#like metaphors and descriptive writing and stuff

[bigcats-birds-and-books]

Books of 2025: WANDERLUST: A History of Walking by Rebecca Solnit.

The last chapter in this book is titled "Las Vegas, or the Longest Distance Between Two Points," so I had to bring it on our Las Vegas/Grand Canyon trip, obviously. And I did indeed start it in Vegas!

However! We got back from Vegas *checks wristwatch* a month and two days ago, and I just finished it. It was a much denser, chewier book than anticipated. Parts of it were super neat! But parts of it moved at, say, two or three miles per hour. Lotta focus on Romanticism as early origins (which. isn't really my wheelhouse). A little bit of biology in there, a little bit of nature writing, some feminism, etc.--I think she does a good job of qualifying that this is a history of walking, per her subtitle, and it's very much Hers. I busted out the flaggies for a few passages, and I'll probably reread those, but I doubt I'll reread the Whole Thing.

[tinseltina]

i haven't written in a while. but while I was listening to The Bug Collector (cover by Troubador Davis) by Haley Heynderickx I wrote this short piece about being a pinned butterfly

i've only ever known this life. of pins through my body, holding me down never to fly. he puts me in a frame, protected from the elements by the glass, he said. He's probably right, that a life outside my frame would lead to my swift, and likely painful demise. in here i stay lovely on the outside; but inside, i feel myself rotting. starting with my mind, once inquisitive and eager to imagine, i find myself tired of thinking. my lungs grow tired of inflating, my heart weary and aches, beating slower that i think is healthy. my wings are brittle, i doubt i'd be able to fly even if i somehow found a way out. is this what it means to be beautiful?

[roomba-mangga]

need to practice details more i think... sometimes i read something sooo tasty and i go HOW did you manage to name so much STUFF meanwhile i'm too busy slaving over metaphors and wording and forget all the stuff. i need to eat your art.

[mejomonster]

Sometimes I'll see how simple and short some whole pages of sentences are in published books. And I've got to remind myself i might be looking in the young adult books, or in romance books like Colleen Hoover where its meant to be written simple and short and understandable.

[mortalityplays]

This is a dangerous sentiment for me to express, as an editor who spends most of my working life telling writers to knock it off with the 45-word sentences and the adverbs and tortured metaphors, but I do think we're living through a period of weird pragmatic puritanism in mainstream literary taste.

e.g. I keep seeing people talk about 'purple prose' when they actually mean 'the writer uses vivid and/or metaphorical descriptive language'. I've seen people who present themselves as educators offer some of the best genre writing in western canon as examples of 'purple prose' because it engages strategically in prose-poetry to evoke mood and I guess that's sheer decadence when you could instead say "it was dark and scary outside". But that's not what purple prose means. Purple means the construction of the prose itself gets in the way of conveying meaning. mid-00s horse RPers know what I'm talking about. Cerulean orbs flash'd fire as they turn'd 'pon rollforth land, yonder horizonways. <= if I had to read this when I was 12, you don't get to call Ray Bradbury's prose 'purple'.

I griped on here recently about the prepossession with fictional characters in fictional narratives behaving 'rationally' and 'realistically' as if the sole purpose of a made-up story is to convince you it could have happened. No wonder the epistolary form is having a tumblr renaissance. One million billion arguments and thought experiments about The Ones Who Walk Away From Omelas that almost all evade the point of the story: that you can't wriggle out of it. The narrator is telling you how it was, is and will be, and you must confront the dissonances it evokes and digest your discomfort. 'Realistic' begins on the author's terms, that's what gives them the power to reach into your brain and fiddle about until sparks happen. You kind of have to trust the process a little bit.

This ultra-orthodox attitude to writing shares a lot of common ground with the tight, tight commodification of art in online spaces. And I mean commodification in the truest sense - the reconstruction of the thing to maximise its capacity to interface with markets. Form and function are overwhelmingly privileged over cloudy ideas like meaning, intent and possibility, because you can apply a sliding value scale to the material aspects of a work. But you can't charge extra for 'more challenging conceptual response to the milieu' in a commission drive. So that shit becomes vestigial. It isn't valued, it isn't taught, so eventually it isn't sought out. At best it's mystified as part of a given writer/artist's 'talent', but either way it grows incumbent on the individual to care enough about that kind of skill to cultivate it.

And it's risky, because unmeasurables come with the possibility of rejection or failure. Drop in too many allegorical descriptions of the rose garden and someone will decide your prose is 'purple' and unserious. A lot of online audiences seem to be terrified of being considered pretentious in their tastes. That creates a real unwillingness to step out into discursive spaces where you 🫵 are expected to develop and explore a personal relationship with each element of a work. No guard rails, no right answers. Word of god is shit to us out here. But fear of getting that kind of analysis wrong makes people hove to work that slavishly explains itself on every page. And I'm left wondering, what's the point of art that leads every single participant to the same conclusion? See Spot run. Run, Spot, run. Down the rollforth land, yonder horizonways. I just want to read more weird stuff.

[nekonaps0]

Hiii, first time requesting smth from you but i LOVE your work! Its just so easy to read, its descriptive but not too wordy, which is a pet peeve of mine for fan fics lol.

Anyway, could you write a reader/idia of an unlikely pairing? Like the reader is almost a polar opposite of idia but they somehow manage to get together?

Thank you so much! And again, keep up the good work <3

Out of my league

✦fem!reader

✦characters: Idia

✦Social anxiety (Idia), fluff overdose, Idia overthinking literally everything

The first time Idia Shroud noticed you, it was because you were loud.

Not in the annoying way. Not in the “make him mute the game” way. Just…so present.

You moved through Night Raven like you belonged in the center of every scene: laughing in the dining hall, calling out to people in the hallway, showing up to class with glitter on your face and a joke in your mouth. You wore the loudest colors. You clapped when you laughed.

You were, in every possible way, a walking migraine to his quiet existence.

So why, in the name of all things, did his stomach do a weird little flutter every time you passed by?

It started with an accident. You had wandered into the Ignihyde dorm looking for Ortho who adored you, naturally and you got lost.

He panicked when you suddenly knocked on his door and you just stand in his doorstep with a big smile. Not because he didn’t want you there. But because his room was a disaster of cables, figurines, wall-to-wall monitors, and one very red, very reclusive housewarden in pajama pants…

You looked around with stars in your eyes and said

“Holy crap, your room looks like the inside of an anime opening! This is SO COOL.”

Idia glitched.

Like, emotionally glitched.

No one ever said his world was cool. He spent years trying to keep it separate from everyone else’s.

You plopped down on his beanbag chair like you belonged there and pointed at one of his favorite rare figurines.

“Is that the limited edition figurine from that new anime? One of my friend has one. He says it’s cursed.”

He choked on his own spit.

You grinned. “So… are you cursed too?”

He didn’t know what to do with that.

•

You didn’t stop visiting.

At first, Idia assumed you were just being nice, or maybe doing some weird social experiment to see if he’d explode.

But you kept showing up. Kept dragging him into sunlight… metaphorically, thank the gods… and demanding his opinion on things.

“Would you still like me if I was a worm?”


“Which anime would we be the power couple in?”


“Should I dye my hair blue to match yours, or would that be cringe?”

He answered in stammers and soft muttering, while his hair burned pink like he was about to self-combust.

You made it worse by leaning in every time.

Like he was worth listening to.

The thing about you was: you never asked him to change.

You didn’t force him to go to parties. You didn’t drag him into crowds. You just… showed up. With snacks. With stories. With shiny trinkets and strange animal facts and the warmest presence he’d ever known.

And somehow, despite all odds, Idia started opening the door before you knocked.

One day, he asked.

“Why do you… like hanging out with someone like me?”

You blinked. “What do you mean?”

“You’re, like, sunshine and shouting. And I’m… basement gloom and digital ghosts.”

You tilted your head, lips twitching. “And yet, here you are, warming up to me like a lizard in a heat lamp.”

He short-circuited.

But you weren’t done.

“You don’t get it, do you? You’re easy to be around. You don’t fake things. You care about stuff…like, deeply. And when you talk about the things you love? You glow, Idia. You’re brilliant.”

He stared. Speechless.

And then you kissed his cheek. Casual. Soft. Like it wasn’t the biggest moment of his life.

“Also,” you added, winking, “you’re cuter than you think.”

Idia was red for six hours straight.

•

It took time…weeks…months, loaded silences and soft heartbeats, but eventually…

You were curled beside him on the bed, watching a boss fight. You shouted excitedly when he landed a crit. He blushed. You cheered. He muttered something about how his “damage stat increased just because you were watching.”

And then, quietly, tentatively, he took your hand.

“I don’t… I mean, I didn’t think… someone like you could like someone like me.”

You turned and kissed the top of his head.

“That’s where you’re wrong, Shroud. We’re a legendary drop—rare, chaotic, and somehow exactly what we needed.

..............................................................................................................................

Hiiii~ I hope you like it ✨

[teaboot]

I agree! This made me have a completely separate but related thought. I hope it's okay that I share it with you and I'm definitely open to disagreements and other ways of looking at it!

I look back at the original "the curtains are just blue" meme and find the process of what it morphed into really interesting. Originally, the meme was expressing the frustration of American (and in my experience, Canadian as well) highschool asking you to examine the themes of writing without really being giving you the tools to do so. We're told what a metaphor (and the metaphor's cousins, like similies) is and how to use it, but we weren't taught about the principles of examining themes. In my english class, we were given a handful of assignments that surrounded analyzing surface level themes, but no projects that really delve into it. The student has no idea how you know when something is symbolism or when it's just a description, how a single object can be symbolic of completely different things depending on the context and characters interacting with it, etc. The student doesn't know that they don't delve deeper into this stuff because school boards are largely driven by industrialists who want school to be about preparing you to work and don't find things like media analysis nessecary, so of course it feels like the teacher is just asking you to do the impossible task of reading the author's mind.

But then, the "the curtains are just blue" meme kinda blew up and morphed into the version of the meme that you were (rightfully) complaining about (for lack of better words). It became very in-line with the views of the industrialists that (one could argue) caused the meme in the first place. Or atleast, caused the problem that inspired the meme. It became this idea that analyzing literature is boring, unnecessary, and does nothing to help you learn what's really important. A weird kind of cycle, yeah?

I'd like to do more research on this, but I really struggle to understand academic papers and stuff like that. I just think it's neat! Do you also think it's neat?

YES!

[five-thousand-loaves-of-bread]

autism in china

if you been here for long enough you probably know that even me fucking explicitly naming country of origin & ethnicity instead of vague around something east asian, huge deal.

so.

as chinese person who born & part grew up in mainland china n been though HORRIFIC trauma from it... cannot talk about anything related to it.

but in mean time. there important things desperately wish non-chinese, or people who lived) in china in general (including diasporas), would know n understand.

because it been extra traumatizing & isolating n lonely, be only person in big metaphorical or literal room, who know these trauma exist, n horrific extent of it. some of which have live experience with. some of it looming threat for my future. some of it not my own experience but my friends (aka my community. my autistic n disabled community).

so, going share some stuff written by other chinese people in this post. that. oh gods. it so accurate it hurt.

there may be some parts not fully agree or would word different if am write. but. think overall message important enough.

especially if you non-chinese. hope you read through all of it (if accessible). even if it make you deeply uncomfortable. n then imagine autistic chinese people living in this reality. because many parts SHOULD make you deeply uncomfortable.

