#anyway i have a cork board now and some hook pins so these will all finally be presentable on my wall soon lol

[thecodeveronica]

one of these things is not like the other, one of these things just doesn't belong

[arcticfox007]

Somewhere to Belong

Bonus! I’m posting this next segment faster than I anticipated because I was really excited about writing it <3

Destiel December Challenge 2020

Day 14: Hot Cocoa

This is a continuation of previous days in the challenge, you can find them on my masterpost or on AO3. Day 15 will technically wrap up the story but depending on how long it goes I may also do an epilogue. 

***

               On the night of Christmas Eve Dean couldn’t sleep. Things had been going so well for him that he’d become convinced it was going too well. Which was, of course, ridiculous, but since when had anything gone the right way for him? He stared at his ceiling trying to will his brain to shut the hell up and let him get some sleep. He told himself that there was absolutely no reason to believe it would all come crashing down. He and Cas had been getting along amazingly well, Sam was happy that Dean was happy, and it was Christmas tomorrow and he was fairly certain his gift to Cas would go over well. He even deviated somewhat from his normal gift for his health freak of a brother because he was feeling the Christmas spirit or whatever. So, yeah, if only his mind wouldn’t keep turning to all the ways tomorrow could go wrong, maybe he’d be awake enough in the morning to enjoy the holiday.

               Ten minutes later Dean knew he wasn’t going to fall asleep anytime soon. He let out a frustrated groan, pulled on warm socks, and added a sweatshirt over the Christmas PJs Charlie had gotten him (yeah, they were ridiculous, but they’d promised Charlie they would wear them, and they were warm and soft so he couldn’t really complain). He begrudgingly made his way to the kitchen, thinking that maybe eating more pie would help him feel better. Sam kept doubting his ability to consume all the pie he and Cas had baked, but Dean was determined to make sure no pie was left behind. He smelled chocolate as he walked into the kitchen and found Cas turning off the stove.

               “I don’t suppose there’s enough for a second cup of whatever smells so amazing?” Dean peers over Castiel’s shoulder having long ago stopped complaining about personal space. Cas smiles softly and starts pouring the hot cocoa as Dean notices there are already two mugs out on the counter. Cas then throws extra marshmallows in Dean’s mug, without Dean even having to ask.

               “I had a feeling you would have trouble sleeping. I know you and Sam haven’t had many happy Christmases.” Dean takes the offered mug from Castiel, a lump forming in his throat as it occurs to him that not only does his angel (and surely there’s no harm in just thinking of Cas as his angel) know him well enough to anticipate that he’d have a hard time sleeping, but he’s also aware enough of how much Dean dislikes the cold seeping into the bunker with all the snow, that he made him a hot drink. With extra marshmallows.

               “Thanks Cas. Want to hang out by the tree?” Cas grabs his own mug and follows Dean out to the couch they had moved by the tree earlier. There’s one blanket tossed over the arm and Cas drapes it over Dean’s shoulders before sitting down himself. The sit in comfortable silence for a few minutes as Cas gazes at the tree and Dean tries to not gaze at Cas. Dean smiles fondly at his mug as he drains the last of the hot chocolate his maybe more than best friend had made for him. Even when he and Cas had fought over the years, even when he’d felt betrayed by Cas, he’d never failed to try and look after Dean. As much as Dean had been furious at the angel over many times over, he also knew that he didn’t have much ground to stand on. In fact, he sometimes worried that Cas had learned a little bit too much about being a Winchester – most of Cas’ mistakes were made in the attempt to protect those he cared about. Most days Dean still wasn’t sure how he could possibly deserve someone like Castiel in his life. Cas really would have gone with him to what he’d thought was his death only a few months back, just so Dean wouldn’t have had to go alone.

               “Dean,” Cas says softly. “Merry Christmas.”

               Dean glances at his watch and notes that it is technically Christmas now.

               “Merry Christmas Cas.” They sit contentedly side by side for a few moments longer. Eventually Dean has an idea. He wasn’t sleeping anyway, so maybe he and Cas could exchange gifts privately now, rather than trying to find time to ditch Sam tomorrow.

               “Hey, Cas. You said you wanted to exchange gifts with just us, right? We could do that now if you wanted.” Dean was somewhat nervous about what Castiel would think of his gift, especially since he’d put so much work into it. Cas’ face lights up at Dean’s suggestion.

               “Yes, if you’re not tired. Can – can you go first though? Mine’s… a bit unorthodox.” Dean was now intensely curious but brushed that feeling aside in favor of the anxious anticipation of giving Cas his present.

               “No problem. It’s not under the tree though, and you need to be quiet so we don’t wake up Sammy.” Dean grabs Cas’ empty mug and drops the dishes off in the kitchen before coming back to drag Cas down the hall towards the living area.

               “Is it in your room?” Cas seemed confused. Dean just laughs softly and pulled him a bit further down the hall. Dean stops in front of one of the doors and opens it up without hitting the light switch. Dean takes a deep breath to calm himself, weaves his finger’s through Cas’, and pulls him into the dark room, closing the door behind them.

               “Hold on, let me find the switch.” Dean fumbles around for a few seconds and then switches on the string lights draped around the room. Cas doesn’t say anything for a long stretch of time, his eyes wide as he takes in the bed with a navy-blue bed set, the giant stuffed bee pillow that Dean thinks is called a pillow pal or something, the used dresser they had dragged out of storage and set up an old boombox on top of, the mismatched mirror and cork board with pins, the desk with the laptop Cas often uses next to a charging station, and the constellation themed throw rug on the floor. The walls had been painted a pale blue and there were two framed posters of what Dean thought were botanical gardens on the wall. The door Dean had closed had a hook on the back, with a soft robe and ridiculous fuzzy bee slippers that Sam had managed to find somewhere.

               “Dean – I – what is all of this?” Cas’ voice is timid as he reaches out to touch the microfiber comforter on the bed.

               ��It’s yours. I know you’ve been camped out in a different room, but I couldn’t set all this up in there without you noticing.”

               “Mine? I… I don’t actually need to sleep or anything.” Dean smiles at his friend and moves over towards the dresser, opening one of the drawers to show off more of the gift to Cas.

               “Sure, none of us need Charlie’s Christmas PJs, but we’re all wearing them anyway. Look, we got you a few changes of clothing if you ever want them. There’s also a wardrobe we can drag up here if you need more than a few hooks for hanging up stuff. The bookshelf by the desk is mostly empty because Sam and I thought you’d want to move your books from the other room. Also, I know you can research in the library but you can also work in here if mine and Sam’s bickering gets to be too much. Um, anyway, I just want you to feel at home, because this is your home as much as it is ours Cas. You always have a place with us. I really hope it helps you to feel like you belong here with us.” Dean’s face had gone a bit red and he cuts himself off before he becomes too incoherent. He’s still a bit nervous but then Cas’ arms are around him before he even realizes that the angel had moved. Cas’ face is buried in Dean’s neck and after the initial shock wears off Dean returns the embrace.

               “Thank you. Thank you, Dean. It’s beautiful.” Cas’ voice is muffled by Dean’s neck but Dean gets the point regardless.

               “I’m really glad you like it. I’m hoping this means you’ll be here with us more often.” Cas nods weakly and then draws back from the hug, looking around the room again with something akin to awe on his face. It’s amazing to Dean that an angel who used to live in Heaven could feel anything like awe while looking at the small room in the bunker, but maybe this is more of a home than Castiel has had in a long time, maybe ever. Dean spends a few more minutes showing Cas everything in the room and offers to help Can move over anything he has stored elsewhere. Cas hugs the bee pillow when he thinks Dean isn’t looking and Dean plays along as if he hadn’t seen. Dean can’t help smiling at how happy he’s made Cas, it makes up for not having realized that Cas was missing this in the first place, at least a little bit.  

               “Thank you again, Dean. I’d like to give you your gift now, if that’s okay.” Cas looks almost shy when he looks up at Dean through his eyelashes while sitting on his new bed. Dean’s breath catches for just a second, Cas’ beauty just hits him like that sometimes.

               “Sure Cas,” Dean says a bit breathlessly, “lead the way.” Dean follows his angel back into the hall thinking that, while he’s sure he will love whatever Cas got him, the best present is knowing that he possibly had helped Cas feel like he really did belong here with him.

***

@galaxycastiel, @jellydeans, @my-favourite-hellatus, @nguyenxtrang

[tommyplum]

- tis the saison | tommy/alfie, modern au  for @boundinshallows’ sholomons prompt fest 2019

Nobody much cares for holiday parties, but everybody's got to go to them nevertheless. Tommy Shelby's no exception, much as he would like to be. .

notes: takes place in the same modern au as eggplant peach question mark - maggie

"Tell me one more time that you don't want to go, Tommy Shelby, and I'll not only send Arthur round to drag you there, I'll buy you a Christmas jumper with mistletoe pinned to the hem and sit back and laugh at the thought of you jumping around the room like a scalded cat trying to avoid being kissed on the cock."

"Christ Almighty, Pol." Tommy rubbed his fingers over his eyebrows, using the heels of his shoes -- currently hooked up on the edge of his desk -- to drag his wheeled office chair forward. "Giving me a little too much credit, aren't you?"

"Giving the other attendees of the liquor board holiday party too little, more like it." Polly's voice sounded amused and warm, even over the tinny speakerphone. "Thomas, you know I usually take on party duties, but it simply can't be helped this year. You're going to have to represent for us. It won't be so bad! How many distributors can you have slept with already?"

Tommy felt it was quite admirable that he had the grace to just let silence stretch between him and speakerphone Polly in answer to that question. Pol, however, didn't seem to share his viewpoint on that.

"Oh, hellfire, Tommy! It's a wonder you get any fucking work done at all, I swear to God."

"Look, I'll go, I'll go. I won't like it, but I'll go." He used his heels to push himself away from the desk, drag himself close again, bony knees accordioning up on each approach as he chewed a thumbnail and mentally totted up the likely suspects he'd be running into over fusion dim sum appetizers and rounds of whatever vodka blended drinks were on the themed menu. "Might even make it out of there unscathed."

"You're a horror." Polly paused, and then said, "--Alfie Solomons is going to be there this year. He said since we were clear that it's a holiday party and not a Christmas party, he felt at peace in his devotions with dipping a toe in the secular festivities. He literally said those words."

Tommy grunted, thumping one shoe down onto the floor. "So what? So he's religious. I've seen you twirl a rosary or two in your time, Aunt Pol."

"Shut it. Don't fuck anybody." 

The dial tone followed this warning, and Tommy ended the call on his desk phone. With Alfie Solomons around being the cock-blocking arsehole he'd more than once proven himself to be, Tommy thought sourly, there wasn't much chance of his even being able to disobey Polly's orders.

---

Hour One of Holiday Representation Hell consisted of two tremendously terrible courgette gyoza, a peach-and-satsuma nightmare of a blended drink, and two elderflower ciders in quick succession to rinse out the taste of both. It also consisted of Tommy smiling and nodding as a number of representatives of small labels that wouldn't see next year paraded themselves past him, pressing flesh and telling him their names with voices of great import. Tommy made jokes that didn't land half the time, but watched them all laugh anyway.

