#i wrote poetry in middle school can you tell

[im-a-luxury]

i am a HUGE sucker for “peter looks in the mirror one day and all he can see is uncle ben” but i am also a sucker for every other swap-in you can make. (mini fanfics below the cut, with many self indulgent headcanons LMAO)

miles is talking with his dad one night after everything calms down. the conversation is light, easy, but his dad goes quiet suddenly. his dad looks at him, and miles has never seen him so quiet. his eyes go misty, and miles is scared something happened for a moment. but his dad just sets a hand in his shoulder and says, “you look like your uncle.” miles cries in his dads arms that night.

gwen is talking with her dad over breakfast, and something slips out of her mouth. she recognizes the sentence, why she has it in her head, but she doesn’t know from where. her dad freezes, before turning to look at her. his eyes soften, but his face and shirt are painted and streaked in blue and grey. “you sound just like her.” he doesn’t give gwen time to ask who, before he turns back to his eggs.

peni never knew her mother. she died while giving birth to her, so her father raised her, then her aunt and uncle after he…yeah. peni doesn’t know much about her either, just that she was smart, and her dad thought she was pretty. peni’s going through her dad’s stuff one night, when she pulls up a picture of her. peni finds that her reflection matches up perfectly.

hobie doesn’t have many memories of their parents, no photos either. it’s fine, they dont miss them much, and they figure they dont look much like them either. they have one thing that ties them back to that little apartment in old york. it’s a picture, old and faded, of their brother. as the picture gets more worn, the only thing that hobie can see is their brother’s face. it might as well just be a picture of themselves.

jess loves her mother. more than anything on earth (besides her baby). she’s been there throughout her pregnancy, she was there when her captain stacy died, and she was there when her husband did too. it was the first time jess ever saw her mother cry, and she finds out that tears make people look a lot alike.

noir doesn’t look like uncle ben. the thought used to make him angry. why am i never good enough?! then it depressed him. why am i never good enough…? but he slips his glasses on one morning, and his hair folds and curls down on his forehead and sticks up at his neck. he ties his tie, and looks in the mirror. he finds himself wondering, how long can you look in the mirror before you start looking like your father?

miguel doesn’t have a father. at least not anymore. george o’hara died a long time ago, and tyler stone…well, why would he want anything to do with him? miguel rages at himself everytime he thinks about him—not stone, but the man who raised him. george’s been dead for years, why can’t you just get over it?! but years of blood and fear don’t just disappear because a stone gets plunked in the ground. miguel tears up the last photo he has of george, and goes to splash water on his face. he looks in the mirror, and he sees himself. miguel looks nothing like his father, and he finds himself thinking that’s a good thing.

[fastbrother]

Desperate (M, 1.3k words)

For forty-one-year-old Draco Malfoy starting his twenty-fourth year of unemployment, the only interesting question is who is he going to sleep with next.

Tags: From Sex to Love, Grumpy Harry, Reclusive Harry, Slutty Draco (non-derogatory), unhealthy coping mechanisms, middle-aged Drarry

Author's note: Wrote this for @kamaela's birthday. Thank you for always being so kind and encouraging! 💕

* * *

For eleven-year-old Draco Malfoy starting Hogwarts, the only interesting question about school was who was going to come in second in his year. Imagine his surprise.

For forty-one-year-old Draco Malfoy starting his twenty-fourth year of unemployment, the only interesting question is who is he going to sleep with next.

Some days, it feels like he’s slept with everybody worth sleeping with. Other days—well.

* * *

When he was young, Draco Malfoy thought he liked women. He slept with a handful of girls, all very proper and sweet.

Then the war came, and he was in it, and he was tortured by the Dark Lord himself, which rewired his brain somehow, because after the war Draco Malfoy did not like women anymore. Nor anything proper. Or sweet.

Draco Malfoy liked to be fucked like he’d be murdered next.

* * *

Harry Potter is a big old grump. He lives in what should have been Draco’s house by birthright, nurses a terrifying beard currently in the process of turning grey, and only ever goes out in Muggle London, like the uncivilised brute Draco knows he really is. Draco dreams of being fucked by Harry Potter, the saviour of the wizarding world, the slayer of Dark Lords. And whatever rude people say, Draco’s a man who works for his dreams.

* * *

“Harry Potter. Out and about. What a surprise.”

Potter barely spares a glance for poor Draco. His eyes are glued to the Muggle TV above the bar, in the process of broadcasting some beastly excuse for movement that the Muggles call sports. There are five empty glasses in front of him, and a cigarette dangling out of his mouth.

“Fuck right off, Malfoy.”

“Ah, I’m afraid not,” Draco says, and sits on the barstool next to Harry. “You go, if my presence bothers you so.”

“I don’t give a shit about your presence.”

“Beautiful. Have you taken to writing poetry, by any chance?”

“Tell me, Malfoy,” Potter says, slowly turning those grotesquely green eyes towards him. “You look like someone who makes enemies in every room he walks into. How come you’re still alive?”

“I have my ways.”

“Aha,” Potter says, emptying his sixth glass of whiskey, eyes back on the TV. “I’ve heard about your ways.”

“Would you like some first-hand experience with them?”

Potter lets out a chuckle, a loud and brutish sound.

“Have you been following me?”

“Hardly. I’ve been coming here every night for six months. Ask Robert.”

“Who’s Robert?”

“I’m Robert,” the barman says, pouring Potter’s seventh drink.

“Ah. Nice to meet you, Robert,” Potter says, and raises his drink. “So. Has he?”

“Yes.”

Potter turns to Draco. Offers a vicious smile that makes Draco’s body tingle in all the right places.

“I used to come here all the time. Before the Prophet published a photo of me. Six months ago.”

Draco shrugs. “Can’t a boy try his luck?”

Potter leans forward and pulls Draco’s stool closer to him.

“You’re no boy. You’re a slut.”

“Oh, yes,” Draco moans, biting his lip. “I am. I’m a bad, bad slut.”

* * *

Harry Potter fucks like he goes to war. There’s no fear there, no second guessing. Draco could die now, bent over a dirty sink in a dingy Muggle bar, and he’d be happy. He should die, actually, because what else is there to experience? He has peaked, and life can only be a disappointment from this point on.

“Please,” he begs when all is done. “Again.”

“You make a compelling argument,” Potter says, pulling up his pants. “But there are people queuing outside.”

“I’ll get rid of them. I’ll kill them. Nobody will miss them too much, I’m sure.”

“How about this,” Potter says, fixing his hair back in a ponytail. “You keep coming here every night for another six months, and maybe I’ll drop by again.”

“Don’t play with me, Potter. You know I will.”

“Oh, I know.”

* * *

Draco expects Potter to torture him for at least a couple of weeks, but he strolls into that cursed Muggle pub the next day. He’s wearing jeans and a ripped t-shirt. Truly living up to his reputation of decorated ex-Auror and beloved hero, this one.

“My, my,” he says, sitting next to Draco and gesturing to Robert for a drink. “What a good pet.”

“Aha,” Draco says, draping himself all over Potter’s offensively attractive attire.

“Let me get a drink in me first,” Potter says, struggling to keep Draco at arm’s length.

“If you wanted a drink, you could have gone to another pub.”

* * *

Robert bans them eventually. Draco’s about to Obliviate him but Potter solves the issue by inviting him to his house.

“You mean, my house,” Draco corrects him.

Potter doesn’t seem impressed. “How about we call it a night, then.”

“Fine. I relinquish all rights to that home. You can have it forever. You can have the Manor, too, if you want.”

Potter laughs, and grabs Draco’s arm. “I love how desperate you are.”

“Oh, I’m desperate, alright.”

Five minutes later, Draco’s thirst is finally quenched when Potter bends him over a Black encrusted dining room table. Draco discovers he has quite the taste for family intrusions.

“In front of my great-grandmother’s portrait next, please,” he begs. Potter, the charitable soul he is, complies. Predictably, his great-grandmother calls Potter Muggle-loving filth.

“He is, granny,” Draco moans, face squished against some dusty yet tasteful wallpaper. “He’s the filthiest person that’s ever lived.”

* * *

“Are you some form of house pest? A Black family curse? Why can’t I get rid of you?” Potter says when Draco shows up on his doorstep, carrying a bottle of wine and appetisers as any man of the world would.

“Get rid of me, then,” Draco says, and walks in.

* * *

Potter is on an agenda to steal Draco’s elves and have them clean his shithole of a house. It’s the only reasonable explanation for why he’s taken to drinking with them.

“Stop entertaining the staff. You should be entertaining the Master. And there’s no smoking in the sunroom.”

“There is, now,” Potter says, lighting up a second cigarette with his wand. “There’s a new Master around here.”

“Master Potter,” the elves say in unison, drunk on the Butterbeer Draco keeps for his nephew.

* * *

It’s all fun and games until Draco catches feelings.

“I’m sick,” he tells anybody who cares to listen, and also those who don’t. “Je suis gravement malade.”

“Pull down the shades,” he tells the house elves from under the heavy duvet. “Owl the Healer.”

“Maybe Master Malfoy should tell Master Potter how he feels.”

“Clothes! Somebody bring clothes!”

* * *

“I heard through the grapevine that you’ve fallen ill.”

Draco peeks at Potter from under his duvet.

“It’s true. I’m dying.”

The bed jounces when Potter sits down next to him. He puts a hand on Draco’s un-feverish forehead.

“It sure looks like it.”

“I just want you to know, I lied about the Manor. I’m leaving everything to my elves.”

Potter’s hand moves down Draco’s face.

“Where have you been? I’ve missed you.”

“You have?” Draco says, his illness intensifying.

“Yes.”

“I thought I was a curse you couldn’t get rid of.”

“You are. You’ve been slacking on the job lately.

Something sharp rattles in Draco’s chest. He moves away from Potter’s touch, and hides under the duvet.

“Hey,” Potter says, leaning until his hand finds Draco’s waist through the thick material. “What happened?”

Silence.

“Do you want me to leave?”

Slowly, Draco shakes his head under the duvet.

“Do you want me to stay?”

Draco nods.

Draco hears ruffling and squeaking, and then Potter gets under the duvet. He’s hot, like a cat.

“Where did all your eloquence go?” Potter says, gathering him in his arms. “What happened to all your fancy words?”

Draco buries his head in Potter’s chest. Takes a deep breath.

“I turn stupid when I’m in love. It’s a debilitating illness.”

“You’re a debilitating illness,” Potter says, and kisses his forehead. “And I’m chronically ill.”

[kannra21]

Bc I "love" (lol) Gege so much, I gathered some info on him. Pls DM me to add more if you remember anything

Pen name: Akutami Gege (芥見下々)

Birthday: 26th February 1992 (31yo)

Zodiac: Pisces

Born: Iwate Prefecture, Japan

he went to all boy's private school

Akutami has an older brother who's married. Yuji is strongly inspired by his brother who is Akutami's opposite. He is someone who succeeds in everything he undertakes: sports, studies etc.

he was never really interested in drawing or manga until 4th grade when his older brother bought Weekly Shōnen Jump. The Jump that he read had Bleach on it and that's how Akutami's love for Bleach developed. When he was in the 5th grade and moved from Iwate Prefecture to Sendai in Miyagi Prefecture, he was surprised to see that the kids at his new school drew manga

he started drawing manga by imitating his friends' work

so his Bleach obsession started in elementary school and his Evangelion and Hunter x Hunter obsession started in middle school

he wrote a poetry analogy called "Giant From The Clouds" in middle school, inspired by the Bleach mangaka

His previous works are Kamishiro Sōsa, No.9, Nikai Bongai Barabarjura and jjk 0

Yuji was named after his childhood classmate

Geto was named after the "Geto Korean Ski Resort", located near Akutami's hometown of Tohoku

he's slightly colorblind

he's a fan of occult, mystical practices and horror

he wears glasses

he cooks somewhat

he loves hot springs and scalp massages, he goes to dermatologist to maintain healthy skin

he exercises and he's trying to get in shape despite the busy schedule, workout is not as painful as it is boring

he's very grateful for his chiropractor bc of his stiff neck, he said that if he ever time-travels and meets his younger self he's gonna tell him "get in shape, seriously", he craves afternoon naps but tries to resist by eating sweets like Pikmin gummies (why's he so contradictory haha)

when Nakamura first debuted with the jjk cast and got to meet Gege, he was surprised by how young he looked. He also said that Gege has a calming voice

hobbies: he reads a bunch of novels and watches a bunch of movies whenever he can, he's busy with work most of the time

his favorite food is crispy thai pandan chicken

his favorite onigiri flavor is mentaiko, he loves Umaibo snacks, Schau Essen, potatoes, hayashi rice, ramen and seedless grapes

He's usually not a fan of name brands but he likes Balenciaga. He also wants to support Royal Host restaurant

he likes comedy podcasts like Arabikidan group

the first manga he submitted to Jump was a gag manga

when he was a student he found studying boring but he likes doing research on things that actually interest him (like engineering facts he needed for the manga)

when he was an art student, he didn't really like making drawings where the model stayed for hours in a specific pose. He preferred to sketch in 3-4 minutes

he relies too much on sketches, rough drafts and his editors (he says he's like a dog for the editors)

he has a habit of forgetting how to draw his characters sometimes

he's self-deprecating and he's sorry that he sometimes makes people feel awkward by being overly critical of himself *hugs him*

he finds it difficult to write Yuji bc Yuji and Akutami are fairly different, Akutami doesn't consider himself particularly athletic but he can relate to Yuji for being an "airhead" sometimes and does things when people tell him not to

he thinks he's clumsy and fucks up honorifics sometimes, he talks casually with his editor Yamanaka whom he has a beef with till this day, he reminds him to "respect his elders" (he's so Gojo coded lol)

