#and i feel like reading all her work at once like that ruined her poetry for me

[angst-and-fajitas]

Notes on Mary Oliver, Me, 7/13/2023

You see, I think I could like you in a party

I think I could like you at a brunch

I could like you outside the party in porch chairs,

With two or three of our closest friends.

But I cannot like you when we are alone,

When we sit you and I, alone, at one small table

And as you speak I find

That there is one thing you are always speaking about

And it is not the thing I am always speaking about.

(Woe is me; this core of my soul is not the core of anyone else's)

[jenscx]

MY DARLING — jang wonyoung x f!reader

you were just living a quaint life in a bookstore, until a stranger barges in on a rainy day, evidently changing your life.

TAGS — very fluffy, princess!wonyoung, slight angst, jealousy (tiny), commoner!yn, flirty wony

WORDCOUNT — 3.9k

the 10th of august, 1820. you sigh at the raindrops splashing against the glass windows, tinted with a slight hue of blue. the bookstore was rarely this quiet but with everything going on in the royal castle, perhaps it was to be expected.

“no customers yet?” you whip your head up, frowning. eunbi, the owner of the bookstore and the one who had raised you, stood at the top of the flight of creaky, wooden stairs. you shake your head, “aren’t the nobles trying to popularise reading? i don’t think it is working too well.”

eunbi laughs. “sure. the literature we sell here isn’t too demanding of their literary skills. and the nobles only flock to poetry, maybe it’s time we expanded our small library.”

your eyes brighten at the thought of an increased variety of books. even though you adored the selection here, it was starting to get quite boring. the constant romance themes evident in every single book was rather… annoying.

“hm, perhaps we should close up for the day, it’s rather late and the rain is heavy. i don’t think anyone else will bear with the storm just for a quick read,” eunbi suggests and you comply immediately, packing up the stacks of papers standing tall at the counter. you were just scribbling on them to rid your boredom.

“i’ll be upstairs if you need me,” she calls out before heading up once more. you sigh again. just as you were about to close the curtains shut, the door slams open and you almost squeal.

a mysterious hooded figure stands before you, heaving up and down as quick breathes escape them.

“uhm, apologies but we are closing for the day,” you say. the figure turns and you roll your eyes. their cloak was dripping rainwater all over the mahogany wood floors that you had just polished that morning!

“terribly sorry for the intrusion,” they (you raise an eyebrow at the feminine voice) mumble, “i needed a place to get away.”

“right, i don’t really care because you are ruining my flooring, so could you take that damn cloak off?”

the person immediately does so, revealing the white fitted bodice that clung to the woman’s skin, almost translucent and you feel a blush creeping up your neck.

“you are… soaked.”

“yes, quite obviously.”

you turn away from her, eyes avoiding her own narrowing gaze as she was quite literally the most gorgeous girl you’ve ever seen.

“i’ll get you a cloth to clean yourself up with,” you mutter while the girl nods and proceeds to walk along the shelves.

if you weren’t so distracted by her apparent beauty, you would be more conscious of how familiar she looked.

moments later, you return with a cloth, and the stranger was peering at one of the many books that lined the shelves.

“fan of jane austen?” you smile when she jumps slightly at your sudden voice, “that is one of her most popular pieces of literature; pride and prejudice from 1813. though we do have earlier pieces such as ann radcliffe’s the romance of the forest, 1791.”

the woman nods, “aren’t you quite acquainted with books? any suggestions?”

“hm, perhaps persuasion by jane austen if you’re a fan, but do read most of her writings, it’s incredible.”

“what about playwrights? anyone that you’ve taken a liking to?” she asks.

you think for a while, “elizabeth inchbald. i thought lovers’ vows was spectacular. shame i couldn’t see it, sometimes i wished i was born earlier.”

“i always thought that it was too controversial and morally ambiguous for people to adore it. thankfully i’ve found someone of my own,” she says, a twinkle in her eye that you can’t help but feel your heartbeat race at. she daps at her neck with the cloth and you evert your eyes.

“a-anyway, what brings you here? you’ve distracted me from closing up.”

she places the book back into its original position and furrows her brows, “do you not recognise who i am?”

you tilt your head and lean on the bookshelves, “no, not particularly. am i meant to?”

“yes, but i’d rather you stay unknowing. if we were to be… friends, could i ask that you never try to find my identity?”

“could i at least know your name? or something to call you?”

“of course, i haven’t introduced myself. you can call me wonyoung.” wonyoung, you think, it’s a pretty name.

she flashes a gleaming smile at you, “could i know yours?”

“y/n,” you reply, “what brings you here?”

wonyoung’s posture slackens and you take the time to admire her luscious black hair that was tied into a bun with small curls and waves. you unconsciously swallow your saliva as wonyoung answers you.

“just running from my responsibilities. quite lucky of me to end up in a quaint bookstore with you, to be frank.”

your eyes trail down from her face to her collarbones, mouth going dry at the sight of her neck. god, you think, clenching your eyes shut.

“you all right? your cheeks are… flushed,” you spot a hint of a teasing smile on her face.

“how old are you?” wonyoung asks suddenly.

“i’m eighteen this year.”

“oh, i’m eighteen as well.”

you grin, “what responsibilities could you have at eighteen? we’re the same age, yet i’m just working at a bookstore.”

wonyoung shakes her head, almost sullen, “you have no clue how hectic it is back there. if here is shallow water, when i go back there, i’ll drown in the tsunami.”

“how poetic.”

“impressive, isn’t it?”

you giggle first and wonyoung’s laughter joins soon after. her laugh is melodic and soothing, a breather. it’s like you’ve just found your oasis.

and maybe she’s found hers.

your night is spent alone. no wonyoung to fill the empty spaces of silence apart from the occasional footsteps outside of the bookstore. you spent all day with her, or rather the rest of the day until she deemed too late to reach home. no matter how hard you try, your mind ends up wandering and you dream of rosy cheeks with a bunny smile.

you awake the next morning with a letter at your doorstep, addressed in neat calligraphy.

dear y/n,

i could not tell you how much i enjoyed yesterday, it was an eye-opening experience. i am definitely the luckiest person ever. i can’t believe how lucky i was to enter your bookstore and meet you. i hope we stay acquainted forever. send your reply to this address, i will wait for it.

sincerely yours,

wonyoung

if it were from anyone else, you would have found it desperate, or creepy. but even after a day of meeting wonyoung, you were enchanted.

hence, you quickly draft up a letter, perhaps she could see how much desperation there was in the messily scrawled handwriting for you to see her again.

it took almost no time for you and her to communicate daily through letters. even though you only met her three weeks ago, it felt like you’ve known her forever. wonyoung was your everything. and maybe you were her everything too. she was the part of your routine you looked most forward to.

eunbi had questioned you about your sudden enthusiasm and happiness. after all, she had been your caregiver since she had taken you in and you were never this dreamy.

wonyoung would sometimes drop by during the evening and you would spend a few hours together before she had to leave. it was the highlight of your week. a few hours would be all you could have, until a letter arrives at your doorstep.

my darling y/n,

how have you been? i found that book you’ve been raving about. i must extend my apologies for reading it beforehand, you were just too excited about it that i had to read it for myself. anyway, would your bed be free tonight? could i spend the night at your bookstore? my parents finally gave me permission to do so. i do hope you’re free, if not i’ll be missing you terribly.

sincerely yours,

wonyoung

you almost crumple up the letter in excitement. wonyoung was finally sleeping over? it was a joyous celebration. you swiftly write back, hoping that the letter would reach her in time. it always did, surprisingly. you weren’t sure if the post was meant to work that fast. you were counting down the seconds for when she would arrive and when the grandfather clock struck six thirty in the evening, a knock resounded on the door.

“wonyoung!” you squeal, rushing into her arms and burying your face into the crook of her neck. physical touch had become common between you and her, initiated by her at first but mostly done by you now. you could not resist feeling the warmth her body gave off.

“good evening, yn,” she breathes out, “i almost tripped on the way here. i was so exhilarated when i received your letter.”

you grin, quickly locking up the doors and closing the curtains. wonyoung lingers around you, a bag of clothes at her feet, you presume it contained her sleepwear.

“darling,” you feel a shiver go down your spine at her voice, “shall we head up?”

you nod and interlock hands with wonyoung, dragging her up the stairs and heading into your bedroom. your bed wasn’t tiny, but with wonyoung’s height, her feet would be dangling off the edge since your mattress was wider and not lengthy.

“you can change here, i’ll just look away,” you say.

“what if i want you to look?”

your cheeks heat up and you cover your eyes, “shut up, you flirt.”

“my sincerest apologies,” wonyoung says slowly, “do you not like it when i flirt with you?” you roll your eyes. she would always ask questions which she knew the answers to. wonyoung just wanted the satisfaction of you saying it out loud.

“i like it,” you mutter, embarrassed.

“you’re adorable,” she laughs and starts to untie the laces on her corset to reveal her shift under. you take this as your cue to turn away.

a few minutes pass and wonyoung finally says, “i’m done. you can turn around now.”

she was adorned in a long light blue night rail with lace linings. you still thought she was the prettiest girl to ever walk the earth.

wonyoung flops onto your bed and you join her.

“blow out the candle, won't you?” wonyoung requests. without the light of the candle, you can only see her face that is illuminated by the moonlight.

you both slip under the sheets, facing each other. your eyes trail along her features and your fingers ache to trace them.

“how was your day? you never answered me in your reply.”

“you were genuinely asking? i thought you asked as a formality,” you chuckle at her affronted expression.

she rolls her eyes, “of course i was genuine! i’m always interested in what you have to say.”

“why are you being so cheeky today? so many flirtatious remarks,” her long arms wrap around your waist and you giggle.

“i’m just naturally like that,” wonyoung smiles, “and you like it, don’t you?”

you nod shyly.

“i do.”

“then i’ll stay this way. be whatever that you like.”

“i like you,” you confess.

wonyoung blinks slowly. your words and sincere tone seeping into her heart as a large grin overtakes her face.

“and i adore you.”

your night, unlike the first, was spent wrapped up in wonyoung’s embrace. warmth covering your body and a smile across your face the entire time you slept. it was the most peaceful night you’ve had. yet, as all things go, it was just the calm before the storm.

something had been bothering you, wonyoung could tell. after that night spent together, you and her were inseparable. but the more time you had together, the more it seemed like you were drifting away in your thoughts.

“darling?” you turn around in her embrace, “are you all right?”

“yes, i’m totally fine. couldn’t be better than being here with you.”

“i feel the same but, are you certain? it just feels like something is bothering you. if anything, could you tell me?” wonyoung asks. your body visibly tenses up and even in the dark, she could still see how your face was contemplating.

“why did you ask me to never search for your identity?”

wonyoung suddenly unwraps her arms from around your waist. you miss her warmth instantly.

“why are you bringing this up now?” she counter asks.

you frown. “just remembered it. i was reminiscing the first time we met.”

“ah.”

“also because eunbi has been asking me about you and i don’t know what to tell her. i realised i don’t know much about you and i want to change that,” you explain.

wonyoung’s breath hitches.

“eunbi? have you mentioned my name to her?”

“no, i wasn’t too sure if i should have… wonyoung, seriously, what’s this whole ordeal with your identity? can’t you just tell me?” you ask.

you decide not to mention the fact that you have actually questioned eunbi about wonyoung. the amount of warning signs about her identity had been increasing daily and you weren’t so certain about how much you could trust wonyoung anymore.

“you’re lying,” wonyoung states.

“what?”

“you know my identity.”

“wonyoung, love—”

she separates herself from you immediately and sits upright. your bubble of tranquillity bursts and the peaceful future you’ve created for the two of you was ruined.

“i told you. i specifically told you not to go looking!” her voice raises, “and you still do? and i know you’re lying to my face! you know that…”

you can’t stand it anymore. “that you’re the princess? of course i do! how could i not remember your face and name plastered everywhere? are you not aware of how influential you are? the media has been going insane at how your birthday ball was going to be the highlight of this century! but this doesn’t mean i love you less!”

“it’s not about that! you betrayed my trust. how could you? it was the first thing i’ve ever told you; don’t go looking for my identity! and i… this isn’t going to work out. i apologise, but i have to leave,” wonyoung hisses and quickly jumps out of your bed. you can only stare in silence as she packs up her clothes and leaves out the door.

you sit there on your cotton sheets, stunned at how the evening’s played out. a sigh escapes your lips and your heart aches at the forlorn expression that wonyoung had.

you couldn’t believe that wonyoung had just left like that. you thought she would at least hear you out and it wasn’t as if you yourself had gone looking for her identity! her name was basically on every single piece of news article, how could you not know? and wonyoung wasn’t a popular name.

perhaps everything will be normal in the morning. wonyoung’s letter would show up at your doorstep, apologising for how she acted and you would still forgive her.

needless to say, you were wrong. there was no letter, and definitely no bouquet of tulips that normally accompanied the letter.

“i saw the princess stomping out, did you two have a fall out?” eunbi asks. you nod, sulking.