Hour Two of Not-Christmas Carnival of Nonsense saw the introduction of wasabi cheese straws (somehow more tasty than the gyoza, and Tommy had one in his mouth at all times through that hour), another cider, and a few shots of green apple soju. Luca Changretta followed him around for at least twenty minutes trying to sell him on fruit wines, and Tommy finally promised to try his blueberry merlot before hiding in the kitchen for the rest of the hour and feeling up one of the servers through her sensible cotton pants. She ate the rest of his cheese straw and he retreated once the coast was clear.

Hour Three of Whatever It Was, the peach-and-satsuma nightmare had become much more tolerable with the addition of most of a bottle of peach schnapps, and Tommy watched a short parade of those small label representatives conga out the back door. 

"What are they called?"

Tommy blinked, raising his eyebrows as he turned and found Alfie Solomons standing next to him, munching a wasabi cheese straw as if it were a stalk of hay and himself the laziest cow in the pasture. "Pardon? What? What are who called? Make sense, Alfie."

Alfie snickered and nodded at the tail end of the line. "They all gave you their names when you glad-handed them, love, and you looked oh-so-terribly interested in each one. I'll give you five pound and a kiss if you can tell me the name of even one of the poor blighters."

"Why would I bother to remember their names?" Tommy said, irritated, and looked around for where he'd put down his drink. "It's a party. Bad manners to expect proper business at a party. If they had any sense they'd give me business cards."

Tommy spun back towards Alfie, startled to find the man's fingers delving into one of the back pockets of his jeans … and extracting a little sheaf of business cards. "You mean these?" Alfie said, then laughed and pitched them in the air. Tommy made no move to stop him, only groused, "The serving staff won't thank you for that, Mr. Solomons."

Alfie made a noise that Tommy would swear he'd heard a high-fantasy tree make in a movie once, and took Tommy's hand in his own -- warm, surprisingly deft, with a crown tattoo near the thumb that Tommy'd somehow failed to notice before -- and brought it to his lips. For one heart-stopping moment Tommy thought the daft bugger was going to kiss his fingertips, but all Alfie did was brush the very end of his nose above Tommy's fingers and intone, "...and you've already ingratiated yourself to the serving staff from the aroma of it, eh, darling?"

Eyes blazing, Tommy snatched his hand back and rubbed it against his shirt. "Pick those up," he snapped, pointing at the cards scattered on the floor. "Really, Alfie. Some fucking manners."

A low chuckle followed on Tommy's heels as he marched away, in search of a fresh drink and maybe some fresh air. His face was feeling awfully hot, for some reason, all of a sudden.

---

Hour Four of the Wonderful Year-End Festivities found Tommy performing his best booze-related trick for a captive and somewhat plastered audience: lopping the cork off a bottle of mid-range champagne with a short saber brought expressly to the party for that purpose. Tatiana shrieked with triumph when he managed to pull off the feat, champagne geyersing from the neatly broken neck of the bottle in dry-scented frothing excitement, and flung her arms around his neck to claim a very wet and vodka-fumed kiss. 

"All Tatiana's idea, I assure you," Tommy told the remaining celebrants as they applauded him and he brandished both bottle and saber around. "In fact she's the one planned this whole party. A round of applause, ay, for Tatiana?"

The gathered people obliged, and Tommy handed off the bottle but kept the saber as he trailed over to the decimated cake in the shape of a squat beer keg and used the sword to hack off some frosting for himself. He bore it carefully outside, using a case of bottled water to prop the door open, and leaned against the railing of the stairway landing to swipe his thumb through the clot of frosting and stick it pensively in his mouth. 

The party hadn't been that bad, all told, apart from that fucking courgette repeating on him and the hopeful looks some of those nameless reps had been shooting him all night. The server girl with the sensible knickers had caught his eye and it was clear she'd be up for it, if he wanted a go. And she was pretty, with curly hair dyed some sort of pale purple and a snub nose and freckles across her dark skin. 

But, Tommy thought bleakly as he bit frosting from his thumb, there was just something … wrong. Something missing. And the thought of ending the night as he'd ended so many others, making the trek back to his quiet, junk-filled flat with a bottle of gin to fall exhaustedly asleep on the settee and wake up to dry toast and jelly, it was … well, it was depressing. And Tommy was getting heartily tired of feeling depressed.

He lifted the saber with the thought of bringing it whooshing down again so that the gobbet of frosting on the end would sluice off, somewhere down three floors to hit the ground, but a hand grabbed his wrist and -- dammit -- here was Alfie Solomons again, peering at Tommy in the dim light. "Steady on, sweetie," Alfie said, "don't want to disappoint the cleaners more than you already have, eh?" He nodded towards the party, now in its decided downswing. "That girl you had as an aperatif has gone off with one of the Young Bolsheviks--"

"Young Turks, you mean?"

"No, red's back in fashion, it's very woke to talk about the evils of capitalism at the drop of a knitted hat these days." Alfie grinned, twisting the saber out of Tommy's unresisting grip and scraping the frosting off on the railing before sliding the sword into his belt.

"Ridiculous," Tommy said, although whether that was about the saber, Alfie's wearing it, or his farcical claim about young people and their politics, he didn't care to draw a bead on. But that hollow feeling had eased, somehow, and Tommy was suddenly in no hurry to get back inside. "You don't look the slightest bit drunk. Have you turned teetotaller, Alfie?"

His companion shrugged, heavy shoulders rolling under t-shirt and plaid. "I don't get sloppy at company hurrahs, love," he said. "Hard to erase that picture when you're back at the grindstone trying to cut deals with suppliers and distributors. I save my getting squiffy for when I'm with friends."

"And you've got some," Tommy scoffed. "Friends."

"Not all the ones I'd like." Alfie reached into the breast pocket of his plaid shirt and pulled out a cellophane bag tied with twine, holding it up by the cinched bit to swing in front of Tommy's face before Tommy took it and opened it, taking out one of the rings inside and laying it in his palm before looking at Alfie, perplexed. 

"What's this?"

"Oh, come on now, Thomas -- I know you Shelbys grew up the ragamuffins on your street, but surely even you, the benighted orphans, had biscuits once in a while? A chocolate finger or two? A fucking Jammie Dodger on the High Holy Days or whatever your kind celebrates when you're not busy moaning and rending your garments?"

Tommy scowled, closing his hand over the bag and -- just barely -- easing up his grip enough not to crush the remaining rings of cookie it held. "High fashion party rings," Tommy said after a moment of studying the one in his palm. Begrudgingly. The damn thing had flower petals as decoration. He looked up at Alfie. "Why on earth--"

--and then he was being kissed, and Alfie tasted somehow of fizzy lemonade and smelled of cake frosting and hops, and his hand was cupping Tommy's jaw (so deft! Who would have thought) and stroking the crest of his cheekbone with one thumb. His mouth is like a peach, Tommy thought stupidly as he breathed and opened up and swayed into Alfie's space. Or maybe a satsuma.

Alfie's lips closed and he smiled, not moving away, staying close with Tommy in his space. "Been wanting to do that all fucking night," he rumbled. "Longer, if I'm honest."

"Make some fucking sense," Tommy said, because damned if he was gonna give in that easily to this. He curved his palm enough that the scalloped edges of the delicate biscuit nipped slightly at his skin and said, "you never liked me. I never liked you. It's a happily mutual distaste we've maintained for each other."

Alfie made a hurt, indignant noise. "You wot! I know for a fact that I've been nothing but lovely to you, sweetie, sheer loveliness on a sodding stick."

"You're in my phone as 'that loser who keeps texting me,' and I'm in your phone as 'how about no.'"

Alfie considered this for a moment. "Aside from that." He laughed and took Tommy's hand, curling his fingers over into a fist until the biscuit he was holding snapped, in one place, then two, then crushed into more pieces than Tommy could tell without opening his hand to look. "Don't tell me you'll let a little thing like that stand in the way of what could be a bloody mind-blowing shag for the both of us, Tommy. After I brought you a little prezzie and all."

"Which you've just ruined."

There's three more." But Alfie looked fainly contrite, letting Tommy unfurl his hand while still keeping his own beneath it. Tommy sniffed and tossed his head imperiously, the smell of sugar seeping up from the warmth of his palm. 

"How about no," Tommy said, and ducked his head, licking up crumbs and icing and petals like a horse nosing around for a sugar cube, licking the gritty bits down onto Alfie's fingers, grabbing his wrist and turning his hand over, sucking down hard on that crown tattoo as he listened to Alfie sucking in his breath like a dying man.

Straightening, Tommy slid his tongue against the roof of his mouth and swallowed, lips parted, eyes hooded as he regarded Alfie steadily. "Did you pick up those business cards like I told you?" he asked, voice low and measured, thrumming in his throat. "Like a good little boy?"

Alfie reached into his back pocket, crumbs and spit smearing against his jeans, and brought out the slightly crumpled wad of cards, holding them pinched between thumb and forefinger. "Mmmm," Tommy hummed, and knocked his hand against Alfie's wrist, sending the slips of cardstock fluttering over the rail as he grabbed the back of Alfie's neck and kissed him, deep and wanting, all thoughts of shame or restraint sent down to the ground three floors under.

A beat passed, and then Alfie growled, the saber clatering against the concrete barrier when he shoved Tommy against the wall, hips crowding in against him, cock thick and promising when he rolled his groin into Tommy's and felt the answering rise there. "That loser, eh?" Alfie muttered, nipping hard at Tommy's jawline. "I'll make you eat those words along with the rest of your biscuits, pet, see if I don't before the night's through."

"You can make me do whatever you want, Mr. Solomons," Tommy said primly, knuckles white as he gripped the back of Alfie's belt, clung to the back of his collar, cellophane crinkling into the nape of Alfie's neck. "Dip your fucking toe into the secular festivities."

"I'll be dipping more than that, Tommy," Alfie said, with a firm thrust that drove Tommy's breath right out of him.

Maybe he'd have to ask Pol where he could find himself one of those mistletoe jumpers.

/end 

[angrylizardjacket]

a kind of loneliness {Roger Taylor}

Anon asked: I would totally love a Roger fic where the reader is secretly in love with him, but hides it because she constantly has to see him with other girls. I also imagine that when she tells him, he doesn’t feel that way initially…but gets jealous when she tries to move on with other guys. And then BAM! He has a revelation that he is in love with the reader, shows up in her doorstep in the pouring rain still wondering if she feels the same (which she does) and they have passionate and loving ending!

Anon asked: How about y/n is a photographer for Queen and Roger takes quite the liking to her! And you know bc it’s the 70’s it’s all film and Polaroid photography! 😍 And I vibe like y/n giving him a lesson on how to develop photos and him teaching her drums. OMGG.