He's so funny asdfghjhgfd

he's in good relationship with his parents, he respects them and they're very supportive of him

he cares about his mom's opinion on his manga

Toji's and Yuta's personalities are somewhat based on Akutami's dad, dad also reads the manga

according to Gege, jjk should've been a lot darker but editor didn't allow it

he's an otaku, he's a fan of Marvel, has Hunter x Hunter posters on the wall and enjoys Pokémon wii games, he collected Yu-Gi-Oh cards when he was younger, he's from the generation when Gintama was popular

He never felt hatred for Thanos from Avengers: Endgame (explains why he likes Sukuna so much lol)

his favorite Haikyuu character is Tendo and his favorite BNHA characters are Overhaul and Stain

he saw Brad Pitt in person wow

Idea for the pen name: Gege worked a part time job at the cleaners and learned what it's like to be humble in the world. "Gege" translates to a "person of lower status" or a "commoner"

he claims to be socially awkward with people he's not familiar with, he's not used to public speech but when he gets drunk he does a 180 and is blabbering a lot

people call him a genius with a great sense of humor, his editor Katayama says that he's a cheery and a cool person, much like Gojo

he bought a black mountain parka (like Gojo's) that's supposed to last for six years but he put it in storage after one week

he thought about dying his hair white (Gege stop with the Gojo cosplay)

he's a procrastinator, he's mentally preparing for hours to draw a manga chapter that would otherwise take him 30min. The truth is, he's getting tired of jjk and can't wait to finish it

he chose the cyclop cat avatar because drawing one eye is easier and no one hates cats

he said that he used to have a "type of girl" in high school but the more he grew up he realized that every woman is a good woman, he likes well-groomed women (although I think he likes girls with thick tights? he's a Hwasa fan)

he thinks that world can't be divided into black and white and that it's always a blur. Villains and heroes are treated the same because each of them have their own beliefs and ideologies that are valid

he isn't emotionally bound to any of his characters, he will kill whoever, as long as the story is interesting

he's deliberately not trying to sexualize his female characters, not just because of his parents, but also because he wants to leave a respectable impression. Mangaka profession is very looked down upon. He wants to change that

his net worth is somewhere around $12 million

he wants to stay anonymous bc he enjoys his commoner life, there's a certain freedom to being a normal person, he can go in public spaces without anyone recognizing his face. For instance: he secretly went watching the jjk 0 movie in theater along with the opening comments on the first day. A fan accidentally met him but he pretended to be a staff member

[somethingvicked]

True love of mine part 5

An Eddie Munson story

Stranger Things AU (no Upside-Down)

warnings: Female reader, slight angst, fluff, flexible time-line

Chapter 4

Now

Y/N

It had been a week since you sent the letter to Eddie. A week since you had sat down and talked to Brent, telling him that your relationship was over and that you couldn’t marry him.

Your ringfinger felt strange and empty after you had taken off the engagement ring, even though you knew it was for the best and that it had felt strange having it on too.

Instead you had looked around in that special box of yours and located another memory you’d saved from your time with Eddie. A ring he had won you at a fair once, shaped like a cat – for his nickname for you; kitten.

You were looking down at the ring when Brent rushed into the living room from your… well, what used to be his and your bedroom, holding something in his hands. Your eyes widened when you realized what it was. Your box with the notebooks, the flower made of steel wire, the notes. It would have held the ring too if you hadn’t put it on so recently.

Brent was breathing heavily. "I found these when I was packing up my stuff and I shuffled through them."

"What?! You had no right to do that…!"

"Shut up," he barked. "It's all... they were all for Eddie? The poems you wrote and the poetry book you published? Love notes for no one? You said it was a bunch of love poems for different guys you were in love with in high school that you had saved? But in here it says they are all for and about Eddie. And not only that, some of them were written just two years ago. I remember - because that's when you downloaded that writing app on your phone and stopped writing them down by hand... are you saying that you were with me... but you wrote all this for this Eddie guy?!"

His eyes widened. "Wait… is that why your pseudonym was E. Fairfax? You said it was from your first fictional crush, Mr. Rochester from Jane Eyre – his first and middle name, because Rochester would be to obvious. But the 'E'... is that for 'Eddie'?!"

You didn't even have the energy to reply. Why deny it? You had done that and yes, perhaps that made you a bad person. But that's why you finally had sat down with Brent and given him the ring back and said that it was best if you went your separate ways.

"Yes, I did that,” you admitted with a sigh. “And I'm sorry. It's not like I didn't love you at all, Brent, I did. I just... I don't love you like you love me. I thought I would, if I gave it time. But somehow… no, I have never stopped loving Eddie. Writing those poems was a way for me to get all those words I couldn’t say out. But I realized that it wasn’t fair to you. You are a wonderful guy, you don’t deserve to have a wife that writes love poems to a former lover, that’s why I decided to grow up and set you free. So you find someone that can love you, the way you deserve."

Brent's face softened a little. He was still angry, but he did care about you, that’s what made him such a great guy. Many times you had cursed yourself and your stupid heart for not loving him like you wanted to. "Well, what about you? Will you waste your life for your high school sweetheart that just took off and left? How is that fair to you?"

"I need to be true to my heart," you said, “and you’re right, it’s not fair at all. Sadly I can’t help how I feel. Like I said, the poems were a way for me to talk about it without talking about it. But now… I might need to do something else. Maybe I need therapy, I don’t know. However, it’s not your problem any more, Brent. I appreciate you caring, I do, but this is something I need to handle myself.”

You didn’t want to tell him that you had already started at that. The letter. It might not lead to anything but at least it was a more serious try than just writing poems Eddie would never read.

There was something more about the poems you had published and the pseudonym you used. Yes, it was for Mr. Rochester but… it was also for Eddie. For the little secret he had told you – that his middle name was Francis. And that both of your first loves first initials was E.F. even if they had different surnames.

Your two E.F’s.

You sighed again, rubbing your thumb over the cat ring for comfort, then Brent stroked your cheek before taking the last of his things and leaving, the door closing with a click behind him.

Eddie

Eddie had read Y/N’s letter more times than he he could count over the last two days. The things she told him…

She still loved him, couldn’t get over him, compared every boyfriend she had with him. She had even gotten engaged recently but decided to end it because she realized that she wished she was marrying him, not her fiancée.

Y/N clearly didn’t think he felt the same but she had remarked about him still having the matching tattoo.

Was there a small hope there that he sensed?

She made it clear that she didn’t expect them to start over, she only wished for an explanation. Why he had upped and left so suddenly, why he hadn’t given her some sort of closure.

You didn’t even break up with me in that note – which would have been shitty on its own but at least then I would have known, she had written, now it seemed like you didn’t even think about me at all. Like you were already past everything that had to do with us.

How could he tell her that everything that she had written, every feeling she had described – was like he had written it himself?

When Eddie read that she was engaged it felt like someone had taken the small piece of heart he had that were still intact and crumbled it into nothing but drops of blood. When she added that she had to break it, the relief that filled him made him feel like the relief itself was helium and he was about to fly to the heavens.

What she asked of him, though… how could he tell her the real reason he had bailed back then?

How ashamed he was, how much he still hated himself for it. Would she hate him too?

No, Eddie couldn’t tell her. And he didn’t deserve another chance with her. Not just because of what had happened to make him flee, but because of how much he had hurt her by doing so. He had thought it was for the best back then but… clearly he had fucked up more than one life back then – not even counting his own.

But he did owe to tell her that he didn’t live the happy life she imagined. That she was still the first and last thing on his mind every day.

She hadn’t left a return address but one good thing about being famous like he was, was that pretty much everyone knew everything he did. Y/N would find out, one way or another.

He sat down to write a song. The most important song in his life – except that other one.

Eddie thought back and wondered which moment he would start with. Then a sad smile spread over his face and he started.

When you travelin’ down to the Hawk’s country fair…

Then

Hawkins, 1981.

Eddie

It was the day before Halloween and a fair had come to Hawkins, complete with a Ferris wheel, roller coaster, haunted house and of course all the arcades and games.

Y/N and Eddie were walking arm in arm around on the field where they had set up, both high in spirits and drunk on the beer they had stolen from Wayne before coming here. Eddie loved to hear Y/N’s laughter and see her so excited, even though it was just a small little fair.

Although she wasn’t too happy with the clowns, saying that they should have been forbidden since John Wayne Gacy had been outed.

She insisted that they rode the roller coaster, even though she screamed like a stuck pig, making Eddie laugh so hard he almost choked from loss of breath.

Then Y/N pulled him with her to the Haunted house and when they rode through the dark tunnels, lit up by poison green light and filled with smoke, it was Eddie’s turn to make noise – he yelped when the vision of a ghost came up around a curve, a transparent woman with her head cut off, even though he knew it was just projected in the same way they showed something on the overhead machine in school.

Y/N laughed at his reaction but despite her amusement she pulled Eddie’s face in against her chest, patting his hair for comfort. “Don’t worry, hotshot – I’ll protect you,” she purred, making his nickname for her even more fitting.

He was suddenly hyper aware that his face was pressed in against Y/N’s boobs and that… they were softer than any pillow he had ever laid on. And that his cock had become hard as stone, pressing against the fly of his jeans.

Quickly he pulled back with a choked out laugh, thinking very intensely on the dissection they had made yesterday in biology to make the embarrassing erection go down.

When the two of them came out they went to buy some cotton candy and French fries before Eddie said that he absolutely had to try and win her something at the arcade games.

Y/N insisted that he didn’t need to, but he wanted to. Wanted to give her some little trinket that was just from him.

Y/N had given him his bandana after all, the one he now always kept in his back pocket as a token, like in the medieval times.

When he came upon one of the machines and saw the little cat shaped ring it was like a sign from above.

Concentrating hard, using every dexterous skill he had learned as a guitar player he steered the claw with precision before pressing the button. And he won! He won the ring for her!

“Here,” he told Y/N, holding it out. “Kitten for my kitten.”

“Oh, Eddie!” she had said, eyes misted over as she wrapped her arms around him, once again making him feel that soft bosom pressing against him beneath her denim jacket.

He didn’t have time to ponder much over it though, because Y/N’s eyes lit up and she took his hand and ran toward the Ferris wheel.

“We have to ride the Ferris wheel,” she insisted and as usual, he couldn’t deny her  anything. He would have promised her the Mona Lisa if she had begged for it, no matter the impossibility of getting it.

As they got seated and the guard had placed the bar over them it started and it slowly moved upwards.

“Do you know there’s a legend about the Ferris wheel,” Y/N suddenly said, her cheeks pink.

“Yeah? What’s that?” Eddie wondered.

“That if you kiss when the wheel’s at the top you will live happily ever after,” Y/N  explained, her eyes wide, the lights reflecting in them.

“Really?” Eddie said. “Wow. You believe that?”

She shrugged your shoulders. “I don’t know. It’s a sweet superstition though, unlike many others.”

He had to give her that one.

When the wheel was at the top Eddie turned toward Y/N at the exact same time as she turned toward him, and the next second their lips met, their arms wrapped around each other, even with the bar holding them in place.

Happily ever after, Eddie thought as he tasted the sweet cotton candy on Y/N’s lips and smelled the intoxicating scent of her perfume, while burying his hands in her hair. 

taglist: @ali-r3n @ficsbypix @mewchiili @melodymunson @ches-86 @jenniquinn @eddiemunsonfuxks @stolen-in-moonlight @alastorssimp @pandemoniusstuff

(let me know if you want to be on the taglist!)

please, like, comment and reblog!

Your likes are wonderful but reblogs expand my reading circle.

[txna-blxckthorn]

my thoughts while watching dps:

SPOILER ALERT !!!!!!!

oh my god why do all the guys look the same, i can barely remember movie characters names as is. this is just gonna make it harder 😭

neil is so adorable, i’ll punch anyone who hurts him

fuck neil’s dad not letting him do the school annual honestly i already don’t like him

omg they’re going to make asian parents so proud. neil gonna go to med school. those two other guys idk their names, mr future lawyer and me future banker

mr keating making the students rip the pages j evans pritchard wrote i’m not sure if he has a severe grudge on that guy as if he’s insulted his mom or he’s just a cool teacher

i made my mind. he’s a really cool teacher and i wish every teacher was like that

“poetry, beauty, romance, love.. it’s the reason most people stay alive.”

omg they’re gonna go to the cave that’s for the dead poets society???????

awwww todd is so cuteeee <33333

i swear to god these boys look like they’re trying to start a cult. sneaking out in the middle of the night wearing long black cloaks and hiding in a cave to tell stories and dancing around the fire

“truth is like a blanket that always leaves your feet cold. you push it, stretch it, it’ll never be enough. you kick say it, beat it, it’ll never cover any of us. from the moment we enter crying, to the moment we leave dying, it’ll just cover your face as you wail and cry and scream.” i swear, who hurt my child todd? i’m gonna kill them

ew i hate party scenes in movies, esp if it’s like a teenage club. it’s a really big ick for me

I SAID I HATE NEIL’S DAD FUCK HIM FUCK HIM neil literally not the lead role in the play that’s the next day, can’t he tell his dad he’ll quit tomorrow????

broooOo neil was so good in the play it was amazing!!!!!!!!

FUCK NEIL’S DAD FUCK NEIL’S DAD FUCK NEIL’S DAD FUCK HIM HE CAN’T SEND NEIL TO A MILITARY SCHOOL AND THEN MED SCHOOL TF DOES HE REALISE NEIL HAS A LIFE TOO

HOLY SHIT NEVER MIND NEIL DOES NOT HAVD A LIFE ANYMORE

IM CRYING

IM CRYINGG.

