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rvzcvx · 6 months ago

Note

I see your post we're you bored and idk what to write so another Idea :

Can you do Tom x(dom) m! Reader or non-gendered is not important (I prefer x m! Reader because I'm a guy obviously )During the 14th of July and we arrive in the evening at the time of the fireworks and Tom is really scared about firework (IDK LMAO, no judgment.) and reader tries to reassure him Fluff and maybe bonus where reader and Tom had sex because Tom can't calm down! As you wish

BYEE,LOVE YOU 💋

ANXIETY

pairing: tom kaulitz x male reader

warnings: smut

a/n: idk if thats what you meant, but i hope youre gonna like it!! its kinda long but I hope it will be a good to read!! you can send me more requests if you want me to write something

As the sun dipped below the horizon, we were walking through the crowded streets of Paris, my heart racing in anticipation of the evening ahead. Tom and I had planned this trip months ago, carefully timing our visit to make it in time with bastille day. But as we made our way towards the seine, where the crowd had gathered, Tom's grip on my hand tightened, and I could sense his growing unease.

We arrived at a place near the eiffel tower. People were everywhere, their excitement palpable. Tom's eyes darted around nervously, his usual confident demeanor replaced by an nervous tension. I squeezed his hand gently, hoping to provide some reassurance.

"You okay?" I asked, my voice low enough to be lost in the crowd. Tom forced a smile, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Yeah, just a bit overwhelmed. I forgot how crowded it gets here."

I knew it was more than the crowd. Tom had never been comfortable around fireworks. The loud, unexpected bursts and the lingering booms always seemed to unsettle him. It was something he rarely admitted, but tonight, as the first rocket flew into the sky, I saw him flinch.

"It's gonna be fine" I whispered, pulling him closer. "We'll stay back here, away from the thick of it."

He nodded, but his body remained tense. The fireworks began in earnest, vibrant explosions of color and light that painted the night sky. Each burst was met with oohs and aahs from the crowd, but Tom's reaction was a stark contrast. His jaw clenched tighter with each boom, his eyes squeezed shut as he tried to block out the noise.

"Hey" I said softly, turning to face him and gently cupping his face in my hands. "Look at me, not at the fireworks." Tom's eyes fluttered open, meeting mine. "I'm trying" he muttered, his voice strained.

"Focus on my voice, on my touch." I ran my thumb soothingly over his cheek. "You’re safe. We’re safe."

He took a deep breath, his shoulders relaxing slightly as he concentrated on me. "Thanks" he said, his voice barely audible over the people around us.

I kept talking, sharing random stories and memories, anything to distract him from the noise. Gradually, his breathing steadied, and some of the tension got off him. As the grand finale approached, the fireworks intensified, the sky a chaotic symphony of light and sound. Tom winced, but he didn't look away from me.

When the last firework faded, I could see the relief on his face. "Let's get out of here" I suggested, threading my fingers through his.

We walked back to our hotel, the cool night air a welcome change from the crowded riverbank. Tom was quieter than usual, his earlier anxiety still lingering. Once we were inside our room, I closed the door behind us and turned to him.

"Sorry I wasn't much fun tonigh" he said, flopping onto the couch. "Don't apologize" I replied, sitting next to him and placing a hand on his leg. "I knew fireworks weren't your thing. I just wanted to be with you."

He gave me a grateful look. "You always know how to make me feel better."

I leaned in and kissed him gently, letting my lips linger on his. He responded eagerly, his hands finding their way to my waist, pulling me closer. The kiss deepened, and for a moment, all the stress and tension melted away.

"I don't know what I'd do without you" Tom murmured against my lips. "You don't have to find out" I whispered back. "I'm not going anywhere."

We stayed like that for a while, wrapped up in each other, the world outside forgotten. Eventually, Tom pulled away slightly, his eyes searching mine. "Can we just stay here tonight? Just us?"

"Of course" I said, brushing his thick dreads from his face. "We can do whatever you want."

He smiled, a real smile this time, and pulled me down onto the bed with him. We lay there, holding each other, the faint sounds of the city outside a distant hum. Tom's breathing slowed, his body relaxing completely for the first time that evening.

"I love you" he whispered, his voice filled with emotion. "I love you too" I replied, kissing his forehead.

We lay there in comfortable silence, enjoying the peace of the moment. The anxiety from earlier seemed like a distant memory now, replaced by a deep sense of contentment. Tom's hand found mine, our fingers intertwining as we simply enjoyed being together.

After a while, I felt Tom's lips on my neck, his breath warm against my skin. "You make everything better" he murmured, his voice low and husky.

I shivered at his touch, my body responding instinctively. "I try" I said with a smile, turning to capture his lips with mine.

We kissed slowly, savoring each moment, the tension from earlier completely forgotten. Our hands roamed over each other, exploring familiar territory with renewed intensity. Tom's touch was both soothing and electrifying, a combination that never failed to drive me wild.

As things heated up, I felt the urgent need to be even closer to him. We moved together in perfect sync, our bodies responding to each other's every move. The connection between us was intense, fueled by the events of the evening and the deep love we shared.

Eventually, we paused, breathless and flushed, our foreheads pressed together. "Let's take this to the bedroom" Tom suggested, his eyes dark with desire.

I nodded, my heart racing in anticipation. We stood up, still wrapped around each other, and made our way to the bedroom. I pushed open the bedroom door, my heart racing with anticipation.

I laid him gently on the bed, placing my weight on his body. "You're so beautiful" I murmured, leaning down to press a soft kiss to his lips. He responded eagerly, his arms winding around my neck as he deepened the kiss.

I could feel the heat radiating off his body, and I knew that he wanted me as much as I wanted him. I broke the kiss, my lips trailing down his jaw and neck, peppering him with kisses as I went. He tilted his head back, giving me better access, and I couldn't help but grin at his eagerness. "You like that?" I asked, my breath hot against his skin.

"Yes" he moaned, his voice ragged with desire. "Don't stop."

I continued my assault on his neck, my hands roaming over his chest and stomach, feeling the muscles tense and flex beneath my fingertips. I could feel his cock, hard and throbbing, pressed against my thigh, and I knew that it was time to take things to the next level.

I pulled back, my eyes meeting his, and I saw the hunger and need in them. I reached for the hem of his shirt, pulling it up and over his head, exposing his toned, muscular chest. I couldn't help but let out a low whistle as I took in the sight of him.

"Fuck, you're so hot" I said, my voice filled with awe.

He blushed at the compliment, but I could see the pleasure in his eyes. I leaned down, capturing one of his nipples in my mouth and sucking hard. He cried out, his back arching off the bed as I teased and tormented him with my tongue and teeth.

I moved my attention to his other nipple, giving it the same treatment, and he moaned and writhed beneath me. I could feel his cock leaking precum, and I knew that he was just as turned on as I was.

I stood up, my eyes never leaving his, and stripped off my own clothes. He watched me, his eyes dark with desire, as I revealed my own hard, throbbing cock. I climbed onto the bed, positioning myself between his legs, and I leaned down to capture his lips in another searing kiss.

I reached down, wrapping my hand around both of our cocks, and I began to stroke them together. He moaned into my mouth, his hips bucking up to meet my movements. I broke the kiss, my lips trailing down his chest and stomach as I made my way to his cock.

I wrapped my lips around the head, swirling my tongue around it, and he cried out, his hands fisting in my hair as he held me in place. I took him deeper into my mouth, my throat working as I swallowed him down.

He was moaning and thrashing beneath me, his hips bucking up as I sucked and licked at his cock. I could feel my own orgasm building, and I knew that I wouldn't be able to hold back much longer.

I pulled off his cock with a pop, my lips wet and swollen from his abuse. I looked up at him, my eyes filled with lust and desire, and I saw the same need reflected back at me in his gaze.

"I need you inside me" he gasped, his voice desperate.

I nodded, reaching for the lube and condom that I had stashed in the bedside table. I quickly sheathed myself and slicked up my cock, my eyes never leaving his.

I positioned myself at his entrance, my cock throbbing with need. I looked up at him, seeking his permission, and he nodded, his eyes filled with trust and desire.

I pushed inside him, my cock sliding in easily, and he cried out, his hands reaching up to grip my shoulders as I filled him up. I began to move, my hips pistoning as I drove into him again and again.

He was moaning and writhing beneath me, his cock hard and leaking as I fucked him. I leaned down, capturing his lips in another kiss as I continued to thrust into him.

"You feel so good" I murmured, breaking the kiss. "So tight and hot."

"Yes" he moaned, his hips meeting my thrusts. "Harder, m/n. Please."

