#finished rereading and now I don’t know what to do with myself | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

exitpursuedbyavulcan · 1 year

Text

Studious IV (Aemond Targaryen x Reader) 18+

You continue reading Aemond's diary. As his true feelings for you become ever more clear, can you decipher your own feelings for him?

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x fem!reader (second person, no use of Y/N)

Warnings: Aemond in his smut writer era (semi-public sex, p in v sex, tiddy suckin', riding, fingering, oral sex f receiving, bad sex)

Author's Note: So sorry for the delay! But this baby is 11K words, so hopefully that makes up for it! Also, I tried for a long time to format this like the others, but tumblr wouldn't let me post it if I did, so the formatting is a little different here.

Read Part I Here - Read Part II Here - Read Part III Here

My Masterlist

Taglist will be done via reblogs (there are simply too many of you to fit here)

Studious IV

You were never setting foot in the library again.

Not after what you just read. Not when you were sure that the mere memory of it would have you bursting into flames the moment you crossed the threshold.

Good gods, only a few entries ago, Aemond could hardly bring himself to write the word ‘cunt,’ and now this? What in the Seven Hells were his advisors – Grand Maester Orwyle, Lord Jasper Wylde, and Prince Aegon – teaching him?

You weren’t sure whether the odd feeling in your stomach was due to how much you ate – an entire meat pie and five tea cakes, all washed down with a pot and a half of raspberry tea – or what you had just read.

Either way, it was not enough to stop you from glancing about your bedchamber to ensure no one was watching you and then rereading the entry from the beginning.

The 16th day in the 5th moon of the year.

I have just returned from the library. Grand Maester Orwyle suggested that I consult a book on anatomy. Since there was no business of court I was required to attend today, I asked one of the librarians to help me retrieve the title after I finished my training.

I also found a few books Aegon recommended, only after I dismissed the librarian – I did not want him to know that I took those. Or that I even knew what they were. Gossip abounds in the capital, and I do not wish to be the subject of more than I already am.

By the titles alone, I am surprised Mother allows them to remain in the Keep. I likely will not read most of them. Aegon has already traumatised me quite thoroughly. I see no reason to allow him to ruin reading for me, as well. Although one title, ‘A Caution for Young Girls,’ seems innocent enough.

But the books are not why I am writing now, when my usual routine is to write immediately before I retire to bed. I just… I need to commit this to paper before it leaves me entirely.

On my way out of the library, I saw her. My wife – if I die tomorrow or in a hundred years, I shall never tire of calling her that.

She has quickly found the more private areas of the library, it seems. I would never have seen her if I had not been considering going there to read myself.

It must mean something that she did not choose just any of the countless hidden places within the maze of the library, but my favourite – a secluded alcove along the western wall. An indicator of our compatibility, perhaps. Or even a sign from the gods?

Had the books I’d been carrying not been so… unsuitable, I would have asked to join her.

No, I wouldn’t have. That would require far more courage than I can summon when I see her.

I just stared at her, watching her face as she read. From where I stood, I could not see what she was reading. But I could see her, and that was enough.

She is so expressive! I saw her both smile and frown in quick succession, and once, her entire face scrunched in displeasure as if she had just taken a bite of lemon! Gods, how can even such an unpleasant expression be so beautiful?

Perhaps I should not have watched her at all, for the longer I stood there, the further my mind drifted. And then, I heard Aegon’s voice, as clearly as if he were standing beside me.

‘Don’t limit yourself to the bedchamber brother, or even the bed! A wall or a table serves just as well. And there is a certain thrill to knowing you could be discovered…’

Damn him. Why did I ever ask for his assistance? I would have been better off enlisting the help of an actual whore! At least then, the vulgarity would not come from the future King. Damn him to the deepest of the Seven Hells.

But that stupid advice echoed in my mind over and over. And against my will and better judgement, an image began to form. A dream – a waking dream.

Though my feet remained planted on the floor, I imagined setting aside my books and joining her in that alcove. She would look up and smile upon hearing my approach, perhaps even giggle at my attempt at stealth.

I would sit beside her and ask what she was reading. I might even ask her to read to me. But I would not let her read for long.

I would kiss her while she read. Not on her lips but all over her perfect face. Her cheeks, her forehead, on the tip of her nose. All just to distract her, to make her laugh. Only when she made so much noise that I feared discovery would I kiss her lips to quiet her and finally claim my prize.

The kiss would not be like in the Sept, or in her chambers that night. Instead, she would kiss me back and open herself to me. I would kiss her, and kiss her, and kiss her. Until we were both out of breath but still wanting more.

Seeing her like that, with her lips swollen and cheeks flushed… I would not be able to wait until we returned to our chambers. I would lift her onto that very table, books be damned.

Like our wedding night, we would not undress. We would be in too much of a hurry.

But even hurried, I would be gentle. I would take the time to prepare her, as Lord Wylde said I must do every time. Doing so makes the experience more pleasurable for the woman, he says. And Orwyle added that her enjoyment makes it more likely that the coupling will be fruitful.

Gods, I hardly care about that anymore. Of course, I want an heir, or several. But I want her more. I want her to feel as much pleasure as I do. To ‘peak,’ as Wylde and Orwyle put it. Aegon uses other words, but I find them too vulgar.

And in the library, making an heir would be the last thing on my mind. Even finding my own pleasure would be secondary. I would use my fingers to prepare her – perhaps get her to peak once before I even enter her?

Aegon says women can find release much more than men can. According to him, he once made a woman peak ten times in one night. I would be more amenable to believing him if he didn’t also claim he did so five times. But maybe he is right about ‘practising’ increasing stamina. Though he has had years of practice, and I have had only two days…

But in the dream world where I have the courage to approach her at all, and the gall to bed her in the library of all places (can you call it ‘bedding’ if it is not done in an actual bed?), I also have that stamina. And the skill to indeed make her peak with just my fingers.

I do not know what sounds she would make, as she was entirely silent on our wedding night, but I would want her to make them. I would want her to make such noise that I would have no choice but to kiss her to quiet her and keep her from drawing the attention of the rest of the library.

Even when I was buried within her, I would kiss her. With one arm wrapped around her hips to hold her steady as I fucked her so hard the table would shake, and the other hand tangled in her hair so I could kiss her just as hard.

I want to kiss her so badly. When I finally go to her again, that is what I will do first.

Once we had both finished – for I would ensure she peaked again with me inside her – I would kiss her more, softly, until our breathing steadied. Then, we would simply take our seats again, and this time, I would read to her.

By all the Seven, what has become of me? To not only have such thoughts but to revel in them as I do?

You didn’t bother reading the rest of the entry again before clutching the diary to your chest and staring at the bed canopy above you as a thousand questions burned through your mind and set your heart racing.

Had he been thinking about that the day he came to you in the library?

Was it what he intended to do, had you not reacted so poorly to his words?

Were you really wishing that he had?

You turned on your side, cradling his diary as you once did a small stuffed pony, and noticed for the first time that night had fallen – you had spent nearly the entire day reading. For a moment, you considered running to Aemond’s chambers. But when you looked back at the journal, there were still more than a dozen ribbons shut in its pages.

And if you went to him just after reading what you did…

Whatever was becoming of Aemond, no doubt thanks to the men he had asked for help in better bedding you, by reading his diary and the most private thoughts and fantasies contained within, it was becoming of you too. For when your eyes drifted closed, Aemond’s dream of the library became your dream as well.

The next several days of entries were almost identical.

Aemond woke at dawn after a night of dreams filled with you. They were not always of a carnal nature. Sometimes he dreamed simply of holding or kissing you. Once, he dreamed about flying with you atop his dragon. You didn’t know whether the prospect was thrilling or terrifying. Perhaps both.

Each day, he broke his fast, trained, then ate a small meal before joining court.

Before joining you.

When he wrote in the diary after dinner and several hours of studying and ‘practising’ (you still could not determine what that meant), he still remembered every little thing you did. You had never spoken at court – it was not your place to. But he had catalogued your every movement and reaction to the business of the realm. Every raise of your brows, every repressed smile, and every curious tilt of your head.

You thought you were quite proficient at maintaining a regal mask of indifference. Your mother had you practice it on the journey to King’s Landing while she commanded your brothers to shout at you the most outrageous things they could think of (much of which she promptly scolded them for when they were done).

But Aemond saw through the mask. Not only that, but he correctly interpreted every movement you made.

He knew that the twitch of your lip when Lord Bolton made a petition was a sign of your marked distaste for the man. He knew the scrunch of your brow upon the reading of a missive from a Pentosi diplomat was you noticing a contradiction from the previous message and realising the diplomat was lying. And he knew that you stiffened every time he looked at you because you were nervous about what he would say or do.

Aemond knew you. Even then.

And yet you had so dreadfully misunderstood him.

The shame of it was enough to make you set down the diary and call for a bath – a private bath, without any of your maids present even in the adjourning rooms. You gave an excuse that you were exhausted and simply wished to remain alone.

But really?

As part of his study of the anatomy book Orwyle recommended, Aemond had drawn a diagram of what lay between a woman’s legs. And annotated it based on the advice of Lord Wylde and Prince Aegon.

You were curious to see – with the aid of a hand mirror – just how accurate the diagram and annotations were.

You awoke the following morning feeling more refreshed than you had since you came to the palace, from both the welcome break in your courtly duties and the exploration you had conducted in the privacy of your bath. Though you were fairly sure you did not reach a ‘peak,’ as Aemond described it, you felt close to the height of something several times. But each time, you panicked at the intensity of the racing feelings within you and withdrew your hand. Still, those few minutes of pleasure were incredibly relaxing.

And as it was Aemond’s notes that allowed you to discover the feeling that your own clumsy attempts had failed to bring, the prospect that you would – eventually – once more join him in his bed became thrilling beyond reason.

In truth, the only thing that stopped you from rushing across the castle the very moment you emerged from the bath was the unfortunate fact that you were still bleeding, though it was light.

More than that, while your body was more than ready to forgive Aemond, your heart and mind were still hesitant. He had hurt you. He made you cry. Reading his diary helped you understand that it had never been intentional. However, you still needed to understand everything before making a final decision on whether to forgive him and if you could, as Aemond hoped in his note, ‘learn to like’ or even to love him.

So, after breaking your fast, you again settled into the couch and turned to the next green ribbon.

The 23rd day in the 5th moon of the year

Were Aegon not my brother and the heir, I would throw him from the top of the Rookery.

‘A Caution for Young Girls’ is no such thing. It is little more than a manual in promiscuity and sin!

But… damn him. It is quite educational.

Unlike the book Grand Maester Orwyle suggested, it is not focused on the science of anatomy or conception. Rather, it is entirely concerned with the pleasure of women. After all, it is the supposedly true story of a woman’s quest for pleasure.

A Wylde woman, if it is to be believed. I may have to ask Lord Jasper about it. Is this why he’s had such success with his own wives?

But that, and indeed the sinful nature of the book itself, is unimportant. What is important is that it may actually be the key to my learning how to pleasure my wife.

It spoke at length of various methods of using one’s fingers. Crooking the fingers while within seems to be crucial, as is locating a ‘sweet spot’ where her walls feel slightly different. That spot, as well as the ‘pearl’ which lays at the top of her sex, is the epicentre of her pleasure.

And, like the others said, preparation is required. This is where the use of the fingers comes into it – as well as various other methods. For example, the book mentions kissing quite often, and not only on the lips. Or the cheeks. Or even anywhere on the face.

I admit the idea, though it is new to me, is quite appealing. The book mentioned several places where women most like to be kissed. The jaw, the throat, behind the ear, the nape of the neck, the collarbone…

There was a spot of ink, as though Aemond’s pen had been resting on the page without moving for a long moment.

…the breasts, and lower.

I do not understand why. Perhaps it is because of Aegon’s incessant comments about the breasts of every woman in the Keep, save our mother and his wife – would that he would also exclude my wife! – but I find myself thinking about her breasts with startling frequency. I did not get to see them on our wedding night after I foolishly forgot to undress her.

There is a story in the book which… well, I find myself wanting to replicate. One which would provide me ample access to her breasts. But more than that, it carries an intimacy which I crave most of all.

When Lady Coryanne was serving as a handmaid to a warlock in Qarth, she often found herself called to help him ‘relax’ after a long day. On such occasions, she would mount him while he sat at his desk and ‘ride’ him while he buried his face in her breasts.

I… it was easy to imagine my wife and me in a similar, though more loving, position. Likely not at my desk, as I don’t actually use it often. But perhaps, here. On my chair by the hearth, where I read my books and write in this diary before bed.

She would come back – for she would be living here, with me, not across the Holdfast and so far away – after a long day. Maybe she would have been in the gardens, or with Mother, Helaena and the children, or in the library for hours. I would have been stuck away from her all day in meetings, court, or training.

Even apart from her for only a day, I would miss her terribly. As I do every hour I do not see her. And she would miss me too.

When she came in, she would press herself against the door as she locked it, then turn to me with a mischievous grin. I would know what she wanted, but I would not play along. Instead, I’d mutter a greeting and turn back to my book, pretending that my blood was not racing at just the sight of her. For I want her blood to be as heated as mine.

You read the last paragraph again, the realisation finally set in that Aemond was about to narrate another of his fantasies. Fortunately, after his previous entry about the library, you decided to be more cautious and had already dismissed your servants until your afternoon meal. You had suspected that there may be more in the diary that was thoroughly unsuitable for prying eyes.

And, thanks to his diligent notetaking, you knew precisely what to do when the feelings such unsuitable words provoked began to burn through you.

You undoubtedly did not want an audience for that…

I would let her tease me, pretending none of it fazed me. When she brushed her fingers lightly across my shoulders, I would not flinch. When she leaned over me further than she would really need to see what I was reading, but wanting me to see that peek of her breasts nearly spilling out from her dress, I would barely look. And when she pressed a kiss, long and slow, to my neck – gods, would I like that too? – I might even pretend it was an inconvenience.

It would vex her that I did not give her the attention she desperately wanted. Not enough to truly anger her, but only enough to make her pout. So that when she took the book from my hands and dropped it to the floor, then sat atop me in the chair with her thighs straddling mine… I would simply have no choice but to grab her little lip as she stuck it out and push it back into place before kissing her.

I would kiss her in every place the book instructs, taking my time to worship every bit of her. I want to drive her as mad as she does me just by her mere existence.

But I know she would not simply let me tease her. She would return each kiss I gave her and more. Atop me, she would roll her hips slowly, purposefully, as if we were engaged in a dance. I would be able to feel her, hot and wet and as eager as me, but each time I rose to meet her, she would pull away.

Gods, am I really wishing for her to deny me? Perhaps practising as Aegon instructed has conditioned me to crave such delays to my satisfaction.

Either way, I think I would break before she did. She is strong-willed, and with as many brothers as she has, I believe she can be quite patient. So, I would beg. I would apologise for trying to tease her and plead for her forgiveness. And for her to…

She would, I hope, without hesitation. She would rise only long enough for her to remove her smallclothes and for me to do away with my trousers. Then, we would both sit again, together, with me gently guiding her down to mount me – Seven Hells, that makes it sound like I’m a horse.

I’ll be whatever she wants.

Again, and as always, I would give her a moment to adjust and make sure she is comfortable. Orwyle’s book said that with well-endowed partners – which, according to the measurements in the book, I am – women may always need that moment.

But I would be glad to give it to her. For it would allow me to unlace her bodice, and like the warlock from the book, I could bury my face in my beloved’s breasts.

I find it hard to imagine what it would be like, how they would feel. Soft, I think. Warm, as she is. And perhaps, if I pressed close enough, I could hear her heart beating.

When I was fully settled within her, would I hear it beat faster? Or would it slow with contentment, knowing she was safe and loved – oh so dearly loved – within my arms. Perhaps it would be like the stories, and I would hear it skip a beat.

Either way, I would be more than content to just sit there, breathe her in, and let her move at her own pace. We would not need to be fast, as we would in the library. In my own rooms – our rooms – there would be no need for hurry. We could just stay there, entwined, or we could move together.

I think I would prefer it slowly. Not even seeking our releases, really. Just… enjoying each other. Enjoying the connection of our bodies, our minds, and our souls. Knowing that we are one, that the gods have made us one, and that nothing can tear us apart.

Although… I do think her legs would get tired after a while. That is something I should perhaps be worried about. Especially if she did want to move, and fast. To seek release.

If she did, I would help her. The book did not detail how, as Lady Coryanne was a servant at the time, but… I could figure it out. I could move my hips up to meet hers, or even lift her on my own? I think doing so with my hands on her hips would give me the most leverage. Or perhaps her rear?

I am very drawn to the idea of holding her close as we reach our peaks. Of feeling her breath on my skin, being close enough to hear each little noise she makes, and the sensation of her gripping me as tight as she can as she comes. Even the thought of her nails digging into me brings a certain thrill. And if I don’t reach my peak with her – which, I think, is very unlikely – we can always continue. Or move somewhere more comfortable if her legs do get tired.

At this point, I think I am more than ready to practice. Of course, this wasn’t my intention when I started writing, but… yes, I am most definitely ready. And anything else I wanted to write about seems inconsequential now.

You dropped the diary onto your heaving chest, the image Aemond’s words had painted still burning in your mind. Seven Hells, you could practically feel his strong arms wrapped around you, holding you to his chest as you moved together, his breath hot against your neck as he whispered words of praise between desperate kisses.

With a hazy smile, you snuggled further into the couch and beneath your blanket. As exhilarating as the descriptions of his desires were, what truly warmed your heart was the way he wrote about you, the two of you together.

The connection of your souls as one? It was exactly what you’d dreamed of when first told of your betrothal. Aemond was what you dreamed of.

Why did he have to stop writing? What in the name of the Seven was he practising that was more important than that?

Frustrated and with your pleasure now truly over, you closed the diary and turned on your side, resigned to simply stewing in your own thoughts for the few hours left until your maids returned.

After a light, solitary afternoon meal, you again dismissed your maids. By this point, they were more than a little suspicious about the titleless book you were reading. But, you insisted that you simply wanted to be alone, for your moon’s blood still plagued you. It wasn’t entirely a lie. You did still have some cramping and a slight headache.

In truth, it was because you knew what would happen in just a few entries – your second night together.

It surely wouldn’t be as thrilling as some of his other fantasies. You knew that firsthand. But after learning what Aemond felt for you, you were desperate to know his side of that night.

So desperate, in fact, that you barely skimmed the following two entries in your haste to reach it. Both primarily had to do with whatever smut he had read in A Caution for Young Girls. The first was a rather exhaustive list of all the ways he wanted to kiss you – and there were far more ways than you were previously aware of.

The second caused your most intense blushing yet, for it was near treasonous! After reading another story of Coryanne Wylde ‘riding’ a man, he fantasised about you riding him while he sat on the Iron Throne. It was an intriguing idea, but it seemed a little too hazardous to tempt you.

Finally, you reached what you had been waiting for.

The 26th day in the 5th moon of the year.

I had hoped not to make an entry today – for I had every intention of spending tonight in my wife’s chambers. But she is there, and tragically, I am here.

Tonight was almost worse than our wedding night.

When I saw her watching me in the training yard today, I thought… she was almost smiling – at me! She had no obligation to be there, and yet she was! She sought me out! She wanted to see me!

I had to bite back a cry of joy and relief. I immediately abandoned the rest of my training, nearly impaling the poor squire with my sword for how hard I threw it at him, so I could rush to the ramparts and greet her.

But when I got there, she was gone. I asked a few of the other lords and ladies that were there, but no one knew where she went. Even after speaking to her, however briefly, I still do not understand why she left.

You felt your cheeks flush with shame. Aemond hadn’t grimaced at you that day – quite the opposite. He had been so excited to see you there, and as usual, you had misinterpreted his reaction.

Or, based on how frequently these misunderstandings occurred, perhaps his expressions were merely indecipherable to normal people. Or, more likely, maybe just to you.

You set his diary down, careful to use one of your discarded ribbons to mark your place, and picked up your own. By this point, you had filled several pages with your reactions to Aemond’s writing – some of it sincere, some bordering on humour.

Yet you had no words to express how sorry you were that you had so thoroughly misjudged him. So you wrote nothing and just kept reading.

When I went to her chambers to check on her, I encountered one of her maids, who told me she had retired early with a headache and would not be joining the family for dinner.

Perhaps I should have gone into her chambers then and asked what was wrong. I knew – or at least suspected – that the headache was a lie. An excuse to allow her privacy. I often do the same, citing my scar. Which, as I told her, is not always a lie.

But if I had gone to her, as I wished. I would not have known what to say. Ask her why she ran from the training yard without speaking to me? Or why she wanted to avoid me and the family? Tell her I’m sorry for the disappointment of our wedding night? Ask Beg for a second chance?

I could not do it. I was tired from training and admittedly still somewhat discombobulated from realising she had been watching me. Though I did make it to her door, I merely touched the handle for a moment before retiring to my own chambers.

Now, after yet another disastrous visit… I should have gone to her earlier. I should have trusted my instincts (as Aegon often encourages me to do) instead of allowing my mind to think itself into an inescapable hole.

As I bathed and redressed, and even while attending court and dinner, I could not stop thinking about her. Agonising over what I may have done to make her flee from me?

I never even considered that she may actually have a headache until I was again at her door after dinner. The fear that I was disturbing her, perhaps making her pain worse, was nearly enough to make me turn and flee.

But then, her voice came, soft and light and so enticing. Of course, I somehow managed to answer idiotically when she asked who it was. Though she lessened the sting of embarrassment with a small joke. She is so achingly clever!

I asked her how she was, and her answer made it evident that the headache was a ruse. I am trying not to be too proud that my deduction was correct. She is not used to lying, nor is she good at it. And it is yet another thing I admire about her.

For hours, I planned what I would say to her. It was eloquent and thoughtful – practically poetry.

The tail of the last ‘y’ extended nearly an inch, and you imagined Aemond just staring at the page, consumed by his thoughts for a moment.

But her room looked different tonight. She finally unpacked.

There is a large tapestry above her hearth depicting her home keep, the field below filled with vibrant pink flowers with bright yellow centres. The same flowers appear nearly everywhere. On framed examples of embroidery, on her curtains, pillows, and even the blanket strewn over the back of her couch.

I must find out what they are, for they are clearly very important to her.

You looked up from the diary, glancing about your room. Indeed, you had not realised how many dog roses decorated your possessions. It was no wonder he guessed they were your favourite.

‘I was quite impressed when you brought me my favourite flower,’ you wrote in your diary. ‘I thought you had somehow read my thoughts. I suppose I made it easy for you.’