NEIL WHYYYYYY

YOU COULDVE JUST RAN AWAY

😭😭😭

THEY’RE ALL CRYING PLEASE NOOOO

BRO TODD’S REACTION BROKE ME

HE’S SAYING IT’S HIS FATHERS FAULT. HIS FATHER KILLED HIM

TODD NOO DONT GO

maybe he just needs alone time

mr keating noooo don’t cry

OMGGG CAMERON ACTUALLY WENT AND TOLD THE SCHOOL SO NOT THEY’RE AFTER MR KEATING ????

he actually believed the school???

GO NUWANDA GO PUNCH CAMERON’S ASS

OHMYGOD DID THEY ALL ACTUALLY SIGN THE PAPERS AGAINST ME KEATING??

TODD NO SIR SIT DOWN THAT’S EMBARRASSING

AWWW NO ACTUALLY THAT’S SO CUTE

AWWW

WAIT WHAT NO THAT’S THE END????

THAT CANT BE THE END WHAT

OH WOW

OH MY GOD I WILL NEVER RECOVER FROM THIS

OHMYGOD

[forever-fixating]

Rewrite the Stars

Summary: Austin is feeling homesick while filming Elvis and gets one hell of a birthday surprise!

Rating: General Audiences

Words: 3.6K (I swear this was meant to be a quick drabble, and yet here I am finishing this at almost five in the morning...oops?)

Warnings: Lots of pining from our boi here

Author's Note: This was written for @foreverdolly. I hope this fills the pining!Austin feels you were hoping for! Perhaps if this gets enough likes (and if school and work permits me), I’ll write a part two! A couple of minor details- I headcanoned Austin here as more of a serial dater rather than anything involving Vanessa. It felt more suitable, given the pining angle I’m going for. Also, I wrote this like COVID never happened because that is a reality I’m sure we’d all love to live in right now. Enjoy!

Austin knew that filming Elvis would be hard. One doesn’t go into a project about a beloved figure of American pop culture thinking it will be a walk in the park. Hell, the months-long audition process made that abundantly clear. But the most challenging part wasn’t the months and months of vocal training, singing lessons, costume fitting, or reading every possible book and watching every video about Elvis Aaron Presley he could get his hands on.

It was being away from his friends and family.

It was just him alone in an apartment halfway across the globe from the place and people he called home. It didn’t matter how many FaceTime calls he made with his sister Ashley or his childhood best friend Y/N or how many care packages they sent filled with his favorite snacks. Eventually, the calls ended, and the snacks were eaten.

His birthday was around the corner, although he was surprised he even registered that it was close. He texted Y/N to see if maybe you would be able to fly down for a quick visit. He even offered to pay for your plane ticket and introduce her to Baz, one of your favorite directors. That morning while he was in hair and makeup, you texted back, “Get me a spot on the soundtrack, and you got a deal!”

He snorted at the reference to the joke you made when he told you that he got the part…after screaming and crying out of excitement and happiness for him. You were the first person he wanted to tell when he got the news. You had been the one that encouraged him to go for the part in the first place. It had become a tradition between the two of you. Celebrating each other’s big moments. He remembered the day you told him about your record deal. He always believed you had the talent to follow your dreams. Growing up, you always wrote poetry and bits of songs, and the two of you constantly played guitar and piano in your room. It was one of the few spaces he felt comfortable enough to be himself. You never got frustrated with his shyness or anxiety, even agreeing to play in the dark to make him feel more comfortable. When you won your first Grammy, he was in the crowd, clapping until his hands ached.

Your subsequent text made his heart sink. “In all seriousness, I wish I could be there for your b-day. (Don’t think I forgot!) But I’m in the middle of recording my next album and my producer is a workhorse. I’m so sorry, Aus.”

“It’s okay,” he texted back. “It’s just 29. Should be done with filming before I turn 30 and we can do that one big!”

You sent back thumbs-up and blue heart emojis, and he tucked his phone into his pocket. There was a small lump in his throat. He closed his eyes for a moment. The last thing he wanted to do was cry over something so dumb. Because it was dumb! People didn’t stop living their lives back home just because he was in Australia. Jobs had to be done, bills had to be paid, and his feeling homesick like a little kid didn’t change that. His sister had sent back a similar response when he asked if she could come for a visit. He told her he understood and to not worry about him.

“Are you all right, Austin?”

He opened his eyes to his makeup artist Trisha looking at him in the mirror. She had a gift for reading his moods. Sometimes, he wished she wasn’t so accurate. He shrugged and mumbled, “Just got a disappointing text from home.”

“Sorry to hear that,” she said. She stayed silent for a moment, brushing more bronzer onto his face. “Want to talk about it?”

The lump in his throat hurt to talk around. “Not really.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The day before his birthday, Baz picked Austin up at his apartment. He had a coffee waiting and was listening to the usual Elvis Presley playlist. He had long stopped being surprised by the Australian director’s eccentric nature. What surprised him was Baz didn’t drive them directly to set. Austin looked at the older man and asked, “Where we goin’?”

Baz just shrugged as he flipped on the turn signal. “The airport.”

This confused Austin. He tried to mask this by joking, “Is this your way of telling me I’m fired?”

That prompted a laugh out of Baz. “Nothing of the sort. I’m just picking up a friend. Flying them in for a special cameo for the film. I thought you’d like to tag along.”

“I’m not needed on set?”

“That is the beauty of being the director,” Baz replied with a grin. “I determine where you’re needed.”

Austin picked up the coffee Baz bought him and took a sip. “That’s not ominous at all, Mr. Luhrman.”

The two of you spent the rest of the drive discussing work. What Baz had planned, any concerns Austin may have, and what could be done to fix them. He loved working with Baz. He was unlike any director Austin had worked with previously. The man had a vision but never let that stop him from treating his cast and crew respectfully. Austin’s time in Hollywood had shown him what a rare quality that was in a director.

Before they knew it, they had arrived at the Brisbane airport. Baz had been tight-lipped about who exactly they were coming to get. He was happy he took care of getting dressed this morning. The weather flipped down in the Southern Hemisphere, so he woke up to a cold snap that morning. He put on a navy cashmere sweater Ashley bought him before he left. The closer his birthday got, the more intense his homesickness felt.

Baz parked the car, and the two of them headed inside. They were stopped a couple of times by fans eager for a selfie or an autograph. Austin watched as a young woman told Baz how she was inspired by his work to go to film school. He gave her some words of wisdom and agreed to take a photo with her. It was touching to witness and a lesson on how to talk with fans. Finally, they arrived at the area where people waited for arrivals. Austin turned and asked, “Gonna let me in on who we’re meeting?”

Baz looked up from his phone and simply gestured in the distance. Austin turned to where Baz was pointing and thought his heart would stop. It was Ashley and Y/N! They were here in Australia! Austin turned back to Baz, who simply said, “Happy birthday, son.”

Austin wasted no time sprinting toward the two women. He pulled his big sister in for a hug first, squeezing her tight and saying through tears, “If this is a dream, I hope I never wake up.”

He felt Ashley rub his back. “This is very real, little brother. And you have Baz and Y/N to thank for all this.”

He pulled away from his sister to see you standing there. Your eyes were glassy with tears even as you joked, “Well if you weren’t going to get me on the soundtrack, I figured I had to do it myself.”

Austin choked out a laugh and picked you up, spinning you around and squeezing you tight. His nickname for you growing up was Tink because of your tiny frame and fiery temper. When he finally set you down, he looked down at you as you explained, “Me and Ashley have been worried about you lately. You seemed really blue. So, I did the L.A. thing: I had my people reach out to Baz’s people and ask if we couldn’t arrange a surprise for your birthday.”

By this point, Baz had joined all three of you. He clapped Austin on the back and said, “I know that the Method is all the rage in Hollywood, but I don’t see sense in tormenting yourself needlessly. We can put production on pause for a little bit. Spend some time with these beautiful women who love you very much.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

That night, the three of you decided to stay at Ausitn’s place and order takeout later that evening. You were slightly more experienced with jetlag, but Ashley required a late afternoon nap. That gave the two of you time to catch up. Austin asked how work on your new album was going and just let your voice live and in person wash over him. You wore one of his t-shirts and a pair of sweatpants. Your hair was in a messy bun on top of your head, and your face was covered with one of those Korean skincare masks you loved. But to Austin, plain or dressed for a red carpet, you were the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

He had always been a little in love with you. The timing never seemed to be on his side enough to make a move. As a teen, he was intimidated by your sudden rise to fame through MySpace. One day, you were posting songs you wrote, then suddenly, you had a record deal and were playing across the country. The last thing you needed was some awkward guy next to you whose biggest claim to fame was bit parts on iCarly and Hannah Montana.

As you both got older and started dating people, Austin figured maybe the two of you were meant to be just friends. He remembered watching a movie with that phrase as the title and the rant you went on after the movie ended.

“I swear to God,” you raged, “guys feel like just because they have feelings for a woman and treat her like a human being, that makes them entitled to sex with us! It’s disgusting! ‘Nice guys finish last’ is such misogynistic bullshit.”

You looked at him after finishing and squeezed his arm. “I’m so glad you’re not like that, Austin. You are rare among your gender.”

He never wanted to be that for you, either. He loved you as a person before he fell in love with you. The last thing he wanted was to be another creep trying to get into your pants. You had a long-term boyfriend, Trevor, who Austin could not stand. He was also a musician, and you met while on tour for your second album. It seemed like a match made in heaven. But Trevor had a nasty habit of comparing your careers, with his being more “legitimate” because he didn’t have to use the internet to become successful. It was a point he learned not to bring up around you or Austin unless he was ready for an argument to ensue.

“You know you’re going to have to introduce me to Tom Hanks,” you said, your eyes bright with excitement. “You know Forrest Gump is one of my favorite movies of all time. God knows how often I’ve watched Toy Story, Sleepless in Seattle, or You’ve Got Mail. I practically grew up with Tom Hanks!”

Austin grinned. “Ah, and so the true motivation for this trip emerges.”

“Oh, you were just a great bonus,” you teased as you removed your mask and massaged the excess product into your skin. “I’m here to see Woody.”

Austin laughed. Your presence melted away all of the angst he had been feeling lately. His whole body felt relaxed and at ease for the first time in months. At this moment, he didn’t have to worry about being ready for the set or rehearsing the same sequence for hours on end. He could just be Austin.

He reached out to squeeze your hand. You smiled and squeezed his back. His voice cracked as he whispered, “I’m so happy you’re here.”

“There’s nowhere else I’d rather be,” you replied.

You reached out to pull his head down and kissed his forehead. He couldn’t stop himself from encircling your wrist with his hand as you did. You pulled away slightly, and for a moment, you both breathed the same air. Your eyes connected. It could be so easy. He could just lean forward and do what he had been dreaming about for ages. He rubbed your inner wrist and found a racing pulse. You were so close. But…he wouldn’t do that to you. Austin knew how you felt about cheating, no matter how innocent the act was.

He was the first to break the moment. Clearing his throat, he pulled away and said, trying to force a laugh, “Don’t let Trevor hear you say that. How’s he doing, by the way? Still on tour?”

Something fell over your eyes at that moment. Before he could question it, you laughed harshly and said, “Yup, still touring. I think he’s still pissed because I told him I didn’t want his help on my next album. He’s been weird since I helped improve one of his singles by making it a duet. So now he’s needlessly looking for “improvements” in my work.”

Leave his sorry ass, Austin wanted to snap. You’re twice the songwriter he will ever be, and you deserve someone who recognizes true talent. The words were on the tip of his tongue. Instead, he said, “I’m sorry. Maybe it’s just a rough patch?”

“Yeah, maybe,” you replied. “But…they seem to be coming more frequently here lately.”

Scrubbing your face, you jumped up and said, “Bleh, enough about Trevor. Let’s see if Ashley has recovered enough so we can order something to eat. I’m starving!”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

People could never say that Baz Luhrmann was a subtle man. For Austin’s birthday the following evening, he rented a restaurant with an adjoining karaoke bar. This surprise party had been well-planned. Catherine even decorated the space and ensured the manager secured any recording devices from non-guests. When the trio arrived, Austin hugged Baz and Catherine and thanked them for such kindness and generosity. Ashley wore a dusty rose off-the-shoulder dress with an A-line skirt that looked gorgeous. You looked stunning in a black cocktail dress inspired by Breakfast at Tiffany’s, complete with an updo and tiara. When you finally emerged from Austin’s bedroom, he mumbled, “Hello, gorgeous.”

You winked and said, “Thanks, but wrong movie.”

There was the usual dinner and giving of gifts. Baz, Tom, and others gave speeches, praising Austin so much that by the end, he was a puddle of tears and emotion. At the end of the dinner, he couldn’t say more than, “Thank you for all over this. Making this movie and being here with all of you has been one of the best experiences of my life. I will carry it with me and treasure it always.”

Once the dinner concluded, the party moved to the karaoke bar. Baz and you, as Austin figured, got along like a house on fire. Both of you were music nerds and kept trying to outdo each other in karaoke performances. You won the night with a spirited rendition of Tina Turner’s Proud Mary that saw your heels kicked into the crowd, your updo wholly wrecked, and Olivia holding your tiara as she screamed and cheered. As you exited the stage, Baz stood and bowed, saying, “I know when I’m beaten. Now, what’s this about you wanting to be on the soundtrack?”

A few others took turns on the stage. Dacre, Luke, and Adam tried to sing together to Billy Joel’s Uptown Girl. Tom and Rita sang I Got You, Babe before bidding everyone good night. Olivia, Ashley, Catherine, and you giggled through Wannabe by the Spice Girls. After the song ended, Olivia, Ashley, and Catherine teetered their way back off stage, but you remained. Putting a hand on your hip, you said into the microphone, “Mr. Butler…you are the only one who has not sung this evening. It’s time we fixed that. Get your ass up here!”

Everyone began chanting Austin’s name until he shrugged off his jacket and tie and joined you on stage. You had a look on your face that seemed both nervous and excited. Ever the performer, you turned back to the crowd and said, “Now, D.J., before you start the song we spoke about earlier, I wanna tell everyone here a little story about Austin and me.”