“she found out that i knew she was the princess and she wasn’t too enthusiastic about it.”

eunbi thinks for a moment. “aren’t you going to try to chase after her? wouldn’t it be right?”

“why should i? she said we weren’t going to work out.” repeating those words brought a new level of pain.

your caregiver laughs, “that’s exactly what sakura said as well and she ended up grovelling.”

you raise an eyebrow. “who’s sakura?”

“some foreign lady. anyway, are you going to write to her or not? her birthday’s coming up soon.”

“her birthday,” you repeat, “i could just go to her birthday banquet.” eunbi blinks, “i did not mean that but sure.”

you have a newfound sense of confidence. wonyoung couldn’t do anything if you just went to her banquet, right? well, she could just order for the guards to take you out but it was open to commoners. there was a dress code but wonyoung had gifted you a pretty expensive dress recently.

“august 30th, it starts at eleven in the evening,” eunbi informs you, “you do know your way to the castle? i have other plans that night.”

“yes, of course. thank you for the idea!” you smile. as you head off back into your room, thoughts of seeing wonyoung again run through your mind.

the day had finally come. your hair was parted in the middle with your bangs curled that occasionally twitched your eyes. your bust was pushed up ever so slightly by a tight fitting corset. you had a low cut violet gown and white gloves that extended up to your elbows.

the closer you got to the palace, the more your confidence dwindled. what if wonyoung orders for the guards to escort you out? it would be ironic for you to show up at her banquet, where she would have to reveal her identity. you shiver at the thought of wonyoung’s distrustful gaze.

what happened to staying together until death parts you two? wonyoung had been so romantic with her words, maybe it was all faux.

you shake your head. you couldn’t think of that! now, you just had to reassure her that her identity revelation would not change anything. and maybe you could even try to revert to the same relationship status as before. once you enter the ballroom, you’re surrounded by nobles and commoners alike, all dressed to the nines. you scan the room, hoping to see wonyoung.

“goodness,” one of the more fashionably dressed nobles say, “dukes from high society are starting to court her already. i heard that many are offering their whole family wealth for her hand.”

your face falls. of course there would be people wanting to court her. wonyoung was so angelic and there would be no reason for rich dukes to not throw themselves at her.

“good evening, my lady,” you spin around, facing an older woman with a rather disgruntled young man, “could i ask where you are from?” luckily, eunbi had trained you beforehand.

“miyawaki y/n,” you lie through your teeth, “i’m not from around here, just passing through to visit the princess.”

“splendid! i am from the house of lee and this is my son, heeseung,” the woman exclaims, “i thought you were a perfect match for him.”

your eye twitches.

“ah, yes.”

“i’ll leave you two to get acquainted, hopefully by the end of this ball, you will be dancing with each other.”

“my lady will not be dancing with anyone,” your heart leaps. an arm links around yours and you almost instinctively lean into the familiar warmth.

the woman stands rooted to the ground while heeseung quickly scurries off.

“m-my sincerest apologies! i did not know,” she bows. wonyoung waves a hand at her and turns to look at you instead.

before the crowd starts to gather around you, wonyoung turns her head and swiftly drags you by the wrist through the many nobles.

“wony— princess!” you shriek.

she pulls you into an empty room, away from peering eyes and eavesdroppers. her gaze on you is heavy with emotion and you can barely get a chance to identify them before she speaks.

“what on earth compelled you to come here?”

“i just wanted to see you. you ran off rather quickly last night, much like that heeseung boy.”

“y/n, you can’t just show up here looking like that. i… i told you once you found out who i really was, we could never truly be together,” wonyoung sighs.

you frown, “so you weren’t going to try anyway? were you just going to love me when it was convenient? what happened to all those sweet promises you’ve made to me?”

“i can’t keep those promises if the public found out we were together,” wonyoung clasps your hands together.

“so you were just loving me for the hell of it.”

“i sacrificed lots for you.”

“but you still can’t be with me.” you take wonyoung’s silence as her answer. there’s tears welling up in your eyes and wonyoung’s gaze darts to them instantly.

you tear your hands away from hers to wipe your tears falling down your cheeks.

“this has been… eye-opening. since we were never going to work out anyway, i should take my leave. sorry for taking up your time when you should have been spending it celebrating. happy birthday.”

your heart aches. the beats slow down but you feel like it’s been crushed into little bits, which were then thrown into molten lava and rebuilt. then crushed again by wonyoung.

“wait a moment, don’t…”

“i should have know it would have ended up like this. i’m deeply sorry again, your highness,” you say coldly, bowing.

wonyoung’s mouth is open, almost like she wants to say something. but you can’t be with someone who contradicts herself every time.

“darling,” the nickname slips out and you feel sobs wreck your body, “don’t cry, wait, please.”

“my love, please look at me, please don’t walk away, i was a fool. i wasn’t thinking at all,” wonyoung rambles out, “please stay and listen, which is ironic, i realise but i can’t believe i thought i could ever live life without you. i need you. i was just scared of what they would say, but it doesn’t matter to me anymore. i realised that you’re my only light and i will never find someone better than you. it was all my doing, i never meant to hurt you like this. i’m the one who should be saying sorry.”

wonyoung stares at you, affection and longing in her eyes. so that’s what it was.

“i’m not forgiving you just yet. you still hurt my feelings.”

“of course. i’ll grovel for eternity for your forgiveness.”

you sniffle and slap her cheek lightly, not enough to even hurt.

“i hate that you can make me feel like this.”

“like what?” she asks, looking down at you.

“like everything’s okay.”

“is everything not okay?”

a smile overtakes your face, tears still dripping down your cheeks but you feel contrary.

“don’t ever do that again,” you fling your arms over her shoulders and instinctively, her hands go around your waist.

“i adore you, and if i were to ever hurt you intentionally, please just execute me on the spot,” she whispers into your ear, making you giggle.

“executing the princess is illegal, i would be given the death sentence as well.”

“then we would be together in the afterlife at least.”

“you are such a dork.”

“only yours.”

(to my darling y/n,

i hope everything’s all right back at the bookstore. could i drop by sometime later? maybe we could even read belinda by maria edgeworth. i’ve heard it is quite a worthy read. your wedding gown is gorgeous, for your information, i reckon i’ll sob at the alter. as always, do tell me about your day later. i will be counting down the minutes until i can see your beautiful face. i love you.

forever yours,

wonyoung

to my princess,

of course you can drop by. i’m expecting more books to arrive later in the afternoon. unfortunately for you, i’ve already read belinda but i will reread it with you if you want. i hope you’re doing well back at the castle; how’s the wedding preparations going? tell me all about it later. i’ll be counting down the minutes as well. i love you too.

your darling,

y/n)

[iliveforyouilongforyouvesuvia]

I haven't seen it yet but full hc for the m6 with an MC on the ADHD spectrum

The Arcana HCs: M6 with an MC who has ADHD

~ @themushroomgoesyeet hope you like these! I'm writing half from personal experience, half from what I've read and heard. Please let me know if there's anything that need correcting! ~

Julian

ADHD is a less familiar subject for him, if only because his areas of specialty so far have been contagious diseases and battle wounds

He's also not really one to judge you for difficulty keeping a sleep schedule, self-medicating with caffeine, or spending days on end obsessively learning everything you can about a specific subject

What's abundantly clear to him, though, is that you do not deserve to live with the guilt that comes from your own brain hijacking every commitment and interest that it doesn't prioritize

He knows what it's like to feel guilty for something that wasn't your fault, and he doesn't like seeing you live with it

The way he sees it, he's even more to blame for his shortcomings than you are, because you're actively working against your own brain and he's just ... sad (you'll have to tell him that this is not true)

This is going to become one of those shared challenges you tackle together as a couple

He'll write down all the bad effects of too much caffeine to motivate him to reduce your combined intake

You remind him to go to bed with you at a decent hour and call it "poetry time" instead of "bedtime" to trick both of your brains into not thinking of it as the end of the day

Asra

They love you. They love you so much. They never, ever want to get in the way of your preferences and vision

He enables you maaaybe a little more than he should

Staying up late is a great idea! Spending the entire day on your current fixation with no break to go outside or talk to people? Hey, don't let them ruin your fun ~

Thankfully, he cares about you far too much to leave you to engage in anything genuinely self destructive

Once the amount of caffeine you've consumed goes from "inadvisable" to "concerning," once your sleep schedule goes from "not ideal" to "dysfunctional", they'll step in in the gentlest way

Another cup of coffee? Let him get you some soothing tea. Another all-nighter? Snuggle him first, let him help you meditate a bit and see if you don't get drowsy

Nobody can combat executive dysfunction like this magician

All it takes is them feeling the slowly building dread through your bond, and they're lovingly poofing you off of the couch/floor/counter and into a very ticklish hug

His lifestyle is heavily ADHD coded as it is. He remains completely unfazed by the roller coaster that your brain can be

Nadia

To her, you are the best possible version of her opposite

She has a hard time changing between trains of thought. You reboot yours every time you walk through a door!

She sometimes forgets to slow down and appreciate the small things in favor of the bigger picture. You, on the other hand, are constantly pausing to notice them

And don't get her started on how much she admires your capacity to learn so much specialized knowledge in such a short period of time. It's truly astonishing and she adores it

However, she can tell that leaving it unchecked and untreated will make it difficult for you to function in the Palace's normal setup, much less follow regular routines

Quick to find a specialist in your condition and set up a few sessions with them, coming up with ways to work with your diagnoses and exploring medication options that you like

Insanely good at helping you keep your mind on track and regulate your attention and focus levels, even when it means pulling you away from a task that's about to eat up half your day

Likes to idly study the chaotic way you manage your personal spaces and try to figure out what the method to the madness is

Muriel

What, you think he's not used to living with a chaotic being that'll start three projects in a row before randomly walking out and not reappearing for several hours? Please.

Truthfully, there are some small things that annoy him. He likes predictability, and your base state of functioning is taking the next random tangent. That's not easy to not worry about

However, he knows that living with him takes plenty of patience as well. As long as you two can be patient with each other's quirks, and respectful when you lovingly intervene, that's what matters

He still loves hearing you ramble

He likes watching your eyes light up, listening to the excited lilt of your voice as you infodump all the new specialized knowledge you've gobbled up

That aside, he does love learning. Each of your new fixations is a new field of education for him by proxy

He's also someone who thrives on habit and routine and isn't afraid to put his foot down when your wellbeing is involved

He will scoop you up in his arms and lovingly carry you to bed when the bags under your eyes get too prominent and you start to nod off mid-sentence

Portia

Portia looks at you like you hung the moon. Portia thinks that every magical thing you do is mind-blowingly amazing. Portia assumes that all of your little quirks and non-habits are just you being you

Hey, if finding one specific food and eating it and only it for days on end is something you want to do, cool! Maybe it's secretly satisfying some magician's craving!

You're going to think about one thing and one thing only and learn everything there is to know about that thing? That's some badass scholarly behavior right there.

Well - except for the part where you forget something exists as soon as it's not in your hand anymore, or where time really does seem like a social construct, or where you somehow get physically and mentally stuck in one spot without being able to move

That looks ... miserable

Nobody can manage chaos like she can. She'll help you snap out of it, she'll remind you to eat and sleep and take your meds, she'll regularly ask when last you went outside or took a bath

And when you mess up - when you miss an event, or fall behind schedule, or leave things to pile up until they're too much - she'll be right next to you with an encouraging smile and plenty of grace

Lucio

This works either really well or really poorly, depending on the day, how he's doing, how you're doing, what you're both supposed to be doing, what the weather's like ...

It's unpredictable, but that's the fun of it!

Much of the time, your strong points support each other. There are few feelings Lucio hates more than boredom, but with a brain like yours around, there's always something new to try or think about

Few things cause the kind of bone-deep discouragement and guilt that constantly missing things does, but nobody values the importance of trying again like he does

On the other hand, sometimes you accidentally enable each other

Lucio's still learning the self-regulation involved with choosing to do something unpleasant and important over doing something enjoyable and completely useless

And if your brain decides that said pleasant thing is the only thing it's going to function for, well, not getting sidetracked is almost impossible. Good luck to you both

Thankfully, you both have a lifestyle that allows for unusual schedules and working styles. As long as you have each other to keep trying growing, you'll never get stuck for long

[specialagentartemis]

for the ask game: I Gotta ask for your Pin-Lee thoughts

@clonerightsagenda asked: ask meme: Pin-Lee

You both had the same idea XD

First impression

Not much of anything tbh; I had a hard time keeping track of any of the All Systems Red humans who weren't Mensah or Gurathin the first time I read it.

Impression now

She is SO fascinating. Sharp and hardass corporate lawyer from the gentle socialist planet. How did she get into that line of work? Bristly and prickly and brave but not above being petty, not a leader and she doesn’t want to be a leader but she will take charge when she needs to and is very smart and dedicated and but not happy about that. The CombatUnit of lawyers. She WILL take your company down. Workaholic who thrives when she has a goal to pursue. I love thinking about her.

