#both published and unpublished

[torchlitinthedesert]

Being John Lennon for a day

In 1971, British journalist Ray Connolly went to New York for the Concert for Bangladesh. Here’s what else happened.

To be at the Bangladesh Concert was a thrill in itself, but for me the whole weekend was bizarre. Arriving in New York the previous day I’d discovered that John, whom I’d expected to see, had left after a row with Yoko when George Harrison wouldn’t agree to her being on stage, and had flown back to Paris. (Yoko, I discovered later, thought he should have fought harder for her.) I’d also arrived without my bags, which had been mislaid en route by Pan American.

Yoko had a problem, too. She wanted to follow John, but had invited her younger sister, Setsuko, a postgraduate student, over from Switzerland. In a moment she solved two problems. I should cancel my single room, move into one of the several bedrooms in the Lennons’ suite, wear John’s clothes until mine turned up, and take care of her sister over the weekend.

And, oh, yes, to enable me to do this, her new assistant May Pang (whom I’d met in London) would help organise things. Setsuko and I would have the use of the stretch limo and chauffeur, money would be provided for anything we needed, we’d have front row seats at the concert and all I had to do was sign everything ‘Lennon + 15%’.

So, there I was in John’s French, black leather jacket and his blue gingham shirt, hurrying with Setsuko across the stage at Madison Square Gardens at the end of the concert to get down to the row of nine waiting limousines, which then revved up the ramp and out on to the New York streets. Then off they went like a Presidential motorcade, police motorcycle outriders flanking the procession, while, all the way to the post-gig party on Central Park South, other police held back the crosstown traffic.

‘Glad you got a buzz out of it,’ John said casually when, back in London, I called him. ‘What did you think of being a Beatle?’

‘I liked it.’

The Ray Connolly Beatles Archive

[beastsovrevelation]

If it isn't my beloved celestial harpy, most holy Michael the Archangel herself (meaning, I turned this into proper line-art). ⚔ Good Omens has insulted her, but she will always be Supreme Commander of the Heavenly Host in my mind, and in my fics. I can only try to do her justice.

What do you think, should I colour it? It almost looks like a colouring page, I'm tempted to print it, and colour it with pencils or markers. ✏

[angelsaxis]

not to piggy back off that post but young fanfic authors who hope to publish one day: readers can tell from your voice if you largely only read/write fanfictions. we can tell.

[x1asirene]

push n' fracture ! — caleb 夏 (f1 rider! au)

— ! lexical count : 5.7k words

— ! affinity : caleb (xia yizhou) x fem!reader

— ! essence : caleb doesn’t do rivals. especially not when they’re plastered across your skin. jealousy twists into something sharp and dangerous as possession takes over, and the line between love and obsession blurs. tangled, messy, and burning with tension—this is about claiming what’s his, no matter the cost.

— ! precautionary : fem!reader, use of ‘y/n’ and feminine pronouns, f1 rider!caleb, sexual content, jealousy, possessiveness, intense physicality, car crash (non-fatal), semi-public setting, slight degradation, overstimulation, roughness, dom!caleb, rivalry-based tension, angry sex

— ! writer’s foreword : just crash-landed home from, brain leaking out my ears, and what did i do? rest? recover? touch grass? no. i opened my laptop and immediately started writing this unholy, feral filthfest. if this fic makes no sense or feels like a fever dream, blame the caffeine overdose and my sleep deprivation. also, send help (and snacks). preferably both.

— ! soundtrack in play : ohmami by chase atlantic

this is my only account. any similarities between this work and others—published or unpublished—are entirely coincidental. i pour a great deal of time, care, and emotion into what i create. it is against both my principles and my moral compass to plagiarize or steal from the work of others. i hold deep respect for the creators who came before me, and i would never knowingly compromise the integrity of their work or mine. furthermore, i do not condone the use of AI in the creation or replication of fanworks. everything here is original and made with clean intentions.

minors dni. this work contains dark, mature themes and is intended for adult audiences only. accounts that do not clearly indicate age in their bio or blog will be blocked without warning. this is for my safety and yours—respect boundaries, respect creators.

you weren’t even wearing his team hoodie.

no red bull colors. no little sticker of his number on your cheek like you wore in monaco. no subtle sign that you were his—not even a glance in his direction. instead, your shirt clung to your skin in the dry desert heat, speckled with sun and cropped enough to bare your ribs when the desert wind blew. that tight mclaren crop tee clung to your skin, the bright tarocco tone screaming his rival’s colors as you stood too close—way too close—to rafayel.

it all started with a laugh. just a laugh. nothing more.

you’d meant nothing by it—just a shared joke with rafayel in the hospitality lounge before qualifying. rafayel leaned toward you with that signature half-grin, elbow on the counter of the lounge, head tilted just enough to make it intimate. charming. relaxed. fucking smug. his hand had brushed your arm when you’d thrown your head back, the soft trill of your giggle carried into the desert air. head tipped back, fingers brushing his arm as you caught his eye and giggled at something he said. a soft, unconscious motion. a friendly exchange. nothing malicious, nothing overt.

you should’ve known. you should’ve seen it in the way caleb’s jaw locked during the driver briefing—helmet held by its chin bar, fzipped up to his collarbone, gloves hooked around two fingers—and for the first time in his career, he wasn’t thinking about tire temps or DRS zones. his jaw flexed tight enough to cramp as he watched rafayel lean in closer, and watched you—his girl, the girl who should never let anyone that close—giggle and tuck your hair behind your ear like it wasn’t a fucking dagger straight through his sternum.

“caleb,” his engineer’s voice crackled through the headset. “you alright, mate? you seem out of it—everythin’ okay?”

he didn’t answer right away. swallowed hard, blinked once. his grip clenched tighter around his helmet, the carbon fiber started to dent. “…peachy.”

he didn’t look at rafayel again. didn’t need to.

he’d already decided.

i’ll deal with you later.

P2 on the grid.

of course it was P2.

rafayel sat in his mclaren like he already had the win wrapped around his fingers, one gloved hand drumming rhythmically on the top of his wheel, the other giving a little mock salute to the crowd through the visor cam. caleb didn’t look at him. his gloves were already tugged tight, helmet sealed, eyes locked forward—but all he saw behind the visor was the orange shirt stuck to your back in the heat with the stupid bold mclaren settled on the fabric right over your heart. his number and name nowhere in sight.

“radio check,” his engineer called.

he didn’t respond.

“caleb? radio check, mate?”

his voice finally came through, taut and venomous. “loud and fucking clear.”

there was a beat of silence. a pause on the line, “you good, man?”

he forced a breath through his nose. “let’s just get this over with,” over the loud hum of the engine, all he could hear was the echoes of your laugh with that shithead rafayel.

“five lights on,” the race director counted. “and it’s lights out and away we go—!” rafayel’s launch was clean—but caleb was rabid. the red bull fired forward like a predator loosed from the leash, barely missing P3 as he launched straight into turn 1 side-by-side with the mclaren. rafayel closed him off with a hard brake, forcing caleb out wide on the dirty part of the track, but caleb didn’t lift — not even when his front wing came within centimeters of rafayel’s rear.

“he’s driving like he wants to fuckin’ kill me,” rafayel spat over comms, his voice crackling. caleb didn’t respond on his own. he was too busy chasing. he spent the first dozen laps locked inside DRS range, not even trying to overtake clean—no, every move was calculated pressure. he drove like he wanted rafayel to feel him breathing down his neck. every brake was late. every corner exit was close enough to make the mclaren engineer panic.

“back off, caleb!” his own team barked at one point. “you’re risking a collision!” but caleb didn’t care. he wanted him to feel cornered. to know that he was prey. because he was. you don’t put your hands on her, he thought darkly as he tailgated out of turn 10, and walk away unscathed.

you were on the pit wall by then—wearing orange, still—and caleb saw you glance up at the timing tower. every time his number lit up right behind rafayel’s, you tensed. he saw it.

good, he thought. watch me. watch what i do to the man who touches what’s mine.

it built slowly—tire wear creeping in, temps rising, his rear losing grip in sector 3. still he stayed out, defying every team call to box. lap 26, rafayel’s tires began to fail. the tires wore down. rear traction faded. lap times dropped. still, he didn’t box. ignored every pit call.

“caleb, come in, we’re losing compound.”

“negative.” his voice came back hoarse. “i’ve got him.”

lap 28, rafayel’s grip was breaking—caleb could see it in the rear twitch. turn fourteen, he closed in so tight the slipstream pulled bits of rubber into his halo. he could’ve tapped the diffuser with his nose cone if he wanted. could’ve unstitched the seams of that mclaren.

“final lap,” came the call. “no funny shit, caleb.” but it was too late for that. he already knew where he’d do it. turn 13. fast. blind. unforgiving. he waited for the right moment, nudged inside, and turned in early.

the contact was immediate.

carbon fiber shredded. both cars locked up in a scream of tire smoke and screeching brakes. rafayel’s mclaren spun violently off the racing line, back end slammed against the barriers, dust pluming into the air. caleb’s red bull skidded into the gravel with a thunderous jolt.

yellow flags. double waved.

red flag. the race was over.

rafayel was out. caleb’s engine stalled in the gravel. static choked the radio. “what the fuck was that?!” screamed race control. he didn’t answer. not until he saw the red flag and the dust settle. not until he saw your face on the edge of the pit wall go white.

he didn’t attend the press conference. didn’t even unbuckle until a marshal banged on his cockpit. his PR rep trailed after him with panicked eyes and a clipboard full of damage control bullet points, but caleb walked right past him, suit still half-zipped, jaw clenched hard enough he could swear his teeth would crush with the pressure. they tried to stop him. camera caught his shoulder. reporters called his name—he didn’t even turn his head.

no interviews. no apologies. no explanations.

let them speculate. let them talk.

he didn’t give a single damn.

because rafayel wouldn’t touch you again.

not after this.

you didn’t speak the entire drive back.

he’d refused the medical tent. ignored the swarm of reporters like they weren’t even there, brushed past the PR team screaming his name with a pace so brutal you’d had to jog to keep up. he didn’t speak. didn’t even look at you. just reached back once—wrist tight, fingers wrapping around yours—and yanked you with him through the mess of the paddock and straight into the red bull private lot.

the silence was suffocating. not tense in the way people usually meant it—not awkward, not uncomfortable. it was a pressure chamber. the kind that made your ears ring and your chest hurt. you could hear every turn signal click, every swipe of the wiper across the windshield, even the way caleb’s grip on the wheel creaked under his gloves. he hadn’t taken them off. still in his fireproofs, zipper low on his chest, collarbone glistening with sweat and dust, jaw locked so tight it looked like it might snap.

the door slammed shut behind you with a vicious bang!—a sound that echoed like a gunshot off the walls—and it made your shoulders jerk involuntarily. he didn’t say a word. didn’t glance back. just stalked across the living room like the adrenaline was still burning through his blood, ripping open the fridge like something in it might anchor him, steady the fury in his bones. but even from where you stood, you could see the tremor in his hand. the way his fingers gripped the handle too hard. the tension still coiled in his shoulders like a spring wound to the point of rupture.

he wasn’t calming down. not even close.

the silence throbbed around you, thick and charged. you shifted on your feet, breath shallow, heart hammering like it wanted to crawl out of your throat.

“caleb—” you started, voice small.

“take it off.” his voice was low, sliced through the air like a whip.

you froze. your mouth parted, a breath catching in your throat. “w-what?”

he closed the fridge slowly. deliberately. then turned.

his eyes were black beneath the heavy shadow of his brow, dark and molten like they hadn’t cooled since the second his front wing clipped rafayel’s tire in that brutal turn. he took a step toward you, slow and controlled, like a predator choosing exactly how to pounce. “the fucking shirt,” he said, voice low and thick with venom. another step. “take it off before i rip it off ‘ya.”

your stomach dropped. you looked down instinctively. that stupid, traitorous mclaren tee still clung to your sweat-damp skin, streaked with grime and faint splashes of champagne from a podium that wasn’t his. that bright orange logo burned against your chest like a brand, and suddenly it felt radioactive.

you didn’t move. you hesitated.

and that was all it took.

two strides, and he was on you.

your back hit the wall so fast the impact knocked the breath from your lungs. the world narrowed—your heartbeat screamed in your ears, adrenaline flared under your skin, and caleb was there, crowding you in, body a furnace, heat rolling off him in waves. his fingers hooked the hem and yanked—not teasing, not even urgent. violent. the fabric caught against your arms, dragged over your skin so fast it left a burn, your hair tangled and pulled, nipples tightening into stiff peaks in the sudden rush of cold air.

caleb tossed the shirt onto the floor like it disgusted him.

