#just finished the book i am a broken person

[rottengurlz]

what is the point of love if not to be consumed and digested

[rileysluvr]

super short price nsfw because i am his girlie til the day i die. he’s a bit of a meanie in this one tho so read with caution!!

“Again,” he orders.

You take a deep, shaky breath in an attempt to somewhat ground yourself, but it’s a difficult feat when you're being held down on your surperior’s hard lap by his big arm splayed over your hips. A thick, dusty book on the desk in front of you, flipped to the page that entirely covers the military-workplace regulations he was scolding you for until tears began to bead at your waterline. You don’t think you’ve ever been this humiliated.

Your vision is blurry, and it’s at that point where your memory serves you better than what you’ve been ordered to do, which is to read until you can’t. He’s broken you down to a writhing mess atop his thigh as both of yours can only drape over one of his huge ones. Back flush against his chest with his palm rubbing your pussy in all the right ways; you swallow thickly, wondering if you can even go on any longer in this state.

“Fifty-nine, oh-one: ‘Service personnel are to wear-” you pause to breathe, fighting back a stutter, “…appropriate regulation uniform on duty—”

A bashful whimper cuts you off mid-recitement as he somehow manages to shove his two fingers even deeper into your cunt, nudging against your nerves rather harshly. Your legs squeeze around his thigh and your hands twitch in their place wrapped around to your sides. All the willpower in your body being used to keep yourself from bucking your hips forward and earning another half-hour of degrading names and treatment.

“Did you hear me tellin’ you to stop?” he barks, but it’s in that calmer manner that spins your mind around until you can’t decipher the difference between anger and sympathy. You shake your head, and you don’t need to have a visual on his face to feel the disapproval teetering off his bitten tongue and firm expression. “Then why don’t I hear you reading, eh?”

Your voice trembles, almost enough for him to take pity on you; “Sir, please- I’m trying.”

You weren’t even on duty today, for fuck’s sake. You had stopped by to pick up a personal belonging, only to be reminded how your captain views you as his own the second you step foot through the base’s front gate. And you were never good at avoiding his stalking gaze, especially when he’s got access to eyes stationed at every nook and corner.

“Christ, y’need me to spell it out for you? Is that it?” he scoffs. “How many times’ve we been over this?”

The way he berates and babies you has your cheeks stained and glistening with tears, and your mind all jumbled considering how easily he switches back and forth from mean to soft. Soft like how his fingers pull out and away from your cunt and hold themselves just far enough to make you shift your hips forward in search of them, only to be held back by his arm’s weight. Mean like his spat words and the grip with which he grabs your jaw, squeezing tight and puffing your cheeks out a bit in an attempt to get you to focus; to knock some sense into that strained, precious little brain of yours.

“Pretty fuckin’ simple task for a soldier, if y’ask me.”

Because deep down, he truly cares about your well-being. He only wants the best for his girl, and the dynamic between you.

And you wouldn’t want to disappoint your superior even more than you already have, now, would you?

He lets go of your face to allow you to finish, a nervous and newfound quietness croaking in your throat in addition to your already shy voice after his display of aggression; “—except when otherwise ordered by a Commanding Officer…’”

“Good girl,” he drags upon your completion, along with his hand that sneaks back into your panties. You jump from the coldness of his skin but he barely pays any mind to it. “Keep going for me, now, pretty. Go ‘head and skip some.”

It’s a repeated process; you recite what you know, mess up due to his cruel ways of sadistic teasing, and watch on from the outside as your self-respect crumbles so easily. You acknowledge it, you feel it, and you willingly ignore it because you know that whatever he plans on giving you afterwards will far surpass any other means to pleasure.

His time, his teachings and guidance, his own pleasure. They’re better than gifts, really.

“‘No item of uniform which has not been authorized is to be worn.’” You mumble for the entirety of the final sentence, now expecting him to get on you for not speaking clearly enough.

Instead, his middle finger delves between your folds and dips into your cunt at last, ripping a hiss and another whine from high in your throat from his rough treatment.

“And who authorizes your uniform?” he finally asks.

He adds his ring finger and the fullness in your cunt would be uncomfortable if the heel of his palm wasn’t digging into your clit at the particular angle. It numbs the stretch and your worries, so much so you nearly forget what he had asked you.

You gasp, eyes shooting open to meet cold, empty office in stark contrast to the warm, staggering frame pressed up against your back. Every muscle and every flex beneath the cotton material of his shirt being embedded into your mind.

“You do, Sir—mph!—it’s only you.”

An approving rumble from his chest vibrates against your back, and you lean into him with a soft moan when he curls his fingers upward in that way he knows you respond to the best. Head leant back on his shoulder, you hold onto his arm to stabilize your spinning mind once he begins slipping his rough fingers in and out of your sensitive pussy more firmly.

“So you show up to base in this pretty, little dress on your off-day, and expect to leave here without any punishment?”

His words exceed intimidating to a great extent, but the way he coos them so gently right by your ear leads directly to you scrambling them into nothing more than sweet blurbs and mumbles. He continues his short scolding as if he doesn’t know how dumb he’s got you already, ready to make you bite the consequences for your inability to respond to him later.

“Distractin’ me ‘nd all the other men here while we work, like you don’t know what your body does to them. What you’re worth around here, to the lot of bastards falling asleep with their dicks in their hands to the pretty image of you dressed like this,” he emphasizes with the tug of your dress’s ending hem.

“Sir,” you whine, not paying a single nod to his language because your numbed mind can simply no longer compute it. Muffled and unclear, though the mean and deep drawl that bleeds through pushes you all the much closer to bliss.

“Feels good, I—please… ’m so, so close, Sir—!”

You whine and clasp your hand down on his arm for some sort of spiritual stabilization, and he only picks up the pace. He works you up so quickly after edging you for what felt like hours, as this time he gives absolutely no notion to relenting.

“That right?” Of course, you can’t respond with much more than a whimper as you rock your hips back and forth on his hard thigh, his skilled fingers working you up to ecstasy.

“Yes, yes ‘m gonna—it’s too much, Sir, ‘m gonna come—!”

He chuckles, his arm around your waist pulling you impossibly closer into him. You convulse around his fingers and moan through your high as he militantly, yet somehow so expertly, turns your vision to stars and your limbs into a limp mess atop him. It’s like he knows your body better than you do yourself, making you come harder with his fingers alone than anyone has ever. You thank him profusely, soft words of mantra like music to his ears as he decides what to do with you next.

He gives you no time to recover before he’s wrapping both his hefty arms around you and hauling you up in front of him, big palm instantly meeting with your shoulder blade to shove you down on the wooden desk and ripping a gasp from high in your lungs. He leans over you, caging you in as he soothes his hand across your forehead; his version of intimacy, and whatnot.

You’re panting, utterly exasperated, but simply can’t help the way you wiggle your hips back against his to chase that good friction. He laughs at your display of neediness for his cock, knowing it’ll be a much longer while before he’ll let you have it.

“My stupid fuckin’ toy,” he mutters softly against your skin, and it sounds just as good as any flattering compliment would.

He takes the hem of your dress and hikes it up to reveal your ass, humming at the sight before leaning back in to kiss your temple. Facial hair tickling and invading your senses, nearly feeling like a sweet treat to shush the way you whine out with his hard bulge pressed up against where you’re most sensitive.

Thoughts of what he could do to you right now running rampant through both of your minds, none differing from each other nor unwanted from either party.

“You’re gonna let me use this body however I like, until you learn to behave yourself ‘round your coworkers. Till you learn a fuckin’ lesson for once. Sound quite alright, sweetheart?”

[zkaus]

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

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

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

Q: What are your work habits for a novel?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[psylocke142]

I'll wait for you.

Sana x fem!reader

synopsis: You and Sana have an on/off relationship. You broke up again two weeks ago. Then you begin to talk at a school event again.

w/c: 2.4k

warnings: angst; hopeless romantic; no happy endings here; on/off relationship; more angst; complicated relationship; even more complicated feelings; smoking

a/n: i am trying something new here. i have never written or posted anything before, so bare with me if you decide to check this out. i just felt like trying something here. btw i love sana and i apologize if she seems like the "bad guy" in this fic. :) DMs and asks open to suggestions and feedback.

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You're currently back home, sitting on the roof of this shitty old house. It's been over an hour and the sun is starting to set. However, you can't seem to find the motivation to go back inside. You've been looking back at these past months. Lighting up a cigarette and inhaling a lung full of smoke as you try to figure out where it all went wrong. You're afraid you already know the answer, but one can fake obliviousness.

-- Flashback --

It's been weeks since you were last on good terms. If only you can explain or express how deeply that crushes your heart.

Thursday was open mic night for school. You had finished classes early that day and rushed out of your part-time at the restaurant.

Sana was there along with your friends. You rushed into the cafe, where the open mic was being held. It was crowded.

Anxiety began to rise and take over your body, heart hammering against your chest.

Whether it was from the thought of performing in front of everyone or the thought of seeing Sana, you had no clue.

You had entered through the side entrance. Automatically you searched for her face, wondering if she really did decide to come see you perform.

Sana: of course I'm gonna go!

Y/N: really? you don't have to

Sana: yes i do!

Y/N: ...ok then

Sana: will you be happy if i go?  i mean... do you want me to?

Y/N: ...yea i want you there

Sana: ...

Y/N: ...

Sana: i'm sorry y/n...it's ok if you don't want me to go

Sana: i know things have been weir-

Y/N: please come sana

Y/N: really, i mean it

Sana: oh...ok!

Y/N: ok

As you moved through the crowd you saw the face you've longed for. The person you had been missing. Sana.

She wasn't alone. She was walking next to Momo. The both of them had classes all day so they still had their book bags on them. Their backs were facing you as you approached them. You had an idea.

You walked up to the two girls, making sure to go unnoticed. Then you suddenly yanked on their backpacks lightly while yelling, "I can't do this." Blabbering whatever came to mind first.

Both girls turned around with a scare, Momo screaming loudly of course.

After the initial shock wore off. Sana replied, "What happened?" meanwhile Momo was hitting your shoulder cursing at you.

"I can't do this. I don't think I can go up there."

Despite the punches you were receiving from Momo you were solely focused on Sana. Your gazes met and locked. Sana reached out for your hand to calm your anxiety. Old habits. But you weren't opposed and you didn't feel like pulling back either.

It had been a few days since you both last spoke. Two weeks since you broke up. You would pass each other at school, sharing some of the same classes. But things were a bit different. Post breakup. You texted every once in a while trying to remain friends. Trying to remain in each other's lives. It wasn't the same.

Even though you had broken up, your presence wasn't unwelcomed by Sana. The two of you remained close during the beginning. Sitting down next to each other as you watched the first events. Momo tagged along but stayed a bit behind. You tried playing it cool at first, keeping a slight distance. There's never been any awkwardness between the two of you, so conversation came easily. Almost like nothing ever happened. Almost.

There was a shift in Sana. She went quiet and appeared to be focused on the current musical act, but her face showed she was debating something inside her head. You could tell it was something serious by the way she was chewing on her bottom lip.

