#FUUUCK

[this-world-of-beautiful-monsters]

@armandyke

At the back of my copy of The Vampire Armand, there's an old interview with Anne Rice talking about creating that novel. I've never forgotten her answer to one of the questions... It haunted me for years.

It gives incredible insight into how and why she wrote such beautiful, brutal and broken characters, and what she endured in the creation process.

BUT before you read this, I'm going to STRONGLY warn you, it goes to very very DARK places

Q: What are your work habits for a novel?

A: Once I truly begin to write, I work obsessively, in twelve-hour days, punctuated by days of long sleep and vivid dreaming. Starting time and ending time are no longer important. I might begin at 9 A.M., or after noon or at eight in the evening. I go from there. I turn on the computer and write, write, write.

My room is a mess. Notes are scribbled on the walls so that I can look up at them at the appropriate moments and insert the date, the name, whatever, when I need it. Books are stacked so high that people have to search for me when they come into the room. Opened books with marked-up pages are stacked on top of one another.

I become suicidal. I go through a horrid despair some time or other before the final page, during which everything seems meaningless—from the dawn of history to the very hour in which I am writing.

I’m intolerable to live with. But I spread myself thin over a number of loved ones and staff members so that no one person has to put up with how intense, hysterical, and miserable I am.

When I get elated and talk fast and furiously about wonderful aspects of history or the characters, or good developments in the story, people run away from me. I don’t blame them.

While the novel is being written, I try to avoid dressing for outdoors. No one can make you go out if you don’t have shoes on. Not even in the south. I wear long velvet robes and soft velvet slippers. I refuse to go out. All food is brought in. I eat hamburgers because they are easy to hold with one hand while reading and holding the book with the other hand.

In the middle of the night I read, sometimes on the carpeted floor of the bathroom, just because it’s warm. I am wretched. I don’t care anymore about being abnormal. Writing is everything. Everything. It seems impossible to write the book. It seems impossible to lift a hairbrush to brush my hair. But I do it. I put on mascara every day that I write.

This period of intense work lasts about six weeks. It’s best that way. My imagination is overheated, and my memory clogged with data of varying importance. If I go over six weeks, I begin to forget things; I feel the loss of intensity and information and I become all the more self-destructive and obsessed.

The end of the book is a big event for me. A big event. I start screaming. I put the hour and the date at the end of the last page. I expect everybody to understand, at least a little. It’s a triumph! The darkness of destiny has been driven back for a brief while. I celebrate. I scream, eat chocolate, and sleep.

Right near the end of writing The Vampire Armand, I realized I had to return to Italy, especially to Florence, and at once I began to make preparations for the trip. As soon as the novel was finished and off to the publisher’s, as soon as it could be accomplished, I flew to Italy. That gave me hope, a way out of a life threatening darkness that often follows the climax of a book. But I still ate chocolate and screamed.

While writing, I don’t want to rest. I don’t want to sleep. Why sleep? It seems stupid, except when weariness overcomes me like a giant cloud of poisonous vapor. Then I sleep fifteen to twenty hours. I tell people to go in and out of the bedroom and ignore me lying there, as if I were dead. I won’t talk on the phone. I won’t open my eyes if I don’t have to. I dream terrible, upsetting dreams.

I want to kill myself. But I can’t. I can’t do it to other people, and I have work that must be done, novels that must be written. So I don’t kill myself. Besides, I don’t think it’s good to kill oneself. It’s a horrible idea. It has a horrible effect even on acquaintances.

I think a lot about people I loved who are dead. I think of how dead they are, year after year, ever more dead.

[kazuma-nyasogi]

i wanted to add more detail to this, but i havent had the time. enjoy.

[eggwishing]

a happy ending is out there somewhere

[orcamantis]

inevitably intertwined

[jonahmagnus]

A facsimile of care vs genuine love

[undyingholylove]

[thelondonfolly]

LMAOOO I FOUND AN OLD LOCKET OF MINE FROM WHEN I WAS A TEENAGER in the nineties

YOU WILL NEVER GUESS WHAT WAS INSIDE OMFG

[askinkiskarma]

^^^ this right here??? made me slide up a wall in need. now imagine dilf!jake, cause that's all i can imagine. enjoy x

wc: 660 words

smut under the cut, minors DNI 🔞

You loved days with Jake, you really did. He was a good leader - strong and fearless, compassionate and patient, he made everyone feel secure and at ease, made everyone feel included and heard. You loved training with him, hearing him talk, watching him listen. You loved his demeanour and his wit, and how he sacrificed so much and lost a planet and a bond to his own kind in order to protect yours. He was a good mate - considerate and thoughtful, funny and giving, he made it his life purpose to make you happy, and you appreciated him every single minute of your life.

You loved days with Jake… but nights… Eywa, the nights were the best, and you had a perfect example as of why right now, laying sideways on the bed, your head pushed so far back, it was resting in the crook of his neck, drawn out moans and skin slapping together the only sounds you could hear in the quiet of the dead of night. You haven't slept through the night once since meeting Jake. How could you, when more often than not, after a thorough fucking, he loved to fall asleep with his cock still buried deep inside of you, loved for the feel of your tight cunt and smell of your scents mingled together to be the last thing on his mind before he passed out for the night... or at least for a few hours, until you inevitably woke up, needy and desperate once more, grinding on his half-hard length until he was rock hard once more, his body unable to resist you, even asleep as he was.