A/N: 4027 words. Cha-chas real smooth in with a fic that’s a day late. Despite the prompts it’s a gender neutral reader. Anyways the alternate title for this is ‘it hurts not to love him, it hurts when love fades’ from Falsettos but that was a bit long. Not exactly what either of you wanted but like........ its here now. Hope you like it. it’s been a while since my last roger imagine, this is a bit of angst and pining i don’t know what to technically classify this as tho. also @siriuslymooned 😘

His hair is dark when you first fall in love with him, not especially dark, just darker than the world like to remember, but you’ll recall this detail about him clearly because the sun turns it gold when he’s smiling down at you where you’d made a valiant attempt at a picnic. You’re leaning back on the grass, and you can’t help but grin at him, so unbelievably enamoured by him that it almost hurts. You can’t even remember what the two of you had been talking about when you reach up to tuck a strand of his hair behind his ear, and his eyes - god, you’d never forget the way he looked at you - drifted to your lips.

There’s a moment, a pause, you both know what’s about to happen. You’re breath’s caught in your throat, heart beating hard enough against you’re ribs that you’re afraid it shows. He’s haloed by the light, propped up on his side beside you, asks you why you’re the one taking photos when you’re the beautiful one-

A duck honks hungrily a few feet away, and you burst out laughing. It’s like you can breath again as he looks away from you, turning his attention instead to the intrusive bird. Hand pressed to your mouth, you turn to hide your grin against Roger’s chest as he reaches over you to yell at the creature and begrudgingly toss it the sandwich it had been eyeing.

“Fuckin’ vulture.” He snaps, obviously put out, until he comes back from his annoyance to hear the sound of your laughter. The duck quacks in what you both interpret as some sort of thanks, and that just sets you off again.

“What’d you give him?” You asked, and your eyes shine with amusement when you leaned back to grin at him, and Roger’s wearing that smile that makes your heart melt a little. 

In that one moment you wonder how you got here, how your few stints as Queen’s photographer had lead to very possibly, at the very least, hooking up with Roger Taylor. You’d just suggested a picnic to the band because it was a nice day and you could get some nice shots of them outside, but one by one the others had drifted back to the hotel they’d been staying in, and you’d taken a few nice photos of Roger pelting pieces of bread in the general direction of some ducks. But then you’re laying back and looking up at the sky, he’s laying beside you, the two of you talking about whatever shallow fascination passed through your minds at any given moment. So you’re not exactly sure how you’d gotten here, with his hand on your hip to steady himself as he’s propped up on his side beside you, but it gives you cause for hesitation.

You’ve seen him look at girls like that before, have heard him call them beautiful, and he might mean it at the time, but they mean nothing to him. If he has even half a chance at a pretty girl he’ll take it, and you’re no exception, even if you are working with the band on a semi-regular basis.

“You- that was my sandwich!” It’s easier to chase after the bird with half your lunch in it’s mouth than to make the mistake of kissing Roger, no matter how much you wanted to. As you scramble away from him, he seems to read the change in the situation easily, laughing loud and bright, even picking up your camera to catch a shot of you with your arms outstretched to the frantic duck. He doesn’t seem the least bit phased by your implicit rejection, and you can’t help but feel a little bit disappointed; on the list of Roger’s potential conquest, you weren’t special by virtue of seeing him often, or at all, and despite how foolish you think it is, you’re hurt by this fact.

But you still know you’re in far too deep, and can’t forget the way he smiled at you that afternoon.

The first photo you ever took of Queen was blurry as all hell, since the “official” photographer, who you were assistant to at the time, insisted that you were doing it all wrong and tried to grab the camera back from you mid-shot. It would have been nice too, you’d told them to be candid when you’d been given a chance during the photoshoot, told them to just pretend like they were having a nice, normal chat, asked them about what they had planned for the weekend, and right as you snapped the photo, Roger had made an incredibly crude joke and was beaming as the others reacted; John was hiding a grin behind his hand, Freddie had practically fallen out of his chair from laughing, and Brian looked like he’d been winded from surprise.

“You live and learn, maybe next time you’ll do better.” The photographer tells you back in the studio after the photos have developed, with only the barest hint of fake apology before he tosses it into the garbage. You fish it out and manage to finally get a good look at it; it’s out of focus; Freddie’s the worst, just a dark blur where you’ve caught him mid-fall, but you’re pretty sure you can make out both Roger and Brian’s expressions, and you know without even looking that they’re not nearly so happy in any photos the photographer has taken.

You pin the photo to the cork board above your desk at home, along with your other favourite photos, and you don’t think much about the band other than how you regret not getting a clear shot.

His hair is blonde when you finally admit how you feel about him. He’s bleached it since you’d last seen him, though it hasn’t been that long, and you think he’s so beautiful it aches a little.

“What’s got you all hot and bothered?” He plops himself down next to you when the band is taking a lunch break during a rehearsal that you’ve been invited to attend, and you’re the only two in the lobby. “I haven’t seen you like this since-”

“You’ve never seen me hot and bothered,” you inform him, tone clipped looking anywhere but at him because he looks like a fucking angel and it’s not doing your irritating crush any favours. He shrugs, grinning and rolling his eyes, slinging an arm over the back of the sofa behind you.

“Not for a lack of trying,” he smirks, but you’re so fucking tired of this charade and he can’t keep flirting with you like this without knowing the stakes.

“I have feelings for you,” you blurt out, speaking without even considering what his reaction would be, “like probably serious feelings, which I know is stupid, okay, I just-”

“Darling, it’s not stupid,” he pulls you into a side hug and just for the moment, despite knowing what’s coming, you let yourself lean into it. His voice is gentle, as if he’s had a lot of practice giving this sort of speech, “I’m flattered, but,” and at this he did hesitate, looking away for a moment as he considered his words for a moment - perhaps for the first time in his life, you considered, “first, you know I think you’re an absolute stunner, but serious just isn’t where I’m at right now, dear, I’m sorry.”

And you smile, say it’s alright, because it is, it has to be, but then he’s off again when the others are back, and it’s like nothing had ever happened. Nothing changes, and that’s the worst part. 

When he sees you admiring Queen’s opening act from side of stage, he wraps you in a hug, same as all the others, but he still has that indescribable effect on you that the others simply don’t.

“It’s so good to see you!” And he sounds like he means it, and like he’s already a bit drunk, and he kisses both your cheeks before the band on stage finishes their song and he’s whirled away to applaud with everyone else, as if he’s already forgotten you.

It doesn’t hurt anymore, not like it once did; you’re a professional, you do your job, you ignore the thousands of screaming fans who just want to get into his pants.

What does hurt is how much he apparently likes you being around him, despite the girls at the after party seeking his attention. He buys you drinks with a smirk - “Make sure you get my good side, love.” - despite the fact that you’ve told him you don’t drink, and sometimes, not often, but once or twice when you’ve gone off to roam the room and take photos of the gathered fans, roadies, and crew members, someone will find you and tell you that he’s looking for you.

“He’s so needy.” you’re tired when the words slip out, to Brian of all people, who just gives a thin smile that is equal parts sympathetic and knowing. 

“Isn’t that a cruel irony,” he snorted, taking a seat beside you at the bar instead of head back to whatever it was he’d been doing before he’d been sent to fetch you, “if only all the girls who liked him could realise that.” He snorted, watching as a defensive fluster overcame you; you hadn't exactly wanted your feelings to become public knowledge, especially since they clearly weren't returned.

“I do not- that’s- dude, that’s so unprofessional, I would never-” 

“Has he made a move on you yet?” Brian cuts you off and you press your lips into a thin line, taking a moment to snap a few photos of the dancers spinning themselves out on the dancefloor.

“Why are you asking?” After a beat, your frown deepens. “Why are you here?” You snap another photo, but he doesn’t seem bothered, he just hums for a moment before answering.

“Because you’re my friend, and because-” 

“Don’t give me a spiel, don’t give me all that crap,” you sighed, and turned your camera on him, the photo you take, which will turn out a little blurry but mostly in focus, catches Brian’s amused smile and raised eyebrows better than most any other photo, “what do you want?”

“Okay, no spiel; I want you, tonight I want to make you smile, and I want what Roger is missing out on.”  Despite the situation, the setting, he’s surprisingly sincere, though you appreciate his honest pettiness. After a moment he adds, “and I mean it, you’re my friend and I don’t want that to change.” 

In terms of safe ways of coping with your crush on Roger Taylor, sleeping with his bandmate in some ill-guided attempt to maybe make him jealous in a way that you’re almost positive that he won’t care about, is pretty low on the list. Brian, despite this, is warm and secure and he genuinely cares about you having a good time, and it’s easy to breeze past it and remain friends like nothing had happened. But still, it’s painful in ways you hadn’t quite expected.

It’s been a while since you’d woken up in someone’s arms and it hurts when you leave the security they provided. When you’re in the shower, all you can think about is that you feel bad for feeling like you’re leading Brian on, even though you were both clear about the night being a one-time, strings-free deal, and it hurts that some times, without meaning to, all you could think about what Roger despite being with Brian. You leave shoes in hand, sneaking like a teenager and preparing for a walk of shame back to your own hotel room, and what hurts the most is that Roger’s on the other side of Brian’s door, fist raised like he’s about to knock, expression shocked at coming face-to-face with you.

“Oh.” His voice is uncharacteristically soft. You’re not sure what to read into it.

He goes on acting like he’d never seen anything, like you and he are still good friends. That, in retrospect, is infinitely harder than any interaction you would ever have with Brian after this moment.

He likes you because you like him, it’s as simple as that. Part of him knows he’s leading you on the way he keeps you around, smiling a little too mischievously, standing a little too close, even pinching your ass when he’s feeling especially cheeky. In turn, you know you shouldn’t let him get away with it, should tell him to back off, should stop getting yourself into these situations to begin with, but… you can’t. Freddie’s pity stings.

To be unwanted, and yet somehow still needed, is a cruel and unusual punishment for existing in the same space as Roger Meddows Taylor.

He’s still blonde, but his hair is short when you finally stop playing along, when he realises you’re trying to get over him. You remember this moment because you fucking love his short hair, and the first time you see it you just want to run your fingers through it.

“How,” He’s in your studio picking up some photos for the band’s publicist, “do you do this?” He definitely could have sent a lackey to do this, but instead he’s made himself comfortable on the sofa, looking through your portfolio.

“How do I take pictures?” You ask, raising your eyebrow as you double check all the photos from the last promotional shoot the band had done.

“No, I get the point and click aspect; it’s the film part, developing them, it’s always fascinated me.” He says, flipping through the pages, eyes grazing over some of your best work with mild interest. Wasn’t that unfortunately all too familiar, it felt like in the past few years that’s all he regarded you with; the moment you’d stopped paying him complete attention he’d lost interest. Sometimes, like now for instance, he made a point to keep inserting himself into your life, but it was an empty gesture; you don’t talk like you once did. To call yourselves good friends was generous at this point, at least from your perspective. 

“It’s taken you this long to ask?” You snorted. When he looks up, his smirk sharp and eyes amused, and there’s a moment when you feel yourself slipping, but you look away quickly, hiding your own amused smile.

