#wordsmith verse

[kairos-thehumanpoet]

Undone

where do I end

and you begin?

(does it matter?)

I feel like I'm

coming undone;

please my love,

hold me tight and

keep my pieces close,

tie together our knots

and don't let me go.

~kairos 💛

[bapydemonprincess]

Sebastian Michaelis: "The shoemakers son goes barefoot", yes? But do the morticians son stay alive forever?

Arthur Wordsmith: >implying the mortician is the one who actually kills everyone like some grim reaper

Sebastian Michaelis: You don't know the people I know

[agatheringofthreads]

Pomegranate

The sky is pomegranate red at sunset.

A wayward cloud shaped like an arrow pierces the fruit and the juice drips secrets down into vessels, into valleys, into all the fields and oceans.

Clouds gather. Tides roll in. I watch from the shore, shifting with the sand, asking for my place in all of this.

The roots of trees respond to me:

Be honored. You are witness. You are watered by the storms you’ve weathered. You are lifted by the winds and you dance. You sing. You journey and return. You are pulsing, a complex system intertwining, yet a still and simple thing of nature. You are many things and many ways at many times and many places, and always through it all you are witness. There is nothing more precious you can be than that which you are.

I listen to the rustle of the wild blooms that sprout from my limbs and face and heart and everywhere, and I know that the roots speak true.

I gather the seedlings that the breeze plucks off my petals and onward, with an armful of hope, I flow.

[0nelinerwordplay]

Matsuo Basho Haiku

Summer Grasses

Are All That Remain

Of Warriors' Dreams

Woman walking through nature barefoot

[poniadeaur]

Would you rather be the poet or the poem?

[theartofsorrow]

My grief hangs So thickly in the air I seem to be choking on it A dark, visceral thing Merciless, Cunning, Cutthroat, It sinks its claws Into my back and refuses To lick away at the wounds.

[simonfalk28]

John O'Donohue's Accompaniment

For a number of us the late poet and philosopher-theologian, John O’Donohue, has articulated for us when we seek words. He crafts a vessel that has carried, or, is carrying, some of us across the waves of grief to safe shores. The words are a companion in loneliness and a gentle sound to punctuate silence. I’ve written of him before in That Worthy Wordsmith is Our Anam Cara. This is but a taste…

[wordsfromastranger]

Reader

Me ~ a book, closed tightly enough to spoil no secret, closed just much to let in the once closest; Some pages empty as a slate when some had a chaotic game You ~ reader, who found hidden gems dark realities and unreal stakes of dream Now the empty pages have a story to tell and the chaos is spinning little less Wondering cover asks me a question even I think often ‘how did this reader…

[thewriteadviceforwriters]

The Ultimate (short) Guide to Crafting Captivating Book Titles: A Writer's Journey into Naming Novels

Embracing the Power of a Book Title

Greetings, fellow writers and wordsmiths! As we embark on the magical journey of storytelling, there exists a crucial milestone—bestowing our creations with a name, a title that encapsulates the essence of our narrative. The quest for the perfect title can be as thrilling as drafting the story itself. In this guide, we will unravel the art and significance of titling a novel, exploring strategies, tips, and the creative process behind crafting an engaging and magnetic book title.

Understanding the Importance of a Book Title

The Gateway to Reader Connection

A book title is the beacon that beckons readers to explore the universe you've crafted. It's the first impression, a snapshot that encapsulates the soul of your narrative. A compelling title can captivate an audience, generating curiosity and inviting them to step into the world you've woven within your pages.

Reflecting the Essence of Your Story

A well-crafted title encapsulates the core theme, mood, or central conflict of your novel. It should resonate with the narrative, teasing elements without revealing too much, leaving a trail of intrigue that entices readers to delve deeper.

The Art of Title Creation

Embrace the Journey: Start with a Working Title

Begin with a placeholder, a working title that captures the essence of your story in its rawest form. Let it evolve and grow as your narrative does. This title might serve as a guiding light until you uncover the perfect one.

Exploring the Heart of Your Story

Consider the central themes, characters, or pivotal moments within your book. Delve into the emotional core of your narrative and unearth words or phrases that resonate with its essence.

Utilizing Literary Devices and Techniques

Explore metaphors, alliteration, symbolism, or even poetic verses. Experiment with wordplay, juxtapositions, and contrasts. These literary devices can infuse depth and intrigue into your title.

Testing and Refining Your Title

The Power of Feedback

Share your title ideas with trusted friends, writing groups, or beta readers. Gather feedback on their impressions and the emotions evoked by the titles. Use this input to refine and narrow down your choices.

Alignment with Your Target Audience

Consider your intended readership. Does your title resonate with the genre and expectations of your audience? Ensure it's not only enticing but also aligns with the preferences of your potential readers.

Finalizing the Perfect Title

Distillation of Essence: Keep it Succinct and Evocative

Aim for brevity and impact. A concise yet evocative title can linger in the minds of readers. Often, the most powerful titles are those that say much with few words.

Research and Avoiding Clichés

Investigate existing titles in your genre to ensure your title stands out. Steer clear of clichés and overused phrases, aiming for originality and uniqueness.

Embrace the Artistry of Title Crafting

Crafting the ideal book title is an art in itself. It's the literary cloak that shrouds your creation, inviting readers into the tapestry of your imagination. Embrace the journey of titling your novel with the same passion and creativity you pour into your storytelling. Let the title be a herald, whispering the promise of a remarkable journey that awaits within the pages of your book.