“you wanna wear his colors?” he muttered, voice low and curling with fury. his breath hit your collarbone, his words too close, too hot. “wanna sit there in his fucking garage and giggle at his jokes while he stares at your tits through my windshield?”

tone wasn’t raised. he didn’t have to shout. it was the quietness that made it worse—quiet like a threat wrapped in velvet. quiet like a knife at your ribs.

you breath stuttered, your voice coming out weaker than you wanted it to. “c-caleb, i wasn’t—he didn’t—”

“shut it,” he snarled it, close enough for your lips to brush, and the force of it made your breath stutter. his hands came up—hard—gripping your waist, rough fingers digging into your hips like he meant to leave marks, like he wanted to brand you into him, carve out any memory of someone else’s eyes on your skin. caleb dragged you forward, chest to chest, his heart thudding against yours like war drums.

“i don’t want your pathetic excuses,” he ground out. “you don’t wear his name. you don’t smile at him.”

the silence after was suffocating.

his fingers curled tighter around your sides. his mouth hovered near your jaw, breath ragged and warm, chest heaving with every inhale like he couldn’t catch it. rage coiled off him in waves, not loud anymore—just molten, buried deep, a kind of fury that didn’t explode. it consumed. slow. controlled. and it was deadly.

and it was all aimed at the thought of him touching you.

of you letting him.

caleb’s thumb ghosted over your ribs, rough and possessive, tracing the bare skin now exposed in the absence of that damned shirt.

his mouth crushed against yours before you could speak—hot, brutal, punishing. all teeth and fury, like he wanted to bite the silence from your tongue, like tasting you was the only thing anchoring him to the present. he didn’t kiss you so much as devour you, lips bruising, jaw tense with barely-contained rage, breathing you in like you were air after drowning.

his hands were everywhere—frantic, careless. they slid down the arch of your spine, fingers pressing into every vertebra like he meant to memorize the shape of you, then sank lower, palms gripping your ass with bruising force. he hauled you against him so hard your breath fled, pelvis grinding to his through the fireproofs still clinging to his hips. he was already half-hard. already throbbing through the thin barrier between you. the press of it against your lower stomach made your knees tremble.

and then his gaze dropped.

his eyes caught on the denim. the sound that tore from his throat was less a breath and more a mocking scoff.

the low-rise shorts clung to your hips like sin, skin peeking out from under the frayed hem, teasing with that reckless kind of innocence that only made his fury burn hotter. they sat just high enough to hint at modesty but dipped scandalously low, hugging the softness of your waist like a taunt.

slowly, he reached down—deliberate, fingers flexing—and let his hand splay flat over your stomach. his palm was hot against your skin. the heel of it rested against the waistband, and then—without breaking eye contact—he slipped his thumb beneath it. just the barest intrusion. a single brush of rough skin over the delicate swell of your mound, not enough to touch you properly, but enough to make your whole body jerk with a whimper.

“these,” he sneered. “you wore these to the paddock? while he was watching?” his voice dropped into a guttural rasp. you opened your mouth to protest, but his voice cut you off—deeper now, dipped into something feral.

“he was probably fucking imagining what you looked like bent over the pit wall in ‘em,” caleb rasped, and the way he said it—like it sickened him, like it possessed him—made your stomach twist.

his eyes darkened—and in one swift, brutal motion, he popped the button on the shorts with a flick of his thumb. the metallic click echoed in the room like a shot. then his fingers gripped the zipper and yanked it down so roughly you gasped, fabric jerking against your hips before it slid down to your thighs, pooling at your feet in a useless, tangled heap.

he didn’t stop. his hand moved fast, unforgiving—already pulling your panties to the side before you had time to react. the elastic scraped the crease of your thigh, baring you to the chill of the room and the heat of him, and still, he didn’t look away. didn’t blink. just stared down at your cunt like it had betrayed him, like it belonged to him and had wandered somewhere it shouldn’t have.

“c-caleb,” you stammered, your voice catching, high and desperate, “you’re being—,” but the words dissolved on your tongue.

because his fingers were there, already brushing against slick heat, already groaning under his breath like it physically hurt him that you were wet for this—wet for him, even now, even after everything.

you could hardly breathe.

your head lolled against the wall as his fingers fucked you open—deep, firm, unrelenting. You were soaked, the wet sounds of it obscene in the charged silence, broken only by the staggered hitch of your breath and the rough rasp of his. your thighs were trembling, barely holding you upright, and caleb didn’t let up. he wouldn’t let up.

his voice curled against your ear, low and smug and absolutely feral. “you’re not even trying to stop me.” your mouth opened but nothing came out—just a soft, cracked moan. “yeah,” he hissed. “that’s what i thought.”

he drove his fingers in deeper, curling them just right—pulling a strangled sound from your throat. your hips jerked helplessly, and he groaned as your pussy clenched, dripping all over his knuckles.

“f-fuck,” you gasped, arms scrambling for purchase across his chest, clutching at the fabric of his fireproofs like he was your anchor. “c-caleb, i—nnh, please—”

you whimpered, broken and breathless, voice catching on each gasp. “i-i didn’t mean—nnh ahhh—d-didn’t mean to—”

“you wore that fucking shirt. wore his team, his number, his name. you meant it.” his teeth dragged over your neck, biting down hard enough to make your legs quake. “don’t act like you don’t like this. like you don’t love being fucked dumb right after i almost took him off the track.”

you sobbed out a noise that barely resembled his name—“p-please, i—oh, god—”

his fingers hit that spot again, and your body jolted, hips rocking into his palm like you couldn’t help it. the muscles in your stomach tensed, fluttering around the edge of your climax. he felt it, saw it, and laughed—low and delighted.

“oh, baby… gonna cum, aren’t ya’?” he mocked, breath hot against your jaw, eyes glittering. “you’re so easy. just a couple fingers and you’re already soaking me. dripping like a goddamn whore.”

“p-please—ah—please, i can’t—” your words broke apart, swallowed by the sounds of your own whimpers as your orgasm built sharp and unbearable. “i-i c-can’t hold it, caleb, i—fuck—”

“then don’t.” his hand gripped your jaw, forcing your eyes to his. “let me hear how mine you are.” and you shattered. a sobbing, shaking mess.y our body locked up, thighs clenching around his wrist as you came with a choked cry—wet and slick and pulsing so hard around his fingers you felt your knees threaten to give out. caleb held you upright through it, murmuring dark praise between your panting breaths.

“that’s it. that’s my girl.” he pressed a kiss to your temple—mockingly tender, wicked and warm. “so good when you’re ruined.” his fingers slipped free with a wet noise, glistening in the low light. he brought them to your lips, eyes still sharp and burning. “suck f’ me, will ya’?”

you blinked, dazed, mind swimming in the haze of pleasure and want. slowly, obediently, you parted your lips, tongue flicking out to wet them just before his fingers slid into your mouth. the taste was warm, messy—you, tangled with him—and the sound that escaped you was soft, shameless, utterly desperate.

caleb’s groan rumbled low in his throat, eyes darkening as he watched every motion, every subtle shift of your tongue curling around his fingers. “god, you look so pretty like this,” he rasped, dragging those soaked fingers out with a sharp pop that echoed in the quiet room. “dumb little mouth wrapped around what’s mine.”

you whimpered, the sound raw and fragile, knees trembling as they brushed his in the cramped space. your body sagged into his, burning and unsteady, craving his touch like air. then that smirk—slow, sharp, slicing through the tension like a knife dragged through silk. his voice dropped even lower, slow and deliberate, thick with dark amusement. “think we’re done?”

your breath hitched, caught in your throat as his eyes bore into yours, unblinking and heavy with promise. the room seemed to pulse around you, heat swelling in your skin, every nerve ending screaming alive. you tried to shake your head, but your voice was barely a whisper, broken and trembling: “n-no—please…”

his fingers curled in a slow, possessive grip against your jaw, tilting your face up so your lips hovered just inches from his. “behave,” he murmured, voice rough like gravel. “because i’m nowhere near finished with you.”

his mouth claimed yours again, teeth grazing your lower lip as his hands gripped your hips, holding you so tightly it was almost painful—but you didn’t care. you were already melting into him, breath shallow and fast, heart hammering against your ribs like a warning bell.

without hesitation, he ripped open his fireproofs, pulling out his thick, heavy cock, already leaking thick beads of precum, flushed red from holding back for too long. he shifted, pressing the full length of himself inside you, inch by agonizing inch, his body a hot, solid weight that filled every space. your breath hitched sharply, a stuttered moan slipping free as your walls stretched and clenched around him, tight and trembling.

your body jolted—smack!—as he bottomed out in one punishing motion. he didn’t stop to let you adjust. he just started fucking you. hard.

“is this what you needed?” he snarled, teeth at your throat again, biting down—hard. “some real fucking? not the attention of some weak little paddock rat.”

you sobbed, arms flying to his shoulders, clawing for purchase. he drove into you over and over, hips snapping up—wet noises echoing through the room. your slick ran down your thighs, onto his, then pooling onto the floor.

“fuck, you’re mine,” he growled into your hair, voice thick with need and possession. His hips slammed harder, faster, each thrust pushing you closer to the edge. “say it. say it or i’ll fill you up and walk out without another word.”

“i—i’m yours!” you sobbed, legs trembling. “caleb, please—i’m yours, i’m yours! a-always yours!” another slap to your ass—sharp, loud. then his hand gripped your hair, yanked your head back, and his teeth sank into your shoulder—deep, a bite so hard it made stars dance behind your eyes.

“you wear my number. my colors. my fucking name on your back. not that mclaren shit or anything else. never fucking again.” caleb’s hips slammed harder, faster, each thrust a brutal claim that sent your body shuddering beneath him. his teeth grazed your collarbone, sinking in deeply with a savage bite that left a bruised crescent burning hot against your skin. You gasped, head thrown back, breath shattering into sharp sobs that mixed pain and pleasure so fiercely your whole body trembled uncontrollably.

“fucking feel that, yeah?” he growled against your skin, voice thick with venomous hunger. your hands ripped down his sides, nails clawing cruel lines along his ribs as caleb dragged his teeth lower—trail of sharp bites blooming bruises along the curve of your tits, marking you with brutal possessiveness. “you think that idiot could ever fuck you like this? make you cry out, beg, lose your goddamn mind? no chance.”

you whimpered, caught between sobs and desperate moans, hips jerking instinctively with every ruthless stroke. “n-no—! only you, caleb! please—fuck, please mmm—!” your voice broke, breath hitching in a ragged stutter as your muscles clenched around him tighter, convulsing in waves of scorching overstimulation that stole your ability to think straight.

“bark f’me, sweet girl,” his teeth sank deep into your hip, biting down hard enough to draw a gasp, pleasure twisting with pain in a raw knot of sensation that made you cry out and claw at his back. “say you’re mine. my filthy little wreck, mine.”

“’m yours! yours, caleb!” you sobbed, body trembling, tears stinging your eyes as relentless orgasms crashed over you, folding you in a violent, layered tangle of ecstasy. your voice came out breathless and shattered, “please, don’t stop! i—i’m gonna—f-fuck, i’m gonna—please, i’m c-cummin’!”

“tell me,” he snarled against your neck, voice low, dark, teeth grazing skin like a threat, “tell me who you’re cummin’ for. me or that pretty little fucker?”

his hips snapped up cruelly, deep and fast, dragging a sob from your lips. his hand stayed locked tight around your throat—not enough to hurt, just enough to remind you who owned every gasp, every tremble.