You can't recall Sana's exact words. She had leaned close into your side. Her front touching your shoulder. Breath tickling your ear as she whispered, "I miss you y/n/n."

"Take me back y/n..."

"Please."

You turned around to meet her face. The sudden shift in Sana caught you off guard. Not expecting this sudden topic. You regained focus quickly, shifting to Sana's features that were just an inch away. She had a soft, sad smile. Her eyes pleading. Sana was your weakness. Your everything. You couldn't ever say no to her. So you met her eyes and gave her a slight nod while softly smiling at her. Sana's smile grew and she gave you a small peck on the cheek.

The rest of that night was great. Until Sana disappeared.

She had gone off somewhere with Nayeon and Jihyo. The anxiety had returned. This time you were sure that it was about performing later that night. You wanted to run away. Your hands began to sweat and you searched for Sana.

Professor Park came up to you, asked you when you wanted to go up. Currently it was the second open mic participant on stage. He said you could go third or last for the open mic. "I'll go third. I don't want to end it weak." Professor Park laughed at your comment, thinking you were joking. You were joking. Partially.

Sana came up to you as your conversation with the professor ended. When he left you started complaining and pretended you were going to leave. You knew Sana would beg you to stay. She held onto your hands trying to calm you down.

You were up next and had begun to really get nervous. Performances and public speaking just aren't your thing.

The host called up your name. Your hands started to shake. Heart pounded in your ears. You parted from Sana, she slowly let your hands go. You hesitated letting go. You wanted to take her with you.

As you walked up to the stage you heard cheering and applause. You turned to look at the crowd. There you recognized Momo, Mina, Dahyun, Chaeyoung, and Tzuyu cheering loudly. You took the mic and mumbled that you weren't prepared. Though you don't know if you said it loud enough for everyone to have heard. Hopefully no one had caught that.

You recited your poem's title and said it incorrectly. You mentally slapped yourself, but you rectified yourself and restated the title. You continued with your poem. Your voice, hands, and legs weren't as shaky as the previous performances in class. You heard this one guy in the crowd blurt, "Shiiiiiiiitt" as you read through the final lines of your poem.

At the end there was a small hesitation for the applause because of the sudden twist in your work. That was your intention. The applause and cheers came soon. Especially from your friends. You turned to glance at them and saw Nayeon, Jeongyeon, and Jihyo pretending to wipe tears from their eyes as they "cried" on each other's shoulders. Competing with each other on who could seem the most realistic.

You got down the stage. Hurriedly walked down the middle towards the back of the cafe. To Sana. As soon as you reached her she opened her arms. You wrapped your arms around her. Sana gently rubbed your back as you held tightly onto her. "I'm so proud of you baby" she cooed.

Sana let go and slightly pushed you off to grab a hold of your hand. She led you to a secluded area of the cafe. Then she palmed your face and grabbed the back of your neck to pull you into a kiss.

You had missed the feeling of her soft lips.

But like all good things, it came to an end.

Nighttime came quicker than you wanted it to. You were now back in your dorm. All you wanted was to lay in bed and relax. The rollercoaster of emotions draining your energy. But the ride still wasn't over. You were sat up in bed, on the phone with Sana.

She wanted to break up again. She had just asked to get back together a couple hours ago but here you were. Sana asked for space once again. Explaining that she had been dealing with insecurities, didn't know who she was, and had other personal issues. She needed time to find herself and figure things out for herself. As hard as you tried to reassure her, tell her she was perfect, give her nothing but love she insisted she needed space. You respected her decision.

That Friday night felt like it would never end. Felt like you couldn't catch a break. You felt nothing and everything at the same time.

Word was out that you and Sana broke up. Again. How everyone found out, you don't know. You were sitting in the common room before class with Momo and Jeongyeon. They were bickering about some nonsense. You didn't have it in you to join them. So you pretended to read your English textbook. Sana entered the common room. She headed straight towards Miyeon, who was across the room, to ask her about upcoming finals. You couldn't stop yourself from looking at her. That was when Nayeon and Jihyo joined your table.

Nayeon shoved your shoulder, "Why aren't you with your girl?"

"She's not my girl," you whispered.

Somehow Momo and Jeongyeon who were bickering the entire time with Jihyo included, who joined in as soon as she sat down, managed to hear and quieted down. They all looked at you, their eyes a mix of pity and sadness. This wasn't anything new to them but it still saddened them to hear the news.

Nayeon had always been supportive of you and Sana. She was the one who introduced you to one another. So she couldn't help but to gently ask, "Why?"

As you remembered all of yesterday's events, Sana whispering to take her back. Holding her hands again. Being wrapped in her arms. Her soft warm lips. Her warm smile and gentle eyes. Being comforted by her. Having her close. The long conversation you had over the phone. The break up. The space she wanted. You felt your chest contort and rip in two.

"I don't know."

"Well, I do know but I just don't want to say."

It was clear what Sana wanted. She made sure of that. You just couldn't explain that to Nayeon and the others without breaking. Thankfully, they seemed to have understood that.

"Hey, we get it. It'll be alright y/n/n." Jeongyeon calmly said as she wrapped an arm around your shoulder.

"C'mon now let's head to class."

All of you got up and started to head for class.

Throughout the day you dragged yourself from class to class. Trying to forget about Sana. You were failing miserably. You decided to head to the restroom to splash some water on your face. See if that would help.

As you were about to push the restroom door it was suddenly pulled open from the other side. You looked up to find Sana, surprised to see you. Your eyes met and you felt your heart clench. You weren't thinking. Your brain stopped working and your heart started going into overdrive, so you jokingly muttered, "Excuse me...I'm just going in for a quick cry" as you squeezed beside Sana to enter.

Sana quickly turned around and headed towards you. Shutting the door in the process.

You felt a hand take a hold of your wrist pulling you back. You didn't expect Sana to follow you in. You really did feel like crying now.

Sana studied you. You couldn't meet her gaze.

She apologized and you couldn't conjure up a response. You just stood there staring at the floor. Brain still not functioning. Heart still in overdrive, wanting nothing but Sana. Your heart fought with itself inside your ribcage. The hammering and ache screaming to run and stay.

Then she pulled you into her arms. As much as you wanted to cry mere seconds ago you couldn't. Your heart was rushing with a mix of emotions, but the fight inside from earlier had subsided. You just let yourself sink into Sana for the moment. You wanted to kiss her. So you pulled back a little and leaned in. Halfway through you felt Sana's arms begin to come up your shoulders. Getting ready to push you back. It was then you realized you shouldn't, so instead you swiftly glided your head to lean on Sana's shoulder. You couldn't help but let out a defeated sigh. Your heart sunk so low.

A pair of hands lifted to caress the back of your neck. Sana guided your head up and leaned in. The kiss was soft, it was more than a peck but still it felt too short. You had gotten what you wanted, but you didn't know how to feel about that.

Sana pulled back and softly palmed the side of your face caressing you with a sad smile. You tried reciprocating as best as you could, but your smile was much smaller and weaker than Sana's. Then she exited the restroom. Leaving you there. You stood there for a while. You couldn't stop replaying what just happened. You felt so stupid. Lost.

-- End of Flashback --

The sun has fully set. Your thoughts are still filled with Sana. Will she ever come back? It's been at least half a year since then. You still see her around campus but she's always glued to Miyeon's hip. Any and all attempts to get her to talk to you are intercepted by her best friend. Sana also makes an effort in ignoring you. If you pass each other in the hall she practically sprints away with her head down. Or she feigns to be doing something on her phone. Face immensely close to her phone trying to block her face from your sight. If you catch her staring at you she turns away instantly. If she's hanging out with Momo, Nayeon, or any of your other friends she makes an excuse to leave. Never acknowledging your presence. She practically runs from you. It left you dumbfounded the first couple of times. Leaving the others to apologize on Sana's behalf. You couldn't handle the pain all of Sana's actions caused you. So you stopped trying to reach out or get close. You accepted the distance she wanted to create.

Now you just feel a hollow cavern that continues to grow inside your chest as more time passes. At this point your ribcage feels sore from the constant fight and ache your heart has been through. All you could do is sigh as you put out the remaining bud of the cigarette you had lit up. Lazily you brush yourself off to head back inside.

"I'll wait until you're ready."

[tadpoles-and-daydreams]

A ramble on imposter syndrome and the accessibility of witchcraft

So, I’ve been thinking. I think a lot in case you haven’t noticed. Specifically, I’ve been thinking about the major imposter syndrome I’ve been feeling lately in regards to this blog. TL;DR is at the bottom of this post.

People have been, occasionally, sending me asks requesting my opinion on things/how I do things/what I know about XYZ topic. If you are one of these people, I promise I’m not vagueposting about you in particular- in fact, I love these questions! They’re so fun to get and they actually make me sit and think sometimes, or even encourage me to write out something that I’ve been meaning to for my book of shadows. Genuinely, they're wonderful asks to receive. These questions have made me confront something, however; my blog is still small, but some people actually like what I write and value my opinion even if just a little. 

I feel like a mimic hiding in the witchcraft community. I feel like, were people to truly understand my experiences, they would want to “expose” me for knowing so little.

So I sat down with those feelings and turned it over in my head and I’ve come to a conclusion. The fact is, I don’t do research. At least- not what I think of when people talk about research. My "research" consists of the occasional rabbit hole I go down, one and two halves of different books I never finished under my belt, what I see scrolling through various social medias, and conversations I've had with other witches. I check to make sure I'm not stepping on the toes of any closed practices- in fact, that's what most of my energy goes to when it comes to research. This isn't a complaint; I'd much rather know that my craft isn't appropriative.

But I don’t know much about mythology, even that of the deities I work with. I don't even remember the holidays and what they're for. I thought Nyx was an Egyptian deity until like four months ago because I'd just heard her name in passing as a child and had never looked into the mythology... Even though I mainly work with the pantheon she belongs to. Y’all, I’ve done like three spells that I remember. My book of shadows is a messy disaster and I love it but it's got so little information in it, because I rarely write things down. Most resources (especially mythology resources) are academically worded or difficult to read for me personally, and all of these things feel like secrets I have to guard with my life because if I were to ever say them aloud, people would know I'm a fraud.

Today I've come to the conclusion that that is, in fact, absolute bullshit.

Maybe it's not, maybe this post will make some people really upset, but in my practice it's bullshit. All of the above is a result of my ADHD and the fact that I am nothing if not a hands-on learner. My craft is mostly my own experiences because that's how my whole life is; I learn by doing. My ideal learning style is sitting with another autistic person whose special interest is whatever I'm learning about and just talking for five hours, but if that's not something I can do, puzzling it out myself is the next best thing. That's what I've been doing ever since I felt had a basic foundation for my craft. Hell, even before I had a foundation I was putting my own experiences into my craft because "Well that rule just doesn't fucking vibe with me."