She also has a large bookcase in her sitting room, which was specifically requested when her father sent word accepting the betrothal. Since the last time I was in her chambers, she has begun to fill the shelves with books and trinkets. I spotted a small silver bell, a wooden box carved with various birds, and a little glass flower. It was not the same flower that is so prevalent elsewhere in her chambers (this one was a pale purple rather than pink), but still quite pretty.

While pondering that flower, I returned to the couch to compare it to the pink flower on her blanket and saw what she had been reading – “The Last Dragonlords,” my first, and still favourite, history of my house. It is not a particularly rigorous academic work, but I prefer it for the sense of wonder it has for the story of my ancestors.

If, at that point, I remembered any of what I wanted to say to her, the sight of that book, and the knowledge that she was somehow reading my favourite… I lost all words. I fear I fell silent for an uncomfortably long time, for she spoke next.

She wanted to know the reason for my visit. I asked her directly about the ruse of her headache. She seemed nervous, so I told her I do the same and that I often experience lingering pain. I was tempted to remove my patch and show her, but… she was already quite nervous. I did not want to make her more so, or frighten her so thoroughly that she will never warm to me.

What lay beneath his eyepatch that would frighten you so? You had heard many rumours. That his lost eye was nothing more than a pit of darkness. That he had replaced it with a jewel. That an ever-burning fire, fueled by his hatred and rage, burned within.

Despite the stories, you felt a twinge of shame and hurt that, despite his love for you, he did not trust you with seeing him truly bare. He thought you could be frightened away.

Somehow, that shame far overshadowed any curiosity or fear about what lay beneath the brown leather of his eyepatch.

I could already tell it wasn’t going to go how I wanted – she would not meet my eye. So, I offered to leave. I would not impose myself on her when she did not want me to. That is not how I want to start this. Or, start it again.

But she did want me to go! At least, that is what I thought she meant. I am not so sure anymore. She said something about my right to be there as her husband. At the time, I thought it was her shy way of asking me to stay. Now… I think she may have just been repeating something her mother or a Septa taught her.

There was another small patch of angry scribbles.

I’m so stupid! And hardly better than Aegon. No – she may not have been particularly enthusiastic, but I am sure if she genuinely did not want me there, she would have said so. And I would have obeyed. After all, she was quick to ask me to stop some of the other things I tried to do.

She did not like the kissing.

When I first mentioned that I would like to lie with her – which I foolishly reasoned was out of my desire for an heir instead of my desire for her – she simply laid on the bed like on our wedding night. But that is not what I want. I do not want this to simply be a union of duty! At least, not anymore. And I so wanted to kiss her.

So, I beckoned her to me, and she obeyed. My hopes that this would be different were still relatively high. I got closer, touched her face, and asked if I could kiss her.

And she asked, ‘Why?’

I swear that one little word hurt more than any pain I’ve felt in the training yard. Almost more than… well, not quite more than that. But close.

I could not think of any reason other than that she is my wife, and I love her and want more than anything to kiss her. I only told her the former and the latter, for I think if I told her I loved her, she would have been more afraid than if she had seen me without my patch. And the gods must be good, for she said yes.

Then I kissed her. I held her close, and I kissed her.

It was the most wonderful thing! She was soft and warm. And when I laced my hand through her hair, she made the most delightful sound! I could have just kissed her forever.

But then it was over. She shouted and pushed me away. It was… it was just after I tried to use my tongue. I don’t think she liked it.

She asked me why I ‘needed’ to kiss her. She must have disliked it very much.

I had no other explanation than what I had already offered. At least, none that I could tell her without sending her running from me forever. So I stopped and told her I did not need it – the first lie I’ve ever told her.

When she moved back to the bed, I could not help myself. I could not let us be in a marriage where we lie together out of nothing more than duty, fully clothed and anxious to get it over with. It was foolish, and I probably scared her with the request, but I asked her to remove her nightgown. She had already taken off her robe – a massive thing in her house colours that practically drowns her.

You allowed a brief kernel of anger to spark within you, enough for you to pick up your pen and write him another little message in your diary.

‘That robe is dear to me, thank you very much. What is it that makes you hate it so?’

There is nothing more beautiful in the world than her. She puts even the Maiden to shame. I would have been happy to stare at her, to take in that beauty until I had my fill – if I would ever get my fill.

She got on the bed and positioned herself exactly how she was on our wedding night. Not quite how I pictured it, but considering her hesitancy, I did not want to push her.

It took all my control to stop myself from kissing her again when I undressed and joined her. But I did. I also resisted doing anything more than just looking at her breasts.

I sat between her legs and stared at her. While I was more than ready to begin, she was not. At all. Of course, I knew I would have to prepare her, but I hoped she would have had at least some desire for me already.

I started with gentle touches, drawing circles on her thighs. She shivered a bit when I began, but she didn’t ask me to stop. From where I was sitting, I could tell she enjoyed it, even if she didn’t understand it. She did ask me to explain, and my answer was probably lacking – how does one explain why he was so inadequate? – but she gave a small nod when I promised that tonight would be better.

Then I finally touched her where I really wanted to and was delighted to find her… well, not as wet as I’d hoped, but it was an improvement upon our wedding night! I ran my fingers over her entrance, hoping to coax more wetness from her before I truly began. And when I looked at her again to ensure I wasn’t hurting her, she smiled at me!

Encouraged, I kept my fingers at her entrance, not venturing inside yet, but continuing my preparations there while I began to seek her pearl. As the books said, I only had to draw a straight line upward from her entrance to find it.

And, oh, when I found it! Her eyes snapped shut, her back arched off the bed, and the most glorious whine escaped her! It was everything I had imagined and more. Gods, I think I could have peaked just from watching her as I circled her pearl again and again, faster and faster.

But then, she asked me to stop – begged me to.

I thought I must have done something wrong, but she shook her head when I asked if it hurt. And when I asked if it felt good, she would not answer. She merely requested that I get on with what I needed to do and leave, for she was tired. This wound cut even deeper than before with the kissing.

I wanted to prepare her more – I was going to use my mouth on her. To show her how dearly I wish to please her, how much I want to worship and love her, if only she’d let me.

In anticipation of that act, I have been consulting Coryanne Wylde’s various accounts and expert critiques of the act in order to form the perfect strategy.

To begin, I would undress her, as I planned to do on our wedding night, laying gentle, nearly chaste kisses on each new bit of skin I revealed. Once she was bare, I would kiss her. Deeply. To give her a taste of what is to come. Then, I would kiss my way down. Her jaw, her throat, her collarbone, her breasts, and the plane of her stomach.

Once I made it past her navel, I would take her leg in my hand and begin a new trail of kisses upwards. The book says to start at the ankle, but I am too impatient for that – I will begin at the knee instead.

Just when she thought I was finally about to give her what she craved more than anything, I would once again change course to kiss her lips one final time. Then, I would descend.

I would start slowly, experimenting with different tactics to determine what drives her deliciously mad. Once I knew, I would feast. I would devour her like her pleasure was the air I needed to breathe. Like her cries of pleasure were beautiful music, and I would die if it ever stopped.

I would bring her to peak once with my mouth on her entrance. Again on her pearl. Then again and again in whichever way made her scream the loudest.

Only when she was so drunk with pleasure that she could no longer rise to meet my mouth or grasp at my hair would I relent. I would make my way back up to her mouth and soothe her with gentle kisses until she had regained herself and was begging for me to finally fuck her.

But I didn’t get to do any of that.

She asked me to stop, so I did. I pumped myself a little to ensure the disappointment hadn’t rendered me incapable of performing my duty and entered her.

The preparation did help. Entering her was easier, and she did not wince as much as the first time. And she felt even more heavenly somehow. The feeling was so intense that I had to take a moment to remind myself that she only wanted me to finish quickly so she would not have to endure me any longer.

So, I fucked her. I did not make love to her, as is my true desire. I just fucked her, like she was just any woman and not the love of my life.

And then, a miracle! I thrust into her, something about the angle allowing me in quite deep, and she reacted. She gasped, breathless, and her hips snapped up to meet mine. I froze in surprise and elation. I found her ‘sweet spot!’

But when I smiled at her, she turned away and refused to look at me again.

I just kept going. I did not try to hit that spot again, so as to not upset her further. I finished as quickly as I could and left the bed.

It was stupid of me, but I turned back to her after dressing. Everything had gone so horribly, but I still love her. I still need her. So I could not just leave her like that.

I asked if I could kiss her again. She let me. I was quick, as promised.

Then I came back here, once again alone and no closer to earning her love than I was before.

I must meet with my advisors again tomorrow. Perhaps they can help me understand why I keep fucking this up so badly when all I want is for her to let me love her the way I want to and for her to love me in return.

Your heart ached so severely that you thought there might be bruises when you looked down at your chest. But there was just skin – skin that Aemond would have happily kissed, had you let him.

As horrible and confusing as that night had been for you, it had been so tenfold for Aemond. He had wanted a grand, romantic evening, and you had greeted him with only coldness and suspicion.

He called you ‘the love of his life.’ You ran your finger over those words so many times that they became smudged, then went to write something in your diary but halted with your pen hovering over the paper.

What could you write to match what he’d said about you? Even if you could, would it really be true? How many times could you say, ‘I’m sorry?’

Well, at least one more time. ‘I’m so sorry, Aemond,’ you wrote, ‘I didn’t know, and I was still scared. Not of you, but of what I thought my life was to be. If you had only told me… I do not blame you, I swear. I just wish the both of us had been more honest with each other.’

You were far too exhausted to continue. It was not yet midafternoon, and you had already been from the near-heights of carnal pleasure to the depths of your despair that the unfortunate state of your marriage was, in actuality, mostly your fault.

So, after setting Aemond’s diary aside, you picked up your embroidery basket and began to work while your mind wandered.

It was only when your maids arrived to bring you dinner that you realised that, somehow, the dog roses you intended to make had become a sprawling wisteria vine.

You dreamed of the castle garden in late spring when all the flowers were in bloom. As you walked down the garden path, you saw every colour imaginable amongst the vibrant greens. But there was only one flower you really wanted to see – and the man you knew would be waiting for you beneath them.

Just as the first purple tendrils came into view, the dream faded, and you woke to see the first hints of dawn still beneath the horizon.

Drawing your blankets over your head, you squeezed your eyes shut and stubbornly tried to fall back asleep and return to your dream – to no avail. You were well and truly awake. And it would be some time before your maids came to dress you for the day.

So, dragging the blanket from your bed with you, you trudged back into your solar and settled into the couch before picking up Aemond’s diary again.

The 27th day in the 5th moon of the year

I met with Lord Wylde, Grand Maester Orwyle, and Aegon this morning. They had advice, but it was not as… straightforward as I had hoped. There is no simple trick to get her to love me. Nothing I can study from a book and then implement with assured success.

I have to woo her. I have to be witty and pleasant and charming and… romantic.

I do not think this is going to work.

Especially not after my first attempt was so disastrous.

Lord Wylde asked that I tell him about her, so I did. When he learned she enjoys reading as much as I do, he suggested I try to find common ground there. So, I went to try and find her in the library.

She was exactly where she was the last time I saw her there, still reading “The Last Dragonlords.” I watched her for a moment, savouring the look of contentment on her face as she read, as well as a few quick reactions to the book. How I love it when her nose scrunches in displeasure!

‘That is quite the odd thing to fixate on,’ you wrote in your diary. It seemed a decent night’s sleep had helped recover some of your humour. ‘What is it, in particular, that you like about my scrunched nose?’

She did smile at me when I approached, but I think she thought I was a Maester, for her smile faltered when I greeted her. And she was so shy. Usually, when I struggle to find the right words, she breaks the silence. Today, she did not.

At least it gave me time to remember why I came to the library. She was still reading “The Last Dragonlords,” so I told her it was my favourite and asked if I could join her. I think she was somewhat embarrassed about reading a children’s book, but I assured her it was no matter and that I would nonetheless enjoy reading it with her, and she allowed me to sit with her.

My plan was to sit with her, discuss the histories, and perhaps, in time, hold her hand as a first step toward genuine affection. But the plan quickly went awry.

It all happened so fast that I don’t even remember exactly what I said. But somehow, I insinuated that she was not intelligent enough to understand the book. The book meant for children – young children.

She was very upset with me. Rightfully so! Still upset enough that she stormed out of the library after making several cutting remarks that proved that she is, in fact, quite intelligent.

After several minutes and a brief reprimand from one of the Maesters, I finally gathered myself enough to realise that she had left the book there. As well as several pages of notes.

Of course, the noble thing would have been to not look and ask a servant to return them to her. But in that moment, I was desperate, not noble. So, I looked.

Her notes were beautifully organised and remarkably thorough – the work of a true scholar! She even crafted a beautiful family tree all the way through Aegon the Conqueror and his sisters. Had I not fumbled our initial interaction so entirely, we would have had a wonderful discussion.

You had feared him finding the notes, but you had never considered that he would be impressed rather than arrogantly amused. It made sense now that you knew his true nature. Perhaps, once whatever was between you was resolved, you could have that discussion.

In all honesty, there were a few questions you had that you hoped he would be able to answer. Not least of which being why in more than a thousand years, Targaryens had only come up with a dozen names that they repeated over and over again. You wrote as much in your diary.

It was useless for me to sulk in the library, agonising over what I should have said, so I gathered the book and her notes and left the library.

An apology was more than necessary, so I went to Aegon’s rooms. After all, there is perhaps no one with more experience apologising to women. Even if his apologies are self-serving.

When I arrived, I found Mother had already found Aegon first, and was well into another tirade about his behaviour. Normally, I would be happy to watch Mother yelling at him, but I did not feel I had time to. And Aegon was glad that I granted him a reprieve.

Admittedly, I had not wanted to admit to Mother that my wife and I were… not as close as I wanted. But, as she always is, she was eminently understanding, and far more helpful than Aegon was. His only suggestion was to bring her something nice – jewels, silks, or the like.

On the other hand, Mother gave me sage advice on what to say when I go to her. As my words have been my primary point of failure, I was very grateful for this. She did also say that a gift would not be amiss. An ‘offering of peace,’ she called it. But she advised something personal, not luxurious. If the gift is too valuable, she says, it will seem as if I am trying to buy her forgiveness rather than earn it.

I knew immediately what I should get her. I thanked Mother (and Aegon) and left at once for the gardens.

I found them – the flowers she loves so dearly. Dog roses, they are called. Unfortunately, they do not grow well in our climate, but the Maester’s managed to coax a few to bloom with their various potions and other horticultural creations.

They are almost as beautiful as her.

The Maester I spoke to said that it would be best if I had them cut just before I brought them to her, to preserve their beauty. So that is what I will do.

I will not practice tonight. At least… not that kind of practice. Instead, I will rehearse my apology. I cannot fail tomorrow.

You winced slightly, knowing that the next day would not go as Aemond planned and feeling as though it was your fault. But there was no changing that now. And you had already apologised – often and profusely.

So, you wrote only a simple note: ‘I don’t recall seeing dog roses on our tour of the gardens. Did you pluck them all?’

Looking back at his diary, you took a deep, steadying breath. Only two ribbons left.

The 28th day in the 5th moon of the year

I am the stupidest, most idiotic man in all the seven fucking kingdoms.

All I was trying to do was apologise to her for my unkind – though unintentionally so! – words in the library, but somehow it ended with her crying and me fleeing from her chambers yet again.

You cringed at the memory, almost not wanting to read on.

Aegon gladly offered his explanation, even after I told him I did not want it. He insists that I have so thoroughly repulsed her that she cannot help but burst into tears at the sight of me.

Mother thinks that she is just missing her family and her home, as she said. That she is overwhelmed by being alone in a strange place, and the familiar sight of the flowers – dog roses, as I have learned – brought those feelings to bursting.

Perhaps Mother is right. But her parents left a fortnight ago, and she has shown no other signs of homesickness. And she is not alone! She has the other ladies of the court to talk to, and Helaena and Mother adore her. And me.

If she came to me, I would do anything to cheer her. Not that she would seek comfort from me, no matter how dearly I wish she would. She certainly won’t after today.

After the disaster in the library yesterday and the scolding I received from Grand Maester Orwyle after my training this morning, I knew beyond a doubt that I needed to apologise. I… the shame I feel for having played any part in the state Orwyle described her in is unbearable.

So, I went to the gardens and had a Maester cut the flowers for me and arrange them in a simple bouquet.

She was on her couch when I arrived in her rooms – still in her nightgown and that robe. And again, she did not look at me. She had eyes only for the flowers. I thought then that they had been the right choice.

I apologised, but she did not react. She still just stared at the bouquet. So, I went ahead with the rest of my apology.

Then she touched my hand. It startled me, and I pulled away from her on instinct, dropping the bouquet in her lap. She looked at them like I had dropped a helpless kitten rather than flowers!

And she started crying. Softly, the tears welling in her eyes for a long moment before spilling over. I do not understand what I did to upset her. I said only what I had planned last night. It was so hard to resist brushing the tears away, but she seemed nearly volatile, and I did not want to make things worse.

‘I miss home,’ she said, finally.

It did sting that she does not consider King’s Landing and her life with me her home – it still does. But she is hundreds of miles away from the family of her birth, from the people who have undoubtedly treated her better than I have. I cannot blame her.

I apologised again for upsetting her and left.

At dinner, I had planned to ask Mother and Grandsire if we could find a way to send her home, at least for a little while. So she could be happy. Perhaps I could even go with her. I might have an easier time talking to her without the pressures of my family and the capital upon me.

You smiled at the thought of Aemond at your home keep. Of him in all his black leather among the fields of dog roses. Talking with your father in the library. Him training with your brothers – you were confident he could defeat any one of them alone, but knowing your brothers, they would absolutely gang up on him.

‘One day,’ you wrote, ‘I would love to show you my home.’

I was waiting for the opportunity to ask when she arrived! After this afternoon, I did not think she would come to dinner, but she did! I could have wept for my relief.

And when I offered my hand to her, she took it. Not only that, but she squeezed it – hard. I think believe it was her way of accepting my apology.

She did not speak during dinner, nor did anyone ask her too many questions. Aegon was his typically infuriating self, silently encouraging me to do something with her. What he expects me to do when in front of the entire family, I do not know.

After the meal, I offered to escort her back to her chambers, which she accepted. And once we were alone, she thanked me for the flowers!

It was going unusually well. That is, until I decided to open my mouth. I only meant to compliment her, as she did look quite beautiful, but… I just kept talking. And then I had suddenly insulted her gown from yesterday and her robe.

She closed herself off from me then, shoving away my arm. Why could I not just shut up? I know my words are the source of so many of our misunderstandings, yet I keep talking! At this point, I am strongly considering a vow of silence.

‘Please don’t take a vow of silence!’ you wrote, scrambling for your diary as if it mattered how quickly you got the words down. ‘Your voice is far too lovely for me to never hear it again.’

Tomorrow, I am going to try a suggestion from Lord Wylde. Show her that I am not a failure in everything I do. I pray it works.

You turned the page, expecting to find the entry for the next day, but there was none. There had been a page between the entries for the 28th and the 30th, but it had been sloppily torn out. All that remained was the beginnings of the date in the upper corner.

It was entirely against what you knew of Aemond. The man who had dutifully started his journal on the first day of the year and began each entry on a new page would not do something like this.

What had upset him so? Had you said something to him?

No, of course not. The only time you had seen him that day was in the training yard, and you hadn’t spoken to each other, not after… not after he stormed off. Had he actually been hurt in his fight with the Kingsguard? Or was he just embarrassed that you had witnessed him fall?

Gods, how you wished you had gone to him that night. But perhaps you could make up for it now.

‘After you were absent for dinner,’ you wrote to him in your diary, ‘I almost came to your rooms. I was worried for you. Though I confess, that was the only reason I found myself walking toward you… I missed you, at dinner. I missed you helping me into my chair. I missed your smile. I missed the way you’d hold the plates for me. Most of all, I missed your voice, and your presence next to me.’

You sniffled slightly, staring at a lamp on your wall to dry the tears that were forming before finishing the entry, ‘I’ve missed you these past days, as well. But I’m almost done. I’ll see you soon.’

The 30th day in the 5th moon of the year

I have made my gravest sin yet. And my most foolish.

We had the perfect morning together in the gardens. Silent, mostly, but perfect. She smiled at me! She allowed me to lead her through the gardens on my arm. It was… precisely what I had hoped for.

Until I once again acted like an absolute fucking fool.

Before I had to leave for court, I asked if I could come to her rooms that night. And for one perfect moment, I really believed she was going to say yes.

But then she mentioned her moon’s blood, and I just… panicked. I am not entirely an idiot (though I become less sure of that declaration with each passing moment), I know what that means.

It means that I’ve failed her. In even more ways than I knew.

I have made her miserable. I have made her cry. I have failed in every duty of a good husband, including the most basic of tasks – I have not given her a child.

I cannot go on like this – trapped in an endless cycle of misery where I can do nothing but hurt the both of us. I must do something to free us from this.

It doesn’t matter if she doesn’t love or even like me. I just want her to be happy. If that means that I never get to see her or love her again, I will make myself accept that.

First, she needs to know why I’ve acted this way. To know my true feelings so she can decide what she wants me to do. Gods, if she wanted me to go to Essos and never return, I would.

A blot of ink covered half the page, as though he had simply set his pen down while he thought.

I know what to do. I just pray she understands.

“I understand,” you said aloud, as though Aemond were before you. But, of course, he wasn’t. He was halfway across the castle, a distance that suddenly felt like the Narrow Sea itself. Throwing down your blanket, you shouted for your maids to dress you at once, your morning meal be damned. The moment finished tying off the last lace of your gown, you ran.

You had only been shown where Aemond’s chambers were once – on your first tour of the Holdfast. Then, you did not know whether to be disappointed or thankful that they were far from yours. Now, as your nervousness flooded through every part of your body, you hated the distance more than anything.

Each step was an effort, as with every one, your legs felt heavier and heavier, as if they were made of iron. Your blood felt as though it was rushing dangerously fast, carrying with it a marked chill. Despite feeling frozen within, sweat still somehow beaded at your brow. Yet you could not wipe it away, for your hands were all but stitched to the two diaries you carried.

Was this a terrible idea? Would Aemond laugh at you for all your silly little notes? Would he be angry with you for taking days to fulfil his request? You came to a halt in the middle of the corridor, tears prickling in your eyes as you considered so many horrible possibilities.

No, you thought, the word echoed by the impact of your foot on stone as you took a heavy, sure step forward.

The Aemond you thought you knew would do those things. But that Aemond wasn’t real – and never was. He had only ever lived in your terrified imagination.