I increased my pace, my hips moving faster and faster as I drove into him. I could feel my orgasm building, my balls drawing up tight against my body.

"I'm close" I gasped, my breath coming in short, sharp pants. "Me too" he moaned, his nails digging into my shoulders.

I reached down, wrapping my hand around his cock, and I began to stroke him in time with my thrusts. He cried out, his back arching off the bed as he came, his cum spurting out in hot, sticky ropes.

The sight of him coming, of his body trembling and writhing beneath me, was enough to send me over the edge. I groaned, my cock twitching as I came, filling the condom with my hot, sticky load.

I collapsed on top of him, my chest heaving as I tried to catch my breath. He wrapped his arms around me, holding me close. I took off the used condom and threw it somewhere, wrapping my arms around him too.

"I love you Tom" I said, resting my head in the crook of his neck. "I love you too" I heard him say and I smiled, feeling myself fall asleep after a while.

#tokio hotel x male reader #tokio hotel #georg listing #gustav schäfer #tom kaulitz #bill kaulitz #bill kaulitz x male reader #bill kaulitz x reader #tom kaulitz x reader #tom kaulitz x male reader #gustav schäfer x reader #gustav schäfer x male reader #georg listing x reader #georg listing x male reader

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tf2-bhs · 4 months ago

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Meet "Spy".

The most arrogant student in all of MANN high school and sixth form. Once he had a perfect life, over in France. Not an orphan, posh house, and perfect grades, and because of those perfect grades he was offered a chance to go over to England as an exchange student, which he obviously took. However, as soon as he got to the people he would be staying with, he soon realized that it was one of the worst opportunities that he had ever taken.

8 children, under one small roof, with only one familiar woman looking after them. He immediately clashed with the clan's youngest member a, then, 13-year-old boy called Jeremy. The pair often got into verbal spats whenever the younger boy's mother wasn't around.

However, despite them often fighting, the pair developed a sort of brotherly bond, with 'Spy' telling Jeremy long and intricate stories sometimes about things he's done in France, other times just to hit him with a 'your mom' joke. And sometimes Jeremy goes to 'Spy' for advice with the SAME SIXTH FORM GIRL.

'Spy' was only supposed to stay in England for his time in year 10, however, he made a special request to stay for an additional year, which his old school agreed with, as long as Ms. Sullivan was okay with it, and due to reasons still unknown, she was.

He's the second most mysterious student, second only to the 'Pyro', and that is primarily because we actually know that 'Spy' is human and speaks plain English, however, his identity is still unknown as he has never taken his hood off in front of someone and he always answers the register before his name is said.

Despite his posh exterior, he's partial to video games, especially a shooter game called 'Band Bastille 2.' He is an absolute sweat at it and is by far the best 'Infiltrator' player for miles. He even has a nemesis on the game who goes by the gamer tag 'ProfessionalwStandards', who primarily plays the 'Assassin' role, which he hates all player.s of but, and I quote, ", especially this so-called professional! He dares to say that he has standards!? All assassin players are just a bunch of pathetic lost souls who don't even know how to move their own characters!" - Spy, overheard at lunch, the other week.

Another one of his online activities that he loves to do is to get into arguments about the stupidest things. It could be about politics, a movie franchise he hasn't seen, or even basic trivia. Sometimes he purposely says the wrong thing, just to illicit a reaction from the person, and when the perfect time comes, he strikes and instead of putting an actual answer, he just puts the person's IP address and never looks at the conversation ever again.

Something that he just can't stand is vapes, and I quote, "Horrid, horrid things. With their dreadful flavours and stupid batteries. h, and do not even get me started on the braindead people who got the toilets permanently locked because they were using them there. I prefer to take my lung cancer the proper way with cigarettes!" -Spy again.

GCSEs

Trilogy

French

History

Drama

Art

Relationships

Jane 'Soldier' Doe: Apart from maybe Merasmus, 'Spy' is the only person to not put up with Jane's loud-mouthed attitude, saying "It wouldn't be tolerated in my old school, it won't be tolerated by me here."

Jeremy 'Scout' Sullivan: Read the first bit again, and then look me in the eyes and tell me you need this.

?? 'Pyro' ??: 'Spy' wonders what inhuman thoughts lie behind that mask, but more so he wonders how, even when he's in isolation, he can always be found by the creature.

Mikhail 'Heavy' Ivanov: They often talk about literature that they've read, meaning most of their conversations take place hidden behind bookshelves in the library making someone think the school is haunted!

Mun-dee 'Mick' 'Sniper' Mundy: Do not let these two exchange gamer tags. They're at each other's throats enough already.

F??? Pauling: 'Spy' is her go-to when getting advice for help with the gals

??? 'Ma' Sullivan: They both know and they know the other knows.

Tavish 'Demoman' Degroot and Ludwig 'Doc' Koch: Nothing too bad, they have pleasant chats

#content for au #character profiles for au #?? ??: 'Spy' [🚬]#team fortress 2 #tf2 #tf2 spy #tf2 scout #tf2 soldier #tf2 pyro #tf2 heavy #tf2 medic #tf2 demoman #tf2 engineer #tf2 sniper #tf2 scout's mom #tf2 miss pauling #TF2!BHS AU

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writing-mlm · 1 year ago

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Right here

Druig x male!eternals!reader

wc: 2.8k

summary: dinner with the Avengers gets unexpectedly cut short

“Uh… Mr. Corpus, sir?” Peter looks up from where he’s working on his homework, watching as you swirl his LEGOS in the air. They click into place, quickly forming some version of the Titanic but the colors are off. They release from their form and swirl in the air again as you look at him, your fingers held in a cupping motion. He looks away for a second, fiddling with his pencil. “Do you know what happened on July 14th, 1789?”

“Storming of the Bastille,” You answer without thinking too much about it. “Very important moment in the French Revolution; Bastille was a prison that many aristocrats preferred to go to because it was a very… relaxed prison. Almost a thousand people surrounded the prisons, cannons, and gunpowder ready. They were afraid the King was going to arrest the new National Assembly. They were also wanting to fortify the prison, crime was horrid those days.” As you speak, Peter writes it down. He has no use for fact-checking you, you’re the Avengers history nerd.

“Thank you,” He smiled and flipped to the next page. You nod, returning to your LEGOS and recreating the prison. It spins around and you look into the box of loose legos, using random pieces to create canons around it.

Living with the Avengers was far from the plan you had set in your head when you finally broke away from your family. You didn’t want nor need a team of people to boss you around again but this was the easiest way to ensure the world was safe. At the top of the world, nothing was hidden.

At least to you.

You look at the other Avengers who’d found themselves a spot in the common area, blissfully unaware of the truth. They think they know it all, there’s nothing they don’t know. Anything and everything that happens on Earth— they’ll know it. And they’ll stop it.

God, they were so fucking wrong.

Sinking into your seat, your eyes drift off to the woods that surround the compound. They’re smaller but denser than the forest you’re used to back home, which reminds you that you ought to visit soon. It’s been almost a year since you’ve last been there and you’re sure you’re being missed day and night.

And you miss it, too, of course. The dreams cannot replace reality.

“Hey, Chronicle,” Tony calls and you look over to him. He lifts his cup to point towards the TV and you see you’re up for the next match of Mortal Kombat. Pulling yourself to sit next to Sam, you take the controller from Natasha and pick your character. Sam picks his and the round begins, you end up winning but that’s almost entirely due to the fact that for some odd reason, Sam could not have a steady grip on his controller.

“He always cheats!” Sam points to you as you hand the controller to Tony. “Nah- nah, get the power blockers! I want a rematch!” He demands but everyone knows that for some stupid reason, it doesn’t work on you.

“It’s okay, butterfingers,” You tell him, patting his shoulder as you return to your spot creating LEGOS. “I know you're getting all hot and bothered around me.” Sam closes his eyes, telling Bucky that he’s about to send you away and you offer an amused smile.

The place settles down after that, you end up losing in the game because you had a long-standing promise with Bucky that you wouldn’t use your powers on him unless it was necessary. Some type of PTSD you didn’t care to dive into. All that mattered was that Bucky absolutely murked your character and Sam was cheering the entire time.

Dinner rolls around and you agree to make something quick, but with how much everyone eats even a quick meal takes an hour with how much needs to be made. Thankfully, the kitchen has four ovens for that exact reason. Seven lasagna and garlic breads later, dinner is served and everyone is eating around a table.

Thor, Steve, Bucky, and Peter each got their own pans. Although, Thor needed another and you’re glad you made seven because the remaining two were just enough for the rest of you with normal appetites.

Midway through your slice, you feel a certain tug in your mind and smile, doing your best to not look away from your food. It’s a tug you’ve grown to love and adore, and it’s more than welcome to invade your mind.

