#and someone could argue that could work with first person light novel style writing

[obstinaterixatrix]

the thing about story mediums is that I don’t consider myself having ‘control’ per se over the best medium for a story. if it comes out better in writing that’s how it’s meant to be, if it comes out better in visuals that’s how it’s meant to be. sometimes there’s overlap like drawing comics or writing scenes but there’s A Reason it ends up one way or another. that’s just how the story comes out.

[bao3bei4]

fan language: the victorian imaginary and cnovel fandom

there’s this pinterest image i’ve seen circulating a lot in the past year i’ve been on fandom social media. it’s a drawn infographic of a, i guess, asian-looking woman holding a fan in different places relative to her face to show what the graphic helpfully calls “the language of the fan.”

people like sharing it. they like thinking about what nefarious ancient chinese hanky code shenanigans their favorite fan-toting character might get up to⁠—accidentally or on purpose. and what’s the problem with that?

the problem is that fan language isn’t chinese. it’s victorian. and even then, it’s not really quite victorian at all. 

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fans served a primarily utilitarian purpose throughout chinese history. of course, most of the surviving fans we see⁠—and the types of fans we tend to care about⁠—are closer to art pieces. but realistically speaking, the majority of fans were made of cheaper material for more mundane purposes. in china, just like all around the world, people fanned themselves. it got hot!

so here’s a big tipoff. it would be very difficult to use a fan if you had an elaborate language centered around fanning yourself.

you might argue that fine, everyday working people didn’t have a fan language. but wealthy people might have had one. the problem we encounter here is that fans weren’t really gendered. (caveat here that certain types of fans were more popular with women. however, those tended to be the round silk fans, ones that bear no resemblance to the folding fans in the graphic). no disrespect to the gnc old man fuckers in the crowd, but this language isn’t quite masc enough for a tool that someone’s dad might regularly use.

folding fans, we know, reached europe in the 17th century and gained immense popularity in the 18th. it was there that fans began to take on a gendered quality. ariel beaujot describes in their 2012 victorian fashion accessories how middle class women, in the midst of a top shortage, found themselves clutching fans in hopes of securing a husband.

she quotes an article from the illustrated london news, suggesting “women ‘not only’ used fans to ‘move the air and cool themselves but also to express their sentiments.’” general wisdom was that the movement of the fan was sufficiently expressive that it augmented a woman’s displays of emotion. and of course, the more english audiences became aware that it might do so, the more they might use their fans purposefully in that way.

notice, however, that this is no more codified than body language in general is. it turns out that “the language of the fan” was actually created by fan manufacturers at the turn of the 20th century⁠—hundreds of years after their arrival⁠ in europe—to sell more fans. i’m not even kidding right now. the story goes that it was louis duvelleroy of the maison duvelleroy who decided to include pamphlets on the language with each fan sold.

interestingly enough, beaujot suggests that it didn’t really matter what each particular fan sign meant. gentlemen could tell when they were being flirted with. as it happens, meaningful eye contact and a light flutter near the face may be a lingua franca.

so it seems then, the language of the fan is merely part of this victorian imaginary we collectively have today, which in turn itself was itself captivated by china.

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victorian references come up perhaps unexpectedly often in cnovel fandom, most often with regards to modesty.

it’s a bit of an awkward reference considering that chinese traditional fashion⁠—and the ambiguous time periods in which these novels are set⁠—far predate victorian england. it is even more awkward considering that victoria and her covered ankles did um. imperialize china.

but nonetheless, it is common. and to make a point about how ubiquitous it is, here is a link to the twitter search for “sqq victorian.” sqq is the fandom abbreviation for shen qingqiu, the main character of the scum villain’s self-saving system, by the way.

this is an awful lot of results for a search involving a chinese man who spends the entire novel in either real modern-day china or fantasy ancient china. that’s all i’m going to say on the matter, without referencing any specific tweet.

i think people are aware of the anachronism. and i think they don’t mind. even the most cursory research reveals that fan language is european and a revisionist fantasy. wikipedia can tell us this⁠—i checked!

but it doesn’t matter to me whether people are trying to make an internally consistent canon compliant claim, or whether they’re just free associating between fan facts they know. it is, instead, more interesting to me that people consistently refer to this particular bit of history. and that’s what i want to talk about today⁠—the relationship of fandom today to this two hundred odd year span of time in england (roughly stuart to victorian times) and england in that time period to its contemporaneous china.

things will slip a little here. victorian has expanded in timeframe, if only because random guys posting online do not care overly much for respect for the intricacies of british history. china has expanded in geographic location, if only because the english of the time themselves conflated china with all of asia.

in addition, note that i am critiquing a certain perspective on the topic. this is why i write about fan as white here⁠—not because all fans are white⁠—but because the tendencies i’m examining have a clear historical antecedent in whiteness that shapes how white fans encounter these novels.

i’m sure some fans of color participate in these practices. however i don’t really care about that. they are not its main perpetrators nor its main beneficiaries. so personally i am minding my own business on that front.

it’s instead important to me to illuminate the linkage between white as subject and chinese as object in history and in the present that i do argue that fannish products today are built upon.

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it’s not radical, or even new at all, for white audiences to consume⁠—or create their own versions of⁠—chinese art en masse. in many ways the white creators who appear to owe their whole style and aesthetic to their asian peers in turn are just the new chinoiserie.

this is not to say that white people can’t create asian-inspired art. but rather, i am asking you to sit with the discomfort that you may not like the artistic company you keep in the broader view of history, and to consider together what is to be done about that.

now, when i say the new chinoiserie, i first want to establish what the original one is. chinoiserie was a european artistic movement that appeared coincident with the rise in popularity of folding fans that i described above. this is not by coincidence; the european demand for asian imports and the eventual production of lookalikes is the movement itself. so: when we talk about fans, when we talk about china (porcelain), when we talk about tea in england⁠—we are talking about the legacy of chinoiserie.

there are a couple things i want to note here. while english people as a whole had a very tenuous knowledge of what china might be, their appetites for chinoiserie were roughly coincident with national relations with china. as the relationship between england and china moved from trade to out-and-out wars, chinoiserie declined in popularity until china had been safely subjugated once more by the end of the 19th century.

the second thing i want to note on the subject that contrary to what one might think at first, the appeal of chinoiserie was not that it was foreign. eugenia zuroski’s 2013 taste for china examines 18th century english literature and its descriptions of the according material culture with the lens that chinese imports might be formative to english identity, rather than antithetical to it.

beyond that bare thesis, i think it’s also worthwhile to extend her insight that material objects become animated by the literary viewpoints on them. this is true, both in a limited general sense as well as in the sense that english thinkers of the time self-consciously articulated this viewpoint. consider the quote from the illustrated london news above⁠—your fan, that object, says something about you. and not only that, but the objects you surround yourself with ought to.

it’s a bit circular, the idea that written material says that you should allow written material to shape your understanding of physical objects. but it’s both 1) what happened, and 2) integral, i think, to integrating a fannish perspective into the topic.

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japanning is the name for the popular imitative lacquering that english craftspeople developed in domestic response to the demand for lacquerware imports. in the eighteenth century, japanning became an artform especially suited for young women. manuals were published on the subject, urging young women to learn how to paint furniture and other surfaces, encouraging them to rework the designs provided in the text.

it was considered a beneficial activity for them; zuroski describes how it was “associated with commerce and connoisseurship, practical skill and aesthetic judgment.” a skillful japanner, rather than simply obscuring what lay underneath the lacquer, displayed their superior judgment in how they chose to arrange these new canonical figures and effects in a tasteful way to bring out the best qualities of them.

zuroski quotes the first english-language manual on the subject, written in 1688, which explains how japanning allows one to:

alter and correct, take out a piece from one, add a fragment to the next, and make an entire garment compleat in all its parts, though tis wrought out of never so many disagreeing patterns.

this language evokes a very different, very modern practice. it is this english reworking of an asian artform that i think the parallels are most obvious.

white people, through their artistic investment in chinese material objects and aesthetics, integrated them into their own subjectivity. these practices came to say something about the people who participated in them, in a way that had little to do with the country itself. their relationship changed from being a “consumer” of chinese objects to becoming the proprietor of these new aesthetic signifiers.

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i want to talk about this through a few pairs of tensions on the subject that i think characterize common attitudes then and now.

first, consider the relationship between the self and the other: the chinese object as something that is very familiar to you, speaking to something about your own self vs. the chinese object as something that is fundamentally different from you and unknowable to you. 

consider: [insert character name] is just like me. he would no doubt like the same things i like, consume the same cultural products. we are the same in some meaningful way vs. the fast standard fic disclaimer that “i tried my best when writing this fic, but i’m a english-speaking westerner, and i’m just writing this for fun so...... [excuses and alterations the person has chosen to make in this light],” going hand-in-hand with a preoccupation with authenticity or even overreliance on the unpaid labor of chinese friends and acquaintances. 

consider: hugh honour when he quotes a man from the 1640s claiming “chinoiserie of this even more hybrid kind had become so far removed from genuine Chinese tradition that it was exported from India to China as a novelty to the Chinese themselves” 

these tensions coexist, and look how they have been resolved.

second, consider what we vest in objects themselves: beaujot explains how the fan became a sexualized, coquettish object in the hands of a british woman, but was used to great effect in gilbert and sullivan’s 1885 mikado to demonstrate the docility of asian women. 

consider: these characters became expressions of your sexual desires and fetishes, even as their 5’10 actors themselves are emasculated.

what is liberating for one necessitates the subjugation and fetishization of the other. 

third, consider reactions to the practice: enjoyment of chinese objects as a sign of your cosmopolitan palate vs “so what’s the hype about those ancient chinese gays” pop culture explainers that addressed the unconvinced mainstream.

consider: zuroski describes how both english consumers purchased china in droves, and contemporary publications reported on them. how: 

It was in the pages of these papers that the growing popularity of Chinese things in the early eighteenth century acquired the reputation of a “craze”; they portrayed china fanatics as flawed, fragile, and unreliable characters, and frequently cast chinoiserie itself in the same light.

referenda on fannish behavior serve as referenda on the objects of their devotion, and vice versa. as the difference between identity and fetish collapses, they come to be treated as one and the same by not just participants but their observers. 

at what point does mxtx fic cease to be chinese? 

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finally, it seems readily apparent that attitudes towards chinese objects may in fact have something to do with attitudes about china as a country. i do not want to suggest that these literary concerns are primarily motivated and begot by forces entirely divorced from the real mechanics of power. 

here, i want to bring in edward said, and his 1993 culture and imperialism. there, he explains how power and legitimacy go hand in hand. one is direct, and one is purely cultural. he originally wrote this in response to the outsize impact that british novelists have had in the maintenance of empire and throughout decolonization. literature, he argues, gives rise to powerful narratives that constrain our ability to think outside of them.

there’s a little bit of an inversion at play here. these are chinese novels, actually. but they’re being transformed by white narratives and artists. and just as i think the form of the novel is important to said’s critique, i think there’s something to be said about the form that fic takes and how it legitimates itself.

bound up in fandom is the idea that you have a right to create and transform as you please. it is a nice idea, but it is one that is directed towards a certain kind of asymmetry. that is, one where the author has all the power. this is the narrative we hear a lot in the history of fandom⁠—litigious authors and plucky fans, fanspaces always under attack from corporate sanitization.

meanwhile, said builds upon raymond schwab’s narrative of cultural exchange between european writers and cultural products outside the imperial core. said explains that fundamental to these two great borrowings (from greek classics and, in the so-called “oriental renaissance” of the late 18th, early 19th centuries from “india, china, japan, persia, and islam”) is asymmetry. 

he had argued prior, in orientalism, that any “cultural exchange” between “partners conscious of inequality” always results in the suffering of the people. and here, he describes how “texts by dead people were read, appreciated, and appropriated” without the presence of any actual living people in that tradition. 

i will not understate that there is a certain economic dynamic complicating this particular fannish asymmetry. mxtx has profited materially from the success of her works, most fans will not. also secondly, mxtx is um. not dead. LMAO.

but first, the international dynamic of extraction that said described is still present. i do not want to get overly into white attitudes towards china in this post, because i am already thoroughly derailed, but i do believe that they structure how white cnovel fandom encounters this texts.

at any rate, any profit she receives is overwhelmingly due to her domestic popularity, not her international popularity. (i say this because many of her international fans have never given her a cent. in fact, most of them have no real way to.) and moreover, as we talk about the structure of english-language fandom, what does it mean to create chinese cultural products without chinese people? 

as white people take ownership over their versions of stories, do we lose something? what narratives about engagement with cnovels might exist outside of the form of classic fandom?

i think a lot of people get the relationship between ideas (the superstructure) and production (the base) confused. oftentimes they will lob in response to criticism, that look! this fic, this fandom, these people are so niche, and so underrepresented in mainstream culture, that their effects are marginal. i am not arguing that anyone’s cql fic causes imperialism. (unless you’re really annoying. then it’s anyone’s game) 

i’m instead arguing something a little bit different. i think, given similar inputs, you tend to get similar outputs. i think we live in the world that imperialism built, and we have clear historical predecessors in terms of white appetites for creating, consuming, and transforming chinese objects. 

we have already seen, in the case of the fan language meme that began this post, that sometimes we even prefer this white chinoiserie. after all, isn’t it beautiful, too? 

i want to bring discomfort to this topic. i want to reject the paradigm of white subject and chinese object; in fact, here in this essay, i have tried to reverse it.

if you are taken aback by the comparisons i make here, how can you make meaningful changes to your fannish practice to address it? 

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some concluding thoughts on the matter, because i don’t like being misunderstood! 

i am not claiming white fans cannot create fanworks of cnovels or be inspired by asian art or artists. this essay is meant to elaborate on the historical connection between victorian england and cnovel characters and fandom that others have already popularized.

i don’t think people who make victorian jokes are inherently bad or racist. i am encouraging people to think about why we might make them and/or share them

the connections here are meant to be more provocative than strictly literal. (e.g. i don’t literally think writing fanfic is a 1-1 descendant of japanning). these connections are instead meant to 1) make visible the baggage that fans of color often approach fandom with and 2) recontextualize and defamiliarize fannish practice for the purposes of honest critique

please don’t turn this post into being about other different kinds of discourse, or into something that only one “kind” of fan does. please take my words at face value and consider them in good faith. i would really appreciate that.

please feel free to ask me to clarify any statements or supply more in-depth sources :) 

[bookstantrash]

A/N: Next week uni exams start and I won’t be able to write for a while, so I did my best to finish this chapter on time before I go MIA for some time.

You can check here Pemberley’s Lake, Hooked on You and Smells like petrichor and paper, part one, two and three of my Nessian Pride and Prejudice AU.

The sound of music

Cassian could not sleep. His mind kept coming back to the greenhouse.

To Nesta and her lavender and vanilla scent and how lovely she looked amidst the flowers.

He would not lie to himself and say he did not let his lips linger a little bit longer than necessary on her temple.

Or that he had not felt some resemblance of male pride on seeing her wearing his jacket.

That he had not imagined her wearing it after they had come back home from a ball or one of Gywn’s operas.

That he had not imagined Nesta tucked close to his side, his arms around her and a smile on his face as he heard her talk about her day.

His imagination, it seemed, was his worst enemy.

“You are delusional Cassian” he mumbled to himself “Delusional”

Sighing, he touched the pressed daisy chain again. He had taken it out of his drawer and left it in front of him as he worked on some papers regarding his properties, thinking the numbers, reports of complaints or requests would help tire him out enough to make sleep come.

Cassian had no such luck. He worked until the entire pile had been properly looked through, and even three glasses of his strongest brandy could not make his thoughts of Nesta go away.

Nesta, who was currently sleeping in one of Pemberley’s guest rooms after much freeting from Mrs.Potts and her friends about catching a cold. Cassian had made sure to have her room properly warmed and a glass of hot chocolate delivered to her first thing after they arrived from the greenhouse.

Her friends had been delighted to spend the night, and he had almost asked them to forego the inn completely and just stay at Pemberley for the rest of the month. But he did not want to mess their schedule and ruin their trip. He knew that Gwyn was on a short vacation, as were Emerie and Balthazar, and Nesta could not stay away from her younger sister, Elain, for too long, given that they had no male relative to look after their household and wellbeing in the meantime.

Maybe a trip to the kitchens would help him. A midnight snack was bound to make his sleep come soon, and he was sure he had heard one the maids saying that Chef Ramsay had baked chocolate cookies.

Safely putting the bookmark back in his drawer, Cassian only bothered to throw a robe on before quietly making his way down the hallways. He was not worried about being shirtless, given that most of the house was for certain sleeping.

Deciding to take the long way to the kitchen in hopes of tiring himself, he was surprised to pass by the library and see light coming from underneath the doors. Thinking that maybe someone had forgotten to check the place in their rounds, Cassian opened the oak doors to find the candle light. He could not risk a fire happening in the library out of all places.

He followed the faint glow until he found himself with a most surprising — but very welcome — sight.

Nesta was currently curled up on his favourite chair reading a book in nothing but a thin nightgown and he momentarily forgot to be annoyed at her for not covering herself after being caught in the rain if only because by the way she was seated he had a privileged view of her bare legs.

Cassian knew he should announce his presence, his conscience yelling at him how improper and scandalous it was to see her in such a private moment. But he let himself stare at her for another minute, commiting to mind every single detail, from the way the ribbons in her nightgown accentuated her waist — he recalled how small it had seemed when they had danced at Feyre’s ball, his hand spanning nearly halfway across — to how the white colour made her eyes look more grey than blue in the candlelight.

“Fancy seeing you here” Cassian said in greeting, clearing his throat.

Nesta nearly jumped out of her skin when she heard him, quickly scrambling to straighten herself up when she realised she was not alone.

“I am sorry, you had said I could come whenever I wanted and I—”

"Could not sleep?” he asked, and Nesta only nodded.

Oh dear Mother, she wanted to crawl into a hole on the ground and disappear. Why was it that she was always finding herself in embarrassing situations when it came to Cassian?

It was true she could not sleep, her mind replaying her evening with Cassian, from the moment she stepped on the library to when he kissed her temple in the greenhouse.

She had tossed and turned in her bed for hours, her creative mind conjuring images of a future with him.

Of long strolls in the garden and picnics by the lake.

Of hours spent reading quietly side by side in the library.

Of running her hands in his silky hair, coming up with new ways to style it.

Of Cassian’s coat around her shoulders and her head on his as they came back from a late evening of dancing or parties with their friends.

Why could she not stop thinking about him? Why had he not left her mind since they had first met each other and why did her heart skip a beat whenever he was nearby?

She looked at him, flushing all over when she noticed that he would have been completely naked from the waist up were it not for a robe, which had loosened up a bit, revealing a bit of his naked chest.

For Cauldron’ sake, did he not own a shirt?

“What are you reading?” he inquired, and she quickly averted her gaze from his chest.

Little did she know he was also trying very hard to not stare at her bare shoulders or her chest, cursing once again whoever had gifted her such nightgown.

He could bet his fortune it had been Emerie, recognizing the modice’s preference of off shoulders designs.

“Oh, it’s a romance” Nesta felt her ears getting even hotter “By Sellyn Drake. You have a rather large collection here. Some are even first editions”

“She was a dear friend of Pemberley’s previous Lady” Cassian said, motioning for her to take a seat as he told her the story “The Lord sponsored her, both because he saw how her writing brought joy to his wife and also Lady Drake’s talent.”

“She soon became extremely famous and still kept sending the previous Lord her books even after his wife passed away” Cassian smiled faintly “He sold Pemberley and moved, but I kept the library as it was, just adding my own books here. Lady Drake comes once a while to visit and get inspiration for new novels, although she says she is to retire soon.”

“Y-you know her?” Nesta’s voice had gotten an uncharacteristic high pitch “You know Sellyn Drake personally?!”

“She is a very annoying old lady” Cassian said rolling his eyes “Always asking me if I will not take a wife so she will have someone more interesting to discuss her books with whenever she visits.”

“I cannot believe you are friends with one of my favourite authors” Nesta said in disbelief.

“But I would not have pegged you for a romance reader” she added, arching an eyebrow.

“I could not very well leave those books here to gather dust, could I?” he answered, squirming on his seat.

“Tell me, did the scary General Commander of the British Armies shed a tear in any of them?” her voice had a teasing tone and Cassian was almost left speechless by that fact alone.

Nesta inclined her body in his direction, apparently having forgotten she was not wearing modest attire at all and that Cassian was desperately trying to keep his eyes on her face instead of her chest.

“I promise not to tell anyone if you did”

And then Nesta Archeron gave a little sideway smile that made Cassian lose his breath.

He did not know what he had done that made her take such liberties with him, but he for sure was not going to complain.

“I did not cry” he finally managed to answer, angling his body in her direction and smirking when he saw a faint blush adorning her cheeks “But I will not be heartless and say it did not move me a little.”

They were close once again. So close Nesta could see that his eyes had little green speckles on them and that the brown looked like molten chocolate.

They were eyes one could drown and all she wanted to do was to indeed drown on them.

“Next time Lady Drake plans on coming to Pemberley I will make sure to invite you too” Cassian said softly, straightening himself “It is quite late. I will accompany you to your room.”

As if on cue, Nesta yawned, quickly covering her mouth with her hand.

“I only have one chapter left” she tried to argue, suppressing another yawn.

“Such a headstrong lady you are” he smiled and took the candlelight “The book will still be here tomorrow.”

Nesta followed him begrudgingly, twisting her nose in annoyance even though she was yet again holding back another yawn. Cassian thought she looked like a tiny angry kitten, laughing internally.

They walked back to her room in a comfortable silence, and sooner than he would have liked they had arrived.

“Well, then, here we are. Delivered safe and sound”

“Thank you, your grace” Nesta opened the door but did not get inside, as if she too did not want to part with him.

“Have a goodnight of sleep, my lady” he said, dropping a kiss on her hand before he could dwell too long on it.

“Goodnight, your grace” she breathlessly answered, finally getting inside and leaving Cassian standing outside her door.

Needless to say, both fell asleep quickly after that.

~•~

“For Cauldron’ sake are you incapable of sending prior notice of your arrival? And it is way too early to be drinking wine Morrigan, even for you”

Cassian had arrived to have breakfast and found Rhysand’s cousin casually seated at table, twirling her glass of wine at nine in the morning.

“I came here straight from Vivian’s. It was a long journey and I needed the wine. Besides, I am family! I knew you were going to like my surprise visit” Mor blinked at him.

“Always a pleasure to see you” Cassian answered, sitting beside her and promptly dumping a large portion of bacon and eggs on his plate “I take you introduced yourself to my other guests?”

“Of course” she snorted, making Georgiana laugh “Except for Miss Carynthian and Sir Oristian, that is. It seems they went into town early to see something in relation to their business.”

As if on cue, the dining room doors were open and Balthazar and Emerie walked in.

Emerie had opted to wear trousers today — Cassian thought it was to not be belittled by some stupid mercants and show with just who they were dealing with — and a white shirt with long sleeves with a forest green vest. Her curly brown hair was down and she had a gleam in her eyes that told him her business transaction had been a success.

She really was a sight to behold but it still startled him when Mor spat out her wine.

Mor never wasted wine.

“Sorry for our late arrival, Balthazar was being a weakling” Emerie said, sitting in front of a very much flustered Morrigan.

“I was not. You are the one who never lets the other have the upper hand” Balthazar pointed out.

“Please, you know that piece of silk was not worth that much!” she spread jam in a piece of toast, waving the knife in a rather aggressive manner.