EDIT: image description link for those need ID or not have instagram

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fact is, most prevalent, majority—n by majority don’t mean 51% majority, but enough to feel like it hopelessly whole entire country—understanding of autism in china is that. there real autism (真自闭症) that rare n severe n hopeless n should die, n majority of cases fake autism (假自闭症) that can be cured / taken off hat 脱帽, that caused by environment like bad parenting, n you should be glad it fake, n kid n parent should then dedicate entire life to taking off that hat to finding cure, even if it mean , via old school gold standard (read: abuse) ABA. all professionals say it all professionals endorse it n who would question professionals? look this grande new intervention came from great United States Of America, that proof it top quality it works n am going charge ridiculous money for it. but why you saying USAmericans n “the west” saying [things that humanize autism], they wouldn’t know real struggle, their diagnostic criteria super wide it all fake, why would you listen to them, you traitor you boot licker. —but either way, both real n fake autism drain on public resources n should be kept away should be locked up in chains (no, literally. seen documentary where high support needs autistic get chain in closet for majority of day, “for his benefit.”), should never be born should all die. keep it away from my normal children my normal children should not have to share same space same classroom same world as it, its behaviors its symptoms its screams its existence rob teachers attention away from my normal children. they all should die n will proudly explicitly admit eugenics good.

(don’t actually believe this. but pretending write what have seen people talk about.)

-

n finally, post about general (visible) disability—because in my however many year grow up there, before (temporarily it seems) left, have never seen visibly disabled person in public. ever.

ever.

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n generally anything from this instagram account. need stop linking now or else link entire account.

.

so please. reblog this. share this. read this. don’t let me be only person bear this. because my god it breaking me

[jennamoran]

@horatiovonbecker writes:

@jennamoran Incidentally, I feel like you might have some interesting thoughts on how to pick and/or recognize a thematic statement, though maybe it should be its own post.

RPG campaigns are a form of serial fiction, really, and while serial fiction can definitely benefit from picking your themes and metaphors and statements and core setting elements and such in advance, ultimately a lot of what really shines is developed in the process of creation. A bunch of stuff gets thrown at the wall in a hurry. (In an RPG campaign that wall is the players' picture of the real and fictional worlds and what matters.) Some of what gets thrown at that wall sticks. It stands out. It gets more attention. More callbacks. More thinking. It has a greater influence on the rest of what happens. This repeats. Eventually you have a picture of what the story is "about" that isn't necessarily what the author (here, the players and GM) "intended."

If you're writing a non-serialized work of fiction, you might get to this point and start revising front-to-back so that everything fits those themes. You might even do this multiple times. But in a serial work of fiction, all you can really do is recognize a few of the most important things before the end---some from the beginning, some learned along the way---and resolve those in a satisfying fashion. (Or, of course, and you can do this in RPGs too, go on indefinite hiatus, end abruptly while doing your best, or force everything to end in the way originally planned even though it's unsatisfying.)

I think of an RPG as a medium. There's no clean line between medium and message, of course, no clean difference between a game that prescribes a thematic message players can only rewrite by breaking the game, a game that has a few loose messages and leaves the rest to the players, and a game that thinks that it's universal and says nothing at all. But I tend to think of an RPG that I'm writing as a medium for players to use to create stories. Even if I'm trying to say something myself, I'm not trying to say it through the vehicle of your game. Nor am I expecting you to come up with something intentionally---I just figure that if you shake the players and pour out their brains onto the uneven canvas of the game, you'll wind up with a piece of art that's worth seeing.

To be clear, I think that RPGs that do try to say something through the medium of your campaign are pretty neat; I was even a bit jealous sometimes of people who do that kind of thing until I made one like that earlier this year and discovered that the main reason I don't do that is that I don't want to.

... but anyway, if you ever see me casually pushing all the artistic design work for a game onto the players' shoulders, that's what's going on; it's not that I expect professional post-editing perfection from players, it's not that I have nothing to say myself, it's that I am personally really interested in the process of players saying a bunch of stuff that is often not that important in itself but which provides a rich supply of stuff that they can draw upon in the next moment, next scene, and next session to go "yeah, okay, let's build on that a bit" and add contextual weight to their next action, until by the end they've said something they didn't know they wanted to say but did from the start.

cf @shencomix 's classic:

This doesn't happen because someone wrote a book on how to write webcomics that includes a fixed rule telling you that at the end you have to fight God---

unless someone did, I guess?---

But because ultimately nobody writes webcomics except as a cry of rage and horror against the order of the cosmos, so little threads of that theme show up in the first ten comics, and then get amplified again and again before the end. That's the phenomenon I'm trying to capture in most of my games, and in turn the reason why people who look to my RPGs for a clear description of how to write a webcomic only wind up confused.

[vxsellie]

⋆ ˚｡⋆౨ৎ˚. GHOSTS OF SACRILEGE !

synopsis. fbi agent!ellie williams x nun!reader ; it's truly no shock that the entirety of west virginia is emerged by trepidation, considering hundreds of residents have gone missing within the past three months. as a form of consolation for those fearful, an esteemed fbi agent is sent to investigate. what she finds, however, is more than she could ever have expected.

notes. this piece is part of the mythologica challenge! i tried my absolute hardest to do the theme justice bc of how good it is. also pls note that every town mentioned is real & i did a decent amount of research on each one, but that doesn't at all mean that it's entirely accurate. i've been to some of the places, but not all also ! this is my first time ever writing detailed smut so i literally know none of the correct words to use or how to describe what's happening & it might turn out being literal dog shit,, if that's the case i apologize!

warnings. religious horror, an attempt at writing smut, angst, plot twists, horrible world building, major character death x2, possessive / obsessive romance, descriptive gore, blood, satanic rituals, human sacrifice, blood, oral (r! receiving), brief mentions of abuse & assault, murder as a metaphor, past animal death, long exposition i'm sorry, and - last but most important - the sweet release of desecrating salvation.

wc. 9.5k+

𝓝aught but unease filled the tiny town of bluefeild as yet another missing person is found to be reported in the newspaper. the sun begins to peer over the horizon, long shadows cast against the sidewalk that newsboys toss the papers from. they ride their bikes down the concrete with a fervor that should be rare. but it’s been rather common in bluefeild as of late. every since december. ever since the incidents first began.

nobody in town can be seen outside without a frantic expression and a fast pace. fear fuels their every step as they scurry outside to retrieve the news before burrowing back into the safety of their homes, hungry eyes skimming the article in search of who’s gone missing this time.

ellie hadn't expected much when traveling here. a small town of worrisome locals, a serial kidnapper hiding in plain sight. y'know, the usual for cases like these.

but something about this case stands out to her. there's a certain weight in her chest as each day passes without answers. in the beginning, she'd asked around town, hoping to find some common denominator among everyone's weariness. but there's nothing. the residents are closed off, thick boots and even thicker country drawls quick to kick the agent off their rotting porch at first glance. she's been here for a while now, not a single clue made evident. no loose ends, no muddy footprints, no witnesses. it's like these people just disappear into thin air.

ellie sits in her idled car, eyes scanning today's newspaper for slips of information. she can't help the way her interest piques, slowly going mad with lack of elucidation. she runs a hand through her hair, shoulders weighed with fatigue and dwindling hope.

see, over two-hundred people have gone missing in the past three months ⎯ which is a big deal in and of itself, but even more so considering bluefeild's population is well under five thousand.

her windows fog as rain patters gently against the steel of her vehicle, the whether cold and dreary in comparison to her car's heated temperature. she supposes it fits the mood, though, doesn't it?

after twenty minutes of analyzing each and every word given, ellie groans and stuffs the newspaper into her glove box, slamming it shut. evidently, the paper provided nothing of use to her. it has a picture of the man missing, his name inscribed under the image, and a few words of grief are quoted to have been said by the families. but that's it.

as of this morning, jason casey has been added to the long list of missing persons. and not a soul could say why nor how.

ellie pulls her phone from her coat pocket, clicking on her bosses contact before wedging it between her ear and shoulder. she listens to it ring as she puts her car into gear, pulling out of the parking space she'd been occupying. it's not like anyone here would dare to use their cars anyhow. most shops and businesses have been temporarily closed, owners fearing the possibility of suffering the same fate as those prior.

"ellie?" joel's voice comes through the tiny speakers, papers rustling in the background of the call as he speaks. "what're you callin' me for? i thought you were on the bluefeild case."

"there's nothin' to go off of." she tells him. one hand is rested on the wheel whilst the other holds her phone.

"you're our best investigator, williams, i'm sure you'll find somethin'." he says offhandedly, continuing to shuffle through whatever papers are of more interest to him than his alleged best employee.

she rolls her eyes at his dismissive tone. "hundreds are missing, joel. without a trace or a sign left behind. they're likely dead, if i were to guess. i don't— what the hell good does that do?"

"find the bodies." he says easily. "their corpses might point to their killer."

"no shit." ellie scoffs. "the issue isn't what to do next, it's how the fuck i'm supposed to do it. this has been goin' on for months and no bodies have turned up. where am i even supposed to look? like i said, there ain't a damn thing left behind."

she coasts down the streets of bluefeild, using this time to feel the layout of it and examine what she's working with. she's been here for a while now, but the town remains a mystery to her. and, from what she's seen, it's a bit of a mystery to everyone else as well.

she notices that many of the homes are old and shabby, paint flaking and wood rotting. in the yards, however, almost every resident has some form of a religious symbol. a cross, a statue of mary, a flag for something biblical. anything to show their faith.

to each their own, i guess. she thinks to herself with a shrug before turning her attention elsewhere.

the streets are empty, as expected. a few street lights are on, the yellow illumination flicking with worn age. even on the two-lane roads, there's not a car in sight. she narrows her eyes at this, a shiver tracing up her spine at the disturbing vastness.

"well," joel says, "search the papers some more."

"i've done that a thousand fuckin' times." ellie groans, eyes still scanning her surroundings with intent of committing it all to memory. just in case. "there's nothin' there. it's just all information on the missing people, half-assed sympathy for the victim's family, and a picture of 'em."

joel sighs, the sound of tapping resonating through the phone. ellie recognizes the sound, having worked for joel long enough to know that he always taps a pencil against his desk when he's thinking. it's a good sign, she thinks. it means he's at least giving her predicament some thought.

she's been in bluefeild for eight days now, spending her time interrogating random residents for informations; spending her nights rereading the stupid fucking newspapers. naught good has been of ramification.

the repetition of it all is driving her insane, especially considering none of her efforts have yet to pay off in any sort of way. she'd hoped that when the next person showed up missing, something would present itself. a clue would rear its ugly head at her and she'd grab it by the throat with fervor. but no. jason casey went missing and all heads remain hidden. so, after an hour of battling with her pride, she decided to make the call to joel and admit her being stuck.

"okay." he says, shuffling a bit as he finally gives ellie his full attention. "okay, pull over for a second, i'm gonna need you to do somethin' for me."

she instantly obliges, pulling off to the nearest backroad. gravel crunches under her tires as she drives along the thin path wedged between two decrepit buildings. the alley is small and a bit sketchy, but that's exactly what she needs. ellie puts her car in park, windows translucent in their heavily fogged blanket.

"how many newspapers do you have on you?" joel asks when he hears her car go into idle.

"um," she reaches over and opens her glove box, watching as yellowed papers fall from the newly opened door. they flutter to the floor and atop the passenger's seat. she hums, amused at the sight of her obsession making a tangible image in her head. "a lot."

"okay, good. perfect." joel mutters, the clacking of a keyboard sounding through the tiny speaker. "the first person who went missing was carl andrews. he was thirty-seven. his wife claims he was supposed to have been walking home from work but never showed up for dinner."

ellie scrambles through her messy stack of newspapers, searching for carl's report. she finally finds it, the paper dated to have been written near the beginning of december. she straightens out the wrinkles, examining his picture.