Favorite moment

Big fan of when Murderbot approached her on TranRollinHyfa. Tight smile and walking carefully into a private transit car and then going off. Where were you? What are you doing here?? You LEFT.

Idea for a story

I want to write Pin-Lee’s POV of Exit Strategy sooo baddd and someday I WILL do this. She is under so much pressure!

other ideas for stories I periodically ruminate on: Overse learns that a distant relative of hers in the CR has died, and she inherits her relative’s company. Pin-Lee is wary of this whole deal, and that wariness is proven justified when it turns out that relative was murdered. They can’t all just sell everything off and wash their hands of the whole ordeal, though, because among the company assets, Overse inherited a SecUnit. Now Murderbot, Pin-Lee, Overse, Arada, and Ratthi are travelling to the station where Overse was born, to collect the inheritance, solve the mystery, meet and free and acculturate this new SecUnit, make sure that all of them are legally in the clear and not bound to any outstanding debts or contracts that anyone wants to collect on, and try not to get murdered in the process.

Unpopular opinion

Kinda don’t know enough Popular Opinions about Pin-Lee to write an unpopular one, but I guess I tend to write/conceptualize her outward anger as an expression of fear and restless stress and frustration most of the time. She is under SO much pressure and SO much stress and she is trying to keep her team alive and out of life-ruining debt and she cannot, under any circumstances, let anyone know she is scared or upset about this because if the opposing corporate lawyers see any weakness they will eat her alive. So it comes out as anger and aggression and confrontation—but also, being afraid like this for so long can make you angry, deep bubbling festering righteous bitter anger that you have to live like this. That you have to keep dealing with this.

Favorite relationship

The TranRollinHyfa Trio of Pin-Lee, Ratthi, and Gurathin... friendship forged in fire. They've been through something no one else would really ever get. I love them

Favorite headcanon

She has a younger sister who is like, the ideal Preservation citizen. A poet, textile artist, community volunteer, and mother, who is great at talking about her feelings in a healthy and productive way. Her poetry is quite famous on Preservation. Pin-Lee has a fraught relationship with her.

Also because two people asked me you get two: Preservation has a tradition of a “service year” where once you reach adulthood as a new adult you’re supposed to spend a year doing some sort of service work for the community. It’s a way of meeting new people, gaining new social networks, learning new skills, going new places, exploring and determining what you want to do in your life. Pin-Lee’s service year involved home construction for the influx of Divarti refugees that was happening right around when she turned 20. She didn’t really take to it, but she did get an interest in interplanetary law from it. (This explains that one-off line from ASR about Pin-Lee having hab construction experience. Most Preservationers have an eclectic set of skills for reasons like this!)

[real-jane]

poet laureate

part 1 - [prof bucky barnes x fem!reader]

summary: bucky spent one fateful night with someone he shouldn't have. the guilt drove him to resign from his teaching position. a hasty choice may have been his best mistake.

warnings: discussion of grief/loss. smut in future parts. slowish burn.

a/n: this prompt idea originally came from @thornsnvultures: "I'd love a college au Bucky. English Lit professor!Bucky who loves to teach Tolkien, maybe? 🤔" I hope you enjoy! this will likely be about three parts. all poetry is my own.

series masterlist

– – – – –

Resigning was easy. 

Telling her was herculean. How do you tell a woman she’s the reason you quit your job?

Nobody knew about them. They didn’t go out on dates, or steal longing glances at one another in the dim light of the overhead projector, while some freshman stumbled over Hamlet’s soliloquy.

It happened once, a month prior.

One fleeting evening, in a distant city–a footnote on the Summer break, below a citation for an unusually cool August, and the number of students projected to be out with Mononucleosis. But it consumed him.

Nothing occurred between them until her fellowship presentation at a writer’s symposium in Massachusetts, on the brink of the new semester. He wasn’t sure why he went–except she was his best student, his mentee, and she invited him (with a handwritten letter, no less). So he drove four hours to attend her presentation, and immersed himself in her work until he was drunk on her. And she was so exuberant in the afterglow of a standing-room-only exhibition, it was easy to accept her invitation to a dive bar in Amherst afterwards, and pretend like he wasn’t her Graduate Advisor. 

She kissed him. Neither of them imbibed–Bucky because he planned to make the trip back to New York that night, and her because she wanted to ‘experience every raw thing.’ Apparently, he qualified. If she wanted a man with a heart still on the vine, she couldn’t have chosen better. There were plenty of reasons why she shouldn’t have snuck him into her room, especially a student building.

But she did, and Bucky experienced something which put him in jeopardy: a thing with no name, something which rooted itself at the base of his spine and began climbing with fury. The moment she fell asleep, he yanked on his trousers and left. He drove back to New York shoeless, sober–ruined. It was unbearable to be without her skin against his; he viciously hungered with nothing to sate him, at his own peril.

The further away from her he got, the more he realized what a mistake it was to feel anything at all.

–

She wasn’t sure which hurt more: waking up alone, or walking into his classroom on the first day of class to find his TA had taken over ‘for the semester’, after spending forty-five minutes hyping herself up to face him again. The interim instructor handed out essays which had been intended as a pre-semester litmus for the class’ overall skill, submitted in the last week before the school year began; Professor Barnes had allegedly graded the papers, but hers had no such notation until the last page. The blue ink there was barely legible. If the first nine words hadn’t been her own, plucked straight out of a poem from her fellowship, she might not have known them at all, but the more she read, the clearer they became: 

‘you will do better the less you have of me’ How wise the author. How true of you.  I couldn’t bring myself to read this essay. This was a trite assignment compared to the kind of work you showed in your presentation. I have no doubt you served the subject admirably. Your grade will reflect as much.  What I did was unfair to you, unethical to my position, and cruel to myself. I’ve resigned.  JB

She experienced a hollowing as his fingers reached through the deeply scrawled words, into her chest. A snapped rib would be a comfort by comparison. She froze, staring at the personal note, while memories of him from one beautiful night filtered in. Every one was sallow under scrutiny: His soft kiss, a warning. His bashful smirk, a mask. His socks, forgotten under her bed–the only proof he had been there at all, except for a purple bruise above her left breast, and the scent of his cedar cologne on her pillow.

More than anything, she wished she had woken up when he slipped out of bed, so she could tell him what beauty she saw in him, and thank him for sharing a piece of himself she was sure he rarely showed, if ever. Or that he had the courage to face her in class, share an awkward look, and move on. 

His note read like a challenge. Not that he intended it as such. He seemed to be saying I don’t deserve a single thing, and I'll ruin you. Maybe she wanted to be ruined for other men, like the types which clogged academia, with their egos one ducked to avoid. Perhaps the best thing to happen to a woman who made sense of the world through poetry was a man for whom words were a commodity. 

She always thought her crush unrequited. She had invited him to her symposium on a brave wine-induced whim, expecting he’d see the Amherst address and beg out. Professor Barnes was the kind of instructor one changed their major for the privilege of studying with. He never minced words, he didn’t deify dead white scribes, and most of the time, he had thoughtful critique–which was as useful as it was cutting. He cared enough about her work to dislike some of it, let alone read it. She became addicted to his feedback, and the twinkle in his blue eyes when some inspiration sparked. 

Professor Barnes was handsome, to be sure, but he didn’t wear the designation like a medal. Most of the time, he seemed to have misplaced his razor, he couldn’t keep his hair contained in a tie (draping as it did over his forehead), and he wore long sleeves even in the height of Summer, with the cuffs rucked up to his elbows. His concern was always with his students’ success, not his appearance. It was hard not to adore someone for whom teaching wasn’t his gateway into the arms of popularity or politics. 

The only arms he fell into were hers, and he didn’t think himself worthy of that.

She kicked herself for not thinking about how something as simple as asking him for a drink could put him in an ethical conundrum. If the Dean found out he slept with a student, even someone only a few years his junior, he could be fired in disgrace. No wonder he resigned.

She slumped down in her chair. What had she done?

–

He stared at the envelope–well, the corner, anyway, which bore her name. Alpine’s snowy puff of a belly obscured the rest of the words. Bucky’s curiosity got the best of him, and he liberated the letter. The cat made a sullen mewl. He scratched her chin.

He’d wallowed for two days in his dark apartment, so he winced as he turned on the side table lamp. The envelope was postmarked in the East Village, but bore no return address. With one finger, Bucky broke open the seal.

A wave of lilac perfume filled his nostrils, pushing him deeper into the cushions of his sofa. He unfolded the paper within.

JB– Enclosed you’ll find several items which I hope you will do me the honor of reading. As you have deemed any of my non-poetic works ‘trite’ compared to those performed in my workshop, I have also included poems to pad the delivery. I hope this note finds you. I’d wish that it found you well, but you’d think I was being sarcastic. But all I want is for it to reach you, in whatever shape or form you’ve taken. Does that form still give critique? I have to submit three of these poems to complete my thesis by next Monday. You’re still the only person I trust. You’d do better, I think, with *more* of me. If you read the poem more closely, you’d remember the line directly following: ‘but I will waste and waste like something unheavenly’ I’m unheavenly, JB. Please write back. I don’t care if you have nothing to say. Mike will get it to me.

His heart lurched. Mike? The letter was unsigned. She did indeed send poems, eight in total. He read them. Three, four times. The more he perused them, the lighter he felt. 

He chose his favorites, or at least his top five (not including the two he gave honorable mention), and wrote down his thoughts as quickly as his fingers could go under each poem, as he had in the run up to her fellowship, attempting to advise her all the way from New York–’it’s a vivid word but ‘aqueous’ drags, pick something which doesn’t take away from the cadence’--’you’ve got something here, I wonder how it would read if you broke at conjunctions’--’this isn’t hitting. I think it’s got something to do with the focus. It’s too outward. Point inward, you’ll be there.’

Something else in the envelope caught his eye: a business card for a whiskey bar called ‘Howlers’, which appeared to be a joint in Bed-Stuy, just fifteen minutes away on foot (according to his gps app). He flipped the card. 

Ask for Mike.

–

The bar was dimly lit, but packed. Most of the crowd had a decade on Bucky, maybe more, and there were few places to perch next to the bar to draw the bartender’s eye–perch, but not sit; it must have been ladies’ night, because women in tight jeans and faux leather jackets shared stools, a cheek apiece on the wooden circles topping the seating (many of whom became acquainted because they pressed their hips together). 

Bucky meandered through the crowd. The only person he could easily identify as working for Howlers was the bartender, so Bucky did his best to hug the far wall and sidle up next to the pick-up plane, where servers might have restocked trays of drinks, if there was a server to be had. The bartender gave him a nod, but took almost ten minutes to step away from a slew of customized martinis. By the time he approached Bucky, Bucky had gotten unwillingly dragged into a conversation with a pair of women celebrating a recent divorce, by virtue of being a man who they could ply with questions like why DO men leave their underwear on the floor? For Bucky’s part, all he could do was shrug. Bucky was fastidious at home–call it his Army conditioning, or the ever-present anxiety thrumming through his veins. He could not speak to such an epidemic.

“What can I getcha?” The bartender braced against the mahogany counter. “Please don’t say a martini.”

“No, uh–Mike?”

“You got ‘im.”

Bucky extended the envelope toward him. “I am supposed to give this to you.” The shell of his ears burned as he flushed. 

Mike raised an eyebrow. “So. You’re the guy.” He didn’t take the envelope. In fact, he whistled at the divorcees beside Bucky, and pointed to a newly vacated hightop against the far wall. The women squealed and abandoned their stool. Mike gestured for Bucky to sit.

Bucky did, but every nerve in his body told him not to. If Mike hadn’t set a tumblr on a napkin in front of him, and poured two fingers of Bucky’s favorite scotch therein, he probably would have fled, envelope be damned. But he understood: find Mike, stay for a drink. Of course she couldn’t let him make the drop and run…

“Was she right?” Mike asked, pointing to the glass. “Fifteen year.”

Bucky sighed. “Yeah.”

Mike snorted. “She annoys the shitta me too, man, but it’s part of her charm.” He was flagged down by more patrons at the other side of the bar, so the bartender left Bucky to his drink.

A lock of hair escaped from his ponytail, which almost sent him over the edge. Bucky removed the tie and carded both hands through his too-long locks. 

“Didn’t think you’d actually show.”

Bucky would know her voice if he heard it in the depths of a coma. He had memorized the vocalizations in the back of her throat when she disagreed with something in class, her tendency to emphasize adverbs like they had a sharp edge… and the softness with which she said the word you. He closed his eyes, wishing to be swallowed up by the floor.

“Are you okay?” She muttered the question at his elbow, with fingers curling into his sleeve. Bucky didn’t look at her. He took a swig of his drink and let it burn its way down his throat, without the tiniest wince. 

“Guess I sorta get that.” She rubbed his forearm for a moment.

“You’re here,” he growled, because that was certainly the reason why he could in no way be described as ‘okay.’

“Not sure how else to talk to you, given that I don’t have your number and you aren’t responding to email. And as much as I enjoy snail mail correspondence, I’m much more of an instant gratification kinda girl.” She gave the envelope beneath his arm a tug until he lifted it.

