start with actually drawing the first page, my art and way of .. art and writing changes incredibly fast (idk if its for the better lol) so .. by that point i redraw the rough draft version of the page if i see how it works better, rewrite dialog too, and even cut stuff from the rough draft

im not done with the first chapter (im slow af lol), but wrote the script for the second one when my hand was injured and i couldnt draw for a month, once im done with this chapter i will draw the rough draft for ch2, then write the script for ch3 then go and draw ch2 fully, at least thats the plan the more time passes the more i know what the next chapters are gonna be, tho i know the important points long before; right now i have the entirety of the first arc sepeareted into chapters, and the end of it all too, but between there its still a lil blurry and im adjusting everytime i think of soemthing better

anyway, sorry for that long ass ramble, its late and i thoguht about this ask bc im trying to get my want to draw back (not feeling well rn nkfdnkd) so i randomly decided to answer it .. probably in the most unhelpful way possible, alot of stuff noone aksed for lol

anyway, sorry, and goodnight uwu

[itsdannysworld]

Southern Heat

i wrote this two months ago while stoned out of my mind soooooooo haha have fun reading :)  (tbh its just a rough draft, i promise not all of these will be shitty)

summary; you and jake have a wholesome friends to lovers moment  content warnings: a lil alcohol use but not too much. just a tiny lil bit. cursing? idk idk is that an important cw? oh yeah a kiss or two

Hey y/n, when are you gonna get here? Nashvilles boring without our sunshine

You picked up your phone after hearing it buzz, the message being from Josh. Your best friend who happens to be a famous singer for a famous band that is currently touring. You’ve known him and his brothers (including Danny) ever since they made the big move to Nashville. It all started at a small coffee shop around the corner from your apartment. You had just set down all your stuff after picking up your order from the counter, when the group came in. They just had a vibe about them, one that you were intoxicated by. You watched them on and off as they bought their respective drinks and settled into one of the big couches. Before you knew what you were doing you shut your laptop and walked over to them, it was a rare moment of confidence but once they realized you were coming over to them you knew you couldn’t turn back.  “I just wanted to say y’all have cool vibes, and nice peace sign necklace, I have one just like it.” You said pointing to who you now know as Danny. “Well thank you for the wonderful compliment of our vibes!” The one with the curly hair said dramatically, just before the one with dark hair could respond.  His smile was infectious, something that could easily light up a room.  “You are very welcome!” You said with an equally dramatic tone. Turning to walk away you hear a “Hey, wait! You should come sit with us, we’re not too familiar with the city.” The one with long hair said. He looked almost identical to the one with curly hair. “Oh uh, sure! Gimme a sec,” you went to grab your things, quickly running through every possible scenario of what could happen in your head. What’s the worst that could happen? Making that decision to sit with them was the best decision you had made in awhile, you all became fast friends and you were more than happy to support them in their musical endeavors. You got especially close with Josh and spent most of your time with him, you started to consider him your platonic soulmate. However, being close with him allowed him to find out a huge secret of yours, that you liked his brother. “No fucking way, you like Sam?” He said drunkenly. We went through a whole bottle of wine and he was obviously feeling it. “No dingus, I like Jake.” You blushed putting your hands to your face. The shock on his face freaked you out, but the shock was quickly replaced with one of his signature smiles. “You need to tell him! He’s been crushing on you since forever. It’s getting annoying for everyone to deal with.” You rolled your eyes at the comment.  “I don’t believe you, at all.”  “Too bad, guess you’ll never have Jakey boy”

You read Josh’s text and quickly responded telling him you’d be over in a minute. To say you were nervous was an understatement, you were practically shitting yourself at the thought of seeing Jake. You quickly finished putting all of your jewelry on and saying goodbye to Bonnie, the small dog you had rescued from the shelter last July. Jake was there with you, and it was the last time you had seen him in person. Y’all tried to keep in touch but between his touring schedule and your work schedule, you haven’t talked to him in a few weeks. You walked out the door and quickly started up your car, heading towards their house. You plugged your phone into the aux cable and shuffled your playlist, a mix of Orville Peck and Arctic Monkeys playing through your speakers. You tried to mentally prepare yourself to see them, but seeing as the drive to their house from your apartment was 10 minutes, you didn’t have enough time to get rid of all the anxiety that plagued you. You pulled into their driveway and instantly all of the memories y’all had shared together came flooding back. Danny driving you home from a drunken night at their house, Josh and you having deep talks on the porch at 1am, Sam and you hotboxing your car, and finally Jake and you going to the store to buy god knows what. You were blasting music and had all the windows down, the thick southern heat swarming around you. That night was when you knew deep down that you were in love with him.  You got out of the car and knocked on the door, excited yet nervous to see everyone behind it. “Y/n! It’s so good to see you.” Josh wrapped his arms around you, picking you up and swinging you around a little. “I missed you too Josh” You said with a laugh. You walked further in the house and quickly hugged everyone. Their hugs were top-tier, something you definitely missed when they went on tour. It was finally Jake’s turn to hug you, and it was the warmest one of them all. “I missed you y/n, I’m sorry for not texting you more.” “I missed you too Jake, and truly don’t worry about it, I understand your busy rockstar schedule.” You said as you roll your eyes, faking annoyance. “You know, if I had the chance to talk to you all day while I was on tour, I would’ve taken it.” What he said took you by surprise, was he trying to be romantic or was it fully platonic? You struggled to find words, but finally landed on “I would have come if you had asked.” Finally you looked around the two of you, realizing that everyone has migrated to the kitchen. He must’ve noticed too as he motioned for you to go in front of him towards everyone. When you walked into the kitchen everyone was standing around the island talking. There were a couple more people there, mainly friends with some family mixed in. You went with Jake towards the fridge knowing they would probably have some cheap beer, you weren’t in the mood for anything stronger. “So, how’s it been while touring?” You said as he handed you beer. “It’s been good, it’s kind of weird coming back and not having much to do. It’s good seeing everyone here though, I missed being around people that aren’t my brothers or the crew.” You nodded. While he was talking y’all had ended up sitting on the porch. He started to share stories about the tour, most of which seemed unbelievable. After talking for a few hours (and many drinks later) the conversation had taken a turn towards relationships.  “There’s no way you didn’t find anyone while on tour? You went all over the world! Plus you’re a rockstar, so it’s probably easy for you to get a girl.”  “Nope, didn’t want any of them. Don’t get me wrong, there were many girls that wanted me, but none caught my eye” He said with a cocky grin. “You seeing anyone?” You shook your head no. You didn’t want to see anyone unless they were him, but there was no way that was going to happen. “Why not?” “None caught my eye I guess.” You said repeating what he said earlier.  “I guess there is one person who I kind of think is cool. In a relationship way.” The words tumbled out of your mouth before thinking about them. You had many worries about how this could play out, but alcohol is considered liquid courage for a reason. “Really? Well now you gotta tell me.” You froze, you knew he was going to ask it, but the small amount of confidence you had faded quickly, and you suddenly realized the full consequences that could come with this. He may never want to be friends again. He may feel the same. Our friendship may be awkward because of this. Will I lose everyone if he rejects me? “Well don’t pussy out on me now Y/n” He said with a laugh. “Nevermind, they don’t matter.” “You don’t get to back out that easily. Tell me who it is?” The s in “is” was drawn out. You shook your head. “C’mon y/n! You can’t just not tell me now. I’ll tell you who I like!”  “Deal, but close your eyes.” He looked at you weird but then agreed, shutting his eyes.  “I’m so sorry if I ruin things by doing this.” You said as you leaned in and gently pecked his lips. His eyes shot open and you immediately push yourself back, saying as many apologies as you could. He pulled you back in and gave you a much more passionate kiss, one that was much needed. Your worries faded away. When y’all finally separated you heard whoops and hollers from the kitchen. Your face flushed pink but despite the audience you went back for one more kiss.

