#i wrote this in a fugue state im pretty sure

[otrtbs]

nat darling i must know whether or not you have ever been talking phd thesis length (im pretty sure i saw you saying something about doing a phd or maybe applying for one) and someone says damn 80000 words is so long and you are just like mhm sure this will be the longest thing ive ever written on the topic of art history. never written anything longer which discusses art and its value imagine if i wrote a book on it haha nope not me. (i was just talking about it with my friend who i forced to read ahb after it made me cry -hes not in the fandom but he loved it btw- and he asked me how you knew so much about art and i said i think she has a degree in art history and he pointed out that although obviously its a very very different type of writing, ahb is technically speaking the length of about 3 phds and this made us both laugh)

hahahaha this is so wild!!!!!

my masters dissertation was only 15,000 words which, when it's ACADEMIC it does feel like a huge undertaking

art heist baby was like a fever-dream fugue state that just poured out of me fr,,,, but ahb! being the length of three whole phd thesis papers is wild. i've never thought about it like this but omg

see what i can accomplish when i don't have to worry about grammar conventions or sounding academically valid??? 😌

[bsaka7]

i’d love to know what max thought when he got that text from dirtbag daniel in ill ray!!

oh god....ill ray. truly WHAT was i thinking when i wrote that. fugue state!!!!!!! maybe the meanest fic I'll ever write!! evil daniel!!!!

[To: Max]

fyi im leaving red bull lol for renault u know why

Three typing bubbles pop up at the base of their conversation, and Daniel puts the phone down and quickly falls asleep. When he wakes up, there’s no further response. If he were a different person, he would be disappointed Max never answers. Because he’s Daniel Ricciardo, he doesn’t give a fuck.

to be honest it feels like it's been long enough since i wrote this fic that your guess is as good as mine. max probably clocks pretty quickly that it's him, that he's why Daniel's leaving - we see that in the last sort of parallel section - but i imagine it takes him a second to go "oh what did i do" and then go "oh i was just faster". and I think this max is probably a lot more sympathetic towards daniel than daniel is towards him, but not about racing. sure, he's pretty messed up around sex (aren't we all) but i think he has a lot of genuine like for Daniel and that sort of also spirals into the feeling that he is doing something FOR Daniel as well. that it's more about him than max.

so i think when he gets the text, yes it's after this fucked up sex, but i think his mind does go pretty quickly to racing. what did i do -> daniel doesn't want to race me (because he's losing). i don't think he gets it - he thinks daniel should stay in the more competitive car. but he understands it as racing driven primarily. Even when writing this fic, I wasn't really in max's head. He doesn't get exactly what he wants, he doesn't get exactly what he needs....

[perissologist]

ok i’m in a Mood(TM) where i WILL put absolutely anything and everything on this website so i’m gonna force all of you to look at the best thing i’ve ever written in my entire 22 years of life which i’ve just rediscovered on my google docs:

It was hot and dry; nosebleed weather. Lise sat on the terrace of the most popular Mediterranean restaurant in Westminster, holding her body as still as possible so that she wouldn’t sweat in her white wraparound dress. The rookie sat across from her, eyes on the menu. He was even damper than her in his full silk suit, but it was a posh sort of establishment, and he would have looked ridiculous in linen. To their right, the peaks of Parliament rose against the flat sky like castle turrets; beyond that, the Thames glittered deep blue in the rare English sunshine, its filth masked by the light and the distance.

The rookie noticed her looking at him and reached up to adjust his tie. It was automatic, nervous. He was about as green as they got, still carrying the tics of the academy on his coattails and straight into the mission. They had assigned him to her because he was a local, supposedly her key to unlocking the secrets of Europe. She suspected that it was more of a punishment. An unofficial cuff on the head for the antics she’d pulled on her last mission.

“What is it?” the rookie asked. At least he had the sense to keep his voice low. “Am I giving us away?”

Lise forced out a smile. She leaned in and twined her leg with the rookie’s, who immediately turned an amusing shade of beetroot. “Relax, darling,” she purred, in her best London accent. “It’s not often that we get to take lunch together.”

The rookie coughed. He had forgotten their cover, but at least he was a quick learner: His shoulders relaxed under his suit jacket and he reached across the table to take her hand, no fumbling involved. She smiled again, a little more real this time, and nodded when the waiter stopped by their table to ask if they were ready. “I’ll have the lamb and rice, please,” she said. “And a glass of your driest white.”

“The seafood stew for me,” the rookie said.

The waiter jotted down their orders and departed. Lise adjusted her broad-brimmed sunhat over her eyes and checked the entrances, the exits, the rooftops above and below the terrace’s level. She drummed her manicured fingertips against her thigh and watched the rookie sweat across from her. He was so new that she felt older by a decade just looking at him, but in reality they were probably close to the same age. He wasn’t half bad to look at: A thin face with a thin nose, but a sharp jawline and crystal blue eyes to rescue it. When she had first met him, his tawny, curly hair had annoyed her, but now she found it distantly charming. Maybe it was the heat going to her head. She tilted her head at him, sweet. “Tell me your name again.”

“Oh—it’s James,” he said. “James Caleb.”

She made a face. “Two first names? That’s a bit excessive.”