What’re you eatin’ tonight? Druig asked, his soft voice mulling over the voices around you.

Lasagna, the recipe I showed you. You answer, grabbing your cup of juice to hide your smile. You?

Soup. He replies. Arishem, I miss your cooking. You laugh, although you manage to keep it silent.

I’m planning my next return, just have to make sure there’s nothing coming up here.

Good, I cannot go another month without you, my love.

Neither can I. You look up, seeing everyone is looking at you. One moment, darling. Like a phone call, you put the connection on hold and clear your throat.

“Sorry, what did you say?” You ask, setting your cup down.

“Peter was asking for the recipe,” Wanda says, offering the kid a smile when you look at him.

“Oh, yeah, sure,” You nod. “Remind me later.” He nods and everyone slowly goes back to their conversations and you take Druig off of hold.

You have to stop letting your mind wander. He teases and you roll your eyes, finishing up the last of your food.

Only to thoughts of you. You reply and he makes an ohh sound. Not in that way. You add, leaving the table with a simple see you later.

One amazing thing about the compound is the fucking dishwasher, it’s honestly a lifesaver.

I do not need a dishwasher. Druig says as you close the door to the washer.

You don’t have electricity, you cannot have one. He takes the reminder with a grain of salt and your conversation continues well into the night. Eventually, he falls asleep and you allow yourself to as well.

—

One thing you absolutely dread about living with the others is the fact that whenever someone who’s not Tony or Peter is there, they insist on working out at the crack of dawn.

You’re awake at four in the morning, several hours before you normally do, and have only managed to get two hours of sleep so you’re more than annoyed when Thor makes an announcement over every single speaker in the house.

Begrudgingly, you get prepared for the workout and join Sam for the pre-workout smoothie. He makes the best ones, Steve just eats it dry and Bucky cannot make it taste good for the life of him. The others don’t take any before their workouts so it’s just the four of you drinking (and eating scoops of protein powder) before you head up to the gym.

Workouts with the Avengers last for hours, although Tony taps out two hours in, Peter had to get ready for school, and Clint wanted to finally go home soon after. Sam is the next to go, he’s beyond tired three hours in and chooses to watch everyone instead.

You’re on your ass as Natasha flips you over, the wind knocks out your chest as you land on the padding. She stands over you, her weapon tossed to the ground and you twitch your fingers. It flies through the air and knocks her backward as you pull yourself up.

“Cheater,” She teases as you twirl her stick in the air with a shrug. “Mama never taught you to play nice with friends?” Dropping the stick into your hands, you swing and she ducks. This continues for a while until you have her pinned down— albeit using your powers but it was getting a little tiring using your arms.

Training ends with five laps around the compound— which only Thor, Steve, and Bucky actually completed. You gave up after two and Natasha got through three and a half. You were many things, a try hard was not one of them.

Cleaning up, you head to the common area to find something to watch.

There’s a lot to which, with Tony having every single streaming service possible, but you eventually settle on some show Peter had recommended.

“Dinner is ready!” Tony calls and for the first time since you started the show, you look away from the screen. It’s dark outside and you were well into the show… that's a little embarrassing. “C’mon, Matilda!” He calls when you’re not moving fast enough.

“Shut up, white man,” You grumble, pausing the show and heading to the others. Peter is back for the weekend but Clint stayed with his family.

Dinner is a large order of pizza, boxes piled up on the table and the super eaters take theirs before everyone else takes their slices. Tonight you’re able to engage with them completely uninterrupted and come to think of it, you’d gone the entire day without talking to Druig.

You couldn’t feel him in your mind, either. Normally there’s a small feeling when you focus, letting you know he was there but today he wasn’t.

Sighing, you decide not to dwell on it just yet. He’s gone through periods where he doesn’t want to talk before, the longest being a week. You’d give him two days before you stole a jet to go and see him.

“Unknown subjects approaching the compound,” FRIDAY says midway through dinner. “Unknown mass in the air approaching at rapid speeds, engage?” He’s basically buzzing to use the systems defense system.

“Describe the mass,” Tony says, afraid FRIDAY is alerting them of another bird. It’s happened at least six times already.

“A large black triangle with unknown carvings on it, approaching in approximately five seconds,” FRIDAY says and you take that time to think about it. It sounds familiar and as you’re rushing out with the others to find out what the fuck it is, it clicks. The Domo.

“Holy shit!” Peter gasps when he sees the Domo hovering above the field in front of the compound. There’s a couple flashes of light and you rush over to where they’re going to be landing while the others remain a good distance away. You’re glad for their sake that they aren’t a shoot-first ask-questions-later type of group.

“(Y/n), do not engage!” Tony shouts, stopping the others from going after you. You ignore him, stopping exactly two steps ahead of where you know they will land in a couple of seconds. The others are calling for you to get back— Sam is sure it’s some type of alien and he tells Bucky he’s always right about the people they have to fight. You tune them out, watching as the light shoots down completely from the Domo and as it falls to the ground.

Druig is the first to land and wastes no time in his arms wrapping around your waist and you hold his face. He looks at you with these puppy dog eyes, a smile creeping up on his face and you dip your head down.

Kissing him, one of his hands grabs the back of your neck, deepening it. You move one of your hands down to his belt loops and hold him. He laughs into the kiss but neither of you pulls away. You hear a gag but it’s clearly from Sprite so you ignore it.

“I didn’t need to see that!” Sprite groans as she lands. “They’re worse than you and Dane.” She tells Sersi as you pull away from the kiss. But just slightly, you can still feel his lips on yours and you carefully rub his cheek.

“Hello, beautiful,” He mutters against your lips.

“Hey,” You mutter back, going in for another kiss but Phastos pulls the two of you away.

“Dude!” You whine as he holds your collar and drags you across the lawn until you’re more than an arm's distance from Druig. “Let me kiss my fuckin’ husband!” Druig smiles and you wink, finally getting put back on your feet.

“Did he say, husband?” Natasha whispers to Tony who blankly nods.

“You can kiss when we’re done here,” Ikaris says, floating down from the Domo.

“You’re not the only one who can fly, asshole,” You tease, rising to his level. “But yeah; whatever. Why're all— most of you here?” You correct yourself, seeing that Ajak and Gilgamesh aren’t with the others.

“Aren’t you and Gilg a package dead?” You ask Thena and that seems to be the wrong question to as everyone looks sad. Lowering yourself to the ground, you look between everyone. “What’s going on?” You slowly ask, looking at Druig as he walks up to you.

“Ajak and Gilgamesh are dead,” He says as he holds your hand. “Killed by deviants; they're back.” He softly adds.

“There’s some more stuff,” Sersi steps forward, her hand on Thena’s shoulder. “We’ll explain everything in the Domo but we need to go now.”

“Now— like, right this second now?” You ask and she nods. Looking at your team, you sigh and look back to the others. “Give me a second.” They nod and you rush over to the others.

“I’ll be back, I just— I’ll explain when I get back.” You tell them, giving everyone a once over. “Um… yeah, see you!”

“No way,” Tony says as he grabs your arm before you can go too far. “You aren’t just up and leaving like that! Where are you going? Who are they?”

“We’re on a bit of a time crunch!” Kingo shouts and you sigh, apologizing to Tony before removing his hand with your powers.

“I’ll explain when I get back, I promise!”

—

Sitting on the beach, you look over at Druig who’s already looking at you rather than the very large golden hand sticking out from the sea.

“I should’ve stayed with you,” You whisper, a frown forming on your face. “If I hadn’t been with the Avengers Gilgamesh would be alive, I could’ve stopped Ikarus long before this became such an issue.” Looking back to the water, you rest your head on his shoulder.

“Don't think like tha’,” Druig replies in the same whisper, brushing hair from your face. “You were doin’ your best, you joined that stupid team to help people. No one could’ve seen this comin’, darlin.” He wraps his arm around you and lays his head on top of yours. He glances at your red and gold suit, tracing the shapes that he’s traced for centuries before as the waves roll in.

You stare at the crashing waves, your eyes drifting to and from the head and hand every so often. There are so many thoughts running through your mind. You’ve lost three friends, you look at Sprite and while the others might be able to forgive her you can’t.

Sure, she looks like a child but she was… born at the same time everyone else was. She grew as everyone else grew, despite how it looked from the outside. You can’t look past the betrayal, no matter the reason.

Then there’s Kingo, who you weren’t too sure about either. You’d always fought, no matter how dire the situation seemed. You fought and you fought together. And he ran. It left a bitter taste in your mouth.