“you!” you cried out, voice cracking on the edge of desperation. your nails dug into the fireproofs still half-wrapped around his waist. “you, sir—only you, ah, fuckkk—!”

he grinned, vicious and possessive, like your surrender was his prize. “yeah?” he hissed, slamming into you again. “say it louder. make sure even that bastard hears it next race.” caleb didn’t slow. if anything, he fucked you harder, rough and relentless, like he was trying to erase any trace of rafayel from your body—if there’d ever been any. one hand gripped your hip bruisingly tight, the other still curved under your jaw, forcing your teary eyes to hold his.

“damn right,” he growled, sweat-slick and flushed, but no less in control. “say my name. not ‘sir.’ not ‘please.’ mine.”

your whole body jerked with each thrust, barely able to keep upright, tears streaking your cheeks. “caleb—! caleb, i’m—i’m yours, i swear—”

“louder,” he barked, voice edged in a snarl. “c’mon, sweetheart. want you hoarse for me. want that voice ruined so you can’t say shit to anyone else.”

you shattered then—crying his name, choking on your moan as your body seized, shaking, breaking apart in his hands like it always did. and he didn’t let up. not when you came, not when your body tried to squirm away from the overstimulation.

“too much?” he murmured mockingly, breath hot against your temple. “too bad. i haven’t had enough yet. not till i’m sure he knows you walk funny tomorrow ‘cause of me.”

he crushed his mouth to yours, swallowing your desperate sounds with a hungry roar, his fingers digging deep into your hips as he drove you harder over the edge. your walls fluttered around him, clenching and pulsing uncontrollably as you teetered on the brink—then tipped.

your body convulsed violently, a flood of sensation so fierce it wracked every nerve ending. you cried out, a broken, trembling sound filled with pure, overwhelming need. his thrusts became more savage, relentless, “mine,” he rasped between clenched teeth, voice thick and harsh as he chased his own climax, “only mine. gonna fill you up so fucking deep you’ll be leaking my cum for days.”

the force of him stole your breath again as another orgasm ripped through you, your body arching wildly. you trembled, clinging to him, sobbing his name like a prayer. he chased you over the edge, one hand tangled possessively in your hair, the other bruising your waist as he came with a shuddering, broken groan—low, guttural, right against your skin—his teeth sinking into your neck as he spilled hot and thick inside you, every pulse of him a claim you’d never shake.

he stayed still a moment, breathing hard, chest rising and falling, panting like he’d survived a battle. then—slowly—he pulled out. you whimpered at the sudden empty ache, your slick and his own, trailing down your inner thighs.

your body was still quaking when caleb carried you, trembling and ruined, to the couch—his grip bruising, but reverent. his jaw was tight, his breath still shallow from the exertion, and the whole room still reeked of sex and heat and rage. your thighs stuck to his fireproofs, slick and smeared, and your chest rose in ragged, shallow pants as he laid you down like you were something precious—but barely.

"look at you," he muttered, his voice hoarse with raw satisfaction. "still shakin’. you don't even know your own name, do you?"

your only answer was a weak, broken sound—something between a whimper and a plea. he chucked, low and dangerous, fingers brushing your jaw as his other hand gripped your thigh, spreading you open again just to look. but then—he stilled.

his thumb stopped where it had been tracing, reverent in its own brutal way. his gaze, once burning with hunger, flickered—hesitating. you blinked through the haze clouding your vision, and there he was again: caleb, not the fire-eyed predator but the boy who used to hold your hand under the covers during thunderstorms, the boy who always laced your shoelaces when your fingers were too cold to do it yourself.

“…fuck,” he murmured, and something in his tone cracked open. he exhaled hard and let your thigh fall gently against the couch cushion, his body sinking beside yours, no longer looming—folding. a different kind of tension took its place, quieter, older. his hand cupped your cheek again, softer now, trembling faintly.

"you okay?" he asked, and his voice was lower. wrought with guilt, with fear, with love. "talk to me, love. tell me you’re okay."

you nodded, just barely, then leaned into his palm with a broken little sound. “o-okay…’m okay,” you breathed, voice ragged but true.

he closed his eyes.

for a moment, caleb didn’t say anything. just let his forehead press to yours. his thumb traced the line of your cheekbone like you might vanish if he didn’t keep anchoring you to him. then, with careful arms, he pulled you into his lap—blanketing you in the throw he’d once haphazardly tossed on the couch. your legs curled over his, trembling.

“you’re shaking,” caleb murmured again, his voice low and rough, like gravel coated in velvet. the heat radiating from his body pressed against your back was a fierce, solid warmth that somehow grounded you, but you could still feel the tremors racing through your limbs—shaky, fragile, like you were made of glass. his arms tightened around you, not crushing, but possessive, protective—as if he wanted to keep you from breaking apart entirely.

his lips brushed your skin like a feather in slow, feather-light kisses. first your bare shoulder, where the soft warmth of his mouth left a trail that sent a delicious shiver down your spine. then along the hollow of your collarbone, his breath hot and steady, carrying the faint scent of smoke and sweat from the race—intoxicating and unmistakably him. when his mouth ghosted to the corner of your lips, he paused, lingering like he was memorizing your shape, tasting the faint salt of your skin, the quickening pulse beneath.

“you scare the shit out of me sometimes,” he breathed, voice husky and trembling with emotion, the raw vulnerability undercut by the fire of his obsession. “the way i feel about you... it’s not normal. maybe it’s because… i love you more than you realize.”

his hands roamed slowly now, tracing the lines of your body with a possessive tenderness that set your nerves alight. one palm slid down the curve of your side, fingers pressing into your hip bone, grounding you in the heat between you. the other curled in your hair, thumb brushing your temple softly, coaxing the tension out of your clenched muscles.

“you don’t have to say anything,” he whispered, voice rough but gentle. “just be here with me.”

your eyelids fluttered open, meeting his gaze—dark, intense, burning with a hunger that softened only when it landed on you. the sight made your heart squeeze painfully, a sweet ache that spread through your limbs like wildfire.

your fingers twined tightly in the thick fabric of his fireproof suit, heart hammering against your ribs like it was trying to break free. you curled into him, the solid beat of his heart against your palm a grounding anchor amid the storm of emotion crashing through you. no words came—only the soft press of your lips against his jaw, the whisper of a kiss that said everything you couldn’t say aloud.

caleb’s breath hitched sharply, eyes darkening with a fierce tenderness as he pulled back just enough to meet your gaze. his thumb brushed away a tear that had slipped silently down your cheek, his touch so gentle it made your breath catch. his smile was fragile, barely there—but real. like he was offering you a piece of his soul wrapped in vulnerability.

“you’re everything to me,” he confessed, voice thick and laden with something bittersweet, a promise and a curse intertwined. “every lap, every breath, every fucking heartbeat. you ruined me, and i don’t ever want to be put back together.”

his arms squeezed you tighter, possessive and fierce, a silent vow to keep you safe and claim you utterly. the heat from his body seeped deep into your bones, steady and relentless, chasing away the shadows that lingered inside you.

your hand rose to cup his cheek, fingertips tracing the sharp angles of his jaw, memorizing the rough scrape of stubble beneath your touch. “l-love you..i’m yours,” you whispered, voice trembling but resolute. a soft, possessive smile curved his lips. “yeah,” he said, voice low and thick with pride, “only mine.”

when he kissed you this time, it was different—slow and tender, a deep press of lips that spoke of ownership and devotion, not just need. his mouth was warm and soft, roughened by days on the track and sleepless nights, and the taste of him—smoky, faintly metallic, and utterly intoxicating—settled deep inside your senses. his hands cradled your waist, fingers digging in just enough to remind you that you were his, that you belonged here, to him, in this moment.

“sleep,” he murmured against your lips, voice husky but gentle, a soothing promise that wrapped around you like a blanket. “i’ll be here when you wake up.”

your eyelids fluttered closed, sinking fully into the fierce, steady warmth of his arms. his heartbeat thrummed against your back, a wild, unyielding fire that burned only for you—and you let yourself be consumed by it.

caleb didn’t sleep. not for a second.

he stood bare-chested in front of the fire, the room thick with heat and shadows that flickered like ghosts on the walls. the dry crackle of the flames filled the silence, but inside him, a storm still raged—cold, sharp, relentless—but not for you, no, never.

his knuckles bore the faintest traces of dried blood where he'd gripped the wall to steady you, but the ache there was nothing compared to the sharp edge of his hatred for rafayel. the mclaren tee lay crumpled at his feet—a stubborn reminder that wouldn’t fade.

he bent down and picked it up slowly, fingers tightening around the fabric, a silent vow burning hotter than the fire before him. with slow, deliberate movements, his fingers curled around the fabric, pulling it close. he traced the soft cotton absently, the smell faint but familiar, and it stabbed at him like a fresh wound. the color—too bright, too loud—reminded him of everything he hated to admit. he fed the shirt to the flames, watching the orange cotton curl, blacken, and twist in on itself. the smell of scorched cloth filled the room, but it couldn’t burn away the rancor that still coiled tight inside.

he didn’t blink until the last ember faded to ash, eyes cold and unyielding, mind still racing with bitter thoughts.

rafayel had crossed a line.

and caleb’s fire wasn’t ready to die down—not yet, not ever.

# do not repost, translate, or upload my work to any other platforms. tumblr reblogs are welcome and appreciated, but reposting outside of this blog is not permitted !

— ✦ © @ x1asirene, tumblr 2025 ✧

[dcxdpdabbles]

In the spirit of commenting more on fics/supporting authors, I’ve finally decided to stop lurking, and say, hey, hi, hello there!

How are you doing today?

I just wanted to say you’re one of my all-time favorite DPxDC writers—in fact, I’ve been following you and your work since The Bakery is a Front!…right?'s first chapter back in June 2023, and it’s been such an amazing ride getting to read all of the wonderful stories you’ve created! They’re all so very creative (and hilarious!), the pacing is always great, and I love how your way of storytelling is easygoing and mellow; it’s so casual and cozy and easy to get into (for lack of a better phrasing)!

And can I just say how much I adore the way you write each and every single character, and their reactions/inner thoughts/dialogue about whatever’s going down in the plot, be it an ongoing story, oneshot, the tags, or those adorable little “From a fic I never wrote” tidbits? 10/10 every single time! (Your dialogue’s super great!!!!!!!)

I can’t count the number of times I’ve gone and reread everything you’ve published, nor how much time passes by whenever I do so. All I know is that my worries go away whenever I read your stories; they’re quite comforting!

Your stories provide so much inspiration, it’s even gotten to the point where I made a mini analysis for Danny’s Grill, and two playlists for Danny Fenton’s Ex and The Adopted Son (though that last one hasn’t been updated, since I haven’t had a chance to officially finish the last three? parts lol; that, and both playlists share a lot of the same songs), though all of those were either unpublished or kept private.

(They’ve also given way to many plot bunnies lol)

It’s a sentiment that bears repeating: you are an amazing writer, you’re so big brained, and I love everything you’ve ever written; don’t let anybody tell you otherwise!!!

I wasn’t sure how to end this, aside from hoping you have a good day or whatever time it may be for you, so I’ll leave off with a quote from one of my favorite songs, from one of my all-time favorite musicals, that’s hopefully… er, comforting? Wasn’t sure how to describe it (and if it isn’t, then I apologize for that):

“Just keep moving on. Anything you do, let it come from you, then it will be new. Give us more to see.” — Dot (Sunday in the Park with George, “Moving On,”)

SUOGHSOHUOGFUOHUGFWUEH

THIS WAS SUCH A NICE THING TO READ!!!

Thank you! Thank you! Thank you! I can't believe you enjoyed those aus so much you made playlists and mini analysis, but it makes me so happy that you did.

[elodieunderglass]

Would you like to be sent other people's Killie headcanons? I wasn't sure if that would be welcome or like stealing your toys.

(Killie the jockey oc)

Thank you so much for asking! I’m going to say something wild - that it’s fine if you understand the risks and agree to the conditions. Sorry for writing an essay about the conditions, but it interested me a lot - I want to welcome this spirit, and am also conscious that published authors don’t do this (however, I don’t want their job.)