"looks like your average middle age man." ellie mutters, taking in his scruffy beard and wrinkled skin. "he was a carpenter. had two kids, both boys."

"yes, i have the paper pulled up on my computer." joel says. "but it doesn't show his address or nothin'. this shitty website only has half of the damn document."

ellie skims through the words, searching for the street or neighborhood he'd lived in. when she turns up empty-handed she groans, now well familiar with the feeling of disappointment regarding this case. "nope. no home address." she says with an evidently annoyed tone.

"what about his workplace?" joel asks. "if he'd been walkin' home, his work must be close enough for him to do so."

"oh shit," she mutters. she'd studied his article for hours — studied all of them — and she hadn't even thought to look there. her hands clutch the paper as she searches with a hungered gaze. her eyes widen at the address listed on the paper. "yes it's on fifth street."

more typing is heard through the phone, "says here that,, there's a neighborhood right by there. a few blocks down from the carpenters' building. must've been where he lived."

"perfect." ellie grins, adrenaline rushing through her.

oh, she feels on top of the world right now.

"okay, now i want you to look for addresses in all the other papers." joel says, flipping a switch in his tone — off to being ellie's friend and on to being her boss. a familiar change, but an unpleasant one nonetheless. "check 'n see if there's a link between where they'd been last spotted."

"okay."

ellie sets carl's paper aside and grabs another random one. she reads the heading briefly, recognizing it to be the article on bryan turner who'd gone missing in the middle of january. he'd allegedly been walking his dog and never returned to his apartment, according to his elderly female neighbor.

the address is actually listed this time. not his exact apartment number, but the building. ellie can't help the smile that tugs at her mouth again as she grabs a random notepad and scribbles both addresses onto the paper, reminding herself to compare their proximity when she gets back to her hotel later tonight.

"you're a goddan genius, joel." ellie mutters as she sets bryan's paper atop carl's and grabs another. sam cortez. late december.

"thanks, kid." joel chuckles into the phone. ellie has it set aside, call set to speaker as she flips through papers and continues to write down addresses into her notes. her movements are frantic and hurried, adrenaline refusing to wind down from its newly heightened state. joel speaks again, regaining her attention. "uh, sorry t' tell you this but i've gotta go. it's almost midnight and i've been at the building since ten o'clock this mornin'."

"yeah yeah, whatever." ellie replies off-handedly. "thanks for your help, old man. i think i can take it from here now, though. go get your beauty rest."

"promise to call me in the mornin'?" he asks. "i wanna hear what y' find."

"yes, i promise." she laughs. "i'll call you as soon as i wake up."

"okay good. don't overwork yourself either, you need to⎯"

"goodbye, joel!" she says, grabbing her phone and hanging up on him before she has to listen to him reprimand her for lack of rest. he's one to talk, too, seeing as he'd just admitted to having been at the building all damn day.

she sighs, deciding to put a pin in her address search and get back to her hotel to finish working in the comfort of a bed.

she sets her papers into two neat piles in the passenger's seat ⎯ one for those she'd already gone through and one for those she hasn't yet gotten to. then, she puts her key into the ignition and pulls out of the little road.

as she drives down the street, she examines her surroundings once again. still as impoverished as before.

she passes a small farm house, eyes drawn to the old lady sitting on the porch. she's rocking back and forth rather ominously, making direct eye contact with ellie through the windshield. slowly, the woman nods her head toward where a large cross is staked into the soil of her front yard. ellie looks away, a sudden uneasiness washing over her as she presses harder on the gas.

she reaches her hotel a few minutes later, stuffing her papers under each arm before entering the building and heading toward the elevator. by the time she reaches her room, she practically rips her heavy leather jacket off, the yellow 'fbi' label bright and bold against the black material as she tosses it onto her bed. she sits cross-legged in the center of her room, laying out all the newspapers in front of her.

she continues to sort through them all, eyebrows furrowing as she comes to realize that all the victims are men.

she hurriedly flips through the documents, certain she must he wrong. but she's not. they're all male. ellie writes this down on her notepad, handwriting rushed and nigh unintelligible. despite the sloppiness, she circles it, sure it'll prove to be of importance later on.

by the time ellie finishes going through what feels like hundreds of papers, she decides that's enough for her to be able to find a pattern if there is one. the digital clock atop the nightstand reads 2am, flashing bright red numbers at her. she ignores it, too high off the thrill of finally finding something in this priorly monotonous case.

she pulls her laptop from her bag and flips it open atop her crossed legs, quick to pull up a map and type in the coordinates of each address. they appear random at first, completely fucking unrelated to one another. a pang of dread hits ellie in the chest, worried this will have all been for naught.

but then she zooms out.

each dot for each address glows blue. when zoomed out, it forms something. ellie squints, tilting her head at the incoherent image she struggles to make out. seeing as many of the papers weren't analyzed, the picture is only half-complete.

but then it clicks. a pentacle. and at the very center of the shape, a church.

ellie's mind goes back to the old woman on the porch. the way she'd nodded to her cross. the way almost every family in bluefeild is outwardly religious. she can't believe she hadn't seen it sooner.

this isn't just some case where she can stare at newspapers and hope something pops up. it's an intricately weaved web of murders.

her chest heaves as her eyes dart across the screen, unable to believe it. she finds herself tapping her men against the floor, drumming it just as joel does. she curses herself, tossing the pen across the room as her mind reels. it lands in front of the door, ballpoint pointed toward the exit. ellie takes this as a sign from the universe. despite not having ever been a religious person, she can't help the pang of hope in her chest.

deciding to indulge the pen's sign, ellie writes the church's address into her notepad, shuts her laptop, pulls her jacket back on, then heads for the door. she steps over the pen on her way out.

𝓢he stares up at the church, checking to make sure she's absolutely certain she's in the right place. when she's proven to be correct, she stuffs her notepad into her pocket and walks toward the building.

ellie doubts anybody is inside due to the time, but she wants to search the place regardless.

the church is old, creaky wooden exterior painted in uneven shades of white. the roof is brown and dilapidated with wear. atop it, a large cross is seen standing tall, its tip pointed up at the starry sky. ellie wades through the overgrown grass, her breath coming out in white clouds. it's fucking freezing out here.

when she reaches the building, ellie cups her hands around her eyes before peeking through the windows. the glass is dusty and cracked in some places. she can't seem to see through it, transparency made opaque from lack of maintenance.

she leans back and wipes a hand across the dust, forming a wide arc to peer through. inside, the church looks brand new. wooden pews line the space, a long aisle between each formed column. the floor is white tile, cleaned to be spotless. she tilts her head, struggling to look toward the pulpit. it appears to be⎯

"what're you doing?"

ellie jumps, her head slamming against the top of the window frame. she ignores the ache and whips around to face the owner of the voice. a nun.

you stand behind her with a raised brow, your entire body covered by black and white robes. ellie blinks, something about you making her stomach lurch. she's instantly put on edge, shameless in the way she examines your features.

your brow is knit in distaste for the trespassing girl. your eyes are sharp and steady as you pin your gaze onto hers. your hands are clasped behind your back, formal and almost robotic. or at least, that's how ellie sees you.

ellie reaches under her jacket and pulls out her badge. "fbi."

"there's no fbi in bluefeild." you point out, voice steady and melodic. ellie's lips part at the sound but she shows no other form of sway. you eye her badge, ellie williams. noted to be a top agent in her line of work. your eyes narrow. "where exactly are you from?"

"richmond." she responds, eyes never leaving yours as she places her badge back into the interior pocket in her leather jacket.

you tilt your head, inquiring. "virginia?"

"yes." she confirms.

you hum, noting the four hour drive she's sure to have taken in order to get here. you looks out across the grass, seeing her car still running as it's parked on the side of the road, yellow headlights acting as a beacon against the dark night.

"it's late, miss williams." you tell her, turning back to her to find that ellie's eyes have yet to leave your face.

she analyzes each expression you make, contorting every detail to memory ⎯ from the way your eyes flick across her features to the way your shoulders shift slightly after having been standing in one position for so long. she memorizes you, allowing your very being to sink into her mind. for the case, of course. you're a suspect, after all. she needs to learn you and feel you out in order to get a proper read on whether you're innocent in all this. that's why she stares at you. that's why her pupils are blown and her lips are parted again. totally.

"do you want to come inside?" you offer, raising a brow at her strange, yet obvious sense of interest in you. "it's freezing out here and i happen to have just brewed some tea."

her eyes dart to the shabby church behind her. judging by the exterior of the building, imagining the place having ac and working electricity is shocking. but judging by what she'd seen of the inside, she's tempted to take you up on your offer. for the case.

"only if y' agree to answer some questions of mine." she says, deciding to set the terms and conditions early on.

your eyes narrow, "what type of questions?"

"the type i need in order to solve the case i'm workin' on." she replies, reminding herself of the large amount of missing men and boys who've disappeared in these past three months.

"mm," you hum.

you look her up and down, taking in the sight of her. it's rare to see any form of law enforcement out here. you'd lived in bluefeild all your life and never seen a cop or fbi agent outside of the television. her leather coat hangs heavy from her set shoulders. her chin is held high despite the way goosebumps trail across her skin due to the chill of the air. she's wearing baggy black pants and heavy combat boots. interesting.

"sure." you shrug. "i've nothing to hide."

"we'll see 'bout that."

her eyes rake over to where he car remains running. she leaves it, using it as a sign to you that she plans to make this quick. you understand the gesture and heed it with care, nodding as you shift around her and walk toward the entrance of the church. the large wooden doors are already unlocked as you push them open.

ellie draws her eyes across the foyer, noting the long hallway. to the left is a doorway leading to the sanctuary and chancel that she'd seen through the windows. to the right is a large door with a shiny golden handle, locked. the hall is lined with more doors, some locked whilst others are free to peer into.

you move about the space as though you'd lived here all your life. ellie supposes that might be true, actually.

you sweep down the hall before turning one of the corners down a branched passageway. ellie follows behind you, the hall illuminated by only a dim yellow light. on either side of the hall, more and more doors branch out to the side. ellie pays no mind to the building's layout anymore. instead, she finds herself more interesting in watching your habit billow behind you, your shoes clicking with each step against the tile.

eventually, you're both now in a kitchen area. ellie hasn't a clue when you'd gotten here, far too distracted by you to care much for the journey you'd taken her on.

the floor is tiled to mirror the sanctuary, counters made of marble. you flick a switch and the lights flutter on, a low hum sounding from the ceiling as the kitchen is illuminated by a yellow glow. on the counter, two cups of tea sit premade. you grab them, one in each hand.

with an amused expression, you pass one to ellie. she takes it, eyes the glass in her hand for a long moment. in the end, she decides against trusting it.

"uh," she clears her throat as she places the mug on the counter behind her, turning to you with an uneasy weariness. "you knew you'd have a guest?"

"hm?" you hum, tilting your head at her with an innocent curiosity.

"y' made two glasses." ellie points out. you continue to look at her, feigning confusion that urges her to continue her explanation. "it's just— well, i haven't seen anyone else here besides you."

"i hadn't priorly known of your arrival, if that's what you're suggesting." you inform her before taking a long sip from your mug, peering at her over the rim with an alluring twinkle to your eye. you lower it, keeping the glass poised between your hands as you lick your lips and continue. "i simply knew i wouldn't be drinking alone."

"what's that supposed to mean?" ellie inquires, those fbi instincts of hers lacing through her tone. her eyes glint with piqued interest, watching you with a steady sharpness. it weighs on your chest, heavy but enthralling.