This post is mostly for me, but partially for anyone who feels similar. We are not broken or doing witchcraft/paganism wrong. We are simply what happens when the kid who could never do homework ends up practicing the "religion/spirituality that comes with homework." Witchcraft and paganism, in my experience, is far from accessible when it comes to the typical image of it. UPG is what makes it accessible. So yes, my practice is heavily UPG, and I don't do as much research as I think people have assumed. But I'm going to let go of the idea that I'm a fraud, because frankly I know enough about witchcraft to have supported my practice this whole time and my deities haven't smited me yet so ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

TL:DR:

Fuck the rules, I don't do much research. I've researched the "basics" and what I need to so I'm not stepping on any toes of closed practices, but people seem to think I know way more than I actually do. I've felt like I was lying this whole time but frankly witchcraft just isn't accessible to someone with my flavor of auDHD, so my craft relies heavily on UPG and I've decided that I'm not broken or wrong for that and neither is anyone else. I'm tired of seeing myself as an imposter just because I make my practice doable for me.

[clockwayswrites]

A Broken Sort of Normal Part 11

WC 1326, Masterpost CW: anxiety

“Hey, kid,” Flash the older said as he raced up beside Danny.

“Still not a kid, old man,” Danny replied. It was already a well worn argument by this point after several dinners or weekend meals over at the Flash’s household. Sure it was used before that, but once Danny had started seeing Barry out of the mask, he’d only been worse about it. Danny guessed it was their thing now. It was weird to have ‘things’ again with people, but a good sort of weird.

“Still not an old man, kid. I’m not even a grandpa yet!”

Danny almost dropped the tablet he was working on. Barry didn’t have any kids, not aside from Wally who might as well count. Did that mean…?

“I’d tell you to watch your sass in your new position,” Barry continued, unaware or uncaring of Danny’s sudden crisis about the idea of children, “but one, I’d be a hypocrite and two, it’s a solid third of the reason I recommended you.”

“Well, that’s good because the sass isn’t going awa— wait, what new position?”

Barry grinned under his mask in a way that just felt dangerous. Not, like, dangerous in general, but dangerous for Danny who was the focus of that smile. “You’ll see. Flash Two will pick you up Monday at nine am. Don’t worry, you’re cleared off work already.”

“Fla— and he’s gone. That’s great. What the fuck,” Danny said to himself. It was a struggle to focus on finishing up the post event check in and then his reports and then going over his team’s report and then some more paperwork, but Danny managed. As soon as he got home he was immediately was texting Wally.

After the Reveal, Danny had gotten Wally’s civilian number too, but there were strict rules for using that number. Danny understood the caution. Apparently the first number he had been given was encrypted by Batman’s crew, which was crazy to think about, even when he was dating a Flash, so there were less rules other than no civilian names. Just for the ease of it, Danny mostly stuck to the old number unless they were planning a purely civilian date. Or if Danny wanted to say things that he knew would make Wally blush. Things Danny would very much never want anyone else to read. They may have mostly kept to kissing in person, but teasing Wally was just too much fun.

Danny: Why is Big!Flash having you pick me up on Monday??? What did he mean about a ‘new position’?????? I like my job! FLASH!

Quick Boy: You’ve got to give me a second to answer, dude!

Danny: You’re supposed to be fast. 😑

Quick Boy: Who’s always telling me electrical signals can only move so fast?

Danny: FLASH 🤬

Quick Boy: Sorry, babe, I’m not allowed to tell! But you’ll love it! Promise!

Danny: 🥺

Quick Boy: Don’t make those eyes at me! Trust me, babe, just wait until Monday.

Danny: Fine. But know I’m pouting.

Quick Boy: 😭

Danny behaved. He didn’t bother for updates. He sent more cats dressed as Justice League members and finished off the last Percy Jackson book, sending Wally updates along the way. But the whole weekend the fact that he apparently had a new job he knew nothing about and would be taken to Monday churned in the back of his mind.

It made him anxious in a way that he hadn’t been since he left Amity Park for Central city.

He didn’t much like it.

-

“Please at least tell me that I’m dressed fine for this new job?” Danny asked when he opened the door to Wally’s knock.

He didn’t really have many other options if Wally said no, he already had on his best dark jeans, cleanest boots, and his new cross body bag. He might have a button up shirt he could change into instead of the long sleeve one he was in, but that was as good as it was going to get. He just didn’t have business casual clothes with the jobs he had.

“You look fine,” Wally said.

“Not exactly a supersuit,” Danny said with a sigh, taking in Wally’s uniform.

Wally pressed a quick kiss to Danny’s cheek. “Not the kind of hero you are.”

That was something Wally had been doing, insisting that Danny was a hero. Whenever he protested, it only seemed to make Wally more insistent so Danny mostly let it be. Plus, the cute smile Wally got for ‘winning’ was nice to see.

It was gracing Wally’s lips now as Danny stepped out of his apartment, locked the door, and shoved the keys securely in his bag. One lost set of keys due to super speed was enough to make sure they were safely clipped in from then on.

“Okay. Right, let’s get this over with.”

“It’s a good thing,” Wally insisted as he squatted down for Danny to climb onto his back, “not your execution or anything.”

“I just don’t like not knowing,” Danny said.

“You love surprises.”

“Little surprises like picnics and presents, not life changing ones.”

“You’ll love it,” Wally insisted and then they were off.

-

“I’ll love an abandoned warehouse?”

“Apparently abandoned warehouse,” Wally stressed with a wave of his hands, like he was a two-bit magician.

“Convincing appearance. Once again, Flash, it’s a good thing you’re a hero because this as serial killer vibes.”

The windows were blacked out. There was a heavy layer of dust on most surfaces. The stairs to the foreman office were long rusted away. It was a mess.

But there was that feeling of being watched that crawled up Danny’s spine. None of the dust actually moved as they crossed the floor over to Barry. And the doors were either welded shut or solidly reinforced.

“Ready kids?” Barry asked.

“Still not kids,” Danny replied almost absently.

“Still don’t care!” Barry pressed one of the bricks on the wall and the whole thing shuddered and pulled back like some massive pocket door to reveal a… a portal behind the wall.

“Ta-da!” Wally said, complete with jazz hands.

Danny couldn’t tear his eyes away from the portal to look at him.

Did they know? Was this…?

“Danny?”

“What?” Danny started, forcing himself to look over at Wally who was beside him again.

“You okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Danny winced. He just couldn’t hold back the twitch of his body at that word. “Sorry. Um, so what is that?”

“A Zeta tube, it’s how we travel to the Justice League. It’s like a transporter,” Barry explained.

Okay, right, not a portal to the Ghost Zone. No one knew. He was safe. Danny closed his eyes. It was just a transporter that looked a lot like a portal.

Wally rested his hand on Danny’s arm and Danny almost jumped from the light touch. “Babe?”

“Um, remember how I told you there was an accident in my parent’s lab when I was a kid? Yeah, um, sorta similar look, is all. It just freaked me out for a moment.”

"Oh, shit, I’m sorry,” Wally said. He squeezed Danny’s arm gently.

“No way you could have known. Who has a phobia over portals, right?” Danny said as he summoned his best attempt at a smile for Wally.

“Are you okay to…” Wally glanced from Danny to the portal nervously.

“I, yes? Can you just explain to me how it will go?” Danny asked. He pressed himself close to Wally, doing what he could to scrape together his frayed nerves. It wasn’t like he hadn’t gone through the actual portal that had killed him all the time. It was just that now all that felt like a lifetime ago, a lifetime no one remembered but him.

“Of course, babe,” Wally said, twining their arms together before he launched into a passionate explanation of the Zeta tubes.

It would be alright.

He could do this.

He had Wally.

-----

AN: Wally and Barry: We have something so cool to show you! Danny: *has portal based ptsd* ._.

I no longer tag people, but you can subscribe to the masterpost!

[louroth]

Forget the IF, just wanted to check in and see if YOU were okay dear author? I hope everything is well. I know you have a process lol, but I miss seeing you on my TL from time to time.

oh, kjsdhfjskdf . how sweet<3 thank you for this! I am doing well, crafting ouro alongside some personal shifts and growth and setbacks and victories. it has been a godsend to take all this pressure off for this period and do things my way. though, I'll say: while it has taken and will probably take another while, this silence will be broken at some point. I'll avoid saying soon only because I'm staunchly sticking to my pace&process. however !! I finished the draft for the first book yesterday. !! I am currently doing some hefty edits, collecting art and testing coding (&learning something new a hundred times over, over, again, whether it be storycrafting, interactivity, ui design, social media, art, code ... the list goes on) and so for the most part, I'm having a good time, as long as we count the entire spectrum of the human condition as a mostly good time. pfft.

I miss hanging out here too! I genuinely can't wait to get back to online shenanigans once I feel ready for it; if you'll have me, of course. I can imagine that this type of secret development is frustrating and everyone has their limit. It means a lot that you sent this my way. Hope you're doing well too. <3

[bucca2]

Shrike pt. 1 - words hung above but never would form

definition. male shrikes are known for their habit of catching insects and small vertebrates and impaling them on thorns

König x high school sweetheart reader

2nd person, gender neutral reader for now but reader is afab and referred to as a girl, reader is Austrian/has lived in Austria and speaks German for most of the story, romance, pining, friends to lovers, reader's nickname is Thorn, König's first name is Alexander

4.8k words

tw: bullying, brief mention of cheating and domestic abuse (not explicit, mentions of violence, and not done by König), mention of terrorism, suicidal thoughts

[NEXT]

based on this post by @ceilidho, who gave me permission to write this! many thanks <3

this post is dedicated to @papaver-decervicatus, who I am so proud of for finishing chapter 4 of her fic cat/mouse/den (which I highly recommend) and eating NO glass in the process. her headcanons for König have had a huge influence on me, and while there are some differences between julius and alexander, I absolutely must thank Caedis for her wonderful portrayal of König.

and of course, to @danibee33, for fueling my König brainrot. without you, I probably would not have returned to writing <33

disclaimer, I am not Austrian, I do not speak German, so if there's anything that needs correcting, please do reach out!

You admit, you’ve always had an affinity for protecting the weak.

When you were twelve, a bird slammed headlong into your bedroom window. The poor thing had avoided snapping its own neck but was certainly in no condition to fly. You’d bolted out of your childhood home to check on it, but by the time you arrived, a huge grey tomcat was prowling, sitting back on his haunches and ready to pounce. You generally liked cats, but this one was a mean old stray, and you’d always been frightened to go near him.

Without hesitation, you had shoved the cat aside, spitting and yowling, and taken the little bird into your hands.

It took a few days to nurse back to health, and you still remember the day you released it back into nature. It was worth the long scratch down your arm, pride swelling in your heart as it spread its wings and flew into a vivid blue sky. You remember it even now: a charming little gray bird, a streak of black coloring over its eyes. A shrike, your mother had identified it as.

People are no different than animals, sometimes. People can be cornered, battered, and bruised as well. You recognize the broken hunch of the bird you rescued in the boy sitting by himself at lunch time. His shoulders curl inwards with a desperate need to go unnoticed. You’ve seen him around: he’s not in any of your classes, but your classes always seem to end up in the same hallways, so you pass each other all the time.

He jumps a little as you slide into the seat next to him, shrinking away from you in a way that breaks your heart. “Hey.”

No response. You offer your name, but he seems reluctant to divulge his own.

“Is it okay if I sit here?”

He shrugs.

“Thanks. I don’t know anybody at this school, so it’s nice to have a friend.”