“I can still hear your thoughts,” Druig whispers. “Mind if I change those thoughts?” You hum, and move your head from his shoulder. His head moves back before it moves forward, his lips finding a home between yours. They’re dry, but you don’t doubt yours are either. And probably taste of sand just as his taste like volcanic ash. He smiles, glad your mind has drifted to other topics and you pull him on top of you.

“Do not fuck on the beach,” Phastos grumbles. You pull away and tilt your head back to grin at him. Druig doesn’t pay him much mind, letting his eyes and hands wander your body. Although that’s probably to just annoy Phastos even more.

“You’re such a cockblock, y’know that right?” He rolls his eyes and joins the others several yards away.

“We should head back, though.” You tell Druig, squeezing his arms. He looks at your face, and you stare at his blue eyes. God, they’re really fucking blue.

“They’ve always been blue,” His lips quirked into a smile and you shove his face away from you before bringing the two of you to your feet.

“I know you want to go to space and like… save the others out there…” You start as the two of you walk back to the group.

“But you don’t?” He finishes and you sigh. “Can I ask why?”

“I like it here,” You shrug. “I’ve built a life and I get to play with LEGOS and cheat during game night…”

“You’re afraid of space.”

“I’m afraid of space.” You concede and he lets out a small laugh before his face softens.

“We don’t have to go anywhere, darling. Right here is perfect.”

#x male reader #druig x reader #druig x eternal!reader #druig x male reader #druig imagine #druig x you #barry keoghan #x reader

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perspectivelute · 24 days ago

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Looking at portraits, it's hard to wonder what the artist thought of the sitter. Here are two I saw in Munich last week, at the Alte Pinakothek:

Portrait of Jean-Baptiste Philippe 1748

Mademoiselle Ferrand contemplates Newton, around 1752 |

These are both by Maurice Quentin de la Tour, painted a few years apart.

On top is a retired tax collector. Did he ask to be painted with that tight-lipped sneer? I suppose it's possible that M. Philippe preferred to be respected rather than loved.

But the portrait below feels a thousand times more affectionate. Mlle Ferrand is turning away from her study of Newton, almost cupping her ear to listen to the viewer.

I found a fascinating essay which gives some background:

it was commissioned by a woman who knew she was dying, and was exhibited publicly months after her death to an audience who knew exactly who she was and called her “la célèbre Mlle Ferrand”

The gallery itself [understates her accomplishments](Portrait of Jean-Baptiste Philippe)

Ferrand came from an aristocratic background and was highly esteemed in scholarly circles for her mathematical and philosophical knowledge. The philosopher Étienne Bonnot de Condillac frequented her salon.

This salon was held in the rooms Ferrand shared with the Countess of Vassé. Condillac did more than frequent it -- his most respected work, the 'Treatise on Sensations', was developed in conversation with Ferrand, who he wrote "had a greater hand in this work than I did". The treatise, published after Ferrand's death, is dedicated to her memory and to Vasse, in terms that go far beyond the standard flattery of a patron:

You know, Madame, to whom I am beholden for enlightenment that finally made my prejudices evaporate, you know the part played in this work by someone who was so dear to you and so worthy of your esteem and friendship. It is to her memory that I dedicate this work, and I address it to you so that I may enjoy at the same time both the delight of speaking of her and the pain of regretting her loss. Let this monument perpetuate the memory of your friendship and of the honor I had in receiving your mutual esteem.

The whole dedication is very touching, honoring Ferrand's intellect, her personality, and the intimacy of her relationship with Madame de Vasse:

You will share this pleasure with me, Madame, you who will forever regret her loss, and thus it is with you that I want to speak of her. Both equally worthy of esteem, you both had the discernment which reveals all the value of what is loved and without which we do not know how to love at all. You knew the principles, truth, and courage that shaped you for one another. These qualities were the links of your friendship, and you found in your relations that happiness characteristic of virtuous and sensitive souls.

This happiness was then fated to end. In the final moments, she needed no other consolation than that she would not have to survive you. I saw that she was indeed happy about that. It was sufficient for her to live in your memory.

Ferrand came up with the central thought experiment of the book -- imagining a 'statue' coming to life sense by sense. She wondered how it would understand the world if it could only smell, or only taste, or only hear. I do wonder if there's an allusion to this in the painting, with her gesture towards her ear.

But alongside all this, she was also involved in some Dumas-level royalist derring-do, hiding Bonnie Prince Charlie in her rooms.

Prince Charlie, grandson of the deposed King James II, was a hapless but dashing figure, who spent his life trying in vain to claim the throne he saw as his. This peaked with a fairly serious invasion attempt in 1745, followed by decades of successively more hopeless ventures as the prince drank and screwed his way across Europe in hiding.

And in 1749-51, he was spending a lot of time hiding with Ferrand and Vassé:

The unfortunate Prince Charles, after leaving the Bastille [really Vincennes] lay hidden for three years in Paris, in the rooms of Madame de Vassé, who then resided with her friend, the celebrated Mademoiselle Ferrand, at the convent of St. Joseph. To Mademoiselle de Ferrand the Abbé Condillac owed the ingenious idea of the statue, which he has developed so well in his treatise on “The Sensations.” The Princesse de Talmond, with whom Prince Charles was always much in love, inhabited the same house. All day he was shut up in a little garderobe of Madame de Vassé’s, whence, by a secret staircase, he made his way at night to the chambers of the Princesse. In the evening he lurked behind an alcove in the rooms of Mademoiselle Ferrand. Thus, unseen and unknown, he enjoyed every day the conversation of the most distinguished society, and heard much good and much evil spoken of himself.

Meanwhile he was maintaining cryptic correspondence with a network of his supporters, often relying on Ferrand as a go-between. It's surely just a coincidence that one of his primary correspondents went by the code-name 'Newton', matching with the book Ferrand is reading.

A biography of the prince shows a lovely overlap of thought and intrigue:

Mademoiselle Ferrand...informed him that an acquaintance had been telling Condillac that he knew the Prince’s hiding-place; the lady also advised him against certain psychological books which he wanted to buy. These, she said, were trash.

Let's look again at the painting -- with slightly more background, and a healthy dose of fantasy. Pausing from her study of 'Newton', she devises a thought experiment. How would someone experience the world, they wonder, if he could only hear and not see? Condillac sees her gesture to her ear in illustration. Charles doesn't -- the infamous fugitive, listening but not seeing, is living out the discussion.

Original post here

#just friends with a secret staircase between our bedrooms #I don't come out of the closet #art

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rindecisions · 8 months ago

Text

Something's Coming...

Join me!! 🤍

The AO3 collection is already live for you to post anything you make based on my work from now until forever

Join my Discord for more information and community. It's also the easiest way to get in contact with me.

Below are some scenes and ideas to give you jumping off points if you need them but I'd prefer you to use YOUR favorite!

Includes Sneak peeks!

(These were so hard to pick)

The Devil of Hawkins

I'd love to hear theories on this fic

First Kiss

Ceiling 69 🔞

Give Me Fuel, Give Me Fire

The Sunroof🔞

Stranger Tales

Something to go with the next chapter (Sneak Peek)🔞

You Know Where to Find Me

Something to the song Another Place by Bastile would be great. It's just such a fitting song for this story.

Their first goodbye

From Hell and Back

I'd love to see what one-shots you could come up with for my shapeshifting Demon Eddie

Mini Eddie

Tentacles🔞

A New Arrangement

What song should I base the next instalment on?

The teased kiss

Kiss in the rain

Steve's New Obsession

I'm torn on continuing this one. If I did what would you like to see happen?

Steve watching Eddie at the Hideout🔞

Beneath the Watch's Band

Where would you see this fic going?

Their first kiss

Billy 'The Freak' Hargrove

What do you think their other escapades looked like?

The proposition

Nectar

I bet you guys could come up with some impressive one-shots for plant cryptid Steve.

First kiss

Come and Get Me

To be released on March 20th. It's part of the @strangerthingsreversebigbang and will be accompanied by the incredible artwork of @waldos-art

A peek at one of my favorite scenes

The WIPs

These will be released on May 1st

Evil Things🔞

From Trashed to Treasured

Been working on this one with @madaboutmunson

Here's two scenes from the first chapter.

The Target 🔞

VERY DARK - DEAD-DOVE - READ AT YOUR OWN RISK

Demositter

What Next?

Unnamed Sex-Pollen One-Shot

#Rindecision's Exhibition #Celebration #Steddie #Stranger Things #Fanfics #Fanfiction #metal sandwich #Mungrove #Event #collaboration #Snippets

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fizzycherrycola · 1 year ago

Text

FrUK, July 1920

A lover's quarrel at the beach, under the bright summer sun.