"what i mean is," you place your mug on the counter with a light clink. "in this church, you're never alone. not really."

she raises a brow, back straightening. "someone else is here?"

"something." you correct, a smirk tugging at your lips. "a deity, spirit, ghost, demon. take your pick, miss williams. it hasn't a title just yet."

ellie has surely formed her doubts about whether or not you're mentally insane. she can't help but indulges you nonetheless. if she intends on puzzling out the mystery of the missing people, she can't outwardly state that you're crazy. so instead, she says, "are these,, things good? or are they evil?"

"mm," you shift, taking another long sip of tea. you ponder on her question while drinking, your mind deciding on exactly how much you wish to tell this governmental investigator. once your mind is made up, you place you mug back down and flash her an amused smile. "its morality varies. as i said, it doesn't much like the feel of being confined by the barbed wire of titles. plus, there's more than one. and none are a repeat of the other, each separated by individuality."

ellie bites back a scoff, trying her hardest not to just grab you by the shoulders and shake you senseless. she wants direct answers, not riddles. she hasn't the time to figure out what you're trying to get at.

"how many?" she asks. "like. are there lots of them or are they few and far between?"

your brow knits as you take a step closer. at your growing proximity, her breath hitches. you are more than just a nun, you're the embodiment of her obsession. all the care and time she'd poured into this case; you personify it.

you're a religious figure in and of yourself. something worthy of worship and praise. if you were to seen by the world as ellie sees you, historians would be studying you for eons to come. paintings and playwrights would be made in your honor, temples and statues forged in hopes that you'd bat the sculptor even a moment of your attention.

but, alas, that's not how the world works. instead, you're made to be a random nun who lives holed away in a ragged church in the middle of nowhere. perhaps the universe had been wise to hide you from the world, for fear of what your divinity would cause. a repeat of troy, no doubt. wars fought for your hand. lives lost for the pulpy beating heart caged behind your ribs.

"as many as i'd like." you tell her, face now mere inches away from her own.

your body is covered entirely by your habit, black fabrics hanging from your shoulders and arms as to keep your entire being shielded from sight. your hair is cast back and under your veil.

despite the coverage, ellie's enamor is unmoved. it's not your body or your hair that she's drawn to. it's the slope of your nose, the plush of your lips, the curve of your cheek, the arc of your brow, the color of your eyes. it's everything that makes you stand out like a brightly shining star in comparison to the dull darkness that is this church.

and stars like you ought to be admired.

"as many as—" she squeezes her eyes shut, knowing her only chance at regaining control of her head is to not face you. her mind is muddled by thoughts of you. she can't think straight. when she reopens her eyes, she could've sworn you've moved closer. "what're you sayin'? i don't—"

"don't understand?" you finish for her, tone pitched in regalement. your head tilts to the side, your noses brushing. "few people do."

"just tell me what y' mean." she utters, voice a whispered breath across your face in the form of a plea. "tell me without the riddles. tell me without trying to evade the truth. tell me with honesty. if you're straight forward with me, i'm sure i'll understand."

you sigh through your nose, leaning away from her. she follows you like a fish on a hook. you take a step back and she takes one forward. noticing, you hold a hand up to halt her movements and she instantly ceases, blinking at you with parted lips.

your head is downcast, palm against her chest. "you'd hate me."

"hate you?" she questions.

despite only just having met you, ellie is quite certain she'd never come to hate you. your very being is as much a wonder to her as life itself. you're a celestial beauty she cannot bear to tear her eyes from. hate is foreign when you're the context in which it's spoken.

"yes." you confirm, expression contorting into one of feigned guilt. and, had ellie not been in such blind awe of you, she'd have likely seen through your facade of deception. "i've made mistakes; plenty. i could never expect you to hear me speak of them and look past their malice."

"but i would." she whispers, taking a step nearer. she places a hand on your wrist, lowering your palm that had priorly been raised between the two of you. she looks down at where she touches you, albeit through the cloth of your gown. "i'd look past it. i'd see you as i do now regardless of what you'd done."

you shake your head, "you cannot mean that."

"i do." she brings your hand to her mouth, pressing her lips against the hills of your knuckles. she looks up at you through her lashes, her mouth remaining close to your skin as she whispers, "i do mean it."

you feel guilt settle deep within your chest, burrowing between your ribs and in the very tissue of your heart. an immoral darkness encompasses the organ ellie so desperately desires to obtain.

you'd lured people into your entrapment many times before. but something about ellie makes you feel bad for doing what you know you need to.

but it's too late now.

she's your last victim. the final sacrifice needed in order to finish what you'd started back in december. after taking her life, all will be well. all will be well. all will be well. well, well, well, well. you repeat this over and over in your mind as ellie kneels before you. she looks up at you as though you're an alter made for this. for worship.

your breath catches in your throat as you watch her sink to the tiled flooring, hands brought up to rest at your hips. her fingers fist the fabric of your habit as she speaks once more, "allow me to prove how much i mean it?"

your head is swimming, unsure on what to do. logically, you know you should stop this before it gets too far. you've already lured her in close enough to do what's needed. but, for some reason, there's a thick knot forming in your chest. as it grows, you come to realize it's not a knot at all. it's a fist. it's ellie's fist.

her eyes bore into your own, her hands remain gripping your hips. somehow, though, you feel as though they're managing to trace their way through you. they line your bones and caress your tendons before inevitably finding their way to your heart. she holds it in the palm of her figurative hands as her physical ones begin to hike up your habit, slowly pulling the cloak up from the floor.

still, despite the discernible desire in her eyes, she does nothing but wait for your response of consent.

it's inexorable, the way you give in. the slight nod of your head had been predestined from the moment you spotted her at that window; and it will continue to prove relevant until your respective faits are sealed.

to ellie, it felt as though you'd taken hours to reply despite it only having been a minute or less. but the moment you nod, she's moving eagerly. she's grabbing your hips and hoisting you up onto the counter whilst simultaneously struggling to pull up the skirts of your clothes. she's trying to do so many things at once that it's dizzying. for both parties.

you aid her, shifting atop the marble as you pull the habit up to reveal what lies beneath it.

ellie feels the world fall from beneath her knelt locale as she stares. a pair of black lace panties adorn you, the upper half of your body remaining covered by the bunched cloth of your habit. the time she takes to memorize you feels agonizing as you sit there, itching to feel her body on yours.

once she's confident that the image has been successfully engraved into her mind, she leans forward. your legs are already parted when her mouth makes contact with your clothed vulva. the wetness that soaks the material soon made into a mixture of your arousal and ellie's opened mouth.

her tongue traces light circles into your clit, a soft sigh escaping your lips as your grip on your habit begins to loosen. you toss your head back in pleasure, the sound of ellie's slurping and licking mixing with the mechanical hum of the lights.

"ohmygod," she says against you, the vibrations of her voice making your breath pick up its pace. "you're so fucking perfect."

one of your hands comes down to tangle in the auburn of her hair, tufts weaving between your shaky fingers. you tug on it, pulling a grunt form the back of ellie's throat as her scalp stings. despite her noise of pain, this only manages to make ellie more vehement in her actions.

she grabs the hem of your panties with her teeth, yanking them to the side. her eyes are shut as she licks a long strip through your wet muscle. you can’t help the way you stare down at her, watching as she puts her absolute all into making you feel good. and, as it turns out, she’s quite skilled at doing so.

ellie's mind is fogged over, mimicking the way her car's windows had been earlier. she supposes there’s no true difference there, however. the interior of her car had been warm in comparison to the cool outside air. swap the temperatures and there’s naught that varies. the warmth that you provide makes ellie feel cold in contrast, which ends in a fogged mind.

the taste of you is enough to make her lose whatever sanity remains intact. all that adrenaline that had flowed through her earlier is being poured into you.

after all, stars should be worshipped right? they should be admired from below, gawked up at. they should be mapped and studied by only the wisest of mankind. they should be doted on with a possessive sense of adoration, one only fit for something so celestial and untouchable as a star.

and that's what you are. to ellie, at least. you're a brightly shining nebula — a feathery cloud of vibrancy, visible only in the darkest of nights. only in the coldest of weathers. only in most decrepit of churches. only here, only now.

only when fate is carved in this exact way. had one thing been altered, none of this would have taken place. it was providence that brought you together. you weren't written in the stars or tethered your entire lives. in fact, the chance of your paths crossing was rather low. but, honestly, that only makes your acquaintance more deeply rooted in kismet. makes it more special.

"fuck," you pant, chest heaving as you squeeze your eyes shut. your head thuds against the cabinet as you tighten your grip on ellie's hair. she groans, fingers pressing deeply into the skin of your hips, hard enough to leave a bruise. your thighs tighten around her head, a coil of heat sitting heavily in the pit of your stomach. "ellie, i'm—"

she tilts her head up slightly, nose pressing into the bead of your clit. she watches through lidded eyes as you come undone onto her face.

she savors it, committing every little detail to memory. a habit this has become, watching you. your brows knit, your legs shake slightly, you breath hitches. and ellie retains all to it.

she made you see stars. made you look into a mirror and see yourself.

that feeling of blissful release is what she feels every time she's fortunate enough to gaze upon you. and now you've experienced it. and she cannot feel more accomplished than she does right now.

"this," you pant, tugging on her hair to bring her face up to your own. she does as you direct her, standing from the floor to press your foreheads together. "was a terrible idea."

"yeah?" she breathes out. "and why's that?"

you run your hands up and down her back, fingertips tracing the stitching of her leather jacket. you can feel the outlined letters of her 'fbi' label. that familiar twinge of guilt encircles you.

she's a good person — a woman who's to spend the rest of her life helping random people she doesn't know. and yet, here she is. made unfortunate enough to have succeeded in her endeavor.

she stares at you like you're a god, something heavenly. something seraphic. something worthy of her.

"i'm not a good person." you whisper, leaning away from her proximity. predictably, she follows, leaning closer with a desperation only fit for one in love.

the guilt of what you must do is eating you alive. it claws at your chest, snapping your ribs like twigs as it wedges between them to burrow deep within you. it's agonizing yet completely unavoidable.

and in a sickeningly poetic outturn, a random butcher knife is sat neatly atop the marble counter only a foot away from where you sit. just as ellie meets your eyes, the blade happens to catch the light and reflect yellow luminescence. a grotesque reminder of what you're unable to run from.

"nobody is innately good. and, as a nun, y' should know that better than anyone." ellie huffs out a laugh, eyes not daring to stray from you. "in other words, i don't care."

"but you should." you insist, voice teetering on the edge of plea.

"and yet, i don't." ellie counters, just as passionate in her solemnity. you suck in a breath, eyes glossing over. she looks at you with a fondness that feels foreign. she cups your cheeks between her palms, repeating, "i don't."

"i've done horrible things." you say.

"you're a nun." she points out with a light chuckle rumbling her chest. "how horrible could these things have been?"

part of you wants to open up to her, tell her everything that's been weighing on you for these past three months. but each time you get close to a confession, something inanimately symbolic taunts you. whether that be the butcher knife, the hum of electricity, the gun holster at her hip, the residual lust in your chest, or the bright yellow lettering on her jacket.

that gun is meant for you just as that butcher knife is meant for ellie. she'd been wise to bring a weapon, a clear sign that she'd intended on finding someone culpable enough to suspect. and you'd been wise to set the blade atop the counter on the off chance that you'd meet your final victim tonight.

you feel sick to your stomach.

"oh shit," ellie curses as she takes notice to the way you're visibly crumbling in front of her. "i— uh, i didn't mean to be, like, insensitive or anythin'. i'll still listen to you. and i promise to not hate you. promise to never hate you."

