#This was actually six sentences but then I edited it and... well.

[lazinesswrites]

Crosshair doesn’t sigh in relief when he sees Tech gently easing open the vent grill, if only because his training and his pride won’t allow it. His comm link is still active; Hunter would definitely hear him. He will admit it to himself though: He is relieved. It sounded like they were in the vents, but it could just be a bad signal, or they could be using the vent system to go somewhere else, somewhere Crosshair wouldn’t be able to cover them. The information he's given them is all correct, his intentions sincere, but he understands why they might not believe him. Not after everything he has done. With and without the chip.

[greyias]

Tagged by: @captainderyn -- thank you for the tag! Tagging: @meanbihexual, @keldae, @queen-scribbles (no pressure!) From the little au that could...

—

Valkorion had looked down at his progeny with ill-disguised contempt, lightning dancing at the tips of his fingers as he attempted to silence what he saw as the only threat in the room. He didn’t even look up until the cold barrel of a blaster buried itself at the base of his skull.

Which brought Theron back to where he wasn’t supposed to be.

Here.

Standing in someone else’s moment, stepping into a destiny that wasn’t his, and about to set into motion a cascade of events he had no hope of understanding. He was a disgraced spy. A Jedi washout. The Force-blind son of someone else’s greatness. A man always destined to live in the shadow of others.

“Do you really think that pathetic toy will hurt me?”

[bunnys-kisses]

the jailbird

prisoner!simon 'ghost' riley

a full fic based on this post

cw: prison!au, civilian!reader, pen-pals, smut,romance/romantic!simon, domestic, missonary, wife kink, size kink, nudity, tattoo kink, body worship, cuddling

bunny says: like the fic? leave a comment! really like the fic? suggest your own! reblogs are always welcomed!

it started out as a flyer at the bus stop near your house. it was for a service that connected prisoners at a nearby prison with civilians as pen-pals. you had seen the flyer often over the course of work as you went to work.

you honestly felt bad, those people must be isolated. the organization prided itself on giving prisoners a bit of their humanity back by not cutting them off from those on the outside. so on a rainy friday you took a photo of the flyer and filled out the form on the organization's website.

that was how you met simon riley, or as he was called on the inside 'ghost'. what caught your attention wasn't his face scar that ran from under his nose down to the left side of his chin, but rather his brown eyes. how intense they stared into the camera. it was almost intimidating.

but you kept the photo on your desk as you typed out your first letter to send to him. you heard of places who did it through email, but screen time for those could often be limited and to send a physical letter would ensure that it would be sent to them.

the letter started out simple, you asked how he was and if it was okay to ask what he was in prison for. you asked him other questions, like if his health was doing well, what did he do most days while on the inside. you ended the letter with a little information about yourself.

you thought it would be nice to take a few photos and print them out on photo paper to be included with your letter. just so he had a better idea of who he was talking about. once you tweaked the letter with a bit of editing, you printed it out and thanks to the Royal Mail, your letter was sent to him.

you didn't actually expect for him to respond. nor did you expect for the letter to be do detailed. it was almost three pages double sided in neat hand writing. your eyes went wide when you saw the thickness of the envelope with the stamp of approval from the prison for it to be sent to you.

simon sent you a bracelet made of string that had been braided together. he said you were the first person from the outside to reach out since he got locked up. that broke your heart. it only broke further the more you read.

he was a military man who was tossed aside once the ptsd got too intense. he had been between jobs, and it felt like everything was just too much for him. he got wrapped up in large scale theft, while it paid good, you could only rob so many banks before it all caught up. he had been in for three years now, he was thankful it wasn't a life sentence. not much was stolen, and there was minimal violence. he said that his stature alone intimidated enough people that he didn't need to be violent.

you re-read his letters and it wouldn't be until almost six months of speaking that you finally wore the bracelet. when he said, "i want to see you in it, since i can't buy you a ring." you sent a photo of you wearing it and since then you hadn't taken it off.

the letters were nice, you sent them at least twice a week. even though you two had never met face to face, and the only photos you had of him were mugshots, he knew all the gossip in your work place. he knew the names of all your friends, your favourite saturday night treat and how you took your coffee.

he told you he'd be happy to make you coffee every morning before you went to work. that comment made your cheeks burn.

he often called you his 'wife' to the other prisoners. he had your photos on the wall near his bunk. he even kept the pictures where you looked terrible after you tried to cut your bangs one night. he knew the exact location of where your favourite take out was. he said that he was writing down ideas of where to take you once he got out. "i gotta make the missus feel special."

he even made you a birthday card. his cellmate 'soap' even signed it. you knew all about the explosives expert mactavish. when you looked into his case on the news, your eyes went a little wide. this guy was.. something.

simon did admit that 'soap' had a bit of a crush on you. but he said that 'johnny' was harmless and probably just liked the photo of a woman in the cell.

"he hurt ya, there will be no cell that could keep me from killin' him. no god either."

simon remembered everything.

the way he spoke about you and to you in his letters were nothing but soft. while he had to put on a tough guy exterior, his letters were filled with gentle words. like when he wrote out that he loved you in big text on a spare piece of paper so you could tape it on your mirror to look at every morning.

"i want to be what you get ready to."

"i want to be with you when you wake up."

"i want to come home to you every night. please make me an honest man."

you knew he was a trained killer. he was in special forces before his brief stint as a criminal. he was trained to kill, but in the margins of your letters, his love shined through. despite it all, he was capable of love.

and he wanted to pour all that love into you, his (future) wife.

you two would go on to write letters every week, for almost two years. when you got the letter from him asking if he could put you down as a permanent address when he got out, you cried. of course!

it was a cold spring morning, the sky was misty as you stood outside the gates of the prison. your heart raced, you even arrived early in the hopes he'd be released sooner.

and then you saw him.

those eyes. hard and stern, until he caught sight of you. his shoulder visibly dropped and his pace quickened as he made his way towards you. before you could step forward to meet him, he had you in his arms. his strong arms, littered with tattoos, wrapped around you as he held you close to his strong chest.

you held onto him as the air left your chest from the force he held you. you clutched onto his shoulders and choked out a sob. you squeaked, "holy shit."

he pulled away from you, but still kept you in his arms. you swore you saw minimal mistiness in his eyes. he reached to cup your face. he said quietly, "soft... like i imagined."

you beamed up at him, "of course, si."

"your voice is so nice." he groaned as he then pulled you close once more and buried his nose in your hair. he inhaled the scent of your shampoo and relaxed, "i'm home."

you thought transitioning from being the only person in the flat, to having this hulking, strong man in your home as well, was going to be a bit hard. but that didn't matter when simon got you through the door. his hands were on you, he promised on the universe that he'd romance you tomorrow.

but tonight was just going to be the two of you.

you managed to get his hands off you in order to get your shoes off before you led him to your bedroom. he was close behind you, he had a hand on one of your hips. he wanted to be as close to you as he could, you two had spent enough time apart.

you couldn't even close the bedroom door before he was pulling at the waistband on your pants. his calloused, strong hands felt delicate on you. it was like he was going to break you and he had to be as delicate as possible.

"si."

"i know, darling." he said quietly as he started to undress you. with your help the both of you were soon nude in the afternoon light in your bedroom. you tried to cover your chest with your arms but he pulled your arms away and looked at you.

your eyes met and you got up on your tip-toes to kiss him gently on the lips. soon he picked you up like you weighed less than a bag of potatoes.

he placed you on the bed gently when you half expected him to toss you like a shot-put. he admired your body down on your soft covers and soon got onto the bed too.

you reached for him as he pulled you into a tight kiss. his lips were chapped and you could tease the fresh skin underneath. your nails raked at his strong back, that you knew was covered in tattoos.

you wrapped your legs around him and held him. from a moment he dropped to his side and you two held each other. you tucked his head under your chin as you laid together naked.

it wasn't even meant to be sexually stimulating, you both just wanted to feel one another. to hear your lover's heartbeat meant more to you than anything in that moment.

you kissed the top of his head, you felt his blond hair against your face as you soaked in his warmth. you could almost cry from how nice it felt to be so close to him.

after everything, you had your man.

he said in his low tone, "you feel so soft. after everything, i have you. you made every day in the can worth it." he sighed, "thank you." he kissed at your bare chest.

you replied, "i loved your letters, i have them still." you chuckled, "i didn't want to throw any of them away. it made me feel closer."

"well. i'm not goin' anywhere." he looked up at you and smiled, "you're home and i'm finally here." he pulled away and got him between your legs. he rested on his knees and carefully moved you to his liking. he sat there between your legs and waited for your command.

you looked at him and nodded, "yeah, si. you can go." then tightened your legs around your lover. you held your breath as he slowly pushed his cock into you. you didn't realize how big it was until he was fully inside of you.

"are you alright, love?"

"golden."

the two of you moved together. it took a little bit to get used to the size, but the pressure and speed of his movements made heat spread through your body. like two pieces of the same puzzle, you fit together perfect soon after. it was like you two were always meant to be.

you felt so loved by him, it was so sweet. this was your first time with him and you only had a few sexual experiences with others prior to him. but the entire time you knew each other you didn't sleep with others, you wanted to wait for your man.

"that's my good wife." he groaned as he held onto your hips, "i know, you wanted this for a long time. i bet you thought about me when i was locked up."

you blushed and replied, "i did, si. i thought about you all the time, i even had your picture in my office. i wanted this, i wanted to be with you!" you whined a little as his cock dragged against a sensitive spot.

he chuckled softly, "yeah. i thought about my missus when i was locked up. i used to jerk off to your letters, your photos. messed one of 'em up by gettin' my spunk all over it." he licked his lips, "but now i can see it every day in person."

you smiled when he rested his body against you and continued to thrust up into you. you felt the curl of pleasure of your gut get together which each of his heavy thrusts.

the kisses you shared were intimate and hot. the air of your bedroom was warmed as you made love on the bed you would share together. your soft noises together filled the air.

you clenched onto him, you dug your nails into his shoulders. they were so strong and broad that they were much bigger than your hands.

he kissed you one last time as he quickened his pace. the bed moved against your movements as you both climaxed at the same time. it was like a shock to the system, the heightened euphoria before your head felt full of cotton.

you let out a soft groan as your grip on his loosened and you relaxed into the bed. you felt yourself partially get crushed by your lover but he gave a few more earnest thrusts as he made sure that his cum shot to the back of your womb.

he pulled out and dropped beside you. he tucked some hair behind your ear and wiped the sweat from your forehead with the back of his hand. your breathing was heavy, but you were both so happy. to share your first time together felt so special.

you nestled yourself into his arms and held his hand. you exhaled contently then said, "my husband."

he kissed the top of your head, he felt complete, "my missus."

part two

[collapsedglasshouses]

HOTEL NEIGHBORS || Noah Sebastian x fem!Reader

PHOTO CREDIT: Bryan Kirks

SUMMARY: After you hear Noah talk about liking experienced women, you can't help but feel insecure about yourself. Noah wants nothing but to lift your spirits.