I’m glad I didn’t pussy out 

[x-write-z]

Writing Tip

The joy of editing can be discovered in finding new and better ways to say things you thought you had already said.

I always thought that I hated editing. That I hated second drafts. It turns out that I always moved from project to project so fast that I never really had the chance to sit down and work on a second draft. Well, I am now entrenched deeper in a second draft project than I have ever been before, and I have learned that, to my surprise . . . I actually really enjoy the editing phase! I am enjoying writing my second draft!

My disdain from editing as a younger writer always stemmed from pride and perfectionism. I didn’t like the idea of second drafts because I wanted to put the time and thought and care and creativity into saying it the right way from the very beginning. It turns out that even with such agony, a rough draft is never anything more than a rough draft.

In the years since, my opinions on “shitty first drafts” have reversed. My battles with writer’s block have convinced me that the only way to finish most drafts is to just put SOMETHING down until you reach the end, no matter how bad it is, and then suck it up and edit later. And let me tell you . . . I have had more fun editing my first draft and creating my second draft than I ever expected. And it’s because of this writing tip I am sharing today.

All that pride and perfectionism I used to agonize over in the rough draft, I am now discovering to greater effect in the second. I left almost an entire year between completing my shitty first draft and editing my second, and that distance allowed me to get my head out of the clouds and actually examine the writing critically. The result is that I have found so much unexpected joy in the process of reading old writing and then being struck with the thought, “You know what? A year ago, I wrote this because this is how I thought this scene was supposed to go, but now I see that it would be so much better if it went like THIS!” I have managed to find joy even in re-writing entire chapters because of the joy that I have found in discovering the better version of something you already wrote. I highly recommend it.

[emcandon]

Writing Diary 7/22/22

Ye gods, writing books hard.

I'm working through this in public in the hopes that it does something for someone else in their own creative life.

I've been a bit worried that I'm burned out. I sold my first book in late 2020 with an agreement that we'd be doing intensive revisions and a month later got hired to write a Star War (an AU!!), so 2021 was a hellfire no-breaks ride through drafting a brand-new novel, then diving back into aforementioned intensive revisions. Simultaneously, day job ramped up as a huge project landed on our laps with editorial work on the MXTX books, which involved a whole new level of exhaustive collaboration with translators on high-stakes manuscripts.

Come 2022, Ronin is long gone, revisions on Archive are finished (mostly, as I am doing line edits this month and am getting called out on a lot of little things I thought I could get away with, BOOOO -- editor carl is right though :c), I'm an old hand at the danmei work (though it remains intense), and now I am trying to write the Archive sequel.

It is not going well.

Or like, it's not going fast? It's not quite pulling teeth, but it's hard in a way Ronin simply wasn't, because with Ronin I had the guardrails of a starting scenario that could not change, a canon to iterate on, and some long-standing opinions about the canon to dig through. With the Archive sequel I have a canon to iterate on but it's so fundamentally malleable (because it's MINE so it will DO WHATEVER I WANT/need) that I don't always know what I'm trying to yell about/at. I do have a premise that I love because it sucks for everyone involved (but they're doing it anyway!! some of them for TERRIBLE REASONS!! DELICIOUS...), but the characters...damn.

I'm a little ruthless with characters. I'll reshape them down to their very bones the second they're not quite working in some way, and the narrator of the Archive sequel has required reshaping multiple times as I try to sort out who exactly they need to be for this drama to play out in the ways I'd like it to. I've tried them sweet and neurotic, then repressed and a little mean, and I'm about to experiment with performative and crafty (and repressed and neurotic and probably a little mean; maybe sweet, we'll see; I think they're afraid that compassion is all farce because they're incapable of seeing themself as kind because they don't think themself genuine).

...See? I'm getting there. But ugh it's been so rough that I've really worried I'm just out of language.