"ellie, stop." you sigh. "you can't promise something like that. you don't even know what i—"

"then tell me." she insists, your face still in her cupped hands. you look at her through blurred vision, naught but sincerity behind her pale green irises. "if y' tell me what it is that y' did, we can both carry the burden."

you're instantly shaking your head.

"you don't have to do this alone." ellie says. "plus, isn't a weight split a lighter load than one full?"

as you stare into her eyes, you can't stop yourself from what comes next. you're unable to keep your mouth shut when she's looking at you like that. you decide to tell her, opening your ribs and bearing your heart as though she hadn't already taken it from you. you truly feel more bare in this moment than you did when she'd literally been eating you out.

ellie put her entire trust into you when letting down her guard and abandoning the case she'd obsessed over for weeks. she dropped it like it were nothing, focusing entirely on you in its stead. the least you could do is be honest, right? plus, she's not leaving here anyway. you'd locked the door the moment you two entered the kitchen when she'd been too distracted by your beauty to notice. the trap is already set and she's sitting inside of it without a care. all you need to do now is pull the strings.

but first comes honesty.

for ellie, you'd peel off your clothes. you'd peel off your skin. you'd peel off your flesh. then, when you're naught but bones, you'd give yourself to her. you'd give your entire being to her. not because you think you're worthy of her possession, but because this is all you have. the only thing you're able to offer her as a symbol of your devotion, it's yourself.

though, while you're unable to strip yourself clean off your bones, you feel as though rendering yourself vulnerable and fragile is the next best thing you can offer. for her, you are willing to do the priorly unthinkable.

"you're here in search of the missing men, are you not?" you ask, beginning with baby steps. "in search of who's behind their absences?"

ellie straightens, "i am."

"well." you gesture down at yourself. at your crooked veil that shows stray hairs peeking from underneath; at your hiked up habit, just barely falling to cover your underwear; at your knees that rest on either side of ellie's waist; at your vulnerable state that you're offering up to her. at your bones. "you've found me."

ellie's heart stutters in her chest. not because of what you'd revealed to her, but because you trusted her enough to do so. she no longer cares an ounce for the missing people of bluefeild. all she wants is you. she may be a fool to be this way, but she's in far too deep to mind.

she gives you a weak smile, "i don't care."

"what?" you croak. you stare at her incredulously. there's no way she doesn't care. there's no fucking way. "yes you do."

"i don't."

you blink, looking her up and down. there must be something you're missing — her reaching for her gun, her taking a step backward, her eyes darting toward the knife. but she does none of that. she simply remains stood between your legs, keeps her hands on you, and stares directly into your eyes as you confess your gravest of sins.

"but—" you shake your head, stammering. "but i killed all those people. they're dead. all of them. over two hundred men are buried behind the church."

"i don't care." she repeats, noticing the way your voice raises with trepidation. she traces her hands down your arms, stopping only when they reach your own. she tangles your fingers together, feeling the way your body relaxes slightly to the feel of her touch.

"i killed them because i was paid to." you tell her, your mind reeling as you're unable to grasp her lack of care. you talk in a frantic quickness, rushing to get the truth out for fear that ellie will change her mind in the time it takes for you to speak. "their wives, neighbors, daughters. they— they'd come to me in the confession booths and tell me of the men's abuse o-or assault or misdeeds. and i'd kill them for them. i don't—"

ellie's face remains soft. "you did a good thing, then."

"you can't be serious." you huff, eyes watering with the sheer confusion building within you. "i don't understand how you can still look at me like that. i took their lives. these people, i— they had dreams, they had aspirations and goals and families and—"

"listen," ellie whispers, her hands squeezing yours. "they were horrible people that hurt women. they were abusers and rapists and i don't care what y' did to them or how. all i care about is whether or not y' feel better."

"what?" you ask, voice nigh a breath. "what do you mean feel better?"

"to have gotten that off your chest." she digresses.

you take a deep breath, grounding yourself. the adrenaline of the confession slowly dwindles and you're no longer spiraling. you stare at ellie, centering on her face as the world comes back into focus.

you count your senses one by one. the smell of tea, the sound of humming lights, the feel of a hard counter beneath you, the taste of a bitter truth, the sight of ellie's fond expression. your breathing levels out, slowly but surely. and ellie stares at you the entire time. memorizing you.

"yeah." you whisper. "yeah, i do."

"then that's all that matters."

a supernova; to watch a star combust and explode, a colossally significant occurrence that only the most fortunate are able to witness. ellie considers herself to be substantially fortunate. not only because of what she'd just seen, but because of who it was that did it.

to her, this is even better than a natural supernova. rather than watching a random gassy ball of light die, its you. someone she adores and treasures. and you didn't die. instead, you opens yourself willingly to her. you broke down your walls and bore yourself to her. for ellie, that is far more important than some star's death.

"but—" you say, bringing her attention back to your face. your brows are knitted, clearly struggling to get the words out. she watches you with an easy patience, pupils blown as she submits this to her memory alongside all other files in her brain saved under your name. "but there's more."

"let's hear it." she replies, raising a brow.

you suck in a deep breath, lowering your head as to not face ellie before speaking. "i didn't just start killing whatever men that these women were asking of me. it started smaller. i killed animals, put them in a circle of salt, drew and pentagram, the whole ordeal."

"you sacrificed them?" she asks, tone remaining laced with gentility.

"yes." you nod. "i felt my baptism wasn't enough. god never answered me anyway, he never aided me when i needed it most. he watched my suffering and did nothing. so, i resorted to a new deity of worship." you lift your gaze to meet ellie's. "satanism."

"i'm sorry, i don't—" she blinks a few times, confused. "i don't understand."

"as a child, i relied on god to do everything. my life was nothing without him in it to keep me going. but as i grew, i realized it was unrequited. he cared nothing for me, watching with regale as i sobbed and begged for his help." you explain. "so, as a teenager, i switched over to satanism — worship of someone who actually cared enough to save me."

ellie says nothing, staying silent as you confide in her. she continues to hold your hands, softly cradling them on either side of where you sit.

"but then he wished for payment." you continue. "sacrificial lives as a form of repent for all those years i'd spent as a baptist. i obliged, of course. i killed bunnies and deer, doing research to understand how exactly to offer the stolen lives to him. but as of late, he's wanted more."

"humans." ellie guesses.

"yeah." you confirm. "but i couldn't bring myself to kill random innocent people. so i became a nun and listened in on the confession booths. then, i'd ask the confessors if they wished for me to intervene. they'd concur, paying me to take the lives of their abusers." you recall the fear in the women's voices, the shakiness to their hands as they slipped money through the cracks of the door. "they never saw my face, only heard my voice. and, seeing as i live in the church, none of the recognized me. i soon became a symbol of hope for women and one of fear for men."

ellie's mind strays back to all the religious symbols staked in the yards. "that explains their heavy faith. they think you're some type of prophet."

"yeah, but there's more." you say. "i've researched many, many books to make sure i get this ritual right. and, as it turns out, my 250th victim has to be a martyr. someone who doesn't believe in anything. doing this seals the ritual, ending it."

"good luck finding someone here who meets that criteria." she chuckles.

"exactly." you say carefully. "everyone in bluefield is heavily religious. unless that someone has come from out of town."

"me."

"i wish it wasn't." you rush to explain. "i wish there was some other way i could do this. but it has to be today. i need to do it before another woman comes in asking for my help or the numbers will get thrown off. and if i decline her, i'll lose the faith of all the women in bluefeild."

"okay," ellie shrugs. "do it."

"...what?"

"i don't care." ellie says, the sentence becoming something of a catchphrase for her.

the world stops. again. it screeches to a halt and you almost slam forward at the speed of which it crashed down. you stare at ellie with wide eyes, made shocked by her for a second time. someone so hauntingly perfect cannot truly offer herself up to you like this. she can't seriously be holding out her hand, asking for death to take it.

but what you don't know is that ellie would deem it a gift to die by your hand. it'd be better than dying as a withered elder attached to a beeping machine, or as an agent amid a case who only got to see you in her dreams.

but, this way, she'd be with you always. her love for you would be immortalized; she would be tied down to the very threads that make up the the fabrications of your soul. oh a gift that would be.

"do it." she repeats.

"what?, i don't—" she silences you by leaning forward, pressing her lips against yours.

ellie had kissed you out of impulse, knowing no other way to silence that thundering uncertainty that rumbles your brain. but the moment she does it, she's positive she'll never be able to pull away.

your lips are a cathedral of which she cannot help but melt into, your body a temple she's knelt before and wouldn't hesitate to do again. she kisses you with devout piety, her body molding into yours with each touch that lingers on your skin. somehow, this measly kiss is far more intimate than all else before it.

a silent tear slips from your closed eye as you subtly reach your hand over to where you know the butcher knife lies in wait. ellie surely feels your movement, there's no way she doesn't. but she makes no move to stop kissing you, her lips moving with a vehement neediness.

you loathe the way your fingers find the hilt of the knife. even more so, you despise the way you wrap your hand around it and bring it toward ellie.

she knows. she knows what you're about to do.

and she allows it.

love isn't easy for ellie, never had been. but with you, everything falls into place as though it'd been predestined to do so her entire life. as she feels your body shift toward the knife, nothing runs through her mind aside from your name. on repeat, the singular word replays over and over. she wraps your name around her skull, weaving the letters between her thoughts and molding the syllables against her brain. she was born to love you. and so long as she was able to do so, she'd be okay.

just as the tip of the blade brushes her jacket, you pull away from the kiss and stare at her. the knife remains at her back, resting against leather but not daring to press any harder. ellie's pupils are blown, her lips wet from your own saliva.

"i can't." you utter. "i can't do this to you."

she sighs, "i already told you it's fine, angel. just— as long as i have you near me, i'm content with my decision."

"no." you shake your head. "no i know. it's—" knowing ellie wouldn't understand your explanation, you decide to show her what you mean. with your free hand, you place your palm against her gun holster. "whatever you go through, i want to be there with you."

her eyes widen at your words. she jolts away from you, appearing as though she'd been burned. she sets her jaw, turning her hip away from your reach. "no."

"ellie, please." you implore, tone beseeching. "i can't live on knowing i'd done this to you."

"it's unavoidable." she reminds you. "y' made a deal with the fuckin' devil, or, well— i'm honestly not too sure on the details, but— y' can't not follow through. i understand, okay? finish the damn ritual and live your life."

"i don't want to." you plead with her. "not without you."

she shakes her head, eyes glossing over. despite the evident distaste, her refusal is weak. she stands only a foot away from you, seeming as though she's physically incapable of moving any farther.

"ellie," you say, whispering her name like a prayer. she can't help but look up at you through watery eyes. "ellie, please."

"i don't want you to die." she says, voice nigh a whimper.

"we'll be together, ellie," you tell her, hopping down from the counter to approach her. the blade remains in your hand, long forgotten to the both of you as the sight of the other is far more appealing. "if we do this, we can be together for all of eternity. they'll find our fossils in a million years, bones entwined. they won't even know who's who."

she chokes out a laugh that sounds more like a sob. "god, how stupid would that be?"

you laugh with her, "so stupid."

you're both crying now, tears streaming down your faces as you stare at one another. slowly, ellie pulls the gun from her holster. she's unsure on how this will go down, but she's willing to try. for you.

to be loved is a horrific thing, you've found. it's to be swallowed whole by something so disgustingly beautiful that you're incapable of turning away.

ellie takes a step closer, the distance between the two of you closing. her left hand holds the gun, her right hand coming up to wrap an arm behind your neck. she pulls your toward her, pressing another kiss to your mouth.

your tears mingle, forming a salty sea on your touching cheeks. you sob against her, chest heaving as you pull her closer with one hand, the other holding the knife. she tastes of sacrilege, salvation, and sacrifice. the ghosts that will haunt this decrepit church until the end of time. together.

whatever string that pulled the two of you toward each other will be knotted, tying two lost souls in search of the other.