WARNINGS: SMUT, MDNI, friends to lovers, inexperienced reader, slight ? dom!noah i guess, oral sex (female receiving), unprotected p in v (dont do that), slight mutual pining?, not edited oopsie, ...

TAGLIST: @measuredingold @cncohshit @circle-with-me @jilliemiw86 @justeli6

A/N: This idea planted itself in my head last night and I don't even know what to say anymore. I’m more than stressed because of university, but I hope my creative spark is coming back rather sooner than later. Is anyone actually reading what I say here. If you're reading this say hi in the comments, ily. Please, enjoy and consider reblogging if you liked it.

You didn’t exactly know you had gotten into this situation but at this exact moment you were shifting in your place and wanted nothing more but to vanish into thin air.

You were currently sitting in a hotel lobby, exhausted and tired from the show the boys had played, and waited for Matt to hand you the keys to your hotel rooms. Somehow in the course of the last ten minutes, the conversation between the guys had turned. They were talking about previous relationships and the experience it came with since Folio had been freshly separated from his ex-girlfriend.

“I don’t know what it is, but I feel like I just want someone with more experience, you know? I’m not saying I wouldn’t date anyone who doesn’t have much experience but I just-… I don’t know. You know what I mean, Noah?” Folio rambled and looked at the man next to you in hopes to find confirmation.

“Yeah, I know. I prefer women with experience, too. I guess.” Noah just mindlessly mumbled while looking at his phone.

You knew for sure the boys didn’t say this in an ill intend but somehow this exchange began to bother you more than you wanted it to. In all honesty, it felt like a punch straight to your face. You felt stupid that this simple exclaim from Noah got to you, but you couldn’t really help it. It wasn’t like you never had sex. You had a boyfriend that you dated from high school to about two years ago, but when it came to your sex life it felt like you never really experienced anything. You knew almost everything that only concerned you, but when it came to another person being involved, your knowledge stopped. You knew what you liked and what you disliked. But that didn’t make the conversation you just witnessed any less hurtful.

You swallowed hard before standing up from your waiting seat in a rather fast manner.

“Imma head to the bathroom.” You mumbled so quietly you feared nobody would have heard you, before walking away. You didn’t see how Noah looked after you with a confused facial expression.

You slammed the door shut behind you and stared at your reflection in the fancy bathroom mirror. Your eyes were watery and you hated yourself for that. Especially Noah’s sentence echoed in your head and you hated that you had a weak spot for him. You hated that you got along with him too well for your liking. When the band hired you as an assistant for Matt about a year ago, you hadn’t planned that all of this would happen. You thought you were there for only one tour and now you were already on your third with the band. To your astonishment, you got along wonderfully with everyone, but you and Noah had a special bond. You didn’t know what it was exactly but somehow you repeatedly found yourself in deep conversations about literally everything with him. It took you well over six months to realize that you didn’t just simply like him as a friend, but you were starting to fall for him.

Right now, you hated yourself that you never got brave enough to admit it to him. You always acted like nothing had changed and you felt embarrassed about the fact that a small sentence like that could throw you off so bad when you didn’t have the right to act like that about it.

A couple of minutes passed before you had enough courage to head back to the boys. So, you took a deep breath and wiped away the single tear that had managed to escape, before stepping out of the bathroom again. Gladly, you didn’t have to justify your sudden move as Matt approached the group at the same time as you to hand you the keys.

“Finally, I thought we needed to sleep in the lobby.” You managed to say with a lopsided smile while Matt handed you your key.

While your group headed in the elevator, you took up a small conversation with Matt about things that had happened at tonight’s show, before he headed out together with the others. The only two left in the elevator being, of course, you and Noah.

“Looks like we’re neighbors tonight.” He answered you with a sweet smile after looking at your key for a second.

“Cool.” You tried to exclaim as friendly as possible and cringed for your second. Even the most unempathetic person on this planet would have realized that something was going on with you, but you were glad Noah decided to not talk about it as you walked to your rooms.

A couple of hours later, you were finished with your evening and ready to go to sleep but before you could slip under the blankets, you heard a slight knock on your door. For a second, you considered to just ignore it but when it knocked again, you sighed and opened the door just enough to look who was disturbing your peace at these ungodly times.

You were greeted by Noah with a worried expression on his face. For a second, you just looked at him confused, but he was fast to explain, while you opened the door a little more.

“Tell me what I did. You’ve been ignoring literally all my texts for more than three hours at this point.” He exclaimed and crossed his arms in front of his chest. Of course, he was right about his statement. You had seen his texts. Normally, you’d test about the concert or some random stuff until you were both to sleepy to respond, but you had decided you couldn’t deal with him this evening. Not after you got so emotional because of a stupid sentence.

“I have no idea what you are talking about.” You lied and mirrored his gesture.

He lifted his eyebrow, and you already know he wouldn’t let you out of that conversation until you gave him the answers he wanted. “Gaslight someone else, sweetheart.” He grumbled.

You sighed and looked at your hands. “It’s nothing, Noah.”

“Oh, come on. You know nothing you is unimportant.” He encouraged you.

It felt stupid. Stupid how easy it was to open up to him, but you knew you couldn’t just tell him what’s been on your mind, so you simply shook your head. You were about to close the door, when he reached into the doorframe and pressed himself in your room while you protested.

“Y/n. Seriously, what’s going on?” He muttered in a soft tone while sitting down on your bed. He patted the place next to him. When you sat down, he turned to fully face you and touched your shoulder. “Please talk to me.”

“I really can’t, Noah.” You whispered. “It’s so fucking stupid.”

You felt so dumb, you wanted to slap yourself. You didn’t want this to go bad. You hated your feelings for choosing him. For opening up to him. For becoming so close with him. You remembered how you had joked with Matt about how everyone would eventually fall for THE lead singer and how you said Noah is just a really good friend and now look at you. Unable to even look him straight in the face.

“Did I say something?” Noah wanted to know, and you briefly looked at him. You couldn’t hold his gaze any longer in fear you would crack. You looked at his shirt to calm your thoughts but that was when you noticed his neckline and your thoughts instantly began to wander.

“You never not tell me anything.” Noah urged.

“Why are you so desperate?” You asked him in slight annoyance and swept his hand of your shoulder.

He blinked surprised for a couple of seconds before answering you. “Because you can’t even look at me and I don’t like that.”

Your heart jumped with happiness when you heard that confession, even if it was innocent.

“That’s not true.” – “Then look at me.”

You sighed before forcing your eyes onto his for a second just to look away again.

“See?” He mumbled, defeated. “I’m sorry if I said something that upset you. I didn’t mean it.”

“So, you didn’t mean you liked girls with experience better than others?” You spat out before you could even think about it more and instantly regretted it.

Noah opened and closed his mouth in confusion. He knew about your previous experiences or lack of experience.

“See that’s exactly why I didn’t want to tell you. It is dumb.” You tried to brush off what had just happened, but Noah shook his head.

“No, no, no. It’s not dumb. I didn’t mean it like that, I-…” He began to explain but you just sighed and rolled your eyes.

“Just stop, Noah.” You mumbled and laid down on your bed. “We should get some sleep. Tomorrow is another stressful day.”

“N-no… I really didn’t mean it like that. I wasn’t even paying attention to Folio. I-… I don’t care about experience, Y/N. I consider myself lucky if anyone gets close to me at the moment. I’m a stressed mess, you know.” Noah rambled out and you noticed that he was nervous. You couldn’t really think about why.

“Oh c’mon. Everyone would consider themselves lucky to sleep with you, Noah. And you fucking know that.” You joked halfheartedly, but then a smile crept onto his face.

“You too?” He asked with a broad smirk on his face.

“Huh?” You huffed as your eyes grew wide.

“I mean… I know you are worried about not having too much experience… I just-…” He swallowed hard. “I could… help with that.”

“You wanna have sex with me?” You bluntly asked your friend and felt your heart almost exploding in your chest.

“I-… You know, we-… I-…” He began to stutter for a second but then he saw how nervous you looked and stopped in his tracks. “So, you wanna have sex with me.”

You felt your cheeks heat up and you swallowed hard. “Uh… I…”

“Forget it, you don’t have to answer th-…” – “Actually, I do.”

Your voice was not more than a whisper while your thoughts were racing. You just blankly confessed that to him, because you were tired. Tired of holding back.

“You are joking, right?” Noah mumbled; his mouth slightly open.

“Oh, come on. As if this comes as a surprise. There are literally people writing fanfiction about you.” You said and ran a hand through your hair in frustration.

“And you know that why?” He exclaimed and smiled lopsidedly.

Your eyebrows rose for a second when you realized what you had said.

When you didn’t answer, he spoke again. “So, you wanna have sex with me?”

“Trust me, with each word coming out of your mouth, the urge is getting less and less.” You answered him and rolled your eyes. His smile faded slightly, and he looked you deep in the eyes.

“Would you feel better if I told you I’ve thought about it, too?” He exclaimed and the tone of his voice shot straight to your core. This didn’t feel real.

“Yeah… Yeah that would help.” You mumbled and swallowed hard, not knowing how to proceed.

A second later, Noah was hovering over your, his face only a couple of inches away from you and you felt how the atmosphere in the room changed.

“You really wanna do this?” He asked you as your hands travelled to the hem of your shirt. You nodded.

“Tell me, you want this.” He almost pleaded with you.