As you venture forth, remember, the perfect title awaits—a key to unlock the hearts and minds of your future readers.

Happy writing and titling!

This comprehensive guide aims to take writers through the journey of creating an impactful and engaging book title, emphasizing the importance of a title and offering practical strategies to craft one that truly resonates with a novel's essence. If you need further insights, examples, or specific advice on any aspect of titling a novel, feel free to delve deeper into each section. Happy titling!

[charmiely]

<PRONS> 🕰 𝐗𝐕𝐈 : A wordsmith crafting intricate verses, bringing emotions and images to life with poetic mastery. (1998.. 🖋️)

𓇣 𝅄  glamour  {  ⠸"Like a living poem, this woman carries herself with a lyrical grace, weaving elegance into the very fabric of her being." ਏਓ

ೀ💐 .. ╱CYBER – Like a rare flower in bloom, this young woman embodies beauty with a delicate and enchanting grace. 𖧷

𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐒. “ ⸙‌ .. Aged manuscripts preserving the nuances of history, softly whispering their stories to those who turn their delicate pages. 📜 ⟆  ۫  ⊹

@charmiely

(N). This bio is purely mine, don't claim it as yours. For personal use only and don't repost. Account type/pronouns can be changed according to your needs.

[weirdly-specific-but-ok]

Pt 0 good omens i make predictions for season 3 after watching three episodes of S1

[WARNING THESE PROPHECIES ARE BY THE GOOD OMENS MASCOT AND KNOWN MESSENGER OF APOLLO AND SO CLEARLY 100% LEGIT STAY IF YOU DARE *OMINOUS TREMBLING*]

First, because I am a messenger of Apollo, I am compelled to write cryptic verse before I explain it to you, so take what the Voice of Delphi speaks to me:

When the anticipated arrives

An embrace is born, the love shall thrive

The angel will repay his demon's kiss

A bird will sing, a child will be missed

Heaven recedes like an evening tide

Led with pen by a wordsmith-guide

The home on earth more holy than above

Pain will strike, the panacea is love.

Now, because we are not in ancient Greece and I am not as cruel as you, I will explain as best as I can. You wanted to know if we will find salvation in season 3. Like Edgar Allan Poe, you asked me, is there, is there balm in Gilead (season 3)? Unlike the raven I will not say nevermore, but here:

We all know Crowley and Aziraphale will get together, but I'd advise you that the smell of angst is in the air. I say this as both prophet and writer, but for the story to end happily and still keep us suckers glued, it will drag Aziraphale and Crowley through the dirt to get there. You will get the happy ending, but at an emotional price that even season 2 did not prepare you for.

The fucking apocalypse plotline is going sneak in again, I smell it like ice on mountain air and fungus in a moist cave. Mostly the fungus metaphor.

Aziraphale will kiss Crowley first in this season. It is only fair.

There will be a hug. An Aziraphale-Crowley hug. Who hugs whom? Delphi has not spoken to me of that in detail, but a wee little nightingale told me it is a possibility they will both fall into the hug and we will know they needed it like they needed breathing and it wasn't planned but it was inevitable. The whole fandom can then sleep again.

I expect at least two more ineffable husbands breakups. But you guys survived season 2 (I haven't yet. If I die, can someone reblog this with 'he told us so!' when season 3 finally comes out?) so I have faith in you, war veterans.

Crowley will know, finally, that he is more than forgiven. He is loved. Aziraphale will know, finally, that the real heaven was the home he found with Crowley. Heaven and god will retreat. It's okay, guys, it'll take time but it will happen.

[vintageshanny]

Elvis Top Three - Horny/Sexy Songs

Thank you @xanatenshi for the idea for this next question! Of course with Elvis being the sexiest man to ever exist, sometimes (a lot of times) that appeal oozed out into his music, especially when he would make those…noises. You know what I mean. 😉 So what are everyone’s top three sexy/horny Elvis songs? 🥵

Shake, Rattle and Roll (full version) - The verse that was edited out (“the way you wear those dresses, the sun comes shinin’ through, I can’t believe my eyes, all that mess belongs to you”) reminds me of what Elvis supposedly said to Kay Wheeler when they met - “Is this all you?” Oh my god, I would just die if he looked at me and said something that sexy. 🥵 Even without that verse, the song is full of innuendo and I love it. “You make me roll my eyes and then you make me grit my teeth.” I’m picturing a very specific scenario with that line…

Steamroller Blues - Whew, hearing Elvis sing blues just does something to me, and again with the innuendo on this one! Please, Elvis, shoot me full of rhythm and blues or whatever else you want. 😉 Also I love how he pronounces cement like semen lol.