“…friend?” He has a nice voice, you think. Timid, but almost sweet.

“Well, if you’ll let me call you one.”

“…”

And so begins your friendship with König.

I was housed by your warmth Thus transformed By your grounded and giving And darkening scorn

You didn’t call him that in high school, of course. You wouldn’t know that name until much, much later. It takes a while to coax him out of his shell, cajoling him that you can’t call him “green-eyed boy” forever, to get his name.

“Alexander is a very good name,” you assure him, and he seems pleased. He’s still hesitant to speak to you at all, but that’s just fine by you. You’ve got plenty to talk about, anyway.

“You know, I read this book about Alexander the Great. There’s this crazy story about one of his battles at a city called Tyre. He was laying siege to it after a misunderstanding with their king…” you chatter on, unaware of the intense stare from the boy sitting next to you.

“…ordinarily, sieging an island is pretty difficult, but you won’t believe what he did,” you rattle on. “He—”

“He built his own bridge,” Alexander says, so quietly you almost don’t hear him at first. You look at him in surprise.

“Yes! You know this story already?”

“I read a lot about him.”

“Then why did you let me ramble on about it if you knew about it already?” You’re a little embarrassed, having felt proud of yourself for knowing niche facts about historical figures.

“I like listening to you talk.”

That shuts you up for a moment. Only for a moment though, before you start to laugh.

“What?” he asks, an edge creeping into his voice.

“Nothing! It’s just—usually people tell me the opposite,” you say. “People say I talk too much.”

“I don’t mind.” His eyes dart to your face before looking away again.

“That’s good to hear. But I hope you know this means you’re never getting rid of me now,” you tease, nudging him gently.

He doesn’t respond, but for a second, you could have sworn that a corner of his mouth had turned up into a smile.

Learning more about him is like trying to draw blood from a stone, but you do your best. He mentions sharing a room with a cousin. His oma makes the best comfort food. Sometimes his mother takes him into town to buy candy, but he has to hide it or his cousin will steal it. Not that he cares that much—he doesn’t have much of a sweet tooth, but his family doesn’t come from means, so it means a lot to him whenever his mother spares a few pennies to buy him a frivolity.

It's what he doesn’t say that tells you the most about him. The way he fidgets with his clothes when he’s nervous. The brief panic that shoots through him whenever you call his name before he relaxes when he realizes it’s just you. The way he shies away from people in the hallways, just to avoid any contact whatsoever.

The fact that he never talks about his father.

The way he curls into himself when he’s being bullied.

“You should be apologizing to me for being in my way right about now, freak,” Andreas taunts him. He’s knocked Alexander’s books to the ground, like some sort of cartoon caricature of a bully, and you’re fed up.

“Hey!” Without missing a beat, you slide yourself between Alexander and Andreas. You’ve recently hit a bit of a growth spurt, so you note with a bit of smugness that you’re at least an inch or two taller than Andreas. You’re also quite a bit taller than Alexander, you realize. The two of you are usually sitting when you talk, so you’ve never really noticed.

“Leave him alone!” You stand your ground even as Andreas fixes you with a withering glare.

“Ah, so you’re gonna let your big strong girlfriend fight your fights now, is that it?” Andreas sneers. Alexander stiffens behind you, and you decide right then and there that you’ve had enough of this nonsense.

“You’re the last person who should be bringing up girlfriends, Andreas,” you say, staring him down with a look that you hope is sufficiently intimidating. “Everybody knows Yulia broke up with you because you can’t get it up.” You don’t know Yulia. You don’t give enough of a shit about Andreas to follow the gossip about him. But by the way his cheeks get ruddy, you know you’ve struck a nerve. The handful of spectators your little confrontation has attracted snicker.

“You little bitch,” he snarls. You hear the gasp of the students surrounding you before you feel it. You put a hand to your rapidly reddening cheek.

The little twerp had slapped you.

“That’s what you get for getting in my way,” he says, with a smug little look that you want to wipe off his face.

You’re not a violent person. And honestly, you could have been expelled for what happens next. But you cast a quick glimpse behind you at Alexander on the ground, and something about the look in his eyes reminds you of that bird you rescued, and a quick and hot anger rises in you.

You punch Andreas.

With no wind-up, no warning, you break his nose, and he drops like a rock, howling and clutching at the blood pouring from his nostrils. A sick little giggle comes out of you as you watch, drowned out by the uproar of your little audience.

“What on earth is going on here?!” You hear a teacher roar, and the crowd quickly begins to scatter. Without hesitation, you pull Alexander up and escape before you can be subjected to the consequences of your actions.

“Boy, am I glad he didn’t put up more of a fight,” you say gleefully, high on adrenaline. “That could have gotten quite ugly.”

“I didn’t know you had that in you,” Alexander says when the two of you have gotten far away enough. The way he looks at you now is a little different—almost reverent.

“I didn’t know either!” you say. “I’ve never done that before!”

“Who knew such a pretty rose had such sharp thorns?” he mumbles to himself. Your eyes zip to him, and even he looks surprised at the words coming out of his mouth.

“A pretty rose?” you tease, nudging him on the arm. He flushes pink and turns away, but there’s a bit of a lopsided half-smile on his lips.

You’re not sure why, but the sight of it makes your skin tingle.

The first few years of high school are relatively uneventful outside of skirmishes with Alexander’s various tormentors. Your biggest regret is that you can’t always be there for him—sometimes you have to spend your free periods catching up on readings or speaking with teachers. But you’re always there for him afterwards, poison in your voice as you hatch plans to make his bullies’ lives miserable. The plans never go anywhere, but thinking about retribution always seems to make him perk up a little. And really, that’s all that matters to you.

It's silly, how long it took you to realize how much of a fixture he was in your life. There’s a street corner a few blocks from the school you always meet him at so the two of you can walk the rest of the way together. The few times you share classes, you’re always sitting together, exchanging notes and quietly judging your classmates together. And you always, always sit with him during lunch. Even when you start making other friends who surely would welcome you at their tables, you always return to the quiet green-eyed boy in the corner.

You tell yourself it’s because he’s lonely, and he needs the company. You tell yourself the rumors about the two of you are silly, the result of bored hormonal teenagers who can’t fathom being a genuine friend to someone of the opposite sex. You tell yourself it means nothing that your face feels warm whenever he smiles at you.

You never get the chance to figure out if it does mean anything. He gives you the bad news on the last day of classes before summer break.

“I…I see,” you say, trying to swallow past the lump in your throat. For once, you’re at a loss of what to say. His fingers twist around each other in his lap, the way they only do when he’s really anxious.

“Well, a fresh start is good, right?” You offer him a smile, but your heart’s not in it. Maybe you haven’t spent as much time with him as you used to back in first year—you’ve started to take more advanced classes, and you’ve been so swamped with homework and projects that sometimes hanging out with Alexander is put on the back burner. But you’d always taken comfort in knowing that he would always be there at mealtime. A steady presence in your life, as everything around you seems to be speeding towards a future you’re not quite ready for yet.

Now he’s leaving. You’d like to think your concern is for him—what’s to say his new school won’t also be rife with harassment? Will he be able to make new friends? Or will he be all alone at the lunch table again? But really, who are you trying to fool? The sudden heaviness in your chest is selfish. What are you going to do without him?

The roaring in your head stills as you feel his hand cover yours. You stare at it dumbly, unable to lift your head and look him in the eyes. Your gut feels like it’s flipping and twisting all over itself.

You lift your eyes to his. For one breathless, indescribable moment, you think he’s going to kiss you. You’re sure he’s going to kiss you. You lean closer to him, and you can feel his breath on your lips.

Your eyes slide shut.

A shout startles your eyes back open, and he jolts away from you. It’s your mother, calling that she’s here to pick you up. You let out a frustrated noise as you call back to her that you’re coming before turning back to him.

The moment is long gone, and your heart twinges with regret as he avoids meeting your gaze. “You’ll write to me, won’t you?” you say softly. “And we can still see each other?”

“Of course I will, rosethorn,” he says, with that shy little smile you love so much.

You don’t see him for another ten years.

I couldn't utter my love when it counted I couldn't whisper when you needed it shouted Ah, but I'm singing like a bird 'bout it now

It’s ironic, really. Saving birds. Saving boys. But the one person you can’t save is yourself.

Your life post-König is like the drop on a roller coaster, but with none of the thrill. High school flies by in a flurry of deadlines and mental breakdowns. It’s worth it when you get into a good university—at least, you thought so. In reality, there’s no work in Austria for someone with your degree. Your parents are older, well on their way towards retirement, so you find yourself unwilling to burden them. You’re lost, stuck, and so very alone.

And then you meet him.

Tall, handsome, a little older, with a blossoming career. In hindsight, how much of a perfect package he presented himself as was the earliest red flag. But when you’re young and behind on rent, anything better than that feels like a miracle.

You know better, really. You knew it the whole time. Getting married after knowing each other for 2 months isn’t as bad as it could be, but it’s still too quick for your comfort. But the eviction notice was on your door, and he was a perfect gentleman. What could go wrong, right?

Everything. He at least has the decency to keep up the façade for another month, but that’s the only credit you’ll ever give the man you’ve shackled yourself to. It becomes increasingly obvious that he only married you to have a live-in maid while he philanders around as he pleases. You try, oh god do you try, for five long, fruitless years. God, it’s so silly when you think about it. You liked him so much, it took you so long to realize he had never liked you in the first place. He’d scooped up the first desperate college grad he’d found, and thinking about it makes you want to hide from everyone you know.

Which you do: hiding from what few friends you do have, hiding from your parents, hiding from the part of your brain that screams that you’re wasting the best years of your life cleaning up after a grown man who won’t even touch you, much less fuck you. Your 20s are for drinking, one-night stands, and figuring out what the fuck the rest of your life is going to look like. There is plenty of drinking, but the rest of it, not so much.

You’re going to divorce him, you tell yourself in year six. Once you get a job, you’re out. But you’re no fresh grad anymore, and the 6-year gap in your resume isn’t helping matters. You spot a glimpse of light at the end of the tunnel when he tells you you’re moving: his company is offering him a higher paid position, and it’s in a bustling downtown area. Plenty of opportunity for you, right?

That’s when he starts hitting you.

You’re away from your parents, your friends, your home. You took English classes, but that won’t exactly help you in this equally European foreign country whose language you don’t speak. Now that you’re approaching your 30s, your husband seems to be rapidly realizing that his youth is also disappearing. His new job is more stressful, and most days he has no outlet for it other than taking it out on you.

Now you long for the days when he didn’t come home until you’d already fallen asleep.

And then the terror attacks begin, and your once-bustling city shuts down. More isolation. Even less hope. You stay at home all day, torn between hoping someone will get rid of your husband for you and the abject terror of being left all alone in a foreign country torn apart by violent partisans.

That’s when the despair really sets in: you’ve wasted over a decade in this awful, dead-end relationship. Sure, you’ve got a roof over your head and food in your stomach: you should feel grateful. But you don’t.

You start hoping the attacks will take you out instead.

I fled to the city with so much discounted Ah, but I'm flying like a bird to you now Back to the hedgerows where bodies are mounted

“There are mercenaries in town.”