“I want you to fuck me, Noah. For god sake, should I write it down for you?” You whisper-shouted against his lips and with that he giggled quietly before kissing your lips with such force that you realized he wasn’t joking. You grabbed his face and pulled him even closer to you. It felt like you two grasped onto everything. It felt like you were each other’s last meal. Like you were starved for so long, you couldn’t control it anymore.

You wrapped your legs around his waist and pulled him down towards your core that was only clothed in your underwear, and you could feel how hard he was. You couldn’t help but grind against him. He slightly moaned into your mouth as your tongues danced with each other and you moved your hips again.

“Stop that.” He suddenly groaned against your mouth, and you began to grin. “What if I don’t?”

“Then I’m not going to go easy on you, sweetheart.” He warned you. It didn’t take a second for you to grind against him one more time, while smiling proudly about what a hard time he had with you.

“You’re going to regret that.” He mumbled and grabbed your hips with his hand firmly. This alone almost made you cum. It felt like something in him snapped. His pupils were blown wide with lust and then he was underdressing you. It was like he was ripping you out of your clothes.

When he reached your underwear, he stopped for a second and looked at you for reassurance. It was the last chance for you to tell him, but you didn’t want that. You didn’t want him to stop.

“I trust you.” You breathed out and bucked your hips for a second.

“You don’t even know how long I’ve been waiting for his, Y/n.” He answered you as he slowly slipped down your underwear. He didn’t waste any time after that and only a few kisses later to your stomach, you felt how his tongue moved through your folds. A soft moan escaped your mouth and you arched your hips to possibly get any closer to him.

Your hands found their way in your hair. It wasn’t the first time someone went down on you, but never before had it felt so intense to you.

He pinned your hips down to the bed with one arm and his tongue was devouring you like it was the last thing he would do. The sounds you were making only made him go harder. Then you felt how he added a finger inside of you, quickly followed by another.

“Oh my-… Fuck, Noah.” You gasped and you felt the vibrations of his laugh against your core. You felt a knot building inside of you and you tried to concentrate on anything that would help you not to come instantly.

“I can feel that you’re close.” He mumbled against you and flicked his tongue over your clit while his fingers pumped in and out of you.

You nodded, unable to form clear words without moaning them.

“I know, you can go longer than that, Y/n.��� He hummed against you, and you felt like you were going insane.

“God, please.” You cried out, fearing you couldn’t hold it any longer.

His mouth and fingers felt so good, you were sure you couldn’t help yourself much longer. You felt your orgasm built up and then-… He stopped. He pulled away from you, his fingers out of your pussy and you whined at the loss of contact.

He grabbed your face with the hand that had been inside of you just seconds before and looked you in the eyes. “When you come tonight, it’s gonna be on my cock.”

“You know, it’s kind of unfair that I’m laying here completely naked while you’re fully clothed.” You breathed out with a small smile on your face.

“Oh, yeah?” He laughed against your lips before climbing of the bed to get out of his clothes. His eyes never left yours and yours never left his.

He was in nothing but his underwear, his cock hard underneath them and you bit your lip as his hands hooked under the waistband and he slowly slit them off. Your eyes slowly widened at the sight of his member, and you suddenly realized that all of this was real. He looked so perfect. All of him.

“You still okay?” He asked as he crawled back to you.

“Yes.” You breathed out when he was on top of you again. He leaned down to kiss you. You could feel him against your core, his cock moving between your folds as if he belonged there.

“Noah, please.” You moaned out and let your hands roam over his back.

“Yes?” He teased you and rocked his hips once more.

“Don’t be such a tease.” You whined and dragged your fingernails over his back. He let out a soft moan.

“Tell me what you want, Y/n.” Noah exclaimed, and you whined, before rolling your eyes.

“Do that again and I’ll make you regret it.” He breathed out.

“Oh, I’m so scared.” You answered him in a mocking tone and he instantly gave his words truth.

For the second time something snapped inside of him. You let out a small yelp as he flipped you over in a swift motion, your chest hitting the mattress. He grabbed your hips with such force, you were sure he would leave bruises.

“You still wanna continue to be a brat?” He asked you in an almost dangerous tone and you shook your head.

“Fuck, you’re dripping.” He almost moaned and you felt this cock against your ass. He positioned himself behind you, his tip teasing your entrance. His hands wandered over your hips softly and you felt a kiss against your neck. “We can stop anytime.”

“Please, don’t stop.” You breathed out. After that he slowly slid into you, your mouth open in a silent moan as he bottomed out.

“Is that alright?” He asked with a soft tone as you tried to get used to the feeling of him inside of you.

“Yes, everything is perfect.” You moaned out.

When he started to move, you thought you were going to die. In a good way. In a way that made you decide right there and then that when your time has come, this was how you wanted it to end.

“Oh, my f-… Noah.” You whispered out and gripped the sheets beneath you.

His right hand slowly reached to the front of your body and found your clit. He swiftly circled it while rocking into you.

His head was buried in your neck and the room was filled with moans and pants and curse words that were almost illegal to speak out.

“Shit, Y/N.” He whined into your neck. “You feel so good.” His thrust became faster and you were almost certain the bed was going to break if he kept that pace. But you were too far gone to care. You felt that knot in your stomach again and you knew this time you couldn’t contain yourself.

“Come on. Come for me, sweetheart.” He whispered against the back of your head, and you screamed. You screamed load enough that you were sure Jolly in the room underneath to you would hear.

He fucked you through it, his pace only slowing down moments later, right before he pulled out and you felt hot liquid painting your back.

You let yourself fall onto the pillow and he soon collapsed next to you. You turned to face him and could help but smile at him. He reached out to brush a strand of hair out of your face. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, but I’m in desperate need of a shower and I don’t even wanna talk about the lack of sleep we’ll have tomorrow.” You answered him and giggle for a second that caused him to smile.

“It was worth it.” He mumbled before leaning in again.

“Yes… yes it was.” Your lips met in a soft kiss and for a second everything inside of you began to tingle. You knew this was a new chapter for the both of you and that this was only the beginning.

“Let’s shower.” He mumbled before getting up and reaching out to help you up. He slung his arms around you for a second. “Maybe you can tell me about those fanfictions while showering.”

Your eyes widened for a second, before you made your way to the bathroom, followed by a laughing Noah.

“I’ll keep that to myself.” You answered him, before closing the bathroom door behind the two of you.

dividers by @saradika-graphics

[everythingne]

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ ➛ miss diaz (fa14)

with fernando's new appreciation of tik tok, fans begin to wonder where he's getting the ideas from, until he ends up racing alongside his previously unknown daughter... who is already a driver, and in her twenties.

warnings/notes: fernando my dad fr, this is the silliest little fic i loved making it?? I have never written this man and i regret it hes so silly, quite short and sweet, i might make this a verse? idk. i have too many series' rn, but if people like it ...

faceclaim: none :D!

"Ay, papá, ¡no! [You're gonna get yourself hurt!]"

The Alonso house was never quiet. This was something your mother had come to realize long ago. But now she was concerned. What the hell could you and Fernando be doing that would lead to him getting hurt? Despite your insistence of being well mannered and quiet, your mother knew you could tend to get up to the same level of quirkiness as your father.

It didn't help you were smashing records in Formula 1 Academy, racing alongside women like Lia Block and the Al Qubaisi sisters, all while hiding your identity.

Someone had bashed it into you at twelve you'd only be known as Little Alonso if you continued racing under your fathers name, hence why you had insisted you dropped Alonso and continued with Diaz.

Which you did... after six months of convincing your father.

Who is currently shouting, "I'll be fine, ¡bebita!"

"You have old bones!" Is your remark as your mother gets up from where she's tending to the online store she runs for her business. Sort of like a branch out of her Etsy store. She made really nice custom embroidery on top of her working for a media company that outsourced and trained employees for PR teams.

"I'm not that old!" Fernando's shout makes her laugh into her hand as she steps into the kitchen to see you've got a whole plethora of items out and around you.

"What are you two doing..?" She hums, leaning on the doorframe and watching as both you and Fernando turn to her like deer in headlights.

And then you smile, "Papá wants to make a Tik Tok."

Verónica laughs, watching as her husband attempts to tape his phone to the ceiling fan and she puts her hands up and walks out of the room with a quick sentence over her shoulder, "[I'm not explaining this to Aston Martin!]"

fernandoalonso

liked by missdiaz, astonmartinf1, veronicadiaz, and 683k others...

fernandoalonso: race weekend monaco edition 💚

user1: whos teenage daughter ghost wrote this caption?? how old is ur social media admin nando.

veronicadiaz: mi vida <3

⤷ fernandoalonso: mi corazón <3

⤷ user2: PARENNNTSSS

user3: i love my grid dad fr

missdiaz: youngest rookie on the grid!!

⤷ fernandoalonso: rookie of the year!

⤷ user4: yn and nando interaction. my heart is FULL!!

missdiaz

liked by astonmartinf1, f1academy, fernandoalonso, and 348k others...

missdiaz: monaco pit stop <3

astonmartinf1: thats our favorite academy driver!!

⤷ missdiaz: love u am xx

user1: mother is mothering fr

fernandoalonso: rookie of the year!!

⤷ missdiaz: youngest rookie on the grid!!

⤷ user2: nando become her grid dad pls i beg

user3: shut up shes in monaco.

user4: SO PRETTYYY

You read the headline for a third time, 'F1 Academy driver Y/N Diaz to replace ill Lance Stroll for the Monaco GP.'

There's a happy buzz in the Aston Martin garage, even with Lance being terribly ill this weekend. He'd still shown up in full support of his team, but was too woozy to actually get in the car. Too much of a risk. So, Aston Martin had called on you, and you were genuinely excited to race. So your father escorts you into the garage with a tiny proud smile, and all of Aston Martin knows who you actually are.

But media does not. Neither do some of the other drivers.

Hence how you end up talking with Lando during a press event, and when he gives you a soft smile and edges around asking your age, you have to poke your father's thigh to keep him from commenting on it. Lando has no idea he's blatantly flirting with you in front of your dad, but across from him Lewis is trying not to burst into laughter.