Warnings: Alcohol, post-WWI thoughts, and France is 100% naked

Grey Seaside

Bordeaux region, France; 14 July 1920

The soft croon of the Atlantic blankets the senses; rolling out and rolling in, the waves strum upon the beach. Seagulls cry out, breaking the ocean's harmony with their noise. England stares, unfocused, at the cross-hatching of his straw hat and the twinkles of sunlight poking through its gaps. It lies gently over his face, and he shuts his eyes, willing himself to doze off, but it’s useless. Even with a bottle of wine warming his bloodstream, the rest of the world is too distracting.

Sand is scratching him in-between the folds of his union suit, picnic quilts are twisting beneath his back, a lumpy towel is pressing against his neck... and oh, yes. He’s baking. The hot summer sun is beating down relentlessly on his skin, roasting him alive like a Christmas goose. Every inch of his body will sting tomorrow, save for those parts hidden under his skimmer hat and undergarments. Whoever decided that sleeveless, short-leg unions were the way to go ought to be sacked.

Somewhere to his right, a glass clinks, followed by some shuffling and the quiet snap of wicker wood. France is probably going for another drink, the sot. The pop of a cork and bubble of liquid confirm England’s suspicions, and he frowns. Why did he agree to this?

Ah, right, Bastille Day.

For a whole week, France pestered and nagged him about this little beach picnic to have as a private celebration. What resulted instead was an excursion of nothing but wine and sex. However, if the past months should offer any evidence, it was quite idiotic of England to assume otherwise.

England pokes the brim of his hat with his fingertips, lifting it to peek at his nemesis-come-lover. Lying on his belly, France is guzzling the prized alcohol. His Adam’s apple bobs with each swallow and his back arches upwards like a cat. Upon draining the cup, he gasps and leans heavily on his free hand, the languid pose emphasising the reddish-gold tan blooming across his bare shoulders and ass.

“Put your clothes back on, at least,” England says.

France pauses, his lazy dark lashes blinking open slowly.

“How can you already be in such a terrible mood?” he sighs. “We are on a private beach.”

“Only because you insisted.”

France raises one of his perfect brows and hums. “So you say.” He brings the cup back to his lips, halts, then glares at it for being empty. He goes for another. “If you are bored, why not go swimming? The ocean is right there.”

“Not likely.”

“Have you still not learned how to swim?”

“I know how to swim,” England lies. “...I just didn’t bring a bathing suit.”

An impish smirk splits France’s lips. “I do not see how that is a problem, when you can go in the nude.”

England gags. “Absolutely not.”

“But you were naked just moments ago, weren’t you?”

“That's entirely different.”

“Free yourself from the chains of modesty and embrace the au naturel lifestyle.”

“Fucking hell.”

“Then, tell me. Why did you not bring your bathing suit?”

“I didn’t pack one for a trip to Paris, funnily enough. And after we suddenly left for your estate in the countryside, I didn’t have a chance to buy one, did I? I had no idea you’d insist on visiting a beach.”

“Again, I did not insist. You came of your own accord.”

“Bollocks.”

France pinches the bridge of his nose. “Mon Dieu, either you can tell me what is upsetting you, or we can argue in circles for the rest of the day. What would you prefer, hmm?”

England glares and they lock eyes with one another. His French opponent is perfectly unimpressed; deadpan on the edge of a blade. So still and sculpted that he could be mistaken for a Renaissance statue, if not for his wine-flushed cheeks and dramatic chest hair. The gaze is one that was perfected in the court of Versailles, which caused many proud courtiers to buckle and spill their deepest secrets.

To England's credit, he is wholly capable of rebuffing that look for days (and has done so, on several past occasions). But perhaps it's the salty ocean air, the refreshing wind that has calmed to a whistling breeze, or the fruity buzz of alcohol. For whatever reason, he relents, tossing his hat away into the nearby clump of marram grass and scowling at the feathery clouds above.

Admittedly, France did pick a nice spot: a beach that lies on the most Western part of his personal sprawling winery. With an expanse of bright sand and rustling grasses, it’s a gorgeous place to frivolously squander a few short hours, or in their case, a few perilously long months.

“You’re aware,” England states flatly, “that we’re shagging as a way of putting off issues back home.”

The pause in the atmosphere is palpable.

“...And?” France eventually asks.

“And we shouldn’t still be here.”

France laughs incredulously; a trill that rises in pitch to match the gulls around them. “Why not? Speak for yourself, Angleterre, but I believe that I deserve an extensive intermission from my government.”

Setting his glass down, he stretches and enters England’s field of vision. Pockmarked skin spans the landscape of his body; fresh shrapnel divots and bullet craters, not yet a decade old, pepper across it. Somehow, by the grace of God, the Germans missed his precious face. “I am going to stay in this exquisite locale for as long as I wish. Then, when at last I’m satisfied, I will return to Paris, but not a moment sooner. Monsieur Deschanel can reign while I’m absent.”

He crawls forward, his manhood dangling carelessly between his legs, and reaches for the wicker basket. After a moment of shuffling, he produces a chunk of Livarot cheese and a small paring knife. England gapes, his mouth watering almost immediately, and he pushes himself up with a start.

“Hang on! You brought food?” he says.

“Of course. I said this was a picnic, no?”

“We’ve had nothing but wine all day! Why didn’t you take it out sooner? What else have you got?”

France slices off a sliver of the creamy cheese and eats it right off the knife. “Mmm. A bit of pain de campagne and some grapes that my vintner decided are not good for making wine. They are probably too sweet.”

“Well, pass the basket here,” England demands.

“...Typically, everyone who attends a piquenique is required to bring at least one dish.”

“No, it’s called a picnic, and we’re on your estate. You’re the host.”

“I think your favourite ‘Gentlemen’s Book of Etiquette and Politeness’ says otherwise. You should have brought food to share.”

“The customs of last century no longer apply.” England juts out his open hand. “Give it here.”

France snorts. “Ask politely and I will consider it.”

England glowers.

His lover plops himself cross-legged right in front of the lunch basket and slices yet another piece of cheese. And this one, France eats slowly. His lips part, revealing a glimpse of teeth and tongue that delicately pull the morsel from the silvery blade. Deep indigo eyes goad England, flickering with a fervid intensity that borders on seductive. England’s stomach rumbles and the thrum of his pulse quickens, wavering on what, exactly, he may be hungry for.

It's the food, of course. Just the food.

His muscles and nerves are alert. The basket is barely beyond his reach. He glances at the paring knife and hesitates. Despite his shared tumultuous history with France, his likelihood of being stabbed should be on the lower end these days, given the Entente and recent wartime cooperation. Not to mention the rekindling of a perpetually unnamed, possibly mutual, bone-deep sentimentality, as of late.

...Should be safe enough, then.

He darts for the basket. The knife hits the picnic quilt. A palm comes up to squash England’s nose, and an arm wraps around his torso. Drunkenly fumbling, he stretches his hand out as far as it will go. Fingertips brush the basket’s rough wicker wood. Then blunt force hits his knee, throws his balance, and France wrenches him back. Sand flies as they grapple. Elbows jab into joints and feet scramble for purchase. Until France manages to lock England in an awkward hold.

“I think,” France grunts, “that I am still more accustomed to wine than you are.”

The world wobbles. Tasting sweat, England grits his teeth and twists. But the move is counterproductive, and he finds his head mashed into France’s inner thigh.

“Get off,” he groans.

France chokes out a laugh. “Aren’t you more comfortable in this position?”

A colourful kaleidoscope of profanities launch out of England. His cheek is flattened against France’s pliant skin and he can practically taste the olive oil from earlier; a staple lubricant that the frog always has on hand. The grassy vegetable scent fills his sinuses, swirling through his nostrils and burrowing into the back of his skull. Beneath it, lingers the salty aroma of sex, pungent and merciless as it settles low in his belly. France coos at him. “Why don’t you tell me what is wrong, hmm? If it is something physical, I can help you make it better.”

England does not shiver. Instead, he clamps down on his treacherous libido and wriggles free with a quick twist, straining his core muscles. Away from that maddening odour, he gasps and glares.

“Just tell me when you’re headed back.”

France blinks, raising both of his brows. “I haven’t decided.”

“You honestly have no plans for when you want to return?”

“No, I do not. Do you wish to leave?”

“Did I say that?”

The basket is close. England snatches a thick slice of pain-de-wotsit, shoves the fluffy bread in his mouth, then flops back onto his side of the blanket. A wisp of grey cloud blocks out the sun and England recalls all the wretched things that await him in London: from paperwork on the national debt, to rising unemployment, to an ongoing rebellion. No, he absolutely does not wish to return any time soon. Who in their right mind would?