The real Aemond was the one who had been so awestruck upon first seeing you that he could not say anything other than your name. Who had fallen for you so quickly and with such intensity that he forgot how to act like a proper person and instead stumbled over his words and actions like a drunk man through a crowded alley. Who had been so desperate for you to return his affections that he swallowed his pride to seek help. And who had finally given you his diary when he could think of no other way to show you how he really felt and who he truly was.

It was the thought of finally meeting that Aemond that made you put one foot in front of the other, faster and faster, until you were sprinting down the halls, only stopping when you came to the door you had seen only once before – his door.

You did not understand how you had found it again after only seeing it only once before. Nor did you remember knocking on the smooth, dark wood.

But then you heard footsteps approaching.

Hastily, you transferred the diaries to one hand and wiped the sweat from your brow with the sleeve of the other. You wanted to straighten your hair, for it had surely come loose from its braid after running so fast. But there was no time for that.

There was the dull, metallic sound of the door being unlatched, and then there he was.

Aemond stood before you, breathing heavily himself as though he, too, had been running. His silver hair was mussed, and there were smudges of purple beneath his widened eyes – his eyes.

He was not wearing his eyepatch.

Your mouth fell open at the sight. At least one of the rumours had been true. Beneath the raised, rough skin of his scar, in place of his lost eye, was a brilliant blue sapphire. It suited him perfectly and was perhaps the most beautiful thing you had ever seen.

He looked at you for a moment, the corners of his mouth lifting in a hesitant smile before realising what had caught your attention so thoroughly.

“Oh gods,” he whispered, covering the sapphire with his hands and turning away. He took a few steps into the room before speaking again. “I did not mean for you to see this. I’m so sorry. Please forgive me. Please…”

You said nothing. Silently, you moved into the room and shut the door. Aemond stared at you, his good eye watering as you approached him.

“I’m so sorry,” he said again. “You should not have had to – ” He startled when you brought your free hand up to his wrist and started trying to tug his hand away from his face. “What are you…?”

When your only response was to continue tugging, he relented, allowing you to lower his hand. He swallowed thickly, fixing his good eye on the wall behind you instead of at you. Seeing his shyness, and now knowing it for what it was, almost made you smile.

But your own shyness took hold of you as you guided his hand down and wrapped it around the spines of the twin journals you held. When you looked back up at Aemond, he was staring at them and the green ribbon that now marked a page within your diary.

“I don’t understand,” he breathed, tightening his hold on the books.

With a slight smirk, you gazed up at him and dropped your hand from the diaries. “It’s your turn.”

2K notes · View notes

seenoversundown · 11 months

Text

Golden Wings

I saw this tweet about hozier leaving love notes around the house for his partner to find and I could not stop thinking about it. Good luck!

Warnings: None, pure fluff

Word Count: 1.9k

I wake as I always do, surrounded by his scent. Woodsy, dark, and a tad floral. I do a big stretch followed by a small whine. I go to reach over to Andrew’s side trying to feel any trace of him.

“Andrew?” I murmur, my voice still heavy with sleep. I continue to paw at his side of the bed until I feel his abandoned pillow. I force my eyes to open and glance around the room, and realize I am most definitely alone. I prop myself up, a little sad I missed him this morning. But then out of the corner of my eye I notice a soft pale blue square against our dark emerald sheets. I lean over and grab it, becoming a little giddy when I realize it’s a note.

The goddess of the day has risen, how I am unworthy to love such an ethereal being.

When you are ready, there is breakfast downstairs.

All my love, ~A.

I read and reread the small note probably a dozen times. His words always have a way of piercing into my heart directly and making a home inside. I hold the soft blue square to my chest and wonder how lucky I had to have been to have found Andrew.

I slip on a matching cream colored silk set, Andrew’s favorite, and slowly make my way down to the kitchen. I glance around our small home as I walk through the hallways and wonder how we were able to move into here only four months ago but it’s felt like forever. It feels right. As I round the corner, the aroma of breakfast hits me.

“Love, it smells divine,” I say. I’m greeted with silence in return, just another small pale blue square.

Light of the day, your breakfast awaits you warming in the oven. I didn’t want to wake you- you looked so peaceful, but I had to run to the studio this morning just for some final touches.

I will be home in a few hours to you, my love, I promise.

For now, eat your breakfast. Get your strength for the day. Look for more notes. I have plans for you.

All my love,

~A.

Again, I can’t help but reread his words, hearing his voice as if he’s reading them directly to me. Once I tuck the note in a safe place I open the oven to look at what awaits me. Andrew wasn’t lying. A fully prepared breakfast sits on a plate in the warm oven. He’s left oven mitts for me on top of the stove, which I grab eagerly. Breakfast smells even better when it’s sitting right in front of me. Veggie bacon, eggs sprinkled with cheese and spinach, toast with butter and maple sugar.

As I sit down at my plate ready to devour the spread in front of me I spot Andrew’s discarded robe on the seat next to me. I don’t even hesitate as I reach out for it, wrapping myself in his scent and warmth. I feel even more relaxed now, if that was even possible, as I eat my meal.

I finish up my toast basking in the silence of our home. I can’t help but wonder when Andrew will be home, so I go find my phone to send him a text.

Y/N: Thank you for breakfast, my love. I miss you.

A: You are so welcome, my dove. Look for the notes. I’ll be home before you know it. I miss you more.

My heart flutters at his words like always as I go to put my cell phone in his robe pocket. Sliding it into the soft pocket, I swear I hear a paper-like crunch. I’m quick to take my phone right back out and stick my hand in to feel for the noise. It doesn’t take long before I pull out a small pale blue square identical to the ones before it.

I knew you would put this on, my sweet. I have never known such a love as the love you give to me, I am forever in awe of you.

Till we are bones, my love.

All my love,

~A.

My heart thumps in my chest. I take the little note and add it to my ever-growing pile. Snagging a cup of tea, I walk around our sunlit living room and tend to our ‘plant children’. The monstera has always been my favorite, even though I tell Andrew they’re all my favorites. They do say you’re not supposed to have a favorite child. I don’t hesitate as I walk up to her, murmuring my good mornings and inspecting her as I grasp my mug of tea, bringing it to my lips. As soon as Andrew called me his, he kept my favorite kind of tea in superfluous supply wherever he lived- just for me. It doesn’t take me long to notice a little blue square nestled in her leaves. Of course he knew.

Seeing you wearing my ring drives me mad. Watching you in the mornings, with it shining off the light as you talk to our plants is one of my favorite rituals. The way you speak to them with such kindness, such empathy- I cannot wait to raise our children together. A goddess such as yourself will be perfect with them.

To the blues.

All my love,

~A.

I quickly glance down at my ring once I finish reading his words, immediate feelings of giddiness fill my chest. The perfect moss agate ring sits in a golden crown on my finger. I touch it, remembering the moment Andrew got down on his knee. He is always nervous when it comes to us- but not that day. That day, he was so confident. Bringing me to his hometown, showing me all of the places he used to go as a ‘young lad’ as he’d say. That trip I knew I needed him forever, and I guess he needed me just as much. I watched as he spoke Gaelic with the townsfolk in passing, his voice hitting my ears in such a dreamy way.

It was when he brought me up to his favorite hill, the one he watched the sunset every day when he lived here, that he asked me to be his. Looking at the setting sun, wrapped in each other's arms, he feigned that he had forgotten something, and got up and started to look around.

‘Andrew, what’s going on?’ I had said to him. When he turned to me his green eyes were the brightest I’ve ever seen them, I swear.

‘Love, can you stand for me?,’ he said.

I think subconsciously I knew what was happening, even if I didn’t want to believe it. Tears freely fell from my eyes as he poured his heart and soul out to me, reaching out every so often to wipe a tear or give me a lingering kiss on my forehead. When he finally got down on his knee, I was a sobbing wreck. I can’t remember what he said, just me nodding and practically screaming ‘Yes! Yes! A thousand times yes!’.

Now his ring, his beautiful, intricate golden ring just for me sits on my finger. I sit in his chair, even though it’s usually both of us squished into it every night, and play with my ring. I watch as it hits the sunshine and sends dancing light around the room. It’s then, as I’m looking at the light, I notice another small pale blue note. I practically run to it, ready to read more of Andrew’s words. I take a moment once I have it to enjoy the anticipation before I read it.

Once the Gods realize you have escaped with their golden wings I’ll be in so much trouble.

But, for now, you are mine. Do they know you’re here, love? Did I have it wrong and you were sent just for me?

I’ll never be sure, but I’ll be eternally grateful for you.

All my love,

~A.

He’s trying to kill me I swear to anyone who is listening. It’s never been an act with Andrew, this has always been him. The love and adoration he gives me is unmatched. I can’t help but feel like I’m the luckiest person with him. I finish the rest of my tea, adding my two new notes to my pile that won’t seem to stop growing.

I make my way to our shared bathroom and am a little surprised when I see another note. He truly thought of everything. I do my morning routine to try and prolong reading his letter, the anticipation is delicious. Once I do finish taking care of myself I carefully peel his note off of the mirror and finally allow myself to read it.

I cannot wait to see those eyes shine just for me. Thinking about it now I swear my heart skips an entire beat. That can’t be healthy, but you- you are my own personal drug. Stronger than all the others there is you. I need you.

All my love,

~A.

My eyes scan his letter too many times, taking in the way he writes his t’s and dots his i’s. I take out my phone and pull up my texts to Andrew.

Y/N: I need you as bad as you need me, love. I hope studio time is going well. Come home to me soon.

A: You are the very air I breathe, my dove. See you soon.

My heart flutters knowing he’ll be home soon. I decide I’ll stay in his robe and his favorite silk set and surprise him. Confident in that decision, I grab the book I’m currently reading and snuggle back up on our chair while I wait for him. I scroll on my phone for a bit, getting lost in social media for a little too long. Once I finally resign and open my book, a final little blue note falls out onto my lap. I can’t help but laugh, and wonder a little when he even did all of this. I waste no time reading the note.

In every lifetime, I hope to find you. Our souls are destined to be intertwined throughout the centuries. You are the only one for me.

I can’t wait to kiss you soon.

All my love,

~A.

My heart is fully melted. All of his words from this morning play on repeat as I stare at this one note. How can one man be so fucking eloquent? I’m so lost in thought, I don’t hear the front door open or close.

“Dove?” Andrew shouts from the doorway. I’m on my feet in seconds, after all of these notes I missed my man something fierce this morning. He laughs when he sees me, arms outstretched ready for me. “There’s my dove. I hope you liked my notes this morning.” He says to me inbetween interrupting kisses.

“Loved them? Oh Andrew, you have no idea. You know, I missed waking up to you this morning.”

“I’m sorry dove, let me make it up to you.” He hoists me up in his arms and quickly kicks off his shoes before walking down the hallway to our bedroom. My laughter echoes in the hall, I’ve never been so in love.

Masterlist | Taglist

#hozier #andrew hozier byrne #hozier fic #hozier fluff #seenoversunqueue #hozier x reader #hozier one shot

859 notes · View notes

kat651 · 4 months

Note

Hi,

I just reread your self harm elf posts again and was wondering if you would write something similar but with the reader being the one self harming?

Just thought I’d ask since I myself have struggled with this. If not that’s fine but I figured I’d ask

Love your writing so much btw

Elrond:

Elrond had spent the last hour searching for you. It was strange that you were able to do this to him, make him worried beyond what felt reasonable. Rivendell was a safe place. He knew that. But you always managed to make him panic. Always.

Finally he decided to check your room. Occasionally you’d go in there during the day just to get some quiet.

As he opened the door the sight before him caused him to gasp and tears to well up in his eyes. “Meleth, why?” He asked, briskly walking over to you and taking the knife before kneeling in front of you and gently taking your hands. “Why are you hurting yourself?” His eyes were brimmed with tears and his usual strong voice was wavering and choked.

You didn’t answer and it felt like a punch to the gut for him. Elrond stood before lifting you out of the seat and seating you on your bed. “Don’t move I’ll be right back.” He whispered, kissing your cheek before running off.

When Elrond returned he had everything he would need to take care of your wounds. He knelt before you and gently began to clean and wrap your wrists. When he finished he rose and sat next to you. “What’s wrong my love? Why are you doing this?”

You looked up at him for a moment before sighing and hiding your face in his chest. “It’s all too much right now. I can’t take it.” You sobbed.

“I’m here…you don’t have to do this alone.”

Lindir:

You tried to hide it from him. but of course, being the observant person he was, he noticed.

“Love, what happened to your wrist?” He asked, gently grabbing your hand.

You looked away refusing to answer and it broke Lindir’s fraigile heart. He gently cupped your face and placed a kiss on your nose.

You sighed and hugged yourself.

“Hey… look at me…” he whispered, gently tilting your chin up. “I’m not mad. You know that… right?”

You nodded.

Lindir put an arm around you and pulled you out of the room. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Thranduil:

When he first saw the cuts on your wrists he panicked. “Y/n, what happened? Why would you- are you ok?!”

For a regal elf lord he sure did panic when it came to you.

Once he calmed down enough he looked at you with sad eyes. “How long? How long have you been doing this and not telling me?”

Of course you didn’t answer which caused him to worry again. “Is it me? Am I the reason?”

You shook your head and he visibly relaxed. “I- ok…I just… I worry. A lot.”

“I know” you said, leaning against him.

Legolas:

Caught.

Legolas had caught you red handed. Quite literally. “Y/n!” He yelled in a panic. Which of course caused tears to well in your eyes.

“I’m sorry!” You sobbed.

Realizing he had caused you to panic, he slowly wrapped you in his arms. “Darling what’s wrong?” He whispered as he subconsciously inspected your wrists before sliding his bag off his shoulder and digging through it with one hand until he located some bandages. “Talk to me sweetheart.” He whispered as he gently wrapped your arms.

Haldir:

When he noticed the scars on your wrists he hesitated to say anything at first. He knew all too well that kind of pain.

After a few days he finally spoke up. “Don’t do it again.” He said, not even looking over.

“Do what?” You asked confused.

Haldir grabbed your hand and slid up your shirt sleeve. “This. Don’t do it.”

You pulled away and looked at your hands.

Haldir sighed. Emotions were hard but he needed to try. He knelt in front of you and gently took your hands. “Look at me…”

You slowly met his gaze and to your surprise there was pain etched in his eyes. “Please don’t hurt yourself. If you want to hurt someone hurt me.”

“What? No!”

Haldir gently took your face in his hands and placed a kiss on your forehead. “Please don’t do this to yourself. I…” he paused and took a breath. “I love you too much to watch you do this… please, if you’re struggling come talk to me. I’ll listen…”

184 notes · View notes

joedirtymadre · 6 days

Text

Honeymoon Phase

AIZAWA X READER! (FLUFF!) Hope you enjoy! (Accepting requests!!)

You laid across your couch, reading a new book you grabbed after work. You sighed to yourself, you tried to concentrate on your book, but couldn’t shake off your built up frustration… “Ughh, I’ve reread this page 4 times already and I don’t even know what it’s about!” You groaned as you tossed it onto the side table. You sat up and immediately began bouncing your leg, “It’s been 2 months… 2 whole months… I know the honeymoon stage dies, but this badly?” You sighed as you sat back.

You stared at your wedding photo of you and Shota, “We’ve always been obsessed with each other… but he’s died down drastically… in the span of 2 months. We’ve barely been married for a year and he’s already tired of me? I miss the nights he would…” you felt your cheeks burn as you would think back to those long nights. You stood up and walked over to your bathroom, staring into the mirror. You analyzed your face, body, and hair, “Maybe he thinks I’ve let myself go…” You said to yourself softly.

Suddenly an idea popped into your brain. “I’ll surprise him! Though he hates surprises… but it’ll be fine! Where’s my makeup?” You asked excitedly. Hoping you would finish your plan before he arrives home.

You raced to put on some light makeup, a nice black dress, and fixed your hair. You checked the mirror and nodded, “Now onto the kitchen!” you beamed as you raced over to throw on an apron. You decided to make some curry with rice. After cooking you set up the table and placed two hot plates on the table. You looked over at the clock and rushed over to throw your apron in the laundry room. With a minute to spare you topped off your glasses with some wine and stood excitedly by the door.

Right on time your husband slowly opened the door, “I’m ho-” he stopped himself as he was surprised by your presence. “(Y/N)?” He asked, confused. “Hi honey,” you smiled. “Hey… what’s up with the get up?” He asked as he placed his stuff down. “I-I just wanted to look nice for y-you…” you trailed off. “Ah,” he nodded. “I also made some food,” you smiled excitedly. “Oh no thanks, I had a pretty big lunch at work so I’m not hungry,” he said as he put on his slippers and headed towards the restroom. “O-Oh…” you said softly. “I’m gonna go wash up,” he said as he shut the door behind him. “Kay…” you replied. You slowly walked over to the table and stared at the plates.

You grabbed them and decided to toss the food in the garbage. “I’m not hungry either…” you whispered to yourself as you cleared the table. Once finishing you headed towards your bedroom to undress and remove your makeup. “So much for a surprise…” you sighed as you looked into your bedroom mirror and stared at your pajamas.

You walked back to the living room seeing Shota lounging on the sofa reading a book. You decided to continue yours, you grabbed your book and sat on the opposite end of the couch. “Did you put the food into the fridge?” He asked. “No,” you replied. “Did you eat it all?” He asked. “I tossed it,” You responded, not once looking up from your book. “Huh? Why would you do that?” He asked. “You didn’t want it, I didn’t want it. Why wouldn’t I toss it?” You asked. “I would’ve taken it to work,” he replied. You glanced over to him, and noticed the perplexed look on his face. “I wanted to surprise you with a meal, you didn’t want the meal. So I got rid of it, I didn’t want to see it later and think of how you paid no mind to my efforts,” you said coldly. “Efforts? You’re not making any sense (Y/N),” Shota said as he inched closer.

“What am I saying that’s making it so hard for you to understand? For the past 2 months I’ve received nothing from you, you’ve changed… You used to bring flowers, desserts, tell me I’m pretty, small things like that. But recently everything stopped, I thought I was the problem… Maybe I let myself get too comfortable or let myself go… so I wanted to surprise you, I got dolled up and made a nice meal for us to sit and catch up. But-... It’s fine, it doesn’t matter…” you explained. “(Y/N)...” you heard him trail off, you felt him move closer to you. But making sure you glue your eyes to your book. “(Y/N) please look at me,” he pleaded. “For?” You asked. “(Y/N), please,” he said softly. You knew he was sitting right next to you, you moved your eyes slightly towards him. “Yes?” You asked softly, hoping your voice doesn’t crack.

“I’m sorry… I’ve been so busy with work and the students that I didn’t notice you felt this way,” he said as he cupped your face. “I said it’s fine… Everyone says the honeymoon stage doesn’t last forever. Of course you’d eventually get tired of me,” you said softly as you stared into his eyes. “I would never get tired of you. Please forgive me, I didn’t mean to make you feel like I don’t care about you. You know I’m obsessed with you, I love you,” he said softly as he inched towards you. You placed your finger over his lips, “What makes you think I’ll give you a kiss? 2 months with no kissing, hugging, spooning, or…” you felt your ears burn red as you avoided his eyes. “I’m sorry, please forgive me. I want to make it up to you,” he smiled softly as he placed your hand in his and kissed it.

“Hmph,” you turned your face, wanting to hide your blush. “Thank you for dinner, it looked delicious,” he smiled. “It did…” you replied. “And… you looked beautiful, I had to hide away in the restroom or else I would’ve…” he trailed off. “Huh?” You asked as you turned to face him. “Well you always look amazing, but you wore that dress I love. How else would you expect me to act, but normally I always keep my cool around you. I didn’t wanna scare you,” he replied as he cupped your face again. “You noticed? I was afraid you thought it was just any black dress,” you laughed. “Of course I noticed, but I’m sorry I didn’t notice how much I’ve been slacking these past few months. I’ll do better, starting now,” he said as he stood up.

“Right now?” You asked. You watched as he extended a hand out to you, you slowly placed yours in his. He slowly helped you up, but you were soon tossed over his shoulder. “W-Wait! Shota?” You gasped. He then walked towards the kitchen table, “And we’ll be needing this,” he said as he grabbed a wine bottle. “Now let’s go,” he said. “Go?” you asked. “Yeah, you said I haven’t been showing you any attention for the past 2 months. Well I’ll make up for that, right now. Hope you’re ready (Y/N),” He said as he headed towards your bedroom.

You felt your face burning. Feeling nervous for the night ahead, but you can’t lie to yourself, you’re also really excited for what’s about to come.

65 notes · View notes

wooataes · 1 year

Text

Real Eyes, Fake Lies (Part Six)

Pairing: soulmate!Lee Jihoon x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 2.7K

Warnings: angst, Hanahaki!AU, filler chapter before next big plot point 👀, Marvel spoilers i guess?? Jihoon sucks when it comes to talking about things, sus Jeonghan, swearing, feelings of self doubt?

Summary: What do you do when you find out the one person that was created by the universe to be yours doesn’t want you back?

A/N: Just a short little filler chapter for you guys before the next big plot point! A few cute little moments and a lay off the angst for a bit too! Some new characters will drop next chapter, and I can’t wait for you all to read! Thank you all for loving this story as much as I love writing it 🫶🏼

-Tae 💜✨

If you’d like to be tagged, shoot through an ask!

Previous | Next | Masterlist

Y/N: Meet me at the auditorium after you finish class? I’ll be helping the Jeongyeon and the girls with their Vocal project and then we can go to the library.

Jihoon rereads your text for the fifth time as he makes his way towards the auditorium with a sigh, looking up at the sky as the sun tries to peek out from behind the clouds. It’s a Friday afternoon, Ji-ah has just sent him off with a kiss and a smile as she leaves campus to take the train back home to her family as per usual, leaving him alone for the weekend. He winces into direct sunlight with a scowl before trudging inside the large building.

Jihoon blinks at the sound of five distinct voices harmonizing together on the empty stage, and he recognizes that the voices belonged to your five girlfriends, Jeongyeon, Jihyo, Momo, Dahyun and Nayeon. He spots you sitting at the piano at the side of the stage, playing a simple melody as the girls sing into the empty theatre. He is captivated at how well the girls’ voices all blend together.

“Heaven forbid someone whisper ‘he’s part of some scheme’,” Jihyo sings. “Your enemy whispers,”

“So you have to scream!” The girls harmonize, and Jihoon’s eyes widen as you sing alongside them from the piano, still playing flawlessly.

“I know about whispers,” Momo’s voice is soft and delicate.