"I feel like I'm missing something." Lando says when the reporter comments on the eyes you, Lewis, and Fernando are giving each other. You look at Fernando and he nods,

"Yeah go for it, hermosa." Fernando taps your knee and you smirk, leaning on your fathers shoulder as you say,

"So my full name is Y/N Diaz Alonso, but I go by Diaz because y'know, my dad's got a pretty good legacy--"

"You're his daughter?!" Lando shouts and the audience starts screaming. Lewis is in practical tears with how hard he's laughing and Fernando's laughing as well. Lando curses, "Shit, man!"

"No hard feelings, man." Fernando reaches over to pats Lando's shoulder, who looks like he'd rather sink into the floor and die than be seen right now. Lewis is literally in tears.

"The fact Nando managed to keep this a secret for so long is unsurprising to me," Lewis says, "I mean, I knew because she was young when I first got to F1 and a lot of the older drivers know--plus Max, I think, because of the Piquets."

"Funnily enough," You giggle into the back of your hand, "Mark Webber's my godfather."

"Really?!" The reporters eyes widen and you nod.

"He's a bad influence, truly. Him and Jenson, oh and Seb, they were teaching me curse words at like four years old." You grin and Fernando laughs, now happily laying his arm across your shoulder to tug you to his side.

"And honestly, she's just like me at her age, so the boys on the track might wanna watch out." Fernando sends a pointed glance to Lando that has you whacking your fathers chest with a giggle.

"I'm more like him in the sense of goofy Renault celebrations Fernando, not like "I knew he'd brake because he has a wife and kids at home" Fernando." You clarify, but a knowing glance from Lewis has you shrugging while your father sits in smug confidence that his daughter will be fine.

And you would be. You were closer to the comments than the celebrations in actuality. Though, you'd never admit that.

[yeah-thats-probably-it]

Yes to all of this! I adore the idea of Jeeves and Bertie each separately learning more about poetry in order to impress and connect with the other, not knowing that the other has been learning more about poetry to impress THEM. Their special language is really something they built up together!

Your analysis made me think of a section in Wooster Proposes that I think supports your argument. Thompson (chapter 8 pp. 279-280 if you have the book handy) points out that although Jeeves quotes a lot, his quotations never seem to be from recent reading, like, for example, his BFF Spinoza. "He behaves as if he has a mental file of memorized language and quotations, and his omniscience gives the impression of being timeless." (Doylist explanation is that Wodehouse simply wasn’t a fan of Spinoza so didn’t KNOW any quotations, but this, as you say, is no fun) She then goes on to posit that Jeeves appears to have a fondness for cliches—he often praises them when Bertie uses them, and enjoys using them himself:

For example, in Jeeves and the Feudal Spirit, when Bertie remarks that Stilton could easily beat him up, he agrees in a string of cliches: "'Mr. Cheesewright's robustness would enable him to crush you like a fly. He would obliterate you with a single blow.... He would break you in two with his bare hands. He would tear you limb from limb.'" We must assume that he wishes to foster Bertie's use of cliches (and he may even be appealing to Bertie's delight in cliches in order to get this point across more forcefully).

—Wooster Proposes, Jeeves Disposes, Kristen Thompson, page 280

Point one: it sounds like Jeeves has picked up at least a few cliches from Bertie, supporting the “Bertie and Jeeves developed their language together” thesis. Point two, encompassing the last paragraph as well: Jeeves is not a guy who is naturally disposed to expressing himself with poetical language. Beyond the quotations, his speech generally remains very stiff and dry; he doesn't spontaneously come up with flowery turns of phrase on his own. Like you said, he displays much more knowledge about philosophy than poetry starting from the beginning of the series. So the interest in poetry he takes later on isn’t something you’d really expect to be in character for him. I bet if he told that aunt who used to read Oliver Wendell Holmes to him that he’s reading poetry for fun now she would be like “where did THIS come from all of a sudden?”

I think his later interest in poetry IS probably genuine, as he was familiar with the poet Miss Moon in "The Inferiority Complex of Old Sippy,” whom Bertie didn’t know and certainly wouldn’t have read in school. So he probably READS new poetry, but he never quotes from it (he didn’t even quote from Miss Moon when Bertie asked about it, just listed some poem titles). Like you said, he only ever quotes writers that Bertie also knows. Which is so adorable! He isn’t so talkative about ALL his interests (at least not all the time, he’ll talk your ear off about diamonds if it’s tangentially related to the matter at hand), but he’s trying to get his crush to like him, so he talks about things they both like.

And I agree that that excerpt from MOJ doesn’t prove Jeeves had any prior interest in poetry. It DOES sound like a hypothetical, not a statement about the actual past. It functions as both a quick dismissal of the idea without needing to explain further (they're not quite at the level of open intimacy where Jeeves would say "actually, I wasn't really interested in poetry back then" or words to that effect) and an explanation of why he's not going to use it: it wouldn't have worked before (which he knows thanks to other characters' reactions to him in earlier books) and it's not going to work now.

Fantastic catch about Jeeves possibly telling Bertie he's reading improving books because it's expected of servants. (you're right btw, to the best of my knowledge it's not really a term that has a specific meaning. my first exposure to it was in old books—possibly these books, I can’t remember—and I just took it to mean books that are very dry and boring and intellectual that are supposed to improve your mind. a "suffering builds character" sort of thing. the books servants were given to read don't sound like that kind of super highbrow literature, but they kind of ARE about suffering building character, so I was partially right there. I had plain forgotten about Bertie using the term to describe his mystery novels and such). Actually, on that note, I had a Barenstain Bears moment reading this post because I was SURE I remembered Bertie describing the books Florence gave him to read (which perfectly match the description of what I THOUGHT improving books were) as “improving” at some point during “Jeeves Takes Charge,” but he didn’t! You’re right, he must have picked it up from Jeeves later and misinterpreted it. That’s so funny. I wonder if his inclusive definition of “improving book” has anything to do with the fact that Jeeves brought it up right before going into Rosie M Banks. I certainly wouldn’t say he’s wrong, any type of book CAN be improving!

(side note I think Jeeves bringing up improving books right before his Rosie M. Banks spiel might also have been a preemptive defensive measure, like "I read deep and/or appropriate-for-servants books, please don't mistake me for one of those peons who read trashy pulp novels despite the knowledge I'm about to drop.")

Going back to poetry, I have another suggestion! Thompson (chapter 8 pp. 286-287) also says "Even in the earliest stories, Bertie was quoting, mostly from the literature he would have been assigned at school. In "Extricating Young Gussie," he quotes "Pippa Passes" without hesitating: "God's in his heaven/All's right with the world. Later he will often forget this one and call upon Jeeves to finish it."

Thus, I would like to propose an additional theory: sometimes Bertie pretends not to know a quotation so that Jeeves will finish it for him. Kind of both the equivalent of that thing in TV shows where female characters will sometimes act a bit ditzy around guys they have a crush on so they can flatter them about their intelligence, and also a bonding exercise (hey, this is kind of related to that "bids for connection" post I reblogged yesterday). And possibly also a soothing thing, i.e. he finds it comforting to hear Jeeves reciting familiar quotations. I've written before about how Bertie uses "the lark's on the wing/the snail's on the thorn" from the aforementioned "Pippa Passes" to signal contentedness and security, but a lot of that contentedness and security comes from being close to Jeeves. Their private language made of references and poetry quotations makes them closer, so Bertie naturally sees it as a good thing that wants pushing along.

Anyway, brilliant brilliant meta OP, your encyclopedic knowledge of the series and all the background information related to it staggers the mind

Here's the thing about how Jeeves, at the beginning of the stories, doesn't quote, and only starts after a certain amount of time. I've been digging around in the Annotations again, and found this:

About this scene:

‘You want time to think, eh?’ ‘Yes, sir.’ ‘Take it, Jeeves, take it. You may feel brainier after a night’s sleep. What is it Shakespeare calls sleep, Jeeves?’ ‘Tired Nature’s sweet restorer, sir.’ ‘Exactly. Well, there you are, then.’

This is the very first time in the entire series that Jeeves is quoting anything. Now, Bertie is usually the one who gets quotes wrong. But But we know that, later on, that's Jeeves' thing, he does that frequently, he regularly monologues about poetry, to the point where Bertie has to ask him to return to the point at hand. But he doesn't do that yet, and here, he's mixing up his quotations - this one isn't by Shakespeare, instead, it's from Edward Young's Night-Thoughts.

So if this is a new thing for him, something he's only just learning, that'd explain it, because he just plain doesn't know. He is, in this scene, just saying the first thing that comes to mind, absolutely panicking, and meanwhile, Bertie is blithely unaware of the crisis he's just caused Jeeves, because of course Jeeves knows everything and is 100% trustworthy

[purpledemonlilyposting]

Okay it's time for me to go a bit crouching retard hidden genius here, take off the clown nose and put my thinking cap on. Cause unlike many, many people who reference Nineteen Eighty-Four I've actually read it. Several times. And not as a school mandate.

What does "He loved Big Brother" tell you about media literacy?

Like what even is that point, Lorch? What does just knowing the final sentence of the book tell you about someone's media literacy? What do YOU even think that line means? Cause I'd love to hear it and I doubt you've ever actually read the fucking book.

