somewhere-to-be

[somewhere-to-be]

what is a love story if not falling to your knees and pressing your shaking hands to his wound, as if the desperation of your heart could stem the blood pumping out of his; and what is a love story if not holding out a sticky-sweet handful of death to the greedy cameras; and what is a love story if not your one wish being to send her home, with all the reasons why hanging golden around your neck like a willingly-worn noose; and what is a love story if not hitching yourself to the puppet strings of politicians in a last ditch attempt to save each other across the miles; and what is a love story if not the ever- unspoken mantra “take my life: take it, take it, take it” — and what is a love story if not the burned and blistered realization that offering up your life is not enough, not quite, but that offering your lover’s life back to them might just be? so you plant her primroses in the ash, and you mend his mind with the thread of new memories, and it isn’t pretty, but it is a love story — because what else could it be?

[somewhere-to-be]

I knew because she made me feel safe. She made me feel as though I was no longer broken or perhaps that I had never even been broken to begin with. I knew because I woke up next to her, the tips of our noses grazing each other ever so slightly, and I wanted to fall back to sleep just like that as much as I wanted to kiss her.

Because she made me feel comfortable in my skin, I knew. Of all others I had been with she was the one who could influence me so. I knew because when she laid next to me and placed her head on my shoulder I felt so light that I could have floated away had she not kept me grounded.

I knew because I never smiled, at least not until her. And because I hated my smile, but not when she was the one who drew it out of me. I knew because I never wanted to go home without her but when I did I could summon her presence at will and be full and whole and right.

A part of me had always said I would never live to see twenty-five and I had accepted it without a fight. I knew because she silenced that voice when she could, or else she would drown it out with her laugh.

I had never been happy. Perhaps I could never truly be. But I knew because she made me feel as close as I had ever come by leagues and miles and more.

Because I could feel. Because I could think and want and still let go without fear of loss. I knew because I knew.

A life full of uncertainty and anxious weights pressing down my heart and chest and still I knew.

I knew and could know nothing else.

[somewhere-to-be]

wip introduction

— 5 Ways to Ruin Casey Brandt

s y n o p s i s

What if the guy who ruined your life comes crashing back into it?

Briar Elliot hates Casey Brandt. With one thirty second video he ruined her freshman year while his accounts skyrocketed. But, this year she has a plan. She’s going to keep her head down and focus on school. She has a career to build. A suffix to put in front of her name. And, according to the academic advisement office, an internship to get.

Casey Brandt hates himself. In an attempt to prove to his overbearing father that a degree in media studies is worth something, he got himself into a social media career he never wanted. His videos have hurt people. Ruined lives. Including his own.

When the two come crashing back together, Casey realizes he can make up for his mistakes. All he has to do is convince Briar it’s worth it.

What if he’s the only one who can fix it?

t r o p e s

fake dating | second chance | grumpy girl x sunshine boy | rich boy | he fell first, she fell harder | daddy issues | found family

c h a r a c t e r s

BRIAR ELLIOT

will make you cry | future doctor | always stuffing her face

CASEY BRANDT

future director | from a family of doctors | dangerously impulsive

KODA CROSSDELL

wannabe actor | rich bitch | loves his beanie more than u

DEMI FALKE

a beam of light | avid runner | positively optimistic

MIK ROSHDAM

future performer | loves the spotlight | will kiss u

NATE ROSHDAM

aspiring writer | rarely smiles | pretentious in a hot way

l i n k s

wattpad | tiktok | tag: #wip: fwtrcb | pinterest

if interested in being added to the taglist, please let me know! <3

[somewhere-to-be]

y’all don’t be mad at me but i forgot to introduce my wip and now one of my tiktoks for it went viral & my wattpad reads are skyrocketing AND I GOTTA POST MY WIP INTRO ASAP OMGOMG

[somewhere-to-be]

some things I like/find interesting about succession's writing, in no particular order:

there are no flashbacks. ever. (not that flashbacks are always bad but it's fascinating to see how much they accomplish with a straightforward linear story)

the characters drive the plot. it's a tragedy of their own making. the roy siblings at any point could've just fucked off with their money and live in peace but no they can't not have the attention.

the dialogue. oh, the dialogue. there's creative insults, awkward babbling, grand metaphors, corporate buzzwords. it's so absurd that it almost shouldn't work but it does.

unexpected things sometimes happen not because of villainous plotting but because life is random.

everyone sucks but you'll still find yourself rooting for everyone at some point (except logan, because fuck logan)

and it's so funny. it can be devastating with its emotional moments but it can also be so, so funny.