Bucky cleared his throat. “I made notes. Going forward, if you need feedback, get with Wilson–”

“No.” She thumbed open the flap. 

He slapped a palm over her fingers as they went for the note card. “Don’t read that, alright.”

“Why?” she tried to pull her hand free, but his grip tightened. 

“It’s irrelevant.”

“Did you tell me to fuck off?” she scoffed.

“Does that sound like me?”

“I don’t know you, Barnes. I thought I did. But I also didn’t peg you as a coward.”

Bucky’s head snapped up in insult, but she had been forced to stand so near to him that her face was inches from his, and the sadness in her eyes hit him. 

“That was harsh,” she said apologetically, but he shook his head.

“Apt, though.”

“Give me ten minutes, at least?” She didn’t wait for him to give his consent, but it was clear he was meant to follow. 

Bucky threw a twenty on the bartop, along with his dignity, and he followed her out the front door. She waited at the curb. By the time he joined her, she was digging in her bag, with a cigarette balanced on her lip. 

“Since when do you smoke?” he asked. 

She smiled from one corner of her mouth, and lit her cigarette with a bright pink lighter. “You found the place okay.”

“The neon sign helped. How do you know Mike?”

“My cousin.” 

“Ah, so. Not a guy friend.”

She laughed off the question. “There’s a park a few blocks west. You wanna walk?”

“Alright.”

They walked, dyssynchronous; she stepped in time with sleepy puffs from her cigarette, while Bucky caught his toes on raised concrete cracks from dragging his feet. She looped her hand through his elbow after a violent shiver, and they were in forced tandem. He told himself–I hate her lilac perfume–even as he held her wrist against his ribs. She grew tired of smoking but kept it upright like a pathetic candle. Waiting. He took it from her. He felt her gaze on his mouth as he took a hit, confirming what he had already suspected: this was his brand. He let the smoke escape slowly from between his teeth to punish her, but all she did was make a titter at the back of her throat.

“I only do it when I drink. But. That’s why.”

“I’m a bad influence.”

“Sure are.” She made a pinching motion with her fingers to ask for it back. 

“What do you want, doll?” He flicked the stub into the gutter, where it hissed against the sludge from the first surprise snow of the Autumn.

“You’re not happy to see me?”

He glared at her out of the corner of his eye. “I think you know the answer already. I came down here because I’m a sucker.”

“Knew it.” She squeezed his arm. “I missed you too.”

It had only been a month since he had last seen her, but god–Bucky missed her with his entire being. From the moment he put his resignation letter in the hands of the Dean, the feeling intensified. The idea of not seeing her tortured him. Talking to her, having her cling to him–it was worse and better, and his heart raced, and he had never wanted to run more. So he covered her hand with his… because he was human, and it was okay to want someone you shouldn’t if nobody saw.

She chose a picnic table by a street light in the small park, and sat with her feet up on the bench. She patted the wood next to her, and Bucky followed suit. 

The silence stretched. He stared at the basketball court, with its orange hoop rings dangling like they’d been swung from one too many times. The woman beside him leaned back on her hands.

“You left your socks,” she said simply. 

“Didn’t even put my shoes back on. Drove home barefoot,” he said. “I don’t know how I didn’t wreck.”

She sighed. “You could’ve stayed, Barnes. James–god, that’s weird. I don’t think I’ve ever said your first name before.”

The corner of his mouth turns up. “‘S not what people usually call me.”

“Right,” she said. “Bucky, yeah? Wilson called you that during the faculty basketball game.”

“You went?” he scoffed. “I was lucky they didn’t make me play the whole time.”

“You’re really bad.” She laughed, and Bucky couldn’t help but chuckle.

“It wasn’t about skill.”

“Clearly.”  

Bucky glanced at her. She smiled at him. Before he could think better of it, he brushed her cheek as if he might never get another opportunity. He blew out a slow breath as her skin filled his palm. She leaned into the touch, grasping his wrist.

“I’ve never, ever put myself in jeopardy like this,” he said. “Plenty of girls in my class have batted their eyelashes at me, but–” he shrugged. “Never felt anything except annoyance. And then… you. I’m screwed up about it, doll, you have every right to be pissed–”

“Slow down,” she said. She laced their fingers. “Let’s back up, I’m–I was angry, but I’m not anymore. I’m confused.”

Bucky gulped. “Um. I left, and I didn’t tell you.”

“Yeah.”

He clutched her hand against his knee. “I don’t do that kinda thing. Never. I mean, I’ve done it before but with women I dated, who were totally outside the campus community. They were short-lived–not even relationships. I…”

“You freaked.”

“Do you blame me?” Bucky groaned. “You’re in my class!”

“I didn’t plan it–”

“I’m not blaming you. For me to do that, with my own grad student, stone-cold sober. Thank god neither of us were drunk.”

She let out a long breath. “I didn’t think about it once.”

“No,” Bucky agreed.

“It doesn’t make it better, I realize. But for once in my life… I didn’t rationalize my way out of something that felt good. Kissing you didn’t bring me to my senses, either.”

“Hmm.”

“Was it… did you hate it–?”

“No. Far from it.”

“Then what?”

He couldn’t make the fear in his chest manifest into words, so he tapped the envelope which peeked out of her coat pocket and stood, stuffing his hands in his pockets. Despite the impulse to run, he remained at her feet. Waiting for her to see the declaration he wrote and rewrote a million times. She opened it.

She read it under her breath. Bucky held his. Every second which lapsed without her speaking was agonizing, but he dug his heels in. She deserved that much.

He didn’t hear her scoot off the table, so when her hands came up to cradle his face, he jumped. 

“You are punishing me, too,” she whispered. “Maybe we should’ve thought about it. I own that. But why is the only option never speaking to or seeing me again? Huh?” 

Bucky tugged out of her grasp. “Do you know what the university would do? You might be barred from defending your thesis, or have it blocked from publication, or get expelled–”

“Who am I going to tell?”

He threw his hands in the air. “Your friends! I don’t know!”

“Barnes–I don’t have a circle, here! My best friend lives in Alaska with her wife who works on a fishing boat, and my parents have never heard a detail about my personal life because the entire population of their neighborhood would know in an INSTANT. Unless YOU were planning on telling the Dean, I sure wasn’t!”

“What if photos of us pop up?”

“At my symposium? You’re my mentor–it makes sense for you to be there!” Her protests echoed off the cement court. “I didn’t invite anyone else!”

“You didn’t? There were a lot of people.”

“The whole city of Amherst shows up for this workshop, it’s a big deal! I didn’t know anybody but you and the other poetry fellows.”

“You kissed me.”

“In a cab!”

Bucky put his fists on his hips. “You snuck me into student housing.”

She poked him in the chest. “Seemed more appropriate than straddling you in the back of a taxi!” Bucky opened his mouth to say more but she clamped her hand over his mouth. “You didn’t resign a tenured teaching position to protect me, so why the hell did you do it?” When she pulled her hand away, she lingered toe-to-toe with him.

Bucky let his head fall back in frustration.

“I’m a shell, doll,” he started. “My ma passed away last year. Should’ve taken a sabbatical. But I pushed through to keep myself busy.” Bucky hazarded a glance at her. She said nothing, but motioned for him to continue. 

“We were a real close family. My sisters are still devastated. If my father hadn’t gone a few summers ago, this would’ve sent him. I’m hollow, doll. Most days I can’t feel a thing.”

“Easier sometimes,” she murmured.

“No. God, it’s miserable. I get addicted to anything that makes me less numb.” Bucky fixed her with a glare. “Then… you asked me to be your advisor. All of a sudden, I looked forward to getting out of bed. Figured I was finally pushing through grief, or something. But I’d go home after meeting with you… empty. I didn’t put it together until you were asleep on my chest.”

She pressed her lips in a thin line. “You think you’re gonna forget her. If you’re happy again.”

Bucky looked away. “I already had, before she died. I never saw her. She lived five blocks from this park, doll, and I didn’t visit. I took it for granted that she would always be there when things slowed down for me.”

“So, when you took me on as an advisor…” 

“Did it to fill up my free time. She asked me every time I saw her when I was gonna have the family I’ve always wanted, and I couldn’t stand to look her in the eye and say I wasn’t trying anymore. Doll–I hate teaching, but I stuck with it because she was so proud of me. She had my book on her bedside table.”

“So do I.” The woman clasped his elbow with a sad smile. “You still would’ve made her proud if you told her you wanted something else. Prouder, still, if you let someone in. Whether or not that someone is Me.”

Bucky’s arms floated upwards, and tentatively hovered at her waist. “With what? What do I have to offer right now?”

“I dunno–”

“Oh, great,” he scoffed.

“No! You’re so smart, but you’re an idiot.” She stood on her tip-toes to level her eyes with his. “You made me feel incredible. Did I return the favor?”

Bucky flushed. “...more than.”

“That’s enough. Doesn’t have to be complicated. You’re a human being–we go through shit times, and it doesn’t make us unworthy of something good.”

“Doll, I did resign because of you, but I didn’t do it to lash out at you. Or because I slept with you–even though it was the ethical thing to do.” Bucky sat with a heavy sigh. “I did it… because you’ve worked so hard. Your thesis work is stunning–those poems are no exception. I have never been as passionate about anything the way you are about words. You made me think there could be something like that, for me.”

“Wow,” she breathed. “When was the last time you did something for yourself?”

Bucky snorted. “Enlisted for Dad. Got out, went to grad school for Ma. Here I am.”

“I forgot you were in the Army.”

“Not something I advertise, doll.”

“No, but I’ve looked at the company photo in your office a million times,” she said. “How’d you get out?”

“Honorable discharge.”

“For?”

“Throwing myself on a grenade.”

“A habit of yours.” She let her head fall against his shoulder. Bucky remained stiff and upright, but he let a sense of warmth at the affectionate position fill him. He almost missed her next words because he was so focused on the sensation of her against his side.

“I don’t want to lose you,” she said. 

“Why?” Bucky couldn’t prevent the question from slipping out. She turned her face so they were nose-to-nose.

“Because I love poetry, but it means nothing if the subject isn’t part of my life. Every poem I write, every goddamn word. They’re about you.”

The sentiment jump-started his heart. It had pumped once a day since his mother died–enough to keep his blood flowing. But with that admission, she renewed him. He scanned over her expression for any sign of hesitation. 

“May I?” His breath tickled her lips. 

She smoothed her hands over the front of his coat. “As much as I want you to, it’s late. I can’t be sure if this is exhaustion, or whiskey, or Bucky. I–” She stopped to touch his jaw. “I can’t kiss you and wake up to nothing, tomorrow. But in the light of day, if you still want to…” Her thumb worried his shallow dimple as she trailed off. Her eyes flicked back and forth, searching to make sure they were on the same page.

Bucky swallowed hard. “I understand.”

“You can give me your number.” She fished her cell phone out of her back pocket and unlocked it so he could type his number in. He did so, and when she presented her cheek… Bucky leaned down and brushed his mouth against her skin. She giggled when he dithered a hare’s breath from her lips.

“I’ll text you, so you have mine,” she said softly.

“I, um.” He swiped his thumb over his bottom lip. “I have to clean out my office this weekend.” 

“...do you want help?”

He smiled. “Yeah.”

“I can move my schedule around. Make some time for you.” She nudged his arm, and then tucked the nearly-forgotten envelope into her pocket. “Call me?” She turned, swinging her bag over one shoulder.

“Hey, doll–”

She stopped, peering back at him.

“I didn’t say it at your symposium, but I’m proud of you.”

She straightened, and her mouth twisted like she was trying not to cry. “Thanks, Professor.” 

Bucky watched her walk away in the direction of the nearest train station until she disappeared into the shadows. His phone vibrated in his pocket. A text from an unknown number.

I’m proud of you too.

Bucky stared at those five liberating words. He didn’t reply, but about two minutes later, another text arrived from the same number.

Howlers is hiring. Barback. 12/hr plus tips. Ask Mike.

–

She waited in the shadow of a tree at the end of a block, and watched his mouth turn up in a smile as he read her second message. Walking away after he asked to kiss her had been nearly impossible; the hairs on her body stood up, craving the deepest level of intimacy they had shared before, but if he wanted to make things right, he needed to do it for himself. 

Still, it was something to hang her hope on. More than a cryptic note, or no words at all.

Her phone chimed.

BUCKY: thank you doll BUCKY: i really did miss you

–

Us

you will do better the less you have of me

but I will waste and waste like something unheavenly.

what feeds you might bleed me but

mete out my punishment gently.

Part 2

– – – – –

thanks for reading and sharing! :)

tag list: @peterhollandkait @nahthanks @honeywithemoney @dracris33 @dracosluvbot @searchf0rtheskyline @emmabarnes @cjand10

kate’s masterlist - my bucky barnes masterlist

[richincolor]

New Releases

A whole bunch of new books out today from a variety of genres and a little something for everybody. I'm looking forward to reading, The Eternal Ones, the conclusion of Namina Forna's Deathless trilogy and a I always love Renee Watson's work so I'm excited to read her book of poetry that I can share with my students. Read on to check out this week's new books. 