You look up from your breakfast, lost in thought thinking about all the errands you have to run today. “Yeah?”

“About time we stopped relying on our corrupt fucking military,” he grumbles. “Maybe they’ll end this goddamn conflict once and for all.”

You don’t have much to say about that. What does it matter to you, anyway? The only conflict that matters to you lives at home, and you stopped trying to fight it a long time ago.

“The curfew’s a pain in the ass, though. You behave yourself, you hear me?” His sharp glare reminds you that he’s not saying this out of a concern for your safety: if you make trouble for him, you’ll pay for it later. You nod mutely.

Your morning goes by relatively uneventfully. You do the dishes, stare at the wall, sigh, stare at the wall some more. As much of a prison as this apartment is, you like it decently well when he’s not in it. Going outside and seeing the ravages of war all around you is anxiety-inducing. But you can’t put off buying groceries anymore.

The arrival of the mercenaries makes itself immediately apparent. The streets are somehow even emptier, and what people there are on the streets move quickly and cast suspicious glances at everyone else.

You were hoping not to interact with anybody, but your hopes are dashed when you see a checkpoint ahead, manned by soldiers in unfamiliar uniforms. Although most of them are wearing different gear, they still look more orderly and well-kept than the country’s own military. Murder must pay well.

You look around nervously, but there’s no alternate route here, and nobody local going through with you. You strongly consider going home, but you’d just have to do this all over again tomorrow.

You steel yourself with a deep breath.

“Identification?”

You show the mercenary your ID with trembling fingers, gripping your bag tightly and praying he doesn’t find your nervousness suspicious.

“Where are you headed?”

“Just—just down the street,” you say, wincing at your heavy German accent. Years upon years of living here and you still sound like a foreigner. “Getting food.” You’re so anxious you forget the word for “groceries” for a moment. You only know enough of the local language to get by, and you’re sure you must sound like a kindergartener.

The soldier raises an eyebrow at you. “You are German?”

“I…Austrian,” you answer hesitantly. Oh God, you hope there’s no issue with that. You’re not so much afraid of being detained as you are of getting home too late to make dinner.

“Interesting.” The soldier hands back your ID. “Our commander is Austrian, as well.”

You perk up a little bit at that. You’ve met a handful of German-speakers here, but not a single one of your countrymen.

Well. Aside from the one who came here with you.

“He should actually be arriving here any moment now. Big guy in a hood. You can’t miss him. They call him König.” As if on cue, a military grade vehicle pulls up to the checkpoint, military personnel stepping out. And then…

Your blood runs cold.

Nothing, nothing could have prepared you for the sight of the beast that steps out of the car. Even from a short distance, you can tell he’s a colossal size. Two metres tall, easily, wearing a dark hood that reminds you of a medieval executioner. And as if that weren’t intimidating enough, two red trails, like bloody tears, are bleached under his eyes. His eyes, which must have some sort of black paint around them, giving him the impression of being two eyes staring out at you from the pitch blackness of the hood.

Two piercing green eyes.

Trained directly on your face.

Staring in disbelief.

“I…need to return home. I’ve forgotten something.” All worries about appearing suspicious fly out the window as the enormous man in the hood hesitates for a moment before making his way towards you with alarming speed.

You all but fly back down the street, making a beeline for your building. Just a few moments ago, you were excited to meet the man. Now, the image of his eyes staring into yours fills you with a fear you can’t describe.

The next day you take a long detour to avoid the checkpoint. It’ll take you twice as long to get home this time, but it’s worth it. You can’t put the shopping off another day: the brand-new bruise on your arm throbs as a reminder. And you certainly don’t want to run into the hooded soldier again.

You get your shopping done without much fanfare. The old lady cashier, who usually looks at you from over her glasses with the stern look you’ve seen a lot of people around here level at foreigners, even pressed a piece of candy from behind the register into your hand. You’re pretty sure it’s just because she wanted to get rid of it, but it does wonders for your mood.

You’re busy plotting when to enjoy your little treat when you turn a corner and freeze.

He’s here. He’s there, standing in an alleyway near your building. Somehow even larger than you remember him yesterday, still wearing that awful hood.

Does he know where you live? You curse yourself for running straight home yesterday. He must have seen the direction you went in—or did he follow you? You attempt to quietly retreat and take another route home, but your shoe scuffs a paving stone. And like a hawk spotting its prey, his head darts towards you.

You book it.

“Wait!” calls a deep voice. Tears spring to your eyes as you hear heavy footsteps pursuing you. What have you done to deserve this? You’re no criminal. Your only crime is being a naïve dumbass in your twenties.

Your arm burns as you turn corner after corner, not bothering to take note of where you’re going. It’s no use, though: you can hear him gaining on you. Fuck, is this it? You can’t even fathom what he wants you for, and you don’t want to think about it either—

“Rosethorn!” You come to a screeching halt.

There’s only one person who has ever called you that.

You turn around, chest heaving with exertion, as the hooded soldier—König, the soldier said his name was—comes into view, approaching you slowly.

“It’s me,” he says, holding his hands out like he’s approaching a wounded animal. You’re not really sure what the point is, considering the gigantic knife he’s got strapped to his thigh is intimidating all on its own, but somehow it still puts you at ease.

“Alex...?” you whisper, hardly daring to believe it.

“Yes,” he says. His posture has changed from when you saw him at the checkpoint. He’s hunching over, trying to make himself smaller. It reminds you of that first day when you sat next to him at lunch.

It’s him.

You instantly drop all your bags and cling to him in a hug, tears spilling from your eyes. He’s so different: most obviously, he's so tall. He must have hit some growth spurt after he moved away, because he towers over you now. You can feel under all the gear that he’s put on serious muscle—not surprising for a soldier, of course. And when his arms fold themselves over you, you’re filled with a sense of safety you haven’t felt in a long time.

“What are you doing here?” you both ask at the same time. A giggle bubbles out of you as you watch his eyes crinkle in an obvious smile. God, his eyes are so green.

“I’m stationed here because of the conflict,” he says. “But what are you doing here? I contacted your parents, and they said you had moved here, but they didn’t say why.”

You’re not surprised. You’re still in contact with your parents, but you don’t talk about the elephant in your home. You know they would have helped you, if only you had asked for it, but you never have.

“I…it’s complicated,” you say, withdrawing from the hug. You stare at the ground, brushing away the wetness in your eyes.

“I have nothing urgent right now,” he says, staring at you intently.

You swallow past the lump in your throat. “I…got married,” you whisper.

Instantly, his body language changes, stiffening in shock. He takes a half-step away from you, which makes you want to cry all over again. This is awful. This is humiliating. You wish you could go back in time and shake some sense into yourself.

“I see,” he says in a strangled voice. “Congratulations.”

Despite your best efforts, the tears spill over again. “No, not congratulations,” you say. “It—”

It was the worst mistake of your life, you want to say, but you just can’t get the words out. He must notice you beginning to quake with fear, because he raises a hand to touch you gently on the arm—right on the bruise.

His stare hardens as he watches you flinch. “Rosethorn, what’s the matter?”

Everything, you want to say. I’m standing in an alleyway with my childhood crush, shaking like a leaf because a monster lives in my house, and I can’t get away from him.

With a feather-like touch surprising for a man with such large hands—he grew so much— he goes to push up your sleeve. You catch a glimpse of the bruise before you have to turn away again, shuddering. It’s ugly: black and green, and very clearly shaped like a human grip.

“I…bumped into a shelf,” you say lamely. You can’t bring yourself to rope him into your troubles. He’s a soldier now, for Pete’s sake. He has bigger problems.

You can’t read his expression due to the hood—but there’s a blazing anger in his eyes you remember all too well. The quiet fury you often saw in him so many years ago.

He must see in your expression that you don’t want to be questioned about it right now, and thankfully, he relents. With an ease in his movement that must stem from some newfound confidence, he reaches over and picks up your bags for you. “Let me carry these for you.”

It’s nice, to be taken care of for once.

Your mad dash took both of you quite far away from your building, so you have enough time for quite a nice little chat. You tell him about your time in university, he tells you what happened to him after he moved away. He’d jumped at the chance to enlist as soon as he turned 17, on the recommendation of an uncle who had spent time in the military. You laugh when he tells you that they wouldn’t let him be a sniper, a pout in his tone. You could have imagined him as a sniper back in high school, but he’s so large now it’s impossible not to notice him.

“The discipline was good for me,” he recounts. “I needed to grow a spine.”

“Don’t say that. You were just trying to get by in school, like everybody else.”

He shrugs. “I wanted to be like you.”

“Like me?” You ask incredulously.

“My rose with thorns,” he says, with a fondness that makes you blush. “Do you remember that day you punched that punk Andreas?”

“How could I forget? My fist hurt for days,” you say with a grin. “But I didn’t regret it for a second.”

He looks down at you—that’s new—with pride in his eyes. “I thought about you that day all throughout training,” he says. “You were my guardian angel.”

Your cheeks grow even warmer, and you feel like a teenager again. How can he still make you feel this way so easily after all this time? “He had a punchable face,” you say dismissively. “If not me, then it would have been someone else.”

You’re almost disappointed to arrive home. Only yesterday, home was your sanctuary. Now, it means being separated from the one person you trust fully in this country. You turn to him, almost bashful. “This is where I live."

He sets the bags down like they’re made of fine china, and he’s standing so close you almost stop breathing. The air is charged, the same way it felt that night when you almost kissed. You watch him as he watches you.

“Can I see you again?” he asks, breaking the silence.

“Of course,” you say, and the sparkle in his eye dazzles you.

You watch him leave until you can’t see him anymore. And for once, you enter your home with a light heart.

Remember me, love When I'm reborn As the shrike to your sharp And glorious thorn

if you'd like to be added to the taglist, just drop a reply! feedback is always appreciated, and my inbox is open, so please feel free to drop me an ask! I will 100% write little scenarios/headcanons about this couple because I have so many thoughts and ideas for them lol

I anticipate about 2-3 parts for this, maybe with König pov in the next part? he doesn't come across this way in this part, because it's from Thorn's perspective, but he is a very nasty boy indeed. also, I know putting lyrics in the middle of a fic is so passé, but I can't help myself. it's hozier! indulge me. also this isn't beta read so I really hope it doesn't suck

[slytherweasley]

Unexpected encounter (Fred Weasley x reader)

Warnings: smut, female oral receiving, unprotected sex, swearing

Summary: Fred gets paired with his ex on a project but things don’t turn out the way either of them expected.

“Fred Weasley and y/n y/l/n” you heart sinks and you have the most terrible feeling in your stomach. You and your long-term boyfriend recently broke up and you have not gotten over it. Everyone knew you were broken up and it was not pretty. Your arguing was heard from the common room. Snape paired you up just to spite you, you’re sure of it.

The two of you make eye contact for the first time in a while, you always avoided his eyes. “What are you going to do?” Angelina whispers “I don’t know” you say agony filled in your voice. You thought about it for the rest of class, you’d have to see him in your own time outside of class.