“I’ve been a bit busy, dear.” And as if to prove a point, he flips the folio around to show off a photo of himself. Both he and the photo are wearing the same smile, and your own expression is momentarily fond. There's something a little indescribable in his eyes when his gaze meets yours.

“You do look lovely there.” You concede.

Oh God, there it is, that irritating feeling in your chest that just won’t leave, the way his smile always makes your heart warm. Maybe, just maybe he feels something too, you think, because he closes the portfolio and gives you an evaluative stare. He wasn’t one to be quiet for long, it’s a little unnerving.

“You look all nice now, what’s the occasion?” And the compliment alone would have sent your heart racing some years ago, but for now you’re so used to hearing his shallow niceties that it barely phases you. But he’s right, you’re a little dressed up, only having come into the studio for this errand, not expecting Roger himself to show up.

“I’ve got a date,” you admit, and it comes as a surprise when he actually looks a little shocked, “don’t look so surprised.” Your face scrunches reflexively, a little hurt that the idea of you dating would be so shocking to him.

“I- no, good on you, love.” He tries to save himself, but the damage is done, and even so, his heart’s not in it. “Who’s the lucky fella?” He asked, shooting for casual. Unlike with the rest of his friends, at least with interactions like this that you’ve witnessed, his smile, his interest seems forced, and part of you tries to take victory in that, but you realise all you want is to see him smile genuinely. It’s been a while since you’d felt like that. Part of you thinks you should spend more time with him again. Part of you knows that’s a terrible idea.

Your date goes well, but the spark’s not there. 

Being lonely is exhausting, which especially when surrounded with people, because you’ve just been trying to feel something for someone else that even holds a candle to the way you feel about him, but it’s not working.

You realise you need to stop timestamping the big moments in your relationship with Roger by the way he wears his hair, because it’s shallow, and you’re trying really hard to not care about what he chooses to do with himself.

But he’s making it very difficult.

Because he’s chosen to show up at your doorstep at like three in the morning, unsurprisingly drunk.

“Don’t exile me to the lounge,” his voice is a whine as he clutches the pillow you throw at him, “please, can I just say what I came here to say?” He asks, and you’re rolling your eyes, heart calcified against years of weathering his somewhat besotted looks with no follow through.

“Absolutely not; sober up and stop being dramatic, you wanker.” You respond, and Roger groans loudly but concedes easily, stomping through your house to his bed for the night in your living room.

“Do you still have feelings for me?” He ambushes you with the question when you come to check if he’s found the blankets okay, and you actually pause.

“What?” It takes a moment for you to recall the moment from your long history with the drummer, but you pick it eventually, and he’s just watching quietly as your face scrunches reflexively. “That was like four years ago, why does it matter now?" Pinching the bridge of your nose you give yourself a long moment to breathe.

"Because I think I made a mistake." That was the last thing you had ever thought you'd hear Roger utter.

"What does that mean? You didn't like me like that back then, you can't chan-"

"Don’t be daft, of course I liked you-”

“Don’t call me daft when you outright rejected me, Roger.” You snap, and that shuts him up fast. “I liked you, and that’s not your fault, okay, I get that-”

“What does that have to do with-”

“I’m trying to say that you don’t have to have feelings for me out of pity or some fucking social obligation;” you cried, hands balling into fists by your side trying and failing to keep your own feelings in check, “you’re drunk, and it’s sweet that I was on your mind or whatever, but this will pass tomorrow; don’t do something you regret.”

“Is that why you never...” Roger actually took the moment to consider his words, looking up at the ceiling with a frown, “is that why we never- because you’d regret it?” There was genuine hurt written across his face; you looked away. “Do you still love me?”

“Love is a very strong word.” You hummed, crossing your arm, still refusing to look anywhere but at him.

“So that’s a no?” His voice is frank, almost artificially so, a tone you knew all too well.

A long silence stretched between the two of you.

You broke with a sigh, “of course I love you, how could I not?” Finally, you make your way to him, moving from the doorframe to sit on the arm of the sofa by his feet.

“You’ve known me for years, Y/N, that’s an easy question to answer.” It’s a surprisingly raw answer, his self awareness catching you off guard. “I love you, I think.” To have him admit that right after a moment of startling self awareness is almost a little disorientating.

“You think?” Voice full of skepticism, you rest a hand on his ankle and he finally meets your gaze.

“No, I know.” And his words are once again met with silence, and yet another deep sigh.

“You’re drunk.” You pull the blanket down to cover his feet and stand, but he’s not going to take that as an answer.

“I love you.”

“Go to sleep.” You can’t handle this right now, can’t handle this. Your heart fucking hurts. His drunken confessions aren’t nearly as endearing as he probably thinks they are.

“Will you listen to me?” He huffs, and the squeak of the sofa is enough to let you know he’s sitting up now, probably looking long suffering or indignant, as if he had any right.

“Not when you’re drunk.” You dimiss quickly.

“I’ve loved you for years, I just-”

“Why didn’t you do anything about it?!” You turned on him, expression fierce, and his own face fell, stepping back in the face of your fury. “You didn’t love me, you loved having someone who loved you without having to be actually emotionally invested, and now, when you think I might be leaving is when you spontaneously decide to catch feelings? Fuck off Roger, I’m sick of being ointment for your fucking ego.” Turning on your heel, you’re about ready to march back to your own room when he calls out to you.

“I think you’re talented,” he speaks clearly, his gaze unwavering, though he looks a little wounded, you make a noise of confusion but he continues, “I think you’re a hard worker, and love, not a lot of people make me laugh like you do. I like that you love me, of course I do, but it’s not why I love you, why I want to always be around you.”

“Shut up-” You mutter through your teeth, heart not in your words, voice weak.

“No, listen to me, damn it I’m being honest and vulnerable here,” he groaned, “listen, I was a dickhead kid who liked living the rockstar life, hell, I still do, but you’re right, okay? You’ve been drifting away for a while, you’re leaving and it gave me a kick in the ass because I- I can’t see my life without you,” he admitted, and you could feel tears welling in your eyes. There was the sound of movement behind you but you didn’t turn around, couldn’t bare to look at him right now, to let him see how much this was effecting you, “and it was easier to pretend like that wasn’t serious and fucking terrifying when you were always around, but I do, I love you, and if I don’t get my shit together, one day you’ll just be gone and I-” he swallowed thickly, “I know I’ve made a lot of mistakes, but I don’t actually have a lot of regrets, and I’m not going to let not telling you I love you be one.”

There’s a light touch on your shoulder, and when you turn, he’s there, eyes wide and bright, surprised to see you crying, and honestly still a little shocked that he’d managed to articulate his feelings so well. He reaches out, his hand cupping your face as his thumb brushes a tear from your cheek.

“If you wake up tomorrow and take it all back-” you sniffle, but he laughs gently, stepping forward, his other hand coming up to frame your face.

“Not going to happen, I told you I mean it.” He said, and finally - finally - you feel years of pining being validated, hope bleeding through your words when you speak them.

“You love me?” You ask gently, and when he smiles, it’s bright and genuine. There’s going to be a serious conversation the following morning, but for now, when he leans in and presses his lips to yours, everything you’d been feeling since you’d practically met him, feels like it’s all been leading to this moment. It feels right. When he pulls back, you’re smiling, soft and bashful, still a little teary but you’re letting yourself enjoy this one moment. He looks so fucking endeared.

“Of course I love you, how could I not?”

[fairyshuuu]

Redamancy Pt 2

Pairing: Baekhyun x reader x Jongin Genre: Fuff and angst Length: 2.9k

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Jongin pov | Part 11 | Part 12 |

“I have a potion on my ship. It makes a person very sleepy, but when they wake up, they are back. You can come get it, tomorrow. Think about it, little one. Your family is hurting.” Before you can speak any more, he turns around and marches away into the darkness.

You stare at the fading shadow of Captain Hook until it is completely vanished. Slowly, you push yourself to move. The sun is now slowly setting, and you are not planning on spending the night alone. Because despite the beauty that Neverland holds, the thought of being alone still scares you. Your body feels drained as you follow the flowers into the forest. The pink ones would lead you to the lightning trees. With the back of your hand you swipe the tear tracks away. It was the best decision for the both of you. 

And despite the pain it would cause you, it would still be better than to suffer every time he smiled at you. Or that is what you tell yourself. The sun has now dipped under the horizon. Tiny lights start to glow up from the grass you walk on. It was one of your favorite things to do. To run through the fields with him, making tracks of fireflies in the air. A silent crinkle to your right makes you look up and peer between the trees. But soon, his familiar face peeks up. 

“Oh thank God. I was so worried.” His long arms reach out for you and before you can protest, pull you close to his chest. “Don’t ever run away again.” He whispers against your hair, before placing a soft kiss on your forehead. The little gesture is so kind and warm and it makes tears sting at the back of your eyes. 

“Peter?” 

He hums. 

“Can we go watch the waterfalls tonight?” 

He pulls back with a gentle look in his eyes. “Why do you want to see them right now? We could go in the morning.” 

“I just think they would look so pretty at night, all the glowing rocks and all.”  You just wanted to see them one more time before you had to let go of this dream. He stares at you with his big orbs and you swear you could see sadness shimmer in them for the tiniest second, but he nods and grabs a hold of your hand tightly. His strides are small so that you can keep up easily. Another thing you admire about him so much. The little things he does to make your day just a bit easier. His soft steps are barely audible as he maneuvers through the plants. 

After walking in silence for a while, you reach a clearing in the forest and turn to see the most beautiful view you know, Peter still holding on to your hand tightly. You are staring at the beautiful colors of the green shine of the rocks the water touched, the clearness of the water and the way the light travels through it in the most delicate way. He is not, though. He is staring at you as he bites his lip hard. 

You intertwine your fingers with his and lean your head against his arm. “That is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.”

He nods, his eyes still pinned on your face as he answers truthfully. “It is.” 

As the night completely falls, you two return to your usual routine. He lays back against a rock, his arms around your waist and his chin resting on your shoulder as he holds you close. If you don’t know better, you would think he loves you too. But you do know better. That doesn’t make it easier though. You look at him this last night, without being scared. Soon he would just be a memory, and you want to make sure that memory was as vivid as possible. 

With drowsy eyes, he looks down at you. “Won’t you sleep?” 

You shake your head softly, playing with the hem of his shirt. “I’ll sleep later. Tonight I just want to look at you.” 

His eyes stay pinned on you, but then his eyes shut tightly. A couple of seconds after, tears start spilling out anyway. Of course, he can see right through your innocent words. 

He often knew you better then you knew yourself. His hands grip you tighter than before, pulling your nose to the crook of his neck. His words are gentle and breakable as he whispers in your ear. “Please don’t leave me.” 

It is a simple request, but it shatters your heart into a million pieces. Because, despite the simple request, there is no such simple answer. You want to stay more than anything in the entire universe, but how can you?

His eyes open again and he looks at you with such desperation, you start crying too. “Don’t leave me. I’ll do anything for you, you know that I mean it. Please just-” His words are cut of by his own tears, so he presses his forehead against yours instead. Being so close to him makes your head buzz with so much love but pain at the same time. 