But when I trip over something that gets me excited, that gets the little gremlin in my heart wail-cackling with glee, the words flow unabated.

So I think a lot of it really does come down to making the connection between your ambitions and the gremlin. Make it your business to find out what your gremlin feeds on (mine involves shitty systems, existential dread, possession, grief, upsetting power dynamics, well-founded guilt, handsome women, beautiful men, charismatic enbies with questionable agendas, cool action sequences and consequences thereof, the grimy process of making do in a broken world, the daunting power of being nice to someone every once in a while.)

Then feed it. FEED THE GREMLIN. The gremlin is the thing that makes everything else go vroom. The engineer. The magician. The words simply do not occur without its awful little hands on the wheel.

[kintatsujo]

LoZ AU- The Courage of Running Away Part FOURTEEN

You’ll see why this one took a while in just a second, I did that thing where I drew a whole ass scene again

Content warning for fantasy religions based loosely on Christian schisms

#AU August

#LoZ AU: The Courage of Running Away

So while Link is getting acclimated to Castle life and getting hugs from Marla and Tonbo (and also getting unofficially adopted by the royal family) Astramorus flies back to the Sky Temple with his loftwing. 

And he has a lot of time to think while he’s doing it; I don’t know how fast a loftwing flies but even so it would have taken some hours on Hera’s back and you don’t have anything to do up there but think about why you got blasted through a wall by a god-queen.  So he gets back and he’s feeling pretty fucking subdued when he hands Hera off to the Sky Temple commune’s gardener/bird caretaker, Maurice.

[Image description:  Astramorus, looking tired and still missing his hat, his hair a mess, is standing opposite a short and round mustached man with bushy eyebrows dressed in the same priestly robes, except that this man has his sleeves shortened to his elbows and is wearing thick gloves.  This man is holding Hera the loftwing by a lead, while she makes a particularly vacant happy face.  “NAYRU’S EYES, man, WHAT HAPPENED?”  Astramorus gives a very small smile, and after a pause, answers, “TURBULENCE.”  The man harrumphs skeptically, then says, “Well, LORD SERENUMBRA from the LORULEAN ORTHODOXY showed up three days ago and he’s been giving me ADVICE ON MY TOMATOES, so turbulence or OTHERWISE I’d appreciate you DISTRACTING HIM before I commit some WEEDING.”  Astramorus smiles.  “Ah,” he says in understanding.  “Yes, thank you for your PATIENCE, Maurice.”  End ID.] 

A note on Maurice, originally I was going to make him look like Gaepora OR Rauru and then Ice suggested basing him on Maurice-Belle’s-Dad and I liked that, so I blended the ideas a bit.  

I think I’ve mentioned that Lorule and Hyrule have different takes on the Hylia religion, haven’t I?

Basically since this Lorule is just the country south of Hyrule instead of a dark-mirror-universe world, Invid suggested that part of the idea might be that Lorule insists that Hyrule is wrong about which country the Golden Goddesses left the world from, and that the Triforce belongs there instead.  I kind of played with that a little further, and so now part of the thing is that their royal line is actually also descended from Hylia directly, except that at some point a sister broke off from (one or the other of) the royal family, founding the Hilda line versus the Zelda line.

And real quick here’s the Hilda of this story, which I promise is relevant:

[Image Description: Sketches of a tall, black haired woman with pale skin and blue eyes and extremely long pointed ears, dressed in a cape and dress of purple, dark blue, red and gold.  She wears a blue and green belt trimmed with gold and black gloves, and a diadem featuring a red gemstone and golden spread wings.  There is an inverted Triforce symbol on her sash.  She is also wearing black lipstick and red blush and eyeshadow.  A sketch to the side shows her making a decidedly less dignified expression with the note “All the finery and rouge is a desperate attempt to fool you into thinking Hilda is in her twenties but she’s only actually seventeen, same as Link.”  Another sketch shows her next to an old man with round glasses and priestly robes different to the Hyrulean priests, who only comes up to her chest.  She has her hands on her hips and is ranting at him.  A note reads, “Hilda TOL.”  End ID.]

Anyway the thing is that currently, the two churches are relatively peaceable with one another, they have joint gatherings to quibble about tradition and who should be allowed to have what sacred treasures and who has to bring the roast boar next time, and that is how a very young novice Astramorus ended up as friends with the man he would eventually match in equivalent rank, Lord Serenumbra.  Who gets a nice picture equivalent piece to Astra’s introduction because of symmetry: 

[Image Description: The same short priest from the picture with Hilda.  He has white loosely curly hair, circular gold glasses, a hat similar to Astramorus’s but in red, a dark red robe over a black underdress, both trimmed in gold, and is wearing a heavy golden neck piece with an inverted Triforce and golden wings framing a blue disc.  To the side are various comic panels; in the first, he has taken an extremely young Astramorus’s hand and is saying, “Let me be the first to CONGRATULATE you, my friend!”  In the second, he’s spread his arms wide while approaching Astramorus and Catena, Link’s mother.  “Let me be the first to CONGRATULATE YOU, my friends!” he’s saying, and Catena laughs, giving Astramorus a rough side hug that lifts him off his feet despite her only coming to his chest, while Astramorus gives her a gooey smile.  “TOO LATE,” she says, “I told my mum first,” and laughs.  In the last panel, Astramorus has collapsed limp into a chair at a dining room table, his hair in his eyes, his face wet with tears, propping his head on one arm as Serenumbra pats his shoulder from behind the chair.  “Let me be the first to say,” Serenumbra says, “How DEEPLY SORRY I am, my friend.”  End ID.]

This is awful but that’s currently my favorite picture of Astramorus.  