“Maybe, but if you keep that up you will gather more enemies than business partners”

“Good thing I have you as my bodyguard” she batted her eyelashes innocently, making Balthazar roll his eyes.

“You are Miss Carynthian. The Miss Carynthian?” Mor asked in awe, her coughing fit finally over.

“The one and only. I take you know my shop?” Emerie asked with a smile.

“I absolutely adore your designs!” Mor gushed, and they fell in a very excited talk about gowns and fashion trends.

“Did you have a goodnight of sleep?” Cassian whispered to Nesta, who was seated beside him.

“I did, thank you for your concern, your grace” she answered, grabbing a chocolate cookie “I hope you also had a pleasant sleep?”

“The best sleep I had in years” he winked at her, that sideway smile of hers appearing again.

“Lady Nesta, my brother has told me how brilliantly your dancing  is” Georgiana butted in, and Cassian resisted the urge to throttle her.

His younger sister was lucky there were other people present or he would do just that.

“He is too kind, my dancing is not that memorable” Nesta said, a bit embarrassed.

“But my brother never lies!” Georgiana exclaimed, receiving a glare from Cassian “He told me how the whole ballroom stopped to watch you as you danced.”

“Oh, thank you for the compliment your grace”

“It was nothing but the truth” Cassian assured her, sending daggers at Georgiana, who was sweetly seated by his other side as if she had not just told Nesta how infatuated with her he was.

“I wish I had your talent” Georgie sighed “I am really shy at balls and never really want to dance even if I am asked to. I usually throw my dancing card in the trash in fear someone will write their name there.”

“But I love to watch my brothers running from the scary mammas” she added with a devilish grin, failing in a brotherly bickering with Cassian.

Nesta felt her heart break over Georgiana’s fear of dancing. Apart from reading, dancing was one of the few things that brought Nesta joy. It made her feel alive, the music allowing her to get lost on the moment and forget the pressures high society placed upon her.

Dancing made Nesta feel empowered, in control of her own destiny.

Georgiana deserved to feel like that too.

And that is why when Emerie, Gwyn and Mor went shopping together while the gentlemen went horse riding, Nesta proposed that she teach Georgiana how to dance.

“Are you sure of it?” Georgiana asked nervously, glancing around the music room as if someone was going to appear out of nowhere and laugh at her poor performance.

“Rest assured. You will be dancing flawlessly at the end of the day” Nesta gave her a reassuring smile “I am going to take the male role, so please place your hand on my shoulder.”

Georgiana did as instructed, and soon they were dancing.

“You just need to have fun and relax” Nesta said, making Georgiana twirl “Even if you do not know the steps but act like you do nobody will blink. Dancing is not something that is supposed to be suffocating, but to free you.”

“You mean like this?” the young girl asked, and did a step completely opposite of what was expected in a waltz that made Nesta laugh and follow her.

In no time they were not dancing the waltz but just messing around, their laughs and delighted screams filling the room. They were having so much fun that they were oblivious to Cassian watching them from the door.

The gentlemen had returned to Pemberley and decided to move to the game room, their initial amiable horse riding outing transformed into a racing competition whose draw made Balthazar and Azriel — who revealed themselves to be extremely competitive — propose a rematch in a billiard game.

Cassian soon grew tired of watching them betting who would win, deciding to fetch a book to help distract himself. He was called to the music room by the sound of loud laughs, his heart threatening to burst when he saw Nesta and his sister having so much fun.

“When are we to expect a proposal, my lord?” Mrs. Potts said to him, having stopped to welcome him back when she noticed just who he was watching.

“I have no idea what you are talking about” he answered, a soft smile on his face as Nesta dipped Georgiana, making her laugh even louder.

“It is clear as day to all of us how much that lovely lady means to you” the old headmaid replied “I have never seen you happier since she arrived here.”

“I assure you, there is nothing going on between us.”

“Do not let your fears stop you from being happy” Mrs.Potts motherly said, noticing his bitter tone “You more than anyone deserve to be happy and feel loved. And I noticed how she looks at you, I do not know why you cannot see it.”

“Such busybody staff that I have” was all he said, Mrs.Potts smiling and leaving him alone to continue his watch.

But it appeared their talking had warned them of his presence.

“Brother! Were you spying on us?”

“Far from it Georgie. I thought nobody was home but your laughs made me want to investigate” he stepped inside, closing the door behind him “Balthazar and Az are so competitive they were giving me a headache”

“Nesta was teaching me how to dance” Georgiana said, a bright smile on her face.

“I saw it. She is a great teacher” Cassian said, and Nesta had to look away lest he saw how much happy his words had made her.

“I have a great idea!! Why don’t I play music in the pianoforte and you two dance? That way it would be much easier to see how to dance properly”

Nesta panicked at Georgiana’s words. Last time she had danced with Cassian it had been out of spite for his comment. She would not deny that she had found him a pleasant partner or that she had had fun dancing with him, but Nesta doubted he would want to dance with her again.

However, little did she know Cassian could not have been happier than the moment his sister suggested such a thing.

“That is a wonderful idea Georgie” he said to his sister, all the while planning to write to Rhysand concerning an increase in Georgiana’s dowry.

He had already forgiven her words earlier at breakfast.

Didn’t she say she wanted a new horse? He could arrange for one to be delivered first thing in the morning tomorrow.

Georgiana clapped her hands in excitement, leaving them standing in front of each other as she sat by the piano.

“You are not dancing!” she called out, her fingers moving expertly on the piano keys.

Cassian cleared his throat, offering his hand.

“May I have this dance?”

Nesta accepted his hand, placing her other on his shoulder.

“You may”

They fell in that pleasant and calming atmosphere as Georgiana played, Cassian leading her effortlessly, but she felt he was cautious, even a little stiff.

“I do not bite, your grace”  Nesta said, daring to tease him “You do not have to be afraid.”

“I would not mind if you did” he said back without thinking, his eyes widening as he realised he had said that out loud.

“I beg your pardon. I did not mean—” Cassian made to release her hand and step away but Nesta gripped his shoulder harder, stopping him.

“Do not tell me the great General Commander is left without a strategy when it comes to some defenceless lady” Nesta appeared to be nonchalant on the outside, but inside she was apprehensive.

What if she had gone too far? What if he did not see her as a friend? What if he was bothered by her teasing?

But to her relief he gave her that smirk of his that made her blood boil, stepping closer to her, their chests touching.

“For you, I have no strategies.”

And they really began to dance.

The music was still there. Georgiana played beautifully and on another occasion Nesta would have wanted nothing more than to just sit and listen all day to her playing.

But the music was no longer the most beautiful thing in existence.

Nesta got lost on him as they danced, the music a faraway background sound.

She got lost on his bright smile and noticed he had dimples.

She got lost on the way he moved with her, a body made for brutality which now moved with grace, keeping up with her.

She got so lost on his warm eyes — more green than brown at the moment —  that she felt herself moving even closer, her breath mingling with his.

“Cassian—” his name left her lips without her consent, and she almost froze when she noticed she had not used his title.

Cassian did not care, his smile only getting brighter.

“You may call me informally. We are friends, are we not Nesta?” he said quietly.

“Yes, we are.” she answered, her body tingling all over at the way he said her name, as if it was a prayer to the Mother.

Georgiana — having taken notice of the rather romantic mood — started a new song as soon as the other finished, neither of the pair paying her no mind.

Next morning, Cassian gave her a new horse, the fastest and most sought out in the market. No one had the barest ideia how he managed to get hold of it so fast, or why he was gifting it to Georgiana.

Neither explained the reason, just shaking on it as if it was a business transaction.

•

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[youarejesting]

Sea [1/2]

Beta: @lillielil @aroseforyoongi​ @seokjinssymphony​ @kpooplifeforever​ @explosiveranga​​ & my good friend Z (let me know if I left anyone out.) Rating: 17+ Pairing: Idol!Yoongi x Reader Genre: Action, Adventure, Angst, Fluff, Comedy, slow burn, slice of life. Words: 6.8k

Summary: After your plane to Korea takes an unexpected detour, you are stranded with someone you aren’t even sure speaks English. As the race begins to stay alive, emotions run high and tempers short. The unlikely contender in the survival race is love which snuck up on you both.

The thought of a thirteen-hour flight didn't bring you much joy. Why would it? Being trapped in a small box with wings, not to mention being stuck in said box with multiple people breathing recycled farts and eating some sort of wet styrofoam they called food that would most definitely give you food poisoning. Oh yes, what a joy it would be to be in a seat for hours on end, letting your skin slowly dry up. 

Arriving at the terminal, you stood waiting for them to start boarding. You would have been sitting if there was a single seat free. Seriously, some asshole had even dared to lay across no less than five and a half seats, his bag resting on the empty chair at the end. 

He was wearing all black and looked comfortable in his jeans and hoodie. His black cap pulled down over his eyes and you could see the bleached blonde hair sticking out from underneath. Big chunky headphones on his ears made it possible for this man to drown out the world around him.

You glared at his legs, growing tired, knowing that within a few hours you would be begging for the chance to stand up. If you were to take a mental count, there hadn’t been any nice experiences you could recall in regards to traveling on a plane.

Did that reflect the quality of service or your standard of air travel? No. Obviously, your standards were realistic, not expecting the flight time any shorter or the staff to give a foot massage or anything outrageous. 

You really didn't want any extra luxuries other than what was offered in the pamphlet — and yes, that meant you chose first-class — because if you were to suffer, you would do so in the best environment.

Unfortunately, the reality of it was that there was no better or more comfortable way to travel. Checking in, you would be boarding first before the other passengers, not really a privilege. However you got in line anyway behind the young man who had previously been lounging across the airport seats. He was holding up the line having lost his passport and you were getting more and more pissed. 

You were simply just having a bad day. 

A woman behind you started openly arguing, exclaiming that this man was not allowed to ride first class as he clearly wasn’t fit for it. Bringing up his style of dress and the headphones around his neck. You turned, glaring daggers at the woman until she became silent. 

Society taught people to judge based on appearance, that everyone fit into a category, never mind the old adage to ‘never judge a book based on it’s cover’. Stil, you were always respectful and treated others equally, maybe even getting to know a person that you wouldn’t in other circumstances. It always surprised you how much you enjoyed taking a risk and getting to know them.

Once you showed your ticket and passport, you traveled down the long hall towards the plane. You saw the man in front of you talking with another man. He seemed to respect him and was reading him a schedule from his phone. You raised your eyebrows and smiled at the young stewardess who welcomed you on board. Her hair was pristine in a tight bun and her crisp, dark blue outfit was paired with a red scarf.

Stepping over the small gap, you felt the cold of the air conditioning, yet the air still felt thick. There were three places you could go to feel this type of cold: the dentist, an airplane, or the movies. First class was spacious with only a single cubicle on either side of the aisle. You took your seat. It was like personal rooms where you could close a sliding screen for more privacy, even though you were sitting next to someone, you wouldn't be able to see them at all.

The seats were more like arm chairs that one could lay back completely in, made with a brilliant blue leather. The cubicle room was complemented in a similar shade but with red features. You had a tv and a tiny minibar that had a small selection of drinks and snacks.

The flight attendants took all the passengers through the safety instructions. You could practically write them at this point. However they added a few things you had never heard. You had never heard such in-depth instructions going beyond the general life jackets, floatation devices, and first aid kits. 

Never before had they told you about the airbags that would be deployed if you crash in the ocean. Apparently the emergency escape slides doubled as floatation devices and could hold up to one hundred and thirty people comfortably. They even explained how they detach these rafts from the fuselage and that they have ropes that allow them to be tied off to each other or the airframe. 

Distracted by a tired male sighing beside you, you wondered who would fall asleep during the safety messages. Sure they were boring, but even you pretended to care. When you turned to see the culprit, he was disappearing behind the plastic divider of his cubicle dragged by his long pale fingers.

Well, at least you had some privacy. It was something you were thankful for, you wanted to get comfortable, or as comfortable as you could.

Perhaps these new instructions and information were deemed irrelevant to domestic flights. Or perhaps it was for the very enthusiastic kid they led through the first class discussing more of the plane's anatomy. “What if a wing falls off?”

“The plane is really sturdy, the wing wouldn’t just fall off” She grinned, “Let’s see what the pilot is doing and we can get your mum a picture wearing the captain's hat!” 

After the flight attendants thanked everyone for listening, the plane took to the sky. You closed up all sides of your cubicle and requested to be only woken for meals. The stewardess was very diligent and for that you were grateful. 

The journey was nearing the six hour mark and all that one could see was clouds and the ocean. The collection of empty water bottles were a poignant reminder to relieve your bladder. 

You stood up and waddled determined to go to the bathroom. It was inconvenient to drink so much water but you didn't want to get dehydrated. 

Feeling much better, you took a few minutes to look in the mirror and moisturise as your skin was feeling particularly dry already. Startled from your self care routine by a light rapping on the door, you packed up your things and pulled open the door. Unfortunately, at that moment, the plane shook.

It was like something from a romance novel, the way you fell against him and yet, there was nothing elegant or poetic in the way you fell against him.

Your face slammed into his chest and his head hit the wall with a heavy thud. "Sorry, I'm sorry"

"Shibal" he said, his language was something unlike you have ever heard, it was rhythmic and sounded like a song. His voice was so low and rumbly it almost sounded like he was purring. 

You weren’t well versed in other languages or cultures, so you didn’t know what he was saying. This was your first time leaving your country. If it wasn’t for the damn holiday raffle at work, you wouldn’t have even left your house. Every other flight you had ever been on was domestic and therefore your suffering was short lived, but this flight was long and you were getting rather bored. It seemed your mind was reeling trying to absorb all that it could and currently that meant the poor man you had body slammed into the wall was under your perusal.

His body was thin unlike yours which was curvaceous. His hair was dark and shaggy making his pale skin almost ghostly. He had sharp cat-like eyes that were quite intimidating as they glared at you and his small downturned lips were yet to speak. He seemed like a man of few words. All this coldness was juxtaposed by his cute round nose. You could tell from his features that he was from Asia, but you couldn't pinpoint where.

Grabbing your shoulders, he started to push you off of him, when the plane shook again and you both fell back into the small bathroom. Your back hit the toilet, and a searing pain bloomed from the impact causing your body to lock up as it radiated through you.

The seat belt light came on. You both scrambled to your feet bumping into the walls, sink and each other from the unstable winds shaking the plane. Struggling back to your seats when the cabin pressure changed. There was a creaking sound and the plane started shaking. You immediately felt a sick sense of dread. The pilot spoke calmly about turbulence and requested everyone return to their seats. But the pair of you couldn't move down the aisle to your seats.

There was a sound like a car backfiring and someone from economy class shouted about the wing being on fire. Your grip on the young man's coat tightened and a terrifying sound like metal groaning filled the cabin. That didn’t sound like regular turbulence, you were sure of that.

Sharing a horrified look with the young man, you got up the courage to try to push off from the wall. Unsuccessful, you were once more pressed against the wall. The plane was plummeting. Out of the corner of your eye, you spotted the emergency box. What was this emergency and what in that box could fix this situation?

"You need to return to your seats,” the stewardess said. The smell of smoke was strong and it filled the inside of the plane quickly. You hadn’t even seen the stewardess trying to climb through the plane. Her grip strained on the walls and seats as she fought against the force pushing her back. “We are making an emergency landing." 

The metal sound was louder. Shrieking like nails on a chalkboard, it pierced through the cabin. You watched as the side of the plane ripped completely off with the ease of someone removing the plastic off a new fridge. There was a feeling of being weightless before a drop on a roller coaster, and then it was like your stomach was left behind. The stewardess was sucked out from the cabin behind you. 

You and the young Asian man were sliding backwards down the aisle trying to find something to grab onto. The floor in first class was some sort of linoleum and gave you a nasty burn as you slid. It was like fire against your skin. As the pilot fought with the plane, you practically bounced off every seat. 

It felt like you were weightless for a brief moment as you were lifted off the ground, your back hit the roof before you smacked the floor again. All the wind had been knocked out of you. 

The pilots were fighting against the drop, so in the moment of calm before the plummet, you grabbed the leg of an economy class seat as it was bolted to the ground. You looked at the young man, watching the panic as he realized he was too far away to hold on and dangerously close to the large opening. He began slipping out of the plane, his hands flailing before clamping around your ankle. The two of you were almost hanging outside the plane. 

Everyone in economy class was panicking and wearing oxygen masks. No wonder you couldn’t breathe. Gasping for breath, you cursed yourself for liking all those action movies that made this look easy. 

“Hold on!” You all but screamed more to yourself than the poor guy holding your leg. He was being completely battered by the wind. You felt his hands slipping and you reached down with one hand to grab his wrist and he grabbed yours. He looked thankful.

“Shibal,” he groaned, his voice straining. Your body was being stretched. The cold metal was unforgiving, and it tore apart the skin on your palm. Your eyes were watering in protest to the wind and smoke that was drying them out.

The drink trolley that the stewardesses had been moving through the aisles had gotten loose and went flying down the plane. It hit an old man in the back of the head. You knew he wouldn’t make it, and speaking of, it was headed straight for you. You watched in fear, like some horrifying game of chicken as the trolley came for you. Thankfully, it bounced on the floor inches from your hand and flew out of the plane. 

It was a mix of flinching and the force of the wind that made your hand on the chair slip. You slid further out of the plane, grabbing the exposed shell of the plane with your free hand. Your other hand desperately clutching the young man's hand watching in horror as he smacked into the side of the plane unconscious. “Shit!” 

His body was limp and you had to do something. With all the strength you had, you tried to pull his flailing form closer to protect him. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw the ocean quickly advancing. You were going to hit the water.

The breeze pressing against you was fierce. Your eyes were dry, making you think of your eyedrops in your carry-on luggage. You could see the water coming up quicker now; you tried to gauge what would be a survivable height. Knowing you had a higher chance of surviving freediving as opposed to hanging halfway from the plane, where you would both slam head first into the plane. You decided to take the leap.

Screaming in absolute terror as you watched the fast approaching water, you let go just in time. It was equivalent to a few stories on a building from the ground. Wrapping him in your arms, you pointed yourselves down deciding to break the fall. Lifting your free hand above your head like you were doing a high dive, you hit the water. It was such a shock, the liquid was so cold it caused your muscles to lock up.

Your adrenaline was pumping, and one of your arms felt numb and unresponsive. You swam oddly to the surface, gasping when you felt the air on your skin. He was unconscious, and you held his face out of the water.

The plane wasn't too far away and for now was on the surface of the water. The emergency exit inflatable slide, which doubled as a raft, had been deployed but no survivors seemed to climb out.

You swam in a side stroke to keep your damaged arm and the young man's unconscious form out of the water. You hoped he was going to be okay. The only thought in your head was making it to the raft and you were doing everything in your power to get there, even contemplating leaving him behind. But you weren't going to give up, a part of you wanted to prove you could do it.

Reaching the raft felt euphoric. Taking a deep breath you pushed him into the raft. Doing a quick check of his head and body, you noticed he was breathing oddly. You turned him on his side and tried to clear his airway. A little bit of water trickled out before you performed CPR.  Your saving grace came when he coughed and spluttered, placing him in the recovery position and hoping he would be okay on his own for a moment. You looked around for any more survivors. There was luggage floating around, and you picked up all you could from the water. 

Walking along the inflatable back into the plane, the water was not as high in first class. This was probably due to the hole in the plane in the economy. The right side being the only one of the inflatables that had inflated beside the plane. Keeping the plane precariously afloat balancing on two inflatables which had malfunctioned and inflated under the plane.

Moving quickly and wading through the icy water, you grabbed the emergency kits on the wall. You had passed by deceased passengers and tried not to look. It was eerie and unbelievable even though it had only just happened.

Bags littered the water and you guided them towards the exit and put them on the raft. You could save these people's possessions for their family, or there could be items inside that could be of use and save your life. 

You also noticed the flight attendant area and raided the cupboards as quickly as you could. You grabbed the medical kit, some slippers, a range of very thin blankets that were wet and even some snacks carrying everything back to the floatation rafts. As an afterthought you braved a second trip back into the plane to grab your and the other man’s overhead luggage as you knew he would likely appreciate it.

Finding a bunch of cell phones floating around the cabin. You grabbed them all hoping one would be waterproof. You found a few that were still turned on, but only one seemed to have some sort of signal. The plane creaked as you started making the emergency call. 

“Come on” you begged the phone to connect. The whole plane creaked again and tilted; it wouldn’t last long. You had desperately searched for survivors but there was no one obviously alive. You tried your best to check their vitals, but time was running out. Hopefully, you wouldn’t be cursed for pronouncing everyone dead.

"Hello, this is an emergency service hotline?" A voice cut through the silence, you looked at the phone about to cry in relief "fire, ambulance or police"

"Hello, we were in a plane crash, my name is y/n, we were on a flight from Los Angeles to Seoul"

"What is your location?" the woman said, confused by your description.

"The ocean" you hissed "we are on a life raft"

"How many people are with you, what are their names?"

"Just one. I don't know his name. He is asian. Um really thin, um, has dark hair and—”

"You seem to be breaking up" the emergency operator said with the voice cutting out. You looked down at the phone in your hand and sighed. Of course, if everything was going wrong, a phone in the middle of the ocean apparently won’t save you. You thought to yourself, ‘it is 2021 so why isn’t service available everywhere?’ Pocketing the phone you began making your way out the plane.

You headed back to the inflatable and made the decision to cut the plane free. Scared that it would bring the raft down with it. Grabbing more luggage from the water, you thought it best not to watch the plane sink. It would only make you feel worse.

The time went by slowly. It took hours for the plane to disappear. Even though you had promised yourself not to look, you had. Taking glances as the plane slowly sank and you drifted further away. 

The moment the plane was no longer in sight, you curled up and let the tears fall. The sun began setting and the heat turned into a bitter cold. Your wrist was still quite swollen, and you decided to wrap it as you drifted along. You had been so sure that there would be something or someone to see you drifting, and you would be saved. 

However one cold night became two, and then three, only breaking for the scorching heat of the day. 

You thanked yourself for watching all those ‘lost on an island’ movies and television shows; you had learned some things along the way. You also had your father to thank for always dragging you along to the volunteer emergency services programs, ones where you learned how to survive in a forest. At the time you thought it was super lame for your friends to go to nice hotels by the beach for their holidays and you were making some sort of mealworm dish while making stick shelters.

Going over the information you had in your head, you knew water was the priority. The instructor had said humans can go three weeks without food, three days without water, three hours without shelter and three minutes without air. 

The sun would dehydrate you quickly. You had made a small shelter with luggage and blankets to protect you from the sun. 

If you didn’t find land, you were going to have to make some sort of man-made evaporation device to create water. As it was, you were slowly getting the unconscious young man to drink little amounts of bottled water, for he too needed to stay hydrated. 

The man you were with had awoken the third day. He seemed a little freaked out about being alone at sea. You explained calmly, not wanting him to do anything drastic and he sat there processing things. 

You gave him a bottle of water and something to eat. The two of you continued drifting, not speaking a word to one another. You spent most of the time trying to craft something to float on the ocean and create clean drinking water. 

(This evaporation device floats on the ocean and mimics rain by the water droplets sticking to the plastic cover over the whole device when weighted in the middle it then drips back down into a bottle. I can find a reference picture if you need. [Here] [Here] [This one is like what I made in 7th grade camp])

But you couldn’t get the water to land in the bottle and the bottle to stay upright. He was no help, just laying in the shelter out of the sun. The raft was big enough for about one hundred and thirty people. And yet, the two of you sat close by and didn’t say a word.