“Is that what you were worried about?” France tuts, shaking out his wrists. “That our excursion might be ending soon?”

“Worried?” England mutters around a mouthful of crunchy crust. “Why would I–? No. Any half-responsible nation with a taxpaying public should know what day their pornographic sabbatical ends.”

“Tu cherches la petite bête….”

“Ridiculous. Why would I be worried?”

“Then, why did you not even ask?”

“...Just leave it.”

France exhales through his nose and stands. “Very well!”

“Where are you going?”

“You have drained every last drop of my patience, so I am leaving you here to rot.” Wobbling slightly, France stretches both arms to the sky. “I am going to go swimming!”

England sits up. “You can’t go swimming, you’re still sloshed.”

France stumbles, splaying his arms for balance. “My vacation will not be ruined by a petulant Englishman. I am going to enjoy myself and neither you nor a Cabernet Sauvignon will stop me. And keep the basket; you may have as much of my homemade bread as you wish!” He lurches away, keeping his gaze locked on his feet as though each step he takes requires deliberate concentration.

“Oi!”

“Au revoir, Angleterre! I will find a fish, or a scallop, and it will be better company than you.”

With France meandering, he begins to slowly shrink into the distance. His details fade, starting with the stray glimpses of hazel in his blonde curls, and continuing to the moles on his hip bones, the dips in his backside, and the jagged pale scars splitting his tanned skin. He wanders naked across the shimmering sands, alone, and England’s stomach twists. A mouthful of bread sits on his tongue, thick and buttery.

“For fuck’s sake,” he mutters. His conscience worms its way around his neck, weighing down his shoulders and chest as though they were made of wrought iron. What is he to do, though? How is he meant to act when months, not hours or days, but months are squandered in a bizarre, French caricature of Eden. And all that time has been spent… cohabiting. Cohabiting in secret, like a pair of newlyweds that elope in the scandalous climax of a Jane Austen novel.

It was that damn war — the conflict that upended everything. By the time it ended, France had become forlorn, silent, and despondent. England visited him, frequently finding excuses to travel to Paris. He would nag France about his wretched health, and then tidy up the Baroque flat, all under the pretence of: “If you look miserable in front of our peers, then it’s a hassle for me as well.” But there were no pretences when they kissed at France’s bedside and spent the rest of the afternoon under his duvet, nor when England followed him to Bordeaux.

Even now, the surprise on France’s face at the train station is still crystal clear: his coral flushed cheeks framing wide eyes. There was a handkerchief in his hand and tears were staining his lashes; he’d been crying.

Groaning, England presses his hands to his temples. What is he doing? Why would anyone have a fit in his situation? Sipping wine, lazing on a beach, the blue midsummer sky rising over the horizon…. He must be insane. He must be a twat who cannot enjoy any good thing without a heaping dose of self-sabotage.

He swallows the bread, and forces just a smidge of his pride down with it. “Come back here!” England barks. There’s still a frown anchoring his features, but can’t seem to be rid of it. Muttering a curse under his breath, he tries again. “France!”

France is halfway to the ocean when he stops and whips around. His glare is… not deadly. Though his head is tilted low, like a wild ram before charging, and his lips are pressed wire-thin, he’s still significantly less ferocious than he was after Trafalgar. England’s mind races through twelve different options, before choosing pragmatism. “If you swim right now,” he says, “you’ll just drown. The current will pull you out and you’ll be too drunk to know which way the shore is. It’s the Atlantic, not a lake.”

“Oh, how thoughtful,” France mocks, his distant voice ringing above the ocean surf. “Is my English gentleman concerned for me?” Heat rises to England’s face, but France forges ahead before he can consider a response. “I have been drunk before! I know these waters, and unlike some,” he stabs a finger at England, “I know how to swim.”

“That– That doesn’t matter!” England retorts. “You’ll still get tossed about by the waves, and then I’ll have to find a bloody boat, and drag you back here, if you’re not dead. And if you are, you’ll wash ashore someplace a hundred miles down the coast, and frighten the living Christ out of an entire nunnery when you return to life!”

A pause, filled only by the obnoxious squawking of seagulls.

“Why a nunnery?!” France cries.

“...It was the first thing I thought of.” The warmth in England’s cheeks has spread to his ears. He averts his gaze. “Look, just get back here!”

“Non.”

“Wh–!”

“I told you that I am going to swim!”

Nose in the air, France performs an about-face and continues his graceless march towards the water.

Grumbling, England snatches his skimmer hat and staggers to his feet. “Stubborn wine bastard…. Why even bother trying to be reasonable with the French?” He takes off after his stupid companion, jogging and keeping a tight grip of the hat so it won’t blow away in the wind. His feet mash into the ruthless sand, sapping what little speed and balance his drunken limbs can manage.

France glances over his shoulder, and for a half second, they make eye contact. Then, he breaks into a clumsy sprint. England gapes. “Oh, for the love of–!”

He gives chase, his legs pumping in a disjointed rhythm and flinging sand in their wake. His body is listing this way and that. Closing in on France’s blurry form, both arms reach out. Then, he makes contact, right at the shore and his arms snap shut tightly around France’s torso.

The sound that escapes France is akin to that of a startled rooster being tossed across a circus tent by an acrobat. A flurry of French expletives follows and he kicks out his legs in a naked whirlwind. England braces his feet in the wet sand. They struggle and spin, water swirling at their ankles, dangerously teetering in every direction at once.

An elbow smashes into England’s liver, sending a burst of pain through his side. One more strong jerk and his balance is gone. In a spiral of vertigo, the coastline topples over.

His back hits the sea. Warm salt water floods his nostrils. Immediately, he releases his grip on the frog and pushes himself out, gagging. He is drenched. The muggy sand squishes between his toes in a lovely impression of a mediaeval latrine. Cursing, he spits the Atlantic out of his mouth and crawls backwards out of the surf.

France coughs and groans somewhere nearby. And then he’s in England’s lap, aggressively. Soaking wet and heavy, France straddles him and yanks a string of foamy seaweed from his bangs. “What are you doing, Angleterre?”

England snorts, then chokes when the action drags more water into his lungs.

“I am preventing an international incident,” he wheezes, squinting against the salt stinging his tear ducts. “Or maybe I’m stopping you from committing self-murder by drowning, whichever you’d like.”

France gives him a look, his sapphire irises sharpening into little daggers, still capable of reading minds even behind the sluggishness of alcohol. An intrusive thought pops into England’s head: of splashing him with a wad of salty beach muck, however at this point, that action may trigger an armed conflict and they are both trying to cut back. After a moment, France clicks his tongue and seems to make a decision.

“Let me tell you a story,” he starts, shuffling his hips to sit more comfortably in England’s lap. “And then, if you are still being unreasonable, you may spend tonight in the stables. I do not care.”

“...Sorry, what?”

“Pay attention. I remember.… On my last day in Paris before I decided to come to Bordeaux, I received a letter.”

England feels a dull weight settle into every muscle of his body. “Oh, come on.”

“It was on a Sunday, I think. Or was it Monday…? No, it was Sunday. I thought it was strange, because how often does mail arrive on a Sunday?”

“Is this another of your philosophical sermons?”

France flicks England’s forearm. “No, now listen to me.”

“Fine.” England crosses his arms and does his best to ignore the sogginess of his union suit.

“This envelope was pale with sharp corners, as if it was delivered by hand. Also, it was sealed with the Grand Sceau. So, tell me. Can you guess who sent it?” England knits his brows with the utmost patience. The question hangs in the air before France answers it himself. “The letter came from my president… and he was suggesting that I join the army occupying the Rhineland.”

England blinks. “What?”

France nods. “Mmm. Well, it was not truly a suggestion; those things never are. But as soon as I read that letter, I knew I needed time away.”

“The Rhineland?”

“Oui.”

“...Was that why you wanted to leave Paris in such a hurry?”

He, too, recalls that morning, when he awoke in France's flat to the smell of smoke. Jumping out of bed, he ran downstairs only to find that there was a letter burning in the oven. And a moment later, France was pushing past him, with fury and heartbreak on his face as he tossed clothing into his trunk. It was bewildering at the time, and they’d nearly had a row over it, but now like a puzzle, it all clicks together.

“Our politicians will have us back eventually, but there is no need for us to rush. We owe them absolutely nothing.” France’s eyes are nearly vacant, as they were in 1918, when he was a husk devoid of his familiar pride and wit. “In a handful of years, we gave enough blood to turn my lovely farmland, my pastures, into swamps. So, they may wait patiently, while we enjoy life’s simple pleasures.”