Serenumbra’s design is based on the priest and philosopher from ALttP and Link Between Worlds; the philosopher’s robes were red so I sorta priestified them.  The blue disc in the center of his neck piece represents the Moon Pearl from ALttP, which was actually red in the game but blue in some of the promotional materiel, and the blue was a nicer contrast.  The Moon Pearl was mostly important because it let Link run around in his human form in the Dark World but I always liked it because it was sort of weird and mysterious.  In Four Swords Adventures there’s actually a LOT of moon pearls and they let you make portals between the worlds.  There isn’t going to be a lot of world hopping in this AU, I just thought it was interesting context. 

Anyway here’s two old friends having a conversation, image description and a little more commentary plus some bonus poking at Astramorus at the end:

[Image Descriptions: Astramorus is entering a room with a rounded door and a coat rack on the wall.  “Seren?” he calls.  “ASTRAMORUS, are you QUITE all right?” Serenumbra answers.  He is sitting at a round table in the center of the room; there are two dining chairs, one of which he is sitting in, and opposite of him is a comfortable looking rocking chair.  “I came because I heard about your SON, have you still not found him?”  Astramorus, looking deeply pained, straightens some of his hair with one hand.  “I found him,” he says.  He settles into the rocking chair with a long creak.  Serenumbra is clearly shocked by his demeanor.  “Astra,” he says, concern clear in his face, “What HAPPENED?”  Astramorus stares at the ceiling while looking like death warmed over.  There is a panel fading from light to dark to indicate the passage of time, then we see that Serenumbra has a hand to his mouth in thought.  “So the queen refuses to see the DANGER here,” he says.  Astramorus has folded his hands together.  “She’s right about my SON, though,” he answers.  Serenumbra is quick to defend Astramorus to himself: “Well- he’s such a SOFT BOY, you wanted him PREPARED,” he begins, but Astramorus stops him.  “I pushed him too hard, too SOON, and with too little CARE.”  Astramorus lifts his hands and grins painfully, continuing, “WHAT was I DOING, trying to teach him how to FIGHT when all I knew was an ADULT’S routine?”  He puts a hand to his chin, still smiling.  “I must be the STUPIDEST MAN ALIVE.”  “Astra,” Serenumbra begins again, and Astramorus interrupts again.  “My wife used to tell me I WORRIED too much, did I ever mention that?”  He asks.  His face turns solemn.  “It was even one of the LAST THINGS she said to me,” he says.  We get a glimpse of young Astramorus and Catena together backlit by the sun; she’s wearing a blue version of the classical Link costume with a sword strapped to her back and plate armor on her shoulders, he’s wearing his priestly robes and hat.  She’s reached up to grab his face, grinning, while he’s put his hands on hers.  “And then she died,” Astramorus says.  He sits up, animate once more.  “What else could I DO but worry?!” he demands.  “You’ve studied the legends, same as I-” he subsides again- “That mark on Link’s hand may as well be a DEATH SENTENCE.”  He puts a hand on his face.  “And I’ve so THOROUGHLY FAILED him that now I’ve put the Royal Family in danger TOO.”  Serenumbra puts a hand to his chin, thoughtfully.  “WELL, you never KNOW,” he says, “Princess HILDA is more of an age with Link, maybe the Triforce of Wisdom will arise in the LORULEAN line this time.”  Astramorus laughs.  “That doesn’t change the SITUATION, Seren,” quietly adding “But also KEEP DREAMING.”  He then puts his hand to his mouth.  “How do I even BEGIN to atone?” Astramorus asks.  “Ahh, old friend,” Serenumbra answers, soothingly.  “If only Catena were still WITH us, she’d know how to ease the boy’s burden.  Why-she’d face down GANON HIMSELF if it came to that!”  Astramorus makes an intense face, as if he’s been suddenly burdened.  Serenumbra stands and puts a hand on his shoulder.  “Get some REST, dear friend, you still look TERRIBLE,” he says with a smile.  Astramorus is wringing his hands, staring forward.  End ID.]

DUMBASS BRAINCELLS ENGAGED.

I didn’t expect “Got pegged by his wife so hard that the mere invocation of her name knocked him back to his senses after over eleven years of fucking shitty behavior towards their son” to be on the bingo card for this character when I started this project either, but this is Draft 0.5 so anything can happen XD

Astramorus is so layered now what the fuck!  

[Image Description: Serenumbra, face full of concern, asks, “Astra, what HAPPENED?”  Astramorus stares at the ceiling like death warmed over.  Behind him are the words “HELLO DARKNESS MY OLD FRIEND.”  End ID.]

[Image Description: Serenumbra, face full of concern, asks, “Astra, what HAPPENED?”  Astramorus stares at the ceiling like death warmed over.  Behind him are the words “WELL FIRST OF ALL I FUCKING DIED.”  End ID.]

[Image Description: Serenumbra, face full of concern, asks, “Astra, what HAPPENED?”  Astramorus stares at the ceiling like death warmed over.  Behind him are the words “...my wife made this chair.”  End ID.]

Catena got into carving as a hobby during long trips but she started making furniture while dealing with nesting urges while pregnant, so imagine this little tank of a woman assembling a rocking chair for her tol noodle husband while ranting about her weird cravings.  

[blazedgraysons]

You're No Good - Ch. 2

C.J. Bennett is an overly ambitious student who dreams of shadowing her favorite author, Eli Jennings. The only thing standing in her way: Grayson Dolan.

warnings: this is a rough draft of a series i never finished. i'm posting the finished chapters before leaving this account. 🤍

part 1

If American Lit 1102 was C.J.’s personal hell, her job could at least be considered her own reprieve.

Sunnyside Vintage is an old shop off of Sunset, having been open for the last 30 years. It wasn’t the nicest of thrift stores — the clothes always have a weird mothball smell and everything is old - and not in the trendy way.  C.J. loves it. The windows are huge, letting California sunlight wash the stucco walls gold, and the mannequins are always dressed straight out of the 70’s. The pay isn’t always great, but C.J. is allowed to take whatever she wants more than makes up for it in her eyes.