"ellie," you whisper between wet kisses, lifting the knife to rest at the nape of her neck, "it's time."

she lets out a sob, a convulsive gasp tearing from her throat. "okay,"

you count down, the two of you agreeing to do it at the same time. you'll drive the blade into her neck whilst she pulls the trigger. your bodies will fall in unison, clinging to one another.

when you reach one, you sink the blade into her with a sickening squelsh. she chokes, dropping the pistol to the floor. it lands with a loud clank moments before her body falls with a thud. your eyes widen, heart ceasing. blood pools onto the white tiles and only one thought runs through your mind: she didn't pull the trigger.

she didn't pull the trigger.

she

didn't

pull

the

trigger.

she didn't pull the trigger. she didn't pull the trigger. she didn't pull the trigger. she didn't pull the trigger. she didn't pull the trigger. she didn't pull the trigger. she didn't pull the trigger. she didn't pull the trigger. she didn't pull the trigger. she didn't pull the trigger. she didn't pull the trigger. she didn't pull the trigger. she didn't pull the trigger. she didn't—

you fall to your knees beside her, hands coming to cradle her bloodied face. you pull her head into your lap, rocking back and forth as crimson soaks into the black fabric of your habit. you clutch her tightly against you, pressing hard on her slit neck, willing the blood to go back inside.

death doesn't take her hand. instead, he grabs her by the shoulders and shakes her for the untimely demise she'd agreed to. the heart she'd taken from you rattles. the death rattle. you choke out a sob at the sound, everything aching.

you lean forward, pressing a kiss to her cold, dead lips. she doesn't kiss you back. you pull away, panting hard as your chest heaves and your eyes burn.

then, in the corner of your eye, you see the metal of ellie's pistol. you crawl across the kitchen toward the weapon, realizing she hadn't even cocked it. god, how had you been so stupid? you do it for her, loading the bullets into the chamber.

with the gun now in your possession, you crawl back over to ellie.

you position yourself atop her, entwining your legs and placing your head on her chest. it doesn't rise nor fall, no beating heard from beneath her ribs. you sob, placing the gun's barrel to the soft part of your chin.

then, without another thought, you pull the trigger. you pull it because ellie was unable. because ellie couldn't bear to do it for you. a part of you resents her for this, but another part can't feel anything for her aside from utmost love.

and there lie two bodies. lifeless.

ellie found what she'd been searching for all her life: something worthy of her devotion. something she can pour her all into. that had been why she became an fbi agent in the first place — in search something to worship whole heartedly. simultaneously, you'd found what you'd been searching for as well: peace.

in the end, however, it had all been for naught.

the ritual didn't work.

it needed someone faithless, someone who didn't care for religion, for god. but that wasn't ellie. not anymore, at least. because, after having met you, she'd finally found something worth her revere.

you were her religion.

⊹ ࣪ ˖𐙚 perm. taglist. @luvsturniolo @ilovewomenfr @zzombiegirl @elliessweetheart @kasqnxx @xlovla

⊹ ࣪ ˖𐙚 additional note. i want this to be said here because i know this piece is super fucking heavy. ellie and the reader's relationship is so fucking toxic. anyone who reads this, i hope you realize how absolutely horrific their love story truly is. there's a shit ton of symbolism weaved within this story that i didn't outwardly state (though most of it i blatantly explained). if u have any questions regarding this piece, i'd love to talk about it bc i put a lot of time into making it.

but, again, their relationship is TOXICCCCCCCCCC!!!!!! it's not meant to be idolized or romanticized in any way. if you didn't notice, i barely used the word 'love' and never made either of them say 'i love you'. that was for a reason!!!! because what they share isn't love. it's unhealthy obsession & i need that to be outwardly said before i post this

[waxlyricalmoon]

262 words of appreciation for Dragon Age fanfictioners writing in english as a 2nd+ language

its cold and i like tea

I’m pretty fluent now but still! I know what it means to think in one language and to work in another, it’s labour and it’s vulnerable. Especially! If you were/are affected by the prevailing attitude that the English language is far superior to what everyone at home speaks. Especially! With the way English language proficiency is incorrectly linked to capacity and capability.

You aren’t falling short of an ideal, you’re bringing something new to the table. Translation isn't a 1:1 act, it's filtered through generations of culture and context. No matter how fluent I get, I'll always be coming at the English language from a different baseline.

There are priorities that other languages have in description, storytelling and movement that English doesn’t consider. Idioms, metaphors, analogies, ways of describing things that just don’t happen the same in English. There are concepts that are difficult to translate into English that are everyday in other languages, stuff you're not necessarily consciously aware of.

I enjoy your fics specifically BECAUSE of the layers of language and how you’re translating your way through them. I’m a better writer and thinker and reader BECAUSE of it. And the effort and labour of translating the untranslatable, I appreciate it. And after everything, you speak multiple languages?! Awesome. Magnificent.

Do not let the hegemony of the English language and its associated storytelling conventions intimidate you too much. You’re fine. You’re doing great. I cheer you on. I kiss your writing hands.

Now, if English IS your first language...I kiss your eavesdropping eyes.

enough kissing

bye

[jennyfromthebes]

MAKE IT THROUGH THIS YEAR - A tMG LIVE COMPILATION

the Mountain Goats have a reputation for writing songs that speak to those who have experienced abuse, ostracization, addiction, violence, mental illness, and injustice. the Mountain Goats are also known for, even in their “happier” songs, not leaving their protagonists with much hope for a happy ending. this may not sound like the best quality to have in your search for songs about survival, but i argue that these kinds of narratives only make the impact of their songs more potent and effective, as i’m sure that you and i both know that despite giving it all you’ve got, things don’t always get better. life has a way of being cruel and unfair and stomping you into the ground, leaving you for dead. but the Mountain Goats have a beautiful way of expressing that even when you are being wrongfully persecuted, there is still hope. even when an angry mob is literally or metaphorically dragging you through the dirt to be burned alive at the stake, there is still joy in being alive. the Mountain Goats implore you to, even when all hope is lost, in the face of imminent death to spit blood at the camera, stare down demons, go down kicking, come back breathing, turn on (your) little record player on the floor, feel so proud to be alive. just stay alive.

Make It Through This Year is the latest spectacular live comp by my friend Emerald (psst: subscribe to her newsletter to hear about new tapes & comps!), and I like to describe it as songs to survive to: live tunes that you can sing along to triumphantly, vengefully, hopefully. It is also, in many ways, the closest to a "greatest hits" comp that she's ever made - this is perfect to throw at a friend who's been meaning to get into the band, or maybe a great jumping-off point for you to start getting into the live stuff! Not to say that it's only hits, of course, there's still some unreleased stuff and some oldies in here. But whatever other purposes it serves for you, it's exactly what it says on the tin: songs to help you make it through this year. And don't we all need that right now?

[image descriptions: front and back cover art for the comp. Both are all black and white, with all text in bold caps. The front cover is a photo of the front row of the audience at a tMG show, one person with a fist raised in triumph, two more holding on to each other, all rocking out exuberantly. The photo acts as a background to the title for the comp: "Make It Through This Year" in large white text.

The back cover has a block of text above and below a photo.

"Including all the smash hits! Heretic Pride, Song For Sasha Banks, This Year! Sax Rohmer #1, Done Bleeding, This Year! Up The Wolves, Hail Saint Sebastian, This Year! ...And much more!"

The photo is a wide head-on shot of tMG performing onstage, with several rows of the crowd visible in front of the band.

"Dedicated to any young men and women anywhere who live with people who abuse them, with the following good news: You will make it out alive. You will live to tell your story. Never lose hope." end IDs]

[dioslesbianwife]

hihi! recently discovered your blog and am a huge fan! i scrolled through to try and see if you’ve already done this request so apologizes in advance if i missed it :)

can i get the Jojo’s with an author s/o? i personally write poems & short plays so i’d prefer it to be more like that kind of author but i’ve been dabbling in short stories so that works too!

reader joins the respective Jojo’s on their journeys and always has a notebook on hand to write down new things they experience, descriptions of specific places or even some stuff the group or the people they say face. for a bit of a silly take i could imagine reader in the middle of fighting someone and just being like “wait pause, that one liner was really cool and i want to write it down” (i feel like some of the people in jjba are arrogant enough to actually stop fighting so reader could write down something cool they say). and for a cute aspect, reader likes to give the Jojos sweet notes and/or lines of poetry. i imagine this kind of reader being pretty confident in their writing ability so they’re the type to openly hand their Jojo a cute poem without shame.

tysm <3

hiii, tyy! I haven't written this scenario before so no worries! i hope you enjoy and thank you for requesting <3333

Jonathan Joestar

Jonathan is in awe of your creativity. He genuinely respects writing and poetry as noble arts, the same way he reveres archaeology or history.

He tries to stay serious during fights, but if you yell out, “WAIT, that was such a good speech- hold still!!”, he’ll instinctively pause and say “Of course! Take your time!” while the enemy awkwardly waits.

You’ve written him long, beautiful letters before. You handed him one titled “To The Bravest Man I Know” and he keeps it folded in his pocket at all times.

He reads your poems with such reverence- his eyes get soft, and he holds each piece like it’s precious scripture.

“Your words are as powerful as your courage,” he says, kissing the back of your hand after reading one.

Sometimes you write little fables about the group’s journey, and Jonathan insists they’re worthy of publication someday.

Joseph Joestar

You’re constantly pulling out your notebook to write down his dumb quips and catchphrases and Joseph LOVES it.

“You’re writing down my best lines?? Baby, I LOVE you.”

During fights, you yell, “Hold on, say that again with more flair!!” and he absolutely obliges. He’ll even add finger guns and a wink.

You’ve given him little one-liners on scraps of paper like, “The curve of your smile rivals any metaphor I’ve ever conjured” and Joseph just MELTS.

“You’re dangerous with a pen, babe… I love it.”

He jokes about being your muse constantly. Will strike dramatic poses and ask, “Is this worthy of a poem yet?” while shirtless and covered in bruises.

But when he finds a soft poem you wrote about how he made you feel safe… he gets quiet. Keeps it hidden in his wallet.

Jotaro Kujo

He pretends not to care when you give him a handwritten haiku like

“Ocean-deep silence /

your hands, unshakable calm- 

still, your heart storms too”

But he goes red as hell and just grunts “Yare yare daze” while clutching the paper like it’s holy.

Will stand protectively over you as you scribble something down mid-fight.

“Tch… hurry up. They’re not even that tough anyway.”

You once wrote a dramatic villain monologue word-for-word and read it back in the voice. Jotaro was like: “That’s… disturbingly accurate.”

He secretly reads your notebooks when you’re asleep. You caught him once and he was mortified.

Will deadpan things like, “Your metaphors are excessive,” but the man literally saves every single note you write him.

Josuke Higashikata

Josuke is so proud to be the subject of your stories and poems. He’ll go around bragging:

“Did you know my s/o compared my hair to a river of molten obsidian? THAT’S how you know I look good.”

If you try to pause a fight to write something down, he’ll absolutely pose for you.

“Wait- babe, should I do a cool kick or like… the hair-flip combo? Which looks more poetic?”