You stood in the hallway anxious as you barely listened to your friends talk. As you look around the hallway you almost immediately spot Fred, you look away and try to engage in the conversation. “Excuse me” you nervously take a deep breath in as you gain the courage to look up. “Sorry don’t mean to interrupt can I talk to you?” Fred looks at you and you nod following behind him.

“I just wanted to make sure you’re alright with everything” he was being sweet but you couldn’t think of him like that “I’m fine, you’re the one who broke up with me.” “I know you’re busy for the next couple days, does tonight work so we can start?” He still remembers the days when you have tutoring on.

“Tonight is fine, where should I meet you?” “My dorm, I’m sure you remember where that is” you nod and walk away.

You go to your dorm to get changed after school, your heart races and you’re incredibly nervous but somehow still excited and hopeful that things will be alright. You felt okay up until you knocked on the door, you have never knocked on his door you always walked in greeting him. He opens the door for you letting you in, as you get further into his dorm the memories hit you hard and all at once.

You sit on the edge of his bed awkwardly as you gather your materials. “You have been in here hundreds of times, you can get comfortable” he says “I don’t know what the terms are with us anymore” “just be yourself, y/n.”

It felt surreal, after two months of not talking it didn’t even feel like you were talking to the same person. When Fred used to talk to you he would be sweet and he’d never call you your actual name. Fred had a number of pet names for you, you loved every single one.

“Let’s get started, shall we?” You nod and open your books. It wasn’t a complicated task which you were grateful for, if you worked hard enough you’d be able to finish it today. You barely looked up from your books, you wish George or Lee were here to break the awkwardness.

You were silent for a while as you both were writing down notes on parchment. “Are you seeing anyone?” Fred speaks up breaking the silence, you stall by pretending to finish your sentence.

“No” you answer honestly “Have you been with anyone since we broke up?” “It’s been a month” “that doesn’t answer my question” “No, why does it matter?” “It doesn’t. I haven’t either if it makes you feel better” “thanks but I don’t why you would care. You broke up with me.”

“I miss you” he says “you hurt me” “I know and I am so sorry. I have so many regrets and I wish I could take you back” “you should’ve thought about that before you broke my heart.”

Fred stares at you with those eyes he used to give you when you were mad at him. He leans in to kiss you and you let him. You kiss him back, he breaks the space and leans in further causing you to lay back on his bed as he is on top of you.

You were hating yourself internally for letting him get to you like this but you tried to convince yourself fucking your ex again is healthy.

He starts taking off your clothes swiftly until you’re in your underwear. He kisses down your stomach and pulls down your underwear. You spread your legs apart him and his mouth immediately gets to work.

Fred licks up and down your pussy his tongue teasing your entrance before he replaces his tongue with your fingers. He slowly pushes them in watching how your body reacts.

“Fuck” you groan “look so pretty” he mumbles against your clit. As he fingers you his lips wrap around your clit and he licks and sucks.

You grip the sheets tightly in your hand “Fred. I’m close!” You cry. He could always bring you to your orgasm within minutes. You’d been together for years, he knows your body and it’s needs.

You arch your back letting out a string of moans that include his name in there multiple times. As you calm down from your high you watch as he get undressed, a sight you will never be tired of seeing.

You never want to forget this moment. He gets on top of you and presses a kiss to your forehead “you ready?” He asks and you nod.

He lines himself up with your entrance slowly moving inside you and building up to a good pace. He holds your body close to his and presses a kiss on your lips. You weren’t expecting a sensual love making with your ex but he was trying to win you back and somehow it was working.

“I love you, I miss you” he whispers against your lips, your foreheads touching. “I love you Freddie.”

He presses loving kisses to your lips. “I’m close” you tell him “I’m with you, darling” your breathing becomes heavy as you approach your second orgasm.

You squeeze around him as you finish, he quickly pulls out and cums on your stomach. He cleans you up and lays beside you.

“I want you back” he says “I know and I want you too.”

[sp0-t]

How do we feel about an AU where price is an author, who also happens to have a slight alcohol problem, but he ends up falling for his hot new editor who might be the cause of his new work(s).

Author!Price who would purposely misspell or leave notes for his editor so they’d end up calling or texting him about it:

“Really you misspelled ‘redundantly’? Isn’t this literally your job?”

OR

“I saw the message you left me, god, you know you really shouldn’t distract me from my work. Might end up leaving a mistake or two behind.”

OR

“I just had to step away from my laptop from how badly written *insert page/paragraph number* was, I mean seriously! ‘To think it’s written is to write’ what the hell does that even mean!?”

Author!Price’s editor who agrees to help him with his alcohol problem, taking him to meetings, regulating his alcohol intake, eventually taking all alcohol away, just helping Price through the whole process.

Author!Price who eventually fucks things up between him and his editor, goes back on alcohol but it becomes worse. Editor who is also heart broken but tries to move on by continuing to edit other authors works.

Author!Price who eventually somehow finishes his book, and publishes it…

Editor who tried to fight against the urge to buy the book, ends up with a fresh copy in their hands. Who takes weeks even a month to even open the book, it sits there on their kitchen table constantly haunting them.

…

Editor who finally opens the book, who finally flips the pages to find the dedication page… and runs to find their phone and call Price.

I might just have to write this…

edit: (P.S. I am aware that editors and authors don’t usually meet up or personally know each other. Especially now and days with technology, but for the sake of this fic let’s say that Price likes to be old school and have a one on one basis with his editors and meet face to face!!! 🙏)

written by: @sp0-t ©️

[gh0stsp1d3r]

i absolutely LOVED what you wrote for my criminology major req. just thought of this..

AU where reader notices Williams strange behavior about the major and does some digging and ends up finding out everything but doesn’t give him up / doesn’t leave him. i’m not sure how to word it but i just thought of it and am obsessed !!

ahh love this. I did pretty good for my finals I’m proud, anyways, I can start writing again now yippee

True love

You noticed the way he acted, the way he spoke, and the way his eyes looked like they had a million secrets.

Of course you had no clue what you were getting yourself into when you started dating Steve. He was attractive, smart, sweet, and he was a gentleman.

And you noticed the way he changed when he heard you were starting criminology. His face dropped for a moment upon hearing, then a fake smile visible on his face. His office door became locked, along with the garage door now.

You sat down in your bed with a bottle of coffee as you scrolled through your work. Reading some article and writing down notes.

Once finished, Steve still wasn’t home. You closed your laptop, hopping off the bed and heading out to the living room. You glanced at the door leading to the garage for a moment.

It was odd, how he never went in. How it was locked every time you tried to open it now. It wasn’t like that before.

Was he cheating on you or something? Is that why his office and the garage are locked now? What was he hiding?

The thoughts ran through your head, and you did something that you never thought you would do to him.

Pulling your computer up again, you typed the words “Steve Raglan”

Of course you saw his work, a few more links leading to the website. Then you started to see obituaries for people with the same name.

You then saw a public record, an order for a name change.

“My complete present name is William Afton. I request that my name be changed to Steve Raglan.”

Your eyebrows furrowed. What? It can’t be the same person. You scrolled through the rest of his profile, seeing his job and even address. Under relatives was his daughter, whom you’ve met once.

What the hell? You quickly closed it and typed in William Afton.

“Owner of Freddy Fazbears pizzeria facing charges of murder.” The title read. A picture of a young man, who did look a lot like Ste- William was underneath. You looked closer at the photo, and the background.

The man had a goofy smile, holding a thumbs up at the person taking the picture. He had blue eyes, light brown hair. It was Steve. You knew it was. You could tell by the smile, the way his eyes twinkled with wonder and joy were the same.

And as horrible as it was, you continued to read through. Once the article finished you stared at the computer, already knowing what you had to do.

You got up quickly, stumbling slightly to the drawer. You rummaged through the files and objects; you then noticed a key hidden deep down.

You tried it to the garage door first, but it didn’t work. Then you tried it on his office one.

His office was clean, boxes in the corner, books neatly stacked, no mess or sign of anything out of the ordinary.

You sat down in front of the computer and turned it on. Your leg bounced as you thought of a password.

After a few tries, you finally guessed it. You opened up a file titled "Work" first, not expecting to find much. Just names of clients, background info. You closed it out and went into another titled "Plans."

In the folder, there were multiple sketches of animatronics, pictures of broken-down ones, and exoskeletons of ones. You then went further down into it, sketches of a dentist-like chair, blades on the animatronics head. Then pictures of bloodied blades, blood from God knows what.

Your eyes widened as you continued through the folder, it got worse as you scrolled. You quickly found out that the animatronics had bodies stuffed in them- children's bodies.

The worst part? Your feelings to William didn't change. You were a criminology student- you should hate him right now! You thought, quickly closing out of the folder and getting off the seat when you heard the car pull into the driveway.

You quickly went out the room. locking the door and making your way to the door where he would enter any second.

You, as always, were there to greet him with a kiss and a smile on your face, asking him how his day was.

[imabeautifulbutterfly]

congrats on 450!! I've just gotten back into my star wars hyperfixation, tis the season I suppose, and your fics have been LIFE SAVERS and so I am here to congratulate you on an incredibly well earned celebration! and to request:

7. "you're not as bad as everyone says."

28. "maybe there's a universe your there where we're friends."

with either Wolfe or Cody x fem/gender neutral (whichever you prefer)?

Thank you so much and congrats again!!! <3

Awww @hxad-ovxr-hxart that's so sweet. I'm so glad my fics have helped. That makes me so happy, and I hope you'll like the fic. I wrote with Wolffe in mind. Enjoy.

Love oo,

Friends

Warnings: Crashing, angst, death, fluff, comfort, I think that's it. If I miss anything please let me know.

Main Master List   |  Star Wars Fic Roulette

Commander Wolffe was never a man who suffered fools, he didn’t appreciate tardiness, he hated chit chat, and worst of all he hated personal questions. And somehow you managed to do all four on your first day on the Triumphant, which made you public enemy number one in Wolffe’s book. 

Every day you saw him, he simply rolled his eyes and growled each time you passed. 

You tried your best to fix it, but no matter what you did or said, it didn’t make a difference. You gave up after months of constant growls and eye rolls. Now you simply made a point to arrive on time for your shift as a communication specialist. You performed your role to the best of your ability, and did your best to stay out of his way. 

Things were going well, that was until your shuttle crashed, and the two of you were the only survivors. 

“Anything broken?” Wolffe asked after he checked on the two pilots and made his way over to you.

You shook your head, “No. I think …” you tested out each of your limbs, “I think I’m alright” you groaned as you tried to stand.

“Easy. Here,” he held out his hand to help you up, “alright?”

You nodded and followed him out of the crashed gunship, “Hmm… where are we?” You looked around trying to become aware of your surroundings.

“We dropped out of hyperspace somewhere in between, the Triumphant and our destination. Don’t worry they’ll come for us, I sent out a distress beacon.”

“How long do you think we’ll be here?”

“A day or two… maybe a week.” He went into the ship, and grabbed the emergency gear, passing one backpack to you and keeping one himself. 

“Are we going somewhere?”

“To a more defensible position, we don’t wanna be out here in case there’s Separatist droids nearby or in case there are any dangerous animals.”

You nodded and followed him, keeping pace as best you could. It was about three hours later, when you were panting and gasping for breath, “Wait … Commander, please I … I need a break.” You leaned against a boulder. 