Long story short: you can, but it’s not legally advisable, but fuck it, we ball.

Grownups share toys, and Killie exists to be rotated - and, when he achieves sufficient velocity, thrown briskly into an obstacle. Sharing this burden with others pleases me. I’ve already said an emphatic GO AHEAD to fanart and AU fanfic, so worrying about this too much would be a case of shutting the barn door after the horse has eaten it. We do a lot of riffing and yes-anding each other, which is the ENTIRE fun of talking about Killie, and is the ONLY reason he’d get a book anyway. And my approach to intellectual property is more collaborative-Goncharov than the inciting published-authors-shouldn’t-read-fic-incident (1990s drama with Marion Zimmer Bradley.)

Killie’s intended to have a little self-published, non-commercial book that isn’t written yet. If I was already planning to do something similar to your ideas, it might lead to awkwardness for both of us. I’m not saying it would - we are too mature and kind - but that’s the risk I don’t want you to take unknowingly. I do mean to create 1 piece of fixed canon material (plan for that here), for which I plan to charge sufficient money to reimburse the cost of the editor I plan to hire for it. So you would have to decide whether you’d like to risk your headcanon being canon. I will say upfront that there is zero risk of Killie being commercially viable (CAN YOU IMAGINE) so there’s no chance of anyone (including myself) getting paid for anything; it’s more about the idea of intellectual property. Your headcanons belong to you, and by kindly sharing them with someone who hasn’t written the canon yet, you risk a lot more than someone writing about a closed, distant work.

You don’t need approval or permission for headcanons. You don’t need approval from anybody to enjoy them.

Of course, half the pleasure of sharing headcanons is sharing them for connection and communication ARGH.

It would be great if you could share them somewhere else, without worrying about me being involved, but Killie’s entire fandom is the 20 of us, currently housed here, in my living room.

I do want to encourage you to do that (posting without telling me/discussing with other people). you don’t need my permission, and are welcome.

But I do understand Killie’s fandom is housed in my living room at the moment. As much as I intend for him to move out in the future, ideally into a small kennel in YOUR living room, it’s very natural for current observations of him to take place in my living room.

(Could he please move into your living room, the kennel is very small)

Thus, here is my policy:

If you send me a headcanon, please understand that you are voluntarily and freely releasing your idea, in the spirit of willing sharing. There is a very slight risk that your headcanon will overlap with something in the unpublished Killie book, so you’ll have to agree that you understood this risk - and that I don’t owe you anything, if it’s similar.

If you have a very good idea that would be absolutely load-bearing, I’d like to reach out for a mutually consensual permissions statement to use it. You would have the ability to decline. Agreeing to its use would involve you getting full credit for the idea, my warm thanks for sharing it, a link to your blog in online material, the admiration of everyone reading the credits, and probably nothing else will be in my power. Payment is unlikely. Co-authorship is not on the table, as I can’t write checks I can’t cash (I.e. I can’t promise to pay someone with credit on a product that might not happen.)

submission of writing prompts is done freely in the tumblr context, and I’m going to make the formal statement that a prompt does not grant co-ownership of the resulting work. Submission does not mean co-ownership - if you submit a prompt, you’re giving me permission to use it in any way I like, with or without credit. At the moment, it’s all on tumblr and attached to usernames, but if the inspired work moves to another platform (I.e I include a comic in Killie’s book) I’ll endeavour to keep the credit to your tumblr handle. I plan to thank everyone who makes the work so possible and so delightful!

Once Killie has this completed piece of work out (working title Throw Your Heart Over) he’ll be fair game. Literally hunt him for sport with my blessing 👍

I would then put him in a hamster ball and kick him down the stairs step back a bit because I think it could be a bit oxygen-smothering when creators are TOO involved - I’d like to respond to asks, but would not want to know what people were saying elsewhere- but once moved out of my living room, Killie will no longer be my personal problem.

Death of the Author voluntarily. Pls.

I was thinking of licensing him as Creative Commons anyway, but he still needs to move out of my living room and get his own address for that. At any rate, then, it will be chill for all of us to do whatever. Intellectual property WHOMST. The only thing would be I don’t want him sold without permission.

The intention of Killie is mental freedom and growth of identity; if I hogged him all to myself, I’d break that intention, and he’d rightfully stop working for me.

In conclusion, by willingly sharing a headcanon WITH ME, you agree that you get: small but high-quality connection, engagement, my admiration, hoots of amusement, tears, maybe a comic in response.

You do not get paid, you don’t get co-authorship or have any ownership.

If your headcanon accidentally matches a canon statement that I haven’t publicly made yet, you’ll have done very well by guessing foreshadowing, but unfortunately receive nothing. Guessing canon in advance does not mean that you gave me the idea, and you have agreed that by sharing it willingly.

If your headcanon solves a plot problem, I might reach out for permission to use it, with the conditions that I can only realistically offer credit for the idea. You’ll have the right to decline, and the paper trail showing that you did.

You will have no way of knowing if I am lying, and by freely sharing headcanons, you accept that risk. (I don’t intend to steal and lie - I’m a goddamn grownup with a day job, I think we’re friendly and trust each other, I’m writing a novel as a present to you, specifically, @thethirdromana - but the risk can’t be ignored.)

If you share your headcanon with other people, I don’t need to know, and don’t need to be invited.

Once Killie’s published, you can eat him for breakfast.

Hope this all makes sense, and I’m sure published authors would be gnawing their nails in horror reading this, which they won’t, because it’s 20 people in my living room and won’t make any money.

Regardless of what you choose to do, I cannot thank you enough for joining me, sharing your heart and attention, and for the gift of your support.

[kusakiguzen]

Yandere Haikyuu x Reader x Yandere Kuroko No Basketball

A/N: Hear me out.. What if reader was the twin sister of Tobio Kageyama? I mean neglected twin sister? If you wanna know, give it a read..

Imagine being the twin sister of a Vollyball prodigy, where your achivements were always overshadowed by his, all the parties were about him, celebrating him and most of all Loving him. Everything was about him, your twin, The perfect child, Kageyama Tobio. And there you were the imperfect one.

Growing up with him was nice, well until elementary, until he made his debute as a vollyball player, everything was perfect, no competition for anything. Everything was divided equally. But after Tobio started playing vollyball and everything became a competition, from love to celebrations.

Even though you both were born on the same day, there was now only one cake, vollyball themed, his favorite flavor, gifts for him. Nothing for you... When it started in 2nd grade, you just believed that your present must have been lost in the mail or the bakery messed up you cake, but as the years passed you realized the pattern. Never once did the bakery mess up Tobio's cake, or never once did his gifts get lost in the mail. As a last ditch effort to gain your grandfather's and older sister's attention, you started playing vollyball. Again at fist you got the attention you craved for, but again you fell behind and your family again started focusing on Tobio, ignoring you again.

The neglect got worse when you entered Junior High, and along with the neglect there was bullying too by an upperclassman who had it out for your twin, Oikawa Tooru. Even after he graduated, the bullying didn't stop, because "since Oikawa-senpai bullied you means you deserved it". It was hell for you, while your brother stayed blissfully unaware.

In the second year, your gandpa had passed so it was just you and your siblings, it didn't affect you as much as you thought it would. But for the other two, it was hard since they were close.

Then came the devestating news, Due to overworking yourself, it caused an injury, an injury that could criple you if you continued to play.

They weren't even at the hospital when you got this news. And this was the last straw for you. You did stop playing, not that you were truly able to enjoy it due to the constant expectation and pressure you faced to keep up with your brother. You may not have had talent for vollyball, but academically? you were on a level of your own. You had many unpublished Novels too but they needed to be edited and you were going to ask someone to read it before you were truly going to publish it.

You took scholarship exams for everywhere except Miyagi for high school, you need to get a fresh start, away from the people you knew. You did get a full academic scholarship to a school that recently opened in Tokyo, Seirin High School. You accepted it.

You decided to become a content creator, specifically a Gamer, to provide for yourself. You made an online friend in this chaos, while getting used to playing the video games, applepi.

He went to Nekoma High School in Tokyo and was happy to know that you would move to Tokyo for your education.

Your steams were doing great and now you had a good amount saved up.

You then decided it was time to tell your siblings or your departure. You called you sister and invited her for dinner. She agreed and talked about not seeing you and your brother in a while. You called Tobio and asked him to end practice early and join dinner that will be held the evening appoaching.

You prepared a variety of dishes, and some drinks too. When they both arrived and began eating, you broke the news.

You looked at them, waiting for a reaction. Your sister was stunned but you didn't expect your brother to stat yelling angrily. He looked like you told him it was you who killed their grandfather or something.

He was yelling things that could only be described as incohearent. After his episode, he started crying alot with fat tears and snot poring down.

It surprised you and you immediately went to comfort him, you were never able to hate him. I mean why would you? He was just doing what he loved, it was the adults fault for your neglect.

He took while to calm down but he kept repeating 'You can't leave me, Please.' You felt guilty but it was your future, and you knew if you stayed in Miyagi you won't be able to get out of the shell. You tried to reason with him but he didn't budge, acting like a toddler who refused to give up his toy.

Your sister intervened, stating that it would be expensive to live in a big city and it will probably be out of our budget since Tobio requires money for his equipment and camp trips that he would take in the future.

You reassured her money won't be a problem, since you got a scholarship, meaning you didn't need to pay a dime. The only catch was that you would need to join an after school club, more specifically a sports club. She asked about the living arrangements since your school does not provide dormetories. You told her that one of your friends had found you a cheap apartment near your school. (The said apartment was owned by Kenma, hence the cheap rent, but you don't need to know that) You also don't need to know that he has camera and bugs set up in that apartment

Tobio and Miwa (you older sister) were about to tell you it was a bad idea and Miwa was about going to refuse paying for it, but before they could say anything, you told them you already had a job and can pay for it yourselves.

They were stunned and Tobio started hugging you even tighter. You reassured him that you would visit and try to be at all his games but he just said,

"It won't be the same without you at school"

To which you do agree since you won't be there to tutor him and give him your notes. Your sister reluctantly agreed, and even if she didn't you were going to leave anyway so it didn't matter much.

You moving day was 1 week away and during that week Tobio refused to leave your side, still trying to get you to stay, even if he didn't say it, his body language gave the message clearly. He stated hiding your things, and when you found the things he looked like a lost puppy.

On the last day, Tobio gave you a gift.. A Bugged Phone. You thanked him but did enquire about how he got the money, he told you he had used his allowance since he never used it. You were happy that finally accepted your decision.(He didn't)

You moved about 2 weeks before school stats to get settled, You move in the apartment that your friend applepi, whose real name was Kozome Kenma was gracious help you find. He was also kind enough to show you around the city and major landmarks you needed to remembered. You soon got to know your neighbour who was also a student at the same high school as you, his name was Kagami Taiga.

He and you became friends quite quickly and he introduced to basketball.

And soon School started.

You joined the basketball club as a manger and found it fun since there was no expectations to out do anyone. You also became close to Taiga and his 'shadow' Kuroko Tetsuya. You still hung out with Kenma and streamed online with him on his or your channel, your identity was hidden and you went by an alias, Etsu. You were only called that online and other than Kenma no one knows about your identity.

You met Kenma's team, who were very shocked at Kenma having a friend other than them, much less a beauty like you.

You also met Tetsuya's former team mates who were called The Generation Of Miracle.

You talked to Tobio every night without fail or else he would bombard your phone and also said he would show up at your house if you didn't pick up his calls.(How though? you didn't tell tell him your address?)

You didn't realize it then but your friends were now acting strange.... They were overprotective and always watching you, and you don't know why?

Also your brother was also acting weirdly clingy...

He did introduce you to his friends when you went to visit him, he acted.. Different.

He also told you about people he would go against. One of them was Oikawa-senpai

He was especially clingy when you both accidently ran into Oikawa and Iwaizumi while returning from the cafe you wanted to try.

Wait now that you mention it, Oikawa-senpai and Iwaizumi-senpai were also acting odd, so friendly, as if they didn't make your life hell in Jr high.