“I just don’t understand. I mean, Stevens has praised me this entire semester. She even told me personally he’s never had a student write as well as me nor pick up on the work as fast as I have. Wouldn’t that be qualities you’d want in an intern, Bea? Even Grayson Dolan would’ve been a better pick.” C.J. turns to her boss, angrily folding flared jeans.

Another reason C.J. loves Sunnyside —  her boss, Beatrice “Bea” Walker. Once a glitzy soap star of the ’50’s, she retired with her husband and opened Sunnyside in the late 80’s. Despite being in her late-70s, she still holds on to the same glamour and charm that made her a household name a century prior.

“Maybe there was another reason. It could be something other then your application.” She croaks, lifting a pumpkin to place next to a costumed mannequin. As halloween rapidly approaches, the store was starting to transform to fit the fall season — hoping to draw in customers to purchase unique costumes for the holiday.

Before she can move to help Bea, the doors chime, signaling an entrance. Walking through with seemingly-glowing skin and a symphonic smile was Alexi, C.J.’s best friend and roommate. It’s hard to miss Alexi whenever she walks into a room — from her bleached-blue hair to eclectic style, she’s never been afraid to follow her own path, something C.J. has always admired. She walks straight to C.J., wrapping her in a loving embrace

“Are you okay? James told me what happened.” Alexi leaves an arm around her, and while C.J. knows it’s supposed to be comforting; all she can think about is how much she wants Alexi to leave. It’s one thing to rant to her elderly boss, someone who would love her in spite of her shortcomings and faults. But to know her own friend group has already heard about her misfortune, sending over someone to comfort and soothe, it was all just a little too pitiful for her to handle.

“Theta’s are throwing a party tonight. It’ll be the perfect pick-me-up, and you can forget all about Evans Jensen-“

“Eli Jennings” C.J. corrects.

“Whoever” Alexi rolls her eyes at the interruption, “is missing out on your incredible talent because of an idiotic professor’s incompetence. Everyone’s going and it won’t be the same without you, C.”

“As much as I would love that, Lex, I really just want to be alone tonight. Shitty beer, cheap Indian food, a sad movie so I don’t have to think about how these past four years have been a waste.”

“Not a waste, first of all. Look, I know that you’ve had this whole plan for your life since you popped out the womb, but shit happens, things change. This isn’t a failure, just think of it as a temporary setback. Plus, when life gives you lemons, you…” She trails off, waiting for C.J. to finish.

“Make lemonade?” She sighs.

“Use it to chase tequila.” Alexi giggles.

“I would go, but I have to close. Right, Bea?"

"Don't use me as an excuse. You should go, maybe find a boy to take home." Alexi makes a face at Beatrice's statement and C.J.'s face heats up.

“You’re going - no more buts. Wear something cute. Something that maybe doesn’t make if look like you were alive for Vietnam.” Alexi’s already leaving, kissing Beatrice lightly on the cheek on her way out.

This was how C.J. found herself standing outside the Theta Lambda  frat house, October air chilling her through her jacket. She shifts her weight between her feet, surveying the small group around her. Alexi talks animatedly on the phone, asking for whoever to meet them out front.

A random person bumps into her, forcing her to spill the contents of her purse onto the dewey grass. C.J. groans, bending down to pick everything up while mentally thinking to herself all of the other things she could be doing right now.

A pair of dirty air forces steps in front of C.J. and she slowly looks up at the girl standing in front of her. She’s pretty, stunning actually. C.J. recognizes her immediately. Channing Williams - social chair of Rho Xi sorority and the key to all the best parties on campus. Dressed in a black romper and red velvet jacket, she’s everything C.J. isn’t and a quiet twinge of jealousy plucks her heart. ‘I bet she’s never lost out on an internship.’ she thinks bitterly.

“Sorry, do you know anyone?”  Channing asks, voice soft and sweet with a clipboard in hand. C.J. looks at Alexi, waiting to hear her answer.

“Not really? I mean we know people, but we aren’t going to be on your clipboard or anything so if you could just let us slide through, I’m sure there’s someone here who could like vouch for us or something?” C.J. wants to slap her — not only did she drag her out in below-freezing weather, but she couldn’t even guarantee them a way inside.

“Well this is a greek-only party so unless you know anyone….” Channing trails off, not openly wanting to kick them out in front of so many people.

“That means no GDI’s.” C.J. didn’t even notice the miniature-sized freshman standing besides Channing. She clearly looks annoyed at the intrusion, keeping her from inside where everyone else is to deal with their little group. C.J. briefly wonders if the upturned stare is a requirement for Rho Xi or if that’s was just especially reserved for her.

“Geed’s?” Alexi repeats, raising an eyebrow.

“Goddamn independents. Y’know, not greek-affiliated.” At this point, C.J. is ready to call the whole night and retire in her bed when she see’s someone appear in between Channing.

“They’re cool, Chan. They’re with me.” Micayla Zhao enters, covered in glitter, sweat and what C.J. is almost sure to be a line of salt from a body shot. C.J. has always considered Micayla the only cool Rho Xi, having had multiple classes with her over the years. Micayla fit right in with their group: smart, beautiful and a wicked sense of humor.

Channing nods, seeming bored and just wanting to get back inside with everyone else. She does a quick finger tap with Micayla (sacred Rho Xi bullshit is what Alexi always calls it) and moving along the line.

“Are your sisters always that charming?” Micayla rolls her eyes, grabbing C.J. to move them through the house to the backyard. A huge bonfire is set up in the middle with a canopy near by for the designated drinking spot. She watches as Micayla confidently moves through the crowd, stopping from time to time to say hey to friends and classmates on the way.

“Most of the time. Look, they’re just possessive over tradition and the Rho-Theta party has always been major exclusive, Channing’s been fighting to make it open to outsiders.” Micayla yells over the thumping bass.