You close your eyes to think it over, but something catches you completely of guard. Soft lips pressed against yours. They are so soft that you think you are imagining it for just a second. But then they lift from yours to kiss your nose and then press down on your lips again. You open your eyes to be met by his. He wipes his eyes with his hand once and then leans down to place his forehead against yours again. Your heart is beating so hard, you feels like it might explode any second. 

“Please don’t leave me.” 

You swallow softly, before pushing your face against his neck. “Come with me.” The world seems to stop for a second, but you can still feel his steady heartbeat against you. 

“How?” His words are faint and shaky, but sincere. You pull back to look into his eyes again, this time softening when he looks at you so scared. He is just as scared as you are, maybe even more so. 

“I know a way. But Peter, I can’t promise you anything. I want to stay with you more than anything, but I can’t stay here. I just can’t. I wish i could but-” 

He lets his thumb brush away the tears rolling over your cheeks before nodding softly. “I know… I- I won’t let you go. Never.” His hands grip yours tightly as he speaks up. “I’ll- c-come with you.” His words make your eyes flicker up at his. 

“But Peter!” 

“I want this, okay. I want to stay with you. Always.” 

You stare deeply into his eyes, searching for any kind of hesitation. But his eyes lock with yours, determination and blind trust set in his gaze. So softly, you nod. His arm pulls you close to him, his nose in your hair and your arms wrapped around his torso. Soon, you both drift off to sleep.

As the sun peeks through the trees you open your eyes. Warm arms are still tightly wrapped around you. As you look up at him, you meet his eyes. He is awake already. "Did I wake you?" 

You softly shake your head. "What is wrong?" 

He smiles and lets his fingers run along your jaw. "Nothing. I just wanted to look at you." 

You push your face against his arm to hide your blush. He laughs as he sits up more straight. "Come on. We have a long day ahead of us." 

"You didn't change your mind?" 

"No. I would follow you to the end of the world if I had to. Though I am hoping that you don't make it so hard on me." 

"I won't." 

He nods and kisses your nose as he gets up. "Good." 

--

"Captain!" You wrap the blanket around you tighter. The beach is cold when the sun goes down. Peter wanted to come with but you are sure that Hook wouldn't give the potion for the both of you. So you had, with some begging, convinced him to wait by the cliff side. The giant ship is waiting patiently for you to board, but you keep your feet planted in the cool sand. The old ship makes a creaking noise, before you hear the deck door open. 

A man with big eyes comes looking over the railing. You don't recognize him, but he looks a lot nicer than most of Hook's men. He has big round eyes, a young face and chubby cheeks and is looking at you curiously. "You can come up. Captain Hook requested you in his hut." His voice was, again, surprisingly soft and gentle. 

"Where are the others?"

 He smiles softly and points down. "Below deck. You don't have to worry." 

You nod and slowly walk over to the plank to get on. The waves slam against the sides of the boat. With small and shaky steps you walk up. You grab on to the railing when you get up. You have never been on a boat before, and it is making your legs wobbly. The man is looking at you strangely. "I've never been on a boat before. It feels s-strange." 

He gives you a smile and holds an arm out, which you gratefully take. "This is your first time on a boat?" He sounded surprised, so you give him a nod and a small smile. Then you walk over to the hut at the rear. He opens the door for you and you walk inside carefully. 

Hook is sitting in his chair and follows your movements from the moment you walk in. You are eyeing him cautiously, to be honest you are not really sure what to expect of him. His pitch black eyes seem even more frightening in the light of the candles that decorates the hut. The man who helped you up gives you an encouraging push on your back, so you sit down on a chair opposite of the captain. Then, Hook takes his hand from under the desk and shows you a little flask with a cork, filled with a bright blue liquid. 

"You are smart for doing this." His voice is deep and raspy when he speaks. You eye the bottle carefully and reach out to take it, but then stop. 

"How do I know it's not just some poison?" 

"I can assure you it's not. It was carefully made to fulfill it's purpose." 

You take the bottle in hand. The liquid is very cold and heavy. Then, you look up at the man in front of you once more. "This will take me home?" 

He nods so you stand up and turn to the door. "Oh and ... don't tell Pan, okay, angel?" 

You give him a small nod and push open the door. The same man that had helped you up, helps you back down. "I brew it very carefully. You don't need to worry. It will take you right back."

"You made this?" 

He nods as you reach the beach. "One sip is enough. You'll be back home by sunrise." 

"Thank you." 

He bows once, which makes you giggle, and walks back up the ship. You turn your back to the ocean and run over to the cliff side, where Peter was waiting with a frown. 

"What took so long? I was worried. You-"  He is looking at the bottle now and slowly bites his lip. "That will take us back?" 

"This will take us back… Peter…  Are you sure? You know what happens when you go back, right? You age." 

He sighs and reaches out to hold your shoulders. "I'm sure. I don't want to leave, but I do want to stay with you. So, let's go. I told the lost boys everything they need to know.” 

You look up at him. His brown puppy eyes were locked on yours. 

“Okay.”

You sit up in your bed and throw your blankets off. It is too warm and you are sweaty. Your apartment always feels too warm at night. You push yourself up and go to the bathroom, let the sink run and splash some water in your face to cool you down. After drying off you go back to your bed. The alarm shows a bright red 4 am. Great. You should really try to get your sleeping schedule in order. But, it doesn't surprise you. After all, you work two jobs each day and only got home at 2 am. Then you crash in between job hours and catch up on a couple of hours of precious sleep between 3 pm and 6 pm. You rub your face once before gliding back under the covers. With some luck, you might be able to fall asleep again.

You awake pretty harshly and immediately sit up straight and roll out of bed. It is 7 am, which means you are … late. Oh god! You sprint around the room and cram into some jeans. Why were all jeans so tight these days? You throw on a tank top, grab your keys and sprint out of the room. Hoseok just passes you that moment and throws you a knowing grin. “Late?” 

“Very. Can you check my door? Love you, bye.” You sprint down the stairs and throw yourself into the small car. You know Angie wouldn’t make too big of a deal about you being late, but you hate it. You are a big girl, and you want to be responsible for your own mistakes as well. You quickly drive over to work, annoying yourself with the speed limits. Adulthood is a strange change of pace, but you never regretted your decision. After parking, you run up the stairs and almost crash into a customer as you open the door. “Sorry.” 

The man gives you a nod and you quickly walk on and get behind the counter. Your colleague and best friend Grace gives you a knowing smile. 

“Where’s Angie? I want to apologise.” 

She shakes her head with a smirk. “She’s not been in yet. You got lucky.” 

You sigh deeply as you pick up the overall and put it on. Just as you want to put your stuff away, your phone lights up. 

>> You forgot to lock your door again. You can come pick up your key at mine later. 

Grace leans over with a smirk. “That boy is so in love with you.” 

“What? No, he’s not. Shut up.” You protest, quickly texting back. 

<< You are the best neighbor ever. Thank you. I’ll treat you to coffee some time.

You put your phone away and walk around the counter to water the flowers. Working in a flower shop isn’t the worst way you could imagine working.  “Y/N. I know you have been working hard to pay of your … history. But, you look really tired recently. When is the last time you got a proper night’s rest?” 

You grin. “Like, four years ago.” 

She gives you an understanding look. “Why won’t you tell me what happened? It was a boy, right?” 

“Grace, it’s- it’s hard to explain. We grew up together all alone, and then some stuff happened and he left. It’s alright now. I just had a lot of baggage to deal with and also a lot of debts. The sooner I get rid of them, the better.” 

“Well, you should put yourself first. Fuck him.” 

You giggle at her bluntness. Deep down, you truly wish you could tell her everything, but it would be too complicated. The door chimes so you turn around with a friendly smile. 

“Can I get a bouquet for a first date?” 

“Sure thing. Would you like lily’s or daisy’s? Those are nice for first dates. Or do you have a specific color in mind?”

--

You get to the apartment complex after a long day and walk into your hall. You give a soft knock on Hoseok's door. 

"Coming." After a minute or so, you hear the latch open. Shin Hoseok, your very attractive neighbor and friend, is dripping wet and in nothing more than a towel. "Oh Y/N. Come in, I'll get your key. Sorry, I just got out of the shower." 

You quickly nod and walk in, trying to keep your eyes anywhere but him. 

"Hold on one second." He walks out of the living room so you look around. The room is pretty clean for a guy living alone. You sigh as he comes back in the room, dressed in a shirt and sweatpants. 

"Hoseok, you are an angel. Really. I'm also sorry for coming over so late. You didn't stay up for me, right?" 

He gives you a smile as he handed you your key. "Don't worry. I don't mind. You always forget to lock your door. And... now I get a reason to see you."

You can feel the blush on your cheeks rise up.

“Sorry.” He mumbles, when you hide your face behind your hair.

“No-no I think it’s really nice. You’re always such a good friend.”

He takes a step closer. You are now almost standing bodies pressed against each other. “Well, I would like to be more then just a good friend.” You swallow as he brushes a strand of hair out of your face. He leans closer and closer until-

 You suddenly see a very familiar ball of light fly past the window. You pull away quickly and run over to the window. “Did you see that? I- I’m sorry. I really am. But I- I have to go, Hoseok. I’ll make it up to you, I promise.” You kiss him on the cheek and run out of the room and into your house. 

The apartment is eerily quiet.

“Tink?”

A little tingle creeps up your spine and when you look over, you find her sitting on your shoulder with curious eyes.

I hope you enjoyed reading. If you have any requests, please do ask.

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[truthofherdreams]

surreal, but nice (part 2)

also on ao3 + good things come to those who wait.. or something

It always feels weird, going back to her childhood room – mostly because of the Harry Potter bed set and the Brad Pitt posters on the walls. This Emma, closed-off and lonely, is so far from what Emma has become that she sometimes has a hard time remembering how she was back then – she’ll never forget completely, some scars preventing her from really putting her past behind her, but the memories don’t make her as angry as they used to.

She drops her bag on the bed before she turns to her old desk. The lamp is worse for wear and the computer from another century (literally) but more importantly there is a large cork board on the wall, dozens of pictures and postcards pinned to it. Emma smiles at a picture of Ruby and her hugging each other and holding the camera to take a sloppy selfie, an invitation to Lance’s birthday party, an old ticket to Treasure Planet.

“Mom.” She turns her head to Henry leaning against the doorframe, blinking up at her. There are crumbs on his shirt and chocolate on his upper lip, so he obviously found Belle’s cakes in the fridge. “Ingrid wants us to go to the movies tonight.”

Emma grins, and nods. “Sure thing. I’ll be meeting with people at Granny’s, you can join us later.”

“Yeah!”

And with that off he goes, running back to his own room and slamming the door behind him. Emma winces through her grin, and rolls her eyes – Henry doesn’t get to see his grandmother nearly enough these days, only once every couple of months when she comes to LA for a short visit. Ingrid pampers him way too much every time, and Emma has no doubt he’ll be on a sugar rush tonight from all the popcorn and soda he’ll have at the movies. Typical, not that Emma can complain much – she’ll never complain about having an adoptive mother who loves them both like they’re her own blood. She’ll never complain about people caring.