It Feels So Right - Basically the whole Elvis is Back album is off-the-charts sexy, but this one in particular drives me wild. His intense vocal delivery makes me feel some kind of way, and I wish I could’ve seen him belting this out in the studio. “Nothing could be wrong that feels so right.” Describes my love for this man. ❤️

Let’s hear your hottest takes on sexy Elvis songs! Anyone join in! 😘

@whositmcwhatsit @be-my-ally @thatbanditqueen @ellie-24 @vintagepresley @lookingforrainbows @prompted-wordsmith @flwrs4aust @iloveelvis @argeriant18 @loving-elvis @alienelvisobsession @ab4eva @manebioniclegali @deke-rivers-1957 @rjmartin11 @elvisalltheway101 @satninroses @devilsflowerr @missmaywemeetagain @troubleinapinksuit @cryingabtab @dreamingofep @animalloverthingsss @velvetelvis @everythingelvispresley @arrolyn1114 @claire-elvisgirl @vintage-leisure @blighted-star @queenncreole @basicpresleygirl @lllsaslll @elvissbabygirl @powerofelvis @ashtag6887 @sissylittlefeather @dkayfixates @peskybedtime @lettersfromvenus @burnthheparaphilia @thetaoofzoe @mercsandmonsters @wildhorseinkansas @presleysweetheart @all-hookedup-on-elvis @i-r-i-n-a-a

[0nelinerwordplay]

Haiku by Kobayashi Issa

[buildarocketboys]

53 + peterick lmao

Haha this one was so perfect for them! Fluffy early band ficlet, Pete takes Patrick out on a 4am ice cream date!

53. “Who crawls through someone’s window at 4am to go for ice cream?!”

It's 4am, and Patrick is wide awake.

Not that this is such an unusual occurrence for Patrick. His preferred sleeping schedule lingers somewhere between 3 or 4am and 12 or 1pm. But as a high school student, that's not really sustainable so he's usually at least trying to sleep by this time.

Right now he can't, though. He's thinking about the conversation (argument) he and Pete had earlier. Replaying it over and over in his mind.

Ugh, but Pete just makes him so angry sometimes. They were rehearsing a few of their songs in preparation to record them at Joe's next week. 

And then Pete had wanted to change a lyric.

And another.

And another.

They weren't sensible changes, either. Half the time, Pete seems to want to replace one word with forty. It's ridiculous.

And he's so smug about it too! As if he thinks-knows-that his lyrics are so much better than Patrick's.

The worst part is, Patrick can't help thinking he's right. Patrick knows he's no poet, or wordsmith. His lyrics are juvenile at best. He's all too aware of this, as Pete well knows.

Pete's words are beautiful, poetic, the metaphors winding and flowing through his writing like a river to the sea.

But at least Patrick's lyrics fit the rhythm of the damn song!

After one too many of these changes, Patrick had lost his temper.

He'd yelled, "If you know so much better than me, maybe you should write the fucking lyrics!"

Pete had gone quiet at that. He hadn't talked for the rest of the rehearsal, which they all mutually decided to cut short. Which doesn't bode well for the recording. They all need the practice.

Patrick knows he went too far, but also - he can't see how he's wrong. Pete needs to put up or shut up when it comes to the lyrics - he could at least work with Patrick when it comes to making the lyrics fit. But the man has no sense of rhythm, at least not on purpose. He doesn't seem to see an issue with adding another twenty words to a verse.

He just gives Patrick an infuriating little smile and tells Patrick that he knows Patrick will make it work.

Pete seems to think Patrick is some kind of musical genius. Which is flattering, he guesses. Except he's really not.

Patrick's perseveration is interrupted by a tapping at the window. He jumps, then twists around, pulling the curtain back to reveal Pete's face at the window.

He groans.

"What the fuck are you doing here?" he hisses once he's opened the window.

Pete pouts at him. "Now that's not a very nice way to greet your best friend, is it?"

Patrick grits his teeth. "It's four in the morning!"

Pete shrugs. "So? You're awake, aren't you?" When Patrick continues to glare at him he says, "Also, be quiet - don't wanna wake your mom up."

Patrick rolls his eyes, arms crossed tightly over his chest (only partly to hide his Batman pajamas), then sighs. Relenting, he scrambles back so Pete can climb into his room proper.

"Shut the window," he says, "It's freezing." January in Chicago is no joke.

Pete does so, a grin playing round his lips. It fades when Patrick says, "What are you doing awake at 4am anyway?"

Pete presses his lips together. Instead of answering, he says, "I could ask the same of you."

Patrick stares back at him, stony-faced. He asked first.

Pete sighs, pushing his hair back. "Couldn't stop thinking about earlier," he admits.

Patrick lets out a sigh of relief. "Yeah, me too."

Pete looks up at him, eyes sparkling hopefully. "Thought I could make it up to you."

"Make it up...to me?" Patrick asks. He'd figured Pete was mad at him. Too late he registers Pete's raised eyebrows, and scrambles to correct himself. "How?" he asks, crossing his arms again.

Pete grins, so effortlessly charming that Patrick kind of hates him for it. Patrick could never be so laid back in a million years.

For some reason, Pete likes him anyway. God knows why.

Sometime after they became best friends, Patrick resolved to stop questioning it. Sometimes it's best not to look a gift horse in the mouth.

"I'm taking you out for ice cream," Pete announces.

For a moment, Patrick's not sure he's heard correctly. "Ice cream?" he splutters. "Pete. It's 4am in midwinter in Chicago. We are not going out for ice cream."

"Why not?" says Pete. "You once said that if you could choose one food to eat for the rest of your life, it'd be ice cream."

"Well, yeah, but..." Pete remembers that? How many of the stupid things Patrick says on a daily basis has Pete retained? It doesn't bear thinking about. "Who crawls through someone’s window at 4am to go for ice cream?!"

Pete waggles his eyebrows. "C'mon, Patrick. You know you want to."

Patrick's stomach flip flops in excitement. Pete is always doing shit like this, getting Patrick to step out of his comfort zone, while always, always being there to hold his hand. He pretends to be annoyed, but really he loves it.

"What if my mom finds out?"