“Alright …” Wolffe nodded, “take a break, we can rest for a minute.”

You nodded, thanking him, as you took a break, “Sorry.”

“It’s fine, you’re a civilian. You’re not used to this.”

You looked up at him as you regained your breath and took a sip of water, “You know, you’re not as bad as everyone says you are.”

Wolffe, let out a laugh, “And how bad does everyone say I am?”

“That you have a short temper, you don’t suffer fools, you don’t like civilians really…”

He turned to look at you, “Really?” You simply nodded your answer, “I wouldn’t say I don’t like civilians, I’d say … civilians don’t appreciate the sacrifices me and my brothers make.”

“I know” you answered solemnly, “I’ve heard them, when I walk around Coruscant. I’m sorry. It’s not right or fair.”

“My life has never been really fair. But, thank you.”

You stood brushing off your pants, “I’m good, we can continue.”

Wolffe simply nodded as he led the way to a cave that would provide the right shelter, he set up a defensive perimeter, while you started a fire, when you were finished he came and sat beside you nodding at your achievement. 

“Good job, didn’t think civilians knew how to start a fire”

“Well I did take basic survival training, when I first joined the GAR.”

“Impressive.” He took off his helmet and his gloves, keeping the comm alert on high in case the rescue team was trying to get a hold of them.

“Commander” you looked into the fire, lost in thought, “Do you think maybe there's a universe out there where we're friends?”

“I don’t know” Wolffe answered as he kept his own gaze on the fire, “but I can tell you, you gained a friend today.” He smirked as he looked at you, “Listen, I don’t know what I ever did to make you think I hate you, civvie. But I don’t. I am actually impressed by you. It’s not easy joining the GAR to begin with, not as a civilian, certainly not as a woman, but you continue to work harder than everyone else. You’re prompt with your reports and always pleasant with your co-workers. I’ve heard nothing but praise from everyone you work with, and even today, you put up with a lot, with barely a complaint. That’s impressive.”

You tried to hide the smile that wanted to creep on to your face, “Thank you, Commander.”

“Wolffe.”

“I’m sorry?”

“When it’s just us, you can call me Wolffe. After all, we’re friends, right?”

“That’s right … Wolffe.”

He didn’t know why but hearing you say his name, brought a smile to his lips. “Close your eyes and try to sleep” he motioned to the ground, “I’ll keep watch. You’ll be safe.”

You nodded and leaned down against the ground resting your head on the backpack, wrapping the emergency blanket around you to stay warm. “Wolffe, do you think someone got our distress signal?”

“Don’t worry civvie, Plo’buir isn’t about to leave us behind.” He looked after you and smiled, “Just relax, and close your eyes. It’ll be okay.”

You nodded, closing your eyes, “Thank you, Wolffe”

“For?”

“For being my friend,” your voice trailed off as the exhaustion from the crash, the hike, and just the anxiety of the day pulled you under. Soon enough you were snoring. 

Wolffe smiled as he watched you sleep, his heart fluttering as he took in your features. He always wondered why you had kept your distance from him, but to think you thought he hated you, made his heart hurt. It was so far from the truth. However, it was too soon to point that out. Instead, for now, he’d be your friend, and hope that in the future, your friendship could progress to something more. Maybe one day. 

“Goodnight, cyar’ika. Sweet dreams.” He whispered as he put his helmet back on and kept his blaster on his lap, keeping guard, making it his job to protect you. 

Main Master List   |  Star Wars Fic Roulette

Tag list:

@liadamerondjarin @badbatch-simp24@spicymcnuggies@lady-ren @firstofficerwiggles @darkangel4121 @discofern @kavecika @monako-jinn-stories @ladykatakuri @avathebestx @theroguesully @furyhellfire66 @carodealmeida @ciramaris @sprout-fics @twinkofthedink @dindjarin-mandalorian @ulchabhangorm @littlemisspascal @tortor-mcgee @vodika-vibes @clonethirstingisreal

[sanest-bsd-delegate]

Just a bunch of stray kids

Headcanon: You are a caretaker at an orphanage as you see how your boyfriend act around kids  ft Dazai, Akutagawa ,Ranpo Masterlist Please look at the request rules in masterlist before requesting.

Dazai:

Ma'am you are a female Odasaku to him.

I mean you are a caretaker, at what cost? The orphanage.

The orphan kids just to much remind him of his time with Odasaku and the other orphans.

Being famous for the laughing personality he holds, In no time will the orphans hesitate to cling at this tall lean figure.

Having a class? Dazai will be bargaining the classroom and disrupting the class.

A kid is crying? No problem! Dazai will make sure the kid is on his shoulders being the tallest.

Just don't have this man near the storytime period. He will make sure to read that book.

What about the teens you say? Well he might have showed them The promise Neverland anime.

I leave the rest of Dazai HC to you. We all know it where it ends

Akutagawa:

As much you convinced him to like you back, He hates orphans.

You are the polar opposite couples. you will take the kid and your boyfriend take their parents. (UMM BUSINESS?)

He talks time to open up a little, considering he would barely visit your workplace.

But He will make sure that the attacks and fights are never near the orphanage. (he is a babygirl fr)

He seemed to attract some kids at the orphanage who usually referred him as big brother. (Honestly its just wholesome, might as well make a oneshot on it later)

Now he wouldn't be the one to interact much but he may burst in pure jealously once in a while whenever the kids steal your attention.

"They are just a bunch of stray kids" He would say, but we all know deep inside he likes them.

Ranpo:

Is Ranpo talking care of kids or are the kids taking care of Ranpo? No one knows.

You would be face-palming as the kids seemed to beat Ranpo up because he stole their candies for dinner.

I feel like Ranpo's coat and hat will be stolen every time he visits the orphanage, as kids would run and strike pose showing off their non existing abilities.

Ranpo is the mom of the orphanage. Lost your slippers? He found it under the pillow. Lost your Head band? He finds it inside the cupboard.

He is legit the favorite adult out of all the ADA members.

Am sorry but the kids love him more then they love you. Its always Ranpo name which seemed to be chanting during meals as if he had started a new religion.

"Dorothea, did you finish your homework?" ".....Ranpo"

LIKE????? You had to ban your own boyfriend after that at your workplace.

Laughing at this cus my humor is broken. Requests are half way done dw bbgs/bbbs i havent forgotten about y'all

[veliseraptor]

July Reading Recap

A Fire Upon the Deep by Vernor Vinge. I can see why people said this one had Adrian Tchaikovsky vibes because in terms of the worldbuilding and the alien species involved it absolutely did. I was not super enamored of the part of the plot that wasn't on the Tines' world (which was...an important part of the plot), but my investment in the politics of the Tines and the worldbuilding around them made up for it. I'm curious about the apparent sequel and whether it's worth reading - does anybody know?

Thousand Autumns: vol. 5 by Meng Xi Shi. I have finished Thousand Autumns and my verdict on it mostly hasn't changed from what it's been throughout: enjoyable but not really fully clicking for me. I liked it! But I didn't love it, and I don't know that it'll stick with me the way other books have, or compel me to do a reread.

A Fatal Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum: Murder in Ancient Rome by Emma Southon. Maybe I just don't have a sense of humor, but I felt like this book was trying too hard to be funny/clever and it landed wrong for me. It was interesting, certainly! And I learned some new things from it, and probably will go on to read the author's other book (about women in Ancient Rome), but this one tonally was not a winner, for me personally.

Ballad of Sword and Wine: vol. 1 by Tang Jiu Qing. Rereading this one (Qiang Jin Jiu, they're really going off in their own direction title translation-wise there) with the official published translation even though I am also binding it, because I can, I guess. And I still deeply appreciate how unhinged Shen Zechuan is, but in, like, mostly a way where it's not obvious to most people until they've known him for a little while. Also the sheer amount of politics, which I'm following better on this second readthrough. I think it'll be rewarding to reread.

The Pomegranate Gate by Ariel Kaplan. One of two Jewish fantasy books I read this month, just by chance (I wasn't intending on a theme, they'd both been on my to-read list for a while). I liked it a lot! I thought it was going to be a stand alone and feel a little funny about it being a series (I'm always looking for more stand alones), but I am also looking forward to more of it.

The Devil & Sherlock Holmes: Tales of Murder, Madness, and Obsession by David Grann. I've really enjoyed the other David Grann books I've read/listened to (The Lost City of Z, Killers of the Flower Moon) but found myself fairly underwhelmed by most of the essays here. It's not that they weren't good (they were) or interesting (most of them were), it just didn't feel like they were that good or that interesting. Maybe I just like his full-length books better.

Five Broken Blades by Mai Corland. It was fine? Not as good as I'd hoped. I called the twist which was satisfying for me personally. I don't know if I'm going to be reading the sequel. Most of the POV characters I liked fairly well, which is the main thing this book had going for it, but one of them bored me to tears and that inflected my enjoyment of the book as a whole.

The Vanished Birds by Simon Jimenez. This book earned its five stars by making me cry in the last 20%. Overall a beautiful book, though, relatively quiet; I wasn't sure about it early on but then it hit a turn that really got me. Makes me want to read his other book. The summary on the back really does not do the book justice but I don't actually know how I would explain it better, and I recognize that makes it a difficult recommendation.

When the Angels Left the Old Country by Sacha Lamb. This one was really good and a lot of fun. Very Jewish, too, which was enjoyable and not something I run into all that often in fantasy books. Just...very charming, entertaining, a joy to read.

I'm currently reading Godkiller by Hannah Kaner though I should be reading Edenville since I have it checked out from the library (I'll get to it!). I keep meaning to get back to reading more nonfiction (or realistic fiction) and then getting distracted. My plan for upcoming books, though, includes The Ratline, To Shape a Dragon's Breath, and (after years of having it sit on my shelf) Beauty Is a Wound. We'll see how on task I stay or if I end up wandering off to other stuff.

I'm currently looking for horror and mystery/thriller recommendations, though, so if anyone has any of those I will take them.

[graceshouldwrite]

4 Ways to Get Back Into Your WIP

You know when you might have taken a long break, worked on other projects, talked to other people about it, and basically did EVERYTHING to get yourself back into it, but it’s not working?

Even though you still want to LIKE your WIP and work on it? 

These tips are based on my own experience dealing with that feeling. I went through something like that for around a year, but now, I’m getting past it and returning to my main WIP more excited than I’ve been for a long time! 

1. List out WHAT you don’t like and fix it

COMMON CORE ISSUES:

Plot + Subplots? 

They might seem too (among other things):

lackluster

complex

unnecessary

confusing

You might not know how to:

develop the plots

make them believable

add the scenes you want without giving the book 800+ pages

choose scenes to cut to fit the word count goal...

Characters?

A BIG ONE: some writers try to force themselves to like X character for whatever reason (e.g. based them on a specific aesthetic, felt forced to add specific rep, etc), but they just DON’T. 

Or, maybe:

you don’t know how to develop your characters

their group dynamic is too difficult to write/doesn’t make a lot of sense

your character voices, personalities, or appearances might not be distinct enough

Prose?