What is up with everyone?

Why are they paying attention to you now?

Your new friend, sure it was fine..

But why you former senpai and his friends?

Its okay.. You can just ignore it since you don't live in Miyagi anymore...

But what's up with Kuroko's friends trying to one up each other in front of you? Maybe it's just how they are?

Maybe they just treat each others friends like this? Buying them gifts, telling them their horoscope and giving you your lucky item, giving them sweets?

Yeah they were probably like that to everyone right?

Right...?

No Ulterior motive...

Its not like you were someone special..

You were just plain Kageyama Y/N..

Everyone is so kind to you now...

I WONDER WHY

⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆ ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆

A/N: I'm preparing a part 2 as I post this lol. It was going to be like my Yandere one piece x reader one but I changed it last minute. Anyways the next part will be something special..<3

Masterlist

Stay Safe Healthy and Hydrated. ☆*: .｡. o(≧▽≦)o .｡.:*☆

[stupidlittlespirit]

Idk if this is too much of an ask (but my fiancée and I are huge fans of your MTB series and we're getting married today! Teehee) (and my ass is on tumblr rn instead of getting ready)

Do you have any fun facts that you'd be willing to share about Ford that wouldn't otherwise be brought up in the fics?

Idk if that's a dumb question lol sorry if it is

OMG NO WAY?!!!!!!!!!!!!! CONGRATULATIONS!!!!!!!!!! That's so amazing, also mood being on tumblr when you're supposed to be getting ready lmaooooo!

I hope your day is incredible, I'm toasting my cup of tea to you rn <3

In terms of facts, hmm..... I don't necessarily have anything I can give you in that sense but seeing as it's your freaking WEDDING, I can offer a measly gift of a tiny little unpublished fic for you both. It's really not much, it was just an exercise I did based on puns but.... Fresh from the pages of the Library of Alex-Stan-dria (aka my warm up doc) :

Rating: NSFW (implied) Type: Drabble - part of the Maid to Be AU Pairing: Ford Pines x reader Tags: Word play (??), drinking, teasing, car talk, Stan Pines, Ford Pines Word count: 1422

Tonight, the summer air is thick and cloying as you sit out on the porch of the Pines' house, your feet kicked up on a spare crate and a half empty bottle of cheap beer dangling from your fingers. 

The working day is finally done and every chore has been ticked off of your list just in time for the setting sun to finally recede below the distant horizon. Your back aches and you'd planned to head straight home to soothe your muscles with a warm shower, but life rarely goes as planned whenever you're in the presence of this family. You'd barely even gotten a hand on the front door before Stan had deployed his disarming wiles to sweet talk (see: bully) you into joining he and his brother for a nightcap, and those aches had melted away in the face of an easy time with two of your favourite people. 

The four generously large bottles you've already tanked down are sitting warmly in your stomach and the edges of your vision are ever so slightly skewed in a familiar, pleasantly boozy way. 

Stan is lounging like an overfed housecat in the wicker chair in front of you, a thick lit cigar perched between his lips as he too settles into the effects of a few too many drinks himself. Acrid smoke plumes up and around his head as he brags about his beloved car for the fifth time tonight and his words mingle amongst the crickets and cicadas that sing from the forest’s edge. 

You'd made the mistake of bringing up your personal driving opinions in his presence and now you're being subjected to an earful from him on everything car-related. They're his own personal PhD specialism and you really should have known better than to have tempted the bull with such a red flag.

To Stan's left, his brother sits leisurely in his own weathered rattan chair, watching you both with amused, if glazed, eyes. Ford's been working hard all week on some fancy paper he expects to publish soon and this is his miniature reward for taking a break: a casual kickback free of complex biology and laden with his sibling's charm. You're sure he'd rather be working but when he'd become aware you'd be joining them, it had been enough to seduce him into a few hours of down time. 

Part of you thinks he'd been looking for an excuse to take some time away, but another, prouder part thinks it's sweet that your presence is enough to tempt him into some minor truancy. It doesn't happen often and you're willing to privately take a little credit for it, just this once. 

Ford's usually-prim posture is slackened tonight; the exhaustion wears heavily on his handsome face and though he hasn't had as much to drink as you or Stan, it seems tiredness is enough to mimic mild intoxication. He sprawls in his seat, slumped down, legs open wide, taking up space that he might otherwise be inclined to save. He still looks dashing, though, in your humble opinion. 

His dark eyes flick from Stan to you as you parry one another's quips, but his gaze lingers on you for longer than he might normally allow in such a public setting. It isn't heated, he isn't that far gone just yet, but it's indulgent and it makes you feel hot under the collar all the same.

“No way,” Stan is saying, vigorously shaking his head as he disagrees with your assertion about the drive-ability of your own claptrap car. “My Diablo is the finest old girl you've ever seen. Nothin’ runs as smooth as she does.” 

“You're biased!” you accuse him light-heartedly, pointing a finger at him. “You've never even driven anything else!” 

“That's a valid point,” Ford chimes in helpfully, smirking. “Statistically speaking.”

You toss him a pleased smile and Stan rolls his eyes. Ford's ears tint rouge.

“You drive a shitbox van,” Stan snarks. “What do you know about good cars?” 

“First of all," you say haughtily, offended on your car's behalf. "She isn't a shit box, she's a classic from 1984 and you'll treat her with respect if you want me to keep hauling your stuff about in her.” You stick your tongue out at him as Stan mutters something under his breath about how '84 barely qualifies as historically classic.

“And," you go on with a huff, “I have car knowledge too, thank you very much. It's not like I intend to keep the same car until I die, unlike some people.” 

“Oh yeah?” Stan teases, sounding tickled. “And what do you want? A little Fiat? One of those prissy ass electric cars? You look like the type.” 

Clumsily, you lift your foot off the crate and kick him gently in the side of his shin. He kicks you back. “No, asshole, I want something big. Like a...." You wrack your brains through the rolodex of classic cars adverts you keep saved on your laptop for if you ever win big one day. "An F1-50. A 1950 model with a big fat engine in it.” 

Stan guffaws, gravelly and charmingly demeaning. “That? You're too small for one of those, you'd never be able to handle all that.” 

“What about a Capri? Or a ‘69 Mustang?” you argue back. 

Ford’s smirk grows. It’s less out of understanding (Stan’s the true gearhead here) and more from pure mirth at the fight you’re valiantly putting up. 

“You got a world of options out there, kid, why not expand into something more exotic?” Stan says, punctuating his sentence with a solid puff of his cigar. The gold signet ring on his finger glints in the low light as he flexes his grip around the stem and smoke billows out from his mouth.

You shrug one shoulder and, under the cover of his puffing, your eyes flick to his brother as you say with a smothered smile: “I don't know, I just think Ford's offer the best ride.” 

Stan laughs at the comment, his tipsy mind sailing clean past the double entendre in favour of needling your choice with more dismissive laughter. But your shot hits its mark when Ford almost sloshes his tentative mouthful of warm beer down the front of his sweater at your words.

“No chance,” Stan scoffs, none the wiser. “I bet you've never even driven one.” 

It's your turn to scoff now. “Of course I have,” you say assuredly. “I have plenty of experience.”

No one else knows of the covert sins you commit with the not-always-so-sweet doctor sitting just across from you and the two of you intend to keep it that way for the time being. Still, that doesn’t mean you can’t flirt in the face of danger every now and then. It’s fun to keep Ford on his toes and though you know (hope) you’ll pay for your brazenness later, the opportunity is too enticing to resist. 

You’ll blame that squarely on the drink.

“Oh yeah?” Stan says, swigging his beer. “Like?”

“All sorts. The bigger the better, in my opinion.” You smirk. “But I prefer vintage, myself.” 

To the left of his brother, poor Ford is forcing himself to hide his laughter with a tactfully placed hand over his mouth as he leans on the arm of his chair. He's fortunate that it's dark out here beyond the candles on the patio table because you can tell his face is burning brighter than an ill-prepared sunbather at your words. He shoots you a look (one that is most definitely heated) when Stan pauses to rub smoke from his eyes, but you only return it with a quick, coy smirk that serves to darken his blush further. 

“Vintage breaks down if you don't know how to take good care of it,” Stan says confidently. “I do all my fine tuning myself, y’know.” 

“I rode mine pretty hard but it always held up well,” you say, trying to bite back the grin that threatens to take over your face. “I’m a gentle hand when I want to be. I’d do just fine with something like that, trust me.” 

Stan’s nose wrinkles in annoyance at the smoke and he chases its burn away, smartly, with more drink. “Nah,” he says, shaking his head. “I don’t think you’d be able to deal with that much raw power.”

You spare Ford a very subtle, well timed look that he meets with equal revelry.

“You know, I think you’d be surprised at what I can handle….”

MAZEL TOV! Sorry it's not much but I hope it's enough for you to glance at when you get the chance! <3 Sending you all the love in the world!

[youryurigoddess]

Thy Kingdom Airways

Attention all passengers, please fasten your seatbelts. We are preparing for take-off. This time our analytic journey will revolve around planes as a recurring motif in Good Omens 2 and possibly Good Omens 3. Since a part of this post will add some new crumbs of information about the ongoing production to the discourse, please make sure to spoiler tag your replies accordingly.

We’re starting literally at the beginning, AND YES, I’m painfully aware that this is my third time breaking apart this particular scene from the new title sequence (Peter Anderson, I’m in your walls). We’re witnesses to the Second Coming brought to us via Thy Kingdom Airways.

And this big silver plane is actually a part of some good old — literally 20-year-old — spoilers from the never published Good Omens sequel:

Director Douglas Mackinnon personally chose the poster for A Matter of Life and Death / Stairway to Heaven (1946) to appear here as well. The movie itself is referenced multiple times in both seasons of the show, but what interests us here is the fact that its MC is a British pilot who dies in a plane crash.

He gets another chance at life due to an angel’s error and eventually must argue for his life before a celestial court, hoping to prolong his fledgling romance with a radio operator who shared his last moments on Earth over the airwaves.

Douglas is also responsible for the movie playing in the background of The Resurrectionist pub scene in S02E06 — The Spirit of St. Louis (1957), a biopic of Charles Lindbergh, the pilot who made the first nonstop solo flight from New York to Paris.

To finish the transatlantic flight, Lindbergh has to stay awake for 33 hours (33 happens to be biblically significant, i.a. as the age of the crucified Jesus). He succeeds by talking to a fly that had buzzed into the cockpit and reminiscing to it about his life (via flashbacks).

Once an accident, twice a coincidence, three times a pattern, right? So there’s a plane. And a character traveling through time and space to navigate some dangerous circumstances. Looking for help or… clues? The danger is either their own feelings or something more ominous here.

Flash-forward to 2025. It might be completely off, but considering the overall panic I think it’s worth mentioning that I found some crumbs of information suggesting a Good Omens film shoot with a certain amount of angels at an airport right now.

I was casually screening the extras’ profiles for Good Omens 3 the other day, as one does to learn that e.g., one of them is a professional contortionist (really!) and after a while, it came to my attention that a few of the profiles repeated mentions of “angels”, “2nd unit angels”, and “airport” across a few days in late February. Interestingly, some of them also listed sword fighting skills and law enforcement background underneath.

The implications seem obvious to anyone familiar with the plot of the unpublished Good Omens sequel and what I just shared above: please take a minute of your time to consider Aziraphale in a new suit, new hairstyle, a headset, and surrounded by at least one unit of angelic bodyguards in dark glasses.

Now, the filming dates in question consist of days and months only, so technically could also refer to their Good Omens 2 work since some (not all) of the extras were also employed by the show at the time. And Heaven’s corridors scenes could be shot at an airport instead of a studio, right? But the thing is, the background angels seen on screen in S2… don’t seem to match the profiles I found.

A perfunctory social media screening revealed one mention of Boeing 737 interior scenes filmed this month in the area, at Dunsfold Aerodrome. Is this connected? No idea, but if at least some of my speculations are correct, a follow-up exterior shoot at an airport would make sense.