Now, here you were once more, three orgasms in, crying as he slipped in and out of you with ease, your cum and slick allowing him to bottom out in you, bulging up the skin of your lower abdomen. He loved to sneak his hand from your hip, where it was rested in order to pull you further down his length, and reach around and press on the spot, until you squirmed and whined, until the tears flowed freely down your face into your ears.

"You feel how deep in you I am, angel? That's daddy's cock pushing your pretty skin up, mm? You're taking it so well, aren't you? Always so good for me."

"D-daddy... pl-please!"

His words pushed you closer and closer to the orgasm you knew would take you out for the night, the intensity of the last couple of hours taking a toll on your mind, until you were just a mess of words and incoherent babbles, drunk of his cock and the soft kisses he was peppering on the back of your neck. You could hear the smile in his voice as he spoke.

"What do you need, baby? Need daddy to let you come on his cock?"

His thrusts sharpened momentarily as he was hitting the spot that made you see stars and cry out in unadulterated ecstasy, until you were sure the whole clan could hear how well the Olo'eyktan's mate was getting fucked night after night. Right now, you couldn't find it in you to care.

"There you go, baby girl. Come for daddy so he can fill you up, mm?"

The promise of being marked by him, of his cum dripping out of you and down your thighs for days to come was enough to push you over the edge, and you came, making a mess of the mat, that needed to be changed daily anyhow, as you squirted all over him, gushes of warm liquid mixing with his own, and, spent and filled to the brim as you were, you allowed him to pull you closer and whisper sweet nothings in your ear as you drifted off to sleep.

"Daddy loves you, sweet girl."

You knew, and yet, you couldn't wait until tomorrow night, when he'd more than willingly prove it to you again.

somebody sedate me honestly

[pigswithwings]

once i figure out how to draw anything at all its so over for you all

[doodles-dearest]

but the fairy queen of sweet dreams outfits sillouhette

is so similar to ellas when she comes back.

she is radiant and terrible

she is the light in the eternal dark.

she is starlight.

[wandaslovey]

challenge !

no: lip biting, smiling, giggling, squealing, kicking your legs, moaning, whimpering, whining, jaw dropping - no reaction

my clothes have just vanished, my legs just got divorced, my thighs are crying and my stomach did the thing. all of the above, your honor

[jelliebeanbitch]

i was afraid that wicked 2024 would forget the original audience of wicked the musical. which is a bunch of theater lovers who adore the magic and message and strangeness of the musical. i was afraid they’d just appeal to the most mainstream audiences that cringe at theater as a concept. but i was so wrong!!!!! they didnt forget about us!!!!!!!! they made this for us!!!!!!!!

[cashlessreggister]

S. Dave

guys meet dave, guys. A hard-working single dad majorin in communications. He likes music and has several sons. kinda killed his coworker.

[darlingpeasant]

*it’s the way she’s clinging onto his hair for dear life*

[stealthywing]

I'm unwell.

[elmodoescrimes]

Marauders Era Characters and their eating habits

definetely not inspired by that one post about the marauders waterbottles by @idont-havea-name

JAMES: pretty good eating habits. the man eats healthy. mostly meat.

SIRIUS: sirius is okay at eating. they forget sometimes, and still have very fancy tastes (despite how much he tries to hide it) but they eat reasonably well. cannot handle spice. pesketarian?

REMUS: no. doesnt feel hunger sometimes, and other times feels only hunger. eats mainly meat (werewolf), and oftej runs of solely coffee.

PETER: eats like a french person. very heavy foods. lots of cheese and bread. doesnt really like meat. eats plants and shit he grows himself.

REGULUS: runs off of coffe and fancy shit lile caviar.

LILY: mostly vegetables. big lover of warm drinks and cold foods.

MARY: barely eats. actually enjoys salad. loves fruits and shit.

MARLENE: eats only meat. literally just meat and snacks.

DORCAS: caffine and pastries. cannot eat stonefruit for the life of her (literally. she will die. its a bad allergy.)

EVAN: does not eat. has never been seen eating. no idea where he gets his nutrients from.

BARTY: the type of guy to chew on coins. doesnt actually have his own food, he steals from others. eats rocks and other inedible shit. eats cigarettes.

PANDORA: vegetarian. eats fruit and veggies from nature and/or her garden.

ALICE: healthy eater. she eats balanced meals and shit.

FRANK: massive peanut allergy. eats reasonably healthy otherwise.

NARCISSA: so picky. and fancy as fuck.

SYBILL: basically only eats seafood. literally just chewing on fucking prawns or some shit.

BELLATRIX: runs on black coffee and spite.

RITA: vegan. no more will be said.

GILDEROY: allergic to fucking everything.

XENO: survives on drugs and drugs alone.