[somewhere-to-be]

🌺 Sign up for ARCs here! 🌺

Scroll through the images for the full blurb! Full list of content warnings are on the ARC sign up page.

I expect to send out ARCs via email in the first week of May. Honest reviews are greatly appreciated~

If anyone wants a slow-burn exploration of warring religions & gods told through mortal elves with so…so many issues, I’ve got you covered. (I hope.)

[somewhere-to-be]

wip^2

She ran her fingers over the crown. The gemstones were sharp against her skin. Enough to make her bleed if she applied any pressure. And perhaps it would have been fitting. A crown of blood. A sharp reminder of all the blood that paid for the crown. That paid for their rule. Asmodea was united. Held by a careful thread. Blood stained the lands. Blood stained the crown. Her father had paid in blood. Cut open and splayed out at the gates. His face barely recognizable. Death hadn't suited him. But when does death ever look good on a king?

[somewhere-to-be]

this book website gives you the first page of a random book without the title or author so that you can read it with no preconceptions!!! great for discovering new recs

[somewhere-to-be]

Let's stop talking about creativity as "having good ideas" and start talking about it as "having the desperate, gnawing urge to create at all costs"

[somewhere-to-be]

logical brain: it’s just fanfiction… you’re writing this for fun… it’s okay if it’s not perfect as long as you enjoyed creating it

monkey brain: everything I write must be groundbreaking

[somewhere-to-be]

I've been a little sick and didn't have any energy (physically and creatively) to keep up with the blog. But I'm back now and looking forward to being more active!

[somewhere-to-be]

Insatiable Pt. 3 - Rhys Montrose x Reader

Part 1 | Part 2

Meet the Eat the Rich killer.

It had been one week since you'd been exchanging texts with Rhys and six hours since you were so delusional from lack of sleep that you'd confessed to him that you hated how boring it was covering the nothingness of the aftermath of his friend's murder. Delusional was the only way to explain it. You had been beyond tired but unable to sleep and you were texting him anyway because you were always texting him and just this once, you'd let your guard slip and out of all the things you could've confessed, it was this.

The memory of the exchange came back to you a few minutes after waking up and you immediately regretted it. You opened the app but of course there was no history and no record of what you had said except a hazy recollection of saying too much. You remembered he had replied being supportive of your frustration with work even after you'd told him that. But you were certain you'd gone too far and had something to apologize for. For being insensitive, at the very least. Even if he hadn't opened up to you about how he felt about Simon's death, it didn't mean he wasn't still hurting.

And it had been just a little over a week since you were assigned to cover the investigation but the police had nothing and from what you could tell, there wouldn't be any more leads to come. All your other pitches for stories were being rejected. Just as you'd felt like you were finally getting a break, you were back to square one. Rhys had become the only one you texted so of course you'd ended up telling him that when you weren't thinking about it. But he was asking you about your work and why you sent him long messages when you should've been working and why you were trying to find anything else because you were so bored of work and before you knew it, you had told him everything there was to it.

You had to text him an apology. Instead of spending hours thinking of the right words to say, you just sent the first ones that you thought of.

I'm sorry if I said anything insensitive last night. I didn't mean to imply that writing about the investigation into Simon's murder is boring. I didn't want it to come out that way. I swear I'm not that much of a thoughtless jerk usually.

You did mean it and it's okay. You don't have to apologize for being honest.

You felt relieved he wasn't mad. If this was what had ruined whatever this relationship you had, you would've been very disappointed in yourself.

But it wouldn't have been Rhys if he'd left it at that.

I meant it when I said I want to know everything about you, even the parts you hide from the world.

How was it that he could flirt at the most inappropriate times? And why did you still like it?

Even the part that's thinking right now how inappropriate it is for you to be flirting right now?

I didn't take you to be someone who cared about what's proper.