LOVES getting little sticky notes from you in his lunchbox like,

“Every fist you throw blooms a poem across the sky ♡”

Once you wrote an entire limerick about how mad he gets when people insult his hair. He framed it.

He really respects your creative confidence and tries to make your day by being as inspiring and cool as possible.

Would 100% try to write something back for you, then give up halfway and just draw a badly doodled heart. ꨄ

Giorno Giovanna

Giorno reads your poems like they’re sacred texts. He has a whole little stash in his coat, folded neatly.

You once gave him a poem and he got very still, very soft.

“Your words… make me feel understood. Even the parts of myself I hide.”

He totally lets you pause during battle to jot something down- even helps hold your notebook open with a petal so it doesn’t flip pages in the wind.

If you start writing a villain’s speech, the villain will say, “You get it. You get the ARTISTRY.”

Giorno is just watching them both like 😐.

Gives you feedback like, “This line is evocative. The enjambment mimics breathlessness. It’s perfect.”

One day you write him a love letter as a Shakespearean sonnet. He keeps it with the arrowhead.

Jolyne Cujoh

Jolyne thinks it’s super cool that you’re a confident writer. She flirts by saying things like:

“Write something dirty about me, come on. Make it rhyme.”

You write her funny poems like:

“Steel bars and silk skin / even prison can’t contain / your hurricane kiss”

and she just stares at you like “Damn… marry me???”

She loves hearing your stories and imagines you’ll turn this whole insane journey into a novel someday.

If you pause in a fight, she’ll be like “HEY! Babe’s taking notes! SHUT UP!”

And everyone stops. Even the enemy.

Tries to write you poetry in return but it’s mostly chaotic metaphors like:

“You’re like a sexy hammer and I’m the unlucky nail.”

She keeps every love note you write inside her cell and will kill Gwess if she touches it.

Johnny Joestar

Johnny reads every one of your poems three times before responding. He’s so deeply affected but can’t express it well.

“I’m not good with words, but… when you write stuff like that… I feel like I’m not broken anymore.”

You’ll ride behind him on the horse, arms around him, writing notes in your little book mid-chase.

“Johnny- wait. That tumbleweed metaphor was so good. I need to get that down.”

“…Are you kidding me right now?”

He teases you for writing about things like the smell of dust or the sun-worn skin of drifters.

But secretly, he loves how you notice everything he doesn’t.

He’s not expressive, but one day, he quietly passes you a crumpled napkin with:

“You wrote poems about everyone else. I hope one day, you’ll write one just for me.”

(You already have. You just weren’t brave enough to show him yet.)

Josuke Higashikata (Gappy)

He’s fascinated by your writing- always looking over your shoulder and asking what certain words mean.

You’re the first person who’s ever described him in beautiful ways.

“You make me sound… better than I think I am,” he says, stunned.

You write him short love poems and he carries them everywhere.

When you pause during a fight, the enemy’s like “Wtf??” and Josuke just launches a bubble at them and says “Respect the writer.”

You write a list of sweet lines for him to read when he’s feeling low and title it “For The Man With Four Balls And One Big Heart.” (lol)

He tries to write you something back, and it’s weird and awkward, but the effort makes you cry a little.

Jodio Joestar

Thinks it’s cool that you’re confident in your writing and always scribbling in your notebook.

“That’s your Stand, huh? That pen? …No? Oh you just like…paid attention in English class…”

You’re the calm, poetic counterweight to his chaotic teen energy. It balances beautifully.

“You wrote me a what? A poem? No one’s ever done that before.”

He reads your sweet little notes at night in bed and feels something he can’t describe.

You once wrote: “Even when the world spins too fast, I’ll stay still beside you.”

It hit him so hard he nearly cried.

When you pause mid-fight to write something, he’ll dramatically pose next to the enemy like,

“You better say something cool, this is going in the BOOK.”

[yanderedrabbles]

hiii, love ur stuff. Do you have any tips on writing/making it better? Anything I try to write is super short and bland tbh

I'm so flattered that you're asking me anon! Personally, I think writing style can change a lot over time. And bland doesn't necessarily mean bad.

I used to have such a huge issue grasping the idea, but your work doesn't have to be dense with metaphors or paragraphs of prose to be good.

I think a lot of it comes from the prestige of literary writing. The idea that you're not a real writer unless you're being artistic. And to most of us, artistic usually means lots of metaphors, lots of prose, lots of slightly confusing allegories. And God forbid you write to be popular or to cater to mass appeal. In that case, my mind insisted on telling me I wasn't an artist, I was a hack. A sell-out.

What utter bull. A simple, bare-bones writing style is just as appealing as a richer, more descriptive one. Think Hemingway. Notorious for clear cut and direct prose, and he's considered one of the greats.

That being said, here are some of my tips to write longer, more interesting pieces:

Clichés. Oh, the dreaded cliche. Almost unavoidable, because it gets the job done. Says what needs to be said. I thought avoiding clichés like the plague was the best option, but I've since come to appreciate the art of freshening up a cliche. Giving it a unique twist.

The most famous example I can think of is:

She looked like a million bucks tax free.

Two words added onto a tired cliche, and suddenly it's new and fresh and has all sorts of implications.

In fanfic, there are more than a few phrases that get used by just about everyone.

"His eyes darkened. He growled. His grip tightened."

If using those was a crime I'd be serving on death row. But the truth is, they work. They convey the idea. With how often they show up though, I think it's fair that they get spiffed up now and again. Exchange the classics for slight variations.

"His eyes were getting darker by the second. He snarled. His hold was hot iron, and it was cooling fast."

Don't be too fanatic, but whenever a sentence feels a little stale, see what you can change to make it unique.

Voice. Seriously, the secret power behind the best authors. Voice is that undefinable sense of character that makes a piece far more engaging. Examples of fics that use a pretty strong voice are the Hush fic, Yandere Sherriff and Yandere Prison Warden.

When it comes to nailing down voice ask yourself:

What time period am I writing in? Are there phrases or slang that were popular at the time?

How educated is my character? Are they a stickler for grammar or do they speak more casually?

What is my character's background? How does that affect the way they think and speak?

What is my character's attitude towards life? Do they observe everything with a cool, detached mind? Are they jaded or angry? Are they sarcastic or prickly?

An exercise I like doing when it comes to creating a stronger sense of voice is a free flow document. Where I pretend I'm interviewing one of the characters, getting a better sense of who they are. Here's an example of a free-flow doc I did for an upcoming cyberpunk character:

V: How did you grow up? C: Rough. The kind of neighbourhood where you don't look twice at what you see. V: And do you think that's affected you in any way? C: What are you, some kind of head doctor? 'Course it affected me. You'd be pretty kicked up, too, if you saw the shit I did. V: Is that why you're so comfortable with violence? C: Violence. What a shitty fucking word for it. Kind of thing you say when all you've ever seen is the inside of a university. It's not violence, doc. It's surviving. It's living. It's tranqing someone else so you can live to see another day. It's the fucking sticks.

As you can probably tell, this isn't a nice character. He doesn't speak the way a polite man would. And that's voice.

Planning. Now, this one greatly depends on your own preference, but I like to plot out my stories. Usually before or in the middle of the fic. This doesn't have to be intense. Just a few notes jotted down to determine the outcome and the best way to get there. I've found that as I plot I tend to get new ideas, too. Usually leading to a much longer story (cough yandere prison warden cough).

Read the style you want to write. Boring advice, I know. You've heard it already, and you've heard it better. But, the truth is, when you read mindfully, you pick up half a million little tricks. The trick is to read like an editor.

Read over your favourite pieces and ask yourself what makes them so good. Is the characterization? Is it the author's style of prose? What works and what doesn't? After a while, you'll find yourself recognising patterns and implementing them in your own work.

And lastly, remember that your work is your own and that's what your readers love. If your style feels a little bland, experiment with different genres or styles of writing. I promise you, your readers won't mind one bit.

[olderthannetfic]

To the anon writing about how antis are hypocrites because they're Hannigram fans and antis at the same time: I've said it once and I'll say it again: THEY'RE WEIRD ABOUT SEX SPECIFICALLY.

Fandom is full of people with deeply weird relationships to sex, whether it's because they're young or from conservative backgrounds or queer/kinky and haven't processed it yet or any combination of the above (NB none of this should be equated to being ace: most ace people I know are normal about sex, just not personally interested in having it. Those who aren't belong to the above categories).

This is why places like Tumblr love their horrifying/edgy sex metaphors: "sex is when I put my finger into your wound" etc. It to the point where it's become trite and overdone, but these same people will balk at bog common fetishes like CNC and the like.

It's the actual act of sex, as something with genitalia involved, that they feel the need to sanitize and hide. But they also want to interact with it, because it's an unresolved thing in their heads, so they do it through three levels of metaphors while attacking anyone who does it openly. You can either like twee stuff like Heartstopper OR you can like edgy stuff like Hannibal or Hazbin Hotel where the characters never do have the fucked up sex the show is teasing at, but NEVER THE TWAIN SHALL MEET BECAUSE THAT IS DANGEROUS AND PREDATORY.

This gets exacerbated when women are involved, because many people have very personal hangups about the way women are treated in society, and they think that making this everyone else"s problem is somehow helping fight The Patriarchy.

Look at anti discourse and 95% of it can be described as "weird about sex and/or women", with the pedophilia accusations basically used as a fig leaf over one of the two (children are vulnerable, women are vulnerable, young women=children, etc.)

They don't care about stuff like gore or physical violence or explicit untriggerwarned descriptions or parental abuse, because it's almost always about sex and/or women.

--

[artdonalldson]

On and Off Court

Art Donaldson x Reader

CONTENT: Stanford!Art, No use of pronouns, no detailed physical descriptions except reader has hair, a bit of angst with a happy ending, mild language, possibly inaccurate college stuff, a little Patrick/Tashi name drops for fun, vague references to feelings of being left out, lots of banter and soft moments on and off the court, slow-burn friends to lovers.

SUMMARY: Art Donaldson needs help with English. You need help not totally sucking at tennis. What starts as a simple exchange slowly turns into late practices, quiet moments, and the kind of connection neither of you planned for.

WORD COUNT: ~2600

A/N: Sooooo, in honor of Challengers anniversary, I'm posting my very first Challengers fic! Kinda based on this post I made a while ago. Sorry if this sucks, English is not my first language and idk a lot about college stuff in America and I'm not totally sure my research was good so yeah lol. Anyway, I'm so excited to finally share this with you all, I hope you like it as much as I do 🥺

Art Donaldson is fifteen minutes late.

Again.

You're not surprised, honestly. He'll come in and say he was stuck with practice or some silly excuse, but anyway, it was you who offered to give him the tutoring.

You’ve already arranged the chairs in your favorite study room at the library, highlighted key points from the essay rubric, and opened the annotated Frankenstein you forced him to borrow last week. The empty chair beside you, however, remains insultingly empty.

You don’t even hear him walk in as you scroll on your phone to kill time — just feel the gust of air when the door swings open and the telltale thunk of a duffle bag hitting the floor.

"Before you say anything," he says, holding up a peace offering in the form of an iced drink, "I got stuck in the traffic trying to get these” he gestures to the drinks. “I was behind a marching band. Like a literal one. Who has a parade on a Tuesday?"

You raise an eyebrow. “Oh, how convenient. And so tragic.” you say as you roll your eyes playfully for dramatic effect.

You can hear him let out a soft chuckle as he sets the drink down in front of you with a grin, then slouches into the chair beside yours, sipping on his own drink. "You know, some people would appreciate a little sympathy.”

“Some people would appreciate a fine essay ,” you say, flipping to the page where he last gave up. “Let’s start with that.”