“I see how you look at my sister...” Your voice is clear as a bell as your voice projects through the room. Jihoon feels like time has stopped as he hears you.

“Don’t!”

“I’m not naive, I have seen women around you,” Dahyun’s voice is deep and angry, singing with emotion, your voice harmonizing behind her. He can’t keep his eyes off you.

“Don’t think I don’t see how they fall for your charms,” Jeongyeon and Jihyo sing together, facing each other and locking eyes.

“All of your charms!” Everyone sings together.

They’re good, Jihoon thinks to himself. Really good.

“I’m erasing myself from the narrative,” the girls all sing in a ladder, overlapping each other with precision.

“Let future historians wonder how Eliza reacted when you broke her heart,” their harmonies are on point, Jihoon can feel goosebumps rise on his skin.

“You have thrown it all away, stand back and watch it,”

“Burn~”

The harmony echoes through the empty seats, Jihoon now sitting at the end of the front row to listen.

“Just watch it all burn,” he keeps his eyes on you, singing full heartedly as you keep playing the piano without missing a beat. Your eyes are glued to the sheet music in front of you as the rest of the girls stay put in their spot.

Jihoon stays quiet in stunned silence as you, alongside your friends sing the rest of the song together in perfect harmony. He’s shocked at how polished the performance is, you all have clearly put a lot of time and effort into it.

“If you thought you were mine,” it’s almost like the girls were competing with each other for the best belt for the finale, but at the same time their voices overlapping fits the song perfectly.

“Don’t.” The song stops sharply and abruptly.

The girls are all looking expectantly at you, and you turn on the chair to smile at them.

“I think you’re ready.” You beam. “Like seriously, that was the best you’ve all sounded yet.”

“Really?” Momo smiles back at you, taking both of your hands in hers.

“Really!” You nod excitedly.

“I personally think we only sound this good because of you.” Jihyo smirks, hugging around you from behind, your laugh echoing in the room as she plants a kiss on your cheek gratefully.

“Oh hush, you.” You swat her hands playfully as the others laugh with you.

Your laugh is foreign to Jihoon, but he wouldn’t mind hearing it more often, he decides.

“I agree with Ji.” Jeongyeon hums, bumping her hip with yours. “Your voice was just what we needed to make it perfect. It’s a shame that you have to hide behind that big piano though. We need you center stage with those golden pipes.”

“Then who else will play the music, silly?” You snark back, smiling.

“We can easily find a backing track, miss smarty pants.” Dahyun raises her eyebrow as Nayeon points to her with wide eyes.

“She has a point, Bug.”

“And risk the performance fucking up because we trusted a machine?” You cross your arms with a pout. “I’m happy behind the piano, you know that.”

“Excuse me!” Jihyo’s voice now booms towards your soulmate, who was now sitting up, startled at the volume of her voice. “This is a closed practice! Women only!”

“I..”

“Yah! Have some decorum!” You throw a bottle of water at her with a laugh. “It’s just Jihoon. We need to go study for Film Studies.”

You roll your eyes with a grin as all the girls rush to grab you. But you’re faster, jumping off the edge of the stage and leaning beside Jihoon with your backpack in hand.

“No fair! You don’t get to steal her away!” Momo whines and stomps her foot, making you laugh and wave at the girls.

“Unfortunately, he does. Unless you want me to fail and stay behind for a year.” You smirk as they all relent. “Good job today, my loves! Same time next week yeah?” You blow them all kisses as they repeat the gesture back to them. “Sorry, did I take too long?” You ask your soulmate quietly as he trails out of the auditorium behind you.

“Uhh, no.” He finds his voice after a beat of silence, cheeks slightly pink. “Not at all.” Your angelic voice is still ringing in his ears.

“Sorry about them,” You wave your hand back at the building. “They tend to make goodbyes a drawn out affair so I tried to be quick.”

“It’s fine.” He nods, and you release a breath you didn’t realize you were holding, walking to the campus library with Jihoon in silence.

Jihoon watches you from the corner of his eye as you walk together, suddenly more withdrawn and quiet. If you were a flower, Jihoon would’ve thought you just wilted right in front of him.

“Do you think people will sit back and think about that?”

“This is exactly what this project is about!” You chirp, pushing the laptop towards him. “Think about it. Tony Stark is obviously a fan favourite, both in the comics and the cinematic universe.” You’re pointing out graphs on the screen. “Everyone was on his side when Civil War came out. I bet you were too.”

“I mean, yeah, I suppose.” Jihoon raises his eyebrow at you.

“Which brings me back to my point.” This is the most animated he’s seen you be towards him, scribbling down on a notebook in front of you both. “Bucky is not to blame for Tony’s parents death. Yes, he is the one who caused their deaths, but he was under the mind control of Hydra. He was not in his right mind to control his own decision making due to the fact he was literally being controlled by these crazy bastards.”

Jihoon opens his mouth to speak.

“I know what you’re about to say,” you counter before he speaks. “You’re going to say ‘but he still did it.’ I mean, he did do it but if I hypnotized you to be a killing machine that you literally couldn’t stop yourself from being said killing machine, would you have the power to stop me? The answer is no. Bucky didn’t deserve the witch-hunt he was faced with, and Steve was completely justified in protecting his best friend. Bucky even felt guilty about it when Tony confronted him.”

“Tony was Steve’s friend too, though.”

“Who he knew for what, five minutes?” You quip back. “If your childhood best friend made a mistake and spent his entire life in agony against his will, tried to defend himself from your new friend of two years, who would you be picking?”

“… you make a point, Choi.” He hums, nodding his head sagely. “Yeah, okay, this is good. This will get them talking.”

“And it’s perfect, because we can discuss both sides!” You smile. “Even though I’m on Bucky’s side.”

Jihoon lets out a chuckle, with a little smile on his face. “I’m happy with that idea if you are?”

“Really?” You sit up straight, blinking owlishly. “You don’t have any ideas?”

“I mean, I had a few ideas but they were all pretty one sided. This idea works well because we can say the views from both sides.”

You blink again before giving Jihoon a little smile. His heart skips a beat involuntarily. “Okay, let’s do that then.”

“I can work on the Stark side and you can work on the Barnes side and we can discuss?” Jihoon pulls out his own pen and paper, starting to jot down a few notes. “We should only do a few ideas now and next week we can meet up to watch the film to draw out some points.”

“Sounds good to me.”

You nod your head quickly as you both get to work, the only sounds between you both being your pens and the occasional clicking of the keyboard of the laptop between you both.

Every so often, Jihoon feels like he can feel your eyes on him, but every time he sneaks a glance, your eyes are firmly on your notebook, diligently writing line after line of dot points on your page. It must be his imagination.

Every few moments, he spots you reaching up and rubbing at a spot on your collarbone like you have an itch, and he feels his curiosity growing but decided to leave it be for the sake of the project.

“I heard you were helping out with auditions..” you trail off softly as you walk by Jihoon’s side, two hours after your study session had begun. The sun is setting in the sky now as you shove your hands in your pockets. You’re standing on the outer side of the sidewalk, feet ghosting over the lip of where the concrete meets the road.

“Sure am.” He drawls, kicking at a rock on the pavement. “Why do you ask?”

“Oh, no reason,” You shake your head quickly. “I was just going to ask how it’s going.” Your eyes stay focussed on your feet. Jihoon spots your neck flushing pink.

“It’s not bad.” He shrugs. “But I don’t know how you can work with some of those actors. Almost all of them can’t sing for shit.”

You let out a cough as you seemingly choke on your own saliva, a laugh escaping your throat. “They’re not that bad, Jihoon-ssi.”

Jihoon feels like it’s so formal when you address him now. There is still the occasional moment you will call him simply Jihoon, but never Oppa. Not since the incident.

“They are bad when you have to hear the same rendition of ‘Mamma Mia! Here I go again. My my, how can I resist you?’ for four hours.” He groans, your amused smile growing on your lips as he speaks. “Why didn’t any of your friends audition? They sound a whole lot better than anyone else who sang.”

At the mention of your friends, you perk up a bit. “Believe me, I’ve tried. But they’re happy in their little show choir. I insisted that they would easily get the main role if they just showed up to audition, but they argued with me every step of the way.” You sigh, shrugging your shoulders. “So, I gave up.”

“Hmm, pity.” He hums. “It would’ve been better than who they’re deciding for callbacks.”

You nod along with him, and just as you’re about to respond, Jihoon beats you to the punch.

“You would’ve been good, too.”

Your cheeks immediately flush a deep red, turning your head to look away. “Uhh, thanks.”

“I mean, it isn’t a compliment.” Jihoon retorts. Your shoulders sag. “Well, I mean… it is, I suppose.” He immediately tries to mend things. “But coming from someone who sadly has perfect pitch, you, Jeongyeon and the others were the best singers I’ve heard all month.”

“Thank you, Jihoon-ssi.” You smile softly at your soulmate before flinching and taking a quick step towards him.

You were standing a bit too close to the road as a car sped past you, almost knocking you off your feet if it wasn’t for Jihoon to catch you by the loop of your backpack. He swiftly maneuvers you to walk on the inside of the path, now standing in your original spot without blinking an eye or missing a stride.

“It’s fine.” He acts like nothing happened. “And, if it’s too much for your rehearsal, or whatever.. I’ve been trained in piano since I was in middle school. So, uh… I could play the backing track for you if you wanted to focus on singing with the girls… if you wanted.” It was his turn to turn red as he walked, stammering. He truly didn’t intend on offering this to you, he just let it slip out like word vomit. “I don’t have anything to do after school on Friday’s since Ji-ah usually leaves for her family, so I mean if you guys wanted I could help out.”

He was babbling and probably repeating himself now. Oh god, can you please shut him up.

“Oh..” your eyes are wide as you stare at him. “I mean, I can check with the girls… but are you sure? You really don’t have to if you don’t want to.” Jihoon feels it. Your nerves begin to swirl in the pit of your stomach, the doubt and worry running through you as you question everything.

“It’s fine.” He insists. “Really, I love playing the piano anyway so this is just like a holiday for me. Honest.”

“Then, yeah.. sure.” You nod slowly as your walking slows as you reach the block before your house. “I’ll ask the girls and see. Thank you.”

“Sure.” He hums, hands stuffed deep in his pockets.

“And… uh… before you leave.” You pause at your front gate. Jihoon stops and turns to face you, eyebrows raised in curiosity. “Soonie told me to ask you… usually this time of year leading up to Cheol’s birthday, we usually go on a big camping trip. This year we’re going to Busan and Jeonghan has told us to invite anyone who we think would want to go.”

You’re kicking at the invisible dust on the ground. “Soonie knew I was meeting up with you for the project so he told me to ask if you and Ji-ah want to come. It’s in a couple of weeks from now so you don’t have to decide yet, but the offer is there.”

“Oh, that sounds fun.” He nods slowly. “I’m from Busan, so that’d be nice.”

“And you guys wouldn’t have to worry about getting a ride there!” You insist quickly. “Jeonghan is hiring a bus so you guys can just tag along- wait, what did you say?”

“It’d be fun..?” Jihoon repeats himself before you let his words process through your brain. You blink and nod your head quickly.

“Oh, okay. Good.” You step inside the gate. “I’ll get Soonie to text you the details?”

“Sounds good, thanks.” Your soulmate nods again, a ghost of a smile on his face.

“Thanks for walking me home, Jihoon-ssi. Have a good night.” You bowed your head before turning around, rushing to the front door of your home.

“Goodnight.” Jihoon mumbles, the door already closed behind you. Once he knows you’re not going to go out again, he turns around and continues his walk home.

“Ladybug? Is that you?” You hear Jeonghan’s voice coming from the kitchen.

“Yeah. It’s just me, Oppa.” You call back, stepping into the room and giving him a quick hug.

“It’s late. Did you walk home on your own?” Seungcheol steps into the room at the sound of your voice, hand on his hip.

“No, I had to study with Jihoon-ssi, remember?” You lean against the counter with a little smile. “He walked me home, it’s on his way.”

“Oh, how chivalrous of him.” He cooed playfully, making you roll your eyes.

“Oh please.” You wave your hand. “He probably only did it because you would’ve murdered him if he didn’t walk me home, or had someone organized to get me.”

“This is true.” Your brother smirks, reaching out and ruffling your hair. You have a small smile on your face that doesn’t go unnoticed by Jeonghan, who watched you with a raised brow.

“Hannie-Oppa,” you turn to said man. “Jihoon and Ji-ah are confirmed to be coming to Busan too, Soonie invited them.”

“Ji-ah?” Cheol asks, tilting his head.

“His girlfriend.” You mutter, Jeonghan’s eyebrows raising so high up that he’s surprised they haven’t touched the ceiling.

Girlfriend. Interesting.

Real Eyes, Fake Lies Taglist

@cinnamoroxie @enhacolor @mikachu-chu @jojowantstocry @changbinisms @scarlet789 @i-dont-give-a-fok @im-gemmy @shookyungsoo @ametheyistheart @friendlywraith @kawennote09 @coupddeongie @sunooschubbycheeks @zgzgzh @mar-627 @side-angel @kuleo26 @deltamoon666 @snowgirlfallen @lixiel0ver @phenomenalgirl9 @weebotakuboy @sumzysworld @vixensss @seokmatchu @etaerealboy @milopenne @jinyoungie0922 @chickenscoups @zadkielr

#lee jihoon x reader #seventeen angst #seventeen fanfic #seventeen x reader #woozi angst #woozi x reader #Woozi fluff #lee jihoon angst #lee jihoon fluff #seventeen au #jihoon angst #jihoon fluff #jihoon x reader

205 notes · View notes

brooooswriting · 2 years

Note

Hiii, so how about one with FEM reader x Jenna.

Jen had a toxic/abusive ex and got into a relationship with R.

One night Jen got a text from her Ex and it looked like she was cheating on R who saw the text and an argument broke out. R raised her arm to move some hair out of her face and Jenna flinched.

So basically hurt/comfort→ fluff 🤌🏻

feel free to ignore this if it makes you feel uncomfortable or if you just don't wanna write it

I hope you have a great day:)

Truth or lie?

Tw: toxic ex, arguments

Jenna Ortega x reader

You and Jenna have been dating for the last 4 months and things were going good. Sure, it was hard every now and then as she had to work a lot. But she slept over whenever she could and you visited her on set and in the different countries every opportunity you had. So you made it work. It was nice, different than your other relationship, but nicer than all of them. At least for you, you didn’t know anything about Jenna’s relationship. Even after 2 months of dating and 4 months of relationship you were clueless when it came to her ex.

Which lead to the situation you were in now:

“Jenna, your phones ringing” you called out to your girlfriend who was in the shower, not receiving an answer. After two more times you decided to read the message so you could tell her. It was a common thing for the two of you, she was on your phones and you were on hers. So you didn’t see a problem in it right now, until you did.

Jenna baby,Why don’t you leave her tonight and come over again so I can have my way with you - Marius

You reread the message about 5 times before throwing the phone on the bed behind you and standing up to pace around the room. Your hands were pulling at your hair and tears were streaming down your face. You paces until you heard the bathroom door opened, you sat on the edge of the bed taking a deep breath.

“Y/n, what’s wrong?” Jenna asked concerned when she saw your state. “Who’s Marius?” You shot back, your breath uneven and your hands clammy. “What are yo…” you interrupted her before she could even nearly finish the question. “Who is Marius?!” Your voice got louder as you stared her down. “Baby” she started but you interrupted her again. “Don’t call me baby when you’re supposed to be in HIS bed tonight” you stood up, trying to breath deeply as you clenched your fists so hard that your knuckles started to turn white.

You should have known that this was going to happen. You never learned your lesson, being a girls first girlfriend meant that you were an experiment. You were nothing to them. Every damn time.

“Marius is my ex” she started again trying to stay calm. “God damnit, I should’ve known. I was a fucking experiment to you, a game? Nothing more than a plaything while you were fucking your ex” you were pacing again, breathing fast, trying to stop the tears. But yours and Jenna’s face was flooded with tears. “That’s all I was. I hate myself for trusting you and for spending so much time on you” you said as you stopped your pacing. “Now you’re just being mean” she mumbled out causing you to laugh out. “Damnit Jenna, you’re fucking cheating on me” you stepped closer to her while raising your hand to pull at your hair again.

The moment your hand was in the air Jenna dodged and hid herself behind her hands. You immediately lowered your hand and took a step back. In that exact moment all those feelings disappeared, the anger, the sadness, the madness and they were replaced by guilt and care. You took a moment to really look at the girl in front of you, she was shivering, tears were streaming down her face, her breath irregular and shallow and her hands were shaking. Your heart broke for her.

You laid out your hands for her to look at as you carefully moved towards her. “It’s oke, I’m not gonna hurt you. Everything will be alright ok?” You whispered and decided to sit at the edge of the bed, arms open for her. “Nobody is going to hurt you, it’s just me” that seemed to do it for her as she threw herself into your lap. Her arms wrapped around your shoulders while her head was buried in your neck, your arms around her waist.

You waited until the girl calmed down, slowly stroking her back. You tried to think of all the possible ways to explain the text, maybe she wasn’t with him, maybe he was just a dick. God, how much you hoped that this was the case.

Meanwhile, Jenna tried to remind herself that it was just you, y/n, who opened her doors, bought her coffee and helped her learn her scripts. The y/n, who was comforting her even while thinking that she was cheating on her, the girl that would always protect her. The y/n that she was so in love with. You weren’t like Marius at all.

“Marius is my ex” she mumbled into your neck. You tried to pull away, only to be pulled back by the brunette on top of you. “No please I need the comfort for this” you only nodded, urging her to continue. “He was great at first, a gentleman, perfect in front of friends and family, nice, humorous, understanding. He was everything girls want, he was everything I wanted” she told you which caused your heart to clench. In that moment you were sure that you were going to loose her so you tightened your arms, hoping to be able to hold her just a moment longer.

“And suddenly he changed, every time I went out he made me feel guilty and he used that to pressure me into doing what he wanted. He used me like a toy, some plaything that wasn’t allowed to have its own opinion. And when that started to work less he started to become physical, he hit me when I didn’t want what he wanted, or when I tried to resist” by now she was crying again, and you were too.

So many things made sense now, the way she slightly flinched every now and then, how she was vary of why you were a gentlewomen, how she always wanted what you wanted and you had to ask her like a thousand times what she wanted.

“I felt so free when I finally broke up with him, but lately he started to text me again… I blocked him twice already but he always gets a new number and sends me threats of dirty texts” you rubbed her back as she spoke. “Why didn’t you tell me, love?” You asked softly. She pulled back her head slightly to the right as she mumbled a confused ‘love?’

You nodded, “yeah, you’re still my love right?” You told her giving her a reassuring smile. “Even after… all that?” You nodded again, “especially after all that. You deserve someone so much better than him. I’m so sorry you went trough that as you don’t deserve what he did to you. I’m sorry I made you think that I was going to hit you and that I jumped to conclusions” you whispered into her ear as you hugged her again. “I’m sorry for not telling you”

“Can we cuddle please? I’m really exhausted and want to sleep in your arms” you grinned as she pulled back. “Of course pretty girl” you softly kissed her. When you tried to pull back she was quick to pull you closer again and deepen the kiss. Slightly laughing when she pulled away you picked her up and threw you together on the bed.

You were holding her tightly until she fell asleep before sneaking out of the bedroom and calling her sister Aaliyah over FaceTime. “Hey Aaliyah, I’ve got a question” you told her as you walked into the kitchen. “Hey sister-in-law” she joked “what can I do for you?” You could see her mother and another sister in the background. “Do you know where Marius lives?” There was a beat of silence and all the Ortegas looked into the camera. “Marius? Like her ex Marius?” Natalie asked causing you to nod. “Why?” You looked at Aaliyah before sighing. “He’s been sending her rather weird texts and it’s not doing her good, so he has to learn his lesson” you mumbled out. “I will send you his address” she answered and you could see the rest smirking. “Thanks, bye guys”

And with that you made your way to the address you were send. You knocked on the door until a man, a bit taller than you, opened the door. “Are you Marius?” You asked with a cold face. “Yeah, why? Who are you?!” He was unfriendly and rude which seemed about right. “Leave Jenna alone” you growled out taking a step closer. “Or what? Huh, what do you want to do to stop me huh?” That was enough for you. You hit him square in the face causing him to stumble back and hold his bleeding nose. “You bitch” you laughed before hitting him again causing him to fall and you grinned as you already knew that he’ll have a black eye later.

“Keep away from her or it will be worse” with that you got into you car and drove off.

In the meantime Jenna woke up and panicked when she didn’t see you anywhere. Panicked she called her mother. “Mom, what if she left completely? You know, like forever?! I don’t want to be without her, I promise I didn’t cheat on her” Jenna cried out as she walked around the kitchen. “Hun, calm down. Maybe she just forgot she had to do something? Everything’s gonna be alright, I promise”

Just as her mother promised you walked up behind her and wrapped your arms around her from behind. Your bloodied knuckles laying on top of her stomach. She shrieked as she saw your knuckles. “Y/n, what the fuck happened?”, “someone had to learn a lesson. Nobody fucks with my girl” you told her and kissed her head.

“I told you she was the right one” her mom grinned at you two before saying goodbye and hanging up.

“You beat him up just for me?” Jenna’s voice was small as she turned in your arms. You pressed a kiss to her lips before nodding. “My dad will be so proud of you” she grinned out before becoming seriously, “you know that you’re not just a game or an experiment to me right?” She kissed your lips a couple of times softly after you nodded. “I know, I was just mad. I love you Jenna”

“I love you too”

Sure, you guys still had a lot of stuff to work trough but it was gonna be fine. You’d do everything for her and she’d do everything for you. And even more importantly; Marius would definitely leave the two of you alone for quite a while.

#reader insert #brooooswriting #jenna ortega x you #jenna ortega x y/n #jenna ortega #jenna ortega x reader #Jenna #Ortega #wednesday addams x reader

644 notes · View notes

drippingmoon · 9 months

Text

Merry new year to everyone, again! 🥳💞🥂

I know it wasn’t an event this year, but writing a yearly wrap-up is really therapeutic, you know? So I decided to continue the tradition, and if anyone wants to join me, absolutely view this as an open invitation^^ Introduction is over, and now let’s see what 2023 looked like:

(spoilers: I adored it. I'm also probably going to make this my fixed post, in case anyone ever wants to catch up with me. And also because my second baby, AoS, is growing, and it doesn't have an intro, but I can't leave it out.)