You might:

want to add more humour (prose is too depressing and atmospherically dark)

want to add more gravity (prose is too comedic and romantic)

want to shift from past to present tense, want to tell story from another POV, etc. 

Organization?

OFTEN, the book’s just TOO COMPLEX with all the characters, subplots, etc. and it’s too intimidating to try to sort out all the mess that’s your WIP 

SO…

The lists I gave you are most of the big, common issues. Once they’re sorted into SPECIFIC types of problems, don’t they get less intimidating to look at? 

I know you might think, gee, Grace, these problems will take [insert comically large time frame] to solve. 

Well, if you genuinely want to like your project again and work on it, DO IT.

Slowing down your WIP finish date is worth it if it helps you get back into it. If you never get back into the project, you’ll NEVER FINISH IT. Late > never.

Heck, you might not even be too late—you might find yourself back in the passionate fever you were when you started it, and be in the headspace to write furiously :) 

I think you know how to solve these broken-down problems. Some require more sheer line-editing, while others require big executive decisions (e.g. getting rid of a character or rewriting an entire subplot/the plot). But, it will be worth it when you start to love your project again.

2. Remember why you started it 

Before each project, write a STATEMENT OF PURPOSE at the beginning of your doc to remind you why you’re writing this story in the first place. If you didn’t do this, it’s not too late to start one now! 

It could be something as close to heart as “I want to express how unrequited love feels,” or something as grand as like “I want to write a tragic allegory of the political and economic state of the world that explores human nature” (I am projecting in both of these examples, but you get it). 

Something SPECIFIC is a lot better for this than things like: “I told X this story idea and they liked it,” or “I promised to write this for X,” or “I want to tell this story just cuz.” These latter examples probably won’t fill you with passion. 

3. Listen BEYOND your WIP playlists. Look at images BEYOND your WIP aesthetics 

Many people think revisiting your old playlists / boards help, but that often contributes to the staleness!!!! 

Instead, by purposefully expanding your scope of consumed media, you open yourself up to more inspiration and ideas of where you want to take your project.  New images and new songs will give you new ideas on atmosphere, mood, scenes, and so much more. 

4. Compare your WIP to a similar book you like

You know THAT BOOK that comes to mind whenever someone asks you which book is your favourite/impacted you deeply? Think of how your book will impact readers in the same way. All the emotional turmoil and mental enlightenment That Book gave you is what YOU will give to the readers who resonate with YOUR book one day!

The author of the book you’re thinking about went through drafts, edits, and maybe even wanted to give up at some point, (LIKE YOU!) but pushed through it. Now, their book is on the bestseller list/on a bookshelf/a classic (whatever appeals to you)!  Don’t stop before YOUR book is there, too. 

∘₊✧────── ☾☼☽ ──────✧₊∘

instagram: @ grace_should_write

A LOT of this comes from personal experience; I had this mental tussle with my main WIP a while back, so I hope this helps anyone else dealing with the same problem :)

Hope this was helpful, and let me know if you have any questions by commenting, re-blogging, or DMing me on IG. Any and all engagement is appreciated <3333

Happy writing, and have a great day!

- grace <3

[junikicker]

Lightning. Thunder. - Rebecca Welton x fem!reader

Lightning. Thunder. - Rebecca Welton x fem!reader

warnings: love confession, alcohol

note: this was so fucking fun to write I can't- btw am I the only one who thinks if I wrote it a bit different, it would have turned into a poetry slam? yeah whatever. here you go folks.

It hurt a lot when you and Rebecca broke things off. The breakup had been mutual but that didn’t mean it hurt less than one where you are broken up with. If you were being honest, you still weren’t over her after half a year. You had distanced yourself from her as good as possible. You asked Keeley if you could work at the office more rather than at Nelson Road and she agreed. You had rarely seen Rebecca since you broke things off. But you missed her. It was like a piece of you was missing.

You sat at the window, a glass of wine in one and a book in the other. The yellowish light of the lamp on the other side of the room set a comfortable and cozy atmosphere as you set the book down and watched the rain hammering against the window and fall down onto the dark street that was only illuminated by one lonely lamp post about twenty meters from your front door. You sighed. The rain. You loved it. It made you calm. The sound relaxed you. There was thunder rumbling in the distance...

A lightning bolt.

Twenty-one. Twenty-two. Twenty-three. Twenty-four. Twenty-Thunder. Barely a kilometer away now.

You downed the rest of the red liquid in your glass before reaching for the bottle again. You didn’t dare touch the bottle to your lips. No. You thought. The glass. More elegant. You reminded yourself.

You didn’t know if it was the alcohol in your system or just your mindset today that had you reminiscing about your time with Rebecca. It felt like yesterday that you were sitting in front of this exact window. Her lounging between your legs and you braiding her hair. There was no make-up, no high heels – not that she wouldn’t have been taller than you either way – no pencil skirts, no pantsuits, no ties, no dresses. Just you, Rebecca, a bottle of red and… white silk robes.

You remembered the feeling of her soft skin under your fingertips, the way that, when your lips connected, the whole world faded out of existence.

You remembered how you laughed together. Watching rom-coms the whole night and her always mouthing the lines like she had never watched anything else. You had loved to observe her. Not in a creepy way, but in a loving way. Many times you had held her, tears streaming down her face when she had encountered Rupert once again.

You sighed. How could it all have gone so terribly wrong. What even went wrong. Was it just the wrong person at the right time. Or maybe right person, wrong time.

Right person, wrong time. You decided. Sounds a lot better. It made you think that, in another life, we may have had a chance.

Lightning. Twenty-one. Twenty-two. Twenty-three. Thunder.

A tear rolled down your cheek. You wiped it away quickly. You had finished the third glass now. I should stop. You thought, getting up, placing the empty glass onto the coffee table in your living room.

I need to clear my head. You thought, placing the green wine bottle back into the fridge. You closed the fridge. There it was again. The picture of you and Rebecca that you couldn’t get yourself to put away. She looked so happy. She had this ability, you thought, that her smile could light up an entire room. No matter how big it was, no matter how many people were in it. She always managed to light up the room with a simple smile.

You walked over the dark oak tiles on the floor of your apartment. It squeaked under your feet as you sat down on the chair next to the door and reached for your shoes. You laced up the black boots. They looked worn out. You had been wearing them for as long as you could remember. You remembered how hard it had been to break them in. Took me almost a damn year. You chuckled to yourself. That was, of course, only a lie you told yourself, not wanting to admit that they were your favorite and important to you.

You reached for your keys in the key bowl. The metal was cold. You reached for your leather jacket on the golden coat rag. That one had been a present from your best friend. Felix. You smiled at the reminder. What would I do without you, pal?

The jacket was almost as worn out as the boots. The color had faded from the deep black it once had into a washed-out, very dark grey. In an attempt to have it live longer, you had patched it up. Where it had been torn on your shoulder, there now shone a large Richmond logo and on the back there was Superman’s symbol.

Superman. You shook your head. Why can’t I just have my Lois Lane? Or do I need fucking superpowers for that?

You closed the door to your apartment. The color of it mismatched the dark oak on the floor. It bothered you, but you never attempted to change it. The door fell into lock and you looked up. Silver. 7. Ironically enough, it had become your favorite number. Something about the number seven seemed satisfying to you. Even numbers didn’t do it for you. Five seemed such a boring number and-

Thunder.

One and nine were just boring. You also liked the number three. Three and seven. You thought. Imperfections that, if added to one another still manage to be perfect. You locked the door.

The rain was pouring as you stepped out of the building. You looked at the lamp post. The darkness had almost swallowed the black-painted lamp now, only the light visible. The rain hit your head and for a second you thought to go back up for an umbrella and then decided against it. You weren’t made of sugar, were you?

You looked at the poorly lit street. A smile made its way to your face. That was where you had first kissed.

She had brought you home after a night out with her and Keeley. It was as dark as it was this night. The lamppost was present as it had always been since you had moved in. Her dress was blue, her heels black and her eyes were the perfect emerald green, and her perfume… intoxicating.

You felt the uneven bricks of the road under your feet as you walked, the thin rubber on the bottom of your shoes made you feel every little stick and stone.

Your hair was wet by the time you had crossed Duke Street and the water was starting to get past the thin leather of your jacket and you could feel your toes starting to get wet. You walked faster, not caring where you went, so lost in your racing thoughts. Racing thoughts about Rebecca. Racing thoughts about her eyes, her laugh, her voice-

Lightning. Twenty-one. Twenty-two. Twenty-. Thunder. -three.

Racing thoughts about her…

Paved Court, King Street. Old Palace Place. Lightning. Friars Lane. Thunder. Friars Lane. Friars Lane… Friars Lane.

One. Two. Lightning. Thunder. Three.

Your clothes were drenched by the time you had reached the front door and knocked against the dark wood.

Your hair was sticking to your face, your clothes hung off your body like a bag. Your feet were now entirely wet, and your back was soon to be as well. You stared at the golden number. Gold. Silver. Three. Seven. Lightning. Thunder.

Your heart was beating so hard you thought it would jump out of your chest when the sound of the thunder rumbled away over you and pulled you out of the trance you had been in since you left your flat.

Your bones ached, and your unsteady and heavy breathing told you that you had hurried on your way to her door, probably even started running at some point. The lights turned on in the hallway. Another Lightning bolt. Twenty-one. Twenty-two. Thunder. The words ‘What the hell’ muttered under a breath but to be heard through the door.

Keys rustling, silence, a key turning, unlocking the door. Cold metal. Like the keys in your hand were when you left. Lightning. Twenty-one. The door opens. Twenty-two. Thunder.

Her hard eyes softened the moment her eyes found yours. The softness you had longed to see again for what felt like eternity times two.

Your back was now wet as well, you weren’t sure whether the water on your face was tears or rain but it could just as well have been both. Her hair was dry, not up the way you used to remember seeing her when you had to see her for work but down. Down the way she used to wear it when you were at home. Down the way she had it when you were in bed. Her face was nude of make-up. The lack of heels and pencil skirt had something comforting, something that made it all easier.

“Y/n...” Rebecca broke the silence. Her eyes were still on yours but showing everything and nothing at once. You had a hard time reading her expression. “Becca.” You replied, feeling water run down your spine.

“Did you- did you walk all the way here?!” She asked and rushed forward to pull you under the roof so that you wouldn’t get any wetter. You nodded.

“I miss you, Rebecca. And I know this is shitty and I know we ended this. Above all that we did fucking six months, twenty-one days, and seven hours ago. But I just fucking miss you! And I know this all is insane. I know you have a thing going on with Sam and I wish you the best but. I just need you to know that I miss you.” You rushed over the words, barely comprehending what left your mouth yourself as you continue to ramble on.

“I miss you, Becca. And believe it or not… I still love you.”

Lightning. Twenty-one. Twenty-. Her lips on yours, igniting a fire in your soul that you have never felt this strong. Thunder.

Rebecca’s lips moved against yours in the familiar way that you had learned to cherish. There it was again. Her signature scent, suddenly as intoxicating as it had been the first time you kissed. Her hand on the back of your head, tangled in your hair, you on your tiptoes to match her height.

Lightning. “I still love you too.” Thunder.