Tutoring with Art started as a joke. A few sarcastic comments during a group study session, one muttered “you write like shit”, and suddenly he was texting you for “just a quick look” at his paper.

Now, it's a standing trade: English help in exchange for weekly tennis lessons. You’re still terrible, but you like how he laughs when you mess up. You like that he never makes you feel dumb — not when you forget which way to hold the racket, not even when you suggest Victor Frankenstein just needed better boundaries.

You also like the way he listens. Really listens. Like your analysis actually matters. Like you matter.

Dangerous territory.

---

Two days later, you’re on the campus courts, winded and mildly sweaty, pointing your racket at him like a sword.

“You’re literally sabotaging me.”

Art wipes his forehead with the edge of his sleeve. “You keep hitting the ball into the net”

“It was a metaphor.”

“It was a lawsuit waiting to happen.”

You narrow your eyes. “I’ve decided you’re a bad coach.”

He smirks. “I’ve decided you’re a menace.”

You’re still smiling when you both collapse on the bench, passing a water bottle back and forth like a peace treaty.

Art leans back, eyes squinting up at the dusk sky. “Pat showed up today.”

You glance over at him. “Zweig?”

“Yeah.” His jaw tightens a little. “Didn’t even text. Just waltzed in like he owns the fuckin’ court. Said he was here to ‘check on the vibes.’”

You hide a smile. “Oh, so Tashi then”

Art groans. “Obviously. He always says he’s here to say hi, but he’s just looking for her. I swear, the guy only remembers I exist when I’ve got an extra churro.”

Of course he told you about Patrick, he told you all about him, about the MRTA and the Junior's US Open, and of course he told you about Tashi Duncan and the whole hotel room thing.

He also mentioned the way their friendship changed after Patrick won her number. For some reason he felt comfortable venting with you.

You nudge him with your shoulder. “Must be hard. Being the most dramatic tennis player on campus.”

He laughs — a full, head-thrown-back kind of laugh — and for a moment, the silence between you feels different. Charged.

You look away first.

He doesn't.

Eyes lingering on you a little longer than they should.

You pretend you didn't notice.

Then, he finally looks away.

---

Later, he walks you back to your dorm. Your hands brush once, and neither of you pull away. Just a few meters from your door, you stop, your voice low.

“Hey,” you say, “you actually wrote a good paragraph today.”

Art rubs the back of his neck. “You make it easier. I don’t know. The way you explain things — it’s like I can finally see what it’s supposed to be.”

You swallow. “Yeah. That’s how it feels when you talk about tennis.”

He’s quiet. Just looking at you in that way he does sometimes — like you’re a puzzle he wants to figure out slowly.

And then: “Another round next week, right?”

You smile. “On the court or on the page?”

“Both,” he says. Then adds, a little softer, “If you’ll still have me.”

You nod.

And when he walks away, you find yourself already counting the days until you see his charming smile again.

---

You’re terrible at tennis.

You know this. Art knows this. The entire Stanford tennis team probably knows this too.

But somehow, every Thursday afternoon, you still show up for the lessons.

And somehow, every Thursday afternoon, Art still smiles when he sees you.

Today, he’s already at the court when you arrive, bouncing a ball off his racket with absent precision. His baseball cap backwards and his red Stanford t-shirt on, a white turtleneck underneath, a sighs you're already used to.

There's a duffle bag tossed unceremoniously on the nearest bench, a textbook sticking out the side like it’s fighting for its life.

You drop your own bag next to his, contemplating the scene for a moment. “Did the literature monster get you again?”

He shakes his head, tossing the ball high and catching it without looking. “Nah. Passed my midterm, thanks to you.” He pauses, almost sheepish. “Actually did pretty decent.”

You give a dramatic gasp. “Was that a compliment? To me?”

Art chuckles. “Don’t let it get to your head.”

You step onto the court, adjusting your grip the way he showed you. He's watching you — not your racket, not your stance. You.

"Alright, coach," you tease. "Lay it on me."

He tosses you a ball. “Today we’re working on not sending projectiles into outer space”

You swat it immediately into the net.

“Solid start,” he deadpans.

---

About an hour later, you’re both collapsed on the bench, sweaty and laughing and sipping from the same battered water bottle, it feels almost like a ritual at this point.

His baseball cap is somewhere on the floor, golden curls sticking to his forehead with sweat, cheeks flushed, and you know he looks gorgeous like that — not that you'd admit it to him, though.

The sun’s starting to sink and painting the court in gold as Art leans back, wrist draped over his eyes. "God. I needed this."

You nudge him with your knee. "Tough week?"

He doesn’t answer right away. Just exhales, slow and heavy.

"Patrick and Tashi," he says finally. “It’s like... they're living on their own planet now. I really feel left out everytime I try to get close to them.”

You wait, giving him space to unravel it at his own pace.

"Zweig was supposed to hit the court with me this morning. Blew me off. Guess where he was?"

You hum. "Stuck at Tashi's dorm again?"

Art snorts. “Exactly. And Tash... well, she’s the star of the tennis team, the freaking Duncanator as they call her” he pauses, “I don't know how they are still together… I don't think she’s ever needed anyone, you know? Not the way I..."

He cuts himself off, frowning at the pavement.

You tilt your head. "Not the way you need people?"

He shrugs, a small, defeated motion. "Maybe."

For a second, you see it: past the big smiles and easy charm, the part of Art that wants to be chosen. That maybe he's tired of competing for scraps of their attention. That maybe, deep down, just wants someone to love him like he loves, to need him like he needs.

You set your racket down, careful, deliberate.

Then softly, the words come out of your lips "You have me." You're not even sure you said it out loud, but it felt like the right thing to say at the moment.

It feels too small, too simple. But when he turns his head to look at you, there’s something raw in his eyes. Something that says it matters anyway.

Art bumps your knee with his. "Yeah," he says. "And I'm lucky to have you"

---

Later that night, you're in your dorm, half-asleep studying for some upcoming exam, and maybe a little distracted thinking of that conversation with Art earlier.

I'm lucky to have you.

These little words are on repeat in your head till the train of thoughts is interrupted by the notification sound of your phone.

> Art Donaldson:

u free tmw? gym’s boring without u embarrassing urself

> You:

shocking u’d miss my tennis disasters

what’s in it for me?

> Art:

loser buys smoothies

deal?

> You:

deal.

You set your phone down, heart stupidly loud in your ears, louder than the thwack of the tennis ball against your racket.

Maybe he’s not gravitating to their planet anymore.

Maybe — just maybe — he’s starting to orbit yours.

---

You’re getting better at tennis.

Not good — no one would dare to say that — but definitely better.

You've managed to serve without launching the ball into the next county, you can rally for at least three strokes, and once — once — you even won a point against Art.

He teased you for a week straight.

But now, under the heavy, humid press of early May, the courts are quieter. Finals loom, summer plans scatter your friends to internships and hometowns. And still, you and Art keep meeting here, as if you made a promise neither of you ever said out loud.

Tonight, the campus feels half-asleep.

The lamps around the court buzz.

The sky is deep blue velvet.

You're hitting lazy shots back and forth when Art suddenly jogs toward the net, balancing the ball on his racket.

"Alright, literary genius," he says, smirking. "End of semester final challenge."

You raise an eyebrow. "Oh?"

This sounds interesting, typical of Art.

He spins the racket around like he'd holding a lightsaber in his hand. "If you get three volleys past me — three — I'll buy you dinner."

You squint. "And if I don't?"

He leans forward, resting his arms casually on the net.

"I still buy you dinner," he says, a little too easily.

You laugh, heart stuttering. “That’s rigged.”

"Maybe I want it to be," he says, almost under his breath.

You pretend not to feel the way your stomach flips. You take the challenge anyway. You lose — gloriously. By the end of it, you’re breathless, doubled over, laughing so hard you can’t stand straight.

Art catches the ball in one hand and tosses it aside.

"You," he says, grinning, "are the best worst tennis player I’ve ever seen."

You salute him with your racket. " Think I’ll put that on my resume."

---

Later on, dinner turns into ice cream. Ice cream turns into sitting on the edge of the bed of his dorm, passing a pint back and forth.

Art is quiet for a while, staring out over the quad where the old ceiling fan is on, an attempt to keep the room fresh.

"Remember when we started this?" he says suddenly.

You lick the edge of the spoon, thinking. "You mean when you almost failed English and decided it was my problem?"

He laughs, but there’s something softer under it.

"I was... kinda a mess," he admits. "Still am, sometimes."

You nudge his shoulder. "Nobody's perfect"

He’s silent again, fiddling with a crumpled napkin. You watch him, the way the light turns the ends of his messy curls shine like gold.

Then he says, very quietly:

"Sometimes it felt like... everybody else was already paired off, you know? Patrick and Tashi, the team guys, even random people in classes. Like everyone had their person. And I was just... floating around."

You swallow.

"You're not floating around anymore," you say.

He finally looks at you — really looks at you — and there it is. All of it. The thing you’ve been pretending not to see for weeks, months. The reason your heart feels like it’s racing even when you’re standing still.

You don't move. You hardly breathe.

"Yeah," he says, voice rough. "I’m not."

Slow, careful, he leans in.

You could stop him. You could joke. You could pretend you don't feel this like lightning burning under your skin.

But you don’t stop him.

You don't even try.

You tilt your chin up and meet him halfway.

The kiss is gentle at first, — shy, tentative, like a question.

When you don't pull away, Art sighs against your mouth like he's been holding his breath for a year.

He tastes like vanilla and salt, and something sweeter on his tongue that you can't name.

His hand finds your cheek, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw like he needs to memorize you.

And it feels like a thousand fireworks are going off inside you, like this moment was truly meant to be, and now that is happening, it feels surreal.

When you finally pull apart, you're forehead to forehead, both of you smiling like idiots, he whispers:

"You’re my person."

You squeeze his hand.

"You always were."

---

It’s been five days since the kiss.

Not that you’re counting.

(You are. You’re absolutely counting.)

Five days, two tennis practices, one english tutoring, a very intense smoothie debate, and exactly fourteen texts where Art somehow found excuses to send you memes at two in the morning.

Now you’re back on the court, empty and golden in the late afternoon, pretending to practice your serve.

You toss the ball. Miss.

You toss again. Miss worse.

"You’re overthinking," Art calls, lounging against the net while adjusting his baseball cap.

You glare at him. "Maybe I’m just allergic to serve"

He pushes off the net and hops over the net, not even bothering to walk around, that familiar easy grin tugging at his mouth.

"You're not allergic," he says. "You're just tense."

He steps close enough that you have to look him in the eye.

Close enough that you can smell the faint, sun-warmed scent of his hoodie.

"Let me show you," he says.

Before you can protest, he’s stepping behind you, hands light on your waist, guiding your stance. His voice is low, soft against your ear.

"Relax your shoulders," he murmurs.

"Don’t force it. Just... trust it."

You could argue. You could snark.

But instead, you just breathe.

You toss the ball up in the air — and this time, when you swing, it sails cleanly over the net.

A small, surprised laugh bursts out of you. You turn, grinning.

Art's face is pure pride — and something warmer, something softer.

"Told ya," he says.

You don't think about it. You just reach out, grabbing the front of his hoodie and pulling him in for a kiss.

It’s clumsy and fast and perfect.

When you break apart, he leans his forehead against yours, chuckling.

"You’re dangerous when you win," he says.

You grin. "Guess you’ll have to keep coaching me. Forever."

He brushes a strand of hair from your cheek, serious now. "Deal."

And for the first time — maybe ever — you believe him.

Not just for this semester.

Not just for Stanford.

For everything that comes next.

THE END