Stats

Aquiver, Aglow: 181k (draft 4) + 195k (draft 5) + hmm, draft 6 is an outlier, because I didn’t rewrite from scratch, so I’m unsure of the written word count. I didn’t change much from draft 5, so I’d say an extra 15-20k. Total word count: 376k+

Remains of a Night: 120k

Aberration of Sunlight: 134k

This was definitely my most productive year to date. And I got so hungry: the more I wrote, the more I just wanted to keep writing, and honestly? I’m proudest of myself for literally carving writing time whenever I got a spot into my schedule. Mostly it was from 8pm-11pm, but I had a mad run where my only free window was from 1am till I literally felt I was dying… I’ll talk about that separately🤣🤣👌

Though, I'm seriously understating it.

Like a lot of other people, I would have all these hours when I was younger when I didn't have anything to do, yet I'd still find some excuse not to write. "I'm waiting for the right time." "I'm anxious I'm not going to get it right." "Tomorrow! Tomorrow I can start right from the morning, and I'll have more time to write, yeah?" or "I'm too tired now, it's late..." and so the snowball rolled down and downhill and I found every reason under the sun not to write, now that I think about it. Sigh. So much time wasted. But I can't regret it either, because I needed those baby steps at that time.

And now! Now I do what I thought I'd never learn to: I prioritize, and I actually organize my daily stuff so it's not so impossible anymore to have a little bit of writing time. I don't take it for granted either. It feels like such character growth for me, I'm immensely proud of it.

And for the record? This year was a huge improvement over yesteryear mentally, too. It turns out, what I needed to get over my word count anxiety… was to be faced with people who literally didn’t give a fuck about it, and just cared about the story. One of the most unexpected things beta stage managed to do to me… was to quench all my anxieties. It’s as simple as that. I read and enjoy very long books. People also do that. So, I’m very happy to say I’m no longer in a tizzy about ‘quiv. It might kill my chances for trad publishing, it might not. I’ll be happy come what may.

Because it’s so simple how working on ‘quiv or thinking about it makes me joyous, and now I can just enjoy that freely. I will miss writing this story so much. I really will. But at least I’ll have it forever to reread, and I hope this thought brings comfort to everyone who also has problems letting go, like it does to me.

Let’s break it down a little, shall we?🤩

Aquiver, Aglow◇◇◇

My little star of the hour. How fond I am of it.

Like you could glean from above, ‘quiv went through three drafts this year. More specifically: in the first part of the year, practically almost as soon as February arrived. I knew it was getting closer to the final version, and gave me the push to finish all three back to back. I couldn’t justify anymore the bazillion AUs I do with rewrites (basically, WHAT IFs from events, WHAT IF it went this different way, WHAT IF Tyrone actually said this here… and so on and so forth. I wanted to test out as many pathways as possible, and did I exhaust every one of them in existence? Definitely not. I don’t think that can happen, you just keep getting new ideas. On and on. What happened, instead, is that these couple different pathways, at some point, cemented themselves as canon in my mind. I didn’t want to tease myself with alternatives anymore, and that’s when I knew they would be it. Some bits from the first draft, some from the third, some from the second. Some were even draft 6 originals!

It’s a bit of a weird process. I definitely didn’t need to reach draft 3, and meet Mezusa, because I could’ve feasibly made it work with just Yles in the story. It still would’ve made sense, though in a different way. But if I hadn’t… I might’ve missed one of the best characters I’ll ever probably have created, and the story (and Yles) is much stronger for her, if you ask me.

For that matter, yes, full rewrites every single draft might take a lot of time and effort, but honestly I don’t think I’d ever change my writing process (save for the moments of frustration when I think I will lol) because of the sheer satisfaction of it. Whoever said so long never to settle on the first version, I owe you a beer and probably some curses as well lmao, but very lovingly. You shaped my writing life.

I don’t have much else to share about ‘quiv, other than it’s off with my beta readers my beloved, and maybe a tentative promise that, if anyone wants, you’ll be able to read this precious ball of hope of mine relatively soon. This story is so gentle to me. And as much as I loved to write and work on it, I dearly hope that whoever decides to give it a go, is treated just the same. That’s the only wish I have.

I also don’t know if I’ll go trad or self-published. Instincts say trad, because I fuckin’ suck at marketing (fact), and I know I’d grow resentful if I’d have to put so many hours into advertising when I know I could instead… write. I’m a writer. That’s the only thing I know how to do. Trad, however, might not be as kind on a ~200k as life’s been, so I might not have a choice. If it comes down to that… I’ll just treat it as I do everything. I don't love this story any less if I just write, publish without a fuss, hope that maybe, just maybe, a reader or two will stumble upon the story and we could talk. Maybe we can have the fun of our lives, create some genuine connection. I know that’s applies to a lot of writers. I hope we can accomplish it.

And so, I’ll finish this section of the wrap-up with a kiss to my ‘quiv, for all the warmth it’s ever brought me. It’s come so far, I know it can live distinct from me from now on. It brings me great comfort. And I look forward to the times I’ll reread it, and we can relive our best experiences together. Never thought I’d get to this point. Thank you, ‘quiv.

Remains of a Night♤♤♤

Mwhahaha! And because ‘quiv took all the pressure, this left AoS to be an extremely fun and spirited experience. Literally the chillest I’ve ever been writing. In many ways, it’s more my thing than I expected ‘quiv to be: I get to murder characters left and right, it’s more plot-heavy and banking on the tension created by a creature that horrifies the characters down to their marrow, but still the only way to defeat it is to know it better, which, uh, might have unpleasant consequences for them. It’s got chase and stealth scenes, and it always shoots me with adrenaline to think about them. In short, exactly my jam.

It’s not a new book, nope. You knew it before as Aberration of Sunlight, but from the get-go I felt it would be bigger than ‘quiv. Very fortunately for me, I had a place where to break it, and behold: there’s RoaN (book 1), and AoS (book 2). There might be a third book, which I dearly hope not because titling sucks, but it depends on the Sycamine arc. More on that in AoS.

One last thing to note, before we delve into the story (hoo-ray for earlier drafts, because I can talk more frankly about them). This is the culprit of my 1am writing adventures!!😫❤ My schedule became too packed, then NaNo came round and I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to honor how AoS began, because it was last year’s NaNo, aaand I’m happy to say I won NaNo, somehow, with 56k down before I died. At that time, I only had one section left to write (from both books), otherwise, hahahaha, yeah, it wouldn’t have flown. Still, most of draft 2 I’d written in September-October, with my fairy lights, late nights, and cups of hot cocoa, exactly like how life should be<3

Alright. We’re going through them chapter-by-chapter again, exactly because I love seeing the titles so much:

ACT 1

Cracked Visor, Scorpion Grass

I did it! I did! Twas another shower thought I managed to get down in time. Bare broken sentences, but they did the impossible, and arranged this chapter into a structure I adore to bits and won't ever change. (And 'quiv's naughty voice left me alone for once and I could write it properly!) While I don't think I'll ever be happy with a first chapter (not as a concept, but the writing — part of me will always wish that the reader just had all the information already lol), this one is in the right place.

It pays its respects to the story of the broken helmet at the foot of a spaceship, and how it reconnects Madigan with all the people who'd suffered from being tethered to the planets when they yearned to fly, but the Beast punished them cruelly for it. It makes him feel phantoms of their efforts. The tone is exactly what I needed this story to start from: melancholy and numbly hopeless, against the backdrop of the Beasts's echoed cries.

Rain Through the Universe

Unlike 'quiv, because RoaN and AoS are way more plot-heavy, it's not as easy to change things willy-nilly (whereas 'quiv was all about character bonds and dynamics). As such, it's very similar to draft 1. Because of that, I'll frankendraft next (select and combine drafts 1 and 2, rewrite to connect them) and afterwards I'll try something I've always wanted to. (Scrivener keeps hinting at it!) I'm gonna split the chapters into scenes, and focus on those individually and how I can just rewrite them and set their purpose in stone<3 I'm excited!

As for the chapter itself, gods, I love the atmosphere. Just the wreckage of a sundered ship, and Madigan’s sudden madman appearance making a lasting impression on Spica, because how could it not. They no longer answer distress calls in that age, it just means more dead bodies. In fact, they're forbidden to. Madigan instead brings him what he himself lacks: hope. And a lot of crawling around while dreading the Beast's lambent eye opening, and oh my, the moments are really flying by😈👏 extreme fun for me as the writer.

Aberration of Light

If you remember, the books follow two timelines, which will connect at some point. The first and main one is Madigan and Spica’s story. The other is Holloway’s, in the distant past of that universe, and who’s been dubbed the most selfish man in existence. That’s important, because of how the Beast came to be. But that becomes important later. For now, a weird-ass new recruit has joined the ship, and the witchy crew will very soon start making bets if she’s the Beast in human flesh, which really wouldn’t bode well for their future.

Night Falls On Their Reflection

Draft 2 became Spica’s draft. It was high time. He didn't exist in the original idea beyond chapter 2, but he refused to die with his story untold. And now he's one of the most independent thinkers I've ever written. Now he's Madigan's son (yes, even at 25), best friend, back-to-back partner all in one, and I could watch the trust and mutual respect between these two forever. To be sure: Madigan comes up with the dumbass plans, and Spica's only too happy to follow him through everything (it is good fun.)

He's repaying the incredible kindness Madigan's shown him when answering his distress call, after all.

But it goes a bit further than that, doesn't it? Madigan is used to watching over myriad people. He's the Superintendent of his planet, and while he genuinely loves people, kindness is his default. It doesn't go further than that for him. He doesn't necessarily think people need, much less desire his presence there beyond Madigan extending help, and most of the time, he's content with that. Kindness does make him happy. And it should be the same with Spica now, shouldn't it? He's kind, but he's not Spica's family, nor ever will be. Yet he immediately feels a connection with the boy, that has nothing to do with bonding over escaping-a-cosmic-disaster. And so does Spica.

This is the moment when Madigan starts feeling guilty, for stepping where he should not. But here's the beauty of Spica's character: he's nothing if not dead sure of his own feelings, and what he sees with his eyes. It's okay if Madigan keeps unexpectedly taking steps back. For very long, there'd been nobody to support Spica's beliefs. So he does the same, as when he followed his heart to go into dead space: he believes in himself and Madigan, and that their paths aren't meant to diverge. They mean too much to each other for that to ever happen.

(In short, and legend says you can still hear me screeching about these two ten thousand years later, I love these two so much, and especially the parallels between Spica going alone into outer space and loving Madigan.)

(And, okay, obviously all these developments don't happen in a single chapter, but I couldn't stop gushing🤭🥰.)

Who Puts These Tombs in Ice

Overall, I think draft 2’s Luitgart performed worse than draft 1. Mainly it's the setting I want to revert (still an icy, sempiternally dark hell, but with different ice constructions) because some of the beats are a huge improvement, and again, I gotta combine the two. Otherwise, I’m still as obsessed about the Luitgart arc as I’ve ever been, and huge thanks to it for being so strong it could function as an ending of its own, allowing me to split the book.

Gettin’ into spoilery territory, but I have to un-kill Madigan so many times it leaves me in hysterics. That was what I was supposed to fix this draft. It got worse. Considerably.

(One constant: the chapter being a love letter to Madigan, and how his first answer will always be to help the other, no matter if they deserve it or not<3 and finally, finally, he gets acknowledged for it, and the favor returned.)

ACT 2

Lemon-Dotted Days + Remnant

Two Holloway chapters! I’m actually massively pleased with how they’ve turned out. Last year, I said the main issue was that I had an outline, and that never works for me. So I did what I do best and rewrote everything from scratch, and the result is both uncanny and… unexpected.

Unexpected, because I never in my life thought Holloway’s voice would make me laugh so much. He’s supposed to be unsympathetic, but then you get his interactions with Saintlark (the new crewmate, possibly Beast) where they’re contemplating the harvest of a nebula, and he’s harshly critical of it, which gives Saintlark hope… only to go deadpan One Moment Later: if they’d used the nebula to prolong their lives instead of bolstering the war, they wouldn’t have died like clown idiots.

And, they could’ve maybe stolen immortality from the nebula. They would've had to share it with him, of course. Or he would've murdered them to get it.

That, my guys, is his personality in a nutshell.

I have a lot of feelings on Holloway now, and most involve me huffing and slapping my forehead while groaning, but oh my gods. Was it ever so fun. And wait, wait, wait. Since I'm talking of humor (apparently a lot of comedy fit into this horror lmfao) I have to show you guys the following section🤣🤣👏:

Corpse Snow

The drifters are set howling on the ice. They share glances, five separate vehicles nodding at each other. Madigan revs up the engine, splitting the air with a jet of steam and vibration.

The last of the marines are climbing into the box. A figure flashes past Madigan’s drifter — and he leans over, teeth grinding because of his ribs, and he does his very best to grab someone by the back of their suit and pull. Workout days were never his strength, though. He only succeeds in stopping them in the frost smoke.

It’s Spica dangling from his hand, expressionless.

Lieutenant Hahn instantly seizes on the situation. He throws Madigan a long, withering look. “Whatcha doing, Boss?” he asks softly, about to unhinge his jaw again.

Madigan nudges Spica into the drifter. “Picking up your boy.”

Spica gets the hint and deposits himself into the front seat, glancing from his father to his Superintendent. He seems to give up on whatever’s going on, and makes himself cozy in the frosty spot. And Madigan, of course, pretends not to notice Hahn’s drifter sliding closer.

“And you didn’t consider I might want to have my son with me?”

Madigan looks up and sighs. “Lieutenant, dear Lieutenant,” he starts pleadingly. “Why won’t you show some leniency to a poor, wounded man?”

Hahn’s drifter stops, summoning a breeze across the icy floor that gently rocks the other vehicle. His breathing distorts the comms with static. “And what exactly is my son right now?”

“My trusty navigator,” Madigan answers easily.

“Sir’s emotional walking stick?” Spica pipes in at the same time.

They both look over. Spica’s quietly turned to the navigation, as serene as daylight, seemingly oblivious to how Madigan's expression changes, lightning-fast. He quickly hides it under the guise of a polite mask, as the marines stir and turn their attention on them. They’re snickering.

Lieutenant Hahn throws up his hands, giving up on everything.

This is also the first 30k chapter I’ve ever written. It's everything I've ever wanted to do with ice.

Heart of the Void

The end of the book. Originally, it was the ending section to Corpse Snow, but since it already got so ungodly long, I chipped off that bit and I have to say I’m very happy with how it works as an epilogue! So it ends the frosty, weary journey, and I can’t see the two books as separate yet, but here we bid goodbye to the first.

Aberration of Sunlight♧♧♧

I did the unthinkable and created a fifth arc. This might not seem like much to you, but I was screaming bloody murder you guys😭😭😭. Sigh. It’s so sigh. For so long, AoS consisted of four clear-cut acts, but it was necessary. With the introduction of Sycamine, and making it two books, it was just needed. It’s still one of the worst things I’ve ever done because I was used to four😃💔

(The chapters continue from where RoaN left off – from chapter 10, to 21.)

ACT 3

Retro Spectrum

Sycamine, oh Sycamine. Definitely the break I needed before Days in Darkness. It made for a really neat beginning. It’s calmer, focusing on the knowledge they have on the Beast. It’s also a reflection on Procyon (their main star) and the story of the two straggler dog constellations, and what they'd been running away from. I liked the direction it took. It veered away from the Beast for a bit, so the tension kept expanding in the background. And when it returns, well... maybe they shouldn't have been so eager to see it again🤭.

It suffers from the same syndrome as draft 1’s first chapter… it’s there in the vicinity of the idea, but too much to the left. Not bad for a first attempt. The setting annoys me – I really don't enjoy writing cities, and AoS didn't change that. So, for our next try, I was thinking... maybe we don't need to be on the planet, but up close and veeery personal with it. It's a secret❤.

And, oh gods. I put a moustache-twirling villain in this. And then I couldn’t stop myself from naming some sucker Sweetman Calories. I don’t know what happened to me during those days, but I’m crying🤣🤣🤣.

Toast to the Light

Holloway and Saintlark’s story is slowly coming to an end. Unexpectedly bleaker than draft 1, yet it feels much more sincere. Holloway has a way of saying everything Saintlark needs to hear. No surprise. They did that to themselves.

Dissonant Recognition

Ahhhh, the Madigan-is-slowly-losing-his-grip-on-reality chapter, or maybe he should really stop staring into the suns. One of my favorites<3 Also because it features Moren (!!!) who has a blast staying in the grey morality area, because she doesn’t know if her actions could ever matter, or if she could change anything. Does she just exist? Is she a player or just pawn? Who knows. Besides that, she gets along great with Spica. They form such a teasing duo, the level of mutual respect they felt for each other on sight was a delight to write. My favorite ally of theirs, even if her destiny lies elsewhere.

Night Beneath the Elevator

Best title hands down, dethroning Solgesis. I’m going batshit crazy about the visuals, it's exactly my thing. This half-light slanted over an elevator waiting in a rundown basement to be boarded. And there's something underneath it, and always has been. Something insidiously creeping up and waving its tendril fingers at you as you're just waiting for the fucking thing to ascend. Immaculate, guys, I'm telling you, and I'm cursing my hands because I can't make a wallpaper of this. I want to eat that atmosphere.

Time-sensitive missions, y'all.

And why the heck did nobody inform me I was going to add Command as an actual character and have them talk with Madigan?! That entire convo, made up entirely on the spot but somehow with a direction, made me realize what an idiot I’d been for not doing it sooner. They mean so much to Madigan, after all.

(And Mariya. So much Mariya in these chapters.)

ACT 4

Loop System

Like Who Puts These Tombs in Ice, draft 1 might’ve done it better. Not Spica and Madigan, though, because of the sheer development Spica’s been through and the dynamic he’s managed to form with the crew. It's different from Madigan’s, but similar enough that it’s got Hahn commenting lightly: [Spica’s] picked up quite a few habits from Madigan, hasn’t he? Almost as if they’ve gotten very very close, huh? How about Madigan tell him more?

(I adore writing Hahn.)

Outreach

Another Holloway chapter. Doesn’t have the punch of the kids subplot from draft 1, but this just makes it worse for Saintlark personally, because, this time, the consequences are on her.

Days in Darkness

I knew the moment I first got the idea this would be my favorite chapter. Well, it finally happened in draft 2: when the entire crew is here, this time, and ready for the final countdown, to relive the experience of being trapped in a ship that's disintegrating. No more heroes left behind. I'd been so tired writing this chapter in draft 1, but this time around it was incredible. Everything went up sharply from here, both in terms of events and how on fire I was.

(Maybe less than the gorgon, but I was.)

ACT 5

Echo Terminal

The first of the two log chapters.

I've never written smoother, more visual chapters than in this period. Days in Darkness changed me so much, I was writing day and night by this point and couldn't get enough. Well, I hit my limit in the second half of the very last chapter, but I am beyond satisfied. Even the Beast's metamorphosis took me by storm, because I'd been wondering what the final verbs, the final images, the final design for it was going to be. I didn't expect it to come to me this early, and with such thrill. Those were my very best days of the year, and I toast to them.

(And I knew it was going to be fantastic when Halo's Warthog Run OST started blaring in my head, with as much adrenaline.)

Where, Now? + Solgesis

My beloved. The second and last of the two log chapters, but it’s Noelle Saintlark’s log.

Holloway’s timeline ends here. Or maybe it just gets carried into the future. I thought I’d want to rewrite his parts again, make the plot just a tiny bit more psychedelic and nonsensical because it’s so close to the Beast… but Solgesis put all my fears to rest. Even the formatting and layout is a bit of that special thing I’ve always wanted to try, and it really changes the perspective of the previous chapters. There's a new confession that stands at the heart of Holloway's stories.

Honestly, the only thing that needs urgent working on is the anger at the end of the chapter.

Anger is so hard for me to write sometimes. Not because I don’t connect with it, but because I feel self-conscious writing it. The wildest I felt it was when I tackled 'quiv's chapter 3 and Imera's Turning speech, both in quick succession (before I'd even written draft 1. I'd been taking notes.) Since then... I just thing back to how keenly I'd felt that anger, and I kind of intimidate myself out of it. Kind of like a natural resistence, I quench it from myself. Which is actually hilarious when you think about it. It’s like I’m going I BANISH THEE FROM MY BRAIN because generally, as a person, I dislike feeling and operating on anger. But no worries. I’m going to find a way around it.

Watch me😎.

What Goes Around…

(Now it’s the time for me to start crying some rivers, and, alright, it won’t be visible so I’ll say it: the chapter titles are holding a conversation, guys. They speak to each other. And sometimes it’s both sides of the same coin, like how What Goes Around (comes around) hints here. If you take two chapters, one from the beginning and one from the end (for example 1 and 21) it'll tell you a little secret. Okay, What Goes Around and Rain Through the Universe communicate through their plot, which I can’t spoil but of course it has to do with Madigan and Spica and how they first meet… but there is one title pair that does it best visibly.

Lemon-Dotted Days and Days in Darkness.

And I hadn’t even planned this. All the parallels I wanted to draw… I feel like they built themselves, guys. They really did, and it makes me so wildly happy I don’t even know how to stop my hands from flailing.

And, with them being 21 chapters, they meet in the middle, on the one unpaired chapter.

Called Toast to the Light.

I friggin’ love everything.

New Sunrise, Forget-Me-Right

Of course, Forget-Me-Right is a play on Scorpion Grass. But it’s also such a gentle name for the chapter, because everything ends here. Lying on their backs, staring out into the universe, and it really, really is over. Just a dark horizon on which stars flare and bloom. And suddenly, that maddened rush to make every sacrifice count, to remember every soul they’ve encountered because the legend says the Beast absorbs you when it kills you – all that suffocating pressure dissipates. Lightness remains. Because they’ve protected each other.

For the first time in my writing journey, blood rushed to my head with such emotion I had to stop writing, which never happens. I had to look up and exclaim, holy fuck. But how could I not, considering how the story ends for the Beast? I am speechless. A lot of gorgeous surprises this draft.

Conclusion□●□

Whew, what a year it's been! As for how 2024 will probably look like, though I don't like making plans: finishing the beta stage for 'quiv, and tackling RoaN and AoS's draft 3. Thaaaat one I'm actually starting on Christmas, when I can (finally!!) reread draft 2 with my mug of hot cocoa (or maybe mulled wine for a change) and, no surprises here, I'm hyper stoked for that<3 <3 <3 I legit can't wait to see where the new draft brings them. I might not have set any expectations for them, but they're vying to keep up with 'quiv and I adore it🤭❤

As for my lovely friends... well, you know by how I spam your tags how much I adore you and wish you happiness forever🤩🥺🥳 I don't know what my activity will look like in the near future, so for now I won't be saying anything, and my semi-hiatus continues. Semi, because you're unforgettable and I crave to see what everyone's been up to and (!!!!) what you've written!