“Oh Jesus,” Austin said loud enough that the mic picked him up.

“Hush you,” you smacked his shoulder. “Anywho, me and Austin have a favorite pastime back home of watching bad movies together. It’s kind of like Mystery Science Theater 3000, snarking comments and all. Well, one of our favorites to watch is The Greatest Showman.”

This prompted boos and shouts from the crowd, to which you replied, “I know, I know. The movie made over a billion, and Hugh Jackman is your national treasure.”

You paused to allow people to cheer for their man before continuing, “But as an American…the movie is ridiculous. P.T. Barnum was a dick who did not deserve the talents of Mr. Hugh Jackman! But that soundtrack fucking rules! There would be nights when Austin and I couldn’t sleep, and we would drive around L.A. screaming that soundtrack at the tops of our lungs!”

You finally turned back to Austin, and he felt butterflies in his stomach. You smiled at him as your voice softened. “So we’re going to sing you of those songs tonight. Apologies in advance to Zendaya and Zac. May you never see this.”

Oh, Jesus…it was that song. You motioned for him to come closer. The butterflies were now a hurricane. He was about to sing a love song in front of a crowd of people to the woman he wanted more than anything. What could possibly go wrong?

“You know I want you,” Austin began, his voice shaky with nerves. “It’s not a secret I try to hide. I know you want me. So don’t keep saying our hands tied.”

A few people cheered, sensing his nerves. He grinned, and as the verse progressed, he felt his confidence growing. The two of you had watched this movie so many times, you began doing a facsimile of the scene from the film on stage. You kept your eyes downcast, your body turned away from him, as if you were fighting against this as much as you wanted to give in. At last, you came together at the end of the chorus, Austin going so far as to put his hand around your waist and tuck your hair behind your ear as he sang, “So why don’t we rewrite the stars? Maybe the world could be ours tonight?”

You took the microphone from the stand and took a giant step back as the music continued. Austin could hear his heart pounding in his ears. The look in your eyes reminded him of the look from yesterday. You lifted the microphone and sang, “You think it’s easy? You think I don’t want to run to you? But there are mountains and there are doors that we can’t walk through.”

You began walking along the edge of the stage and gesturing to the crowd as you continued to sing. Austin followed you as he felt the desperation behind the song's words for the first time. As you sang the chorus to the audience, he led you back to the center of the stage. And what’s more, you let yourself be guided back. You placed the microphone as the chorus ended, and you both began belting the bridge.

“All I want is to fly with you! All I want is to fall with you! So just give me all of you…”

There seemed to be something in your voice as you sang of this being impossible. Was he making this up? Was it just the two of you committing to the bit, as it were? The edges started to blur for Austin. Were they blurring for you too?

“You know I want you,” you sang finally, your voice just as shaky as he was at the song's beginning. “It’s not a secret I try to hide. But I can’t have you. We’re bound to fate, and my hands are tied.”

Both of you were startled when everyone began cheering. In those brief moments, they seemed to fade into the background. Before Austin even had time to process what the hell happened, you said into the microphone, “And that’s enough from me. Austin, thank you for humoring me. Maybe we can get him to sing an Elvis song next?”

He was shell-shocked as you hurried off stage to rejoin Ashley and Olivia. He wanted to follow you. He wanted to take you somewhere quiet and private and ask a million questions. What did you mean by that song choice? Were you trying to tell him something? But before he could even think of what to do first, he heard the all-too-familiar chords of Jailhouse Rock blast from the speakers.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A few days after you and Ashley returned to L.A., he got an email from his big sister. She had recorded your performance of Rewrite the Stars that night. The only text in the email stated, “If this is anything to go off of, I think you can, baby brother. Don’t waste this moment.”

Author’s Note: So…do we need a part two? Let me know down below! Likes, comments, and reblogs are cherished and adored.

[thesaddestjoysandthesmallestlies]

hello can you tell be about your ocs please please please please please please plea

YESYEYSYSTES

I only really have one oc that I love and like she’s the bestest and her name is Kass but her full name is Kassiah and she’s like the bestest and she’s a demigod and her mother is Aphrodite!! Except she has a horrid relationship with her mother, and she has a deadbeat dad, so she was raised by her aunt (who she has a somewhat good relationship with, but her aunt had to work a lot, so she took care of herself for a majority of her childhood). As a kid she was the kind of kid who would rather be reading during recess than playing on the playground, and as she got older she started reading poetry, which inspired her to start writing her own (yes I wrote poetry from her perspective, it was really shitty though lol-).

After this part the storyline gets messy because I hadn’t exactly thought this through so I’m just going to rewrite this part because the rp storyline already makes zero sense (cries).

In middle school I think that’s when Kass realized she’s a lesbian, but I don’t she really came out or anything. Then she got sent to Camp Half-Blood. She was excited when she learned one of her parents might have been gods, maybe that’s why they left her, maybe they wanted to see her, but couldn’t! Except, she got let down when she realized her mom could’ve (not that she would’ve because Greek gods are shitty to their kids, but the thought that she was technically able to) visited her, and that her dad is truly just a shitty guy.

When she had turned sixteen she met Ariah, her best friend for a bit, and soon-to-be girlfriend. Their relationship was short lived, and Kass broke up with Ariah because she thought Ariah liked her other love interest, Rage, more. This heartbreak followed Kass around for a while, and she regretted it a lot. She tried to hangout around the couple, but it was always chaotic and she felt weird.

Not long after she met Rogue, who was probably the closest person she had a best friend. They hungout a lot, and Rogue even got Kass to get over her fear of dogs (after one horrible hilarious night in the woods of meeting Rogue’s “pet dog” [a hellhound]). Their friendship only flourished, and eventually turned into them dating.

Kass still stayed friend with Ariah, until she realized it was just too hard to do. She didn’t want her back, but she didn’t like to be reminded of all the hurt and jealousy she had once felt. Despite that, she still saved Ariah’s life.. A few times(?).

I think this is a majority of the storyline? Sorry I kind of (definitely) turned it into a rant about the rp lore-

[monstersinthecosmos]

stealing your question as promised: what authors do you think shaped your writing the most when you were first starting?

-mothmage

sdjkgas in middle school my favorite authors were Anne Rice and Francesca Lia Block and I think they have SENSUALITY in common even though their writing styles are SO opposite. As a teen when I was first writing I think I learned so much from both of them, like the seriousness and drama of AR but at the same time, FLB is so concise and punchy and sometimes her books are like these waterfalls of adjectives and I tried to think in that way too! Like I'm a very visual person so FLB books were like fucking crack for me, just heaps and heaps of descriptions of color and glittery and starry night skies and flowers growing where they shouldn't and it feels like poetry!

(I opened a random FLB book off my shelf and this is what I mean: We walked up and down the hills until our legs ached, then rode the trolley car to feel rushes of salty, misty air. We had picnics and fed the swans on the lake under the flowering terra-cotta arches, drank tea and ate pastries in rooms with cupids and rosebuds painted on the walls, strolled through the park, green-dazzled, fragrance-drunk, gasped at treasures gleaming gold in the half-lit glass cases of the museum. Then we'd return with spices, fruits and vegetables from Chinatown, seafood and baguettes from the wharf.

Her writing is so simple but it's just like heaps and heaps of sensory details !! And it's an interesting spectrum between her & AR to see how much you can say and like what type of efficiency you can find, because both of them give me that same feeling and feel so sensuous to me. I WANT TO KNOW WHAT EVERYTHING LOOKS LIKE AND SMELLS LIKE AND SOUNDS LIKE, TAKE ME THERE!

So as a teen I think I was learning a lot from them both and like I remember a fic I wrote with someone at a mall and it was like my FLB moment, I was like OMG I MUST MENTION THE TACO SMELL IN THE FOOD COURT AND THE PERFUME KIOSK AND THE HOUSE MUSIC BLASTING FROM A HAT SHOP AND THE CRUNCHY SUGAR ON A PRETZEL! And that's something that's stuck with me a lot, I think. I always want to tell you how things feel and smell like we're going on a journey, okay!

They both also have a way of treating cities/locations like characters--FLB actually does this quite literally by describing cities as if they're women (like LA is a blonde woman with big sunglasses and NYC has dyed black hair with severe red lipstick that stains on her cigarette butts, etc something like that) and it feels really specific and made me think a lot about locations and settings and how they affect the characters and story! They were also both the first books I ever read with queer people! FLB's short story Dragons in Manhattan was the first story I ever read with a trans person back when I was like 12 or 13.

AND THEN as a final nail in the coffin LOL I read I Know This Much is True by Wally Lamb when I was in 9th or 10th grade and it just really like !! IDK broke my head open for character voice. I don't think I'd read it so well done before, or maybe not noticed before. LIKE I MEAN this entire concept is like asking what did WE discover as kids or whatever, like so much of it is happenstance and if it hadn't been these authors it would've been someone else, and it's not like I stopped reading LOL like I still learn things from reading all the time! But Wally Lamb really brought this home for me. Like the way he writes Dominick's narration is just so like cynical and rugged and full of hurt and it made me think a lot about like how to profile a character with the language we use. I don't think FLB does this too much bc her writing is so breezy anyway and AR is so wordy that I don't think I could pick up on it as a teenager. I get more nuance now and see it better but it's there's a base level of like fanciness and purple prose that can be hard to see through on the first try, at least for me as a teen.

ANYWAY SORRY THAT WAS A REALLY LONG RESPONSE I JUST GOT REALLY EXCITED but Anne Rice + FLB + Wally Lamb wombo combo for emotionally torturous sensory overload cynical guttermouth style.

[killermchann]

mystik spiral rate youre music page

Icebox Woman

by Mystik Spiral

released 1998

recorded 1992 - 1997

2.33 / 5.0 from 70 ratings

Alternative Rock, Garage Rock, Post-Grunge

Grunge, Noise Rock, Power Pop, Indie Rock, Neo-Psychedelia

lo-fi, raw, angry, noisy, lethargic, introspective, dissonant, psychedelic, melancholic, energetic, depressive, self-hatred, nihilistic, existential, occult, rebellious, spiritual, pessimistic, male vocalist, LGBT, atonal

4 Reviews

cumguzzlinggutterslut

★★★✩✩

i liked the part where those 2 guys howled like wolves that part was funny

30000monkies

★★★★✩

takes me back…i used to play at the zon in the 90s & actually met the guitarist after a gig when i went to use the bathroom. nice guy. i think his name was jerry? he gave me a blowie in one of the stalls & sold me the CD for $20. great stuff! would recommend!

dreamtheaterfan8000

★✩✩✩✩

Pure drivel. I cannot recall a single moment during my first (and only) listen of this garbage where I wasn't appalled. HOW DID THIS TAKE 5 YEARS TO RECORD????? Let us delve into the musical septic tank...

Mystik Spiral is yet another perfectly mediocre post-grunge band that has decided to unleash onto the unwitting public the suburban angst they've carried with them and kept latent since middle school. My first question: What the fuck is a Mystic Spiral? Is it supposed to be a metaphor for their career? It sounds like the name of a Doors cover band. Initially I assumed the misspelling of the word "mystic" to be intentional, but after finishing the album I am fully convinced the members are all semi-literate. Take these lyrics:

"The universe is a cold, cold place, black and Bleak like outer space, the wind chill drops below sub-zero, it's not no time to be a hero."

Woooooow. Didn't know the temperature could drop "below sub-zero," or that poetry you wrote for your Language Arts class when you were twelve constitutes as genuine lyricism. And who still rhymes "zero" with "hero?"

Fortunately, Mystik Spiral is allergic to songs over two minutes in length, making this a much less tedious listen than expected. This compliment is backhanded, as the "songs" are excretions of verse-chorus crap that barely hit the one minute mark.*Yawn.* There is nothing in this album that resembles originality. Why bother writing memorable riffs when you don't even know how to fix that buzz in your amp? Wait, I'm getting ahead of myself.

The playing, if you can call it that, sucks. In spite of their apparent obliviousness to the concept of tuning, or practicing, so-called "guitarists" Trent Lane and Jesse Moreno have discovered an ingenious method: drown everything in as much feedback as possible so nobody can tell how bad it is. I cannot stress enough the fact that Mystik Spiral's sound is that of two college students whisper-arguing on top of TV static while someone living in their basement plays the drums. Props to the drummer, by the way, for managing to keep a simple 4/4 beat to this tuneless nonsense. I don't know why Mystik Spiral has a bassist, though. You can't even hear him, except some songs where he started playing too early & they decided not to do another take. It's like they're so ashamed to have him there they had to bury him in the mix. Or maybe he forgot to turn his volume knob up or something. Then I read that Mystik Spiral didn't even have a bassist until 1996, four years into the recording sessions. Who cares, man? It's called artistic liberty. Such is fate for so-called "alternative rock...." It should be illegal for bands to keep trying to emulate Nirvana and the Screaming Trees. Also Trent is the most bored sounding singer of all time. Also he can't sing. Also was it really necessary to include a 30-minute audio recording of a woman giving birth as a hidden track?

EDIT: After posting this review that took me a week to write I got a lot of messages insisting there was no childbirth recording & that I'm crazy. I swear to God it was there. It took up over half the album's runtime. How on earth is no one else hearing it?????

JesusSaves1968

★★★★★

This album gave me the first erection I've had in 30 years

[gretchensinister]

Writing Game: Last Lines

Thank you @marypsue for the tag! This seems fun and I am procrastinating, so let's go!

Last lines from the last 10 finished works I posted:

The list goes from oldest to newest:

“T—time,” he stammers, his voice low and rough. “You give me time.” As much as I want, his vampire tells him. More than you’ll ever understand.