There are many take-aways you can have from Nineteen Eighty-Four regarding the control of the populace through deception, fear, propaganda, regulation, indoctrination of the young, the dumbing down of language, and sheer hypocrisy. I'd be more interested in someone's take on passages like this to gauge their media literacy:

'It's a beautiful thing, the destruction of words. Of course the great wastage is in the verbs and adjectives, but there are hundreds of nouns that can be got rid of as well. It isn't only the synonyms; there are also the antonyms. After all, what justification is there for a word which is simply the opposite of some other word? A word contains its opposite in itself. Take "good", for instance. If you have a word like "good", what need is there for a word like "bad"? "Ungood" will do just as well -- better, because it's an exact opposite, which the other is not. Or again, if you want a stronger version of "good", what sense is there in having a whole string of vague useless words like "excellent" and "splendid" and all the rest of them? "Plusgood" covers the meaning, or "doubleplusgood" if you want something stronger still. Of course we use those forms already. but in the final version of Newspeak there'll be nothing else. In the end the whole notion of goodness and badness will be covered by only six words -- in reality, only one word. Don't you see the beauty of that, Winston? It was B.B.'s idea originally, of course,' he added as an afterthought. A sort of vapid eagerness flitted across Winston's face at the mention of Big Brother. Nevertheless Syme immediately detected a certain lack of enthusiasm. 'You haven't a real appreciation of Newspeak, Winston,' he said almost sadly. 'Even when you write it you're still thinking in Oldspeak. I've read some of those pieces that you write in The Times occasionally. They're good enough, but they're translations. In your heart you'd prefer to stick to Oldspeak, with all its vagueness and its useless shades of meaning. You don't grasp the beauty of the destruction of words. Do you know that Newspeak is the only language in the world whose vocabulary gets smaller every year?' Winston did know that, of course. He smiled, sympathetically he hoped, not trusting himself to speak. Syme bit off another fragment of the dark-coloured bread, chewed it briefly, and went on: 'Don't you see that the whole aim of Newspeak is to narrow the range of thought? In the end we shall make thoughtcrime literally impossible, because there will be no words in which to express it. Every concept that can ever be needed, will be expressed by exactly one word, with its meaning rigidly defined and all its subsidiary meanings rubbed out and forgotten. Already, in the Eleventh Edition, we're not far from that point. But the process will still be continuing long after you and I are dead. Every year fewer and fewer words, and the range of consciousness always a little smaller. Even now, of course, there's no reason or excuse for committing thoughtcrime. It's merely a question of self-discipline, reality-control. But in the end there won't be any need even for that. The Revolution will be complete when the language is perfect. Newspeak is Ingsoc and Ingsoc is Newspeak,' he added with a sort of mystical satisfaction. 'Has it ever occurred to you, Winston, that by the year 2050, at the very latest, not a single human being will be alive who could understand such a conversation as we are having now?'

The speech had been proceeding for perhaps twenty minutes when a messenger hurried on to the platform and a scrap of paper was slipped into the speaker's hand. He unrolled and read it without pausing in his speech. Nothing altered in his voice or manner, or in the content of what he was saying, but suddenly the names were different. Without words said, a wave of understanding rippled through the crowd. Oceania was at war with Eastasia! The next moment there was a tremendous commotion. The banners and posters with which the square was decorated were all wrong! Quite half of them had the wrong faces on them. It was sabotage! The agents of Goldstein had been at work! There was a riotous interlude while posters were ripped from the walls, banners torn to shreds and trampled underfoot. The Spies performed prodigies of activity in clambering over the rooftops and cutting the streamers that fluttered from the chimneys. But within two or three minutes it was all over. The orator, still gripping the neck of the microphone, his shoulders hunched forward, his free hand clawing at the air, had gone straight on with his speech. One minute more, and the feral roars of rage were again bursting from the crowd. The Hate continued exactly as before, except that the target had been changed. The thing that impressed Winston in looking back was that the speaker had switched from one line to the other actually in midsentence, not only without a pause, but without even breaking the syntax. But at the moment he had other things to preoccupy him. It was during the moment of disorder while the posters were being torn down that a man whose face he did not see had tapped him on the shoulder and said, 'Excuse me, I think you've dropped your brief-case.' He took the brief-case abstractedly, without speaking. He knew that it would be days before he had an opportunity to look inside it. The instant that the demonstration was over he went straight to the Ministry of Truth, though the time was now nearly twenty-three hours. The entire staff of the Ministry had done likewise. The orders already issuing from the telescreen, recalling them to their posts, were hardly necessary. Oceania was at war with Eastasia: Oceania had always been at war with Eastasia. A large part of the political literature of five years was now completely obsolete. Reports and records of all kinds, newspapers, books, pamphlets, films, sound-tracks, photographs -- all had to be rectified at lightning speed. Although no directive was ever issued, it was known that the chiefs of the Department intended that within one week no reference to the war with Eurasia, or the alliance with Eastasia, should remain in existence anywhere. The work was overwhelming, all the more so because the processes that it involved could not be called by their true names.

Also please read Nineteen Eighty-Four everyone. It's a very good book, it's not very long, and it's still scarily relevant to today.

[caterpills]

(Six) (Seven) Several Sentence Sunday

Hi everyone! Happy Sunday! Thank you for the tags today from @onthewaytosomewhere @sophie1973 @suseagull04 @thesleepyskipper @blueeyedgrlwrites ❤️

If you're still mourning Halloween being over or just need something really silly for a laugh, I posted my scare actor!Alex fic — If You Got It, Haunt It last week (ngl it was hard to write something short, and get back into the swing of writing things, but I did it!!)

And so! Here is a rough draft bit from my new multichap which will likely change in the edits, you know how it goes. If you've seen this already, no you haven't. 😌

"Who the fuck is that?" Nora asks. "That's Henry. My boyfriend." "That is not your boyfriend." "Yes, he is." "That is a stranger, Alex."

❤️

Probably the first time I actually stayed within in the six sentences!! (And shortest ones to date!)

No pressure tags under the cut (and open to anyone who wants to snag it, but tag me if you use it!!) I hope you're all doing well this Sunday!

@alasse9 @taste-thewaste @firenati0n @thesleepyskipper @suseagull04

@myheartalivewrites @miss-minnelli @judasofsuburbia @thinkof-england @onthewaytosomewhere

@anincompletelist @14carrotghoul @porcelainmortal @wordsofhoneydew @blueeyedgrlwrites

@stellarmeadow @faketrex @sophie1973 @littlemisskittentoes @thedramasummer

@tailsbeth-writes @milowren29 @tinyarmedtrex @sparklepocalypse @clockwrkpendrxgon

@cricketnationrise @kj-bee @thighzp @theprinceandagcd @bitbybitwrites

@miharaikko @dani-dabbles @msmarvelouswinchester @priincebutt

[contemplatingoutlander]

Worried by Florida’s history standards? Check out its new dictionary!

As always, Alexandra Petri is spot on in satirizing the right-wing censorship and educational nonsense happening in Florida. This is a gift 🎁 link, so you can read the entire column, even if you don't subscribe to The Washington Post.

Below are some excerpts 😂:

Well, it’s a week with a Thursday in it, and Florida is, once again, revising its educational standards in alarming ways. Not content with removing books from shelves, or demanding that the College Board water down its AP African American studies curriculum, the state’s newest history standards include lessons suggesting that enslaved people “developed skills” for “personal benefit.” This trend appears likely to continue. What follows is a preview of the latest edition of the dictionary to be approved in Florida. Aah: (exclamation) Normal thing to say when you enter the water at the beach, which is over 100 degrees. Abolitionists: (noun) Some people in the 19th century who were inexplicably upset about a wonderful free surprise job training program. Today they want to end prisons for equally unclear reasons. Abortion: (noun) Something that male state legislators (the foremost experts on this subject) believe no one ever wants under any circumstances, probably; decision that people beg the state to make for them and about which doctors beg for as little involvement as possible. American history: (noun) A branch of learning that concerns a ceaseless parade of triumphs and contains nothing to feel bad about. Barbie: (noun) Feminist demon enemy of the state. Biden, Joe: (figure) Illegitimate president. Black history: (entry not found) Blacksmith: (noun) A great job and one that enslaved people might have had. Example sentence from Florida Gov. Ron DeSantis (R): “They’re probably going to show that some of the folks that eventually parlayed, you know, being a blacksmith into doing things later in life.” Book ban: (noun) Effective way of making sure people never have certain sorts of ideas. Censorship: (noun) When other people get mad about something you’ve said. Not to be confused with when you remove books from libraries or the state tells colleges what can and can’t be said in classrooms (both fine). Child: (noun) Useful laborer with tiny hands; alternatively, someone whose reading cannot be censored enough. [...]

[See more select "definitions" below the cut]

Classified: (adjective) The government’s way of saying a paper is especially interesting and you ought to have it in your house. Climate change: (noun) Conspiracy by scientists to change all the thermometers, fill the air with smoke and then blame us. [...] Constitution: (noun) A document that can be interpreted only by Trump-appointed and/or Federalist Society judges. If the Constitution appears to prohibit something that you want to do, take the judge on a boat and try again. [...] DeSantis, Ron: (figure) Governor who represents the ideal human being. Pronunciation varies. Disney: (noun) A corporation, but not the good kind. [...] Election: (noun) Binding if Republicans win; otherwise, needs help from election officials who will figure out where the fraud was that prevented the election from reflecting the will of the people (that Republicans win). [...] Emancipation Proclamation: (noun) Classic example of government overreach. Firearm: (noun) Wonderful, beautiful object that every person ought to have six of, except Hunter Biden. [...] FOX: News. Free speech: (noun) When you shut up and I talk. Gun violence: (noun) Simple, unalterable fact of life, like death but unlike taxes. [...]

Jan. 6: (noun) A day when some beautiful, beloved people took a nice, uneventful tour of the U.S. Capitol. King Jr., Martin Luther: (figure) A man who, as far as we can discern, uttered only one famous quotation ever and it was about how actually anytime you tried to suggest that people were being treated differently based on skin color you were the real racist. Sample sentence: “Dr. King would be enraged at the existence of Black History Month.” Liberty: (noun) My freedom to choose what you can read (see Moms for Liberty). Moms for Liberty: (noun) Censors, but the good kind. [...] Pregnant (adjective): The state of being a vessel containing a Future Citizen; do not say “pregnant person”; no one who is a real person can get pregnant. Queer: (entry not found) Refugee: (noun) Someone who should have stayed put and waited for help to come. Slavery: (noun) We didn’t invent it, or it wasn’t that bad, or it was a free job training program. Supreme Court: (noun) Wonderful group of mostly men without whom no journey by private plane or yacht is complete. Trans: (entry not found) United States: (noun) Perfect place, no notes. [emphasis added to defined words]

[monbons]

Six (x2) Sentence Sunday

Thanks for the tags @bookish-bogwitch and @ivelovedhimthroughworse. Now that I am back to reading fanfic instead of writing it, I can't wait to dive into your work!

I have well and truly wrapped up writing The Eternal Life of Baz Pitch (new chapter went up Friday). I'm just addressing minor edits now. I'm super proud of how this story turned out. I can barely believe I wrote something this good.