This is How You Fall in Love by Anika Hussain Bloomsbury YA

Zara and Adnan are just friends. Always have been, always will be. Even if they have to pretend to be girlfriend and boyfriend… Zara loves love in all forms: 90s romcoms and romance novels and grand sweeping gestures. And she’s desperate to have her own great love story. Crucially, a real one. So when her best friend Adnan begs her to pretend to date him to cover up his new top-secret relationship, Zara is hesitant. This isn’t the kind of thing she had in mind. But there’s something in it for Zara too: making her parents, who love Adnan, happy might just stop them arguing for a while. She may not be getting her own love story, but she could save theirs. So Zara agrees and the act begins: after all, how different can pretending to be in a relationship with your best friend be to just hanging around with them like usual? Turns out, a lot. With fake dating comes fake hand-holding and fake kissing and real feelings… And when a new boy turns up in Zara’s life, things get more confusing than ever. The course of true love never did run smooth, but Zara’s love story is messier than most…

The Eternal Ones (Deathless #3) by Namina Forna Delacorte Press

Mere weeks after confronting the Gilded Ones—the false beings she once believed to be her family—Deka is on the hunt. In order to kill the gods, whose ravenous competition for power is bleeding Otera dry, she must uncover the source of her divinity. But with her mortal body on the verge of ruin, Deka is running out of time—to save herself and an empire that’s tearing itself apart at its seams. When Deka’s search leads her and her friends to the edge of the world as they know it, they discover an astonishing new realm, one which holds the key to Deka’s past. Yet it also illuminates a devastating decision she must soon make… Choose to be reborn as a god, losing everyone she loves in the process. Or bring about the end of the world.

The Boyfriend Wish by Swati Teerdhala Katherine Tegen Books

Deepa’s a hopeless romantic. And even though Deepa’s checklist for the perfect boyfriend is a mile long, her mom and dad’s fairy-tale love story makes her feel like romantic success ought to be a family trait. It’s why when her grandmother gives her a jasmine flower with the promise that it will fulfill her heart’s greatest desire, and then a new boy moves in across the street, Deepa knows—he must be her wish come true. Rohit checks off every box on Deepa’s timelessly handsome, a thoughtful listener, and a romantic who knows his flowers. Deepa’s next-door neighbor (and constant tormentor) Vik also surprisingly approves, though she knows it shouldn’t be a mark against Rohit. Is it luck or is it magic? Deepa doesn’t want to take chances, so when her grandmother warns her that the wish is only permanent if she seals it with a kiss, she knows she needs to move quickly. Rohit is the right boy in every way, so then why does Deepa not feel like he might not be the right choice?

A Suffragist’s Guide to the Antarctic by Yi Shun Lai Atheneum Books for Young Readers

November 1914. Clara Ketterling-Dunbar is one of twenty-eight crew members of The Resolute —a ship meant for an Antarctic expedition now marooned on ice one hundred miles from the shore of the continent. An eighteen-year-old American, Clara has told the crew she’s a twenty-one-year-old Canadian. Since the war broke out, sentiment toward Americans has not been the most favorable, and Clara will be underestimated enough simply for being a woman without also giving away just how young she is. Two members of the crew know her nationality, but no one knows the truth of her activities in England before The Resolute set sail. She and her suffragist sisters in the Women’s Social & Political Union were waging war of a different kind in London. They taught Clara to fight. And now, even marooned on the ice, she won’t stop fighting for women’s rights…or for survival. In the wilderness of Antarctica, Clara is determined to demonstrate what a woman is truly capable of—if the crew will let her.

Dead Things Are Closer Than They Appear by Robin Wasley Simon & Schuster Books for Young Readers

A painfully average teen’s life is upended by a magical apocalypse in this darkly atmospheric and sweepingly romantic novel perfect for fans of The Raven Boys , Buffy the Vampire Slayer , and The Rest of Us Just Live Here . High school is hard enough to survive without an apocalypse to navigate. Sid Spencer has always been the most normal girl in her abnormal hometown, a tourist trap built over one of the fault lines that seal magic away from the world. Meanwhile, all Sid has to deal with is hair-ruining humidity, painful awkwardness, being one of four Asians in town, and her friends dumping her when they start dating each other—just days after one of the most humiliating romantic rejections faced by anyone, ever, in all of history. Then someone kills one of the Guardians who protect the seal. The earth rips open and unleashes the magic trapped inside. Monsters crawl from the ground, no one can enter or leave, and the man behind it all is roaming the streets with a gang of violent vigilantes. Suddenly, Sid’s life becomes a lot less ordinary. When she finds out her missing brother is involved, she joins the remaining Guardians, desperate to find him and close the fault line for good. Fighting through hordes of living corpses and uncontrollable growths of forest, Sid and a ragtag crew of would-be heroes are the only thing standing between their town and the end of the world as they know it. Between magic, murderers, and burgeoning crushes, Sid must survive being a perfectly normal girl caught in a perfectly abnormal apocalypse. Only—how can someone so ordinary make it in such an extraordinary world?

The Fox Maidens by Robin Ha Balzer + Bray

Kai Song dreams of being a warrior. She wants to follow in the footsteps of her beloved father, the commander of the Royal Legion. But while her father believes in Kai and trains her in martial arts, their society isn’t ready for a girl warrior. Still, Kai is determined. But she is plagued by rumors that she is the granddaughter of Gumiho, the infamous nine-tailed fox demon who was killed by her father years before. Everything comes crashing down the day Kai learns the deadly secret about her mother’s past. Now she must come to terms with the truth about her identity and take her destiny into her own hands. As Kai desperately searches for a way to escape her fate, she comes to find compassion, and even love, in the most unexpected places. Set in 16th century Korea and richly infused with Korean folklore, The Fox Maidens is a timeless and powerful story about fighting for your place in the world, even when it seems impossible.

Call Me Iggy by Jorge Aguirre & Rafael Rosado First Second

Ignacio “Iggy” Garcia is an Ohio-born Colombian American teen living his best life. After bumping into Marisol (and her coffee) at school, Iggy’s world is spun around. But Marisol as too much going on to be bothered with the likes of Iggy. She has school, work, family, and the uphill battle of getting her legal papers. As Iggy stresses over how to get Marisol to like him, his grandfather comes to the rescue. The thing is, not only is his abuelito dead, but he also gives terrible love advice. The worst. And so, with his ghost abuelito’s meddling, Iggy’s life begins to unravel as he sets off on a journey of self-discovery. Call me Iggy tells the story of Iggy searching for his place in his family, his school, his community, and ultimately—as the political climate in America changes during the 2016 election— his country. Focusing on familial ties and budding love, Call me Iggy challenges our assumptions about Latino-American identity while reaffirming our belief in the hope that all young people represent. Perfect for lovers of multigenerational stories like Displacement and The Magic Fish.

Bunt! Striking Out on Financial Aid by Ngozi Ukazu & Mad Rupert First Second Molly Bauer’s first year of college is not the picture-perfect piece of art she’d always envisioned. On day one at PICA, Molly discovers that—through some horrible twist of fate—her full-ride scholarship has vanished! But the ancient texts (PICA’s dusty financial aid documents) reveal a loophole. If Molly and 9 other art students win a single game of softball, they’ll receive a massive athletic scholarship. Can Molly’s crew of ragtag artists succeed in softball without dropping the ball? The author of the New York Times best-selling Check, Please series, Ngozi Ukazu returns with debut artist Madeline Rupert to bring an energetic young adult story about authenticity, old vs. new, and college failure. It also poses the question: “Is art school worth it?”

Black Girl You Are Atlas by Renée Watson & illustrated by Ekua Holmes Kokila

A thoughtful celebration of Black girlhood by award-winning author and poet Renée Watson. In this semi-autobiographical collection of poems, Renée Watson writes about her experience growing up as a young Black girl at the intersections of race, class, and gender. Using a variety of poetic forms, from haiku to free verse, Watson shares recollections of her childhood in Portland, tender odes to the Black women in her life, and urgent calls for Black girls to step into their power. Black Girl You Are Atlas encourages young readers to embrace their future with a strong sense of sisterhood and celebration. With full-color art by celebrated fine artist Ekua Holmes throughout, this collection offers guidance and is a gift for anyone who reads it.

[simpjaes]

hey honnie <3 first of all, LOVE JUNGWON. i want to reach out into the screen, grab him, knead him like dough then ruin him in every way. the way you wrote him is just 🫶🫶 he's such a clingy baby, i need a jungwon in my life.

i also want to say how well written it was. you painted every scene so beautifully to the point where i can place myself in the scenario. your descriptions of the cathedral is 🤌🤌 reading isn't enough i need to somehow figure out a way to teleport into the fic.

don't get me started on HOON and his iced dick. hoon having his own personalised red death through the reader, bro is drunk, hypnotised and just down bad. he's so captivated by the reader i need him. also the line "he has to quench the genuine thirst before playing with his food, at least" is pure poetry and will be etched in my mind forever thank you.

it feels criminal reading something so beautiful for free, like this should be physical black leather-bound novel. SO THANK YOU SM I OWE YOU MY LIFE <3 can't wait for part two!

- 🐈‍⬛

OH MANNNNNNNNNN, i'm so so so glad people love jungwon in this fic ; - ;....i fear my bias for him is showing............rly, we all need someone to love us the way artist jungwon loves reader

anyway, i'm really happy you enjoyed the descriptions of the setting too. usually i don't spend too much time on the setting but i am obsessed with gothic architecture and have been since I got a deep dive of it back when I took art history 1 & 2. like i mean for a second there the cathedral was my main love interest :| if i could fuck a building, this would the number one choice : cologne cathedral (p.s. this is 100% what i based the ootdg cathedral off of, just on a slightly smaller scale)

ah.....yes.......the famed iced dick. the snow-fuck, if you will. writing that scene was craaaaaaaaaaaaaazy bc i did my best to allude to the fact that in that moment, she can't do anything but believe him. denial sure does bring a person far in life, i guess, but reader didn't have much choice once she felt that fuckin' popcicle in her LMFAOO but he was soooooooooo gone. :( loved the image of him just drenched in it and totally insane, fighting himself, realizing his second death is basically keeping life rather than snuffing it out. and LOL the playing with his food quote, i was fr snickering when i wrote that like "oh, they're gonna like this one" KJFHDSKJDS

ill never get tired or used to people saying it feels criminal to read my works for free, or that they should be bound as a book ;-; i'm forever thankful for such a high compliment like that. maybe one of these days ill have a fun lil book deal, but for now all i can do is self-bound my own books and pretend it's not full of detailed smut JKFHSDKJ (the middle aged moms would looooooooooove me)

[writeblrcafe]

Digital interview with @legiomiam

The doorbell announces the next interview guest entering Writeblrcafé. It's writer J. Lynnell, who orders a chai latte. They write poetry, fanfiction and a book. Their favourite genres include fiction, fantasy, romance, crime, poetry, mystery, science fiction, historical fiction and paranormal.

What got you into writing?

It started when I was about 14 and I started writing Twilight and LoZ fanfiction in a notebook. Then I moved on to anime with Naruto and Inuyasha once I found FanFic (dot) net. For poetry I had my 10th grade English teacher who made us all submit poems into this contest and she told me that I had potential and that my imagery was vivid for poems.

What inspires you to write?

I'd love to say spite. Spite inspires me but so does my over active imagination. I usually write based off emotions and writing got me through some dark times my last two years of high school and the following years, so now I feel that writing is a safe way for my to sort through my emotions and process everything I have going on. I did not actually start writing full on original novels until about ten years ago with an idea that really didn't have an fruition for another five years, taking the leap from fanfiction to original novels came during a bad depressive episode and a bad relationship divorce where I hadn't read in a year and hadn't written for even longer, I just needed something comfortable and familiar. I had already devoured the ACOTAR series and the year after the novella had come out I needed more and read it over while reading ToG. I had read Heir of Fire and reread ACOMAF at the same time, and found myself crying from some of the scenes because it's refreshing to see characters work through their depression. It was at that point I decided that I wanted someone to read my work and think the same thing. That they picked up my book during an emotional time and it became the thing they latched on to. So I sat down and reintroduced myself to characters I hadn't thought of writing about for years.

Which are recurring themes in your writing?

I don't preset any themes but a lot of them show up as I write. Life and death are a big one along with found family. Loyalty and betrayal, good vs evil. Fate vs free will slash destiny are another big ones that I love to incorporate into most of my works. Loneliness was one but as I got older it switched from needing to find someone to now understanding the difference between being alone vs loneliness.

How would you describe your writing style?

I'd like to say it's very descriptive and heavy on narration. I try to evoke the senses to the best of my abilities and make readers feel along with my characters.

How do you deal with writer's block?

I am bad with writer's block, I usually take walks or showers when it impacts me in all areas of creativity. Though when it's just with one project I move to a different WIP that I have floating around. My way of dealing with writer's block is more than likely why I have so many projects.

Have you already published your writing?

I have I have three poems published in a horror zine.