You were covered in sweat and felt absolutely disgusting. It was time for you to get changed. What a stupid way to die, not from dehydration, or malnourishment, or even sun exposure, but from lack of hygiene. It was decided. 

“I am getting changed, don’t look,” you breathed, opening your carry-on bag.

“I don’t want look,” he muttered back in English and turned away. You quickly put on something that covered your shoulders and tried getting some rest. You didn't want to alarm him, but you both had consumed the last of the water and food rations.

It was late that night when you heard a different sound. The raft was moving a lot more. These were big waves and a part of you hoped it was not a tsunami or whale activity.

When the sound got louder, you were reminded of the beach when waves crashed on the sand. Looking up, you saw something big approaching. It was a body of land. Suddenly, your chances of survival greatly increased, now that you had a way to get out of the water. Nervous about putting your hands in the pitch black water, you looked at your companion peacefully sleeping and made the decision to paddle slowly. Anything to increase your chances of getting to safety. You eventually washed up on the beach, arms aching and stepped out to drag the raft onto the sand.

It was late and still dark, but you had to do something. Thinking that perhaps if you found someone, you would both be saved straight away. You waited on the raft until the sky lightened, and then you got to work collecting sticks and starting a small fire. You took the empty water bottles, hoping to find a clean water source or some fresh water that you could boil.

You walked to the highest point in sight, not seeing any signs of large predatory animals was a good sign. When you reached the top, you felt a sense of satisfaction as you had overcome the many trials and tribulations. You made it through a plane crash, survived on the water, and made it to land. 

Looking around, you saw something bone-chilling. This was an island and judging by the lack of people, houses or establishments, it was uninhabited. There was no civilization to be seen. You saw the tufts of smoke from your fire and tried not to cry. You were stuck here until someone could rescue you. 

Pushing the minor breakdown aside, you thought about water, it was important. Scanning the island, there seemed to be a small waterfall and tiny lagoon at the bottom. Since the rain, the waterfall was running pretty fiercely. You mapped out a path back to the beach which would detour past the waterfall.

By the time you reached the beach, your arms were exhausted with the weight of the now filled water bottles. He was awake and briskly brushing his reddened cheeks with his sleeves, turning his back to you. Sympathising with the man who probably thought you died, fell overboard or abandoned him.

You pulled out the metal pot from the plane and began boiling the water, in an attempt to kill any bacteria in it. The tide was going out. you knew you should be thinking about food as the next priority, but you wanted to sleep. Being primarily awake for a few days was taking its toll.

It took everything in you to get yourself to move and get to work. Taking large rocks, you carried them into the water until you were knee-deep. You were building a V- shaped wall, so when the tide came in, it brought with it fish and when the tide went out, they would be trapped. 

Pouring the now cooled water into the bottles, you started thinking about your plan. First, you thought about short-term needs, in case you were rescued soon, and then long-term needs, in the event you weren’t rescued for months or perhaps years. You paused, forcing yourself to think and accept the fact that there was a chance you would never be rescued.

The Asian man had gotten up and looked around hopefully. Handing him a now clean and sterile bottle of water, you frowned looking around with him. "There is no one here." He didn't say a word, staring at you while drinking slowly.

You huffed, trying to figure out how you two could survive on an island. He watched you fuss around trying to make a shelter out of sticks but it collapsed everytime. 

“Just no,” he muttered. You tried not to openly sneer at him. Grabbing the raft, you dragged it across the sand. As the raft was built for a large group, it seemed all you were doing was digging your feet into the sand. But little by little it was dragged up the beach thanks to the tide. It took some convincing but you had gotten help from the young man. The two of you madly struggling to lift the inflatable slide to a tilt against a tree. It was still inflated so you hoped you could use it for something else if needed.

Before the tide came in that evening, you ran out to the water. Your hopes were crushed when you found no fish and saw that the wall had broken. Carrying more large rocks into the water and making the V bigger and stronger, things weren't looking great, but you were trying to do your best. Cold from splashing around in the water, you went back to the shelter, but the fire had gone out by this point. 

Looking at the young man, you let out an exasperated sigh. Did he not care for his life or yours? Contemplating while gathering more wood, you realized that you had been doing all the work, while he was just lazing around. “We need more wood, come help,” you gestured for the young man to follow, but he sneered at the thought and leaned away from you.

“I just lay uh here and wait to…” he thought over his words, slowly forming an English sentence “die or be rescue,” he mumbled. You were too exhausted to argue. It could wait until tomorrow, and you would both freeze tonight. Maybe then he would understand the importance of working together towards a goal.

You felt absolutely disgusting. hearing the loud patter of rain, you walked down the length of the shelter. On one side was the raft, and on the other was the luggage, built into a wall. You took out some clean clothes and stepped into the rain. Peeling off your seawater and sweat drenched clothes, you stood in the dark and tried washing your body with a tiny travel soap you had found in a bag. 

You scrubbed your body of sweat and turned back to the shelter. Grabbing your towel, and wrapping it around your body, you stepped inside. He was laying on the makeshift bed you had prepared. He looked over, and when he saw you just in a towel, he rolled away. It was embarrassing, you who loved privacy and comfort were showering all exposed in the rain and getting changed in the same vicinity as a stranger. That night, he took the only dry blanket, so you laid there with wet hair and damp skin, shivering. 

You were thankful for the sun rising, and it took a few minutes for you to thaw enough to move, but when you did, you deemed it time for him to do some work. The two of you gathered sticks and leaves. He barely helped, and when he got back, he laid back down and fell asleep in the shelter.

Building a fire, with the wood, took some time as it had rained the night before. The leaves helped fuel the flames. The fire didn't have to be amazing, you just needed it for warmth. You also hoped some rescue teams might even see the faint smoke.

At the sound of your stomach calling for sustenance you got up and went to check the rock wall you made and found a fish swimming in the shallow water. You grinned, carrying it back making sure to stoke the fire. You were doing your absolute best with the emergency kit knife.

You must have looked pitiful, as your companion took over, filleting the fish with ease, and he even cooked it. The two of you had fish for breakfast and you felt satiated. You took some of the supplies and got ready to set out for food and fresh water. He was dressed and trying to follow you, so you let him carry some of the empty bottles.

Except he wasn't cut out for endurance, he got winded quickly. It reminded you of the time you passed out during a school marathon. Yet you made the best of the situation that you could, walking slowly until you came across some sort of fruit that the birds were eating.

You took a couple of pieces of rotten fruit and then carefully dug up the small plant and began carrying it back. He followed you back. You placed the plant down. Using your hands you tried to shift the dirt until you had a decent hole where you could plant the little fruit tree. Watering it with some of the water you had collected from the lagoon, internally wishing the plant would flourish. It was hard pouring the fresh water on the plant but you had to if you wanted food.

You mapped out an area and put sticks in the ground in a box-shape, in hopes of starting a garden of any edible plants found throughout the island.

You took the old fruit you collected off the ground, put it around the bottom of the tree, and gave a small hopeful sigh. “Hopefully it will break down in the soil and feed the plant. Our fate is in your hands little plant”

You spent another night sleeping in the makeshift shelter and had to decide on what to do, so you sat up and turned to the young man.

"Hey, are you awake?" He sat up, his eyes narrow, "what do we build? Shelter? or a garden for food?"

He blinked before choosing "Shelter?” you giggled at his confusion, not trying to be rude. He knew more English than you knew Korean and that was definitely a feat.

“A home”

“Home, food later" he shrugged

It rained heavier, bringing with it a sense of sadness. There was no one waiting for you, no one looking for you. The tears began falling and you tried to stifle the sounds. He was still and you hoped he didn’t hear the breakdown. You hoped he was sound asleep as this seemed to be his skill. You were sadly mistaken; he wasn’t asleep. He moved and draped a blanket over you. He only drifted off when you exhausted yourself from crying.

Waking up with your back pressed to his back, the two of you had shared a few airplane blankets. Your body was aching, from sleeping on the ground. It was time to build the shelter both of you had been discussing. You needed someplace safe from the elements and a place with some sort of makeshift bed. Sand felt so soft, but was uncomfortable to sleep on.

Standing in the morning breeze, you began thinking: “How does one even build a house?” If people can make houses with only the land, then so could you. You had no excuse.if it didn’t work, you could try again until you figured it out. You knew there should be some sort of foundation. You could build between two trees, or with a big pillar in the middle, or four walls like a traditional home. Whatever you were going to do, you needed the materials, namely wood, but it’s not like you could just rip a tree out of the ground with your bare hands. You needed tools. Unfortunately, this island didn’t have a hardware store. This wasn’t like minecraft; you couldn’t just create perfect tools from nothing. Or, could you?

You got to work trying to make some sort of mock Stone Age axe. It gave you blisters, but you had successfully chopped a single tree down. Getting the hang of chopping the trees with your primitive tool, you had four trees ready on the seventh day. You dug holes in the sand, but it wasn’t holding the trunks at all. They kept toppling over. He told you it wouldn’t work, and you only huffed in response. 

You would have to dig, until you found harder ground. This took another week, but you had four tree trunks in the ground in a modest square. You had started feeling dizzy while working, and your head felt clouded. It had been raining ever since you arrived, every night and lightly throughout the day, you didn’t think you had felt warm in a few days.

While making a wall frame out of trees, you started to feel dizzy again. You tied together the thin logs with multiple vines, and you hoped they would stay. The more you worked, the more your hands got torn up. 

You were tying the last of the frame, when you felt your body grow heavy. You were so tired. You thought you would die by the hands of the lazy man. With that, all other thoughts left you as the darkness crept in. 

The shelter was warm. There was a fire, and the blankets were wrapped around you, keeping you warm. Beside you was a bottle of water and a packet of painkillers. “Fever,” he sighed, “all work makes you uh… quick death?”

“Well, at least I am doing something. I have kept you alive, in the plane, in the water and now. I have done everything and what have you done other than act arrogant and lazy?” You said, “You haven’t even told me your name. We are stranded on an island. Maybe we will be rescued tomorrow, and it will be all in vain but what if it’s not tomorrow? What if it's months or a year from now?”

“What if never safe?” He argued, not looking at you.

“The point is, I don’t want to die in my twenties. I don’t want to die in general. I had dreams, to get married, have a family and be a loving wife. I was working a stupid office job, and I loved it. I won’t give up that dream. I will live with the hope that one day we will be rescued, and I will keep us alive goddamn it.”

“You don’t need to worry about me.” He gave a dry laugh, “I have no care. I was not… supposed be on the plane.”

“I need you alive. I can’t do this on my own. If-” You took a deep breath, “If you die, I might do something stupid. I can’t live an undetermined number of days on my own”

He went quiet. 

“Think about someone else for a change, it’s not all about you, Mister Asshole.”

“Yoongi,” he mumbled

“What?” You asked, too tired to be mad.

“My name is Yoongi.” He left the shelter, and you were left sobbing in the dark.

You woke up to Yoongi cooking fish on the fire; you were not expecting it. He hadn’t really done anything to help you. He mostly sat around, but the two of you ate together before you got to work. It was after a few hours you noticed Yoongi was gone again. It disheartened you that he was off doing whatever again, while you were working. You were completely exasperated by the young man, he maddened you, always on your mind. He was hot and mysterious and you hate that you couldn’t stop thinking about him because he acted nice once.

You began opening the suitcases hoping you wouldn’t offend anyone by going through personal belongings of the deceased. Clothes in all different sizes mens and womens, all different styles and one suitcase broke you, filled with tiny onesies and cloth diapers, dummies and ointments and medicines for a tiny baby. A pretty purple rattle with a cute butterfly on the handle.

You slammed the suitcase shut and pushed it across the sand to look at another day but for now you needed to step aside, the wound was too fresh. These were real people who died and yet why did you two survive, the most unlikely pairing with the worst odds and yet you survived when countless innocent lives were lost. It wasn’t fair.

A few days had passed, and you were trying to create something sturdy enough to withstand wind and rain with a roof and walls. You had plenty of resources, but you had to pick the right ones that would last. 

You thought about it and decided to use the raft to line the inside of the house in the tarp-like material. It was super long, so you could do the roof and the four walls and still have the whole underside left over. You would weave leaves and sticks together to make them sturdier and layer them on the outside. 

Putting your plan to action seemed easy yet tedious. You collected long palm leaves, removed the spines, and weaved the leaves tightly together, and laid them on the floor. The more you weaved, the faster you got. Painstakingly working every day, you rejoiced when all four walls, roof, and floor were finished and stable.

While you were doing all this, Yoongi was nowhere to be seen. He returned at night, as he always did. He looked unbothered by all the work you had accomplished that day. You finished up, and the two of you ate and went to bed, which was just a collection of woven leaf mats covered in some of the leftover tarp from the raft.

You had moved the items from the shelter into the new house area. The two of you sat on the remaining raft fabric. “I made a bed out of leaf mats and covered it in the leftover material.” 

Yoongi seemed impressed looking around, “잘 했어.”

“Jal haess-eo?” you repeated the sounds “What does that mean?”

“Uh… good work” He took your hands and pulled out a small succulent leave from his pocket snapping it and squeezing out the liquid inside. Applying it to the cuts and scratches on your hands gently. You noticed his hands were rough too, for he had cuts and blisters littering the his palms as well. 

“Where did you find aloe vera?” you asked curiously. What had he been doing?

“Near the…” he made an action with his hand “폭포”

“The what?” You laughed, and he cracked a slight smile.

“Water shaaaa!” he made the sound and gesture of water falling. You laughed hysterically. He was so cute, when you got to know him.

“Waterfall?” you prompted, checking that was what he had meant.

“Ah waterfall!” he nodded, “Near the waterfall”

“What did you call it?” you said. You were genuinely interested. He had been trying his best to communicate with you in your language, so maybe you could learn some of his to ease the burden “Pog-o”

“폭포” he corrected. 

“Pogpo” You smiled at him. he seemed a little happy that you were giving his language a try. “How do you say good night?”

“안녕히 주무세요” he said and you blinked shocked, so he grinned,speaking slower in syllables “Ann-yeong-hi ju-mu-se-yo.”

“Annyeonghi,” you repeated. He seemed eager to teach you more, so you stayed up as long as you could, learning Korean phrases until you both fell asleep.

[Part 2/2] coming soon...

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[thethoughtsfromthreeam]

Art History

Pairing: Marcus Pike x Reader

Warnings: Smut, public sex act

A/N: @pedropascalito wrote a NSFW alphabet for Marcus some time ago and had shown interest in a fic where Marcus finger fucks you next to a piece of art.  And like always, other people’s comments give me ideas.  So here we go, y’all.

Reminder:  I ain’t ever seen Pedro Pascal in FUCK ALL, I’m just coming up with this as I go along, using imdb.com, wiki, and 84,000 tabs I got open to plan out this shit.  I also write soft versions of his characters so if you’re craving asshole vibes, I ain’t got any but my own to offer.

Tags:  @zeldasayer , @romanticgumchewer , @beskars , @coolmaybelateruniverse , @the-feckless-wonder,  @pascalisthepunkest , @mandoandyodito , @randomness501 , @fioccodineveautunnale  

—***—

“Do you want to do inside first or check out the sculpture garden?” You looked at the map of the museum in your hands.  It had been his turn to choose the location for your standing monthly get away date and he had chosen well, a sprawling art museum housed in a Gilded Age mansion outside of Providence Rhode Island.  The impressive views of the Atlantic Ocean made the grounds an attractive place to start the day.

A slight chill in the air made you glad you chose you tweed cloak instead of the cardigan you debated on that morning.  It was just warm enough to keep the light breeze at bay but not heavy enough to overheat you.  Secretly you loved wearing the cloak, it made you feel like the heroine of some historic romance novel.

“Marcus?”  You prodded him gently with your voice as you watched his brows furrow in concentration. He was still looking at the map in your hands and you watched as something flashed over his face.  You could hear the gears turning in his head – he was clearly up to something.

He looked up at you and that boyish grin that never failed to make your stomach flutter was at full wattage.  He took the map and folded it up, putting it in his back pocket before taking your hand. You smiled as he began to walk towards the gardens.

“They have a spectacular selection of Holbrook sculptures on display.  You’re going to love them.”  As you walked, you passed an occasional person, but it was so quiet, it seemed as if you had the whole garden to yourself, allowing you to imagine yourselves as the only people in the world in that moment.

Marcus glanced down, watching the sunlight play peekaboo with your hair and face as you passed under the Japanese maples that lined the path.  He rubbed his thumb along your knuckles, almost absentmindedly, as you quietly chatted about the art you passed.  His deep voice was soft and your murmurs and comments seemed to flow like silk over him.

While history was more your speed, your passion for the subject matched his passion for art step for step and Marcus’ favorite thing about these dates was the way you bounced off each other.  For every story he had about an artist or piece or even style, you easily came back with facts and figures that put everything into further context. Sometimes you argued over meaning, but it was always stimulating.

By the time you made it to the far end of the garden where the Holbrook pieces were on display, an hour had passed, although with you, it felt like no time at all.  Marcus began to smile as the exhibit came into view.  Holbrook was easily one of his favorite artists and the pieces made his blood sing every time he saw one, a song usually only you could coax out of him.

You stopped to read the interpretation sign before entering the space and Marcus let go of your hand to walk ahead.  Because you didn’t have his wealth of knowledge, you almost always stopped to read the signage, to learn more about an artist or a piece of work.  Your head bowed as you read and from a distance, Marcus had angled himself to watch your reactions.

Holbrook wasn’t an obscure artist, but given the sensual look to his pieces, you discovered why he wasn’t exactly in a lot of textbooks.  You stepped into the garden and it felt as if you had fallen into an erotic daydream.  The almost carnal aura of the space was softened by flowers and trees that were soft and dreamy.

As you began to view the pieces, each one seemed to capture a passionate moment so perfectly that a small part of you felt like you were experiencing memories that were your own but weren’t.  You were examining a piece so intently; you didn’t notice the flush that crept across your body.  But Marcus did.

He stood a few pieces away from you, taking in the subtle changes of your body – how your posture relaxed, the way your eyes began to spark, the blush against your cheeks that could be mistaken as caused by the breeze.  And when you turned to move to the next piece, he could see your eyes beginning to darken.

But you weren’t the only one affected by the art and as you were reading, Marcus had been looking at a piece where one lover was kneeling between the legs of another.  The Kneeler captured the moment when the titular lover was pressing their lips against the inside of the thighs of their object of affection.  

He could feel his pants becoming tighter the longer he looked at the piece, but when he watched at you as you moved from piece to piece, the soft fabric of his boxers became almost unbearable.  His heart always fluttered at the sight of you, but seeing you become aroused by one of his favorite artists made his heart pound against his ribs.

You stood in front of Embracement, that feeling of déjà vu passing through you yet again.  Like all of Holbrook’s pieces, this one was made of marble and yet something about it made it seem soft and yielding.  Before you could think beyond that moment, Marcus walked up behind you, placing his large hands on your hips, becoming lost in the fabric of your cloak.

You turned your head to smile at him, feeling his hard body press flush against your own, his strong arms wrapped around your waist and pulling you close. You drew your hands up to rest on his wrists, feeling his warm skin beneath yours.  It never failed to humble you that someone as handsome and kind and smart would be interested in you.  Although you’d be surprised that Marcus felt the same about you.

He pressed his soft lips to your cheek before dropping his chin to your shoulder.  Standing like this, you could feel his voice rumble through his broad chest as much as you heard it come from his mouth.  His lifted one hand just long enough to point to the piece in front of you.

“Do you know the story?”  When you shook your head, he dropped his arm back down.  “Holbrook was married for years to a woman named Marian.  He said numerous times that Marian was his muse and the only woman for him.  When she became pregnant with their first child, he made this piece to celebrate.”

You looked at it again.  A woman lay on a bed, leaning against pillows as her lover lay between her legs.  Hands were wrapped around the hips and the man’s lips were pressed against the woman’s pubic bone.  Both were naked, but the hallmarks of arousal were evident in the details. Marcus’s voice continued and between your attention on the piece and on his voice, you failed to realize that he shifted his arms through the side openings of your cloak, bringing his hands to rest on your hips, with only the fabric of your skirt and panties between you two.

“Holbrook admitted that the piece came to him in a dream inspired by a memory.  He said that Marian was made to be worshiped by his body and with his art.  Rumor has it that their maid found the two of them laying exactly like this in the garden of their home.”

As the words flowed over you, Marcus’ hands began to move and for the first time you became aware of his touch as his fingertips pulled at your thin sweater to urge the fabric up.  When he finally touched your skin, you felt as if you were being set on fire.  His skin was hot against yours and the flush that had spread across your cheeks earlier began to spread throughout your body.  

“He said that no skin felt as soft as hers, like silk” One hand snaked northward, skirting the edge of your lace bra before cupping one gently.  Your nipples began to harden into tight peaks that throbbed in time with your clit and your hips began to slightly move in time with his words.

“Her lips were reported to feel like brushed velvet.”  His other hand traced gently along the waistband of your skirt before dipping below and into the soft cotton of your panties.  Your breath hitched and you tensed, your eyes opening wide.  Marcus pressed his lips against your temple.  “It’s okay, we’re completely alone.  Besides, no one can see my hands under your cloak.”

You pressed against him harder when his hands didn’t move, and you were rewarded with a low groan as your ass pressed against his erection.  You couldn’t stop the smile from playing against your lips even as they opened into a sigh when Marcus pressed an open kiss to your neck.

Marcus continued to tell the story of the piece, his voice rough with want. You stared at the sensual scene in front you, hoping it would ground you even has the strong, large fingers of his hands slipped through the curls at the apex of your thighs and into the folds of your slit.  Your hopes were for naught.

He felt your hips jerk forward at his touch and again when his fingers pinched your nipple through the lace of your bra.  His smile could be heard in his voice as your body bowed away from his as pleasure danced along your skin.  But that smile was wiped away when you used the new space between your hips to drag your hand along the front of his pants, letting the cloak cover your movements from any prying eyes.

Now it was his turn to jerk his hips, chasing your fingertips as they moved northward.  Your smile was no longer hidden and out in full force.  You moved your other hand from his wrist to deftly unbuckle his belt and unbutton his pants.  As you tugged the zipper down, Marcus began to gently rub against your clit.

You couldn’t stop the loud gasp from escaping your throat and he pressed his nose against the side of your face, urging you to keep it down.  You may have been alone, but the museum grounds were still open.  Someone could always walk into the exhibit and catch you.  When you nodded, he rubbed a little faster, his blood hot in his veins as he watched you dropped your head back and bit your lip to keep the groan from escaping your throat.

You forced yourself to focus more as you stuck your hand beneath the waistband of his boxers, feeling his cock hard and ready for you.  He dipped his head once again, using the fabric at your shoulder to soften his own moan.  Your hand went lower, brushing along the tip and gathering the moisture you found there.  With a sudden swiftness, you grasped his cock and dragged your hand as far down as your awkward position could let you.

“Fuck, sweetheart.”  His pants enveloped you and you lolled your head to the side to press your lips against his neck.  “So soft, like silk.  Like velvet.”

“Marcus.”  Your voice sounded desperate and he understood.  His fingers dipped lower to gather up your wetness before he plunged two fingers deep into you.  Your body tensed and curled forward as far as his arms would let you – his large hand still on your breast and keeping you pressed against him.

Soon his hand was setting a moderate pace, fingers continuously dipping into your dripping core, reaching that spot inside of you that made your toes curl inside your shoes.  You angled yourself enough so that you could match his pace with your hands, twisting and curling them against the heat of his erection.