So let's meet in 2024 again, and all the best wishes to you, the reader🥰🥂❤.

#ayearofwriting #2023 #aquiver-aglow #aberration of sunlight

61 notes · View notes

starsyearn · 4 months

Text

favorite (hpdm) fics of 2024 'til may.

hi hey hello! this year was the year i truly plunged into drarry and took a deep dive and i love that for me. came on here to show my appreciation for some of the best fics that i’ve read so far this year. let the praise commence for these fics that have caused me immense brainrot!!!

Teeter by @shiftylinguini (E, 10k)

Draco wants to come, Harry has other ideas, and they both might be doing this whole 'casually sleeping together' thing a bit wrong. Excerpt: If he’d been thinking straight, Draco would have guessed that Harry didn’t do things by halves, and that hopping into bed with him would be as exhilarating and impossible to control as anything Draco’d ever felt about the stupid tosser ― but even Draco could admit that keeping a level-head around Harry wasn’t exactly his strong point.

my thoughts: spice with a side of emotional mess, i stan. (reread it like thrice within a week of finishing it the first time because it was so beautiful somehow even though it was pure filth.)

By Any Other Name by @dracognition (E, 8k)

Draco would like to say that when Potter barged into his office at nine-thirty in the morning, locked the door, and demanded, “Are you in love with me?”, he sneered back and said something quite clever and cutting along the lines of please, Potter, I know we’re not trying to kill each other anymore but I have the good sense and, more importantly, standards not to throw myself at you or maybe at least I see your ego hasn’t gotten any more tolerable since school. What he said in reality, though, was, “What? I—what?” He tried again. “Have you gone completely mental?”

A botched love potion makes it so that everyone in Harry's vicinity is madly in love with him—everyone except Draco, that is.

my thoughts: i’m in such a haze ohmygod this was delicious and so fucking good i physically cannot — *clenches fist* these two have my whole and entire heart. AND THE WRITING I AM UNWELL. it’s so pretty!! anyways. read if you want pining draco & oblivious harry dialed up to immense levels of cuteness.

break the bad luck in my life by seaworn (E, 12k)

“Let’s have dinner." “I - what?” “I know a decent Muggle pub that serves adequate food, and it’s very private," Potter said. “‘Decent’. ‘Adequate’. You really know how to sell it, don’t you?” “Phenomenal company,” he offered. ** Draco and Harry are both brooding on Christmas Eve.

my thoughts: oh. my. god. smut with a side of life-altering decisions + christmas vibes = me giggling & kicking my legs up. so lovely. i love powerful harry and snarky draco and how they come together (no pun intended).

No Harm by @tessacrowley (E, 47k)

After a long, bloody war, Draco Malfoy just wants to do something good with his life for a change, and resolves to become a healer. But magical society refuses to make it easy for him, and an increasingly dramatic series of events—all of them instigated by Harry Potter—get him kicked out of med school, force him to live in exile, and threaten to destroy the new life he’s trying so desperately to build. But Harry isn’t instigating anything—at least not on purpose. He’s just trying to work up the nerve to ask him out. His efforts don’t appear to be going great.

my thoughts: this was such a quiet love story that touched my heart and i just. i’m melting. this really showed me how some of the deepest love can be rooted with so much history and pain but also deeply seated with a strong foundation of affection and mutual desire. harry and draco were perfect in this. auror harry/healer draco will forever have my heart now, and i personally feel it fits them so well (i will hear no arguments). their characterizations were so on-point in my opinion because of course it fits them. of course harry’s impatient and rushes into things headfirst but knows his morals and knows who he loves and wants to protect and cherish for the rest of his life (draco). of course draco’s snarky and vulnerable and sassy and penitent about everything that happened, because he was only just a kid. i love how they’re so idiots in love coded, once they get past the initial misunderstandings about how harry was trying to “ruin” draco’s life lol (which was sad in its own way). but then!!! when harry finally starts to “woo” draco, it was just so hilarious and beautiful and lovely. absolutely recommend.

AITA for being “obsessed” with my childhood nemesis? by RainstormRadish (M, 4k)

Alrakis • I [24M] attended a small boarding school in the UK. There was a boy in my year, a couple of months younger than me, and he became my nemesis after we developed an intense rivalry. My friend [25F] told me recently that our dynamic was "weird back then" and that "it’s even weirder" that I still think about him today. She argued that I talk about him all the time, but I believe the amount I talk about him is reasonable. AITA? prongymcprongface • i completely get what you mean. i had a nemesis (like a school one, separate to my other nemesis) and we had a dynamic super similar to what you are describing. having a nemesis is a very cool and normal thing dw about it. NTA In which Draco asks the internet if he's being reasonable. Only one commenter is sympathetic. They start talking.

my thoughts: this was just so funny and cute and surprisingly portrayed a reddit comment section so realistically (i was laughing so hard IT WAS HILARIOUS). again, what draco & harry share is a rivalry ok it’s definitely not a crush. not at all.

Darling, You’re Wiggling by @softlystarstruck, @lou-isfake (T, 5k)

Draco has a secret. Harry doesn’t have a secret, until he does. Then he goes to Claire’s.

my thoughts: in a nutshell: domestic drarry. they had me beaming so hard my cheeks hurt.

Pocket Full Of Starlight (Never Let It Fade Away) by @noeeon, @femmequixotic (E, 46k)

When Scorpius Malfoy and Jamie Potter meet at Quidditch camp, they take an instant dislike to each other. Then they discover their lives are more connected than they could possibly imagine.

my thoughts: scorpius & james parent trap-ping harry & draco? what’s not to like there. the family moments were everything, and this was just genuinely so feel-good even when the angst was angsting that i couldn’t help loving everything about it. anyways drarry are rather stupid here (affectionate) but thank fuck the kids are there to knock some sense into them. also jamie having harry’s recklessness while scorpius has draco’s shyness and coldness is just so lovely i cannot.

something in the static by cloudings (E, 92k)

When Draco Malfoy is sent numerous threats warning of what exactly will happen to him if he returns to Hogwarts, he is assigned a young, handsome Auror as his bodyguard. Harry hates him. He hates how close he stands to Malfoy, how highly he thinks of himself, how he insists on holding Malfoy’s shoulder every time they walk into a room. Really, Harry thinks. He’s the one who defeated the evilest of the evil. He could do a far better job of protecting him than a self-absorbed, shiny-haired prick like that. And you know what? He just might.

my thoughts: probably my favorite eighth year fic by far! the jealousy and pining was so good, holy shit. the tension was off the roof. genuinely so much fun.

Evitative by Vichan (T, 222k)

In the summer before his fifth year at Hogwarts, Harry is drawn to a room in Grimmauld Place. Like the Gryffindor he is, he enters the room without fear. The room is a library, and Harry is surprised to find that he’s eager to learn. Then he gets the bad news: he’s been accidentally expelled from Hogwarts, and he needs to be sorted again. Everyone is confident that he’ll go straight back to Gryffindor, but with what he's been learning, Harry’s not so sure.

my thoughts: this was amazing, addictive, and honestly fucking awesome. from the beginning i got so hooked and literally went “alriiiiight i think we have a winner on our hands folks” cause it really seemed like it would hit. and oh did it. i have no idea how i’m gonna hold out from reading Redivider (the sequel) since it’s a WIP (i think 76k words are done at the moment) and i generally avoid those because i cannot bear the waiting time (+ unfortunately the author doesn’t seem to have updated since may 2022) but like. i miss this world already and i love the way the world-building was done in this AU of Order of the Phoenix. the whole concept of dark arts introduced so many nuances to the original book and i loved this take on it. i also liked how despite characters having ingrained prejudices, they worked to meet in the middle and found common ground. and isn’t that what this fic was all about? insane and crazy plot twists, yes, but also character development in the most spectacular way. the romance is very light but i’m looking forward to seeing it develop more in the sequel!

Lily’s Boy by SomewheresSword (E, 746k)

Before his third year of Hogwarts has even begun, Harry faces three whole weeks of unsupervised time in Diagon Alley. In that time he takes a trip to Gringotts - and that changes everything. Burdened with the knowledge that Dumbledore has been blocking his family magic, and manipulating far more than he ever thought possible, Harry doesn't know who he can trust; but he knows he can't keep going that way. There's a whole world of lore and politics and history to catch up on, and the more he learns, the more Harry realises his true place in the world, and how much is being kept hidden from him. All the while, Dumbledore's twinkling eyes are constantly watching, and Harry can't let on how much he knows. With help from unexpected places, Harry starts on a journey to end the war, and reshape the wizarding world. With how much he looks like James Potter, people have forgotten one important thing about him - he is Lily Evans' son, and she was one hell of a witch.

my thoughts: i have no words to express what this means to me, so i’m just gonna leave it at that. but this was a whole-ass experience, and it’s just so comforting to me.

Turn by Saras_Girl (E, 307k)

One good turn always deserves another. Apparently.

my thoughts: did i ever mention i loved soft, slow stories when i’m in the mood for it (which is pretty much always)? well, i do. and this was exactly that. something so adorable, sweet, softly angsty and character-driven, not even an ounce of conflict from the “world”. it’s more about figuring yourself out, your place in the world, who you are. and fics like these teach me so much about how people try to mold themselves to fit a standard they think they should be upholding instead of saying “fuck the world, i’m gonna do as i damn well please and no one can stop me.” that’s what happened to harry. harry woke up one day and realized the way he was living wasn’t truly him living, he was merely surviving for the sake of it. just existing. the way people thought he was just having a mid-life crisis is just so incredibly sad and funny because those sort of thoughts can creep in at any point in life when you realize you’re dissatisfied with life. it doesn’t have to be necessarily only when you’re young, or at a certain age. i loved seeing these men falling in love, letting down their guard and finally righting the “mistakes” they made in the past. harry was just doing his best™️ as we all are, and i feel like he’s representing all of us in a way. i love that for us and for him.

#seriously i am so in love with these i cannot stress this enough #please go read these if you haven’t already!!!#drarry #hpdm #harry x draco #draco x harry #drarry fic rec #my favorites #favorite fics #fic rec list #cass rambles #cass fic recs

27 notes · View notes

cactusjuiceisquenchy · 4 months

Text

I wanted to think about orv while I take a walk so some ramblings about reality vs fiction in orv under the cut!

I’m planning on doing a reread soon but one thing I was wondering about was when exactly did dokja stop bleeding blood, but stories?

It’s one of those background mysteries that never gets resolved, which is what is the line between reality and fiction in the orv universe. At what point did they stop being people and instead, characters.

In the beginning this was brought up significantly more often and I read the whole book through without a resolution. Because at first, Kim Dokja was checking everyone’s status all the time, just to make sure he couldn’t access the character profiles of yoo sangah and Lee gilyoung.

So when I look back, I can’t help but wonder who this designation is for and also what exactly it means. There’s no tangible difference between people who are characters and who aren’t and it honestly never really factors into the plot. At some point, dokja stops checking altogether and this distinction between reality and fiction is wholly forgotten.

And it’s not a status that remains fixed either. People who weren’t characters become characters when their memories of the meta text fade while Yoo joonghyuk at some point transcends character status by pure force of will.

I guess I just wish it was explored more. This categorization of character vs non character because it’s really interesting! I also thought something might happen with it, like the non character companions given a chance to exit the story or maybe it would come up once they reach the wall. Or have companions wondering who among kimco dokja regards as more real. But,, it doesn’t. It’s a moot point actually because everyone is treated narratively the same and dokja also treats them all as real. And so instead it slips into the background wholly forgotten. In the end the difference isn’t big enough to matter.

But the whole merging of worlds is so fascinating. Because unlike a normal isekai, reality IS the other world. With hindsight we are left wondering, if orv is a novel written about itself, was ANY of it fiction? Like, if a random webnovel on the internet ended up being a true account of the future, when that future becomes present— am I living in fiction? But then wouldn’t all the people dokja interacts with be characters? Or like, Yoo joonghyuk pre scenarios. The man seems to have spawned out of nothing but other characters don’t seem to have this problem. Or even the star stream itself existed before coming to earth. Were those characters living in a world of novel while dokja and Yoo sangah etc were in reality? What IS a character? What does that mean to the world of orv? In a world predicated on stories like ORV this question is so weird.

But I guess I will circle back to my original question now. When did Dokja stop bleeding blood and instead stories? I mean this more metaphorically then just when he became a constellation. At what point did he “become a character” to the extent that his physical body is made up of words rather than biology. And this goes for everyone! While character designation means less and less, their entrenchment in the story grows deeper until they are all wholly made of the story themselves. If dokja were to check everyone at the end of the story, what would he find I wonder?

Okay, I have finished my walk and only served to confuse myself! What are your thoughts, did this make any sense, should I do this again? Let me know!

#orv omniscient reader's view point #orv #omniscient reader's viewpoint #yoo joonghyuk #joongdok #kim dokja #omniscient reader #orv kdj #cactus posts

26 notes · View notes

facewithoutheart · 3 months

Text

Ten Questions for Writers

Thanks for the tags @shrekgogurt, @artsyunderstudy, @youarenevertooold, & @roomwithanopenfire I’m enjoying all this navel-gazing a whole bunch actually & I’ve done this before but it’s been awhile… sooo

1. How many works do you have on AO3? 169 (niiiice)

2. What’s your total AO3 word count? ~950k (yikes) although some of that is Birthday Man and collabs with people from WIP fest. Don’t ask me to do the math tho; that’s mean.

3. What fandoms do you write for? I’ve written for HP, Check Please, and RWRB although right now I’m mostly a CO writer with a toe dipping into 9-1-1. I have one Captain America fic posted and some WIPs I don’t know if I’ll finish. Nobody look at that AFTG fic; it’s pure crack.

4. Do you respond to comments? Why or why not? Whoo boy do I have thoughts here. I want to be the kind of writer who replies to comments and I harbor so much guilt that I’m not; I know I miss out on opportunities to connect with readers, and I genuinely appreciate comments so much; I hoard them in my inbox like a greedy lil affirmation dragon. I write to engage and connect. So, like, I know I should but at the same time I hate forcing interactions. I like them to spawn organically. I keep my circle small because I get really emotionally overwhelmed and then I feel guilty when I can’t give people what they deserve. And I’ve also never been comfortable with compliments or gratitude, I don’t trust them. So here’s a bulk of emotional trauma no one asked for to say: I don’t reply to comments as often as I feel I should and I’m trying to release the guilt I feel about this while also recognizing that not commenting probably has a direct negative affect on my ability to meet my goal of connecting through writing and at the same time my mental health probably couldn’t withstand the pressure I would need to place on it to get to where I’m replying to comments regularly. Hi I’m a mess who’s trying to love herself and often falls short of that goal; aren’t we all?

5. Have you ever had a fic stolen? No.

6. Have you ever co-written a fic before? So many actually! I didn’t think I’d ever get to a place where I trust someone else to the level this would take but I’ve been really lucky to work with some amazing writers even if not all of those works went anywhere. I actually don’t even think I could realistically tag all the people I’ve collabed with bc I’m afraid I’ll miss someone and isn’t that amazing? Personal growth; we love to see her.

7. What’s your all-time favorite ship? Oh man. I want to just be lame and say it’s me and Mr. Face 🤣 I shipped us when no one else did. Um! Snowbaz is always going to have a special place in my heart, but I’m really leaning into Buddie right now because of age and wanting to explore people in their 30’s still figuring out their lives while battling PTSD and late-in-life sexuality realizations. For, um. Reasons.

8. What are your writing strengths? I do like my dialogue a lot; dialogue is often where I start my scenes and I develop from there. I think I’ve done a good job of honing my ability to vary action/dialogue/internality a lot. I also think I keep people engaged or maybe I just keep myself engaged which is good enough for me. Sometimes I’m funny although sadly not as much recently.

9. What are your writing weaknesses? I struggle with remembering to add in physical descriptors. (Like oh shit have I ever mentioned this character has eyes?) Logistics are a frequent source of pain. (Wait, where were their hands?) I think my plots are kind of basic and boring; I don’t come up with really vivid and detailed concepts. I use the wrong words for things. I really hate detailing out backstory. I have to reread my fics a million times to maintain character consistency. Etc.

10. First fandom you wrote for? Hey Arnold. I wish I could find those fics; I bet they suck.

Tagging 10 peeps @sillyunicorn @mostlymaudlin @martsonmars @bookish-bogwitch @cutestkilla @ivelovedhimthroughworse @thewholelemon @palimpsessed @aristocratic-otter & @you-remind-me-of-the-babe

#writing #behind the writing #navel-gazing #fanfix #ten questions tag game

22 notes · View notes

thatone-brightstar · 1 year

Text

The Bear & The Fox (Carmy Berzatto x Fem!Reader)

Chapter 7: Into the Bear's den

Words: 6.3 k (cause apparently I don't know how to write short chapters)

Summary: You're offered a new job and Carmy opens up about his past.

a/n:So we're getting close to the final line and i've never finished anything ever (cause adhd) so i don't know what to do with myselffff.

You cracked your knuckles again and glanced down at your watch nervously, for what seems like the fifth time in ten minutes. The view from the window beside the table where you sat gave sight to rustling leaves and little butterflies floating in the midday wind. You looked back down at your phone and reread your friend’s text, ‘Be there in 15’.

It surprised you to see her name across your screen a few days back, asking if you could finally talk around lunch on Wednesday, and it was an even bigger one that you had agreed. You had practically cut off everyone after what happened at your old job, you didn’t want to tarnish her reputation too and drag her down with you. So you stopped answering calls and texts hoping she’d get tired of not hearing from you and just give up. Now as you sat in the small restaurant waiting for her, you knew how ineffective that plan had been.

You heard the small ding of the entrance bell and rose your head up to find her walking in your direction. 5 '9 and too strong for her own good, Joyce lifted you from your seat in a bone crushing hug. Your arms dangled at your side for a few seconds, but then moved them up her back as best you could.

“Joy, I can’t breathe.” You said, the sound muffled through the fabric of her dress.

She laughed softly and muttered a ‘Sorry, sorry’ before holding you at arm's length and staring down at you with a smile. Her face then fell slightly and she lifted her hand from your shoulder only to smack it back down on the exposed skin.

“Ah! What the hell!”

“Why didn’t you ever answer me?!” She questioned, a hint of hurt concealed in her ever present calmness.

You bit your lip in guilt and sat back down with her taking the place across from you. You both sat in silence while a nice waitress handed out the menu and offered drinks. Once she was gone with your orders, Joyce stared at you expectantly.

“So?”

Your view was trained on the slightly trembling fingers picking at your nails. The words were all an endless jumble inside your head, there was so much you wanted to say but they all pushed at the same time and nothing seemed to come out. She placed a well manicured hand above yours and softly called your name.

“I went to your house and everything. Your mom said you wouldn’t even leave your room. I think she was mad or something cause she didn’t even let me in.”

You let out a humorless laugh and finally look up to comforting green eyes. “Yeah, uhm… she thought you knew.. that he was.. y’know.”

“God no! Barely even knew the guy before that.” She squeezed your hands in hers. “Trust me, hun. If I would have known, I would have stopped it from the beginning.”

“Yeah-no, I know.” You gulped down and waited until the waitress was done serving your drinks before speaking.

“I really am sorry,” You whispered “I didn’t mean to scare you with the whole goodbye text and then just disappear like that.” You took a sip of your drink and Joyce gave your hand a reassuring squeeze.

“I think I just needed time to… process it all.”

“And did you?” She asked, concern looming over her eyebrows.

“Yeah… I feel like I have. I was mad at myself at first, I felt like such an idiot for not seeing it before, y’know? There were so many signs that I refused to notice cause I was so entranced with the idea that someone like him could lo-like me…” You focused your eyes on the other occupied tables to avoid her gaze. “I don’t believe it now, of course, but… I truly thought he was good for me.”

You were both silent for a moment, the words floated around you like the butterflies you saw outside, finally free from the confinements of your chest. It felt nice, to be able to admit what you had kept down for so long, especially to someone who you knew wouldn’t hold it against you.

“Then I was angry at him.” You continued. “Because who does that shit, Joyce? I mean, you have to be really fucked in the head to make someone believe you’re wife’s been dead for two years, jesus.” She let out a small laugh along with you, the situation too crazy to seem remotely believable.

“It wasn’t your fault…”Joyce’s voice grew serious after a short silence. ”You left as soon as you found out, despite what you felt for him, you left. I need you to understand that’s the best you could do.”

“I know..” You reassured her.

The waitress arrived with great timing, placing a bread basket in the center then two bowls with tomato soup as your entreé. You stirred it slowly with your spoon, head concentrated with the recollection of emotions that used to burden you but now didn’t feel as heavy.

“So…How do you feel now?” She asked, letting go of your hand to grab her own drink.

You sat on the question for a moment. If she would have asked you that a couple months ago, your reaction would be completely different, pissed off. You would’ve yelled every profanity that existed under the sun, cursed him out until your throat ran dry and your eyes stained your flushed cheeks salty. He was the reason you were unable to find another job in the area. When all the snobby rich ladies around Lincoln found out you were a ‘Homewrecker’, the news spread like wildfire and doors closed solely at the sight of your face.

All the rejection had pushed you to your lowest point… though had it really?

You had found solace at The Beef. People you admired, who were hardworking and kind despite the blows of life. And you had also met Carmy. Sweet, adorably fucked up Carmy, the sultry ocean current guiding your adrift boat home.

A loving smile unrolled on your lips. “Happy.” You said, scrunching up your nose and a small relaxed laugh left your mouth.

Joyce’s expression mirrored your own, she reached again for both your hands and rubbed her thumb over the back of yours.

“I actually… met someone” You confessed, cheeks ablaze.

“Hun, that’s great!” She gushed, giving your hands another rub. “Show me, show me!”

You laughed at her excitement and pulled out your phone, swiping through your pictures. You found your favorite, one from last week at the end of your grandpa’s birthday. The photo was shaky but you could still make out Carmy's profile as he gave your temple a chaste kiss. You could also see your beaming smile, eyes scrunched up in happiness. You passed the phone to Joyce and dug into the lukewarm soup.

She stared at the screen with raised brows for a couple seconds, flicked her gaze to you then back to the screen.

“You’re dating him?” She asked in a mixture of surprise.

You swallowed slowly and nodded at her. “You know him?”