Another interesting crumb that may or may not be related in some way is this photograph from the set shared by Guy Spangler, a professional dressing props specialist and armourer on Good Omens 3. Not quite the big silver plane of Thy Kingdom Airways we’re waiting for, but still!

[gelphiebigbang2025]

🌟 Gelphie Big Bang 2025 FAQ 🌟

Welcome to the Gelphie Big Bang 2025! This event is all about bringing together writers and artists to create collaborative, high-quality fanworks centered on the relationship between Elphaba and G(a)linda (Gelphie/Gelphaba) from Wicked—whether you’re inspired by the musical, the movie, the book, or your head canons come from a mix of all three. Welcome and thanks for joining!

❓ Gelphie Big Bang FAQs:❓

🧹 What’s a Big Bang?

A Big Bang is a fandom event/challenge where writers craft a long-form fanfic (minimum 10k words), and artists are matched to them to create visual art of all different kinds, inspired by their story. At the end of the challenge, both the story and the art are revealed together—(with a BANG! <- pun intended)

This is a classic Big Bang.

📚 Writers: What You Need to Know

Minimum word count: 10,000 words.

Your fic must focus on Gelphie as the primary ship. Other characters and relationships are welcome, but Elphaba/G(a)linda must be the emotional heart of the story.

Genres, Crossovers, and AUs are absolutely welcome—bring on the gothic dramas, soulmate AUs, non-magical AUs, There's nothing wrong in Oz, Elphaba had caring parents, Gangster 1920s AUs, and more.

No previously published work. You must write a brand new fic specifically for this event. Though, if you have a fic that you have not updated in at least 6 months that you'd like to use this as a means of inspiration to get you to finish it, those will be considered on a case by case basis.

First drafts must be actual drafts, not just outlines. They must be at least 6,000 words and include the full arc (beginning, middle, and end). You can polish after matching, but give your artist something real to work with!

Final fics go live during the reveal period only. No sharing snippets or edits early unless scheduled as part of the Big Bang and requested by this blog/Mod. In short, no early posting. You’ll get instructions closer to the deadline for how to post to AO3.

🎨 Artists: What You Need to Know

You’ll be matched with a story that inspires you—based on a blind summary selection process (you won’t know the author’s name when choosing). This will need to be a first come first serve basis, as all fics need to be paired.

Art requirements:

Images must be at least 400x600px.

Videos must be at least 1 minute long.

Fanmixes must include cover + back art (400x400px min) and at least 6 songs with accessible links.

Any type of visual or audio fanart is welcome: digital art, traditional art, manips, vids, music, fanmixes, etc.

Your work must be original and unpublished before the reveal date. No reposting old works.

Some flexibility with edits is okay after matching, but talk with your writer before making big changes.

Art will go live during the reveal period. Please wait to crosspost off AO3 until reveals are complete so both fic and art can shine (in a galindified approved) way!

🛠️ How to Post on AO3

There will be an AO3 collection to publish both fic and art. If you don’t have an AO3 account, I can help you get one!

Once you submit, your work will be unrevealed (hidden from the public) until the official reveal date.

You’ll be able to edit your submission until reveals begin.

You can crosspost your work anywhere (Tumblr, Instagram, FFN, etc.) after reveals are done.

💔 What if I Need to Drop Out?

Life happens! If you need to drop out, please do so before you are matched with a partner. That way, no one is left hanging mid-process. I’ll communicate drop-out deadlines clearly via email and this Tumblr. If you drop out respectfully and in time, you’re absolutely welcome to join us for future Gelphie events! In the event that you need to drop out after you've been paired with someone, that is where a Pinch-Hitter will come in.

🚨 Important Rules

No plagiarism. That includes fic, art, AND AI-generated content that replicates others’ work. If your submission is found to use AI it will be removed.

If you suspect plagiarism, please do not report it unless you have clear evidence, such as a side-by-side comparison.

👥 Roles You Can Sign Up For

📝 Writers

You’ll write a 10k+ Gelphie fic, submit a draft for artist matching, and collaborate with your artist until final posting.

🎨 Artists

You’ll review fic summaries, claim one that inspires you, and create a beautiful piece of fanart to match.

✏️ Beta Readers

Betas help writers edit and polish their drafts! You can sometimes serve as a source of help or inspiration when the creative juices stop flowing. You’ll check for grammar, plot holes, character voice, pacing, and overall coherence. You can sign up as a beta reader even if you’re not a writer or artist!

📣 Cheerleaders

Cheerleaders are the supportive backbone of the Bang! You’ll encourage writers and artists, help brainstorm through blocks, and be a friendly hype machine for the writers/artists.

🦸 Pinch-Hitters

The heroes who step in if a writer or artist drops out after the match. You’ll be contacted only if needed and asked if you’re available. Flexible, low-pressure, but extremely appreciated!

🔁 Can I Sign Up for More Than One Role?

Absolutely! You can write AND beta, or make art AND cheerlead—just make sure you have time to commit to each role responsibly.

🎭 Anonymity and Reveals

All fics and art will be posted anonymously until the end of the event. There will be 2–3 creation reveals per day during the reveal period so that everyone gets a spotlight moment. You’re welcome to crosspost your work afterward wherever you like!

📅 Key Dates (Draft below!)

DRAFT TIMELINE: (which will be updated as needed)

📝 May 11 – Writer & Artist Sign-Ups Close ✅ End of May – Check-In #1 + Writing Sprint Weekend 🖋️ Early June – Writer Rough Drafts & Final Summaries Due 📅 Mid June – Writers & Artists need to submit Match Forms 🧹 End of June - Last opportunity for drop outs  🫧 Early July - Sneak Peak #1 🎨 Early July – Artist Claims Open 💌 Mid July – Matches Announced! 🧹 Early August – Check-In #2 + Sprint Weekend 🫧 Mid August - Sneak Peak #2 ✅ Mid September – Final Fic Drafts Due 🖼️ Mid October – Final Art Due 🫧 Mid October - Sneak Peak #3 📅 October 23 – Posting Schedule Announced 🎉 October 30 – Posting Begins!

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Check out this AMAZING Comic by one of our talented Artists/Creators, troy_and_h_art (IG):

❓Still Have Questions?

Feel free to reach out to to us here at anytime! I'm happy to help—whether you're wondering how to write your first draft or how to link a fanmix on AO3.

[noblecorgi]

2024: A Re-Entry to Fandom

I guess this is a thing? (Oh shit this brackets bit was written at the end and I appear to have emotionally vomited an essay. Sorry ‘bout that.)

In late 2023 I experienced a personal tragedy and retreated to where I had always found comfort: books.

I read a series that had been recommended to me before, but I hadn’t had time to read it - The Simon Snow Trilogy by @rainbowrowell and it awoke a dormant-but-never-forgotten love of fanfiction in me.

In my teens and early 20s I wrote a lot of fan fiction on the ol’ FF net, all of it of atrocious quality I’m certain, which is why I haven’t tried to rediscover that account.

Instead I found AO3, and restarted regularly writing for fun instead of for work or study/research.

I didn’t do any summation for 2023 because I think my first fic was posted on like 10 December 2023, but AO3 tells me I wrote 4 works, all SnowBaz, at a total of 55,154 words.

In 2024, I’ve published 5 works, at a total of 94,323 words.

What truly blows me away (and honestly makes me a bit teary) is the 1013 kudos, 100 subscribers (inc 15 subscribers to just me rather than a fic!), and 222 comment threads on my works. 🥹

So: my 2024 works.

Use your words, SnowBaz, Rated: E, 3,930 words

A smutty lil gift fic wherein Baz teaches Simon how to sext.

Splendid Morons, SnowBaz, Rated: E, 12,886 words

Published for Erotic Grope Fest, aka Baz’s birthday. A collaboration with @alexalexinii and a story written to enable their amazing art of Baz in lingerie.

Precious to me for not only getting to work with Alex, but also for being the beginning of my relationship with Becky @rbkzz, my incomparable beta who has become one of the dearest people in my life.

On The Rocks, SnowBaz, Rated: E, 74,592 words (WIP)

My opus, as it were. It originated from a fluffy cute prompt of “what if Baz and Lady Ruth were work besties?!” And I came along like “YEAH! But with trauma, exploration of love in mental illness, and alcoholism!”

I began posting it in March and it’s about 2/3 done now. But for Becky it would be both an absolute pile of horse poop, and an abandoned WIP. Instead it has a clear direction and she found motifs that I’d repeatedly used by accident in my drafts and built imagery, greater meaning, and also debated me ad nauseam on my preference for spelt over spelled.

Immune Response, @lumosinlove’s Cubs, Rated: G, 1,421 words

I was a big consumer of WolfStar in my teens and was recommended Lumosinlove’s Sweater Weather and, like many before me, fell in love with the story, the original characters, and ice hockey itself (much to the surprised glee of my Canadian spouse, who for a decade has tried in vain to get me on board. Little did he know the key was obviously gays.)

This is a lil’ slice of life sick fic examining how each of the Cubs responds to getting sick.

I have a lot more unpublished drabbles about these characters and some fics that are being cocreated so stay tuned for 2025?

Preliminary, my dear Basil, SnowBaz, Rated: T, 1,494 words

A gift fic for @martsonmars as part of the Carry On Discord’s Secret Snowflake Exchange.

Among their suggestions was “Sherlock AU, but not BBC Sherlock, 19th century Sherlock” and it hooked me with the idea that Baz would absolutely fancy himself as Sherlock. I actually sketched out a plot to SnowBazify 4 of the Holmes stories, so maybe 2025 will see them unearthed.

There is one other published fic I worked on this year, but as a beta rather than a writer for @swoopswrites @rsbigbang piece Class A which was super fun to do (and got me to watch a great series - The Gentlemen on Netflix) and Swoops has a fantastic mind so I’d encourage you to to check it out.

Finally, I have always been a writer rather than an artist, but I do enjoy drawing, and the need to upgrade my iPad for work arose and so I also tried my hand at drawing again for the first time since I was 17 or so.

In order from the first one to the most recent one, the lil scribbles I did this year:

Penelope Bunce, Wolfstar on a train, Baz with coffee, cuddly Cubs, FinnLo being adorable, iconic Moony with a cane, emo Sirius Black.

And THAT was 2024 (and 2023).

@artsyunderstudy @asocialpessimist @angelsfalling16 @whatevertheweather @edenalix @emjaydellyone @erzbethluna @emeryhall @run-for-chamo-miles @raenestee @rimeswithpurple @roomwithanopenfire @thehoneyedhufflepuff @theearlgreymage @thewholelemon @lonleyhumanbeing @letraspal @you-remind-me-of-the-babe @youarenevertooold @iamamythologicalcreature @ichooseyousnowbaz @ic3-que3n @ileadacharmedlife @onepintobean @palimpsessed @prettygoododds @philaet0s @pacey-bunce-loves-joey @sorenphelps @skee3000 @stitchy-queerista @fiend-for-culture @facewithoutheart @fruitcoops @girlwithcurls96 @hushed-chorus @hihimissamericanbi @cutestkilla @cosmicalart @confused-bi-queer @noopienoopiernoopiest @messofthejess @monbons

[torchlitinthedesert]

There’s something very strange about Paul’s usual “how John and I started writing” narrative. Here’s how he likes to describe it:

Me and John knowing each other, the fact that both of us independently had already started to write little songs... I said to him, “What’s your hobby?” I said, “I like songwriting,” and he said, “Oh, so do I.” You know, no one I’d ever met had ever said that as a reply. And we said, “Well, why don’t you play me yours and I’ll play you mine.” GQ, 2020

It’s my impression that this is now in the rotation of Paul Stories - I think he says it in McCartney 3,2,1, and in other interviews. Is it true? The earliest accounts contradict it:

“Paul’s first public performance, as a member of the Quarrymen, was at a dance… later on, after the dance, he played a couple of tunes to John he had written himself. Since he’d started playing the guitar, he had tried to make up a few of his own little tunes. The first tune he played to John that evening was called ‘I Lost My Little Girl’. Not to be outdone, John immediately started making up his own tunes.”