I did take you to be someone who cared about what's proper, Mr. Good Man in a Cruel World.

My biggest regret in life is that I can't travel back in time and meet you before to ask for your opinion on the title before it was published so you couldn't keep teasing me about it.

I'm sure I could come up with other things to tease you about.

Smiling, you got dressed for work and headed in. You didn't text much during the day when you were both busy (you assumed he was too). Even though you weren't looking forward to calling up the police again because you knew their answer would be the same ("Our investigation is ongoing."). The other thing you had on your agenda today was looking into what was being planned for Simon's funeral, which you knew you would have to cover.

The office was quiet when you entered. You were there early as usual to enjoy the peace before it got busy. There was a box on your desk, it was mail addressed to you. You hadn't placed any orders recently to your work address and this didn't have any labels indicating where it was from.

Grabbing the pair of scissors, you opened it up. There was a piece of folded paper inside and another box. You opened the box - which had ice packs surrounding - was that a severed finger? Fuck. You dropped it on your desk and checked the note. Typed in the center of the page, in all caps, were two lines - "This is not a kidnapping…. This is a murder."

The next few hours was a flurry of activity. The police were called in and they took the box away, you went with them to give your statement, they took your fingerprints so they could check the box for prints that didn't match. They quickly identified the finger to belong to Malcolm Harding. You were already typing up the story from your phone and you worked on finishing it quickly once you got to the office. Others hovered around you, and you knew they were curious about the details, having heard from others who were in early and had seen it all happen. Everyone still gave you the distance you needed because getting the story out was always the priority.

Just after noon, you were done.

You hadn't checked your phone while you were working on your story, but now that you were done, you did and saw a text from him, from two hours ago.

Do you want to meet tonight at my place?

You'd be lying to yourself if you said no, but when he had texted, he didn't know that another one of his friends had been murdered. And now that it was out and you had published the story, you couldn't hold him up to an invitation under these circumstances. So, you didn't accept or decline.

Check The Herald.

By this time, your story was front and center on the website. You had called the person behind it Eat the Rich killer because you knew that name would catch on and everybody would be reporting it. But on the other hand, the Rich here weren't an abstract entity to you completely when you were talking to Rhys. And this was another of his friends, dead. You hoped he wouldn't ask you about it and assume an editor had named it, despite the story having your byline.

But regardless, now that he knew, maybe he'd rather be comforting Kate? You didn't know if they were that close. You also didn't want to decline just because you thought he should be doing something else. He was free to make his own decisions and even if you didn't want to admit it, if he still wanted to meet up, could it mean that whatever you had between you was actually serious? Could it mean that it wasn't just you who felt like Rhys was the one you wanted to go to when something happened in your life?

It took him a few minutes to write back.

I still want to see you, if you want to see me too.

But you still felt like you were monopolizing his time and stealing him away from his friends when you said yes.

You didn't think it was appropriate to wear bright colors but also black felt too much like a funeral in light of what had happened today. So you dressed in a dark, navy blue instead, and hoped it wasn't that big of a deal. Rhys had sent the address to his place but told you to take the entrance at the back, just in case there were paparazzi at the front, which you knew were guaranteed to be there after the news you had been the one to break. There was no way you wanted to be spotted with him too, unless it was in a strictly professional capacity. There were many reasons for you to not go to see him. But there was also one major reason why you did, which in your mind trumped all the others - he'd asked and you wanted to.

It wasn't that you'd forgotten how handsome he was, but it was still the first thing that you thought about when you saw him. And then, your curiosity kicked back in. Why did he want to meet you now? You searched his face for his signs for grief. Instead, you saw concern.

"Are you okay?"

Out of all the things you had thought he would say, that hadn't been one of them. "I should be asking you that."

"I wasn't the one who had a severed finger delivered to their office and had to write about it."

Oh. Oh. Is that what this was? He was worried about you? You couldn't believe that anyone could be that nice. But he also hadn't given you a reason not to except for your enduring skepticality about people being good.

"But wasn't Malcom your friend? It couldn't have been easy, especially after what happened with Simon." Which Rhys also hadn't seen too torn up about. But you still didn't know him well enough to know how much of that was actually not caring and how much of that was just bottling up emotions.