Marcus felt as if he were on fire and it took all his will power not to drive his hips into your hands, knowing that at any moment someone could see him.  His blood rushed through his body and his nerves tingled at the thought. He never thought himself as an exhibitionist, but the close call of it all certainly spoke to his baser desires.

You, on the other hand, were lost in his fingers as the continued to pluck as your nipples and touch your very soul.  When he with drew his hand, your whine couldn’t be contained, but it was cut short when he began to rub your clit again.  Your hips continued to jerk as the passion brewing deep in your belly grew hotter and tighter.

“Marcus. . .”  You could barely get his name out, your voice raspy and filled with heavy desire.  He seemed to know what you wanted, and he dropped the hand at your breast down into your panties.  His stuck his fingers back inside of you and let his other hand continue to rub against your clit, the pace faster this time.

Your hands remained on his cock, tightening as your pleasure began to climb closer to its peak with every movement on his hands.  They barely moved now, but that didn’t matter as Marcus let himself fuck your fists like a horny teenager.  Both of your hips were moving faster, your orgasms drawing from your limbs and growing heavier in the pit of your stomachs.

Marcus began to kiss along your neck, open and wet against your skin. You focused on the scene in front you, knowing that the familiarity of this piece and so many others were not because you’d seen Holbrook’s work before.  No, it’s because these sculptures were your life lived.  You didn’t see Marian and Holbrook in front of you.

No.  That sculpture was you, nipples taunt in desire and lips slightly parted for the man laying between your legs.  It was Marcus’ lips that hovered above your public bone, kissing you so intimately until all thoughts were lost to you.  It was not Holbrook’s hands on those hips, it was the man behind you, whose soft skin brushed so lovingly against your own in an almost worshipful way.

When you came, your whole body seemed to explode and for a split second it seemed that the woman in the sculpture turned her head towards you and smiled a knowing smile.  You jerked against his hands, your moan low but deep and Marcus felt it reverberate through his body.  He followed you into the waves of pleasure, coming in your hand over and over until he felt spent.

The aftershocks rippled through your body as Marcus cupped your mound softly.  When you stopped shaking, he withdrew his hands and kissed your temple.  He pulled them completely out of your clothing and reached into his pocket for his handkerchief.  He wiped his hands and then yours, doing his best to clean the back of your cloak and the front of his pants.

Once all evidence of your tryst has been cleaned, he folded up the fabric and put it back into his pockets.  As he slipped himself back inside his pants, you straightened your skirt and looked back at the sculpture in front of you.  Nothing had change, the sculpture never moved and yet you felt an even deeper connection to the piece.

Marcus laid his hands on your hips, turning you towards him so he could drape his arms around your waist.  You did the same and as you looked at each other, the satisfied smiles on your faces seem to glow.  He dipped his head to softly kiss your lips and you willingly kissed him back, the soft sensuality of the kiss spreading through you.  It seemed to last long minutes, each brush of his lips drawing you back in until you could barely breathe.

He pulled his head back and looked down at you, the lust that had been there giving away to adoration and love.  His eyes reflected the same.  While he hadn’t anticipated this happening when he suggested you come here for your date, it was better than anything he could have hoped for.  You cocked your head to look at him.

“What’s going on in that brain yours, sweetheart?”  His voice was wasn’t as raspy as it had been, but it was still rougher than normal.

“I love a good art piece.  It’s very inspiring.”  You smiled.

He grinned and nodded in agreement.

[sandpumpkin]

Pumpkin and a Punk

Shameful selfship! This time MetalPumpkin. Had a little too  much fun writing this.. so..yeah...Modern AU. Kid had a motorbike. Soft angry Tulip >3<

almost 4k words later. NEEDED TO BE FLUFFIER 

A long day of travelling. One cancelled train after another, Hana sighed deeply as she crossed the dimly lit carpark of the convenience store. Her eyes fell upon a group of Harley's sat near the door. So cool.. She thought. Entering the much brighter store hurt her eyes, Snacks..I suppose I already bought a lot but nevermind.. Grabbing a basket she wandered around the store quietly trying to ignore the group near the fridges arguing about what alcohol they should buy. Once she had procured more snacks and something savoury, Hana headed to the till trying to ignore the fact the guy on the register was staring at her with a weird look on his face. 

Maybe I should have taken the bonnet off…

Going to the store at night in an orange lolita dress was probably not her best choice but she had just gotten back into town..

Packing her things quickly, she escaped the store and was ready for home, until her eyes fell to the harley again. Her feet slowed to a halt as she stood in front of the bike that seemed to have a cool skeletal design on the body, not that she could appreciate it properly in this dim light. 

“OI! What are you doing?!” a voice shouted at her, making her jump and clutch her bag close. As she whirled around stepping away from the bike as a tall man with crimson hair strode towards her with a deep scowl on his face.

“Sorry! I was just admiring your harley! I’m sorry!” she said quickly. Well done you idiot.. 

He looked her up and done and hummed “you’re an odd one.” 

Well that’s not the worst thing someone said to me…

He slung his leg over the bike, Hana noticed the ripped jeans grip his thighs tightly as he leant forward fumbling with the keys. Striking the bike to life, letting it growl loudly. Hana’s eyes lit up. Something about the low thunder of these types of motorbikes just made her happy. “It sounds so cool!” she exclaimed excitedly. The red haired man looked pleased with her response. 

“Hm. Didn’t put you for a bike fan.” he hummed. 

“I’ve always liked motorbikes. I can’t personally ride one but I still think they’re pretty awesome.” she rambled excitedly. The man leant against his handlebars with a grin on his face 

“Why-” before he could say anything else a strong gust of wind swept across the parking lot, tugging at Hana’s bonnet 

“Ah! No!” she grabbed hold of the bonnet before it could take off “that was close.” she wheezed, retiring the bonnet to her totebag just as rain began to fall. “I should go. Sorry to bother you.” Hana smiled, bowing quickly and hurrying off into the night before the rain could get worse. 

-

Kid watched the orange haired woman run off. What a weird one.. He thought, he put the stand back down and noticed something orange by his boot. Climbing off his bike, to pick it up, turning it over in his fingers, it was an orange glittery bat shaped bow. One the orange clad princess had had in her hair. 

“Kid you done trying to pick up girls in the parking lot again?” Killer teased, as they finally came to join him. 

“Ah, shut up.” he hissed, pocketing the bow. Maybe I’ll see her around..can’t miss her in that getup. 

-

At first Kid didn’t make too much of an effort to return the bow. But whenever he looked at it next to his goggles, he thought back to her smile. She was pretty cute. Picking the bow up, Kid headed into town, seeking out someone who could probably help him. Working his way through some of the small streets, he came to a shop you could smell a mile off with the incense floating out the door. Entering the shop, the bell chiming quietly over his head as the door slammed behind him.

“Oi, Hawkins! You here?” Kid called loudly, walking into the centre of the shop.

“I’m always here,” came a voice from behind Kid. Making Kid tense, Hawkins was a tall blonde man, just a little taller than Kid and he always wore the frilliest collared shirts, like he was in a vampire novel or new romantics band. Not that Kid could judge on fashion choices with his snake print trousers. 

“Like a damn ghost-”

“And you’re loud enough to wake the dead.” Hawkins chided, heading back behind his counter “You came to have me find something,” he said flatly, looking down at some cards laid out on his counter “or someone..” 

“Saves me the trouble of explaining.” Kid strugged, half slamming the bow down on the counter making the cards jump slightly off the surface, “whoever this belongs too.” 

“I know who that belongs too without the use of cards,” Hawkins replied simply “but why should  I?”

“I just want to return it.”

“Hm,” Hawkins turned over a card and cracked a smile that sent a chill down Kid’s spine “Go to the fountain in the centre of the marketplace, you’ll find what you seek there.”

“-Thanks..I think..” Kid turned on his heels to leave when Hawkins coughed,making Kid groan “Fine. I’ll buy something. Just make it not expensive damn it! I’m not made of money!” he huffed, Hawkins carefully placed a rock that glimmered blues and amber on the counter “you want me to buy a rock?” Kid asked his face riddled with skepticism. 

Hawkins closed his eyes slowly, ignoring Kid’s snark “It is a crystal. Labradorite it helps-”

“I don’t care what it does alright? I’ll buy it.” Kid grumbled loudly, fumbling for his tattered wallet. “Daylight robbery for a rock.” he sneered, pocketing the newly acquired rock and hurried on his way. Hawkins is so damn creepy. He thought as he strode quickly through the streets towards the marketplace. In the distance he spotted a familiar orange beacon. A different orange dress today, orange and black stripes and a shirt with frills Hawkins would be jealous for. She looked down to check her phone and her shoulders slumped forward in dismay. Man...Hawkins really is spooky… Kid slowed to a halt as he approached her and patted her on the shoulder making her jump back suddenly. “Shit..sorry..”

“Oh...it’s you..” she looked up at him. “Sorry. You startled me..” she laughed, looking around nervously, “Can I help you?” she asked. Kid thrust the bow out at her, trying to remain cool and aloof 

“You dropped this.” he said sharply, dropping the bow into her hand that was covered in lace. Her eyes widened and she looked up at him with a bright smile that made his heart thud loudly against his ribcage What the fu- was that?

“Thank you so much!” she wasted no time in clipping the bow at the edge of the orange berat she was wearing “this is my favourite bow, I was so upset I lost it.” 

“Yeah sure..” Now what? He cleared his throat, shoving his hands into his leather jacket’s pocket “so..are you waiting for someone?” he asked, trying not to sound horribly creepy. 

“Oh..well..I was.” she chuckled, shuffling nervously “She forgot she had made plans with her boyfriend as well. so..she’s not here.” she said with a shrug “I was going home-”

“Drink!” he half shouted “..do ya want to get a drink or something?” Kid asked as politely as he could. She tensed and rubbed her arm nervously.

“I don’t drink.” she announced and her expression said she was awaiting a snide comment. 

“Oh right. I know a place that does good shakes?” Kid offered instead and noticed her eyes lit up at the mention of milkshakes. “Want to join me?” she nodded “-Ya know.. I don’t know your name..”

“Hana. Nice to meet you..it’s Kid right?” she asked with a tilt of her head, he looked at her curiously “I mentioned your cool bike to a friend and they knew you..or know of you. They have a Harley too, you might have seen them around? Bright green quiff has a habit of wearing no shirt-”

“Not Barto?” Kid grimaced “you know him?” sure he knew the guy, they had been in a few fights together about stupid shit. How the hell did this small fairy like woman know that idiot?

“I do. We have mutual friends. He’s a nice guy, very fun.” she laughed “very excitable..”

“I don’t think we’re on about the same guy.” Kid said in disbelief, “anyway..let's go..” she nodded and walked beside him quietly. “Shame your friend ditched you..”

“Not the first time but it’s okay.” she said with a smile, “Brightside. I got my hair bow back.” Kid hummed and they walked in awkward silence to a little American styled dinner. “Oh, I’ve never been here. I have some friends that come here a lot.” she said, following Kid into the quiet dinner and over to a booth. 

“Oh, Eustass, you’re early today,” a tall woman with a sharp bowl cut appeared behind the counter and flashed Kid a warm smile. “Oh and you’ve got a little cutie with you today.” Hana blushed and bowed quickly, her orange curls floating around her face.

“-hello..” Kid ushered her over to a booth near the jukebox before Shakky could say anything else embarrassing. He handed her the drinks menu “thank you..” 

“God old people-” Hana stared at him skeptically over the menu. He caught himself studying her eyes, he couldn’t place the colour no matter how much he stared 

Are they blue? Green? Why the hell do I even care?!

“..She’s not old..She doesn’t look a day over 30..” 

“That’s sweet,” Hana jumped hiding behind the menu as Shakky appeared at the table. She leant in and whispered to her and Hana gasped 

“I..don’t believe that at all!” 

Shakky chuckled “now then what can I get you two?”

Kid slumped back in the seat, slinging his arms over the back of the chair “Chocolate shake.” he stated,

“Can I have a butterscotch milkshake please?” hana asked politely. Shakky nodded and headed back behind the counter. Kid watched her curiously “what?”

“I’m just wondering what the hell that was?”

“Oh..well. I’ve worked in a cafe before..polite customers are few and far between..so I always strive to be a good customer..” she rambled fiddling with her gloves “Sorry..that-”

“nah..I suppose I’m just a ruffian..” he flashed a playful grin at her, which drew a light red hue to her cheeks before she chuckled at him, okay now what...music! “You..wanna put something on the box?” he asked lazily, gesturing to the old fashioned jukebox behind him.

“Absolutely! Any requests?” she asked, sliding from her seat kid held out the coin for her, he shook his head

“Go wild.” he grinned. As she passed his side of the table, he caught sight of a pair of eyes watching from over the counter old man Rayleigh..that bastard- Rayleigh gave him a thumbs up and wink and vanished from view. Kid looked away quickly, he felt hot. Why?! It’s just a woman..

Hana rejoined him at the table just as her first song started playing, Kid listened for a few moments “You like The Cure?” he asked, realising he almost sounded disgusted but that wasn’t his intent at all. “I thought..it would be pop..” he added quickly, mumbling into his hand. 

“Here you kids go.” Shakky said, setting the drinks down on the table. 

“Thank you.” Hana replied brightly, looking at her milkshake excitedly “looks so yummy.”

This woman..

She slurped her milkshake happily “It’s so delicious!” she kept slurping until she grimaced suddenly “b-brainfreeze” and still she slurped. Kid smirked and watched her power through the brainfreeze to drink the beverage. Kid hummed when the song changed,

“A bundle of surprises..”

“Well my parents listened to a lot of  80’s music so I picked it up..but isn’t Billy Idol cool?” she asked, “you kind of reminded me of him.” Kid almost choked on his drink “Maybe it’s the leather jacket and the cool aura  you give off.” she explained, Kid nodded and cleared his throat. 

Number..get her number..

“so..Could I-” he was stopped by the door of the diner opening and he saw Killer’s mass of blonde hair

“Oi Kid!” he waved, Hana tensed and drained the rest of her glass in record time. 

“I should go. I don’t want to get in the way of your friends. Thank you again.” she smiled, sliding from her chair and disappearing behind Killer and his group. Hearing the bell chime again a few moments later.

“You bastards have the worst timing!” he shouted, slamming his hand on the table. The group looked at the empty glass and turned to the door where it had recently just closed. 

“You were on a date?!” they all half yelled, huddling around him quickly trying to try and extort the information out of him. 

“Oh Eustass,” Shakky called to him, leaning on the bar with a teasing smile “Don’t worry about paying, your little girlfriend paid for you.” that spurred on more teasing as Kid’s face went the same colour as his face. Shakky chuckled, shaking her head “I wonder how Eustass found such a nice girl.”

“Same way I found you.” Rayleigh added “fate.” he smiled, kissing her cheek softly “why you liked me back still amazes me.” 

-

It was almost a week before Kid found Hana again. He was sat in his basement tuning his guitar, the rock Hawkins had made him purchase was sat on his desk and he could only focus on it. I can’t concentrate.

“Fuck-” he cursed loudly, setting his guitar down. Kid grabbed the rock pocketing it and went to grab his keys. A ride would make him feel better. His harley thundered loudly as he headed out into the cool autumn air. He found himself up the seafront when he noticed a familiar barnet of orange hair sat on a bench watching the waves ebb and flow. Pulling up next to the bench, and removing his helmet running a hand through his flattened crimson locks. He noticed a large uneaten donut in her hand “If you ain’t careful the seagulls will eat that.” he warned, with a  grin sitting beside her making her jump.hen he noticed her headphones and she quickly fumbled to pause the music. 

“Kid..Sorry.. I wasn’t paying attention.” she laughed, 

“Gulls will eat that if you’re not careful,” he repeated. 

“Would you like a bite?” she asked, offering him the large and heavily decorated donut “It’s pumpkin spice. My favourite.” Kid leant and took a bite of it, nodding as he chewed it. Hana smiled, and took a bite. 

does that..class as one of those shared kisses? Kid shook that sappy thought from his head.

“Bit too sweet..” he mumbled, “where’d you get a donut that big?” he question, licking his lips of the remnant frosting,

“My favourite donut place is up here. Whole Cake Donuts. I’m friends with Katakuri who runs it.” 

Does she just befriend everyone?

“Massive..giant of a guy-” she nodded “he bakes?” she nodded eagerly, 

“His whole family bakes. They all have different shops that specialise in their preferred dessert.” she explained, taking another bite out of the donut. She looked over her shoulder at the Harley behind them “Out for a ride?”

Kid shrugged resting his hands on the bench to lean backwards “Needed a break from music.” he looked from his precious bike to Hana and smirked playfully “Wanna go for a spin?” her eyes lit up but shook her head, 

“I don’t have a helmet-” Kid swung his legs around the bench popping open the seat and grabbing a spare helmet and goggles he was compelled to bring with him. “Got ya covered pumpkin.” he laughed, making her blush. Finishing the giant donut quickly she threw the trash in the bin and made sure her hands were clean before accepting the helmet, placing her beret in her pumpkin shaped bag and pulled the helmet and goggles over her head. Kid chuckled at her bright smile and how the helmet didn’t really go with her outfit but she looked cute nonetheless. He noticed the poofy skirt how..I didn’t plan this.. “You can sit sideways?”

“Oh don’t worry,” she said, giving him a thumbs up before lifting the edge of her skirt. Kid almost stopped breathing. “I got bloomers on, we’re good.” she announced proudly “all modesty protected.” 

Kid could feel his face burning, what was I expecting?! He snorted and tapped the helmet “don’t go flashing people.” he warned, climbing onto his bike, he barely felt any additional weight on the back of the motorbike until he felt a tug on his jacket. “Shit, do you weigh anything?”

“Aha..”

Kid shook his head “you can hold onto the back if you want.” he stated, kicking the stand and striking the bike into life. He heard Hana’s excited giggle behind him, which made him grin wildly. Why is this making me so fucking happy? This is stupid. “Hang on.” he shouted over the loud thundering engine. He could just hear her small voice over the noise and headed off and instantly felt a pair of arms wrap around his chest clasping at the front 

“Sorry!” 

Fuck..this woman is gonna kill me. 

Kid never let anyone ride his bike..why was he even permitting her to ride it..but then..she had shown respect to his precious Victoria from the beginning and there was something about her that told him she was different. His heart was racing as he felt her head rest against his back. His grin just got wider with every passing second. He headed just out of the town and up to a viewing point that overlooked the beach and the seemingly endless ocean. “Here we are.” he announced switching the bike off. Only the sound of the ocean and the rustling trees could be heard. Hana dismounted carefully and pouted as she fumbled with the buckle of the helmet, pulling the goggles around her neck as she lifted the helmet off her head, freeing her now wild hair. Shaking her hair free “That was so cool!” she said spinning around letting her skirt flare around her. “So cool!” she announced again. Kid leant against his bike and watched her spin around. He chuckled and ran a hand through his hair. Letting it linger there a moment until he felt a pair of eyes upon him. 

“-what…” he asked, noticing her staring in his direction.

“You’re really nice,” she stated, her smile could have blinded him. He looked away sharply,

“Don’t tell people that. I have a rep to keep up.” he huffed, trying to hide the blush creeping up his neck. His heart jumped into his throat when he blinked and found Hana standing closer to him holding up her pinky.

“Pinky promise.” she grinned,

Kid laughed loudly “bit old for that aren't ya?” he teased but went to comply anyway, looping his little finger with hers. 

“I won’t tell..also..how big are your hands?!” she gasped, what? Kid stared at both of his hands and frowned. They're not that big are they? “Look-” she held up her hand gestured Kid to do the same, she placed her hand against his. Indeed his hands were bigger but wasn’t she just small? Before he could say anything, Hana slipped her delicate fingers between his and held his hand gently. Kid’s brain shut down. She..what… his heart was banging against his chest like Killer’s shitty drums and he felt on fire, he was certain steam was coming off his face. What is this woman?! Kid was trying to face his internal dilemma, when he noticed a glimmer of concern in her ocean like eyes. He squeezed her hand tightly, bringing a rivalling blush to her cheeks. “You’re so warm!” she said in awe bringing his hand closer to her face to nuzzle it. Something inside Kid snapped, he grabbed her arm and pulled her into his chest wrapping his arms around her tightly, resting his chest into her shoulder.

“The hell are you doing to me?” he asked, his usual tone sounded a little softer, almost scared. Hana chuckled against him and returned the embrace. “You appeared out of nowhere and left me wanting more.”

“Aha..sorry..” she looked up at him “does it help...I feel the same? I er...I like you.” Hana replied nervously, failing to keep eye contact with him as she confessed to him. Kid blinked and grinned, he dipped to close the gap between them capturing her lips in a swift kiss not relinquishing his strong embrace. 

“This time..give me your damn number..” he half demanded with a pout tugging on his lips, she looked dazed for a moment and with both of their lipstick smudged on one another, they both succumbed to laughter. First woman to laugh after kissing me… Rummaging into her bag, she pulled out her phone. Kid reached into his pocket and then another pocket before groaning loudly. “I forgot my fucking phone!” he yelled loudly, which just made her laugh more. She took hold of his hand again lacing their fingers together slowly. 

“Don’t worry. We’ll meet up again, on maybe an actual date?” she asked with a coy smile, Kid smirked dipping to steal another kiss.

“I ain’t letting you go again…” he mumbled against her lips. “Come on..I’ll take you home…” Kid said, pulling away his stomach was doing summersaults  what is wrong with me?! As he pulled his keys out of the pocket on his jacket, the crystal fell out of his pocket rolling near her little platform shoes. “Oh..that’s just some rock-” she picked it up and inspected it curiously before delving into the pocket on her dress pulling out a rock in the same colours. 

“You have one too?” she asked, handing him the rock back. 

“Not by choice..Hawkins made me buy it..” he huffed, now he felt like a complete fool. “I’m going to tear Goldilocks hair out..” he growled under his breath.

“Hawkins gave me one too. I only went to buy a new candle and he said I should take this too.” she smiled “It’s Labradorite, Hawkin’s said it can help us make decisions that lead to lucky outcomes and I think he was right,” Hana looked up at him with such a kind smile that no one had ever looked at him with “Because if I hadn’t come out today..I wouldn’t have seen you.”

Kid blinked and pulled her back into his arms “you’re crazy.” he chuckled.

“..crazy in love with you.” she mumbled into his chest. The trees rustled loudly as the wind plucked the deep red leaves from their branches and scattered them across the clearing as the sun began to set in the distance, as if pulling down a red curtain on the final act of a play. 