Pete shakes his head. "She won't. Just sneak out the window with me. We'll be back before she wakes up."

Patrick moves to the window and looks out dubiously. He's seen Pete do it before - shimmy down the drainpipe and onto the garage roof, before jumping down.

But Pete's athletic. If Patrick tried that, he'd probably break an ankle. Or worse. 

"I think I'll go out the front door," Patrick says. He's pretty sure he can make it without his mom waking up. He's an expert at ninja-ing down the stairs in the middle of the night.

Pete shrugs. "It's your funeral." He heads for the window, obviously planning to return the way he came. "Wait, you do want to come, right?"

"Yeah!" Patrick exclaims - a little too loud and enthusiastic. He cringes, and they both listen for any sound of his mom stirring in the next room. "Yeah," he says. "I just need to put, like, ten layers on."

Pete's got a shit-eating grin on his face now. "Alright. See you on the other side, sport." He punches Patrick's shoulder and has disappeared out the window before Patrick can object to the childish nickname.

Patrick sighs and then starts pulling on clothes at random, grateful for his floordrobe for once, as it means he doesn't have to open his squeaky closet door. He darts down the stairs, ninja-style, and stands at the front door for a full minute, pricking his ears for any sounds from his mom's room. When none come, he slips on his shoes and unlocks the door, closing it softly behind him before half-jogging to Pete's car.

Pete smirks as he slips in. "Impressive," he says.

"Oh shut up." He rubs his hands together as Pete starts the car, waiting for the heaters to warm up. "Where do they serve ice cream at 4am in Chicago in January anyway?" he asks. "It's, like, 20 degrees."

Pete grins as he pulls out of Patrick's driveway and guns the engine. "I know a place."

The place turns out to be a diner on the edge of the city.

When they enter, there's nobody else in the place. No customers, no waitresses, not even anyone behind the counter.

The lights are on but nobody's home, thinks Patrick, then giggles.

Pete glances at him. "What's so funny?"

Patrick shakes his head. "Is this place actually open?" he asks.

Pete nods. "Sure it is. The lights were on, the door was open, right? They're probably just out back, having a smoke. Hey!" Pete calls loudly. No answer. He sighs in frustration. "Just wanted to get my boy some ice cream," he mutters under his breath.

Patrick feels his stomach lurch. Something about Pete calling him his boy does things to him. It's kinda like Pete calling him his boyfriend.

Kinda, but not really, he tells himself firmly, as Pete dings the little old-fashioned bell next to the register.

They hear footsteps coming their way. "Finally!" Pete says, as if they've been there for hours. Patrick rolls his eyes fondly. "Why don't you go pick out which flavors you want?" He nods toward the glass box under which a smorgasbord of ice creams are displayed.

"Woah," Patrick says. He scans the flavors, trying to pick his favorite, wishing he hadn't forgotten his glasses. A waitress arrives behind the counter to serve Pete.

"Hey there, darling, sorry about that. You been waitin' long?" she says to Pete, batting her eyelashes, and suddenly the ice cream is the last thing on Patrick's mind. He watches her flirt with Pete, nails digging into his palms, thinking that is the fakest accent he's ever heard in his life.

Pete seems to fall for it though, much to Patrick's disgust. He grins up at her and says, "Not long, no," in this breathy little voice he uses whenever he flirts with girls. Patrick feels sick, for absolutely no reason whatsoever.

"What can I get ya?" she asks.

"I'll have a coffee," Pete says. "And for my friend here..." he trails off, obviously waiting for Patrick to give his order.

Patrick realizes he's been staring at them, open-mouthed.

He slams his mouth shut as the waitress says, flatly, "Oh. Hey there."

"Pete, I...I don't have any money," he admits. He'd been so focused on getting out of the house undetected, and so excited about sneaking around with Pete in the middle of the night, that it hadn't even occurred to him to bring his wallet.

Pete reaches out and grabs his arm, pulling him close so he can wrap his arm round Patrick's waist. "That's OK, honey. My treat."

The waitress purses her lips. Patrick feels a zing of delight in the vicinity of his stomach, even as he can feel his cheeks burning.

"Uh, are you not having anything?" he asks Pete.

Pete shakes his head. "Just coffee. I'm not hungry."

"I'll just have some vanilla then," says Patrick.

"Aw, no, c'mon Patrick," Pete says, eyes crinkling in disappointment. "I'm taking you out on an ice cream date, you've gotta have at least two flavors."

The waitress looks at him dubiously - 17, chubby, wearing about 15 layers of clothes. Privately, Patrick agrees with her - why would Pete want to take him on a date, of all people? Even a friend date, which he's sure is what Pete means. But he raises his chin and looks her in the eye.

"Um, OK," he says after a moment, when the waitress has looked away. "I'll have, uh..." he glances at the flavors again, and chooses pretty much at random, "Bubblegum and rocky road."

"Good choice,' says the waitress, smiling a little.

"And put those in a cone!" Pete says as she goes to scoop the ice cream. He nudges Patrick. "It's not ice cream if it's not in a cone, right?"

"Do you remember everything I've ever said to you, or just the ice cream-related things?" Patrick teases.

Pete looks at him, deadly serious. "Patrick Stump, I remember every word you've ever said to me."

Patrick rolls his eyes, but he can't help but smile. He takes the ice cream cone the waitress offers him and they go sit in a booth in the corner.

Then he remembers their argument this afternoon. "Even the bad stuff?" he asks, swallowing nervously.

