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i forgot this blog existed low-key… i think i’m gonna do a big fat info dump about my Guys (gender neutral) soon (?) maybe (???)

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i feel like if niccolo spoke spanish the fuckin. “cada día me levanto y pregunto a dios p q yo, y cada día dios no me da una respuesta” monologue i do in my head nearly daily would transfer to him canonically. this means nothing to anyone but me btw :-)

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Writing Advice:

1. Write what's in your heart

2. Wait, hold up

3. THIS is what's in your heart?

4. Dear god

5. Your poor characters.

6. Why is there so much blood and death?

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The stuggles of being a writer.

A shame that I have to actually finish my book before I get to read it. I enjoy writing it just as much but I am looking forward to finishing my first book and getting to read through it, even if I do know what's going to happen.

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THIS CONTAINS DESCRIPTIONS OF VIOLENCE//

Niccolo understood that he was a dead man walking. It was only a matter of time. An icy, unnatural silence followed him throughout the villa. He knew his husband was watching, waiting to strike, waiting for the moment when his prey might finally stop shivering, get cocky, and give him a good chase. The moment was never to come. He was to die paranoid.

The night it occurred was a cloudy, dreary one. Rain beat down upon the tiling, heavy and loud, and the moon disappeared as if to hide its face from the horrors occurring below it. Niccolo sat under the portico, admiring the slivers of light shining on the flowers as the rain let up. He knew it had been a week, despite not knowing the day. He knew it would change nothing. Footsteps approached. He did not turn around.

"Have you changed your attitude, cara?" asked his husband.

"I know it will do nothing regardless of my answer. I have deeply offended you. Just get it over with." said Niccolo.

The first droplets of new rainfall hit his head, winding their way down his face. He smiled a sad smile up at the man who he would never love, who would be his killer. He wondered if it was better that he die now, as a young man, than as a spinster who no one would speak to.

"You remain ungrateful. What a shame." His husband spat at his feet.

"I know what you are, cuore. I will not die as you say I will. There is no real, endless death for the turned. Please, just do it."

"Your arrogance knows no bounds."

"I am aware. Do. It."

A sudden pain flared on the column of his neck. He opened his mouth to scream, but found that his throat was filled with blood. Was he to die like this, with a throat full of blood and a splatter on his yellow gown? Was this what he was to be reduced to? He clawed desperately at his husband's arms, creating deep red marks. He kicked his husband away. His husband smiled in a manner that would put the devil to shame, bent his feet back, and snapped his legs. Soon teeth were back on him, this time just above his collarbone, and he felt the will to fight leaving his body. He went limp, playing dead. His husband detached from his neck, wrenched him up to inspect him, and dropped him as if he were lighter than a feather. He was floating. He was falling. Time had no meaning. The rain beat down upon him, entering his throat through the open wounds, and he was relieved. He tried to imagine what he might look like. His arm was out of its socket, the front of his dress soaked with rain and blood, his legs broken, lying limp and useless below him on the stairs to the portico. The first rays of dawn came with a tiredness that clung to him, and he soon closed his eyes.

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i don't get the sentiment that writing isn't fun. writing is so much fun! it's so rewarding! yeah it's hard sometimes but that doesn't mean it isn't fun. I love untangling the mess of plot threads in my head to figure out what should go where or why a certain section or sentence isn't working. it's like solving a puzzle. and my little guys are there! and i get to make them kiss or put one of them in a blender! so much fun!

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Heyo! I'm JJ/Mick (either works, idc) ˆ_ˆ

This is just my blog for posting whatever writing I do and like enough to share. I just think it's neat!

Currently working on two main stories, so if you see the names Gayle, Aven, James, Niccolo, Valentine, or Yves, then you know it's one of those two.

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yall.. have a sneak peek...

Apartment 1704 sat at the end of the hallway after climbing the world's worst, longest flight of stairs. Each painting along the way to the studio seemed to mock the one who chose to visit it, and each visitor swore that their visit had something just slightly off. James brushed himself off slightly, blew some dust off the top of his portfolio, and stepped up to the door to knock. He had seen an ad in the paper — who even does that anymore — and decided that if keeping the notes of an old person for them was the worst thing in his life, maybe he wasn't so bad off.

The door swung open and a short man smiled up at him. James half wondered if the man was the source of the off-putting nature of the apartment. He had a shock of white-blonde hair and slightly pointed ears, and smiled entirely too wide at James, who was a complete stranger. It felt predatory. It felt… off.