“Yeah, I’m sure they love all the GDI’s.”  C.J. exaggerates her voice, pinching her nose to capture the nasally, valley accent Channing is almost famous for. Micayla stops, and had C.J. not been paying attention, she would’ve ran into her.

“Dude, you’re kind of being a bitch right now. Look, I get your bummed about your internship, but Channing wouldn't have let you in if she didn't want to. Would you rather be getting drunk, in your apartment alone?”

“Yeah, actually.” Micayla stares at C.J. for a second, looking like she’s about to bitch her out. As if Alexi can sense the fight forming, she grabs Micayla by the arm.

“Let’s go get a drink, you look like you need a drink in you.” They both walk towards the house, Alexi mouthing ‘Be Nice’ over her shoulder before disappearing completely. C.J. exhales, counting to 3 in her head before walking over to where drinks are set up.She fills up her solo cup, watching as the fizzy liquid moves closer and closer to the top.  Before she can take a sip, someone bumps into her spilling half the drink over the side.

“Hey, watch it!” A thick Jersey accent exclaims, and C.J. groans, wondering if this night could get any worse.

“Bennett?”

Grayson appears in front of her, denim jacket over a black t-shirt and black jeans. She takes note of the dark spot growing on the front of his shirt, from where she spilt her drink.

“What’re you doing here?”

She simply shrugs, refilling the missing contents of her cup.“I didn’t know parties were your scene. I always imagined in your free time you’re in like a dark room, crying alone to Sylvia Plath novels.”

“Nice to know you think of me out of class, Grayson” C.J. takes a sip of her beer. She moves to walk away, hoping he would take it as an end of conversation.

"How'd you get in? Isn't this like Rho's only?" He asks, following her to the edge of the bonfire. She looks at him, watching as the light frames the features of his face.

"Couldn't I say the same about you? You're not a Theta." He just stares at her intensely until she relents, "Micayla Zhao got me in. Y'know her?"

"We had history together sophomore year. She helped me cheat on the midterms."

C.J. laughs shortly. "Sounds like her."

Grayson opens his mouth to speak again, but is cut off.

“As much as I’m enjoying this conversation, Grayson, don’t you have someone else to bother? Someone who, y’know, actually likes you?” If that comment bothered him, he didn’t show it, continuing talking to her as if they haven’t pissed each other off continuously for the past four years.

“What do you think about Michael Eichler getting the internship spot?”  He asks. As if it wasn’t bad enough that she didn’t get the spot, now she has to sit and rub salt in the wound with her worst enemy.

“What’s there to think about? He got it, I didn’t. Fucking sucks.” He laughs, holding up his own drink.

“Cheers to that.” They both clink cups, and C.J. briefly wonders if the universe is still laughing at her.

"You know, that spot should've gone to one of us." He muses, watching the partygoers continue to stumble around them. He doesn't say anything after that, and she bites.

"Why should it have gone to one of us?"

"Well, think about it. We're both the top of our class, and I know for a fact Stevens has submitted your writing to collegiate magazines. There's no fucking way Michael fucking Eichler should've got that spot over one of us." C.J. pauses. She had known that Stevens appreciated her writing, but not enough to submit it anywhere. If what Grayson was saying was true, why hadn't she gotten the apprenticeship?

"Nothing I can really do about it now. He got the spot, I didn't. I guess I can become a second rate author now." She takes another sip, and Grayson snorts unattractively.

"I'm sure you'll be okay, Bennett. If Stevens like you, I'm sure there's another author dumb enough to want to publish your work too." She glares at him.

"And here I thought we were becoming friends."

"As if you actually would've wanted to become friends with me."

"Oh yeah, that's what I do in between my Sylvia Plath crying sessions. Desperately wish that Grayson Dolan would become my best friend." Sarcasm drips off every word and he looks at her before taking another long sip of his drink.

“You know you’re actually kinda cool, Bennett. When you’re not trying to bite my head off in the middle of lecture”

“Maybe if you didn’t have such shitty takes, I wouldn’t want too.” Whatever retort Grayson was planning falls from his lips when Channing appears by his side, tucking herself underneath his arm.

"Hey, Gray. I got you another drink." Two Coronas hang from her manicured hand, and he whispers inaudibly to her, giggling between the two of them. C.J. begins to feel awkward, and coughs uncomfortably.

“Oh, you’re the GDI from earlier,” Channing looks up at her half-lidded, dark eyelashes framing red-tinged brown eyes.

“Yeah, that’s me.” Channing shifts her weight, biting her lip and feeling like an intruder. "I didn't know you two knew each other?" C.J. supplies, feeling desperate for conversation

"Gray and I had math together freshman year, "They both stare at each other awkwardly, silent tension as they wait for the other to speak.

“So, I’m gonna go." She speaks.

“No, you don’t have to." Channing is already turned back to Grayson, looking like she wouldn't mind C.J.'s exit.

“No it’s fine” Neither Grayson nor Channing seem to protest anymore, and C.J. turns back to see her friends looking at her, both amused and curious at her interaction with the duo. She begins to walk towards them, feet and heart sinking with every step, not feeling any better about her current predicament.

“Hey Bennett,” She turns around to face Grayson. “Think about what I said. About the internship stuff” She just nods, and leaves the pair. The moment she reaches her initial group, Alexi pulls her towards them.

“You and Dolan were just talking and it didn't end in a screaming match. That’s new. What did he want?”

“Nothing. Just typical Grayson Dolan bullshit."Alexi looks like she doesn't believe her, and frankly C.J. doesn't believe herself. She thinks back to what Grayson said, about how they were the only real competition for the apprenticeship. Whatever he meant by that could be handled tomorrow.

"C’mon. Didn’t  you say something earlier today about tequila shots?” She asks

“Atta, girl. That’s what I’m talking about.” She lets Alexi drag her away, sparing one last look at Grayson before entering the fraternity house.