Hunter Davies, The Beatles, 1968

“‘I learned a lot from Paul. He taught me quite a lot of guitar really. He knew more about how to play than I did and he showed me a lot of chords. I’d been playing the guitar like a banjo so I had to learn it again. I didn’t write much material early on, less than Paul, because he was quite competent on guitar. I started to write after Paul did a song he’d written.’”

John Lennon to Ray Connolly, unpublished interview, 1970*

"He used to write songs before I even started writing songs."

John Lennon, St Regis interview, 1971

*[The Connolly quote is weaker as a source, because was published after John’s death (and he quotes it slightly differently: “I started to write after Paul did a song he’d written” is in Connolly’s John biography, but not in the version in his collected Beatle journalism). But it fits with the other accounts.]

Still, Paul’s version might have some truth in it. Mark Lewisohn cites a couple of 1971 interviews where John remembers trying to write a calypso song, tapping into a brief craze of spring 1957. I don’t know if he finished it, or told anyone about it. None of the Quarrymen mention it, while Pete Shotton told Bob Spitz that John was “floored” when Paul first played him one of his own songs. But the calypso story does make “so do I” seem more possible.

It’s still surprising that Paul wants to frame it this way. He’d be justified in pointing out that songwriting was his innovation, something he brought to the band. By any measure, he’s the one who started it: when he met John, he’d already written the melody of When I'm 64, plus Suicide and I Lost My Little Girl. And he was always prolific. As John told David Sheff, talking about I’ll Follow The Sun, “he had a lot of stuff”, “written almost before the Beatles, I think.” He was the one pushing to do their own material, whether that’s talking it up to music promoters or suggesting In Spite of All The Danger at their first amateur recording session. (To me, that suggests that Lennon-McCartney was established later than they tended to admit. In Spite of All The Danger, recorded in 1958, has George as cowriter; if Paul had written anything with John, I bet that's what he'd have suggested they record. And if John on his own had written something that was ready to record, they’d definitely have picked that. )

In the 1950s, writing your own material was groundbreaking: it’s part of the huge cultural shift into the 1960s. There were hundreds of skiffle/rock’n’roll bands in Liverpool, but it’s genuinely possible that Paul was the only songwriter among them. Why isn’t that the story he wants to tell?

When Paul started defending his legacy in the late 1980s, he was fighting against specific distortions. First, that he was the middle-of-the-road conservative one - which is why he lays out his avant garde credentials. So you’d think he’d want to remind everybody that he wrote songs first. But second, he’s up against the idea that he and John didn’t love each other, that they didn’t write together, that Lennon-McCartney was a myth. Paul is a rock star, with an ego to match; he’s not given to downplaying himself. But he wants the partnership more than he wants precedence, even more than he wants credit for innovation.

And he always did. Remember the story about John sharing half his chocolate bar? Paul joined the band, and shared half his songs.

He didn’t need to: he was already writing alone. If he wanted help, George was more musically accomplished, and would have been a more logical choice for a songwriting partner. But it's John whose attention and praise Paul needed, John who had the authority to say they’d play Paul’s songs, John who needed to feel like the most important person in the band. Becoming Lennon-McCartney formalises all of that. And Paul is still true to it.

Across decades, Paul has been consistent about promoting their partnership as a partnership, regardless of who did what. (This isn’t true of John, who by the late 1960s was eager to break down who wrote which song, which lyric, which middle eight.) After working with George Martin on the string arrangement for Yesterday, Paul signed the score: “"Yesterday" by Paul McCartney John Lennon George Martin Esq and Mozart.” Even as a joke, you don’t separate Lennon and McCartney. Ken Mansfield asked Paul why songs were “Lennon-McCartney” when John hadn’t been there for the writing process:

And Paul said: “John and I are so close to each other, we’ve been through so much together, we understand each other so much, our relationship is so deep, that when we’re songwriting,” he said, “even if I’m 6,000 miles away, I can be working on something and I can hear John over my shoulder going, ‘No, no, no, that’s not gonna work; why don’t we do this?’ Or ‘Hey, I like this.’” He said, “So, in essence, to me, we’re songwriting together even if we’re not together.”

Ken was asking about Ob-La-Di Ob-La-Da, not realising that John was there for that one: they worked on it in India. But rather than giving a practical answer, Paul chooses to frame the partnership as a profound connection. (Of course there are other times Paul insists on or overstates his contribution, or gets petty about who did what. He’s human, and he’s an egomaniac. But always, always within the framework that this was a partnership.)

Fundamentally, he’s loyal to Lennon-McCartney. “So do I” matters more to him than going first. It might not be literally true, but it's the emotional truth that he needs.

[foolishlovers]

soo apparently, i've written over 400k words of crowley and aziraphale flirting and falling in love with each other this year

holy shit???

it's been a wild ride but i'm proud of the fics i've written:

only lovers in the building - 1.8k, T

at the q&a session for crowley and aziraphale's murder mystery podcast, their listeners seem far more interested in the unsolved mystery of their relationship than their latest case. it’s time to tackle one final puzzle.

out of the blue - 3.6k, E

while crowley braces for yet another goodbye, aziraphale is determined to stay and bestow his love upon the demon tonight.

wasting my time (chasing the high) - 3.7k, T

an exes to lovers fic in which crowley - while touring and playing music all over europe - needs to find the courage to talk to aziraphale again. 

where a canvas blooms - 3.8k, T

this is the first part of a series (that i'll hopefully continue in the new year) in which gardener!crowley and bookseller!aziraphale have a cuddling arrangement. and it certainly is just a platonic arrangement. right?

a lasting impression - 4k, T

crowley's dull shift at the pasta bar takes an unexpected twist when the charming bookseller from the shop around the corner drops by.

good game, good girl - 5.1k, E

footballer!crowley and coach!aziraphale aren't just discussing tactics in crowley's hostel room... ineffable wives body worship, basically.

third time's the charm - 6.7k, T

after the almost apocalypse, it seems crowley and aziraphale need a bit of a push to finally confess their feelings. mutual pining, a dowling era flashback and some (magical) hijinks and shenanigans.

the anon before christmas epilogue - 8.5k, E

florist!crowley and bookseller!aziraphale go on their first date after their mutual hatred has turned into mutual affection over the holidays.

spread you wings - 10.1k, E

an ineffable wives enemies to lovers model au in which a photoshoot mishap traps crowley and aziraphale in a studio overnight.

every part of me - 10.4k, T

a hannah montana au featuring genderfluid rockstar!crowley and his best friend aziraphale who has been kept in the dark about crowley's secret for a long time... until one fateful night.

lips don't lie - 12.7k, E

an ineffable wives enemies to lovers actresses au in which they're both invited to an exclusive lipstick launch. tensions boil over.

not where the storyline ends - 14.4k, T

crowley (cranky and overworked) interviews aziraphale (joyous and totally unqualified) for a position in the publishing house he's working at. crowley's sure their paths will never cross again, but christmas still has a few surprises left in store for him.

just up the stairs - 19.4k (of 39.1k), E

a valentine's day fic featuring grumpy!crowley and caring!aziraphale, harry (the most adorable rabbit), and a quiet, gentle and romantic dinner. 

something good and right and real - 30.8k, T

singer-songwriter!crowley and baker!aziraphale meet again when crowley returns to his detested hometown for a much needed break. featuring an abundance of autumnal activities, witty children and a second chance for love.

moonstruck - 31.1k (23.4k yet to be published), M

grumpy botany professor and single parent!crowley falls in love with cherubic bartender!aziraphale as he keeps visiting his favourite midnight café. meet-ugly turning into friends to lovers.

tales of turning pages - 73.4k, E

a small town au in which novelist!crowley and librarian!aziraphale fall in love as crowley keeps coming back to aziraphale's library. lots of (un)resolved sexual tension, found family and romance book recs.

wild hearts - 145.5k, E

a friends to lovers boarding school au in which biology teacher!crowley and english teacher!aziraphale team up to lead the school's new theatre club. featuring lots of pining, student shenanigans and a dearly beloved cat.

unpublished works - 20k

mix of oneshots and chaptered fics i'm still working on

i think it's also time to get a little sappy and review the writing experiences i've made this year...

(some of the) things i loved writing about this year: happy endings, anathema being a beautiful menace, gender fuckery and tons of trans characters, long-haired!crowley and bearded!aziraphale, librarians, authors and musicians, pepper, adam and warlock being mischievous little troublemakers, purple clothes, flowers and notes, sexually charged dancing scenes, aziraphale’s gorgeous thighs and tummy, crowley’s praise kink, taylor swift references, “ngk”, crowley and aziraphale being good with kids and bad at feelings, cosy cuddles and smart cats, all the sappy romance stuff and so so much found family. thank you to all the lovely and wonderful people who read my fics, who shared them on tumblr or with their friends, who gave kudos and wrote the kindest comments, making my days so much brighter and encouraging me to write more. and more. and more! every ao3 email and every tumblr notification is a blessing to me, it means the world to know that my stories are being read and enjoyed! and thank you to my writer friends who’ve continuously supported me throughout this entire year, who listened to countless voice notes of me messily attempting to plot fics, who made time to read first drafts and outlines during the busiest of weeks, who held my hand through writing emotional scenes breaking my own heart in the middle of the night, who supplied me with plenty of inspiration and laughter, who helped me fix many spelling/ grammar mistakes and the weirdest plot holes, who are always eager to hear about my next silly idea. again and again and again.

very excited to see where 2025 will take my writing 💜

[uwmspeccoll]

Milestone Monday

Orphic Views

On this day, March 31, 1889, the Eiffel Tower officially opened. Designed by engineer Gustave Eiffel (1832-1923), it was constructed between 1887 and 1889 as part of the 1889 Exposition Universelle (World's Fair) held in Paris to celebrate the 100th anniversary of the French Revolution. Initially, the tower faced significant criticism from prominent Parisians and artists who deemed it an eyesore. Nonetheless, it swiftly became a cherished symbol of Paris and France, attracting millions of visitors each year. The tower has three levels, with restaurants on the first and second levels and an observation deck on the third, offering breathtaking views of the city. Today, the Eiffel Tower stands as one of the most recognizable landmarks in the world.

The images shown are from Les Tours Eiffel by Robert Delaunay. This work features artwork created by Robert Delaunay (1885-1941), along with previously unpublished poems by renowned and influential poets of the early 20th century. It includes a preface by Jean Cassou (1897-1986), the first director of the National Museum of Modern Art in Paris, who was also a French art critic and poet. It was printed in an edition of 1,150 in Brussels in 1974 by the team of Robert de Velder.

The Jacques Damase Gallery published this work in Paris in 1974. Jacques Damase (1930-2014) founded his publishing house in 1948, making him the youngest publisher in the world at the time, at just 17 years old. Under his direction, the gallery became known for its dedication to avant-garde literature and art, helping to promote the works of both established and emerging artists. This collection stands as a testament to the vibrant dialogue between visual art and literature during a transformative period in European cultural history.

Some of the poets in this collection are notable for their ties to surrealism. French writers and poets André Breton (1896-1966) and Philippe Soupault (1897-1990) co-founded the Surrealist movement, aiming to explore the unconscious mind and challenge the conventional boundaries of art and literature. Guillaume Apollinaire (1880-1918) is regarded as one of the leading poets of the 20th century and is credited with coining the terms “Surrealism,” “Cubism,” and “Orphism,” showcasing the intersection of visual art and poetry in contemporary movements. Louis Aragon (1897-1982), a French novelist, editor, and poet, was one of France's prominent voices in the Surrealist movement and was deeply involved in both literature and political activism, often reflecting these themes in his works.

Other notable poets included in this collection are Jean Arp, known for his contributions to both Dada and Surrealism; Blaise Cendrars, whose adventurous spirit and modernist style reshaped poetry; Tristan Tzara, a founder of Dada who sought to disrupt traditional artistic norms; Joseph Delteil, whose work often focused on the themes of nature and humanity; and René Crevel, whose works often depicted existential themes.