So she lets Henry be fussed over, and goes to take a shower instead. The pipes groan when she turns on the hot water, but she still hears the front door closing and Ingrid’s car leaving the driveway before silence settles on the house. It’s weird, how quiet Storybrooke is, but a relief too after the buzz that is Hollywood. So Emma takes the time under the shower, washing her hair and scrubbing her skin until it’s pink.

By the time her hair is dry and she has put on comfortable clothes, the sun is low in the sky so she grabs her wallet and heads out. Granny’s is only a five-minute walk from the house, and then the little bell is chiming above her head. There are a few seconds of stillness as customers turn their head to the door, and then a booming voice comes from the back of the room.

“And here is the child prodigy, coming home at last!”

Emma barely has time to scoff at Lancelot’s joke whenRuby is already engulfing her in a hug and stealing the air away from her lungs. She grew out of boots with sky-high heels, and it makes her smaller, throwing Emma off balance a little as she hugs her friend back. Not that she has time to dwell on it when she receives many other hugs after this one – Lance, of course, and Gwen, Mulan, Merida. Granny even comes from behind the counter to greet her, cups her face and presses a kiss on each of her cheeks.

The fussing stops quickly enough, thankfully, and Emma soon finds herself sitting at the booth in the back of the room, the way the gang always did in high school. It’s both familiar and foreign at once, especially since Granny makes her a cup of hot cocoa with cinnamon before she even asks – it’s like she never left, really, and she feels a pang of guilt at not coming back to Storybrooke as much as she’d like. The “I’m busy” excuse only goes so far after all, especially when she gets to lean her head against Ruby’s shoulder, the brunette pressing her cheek to the top of her head.

Coming back to Storybrooke is always something – it’s hardly a secret that she is the Emma Swan, but everyone is good enough at pretending nothing out of the ordinary is going on. In Hollywood, she’s the talented actress you stop on the street for a picture or a signature. Here, she’s just a face in the crowd, just a woman spending time at Granny’s with her friends, speaking too fast and talking too loud. It makes for a refreshing few days away from the madness that are her job and life, truth be told.

Emma lets her friends do the conversation, happy to just listen and smile at this or that joke. She takes Ruby's hand in hers, turns it just slightly for the ring on her fourth finger to catch the neon light of the diner. The diamond sparkles beautifully, expensive, and Emma glances at Dorothy, who sits opposite Ruby in the booth. Emma doesn't know much about the woman, beside the fact that she comes from Kansas and makes Ruby happy. Emma had already been long gone when Dorothy came to Storybrooke to take care of her sick aunt, and now she fits better in their group of friends than Emma probably ever will. The thought makes her sigh.

“She makes me happy,” Ruby whispers to her, misinterpreting her sigh.

Emma can only smile at that. “Was about time someone made an honest woman out of you.”

“Oh shut up,” Ruby grins, and chuckles. “I hear a cute baker could make an honest woman out of you.”

Emma thanks her years as an actress, for they help her keep her emotions in check and the blush away from her cheeks. She isn't surprised in the least that Ruby --- and all of their friends, most likely -- already knows of her encounter with the new baker in town. Belle is a great many things, but subtle about new gossip she is not. And it doesn't help that her girlfriend is even more nosy than she is. Bells probably told Merida, who told everyone else. Typical.

“Oh I missed Storybrooke,” Emma deadpans.

If Ruby isn't fooled by her obvious change of conversation, she doesn't point it out. Instead, her grin widens a little, before she leans her head against Emma's shoulder. That she can do. Cuddling with her best friend at Granny's, like the exhausted high schoolers they used to be.

She's listening to Gwen as the brunette explains something that happened at work today, when the little bell at the front door chimes with new customers. Merida sits straighter in her chair, grin on her lips, and Emma barely has time to brace herself before Belle and her new employee show up next to their booth.

It's a bit of a mess at first, pushing a table closer and gathering enough chairs for everyone and everything; soon Emma finds herself squeezed between Ruby and Lancelot, with the cute baker next to Dorothy, just in front of her. She tries not to meet his eyes, fails miserably, and offers him a tight-lipped smile. Pathetic.

That's when Granny shows up to take new orders. Belle asks for her usual iced tea with a piece of apple pie on the side, before Granny turns to the other baker.

“What about you, Jones?” she asks with a gruff to her voice that speaks of affection.

His ears are red from all the stares pointed his way, but he still manages to smirk at Granny. It’s the kind of smile that would have gotten him a slap on the back of his head when he was a teenager. As it is, Granny only rolls her eyes, apparently used to the banter she shares with the baker. Once again, familiarity Emma isn’t privy to. They all know him, and welcome him into their group like the old friend he is, and Emma can’t even tell his name.

“Just a coffee,” he replies.

“Make that two,” Emma adds with a smile to Granny.

His eyes shift from the older woman to her, and for a moment Emma finds herself holding his stare – only a few seconds, but it’s more than enough for his cheeks to flush too and for Ruby to swallow down a chuckle. Emma is used to it, but those reactions usually come from teenagers. Men tend to get way too cocky around her, as if they need to be assholes to pick the actress’ interest – it never works, but it doesn’t stop them from trying every time. So this guy’s reaction, much softer, throws Emma off balance.

Or perhaps it is the fact that she finds it endearing.

Merida nudges him in the ribs then, starting a conversation with him and Dorothy both, so he finally looks away from Emma. The sigh out of her mouth might be relief or disappointment. She isn’t sure which.

“Rubs has been meaning to set you up for months now,” Lancelot whispers to her.

Emma stares at Ruby, who glares at Lance. “Don’t be so loud about it!”

“That’s the part where you deny it,” Emma reminds her. Ruby blinks at her. “Oh my god, don’t set me up with strangers.”

“Killian is not a stranger!” Ruby argues.

Ah, so Killian is his name. Good to know. For totally unrelated reasons, of course, not because Emma might agree with Ruby on the subject. Even if she did, she never would say it out loud anyway, because Ruby would just rub it in about her matchmaking skills. It’s thanks to her that Belle finally agreed to go on a date with Merida, and that Gwen broke up with her fiancé so she could get together with Lance. Emma doesn’t want Ruby to actually believe she’s good at that Cupid thing.

“I leave in a week anyway.”

Ruby shrugs. “Hook-up it is, then.”

Lance snorts inelegantly, and Emma knows she lost.

…

Emma has always loved Storybrooke’s harbour. She’s always been fond of the ocean, for as long as she remembers, something soothing about the waves and the salty air and the cries of seagulls. It’s not the same in Los Angeles – Santa Monica is alright, but too crowded, with too many paps waiting for a picture of her in a bikini. Here, there are clouds, and angry waves, and fishermen calling at each other from one ship to another. Here, she can stand on the edge of the harbour and know nobody will come to disturb her.

“Hangover?”

Well, almost nobody.

She finds herself facing Killian, the last person she expected to see – well, she didn’t expect to see anyone, anyway. He doesn’t look any better than her, purple bags under his eyes from sharing drinks at the White Rabbit until late into the night. Or early into the morning, depending on the point of view. Emma vaguely remembers playing darts against him at some point, but her memories are still blurry. Which means vodka was involved. Never good.

“That’s Ruby and Merida for you.”

He laughs softly, the sound deep and rich in the back of his throat, as he comes to lean next to her against the railing. Even in his hangover state, he was cleverer than her, wearing a big sweater. The cold wind sneaks beneath her leather jacket and bites her skin, and she curses herself for forgetting what the weather actually is like in Maine. But she is here now, and she will not go back home just for a cardigan.

Silence stretches between them, comfortable, until he laughs once more. He has the kind of laugh that warms you from the inside out, and Emma finds herself smiling when she looks back at him.

“Can’t believe I got drunk with the Emma Swan.”

“I get that a lot,” she replies with a nod.

“Do you?”

She holds his eyes for a few more seconds, before her lips twitch. “No.”

He chuckles and shakes his head at her, even rolls his eyes a little, before he focuses back on the ocean in front of them. Emma can’t remember the last time she got drunk, let alone had fun while doing so – there was that dreadful awards show a few months back, Graham and her drinking way too much wine out of boredom, but that was it. The real partying, the one she truly enjoys, has always been in Storybrooke.

“At least we grew out of playing spin-the-bottle,” she comments.

His ears are red, perhaps from the cold, perhaps from something else, and he clears his throat loudly before he looks back at her. “Thank god for that.”

“Yeah.”

He glances at her lips, and it tells Emma everything she needs to know. It tells her she isn’t alone in thinking it’s a shame they have retired this game, that she wouldn’t mind playing even if she isn’t a teenager anymore, that Seven Minutes in Heaven has never looked more tempting before. But then she thinks about leaving at the end of the week, and her life in Hollywood, and Henry, and she turns away awkwardly.

Ruby is wrong – even a hook-up could be dangerous with that guy. Because he’s handsome, and charming, and so unlike the celebrities she sometimes decides to date. Because she looks at him and sees something different; something she can’t afford right now.

He must sense the change within her, for he stands a little taller, scratching his ear. “I will leave you to your headache then.”

She wants to stop him from leaving.

She doesn’t.

[astralsecrets]