(all I ever do around you is want, Rise of the Guardians, Pitch/Sandy, vampire AU)

“Well, with new, shorter ceremonies, it will be a very, very long night,” Sandy says, though the last word is mostly lost in a gasp.

(Shortday at Fountain Square, Rise of the Guardians, Pitch/Sandy, bonus fic for my epic fantasy AU A Draught of Light)

“No mask?” No mask!

(Yellow/Gold, Rise of the Guardians, Pitch/Sandy, eldritch AU)

And with a little more clumsiness than the night before, but perhaps no less real grace, they drew each other down onto the brilliant, fragrant rainbow of one of Thra’s wonders—and soon lost themselves in another.

(Incarnation, The Dark Crystal/The Dark Crystal: Age of Resistance, SkekGra/UrGoh)

Then, you’d find out even more about what Moder had given you, and how much you’d really been changed.

(Clearing, The Ritual, Moder/Reader)

Don’t worry! We will whistle up our song.

(Something Wicked Is Me, Something Wicked This Way Comes, poetry collection.)

Humanity test 1 begin. No recording. No protocol. No re-test. No deliverable product.

(New, Improved, Guaranteed Quality, erotic sci-fi dystopia (I have trouble describing this work) original work that exists because of Pitch/Sandy)

“I…trust me that I feel what love of yours is mine to feel. And whatever happens…I wish you all Thra’s strength and luck as you labor to keep us whole.”

(To Keep a Body Whole, The Dark Crystal/The Dark Crystal: Age of Resistance, mystic focus)

Why not, when he could trust that waking would be wonderful?

(Abundance, The Dark Crystal/The Dark Crystal: Age of Resistance, SkekGra/UrGoh)

(Gohan: That is very annoying)

(The Sleepover, Dragonball Z, LMAO okay this is the most recent thing I have posted on Ao3 BUT ALSO the oldest work on the list by far. The Archive is an archive! So when I found a notebook with a DBZ fic my friend and I wrote in middle school, I put it in the Archive for, well, archival purposes! I believe in academia they call this juvenilia. Anyway, you don't get anything else on this list without this one babey! But Gohan is right. It is very annoying.)

What have I learned from this game? I have been reminded that I feel like I struggle with last lines--at least ones that can be excised from the story that led up to them.

If you write, I invited you to do this! It's fun but I don't know who's writing these days that hasn't already been tagged.

[adaratrixie]

Poetry & Blood Chapter 1: The Initiate

By Trixie Adara 

Laura held the advertisement in her shaking hand. 

“You have to be kidding me.” 

This was the address the secretary had sent her to. It was a massive estate, at least four stories tall and almost as large as a city block. In the middle of downtown Memphis? That didn’t make any freaking sense. 

Laura checked the ad again:

WANTED: English major. Experience with editing and copy editing. Female. Experience with romantic fiction, reading or writing. Must be able to read poetry with emphasis, clarity, skill, and accuracy. 

She found it on her old college campus on a bulletin board. It was dark purple with a picture of “The Purpose and the Passion,” by Camille K, a successful romance writer. She wrote mostly fluff, stories of overly buff and wealthy men pursuing strong and independent women. It made money, but it wasn’t the Next Great American Novel. 

Laura had assumed she’d be working for Camille, though the ad wasn’t clear. What she hadn’t assumed was that Camille K lived in a giant estate in the middle of downtown. It looked like a library or a cathedral. It was oddly Victorian, standing out against the modern and concrete aesthetic around. Not many buildings from that time period were downtown, and even fewer had survived a giant fire from the early 1900’s. 

Laura shivered. The building wasn’t just impressive. Impressive was a word you used for skyscrapers and giant arches. This was intimidating. Camille K, her new boss, had somehow managed not only to live here, but to afford living here all while writing dressed-up smut. It was entirely possible Laura was way, way over her head. 

Laura approached the door and looked for a doorbell. It didn’t have one. All it had was a giant knocker attached to a lion’s face like a nose ring through the lion’s nostril. It was heavy, dark black iron. The circle itself must have weighed ten pounds. Laura pounded away with it and waited. 

Eventually, a tiny blonde woman, she looked to be no more than thirty, with a cute pixie haircut appeared. She wasn’t in a maid’s uniform, though Laura must admit she expected a maid from the 1800’s to appear. The woman was in a simple sleeveless white blouse and a black pencil skirt. There was nothing eye-catching or extraordinary about her, really. 

“Can I help you?” she asked. 

“Uh, hi. My name is Laura Delazier. I got hired for the copy editing job?” 

Laura had assumed it was a copy editing job. She’d be plundering Camille K’s predictable plots and painful dialogue for typos. But she needed a job. The world wasn’t desperate for English majors unless you wanted to be a teacher. Laura wanted to be a writer, but first she needed to find a story worth telling. She was still looking for it. 

Unfortunately, her landlord wouldn’t take that reason for rent. Neither would her grocery store, her student loans, her phone bill, her insurance, nor gas for her car. No one wanted aspirational stories. They wanted money. Camille K had enough money for a mansion, and apparently, enough money to help out lowly English majors only a few months out of school. 

“Copy editing job?” asked the woman. 

Laura held up the ad. The woman scrunched her nose to try and read the ad, then took it from Laura. As she read, her face relaxed. 

“Ooooo, the assistant job.” 

“Assistant?” 

“Oh, yes. Come right this way Miss Delazier.” The woman disappeared into the estate, and Laura followed. She turned around to make sure the door was closed behind them, then scampered after the short blonde.

As soon as she stepped inside, she wanted to pause and gawk. There was a grand staircase that wound all the way up to the fourth floor, and maybe even the roof. There were three different hallways to choose from. The building was rich with dark wood and pale marble that made Laura feel dirty, clumsy, and poor all at once. 

But Laura didn’t have time to investigate closely. The blonde was fast, and Laura had no idea where she was taking her. She lost track of all the turns they take. They seemed to go up a side flight of stairs, and then down another flight of stairs. One floor had a garden in the middle of it, and another floor had a grand dining room. 

“Am I getting the tour?” asked Laura. 

“Sort of,” said the blonde without turning around. “Miss K is in a meeting. It’s a moving meeting, and I’m to make sure they don’t see you or me. Hence, the roundabout course. 

“I’m not going to Miss K?” 

“You’ll meet with her shortly. For now, I’m taking you to her primary assistant.” 

“She has multiple assistants?” 

The blonde stopped abruptly, and Laura almost slammed into her. She turned and gave Laura a look of disappointment and amusement. “Miss K employs a research assistant, a personal assistant, a primary assistant, and now you, an editing assistant. Not to mention: me, two other housekeepers, a personal cook, several lawyers, an accountant, and a personal trainer. Her primary assistant oversees all of us.” 

“And she’s the one who  -” 

“Hired you. Will pay you. And will direct you. You’ll spend most of your time with her.” 

The blonde turned back around and led on. They went up to the fourth floor - Laura’s calves were killing her - and came to a glass door. Behind that glass door was a beautiful office that had giant windows overlooking the waterfront of the Mississippi River. 

Sitting at the desk, was an elegant Asian woman. She wore a flowing pantsuit that looked like it came off the runway in Paris. The legs flared a little below the knee, but were tight at the thigh. The neckline of the jacket was plunging, but the woman wore a simple white blouse underneath. She had long and straight black hair, going to her lower back. She looked to be only a little older than the blonde, in her mid or late thirties. She stood as she saw them round the corner and opened the door for them. 

“Hello,” she said. “You must be Miss Delazier.” 

“Please, call me Laura.” Laura extended her hand and shook Miss Lancaster’s. 

“I’m Lucy Lancaster, I’m Miss K’s primary assistant. We spoke on the phone.” 

“Yes,” said Laura. 

Everyone stood awkwardly outside Miss Lancaster’s office. Miss Lancaster and the blonde had some type of conversation with their eyes, and Laura tried to avoid eye-contact entirely. 

“Is Miss K still with the -” 

“Yes,” said the blonde quickly. 

“Good.” Miss Lancaster turned to Laura. “Come on in, Laura. Let me tell you more about the position.” Miss Lancaster turned to enter her office, but Laura turned to the blonde. 

“What was your name? I’m sorry, but I never got it.” 

The blonde blushed and smiled. “I’m Angelica.” 

“Thank you for showing me around, Angelica. I appreciate it.” Laura held out her hand to shake the blonde’s, but Angelic curtsied instead, and walked away. Laura turned and entered Miss Lancaster’s office. 

Miss Lancaster was in the wrong job. The woman belonged on Wall Street or in Washington. Her talent, intelligence, and composure were wasted working as the staff manager for a romance writer. Laura respected her immediately, but was too intimidated to like her. She wanted to like her. Laura wanted to like everyone. But Miss Lancaster made her feel stupid and foolish for being an English major. She disapproved of Laura’s tiny writing credentials. She kept saying “we can make that work,” and everytime she said it, Laura died a little inside. 

Laura’s job was to be feedback and copy editing for Miss K. Apparently, Miss K often gets stuck on story ideas. She needs help finding inspiration. She needs someone to bounce ideas off of. And yes, Laura will need to go over Miss K’s writing at the end of each day, line by line, to check for grammar, spelling, and inconsistencies in the text. 

“What about the poetry reading part?” asked Laura. 

“Miss K likes to have poetry read to her. It moves and inspires her.” 

“Sure,” shrugged Laura. Whatever Miss K wanted, Miss K was going to get. 

Miss Lancaster sighed and pushed back her chair. “Now comes the unpleasantness of this meeting.” She opened a drawer a pulled out a one-inch-thick stack of paper. She dropped it onto the table in front of Laura. 

“Unpleasantness?” squeaked Laura. 

“Unfortunately.” 

“What’s this?” asked Laura. 

“This is a Non-Disclosure Agreement, or NDA. It is a legal document binding you to privacy, secrecy, and confidentiality while under the employ of Miss Camille Kontalban.” 

“Kontalban?” 

“Doesn’t roll off the tongue, does it?” said Miss Lancaster with a smile. 

“Not quite.” 

“Hence, Miss K.” 

“Right.” 

Miss Lancaster flipped through the pages and explained them as best she could to Laura. Laura couldn’t tell people things that were happening in Miss K’s books. She couldn’t talk about Miss K’s process or methods. She couldn’t reveal Miss K’s creative or inspirational process. She couldn’t reveal Miss K’s lifestyle or homelife. In short, she couldn’t talk about Miss K in anyway to anybody outside Miss K’s employ unless she wanted an avalanche of legal troubles.

“Should I have a lawyer read over this?” asked Laura when Miss Lancaster was finished. 

“You can if you want to. It’s pretty straightforward, though.” 

“It’s a lot. And it’s … scary.” 

“We’re not trying to scare you. We’re trying to protect Miss K.” 

Laura sighed. “Where do I sign?” 

“That-a-girl.” Miss Lancaster flipped to several spots, and Laura signed at each of them. 

“One last thing,” said Miss Lancaster when they were finished. “And unfortunately, this was not in the add.” Laura went cold. “We insist that while you are in Miss K’s employ, since you will be working so intimately with her, that you should live in the manor.” 

Laura’s mouth dropped. “In the manor?” 

“Yes,” said Miss Lancaster. She chewed on her pen, nervously. “Is that alright?” 

“You mean, I have to move out of my crappy apartment to live in a mansion with a greenhouse, a ballroom, a grand staircase, and and and …” 

“A swimming pool?” suggest Miss Lancaster. 

“This place has a pool?!” squealed Laura. 

Miss Lancaster grinned and nodded. “And a gym. And a hot tub. And a spa.” 

“Holy shit,” whispered Laura. Then she gasped and covered her mouth. She blushed with embarrassment. 

Miss Lancaster laughed. “Holy shit, indeed.” She seemed to relax and sat back down at her desk across from Laura. “I take it you’re not upset by this?” 

“Am I allowed to leave when I want?” asked Laura. 

“Of course. It’s just easier for everyone if you’re nearby in case Miss K writes in a fevered passion at five in the morning.” 

Laura shrugged. “Fair enough.” It certainly beat paying rent. She’d also get to cancel her membership to the gym? What might have been the sketchiest ad for an English major in history, may have turned out to be her luckiest break. 

“I’ll have a full write up on the routines for the house: when meals are served, laundry, guests, etc.” 

“Great,” said Laura. 

Miss Lancaster stood and extended her hand. Laura stood and shook it. “Graumann will show you to your room.” Miss Lancaster pointed behind Laura. There, on the other side of the glass door, was a man in a white button-down shirt, a black tie, and black pants. 

“Um …” started Laura. 

“Yes?” 

“When will I meet Miss K?” 

“Ah, yes,” said Miss Lancaster. “Each night, Miss K has what she calls a Muse Session. You will meet her there tonight to start. It will be after dinner.” 

“Not until then?” 

“No. And let me make this clear,” Miss Lancaster’s smile faded, “you are not to harass or bother Miss K. You should not go near her office, her study, or her quarters. She will ask for you when she wants you. Is that understood?” 

“Yes, Ma’am,” said Laura. 

“Good,” said Miss Lancaster. “Grauman?” she asked to the man behind Laura. He opened the door for Laura and gestured for her to exit. She followed him. 

“What kind of name is Grauman?” asked Laura as they climbed down the stairs to the second floor, the one floor Angelica had made her skip. 

“My name,” he said in a thick European accent. German maybe? 

“Right, but where is it from?” 

“My mother gave it to me.” 

Right, thought Laura. Angelica nice. Lancaster scary. Grauman might be crazy or stupid. Got it. 

Grauman was surprisingly young for a butler, or whatever the hell he was. He seemed to be in his late twenties, the closest to Laura’s age of anyone she’s seen so far. He had thick hair that was parted to one side and slicked with something. It was a dark brown to match his dark eyes. Laura didn’t ask him anymore questions. 