England can’t help the response that flies past his lips. “Well, you’ve certainly been doing that.”

A wide smile cracks France’s frozen features and redraws warmth into his being. “Naturally. And perhaps, by the grace of a god I no longer believe in, there is a chance that I can rediscover some of the happiness I lost.”

No words come to England immediately. He turns over this shard of new information in his mind, scrutinising how it slots into the ever-changing mosaic of his companion’s soul.

France raises his arms to rest them on England’s shoulders. “There you go. That is why I am here, and why I will not be leaving anytime soon. Now, how about you, hm?”

“What?”

“Do you have anything to say?” His dangling hands are tracing circles on England’s spine. “An explanation, or perhaps, an admission you would like to make?”

England squints. “...Nothing comes to mind.”

“Are you sure?” France prods, shifting his hips closer, leaning in, water glistening off his skin, in the curve of his smile. “Then, maybe, I will make a suggestion? Is there anything else you are here for… other than a rendezvous?”

England scoffs. Suddenly, France is much too close and his playful grin is bordering on mischievous.

“I ought to toss you back in the ocean.”

France responds by brushing his nose along England’s cheek. “Indulge me.”

The hairs on the back of England’s neck stand at attention. Retreating to the picnic quilts would be an uncomplicated solution, if not for the very naked man straddling his lap and nuzzling his face, his ear, his throat. So, finding his trusted skimmer hat, England lies back, and plops it over his eyes. It’s riddled with droplets of beach muck.

“You've indulged plenty.”

“...You are not going to sleep.”

“I am.”

France lets out a quick, birdlike chirp. “In the wet sand?”

“I slept in the trenches; I can manage this easily.”

“You– You are absurd. No. You are being sincere. You– How?” France releases a series of half-sentences, like a combustion engine failing to start, before breaking down into a fit of hysteric giggles. Something hard presses into England’s chest, likely France’s forehead, and the laughter goes on for far longer than it has any right to, becoming almost melodic as it peters out. Dragging his hands across England’s front, he draws messy shapes in the cotton union suit. “The most stubborn, unfashionable fool in the world….”

“Come off it.”

“You cannot blame me for being curious,” France sings, “Perhaps one day, you will indulge me. Don’t you think that would be nice?” He punctuates the question with his fingertips, peppering pinpricks of warmth over England’s chest.

Because responding only encourages more teasing, more laughter, and more cumbersome fondling, England bites back the urge to say ‘never’. He is rewarded when silence mercifully falls on their conversation, which is not disappointing. It is, in fact, good. He does not need France’s musical glee nor any further exposure.

Their simple back and forth relations throughout history are sufficient, swinging with time’s pendulum and the whims of their people. After centuries of constant presence, familiarity is expected, but too much openness is risky. Pleasure and leisure can be fine, in controlled doses, and far within whatever standardised, unspoken framework they have concocted along the plunging annals of immortality. But, a line has to be drawn. As it is now, they are playing with fire, tiptoeing around the edges of a wide pit filled with something unmarked and… intimidating.

A shift, and suddenly, sunlight pierces England’s eyes. The hat is snatched away. He opens his mouth to complain, but France captures it, swallowing any protests through a pair of firm, ardent lips.

Old instinct snaps at England to catch those lips between his teeth, so he does, nipping hard enough to signal offence, while a newer instinct holds his strength in check. Damp champagne hair dances across his cheekbones, France’s beard scratches his chin; it is dizzying how quickly his focus converges on those sensations, how his breath steadies beneath them, slowly melting both objections and barricades. Already drunk, and a bottle of gin is gushing down his throat.

Slipping a clever tongue inside, France thoroughly explores England’s mouth as if it is a novel experience, as if they have not done this a hundred thousand times. The tang of red wine mingles with the savoury, earthiness of Livarot. Below all of it though, tucked away under the many aromas and elements of France’s being, lies unmistakably a floral incense – some quiet bouquet found along the river Lys.

Eyelids weakening, one of England’s arms hesitates midair, a last ditch effort made by either reasoning or dignity, before it falls between France’s shoulder blades and drags him down, crushing their chests together. The wind is sucked from England’s lungs, his union sticks to his skin and crumples, bound by their bodies.

A pair of knuckles touch his temple, then curl to thumb his jaw; so gentle, it borders on frightening. Gradually, France’s tongue slows. Unhurried and tender, taking his time, as if to extract every inch of pleasure, every grain of want.

Warm water crashes at their feet, and the kiss finally breaks. England sucks in a gasp of air, heart thrumming behind his ribs.

“There is some oil still left,” France murmurs.

A matchstick strikes in England’s belly. He groans, his toes curling.

“Again?”

France’s teeth graze the shell of his ear. “You don’t want to?”

“We’re soaked to the bone.”

“The towels are just there,” France breathes. “We can dry off.”

He pours a river of kisses along England’s skin, anything bare he can reach, and England turns to him, meeting dark, hungry eyes. They promise carnal ecstasy and pain, should things continue to his liking. Like a creature of greed, he licks a hot, wet trail along England’s clavicle and bites his jugular, pressing his tongue to England’s rising pulse. And a thrill of anticipation shoots down the curve of his spine, arching his back.

This is where it always goes. A knot of irritation tangles itself in the back of England’s sex-drunk head at how pathetically easy this is. How his body (and heart) fucking yearns for it. Since arriving at the winery, they’ve gone at it every single day, wrenching their perverse fantasies into the light of dawn. By now, France has become a drug, in his veins more than the alcohol, or the laudanum he abuses when the shell shock tremors won’t cease.

Those talented hands wander everywhere, leaving behind trails of fire. They run through England’s hair, across his ribs, and then those fingers slip through the first two buttons of his union and England’s self-restraint fizzles out. The world is warm and pleasant. What was it that France said earlier? That they could ‘regain some of the happiness they had lost.’

Wrapping a hand behind his lover’s neck, England pulls that sinful mouth impossibly closer. “You’re insatiable.”

He can feel France smiling on his skin, and cannot bring himself to mind at all.

—

For some reason, the picnic quilt feels softer, like lying on a bed of clouds.

Wind dances across the beach, rustling its tall grasses in the silence left behind by the gulls, long since vanished. England relishes the ache in his bones, deeply satiated as he drinks in the raw afterglow and the weight of France’s head on his chest. His quiet breath comes in steady puffs, tickling England’s sternum, and his body is a cool shield from the sun, still balmy as it hints orange and signals the end of the afternoon.

This place is cathartic, and England tries to allow the seaside to permeate him, while it can. He follows the rolling waves in his ears, the salty ocean spray in his lungs. It’s a pleasant escape, maybe even a beautiful one. Such a shame that it will not last.

As in the paraphrased scribblings of Geoffrey Chaucer, all good things must come to an end. Sun-swept beaches, lush vineyards, and France’s laughter will soon evaporate into the suffocating cough that is London’s grey smog. Normality calls, incessantly, with government paperwork and ink-stained sleeves. The only company it offers are the cold walls of Parliament and fluttering phantasms of a war past.

Before his departure, far too long ago, he left his brothers to manage things and when he returns, they will demand answers. If he’s lucky, he’ll get an earful from Scot. Some nonsense about responsibility from a brother who reaps all the benefits of an empire with less than a quarter of the work. However, if England is unlucky, Scot’s tongue-lashing will be far outmatched by the disappointment and distance in Wales’ eyes. One bitter look, and all the hurled verbal abuse becomes devastatingly correct.

An angelic sigh cuts through the fog. “I cannot rest with you like this.” France stirs, glancing up at England, causing his contemplations to crumble.

“What?”

“Your thoughts are too loud.”

England pauses. “I haven’t said anything.”

“You do not need to.” France shifts to face him. His eyes are calm.

In the space of a few heartbeats, England sighs. Words stick to his throat as he tries to say something, anything, and doesn’t. Then, working his jaw, he tries again.

“Nothing’s the matter,” he manages. “I’m simply not looking forward to the wretched tedium when I return home.” It is an understatement, helped along by the alcohol, but it’s the best he can do.

“Then, do not go there yet.” France cups England’s face in both hands. “Why think about this today? We still have time, no? Then, you should stay. Let yourself rest and be present. Not in the past or future, but here, in this moment.”

Rolling out and rolling in, the waves strum upon the beach. France’s golden hair haloes as it catches the sunlight and England, mesmerised, laces his sunburnt fingers within it. His lover’s skin is full and healthy, filling up the once prominent hollows that lingered after the war. Stray patches of stubble sprout from his cheeks; the aftermath of an uneven shave this morning. England devours the view, burning the image into his retinas before it vanishes in smoke, because no peace between them has ever lasted. What will happen when his tryst ends? Which of them will tear up the Entende first? “Stay,” France repeats, softer.