2lbs of Ice Cream/Tricycle Woman

I've followed my boyfriend C into a tiny restaurant, it has a single prep bar in the middle of the establishment and a second, separate room with tables. I have never been here but once I go inside I suddenly work there. I don't know where anything is, what we sell, or how they sell it. C is nowhere in sight. Of course. The restaurant has a garage door that takes up an entire wall, and they open to let it know they are ready to take business. But all the other workers are so placid and lacking urgency that it's hard to tell we're open. I go to help a woman who insists that she just wants 2lbs of ice cream. No one will listen to me, so I can't figure out where it is, and when I final see someone prepping the ice cream bar, I ask her if what's prepped is for my customer or someone else?? And she doesn't acknowledge me. All the other employees talk around me instead of to me. I start to scoop the weird oblong chocolate ice cream onto....a plate, when someone says "That's not even ready yet." "What do you mean?" They don't answer me. I set the plate down. She picks it up and scrapes all the ice cream from the plate and the bar onto a flat tray with some milk, sugar, and butter and mixes it all together. She sets it down on the counter and I weigh the ice cream...it's 1.7lbs, plus a literal ice cream sandwich? Some shavings of ice cream on a bun. And a super weird mashed potato and ham biscuit thing. I'm so confused, but I take it. It's they're 'standard plate' apparently. I take it to the woman and I try to ask if it's okay but she won't talk to me either, but also somehow makes me feel completely worthless. Finally the work day is over and we're all trying to leave at once in a tidal rush for the side exit. I feel like I should have asked more people what I should have been doing. Maybe tomorrow will be better. There's a tallish, pale man with a cap of black curls, and big black-brown eyes. He's wearing a navy blue sweater over a sky blue button up. As we're leaving he looks down at me. Right into my eyes. And I can tell he really really sees me. I'm not forgotten or invisible, or talked over. He offers me his hand in a casual gesture, and I take it, wondering what my boyfriend will think if he sees me holding hands with another man. But he's a hypocrite in these matters anyway. Should I care? The hand is comforting and the man only means to be companionable, he's not coming onto me. "It was a rough first day. Will you be back tomorrow?" He asks. I pull my hand free as we move out onto the patio, 7-8 other employees streaming past us. "I think so." "Good. See you then." He leaves me behind and I spot my boyfriend C across the way. He's a distant figure and doesn't appear to consider me directly, though he raises a hand to let me know he's seen me...he still gets in his truck and leaves. Which incites a dull sort of panic in me, because for a second I'm certain we rode here together. Did he just leave me to walk? No...that isn't right. I dimly remember parking. Right? Where the fuck is the parking lot? Uncertain, I go down the stairs to the fine gravel driveway. It's long and hooks toward the highway. I get almost to the end when I see the lot, on the other side. So of course, now that I'm trying to cross, there are a bunch of cars turning into the driveway. Well. Not all of them are cars. Some people are on bikes. One woman is on a motorized tricycle? I only barely avoid her when I rush across the street, and she nearly hits another person on a bike...but she revs the tricycle, pops a wheelie and swerves out of the way. It's so unnecessary and bloody stupid that I can't stand it. All of this pisses me off. "Yeah, Karen! Rev your stupid tricycle, it's super intimidating!" I yell, disproportionately irate. Then I start laughing. It's so stupid that it strikes me as funny. I want to tell C about it so badly but he's not anywhere. I my heart sinks back to its regular place in the hollow of my stomach, sad and cautious, and I find my car. There's a lapse and I'm with C, I try to tell him about the funny thing that happened but he's not really listening, and when I tell the story again I know he doesn't believe I shouted at a stranger. I'm having an argument with Jess Day from New girl in a weird little kitchen. She's supposed to be me, and I'm supposed to be C. "Well yeah! that's how things would be if they were balanced! But they aren't, are they!" I snap. "What do you mean not balanced?!" She cries. "You really want me to bring this up here, in front of our FRIENDS? our TWO FRIENDS?" Who won't leave the fucking room. I move around to the far side of a tiny, oddly shapped island that has a cork bulletin board running down the center with all sorts of maps and notices pinned to it. K, someone I haven't seen in forever is loudly observing a map and trying to throw thumb tacks at the board to make them stick. I really want to get into it, so we can have a fight about something that bothers me, but the others won't leave the room and it's too personal to discuss in present company.

from RSSMix.com Mix ID 8297989 https://www.dreamviews.com/blogs/amurehna/2lbs-ice-cream-tricycle-woman-85933/

[klkettle]

On writing and nerding: my Nookery

Being a Londoner I’ve got about 5 inches of ‘space’ to use as my writing nook. This is more often than not the corner of my living room.

I’ll be honest this is a massive uptick from 10 years of writing in hotel rooms. Officially the second decent thing hotels are useful for, after jumping on the beds.

Finding the right place and space to work has always been difficult for me. I have been a mobile worker most of my adult life, and where transience wasn’t on the cards home was more open-plan sleep and entertainment space than “shed”, like I had once imagined.

Writing in the presence of housemates and close friends has led to a tendency to ‘nest’.

[To be read in David Attenborough voice]

“Here we find the rare Kettle-bird, a nesting writer capable of burying herself in blankets, pillows, hats and hoodies so that all that is visible is a pair of intense eyes, rapidly typing hands and a glowing keyboard. Best to avoid if it looks like it might cry or kill you.”

It also means I’m forever taking things up and down from walls. And you wouldn’t believe the places I’ve found post-it notes! Like most modern writers I have an 'electronic office’ which consists of various cloud based apps like pinterestand g-docs. But I’m building a little 'portable’ office that allows me to physicalise the most important parts and that makes use of my addiction to gadgets, multipurpose tooling and App-linking with digital media for access on the move.

So here follows a few blogs on Nookery essentials for writers needing to build a guerrilla writing space, which can be deconstructed and reconstructed at a moment’s notice.

This is an evolution of Fort-Building of my youth, but for the discerning, space-saving, writer. (Turning it up to 11 for the nerdy ones)

1) Multi-purpose room divider / human-avoider

Blocking out children, demanding friends, television and that ever-so-pesky daylight that makes us shrink back into our coffins is sometimes necessary to allow the imagination to fly. Great for people who like to ‘write in the dark, edit in the light’.

Where possible I think multipurpose is best, and I found a great Etsy supplier that makes custom boards with chalk boards/cork boards included. Chalk boards are great for planning etc. Cork for making sure those pictures and notes and post-its stay in view and don’t get lost down the back of the sofa.

To accompany this I also recommend :

Chalkboard pens in many colours because lump chalk is made of evil

Hook Gear Thumb tacks which enable dangling other stuff on top of the pins - genius (also useful for throwing out of the window a loud people disrupting my creativity)

2) Who needs walls anyway?

Being a writer is a symptom of an addition to stationary. FACT. Even with an electronic office I’ve probably consumed an entire rainforest in my lifetime with all the printing, doodling and sticking I’ve done. Combining Whiteboard Paper with Dropbox and Evernote as a tool that transposes notes from Scrawl (OCR = optical character recognition) to electronic notes [I’ll write a separate blog on how to set this up and update a link here] allows me to scribble freely on my walls like a child with ADHD after three boxes of Nerds and a bottle of Sunny D, which means I can follow up when I come down from the sugar high.

3) Electronic Scribblings

In 2015 if it ain’t digital it won’t do. But dammit I spent literally ages when I was a teen making sure I had the most expressive handwriting for my romantic soul - to the point it was borderline illegible - but it’s mine gaddamit and the computer will recognise it eventually.

So imagine my shiny glee when I discovered LiveScribe.

I use aLiveScribe 3 - It’s particularly good for writing workshops as well as sitting in coffee shops. My only issue is that I hate biro and prefer fineliner or ink - but I sacrifice a smooth writing experience for portable productivity. (See it in action with a review here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Asj0qOY1dkI)

Other options include the Sky penwhich uploads straight to Evernote. NeoandEquilalso do smart pens. But LiveScribe is top for me especially given their new project withMoleskin(Which should be rebranded WriterCrack IJS).

When in doubt, also, there’s my trusty Lamy. It doesn’t do electronic, but it does fuel my soul. 

4) Teasmaid / Regular Writer-Fuel Dispenser

Beverages, particularly Tea, are essential for writing; and making a cup of tea ‘in character’ is a great way to get into writing mode. So there are definite advantages to getting up and making a pot, also to make sure gangrene doesn’t set in during a particular epic writing sesh. Therefore I would like to thank the Universe for inventing a teasmade!

1) Sit down to write: Put on timer for Teasmade / Coffeemade(My preference is aSage kettle.)

2) *Bing*: Break + Tea. 

3) Result: Profit!

If only I could get an App to provide freshly made warm biscuits to dunk too. 

Sort of a combined Pomodoro technique with a cuppa ready for you at the end. What’s not to love?

* To Nerd it to 11 you can combine tea/coffeemades with aWeMo plug, IFTTTCode and your Do! Appto hit a button on your phone and get tea. (I’ll post the code here at a later date)

5) Folding desk of Awesome

When I was a kid my dad made me an open sided wooden box to use as a portable desk so that even if I was sitting 3 ft away from the television (common) I was at a good angle for my back and could get my homework done. It was my favorite Christmas present ever.

[ Let’s take a moment to recognise how awesome my parents were again - and how I totally didn’t appreciate it at the time.]

Writing stories and drawing while curled cross-legged on the floor like a super-productive yogi is now my most comfortable operating position. So over the years I have never liked permanent desks.

Here are my recommended portable and fold-able desks available for purchase for those of your without woodworking skills or handy parents.

Wall mounted desks take up little room and if you’re savvy can be disguised by the room divider!  

For those of you not renting a cupboard in London (where nailing anything to the wall is a big no-no unless you want to lose the deposit you sold a kidney to round up in the first place) I’d suggest something that has the air of a Mattel Transformer, but for nerds. I give you my personal favourite folding desk.

If you have a black AMEX maybe you can commission this beauty. (Ultimate Advance Spend Plan: Louis VuittonBespoke Desk Case) 

6) Lighting the scene

I like to adapt my lighting to the scene I’m writing. For example I set a warm light for a scene that is full of love or sunlight, or cold light for something indoors or utilitarian. 

Phillips’ Hue system is pretty damn ingenious and allows for adjusting the multiple lights to illuminate a space with every colour in the spectrum - including flickering candle light if you combine with the hue party app. They also have several products that don’t require wires. Which makes for excellent nooking. The Apps are user-friendly to even the most technophobic user, and for those who need a physical button you can add these switches to the system with minimum effort. 

The portable table lampis my favorite for mood setting and is easily set up in a nook.

Talking about flickering candle light, if you’re writing a scene where this is required I can’t recommend electronic candles enough. All the light, none of the waxy mess.

7) Silence

In a busy space it can be hard to find the right level of white noise to cancel out the world and sink into the one in your imagination. Personally I work best with music on that takes me into my story (the playlists are endless, thank you Spotify), or some form of nature sounds (rains and storms are the best for me, particularly if i want to shut out tube/bus distractions). Chris Jones’ (Esquire Writer) has a great list. 

But for those of you who need true silence then short of throwing everyone out of the house or sticking sheets in your ears I would recommend various Noise-Cancelling device orheadphones. 

* By the way I know I haven’t covered seating. Apart from the fact that I want to create a space that is seating independent, I’m saving my dream chairto celebrate something special ;) 

Okay so that’s it. Quite an involved blog i’ll admit, but hopefully useful-slash-interesting.

Thanks for the help from my circle of writery types to provide inspiration. I hope you’ve found this useful. I created apinterest board with links to the above, and might at some point create a YouTube tour of the Nook to cover the points in this blog. Welcome comments. What do you have in your nook? How to you use technology to enable your writing physically and digitally? Have you used the tools above, and what did you think? 

[char27martin]

Brainstorming for Story Ideas

The best beginnings are based on strong story ideas that immediately set the book apart from all others of its ilk. If you have a bad feeling that your story idea is not compelling or unique enough to hook agents or editors, much less readers, then this post is just for you. Because all other things being equal, the lack of a strong story idea is the biggest problem I see in manuscripts by writers trying to break into the business—or break out of the midlist onto the best-seller list.

Some of these tricks and techniques may seem a little offbeat to you, but give them a try anyway. Many are aimed at seducing your subconscious, a critical if obstinate ally in your quest to tell a good story. So give me the benefit of the doubt regarding these tried-and-true brainstorming and idea-capturing methods. To discover more brainstorming ideas, check out The Writer’s Guide to Beginnings.