When they arrived at her room, Grauman held out his hand. Laura stared at it.

“Oh, um,” she reached into her pocket. “Am I supposed to give you a tip?” 

“No,” snorted Grauman. “Your key.” 

“My key?” asked Laura. 

“To go and get your things. Yes, your key.” 

“Oooo,” said Laura. “The key to my apartment. Right. Sure. Here.” She took the key off the keyring and handed it to him. In turn, he handed her a key. 

“This will open your room, your bathroom, and the front door of the house. After midnight, the house has an alarm. You do not get to know the code.” 

“Okay, but -” 

Grauman turned around and stomped off. 

“Guess I’ll figure that out later,” muttered Laura. She turned around to inspect her room. 

It was gorgeous. And spacious. Room isn’t the right word. It was a suite. Laura had a small kitchen, a seating area for guests, and large four-poster bed. She’d seen rooms like this in movies or on television, but she never thought she’d get to sleep in one, let alone live in one. 

She squealed when she found her bathroom. It was huge. It had two full length mirrors, a shower, and a bathtub large enough for her to lay down, sprawl out, and share. 

Not that she’d shared a bath with anyone ever, but she now she could if she wanted to. Well, she wanted to, but if someone else wanted to, now they could. 

After completely freaking out about how incredible her amenities were, Laura went to explore the house. No one had told her she couldn’t, but she felt nervous that she might accidentally bump into Miss K or go into some forbidden section of the house. 

Luckily, she wasn’t ten feet out of her room before Angelica found her. 

“Lost?’ chirped the blonde from behind her. 

Laura turned around and smiled. “Unfortunately.” 

“It takes time to get used to.” 

“I mostly don’t want to accidentally bump into Miss K. Miss Lancaster made it sound like she’d bite my head off.” 

Angelica giggled. “Oh, I certainly don’t think she’d do that. Miss Lancaster is overprotective of Miss K. She wants to make sure nothing, and I mean absolutely nothing, interferes with Miss K’s creative process. None of us get paid if Miss K can’t write.” 

“Makes sense,” said Laura. 

“Anyways, I can explain the house to you like this: fourth quarter is entirely business related. There are offices, like Miss Lancasters’, meeting rooms, etc. Your office will be up there.” 

Laura nodded, but inwardly she jumped up and down, screamed, fist pumped, and danced. Her own office? She had her own office and her own apartment and a swimming pool and a gym and a personal chef and …. Her own office?! She needed to get into romance novels ASAP. Apparently the pay is to die for. 

“The third floor is for used for a variety of things. I showed you the gardens. That’s also where you can find the gym. There’s also the movie theater. It’s recreational, I guess.” 

A movie theater?! 

“The first floor is for entertainment. That is where the primary dining rooms, ballrooms, and guest rooms are. If we host as a party, which we don’t do too much anymore, it will stay on the first floor. The second floor is the residence. The east wing is for staff, like us, and the west wing is entirely for Miss K. Her office and suite all occupy that space. Once you come to the double burgundy doors, you’re entering into her space. Stay away from the doors, and Miss K will be left in peace. If she finds you in the garden, you’ll have nothing to fear from her.” 

Laura nodded. Double Burgundy Doors are the point of no return. Got it. 

“I’ll go through those doors tonight, though, right?” 

“Hmmm?” asked Angelica, turning around. “Oh, yes. For the Muse Session. Yes, those will happen in her suite tonight. Yes.” 

“Where are we heading now?” 

“I want to make sure you meet all the staff.” 

Angelica took Laura all around the house (there were so many stairs! Her thighs burned!). She met the personal chef, a man named Jacques. Angelica said he only spoke French. The other housekeeper was a curvy redhead named Nikki. She had an adorable Southern accent. Miss K’s personal assistant was a mousy girl with thick and large glasses named Erika. She wore a thick sweater and scarf even in the depth of a Memphis summer. Those were the only staff that lived in the house. Miss K kept the “non-essential” assistants worked “off site,” normally from their homes. 

Laura had dinner with Erika. Nikki waited on them. Erika said nothing, but Nikki talked her ear off. Apparently, she had only been working here a week or two. Miss K felt things were being missed and wanted an additional maid at all times to help out Angelica. 

Nikki was sweet. She reminded Laura of her roommate, Claire. Both girls were extremely extroverted and had no issues sharing any bit of personal information. Laura learned that Nikki didn’t have a boyfriend, but she went out several times a week to find “a nice gentleman to ride.” 

Laura blushed like she used to do with Claire. Where Laura grew up, people didn’t talk that way. They pretended they never had sex at all. Sex was what whores and prostitutes had. Respectable people made love, at best. 

But Claire helped Laura mellow out. Claire liked to tell Laura who she had recently hooked up with and gave her explicit details about it. Laura learned that Claire went to clubs to explore her kinks and fetishes. Laura followed Claire two or three times on these expeditions, out of curiosity. The clubs were strange and hot. People were pushy or needy. It was too intense for her. It was no different than going to a wild pride parade. Yes, people were celebrating their sexuality. No, Laura didn’t want to participate. Yes, she could be around them and not freak out. 

That was precisely what was on Laura’s mind as she pushed through the Double Burgundy Doors to Miss K’s side of the second floor. Laura noticed immediately that the air was staler here, stuffier, almost thicker. It felt like Angelica and Nikki had not dusted here in years. Which is strange considering the fact that if Laura was a housekeeper, she’d make sure the area around her boss’ room was the cleanest of all. 

Nevertheless, Laura wandered through the hallways, looking for Miss K’s suite. Luckily, Miss Lancaster found her and led her to the right door. Laura hesitated before entering. She’d barely heard of Camille Kontalban a day ago. She hadn’t read a single book by the woman, nor would she read her books if they were given to her. But now she’d seen the house and the staff. The woman must be made of money. And ambition. What kind of woman was she? 

Miss Lancaster pushed open the door and revealed an empty suite. “She’ll be in her bedroom,” said the tall asian woman as she stepped past Laura. 

“Her bedroom?” asked Laura. 

“Yes.” 

“What are we going to do in her bedroom?” Laura raised an eyebrow at Miss Lancaster. The woman smiled and waved off Laura. 

“I’ll admit, this will be the strange part. But she writes in a highly sexualized genre for women who want steamy sex scenes with gorgeous men.” 

Laura blushed and looked down at her shoes.

“But you won’t be doing anything sexual,” said Miss Lancaster, raising her voice as she caught how her words sounded. “I promise.” 

Laura looked up. “Oh,” she whispered. 

“I promise. We’d have mentioned that in the ad or in a contract or something. There may be sexual things going on around you, but you will not be asked to do anything you’re uncomfortable with and nothing sexual.” 

“What kind of sexual things?” asked Laura. Were they going to watch porn together? 

“That’s hard to explain,” said Miss Lancaster. “It will be easier to show you.” 

Miss Lancaster reached for Laura’s hand, but Laura pulled back. “Wait. Before we go in there, tell me what I’ll be doing. Exactly.” 

Miss Lancaster sighed and looked at her watch. “You will be asked to read a poem for Miss Lancaster while she is … serviced.” 

“Serviced?” asked Laura. 

“Yes.” 

“And by serviced you mean …” led Laura. 

“Yes,” nodded Miss Lancaster. “Exactly what you think I’m hinting at.” 

“She wants me to read poetry while this happens?” 

“Exactly.” 

“That’s why the ad wanted me to be able to read poetry well?” 

“Exactly,” sighed Miss Lancaster. She looked at her watch again. “Are you ready? We really can’t be late.” 

“Wait,” said Laura, lifting her hand to Miss Lancaster. “I’m trying to figure out how I feel about this.” 

Miss Lancaster stepped forward. Laura almost jumped back, but held her own. “Miss Delazier,” she said with iron in her voice. “You will be paid handsomely. You will edit her work, while having little editing experience yourself. You will copy edit her work while having literally no experience doing copy editing. You will give her feedback on a genre you know little of. You will have access to this home and all its amenities. And you get all this, despite your low qualifications, precisely because Miss K likes the way you read poetry. It is for that you were hired. If you won’t do this, we will be forced to dismiss you. Is that clear?” 

Laura thought about all the magical perks of this job. This is the catch. Of course, there’s a catch. It was too good to be true. In order to keep the job, she’d have to participate in Miss K’s bizarre inspirational sex acts. 

Well, not really participate. It was just reading poetry, right? She’d recorded poems and read them publicly hundreds of times. Sure, it was weird. But it was just reading. What bad could come from reading a poem?

Laura nodded. “That’s clear.” 

“You’ll do as your told?” snapped Miss Lancaster. 

“I’ll read the poem,” said Laura. “But that’s all I’ll do.” 

“Good.” Miss Lancaster gave a sigh of relief. “Thank you.” She smiled at Laura, and Laura smiled back, though she didn’t know why. But Miss Lancaster didn’t linger. She stepped ahead of Laura and opened the door to Miss K’s bedroom. 

Inside, candles were lit all around. There was no lamp of any kind. In fact, Laura didn’t think she saw a single electronic thing. No alarm clock. No television. No stereo. No phone charger. Nothing. There weren’t even outlets for electricity to get into the room. There were no windows, but there were two doors to the far corner. One was to a bathroom, where Laura could see shadows moving inside. The other was closed. 

In the room were Grauman and Jacques. They both had unbuttoned their shirts considerable and taken off their ties. Laura admired their physique. Before, they looked like simple servants or businessmen. Now, she could see that their muscles were taut. Their shirts were constricting. They were strong and young. Laura could imagine their abs beneath their shirts. She wondered if they ever modelled for the covers of Miss K’s books. She felt herself flush with desire or embarrassment, she wasn’t sure which. 

Neither Grauman or Jacques said anything to her. They barely noticed her. It gave Laura the chance to balance herself and adjust to her surroundings. The room was filled with the scent of candle smoke. Things felt surreal and thick. Laura wandered forward and caught herself on a stool near the door. On it, was a book. It was titled Poems by Marcilla. The book had a brown cover. It was old. The pages were thick and yellowing. Laura opened it and flipped through it. It looked as though the words were transcribed by hand in old ink. The script was flowing in beautiful calligraphy. How old was it? Laura felt she was holding a piece of history, but she’d never heard of Marcilla. 

Laura looked up when she heard ruffling in the bathroom. A woman Laura had never seen, in similar clothes to Nikki and Angelica, scampered out of the bathroom and past Laura, almost knocking her over. Laura looked behind her to watch the woman go, but there was a sound from the bathroom. Laura turned to see the light come off and a woman who could be none other than Miss K stepped out. 

Laura didn’t know what she imagined Miss K would look like. Perhaps she imagined some mousy bookworm that spent all day writing fantasies with men she would never have. Perhaps Miss K was an elderly woman: wiry, twiggy, and fragile. Silvered and ancient. But Laura never expected Miss K to look younger than her. It couldn’t be possible. Miss K had been publishing for ten years or so, but the woman that stepped out of the bathroom looked like she stepped off of a college campus. 

Miss K was pale. Paler than pale. Pale women were cream. Miss K was snow. Her skin almost glowed in the dark room. Her hair was dark and curly, falling over her shoulders in waves. She was neither tall nor short. She wore a thin gold robe parted down the middle. Laura’s eyes were drawn to Miss K’s plump breasts and her ghostly nipples beneath. Laura’s eyes went to the floor, following the length of Miss K’s body. Miss K’s bush was absent, and two smooth and bare lips teased and embarrassed Laura. 

But despite her impressive body, it was Miss K’s stride that struck Laura. She took small steps, carefully swinging each foot in front of the other before lifting a leg. Her hips swayed from the effort, but her feet moved in a perfect line. One foot swung out in front of another. There was a breath. Then the other foot swung out in front of the first. And decorating Miss K’s feet were a pair of bright blue heels. At the sound of their click on the wooden floor, Grauman and Jacques stood at attention for Miss K. Laura forgot about the missing maid, the ancient book, the hairless pussy, and everything else. 

Miss K commanded the room. 

“Laura,” she said with a smile. She reached out both hands for Laura to take, as though they were old friends about to embrace. Laura hesitated, but stepped forward and took both of Miss K’s hands in each of hers. 

“I’m so happy you could join us here,” said Miss K. Her voice was heavy and thick, as though it were coming from underground, or through a veil. But it was pleasant and inviting. Laura liked her instantly and smiled despite the situation. 

“I’m honored to be here, Miss K.” 

Miss K laughed and threw her arms wide, releasing Laura’s hands. Her robe billowed and Laura saw more of her naked body, her glowing skin, her rolling flesh. 

“Please,” she laughed. “You’ve seen me naked. The least you can do is call me Camille.” 

Laura smiled. “Of course, Camille. Thank you for inviting me into your … process.” Laura tried not to sound judgemental with the last word, but she knew Grauman and Jacques weren’t here for moral support. 

“It is a strange one,” admitted Camille with a shrug. “But it’s worked so far,” she spread her arms again and gestured to the entire estate, her entire writing career. “After this, my mind will be brimming with stories and words and sensations to put into my characters.” She stepped towards Laura and whispered, “and thus my readers.” She winked, and Laura found herself smiling again. 

“But, let’s get to it.” Camille stepped away and clapped her hands. “Laura, darling, all you have to do is sit on that stool and read those poems. The words and the boys will do the rest.” Camille gestured to the poems Laura had found already. “Start at the beginning. There is a bit of a narrative to it all.” 

Laura was about to ask about the author and the book, but Camille shrugged out of her robe. Grauman picked it up and carried it into the bathroom. Camille sat on the edge of the bed, turned, and faced Laura. Jacques went around the bed and sat next to Camille, facing away from Laura. He held a silver bowl, and in it was a flash of black and red. He extended his hand, and Laura saw a chocolate-covered strawberry. He lowered it, and Camille bit into it. Rivulets of red juice dribbled down her lips and her neck. Laura blushed and looked away. 