[yume-fanfare]

hi i am that anon from like 29th Dec (last dang year) who said i read ur tsuki no hime and loved it and that u understand Aizou. i have read more of ur stuff since then and now i NEED to ask you for writing advice, on both characterization and general writing tips since I didnt mention it before. Sorry about that! i just forgot i sent an ask and i do not get notifs at all (or does anon asks not get notifs?) Also, ART STUDENT! That's why the nice art and art leaning!! I feel smart for sensing it

oh yup, tumblr doesn't send notifs for anon asks! but i'm glad you did see the answer anyway

this post is hideously long, so answer under the cut!

so, on characterization: it is mostly a matter of what would they say, rather than what you want them to say. the joke about "the characters do what they want to" instead of what the writer wants is pretty much true if you want them to be in character lol (that's why sometimes a little bit of OoC isn't too bad)

checking the source material is the most important thing: look at prior similar interactions the characters have had and how they reacted

this is kind of hard with LIPxLIP, as there aren't that many translated texts about them but with honeyworks the most canon and reliable thing to use as reference are the mvs. the mvs are drawn in a way that can pretty much be understood even if you don't have the lyrics, and sometimes it's even better if you can't read them, to properly focus on the images better

look at their expressions closely: while aizou is always explosive in his anger, yuujirou often has a more indifferent expression. so, when they fight, aizou is probably the one to blow up first while yuujirou maintains his composure better. it's kind of the classic "this was only a brief passing panel but i am going to expand on it" www

but the thing about fanfiction is that it's always a bit of a character analysis in itself. you don't start writing having already a color-coded folder of possible situations and reactions a character would have for each setting. you just throw the characters in a scenario and then think from there onwards, and eventually you'll be able to have the folder of situations and what you think their reactions would be like. (though, this links back to the prior point, if the characters have gone through a similar situation in canon, use that as guide! plus, finding little references to canon when reading is always fun)

for general writing, i'm going to mostly talk about my own experiences and process! i'm in no way a professional though

the basic is reading a lot. not just books but also fanfic. in fact, since you're writing fanfic, i Encourage you to read fanfic. even if your story ends up novel length, the way of treating the story is different from that of an actual novel. for example, because you're working under the premise that everyone knows the characters already. the general style of fics is different as well.

in fact, the style is the main reason i'm saying this slfkslfkslkf

read a lot of stuff and find a style you like. think of it as sewing together pieces from here and there to make a frankenstein amalgamation: this person's metaphors, the comparisons from here, the descriptions from there

personally, i adore the "long one-shot with a long title formatted (like this)" fics that are mostly feelings and descriptions and as little dialogue as possible, and some that occasionally play with the "show don't tell" rule, and some months ago i read a book whose descriptions amazed me because you could feel what the character was focusing on the most, rather than being general descriptions of the situation (i actually have a lot of thoughts about descriptions but that's a post for another day). but also i really like dialogue and plot-driven stories, descriptions can get boring and before trying to break rules, you have to be really good at following them

but, let's go step by step: developing an idea

for this i'm going to mostly reference the multichap i finished a while ago as an example

i started with just a few vague concepts in mind: non-idol au with aizou who does some sport and likes music but is insecure about his singing and yuujirou who does some music related thing and encourages him to sing in a way that's somehow related to the hozier song to noisemaking (sing), because it's what inspired me to write in the first place

then, from then onwards i wrote down what would happen in the first chapter of the story bullet-point-list-style, including things like the roommates part or the clubs the boys were in (at first yuujirou was in the choir club lol the change was a last second decision that idk why i took) and then bits of dialogue here and there that would be The Turning Points. those first dialogues were for the fight at the end of ch 1, the apology-date in ch 3 and then some vaguely unused ones for the "yuujirou encourages aizou" part, as those were the first key moments i thought of

because, since it's enemies to friends to lovers, an important aspect was character development

not all fics have character development bc not all of them are long enough (if you're aiming for short and sweet then there's no need). but if they do, i recommend you write down how the character was at the beginning of the story and then how they were at the end and then fill in the middle later, think of what those key turning points that made the character change were (the more little things you add, the more gradual it'll be)

samishigariya illustrates this very nicely: the song starts and finishes with the same lines, but the ending ones feel more light-hearted. the beginning has pre-arisa ken and pre-getting-along-with-yuujirou aizou, when they were the lonely people the title mentioned, and the ending, when they're not lonely anymore. the in between can be seen in depth during the other songs: ken before arisa was a playboy who didn't take love seriously, but after meeting her he realized that games were not all there was to love; and aizou used to be quite cranky and high-key a loner, but then he "meets precious things and knows of love". i will not elaborate on that because this isn't an aiyuu post but Oh You Know

for the fic, aizou would go through that same process, more or less: someone who doesn't really form meaningful connections with people but who, in the end, would end up having quite a bunch of people who care about him as his relationship with yuujirou advances too

since the relationship was the main focus, i wrote a very simple outline for how it would develop throughout 5 hypothetical chapters that was just: 1. civil w each other but mostly bad > 2. bad > 3. half friends > 4. pining > 5. date

and then with that in mind and the bullet point list, the final basic outline ended up like this:

there were scraped ideas and ideas that made it in later, but i believe having a simple outline, a bare skeleton to add things to, is important. stories need continuity, development requires a prior buildup

it's especially important in multichapter fics where you post as you write, you need to have a more or less clear idea of what's going to happen because you can't ignore scenes you've already posted

shorter stories don't need it as much, you can think as you go, but it's still helpful to know where you're going with things to avoid getting stuck

and, on getting stuck: don't be afraid of deleting things. if you can't figure out how to continue things, then delete the situation and start again. it might feel like you'd be wasting time but in the end, it is so much better than being stuck on the same scene for weeks

in fact, you don't have to write in order. jump to the next scene and you'll figure it out later. you Can write the scene you want to write and then build everything else around it

it's normal to write a scene and then realize it would make more sense later in the story, or that it would be better if you added another scene earlier, or sometimes you just find it easier to jump from one part of the story to another. rely on your outline to keep track of what you've written, what you have left to write and what's the best way to arrange your story. make your story understandable

which bring us to editing

there's a lot of much better posts on editing stories, but yeah ctrl+f is your best friend: don't repeat yourself too much. and be sure to vary sentence and paragraph length, as well as sentence structure, to give dynamism to the writing

now, i've mentioned before the show, don't tell rule, but i'm going to talk a bit more about it because it's quite important

once again there's a lot of posts that explain more in depth what it is, so i'm not going to expand too much on that, but, very basically, try to avoid things like "then some time passed and they became friends". explain it: what happened exactly? how did they become friends? if it's important, show it to us, instead of summarizing

since things like these make the story longer, it also gives room for more development and proper explanation for things that happen

for example, the fic was originally going to start with them already in the room, and the whole situation would have been explained in a single paragraph somewhere, but by actually adding the scene where they first arrive to the dorms and argue with the lady at the main desk, the story flows better and it let me actually describe their first meeting

and uuuhhh i think that's all? this took super long to write i hope i didn't forget any super basic stuff lol

i want to add that for enemies to lovers i greatly recommend this post bc it's super good but yeah i think that's basically it, if you have any more specific questions just shoot me an ask

[rewolfaekilerom]

why reread books?

//NOTE: This was originally posted to Wordpress on 04.24.2021//

I didn’t write last week. Whoops. I could come up with an excuse, but I don’t need to. I spent 7 years in grad school, and some 17 years before that in regular school; this blog is my way of reconditioning myself to love writing for the sake of writing and not to write out of some obligation or feeling that I’m not doing enough.

I work 40 hours a week, and most of that’s with writing in some way, shape, or form. I’m doing plenty.

So, today’s post.

I started reading P. D. James’s Death Comes to Pemberley today. (I promise I’ll write about the Sookie Stackhouse series. I finished it last week and have so many thoughts, but I’m not quite ready to share them.)

The first few pages of Death Comes to Pemberley (this is about as far as I’ve made it) are a clever retelling of Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice, because that’s what James’s book is based on. I read Austen’s novel ages ago–probably as a teenage and probably next to a pool. I think I was made to get a PhD because one of the challenges I set myself one summer as a teenager was to read all of Austen’s novels. I think I got through most of them, but I don’t really remember. I was a bit of an oddball and a nerd. My dad and I would go to the public library every weekend, and I went through a phase where I’d take out a stack of poetry books just . . . to read in study hall. Like I said, weird kid. I thank my parents for indulging my love of books, even if it meant that I was an overgrown child in grad school for too many years and filled their lives with sympathy stress.

Anyway. I think I mentioned in my previous post that I like to reread books. What I mean by this is a few different things, actually–or, rather, this rereading can come in a few different forms.

I, of course, mean it in the straightforward sense. I’ve reread Rebecca many times, and I’ve reread Barbara Michaels’s oeuvre many, many more times than I’d ever be willing to admit.

But by “I like to reread books,” I also mean “I like to reread books–sometimes immediately after I’ve finished them.”

I’m definitely not proud of this, but I reread both the After series by Anna Todd–you know, the One Direction fanfic that’s actually a really gross (in every sense of that word) depiction of a tremendously abusive and toxic relationship–and the To All the Boys… series by Jenny Han immediately after I finished them. Ironically, I wouldn’t have ever picked either series up if it weren’t for a podcast I started with two friends that will likely never see the light of day. In any case, Han’s series is genuinely good; I relate to Lara Jean’s character in the sense that she’s quite similar to how I was as a teenager; there’s a comfort there that’s coupled with a forced humility–I like laughing at myself, even when someone else is also laughing at me. And Todd’s series is . . . trash, which is probably what makes it compelling. It’s not a series you read to feel good about yourself or other people; it’s a literary car wreck, something you want to look away from because it’s terrible and you know it’s bad for you, but you also feel some inexplicable compulsion to stare it directly in the eyes and engage.

For all my bravado, I’m usually pretty good at picking my battles and not engaging, but for whatever reason, I couldn’t help but engage (and reengage) with the After series. Maybe I’ll delve into that in another blog post, though I’m thinking that’ll have to be something akin to a therapist visit, and it’ll most certainly be something I’ll have to work through repeatedly.

The most straightforward reason I can give for why someone might immediately reread a book is that they feel like they devoured it too quickly the first time so they need to go back and pay closer attention. I’ve done this with a few mystery books–Tana French’s The Witch Elm, for instance–because I’ve finished the book feeling a bit like I didn’t read closely enough and so missed out on some of the author’s brilliance. I immediately begin rereading in hopes of really appreciating what the author has to say and how they’ve said it.

I might also immediately reread a book because I feel like the ending came too soon–like I maybe didn’t get to spend enough time with the characters or in their world, like maybe I’m not ready to leave that fictional universe or to let go of that story. I think this is fairly relatable. I’ve read heaps of tumblr posts and heard from many friends that sometimes finishing a book is a sad experience because, as with any ending, there’s a certain degree of mourning that has to happen for the thing that has been lost. In the case of finishing a book, you might feel compelled to mourn the loss of a particular experience, world, space, or set of characters. Those things still exist on the pages of the book–hey, we write about literature using the present tense because those things continue to exist even after we’re finished with them–and they also exist in our minds. But the thing about finishing a book is that, though the memory of that reading experience stays with us, the experience of being guided through that fictional world ends. The author is, of course, our guide through their fictional world; when we finish a book, we lose that guide. Depending on how we feel about the author’s voice–or, perhaps more appropriately, the narrator–we may feel a greater or lesser sense of loss.

I don’t really Elizabeth Bowen’s or Alix Harrow’s writing styles (these are honestly the first two authors who came to mind; I know they’re very different–so, see, I’m well read!), so I don’t feel a great sense of loss when I leave their fictional worlds, however compelling they might be. But I do tend to like the types of narrators Emily St. John Mandel, Octavia Butler, or (the Janus-faced–multi-faced?) Carolyn Keene offer readers (again, it’s like I’m trying to pick completely unsuitable pairs, but I swear I’m not), so I feel a sense of loss when I’m forced to separate from those narrators because I’ve finished experiencing their physical manifestations–the bound collection of pages on which they live their finite lives.

Someone might argue that those narrators can live on in the reader’s mind just as the fictional world they inhabit gets taken up and finds new life in the reader’s imagination. I like that argument, but I think it overlooks the simple fact that the narrator’s voice isn’t all that matters here. That narrator is a puppet, and the author is the master puppeteer who directs what the narrator does, says, and conveys–that is, how the narrator guides us, the readers, through the story. So, again, when we finish a book, we lose our guide through–sometimes even our friend in–the fictional world.

To wax poetic for a second, when we finish a book, we get to move forward in time while the narrator is stuck back in time. There’s something so sad about leaving someone behind, and it’s especially sad when we have to leave someone in a not-so-pleasant world–even if it’s fictional. It’s the reason a story like Peter Pan is so sad–Peter is a nasty little tyrant, but we (or maybe just I) can’t help but feel bad for him because he’s left behind while everyone he loves and who loves him grows up, because that’s the natural course of action. As one of my grad school peers once pointed out, Barrie’s narrator begins the book by marking Peter as exceptional–as the exception–because he’s the only child who doesn’t grow up.

So, to get back to my point, when we reread a book, we’re trying to recapture and reunite with that guide, that friend, who we’ve had to leave behind because of the simple fact that we outlived them. After all, our lives continue to go on after theirs have ended. The operative word in that first sentence, though, is “try.” There’s a saying about how you can only experience something for the first time once, and I think that’s very true for reading a book. You can only be fully immersed in a narrator’s present moment and fully subject to the will of a narrator one time, and that’s the first time you go through their story with them. In every subsequent journey, you have the advantage (or disadvantage?) of knowing exactly where the story will take you, and so a bit of the mystery–or helplessness, or naiveté, or whatever–is gone.

That said, though, I’m not sure I’d go so far as to argue that you can only experience the story “as it’s truly designed to be experienced” one time–that first time. I’m sure this perspective has something to do with some deep-rooted prejudice I have against attributing meaning or intention to an author. I don’t want to probe that prejudice too much at the moment because I suspect it’s coupled with layers of anxieties that are all somehow connected to four years of graduate coursework spent feeling a bit like the dumbest person in the room.

I’ve read a lot of books (#humblebrag), so, naturally, I’ve read books in a lot of different environments, for a lot of different reasons, and in a lot of different states of mind. I like to think of myself as generally a pretty “good” reader–that is, in the sense that I’m able to appreciate stories for what they are and to suspend my disbelief, sometimes while a very distracting “real world” goes on around me. Again, that’s probably partially because of my training. I’ve read in silent libraries, backseats of cars and on crowded buses, at pools, in bed, in fields, at busy airports, in cabs, at bars and coffee shops, at house parties–and those are just physical places. I’ve also read in diverse situations, including while immensely happy, having just had a fight, while crying, because it’s assigned reading, while heartbroken, while trying to also keep a conversation going, during class, because this book reminds me of something else, while anxious, when very tired, during the middle of an argument, out of curiosity, while waiting, and the list goes on. The sheer volume of reading one has to complete (or at least try to complete) to keep up with a grad-level literature course means that one has to be okay with reading whenever and wherever. I’ve literally carried a book with me on a date and to the grocery story “just in case” I had some extra time.

To get closer to my point, this is all a very long way of saying that there are so many circumstances that can affect our reading experience that it’s impractical for an author or a reader to think that there’s only one way to read a story. Take a relatively broad circumstantial reading category like “beach reading.” There are so many different beach scenarios that an author–even one who’s willing to settle for a very broad interpretation of “beach reading” like “reading near a large body of water with some level of distractions but in a generally relaxed mood”–can’t attempt to predict. I’d honestly be surprised to hear that an author aiming to write “beach reading” would even try to get more specific than that. After all, we don’t really have categories like “tropical beach vacation with friends reading” or “rocky Maine beach on a solo vacation reading.” I doubt an author would attempt to get that specific because, after all, writing is a career and those who do it need to create a product that will be marketable to enough people to make it worthwhile and to secure a living. And for an author who isn’t writing professionally, it hardly seems worth it to even attempt to take the time to try to predict the circumstances that might surround their audience’s experiences with the finished story. There are simply too many variables, so the goal must be, to some degree, at least, to write a story that conveys something to someone in whatever circumstance they happen to be in at the moment they’re reading. That’s a monumental task. An author might, then, have an “ideal” reader in an “ideal” scenario or state of mind or whatever, but they can’t ever write to that “ideal” alone–and that’s even if they’re writing for themselves, since they don’t know what frame of mind they’ll be in when they experience the story again (unless, of course, they don’t intend to experience the story again, in which case nothing matters except the present, which is pretty interesting in itself but not what I’m talking about right now).

But something I’d also like to note is the simple fact that sometimes stories are better–more interesting, more effective, more whatever–the second time we read them. I’ve read books with perfect focus–in a quiet library, for instance–and not found them all that compelling; I’ve also gone back to those books later–once I’m in a slightly different place (mentally, physically, emotionally, without the pressure of reading for class, whatever)–and genuinely enjoyed them. I’ll readily admit that sometimes I’m just a better reader, and sometimes I’m a better reader of a particular type of book than I might be otherwise. As humans, we’re perpetually in flux. Books are more or less stationary objects that don’t really change. We’re what changes, so we might be in a better position to appreciate a book at one point in our lives than at another point.

So, I might reread a book to recapture that first reading experience. But I might also reread a book to have a different reading experience, to meet the narrator when I’m a slightly different person. My goal might be to relearn or refresh myself of the lessons I learned through reading that particular story, but it might also be to gauge how I’ve changed. Each time I reread a story, I have a different reading experience: I notice different things; I feel different feelings; I appreciate different characters or appreciate the same characters differently; I take away different ideas about my current world based on not only how my current world compares to the fictional world but also how my current world compares to the current (now past) world I lived in the previous time(s) I experienced the fictional world.

Oy, that was a lot. And I could complicate this all further by delving deeper into why we read at all–why we sign on to read a story, what we how to get out of the reading experience, and what reading actually does for us. But I already wrote a dissertation, so I’m not going to do that again. Also, we all read for different reasons and we each read different types of stories for different reasons, so there are so many variables that it’s hardly worth it to explore that topic in a really broad sense. Maybe a narrower sense would be more productive, but I’ve already written enough for today.

What I want to say is that I’m definitely not alone in rereading stories. There are ample reasons to reread stories, the most straightforward of which being that it can just be enjoyable to do.

And to think that this post grew out of the idle thought that I’d like to reread Pride and Prejudice. And I’m still only three pages into Death Comes to Pemberley! Well, okay, onward.

xoxo, you know.

[kagomiko]

real name : higurashi kagome  /  日暮ひぐらし かごめ . single or taken : timeline dependent , single  /  married . abilities or powers : her most noteworthy ability is her immense spiritual power , which she inherited from kikyo . kagome can also perform spiritual energy projection , which has said spiritual energy concentrated in the palms of her hand & ultimately released for offensive purposes . kagome is also capable of spiritual reflection , wherein her opponents spiritual energy is thrown back at them . another key skill is kagome’s innate spiritual awareness , which allows her to perceive or sense unwordly things such as ghosts , spirits or demonic auras . illusion & demonic immunity is another natural ability ; she upholds it effortlessly due to her aforementioned immense spiritual power , in addition to her usually being free of negative emotions . purification is one of her more developed skills ; kagome is able to purify malevolent forces , such as demonic energy or miasma . she does this by releasing pure spiritual energy , which she constantly releases unconsciously , however its far more powerful when concentrated through tools like her arrows . infamously known for her miraculous ability to time travel , kagome is able to travel between modern day & feudal japan . additionally , she is immune to any time-stopping spells , as she has a flow of time unique to her . last but not least , archery . kagome’s extensive travels throughout a warrning country helped shaped her into a fair marksman & archer . eye colour : brown . hair colour : black . family members : mother anka higurashi , younger brother sota higurashi , grandfather , husband inuyasha , daughter moroha , brother-in-law sesshomaru , sister-in-law moe , nieces setsuna  /  towa  /  mei . pets : her family cats name is buyo . she’s a female calico . the name buyo seems to be from the japanese onomatopoeia of a squishing noise which can also mean flabby or squishy .

something they don’t like : injustice , discrimination , rainy days , artificial flowers , white feminism , math , hypocritical behaviour , breaking in shoes , bad hygiene . hobbies/activities : writing ❪ in her journal most actively , but also poetry , short stories & novels ❫ , calligraphy , ikebana , herbalism , cooking , skating , bicycling , archery , swimming , & embroidery  /  sewing  /  knitting  /  stitching  . ever hurt anyone before : by nature , kagome is a kindhearted , compassionate & benevolent individual . that said , she does have a strong sense of justice & never hesitates to rise against those oppose her beliefs . she chooses her battles , but fights hard , especially when she’s fighting someone whose hurt her friends or family . prior to falling in love with inuyasha , she had little to no genuine moments of selfishness or greed . it wasn’t until she wanted him so strongly that we begin to see more relatable behaviour from kagome , especially in regards to her complicated relationship with kikyo . additionally , one could argue that her repeated indifference has hurt hojo on more than one occasion . animal that represents them : butterly . the butterfly is one of the most emblematic totem animals , symbolizing powerful  /  personal transformation , metamorphosis in your life , renewal  /  rebirth , lightness of being , playfulness , elevation from earthly matters , tuning into emotional or spiritual energy , & the world of the soul . worst habits : overworking , not getting enough sleep , having a huge to-do list , daydreaming , extensive inner-monologues , & exclusively in regards to her respective relationships with inuyasha & sota , losing her temper .

role models : first & foremost , her mother . they’ve always had a very healthy , respectful & loving relationship . when kagome’s father died , her mother was still pregnant with sota . being thrust into a such harsh reality was horrific for all those involved , but nevertheless , her mother , anka , continuously put her best foot forward & solidified herself with breathtaking resolve . kagome saw firsthand how her mother held things together for their family , built a new life for them , & continued to be a beacon of unconditional love & support throughout the entirety of her life . another significant role model for kagome is aung san suu kyi , who campaigned for democracy in burma . she became the first state counsellor of myanmar & was awarded a nobel peace prize for her non-violent struggels for democracy & human rights . kagome also admires audrey hepburn , a beloved actress who is revered not only for her acting skills but also her philanthropic work as a unicef ambassador . she led a life devoted to kindness & compassion while being a phenomenal mother , wife & humanitarian . sexual orientation : undetermined , potentially pansexual . thoughts on marriage/kids : kagome has always been a lover of love . growing up she never particularly ached or yearned for a significant other , nor does she feel the need to define herself by her romantic affairs , but she still finds love in all of its forms to be a beautiful , magical thing . she has no opposition for marriage , but carries a multitude of ambitions for her future & never held marriage as a significant priority when picturing her life . on the subject of children , kagome adores them ! she has very strong , innate maternal instincts , & can definitely finds a sense of fulfillment in nurturing the spiritual growth of children . she does want to be a mother , but it is one of many wishes for her future , & again , not a main priority . to be happy , healthy & able to give  /  receive love is what she thinks is most important .

style preferences : kagome has long since held a considerably girly fashion sense , while regularly teetering between a modest & more playful style . her wardrobe primarily consists of dresses & skirts . kagome has a particular fascination for snug sweaters & bulky cardigans that envelop her whole . she loves all colours but typically wears pastels , pinks & blues in her day-to-day . she also often wears wedge heels , moccasins or loafers . approach to friendships : notwithstanding her personal experiences with bullying when she was younger , kagome maintained a levelheaded demeanour in life , with school being no exception . she treats all with fairness & respect . kagome will normally stay to her usual group of friends , but will never hesitate to branch out to someone , should the situation call for it .even if she doesn't say a word , her feelings are known to be easy to read due to her honest expressions , which generally cause those around her to soften in tough situations & consequently be honest in return .

thoughts on pie : loves pie , especially homemade . can bake it herself but prefers her mothers . favourite drink : ice water & green tea ❪ jasmine , sencha , matcha , genmaicha & hojicha are a few favourites ❫ . favourite place to spend time at : kagome is a firm believer of the  ❛  it’s not about the place , it’s about the company  ❜  way of seeing things . however , she does have a fondness for the sacred tree  /  the forest of inuyasha . also, while she doesn’t actually go back to visit , she does have a special place in her heart for her old family home from before they moved to the shrine , as she has many memories of time there with her father .

swim in the lake or in the ocean : the ocean . their type : kagome has never found herself drawn to a particular type , at least not in regards to appearances . what is essential to her in a significant other , is a good heart . it’s not required that she agrees with them on every matter , but she needs to be able to accept & respect their point of view . if she can’t , if their heart  /  beliefs  /  values oppose her defined sense of justice in any way , she won’t overlook it . while that is most important , she may also be interested in adventurers ; people with great ambition & drive , people who are wanting to better themselves &  /  or better the world . camping or indoors : so , whilst traversing between modern day & sengoku jidai , she did unearth a newfound love & appreciation for the beauty of nature . however , as she often spent extensive periods of time outdoors , it also made her appreciate the everyday indulgences one can access through means such as indoor plumbing , electricity , hot water , etc . of course as said before , so long as the company is good , she will make the most of whatever situation she’s in , but in this instance she sees the value in either choice . everything in moderation , really .