In The Writer’s Guide to Beginnings, author and literary agent Paula Munier shows you how to craft flawless beginnings that impress agents, engage editors, and captivate readers. You’ll learn how to develop the big idea of your story and introduce it on page one, structure opening scenes that encompass their own story arc, kickstart your writing with effective brainstorming techniques, and introduce a compelling cast of characters that drive the plot. You’ll also examine best-selling novels from different genres to learn the secrets that experienced writers use to dive straight into a story.

With thorough examinations of voice, point of view, setting, dialogue, and conflict, this book is a must-have tool for luring your readers in with your opening pages—and convincing them to stick around for the ride.

Pay Attention

Paying attention is perhaps the most obvious and difficult way to generate ideas. Ideas are everywhere if you know where to look and remember to look there. In a world where we are continually bombarded by sounds and images, overstimulated by everything from traffic to texts, and distracted from the minute we open our eyes in the morning to the last flicker of the screen before our weary eyes finally surrender to sleep, the gentle art of observation often goes unpracticed. Yet observation is one of the writer’s keenest tools—one that cannot be replicated by technology. It’s on you to observe the world around you—people, places, and things, from local flora and fauna to conversations overheard on the subway. The world is the writer’s oyster, so put that smartphone and those earbuds in your pocket; go out into the world, and take note(s).

Always Have a Notebook Nearby

Ideas can strike at any time—when you’re in the shower, in line at the grocery store, drifting off for a nap. But like lightning, they come and go in a flash. So be ready to capture them. Keep a pen and a notebook in your pocket or purse, and failing that, you can always email yourself notes or use the voice recorder app on your phone. I have sticky notes and index cards all over the house. I even sneak a pencil and paper into yoga class because doing yoga, like meditating, often acts like an idea faucet. One downward dog and the faucet goes on—the ideas flow.

Get Silly

Being funny is, by definition, a creative act. That’s because humor often stems from making unexpected connections. The best punchline is a surprise—and we laugh at the novelty of the connection. Putting together familiar things in an unfamiliar way—that’s idea generation.

Whenever the ideas aren’t flowing, use humor to get your juices flowing again. If you’re stuck on your beginning, rewrite it as a funny scene. See the humor in something, and the whole world may open up around it. That’s where the space is, the room you need to root around for a new approach.

Keep an Idea Box

This may seem simplistic, but this practice really works. Every writer should have a physical place, be it a box under the bed, a file cabinet in the corner, or a bulletin board on the wall, to keep anything and everything that might prove useful for a story someday. Maps, postcards, souvenirs, slogans, affirmations, news clippings, photos, illustrations, magazine articles—collect them all. Think of the box as your secret treasure, and whenever you find yourself at a loss for a good idea, rummage through it.

I have an idea box, but I rarely go through it. Out of sight, out of mind—that’s truer for me than it should be. Recognizing this about myself, I’ve designed a better way to display images and ideas that resonate with me. Instead, I have covered the fronts of two cabinet doors with cork. Door #1 is my Plot Door, where I pin the index cards I use to plot my work in progress—a scene for each card. On Door #2, I tack reminders of elements I might use in a story someday: photos of interesting places, snippets of dialogue, pictures of people who’d make good characters, sticky notes (right now there’s one that says, “Read more John Cheever”), artwork that somehow evokes the themes that preoccupy me, etc. Every time I look at it, I can almost feel my little grey cells start firing.

Granted, my approach is that of a Luddite. If you’re an early-adopter type, use technology to jump-start your creativity. Some writers swear by Scrivener; others use Pinterest. Find what works for you, and get your own synapses firing.

Do Something Else

Agatha Christie, whose diabolically clever ideas for mysteries still engross audiences nearly a hundred years later, used to say that the best time to plot a novel was while washing the dishes. At more than two billion—yes, you read that right—copies sold, Christie is ranked by the Guinness Book of World Records as the best-selling novelist of all time. Which is enough to make me consider giving up my dishwasher permanently. Almost.

The point is that sometimes the best thing to do when you think you’ll never have another good idea again is to abandon your desk and do something else entirely. Preferably something that occupies your conscious mind, letting your subconscious mind out to play. Chores are good—mopping the floor, folding the laundry, polishing the silver, chopping wood, weeding the garden, ironing shirts, raking leaves—and they offer the added benefit of providing a sense of accomplishment and an orderly environment in which the chaos of your own creativity can hold court. Just be prepared to stop mid-chore to run to your desk and capture all the great ideas prompted by that homely art of housekeeping.

Be Happy

Keeping a positive mindset is important, but being positive is only part of being happy. To be truly happy, you need to go deeper than a positive outlook. You need to believe that you are leading a meaningful life (or, failing that, a life at least worth living). Fortunately for writers, writing is a way of creating meaning out of what for many can feel like an existential void. That void is a source of sorrow, and sadness, like stress, is the enemy of creativity.

Unhappiness impedes the creation of new ideas, according to researchers at Penn State University. People suffering from even a mild case of the blues tend to hold back, wary of making mistakes and cautious to the point of inhibiting creative work. Moreover, people in sunny moods outperform those in sad or neutral moods in all kinds of divergent thinking, from word association to story ideas. Seriously.

Happiness is not just good for your personal life; it’s good for your professional life as well, not to mention your writer’s soul. So don’t worry; be happy, and keep writing.

Think of your favorite story—the one that kept you turning pages late into the night, the one with a plot so compelling, so multilayered, so perfect that you couldn’t put it down. How can you make your own plots—in your novels, short stories, memoirs, or screenplays—just as irresistible?

Plot Perfect provides the answer. This one-of-a-kind plotting primer reveals the secrets of creating a story structure that works—no matter what your genre. It gives you the strategies you need to build a scene-by-scene blueprint that will help elevate your fiction and earn the attention of agents and editors.

Inside, literary agent, editor, and author Paula Munier shows you how to:

Devise powerful plots and subplots and weave them together seamlessly

Organize your scenes for the greatest impact

Develop captivating protagonists and worthy antagonists

Use dialogue, setting, tone, and voice to enhance your plot

Layer, refine, and polish your storyline

About the Author:

Paula Munier is Senior Literary Agent and Content Strategist at Talcott Notch Literary Services. She began her career as a journalist, and along the way added editor, acquisitions specialist, digital content manager, publishing executive, author, and writing teacher to her repertoire. Paula is the author of several books, including Plot Perfect: How to Build Unforgettable Stories Scene by Scene. Her first mystery series debuts with Spare These Stones in 2018 (St. Martin’s Press).

The post Brainstorming for Story Ideas appeared first on WritersDigest.com.

from Writing Editor Blogs – WritersDigest.com http://www.writersdigest.com/editor-blogs/there-are-no-rules/excerpts/brainstorming-story-ideas

[astralsecrets]

2lbs of Ice Cream/Tricycle Woman

I've followed my boyfriend C into a tiny restaurant, it has a single prep bar in the middle of the establishment and a second, separate room with tables. I have never been here but once I go inside I suddenly work there. I don't know where anything is, what we sell, or how they sell it. C is nowhere in sight. Of course. The restaurant has a garage door that takes up an entire wall, and they open to let it know they are ready to take business. But all the other workers are so placid and lacking urgency that it's hard to tell we're open. I go to help a woman who insists that she just wants 2lbs of ice cream. No one will listen to me, so I can't figure out where it is, and when I final see someone prepping the ice cream bar, I ask her if what's prepped is for my customer or someone else?? And she doesn't acknowledge me. All the other employees talk around me instead of to me. I start to scoop the weird oblong chocolate ice cream onto....a plate, when someone says "That's not even ready yet." "What do you mean?" They don't answer me. I set the plate down. She picks it up and scrapes all the ice cream from the plate and the bar onto a flat tray with some milk, sugar, and butter and mixes it all together. She sets it down on the counter and I weigh the ice cream...it's 1.7lbs, plus a literal ice cream sandwich? Some shavings of ice cream on a bun. And a super weird mashed potato and ham biscuit thing. I'm so confused, but I take it. It's they're 'standard plate' apparently. I take it to the woman and I try to ask if it's okay but she won't talk to me either, but also somehow makes me feel completely worthless. Finally the work day is over and we're all trying to leave at once in a tidal rush for the side exit. I feel like I should have asked more people what I should have been doing. Maybe tomorrow will be better. There's a tallish, pale man with a cap of black curls, and big black-brown eyes. He's wearing a navy blue sweater over a sky blue button up. As we're leaving he looks down at me. Right into my eyes. And I can tell he really really sees me. I'm not forgotten or invisible, or talked over. He offers me his hand in a casual gesture, and I take it, wondering what my boyfriend will think if he sees me holding hands with another man. But he's a hypocrite in these matters anyway. Should I care? The hand is comforting and the man only means to be companionable, he's not coming onto me. "It was a rough first day. Will you be back tomorrow?" He asks. I pull my hand free as we move out onto the patio, 7-8 other employees streaming past us. "I think so." "Good. See you then." He leaves me behind and I spot my boyfriend C across the way. He's a distant figure and doesn't appear to consider me directly, though he raises a hand to let me know he's seen me...he still gets in his truck and leaves. Which incites a dull sort of panic in me, because for a second I'm certain we rode here together. Did he just leave me to walk? No...that isn't right. I dimly remember parking. Right? Where the fuck is the parking lot? Uncertain, I go down the stairs to the fine gravel driveway. It's long and hooks toward the highway. I get almost to the end when I see the lot, on the other side. So of course, now that I'm trying to cross, there are a bunch of cars turning into the driveway. Well. Not all of them are cars. Some people are on bikes. One woman is on a motorized tricycle? I only barely avoid her when I rush across the street, and she nearly hits another person on a bike...but she revs the tricycle, pops a wheelie and swerves out of the way. It's so unnecessary and bloody stupid that I can't stand it. All of this pisses me off. "Yeah, Karen! Rev your stupid tricycle, it's super intimidating!" I yell, disproportionately irate. Then I start laughing. It's so stupid that it strikes me as funny. I want to tell C about it so badly but he's not anywhere. I my heart sinks back to its regular place in the hollow of my stomach, sad and cautious, and I find my car. There's a lapse and I'm with C, I try to tell him about the funny thing that happened but he's not really listening, and when I tell the story again I know he doesn't believe I shouted at a stranger. I'm having an argument with Jess Day from New girl in a weird little kitchen. She's supposed to be me, and I'm supposed to be C. "Well yeah! that's how things would be if they were balanced! But they aren't, are they!" I snap. "What do you mean not balanced?!" She cries. "You really want me to bring this up here, in front of our FRIENDS? our TWO FRIENDS?" Who won't leave the fucking room. I move around to the far side of a tiny, oddly shapped island that has a cork bulletin board running down the center with all sorts of maps and notices pinned to it. K, someone I haven't seen in forever is loudly observing a map and trying to throw thumb tacks at the board to make them stick. I really want to get into it, so we can have a fight about something that bothers me, but the others won't leave the room and it's too personal to discuss in present company.

from RSSMix.com Mix ID 8297989 https://www.dreamviews.com/blogs/amurehna/2lbs-ice-cream-tricycle-woman-85933/