Robert Delaunay (1885-1941) was a French artist who co-founded the Orphism art movement, which emphasized the use of color and light to evoke emotion and create a sense of movement. Guillaume Apollinaire noted the musical quality in Delaunay's work, coining "Orphic Cubism" or "Orphism." This name draws inspiration from the Greek god Orpheus, renowned for his ability to captivate animals with enchanting music played on the lyre. Delaunay saw the Eiffel as a symbol of modernity and masculinity. He was among the first artists to focus his work on this iconic landmark, portraying it numerous times in his work, including his famous series of paintings that capture its dynamic forms and colors.

-View more Milestone Monday posts

--Melissa, Special Collections Library Assistant

[the-centennial-husbands-bigbang]

We are happy to introduce you all to the Centennial Husbands' Big Bang!

We wish you a warm welcome to the Centennial Husbands Big Bang!

This is a Big Bang challenge focused around all things Dreamling (Dream of the Endless/Hob Gadling) from the Sandman comics and show, brought to you by the @mr-sadman Modteam!

Without further adue, here are all of the details!!

Our stance on plagiarism and AI 

We do not accept nor condone the use of plagiarism, including the use of AI, whether in writing or art. If you are caught using either, you will be disqualified from the current event and barred entry for the other events the Mr. Sadman team puts forward.

General Rules and Informations

Anyone is welcome to participate! 

Fear you can’t make it yet? Sign-ups for pinch-hitters will be open later during the event!

You can sign up both as an artist and a writer!! That said, we do not want you to bite more than you can chew, be careful and conscious of the event’s schedule!

Joining the Mr. Sadman discord is strongly advised, as there will be event related channels and roles available, but not required. Please make sure to give us another reliable and quick way to get a hold of you in the case that you don’t join the server/don’t use discord often!

If you are under the age of 18, you will not be able to create explicit content for the event. As a general rule, Mr. Sadman is a 16+ server, be aware of this fact!

The Mr. Sadman Modteam is a firm believer of “ship and let ship” as well as the kinktomato (https://fanlore.org/wiki/Kinktomato). As such, and in accordance with the Server’s existing rules, we will not tolerate any discrimination and harassment in any forms whatsoever. This includes : queerphobia, homophobia, racism, content policing, hate speech, doxxing, shaming, etc. 

What’s a Big Bang?

What’s a Big Bang?

Glad you asked! This is a challenge where writers come up with a 15k+ words fic and get paired with a just-as-enthusiastic artist that accompanies their written work with a piece of art! A detailed schedule spanning around 4 months will be available down this post, fear not! 

15k is a lot of words, is there any other way that, as a writer, I can participate?

There is! We are offering a beta-reader partnering system as well as a Mini Bang!

What’s a Mini Bang?

This is a challenge similar to a Big Bang where you write a piece under 15k words! Do note that the Mini Bang does not come with art like the Big Bang does!

Why does the Mini Bang don’t include art?

This is the less stressful option for writers who still want to participate in the event! Less stress for the writers and none for the artists! That said, this might be revised if an important number of artists sign up!

I don’t think my Big Bang fic is gonna reach 15k, can I downgrade to the Mini Bang?

Yes! You will be able to downgrade until December 2nd, a few weeks before drafts are due and artist pairing starts!

I think my Mini Bang fic is gonna be longer than 15k, can I upgrade to the Big Bang?

Yes! You will be able to upgrade until December 2nd, a few weeks before drafts are due and artist pairing starts!

Rules and requirements

For Writers

What are the requirements for my fic? 

Your fic must be an unpublished, completely new work! It needs to be able to stand on its own (meaning that sequels and crossovers/fusions are allowed, but your fic must be able to be read on its own!) and must meet the minimum word count requirement, which is  15k words. It is also strongly recommended for no parts of your work to have been already published elsewhere (even small snippets)!

It is also mandatory that you keep your work a secret - this is to assure an anonymous art claim process and is very important. If you talk about your work in any public way (this includes our discord server), your violation will be discussed amongst the mod team and could result in potential removal from the event!

Does it have to focus on a romantic pairing?

Not at all! Your fic can be platonic, romantic, neither or all of the above, as long as it focuses on the relationship between Dream and Hob!

Does my fic have to be beta-read?

While it is not mandatory, we strongly encourage you to use a beta reader during your writing process! Don’t have a beta reader already? We offer a beta-reader pairing system! Just make sure to fill in the appropriate section in the sign-up form to indicate that you are in need of betaing!

My friend and I want to co-author a fic, is that alright?

Hell yeah! We love collaboration! Simply make sure to indicate it on each of your sign-up forms (meaning that each one of you needs to fill a form)!! The word count requirement is still 15k (even if you are one, two, three or more, yes!) and keep in mind, though, that you will not receive more art because there are more authors!

Can I have a secondary pairing in my fic?

Yes! As long as the focus of your fic is Dream/Hob, go ham!

Can I write threesomes, foursomes, polycules?

Yes! As long as the focus of your fic is Dream/Hob, please do!!

Can I write RPF (Tom Sturridge/Ferdinand Kingsley)?

Yes! 

What can’t I write, then?

Anything is fair game as long as it is properly tagged and/or warned for! Major content warnings (such as AO3 dictates) must also be applied properly! There is only one exception to this : work depicting real life children (such as the actors’), which is not allowed.

What if I have a fic that I’ve been working on but never posted?

You can totally use it! As long as your work remains unpublished, it’s fair game!

Can I write something for NaNoWriMo and use it as my submission?

Hell yeah!! As long as it’s unpublished and meets the word requirements!!

I’m so excited for this event that I want to write two fics, is that all right?

We never say no to more cake! Please do keep in mind that you’ll still have to respect the schedule for both works at the same time!

As the author, do I have a say in what my paired artist creates?

In short : no. While we do encourage collaboration, this is not a commission process. The artist has free reign on what they want to create that is inspired by your fic. If you can write what you want, then your artist can create what they want!

Can I already pair up with an artist friend?

Absolutely! Just make sure you tell us in the sign up form!

I don’t like my paired artist and/or what my artist has created.

While this is unfortunate, your artist has spent their own energy and free time to create their piece. To dismiss them and their efforts is plain rude. The mods will not step in and give you another artist simply because you are not pleased with your match. Your artist deserves your thanks, not your ire. 

What are authors check-ins?

Be not afraid! These are mostly touch points for the modteam to make sure everyone is still on board and on schedule! That said, these are mandatory! Failure to respond to check-ins will disqualify you from participating in the current event.

What if I can’t meet a deadline?

Please make sure to inform a mod as soon as you know! Accommodations might be worked out depending on the situation. We simply ask you to be considerate to your fellow artists, it is unfair to them to back out as they had already started working on their pieces!

Where do I post my fic?

We ask you to post your story to the AO3 collection! You are free, after that, to post it anywhere else you’d like and/or prefer! There, you will also be able to embed and link to your artist’s piece(s)!

For Artists

What kind of art can I make?

Anything from traditional or digital drawing, to photomanips, fanvids, podfics, songwriting, book binding and more! We only ask you to put some effort into it, after all, your author has worked hard on their piece as well! 

A few exceptions include : playlists, icons and banners. These, while being a nice and fun bonus for your author, can’t be counted as your primary piece!

How much art do I have to make? 

You are required to make one piece of art! But if you are inspired, more are definitely welcome!

What are the minimum requirements for my art?

A minimum of 500px by 500px piece for visual pieces. A minimum of 2 minutes for digital pieces. 

*If your art doesn’t fit within these parameters, an agreement can be reached between mod, author and artist as to what could be considered equivalent/sufficient. 

How will I be able to claim a fic?

Art claims will be held from January 6th to 10th to give authors the time to complete a first draft as well as send in a summary of their work. We ask you to be readily available to answer messages during that time period as the process will be held on a “first come first served” basis. You will receive a link to the claiming form at the beginning of this period. 

Can I already pair up with a writer friend?

Absolutely! Just make sure to tell us in the signing up form!

How do I get in touch with my writer?

Fear not, the mods will place you in contact with your partner once pairing is done!

What are artists’ check-ins?

Be not afraid! These are mostly touch points for the modteam to make sure everyone is still on board and on schedule! That said, these are mandatory! Failure to respond to check-ins will disqualify you from participating in the current event.

What if I can’t meet a deadline?

Please make sure to inform a mod as soon as you know! Accommodations might be worked out depending on the situation. We simply ask you to be considerate to your fellow writers, it is unfair to them to back out as they had already started working on their pieces!

Where do I post my art?

From your designated host (whether that’s tumblr, pillowfort, etc.) so that it can be embedded into AO3! We simply ask you to use the relevant tags and link back to your writer’s story!

I’m not a writer nor an artist, but I wish to help. What can I do?

You are very welcome to join us as a beta reader! Every author has different betaing needs, but betaing ranges from cheering your author on, to making sure their grammar and spelling is tip-top! This is an event-long commitment, so make sure you know this before signing up! You are also very welcome to share any relevant information about the Big Bang and join us on Mr. Sadman for all things Sandman!!

Event Schedule

Sign-ups : September 18th to October 21rst First Check-in : October 28th Second Check-in : November 18th Upgrade/Downgrade for Mini Bang/Big Bang : December 2nd Third Check-in/First Draft+Summary due : December 22nd Holiday Pause : December 23rd to January 3rd Art claims : January 6th-10th Art Pairings Masterpost : January 11th Pinch-hitter Signups : January 29th to February 2nd Fourth Check-in : February 3rd  Pinch-hitter post : February 4th Final draft : February 25th Posting dates : March 1rst to 3rd

I want to Sign Up!!

You can fill the form and sign up here : https://forms.gle/2RwZrPNxs4Y95oLS9

I need help, how do I reach a mod?

If there is something that is not covered by our rules masterpost and/or FAQ, you are very free to DM us here, on tumblr!

We are also available on email at mrsadmandiscord@gmail.com and on discord at Mr. Sadman

That said, the dedicated mods for this event are Winter, Aria, Ches and Britt!

Have fun and keep the Dreamling on!!

[librarycards]

Do you have any tips on falling back in love with writing? I've been struggling for a while now both with becoming disillusioned with the whole indie/litmag scene (got a poem published once, not sure if its ever going to happen again/if I'll ever start submitting again) and feeling like everything I write is "cringe" or not "real" writing despite the fact that in years previous I wrote poetry joyfully and almost constantly.

i think the #1 key to falling and staying in love with writing is to wholly detach the practice from publishing and submitting - these are two different animals requiring two affective registers and skillsets!

part of this is sitting with yourself and asking why you're writing, and who for -- if you find yourself constantly internally critiquing and thinking "no editor will ever want this," it may be time to put that project down and start something you don't want to submit, something personal and cringe but important to you. one method i have for starting these types of projects is reading or rereading an interesting text and just riffing on it, copying/paraphrasing lines if you have to, writing as "stealing" as eileen myles would put it. again, it can be dumb and bad and unpublishable, but it allows you to be creative with a sense of freedom and abandon. it's for you.

something else you may want to consider is finding a writing group open to reading your stuff, regardless of whether you ever submit it anywhere. i have some friends who post writing on their IG, and some discord servers where people share their work. it's normal to want validation for something you put your heart into, but there are so many ways to get care-full eyes on your work without ever touching submittable. after all, wanting care/support and wanting publication/critique are not always the same thing.

lastly, i want to emphasize that ime, it's only possible to grow (and grow toward publication/material skill when you spend time reading and writing for you. not submitting, not constantly throwing your work at every relevant call you see, just putting your proverbial nose to the grindstone and working, trying new things, seeing what sticks. checking out free writing workshops can help with this - sundress academy of the arts has some i like (and as both an attendee and an instructor for them, i 100% trust their commitment to writers of all kinds). there are also lots of workshop syllabi out there with prompts to choose from and make your own.

i guess the tl;dr of this answer is, maybe it's time to stop submitting and start practicing. when someone's training for the olympics, not every practice is going to be every event, balls to the wall. most of the time, they're doing drills, looking silly, complaining with teammates, and trying again. it can be boring, but it also reminds you why you're training at all - because ultimately, it feels good, and the inconvenience becomes worthwhile when you realize how much you've grown.