𝘁𝗮𝗴𝗴𝗲𝗱 𝗯𝘆 : @7theaven​ ! thank u sm sweetheart i loved this . 𝘁𝗮𝗴𝗴𝗶𝗻𝗴 : @senpujin​ , @slaheir​ , @devilreno​ , @ofmsfortune​ , @warriorhe​ , @balynce​ , @ymagishi​ , @bkugs​ , @innosen​ , @drakenskies​ , @tofiorire​ , @crimsonacrosstime​ , @puppet-slayer​ , @daikusedai​ , @conflictedhanyou​ & whoever else is interested !

[songwritingtipsandtricks]

To be, or not to be a songwriter transcript

Hello and welcome everyone again, to a new episode of Songwriting Tips and Tricks. My name is Kieper, and I am really excited to talk to you again today. Thank you so much for the reviews and messages you send to me in the last weeks. If you like the show so far, please consider sharing it with friends that could benefit from it and leave a review on whatever platform you are using.

In the last episode, we've been talking about songwriting while at home during the corona pandemic and a possible lockdown. This time, however, I want to focus more on what a songwriter, in fact, is. Are we modern-day poets? Are we, full-fledged musicians or are we authors? Playwrights to some degree perhaps? What do the lines that we write really mean in context?

Maybe some of you ask themselves what art they are producing. And to be honest, I ask this question most of the time. I mean from a literature point of view, we are developing plots, we are searching for rhymes and words and maybe even look for the meter. On the other hand, as musicians, we try to make the lyrics fit the melody and meter of the music that was composed by us or others, or we are trying to find a suitable melody to words we have written. So what really is a songwriter?

One could argue that songwriters are modern-day poets. But this definition is somewhat limited. Because as songwriters, we do what feels right to us, and fits the music. We do not count the meter rigidly or know about iambs, dactyls or anything else. Another thing is that most of us write about day-to-day life. This sure is something to write about, yet it means that a lot of other issues are not being touched by songs. Many songwriters, think about marketing too early and write what might attract an audience. But that is not art, is it? I mean, you could be paid to write a song about something, but the most powerful songs are those that are inspired by things that happen to you or you observe. These songs also cover things that were not in the spotlight or only had little media coverage.

So if you are an aspiring songwriter, what would you chose to do? Would you like to write songs that are empowering people and have topics and viewpoints that no one else uses, or would you like to be someone creating standard pop songs that will be lost over the centuries, decades, or years? Because it is not those that do things like the rest that stand out, but those that dare to do something different. Perhaps when you are writing your next song, try to write about something else except love. Maybe you are familiar with Emily Dickinson, who was a famous American poet from the 19th century. Her poems got published only after her death, so she never got any credit for it in her life. She wrote about her experiences, and often time her thoughts on death and the life that follows. As a woman, she was not allowed to neither vote nor did she had access to a proper education. She was not religious or spiritual in any way. And despite all this, she kept writing and kept around 2000 poems hidden in a chest in her room. She wrote about everything that inspired her, not thinking about how to market it or how to put it on Spotify. Now you might argue, alright, there was no Spotify or anything like it at that time. You're right, and to make it worse, as a woman, it was appreciated to publish anything or have a perspective on things. But poetry was her life, so she kept writing but to save the reputation of the family, she never published anything herself.

I would call this dedication to art. If you want to have an insight into some poetry of this great poet, head over to Tumblr and search the blog to this podcast, as this month is the month of Dickinson on Songwriting Tips & Tricks.  

So songwriters are poets in a way, as we write poems in a way. But as I mentioned before, we need to find original topics to write about or incorporate to stand out and not just be one more songwriter. The most natural approach is to read poetry. Really do it every day. Ranging from ancient greek or roman poetry to modern-days there is tons of poetry or writings from philosophers that might ignite a spark of some sort and get you off that beaten track. Be the one songwriter in a room at open mic nights, that has read the most poetry and consequently has songs that carry something more. You will know how poetry works and how to build tension. Don't let the music do that, it hardly ever will do the trick on its own.

Are we authors? Well, in a way yes, as songwriters try to write a coherent story with different protagonists, and various narrative approaches. If you need more insight on this, listen to the episode "Wait, who's talking' to hear more about narrative situations. But most beginner songwriters do not think about structuring their songs beforehand. They just start writing.  Which is good of course, as we need to start somewhere. But have a look at famous songs, there is a clear structure in the plot. I am not talking about the verse, chorus or bridge, but about the introduction, central part, and the closure. It bears a close resemblance to novels sometimes. But we do not have 500 pages to get to the end, instead just 3 1/2 minutes until the end, or a minute to get to the chorus. So it is essential to know what to say when. People will need to understand immediately what the story is about and what to expect, even if the theme is new to them. Still, it is essential to surprise them at any part of the song. Structure your plot before and while you are writing. Try using a mindmap or a storyboard to help you structure. Try to know that character in detail, how she moves, how she looks, what sound her snore has and so forth. Try to find inspiration in people around you. Maybe let her say a phrase that your co-worker in your sideline in a fast-food restaurant says or have hair like a person on the train. Basing story upon facts from reality is a potent mechanism to make a story relatable. You could as well chose traits of characters from your favourite film or tv-series to adapt in your songs.

Are we playwrights? Well, that is a tough question, in combination with the previous question, I would say to some degree we are, but only while writing the song. We direct when a character is to appear and what it does. Adding the music, this is a lot more relevant. We need to know, at what point what part of the story is suited best, if the music does fit at all. You might as well want to put your favourite book or film into a song. Then it is crucial to strip it down to the key-concepts to make it fit the time frame. And when I say time-frame, this is a part that authors are less concerned with. We know that we have limited time to tell our story and we know when a change in the music happens and how it sounds. So perhaps think of yourself not as a playwright but as a songwright, as you are focussed on auditive input rather than visual input. The song is our stage, and we need to know what has to happen when, why and how.

So turning over to music. Are we musicians? Well, yes, of course. This is what got us started on songwriting in the first place, wasn't it? But think about your music education, have you been taught traditionally, or did you learn most of the stuff yourself? If you know how to play your instrument, do you play other instruments as well? Do you know music theory by heart or do you need to google all the times? Did you play in a band or know about arrangement through YouTube or other sources? How solid is your music background really? This is a question that bugs me most of the time. I taught myself how to play the guitar, and I have been singing my whole life, but I always doubt my musicianship. I'm binge-watching music theory fundamentals and teach myself other instruments to close these blank spaces that a traditional education would not have left perhaps. I even bought a midi drum set to work on micro timing with apps like melodics and co. Yes, we are musicians, but at what stage of our musical journey we are is in our own hands. It is essential to learn new things every day. If you don't, you will get frustrated. So consider taking half an hour each day to learn music theory, listen to intervals, learn fancy chords and songs that use it. Listen to new music even. Dare to make your own set of rules and break it again. This is how you grow, both in music and in writing.

So next time, when you are writing a song, use a random song and try to use the chord progression or time signature, combine songs and styles, take as much input from other as you can. Because this way, your music will always be different, but still yours. Your music will be instantly more exciting and attract audiences as it incorporates a lot of genres and styles.

So now let us talk about something, I am raving about. Painting pictures with words really is in the domain of poets, but try to imagine for a second that you were an artist and you have a blank canvas in front of you. Where would you start? What colour would you use? And in the end, what picture do you see in front of your inner eye? What should this picture invoke in the mind of an audience? Pictures might tell more than a thousand words, but the right or wrong words in context could meet or destroy expectations. Try to describe as vividly as possible, shed light on detail that was previously hidden. Dare to be the Picasso that paints melting clock. Try to be irrational in the creation and later judge what you've done. Dare to take bold turns. The song is yours, and if you do not want to share it with anybody, put it in a box like Dickinson did.

So much on what we as songwriters are. Do you have another comparison or idea, that could touch the work of songwriters? Don't bother sending any feedback or opinion you have via Facebook, Instagram, Wordpress or Tumblr. I'll gladly reply and perhaps talk about this in the next episode.

If you like the program, I'd really appreciate, if you rate and review the show or episode on the platform you are listening to right now.

Thank you again for tuning in once more and staying tuned on Songwriting Tips & Tricks.

[goshwrites]

business (yandere x reader) 1

warnings: swearing, ageplaying, obsession, unhealthy relationships

word count: 2.9 

A/N: still not completely my best writing oof but here we go

taglist: (none as of yet since i’m keeping the taglist for the ben solo blurb separate from this one)

  You know how like in some novels things happen right away one after another? Like the very next day or something?  Well that didn't happen with you.  The day after the whole fiasco with Romeo and Juliette... things were pretty chill. Boss of course seemed just a little agitated, but that was normal in your opinion since well... she always had a resting bitch face. Always. And then it was two days after it.  Still nothing. You somehow got hit in the head with a paper ball that was thrown so badly it flew over the small wall that separated the cubicles instead of the trashcan. Yeah. That person's aim was horrible, but eh. They offered you chocolate once so you were cool.  Three days after everything still was kind of cool. Someone's phone kept buzzing the Backstreet Boy's song I Want It That Way and of course any reasonable person would sing along with it which of course was you.  Then four- well that was Saturday. And that was your glorious dayoff of going to the store and getting facial masks.  And fifth was Sunday and with that you mostly chilled while working on editing your paper.  Six was... Monday to say the least.  No comment.  And then what do you know? A whole week went by the incident and it seemed that no one even remembered or cared or just... were even awake to see it.    Tuesday started out kind of nice. You didn't do that annoying thing of where you wake up like ten minutes before your alarm and then you try to go back to sleep because hey it's way too early but then you can't because anxiety and you spent like seven minutes inwardly arguing with your anxiety and before you know it- it's time to get up.  But that didn't happen. That happened on Monday, yes, but Tuesday? Nah you woke up to the beautiful bliss of birds using their vocal cords and like some violins playing in the background. Over all it was nice.  And you got a cheese bagel at your nearby bagel shop because they're everywhere.    You greeted the security man that stood by the door with a 'good morning' on your way into the large building that also housed other companies like some kind of shoe company and like maybe one of Jojo's bowties? You really didn't know and didn't really wanna know. You walked out of the elevator of the floor you were on and proceeded to make your way to your cubicle. You sat down with the rolling chair moving backwards a tad before you reached out and got out your laptop from the beach bag. You were just typing in the password and going to your documents when you heard a soft, "Good morning," from your left and you look over to the opening to see Ben standing there. A small grin came onto your face at seeing the dark skinned male.  "It is this time." You mused while thinking back on your grumpy mood yesterday. He chuckled while flashing that pearly white grin of his.  "And am I not glad for that?"  "Oh shut up." You said playfully towards the male as you brought up your latest project on your computer.  He just chuckled and shook his head as if he just knew that you wouldn't pull through on your threat. And well he was right.  "Uh huh. Anyways since you're in a better mood, I was thinking we could like go out for lunch?" He suggested with a shrug as you looked back up at him. He always liked to wear bright colors since he could always pull them off so well, so today he was wearing a neon yellow t-shirt and washed-out jeans. You weren't really wearing anything special. Just blue jeans, (f/c) shirt, and some converse so eh. Nothing special or extraordinary. Just the way you liked it.  But somehow Ben always looked nice in everything he wore.  You decided to just shove your writing abilities to the back of your mind as you pretended to think about it.  "Hmmmm. I don't know. I don't really know if I like you or not." You said while stroking your chin as if there was a beard there. He chuckled and shook his head.  "Awww. Come on, (N/n). I know you do and you know you love me." He practically whined to you with a childish pout making you giggle.  "Of course I love you. You're one of the few people that are tolerable here." You told him with a grin and a shake of my head.  'You know you love me' was that one inside joke between the two of you. Whenever one just wasn't budging on something for whatever reason the other would always play that card. And usually it worked.  He was probably about to say something about being offended by that statement, but your little bicker was irrupted.  "(L/n)! My office!" You heard your last name being called out causing you to sit up right in your chair. And there standing at her office was Boss. Now Boss... was an interesting woman. One, she was born and raised in Liberia until her family moved here causing her to have a very strong accent. Two, she was very... well... blunt. She was like the Simon Cowell or Gordon Ramsey of writing. And three, even though her natural hair was black, she had dyed it a sort of burgundy red that stuck out like on a traffic light.  But you've never been called to her office before. Not unless it was for another project. But... you were working on a project. So why did she call you?    You forced yourself to rise from the rolling chair before you took in a deep breath. Just... don't jump around conclusions. You and Ben shared a look of mutual look of worry and confusion before you forced yourself to walk out and into the hallway. Others had already stopped typing to give you the look of 'uh oh' as you walked. Honestly you felt like you were going to your own funeral at these somber looks. But alas you reached the glass down of Boss's office. It was that type of office from Superman of where the walls were glass. You had to admit, you liked it.  But at the moment you kinda wished the walls were concrete so no one could see you get fired. Wait.  Fired? Now that started the anxiety ball rolling.  But before you could turn away and maybe act like you were too sick to come to her office, she saw you and simply waved you in. Those glass walls. Traitors.   You took in a deep breath and entered into the carpeted office room. Besides being all fancy with her name on the door in a sort of Instagram font, Boss had a reddish, dark brown wooden desk with four small drawers on each side at the top, and two large drawers at the bottom. The desk was definitely an expensive one since the handles for the drawers had designs on them. Overall Boss just causally flexed with the desk.  And the carpet was like really comfy too as you shifted on it sort of nervously. Boss just looked at you before she picked up a Rubik Cube and just twirled it in her hand. She looked down at the multiple colors as she mixed the cube up.  And finally easing the growing of your anxiety- she spoke.  "Sit down, (L/n)." Obediently you sat down in the brown, leather chair that actually fit very well with the desk. She waited a few moments as if she was waiting to see if you were comfortable before she spoke again. "Do you remember what happened last week?" What? What happened? What week? Last week?  What happened last week?  You had no fucking idea.  But were you gonna admit that? Hell no.  "Yes, I do." You told her with a nod to make it seem like you weren't an idiot.  "Well, today... I got the phone call from Stevie saying that she and Issac have gone back to his home town to get married."  Wait... who? Then... ohhh yeeaaaah.  Last week... those two. Right.  "Wow. They didn't waste any time, huh?" You said while acting like you had an excellent memory of all things at all time. Yup.  No dummy here.  But that kinda brought up a question... why was she telling you this?  "No, they did not." She said with a shake of her head before she leaned forward in her seat. "But.. I'm sure you're wondering why I am telling you this." You nodded at her words and she took this as a cue to continue. "Well... I assigned Stevie to an assignment that I thought that she was ready for, but now that she's getting married... well... I will need someone else for it."  Huh. Why was she telling you this?  Then... wait... oh. Oh.  "You... want me for the assignment?" You asked as you couldn't hide the surprise that leaked into your voice.  Huh. So obviously you weren't the first choice, but at least you were the second. Better than none, right?  "If you will take it." Boss responded with a shrug as she looked down at the Rubik Cube while simultaneously solving it and speaking. Woah.  "Well I mean uh- I would love too, Boss. But..." You briefly trailed off as you shifted in the leather seat.  "Just what is the assignment?"  "It's actually an interview." An interview? Now... that is something you did not have that much experience on. Who would you be interviewing? Harry Styles?  Oh now that would be great. (But sadly this isn't a 1D fanfic) "Well uh... I don't really have that much experience with like journalism and like interviews." You awkwardly confessed as you scratched your head. "But... who is it?"  Boss paused as she stopped almost... completing the Rubik Cube. What. How did she that so fast? But your confessed and amazed eyes moved back up to Boss whenever she answered your question with, "Edward Gimmens." Then... wait.  Edward Gimmens… as in... that really rich guy?  That Edward Gimmens? You just stared at your Boss in amazement as she finished the Rubik Cube. But you weren't amazed by her skill- okay yes you were actually- but more with the fact as... "How... did you get an interview slot with him?"  As far as you knew the philanthropist, billionaire, and whatever he had on his resume didn't do interviews for magazines that centered around Millenniums and Gen-Zs. He did it for those really big and out there magazines, you know?  "Well, believe it or not, he came to us. But that is not important. You'll have to come up with your questions and such, but you can use Stevie's notes." She said as she set the cube down and pulled out a folder out from her desk.  You blinked a few times at her rapid explanation as just.. woah. "But of course that's if you are taking the job."  That... was the million dollar question, wasn't it? Or the billion in this case. Ha, ha, ha.  "I... well... I... what makes you think I can do this?" You found the words coming out of your mouth before you could stop them. Uh- uh- uh- "Of course I am grateful you offered it to me, but umm... why?" You quickly added as to not seem rude.  "Well... Stevie was my first choice since she's done work like this before." Boss began with a shrug as she leaned back against the chair. "But when she had to go... well... you just popped into my head as the next capable person to do this."  You? Capable? You still got anxiety with ordering your own meal. "You... think I can do this?" You asked hesitantly and in an unsure way as your (e/c) eyes met Boss's. She smiled just a tad before she leaned forward.  "(L/n)… I see potential in you. You're a good writer and you know how to set a pace right in whatever you write. You're just... how do I put this? Not confident in your abilities. So... I'm giving you the old... shove-you-out-of-the-airplane thing."  That... did not sound ideal. Not at all. But still you slowly nodded your head.  "All right. Thanks, Boss, I'm honored you think so highly of me, but umm... can I have some time to think about it?"  "Ah yes. Of course, of course. Take as much time as you need." She said while waving her hand in the air and with her accent sort of slurring her words together making the 'course' sound like 'close.'  "But just not too much time. This does need to be written, you know."  You nodded before you stood up from the comfy chair.  "I'll... let you know by Friday." You decided on that day while your anxiety told you in one ear that you won't be able to decide by then and your self worth was whispering how she would find someone else in that time period. Fun times.  "That is good, (L/n). I'll be awaiting for your answer." She said with a nod as she stood up as well. You couldn't help, but slightly smile at the way she worded things. "And ah! Just in case you do decide to take the job, here is the notes Stevie had." She said while picking up the folder she had brought onto her desk previously. She handed it to you and you took it from her dark and freckled hands.  "Just read it over and see what you think."  "I will Boss. Thanks." 

  With one final goodbye and wave to Boss, you exited out of the office and back down the hall to your cubicle.

So... you weren't getting fired? You actually kind of got promoted in a way? I mean, if you did this interview right... others would be put on your desk. 

But this was Edward Gimmens, the CEO of Gimmens Incorporated. This was a man who's spent nearly three decades in making his name known in whatever way.

He was a well known and looked up to man in whatever he did. Whether it be taking mankind steps closer to having flying cars or what he was most known for, and you found it a little humorous, cosmetics. 

Yes that's right.

The philanthropist, inventor, and very rich guy was famous for his makeup. Somehow he had figured out a way to have any foundation or concealer or blush fit exactly to your skin tone. Instead of having to make a formula for each different skin tone, he was somehow able to make one for all. Needless to say, the product instantly became a favorite around the world. Even you had tried it once, and contrary to what you expected, it somehow blended perfectly. 

He was like the Willy Wonka of makeup. And you were suppose to interview him. 

  You sat back down on your rolling chair with a huff. But should you take it? It was a great- like really great- opportunity for you and the magazine. Of course Boss can always get somebody else, but still. 

It was great and big and perfect, but... also stressing. You were going to have to come up with questions... but Stevie did leave behind notes for you. And thinking of the notes- you had the folder. 

You set it on your desk before you opened it up to see the Instagram font that was Stevie's handwriting. 

Man. You'd probably kill someone for being able to write that elegantly.

You read over what she had so far in her notes and you had to admit that she had some pretty good ideas of what she wants to ask. You bit your lip and decided to close the folder for now. 

Hmm. Maybe... just maybe, this won't be so bad.

But of course- you needed another person's opinion on this. 

"Hey, Ben?" You decided to speak up over the clicking keyboards to your cubicle mate. 

"Yeah?" Came his one worded reply.

"I would love to go to lunch with you."

And even though you couldn't see it, you knew he was smiling.

[mahkaria]

MDZS : No blinding pride AU

Is Madam Yu a good mother and person in the novel? Not really.  Am I going to ignore it and write about her being a good teacher for Wei Ying? You get it. 

No one would dare to argue that Yu Ziyuan isn’t a proud person. It’s in the way she stands, how she glares at all those who tries to contradict her and how she defends her children with a lionness’ viciousness. 

They expect her to ignore the child, to forsake and be violent toward him, she knows it and in the darkest nights, she thinks maybe it would be for the best. She can deal with people making fun of her. 

Look at the Lady of Lotus Pier, so violent even her own husband does not wish to share her bed.  

Why care about their opinions of her? It is not as if she has ever needed someone’s else validation. She is the Purple Spider, a cultivator who once brought the Core Melting Hand to his knees and still had enough energy to keep fighting. 

However, she can’t remain blind to how Jiang Fengmian entirely favours the boy, how he ignores her son and instead focuses on the crying kid.  He has to be his bastard, people whisper. 

Fool, all of them. She might never have been friend with Wei Changze, but everything in the boy’s face reminds her of the dead man. 

She sees how the servants laugh at him when they think he isn’t listening. How their “Young Master Wei” are filled with poison and saccharine mockery. So does he. He might appear meek and weak but the light in his eyes betray an intelligence as sharp as her anger. He smiles and pretends he doesn’t see it, stands high in front of her children in order not to worry them and jokes about something when it appears they might ask questions. 

When the time comes for them to start learning the art of the sword, she watches as he staggers and falls as he tries to replicate Yunmeng’s style. It doesn’t work.  It is well past noon and yet, the boy still can’t manage the easiest position. 

Behind her, she hears the servants laugh as the boy stands up, tries yet still fails. Once again, those silver eyes closes and pretends not to notice.  She advices her son on how to improve, glares at those who didn’t try enough then leaves.  During the meal, her sweet A-Li keeps asking them how their training went. A-Cheng boasts about his progresses. Her pride in his accomplishments stops her from snarling at him. 

The boy praises Jiang Cheng but otherwise says nothing. 

They go to bed and as Yu Ziyuan is on the verge of falling asleep, groans extract her from the sleepiness.  It is coming from the training ground. She stands up, ready to tear down the disciple which dares to cause mayhem at this hour.  When she arrives, a small silhouette is holding a training sword, going through the moves she went over she showed only a few hours sooner. 

“What do you think you are doing, boy?”

He freezes and turns toward her. 

“M-madam Yu? I’m so-” 

“Do not waste with apologies !” She sneers. “Do you think it is the right time to train?” 

“No, but-”

“But what ?” The boy looks as if he’s ready to bury himself on the ground. As he should.

Mumbles escape his mouth. It does nothing to subside her temper.  “Disciples of Yunmeng Jiang does not mumble ! If you something to say, say it out loud !”

“It doesn’t work !” He screams with far more frustration than his small body should hold. 

“Are you stupid enough to belive you’ll master the sword in only one day?” So much like his mother, she thinks. Immediately, regrets come. Cangse Sanren used to be nothing courteous toward her. She won’t let her bitterness and a man’s rejection clouds her view on the woman. 