"I've known that bunch for years. They were the ones who were with me after my father claimed me as his heir, so to say. The people I knew before shunned me, unless it was to ask for money." He chuckled. "You know this, of course. I made everyone a part of my therapy through that book. I didn't write about them though, because I did think of them as friends. I do see them as humans, with all their beauty and their flaws, but also, I couldn't help but see how their flaws didn't come with the same consequences as they would have if they didn't have the wealth that was handed to them. But who am I talk?"

"You didn't have them when you were growing up. I'd like to believe that makes a difference."

He smiled. "I would like to believe that too. Would you like a drink?"

[somewhere-to-be]

And We're Off!

thank you very much @mariahwritesstuff for the tag! her post can be found here.

tagging @j-1173, @words-after-midnight, @literary-tori, @somewhere-to-be, @nightlylaments, @bardic-tales, and @asher-orion-writes! no pressure if you don't want to/don't have time to do this, though!

i'll be doing a Heads Up 7 Up tag, but anyone joining is free to do a last line tag if you choose!

-

The god paused, then heaved a sigh. “Every god has a distaste for what I give. Long forgotten, I used to roam the world with the being who takes everything away. He was Death, and I was made of Loss.”

Lenore sat down. The sunlight reflecting on the glass made it hard for her to see. “What relation do you have with Yama?”

“He is my brother.”

“How come he is not with you?”

[somewhere-to-be]

Seamus Heaney, The Burial at Thebes

[somewhere-to-be]

rereading my own writing is just a constant fluctuation between "damn, girl, you wrote this? (affectionate)" and "damn, girl, you wrote this? (derogatory)"

[somewhere-to-be]

I also like the variation of this trope where you have the name and you do get some elaboration but there's a cult-like following that just calls it by its basic name because there's nothing else they could be talking about. And then the more you find out about them the less you trust them.

I love how ominous such basic names like "The Organization" or "The Institute" or "The Initiative" or "The Facility" or etc. are when placed in like a shady sci-fi context, like there's no reason for them to sound that suspicious, but without elaboration, it's like here is a place where they are doing things™ and I am like ooohh, because the blank state, the refusal to give you any more detail makes you think they're hiding something on purpose and leaves the darkest corner of the imagination left to fill in the rest.

[somewhere-to-be]

Insatiable Pt. 2 - Rhys Montrose x Reader

Part 1

Picks up right after Part 1. Because Joe Goldberg doesn't exist in this fic and someone needs to secretly text Rhys Montrose, right? Even if might be getting you closer to breaking any rules you may have as a journalist. But who cares about ethics when you'll have a fun time?

A big part of covering the news is being at the place where things are going wrong at the right time. This is where you happened to be when Simon Soo got killed. Your unmemorable, throwaway article on another gallery show became something much, much bigger. Your first call, of course, was to your boss at The Herald, to let her know that you couldn't exactly write the article you were sent here to write because the artist was now dead.

It was a long night of typing, double-checking every single letter and punctuation, going over your notes to make sure you got the facts right, sending it over to the editor, and then hitting publish.

Soon enough, it was up before any other publication. This was bigger than anything else you had worked on. But also - and you wouldn't admit this to anyone else - it didn't feel like it mattered. Sure, a rich asshole was dead but his death now overshadowed the fact that he might have stolen another artist's work. Even before he was killed, it seemed like nobody would care about the girl, but now? Now, it didn't matter at all because everyone cared about Simon Soo's art too much to even investigate whether it was his. It had crossed your mind if she had killed him but you were sure the police would've arrested her already if that was the case.

You didn't even feel like checking tweets in response to your story like you would have otherwise because it felt so inconsequential. Instead, you thought about Rhys Montrose. Was it fucked up that you were thinking about Rhys more than you were thinking about the murder that happened so close to you? You could get into a long chat with a therapist about your desensitization to violence. At the very least, some introspection.

But who liked facing the uncomfortable truth about your true self? You chose to scroll through his Instagram where you had finally followed him at the respectable hour of 8 in the morning after looking at it all night. At least you were aware of what you should be doing instead even if you didn't do it. That had to count for something, right?