Do you have a wip? Tell us about it:

I have five projects that I am actively working on, one has two parts which go together: This Dark And Divine Place and Children of Ruin. TDADP is about the underlying tension of war between the Fae born Hunters and Vampyres. (read more under the cut)

Rashka who's the younger sister of the empress of the last Vampyre empire and Bahram a merc hired to protect her as all the Vampyre clans are called to gather after the murder of an entire clan. On the way to the summit she is kidnapped and Bahram has to go after her, for his own reasons he would be inclined to leave the Vampyre but with his life tied to her own if harm befalls her then he's doomed too. What was supposed to be an easy mission for the banished Fae ends up a life or death situation between them both. CoR is the sequel series, where as TDADP isn't supposed to be a will they or won't them because Rashka and Bahram's relationship is by design of the Gods. CoR follows their five children who have to deal with the aftermath of not only the Gods cursing their parents but also the oncoming end of the world. CoR was started as the project I had for many years but then along the way I decided that I wanted to tell the parents' story first. Both are Dark Fantasy. Project "Two" is From Ashes and Dust it centers around Alexia a super soldier in hiding who gets mixed up in the investigation of a grisly string of murders from former soldiers, her plans to stay on the downlow and just work for hire as a black market merc are ruined when Leon and his partner Jade catch her breaking into a suppressant bank and question her. FAAD is a wonderful mix of dystopian and cyberpunk. Project "Three" is Laws Of The Songbirds where Savina Starling the sole surviving member of the Starling family forces the 6 other families to gather so she can find why her family was slaughtered. What the other families come to find out is that her family was sacrificed to summon a devil and that devil has grown very attached to the young woman who bound herself to him. LotS is a dark urban fantasy. "Four" is The Vanity Of Ghosts it centers around three characters Evelynn, Reyes, and Hector as a historical paranormal romance thriller. Evie is a clairvoyant detective employed by the local police and she has to investigate a murder at the opera, her new partner Reyes is back from bereavement leave after the death of his younger brother. Both only have Hector as their lead, the costar and on stage love interest of the murdered woman. This work does have a poly relationship (as will CoR). The "fifth" and final project is Wicker Hearts which is an Anastasia inspired retelling with monsters where Brooke Rivers, after living in banishment for a few years when his uncle exiled him after the death of his family, decided that instead of taking over the throne when his uncle dies he's going to convince the heir of the family his own parents overthrew to rule. In order to find this family he employs a little rag tag crew and runs into a young woman, Julian, who has lived all her life outside the city in the forest of the old gods and their monsters. This project is leaning more towards Dark Fantasy too.

You can tell us more interesting stuff about you here:

I am a queer nonbinary writer of color who lives in the middle of nowhere Midwest where we are known for having the largest rail yard in the world. I was a miracle baby born at 27 weeks and spite has kept me going for nearly 3 decades now. I cook and bake in some of my off time but mainly work on digital art, perform one person musicals in my bedroom, and collect pins, pressed leaves, special edition books, and tarot decks. I have a morkie named Feyre who has adopted my mom and her dog Addy. Along with being an Aries and working an ungodly amount of customer service jobs.

Get interviewed by Writeblr Café!

Any writer can participate. Just fill in this form by clicking on the link below. Maybe we will host interviews in an audio format if you are more interested in listening to an interview than reading it.

[prose-mortem]

A Day of Fallen Night by Samantha Shannon: ARC Review

Rating: 5/5 Stars

Samantha Shannon has universes inside of her mind, and I feel so lucky to be privy to the mythologies, poetries, and magic she brings forth through her writing. This book is in the top five favorite fantasy books of all time for me, which is really saying something since I read around 300 books per year… most of which are SF/F. A Day of Fallen Night is a masterpiece, and I will be recommending it to every single person willing to discuss books with me.

This fantasy work is the book that women+, femmes, and women who love women deserve. Every female character is deeply cultivated and nurtured in terms of character development and page time, which I cannot say for most fantasy books being written these days. A wide range of ages is represented from girlhood to elder years, and that is so very meaningful since many fantasy works are more skewed toward a teenage audience. While there is nothing wrong with a market for younger readers, we need a place for people above the age of 23 to be able to self-actualize and find themselves through the books they read. Women of all ages are heroes, and they deserve to be seen in all their glory, regardless of the season of life they are in. As one of Shannon’s characters says: “If women are flowers, we are not roses, but day’s eyes- blooming not once, but over and over, each time the light touches us.”

Although any male/men+ characters who appear in the book are crafted with care and attention, the emphasis is less on romantic (and sexual) love between men and women, but rather is centered on friendship. Though men in Shannon’s book are meaningful and heartfelt, they never steal the show from the women+/female characters. The real romances and complexities of passion are given to the women—the sapphic element of Shannon’s book(s) being one of the most appealing to me. Even though this work of fantasy is far from being all sunshine and roses, it feels like a safe space to explore relationships between women with all their nuances and challenges.

The thing about big fantasy books is that they can also be slow burns. Some people enjoy a slow, but methodical approach to storytelling, but I would be lying if I said I was one of them. Shannon’s book is a BIG ONE, but I failed to find a single dull or boring moment the entire time I was burning through it. As with many fantasy works, the story is told from the perspectives of a few main characters (mostly women), with the occasional, important side character added in as the book progresses. (There are nonbinary characters too with they/them pronouns!) With many big (nearly 1,000 pages) works like this, I usually find myself loving one or two characters, but being bored with the others… sometimes feeling like I want to skip the chapters with perspectives of the characters I find less interesting. I loved every single character in A Day of Fallen Night and found myself re-reading passages because the prose was just that beautiful or pivotal. There is something to enchant you in every paragraph whether it is amazing poetry, deep wisdom, or a juicy unfurling of one of the beloved characters. In short, Samantha Shannon has a rare gift, even in a market as massive as fantasy storytelling. Every word is potent, and every chapter is as inviting as the last. There is no filler or sense that she is trying to rush through the plot. Every moment is purposeful and delightful, and my hat is off to Shannon for her skillset.

You may be thinking at this point: “Sounds great! You didn’t really tell me much about the book’s plot though.” The truth is that I can’t dive too deeply into the details because this is one of those books that is best enjoyed when almost every morsel is allowed to flower in the moment. Simply put, it would be all too easy to ruin something for another reader, and I do not want to steal that experience from anyone. What I will say is that as much as I obsessed over The Priory of the Orange Tree, this book is even better (It’s hard to imagine, I know.). A Day of Fallen Night takes place about 500 years before the events in Priory of the Orange Tree, so if you read POTOT first, you will find some easter eggs and “aha!” moments in this prequel. For those who might read ADOFN first (since they can be read in any order), I am pleased to tempt you/them with the knowledge that there are talking dragons, adventures in the peaks of the high mountains, magic, and so many beautiful moments that give you chills when you realize where Shannon is going with a plot idea or character connection. So, if you want to give yourself the best treat in the world and live several lifetimes within the span of a book cover, this is the number one book you will want to read in 2023.

Lastly, I am so grateful to the publishers and creatives at Bloomsbury and Netgalley who sent me an ARC of this book in exchange for an honest review. To you lovelies, it may have been another approval request on a Wednesday, but you wielded the kind of magic nestled in the realms of humans and transformed my week into something beautiful and enrapturing. Thank you so much.

[number-onekidqueen]

𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚝𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚘𝚎𝚝 - 𝚔𝚕𝚊𝚍𝚘𝚛𝚊

Klaus Baudelaire x Isadora Quagmire

fluff

Warnings: forced confession of feelings

"And today, we awaken you with an excerpt of poetry, from the one and only Isadora Quagmire!" Quigley's cheery voice echoed into every room aboard the SSHAMH.

Isadora roused, a sleepy smile spreading across her face as she processed her triplet's words.

It was probably very self-centred, but she enjoyed it very much when her poetry was read aloud. It made her feel one step closer to her dream of becoming a poet.

"This particular poem is surprisingly not a couplet, unlike much of our Isadora's works. It is probably to do with the fact that she couldn't reduce this subject to only two sentences, as she is particularly fond of it, looking at her other poems on-"

Isadora's face paled to the colour of paper.

Couplets were her forte. She adored them.

She only wrote poems or sonnets on one subject.

Or rather, person.

"-without further ado, here it is."

Isadora burst out of her bedroom, eyes alight with desperation, her ankle length nightdress billowing as she sprinted towards the sound of Quigley's voice, ignoring Hector's exclamations of protest and warning.

"Oh, Klaus so fair-"

"SHUT UP QUI-" Isadora screamed, before a hand clamped across her mouth.

"Your chestnut hair, your eyes great pools of cocoa true. When I see you I am not blue, instead great joy engulfs me, as you see, you are greater than anything I've ever had, your presence erases all the bad, my heart becomes a pure white dove, and you only, only you will be my one true love."

As soon as Quigley finished, the hand removed itself from Isadora's mouth.

She whirled around to face the person behind her, her eyes welling in tears of embarrassment and anxiety.

Duncan stood smirking behind her, but blanched when he saw her face.

"Is, what's wrong?"

"What do you think's wrong, Duncan?! You and Quigley just read my private poems and announced my feelings to someone who doesn't like me back!

"And now everything will be changed, and it'll all feel different, and he won't be friends with me, and he won't like me and- Duncan, everything's completely ruined!" Isadora sobbed, sprinting out of the room and back to her bedroom.

She slammed the door and flopped onto her bed, hyperventilating there for a few minutes before a timid knock sounded at the door.

"Yes? Come in," Isadora croaked, hurriedly wiping her tears away and neatening her hair.

Usually she wouldn't care that her brothers would see her cry, but she wanted to reassure them that it was just a prank to her, and she didn't care and to apologise for her antics.

The panic and pain would probably be something she wouldn't live down easily. But the first thing she could do to quicken the process would be to appear unemotional and apologetic.

She was ready for them.

As Klaus walked in and softly closed the door behind him, Isadora's eyes bulged out of her head, and her panic rate began to race once more.

She had to make something up quickly.

"Klaus, the poem you heard-"

"What poem?" Klaus queried confusedly.

Isadora almost died from relief. Thank the heavens, thank the stars, thank fate, thank God. Klaus hadn't heard her poem.

"You didn't hear it?!" She burst, before she could refrain from it.

"No, I did," Klaus said nervously, "I came in to check if you didn't. I just got distracted and said that, which was stupid, I'm sorry."

She had not a clue what to say. Words, her best friends, the only thing she could always rely on to aid her had evaporated from her mind, like puddles on a summer's day.

"Did you m-mean what you said?" Klaus stammered.

There was a pause, and the tension in the air became thicker.

And then she decided.

"Yes, I did," she said boldly.

"I like you too Isadora," Klaus breathed, so soft she almost didn't catch it. "I couldn't have put it into words and phrases as pretty and syncopated as you did just then, you are quite the poet, but I do very much like you. As more than a friend."

They both gazed at each other, wide beams spreading across their faces.

"I'll talk to you tonight, then," Klaus said, withdrawing himself to her door, his grin still wide and strong, "meet you on the veranda at quarter to twelve."

"See you then," Isadora said, and flopped on her bed, once more when the door was closed, but this time in joy.

For once, her brother's pranks had worked in her favour, even though she'd had the fright and embarrassment of her life before this wondrous event.

And finally, finally, finally Isadora had hope she could be happy.

She and her family were safe.

Everything was going to be just fine.

[ajokeformur-ray]

We were born from the same star, destined in a cosmic love // Otto x Kath

A/N: A personalised comfort fic for @tsukiakarinobara, who is lovely and deserves the world. I'm sending you so much love, many many hugs, and some serious cuddles from Otto. It's been a long time since I wrote for YOU, so I extra hope you like it!❤️

I stalked (affectionate) your blog, asked questions, I watched Spider Man 2 while writing this and binged Otto fics on here, so hopefully I got his characterisation and your relationship with him right! I've never written for Otto before; this is all very new to me so I really really hope you like this!❤️

Summary: Otto comforts you by letting you know that he's there for you, that he cares, and above all else, that he loves you.

No triggers but I thought these worth mentioning: mentions of past Otto x Rosie (canon compliant; predates your relationship by some years), fluff, comfort, talks of universe jumping, Peter is a dear friend to you and Otto, personal details are included with permission.

Word count: 1, 841.

THIS IS NOT A READER INSERT FIC (though of course other people are welcome to read this, it is first and foremost for Kath).

"If you keep something as complicated as love stored up inside, it's gonna make you sick."

Words Otto had spoken once, long ago, over tea with you and Peter, had reverberated inside your mind again and again and again in the weeks leading up to the day you switched universes just so that you could be with him. These words, a throwaway statement steeped in wisdom he had gained from a life well loved, well lived, had been the deciding factor in you confessing your feelings for Otto (as well as Peter's encouragement and nudging, which really was as subtle as a sledgehammer, though the man meant well).

Otto had thanked you for your bravery in that moment by meeting you in the middle; a mutual decision to make it happen but then, oh, and then, to make it work. His reactionary smile had blinded you in the face of your confession, and just like the surface of the ocean under the moon, you had given him the same expression.