Pete's eyes soften. "Yeah, not that there's much. But I don't hold it against you." He sips his coffee. Patrick's pretty sure he's just being kind - they argue a lot, and Patrick's not always the most objective or logical when his temper gets the better of him. "Besides, you're usually right, anyway."

Patrick snorts. "Am not," he says, because that's definitely not true, and he doesn't need Pete to mollycoddle him.

Pete flashes him a grin. "Yeah y'are. Like this afternoon-"

Patrick sighs. "Can we not talk about that?" He realizes his ice cream has started to drip down the cone and onto his hand, and launches a rescue mission with his tongue. Pete is silent for long moments and Patrick thinks he's dropped it, but when he looks up again he catches Pete watching him.

Pete clears his throat. "You were right," he says. He sounds kinda weird. "I was being annoying, making all those lyric changes."

Patrick sits back in his seat, satisfied that they're finally in agreement. "Yeah, you were."

"But was I wrong? I mean, didn't my changes make the songs better?"

Patrick snorts. "If changing one word to forty makes a song better, sure." Now that he's cooled down, though, he actually thinks about it. "Your words are better than mine," he admits quietly. "They're more poetic, or whatever."

Actually, Pete's words are kind of really fucking beautiful, but he'd never tell Pete that. It's one of the things that annoys him the most when Pete asks to change the lyrics. Not only are they almost always better than Patrick's lyrics, they also make Patrick feel things. Things he's not sure he wants to feel.

"Exactly!" says Pete, then cringes when Patrick scowls at him. "That's not...that's not what I meant," he says quickly. "I love your songs, Patrick. You know that."

Patrick does. Sometimes he thinks Pete's the only one who likes them.

"But you're a musician. I...I get the feeling you don't really care about the words."

Pete picks his words carefully, but Patrick can't help feeling a little offended. Patrick does care. Sure, he cares about all the other stuff - the melody and the rhythm and the harmonies - way more, but it's not like he's not trying! He tries really hard with the lyrics, they just never come out any good!

"It's not that I don't care-" he starts, then sighs.

"But you see what I'm saying?" Pete asks, pressing his advantage.

"Yeah. I guess." Patrick pays attention to his ice cream for a while before he speaks again. "What's the point of this, Pete? I mean, what can we do different?"

Pete's face lights up with a grin. This is clearly the point he's been wanting to get to the whole time. "I write the lyrics. You write the music."

Patrick considers this for a while, his tongue worming its way into the bright blue ice cream. He doesn't miss the way Pete is staring at him, but for now he just lets it happen. Pete isn't like other people - he likes being under his gaze.

"How would that work through?" he says. "If I write the music, we'll still run into the same problem, trying to fit your lyrics to it." In fact, it'll probably be worse, Patrick thinks.

Pete shrugs. "It's just an idea," he says. "I don't know, maybe I could write the words and you could fit the music around them?"

Patrick screws his face up. Nobody does it like that. That's just not how songwriting works.

But.

Sometimes when he looks at Pete's lyrics, he hears the beginning of a melody. Usually he pushes it back, annoyed at the distraction when he's trying to fit them to the tune he's already got.

But what if he let that impulse run free? What would happen then?

"We could try it," Patrick says tentatively.

Pete's face is split with a grin. "Yeah?"

Patrick shrugs. "Yeah. I'm not saying it'll work, mind you. Nobody writes songs like that for a reason."

Pete lets out a breath. "I know. But we're not like everybody else." He claps his hands together, satisfied, breaking the tension between him and Patrick. "We'll do the recording like we were always gonna, with your lyrics. I'll try not to mess with them too much."

Patrick raises an eyebrow.

"But after that, we try this, yeah? It's an experiment. And if it doesn't work, we can go back to you writing the songs."

Patrick nods. "OK," he says, and attacks the rest of his ice cream with gusto, while Pete sips his coffee and watches him openly.

Pete drives him back at 5:30am. His mom gets up at 6. He should be fine.

Patrick's quiet on the drive back. Just thinking.

"You OK?" Pete asks as he pulls up on Patrick's driveway.

Patrick nods, offering him a small smile. "Just thinking," he tells Pete.

Pete nods encouragingly, and Patrick adds, "Do you actually have words to give me? You know, if that's what we're gonna do?"

Pete nods. "Oh yeah." He leans over Patrick and opens the glovebox, pulling out a hardcover notebook. Patrick's seen him writing in it before. "Here you go." He hands it to Patrick.

Patrick takes it reverently in his hands. "Pete... isn't this basically your diary?"

Pete nods, not looking at him. "Technically it's a journal. But yeah." He breathes shallowly. "But I trust you."

The gravity of that trust is not lost on Patrick.

Pete turns around finally to find Patrick staring at him.

"What?" he says, but his cheeks are ruddy. "You're my best friend."

Patrick blinks, his eyelashes fluttering. "Yeah..." he breathes.

Pete leans forward and brushes his thumb over the corner of Patrick's mouth. Patrick's heart stutters in his chest.

Pete's eyes flicker to Patrick's lips, and for a moment, Pete thinks he's going to close the distance between them.

Then he leans back, breathing hard. 

"Might want to wash your face when you get in. Your mouth is blue."

Patrick chokes out a laugh. "Yeah. Will do." He opens the passenger door.

"See you tomorrow?" says Pete hopefully, and Patrick smiles.

"Yeah," he says, squeezing Pete's hand. "Tomorrow."