[bettsfic]

february pinned: the real & the ideal

in this month’s edition of my lowkey writing-related newsletter, in addition to my writing-related post roundup and consultation availability, i have short story recommendations for you and an essay on the nature of reality in fiction! 

if you want to receive my lowkey writing-related newsletter directly, you can subscribe here.

in other news, i finished two fics this month:

digging for orchids (hualian, 43k, explicit, fake marriage au)

let ruin end here (hualian, 8k, mature, neighbors au)

full newsletter below the cut, or you can read it here.

oof,

what a month. january is already a rough time. throwing in a pandemic, a coup, and an economic revolution spearheaded by reddit just seems unfair. as for me personally, the spring semester came at me fast and even though it’s only week 2, i am already buried in grading. which i realize is my fault, considering i’m the one who assigned homework.

so after hearing your feedback, i thought i’d make this newsletter even more writing-related by writing more about writing. this month i’ll start off by talking about the nature of reality in fiction in a segment i call “been thinkin a lot about.” more on that below.

new resource

i’ve compiled a folder of PDFs of the short stories i teach most often, which is to say, the stories i like enough to re-read every semester. most of them are literary fiction but a few veer into fantasy, sci fi, and horror.

i know before the MFA, i didn’t really know what a short story was. like i knew, abstractly, the concept of a short story (it is as it sounds), but i could only list a couple i’d ever read as an adult, and i hadn’t read anything that had been published in the last decade. i remember wondering why i was even being asked to care about short stories. who writes short stories? who reads them? apparently, a lot of people. short storyists are a lot like fanwriters in that they make no money and when you talk about your writing in public, people give you that “why would anyone waste their time with that?” look.

so here’s why i was asked to care about short stories: a good short story gives you the entirety of a world in a very condensed space. moreover, it can sometimes leave you as satisfied as a novel in a fraction of the reading time. all the stories i’ve compiled here are ones that stuck with me, that i find myself recommending over and over to writers who want a good example of developing character, or weird narration, or establishing stakes.

if you’re a writer considering publication or an MFA in creative writing, i highly recommend familiarizing yourself with short stories, if for no other reason than to get the feel for them so you can write some of your own. if you can get a few short story publications under your belt, it’ll be easier to open doors when you’re ready to query agents for a novel. also, short stories make a great writing sample for grad programs, workshops, fellowships, residencies, and grant funding.

if you want to check out more short stories but have no idea where to start, the 2020 best american short stories just dropped in november, or if you want a cheaper one, used copies of 2019 and earlier are available on thriftbooks. if you want an overview of the history of the (american) short story, there’s also the best american short stories of the century. fair warning, though, while it’s more diverse than expected, it’s still a bit heavy on dead-white-dude writing.

content warning: the stories in the above-linked folder may depict instances of sexual assault, suicide, and/or abuse. i have not labeled them individually with warnings but i hope to soon, as well as provide a catalog with summaries.

i’m also still working on my essay and novel recs. more to come on that hopefully next month.

writing-related posts

how i quit my banking job to do a creative writing MFA

how i learned to read faster/stop subvocalizing

how to write when you have no time or energy to write

my experience writing fic in small/dead fandoms (aka fics that will probably not get any traffic)

how to describe facial expressions

how to ask for help from your professors

how to navigate tenses during flashbacks

how to separate yourself from your work

how (and why you might want to) write a shitty first draft

why you should consider making the climax the inciting incident

for a complete list of my writing-related posts, check out this masterdoc (which i still need to update it with the past few months’ posts).

stuff i’m into rn

i’m about halfway through the rhetoric of fiction by wayne c. booth which has more or less become my narrative bible. it’s a little dated (1961) but it tackles banal writing adages that are somehow still believed, like “show don’t tell” and whatnot, and breaks them down with amazing insight, clarity, and research. it’s a bit of a dense text so i’m only reading a few pages a day, i think the first time i’ve ever let myself read something so intentionally slowly. now i’m kind of obsessed with doing things slowly. reading slowly, writing slowly, cooking slowly. i even drive slowly, because it’s so rare to go anywhere at all, and i want to enjoy it. also, it’s very snowy where i am. also also, the battery died in my car this month and i really have to make it a point to drive more often.

february availability

i have 2 openings for initial writing consultations in february! if you’re interested, please fill out this google form.

you can learn more about my services on my carrd.

been thinkin a lot about

compulsory reality in fiction. many of us have probably received feedback along the lines of, or thought to ourselves as we read, “that’s not realistic.” many of us believe, consciously or not, that fiction that is more “realistic” is inherently better than fiction that is less “realistic.” for some of us, real means a saturation of details, the clear depiction of the surfaces of things. reality is found in the rendering thereof; if you can “see” it, it’s real. for others of us, it might be the development of complex characters and their growth across a narrative. and for yet others, reality is subtlety, or misery, or the idea of “slice of life,” a term i don’t think means anything, because aren’t all stories a slice of a character’s life? what would a story that’s not a slice of life look like? you’d either have to take away the “slice” part and render a whole life, which is impossible, or you’d have to take away the “life” part and create a dead story, which may be possible, but why would you want to? even if you wrote a story about a rock, the rock would be brought to life by virtue of being written about.

anyway. i think the word “real” is a shitty word for the same reason “slice of life” is a shitty phrase: everything is real and therefore nothing cannot be real. slices of life are all we know because we are alive and cannot truly perceive not being alive; reality is also all we know, and any depictions beyond reality are thus made real because they have been depicted.

so the “goal” for fiction to be “realistic” seems to me to be a false one. all fiction is real because it exists and no fiction can be truly real because it’s only a facsimile of reality. not to get all “this is not a pipe” but writing is just making squiggles, and we as a community of English-knowers agree that certain squiggles correspond to certain sounds, and certain sounds together make words which conjure meanings. and words put together into sentences into paragraphs conjure even more complicated meanings. and when those paragraphs are woven into narrative we create yet more and more complicated meaning.