Grauman came back from the bathroom without the robe. He stood in front of the bed, between Laura and Camille, and sank to his knees. Laura finally figured out that he was going to eat out Camille while Jacques fed her strawberries. 

All while Laura read her poetry. 

Grauman lowered himself to Camille’s flawless pussy. He began with long licks. Camille shivered, but she didn’t pay him any more attention than that. Instead, she caught the dripping strawberry juice as it slipped between her breasts. She licked her fingers and motioned for Jacques to feed her another bite. 

She went back to college, back to Claire and the orgies and the kink clubs. She’d seen someone eaten out before. It was strange, asking her to participate with poetry, but no stranger than people dressing up like animals to have sex. 

All she had to do was focus on the poems, the words. 

She could do that. She could do words for days. 

She opened the book. There was no table of contents. No publishing or copyright information. The first page began with a poem, like someone’s personal journal. Laura read: 

The Yawn

Across the hall gather the women,

Each watching their husband, 

Each daring him to dance with

Each strategic tittle of breast. 

But Miss Laura Karnstein

Turns her head and yawns. 

Her unadorned neck grows tight, 

Then sags with parted lips, 

Her mouth wide with boredom. 

Laura looked up at Camille. Her mind ran over the name. Laura? The poem is about a Laura? Coincidence? It must be a coincidence. Laura is a popular enough name. But odder than that was the poem itself. This is what she wanted to read? And a poem about a yawn? Again, Laura wondered at the age of the text. Tittle? That’s an old word. This is what Miss K wanted to listen to while she was serviced by her two strapping employees? Laura watched Grauman as he went deeper into Camille’s pussy. His tongue gave long and deep strokes. Camille’s lips were bright red from strawberries. Her chin, neck, and the top of her breasts were also faintly pink. 

Laura shrugged and continued: 

But her porcelain skin catches me. 

The length of her thin neck, 

The pale skin masking 

So much red life, so much 

Thrumming potential, 

But she passes it on 

As yet another yawn. 

I look for Mr. Karnstein, 

But he is neither in Miss Karnstein’s eye

Nor among the men. 

He must be a yawn, 

Missing the twitch in her 

Pulsing throat, 

The brazen sign of desire 

For more than this,

Camille moaned. Laura looked up again. Camille’s eyes were open. She was staring at Laura. Jacques offered her another strawberry, but she shook her head. She ran her hand through Grauman’s hair. Camille kept her eyes locked on Laura and moaned again, tilting her head back, but never looking away. Laura blushed and kept reading: 

More than traditional dances. 

She pulls away, and I follow. 

I see the vein of her neck shiver, 

And I join it. The first twitch 

Of game before it runs; she rises 

To excuse herself, 

As though it possible, 

As though a resting note, 

A caesura, 

May be 

pardoned 

or ignored. 

Laura paused again. A line break like that wasn’t conventional for the time period. That’s a visual element of a poem, saved mostly for the early 1900s. She felt tempted to skim through the book, to find more evidence of who Marcilla was and when this poem was written. 

Camille moaned again. Laura felt heat rush to her thighs. She blushed at being turned on and the impossibility of the scenario. Heat spread through her cheeks and down her neck. 

Her neck. Laura’s neck. 

She saw it clearly, Laura Karnstein bored at a party. Laura Karnstein’s neck stretching and yawning. Her neck taught. Her neck bare. Her neck pulsing. Laura’s hand brushes her neck, self-consciously trying to hide it from Camille’s gaze. She dare not look up, dare not see Camille staring into her, moaning at her. She read the last couplet: 

But I rise and follow. 

She retreats, and I give chase. 

Camille let out a shrill moan. Laura looked up and sees Camille’s back arch, her head flung back, as she humped Grauman’s face. Jacques abandoned feeding her strawberries, and licked one of Camille’s nipples. Camille spasmed and let out another moan. 

Laura found herself hoping Camille would cum and be satiated. She didn’t want to endure another poem. She wanted to take the book away and pour through it. She wanted to find out how it was made and who wrote it. Who was Marcilla? Was this autobiographical? Was Laura Karnstein real? Her warm, throbbing neck? 

But Camille’s moans rolled on. She almost fucked Grauman’s face with her fevered thrusting. Jacques used a free hand to administer to Camille’s other breast, but she stopped him. She paused, hesitating. She went rigid, and then sighed. 

Laura couldn’t help but notice Camille’s thighs quiver as Grauman moved away. 

Both men went the bathroom. Laura heard the sink turn on, and then both men walked past her and left the room. Could Laura join them? Did she need permission to go? Would Camille dismiss her? Or would she read more? Would she give chase to Laura Karnstein as Marcilla did? 

Camille lay on the bed for a minute. Her chest heaved as she caught her breath. Another finger absentmindedly swirled over her clit. Laura’s thighs were warm from watching such a beautiful woman glow in the dark and openly touch herself without shame. What a power, to be so shameless. 

No. Shameless implies she ought to be ashamed. Camille was free of shame, and that stirred Laura again. 

Camille sat up and smiled at Laura. “Thank you, Laura. That was a beautiful reading.” 

“Really?” asked Laura, flustered from the compliment. 

“Yes.” Camille came to sit at the edge of the bed, but one hand never left her smooth mound, keeping soft circles rolling over Camille’s clit. “You have a beautiful voice. It fills the room, like your words roll over my body.” 

Laura blushed and hid her face. 

“But don’t pause next time. Read it all in one rush of emotion. Poetry is a storm, not a story. Okay?” 

Laura nodded, embarrassed at the gentle reprimand.

“May I go?” asked Laura. 

“Soon, darling.” Camille fell back into the bed and kept touching herself. Laura looked away, wanting to give Camille privacy, though Camille clearly didn’t need it. She flipped through the pages of the strange tome in her hand. She turned to the next poem, something about a peach. She tried to read, but the light was dimming in the room. Laura looked up to see the candles low, and Camille sitting up, her robe back on. Her lips were still bright red. They glowed on her pale skin in the fading light. 

Then everything went dark. 

** If you want to follow me, get more of my writing, or support me, check me out on Patreon at https://www.patreon.com/trixieadara **

[daydadahlias]

19, 32, 35 for the writing prompts! :D

hi!! thank you for asking :D i talked a lot in this warning in advance <3

19. Tell me a story about your writing journey. When did you start? Why did you start? Were there bumps along the way? Where are you now and where are you going?

Ooo how fun!! Now i get to tell you my life story lol <3 well, I’ve always really loved writing and I honestly can’t think of a time in my life that I wasn’t writing in some form? I was always writing weird short stories or poems in elementary school and I wrote little (horrible) picture books from about 1st through 3rd grade. And then I wrote my first “full book” when I was in 4th grade (it was called One Wolves World <3 because I didn’t understand plurals <3 and it was like 80 pages). And then I started a bunch of books I never finished (mostly about personified dogs because I was a Warrior Cats kid). Then, I wrote my fantasy novel (as all young writers must) when I was in 6th-8th grade. And that ended up being 80k and it was dogshit. So I wrote my next book (50k) in 9th grade and I actually had some fun opportunities with that one! For a little while, I sold self-printed copies of it at two local bookstores and I sold about a hundred copies of it :) which is NOT a lot lmfao but to a freshman in highschool it was a super big deal! And from there I wrote two more original books in 10th grade. And during that time, I started writing fanfic! Originally, I wrote a few unfinished fics on Quotev (which are still up and you can find them if you really dig lmfao) when I was in middle school. And my first fic on ao3 was a stucky one (which I wanna say I posted in, uh?? My freshman year?? Maybe 8th grade… I can’t remember tbh, I took it down years ago at this point). In 10th grade, I wrote this original novel called “Sorrow or Silence” which was soooo bad oh my godddd lmao but I liked the premise so I ended up entirely rewriting it as a ryden fic (panic! At the disco was my original fandom on ao3) and that ended up being a whopping 270k which is crazy in hindsight!! Like 16 yo me really wrote that in just a few months!! That’s crazy in hindsight!! Anyway, from there, I was writing original fiction and panic! Fic at the same time (I posted 4 fics for panic!, one of which was chaptered that i never finished uwu and I’ve since privated all of those). I ended up getting into 5sos during quarantine in 2020 and started posting fic about them!! And now I’ve been here for four years lol! I still write original stuff (creative writing minor woo) but not so much fiction anymore. A short story here and there but I’ve been largely into poetry during college! And in terms of where I’m going now it’s finally the era of my life where I’m going to start pursuing publishing eek. This year, I’ve started actually submitting things to journals/magazines so… here’s to hoping! I haven’t heard back from any yet (I submitted in March and it takes a long time for them to get back to you) but I’m gonna keep submitting where I can and, hopefully, things will stick eventually!  

32. What is a line from a poem/novel/fanfic etc that you return to from time and time again? How did you find it? What does it mean to you?

Ooo i love this. Honestly, this isn’t a written material, but that line from Bojack Horseman “when you look at people through rose tinted glasses, all the red flags just look at flags.” I just think it’s so powerful. I also love that line I have in my bio!! “Too groovy to be so goddamned grave” is from a poem by Patrick Rosal who I had the opportunity to introduce at a reading he did on his tour and also meet! He’s really fantastic and I just love that poem and the concept of being too groovy to be grave. It just eats. 

35. What’s your favorite writing rule to smash into smithereens?

Hmmm. Well, you’re told not to use “purple prose” in creative writing because it muddies the meaning. That’s, like, overly flowery writing for no reason. But to be honest! I love a metaphor! I love a simile! I love consonance! I’m going to use fun words because they sound nice! A sonic experience is just as valid as, like, an experience of just understanding something idk if that makes sense. But yeah, I like to use flowery language more than some writers recommend.

[to-be-a-rose]

Age 4 (?): I can't read yet but I make a book out of paper and tell my mom what to write on the pages. It's about the tooth fairy or something. When people talk about their relationship with writing they always reference childhood stories like these, and they usually say they "started writing as soon as they could hold a pen," or they "picked up a pen one day and never put it down again," something like that, it always involves a pen, and a precocious vocation for storytelling. I was never too impressed because every kid has the instinct to make up stories, it doesn't mean you're a born writer. (But secretly I think yeah well, I started writing BEFORE I could hold a pen. The pen didn't factor into it at all actually.)

Age 8: I enter a writing contest where the prize is getting your story made into a real book. I wrote a story about a sentient flower in a pot because I had never read a story from the point of view of a flower. I don't win.

Age 10: I love reading even more after I get diagnosed with clinical depression, which feels like when your grandpa died and for the first time you fathom the foreverness of death while standing beside his casket, only all the time. I don't really understand why my brain broke but I do know if I'm reading then it's like it's fixed, as long as I get really sucked into the book. I decide I'll cure myself by reading every single moment I'm awake. It works!

Age 12: Another writing contest, this time everyone in the sixth grade is required to enter. We have to write a short piece (300 words) encouraging people to join the priesthood or be a nun or something (Catholic school). Every middle school in the Archdioceses enters, and I win first prize and have to read my entry in front of all-school mass. I'm given a plaque and a check. My essay goes pretty hard even though I hate church and religion. I wonder if anyone joined the priesthood because of what I wrote, about vocations, a word I only just learned. That would be hilarious.

Age 16: I'm in highschool and writing is my "thing." Everyone pays me to write papers and book reports for them, about $20 a pop depending on the length and subject matter. My motto is "at least a B or your money back!" I brag a lot because I don't have to read the book to do a decent book report. I'm in college level English and French but I'm not getting college credit because I can't pay the fee, so I'm just in there writing people's papers. I love that people think I'm deep and smart because I can write (this is what I think they think of me) even though I don't really read as much as I used to.

Age 20: It turns out I'm a terrible student. Putting words in an attractive sequence isn't so impressive; everyone knows how to do it now. Writing nice papers might help me if I wrote the papers, and went to class. So I'm on academic probation for like five years and trying not to lose my student aid. As soon as I arrived at college the fear of God went through me and I abandoned all notions of being an author. I need to do like, business. Marketing. I'm not going to be one of those chumps with an English degree, no. I'm going to get a degree in Communication! Communication is kind of like writing. It's really broad, I tell everyone, so it applies to lots of fields. They say, what do you want to do with it? I say that's the beauty of it, I can do anything. Marketing. Business. Public Relations. They say, but like what job? What job do you want? I say oh man, the sky's the limit. The future is bright. I'm gonna have my pick of jobs, you'll see.

Age 21: I get it in my head that I want to be a literary sort of writer. Confessional, feminist, slam poetry style writing is very en vogue, especially on Tumblr, so I imitate that. You do a lot of writing in second person perspective because it's provocative. It's all about dragging out my traumas for everyone to consume and it's all a claustrophobic examination of myself. I am the most fascinating person in the world. Nevermind that I never, ever edit anything I write. Nevermind that I don't spend any time reading or examining my craft, because I don't even know what that means. People are gonna read about how I did weight watchers when I was twelve and they're going to love it! I'm basically Lena Dunham but all of the cringe and none of the talent.

Age 22: I have an online job ghostwriting blog posts for law firms, a job I didn't even know existed, and that I don't think does anymore. It's just a side gig really, I'm assigned a few blogs per week for several different law firms, about 500 words, and $8 per blog. They give me topics like Divorce Law and Carseat Recalls and I churn out content. Boring as hell but a pretty sweet gig, and not unlike what I did in highschool. I got the job by submitting a writing sample, an essay I wrote about a Frida Kahlo's Henry Ford Hospital, a painting where she is laying naked in a bloody bed contemplating her miscarriage. My employer said of the writing sample, "the content you write for us will be...different."