[elvisabutler]

she's there watching for me

fandom: elvis 2022 | elvis presley rating: m pairing: elvis presley ( big daddy flavor ) x female reader word count: 2593 warnings: p in v sex ( unprotected ). insecurity regarding weight. the word fat being used in the narrative. implied breastfeeding kink. light sub elvis. mommy kink. light dom reader. implication that elvis is girthier than normal when he hasn't had release in a while. brief mention of pills/detoxing. elvis is a selkie. bit of fingering. use of the words mama and baby boy. a hefty chunk of belly worship. author’s note: welcome to day 3 of ally’s wet hot smut summer, mommy kink with selkie elvis presley x reader. so for context i feel like i need to make it clear, so the original selkie au i wrote was set pretty much in a timeframe of about 1971 to 1973. basically allowed y'all to read it and decide which age you wanted elvis at. i erred more toward '73 in my mind mostly because that was pretty close to 40 and i had made the comment in the fic about him being surprised he got that close to forty. that being said, this means the more time that passed in the universe the closer i was getting to 1977. i— have never intended this to have a sad ending. honestly if y'all must know out of all the series i've inadvertently written, this has the most gentle ending other than spark for elvis as far as when he eventually dies. so this takes place in an alternate 1978 where elvis is still alive and is about big daddy build. there is also a hint to the future breastfeeding kink fill and a little surprise in here. know that— the fact that a certain name does not have the middle name attached to it is important. also if you have no idea what this series/verse is, the masterlist is right here. beyond that long winded author's note, special thanks to @stylespresleyhearted and @eliseinmemphis for being my feral little gremlins. to @prompted-wordsmith for being seal!!! always and to my discord wives, birdy, christi and marina, y'all know i love you till the end of time. also once again, i really do love how y'all liked this and received it and live to see your thoughts on my writing.

"Mama." A sleepy murmur leaves Elvis's lips, a pout firmly planted on them as he feels your side of the bed. It's empty and starting to chill, a common occurrence when you're not occupying it. You always forget that he's a bit of a light sleeper until a certain hour of the night when you think his brain and body finally shut off. That hour of the night was at least two hours away but you were for once experiencing your own sleeping issues caused by one Lisa Marie, one John Baron and one little Jesse. A bit of a bug had found itself circulating around the younger three in the house and you found yourself taking care of your little seal pups. After all you were if nothing else, a good seal wife. A good seal wife who happens to be sneaking into your own bedroom like a guilty woman.

"You should have already been sleeping. Didn't you keep telling me how exhausted you were?" You ask, sliding into bed next to Elvis, your hand cupping his face. "I think you dozed off on the way home from the concert."

Elvis can't help but flush a bit in embarrassment as he looks at you, trying to come up with some excuse. "Can't— Feel all keyed up...ya know how I get 'fter a show. Can't go swimmin' to burn it off." He licks his lips, watching the way your chest moves up and down in your nightgown, "jus' worried 'bout how the paper's gonna talk 'bout me."

"It's Memphis, Elvis. They're not going to talk about you like everyone else, you're their son. Honorary King of the city," your hands move to his front, brushing against his stomach, marveling at the feel of the silk of his pajama top and how it reminds you of his skin. "That why you're wearing a shirt to bed? Hiding it away from me?"

It meaning his stomach. Elvis looks away and shrugs. "Mama— don't. I know 'm still packin' on some weight." He had thought when he met you it was just his body betraying him, trying to blubber up like a true seal and it had fluctuated enough as you helped him sweat out his uppers and his downers and everything that wasn't strictly required. He thought maybe you'd get something resembling the man you met all those years ago.

But you always take such good care of him and he should have realized that when you made sure he was well fed with his pups that his own body— his genetics would rear their head and he'd stay a stocky and fat sort of man no matter what exercise he did. Damn human body seems to think he needs blubber as much as he does as as a seal.

"And? Are we not married? Did I agree to love you no matter what?" Even as you try and answer a little flippantly your eyes dart across his face and his body looking for a tell-tale sign that you pushed too hard with that retort but only see a shrug. "I know my pussy doesn't have your tongue, so Elvis— you want to answer?"

"Yes, Mama," he whispers, shifting in the bed a little at the way your tone shifts from purely loving to one that's just commanding enough that he has to focus on breathing and willing his cock to stay down. You're both exhausted but damn if lil Elvis isn't wanting to bury himself so tight in your snatch that he has no choice but to sleep afterward.

At the word Mama you feel your toes curl just a little bit at how it sounds leaving his lips. It's not the first time he's ever called you Mama, after all, you are the step mother to his daughter and the mother to his sons. There's something in his tone though, something that has your body strumming with what you've affectionately dubbed your seal wife sense that tells you something is off. This is different. "You don't have to call me Mama when we're not talking about the pups, Elvis."

Elvis's tongue darts out to lick at his lips as one of your breasts finally makes an escape from the top of your nightgown. You hear the sharp inhale of his breath before without warning his face burrows into your chest frowning at how they don't feel full of milk and pulling you close as his arms wrap around you. "Ain't callin' ya it 'cause of the pups, Mama."

A shiver passes through you at his hot breath against your chilled chest. He's not just calling you Mama because of the pups. You're— you take care of him as well as anyone would take care of a baby boy, don't you? You make sure his meds are taken, make sure no one takes advantage of him when he doesn't want to bother with particulars. You make sure everything is in tip top shape with him and everyone around you. You're his Mama too, aren't you?