“Of course not, but-”

“What did I say about mumbling, boy?” 

“The balance is all wrong.” He starts, his agitation less evident now that he is focusing on putting his thoughts into words. “You move your arms and then adapt your feet so it follows but it’s just weird. Shouldn’t you do the contrary? Focus first on how your feet and then on the offensive?” 

She can’t help but agree. That’s the problem with bigger sect, she believes. As focused as they are on impressing commoners, they often forget you have to be able to stand before being able to win. 

But they are Yunmeng and that’s the style will have to learn. 

Maybe not, a little voice whispers in the back of her head. 

She hesitates but decides to try. After all, who cares if this boy uses a different style? He isn’t the heir.  “Give me the sword.” There is still fear in the boy’s eyes but he obeys nonetheless. A good point. 

She catches the fake sword. She doesn’t have to ask the boy to pay attention, he is staring at her like a rabbit does at a fox. She moves away her feet and focuses on her centre of gravity and on the air which fills her lungs. She hasn’t used her original style in a long time.  For a brief instant she fears she won’t be able to reproduce it perfectly. It’s been years after all. Maybe she had forgotten it like one forgets a language if he doesn’t practise it enough.  Her body, however, is quick to reassure her. It moves and soon she’s going through all the techniques she had first learnt. No obstacle here to hinder her. 

When she stops, the boy is gaping at her.  “Could- Could you do it again?” His entire frame is shaking with excitement. Something which suits him better than his usual anxiety. 

She glares at him.  “Where are your manners?” 

“Please, Madam Yu !” He bows.  She sighs but indulges him. He asks her to demonstrate twice more and then almost begs her to give him back the sword. 

She does and then watches. The boy inhales and exhales, she watches as the muscles under his uniform tighten.  And then he starts moving.  His movements are clumsy but it doesn’t hide the control he has over his own body. They are precise and controled almost calculated. There is a bud of elegance. Nothing too obvious. Yet. But she can still see it.  When he is done, the boy still doesn’t say anything. Only smile until his mouth almost splits his face. 

“Not too bad.” She concludes.  

He jolts and once again, those two grey orbs are back on her. The fear has left, only warmth remains. At this moment, she understands she made the right choice.  She can’t make those parasites stop making fun of her family. Even if she tries, they’ll soon another reason to make fun of her. They always do. Stabbing water would be more productive. 

However, this fragile connection she has just created? This she can work with. She won’t allow them to turn her into the cruel woman they portray her as. Never. 

Better to stand with another of their victims than to also turn against him. Yu Ziyuan is proud but not stupid. What good would it do to spend her rage on such a young kid?  “Well? What are you waiting for? Do it again, Wei Ying.”

[canumoveurseatup-no]

In the Dark (Myself pt.4)

Summary: You and Stephen were now going strong and you couldn’t be happier. Stephen meets up with Steve and they exchange a few words.

Pairing: Stephen Strange x Black!Reader; Steve Rogers x Black!Reader

WC: 3.5k

Warnings: uhm, angst? dark stuff!!! Reader and Steve’s relationship is based off of a toxic situationship I had (Steve’s own dialogue and point of view is based off the other person’s words to me/about me, etc) and like I’ve said in the other parts, I write to cope, especially since this person has tried to come back in my life.

A/N: Glad you guys are still into this series. If you like this, please leave verbal feedback and reblog :)

----------

“He told you he loved you?!,” Mel almost dropped the dirty cups of coffee, “While he was deep in it?,”

“Jesus, Melanie. Why do you always have to phrase things like that?,” you grimaced at her. 

“Y/N. You should know by now that I’m the blunt friend with no filter,” she looks at you and purses her lips, “Anyway, did you say it back?,” 

“N-no,” you give a customer their pie with a complimentary cup of coffee and tell them to enjoy before turning back to her.

“Now that’s what I like to call ‘fucking yikes’“ she widened her eyes, “That’s like him proposing and you saying no,” 

“You just love to blow things out of proportion don’t you?,” you roll your eyes and grab yourself a cookie from the case, “He was totally fine with me not saying it. He told me I don’t have to rush it, looking at my history of love... he said it didn’t matter if I said it in that moment because he just wanted me to know that he loved me,”

“Don’t you think it’s a little early to be saying the ‘L’ word?,” she squints at you, 

“Were you not just low key guilt tripping me for not saying it back? You’re like a Sudoku puzzle, can never figure them out and I hate them,” 

She laughed at you and softly punched you shoulder, “I just like to come at you with different arguments to see how you think. I’m like a mind game, just like Sudoku, baby,”

You huff and spin around in your skates, hand on your hips as you stared at her, “My reply to your question would be..,” you thought about it for a bit, “You can fall in love as fast as you want. There are no rules and your love isn’t any less valid because it came fast,” 

“I love keeping you on your toes,” she patted your cheek and pointed to the door, “Your bodyguard will be the one picking you up today,”

You turned to the door and saw Wong coming up to the counter, “Where is Stephen? I mean, not that I don’t like walking home with you it’s just-,”

“Y/N, you’re fine,” Wong laughed at you, “He said he had some business to take care of some business and didn’t want you to have to call a cab or walk alone so he summoned me,”

“You’re not some demon, Wong,” you laugh at his choice of words and he smiled at you with those cute chubby cheeks of his.

“My shift will be ending in about 15. We have that crumb cake you love so much so I’ll cut you some slices before we leave,”

————

Steve sat on the couch in his therapist’s office and all that raced on his mind was ways to get you back. That night at Tony’s party had lit a fuse in him when he saw you. Everything he had worked for to fix had shattered when he saw you in that forest green dress. When you were with him, you hated that color. He realized his actions weren’t the best but he felt you were so stubborn and were too blind to see he loved you. You were it for him and he was it for you.

He would not let all those plans you two had be thrown away just because you felt he wasn’t treating you right. He did everything he could for you. He took you out when he asked, he cooked for you when you had a rough day at work, he would love all on you when you were feeling bad about yourself. He spoke loving words, that built you up. He called it tough love, but it was to build you up but maybe you were too weak to see that. 

Maybe he was too sturdy for you?

You just complained too much. You would bitch and moan about how you were feeling but you just wouldn’t understand that some things you had to keep to yourself. Just because you talk about things doesn’t change the fact that those problems were still there. You never knew how to just take it as it is, shut up and move on.

But Steve loved you despite that and he always told you so, you were just blind and selfish. 

Tony chewed his ear out that night. He had made a big scene and heard what he was saying to you. Tony knew Steve could be manipulative, but not like that. Tony saw the fear in your eyes as you screamed back at Steve at the top of your lungs.

“You don’t know anything about love,” Steve scoffed as his mind replayed your words. If anyone knew about love it was him. He had lost Peggy and he would do everything in his power to keep from losing you. That’s why he treated you the way he did, so well and caring. He reached to the ends of the Earth for you but you were just ungrateful. 

“Those plans are gone, the old us is gone,”

What you didn’t know is that those plans would never be thrown away. He would win you back. 

“Steve, some things just aren’t meant to be. Not everything will last like you want it to. Is this because you lost Pe-,”

“Don’t you bring her up. This has nothing to do with her!,” she clenched his fists and glared at his therapist.

“I’m just saying, I think you’re internalizing a lot of what you had with her and now you’re trying to force the same thing with Y/N, which in turn became toxic because you later became obsessed with keeping her. Despite her clearly being unhappy,”

“Oh please,” Steve chuckled, “She wasn’t unhappy. She just wanted attention. She was ungrateful and selfish. I did all I could to make her happy. I always came home to her, I gave her everything she wanted. I built her up,”

“If I remember, long ago when you first started coming here.. you explained that the fight that probably tipped the scale was the one where you called her..,” the therapist flipped through the notepad of notes, from the plenty of visits Steve made, “The human embodiment of an aneurysm,” The doctor looked at Steve expectantly but he just shrugged his shoulders.

“She just makes me.. angry!,” he wiped a hand over his face, “You think someone would get sick of complaining but she just never did!,” his voice rose.

“I love her so much but she was overwhelming. Her poor mental health fucked with mine,”

“Maybe it’s because you didn’t know how to properly listen to her. Maybe because you weren’t sure how to properly love her. You assume everyone would have their bearings together like Margaret... but times have changed, Steve. There are a lot of factors that have changed over time to affect a person and their mental state. At least Y/N was willing to admit she had bad moments and was working on it. You on the other hand are not willing to take responsibility for your selfishness and actions. Y/N always sat with you and listened to you talk about what had happened with you during a mission, or a day of training recruits. What did you do for her besides project the idea that you were there for her?,”

Steve scowled and cursed his therapist out, “You don’t know shit,”

“Maybe not,” shrugging and clicking the pen, “I only know what you tell me and what you simply tell me does not always paint you in the best light, Mr. Rogers,”

Steve laughed bitterly and stood up, grabbing his coat, “I don’t need this. I don’t need you guilt tripping me, I need you to tell me ways I can get my girl back!,”

“I’m not guilt tripping you, Steve. I’m reading you and simply giving you the results. I can’t tell you how to get her back. That’s not what these meetings are. These meetings are to help you cope and move on but you’re stuck. This isn’t martial counseling, this isn’t a matchmaker service. This is therapy to help you realize that some things just need to die in the dark,” 

Most of their sessions ended like this. His therapist would tell him the unwanted truth and e would storm off getting angry because that’s not what he wanted to hear. He wanted his Y/N, not some stupid advice about his past actions.

But what he didn’t realize was that “stupid” advice about his past actions was the one thing he needed to help him check himself so that even if he didn’t get you back, he could at least be in your good graces and move on and be healthy for the next.

------------

Steve walked to his car and the night breeze blew across his face. He preferred nights because less people were around which meant less people to recognize him and be in his business.

He heard the beep of the car unlocking and before he could get his hand on the handle he heard a deep voice behind him, 

“Steve Rogers,”

He turned around and saw the same pretentious asshole that took his girl from him.

“Not sure what you’re doing around these parts but it’s not safe for a rich, pretty boy doctor like you,” Steve clenched his jaw

“I think I can handle myself just fine,” Stephen stepped forward and smirked, his cape moving in a motion that made it seem like it was waving to Steve.

“What do you want?,” Steve rolled his eyes and clenched his fists, getting ready to fight if it came to it.

“I just wanted to suggest that you stop trying to get Y/N back. If you truly love her you’ll stay away and I’m not asking... or really suggesting at all to be quite honest,” Stephen shrugged and gauged Steve’s reaction.

“I’m not going to do that because I love her. She is my girl. You just so happened to be begging for thread,”

Stephen chuckled at Steve, “That would seem to be more your style since you’re driving yourself mad trying to get someone back who doesn’t want anything to do with you. Especially after that stunt you pulled back at Tony’s last month,”

“Listen. why don’t you go crawl back into whatever sci-fi romance novel you poofed out of and let Y/N and I move on, huh,”

Stephen looked at his watch and noticed the time. You should be getting home any minute and he at least wanted to greet you.

“I don’t have the time to argue with you, you off brand G.I Joe. So, just stay away from Y/N and we’ll be square. If not, well I don’t think you’ll want to find out,”

Before Steve could open his mouth all the way to reply, Stephen was gone. Steve almost rips his car door off trying to get inside. He slams the door and starts banging on the steering will while shouting angrily,

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!,” His face reddened and he was practically blowing smoke out of his nose and ears.

There was no way he was going to let someone like Stephen keep him from winning you back.

--------------

Stephen had transported himself back to the house with fresh take out. It was “Takeout Tuesdays” where you two sat on the couch and watched reruns of Modern Family while you ate your food and drank your wine. It was pretty much a weekly holiday for you guys and he would never want to miss it. 

He quickly changed his clothes and when you and Wong walk through the front door, he’s walking out of the kitchen carrying your take out trays.

“Stephen!,” you rush to him and help him set the food down on the table before wrapping your arms around his neck and kissing him. You had just seen him this morning, but after a long day, you were relieved to see him.

“Hey, sweetheart. Thanks again, Wong. Ran into some trouble at the hospital and had to help a rookie with a recovering patient,” Stephen didn’t want to lie, he never lied to you and didn’t want to start now but he had to do it to keep you safe.

“Oh, it’s okay. Plus I compensated for you by giving Wong free crumb cake,” You looked over your shoulder and saw him walk away with his plate and peeling back the aluminium foil to take a piece out and start munching on it.

Stephen helped you take of your jacket and skates before sitting you down to relax, “Be right back,” he holds up an finger and runs into the kitchen, not even thirty seconds late he’s coming out with two wine glasses and a nice bottle of cheap risata pink moscato. You were never one for the expensive ones, you like to keep things simple and just because it was cheaper, didn’t mean it was bad. 

He opened the glass and poured you a glass, handing it to you as well as your tray of food. He sat beside beside you and poured himself a class, sitting back with his food in lap, finally resting beside you and enjoying your presence.

“How was your day?,” he questioned.

“Long. This asshole came him early as hell, guess he was hungover and just had theeeee worst, piss poor attitude ever. Was just disgusting and you wanna know what he did?,” you turned to him and scooped some food into your mouth,

“What’d he do, baby?,” Stephen arched a brow and took a sip of his wine

“So get this... he orders a black coffee, hot, and a side of eggs. He barely ate the damn eggs and drank a third of the coffee, so when it’s time to pay, I tell him it was 3.52 I have my hand out and he puts the change in the steaming cup of coffee and the three dollars? smothers them in the eggs, Stephen!,” you yell exasperated.

“How do you deal with ingrates like that?,” Stephen frowned, thoroughly bothered that you endure stuff like that on a daily basis.

“Not sure. At first the stress would never end, even when I clocked out and went home, for reasons you know. But now... now I have the best thing to come home to, better yet, it comes to me before I even clock out for the night,” you lean over nudge him, smiling bashfully and he just looks at you up and down before leaning in to kiss you.

“Y/N Y/L/N. You never cease to make me fall deeper in love with you,” 

You felt you face heat up and your cheeks hurt from smiling so hard, “You’re the best thing to come into my life,” you whisper.

He knew you weren’t comfortable to say those three words yet, so you took it upon yourself to find other ways to say it, and he was beyond okay with it because he knew what lied behind the words you said in place of what you truly wanted.

------

Throughout the next few weeks, things have been calm and peaceful at the diner. Mel had called out sick so it just left you to serve all day long. Hank and Finn were the only others but they were the cooks so they couldn’t be much help when your lunch rush came. 

You still had a few hours left before it was time to close down and clock out. It was around this time that not many people came in because of how late it was getting. It was 10 on weekday so you always expect it to be deserted and have maybe one passerby come through for a donut and coffee or a piece of pie. 

“We’re taking our break, smiley!,” Hank called from the kitchen. Your smile beamed at him as you nodded. The staff and the regulars came up with the nickname smiley simply because you’re always smiling at work, even when the shitty customers would come in.

“All right, take your time, I’m gonna start cleaning up in here,” you called back. You were given a simple okay from Finn and Hank and the back door slammed shut. You skated around the diner sweeping and cleaning the tables. You put the dishes in the kitchen for Finn to wash and you went back to the front. 

You had your back to the door as you counted your tip from today and you heard the bell of the front door open, “I’ll be right with you,” you called over your shoulder not really looking at the customer. You heard them scoot into a chair at the bar and sit patiently. Once you were finished counting your tip, you put it in your purse and got your notepad out, in case this person wanted something too big for you to remember. 

Spinning around in your skates, you click your pen still looking at the notepad, “Hi, I’m Y/N, how may I he-,”

You lifted your head up to see the man and you audibly gasped, dropping your notepad and pen.

“As much as I’d love a cup of coffee, that’s not exactly what I need,” Steve tapped his finger on the counter.

You couldn’t even breathe, you couldn’t move, you were frozen. 

“How you been?,” he reaches into the donut case and takes one out and plating it, breaking a piece off and eating it, “Don’t act so speechless now, sunshine. You could never seem to shut up when we were together,” he laughs to himself before clearing his throat, “Sorry, that’s not why I’m here. I’m not here to yell o-or anything,”

“So why are you here?,” you finally spoke and slowly started to move backwards to your bag to grab you phone and call Stephen in an SOS.

“Why else would I be here? I want my best girl back,” his smile is wicked and nauseating. 

You reach towards your back and Steve slams his fists on the counter, scaring you, “I wouldn’t do that if I were you... Smiley,”

“HANK! FINN!!,” You shout but Steve lets out a heart laugh.

“Oh, they’re out cold, it’s just us,” he shakes his head and takes another piece of the donut, popping it in his mouth.

“Steve, don’t do this,” you grit through your teeth. You would not cry. Not in this moment, not in front of him. You would not let him have that power over you anymore, “Just let me go,”

“Only way you’re leaving is if you leave with me. That’s the only option and you can either leave willingly or I knock you out and take you with me. I’m really not in the mood to fight against you so, let’s just go, yeah?,” he gets up and you could run out the back if you were quick. He’d have to jump over the counter and by that time you’d already be at the back door, pushing it open. Once he turns his back to leave you make a run for it but you, just that easily, forget you’re wearing skates. You could have used that to our advantage anyway but no, you fucked up and slipped on your ass, hitting your head in the process.

Steve kept his back to you and sighed shaking his head, “I told you, Smiley,” he comes around the counter and squats right in front of you, picking your head up to make sure you look him in the eyes, “We’re gonna go now, okay?,” 

“Steve, no,” you grunt but he already had his hands around your throat. You claw at his hands and kick your feet to try and get him off of you but you were clearly losing. Your vision starts to blur and you’re gasping harder for air, but to no avail it doesn’t work.

“It’s okay, we’re going home,” is the last thing you hear from him before you’re out cold.

And left alone in the dark.

------------

Stephen was just getting ready to leave to pick you up when his phone rang. He looked at the caller ID and rolled his eyes, wondering what trouble he’d gotten himself into this time to need his help.

“Yes, Tony?,”

“Stephen,”

“Pepper?,” Stephen frowns and wonders why it’s Pepper on the other line, “You don’t sound so good, is everything okay?,”

“You need to get down to the diner, like now,” her tone is rushed and frantic

“I’m on my way now, has something happened?,”

“Stephen, Y/N’s gone. Her stuff is still here but she’s just gone!,” she panted, “Her coworkers were found knocked out in the back of the diner by Peter when he was doing his town rounds and Peter called Tony, Tony called the cops and now we don’t know what to do!,”

-----------

Cliffhanger 0_0 

If you enjoyed this part, please leave verbal feedback and reblog, thank yoou!]

All tags were not able to be put because the list for this one is so long so I will put the rest in the comments!

Tags- @chonisberonica @majikmelanin @mbaku-babygirl @definethatpotato @queen-of-the-jabari @grey-junior @just4muggles @misstoryunfolded @bartonsbowandarrow @sgtevanstan @thebesteleganttrashyouseen @marveldivergentouatdctvfangirl @lovely-leigh @valynsia @chaddaddybose @motivation-idontknowher @succulentsareprettycool @babybubastis @catzspaceships @cliffordasparagus @vozit @amethyst-dreams-and-candy-canes @blowmymbackout @scarletlingeries @mirajanestrauss1999 @michaels-endtime @majessticfandomcollection @shannonr2003 @yournonlocalpoc @hold-me-like-a-heart-beat @spideys-wife @mokacoconut

[triscribe]

The Understudies

Someday, this will be a comicbook series, but in the meantime I’ve decided to try my hand at writing it as a novel:

“GET OFF THE ROOF!”

Flames roar as three teenagers bolt away from collapsing concrete, pushing every muscle to make it to the edge of open night. Four more kids six stories below focus on dragging unconscious thugs away from the burning building, while overhead, a boy tangled in a wire mesh net whacks at the drone keeping him airborne with a broken bo staff.

Pause.

Rewind three weeks.

Two women in a high rise office argue with one another.

“This idea is preposterous, and I will have no part in it.”

“I don’t want you to have a part in it, Dawson, I want your kid - more specifically, I want to put her in charge.”

There’s a heavy pause, as the other stares at her. “Are you serious?”

“Yes! Ye gods, woman, you know I how little I enjoy talking to you, we wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t absolutely serious about this!”

Pause again.

Rewind six years.

A girl opens her eyes, and doesn’t recognize the woman leaning over her. She yelps, and tries to scramble away, only to stop with a hiss when she puts weight on her bandaged arm. “Who- where- what’s going on?”

“Easy, Tiffany. Don’t go aggravating your injuries.” The woman smoothes a hand over her unwashed hair, causing the girl to blink in bewilderment. “What’s the last thing you remember?”

“I- I don’t-” Face scrunching up, she thinks as hard as she can - but nothing comes to mind. “I can’t remember- I can’t remember anything-!”

“Shh, it’s okay, you’re alright - we can handle this.” Arms wrap around her, gently pulling the girl into a stiff hug. Her nose breathes in the woman’s scent, but it brings her no comfort. “Your name is Tiffany Dawson. You’re twelve years old, and you live with me, your mother, Mary Dawson.”

The woman pulls back enough to let their eyes meet, smoothing her thumbs over the girl’s cheeks. “You were in an accident, but everything’s alright now. You are alright now. I promise.”

Pause one more time.

Rewind seven and a bit decades, to the end of a war, and the beginning of an era. People made wiser by their predecessors’ failures are putting together a new organization, a gathering of United Nations, to give the governments of the world a proper platform for peacefully settling their needs and differences.

At the same time, the super-powered community is establishing something similar.

Ranks of representatives from all seven continents are established, with members specializing in criminal investigations and arrests, humanitarian aid and disaster relief, scientific study and social relations. They arrange themselves in such a way to foster communication and cooperation across borders, to detain those who normal governments cannot hold, to aid those who normal charities cannot assist. Year by year, centers and outreach posts appear in more and more communities, providing opportunity for the average super-powered person.

Various languages coin their own terms, of course, but the general title is “anota” - from the Greek anoteros, meaning superior. As for the organization itself, some intrepid soul creates the name GLACIER - the Global League of Anota Citizens and Institution of Emergency Response.

Some applaud it. Some despise it. Some seek to topple it, and others to rise within its ranks. A few attempt to manipulate it for their own purposes, and are ruthlessly shut down. There are those claim it does too much, while their opponents argue too little.

Growing numbers suggest the minimum age requirement for hire should be lower than the official twenty-one years, hence a new project being proposed in the early two thousands, worked and re-worked over a decade until the parameters are agreed upon by multiple oversight committees across all continents.

At that point, the woman placed in charge of the American test group is given permission to seek out suitable candidates. She makes a list; pares it down once, twice, three times. Argues over her allowed age range, what incentives can be offered to encourage acceptance, when and where the project is to take place, for what duration, with what difficulties.

Finally, at the start of summer, several months later, she gets her green light to proceed. And begins by calling a coworker she doesn’t much care for into her office.

Said woman stares at her in naked bewilderment. “Teenage superheroes? Don’t be ridiculous.”

“An introduction to crimefighting is just one aspect, High Guard,” Dynata tells her. “There will also be infiltration and investigation, rescue operations, wilderness and urban tracking, emergency response-”

“Teenage superheroes,” the other woman repeats, this time flatly instead of incredulous. “Unbelievable.”

“People have been saying for years we ought to consider dropping the hiring age limit-”

“We want Glacier members old enough to have gotten through college, woman, not children who’re barely out of high school!”

Dynata decides not to mention that one of her top picks for the initial testing group was in fact a fifteen year old still in the tenth grade. “Our recruitment numbers are dropping, High Guard, while the juvenile halls keep filling up with kids who just didn’t have constructive outlets for their anota abilities. This is about changing that, giving them career opportunities.”