But I'm also feeling really sad? I didn't experience this at the end of my last two fics, which actually energized me for more writing. It's disconcerting and making it hard to find a new idea that captures my imagination. Maybe this is that feeling you were talking about in a previous post @cutestkilla. The "I just finished my first long fic and nothing I write will ever be good enough again" feeling. If anyone has strategies for dealing with it, I'm all ears.

In the meantime, let me distract you from a sad Monica with a sad Baz from Chapter 4, under the cut.

Suddenly, it is there. Leaning against a tree. A smudge of a man. More a void than a person.  Baz remembers Fiona’s warning: Never call on the gods that answer after dark. “What do you want from me?” Baz scrambles away from the brook, from the tree, from this—this—darkness, trying to create distance.   “That is the wrong question.” The dark drifts towards Baz, slowly becoming more solid as it follows. Auburn hair like Niall. Blue eyes like the dance instructor. A smile filled with teeth as sharp as knives. “The question is, what do you want?”

I've recently learned that copying and pasting tags doesn't result in actual notifications, so I apologize if I've been tagging you and you aren't seeing it!

Hellos and high-fives: @thewholelemon, @roomwithanopenfire, @valeffelees, @drowninginships, @raenestee,

@noblecorgi, @you-remind-me-of-the-babe, @youarenevertooold, @emeryhall, @arthurkko,

@cattocavo, @rimeswithpurple, @hushed-chorus, @iamamythologicalcreature, @aristocratic-otter,

@larkral, @artsyunderstudy, @whatevertheweather, @brilla-brilla-estrellita, @comesitintheclover, @beastmonstertitan,

@shrekgogurt, @theearlgreymage, @best--dress, @skee3000, @stitchyqueer

[roomwithanopenfire]

Six Sentence Sunday

Thanks for the tags @monbons and @hushed-chorus, I love seeing what you're working on and I'm so excited to read the new chapter of Those Glowing, Magickal Years later today!!

I've actually done a little bit of writing today, added a scene to the eighth chapter of Proof of Life and did a teeny tiny bit of editing on that chapter (I'm rapidly catching up to myself I fear, a pause in posting is nigh 😭).

But good news! I only have one week left of school! It's finals week but I don't have too many tests and papers to work on and no classes to go to, so hopefully I can mix in a little writing into my day. And then after this week, I'm done with my first year of college—which still feels kind of insane to me.

I'm posting the newest chapter of Proof of Life (my Natasha Lives AU) tomorrow and this one is going to be good! You all will like it, I know. It was super hard to pick a snippet because less than halfway through the chapter [redacted] shows up and you guys aren't allowed to know about that yet, so enjoy some Penny and Simon dialogue.

Snippet and tags under the cut.

Penny considers this. “You really think Baz is hurt, don’t you? That it’s something serious.”

“Well, it’s either that or he’s plotting and, you know, innocent until proven guilty.”

Penny snorts at that. 

“What?”

“Nothing,” Penny shakes her head. “Just, that’s pretty funny coming from the boy who’s convinced Baz is a vampire when there’s no proof.”

“There’s plenty of proof,” I splutter. 

Penny holds up a hand. “Please, spare the monologue, I’ve heard all of this before”

“You’re the one who brought it up.” I cross my arms, feeling a bit like a petulant child.

Tags and Hellos:

@facewithoutheart @you-remind-me-of-the-babe @run-for-chamo-miles @raenestee @onepintobean

@artsyunderstudy @prettygoododds @noblecorgi @angelsfalling16 @thewholelemon

@shrekgogurt @brendughh @a-maisie-ng @hertragedyconnoisseur @beastmonstertitan

@valeffelees @horsesarenotdeer @drowninginships @supercutedinosaurs @fiend-for-culture

@rimeswithpurple @cutestkilla @alexalexinii @ileadacharmedlife @arthurkko

@rbkzz

Also I keep adding new people to this tag list and if you ever don't want to be tagged let me know 😭 tagging people will probably always make me a little nervous adlkfjadf

[bitbybitwrites]

And yet, will be more than six sentences 😂. But saw this banner and wanted to use it at least once for this month!

OK . . I haven't done one of these in FOREVER. . so my deepest apologies and many thanks for all you lovely folks who keep tagging me for this and WIP Wednesdays: @thinkof-england, @softboynick, @taste-thewaste, @onthewaytosomewhere, @tinyarmedtrex

@wordsofhoneydew , @sophie1973 , @thesleepyskipper , @forabeatofadrum, @getmehighonmagic

@daisyishedwig , @annepi-blog, @porcelainmortal , @blueeyedgrlwrites ( and I hope I remembered everyone!)

1.) I've been struggling with finishing the latest chapter of my RWRB fic, Puppy Love. It's going through the editing process and should be up soon. You'll find a bit below.

2.) I also got sent a Pride themed Glee/Klaine ask for Ficlet Friday - which is now turning out a wee bit longer than a ficlet. And there will be a snippet of it below as well.

See it all under the cut!

1.) From Puppy Love - Chp 4. (RWRB fic)

With a smirk, Alex pulled Henry down to him, internally grateful to feel the other man straddle his legs as he sat in Alex's lap. While he ran his hands up and down Henry’s thighs, Alex found his brain slightly short circuiting as he imagined himself between them with less layers on than they had now. “Fuck,” Alex gasped as he continued stroking them. “Work out much?” he teased as he gripped Henry’s legs tighter. Henry grinned as he used his teeth to graze the edge of Alex’s jaw. “Horseback riding, actually. Used to do a lot of it back home. Even polo now and then.” “Didn’t peg you for a trust fund baby,” Alex poked fun once more. He shuddered as Henry found a particularly sensitive area on his neck and bit down. “Shut up, you cretin,” Henry growled before he took possession of Alex’s mouth again.

2.) From fire island follies (a klaine/glee themed ficlet friday prompt)

“Porcelain, Starchild, White Chocolate . . who are they?” he wondered aloud. “Well, me for one.” Blaine swiveled around on his stool to find a ridiculously good looking guy in the tiniest gold booty shorts that he had ever seen staring at him from behind the bar. “I . .I’m sorry . . what?” The bartender tossed a rainbow colored bar towel over his shoulder and plunked down a glass of water in front of Blaine.  “White Chocolate.  That’s me, I’m saying.” “That’s . . a, uh. .  . .a nice name . .” The blond grinned, the body glitter shining very noticeably off his abs.   Blaine seriously tried not to stare.  He did. “Stage name.  Used to have a partner called Dark Chocolate I worked with, but he went off and got him a boyfriend who didn’t like him writhing on stage with little ole me. Jake came up with the names.  He said we were both smooth and sweet and it kind of worked cause he was, well, you know, African American and I’m . . .” he gestured again toward his glitter encrusted abs. Blaine swallowed and really didn’t stare.  Really.  He really, really didn’t.

Besides the lovely folks listed above, I'm also tagging: @gleefulpoppet, @14carrotghoul, @myheartalivewrites, @itsmaybitheway, @hkvoyage,

@little-escapist, @madas-ahatters-world, @kirakiwiwrites, @spaceorphan18, @special-bc-ur-part-of-it ,

@kurtsascot , @cryscendo, @rockitmans, @lady-divine-writes, @lilinas

and open tag for anyone who wants to jump in!

[onthewaytosomewhere]

Some Sentences on a Sunday

So, it's Sunday, and well my sinuses have been pounding all day attempting to work their way out of my head I'm certain

Apparently, that means all I write is stuff that is nowhere near where I'm at in what I fondly call 'hockey and books' that makes me wanna cry as if the pain wasn't bad enough lol so I'm a share some of that with y'all - even though it's rough and def needs edits lol

❤️Thanks ever so much for the tags today - @typicalopposite @agame-writes @bitbybitwrites @heybuddy-drabbles @hgejfmw-hgejhsf @england-would-fall @suseagull04 @taste-thewaste @adreamareads @stellarm - I am excited to check out what ya posted ❤️

It's a double six sentence sunday today - which means I counted but didn't like where it ended and I do what I wanna really lol

Alex is soaring across the ice, skating the best damn game of his life, getting open, and putting the puck in the net; he’s got himself a hat trick this game. He, Liam, and their team are ahead and just ready to put this baby to bed. It’s less than 2 minutes left in the third period, and they’re in the middle of a power play. Some goons from the other team have been gunning for Alex the whole game, ramming him into the boards with extra force that the officials apparently don’t see, flinging slurs under their breath as they do so. Two of them had finally got caught when they had decided elbowing and butt-ending Alex in front of one of the officials who actually will call it was a good idea. So, now, here they are in the middle of a power play, fast approaching the end of this game and another win - he’s chasing the puck Liam flings in front of him. When it happens, he sees Henry in his seat out of the corner of his eye. He wasn’t even aware he was here this whole game and assumed he wouldn’t be since he had ripped Alex’s heart out only 3 days ago, but there he is, and Alex is distracted for that moment. That moment allows the guy from the other team to come at him and take him completely unaware, with no chance of bracing for the impact as he is rammed into the boards. His whole body is on fire, as the force of the collision with the wall is felt throughout; he doesn’t realize he’s falling until his ass hits the ice. He sees his helmet roll on the ice before he feels the moment of contact where his head slams into the ice. He thinks he hears his name shouted in a familiar voice, only it doesn’t sound like it usually does when he’s heard it. It’s the last thing he hears before the darkness overtakes him.