every time you write anything — a text message, an email, a tweet, a fanfic — you are taking the infinite abstraction of your own cognition, narrowing it into a single concept, and representing that concept with patterns in the form of sounds represented by letters and given meaning with words, so that the infinite abstraction of your own conscience can be fractionally witnessed by the infinite abstraction of someone else’s. and even though we can’t definitively prove for ourselves that any other thing possesses a consciousness, writing shows us the shape of someone else’s mind, and tells us we are not alone.

and yet we still expect writing to be “real.”

have you ever read a story where a character sneezed? like just, a description of a sneeze for the sake of it, with no purpose or function in the plot? if not, is it because our characters aren’t real enough to sneeze, or because the sneeze isn’t relevant to their plight? what would a written sneeze look like, and why would somebody want to write it? moreover, why would somebody want to read it? that leads me to wonder, do we depict reality in the service of narrative, or narrative in the service of reality? in other words, do we write to portray reality (sans sneezing), or do we depict reality to constrain our writing, the way one might request bumpers when bowling so as not to fall in the gutters?

i’ve never read an artful rendition of a character pissing or shitting, either, even when those things are related to a character’s plight and circumstance — stories involving long road trips, living in the woods, being kidnapped. the only exception i can think of is when those things are eroticized (we do not kinkshame here in this lkwrnl), the same way it’s rare to find detailed sex writing that isn’t for the purpose of reader arousal. are there just some things about the nature of being human that are too intimate, too complex, or too boring to write?

once i wrote a murder that takes place in a small fictional midwestern town in the 90s (for the ~aesthetic), and it went uninvestigated by said town’s police force. early readers repeatedly commented along the lines of, “that’s not realistic.” and i thought, no, if anything, the incompetence of police is too realistic for the heightened reality i’m trying to render. have you ever heard of a cop solving a murder that didn’t come with an obvious suspect or immediately found evidence? i haven’t. that doesn’t mean those cases don’t exist, but i definitely think they’re less likely than mass media has us believe, and the average small-town police force has far less motivation (and possibly training) to solve crimes than we think.

i started working on the above-mentioned novel in 2016, and my goal was to depict a reality that hovers above the surface of plausibility. in this novel, which is based on macbeth, a preteen girl, mercy, becomes jealous of the love her best friend elisa shows to her father. mercy decides to get her older and very unstable brother to kill him. naturally the deed goes awry, but it does occur, and the cleanup is far messier than anticipated.

is it plausible for a 12 year old girl to plot and execute the murder of her best friend’s father? no. is that what this book is about? yes. a book about a 12 year old girl who has a perfectly healthy relationship with her best friend and who has no feelings toward her bff’s father one way or another is probably far more “realistic,” but that’s not the book i’d want to read and certainly not the one i want to write. my goal of a heightened reality is what henry james calls the intensity of illusion, the thing that allows a reader, through the witness of one’s distilled cognition into language, to exit physical, knowable reality, and enter a new and unknown reality. and isn’t climbing to that higher place, that intensity of illusion, the purpose of fiction? if it’s not, what is?

the best feedback i got on the aforementioned murder scene was from one of my professors, who, of the perfect calm of all children involved, said, “they just shot a guy. at least one of them would be freaking out.”

he was totally right, but it opened up a lot of questions for me. by what standard did he reach that conclusion? was it something in the chapter itself, was it his personal understanding of the work of narrative, or was it the logical conclusion of the slim plausibility of the scenario? moreover, where did i come up with the idea that all of my preteen characters would commit a murder and proceed to be very chill about it? if an implausible scenario begs the expectation of emotional distress, would it be more compelling to buy into that expectation or deviate from it? is it even my obligation to be compelling when i can never have a cogent grasp of the personal tastes of my audience?

that brings me to what appears to be reality’s opposite: idealism, the state those of us who write fanfic are often trying to achieve. we’re working in an entire genre of ideals, of happily ever afters, of hurt that is always followed by comfort, of glossily rendered sex during which everyone orgasms and no one has to pee afterward. we fix broken texts and continue incomplete ones. sometimes, we want to make existing things better, deeper, more complicated. but all the time, we want to make a text more than what it is.

some see this process, this drive for the ideal, as antithetical to realism, and i think that’s part of the reason fanfiction and other idealistic genres (romance, etc.) get a bad name — the assumption that more real (which for some means more miserable) is better, and therefore its opposite, the ideal, is worse. for them, i have this quote from vladimir nabokov:

For me a work of fiction exists only insofar as it affords me what I shall bluntly call aesthetic bliss, that is a sense of being somehow, somewhere, connected with other states of being where art (curiosity, tenderness, kindness, ecstasy) is the norm.

the ideal, aesthetic bliss, the intensity of illusion. these are all phrases that boil down to the same thing: you the writer get to define the constraints of your own reality. you get to choose if your world even complies with the known laws of physics. and if it doesn’t, you get to choose which ones to break, and why to break them. you get to choose if your stories take place in a real house in a real town on a real day. if you wrote a story that takes place on september 11, 2001, would the events of that story be shaped by the events of that actual day, or are you writing a better world where 9/11 doesn’t happen? consider the consequences of both: why might you want to write reality? why might you want to write ideality? how do these things shape your identity and goals as a writer?

no matter where a work falls on the real-ideal spectrum, you have to accept that prose itself will only ever be a verisimilitude of reality and therefore an interpretation of it, one that might be interpreted differently by a reader. in writing and everything else, you can never have complete control over what others perceive. it’s like giving someone cash as a gift. they might buy themselves something nice with it, or they might spend it on groceries. the point is, eventually we all have to let go of our realities.