“Yeah.. I wrote a column about him sometime last year. Big deal in the culinary scene in NYC. Won a James Beard award, or something like that.” She handed your phone back and pulled out her own.

You were taken back by the sudden information. Sure, from your time working with him you had noticed he was good, great even, but a JB? That shone a new light to the already present question, what was he doing at The Beef?

“I knew it! See?” Your friend turned the screen to you.

It was an article from December last year. He was standing with his back straight and hands locked behind his pristine white coat, hair combed like you'd never seen, almost glistening from the amount of product. He’s thin, the bulky arms you'd grown to love hidden behind long sleeves, eyes decorated with heavy bags that made your stomach churn. It was him, Carmy. Your Carmy, but different. Like if the picture had only captured his vessel but not the soul, he stood separate from the nine cooks behind him with an air of arrogance clawing at his stand.

‘Carmen Berzatto: The Artist Behind the Best Restaurant in The World’ Read the article in bold menacing letters.

You handed Joyce her phone back, slightly puzzled but didn’t let it show on your face.

“We had dinner at the restaurant and everything. His shit’s like, stupid good. You really didn’t know?” She asked.

You shrugged while putting another spoonful in your mouth, reducing the importance of the situation, though the small ache bothering your chest might say otherwise. You decided to push it back until you're able to ask him subtly.

“He’s not the bragging type.” You answered nonchalantly.

“Well, I’m happy that you’re happy. How’d you meet him anyway?”

Over the course of lunch, you updated her on the past months, your time at The Beef, everything with Carmy and how you were now unemployed but had gotten something pretty good out of it.

“Honestly, I would’ve chosen dick over a job any day too.” She said and had you grinning from side to side.

“And it was in the middle of his kitchen too...” You mumbled before taking another drink and her eyes grew wide with excitement.

“Look at you, little freak!” Joyce joked and your chest bloomed with laughter.

It felt like a breath of fresh air to joke again with her, like nothing had changed in the last months and you were still as close as ever. Joyce was your oldest friend after all, and she proved to be the strongest when despite how the situation had unraveled she still stood by your side.

“So what have you been up to now that you're a burden to society?”

“Nothing really. I’ve been painting a lot to pass the time but my savings are almost running dry so I have to start looking soon.”

“Have you thought ‘bout getting something outside of cooking?” She asked curious.

You had. It was just an idea of course, but the more you thought about it, the more appealing it seemed. Sure you loved cooking and the everpresent bustle of working in a restaurant, there was something about the rush that kept you on your toes, but a part of you wanted to slow down. If only you didn’t need money to survive, then you could take the time to pursue something else.

“I mean I have, but I don’t know what it would be.” You juggled the idea in your head. “Besides, it's the only thing in my resumé and I don’t think anyone would hire me in another field with zero experience.”

Your gaze fell back down to the white tablecloth, it had been cleared and only your half empty glasses remained. Joyce had been quiet for a while and you looked up to find a smile inching up her cheeks.

“What?” You asked cautiously.

“I know someone.” She stated matter-of-factly.

“You know someone that what?”

“Hire you! Keep up!”

You looked at her with a blank expression. “Joy, I love you, but I would make a very shitty writer.”

“Not with me, I suck at being a boss.” You rolled your eyes, but agreed. “I meant with Jeremy’s aunt. She’s got a gallery in River North where she teaches painting classes to kids. She’s pretty old so she’s been looking for someone to help her out.”

“I don’t think you’re supposed to call your future aunt-in-law old.” She waved her hand dismissively. “What if I’m not good enough or say something and fuck up the kids?”

You wanted to remind her about the last time she convinced you to take a job, but preferred to avoid the subject altogether. “I don’t want anyone to blame you for recommending me when I screw up.” You answered instead.

“Dude, please give yourself some credit. I’ve seen your work, it’s really good.” Your cheeks flared up at the compliment, “And I’m sure she’ll like you too, she’s a sweetheart. Plus, how hard could it be teaching kids how to paint?”

A velvety sensation stirred in your stomach as you contemplated the idea. There wasn’t really much to contemplate, it was a great opportunity and one that not many people get without experience. So you swallowed down the nerves that mixed with your self doubt and nodded happily towards her. She let out an excited squeal and reached out to hug as much of your shoulders as she could with the table in between you.

You left the restaurant with your arm locked around hers as she updated you on the past months of her life, your future job and all the planning she had been doing for the upcoming wedding. It was difficult for her enthusiasm not to rub off or even harder to ignore the glowing specks of light that appeared in her eyes when she spoke lovingly of her feancé. You wondered silently if your eyes glimmered with similar joy when you spoke of Carmy.

**********

Teaching children how to paint was, in fact, only slightly hard, but nothing you couldn’t manage after the first week. There were only six kids per class and only two one hour and a half classes from five to eight p.m. Most of the kids were older than nine so they were pretty calm, except for the day you decided to bake cookies for them and swore one had even burnt a hole through his sneakers from all the running he did.

Mrs Marjorie, Jeremy’s aunt and not as old as Joyce had made her out to be, just leaned laughing by the railing upstairs while she enjoyed the show the children were putting on. Taylor Swift playing on the speakers seemed to calm them for some reason, and after a small impromptu dance party, you reminded yourself to pass by the bodega on your way home and pick up sugar-free choco chips for the next batch.

The gallery itself was one of the oldest in the area. It rested in the corner of the street, with high glass walls that allowed the natural lighting to illuminate the two floors inside. Most of the exposed brick was covered with framed paintings, with the right and back walls harboring enough works to almost reach the tall ceiling. The bottom floor was separated into different areas, first the main lobby where the works were sold. Past that was the showroom, an ‘H’ shaped maze divided by white walls that displayed the series of paintings chosen for that month, and behind that was an open space for the painting classes, near the back window wall.

The second floor was half the size of the first, with a metal railing along the perimeter instead of walls, so you were able to keep an eye on the bottom half. It was the perfect mixture of a Victorian and maximalist library. Tall bookshelves stood against the walls, decorated by flourishing plants in unique pots. Old leather couches divided the library from a small employee kitchen, equipt with a microwave and fridge.

Your favorite part, however, was the back. Long shelves that seemed to go on forever amidst a stretching white corridor, sheltering all kinds of sculptures and paintings carefully wrapped to avoid damage. Beside the emergency exit rested a studio, complete with paints, easels, unfitted frames and an industrial roll of canvas fabric. Everyone was allowed to use it as long as it didn’t interfere with your activities. The whole place smelled of paint thinner, old books and wood. Add the endless supply of chamomile tea, and you couldn’t be happier.

You were busy stirring the honey into your tea while also keeping an eye on the floor below, since almost everyone had gone out for lunch. With the steaming cup in hand, you carefully walked back down and began preparing your station for the first class of the afternoon. You carried out the easels from the back and unfolded them in a semi circle facing against the lighting, then entertained yourself rearranging the paint cart that the kids loved to misplace. You also brought out their works in progress and as you placed each one on the wooden base, you admired the different creative takes each child took with the reference image.

Thirty minutes before the first class, you had everything set and the paint splattered apron already fastened at your waist, when you heard the light ‘ding’ of the bell over the entrance door. You stepped out from behind the exhibitions and in your line of vision, Carmy stood with his back to you, head slightly tilted while he analyzed one of the abstract paintings by the entrance. You smiled at the way his shoulders seemed to loose tension when he wasn’t at the restaurant, then with light footsteps moved to stand behind him, stood on your toes and rested your chin on his shoulder.

“I don’t think I’m good at understanding art.” He said with eyes still trained on the frame. his head now rested softly on yours.

“It’s abstract, everyone sees something different in it.”

“Oh, yeah? What do you see?” He asked and wrapped his arm around you, pulling you to stand in front of him with his chin now resting on your head.

You hummed gently as your eyes swiped over the canvas of swirling oranges and soft greens. “ A sunset, maybe a flower bed. You?”

He stood silent for a few moments. “A… giant lemon.” He answered more like a question and an involuntary snort shook your chest at his answer. “See, I told you I was shit!”

“No, no you’re right! Now that you say it, I kinda see it” You agreed, turning to snake your arms under his and hugging his waist. “That is definitely a lemon.” You whispered up to him.

He let out a breathy laugh at your answer, then leaned down slightly and pressed his warm lips to your forehead.

“Brought you lunch.” He said between kisses, pulling out a sandwich, from the pocket of his jacket, tightly wrapped in aluminum foil. “It’s sweet n’ spicy with extra pickles.”

“Ooh, my favorite, thank you!”

A shy but proud smile covered his lips, knowing he had your order completely memorized from the few times you’d take dinner home.

“C’mon, I’ll show you around.” You took his hand and took a single step further into the gallery.

“Wait, I can’t. I left Syd in charge and-uhm, I’ve got this.. this thing I have to get to… sorry.” He scratched at his nose by habit and rubbed his thumb along your soft skin as he felt your hand loosen its grip.

If you felt slightly disappointed, you’d rather not let it show. Instead covering it with a closed smile. It had been a while since you’d seen him. Between getting accustomed to a new routine and Carmy’s already hectic one, it was hard to find mutual free time that wasn’t just covered by a phone call after closing shop. It would be a lie if you said you weren’t at least a little crestfallen at not seeing him as much as you were used to, but you also understood that this was the way adult relationships worked, schedules didn’t always match.

You also still had your conversation with Joyce in the back of your head and no amount of begging Syd to tell you was enough to make her budge. The thought of having to ask him yourself made your stomach uneasy, but it was something you needed to do…

Just maybe not at that moment, though.

“Oh, yeah, no prob.” you answered instead. “I have to finish setting up for the kids anyway.” You pointed with the sandwich to the already set up station. ‘But he doesn’t need to know that’ you thought.

“Shit, right. My bad.” He scrunched his eyes closed and gave a single nod and you could tell his thoughts were getting to him.

You stepped into his space and placed a lingering kiss, long enough to pull him from his head, while rubbing soothing circles into his hand.

“Thank you for lunch.” You whispered, then pecked his nose.

He stared down at you for a few seconds, eyes the clearest blue you had ever seen.

“Are you hungry?” He asked out of nowhere.

You looked at him with furrowed brows but with a smile, head tilted in confusion as you raised the sandwich and slowly shook it.

He let out a soft breath that fanned your warm cheeks.

“No, I mean…Can I make you dinner? Tonight” He asked again, eyes glistening brightly under the filtering sunrays.

Your cheeks grew painful from the force of your smile and you nodded enthusiastically at him. His expression mirrored yours, hand holding tightly onto your own.

He kissed you one more time after promising to pick you up around nine, then left in a rush through the crystal doors in direction to wherever he was going. You stood there for a moment, a strange sense of worry bubbling up, but with a heavy breath you decided to credit it to the persistent questions in your mind. You walked back up to reheat your now cold cup of tea then left the sandwich in the fridge. It was almost time for the kids to arrive and since most liked to be there early, you would only be able to take a bite or two before having the little parrots telling you about their day.

Almost like clockwork, the bell dinged again the moment you placed the cup on the desk and little footsteps echoed their way to your direction.

“Ms. F, you will not believe what Sasha said to me today?!”

**********

There was something you liked about buying groceries with someone that made it feel familiar, almost home-y. The simple action of walking hand in hand through the tightly packed corridors while throwing around ideas on what to make for dinner brought a calmness to your soul that you had not known before. To any outsider you were simply a couple meeting up after work, stocking up on the produce that you would then take to your shared home. And maybe for the half hour that you were in the store, you’d let yourself believe that too. Let the domesticity of it all embrace you as Carmy dragged you through the isles, absentmindedly mumbling to himself on the ways he could use every product he picked up.

You wondered what you would see if you could look inside his head. It would probably look like the office back at The Beef but infinitely.

“So you’re not gonna tell me what you’re makin’?” You asked for the third time on the car ride to his apartment, the bag of groceries he refused to let you pay for resting on the floor between your feet.

He let a soft laugh blow through his nose, then with eyes still on the road, he reached his right hand out to you and threaded his finger between yours. It was a quiet ride, the soft music from the radio filling in the comfortable silence.

“D’you like chicken?” He asked after a while.

“As pets or food?” You asked, teasing him.

“Uh.. food… I hope.” He answered with a laugh.

“If I say pets, would that ruin your idea for dinner?”

“No” He answered simply, a soft smile covering his lips. “But I’ve been told foxes like chicken, so I think I’m in the clear.”

A chuckle escaped his mouth when he saw your eyes grow bigger on your face and the redness on your cheeks match the stoplight above. He pulled your hand to his lips when a groan left yours.

“Fuckin’ hell…was it Joshua or my grandpa?”

Carmy hummed ignoring your question and let go of your hand to finish parking the car.

“C’mon! I gotta know if I have to beat the little shit.”

“You know what they say, snitches get stitches.”

“Yeah and in this case, he’s the snitch” You grumbled.

He killed the engine then took your bag from the back seat, swung it over his shoulder and exited the car. In a few seconds he was by your side opening the door while you carried the bag of groceries.

“If it makes you feel any better,” He said, wrapping his arm over your shoulders and walking through the building doors. “ I got stuck with Bear.”

You liked Bear, to you it sounded quite appropriate. You had heard Fak and Richie call him that once or twice but never asked where it had come from.

“I like Bear, it suits you.” You looked up to see the pink hue creep up his neck, then looked forward again to finish climbing the stairs.

You reached a door at the end of the hallway and he searched for his keys in the back pocket of his jeans. “Sorry for the mess, by the way.” He said nervously, putting the key in the hole and turning it.

You reassured him with a ‘S’okay’ and a soft rub on the back. He extended his arm to let you walk in first then closed the door behind him and turned on the lights.

The room was illuminated by the soft white light of the hallway and as you walked further into his space you corrected yourself, this was definitely what the inside of his head looked like. With small mountains of cooking books occupying every flat surface, an ashtray filled to the brim on the coffee table and pictures of people you hadn't met yet hanging on his small living room walls.

“It’s not much but it’s… yeah.” He scratched the back of his neck in anticipation for your review.

You scanned the room once more, inhaling the scent of coffee and cigarettes that felt completely him, then turned with the bag in your arms and smiled. That seemed to be enough of an answer for him as his chest deflated from the pressure of his sigh and he walked to place a soft kiss over your hair.

“C’mon, or we’ll be havin’ dinner by midnight.” He joked, taking the paper bag from your arms and guiding you to the small space of his kitchen, turning the lights on in the process.

Almost mechanically, he began taking the products out and setting them in a bowl to wash by the sink, then pulled out the chicken and placed it on a cutting board. You moved behind him rolling up your sleeves and turning on the tab to wash the groceries, avoiding his stare.

“What? I wanna help.” You mumbled.

But he only let you help with that, insisting that he invited you over for dinner. From blatant observation, you had learnt that food was his love language, so you didn’t protest when after cleaning the lemons, he took you by the shoulders and planted you on one of the stools on the other side of the small counter.

“Here, you can help me with this” He said, placing a bottle of white wine and a barely used corkscrew in front of you.

“Yes, chef” You answered sarcastically, only to see his hands slightly falter and his darkened gaze sweep over to you, filled with the all too familiar memories.

You bit the inside of your lip and continued with your task, trying to ignore the spark that his eyes had ignited.

Between light conversation, the humming of his stereo and occasionally distracting yourself flipping through one of his cooking books, you watched him work. Skilled fingers danced with precision over the handle of his knife as he julienned the garlic and added it to the sizzling pan with butter and capers. The room was drowned with the aroma of freshly squeezed lemon juice and the hissing of frying chicken.

He moved around with perfected ease, no hunched up shoulders or erratic movements like you would sometimes find him doing, like if he were expecting for the restaurant to collapse into itself at any given moment. No, this Carmy was in control, precise, doubtless. This is the Carmy you could imagine working for the top restaurants in New York, the one with the slicked back hair and rigid posture on the article Joyce had shown you.

The haunting image of sleepless dull eyes flashed in your mind for a brief second, but it was enough to pull you from your thoughts. That and a short glass half filled with wine that Carmy slid to you. You lifted your head from your resting palm to thank him and took a sip from the glass as he poured himself one then added a splash of the liquid into the pan.

“So- uh,” You swallowed the tasteful liquid. “There’s something I wanna ask you.” You began.

“Yeah? What’s up?” He asked and turned your way with raised brows.

“So a friend of mine-”

“Wait, try this for me?” He interrupted, taking a spoonful of the sauce from the pan and carefully placing it in front of you, cupping the bottom to avoid spillage.

You leaned on the counter with your elbows and blew on the hot metal before placing it in your mouth. You swirled it around your tongue, the acidity of the capers exploding in your mouth and triggering a smile. He brought his hand up to your face, tilting your chin up to him and rubbing his thumb along your bottom lip before leaning down and kissing it. It somehow made the sauce taste ten times better.

“That is delicious, chef..” You breathed, the compliment filling his chest.

He let go of your chin and turned back to the stove, to stir the pan.

“Sorry, you were sayin’ somethin’…?”

“Right- yeah…” you cleared your throat to get your thoughts back on track. “My friend Joyce, she’s a writer for Food & Wine, in New York…” His head shot in your direction and you could instantly see the shift in his features as the words left your mouth, but it was too late to stop them. “and when I saw her a couple weeks ago, she showed me an article from last year that she wrote about you- which is pretty cool n’ all- but it kinda made me wonder… H-how come you never talk about New York?”

Carmy cleared his throat and turned the stove off, the sizzling sound dying down slowly, then he rested both hands against the edge, muscles flexed and eyes darting around your face. You were thankful for the music filling in the otherwise insufferable silence.

“I-I dunno I jus’...guessed you didn’t wanna hear about it.”

“Why?” You asked confused.

He shrugged lightly, distracting himself by plating the chicken and adding the minced parsley and some Parmesan on top. He slid both plates over on the counter and you held his hand before he could turn around.

“You know I really care about you, right?” You searched for his gaze, but his eyes were focused on the dishes in front of him. “And if… whatever this is, is gonna work out, then maybe we can tell each other this kinda stuff… even the ugly, no?”

You reached your hand up slowly to his cheek, then when his eyes finally met yours, your stomach dropped to the floor. Sullen wide eyes bore into your own, a mournful expression that you had only seen flashes of before. He nodded in agreement, hand cupping the one on his cheek and turning to kiss the base of your palm.

“No-yeah, you’re right…You’re right.”

You rubbed his cheek with your thumb for a few more seconds before he turned to get two sets of silverware then rounded the counter and sat on the stool beside you. You ate in silence for a while, only letting him know how delicious the food had turned out; then halfway through your plates, he took a sip of his wine to clear his throat and rubbed his palms along his thighs anxiously.

“Just, bare with me cause I’m not good with words, okay?” He took a breath, then began. “I-uhm… I was CDC at this really badass place. The food there was, god, it was… art is the only way to describe it. And the staff was disciplined and always on point, but the exec was an absolute dickhead. He would degrade and belittle and humiliate anyone for the smallest of mistakes, I think he got off on that shit cause not a day would go by when he wasn’t shouting on about how he was surrounded by idiots.”

Carmy took another sip from his glass and you reached out to place your palm over his resting on his thigh.

“You’ve probably met an idiot or two like that..” You gave him a sympathetic smile because he was right, though not at the level he seemed to describe.

“Although, I think he took a liking to fuckin’ with me more than the others. I was used to it, y’know? Insecure fuckers who think you have it out for their job, it’s fine, you get used to it. Then the nominations for the JBF’s dropped and when he found out I got in and not him, it got much worse, like exponentially worse.”

His fingers jerked and wrapped a bit harder around yours, but despite the slight painful sting, you refused to let go.

“I would always be the first one there and last one to leave, I think I would get maybe… four hours of sleep, if I got lucky. Sometimes I would- um- I would throw up before work, probably some anxiety shit- I dunno- but it fucked with my stomach and made it hard to eat anything. I was miserable for those last few months there.”

He was silent for a moment, gaze fixed on the half eaten breast, but not entirely there.

“Why did you stay?” The question floated in the static air between you.

He took your hand in both of his, unsure fingers massaging the joints in yours to distract himself. You saw the remnants of little scars scattered around the hardened skin.

“The prestige, I guess. I liked… being good at something, the best actually.” He sneered in distaste. “I think I wanted my brother to know that I was good enough to work with ‘em.” He confessed.

Your brows furrowed in confusion and your eyes raked up from your joined hands to his mournful expression. A thin red tint outlined his droopy eyes.

“Y-you never mentione-”

“He shot himself in February.”

You didn’t know what to say. There was nothing you could say that would make the situation even remotely less terrible. Instead, you pulled your hand from his and wrapped your arms as much as you could around his frame. The soft shuddering of his heavy breaths blowing puffs on the side of your neck, where his face had buried.

It all clicked suddenly. The constant obsession of wanting- no- needing The Beef to succeed. How you had always thought Carmy had so much potential to just wither there. But it wasn’t wasted because he knew the industry, better than most ever did. He knew it with each persistent scar and cut on his arms, with each jab to the soul as they beat and battered him into pulp, when his only crime was possessing the talent they so desperately craved. He personally knew the limelight that many spend a lifetime chasing, and even if all that abuse had made him an outstanding cook, what he had lost in the process could never be regained.

You finally understood the desire he had for the beef to thrive, not only because he felt like he owed it to his brother but also as a big ‘fuck you’ to those motherfuckers that ever made him doubt himself.

“I’m so sorry...” You whispered, because that’s all you could muster to say ‘Sorry for even asking’.

“S’okay..” He whispered back.

“No it’s not, I shouldn’t have asked- it’s not my place-”

He wrapped his arms tighter around you, placing a soft kiss over your hair.

“Hey, no you’re right, this is good for… us.”

You pulled yourself from his embrace when the position had grown uncomfortable on your back, but still rested your head in the dip of his neck to stay close.

“Thank you for telling me.”

His hand rubbed along the length of your arm as you both sat silently staring at your forgotten dinner. The rhythmic movements of his hand paired with the calm beats from his chest had your eyelids dropping every few seconds and an involuntary yawn filling your chest.

“D’you think I can stay over? ‘M too tired to make it home.” You asked, rubbing a bit of the sleep off your eyes.

Knowing you wouldn’t be finishing dinner, you began collecting the food in a single plate, then stood from the stool to stretch out your cramped muscles.

“Yeah- yeah sure. C’mon leave that, I’ll wash it up in the mornin’.” He said following behind you and taking the dishes from your hands, turning off all the lights and pulling you into the direction of his room.