“No—Caleb’s not—”

The waiter arrived with their dishes. Another patron had entered the terrace, guided by the hostess to a singles table by the railing. He was white, fiftyish, square-jawed and a little pink under the skin in the way many white men were when they got to a certain age. He wore a navy suit without a tie and oxfords polished to a precise shine; his white-blond hair was just long enough to pull off a half-decent combover. He sat down at his table and hid his face behind the menu the waiter handed him.

“Sorry, darling, but I think I’ve just spotted an old friend.” Lise pulled the napkin off her lap and rose from her seat. “You don’t mind if I pop over to say hello, do you?”

She was moving across the terrace before the rookie had even turned enough to get a good look at their target, slipping into the empty seat across the table from the man. “I recommend the lamb,” she said, without the accent. “It’s excellent with lemon.”

The man looked up, already working up a scowl. His expression changed when he saw that she was a woman, and attractive. “Pardon me,” he said, with all the oily pleasantry one would expect from a politician, “but do we know each other?”

Lise smiled. “You don’t know me, but I know you, Walter Pipwhite.” In the next second, the barrel of her pistol was pressed against Pipwhite’s knee. He paled as dramatically as if someone had drained the blood out of him. “MP of Chatham and Aylesford, graduate of Cambridge in political economy and Aberdeen in English law, serving a second term in Parliament. Leaking state secrets to black market arms dealers in Austria and Lisbon.” Pipwhite looked as if someone was currently dangling him off Tower Bridge. “You really should keep your affairs in better order, Mr. Pipwhite.”

Pipwhite swallowed. “What do you want?”

Lise sighed. It was so boring when the targets rolled over so easily. Where was the fight? The thrill of the chase? “The name of the head of the operation, please and thank you.”

“I don’t know it,” Pipwhite said. “I only know my contact in the organization. I gave her the information and she verified it. After she confirmed it was good, she passed it on to her boss.”

“And the payments?”

“They were deposited in my accounts under a shell corporation. ‘Nautilus Ltd.’”

With one hand, Lise withdrew a tiny pad of paper and a nub of a pencil from a pocket in her dress, keeping her other hand pressing the pistol to Pipwhite’s knee. She jotted down “Nautilus Ltd” on the pad. “Would you be so kind as to share a description of this contact?”

Pipwhite’s brow furrowed. “White, attractive. Thirty, thirty-five. Thin. French accent. Carried herself like she knew the effect she had on you.”

Lise glared at him. “What is this, a Nicholas Sparks novel? What kind of identifying information is that?”

Pipwhite at least had the decency to flush. “Sorry. Dark hair, gray eyes. Sharpish face. Five-seven, five-eight. I think she had a mole on the left side of her neck.”

“Name?”

“I only knew what her colleagues called her. Fleur de Lis.”

“Pretentious,” Lise muttered, but wrote it down anyway. “Final question. Why’d you do it?”

Pipwhite’s eyes widened. “What?”

“You know,” Lise said. “Betray your country, collaborate with terrorists. Why?”

“I—” Pipwhite frowned, severe, and Lise recognized the excuse forming in his mouth. She sighed loudly, cutting him off.

“Never mind,” she said, and shot him in the chest, under the table.

Pipwhite slumped against the railing. Lise rose and rejoined the rookie at their table. He had half-stood from his chair and was looking at her with wide eyes. “Did you—?”

“How’s your seafood, dear?” Lise asked. She cut into a piece of lamb with her knife and fork and scooped up some of the spiced chutney on the side of her plate. Mm. Fucking delicious.

The rookie folded himself back into his chair with painful slowness. He picked up his fork but didn’t use it. She ate her lamb and let him stare at her for a while. At last, he asked, barely a whisper, “Shouldn’t we leave?”

“No one will notice for a while,” Lise said. “Until then, it’d be a shame to waste this lovely meal, wouldn’t it?”

She sipped her wine. The lunchtime chatter carried on around them; overhead, seagulls circled the Big Ben and swooped between the spokes of the London Eye. The rookie swallowed. He was pale underneath his sunburn. “They told me about you,” he said, low, like he was sharing a secret. “Back at HQ.”

“Oh?” Lise tasted some of her rice. It was great; very fluffy. “What did they tell you?”

“That you’re as insolent as a teenage girl but as bloodthirsty as a Navy SEAL.”

Lise grinned. “Those two qualities are far from contradictory, John.”

“James.” The rookie’s eyes darted towards Pipwhite’s slumped-over form. Lise sighed and took pity on him.

“Your British fretting is very cute, but it’s unnecessary. He’s just asleep.”

The rookie’s eyes locked back onto her. “What?”

“Hydrochlorine tranq dart,” Lise said. “It’s very fast-acting.”

It took a moment, but the tension drained from the rookie’s shoulders. He looked limp with relief. “Oh.” He exhaled, shaky. “Sorry I said you were insolent.”

“And bloodthirsty,” Lise reminded him, smirking.

“Right.”

“Hey,” someone at the next table said, voice rising. “I think that guy passed out.”

“That’s our cue.” Lise stood and tossed a fifty-pound note on the table. The rookie hastened to follow her towards the exit, the waiters rushing in the opposite direction as they hurried towards the unconscious MP. “Just so you know, I never would have killed him here.”

“Of course,” the rookie said.

“It would’ve made getting out of London a nightmare.”

The rookie looked suddenly nervous again. Lise grinned and led him out onto the street. “Alright, Jimbo,” she said. “Which way to St. Pancras station?”

I WILL NEVER TOP THIS SOMEONE GIVE ME A PULITZER FOR THIS