Your words come out a unintentionally a little shaky, your nerves starting to get the best of you before you finally ask a simple question. "Do you want Mama to take care of you? Show you how much she loves you?"

Elvis very rarely sounds like a seal when he's in his human form. He very rarely can make the specific vocalizations he needs to in order to achieve it but sometimes even with his body in his human form, he can manage it. You swear you see a flash of his skin, almost as if he wants to shift before you hear the whimper and whine against your skin in between kisses to your chest. "Please."

Denying Elvis isn't something you're good at since you came back together and especially since you've been married. He is the love of your life, the seal to your seal wife but you need to have the control today, he needs to cede over his control to you for you to take care of him. It's with that knowledge in hand that you push him away from your chest even as you hear a growl and a whine fall from his lips. Your hands push on his chest, forcing him to lay down even as one hand moves to unbutton his shirt, exposing his chest hair to you first and then exposing his stomach— that filled out out swell that tell the story of how you're taking care of him and damn anyone who'd say anything different about it even if you know sometimes his body acts up and makes things twist and turn and hurt him. Your hands run through his chest hair as you move to kiss his lips and down his neck to his chest where you nip at both his nipples earning two short barks of surprise. When you reach his stomach you feel him shift more, his hips bucking just a little as if to distract you and get you to move down to his aching cock that you haven't even touched but is pressing against the bottom of his stomach. Precum starts to smear against the underside of his stomach and he needs you do something to it.

"Did Mama say you could move, baby boy?" You coo as you rub his stomach, hands forcing the silk of the shirt completely away and exposing his bare torso to you. "Let Mama show you how much she loves this. How she has to stop herself from grinding her beaver on it. You'd like that, wouldn't you, baby? Want Mama to come on this big stomach of yours? Have the hair on it all shiny from my come?"

As you talk you feel yourself growing more and more aroused, your underwear quickly becoming drenched despite him not even touching you. You can't help but grind a little against him, leaving a little wet spot where your nightgown and underwear block your body from his. A whimper that almost sounds like an angry growl leaves his mouth as he tries to keep himself from moving. His hands itch to grab your hips, to tear your panties off in a fit of animalistic fervor and bunch up your nightgown so he can sink his cock between your folds and feel just how drenched for him you are. What he does do is move to take off his pants only to have your hand grab at his wrist. "Patience."

"Ya teasin', Mama," he grunts out a warning, trying to act as if he's not cededing all control to you. You aren't focusing where he needs you to and that just won't do. "Gonna come in my pants if ya don't do somethin'. Wanna feel that tight—"

His words are cut off when you use the grip you have on his wrist to bring his hand to between your legs, his fingers easily gliding into your glistening cunt. The only thing that leaves his mouth is a groan of pleasure, his head falling back as he allows himself to play with your clit. You don't stop him.

"So needy, my baby boy." You tease as you maneuver to take off his pants, pulling them down just enough that you can hear the smear of his cock against his stomach. Hear how he's leaking so much already that you won't really even have to prep yourself. You had originally planned to suck at it, to put it in your mouth until it managed to stand at attention but that isn't needed tonight, is it? No, he's ready and aching and throbbing in your hand as you grip it. Your other hand moves to lift up his stomach just enough to fully expose his cock as you slide the foreskin down to reveal it in all its glory. You can't help but lick your lips and clench around Elvis's fingers.

"Christ, Mama." He curses as his cock twitches, begging to be buried inside of you. He pulls out his fingers and moves them to his mouth, watching you with hooded eyes and labored breaths as he sucks on them, tongue taking in every last bit of your juices. His fingers leave his mouth with a pop. "Taste so fuckin' sweet. Please help me out."

"Don't I always?" The words slip from your lips with a smile as Elvis's eyes look up at you through his eyelashes and he gives you the same answering smile. You take a moment to pull yourself on top of him and situate yourself before you sinking down ever so slowly. Your breathing sync up, becoming shorter as you get more and more of his cock inside you. This isn't the first time you've had sex, far from it but it's the first time Elvis has truly given you this much control over what's happening between you. A whisper of his name escapes your lips as you move down to kiss him softly at first before worrying his bottom lip between your teeth. It reminds you of your first kiss with him and from how he shakes underneath you— you think he remembers too. "Baby boy, you're— you feel bigger than normal. You've been needing Mama that bad all night? Got it all pent up inside you?"

He nods, not trusting how his voice is going to sound. Figuring it'd take on a high pitched quality it hasn't had since he was first starting out or even from before then. You might be his Mama and he's your boy that you take care of so well but— he can't let ya hear him like that. Almost as if you sense he's holding back, one of your hands moves to cup his face, brushing your fingers against his sideburns until you reach his hair. You yank just a little at some of the strands and force him to look at you. "Don't— don't hold back for mama. Let it all out, baby boy. It isn't healthy to hold back. Let me hear you while I help lil Elvis feel better."

It's then that the floodgates open, a string of curses and growls and every noise in between leaves Elvis's mouth as you bounce in his lap, clenching your cunt every so often in between bounces. Elvis's own hips can't be contained as he thrusts up against you, earning more than a few shouts from you as you feel him deeper than he ever has been. You know from how keyed up both of you are that neither of you is going to last long, but you don't want Elvis to come before you. No, you want to come on his cock, drenching it with your release before you feel his warm release coating your insides.