Alex will be fine, and our boys will work their shit out at some point, but they are gonna suffer a bit more in this than I had planned

As it is late(and I'm certain everyone has already done this) and I can no longer look at this laptop and need to re-med I'm gonna leave this an open tag for anyone who wants it - SO IF UR READING THIS AND HAVEN'T YET POSTED AND WANT TO PLZ TAG ME SO I CAN SEE WHAT YA WROTE AND DON'T HAFTA HUNT IT DOWN lol

[korovaoverlook]

I Sacrificed My Writing To A.I So You Don't Have To

I was thinking about how people often say "Oh, Chat GPT can't write stories, but it can help you edit things!" I am staunchly anti-A.I, and I've never agreed with this position. But I wouldn't have much integrity to stand on if I didn't see for myself how this "editing" worked. So, I sacrificed part of a monologue from one of my fanfictions to Chat GPT to see what it had to say. Here is the initial query I made:

Chat GPT then gave me a list of revisions to make, most of which would be solved if it was a human and had read the preceding 150k words of story. I won't bore you with the list it made. I don't have to, as it incorporated those revisions into the monologue and gave me an edited sample back. Here is what it said I should turn the monologue into:

The revision erases speech patterns. Ben/the General speaks in stilted, short sentences in the original monologue because he is distinctly uncomfortable—only moving into longer, more complex structures when he is either caught up in an idea or struggling to elaborate on an idea. The Chat GPT version wants me to write dialogue like regular narrative prose, something that you'd use to describe a room. It also nullified the concept of theme. "A purity that implied personhood" simply says the quiet(ish) part out loud, literally in dialogue. It erases subtlety and erases how people actually talk in favor of more obvious prose. Then I got a terrible idea. What if I kept running the monologue through the algorithm? Feeding it its own revised versions over and over, like a demented Google Translate until it just became gibberish? So that's what I did. Surprisingly enough, from original writing sample to the end, it only took six turnarounds until it pretty much stopped altering the monologue. This was the final result:

This piece of writing is florid, overly descriptive, unnatural, and unsubtle. It makes the speaking character literally give voice to the themes through his dialogue, erasing all chances at subtext and subtlety. It uses unnecessary descriptors ("Once innocuous," "gleaming," "receded like a fading echo," "someone worth acknowledging,") and can't comprehend implication—because it is an algorithm, not a human that processes thoughts. The resulting writing is bland, stupid, lacks depth, and seemingly uses large words for large word's sake, not because it actually triggers an emotion in the reader or furthers the reader's understanding of the protagonist's mindset.

There you have it. Chat GPT, on top of being an algorithm run by callous, cruel people that steals artist's work and trains on it without compensation or permission, is also a terrible editor. Don't use it to edit, because it will quite literally make your writing worse. It erases authorial intention and replaces it with machine-generated generic slop. It is ridiculous that given the writer's strike right now, studios truly believe they can use A.I to produce a story of marginal quality that someone may pay to see. The belief that A.I can generate art is an insult to the writing profession and artists as a whole—I speak as a visual artist as well. I wouldn't trust Chat GPT to critique a cover letter, much less a novel or poem.

[j-nipper-95]

Six Sentence Sunday

Yes, 2023 is drawing to a close. Yes, I have been lurking for (I think) months at this point. Yes, I have been writing. Thank you so much to everyone who has been tagging me in recent weeks/months, I'm so sorry I haven't been interacting as much with you all as I have in the past. In the last few months I just haven't had the social battery to do much more than just lurk in comments sections, and sometimes not even that (autistic burnout is not fun, can confirm, 0/10, do not recommend).

But I'm back, and here's hoping 2024 is a good year, and one that's productive where writing is concerned! 2023 was a pretty good year for me; I published my first fic (which was also the first bit of writing I've properly published anywhere!), and I sent off my first query for ASR! To a proper literary agent! Like ... WHAT?! I still can't believe it!

As for the end of this year, let's get one last hurrah in for the year of 2023 with the final WIPsday of the year. Chapter 11 of Trails is coming, it just needs to be edited. Here's an unedited snippet of the chaos you have to look forward to.

“When I tell you to, run like fuck,” Fiona tells us, clicking the hammer back on her revolver.  “How many more rounds have you got?” Penny asks. “Enough to take down half the idiots aboard this ship.” Fiona takes up a position on one side of the hatch, her finger on the trigger guard. As she moves I hear the tell tale clink of a box of rounds, and see the outline of it in her trouser pocket for the first time. “Fiona,” I caution. “Maybe we should try to do this quietly.” “No chance of that, boyo. I’m killing as many of these fuckers as I can before we go overboard.” “Fiona,” I try again, but she isn’t listening. “The lifeboat is on the right side,” Penny whispers to us, eyeing Fiona out of the corner of her eye. We’ll lower you into it, Baz, then follow.” I guess I don’t have much of a say in this, as Snow is literally the only reason I’m still standing right now. I nod, and Penny creeps up the stairs behind Fiona, who does so about as well as a bull in a china shop. She storms out onto the deck and I’m actually surprised by how long it takes for bullets to start flying. There’s a solid fifteen seconds or so, which allows Bunce to make it up the stairs and gesture for us to follow, before an alarm is raised and Fiona does what she does best: cause chaos.

This hiatus with Trails wasn't planned, but work and general holiday madness got in the way of the tentative schedule my beta's and I had. New Year, fresh start, once more into the fray, as they say. I hope you can join us for this fics future shenanigans.

Tagging for the new year: @artsyunderstudy @aristocratic-otter @bazzybelle @blackberrysummerblog @bookish-bogwitch @cattocavo @chen-chen-chen-again-chen @cosmicalart @cutestkilla @dragoneggos @erzbethluna @ebbpettier @fatalfangirl @frjsti @henreyettah @hushed-chorus @ic3-que3n @ileadacharmedlife @ivelovedhimthroughworse @krisrix @larkral @letraspal @martsonmars @nightimedreamersworld @orange-peony @prettylightsbigcity @palimpsessed @phoxphyre @raenestee @shrekgogurt @skeedelvee @stardustasincocaine @subparselkie @that-disabled-princess @theearlgreymage @wellbelesbian @you-remind-me-of-the-babe 

[sebastienlelivre]

i found peace in your violence | lestat/louis | 3.1k words

There's bad dreams and long distance phone calls and Louis tries to protect what's most important while Lestat does the same. Each in their own way, each to varying degrees of success.

It's three forty-six in the afternoon when Louis is torn out of a dead sleep, the taste of blood (human) and ashes (inhuman) in his mouth. He still keeps to the same day-night schedule, even in the skyscraper, even though the modified coffin means he doesn't really need to, but the dreams...the dreams have been haunting him, tearing him out of a deeper sleep faster than even his own nightmares of Claudia's face in bright sunlight. He has just turned, putting his feet flat on the floor as he rubs his hands over his face when Louis' cell phone lights up with a text message.

It's from an unknown number, but the area code is from New Orleans, and Louis knows without even really thinking about it who it is. It's not just one message, but four of them in quick succession, like the mind typing them is moving too fast for his fingers.

the album is out

have you listened yet

only on digital

i can get a vinyl for you special edition

The lack of capitalization and punctuation and basic grammar make Louis smile, a bead of warmth flowing through him and chasing away the last bit of cold from the dream, but he turns his attention from the phone to listen, reaching out to eavesdrop on the other vampires again. He keeps them blocked out most of the time, knowing that their threats are empty, knowing that Daniel is listening and keeping track in case someone does get brave and stupid, and there's only been one who has even accepted Louis' challenge and shown up on his balcony (beautiful, blonde, tall, familiar blue eyes, but the woman hadn't said a word, only hummed, then disappeared as fast as she had arrived), but as he listens now, their attention isn't turned to him.

It's not even on Lestat's brand new musical career.

They're talking about...about... …burst into flames right there... ...full view of everyone, it was a protest... The voices are a cacophony, loud and jumbled, talking over each other in their panic, confused and scared, a mix of sentences that it takes Louis far too long to catch enough to piece the story together. They're not even talking about the dream, not really, but something has kept the vampires awake even when they shouldn't be.

Instead, their fear is about something else.

Something immediate and worse.

A vampire catching fire on the streets of Jakarta, the press were framing it as a act of self-immolation, a suicide to draw attention to some conflict somewhere, but Louis knows vampires.

And vampires are not so socially conscious.

His phone chimes, and the fifth text makes him laugh out loud.

this is lestat

It knocks Louis from the worry of other vampires, of dreams and fire, and right back into his own drama. He doesn't type back a response, though, clicking the number instead and calling. He says the second the connection clicks, "You type like you speak, Lestat." Louis hates how fond he sounds when he adds, "I don't recall giving you this number." There's other things that he should say, like asking how Lestat even got a phone or a record deal or why it sounds like he is in the middle of a party in the middle of the day.

"Yes, well, the vampire Sam is good for some things," and Lestat pauses before he raises his voice to be heard above the crowd even though it isn't like Sam, even if he isn't actually in the room, needs the added volume, "...beyond being obnoxious about song lyrics!" Louis opens his mouth to ask about that, but there's the sound of a scuffle like the phone is being wrestled out of Lestat's hand which is clearly just a performance and nothing more because Sam's answer comes in Louis' mind and likely Lestat's too.

Tell him all of his songs cannot be about you or.... Sam trails off, like he's second guessing what he's about to say, and Louis can see in his mind that he's probably making eye contact with Lestat before he adds, ...or the mademoiselle, not anymore, the audience has no appetite for tragedy, not now, not after a fucking pandemic!

"Do not be ridiculous, Samuel, I have listened to modern music, it is all tragedy and heartbreak, it sells, you of al-..." and the laborious sigh that Louis can hear both in his head and over the phone makes him laugh and that stops Lestat's voice in mid-sentence, "Do not laugh at me, cher.”

"Then stop being funny, Lestat," and Louis can hear all the bluster leave Lestat as he hears the furniture creak as if he is slouching in an overly stuffed armchair. "Do you...are you really writing songs about her?" Decades and years and months after her death and the revelations about it, and Louis still can't say her name. Lestat doesn't respond, but Louis can hear him stand and walk across the room, and he's practically holding his own breath until he hears a heavy door close.

"She deserves songs, no?" Lestat finally replies, the noise of the party a dim murmur now.

"She'd think modern music is too loud, too nonsensical, you know she would, no one tells stories in their songs anymore," Louis says, walking out of is bedroom and into the meditation room, sitting down on the bench and looking up at Paul's picture for a moment as he presses his feet into the peebles to ground himself.

"I am a storyteller, though, she would like my songs," Lestat replies, but his voice is hushed, barely a whisper, and Louis smiles.

"She would hate your songs in particular, on purpose, on principle," he says, but his voice isn't unkind, even when Lestat makes a hurt sound, and Louis can imagine the dramatic way he's clutching his chest.

"You wound me, my love," Lestat says, and there's a moment that Louis can pretend he can see the smile, soft and loving, that Lestat is giving the phone, but it's not an expression that Louis actually remembers on Lestat's face, not really. "Why did you call? You didn't have to."

"It's late, maybe I shouldn't have."