Rhys hadn't posted anything about Simon, not even on his stories. He had a social media presence but he wasn't very active. It was personal, but professionally curated. There he was looking very approachable doing a tour of his favorite lunch spot, a cheap Indian restaurant. And then, there he was looking very classy in a blue suit very likely picked by a stylist that brought out the blue of his eyes as he stood smiling backstage of a talk show. Someone who looked at home in both places.

But did he really feel like he did or was it all just an act to make him appeal to everyone for his mayor candidacy? You couldn't deny his charm, you had only spent every single free moment since you'd met him thinking about him since you saw him.

You were far enough back that when you accidentally liked a post, you quickly unliked it. You just hoped that for a verified account, it would be lost in a sea of notifications and he'd never know you had been spending hours looking at pictures he'd posted.

But then your phone chimed. Fuck. But Rhys had somehow seen your message, because there it was. A DM. From him. There was no hello. Just a word and numbers.

Evanesce. 91210.

And then, he must have deleted his message because it was gone, just like that.

You repeated the numbers back to yourself until you wrote it down. What was that?

A quick search led you to a highly encrypted messaging app with messages that disappeared when they were read. You remembered hearing about it but had never needed to use it but you knew some investigative journalists who might have needed to use it. The other person needed to have it installed too and to send the first message you needed their code. You typed in the five digits slowly. Why did Rhys Montrose want to message you on a secret app?

Rhys?

I thought you didn't get my message because you took so long. But I shouldn't have worried you had read it. You've been stalking me, haven't you?

You couldn't deny that, so you just chose to answer his question with one of your own.

Is this really you? Or are you Rhys's social media manager pranking me?

I don't have a social media manager. If I did, they wouldn't know that we met yesterday night when you were not thrilled about writing what you were assigned.

So it was him. It was a bit morbid to say that you were glad you got to write about someone getting killed, especially when you didn't care about their death at all and it happened to be someone he knew. You chose to go with a kinder message.

I'm sorry for your friend's loss, Rhys. It must be a shock.

To be honest, it was the opposite.

You waited for him to elaborate, but nothing else came. So you asked him a question instead.

Why did you want me to message you here?

Because I'm surrounded by people who wouldn't ask me that question.

You noticed that it still didn't answer your question. Why the additional secrecy if he didn't have someone else checking his DMs? It certainly wasn't because he was so well-known. Plenty of celebrities flirted in their DMs and the newspaper you worked at had itself reported on the ones that had leaked. But it certainly didn't get anyone into trouble. No crimes were being committed here.

When you didn't reply right away, he sent another message. Was he impatient or just eager?

And because we didn't get to finish our chat. I felt that you were someone I wanted to get to know better. I prefer not to linger on what-ifs.

You shook your head. Always the writer. But could you deny that you wanted to know him better too? You typed out a message and looked at it, considering whether or not to send it. He'd been the friendlier one so far and nobody would question your professionalism in anything you'd sent. Not that anyone else would read it. So, what it did matter? Besides, it was just a joke. You hit enter.

So you prefer to fuck around and find out?

His reply was quick.

When I know what I want, absolutely. And, as I said, right now, it's getting to know you. That's all there is to it.

You wanted it to be flirtatious but your journalistic insticts also pointed out that he was keeping it ambigious and refused to give a clear answer. There could be more to it but you would have to build trust to know what his true intentions were. Or, if you could meet him, you could ask him directly again and refuse to let him deflect.

Besides, it was true that you knew a lot about him from his memoir than he would know about you, even if he did look you up.

I'm an open book. You replied. Not as open as a published memoir but close enough.

Well then, I'm looking forward to exploring what your pages hold.

Cheesy, but you had started it first. A smile tugged on your lips. And he was typing more.

Meanwhile, do you mind keeping our chats between us? It's just that being in the public image put my actions under more scrutiny and I wouldn't want that to come between us.

You suspected there was more to it than he was letting on but you couldn't risk alienating him too. Whatever this was between you, you wanted to explore it too. Your personal and professional curiosity was very piqued. So you didn't even have to reconsider sending an affirmation.

And just like that, covering a surprise murder wasn't even at the back of your mind anymore. You had the mystery of Rhys Montrose to unravel.

And now, if you've made it this far, I'd love to know where you would want to see this headed!