A love shared was a love doubled.

He, too, had been sitting on his feelings for you, and your developing relationship was the slow burn to end all slow burns. The two of you took what was building between you slowly, so slowly, after your confession, but the payoff had been more than worth it. Long nights spent sat close to Otto and listening to him talk you through his most recent scientific project turned into you sat on his lap, the both of you holding the other close, over months and months. The core of your relationship had remained the same, with you besotted, fascinated, and Otto feeling almost shy under all of your careful attentions and affections. He had reached out to you with his hand, literally and metaphorically, and after all of this time later, your relationship now stable, set in its ways and constantly changing and evolving, you had yet to let go of him.

You had always known (and thus accepted and respected) that, many years ago, the late Rosie had planned to never let go, but one great big miscalculation borne not from the faults of Otto's careful research but from a lack of general knowledge about Artificial Intelligence, which hindered Otto's life's work and made it a ruin, had made her release her grip before she or Otto were ready.

The same miscalculation would not be made a second time.

A mistake once? Was just that.

But the same mistake twice? That would be a choice.

Otto was choosing differently this time, every day, time and again.

In part due to how long it had taken the two of you to get together, due to how many nights you had spent under a blanket together, discussing the most recent scientific theory or gazing at the stars together, swapping stories of your day, quoting poetry at each other or simply being together in the moment - you had always shared such a cosmic love - Otto was able to read you like a book.

Indeed, he knew you as well as you knew yourself, and you would never take that for granted. Not least of all because you knew Otto at his very core, too. You knew of his untold tragedies, of how the actuators and his shared purpose had caused a crossfire between morality and reality, of how he had never been truly able to grieve for Rosie right up until you had dropped through the portal and into Peter's arms (how the two of you had managed to communicate while occupying different universes, you still didn't know, but you suspected that America Chavez had pulled some serious strings to accommodate your wants), and given Otto a new lease of life.

Otto was a brilliant scientist but even he liked to believe that the both of you were born from dust of the same star; why else, how else, had the two of you beat the odds of your individual lives and universes to find one another? It was why he called you names relating to stars; he believed that a star had died so that the both of you could live, and you felt so comfortable and safe with one another because the remains of that star recognised parts of itself in the other person.

Science is another form of modern day magic, after all, constantly changing and evolving, just as humans did from one day to the next.

On this day, you had gone to bed very late. Or, very early. It depended on one's perspective, but either way, the birds had been waking up just as you had gone to bed, and your absence in bed had made it difficult for Otto to sleep solidly, the dark bags under his eyes almost purple; like a bruise. The shade was a sharp contrast to the pale complexion; Otto looked almost sick in his pain; the actuators were at least a couple hundred pounds of metal and they were fused to his spinal column. Many days, they were the only reason Otto could move around the apartment, or continue his work in the lab. Back massages and long hot soaks in the bath were essential for him, and you were only too happy to take care of Otto in every way he wanted and even ways he hadn't considered; each of you liked to expand the other's worldview with your life experiences, thoughts and opinions.

Otto took care of you, too. He always did his best to. You were on equal footing in your relationship; even though you barely understood most of what he spoke of over dinner - at least ninety per cent went right over your head - you still listened, your gorgeous eyes alight with passion, with love and adoration for your scientist. What one received, the other returned, and so on it went, until months had bled into years and yet still were you as in love as you had been on the day you met.

Today had shaped up to be a dark day, and Otto worried after you as you shuffled into the bedroom, your feet muffled by the sounds of the birds outside accompanied with the awful sounds of car engines being turned as the city, too, began to wake up. His chocolate eyes followed you as you striped off and climbed into bed beside him, your light hair and eyes a familiar contrast to his own darker features. You nuzzled your head into the pillow, and Otto sighed in relief as your hand, already warm under the covers, crept across the bedsheets until your fingers wrapped around his own larger ones. His touch was soft, his hands callused, worn from years of manual use, and his fingers squeezed around your own.

I'm here, my little star. I'm here.

You shuffled again across the expanse of the comfortable mattress - Otto's own side designed to be firmer, with added grooves to fully support the actuators and take the weight off his back while he slept - and Otto lifted one arm, calling you instantly into his side. It was where you wanted to be even when you were there. His body is your home. Your face crumpled as a new wave of sorrow crashed over you. It came in like the tide and so all you could do was to ride it out. But not alone, never alone. You were sick of crying, and so you didn't, but your throat was thick and heavy with a lump and your eyes stung both with physical exhaustion, previous hours of crying and more tears you refused to let fall.

You felt so sick.

"Oh, my stardust," Otto sighed, his mouth tilting downwards in sympathy, "come here." It was a superfluous sentence, for you already were here, but you pushed yourself as close to him as you possibly could, his heart pounding in your ear, his skin soft and warm under your touch. Otto's hand was large, his fingers splayed as he rubbed up and down your face in firm, fluid motions, his lips in your hair as you both stayed in that moment together. The both of you knew well that if emotions weren't vented as and when they came to visit, that they would just fester and worsen and show up in uglier ways, and so when either of you needed affection or some extra love, some tenderness, whenever you needed anything, you both made sure to be there no matter what. "When you wake, I'm going to take care of you, but you need sleep right now. Your body needs it, so does your beautiful mind." Otto pressed some kisses to your temple to accentuate his point even as he stretched out under the duvet and touched your shin lightly with his foot. You parted your lower legs just enough for Otto to slot his own between, and the two of you anchored your bodies together, ready for some proper sleep.

You couldn't ever securely rest without being made wholly aware of the others' presence beside you in the bed.

Otto moved once more to cup your face in his hands, his fingers curling behind your ears, your hair spilling over his touch. "The power of the sun in the palm of my hands," he whispered, trying to think of poems he used to read, but unable to conjure up anything more than this, which was everything to you. "I'm always here, my little star. You know that, don't you?"

He pressed a tender kiss to your forehead and you smiled, your hands coming up so that you could interlock your fingers with his, "shouldn't that be my line? You're my sunshine, the light of my life."

Otto's smile deepened so much that you saw all of his wrinkles, crow's feet at the base of his eyes, and the dimples in his jaw. Oh, but he was so beautiful. "I am, stardust, and you need sleep. So do I."

Your heart warmed to hear the implication that Otto knew how much you loved him, without question, and he knew that you knew the same, too. Indeed, he kissed your forehead, then your sore eyelids, then your cheeks, your chin, and your lips, in a carefully constructed pattern, and then he laid down, letting his body sink into the mattress. The actuators settled around his body, and one of them, the one you thought to be called Flo, came up and over Otto so that she could playfully nip at your hair, like a bird grooming its human.

"I love you too, Flo," You kissed each of the actuators in turn, then Otto, and finally, you rested your head on the pillow which smelled deeply of Otto, as if his scent was permeated into the fibres and stitching, and allowed sleep to find you.

You wouldn't be alone even in your dreams, for Otto would follow you anywhere. What was the sun without his moon and stars?

[always-andromeda]

Hiiii first off I want to congratulate you on 500 followers!! Woot woot ╰(*´▽`*)╯

I was wondering if I could make a request for a pairing?

Eve (I often go by my nickname Evie) Any Paul characters pls!

19 F, she/her

My vibe is kinda the coquette aesthetic. Very feminine. I adore taking time to make myself look all pretty. I love poetry, I love reading and writing it! I’m a hopeless romantic, I’d imagine my partner to be my muse for my poetry. I enjoy cooking/baking and caring for my loved ones. I take on a caretaker role. Ex: cooking, cleaning, housewife duties tbh lol. I love babies, being a stay at home mom sounds so sweet and endearing. (Kinda random, idrk what to write for this but I’m trying!) I’m 4’11 (i <3 that PD is tall, I LOVE a big size difference lol). I’m sensitive, easily gullible. I have a “I can fix him” mindset, daddy issues lol. I love candles, my favorite scents are lavender, musk, and vanilla. I love listening to my vinyls, I’m currently listening to black star by Radiohead. My favorite artist is Lana del rey, my favorite band is a tough tie between Radiohead and the neighbourhood.

I don’t know what else to say soooo I will leave it at that! I hope this request reaches you! Once again congratulations!! Thank you so much, i loveeee your works! <3333

Author’s Note | ooh hoo hoo hoo, I feel like his pairing is fairly obvious? at least to me? either way, I hope you're happy with my thoughts on this one, Evie, because I may have gone a little bonkers!! thank you so much for sending a request!! and thank you so much for the kind words!!

I am pairing you with ✨ Calvin!! ✨ Now I know some people aren't huge fans of Calvin. Even I dunk on him every once in a while! But I actually genuinely love his character; now, allow me to plead my case.

First and foremost, I think Calvin would love your attentive nature. He's a little bit selfish and wants attention almost all of the time. However, it's just his fears of being abandoned peeking through. Calvin wants all of the romance that you can offer him, mostly because he, himself, is a hopeless romantic.

I think he'd readily embrace your presence. There's something artful about coming home to a vinyl record playing and a lavender candle burning as the sugary smell of some new confection you're baking fills his nostrils. Even if you had on an apron covered in flower, he'd gladly ruin one of his sweaters to scoop you up in his arms and twirl you around, asking, "How's my girl today?"

Make Calvin your muse. Pretty please with a cherry on top! Write deeply analytical poetry about his character that makes him question his own perception of himself a little bit. Then make him melt with prose about the way his brow pinches together when he's concentrating. How sternly handsome he looks hunched over his computer as he types. The way his arms hold you like they'll never let go. Because they certainly won't. He had the privilege of catching you. And he most certainly won't let that go to waste.

[preferenceandpriorities]

Schöne welt, where you at?

Amidst all this ruin, maybe the looking was the good part. Should we ever find something we should be alarmed.

If I am the type to write poetry, I know this. But I have no friends or lovers to read me. And if no one is to read me, what is there to write? What good am I if not seen or consumed? Made to do things I wish not to? Made to withhold things I wish to express? Who am I without the burdens of living, the punishment of society, the relief of friendship?

I find poetry is rid of difficult words, old words. Poetry is made up of a thought, that continues into the next, a shorter story than a short story, An invitation to feel a feeling.

This is a poem I wrote instead of the review I've been trying to write since August 2022. It encompasses what I felt around the time I finished the book. I keep thinking, I'll actually perfect it, I'll shape it into something readable, but alas, that still hasn't happened as I am too busy living life. Yet I still feel that there's something to it, reading it as an unfinished piece, so here it goes:

Probably the most straightforward out of Sally Rooney’s books regarding the relevance of “non-important” stuff. I think she’s brilliant at looking at the contrast there is between our post-modern concern with the “state of the world” and how incessant our small lives actually are.

With Conversations with Friends and Normal People, this same theme is underlying, it is nearly subliminal. You could still describe either as a completely different book and get away with it (i.e., about cheating, or the latter a book about soulmates), but not this one.

It’s interesting to see a white female writer (who is clearly very aware of her whiteness and female-ness) tackle themes of mindfulness and the idea of sanctity. Religion is clearly the pivotal thing in this novel, and its comparability to celebrity culture or the deification of popular media characters seems to be fascinating to contemporary writers. Ted Chiang, who wrote Stories of Your Life and Others (what the movie Arrival was based on), wrote about it in his foreword to Everything Everywhere All At Once’s A24 book release, saying the archetypes of superheroes in media are equivalent to a modern religion. Both books and films cementing their importance in the discussion of time and meaning. And personally, I also felt compelled early in 2022 to write about why Euphoria seemed to hit a bone with its internet audience. All of these artpieces that seem to be worth talking about at all are concerned with this idea of “goodness,” just like Beautiful World, Where Are You?

(switch up?) I rarely sit down to talk about religion (and how it clearly coincides with depression), mostly because I’ve been through it. I’ve done the dirty work of confronting the mundanity of life, forgetting my self and concerning myself with others. I only feel like I may talk about it now because it is not with someone else on the other end that may misconstrue me. Most conversations I’ve had were of someone trying to convince me of a worldview that made life bearable, and the rest are of people looking for any answer that can make them happy. As someone who grew up in a religious country, I’d have to say I’m over it!

What makes Beautiful World intriguing to me is not the exploration of religion in isolation, but it is the way the characters look for what they think is God in other people.

Is religion solitude or company?

I wonder what it is to have someone be kind to you. Does this graciousness really not exist in everyone? Why is it so hard to find? What does it feel like to have someone want to bathe you without hesitation? With no hesitation? To help you go to the restroom when you’re sick.

I think this is the reason I avoid hospitals. There’s just no lying in hospitals There’s no sugarcoating anything. And everyone is there to help you. I used to love it growing up but the past three years hospitals have terrified me.

I almost feel like I wish I was sexually assaulted. I would have a reason to be sad, then. Now I just, I’m floating in a space where no one cares about me, if I died, people would be sad but no one would really miss me. Maybe that’s selfish, self-centered. But I would love to know if that would at least give some meaning to my life, to touch someone else. If I was assaulted everyone would call me strong, unbeatable.