"It's early actually. Summer in New York, and the sun has been up for hours." His voice is soft when he continues, "It's the city that never sleeps, you know, even for us." And there is a drag to Lestat's voice, an exhaustion that tells Louis Lestat is hiding something, and he thinks (knows) maybe the dreams are haunting Lestat as much as him. "Why aren't you sleeping, cher, your sunset is hours away." Louis waves the question away, and he knows Lestat can't see it, but he still seems to react to it when he says, "Do not avoid my question."

"Dreams," he says, just one word, simple, and not inviting exploration. If Lestat is, if the dreams are hitting more than just Louis, he doesn't need to explain. Lestat makes a sound on the other end of the line, but before he can argue, Louis asks, "You're in New York now?" as he forces a smile as he finds the thought of Lestat in Times Square or on Broadway particularly amusing.

There is silence for a long moment, and he almost thinks Lestat won't answer, won't appreciate the change in subject. Eventually, though, Louis gets a quiet, "Oui," in response. "The tour starts in a week. We have rehearsals, Sam is very strict about that." Lestat huffs out something that could have been a laugh. "You remember."

"Hmm," Louis hums, "He's reporting on you to the Talamasca, you know."

"I'm a fascinating subject, Louis, my life is a rollercoaster of adventure."

"Have you ever even been on a rollercoaster?"

Lestat doesn't answer that question as he replies, "I may even contact your Mister Molloy. Perhaps he'd like to interview me." Louis can hear the grin in his voice, and he even imagines it with a flash of fang. "We could make another bestseller."

"You will leave him be, Lestat," Louis says, his voice clear that it is an order.

"I would make a good story."

"Lestat." Lestat laughs again, but he doesn't argue. "Tell me about this tour." He's changing the subject again, he knows it and Lestat knows it, but as he remains silent, not answering at first, Louis wonders if he pushed too much, ignored the topic that Lestat wants to talk about too many times, and Louis almost can't handle it, not right then. He can practically feel Lestat's manic energy and annoyance over the phone. "You playin' or just singin'?" Louis asks, playing up the accent slightly. It's comforting and comfortable, and he can almost hear Lestat relax a little more at the sound of it.

Lestat huffs again though, an annoyed sound. "Vampire Sam only wants me to sing, he says my playing is desecrating his masterpieces. Which is ridiculous, no? It's my music, I wrote it, I should get to play it before the world," and his monologue is interrupted by a sputtering in both their minds that Louis can only assume is Sam preparing his own monologue.

"You might wanna stop broadcastin' your annoyance before Sam starts airin' grievances of his own," Louis says, the laughter plain in his voice.

"Let him," Lestat replies, and Louis can hear the smile in his voice. It feels sharp and pointed at Sam, but it warms Louis, little bubbles of happiness, and it makes him slightly giddy. The silence settles and stretches, comfortable and warm. "Why aren't you sleeping, cher?" Well. That's a mood killer.

"I told you. Bad dreams."

"You didn't say bad." There is a flash then, the taste of blood and ash heavy in his mouth again, enough to make him gag, but something else too...red, and he's not sure if it's hair or more blood, but it's only half remembered, and it only makes the nausea worse.

"Didn't I?" Louis coughs, the words thick in his mouth, and he knows the answer, and judging from the sound Lestat makes, he knows too. They fall into silence again, but this time it is a loaded silence, all of the unspoken things just at the back of their throats. He coughs again, waiting for Lestat to say something, to continue his interrogation, but his only answer is Lestat's breathing.

Clam and patient, this is the vampire who spent decades in a ruined hovel in New Orleans waiting for Louis to remember. Louis exhales finally, and says, "Just a U.S. tour? Or are you taking it world-wide?" This is not what either one of them was expecting, and Lestat laughs, the sharp bark of sound makes Louis flinch.

"Oh," but before Lestat can finish his answer, the other vampires, distant and indistinct, the cacophony, stirs again. Another one.... ...flames in Padang... ....it will be noticed now.... "Oh."

"Lestat."

"They're moving." Lestat sounds awed.

And terrified.

"Lestat." Cold settles in Louis' belly then, a kind of dread he couldn't really place. For a second he is back in the dream, blood and ash heavy on his tongue, choking him. Vampires burning is nothing new, but the fear of the other voices, the ones who had been so certain of how they would tear Louis limb from limb, that is cold and certain and it makes Louis' hands tremble.

"After New Orleans, after....after the first time," after Louis and Claudia had tried to kill him, Louis remembers and he nods for Lestat to continue even though he can't see him, "Rats were not enough, but I could move, when I could move, I stumbled my way to them, I played for them, for her, and she....her blood brought me back."

"Lestat."

"She bit me, then of course, I bit her, what else was I supposed to do, and...a-and...." Lestat trails off, and Louis can hear him breathing, the soft, unnecessary huffs of air coming quicker than they should. "The first of us, I found them, I played my music for her, p-...played Nicky's own violin, and she woke up, her head turning and her eyes finding mine, and it shouldn't have worked, I shouldn't have been able to, I am nothing, but she gave me life again." Lous could hear Lestat trembling, the little taps of his body as it moved involuntarily. "It shouldn't have worked." He is trying to convince someone of this truth, but Louis wonders if it's him.

Or her.

"Lestat."

"I don't know if it's the music or the book or whatever it is you said to them, the others, but they are....she is moving." Lestat is distracted, and Louis doesn't know who exactly he is speaking to.

"Lestat." Louis can hear him breathing, slow and shallow, and Louis pushes, "She?"

"Akasha."

And Louis remembers now, the name said in Magnus's lair years ago, he remembers tasting the confusion on Armand's lips. He hadn't recognized the name, neither had Louis, of course not.

"She's the first of us, Louis."

Louis's breath is shaking as he exhales. "You need to come to Dubai." He doesn't know what inspires him to say that, to offer sanctuary, but Lestat is afraid, and Louis has never known the man, in over a hundred years, to be afraid. Not really.

Lestat laughs, but Louis knows him well enough to know it's not a genuine sound. "Don't be ridiculous. The tour starts next week, we'll be visiting cities all over the world, it would be impossible for me to take time off to travel to you." Meaning it will be impossible for an ancient vampire to find him, and Louis can hear the lie in those words.

"Come to Dubai."

"Come to Paris."

"Lestat." Louis blinks. Paris catches him off-guard, but there is no malice in the words. "You will be safe here."

"Safe?" The word is a scoff, and Louis knows it comes with an eye roll.

"Apparently half the vampires in the South China Sea are being set on fire with no obvious source."

"So the two of us can burn together and take down a skyscraper at the same time?" There is panic in his voice, just an undercurrent, but it's there and it makes Louis stand up. "If I am with you, my love, and she finds us, she will kill you too, and I cannot....I have limits of what I am willing to watch."

"I don't know. I'm a charming guy, maybe she'll like me better than you," Louis says as he walks from his meditation room, across the sitting room, and over to the balcony doors. He pulls the door open and lets the wind hit him for a moment before he steps out. "What's your plan, Lestat? Lead the oldest vampire alive on a merry chase around the world?"

"I am captivating, my love, my music has already distracted the others from their quest to destroy you."

"Think that was the vampires burnin', but sure," Louis replies, a smile that is half a smirk playing across his lips.

"Wounded, Louis, wounded." Lestat exhales then, and Louis hears a creak of furniture like he's flopped back into a chair again. "When have you ever known me to have a plan, cher? I am just...." Lestat trails off and Louis holds his breath as he waits for him to continue.

When he doesn't, Louis finishes, "You are simply savin' lives?"

Lestat laughs at that, loudly and joyously, and it almost sounds real. Louis's lips quirk just a little. "Yours, perhaps, the others...." Louis imagines the elegant little shrug Lestat perfected centuries ago. "Does that sound like me?"

Louis sighs. "No." He leans on the railing, shaking his head. "Are you sure it's your girl doing this?"

"She is not 'my girl'," Lestat replies, and Louis imagines he is shaking his head. He hears the chair creak again, and now Louis imagines him standing and pacing the room as he speaks even though Louis can't hear the movement. "People are burning. Unless humanity has suddenly grown wise to our existence, unless your Mister Molloy's book is not being excused as plain fiction anymore, what else do you think is going on, my love?"

"Big leap to ancient vampire gods, that's all," Louis says, and Lestat makes a sound like he agrees, but he says nothing else, not at first.

"Perhaps I am just reacting to the fear of the others," Lestat finally says, and it would be easy to simply agree and let everything lay there, never to be picked up again.

Instead, Louis says, "When is your show in Paris?"

"A month, at least, I'll send you the dates. We start in New York, then Ireland, then London, then....then, finally Paris," Lestat doesn't sound scared anymore, but the undercurrent is still there, a faint trembling of his words that no one but Louis would be able to pick up.

"I will meet you there, and I will drag you back to Dubai." Lestat makes a noise like he is about to argue, and Louis holds up a hand to quell the argument. "If vampires keep burning, I will drag you back to Dubai. If this was just...two vampires throwing themselves into the fire, then we'll...we'll meet in Paris, share the night, and go our separate ways. That's all."

But the terror in the other voices has stuck with Louis, and he is not sure this is all coincidence, and Louis's first concern is to save what matters most.

Lestat.

Maybe Daniel too, distantly, but still family. Maybe Armand too in some weird fucked up way. Maybe...maybe some of the others too.

Finally Lestat exhales.

"We will meet in Paris." Before Louis can respond, Sam cuts in again, telling Lestat in both their minds about lighting tests and sound checks. "The stage calls, cher."

"Hmm, it always does," and he can hear Lestat making his way to the door, pulling it open, and Louis says, orders really, "Lestat. If it gets worse, you will come to me."

"And you will protect me, Louis?"

"Strength in numbers is all."

Lestat hums in agreement. "One month, Louis. Paris."

Louis nods. "Paris." They both hang up without saying goodbye, and it's not even a minute later before another text comes through.

are you having the dreams

Is that why you are not sleeping

Louis doesn't respond, and after several minutes the dots to indicate Lestat is typing pop back up. Then the Paris dates. And then....

listen to the album louis

Louis laughs before clicking over to buy the album, letting it download as he prepares to return to his bed.

He'll listen just as soon as he finishes Daniel's book.