Everything is all wrong. I'm very concerned with Being a Writer and not at all concerned about writing. I submit writing to magazines because I desperately want to be published but I never edit any piece, I never try to become better at writing, because I think it's a born-in thing and I was born with it, baby. I never like anything I write. I don't even know what I write about; confessional think pieces that hit all the beats they should but don't actually say anything. I'm putting words in an order I think people will like. I want to be published, I want to be a writer, I want the cool girls in the English department who work at the lit mag and go to poetry readings at the book shop to think I'm cool, too. (There's a huge poetry phase in here too, good God, the poetry. I do a lot of comparing men to cigarettes.)

Age 25: I live at my mom's and I quit my job at the vintage store where I've been working for three years. I took a break from school and haven't graduated. I got a job at the hockey stadium and I quit after two days. I got a job at a bakery and I quit after one. I break down crying to my mom that I just turned 25, I have no job, no degree, and I've done nothing. Something was supposed to happen by this point. Everyone thought I was so smart.

Age 26: I wonder when writing became synonymous with literary and memoir, for me. I wonder when I decided I couldn't be an author anymore. I didn't even try. I never even fucking tried, and I never asked myself what I wanted to write. And I never asked WHY I wanted to write. It's very exciting to realize this. I admit that I fucking hate writing about myself, and about the real world, and all the other imitation vagina monologues schlock I was half heartedly writing.

I dive into my interests and it's an exciting time. I'm going to write a book. As soon as I decide I'm going to be a fantasy author everything makes sense again, it all feels right and momentous. I'm fine, mom, sorry about crying earlier, I was so young then. I get on Tumblr which I abandoned a couple years ago and find a whole new community called writeblr. I start to amass writing friends and pictures of castles and writing tips and advice. I draft a YA fantasy novel about a girl who goes to a boarding school that has been infiltrated by faeries.

Age 27: I've written a book. I scrapped the YA somewhere in the first edit but I'm impressed I even did that; wrote it, and then contentedly put it away. I worked so hard for 120k word that I would never show to anyone, and I was happy because it made me a better writer. A year's worth of craft work. I think it's the first time I've ever worked hard on something, and I wish I was kidding. And it was fun. But I scrap it because I am possessed by a second idea, an adult fantasy novel. Oh yeah, and I go back to school and finish my degree. School doesn't seem as hard now that I found out how to work at something. I get my degree in Communication even though by now I know that I'd rather die than work in public or human relations, or business, or marketing. But the great thing is I get a job at the library and when I'm not showing old people how to use the computer, I read and brainstorm my novel all day long.

Age 28: I've written the adult novel, and rewritten it. I'm basically writing the same book over and over again nearly from scratch. It doesn't seem like this is how I'm supposed to do it but I can't fathom a better way. Now I've definitely worked harder than I've ever worked in my life. I've never been so certain that my writing is dogshit, and trying to make it not dogshit is so fun its like being high. At least half of the time I want to tear my hair out and sob but I'm almost certain that it's going to pay off, and pay off soon.

Age 29: Holy shit, I'm still going. Every time I think it can't get any better, it does, and every time I think it might be kinda good, I blink, and it's shit again. I've written the same book over and over, but now I'm at the point where I'm not rewriting, I'm keeping most of it and editing on the micro level. I say cool shit now like "micro level." Sometimes I get so frustrated I cry, but I'm starting to kind of love my writing.

Age 30: On Thanksgiving day, 2022 I turn 30 years old. It's a big thing, a big birthday, the big three-oh. I have a really magnanimous feeling like I need to reflect and commemorate and mourn my twenties. I figure since it's my writing blog I should do that through the lens of writing, which has been a presence in my life the whole time, some might say, since before I picked up a pen. And I figure it's my blog and big birthday, so why shouldn't I make a long self-mythologizing post in the style of how I wrote in my twenties?

My adult fantasy novel is just about done, and I'm going to give it to someone to read, and then I'll query it. Four years ago if you would have told me I would write intensively for four years to get one functional novel I wouldn't have believed that was a good thing, but now I'm just proud that I'm mature enough to try and hone the craft before rushing to get recognition for it. I do want the validation of publishing, and I want the paycheck even more, but I had no idea it was possible to feel so content in a process. Just looking inward and fucking with something until it makes you happy (that's writing in it's bare bones, fucking with it until it makes you happy.) Writing is continually becoming; when you force your life into a narrative you start saying shit like that so it all seems so prescient and profound, and then the essay can end. I don't think I can get there. There's something in there about vocations and pens that I should use to put a neat bow on this but I can't. I'm just excited. I think I'm going to be okay.

[philtstone]

Sam, 46

#46 -- on the other side of the door i was gonna use this to write more of the agatha christie au but then i had this idea and it was like. supposed to be Better than this but i am writing these with vibes only and not braincells so yeehaw. basically i wrote this w the main goal of zainab reading a Concept i was too tired to explain over texts and i guess now all of you can read it too

Sam watches the angry dent appear in the middle of the cell door, shoulder-shaped enough that he has it in him to wince.

He's not too banged up, just bone-exhausted. He's pretty sure these assholes are just holding him here to say they can; it's almost insulting how little damage he's taken, given how easily he was overpowered, but that's part of the job, he guesses. Part of his non-superpowered, regular-old-dude job, pulling the rug out from under his legs fast enough that his wings don't open in time for him not to hit the floor.

Or something. Poetry and metaphor have never been his strong suit and Sam's been leaning his bruised temple against this cell door for a good seventy-two hours, and it has been seventy-two hours of dull grey monotony and the uncertainty of Bad Guys Over There In That Other Room Probably to keep him company, until like, two seconds ago, when Bucky tried to rhinoceros his way through five inches of titanium. At least the dent gives the place some character.

"Hm," comes Buck's voice, muffled from the other side of the block.

"She ain't budging, huh," says Sam.

"I'm gonna have to get creative."

Bucky's voice, which he had somehow convinced himself he was not going to hear anytime soon. It's flat and sardonic and comin' out like nothing in the world is wrong. Down-to-business, punch-our-way-through-problems, can't-crack-a-smile-at-one-of-Sam's-most-excellent-jokes Bucky Barnes materialized with a sudden whispered Sam? after seventy-two miserable hours where Sam had to reflect on his own mortality, reflect, also, on the fact that he followed this lead without telling anyone like a dumbass because Walters was concerned about press, worry about the definite human trafficking that probably is going on in places exactly like this that he was not successful at thwarting, and have little to no way of contacting his family or his professional work partner to let them know he was alive.

Sam is definitely too exhausted to cry, but he thinks maybe in another version of these events, he would have.

"Creative," says Sam, out loud. His voice sounds reedy 'cause he hasn't used it in like three days. Which is another point against these guys; Sam's got a great voice, thank you very much. Mrs. Landry from his parents' church used to say he should do choir in school.

He didn't, but like, still.

"Not your strong suit," Bucky agrees, which Sam disagrees with on principle. There's some vague grunting, and a muttered swear word. Sam wonders if Bucky's trying to pry his literal fingers under the whateverthefuckton door; it wouldn't be the first time. A gunshot sounds, coming from far away.

"Bucky --" Sam starts.

"If you're having a hard time with your memory, I'll gladly point out how me and AJ kicked your ass in Pictionary last month."

"You need leverage," says Sam.

"I know I need leverage."

"What if you punched the grate out? You can do titanium, right?"

More muffled noises, then Bucky says, "Nope. Had to give them the arm."

"What?" A very tame way of expressing Sam's actual sentiment, which is the mental equivalent of that rhino running right into him, personally.

"It's fine. Firewalled anyway."

"Firewalled?!"

"And Yelena's getting it back. With Ayo's help."

Sam pushes himself against the corner of the cell, "What the hell is that supposed to mean!"

There's a small grated window, smooth titanium also, that peaks in and out of the cell; Bucky's face appears in this now. Another two gunshots sound.

"Hi," he says,

"Bucky --"

"It's fine. Just Yelena. Is it load bearing?"

Sam gapes. "The wall?"

"The door, yes," Bucky says, a bit impatiently. Sam can't really see much of him; just a pair of thick frowny eyebrows hovering in blank space. "Yelena can bench more than most, but the expression is usually --"

"Are you seriously asking this after you tried to knock it down?"

Bucky ignores this, "Follow up question --"

"Bucky!"

"Gimme your belt, I wanna try something."

The urgency of the situation is not lost on Sam; he takes his suit's utility belt off, very strategically devoid of all its weaponry and with the vibranium glittering in its mesh weave, and shoves it through the crack between those grated bars. He watches it appear again, looped around one of the bars -- then, to the continued echoes of skirmish above them, hears a low, built-up creaking noise.

It's satisfying in the way things you've come to expect are. Life just doesn't quite feel right when Bucky can't shoulder his way through situations involving dungeon-tier bad guys and guns . Sam feels the relief well up inside his gut, and almost forgets to lift his arms up over his head at the last second.

The door warps, caves, rips away with a metal scream.

He has a self-deprecating quip on the tip of his tongue, more vinegar than he's got any right to be but also Sam is tired, worn out, pissed off with himself. It tangles up and doesn't get nowhere. Bucky is, very suddenly, in front of him. He is wide-eyed and bruised on the jaw, bloodied at the collar of his shirt like he's just got out of a scrap fight, missing his fucking arm in a way his tone didn't give for a second, and before Sam can open his mouth he is being pulled into a very rough, very sudden, bone crushing hug. 

Seventy-two hours, Sam's brain supplies belatedly. And there's been some weird shit going on recently.

Three mississippis pass in the dark of the dungeon. Sam works through his exhaustion to process, and with very minutely trembling arms hugs Bucky back. 

[littlemissmanga]

Hey Beth<33 For the fic writing asks 🦋, 💥 and 🧿?

Hi Ezzie!

Let's see ...

🦋what are you most insecure about when you post a fic?

Honestly, it's that my intentions get across - with the characters, emotions, and especially actions. More often than I'd like, I'll reread something I wrote - not even just fics, I'm talking emails, texts, replies, etc. - and realize it was a lot clearer in my head and when I wrote whatever it is, I've left out context or didn't word something very well. So I'm hypercritical of areas of ambiguity ... which leads me to overcompensate and bog down my prose with exposition and unnecessary detail. It's a catch-22 lol. That's why it's so reassuring when a comment hits on something that I was intentionally trying to convey without blatantly spelling it out. It's like "Yes! I did it! I did the communication!" lol

💥find your least kudos'd fic - say something wonderful about it.

So I know I gotta correct this but I don't have anything posted on my Ao3 account and my stuff on fanfic.net are from when I was in high school so I'm not going to drudge them back to life lol. But I guess a general statement I can say about those early fics without details is that they let me process a lot of the isolation and loneliness I felt in those days. I had my self-insert OC and she could be everything I aspired to but fell short of, and of course she was loved by every character I respected. I needed that feeling, even if I had to create it myself. I wasn't really aware that's what I was doing, but looking back it was clear self-soothing. So they are wonderful for giving me a place to take what I needed and not worry about the quality of my writing. I was able to get through some tough times because of them and I'll always remember that.

🧿what steps do you take to not take things personally if a fic doesn't do well, or if your writing/posting/sharing experience isn't going how you'd like it to?

Oh I like this one!! If I fic isn't getting the same interaction I expect for some reason - because we all expect some level of interaction even if we do write for ourselves - is to reread it. This way, I remind myself why I needed to tell this story, what it meant to me, and what I like about it. If I can't remember those things, then maybe it genuinely wasn't ready to be published and maybe I should work on it more. But usually I can remember and once I do, I'll reread again but with my "editor's" cap like I'm reading a submission for work - that way I can find objective reasons it's not everyone's cup of tea - tone, subject, diction, characterization, etc. - that are understandable, rather than the subjective feeling of just not being good enough so I can shrug and move on. If the disappointment is persistent, I get a snack and tell my support people IRL (who haven't and will never read my writing but know I do write) that I had a disappointing reaction and just wanted to vent that to them so they can validate me without giving more suggestions. My best friend sent over her middle school poetry once to make me feel better lol.

Sorry these got long, but you picked the in-depth questions, so in-depth answers you get!

[ghostofskywalker]

i was tagged by @honeydjarin - thank you so much, this was so fun!!

Were you named after anyone?

the first letter of my name is the same as my great grandmother, but my mom thought her name was too old fashioned (ironically, i've decided that if i ever publish anything, that name would be my pen name)

When was the last time you cried?

a week ago? i was revisiting some old poetry i wrote when i took a creative writing class, and i stumbled across some pretty emotional pieces i wrote about girlhood and being an eldest daughter. that opened the waterworks for sure

Do you have kids?

Nope! And I don’t want them - keeping this answer bc same

Do you use sarcasm a lot?

i think so? i actually don't know lol

What’s the first thing you notice about people?

their eyes, i don't know why

What’s your eye colour?

blue!

Scary movies or happy endings?

i don't like horror movies, so i'll say happy endings lol

Any special talents?

i've always had good balance in high heels, and when i do paintings i can always easily color-match something (i used to help out to decorate for this one event in high school, and my whole job was to just remake the paint colors that people ran out of because i was good at it)

Where were you born?

new jersey (i don't think i have an accent, but people can always tell whenever i go out of state so i guess i do)

What are your hobbies?

writing, painting (and all types of art), baking, reading

Do you have any pets?

no :( i wish though

What sports do/have you played?

i was officially part of teams for soccer, softball, cross country, and track and field (running and throwing). i also loved to play sports in gym class, and was very good at hockey (i can be a little competitive at times)

How tall are you?

5’4”

Favorite subject in school?

in elementary and middle school it was science! but then science just became math in a trench coat and i stopped liking it. my favorite now, and what i've realized i have always enjoyed is history! i think my obsession with everything i write being historically accurate makes sense lol (on more than one occasion i have used the actual us census for throwaway lines in my fic, and i've also read tax law for it)

Dream job?

historian or museum curator :)