Sally Rooney is one of those writers that I just trust will carry me on an insightful journey. It doesn’t matter so much the plot she uses as much as it matters what she says throughout.

The doctor came to me and kept repeating you are not okay. You are not okay. This isn’t normal. And I had to keep believing her. It feels nice knowing someone can see that.

Is kindness really rare? Is it God because it’s not there?

*

I wonder what it feels like, to share a smile in secret with someone Or to make someone smile to themselves, without me seeing I wonder what it feels like to feel someone sniff outwards fall on my cheek Someone happy to see me I wonder if I’ve ever given that to someone, or ever will

It cost me my life to know that he loved me

[thatone-churro]

i haven’t written in forever, it feels

because i can’t write like i want to.

my favorite poets - i could list names or blogs - weave such intricate creations.

their poetry feels like something special, but they use the same words available to me.

their poetry just… feels. i can’t describe how. and that proves my point.

it's one of my greater faults: i can only seem to write about what i experience. (though that’s never stopped my fiction.)

so how could i go on to write about sitting on the edge of the world, feeling time flow ever onward, watching everything move on and away from you, but sitting still nonetheless, because that spot and that stillness is all you know, and make it all sound like something more than my sleepless rambling?

but there is something i've been writing about, something that hasn’t happened, something i don’t want to happen. i blame good music and my overactive imagination.

but my stomach lurches whenever i write about it, and so i subconsciously hate her for what she hasn’t done, subconsciously hold her to a line she never crossed.

but every time i write about something that hasn’t happened yet, or something i'm scared of happening, it comes to fruition one way or another, so now i fear that my poetry is a vessel of Apollo’s amusement, to my own terror.

and i’ve let slip a “secret” of mine to her,

confessed that i can’t, that i won’t, do it,

but that makes it all more terrifying to imagine happening.

but it would be just my luck to have that happen to me.

so i don’t dare to pick up my pen most days. i'm too scared to ruin something that hasn’t even started yet. lest recounting and writing about a false event becomes more true than the countless dreams i've had about the two of us smiling and holding each other and writing poems together.

but all i can seem to write about lately is that false event, how my poetry isn’t enough, and sad things from the back of my mind that no one wants to read about.

people might enjoy my writing about it – might even praise me for it – if i had a pretty face and a cute voice.

but i have neither. and i have no idea how music actually works. and my voice is only good for shout-singing my favorite punk or rock songs (well, and even then…), not softly singing the sweet melodies of just about anything else, for that matter.

but i write them anyway, in incomplete verses. there's a whole folder in my notes app dedicated to them, just in case i ever get the chance to share them in that medium.

but i don’t share them now. no one follows a poet to hear them tell about the dark parts of their mind; they follow and read their writing to see what whimsical words they use to describe love or how they detail and cast a spotlight on the little, beautiful, bright parts of life.

and yet, here i am, writing over a page worth’s of words that still don’t feel like anything, just spitting out words no one followed me to hear, but once a poet, always a poet, and i know only how to express these feelings in words and shout them over the cliff to whoever might pass below and turn their head to listen, but mostly to the deaf ears who turn to their partners and whisper “ah, there she goes again, rambling and ranting and crying and shouting” because to scream to an empty audience feels different than to write sensations for a following that expects to feel something from my work.

- and behold, i write about i write about things no one wants to hear anyway

[shut-up-danny-kun]

“Tell me about your ideal career.”

You underestimate the absurdity of my ideals. Sit down.

I want to live off of a baroness' patronage. I lead a humble and lonely existence in an old house in a forgotten village. I take obscenely long walks around the fields and forests. The townsfolk regard me a harmless curiousity, but still, I am often at the centre of ill rumours: satanism, vampirism, lycanthropy...the children are certain I am some sort of hellbound being, and each imagine I am something different.

I have not found much sucess in the public eye, but my patron always appreciates my writing. Once a month, I am invited to her manor to present my work. My subject matter is often considered too unsavoury for respectable women, so the readings tend to occur in private - only me, her, and her maid. We sit in the overgrown gazebo in the spring and summer, and in the winter - in her dressing-room. My stories are dark and my poetry is gloomy. I write of murder, monsters, strange worlds and things that seem to go against the will of God. Sometimes, humanity triumphs over them; sometimes it doesn't. My patron is fascinated by my imagination. The room becomes drafty; the manor is crumbling and no one dares to admit it. We sit all evening and well into the night. I make my way home by feel.

Do I wish I could earn a living without my mistress? Sometimes. I think about it when it's freezing cold and I don't want to go ask for more money to buy firewood. But I would lose this strange intimacy I have with her. She says she sees herself in my works, that the only time she finally feels like herself is when she's reading them. It feels like my world is hers. The monthly meetings are not enough, of course: I send letters almost weekly. They're sealed with a special seal, letting the butler know to bring them directly to the lady of the house and not show them to anyone else.

She's trapped. I know she is. Her marriage, her status keep her whithin a set of rigid rules she can never escape, and even if she could, she would not know how to live outside them. My twisted world is her only glimpse of freedom. That is the artist's sacred duty: to give a different life to those wishing to escape theirs.

But I, too, would not be free without her. It is her donations and commendations that keep me afloat; without them, a ruined man like me would need to work so much I would have no time to think, much less write. That is the patron's sacred duty: to let the artist live in a world that seems hostile to art.

Sometimes she shuffles closer to me and looks at me with dark eyes, and holds my cold fingers in her soft hand, knowing that that is all she can do. We can't risk to ruin this arrangement with something this...pedestrian. But in those times, I still wonder whether it's simple romantic desire that draws me to her, or whether it's the ancient love of the artist and the patron, the purest love of them all.

I wrap my quilt tighter around my body, light a candle and begin writing.

...or, you know. Plumbing is probably fine too.

[recklawmusing]

On Why?

It took me nearly a year to read the last book I was given. 

One of my closest friends from college purchased a signed copy of John Green's The Anthropocene Reviewed, and mailed it to me for my 27th birthday. The book survived in my possession - unlike 80% of my belongings - through three moves, a breakup, two flights, and landed with me in the Twin Cities. I nestled it in a large suitcase alongside the four other books I still owned, the first volumes  of Delicious in Dungeon and My Hero Academia, Terry Pratchett's Equal Rites, and George Watsky's collection of essays, How to Ruin Everything. These four had each been read at least once; the two manga I'd likely pored over a handful of times, their spines gently bowed by the time I'd spent on them. Despite the many qualities that would have made it perfect to pass the time I was traveling, Green's book retained a pristine spine, even for a few months after I'd unpacked my new apartment. 

I'd spent a good deal of my teenage years immersed in Vlogbrothers content and their Nerdfighter community, but it had been a good four or five years since I'd last watched or read anything by either Green brother when I received The Anthropocene Reviewed. The book's an adaptation and expansion of another work by John Green, a podcast of the same name. I'd missed the launch and conclusion of the project in that interim time away from his work. Through this collection of essays, Green reviews some aspect of the Anthropocene era, our current, human-impacted one. The topics that get reviewed range from media like Penguins of Madagascar, to natural phenomena like Halley's Comet, to commercial products like Diet Dr. Pepper, to the tiny diseases that have impacted this era like Viral Meningitis. Green rates and reviews them all, offering somewhere between one and five stars. He even litters the parts of the book added during publishing with starred reviews, like the typeface used on the copyright page, Bembo MT, which he gives four and a half stars. 

I finally opened the book and read it a few weeks after I landed in the Twin Cities, a week before my 28th birthday. It was a quick read, and I was immediately drawn into the essays by Green's writing style. The tone felt conversational; it was easy to hear Green's voice echoing off the page as I read. I think this partially comes from its earlier incarnation as an audio medium, but I think my familiarity with the Vlogbrother videos, which have always been a dialogue between the brothers, also aided in transforming the words into something I could hear crystal clear, as if Green was reading them to me. 

All of the essays are well written and have a charm to them as Green reviews his various subjects, but one sticks firmly in my mind: his review of "Auld Lang Syne." His review covers the history of the song, its many uses throughout history and across the world, yet what stands out for me is the interspersed recollection of the life and work of the writer Amy Krouse Rosenthal. Green recounts their first meeting, shares snippets of her work that showcase her talent and personality, tracks Amy's impact on his career and personal life, and his own impact on hers after her diagnosis with cancer. His words as he narrates this revelation to the reader hit me like a truck, even on re-reading them. "I guess I should tell you that Amy is dead," he notes a few paragraphs in. "Otherwise, her death within this review might seem like some kind of narrative device, which I don't want. So, okay. She is dead. The rare present tense sentence that, once it becomes true, stays true forever." The blend of straightforward honesty, meta-humor, and the last line that feels like poetry to me fly straight and true to pierce my heart every time. They are the kind of words I want to write someday. 

Green later describes the use of "Auld Lang Syne" during World War I. The song gets sung during the Christmas Truce, when it's still too early for the horrors of the conflict to be seen clearly. Later, the song's tune is sung by British soldiers with new lyrics, lamenting the war that won't cease. They sing, "We're here because we're here because we're here because we're here." The world feels hopeless, life feels meaningless, and no one really knows why they are still there, still fighting. They are there because they are there. 

Amy Krouse Rosenthal saw the tune and the soldiers' lyrics differently, and was able to help others see it too. Green recounts that "singing this song with Amy, I could always see the hope in it." In her hands, as she sang it with a crowd, the song became something greater, a message that we exist together, that it is a wonderous marvel that we exist at all, that in spite of the hells of the modern world, "we can still proclaim in hope that we are here." 

I've now survived two New Years in the Twin Cities. Growing up, it was never a special holiday for me. The rollover into a new year, the resolutions, the toasts at midnight, it all washed over me and passed with barely a ripple. Yet now I've found something special in it. My first winter here was a lonely one. My friends were nearby, but depression, chronic health issues, and the shock of how damn cold it can get here kept me bundled up in my apartment. I'd leave for the essential shopping trips and not much more. But friends reached out suddenly on New Year's Eve, inviting me over. I spent it warm, shouting guesses to anime music quizzes on YouTube, surrounded by the people I had traveled halfway across the country to be closer to. Then it happened again this year. Suddenly I could see the magic of the holiday, or at least the edges of its still-fuzzy shape. 

I started watching Vlogbrothers videos again after reading The Anthropocene Reviewed.There was a part of that action that felt a little like coming home, or at least like picking up a habit or hobby you'd thought long abandoned. I found out that John posts a narrated version of his review of "Auld Lang Syne" just before New Years each year. I've listened to it both years I've been here, and sung along as best I can to the end of his review, where he sings Amy's hopeful version of the soldiers' lyrics. 

I think the reasoning for why Green's review of "Auld Lang Syne" impacts me so much is layered. First, it's hard to deny that it's well written. There's a part of me that's envious of Green's skill, and I know that to get close to that level, practice is required. So this is me practicing. Second, the song itself has resonated with me before, even if I can't remember most of the lyrics. (This is fine, no one knows all of the lyrics). Green analyzes part of why the song remains popular, "because it's the rare song that is genuinely wistful - it acknowledges human longing without romanticizing it, and it captures how each new year is a product of all of the old ones." Like a new year, I'm also a product of all the old me's. One of my favorite Watsky lines also reflects this mentality, "We’re every age at once and tucked inside ourselves like Russian nesting dolls."

Thirdly, Green's reminiscence of Amy Krouse Rosenthal is a touching tribute. In writing down the ways her life intertwined with his, he answers a question "Auld Lang Syne" poses. "Should auld acquaintance be forgot / and never brought to mind?" No, they should not. Amy is dead, but in writing about her, Green demonstrates the truth of what he told Amy when she was diagnosed with cancer: "that love survives death." Her memory is alive. Some of it is written down, right there.

I'm afraid of being forgotten. I'm afraid that when I shake free the shackles of this mortal coil, I will leave nothing behind to be remembered by. I know that one day, we're all forgotten. Even Shakespeare and Caesar's names will fade with enough time. I want to at least try and leave something. Who knows what may come of this project, but at least it can be my little drop in the ocean of human history, a way for my friends to later look back and remember me and quote me in exceptional pieces of writing where they remember my humor. 

I want it to be a way for my friends to know me. I've long felt that my opinions don't have merit, that my thoughts don't matter. So I keep them all close to my chest, refusing to let others see me, except in the tiny moments I let cracks form in my walls. It's, again, just a part of life I'm afraid of. To be known is to be judged. I'm trying to be less afraid. 

I delayed starting this because I was afraid, still. This is something tough for me, and I'm quick to let an excuse like that dissuade me from action. But a friend told me they were excited to read what I write about, that my opinions do matter. And if anything can get me to do something, it's doing it for a friend. 

I titled this "On Why?" because it's meant to be an explanation of why I started this. Whatever this ends up becoming.

It's because this New Year's was different. For the first time, I wanted to make resolutions. I wanted to set goals, and work to achieve them. One of those was to write things down. To leave a record. To share it with others. To let them know me, more of me than just the glimpses they get from peering through the open joints of the armor I clad myself in. 

It's because I'm here because I'm here because I'm here.