“In the guise of a summer camp program.”

“To put it simply, yes. Maybe even a boarding school set-up, if we can get the teachers and government approval for it.”

High Guard’s expression slowly morphs through various emotions, none of them positive. “This idea is preposterous, and I will have no part in it.”

Dynata groans. “I don’t want you to have a part in it, I want your kid - more specifically, I want to put her in charge.”

There’s a heavy pause, as the other stares at her. “Are you serious?”

“Yes! Ye gods, woman, you know I how little I enjoy talking to you, we wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t absolutely serious about this!” Annoyed at getting side-tracked, Dynata scrubs a hand across her weathered face. “Look, I know your daughter just graduated her homeschool program - congratulations, by the way - and I’m betting you were planning on keeping her busy training until she hits twenty-one. Why not have the kid join this? Pass on to others some of the skills you’ve taught her? Gain some practical experience and a boost to her admission application?”

That last bit catches High Guard’s attention, her eyes narrowing. “What sort of a boost?”

“The sort that could fast-track her to a leadership position after her initial probationary period.”

They stare one another down for a long moment, Dynata bare-faced, High Guard through her mask, until the latter finally dips her head in acceptance. “Scheduling?”

“Four days here, three days off. Practical instruction, regular work-outs, written quizzes to monitor improvements in knowledge and thought-process. Parents and other guardians receive updates every two weeks throughout the three month program.”

“...that’s acceptable. I expect to be able to observe in person as well, however.”

“I’ll allow it on occasion, because of your rank, but for the most part we want to keep the participants focused without interference from family.” Dynata picks up a folder to hand over her desk. “These are the security precautions we’ve already established; any input you see fit to give would be appreciated.”

The other woman gives it a cursory glance. “I’ll send you detailed notes by this evening. What else?”

“She’ll need to bring her own downtime clothes and toiletries, but we’ll provide uniforms, workout gear, and any additional items Tiffany requests.”

“We have our own weapons she trains with. I’ll send them along as well.”

Nodding, Dynata offers her a smile. “Of course, all of this is a moot point if the kid herself doesn’t feel comfortable participating-”

“Comfort isn’t a guarantee in crimefighting,” High Guard snorts, rising to her feet. “She’ll participate.”

Dynata nods again, forcefully keeping her smile in place. “I look forward to seeing her on the twelfth, then. Specifics of where and when will be sent to you.” She doesn’t bother with any farewells as the other hero sweeps out of the office, and slumps in her seat as soon as the door clicks shut. “Ye gods, I cannot stand that woman.”

After a moment, she straightens back up, and flips open another file. Within is a list of her first eight candidates, with Tiffany Dawson at the very top. A somber-faced girl, with short blonde hair cut in the same practical style as her mother and eyes that seemed far too grim for someone her age. “I’ve done what I can, kid. Let’s hope you manage to make something of this.” Dynata’s gaze travels down the page, taking in the rest of her chosen Understudies. “Let’s hope you all do.”

[magic-owl]

i wish these had numbers to not take up room but alas: what is your absolute favorite ship? what’s a ship you like that most people don’t? what is the most underrated ship, in your opinion? (choose any of your fave pairings for the following bc I'm curious about all your faves) rate [pairing] from 1-10 and explain why. what’s your favorite headcanon of [pairing]? what’s your favorite canon moment of [pairing]? favorite AU ideas for [pairing]? what song(s) remind you of [pairing]?

Thank you my dear! You are my Star Wars Friend so I’ll keep it SW focused (if you wanted to ask this to solely find out what else I liked BESIDES SW sorry lol just let me know and I can redo it). This got long because turns out I have a lot to say about my ships so answers under the cut!!! xD

Absolute favorite ship: This one’s kinda hard but I’m gonna have to go with Obi Wan/Anakin! I also like them a lot as a trio with Padmé, but overall I gotta say these two are just my faves? Why? Because they are such a M E S S and gosh I just love them so much. Ppl say they don’t like each other very much but come on, have you watched the TCW, have you watched RotS, they’re the greatest team there ever was, they’re constantly fretting and worrying about each other, they’re always teasing (the constant banter omg boys pls) at each other and hyping the other up and believing in each other and Ahsoka literally calls them her adoptive guardians in the Ahsoka novel, that’s how much of a family they were and ugh they’re just so married. And they’re such a TRAGEDY and it breaks my heart and it’s delicious to watch because in the final fight it’s just heartbreaking betrayal because through it all they love each other so much and that’s WHY they’re so furious with each other because to them it feels like the ultimate betrayal. Even after (when after everything, Obi Wan still loved Anakin too much to kill him himself) they’re constantly on the other’s mind, and ugh the pain hurts but in such a good way, and how in the end Anakin did the right thing and Obi Wan was RIGHT THERE to help guide him back to the light in spirit and now they can rest happily together for eternity (with some spare stressing about, ya know, Kylo Ren and the impending return of Sidious, but never mind all that). and on top of that, it’s my fave because I also absolutely love their relationship platonically as well, as much as I LIKE to see them together, it’s not necessary for me because they have such an enjoyable dynamic. *coughs* Sorry, so yea, they’re my disaster faves! 😅

A ship I like that most people don’t: See above lol. I get aspects of the Obikin ship can be problematic in the whole power dynamic and age difference thing, but I’ve only ever shipped it after Anakin was knighted as an adult when there’s literally not a problem with it (it was weird for me because I watched the prequels totally out of order. I actually saw the TCW cartoon FIRST and then I saw RotS and then I didn’t watch the first two for a while after that because I was a fool and listened to prequel bashers who said the first two weren’t good, so when I started shipping them as adults that was all I saw them as). To be honest, for the most part the PT fandom is done with the drama since ya know, like a good half of the SW general fandom still hates us, so no one’s really vocal about not liking it and our shipping community is mostly left to ourselves, but every once in a while I’ll come across a joke post/fanart of the two and OP will be all snarky in the notes like “tag as a ship and I’ll come after you with my spiked bat” (someone’s exact words btw) and it’s like ok jeez, do not interact then, was minding my own business dude...

My most underrated ship: Hmmmm....... Gonna have to go between Luke/Ezra and Satine/Padmé. Skybridger I understand since they’ve literally never met in canon, but come ON, they’d get along like a house on fire and argh they should have met, it would be great. I honestly don’t get why Pads and Satine aren’t more of a thing (THEY DON’T EVEN HAVE AN OFFICIAL SHIPNAME ;_; ) cuz c’mon they’re the subtler explosive yin to Obi and Ani’s wildfire yang. They get along great and work together really well, and they both seem to have a type. I am doing them a little better in my new OT4 fic, and I hope ppl like it!!! Ya know what, I’m also gonna add Kaeden (cute girl from the Ahsoka novel!) and Ahsoka because even if a lot of ppl actually ship them, they hardly have any content and neED MORE DANGIT THEY WERE SO CUTE!!!!!!!

Gonna go with Obikin for all the following ones cuz I haven’t had the chance to gush about my boys in a while and you’ve opened Pandora’s box

Rate them from 1-10: 10, plus a hundred more points because I love them, then subtract that hundred again cuz Anakin is an gotdang idiot who ruined it and now they both make me cry. My scoring reasons are that they make me feel all the emotions and I love them Ever So Much and argh.

Fave headcanon: Oh boy, I’ve got a couple actually!

Whenever they’re talking/arguing over the phone, they’re always subconsciously mirroring each other’s actions even when they can’t see what the other is doing. It’s kinda creepy because you’ll hear yelling and it’ll look like one of them’s talking to an invisible person in front of them when it’s actually each other.

There has been multiple instances of them both getting injured in battle because they were distracted watching the other be a total badass (not that either will admit it)

Neither of them are morning people. AT ALL. Obi Wan actually has self-discipline and is able to get up with an alarm and crankily drag them both up, but both are almost impossible to deal with until they’ve had caffeine in them, and it’s been established that unless you want to risk murder, neither of them talks in the morning until caffeine has been provided.

There has been many, many cases of accidentally taking the other’s robe and not realizing it but thinking to themselves that said robe feels more comforting than usual today.

A mutually drunken arm wrestling match absolutely turned into a mutually drunken makeout once. Neither can remember it, and they wonder why some of the clones have been acting funny all week.

Half of the Temple thinks they’re already dating.

Ok I’ll stop it here

Fave Canon Moment: Ughhh, this is HARD. I really like the “any closer and you’d be kissing it” line in TCW, basically any moment in TCW when one of them refers to Ahsoka as “OUR padawan”, the extra long stares and unnecessary touches they give each other in TCW, the elevator scene in RotS movie (THE NOVEL MAKES IT A MILLION TIMES BETTER), also in RotS the way Anakin is half-ready to straight up fight Palpatine when he suggests leaving Obi Wan behind to die, the RotS “No loose wire jokes” bit, the RotS “Roger. Roger.” bit (OKAY JUST THE WHOLE FIRST HALF OF THIS RIDICULOUS MOVIE), the way Vader built his big stupid castle where they had their breakup, the way he’s constantly mentioning Obi Wan when the convo wasn’t even about him, seeing them together again at the end of RotJ (whoops you asked for one, you get MANY SCENES)

Fave AU ideas: Again, there’s a couple!

Superpower AU: Can’t decide whether I’d put this in canon or modern. Most powers in this AU are stolen from inspired by X-Men, DC, and other popular media, so I’m torn between Anakin having Jean Grey/Dark Phoenix style powers while Obi Wan had a variation on Rogue’s with additional energy manipulation. OR it would be a thing where Anakin could commune with the dead a la Klaus from Umbrella Academy while Obes had sort of Avatar-style wind/flight powers. (Both are relevant for different plots).

Sith AU: I know these are far from unpopular in the SW fandom, but the way I’d do it would be to try and write two stories at once, update one every other week so one update a week total. The stories would what would happen if either of them became the Sith Apprentice after the events of Episode 1, and how their dynamic would be during Ep 2 and The Clone Wars with one of them on the other side. It’s funny because the way I’ve plotted it, the Sith!Ani fic would have very big Good Omens vibes, while the Sith!Obi one would have very strong Under the Red Hood vibes, so two VERY different dynamics going on xD

WWII Spies: This is one I 100% plan to write someday, even tho it is a very long time from now. It’s basically following Anakin as an American naval pilot who got injured in a crash and discharged. He still wants to serve and eventually his talent gets him into the intelligence end of the war and sent to Europe where he meets Ben, who’s been working with British intelligence since it broke out, and sparks fly. I’m kind of cheating here cuz as of now this is an Obianidala story, not just Obikin, but it’s one I’m very excited for

Phantom of the Opera AU: This idea I had when I realized that Anakin as Vader is kinda a Lot like the Phantom, but he’s also a Lot like Christine too. So it turned into Anakin as a talented ballet dancer getting preyed on by Palpatine!Phantom (there is NO romance there, Palpy is a total creep and will be treated as such) with Obi Wan as a combination of Raoul and Madame Gery and I have a bunch of ideas and idk if it’s gonna be an actual thing, but I want it to.

Shapeshifter AU: Canon, not very complicated but they can all shift into animals. Obi Wan is a kind of cougar panther cat with a fluffy ginger tail, and Anakin is a big grumpy black Krayt Dragon with a stump for a front leg.

Not A Jedi!AU: One in canon in which set like the Sith!AU, two different stories exploring how their dynamic would be if one of them wasn’t found by the Order. As of now, I’ve got Anakin as the warrior pirate prince of Tatooine, after having grown up and staged a slave rebellion, then promptly put his mother on the throne, and Obi Wan’s there to negotiate something during TCW and things happen. For the Obi Wan one, he’s a political journalist and war correspondent who keeps on running into Anakin’s assignments and popping up where he’s stationed and Anakin has to keep this idiot from getting himself killed/stop asking me annoying questions that criticize the Jedi and the government.

Dark!AU: A kind of morbid canon divergent fic where Padmé dies early and unexpectedly (Palps didn’t plan it). Anakin goes off the rails and Obi Wan agrees to go with him on a murder vengeance roadtrip to try and keep him from Falling or the Sith from getting to him. He kinda fails and they both Fall in a way and it ends with them hunting down Sidious’ players one by one. I’m not entirely sure I want to continue with this tho because it plays strongly on the Fridged Woman trope, which I can’t stand. I’d have to figure out how to give Padmé some sort of active role after her death...

Songs to describe them: There’s a couple (I could have very well gone cranky but I decided to do (mostly) serious))(also my music taste kinda stinks)

Icarus— Bastille

Anna Sun— WALK THE MOON

Animal I Have Become— Acoustic cover by Vitamin String Quartet (original by Three Days Grace) (seriously y’all listen it’s sooooo gooooood)

Warriors— Imagine Dragons

My Demons— STARSET

Ignorance— Paramore

Set Fire to the Rain— Adele

Stubborn Love— The Lumineers

How to Save A Life— The Fray (yes i am aware it is stereotypical angst song leave me Alone it FITS)

Viva la Vida— Coldplay (tbh this fits like the entire PT but I liked it)

Raised by Wolves— U2 (another more PT-centric, but this one works dangit)

Bonus Broadway Song! : Confrontation from Les Miserables (now that ya think of it, that would be a pretty good AU too.....)

Bonus Broadway Song! : The Tango Maureen from Rent (I always imagined this one as Obi Wan and Padmé about Anakin, but it would be about something other than cheating cuz canon has established Anakin views cheating as a worse crime than murder, so yea)

Bonus Broadway Song! : Anything You Can Do I Can Do Better (aight this one’s mostly a joke but come ON don’t tell me that’s not completely them xD)

[floral-and-fine]

Last Song part 1

Spiderman Noir x female reader

Warnings: lemon and cheating

a/n: I tried my best to write this in a Noir style novel, so it’s kinda dark, no one is really a “good guy” and it’s in his pov. Never really wrote anything like this, not sure how I feel about tbh. But I saw some Spiderman Noir fan art that made me want to write something for him.

Summary: The reader hires Peter Parker Private Investigator to search for her missing husband.

Queens, the city where I was born and raised. A city that has declined into darkness. A city drowning in its own filth, overrun with criminals and scum. From the dark alleyways, all the way to town hall was corruption.

Thunder roared outside my office window and lightning struck lighting up my office for a brief second. In the corner, there was a leak in the roof and there's a low buzz coming from the light fixture above.

I've stayed in this city long enough, but every time I think I can get out, something pulls me back.

I opened the bottom drawer of my desk and fetched the bottle of scotch. There was only about a shot left. I swallowed the last bit and sighed. It wasn't nearly enough.

There's a knock on my door and my secretary, Ms. Stacy, peeks her head in, “Mr. Parker, there's someone here to see you, sir.”

“Let 'em in,” I nod, tossing the empty scotch bottle in the trash.

A lovely woman steps into my office. She was wearing an A-line dress and lace gloves and was tightly clutching a matching handbag. Half of me hopes she hear for a date, but I know better in this kind of work.

I motion for her to take the seat across from me, “What can I do you, Miss-?”

“Y/n,” she answers without missing a beat and settles down. “I need your help, I've got no one else who I could turn to. I heard you’re one of the best private investigators in Queens.”

“Get to the point,” I cut her off.

“It's about my husband,” she starts, her eyes laced with concern.“He's gone missing… the police refuse to get involved, but I know there's something fishy going on.”

“Sure he didn't just run off with some hussy?” I questioned.

“I know my husband,” she argued sternly. “If he had a mistress, he would've had the courtesy to let me know he was leaving me for her.”

I roll my eyes, I've had other cases dealing with missing spouses, they almost always ended with them having a new lover.

“Mind if I?” she asks, removing a pack of cigarettes from her handbag.

I nod and push the ashtray on my desk closer to her. Her hand shakes as she tries to light it.

“Listen, Dollface,” I say, taking out a book of matches from my pocket. “I'm not the good guy you're looking for,” I explained to her, swiping the match against the strip. “I ain't gonna do you or nobody any favors out of the goodness of my heart.”

She leans towards the match I'm holding out for her, and she takes a quick drag and blows. “Money ain't a problem if that's what you’re worried about. Just please find him.”

Missing husband cases never go well. It always leads to unnecessary heartbreak. But if she's willing to pay, I'll keep my mouth shut for now. I got bills to pay after all.

“Fine,” I give in. “I'll take your case.”

I tell her to leave the details with my secretary, and with that, she leaves.

I get ready to head home for the night and to check in with Aunt May. I grab my hat and coat by the door and stop by Stacy's desk to say goodnight.

“So, Whaddya you think, Stac?”

She shrugs, “Think there might be something to it and something that might interest you. Here's what she told me.” Stacy handing me a note.

My eyes narrow when they spot a familiar name, Harry Osborn. So, the broad's missing husband was none other than my old chum.

“Small world,” I mutter bitterly. ...

Aunt May welcomes me home with open arms as soon as I walk in. While she has me near, she explains that my dinner is in the oven.

Not feeling hungry, I thank her and tell her I'll eat it later as I head upstairs instead. I can see that concerned look in her eye she often gives me, but she keeps quiet about it.

Digging through a box of old junk in my room, I find an old photo of Harry and myself, back during our school days. Life seemed so simple back then.

I had become aware of the sort of shady business Harry's father had been a part of shortly after high school.

Norman Osborn may have appeared like a saint in public, but that man had a finger in almost every criminal organization in Queens. It took a lot out of me to bring the Green Goblin down.

However, last I checked, Harry had nothing to do with his father's affiliations. And I hadn't heard anything through the grapevine about a new Green Goblin taking over.

But a lot can change over time and this city has a way of changing people for the worst.

Discarding the picture aside, I run my hand down my face, questioning if I can pursue this case without it taking a personal toll.

...

I started my investigation following Harry's last known activities. I searched for clues while following his footsteps.

Everywhere I went, I came out empty handed. Just when I was at my wit's end, one of Harry's employees mentioned a bar his boss frequented and adds that Harry was on his way there after work. He also warned me that the place was known to serve the shady sort of patrons in town.

The speakeasy wasn't easy to find, had to walk through what seemed like a maze of alleyways before finding the steel door to what appeared to be an abandoned factory.

As I opened the door I was greeted by a waft of thick white smoke. All eyes turned to me, watching me with suspicion. I recognize a few faces, several mobsters and petty criminals.

I approach the bar and ordered a drink. So, this is the place Harry Osborn was last seen. Not a surprise with all these shady characters around.

What the hell had Harry gotten himself into?

I run the scenarios in my head. Did he have a drug problem? Couldn't pay back a loan shark? Became a target for kidnapping?... Or worst-case scenario, Harry had decided to follow in his old man's footsteps.

There's still so much I don't know. I needed more clues and information.

My thoughts come to halt as applause breaks out. Shifting my attention to the stage, a man in tuxedo introduces the entertainment for the evening.  

“Y/n,” I whisper to myself, as the dame sauntered on stage. Apparently, the missus had kept from crucial facts to herself.

She looked even better than she had the other night. The skin-tight satin dress hugged every curve of her body.

She smiles at the crowd as she takes ahold of the mic, and the music starts. It's clear that she's no stranger to the limelight.

I watch mesmerized as she begins to croon a beautiful but sad song. She sings so effortlessly. Song after song, I find that I can't possibly take my eyes off of her.

Y/n looks in my direction, her eyes locking with mine as she coos some pretty words, and with that, her last song comes to an end.

Applause erupts again as she takes a bow and disappears backstage.

I feel my teeth grind and my fists clenched, as I finally come to my senses. She must've known her husband was a regular patron here.

I practically snarl as she slides into the barstool next to me a few minutes later.

“Mad at me?” she jokes playfully seeing the scowl on my face.

I scoff turning my face and finishing my drink. “I don't appreciate getting played.”

“Didn't know you were investigating me,” she shot back.

“Don't play coy, Mrs. Osborn,” I snap. “You hired me to find your husband, and all anyone can tell me was he was last seen here.”

“Mr. Parker,” she barks clearly displeased with my tone. “I'm sure you could understand, that I would want to keep this side of Harry's life private…”

Y/n sighs, crossing her legs and adjusting her dress, there's a faraway look in her eyes, “I'm not even entirely sure what all he was up to… but I'm scared, Mr. Parker, scared that I won't see my Harry again alive.”

My blood is still boiling over her withholding information.

“Might need to get used to the idea,” I say unnecessarily harsh. “You could've helped prevent that.”

She wipes away a stray tear and I regret my words.

“I'm sorry,” I start but she interjects.

“No, you're probably right,” she murmurs with trembling lips. “I need to tell you everything, Mr. Parker.”

We take a taxi back to my office so we can talk behind closed doors. I shut the door and stand back as she leans against my desk.

“When Harry and I first met I was a lounge singer and he had a bright future ahead of him. He was educated, came from a well to do family… I Had no idea how I caught his eye,” she says with a sad smile. “But we were young, in love, and a year or so later we married.”

“Then things really took a turn for the worst after Harry's father passed, and the ugly truth to his father's success came out to the forefront,” she sighs, her shoulders slumping. “The bribes, the scheming, the manipulating… Harry's not cut out for a life of crime… he's been distancing himself from me and keeping secrets.”

“When I try to talk to him, he gets defensive and puts up walls,” y/n rubs her forehead, her emotions getting the better of her. “I'm afraid that even if you do find Harry, Mr. Parker, he won't be the same man I married anymore.”

“I'll get to the bottom of this,” I promise her. “But I don't know if you'll like what I find.”

Y/n glances up at me with those sad eyes. I cup her cheek feeling her warm tears on my hand.

Next thing I know we’re kissing like our lives depended on it. My fingers caress her neck, and my tongue slides across her bottom lip.

Her coat slides off her shoulders, and my mouth kisses and sucks on her newly exposed skin and collarbone.

I scoop her up by her hips and help hoist her up on my desk. I push her dress up and my hands hastily move up her thighs. In a swift motion, I yank her lace panties down.

Neither of our actions would necessarily be considered loving or affectionate. We were caught up in our passion, lust, and overall desperateness to soothe our pain and loneliness.

Her hands fumbled with my shirt and belt. I feel her delicate fingers on my chest.

I know deep down we should stop, that I should be the voice of reason, but my most carnal desires take over. There's only one thing I want right now, and it's to be inside her, to feel her warmth.

Slowly, I push into her cunt, not being able to resist any longer.

Her nails drag across my shoulders as she clings to my body.  She moans, throwing her head back as she takes every inch of my cock. I take this opportunity to sink my teeth into the crook of her neck and gently biting the tender muscle.

I smile against her skin as she tugs on my hair. I teasingly grind deeper into her. Her legs wrap around my hips holding me close.

“Enjoying yourself,” I purr lowly.

She pulls me into another heated kiss and our tongues swirl around passionately.

I can hear the desk rattle as I thrust my hips into her. Slick noises fill the room along with our panting and moans.

Y/n starts getting louder and is in on the verge of screaming as she gets closer to cumming. With a few more rough bucks of my hips, she tenses and her walls squeeze tightly around my cock, milking it for every drop of my seed.

My fingers grip her soft skin tightly as I cum. I rest my forehead on her shoulder, catching my breath.

“Sleep on the couch,” I mutter. “It's not safe to travel alone this time of night.”

She doesn't utter a word as she slides off my desk and lays on the couch. Taking my trench coat in hand, I go over to her and cover her up with it.

When I wake at my desk the next morning, the first thing I notice is the empty couch. Not that I pictured things to go differently. She's a married woman after all.

Yet, a dark part of me hopes that Harry never turns up and that maybe something more can transpire between y/n and me.

…