While you took your sneakers off, he searched his drawers for a shirt and some bottoms for you to sleep in, then directed you into the bathroom where you changed and hoped that splashing a bit of water on your face counted as skin care for the night. You found Carmy already laying by the edge, hands relaxing on is head with eyes closed and if you weren’t so fucking tired, you would probably try to end the night in a more vigorous way. But as you crawled into the warm space beside him and he automatically pulled you into the direction of hhis arms, the tingling sensation that spread through your body when he kissed your forehead was way better than anything else.

The gentle rise and fall of his chest reminded you of the calm back and forth of the waves and you could almost hear the soft ocean breeze in his steady breaths.

“Thanks for letting me stay.” You mumbled with the last grains of consciousness you had left.

And it could have been the dream bleeding in through the cracks that let you hear a ‘You can stay forever if you’d like’ before losing yourself completely to the dark.

Chapter 8.

Taglist: @pearlstiare @teteminne and that’s it lmao

#carmen berzatto x reader #the bear & the fox #carmy berzatto #carmy smut #carmy the bear #carmy x reader #carmen berzatto x you #the bear fx #the bear tv #carmen 'carmy' berzatto #carmen berzatto smut #carmy berzatto smut #carmy berzatto fluff #carmy berzatto x reader #the bear #carmy berzatto imagines #fanfic #fanfiction

326 notes · View notes

demolitonlcvers · 2 years

Text

what happened to the ten billion?

I just finished another reread of Nona and there were a few lines that I missed the first two times that I picked up on this time– namely, about the rest of the ten billion people John killed during the Resurrection. The simplified version of the theory is: I think the rest of the ten billion went through the stoma into hell, and I think the thing that possessed Colum Asht at the end of Gideon, as well as the things that were in Drearburh at the end of Nona and that Kiriona talks about fighting on Antioch are the ten billion. I also think that the first act of Alecto, which is titled “Harrow in Hell,” is going to be Harrow descending into hell and setting all of those souls free. I also think they have something to do with the Tower, but since we know so little about the Tower my evidence on that is shaky at best, and the Tower could also be something of John’s. If you want my full in-depth explanation with quotes and everything, it’ll be below the cut:

Someone has probably already figured out that whatever took control of Colum Asht’s body in Gideon (+ the things that were in Drearburh + the things the Cohort are fighting on Antioch) comes from the stoma, but it was something I just put together myself today and I’m very excited about it. The first piece of evidence is the fact that they have a similar appearance– the bodies possessed by these revenants’ eyes turn into mouths, with teeth and tongues, and the tongue they’re supposed to have in their regular mouth gets bigger. The stoma described at the end of Harrow has teeth and a bunch of tongues (also this is off-topic but the appearance of the stoma resembles the sea monster Charybdis from Greek mythology to me, I wonder if that’s intentional). All of this I’m like 95% sure I’ve seen in a post on here before, but I also found this quote in Harrow, spoken by Augustine to Mercymorn– “You never did take the stoma seriously, which is why your whole damned house sucks at it like a grotesque teat…” (htn 340). Weird gross description aside, this is what cemented this theory for me– the Eighth clearly worships the stoma in some way, probably because of their soul siphoning practices, which can let something from the stoma into the body of the cavalier if they are siphoned too much. Also, close to the end of ntn, Kiriona is explaining these things to Paul and says John calls them “devils:” “They shouldn’t be here. We would have gotten word if they were back in the home system. they’re confined to Antioch— he said they’d only be on Antioch… (Paul asks where they’ve seen this before) Silas Octakiseron’s poor bastard cavalier… I didn't understand then… we call them devils. I mean, Dad calls them devils… they can't be here. He said they couldn’t travel” (ntn 448). Devils = from hell, et cetera et cetera. More on the fact that the devils “shouldn’t be in the home system” later.

But what do the revenants from the stoma have to do with the ten billion? I have a few pieces of evidence for this, but two of them are from Varun possessing Judith to speak to Nona, so they don’t make a lot of sense. The first quote is from the scene where Nona and Varun-in-Judith are talking on top of the trucks: “They are coming out of their tower, salt thing. There is a hole at the bottom of their tower. I will pull their teeth. I will make it blank for you” (ntn 393). I’m not even going to try to figure out what “I will pull their teeth, I will make it blank for you” means, other than the fact that the stoma has teeth so maybe that has something to do with it? I was very confused over what “they” were until I got to the second quote, from the scene when they’re driving in the River and see the Tower for the first time: “He left them too long— you left them too long, my salt thing” (ntn 440). The ten billion, if they are in hell, have certainly been there for too long, long enough for them to turn into the revenants they are now. What complicates this is the fact that Kiriona and Ianthe are called the “Tower Princes–” why would John name them after the Tower if it has something to do with the ten billion people he killed, who he’s now presumably losing a war against on Antioch? Unfortunately, I don’t really have an answer for that other than “this whole theory could be totally wrong and Tamsyn Muir will completely contradict everything I’ve said up to this point in Alecto.”

The last piece of evidence that pulls it all together for me, though, is Harrow. In the last John chapter in Nona, she says to him– ““I want to understand the mathematics, now that I have seen them for myself. I want to know how many of the Resurrection are left, and how many you began with, and what the discrepancies are. I want to know where you put them. They didn’t go in the River” (ntn 435). Right after this, she walks into the River towards the Tower. To add to this, it’s confirmed that the first act of Alecto will be titled “Harrow in Hell,” and Tamsyn has said before that Harrow’s name is specifically a reference to the Harrowing of Hell. The Harrowing of Hell is the period of time between Christ’s death and his resurrection, during which he descended into hell and freed all of the souls who had been trapped there since the beginning of time. I think what’s going to happen in the first act of Alecto, presumably in between when Harrow walks into the River in Nona and when she comes back to her body in the epilogue (it’s been established that time works differently in the River, and probably underneath the River, too), is she’s going to go into hell and set the ten billion free (and also maybe Augustine and Ulysses, both Lyctors who were trapped down there, but I could be being too hopeful). Also, as an extra note, the harrowing of hell has a name as a subject in Christian art: Anastasis, which is Greek for “resurrection.” And another note that I don’t know where else to put: Anastasia’s cavalier being named Samael may end up being important, what with all this discussion of hell and devils.

My last point has to do with how the devils ended up in Drearburh. This part of the theory is very tentative, but I don’t really see any other way it would be possible from the information we have now: at the beginning of Harrow, in a scene I forgot about the first two times I read it, John sends some of the ancient dead to the Ninth House:

“Oh my God,” you said, forgetting that the deity in question was right there. “The ancient dead. You’ve committed resurrection.”

He said, “No. I haven't truly resurrected anyone in ten thousand years. But all that time… I set many aside, for safety… and I've often felt bad about just keeping them as insurance. They’ve been asleep all this myriad, Harrow, and it’s frankly a relief to my mind to wake them up.” (htn pg 36)

I think this is, somehow, how the devils ended up on the Ninth. However, it clearly isn’t something that happened to every single resurrected person sent to the Ninth– at the end of Nona, she mentions seeing people of all ages in Drearburh, something they definitely didn’t have at the beginning of the series. I also want to point out how insane and fucked up it is that John’s been keeping a bunch of resurrected people from ten thousand years ago in his basement “for insurance.”

Again, all of this is very very tentative and I'm sure when Alecto comes out I will have predicted maybe 2 things correctly

#tlt meta #alecto the ninth #harrow the ninth #gideon the ninth #nona the ninth #the locked tomb #alecto speculation #alecto theories #tlt #tlt theories

271 notes · View notes

briar-rolfes-research-oubliette · 16 days

Note

your writing is phenomenal. i write a little bit, but i think one of the biggest struggles i have is with pacing and structuring for anything longer than a couple thousand words. gonna hit you with a ton of questions, no pressure to answer all of them: how do you structure your longer-form writing? what considerations do you keep in mind as you do? are you more of a pantser or do you start with a solid outline and story beats first? what is your 'process' - and how do you approach editing as well?

Okay, I’m ready! Took me a bit.

Thank you, first of all! This is humbling, since in industry terms I’m a debut author. (Or not even. My book isn’t even out yet. It takes ages to make a graphic novel if you have to hold down a day job at true same time. Fingers crossed 2026?) And, since structure has been the hardest thing for me to learn, it’s rewarding to know that it’s paying off!

I’m in the middle of a few planning-stage projects right now, so I’ve been asking these questions myself. Because each story is different (in length, in genre, in terms of what I want it to achieve, and also, because I’m a cartoonist as well as a writer, also in format!) I have to reinvent at least part of the wheel with each project. I’ve learned some constants, though. I’ll try to outline some of them, and rather than just tell you what I do I’ll try to explain what purpose it serves when I do it.

I do think starting small and working up is the right way of learning, because that’s what worked for me, a chronic not-finisher. I sat down and said “okay, what is the shortest thing I can make that I am guaranteed to finish?” and once I had finished that, said “okay, what’s the next longest thing?” and worked my way up. It’s easier to structure a zine than a graphic novel, it’s easier to structure a short story than something with multiple chapters, etc etc… but this isn’t because a longer story has more structure in it so much as that each structural element has to work harder.

HOWEVER, I don’t look at structure until I know what I’m building my structure on. This was the missing piece in my structure learning! So, the things I have in mind when I’m starting a new project are:

What is my genre?

What are my themes?

What is my tone?

Genre is where I get the payoff that I’m working towards. Why do people pick up this kind of story? What’s the most basic appeal of it? I try to keep this as simple as I can, eg:

In romance, the couple have to get together by the end.

In sci-fi, a new discovery poses a new question, which is then resolved

In mystery, the detective has to figure out who committed the crime so that they don’t do it again.

In erotica, the protagonist is liberated from a social norm by a new sexual encounter

In horror, an outside force threatens irrevocable change to everyone who encounters it.

This narrative payoff is (in my opinion) the bumpers on the bowling lane of fiction. If you read a romance where they never got together, an erotica where nobody fucked, a detective story where justice wasn’t done, a horror story where it was no biggie and everyone just walked it off… you’d feel ripped off, right? You’ll see that I’m not saying “in horror there is always a jumpscare” or “in a mystery there is always a red herring,” because I never actually notice if those were missing. Many stories are worse because the author has said to themself “a story like this always has this element.” RIP to all those minor characters who die in fantasy novels during the fight scene at the end of the second act just because Boromir did.

Sticking the landing on that genre promise is what makes a story “feel” complete, and the success of the buildup to that promise is what makes a story feel satisfying in that worth-a-reread way. The overall genre payoff helps me keep my eye on the prize as I’m writing. If I get writer’s block, 99% of the time it’s because I’ve written something that conflicts with it. That’s helpful to keep in mind for editing (awkward scenes/characters/sentences etc are usually also conflicting with the payoff, or at least not helping me get there) and is also helpful to know when I’m doing back of mind narrative debugging while zoning out over the dishes. If I have a character and I want them to end up at that final point in a way that feels natural, what do I have to do to them to make it happen? If they feel stagnant, what beliefs do they have to have at the start that will jar against that end point?

(I believe the Literary phrase for the narrative payoff is the climax, or the catharsis. Catharsis is usually the concept used for horror or for tragedies. But I’m a cartoonist, so it’s easier for me to think of everything as setup for the final payoff of the punchline.)

Also—and this is more my individual philosophy rather than actual advice, but: delivering the payoff matters because it develops my readers’ trust. I’m not owed anyone’s time or attention. In a big world full of competing demands, it’s important to me that my readers know that I appreciate them choosing my work over putting the recycling bin out. And the great thing about reader trust is: it stacks. Trust means a reader is willing to go a bit further out of their comfort zone with me. When someone says “I don’t usually read stories like this, but I gave this a shot because you wrote it,” that’s what I’m talking about. I’m a trans writer who tells silly jokes and tackles weird topics, so I really do appreciate the readers who invest time and attention in me. They’re my 30 sickos, you know, from the tweet?

Anyway. If genre tells me where I’m landing the plane, theme tells me what the jet fuel is. The reason a particular concept is making me insane, aka, my motivation to tell the story at all, is my theme. It’s the question I’m trying to answer. It doesn’t have to be pithy or well articulated—I just have to know the general gist of it. It might just be “it pisses me off when authors do X, so I am going to prove it’s not actually hard to write Y.” What matters is that it’s something I won’t become bored of. My graphic novel, which has been the longest and most involved project of my life, hasn’t bored me once. That’s pretty spectacular seeing as I have ADHD out my ears! I’ve been frustrated, tired, had bad wrists and general creative ennui at points, but “can you have a happy ending if your family doesn’t accept you?” Is a question that hasn’t run out of juice, even though I’ve been answering it for six years now. The theme is often the most powerful if it’s something you don’t know the answer to. When we were talking about whether or not to tackle the marriage equality debate in Australia in my book, my agent told me “you’ll know it’s a good story if writing about it feels like pressing on a bruise.” I think this is what keeps your themes honest. It stops them being preachy and stops them from becoming The Moral Of The Story.

Terry Pratchett said that the first draft is him telling the story to himself, and the subsequent drafts are him figuring out how to tell it to other people. That’s been very helpful to me. Each successive edit will make the themes clearer until I can say “oh, so this is what the story is about.” What I said before about longer stories doing more with each structural element is because of this. Longer stories tend to accrue more themes, usually one per subplot and/or per character relationship. Shorter stories usually address just one. Themes are handy to think about here because if a story looks like it might get too bloated (“no way I can explore this AND this AND this and still stay under 20k words”) you can cut em out and address them somewhere else.

The themes in your fiction are the bit that makes it uniquely yours, like fingerprints in a clay pot. They stop the structure feeling formulaic and make it feel personal. A thousand authors could (and do) write the same premise over and over again, but in their hands each story means something different. If you’ve ever read a story that rings hollow even though it hits all the same notes as other stories you like, I’d say that it’s by an author who hasn’t figured out what interests them in the story they’re telling. Like… there’s a reason Twilight was successful and its many copycats were not. It’s because Meyer had this theme of insane repressed Mormon horniness running through her work, and everyone else just said “ah, so readers like boys who are barely restraining their murder instinct.” No! The murder instinct was juicy because it was thematically complex.

Genre and theme give me an idea of what the tone is, aka what mood I am building. I guess if genre is my destination and theme is my fuel, then tone is my plane. It’s about how the journey feels. Taking a first class flight from A to B is different from taking the same trip in a crop duster. The people on each plane will observe different things throughout the journey. The same events could happen on both flights, but a reader will feel way more anxious about the crop duster encountering turbulence.

Outside my increasingly elaborate metaphor, this is questions like… Is this setting fun and friendly? Are the characters mistrustful of each other? Is the world fundamentally evil? Can anyone die? Am I using colloquial language? Are swears allowed? How hard should the protagonist’s failures hit them, and how sharp should the consequences for their actions be? Is it realistic, or a bit surreal? Is my narrator (or narrative perspective if I’m in second or third person) sincere? Cynical? Trustworthy? Biased? Can they crack jokes?

Once I have an idea of these things, structure usually slots in pretty easily. As I’m in the thinking stage, if I have an idea for a scene (or a joke, more often than not) that I want to include, I’ll put it in a dot point list. Later on, I will look at these dot points and the structure and say “what goes where?” or “what needs to happen before this thing I want to include to make it make sense?”

Short things I use a three act structure, aka Beginning Middle End, where “middle” is whatever events need to happen to shift my character from their opening position to their concluding one. For longer things, I just whack on a seven act structure for whatever genre I’m working in. I often come back to Jami Gold’s romance structure because I write romances a lot, but also because it’s the only structure I’ve ever really seen that maps internal character arcs along with external events—one of the things I found absolutely the hardest to get my head around when I was structuring my graphic novel. If it’s a genre I know less about, I’ll find a structure that specifies examples for the pinch points, because those are ones I usually have trouble brainstorming. The mystery outline I used for my Disco Elysium fanfiction gave me the suggestions that a suspect should escape, which got me out of a huge block.

So: before I write, I’ve thought very hard about genre and tone and theme, and how my characters need to get from their starting positions to one where if bondage doesn’t happen the story will feel narratively incomplete. I’ve pondered my place in the world, I have developed beef with a handful of authors who I’ve decided have Done It Wrong, and I have image searched “mystery structure seven act”. I have probably gone on four or five research sprees where I learn a bunch about medieval demonology and insect genitalia and radio antennae or whatever.

(I should say a lot of that is just what do for fun anyway. I do think writers tend to forget that we do this because it’s fun. If you’re not having fun doing this stuff, then your reader is probably not having fun either. It’s important to figure out what is fun to you and to find a way to make your process mostly the fun stuff.)

Materially, what I have is a maybe a couple of test scenes I’ve written while working out character dynamics and refining my idea of tone, and a list of dot points that reads like:

Wrap up the subplot with that other guy

Heart to heart

Protagonist gets a boner

Exposition about early printing press

Fight scene (to show they care about each other)

Phone call from side character 12

MIDPOINT: Guy goes missing (or is killed with weapon from earlier? Suspected killed, but actually just escaped?)

JOKE

Bring back printing press thing

Bondage obviously

Catch the bad guy

Resolution (come back to this).

The trap for structure for me for YEARS has been assuming that I should be able to sit down and write out the perfect plan. “I’ll be able to write well so long as I know exactly what I’m doing every step of the way.” But… most of the fun of writing for me is figuring out how to address those missing plot elements as I go. I don’t think I’ve ever said this, but I never intended for my Disco Elysium fanfic to end with an explosion. I figured it out once I wrote the interview scene with Felicity, and then I said “okay, so that’s the resolution. Now, what do I need to do to blow this building up?“

The groundwork I’ve laid is helpful because I know what I can’t compromise on. As I’m heading towards my payoff and hitting these beats along the way, I have the wriggle room for flashes of discovery where I go “wait, fuck, you know what’d be cool as?”

Editing is where I get to make sure that everything lines up without contradictions. I’m very irresponsible; I don’t have the patience to wait until the story is finished before I start editing it, so I often go back and make tweaks on a sentence level. This is often how I get myself out of writer’s block. “What did I say back here, and why does it make me feel like I can’t get to the next point on my structure?”

I also tend to write on my phone in notes app documents or in Scrivener, so I can actually make use of the dead times in my day. I pick up my phone all the time to keep my hands busy, but I rarely sit down at a computer without something more important coming up. Only once the document gets long enough to be unwieldy, or once it’s actually finished, will I sit down with the text on a bigger screen. This really helps me stop myself getting overwhelmed by the idea of The Blank Page, too. I can’t see how much I’ve written or look at much text at a time when I’m writing on my phone.

Other favourite structural things, which I add on in successive edits:

Bookending! For when you have a scene displaying the relationship between your protagonist and a secondary character at the start, then bring ‘em back together at the end to show how things have changed. My graphic novel has something like two… wait no now I’m counting it’s more like four bookend scenes, whoops. I guess I really like these! They’re good for when someone reads your draft and says “I don’t know why this character showed up, they didn’t seem that important.” If the character really IS important, they need to come back. This is handy for me specifically because I love big world with lots of secondary characters.

Callbacks: jokes strike again! But you can use this to achieve other moods. In my Silent Hill fic the words “Empty, bleeding, and different in every way” get used first to describe the town, and then again at the end to describe the protagonist. It’s unsettling both times, but the second time I feel as though it is a little bit reassuring, too. Maybe sometimes it’s good to be reinvented.

Foreshadowing: Lay the breadcrumbs! Make that one character stare at the table in the scene where everyone is speculating on the identity of the traitor, draw our attention to the ceramic statue on the mantelpiece. I love to use the rule of three for this, often describing the significant thing last—or to describe two significant things and diffuse any audience suspicion with a joke as the third thing 😈🙏

Well, this has been a very long post! I wonder what my rules for writing are. UM. I know I have them. I’m nothing if not wildly opinionated!

1. Don’t hang out with writers who think that they’re better than their readers. Storytelling is about sharing humanity, not transcending it. Writing is not a divine gift. There is no muse! Not only hang out with people who do not write, but hang out with people who do not read. It keeps you humble.

2. Don’t break format just for the helluvit, but—if you have an idea about how to pull something off and say, scandalised, “oh my god, but is that allowed?” you have to do it.

3. If you’re having fun, your reader is having fun. If you’re bored, your reader is EXTRA bored. So… don’t write the boring bits. If you don’t know what to say in the scene where the character gets the bus between two locations, just cut it and start the next scene with “When she got off the bus.” Christopher Paolini is an example of someone who has never learned this. On one hand he has a lot more money than I do, but on the other hand, I’ve had a lot more gay sex.

4. Hot take: bad books are just as educational as good ones. I love a formulaic or poorly told story because they give me a chance to engage my structure brain. I like to figure out what went wrong and how. It’s never cinema sins bullshit like “WOW! GAPING PLOT HOLE!!!” but more like “weird, the tone of the climax is jarring compared to the rest of the story” or “well that’s the obligatory breakup at the end of the second act, but why did it happen?” I’ve also learned a whole lot about how to write sex scenes by reading ones that made me say “well, certainly not like that.”

5. Learn to recognise ways you make your own writing noncommittal. “He felt,” “she realised,” “they discovered,” “she thought.” Almost, very, really, nearly. These are all things I do way too much. Don’t say he felt it was, say it was.

☀️🌱☀️

Lastly: If you’re hitting a brick wall, if you’re blocked, if writing isn’t fun… stop.

Read something outside your genre. Dig up weeds in the garden. Watch a friend play a game that is too scary for you. Put a weird doll in the corner of your bathroom, go look through second hand shops for cheap treasures, get an outlandish food on your grocery run. Have a nice chat with a guy who is eighty something, make faces at a baby when mum isn’t looking. Learn to tie a useful knot. Badly paint some furniture. Sit out under the stars with a cuppa, listen to the night sounds, enjoy the feeling of being small. What I’m saying is, you should actively distract yourself with the interesting parts of Being Alive. Whatever feels like a waste of time is worth your time. Internet does NOT count! Do not watch a video, do not read a post! Do things that engage your senses. Do things where you use your hands. Make yourself laugh! Be clumsy, be silly, be messy on purpose. Writing is never more important than being alive, and your brain is never more important than your body. You need to fall in love with being alive. You need to be in the world. One day the gears will click into place and you’ll need to start writing again, furiously, like there’s a fire lit inside of you—but you can’t rush it. You need to take the time to be an animal, and animals play.

Here is a photo of Flea, who is a sixteen year old cat. She has no teeth. Here she is having a great time rolling around in the sun.

Sometimes my zine friends and I joke about things that are zines. Can my tomato plants be a zine? Poets joke about what is a poem. Is my cat rolling on the lawn a poem? Well, in that line of thinking… being an animal isn’t not a kind of writing. You’re making a mark on the world either way.

#writing advice #offhours #ask!

14 notes · View notes