"Mama— gonna come. Gotta— gonna burst. Fuckin' beaver so goddamn tight and ya tits just bouncin' like that all empty, can't even suck 'em." His words are practically gibberish but you can't help but huff out a laugh even as you grab his chin and force him to look at you, his pupils blown, lips shiny with spit and forehead with a sheen of sweat.

"Not till Mama says. Be a gentleman. Be a good boy for Mama," you practically croon at him even as your voice lilts up just a little. "Mama wants to come on your cock. Can you help Mama do that?"

"Yeah, Mama, I—Wanna help ya. Do so goddamn much for me, let me—" His words get eaten up by your lips on his and the moan you let out against them when his hand moves past his belly and your own to play with your clit, the calluses on them adding just enough friction that you don't even have time to warn Elvis before your orgasm comes, your pussy squeezing his cock tighter than it ever has as your release covers his fingers and his cock. You haven't felt the warmth of his come yet, though, and you know he's being good. Being the best boy he could be for the best mama he thinks you are. You struggle to catch your breath but manage to say one word.

"Please."

Somehow he knows what you mean by the word. Somehow he knows it's you giving him permission to finally come and release every bit of tension and insecurity that's kept him up tonight. He comes with a roar— or maybe it's a bark, but all you know is that it sounds so animalistic that it had to have done something good. It had to have achieved something for him just from how you see his head flop back against the pillow as you watch his chest and belly rise and fall with deep breaths.

After what feels like a lifetime you manage to get up and use the bathroom, grabbing a warm washcloth on your way out to try and clean up the mess between you two. Elvis practically looks like he's passed out as you clean up his cock, marveling at how it twitches just a little in your grasp— almost as if to say it wants another round. When you finally slide under the covers, you feel Elvis shift beside you and pull you closer to him, to where your head is over his chest. You can hear the steady but still quick beats of his heart.

"Thank you, Mama."

That whispered bit of thanks puts a small smile on your face. "Any time for my baby boy."

taglist: @ab4eva , @blurredcolour, @butlersxbirdy, @precious-little-scoundrel, @eliseinmemphis, @prompted-wordsmith, @missmaywemeetagain, @lookingforrainbows, @araxw, @thatbanditqueen, @ellie-24, @austinbutlersgirl67, @heartbrake-hotel, @ccab, @18lkpeters, @slutforsomegoodlettuce, @dkayfixates, @kendralavon7 @chasingwildflowers, @notstefaniepresley, @wanderingelvis, @kxnnxy, @powerofelvis, @stylespresleyhearted, @be-my-ally, @mooodyblue, @pixiedustcosmos, @jessicarcates, @amydarcimarie, @flwrs4aust, @myradiaz, @adaydreamaway08, @elirobin, @goldieharry. wanna be added to the taglist? go here and follow the directions. if i tagged you in this and you didn't want to be, give me a heads up/clarify what you really really don't wanna be tagged for. also if the tags messed up i'm sorry i hate tumblr sometimes because of it.

[wolfythewitch]

please do ramble, whats your sbi and sleeping at last association? i really need to know now, that you mentioned it

Okokokok it follows the same directions as the anemoi ones

I'll start with Phil again, and West by sleeping at last, and this time it's more c!Phil than h!Phil

Can you hear me screaming

Can you hear the sandduo fan in me breaking down

The first verse also feels very reminiscent of before he joined the server, back when they would just send letters to each other. And god these verses

I've talked about cphil before, and I've talked about his grief before, and Wilbur Does Not Leave his mind, from November 16th till his revival he hasn't stopped thinking about it. He's thought about it so much that the dude, who's never usually vulnerable, even asks ranboo if what he did was right, one of the times he was emotionally vulnerable in character. I also think it's really neat that Techno built a home in the north and gave Phil a compass that points to it, it's a really neat coincidence. His character also feels very lost in a way? I made a playlist once where I ordered the songs to follow a story, but I left it unfinished because he felt unfinished, forever stuck in some sort of grief (sidenote I need to finish that playlist now that the finale happened) and I think the line about true north fading is pretty neat

So like the oh hellos post, Techno is East, and you can probably see for yourself why I picked it haha

"now I bear little resemblance to the king I once was" is definitely the line that feels very c!techno I think, and "the years wore on and changed my heart, the leading role for a smaller part"

There is the intentional change, with him trying to stay away from violence and retiring, albeit later on going back to violence. But there's also the unintentional part, the one that came more naturally when he found friends. I mean Phil has always been his friend, but now there's Niki and Ranboo, and I mean there was even a hint of a reconciliation with Tommy. Something about having started out trying to go at it alone, and in the end having surrounded yourself with people that care.

So for Wilbur, he gets South.

Wilbur is very associated with lies I think, as a wordsmith. He lies to others and he lies to himself, and I don't think all of it he didn't believe. But also both Phil and Wilbur having lines about losing true north? Oughh. What I really like though is the last few verses

Because these ones are gentler, these ones are kinder. And Wilbur ultimately does try in a way to heal, in the end.

Soo that leaves Tommy with North.

Which I think works really well! A line Tommy has repeated over and over again was that L'manburg was the people, not the government or the land. It was the community.

C!Tommy, I think, is hope. He is kindness, and second chances. Because with everything that's happened to him, he hasn't stopped being kind. He hasn't grown hard with the times, he's remained as open and as vulnerable as he was, even as he grows more scarred. He hasn't stopped caring for the people he loves, because if you stop letting yourself love, what will you have left