“Are you here for the writing job?” asked the man. His voice was strangely deep, James noted, a tenor that sent shockwaves through him.

“Ah, yes, I am. I have my resume right h-”

“There's no need for that. No one else has answered.”

“How do you know I'm not an axe murderer or something?”

“You don't smell, for one,” said the man, retreating into the apartment without further elaboration.

James followed. What other choice did he have? He wondered just how rich the person who placed the ad must be. After all, they seemingly had a live-in caretaker. Butler? Maid? Whoever the strange guy was, he must have been awfully good at his job.

“You never gave me your name.” James stated. Then, “I'm James. I guess you know that.”

“I'm Yves. Like Saint-Laurent, if he were better.” Yves said with a slight giggle.

Something horrible clicked into place for James.

“Oh, I'm writing these notes for you?”

“Yes. I'm sorry, I'm sad to say I don't have any food in the house at the moment, unless you like crackers.”

“I'm afraid I don't.”

“Fair enough,” Yves shrugged, “I'll get something for next time. Please, have a seat.”

“I thought today was going to be an interview only, so I didn't bring my notebook. You could look over my resume if you'd l-”

“Oh! That's perfectly fine. I should have a notebook around here somewhere. I'm surprised you don't use a computer.”

As Yves rummaged through various drawers, James grimaced. The man had distinctly and obviously interrupted his request to show his resume twice now. There was still something not entirely right. It nagged at him, a raw fear tingling at the back of his neck. He had joked about being an axe murderer and the man hadn't exactly joked back. He supposed it could be worse. After all, he could have already been drugged. Or tied up. Or any number of other mortifying things.

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Gayle stood, and Avrelian with him, at a small, minimally marked grave. The only sign of something once resembling a person with a life sat at the edge of the mound: a tattered, torn copy of Poems of Akhmatova.

After a long silence, Gayle took his hand out of Avrelian's, and slipped it into his own pocket, and opened his mouth silently, willing his vocal cords to work.

"What is it?" asked Avrelian.

"It's. Uh. It's my sister's grave," said Gayle, heavily, "You know, my real sister."

Avrelian did not know. He knew Gayle was referring to something that had occurred in that vast before, that he knew he would never truly grasp. Gayle looked over at Avrelian, a slightly confused furrow to his brow, and suddenly processed several things at once. One, he had never explained what he meant by real when he used it to describe his fellow free-fallers from heaven. He knew that despite the lack of true explanation, Avrelian was intuitive. He would just know. Two, he had seen that look before, on the beach where he accidentally showed his boyfriend a glimpse of the terror he could bestow. Avrelian must have wanted to ask something. Gayle felt sorry for him. Finally, three, he tended to forget who he told what. He compartmentalized it so heavily that his inner and outer worlds were like entirely different landscapes. How would Av know about his sister? He was never told. Gayle decided it was time to do some explaining.

"Av…?" He touched Avrelian's shoulder gently, jolting him out of wherever he went on these occasions when Gayle felt like opening up. Gayle thought maybe he shouldn't open up.

"Yeah, Gee?"

"I have some things I need to show you. We can't be in public."

"Um… Gee… I. Oh. Um." Avrelian reddened slightly.

"I won't push you on that stuff. It's about my real family. It's about the before." He trusted Avrelian to put the clues together. "But before that, I have to do a reading. It's customary. For the visits, I mean. I think she'll like it."

The breeze ruffled their hair slightly, and Gayle smiled at something in the distance. He pulled a copy of the Poems out, and quickly thumbed through.

"Ah, here it is. Okay. 'In Memory of M.B… Here is my gift, not roses on your grave, / not sticks of burning incense. / You lived aloof, maintaining to the end / your magnificent disdain. / You drank wine, and told the wittiest jokes, / and suffocated inside stifling walls. / Alone you let the terrible stranger in, / and stayed with him alone. / Now you're gone, and nobody says a word / about your troubled and exalted life. / Only my voice, like a flute, will mourn / at your dumb funeral feast. / Oh, who would have dared believe that half-crazed I / I, sick with grief for the buried past, / I, smoldering on a slow fire, / having lost everything and forgotten all, / would be fated to commemorate a woman / so full of strength and will and bright inventions, / who only yesterday, it seems, chatted with me, / hiding the tremor of her mortal pain.' Written in 1940. Sorry I switched the genders, Kenz, but I felt like it." Saying this, Gayle let out a bitter chuckle, and one tear stained his cheek. There was nothing to be done now. One could only move on.