England’s throat is as dry as kindling. The familiar hands framing his face, their texture echoes a millennia of life, and his chest tightens. As if they are reaching across the Channel and back through time, diving under to grasp his soul. He can feel himself – toes scraping the edge of the pit, pebbles tumbling in – on the precipice of a thousand dangerous feelings, bubbling up from his core in a thick slurry. Too much, and he falters, fingertips trembling. Taking France’s warm palm, he presses his lips to it, and maybe the gesture will say whatever he cannot.

A thumb brushes his cheekbone.

“Stop it,” England whispers. “You’re being too bloody emotional.”

The trace of a smile appears on France’s lovely face and he draws closer, eyelids fluttering. “Oh, I am being emotional?”

England breathes his answer on France’s lips. “Yes.”

They lock together in a kiss, another one of the thousands that came before it. An ocean cascade, surging overhead, drowning him in selfish contentment and bottomless indulgence. All concerns and burdens and regrets wash away, leaving only this. Paradise.

It’s everything he needs.

End / Fin

~~~

Author’s Notes

Union vests were typical undergarments popular in the 1920s. Around then, the new “sleeveless, short leg” style was made to allow men to stay cool in the summer.

Monsieur Deschanel served briefly as the President of France from 18 February – 21 September 1920.

There is absolutely no estate in the Bordeaux wine region that is large enough to reach the Atlantic Ocean. I made that up for the story. Please kindly overlook my poor geography.

The etiquette guide’s full title is: ‘The Gentlemen’s Book of Etiquette and Manual of Politeness’. It was printed in 1860. The book is still in circulation, and you can find copies of it online.

Pain de campagne is a type of French sourdough bread.

Trafalgar was a naval battle in the Napoleonic wars, with the British on one side, and France and Spain on the other. It was a decisive British victory, with the allies losing 22 warships and the British losing none.

The Rhineland is a loosely defined area in Western Germany which was occupied by Allied forces following WWI. The purpose of this was for security against a renewed German attack, and to serve as a guarantee for war reparations.

Laudanum was a ten percent solution of opium powder in ethanol, and was historically used to treat a variety of medical issues. Today, it is recognised as an addictive substance and is heavily regulated throughout the world.

#fruk #hws england #hws france #aph england #aph france #arthur kirkland #francis bonnefoy #historical hetalia #hetalia fanfiction #hetalia #my writing

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wyldflowerss · 5 months ago

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Looking for new friends!

Hey, Tumblr.

I'm a user from ye olde earlier days of the website (around 2013) that has come back for whatever reason. My dashboard is lonely at the moment, so I'm looking for some new blogs to follow, possibly to make some new friends too.

If you want a new follower or friend and post the following content, please like or reblog! I'm looking for the following to like and reblog:

RWBY.

Fullmetal Alchemist.

Avatar: The Last Airbender/Legend of Korra.

Fire Emblem.

Blazblue & Guilty Gear.

Bungou Stray Dogs.

Tales of Series.

Tomodachi Life (I expect this one to be rare).

Music (any, preferred Bastille and STARSET though).

Horror (also including games, namely Sally Face and DbD).

Pokemon (I do play Pokemon Go, need more friends).

Animal Crossing.

The Sims.

Rune Factory, Harvest Moon, Story of Seasons, Stardew Valley.

Godzilla (other kaijus are welcomed).

Animals (anything other than insects and snakes).

Aesthetics (astrology, witchcraft, nature, etc).

Your own content (art, writing, etc., I'll be your hype man).

I will not follow if you're involved in a lot of fandom drama. I respect the vibe, but it's just not for me. I just wanna look at pretty art and get excited about hyperfixations with people.

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anotheroceanid · 4 months ago

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any tips on how to plot a story? Becuase I always come up with a vague idea but then i draw a blank because i have no idea how to put it in motion T~T

Opened my laptop to answer this, so it’ll be long. Still, I can make another post about it later if anyone else is interested. Important to say there isn’t a correct answer for that, each person does it their own way. That's how I do.

First, tell yourself the story: I know this probably sound silly, because technically we already know our stories, right? We know what we want to write. But then, I think that most of the times we have concepts, not stories. We have scenes we want to write, side characters that will show up in three chapters then die, so much dispersed information that we can’t properly link to write a cohesive story.

So, I literally tell myself my stories before I write any real paragraph. You can do it in multiple ways, you can write it down, record it, draw a mind map (I do it later in the process, but could work too at this point), explain it as if you were studying history (not a joke, I do that).

Think about, you won’t start teaching yourself French Revolution and go right into the Storming of the Bastille, even though is an important moment. You’ll first introduce yourself to the background, where it takes place, then you’ll name the main participants from each side, the time it lasted and its outcome. And all this in a very surface level. Only when it’s finished, you’d go into specifics.

Whatever way you feel works better for you, explain yourself your history.

Now that you know your history…

Second, pick a story structure: There are plenty of those, I particularly use the Freytag’s Pyramid. That’s what works for me. But there are many ways you can structure your story, and this you must personally try yourself each.

Here are some other examples for you to try:

Save the Cat

3-Act Story Structure

Fichtean Curve

Hero’s Journey (I personally prefer this to write characters arcs, but we’ll see it later)

Snowflake Method (I used this for some time, worked for me and I still use some elements of it)

Seven Point Structure

There are many other story structures you can try, the thing here is: the structure is meant to help you, not get you stuck. You can make changes in the story structure if you need to, the only thing that you must stick with it: Beginning (introduction of major characters and conflict), Middle (conflicts, development of the world and characters), End (conclusion of major characters arcs, be it good or bad).

Third, write the characters arcs: Even if you work has a lot of worldbuilding, what really drives your story are your characters. So, take your time to know your characters as they are in the beginning of the story, because these are the characters that will drive the plot. Who they are? Why they are like this? How do they look? How the way they look reflects how the world impacted them? Because the world also must affect your characters. How old are they? Do they behave accordingly to their age or not?

You must know where your characters are at the first chapter to know where they’re going from there. Do whatever it takes to get acquainted with them, create playlists, boards, draw them, make personality tests, etc.

Once you know who they are in the first chapter, you can start outlining their character arc.

But here is the thing, not character arc needs to be good. Sometimes, our characters get bad, sometimes they get good, and sometimes they don’t finish their character arcs (if you know you know). Treat your characters fairly, do not give them too much or too little unless it’ll impact them in the story.

You can have overpowered characters, but you’ll have to balance it with something else that’ll will drive their change throughout the story. You can have characters that are very delicate, but you’ll have to give them something to drive them to action, be it externally or internally.

Also, is important to know about your characters morals. Even if they’re in a grey area, what he’s more leaning to? What circumstances would drive them the other way? What are their priorities? What are their ambitions? What are the lengths they’re capable of going to reach it. Trust me, it’s important that your characters have ambitions. It doesn’t need to be something “in the real world” like a throne, or a job, or whatever. It can be living in safety; it can be learning something. But a character without ambition falls flat.

You can have morally good characters and morally bad characters, but even them must have something that readers can engage and identify with. Not necessarily something that turn them into a villain, not necessarily something that comes out as “they were never bad.”

For example, you can have an exceptionally nice character that makes choice that beneficiates themselves or a determined group that they personally support, it doesn’t turn them bad, because people will make choices all the time and it impacts other. At the same time, a mean character can be relatable through characteristcs that aren’t meant to be redemptive, they can be hardworking, they can have interests that not necessarily relate to their “mean” goal, they can even be on the “right” side but in a “reasons justify the means” way.

You need characters to take actions. Otherwise they'll become simply plot devices. And plot devices need to exist, don’t get me wrong, they can be useful. But the thing is: people don’t relate to plot devices. I could list a lot of characters with sob stories that were obviously meant to shock the audience, but I couldn’t care less about the sad things happened to them, because the author needed a bad thing to happen to go from point A to point B. Okay, I understand that. But it happened to a character we're constantly told we have to pity, and there is nothing else about them. People don’t care about plot devices, so if you want people to care and like your characters, give them agency.

Yeah, this is getting long. Sorry. But let’s talk about agency.

Allow your characters to make choices. Bad choices, good choices. Whatever choices they make, it needs to have consequences. A story without consequence is a weightless story. I t’s also important to make the character make choices, even if they’re being highly manipulated by someone, they must—eventually—walk on their feet. The plot is consequence of the characters choices, so don’t let the character become the plot punchbag.

Trust me, it’s easier for a reader to enjoy an unlikable character with agency than a likable character that does nothing and never stands out for anything. Your character can be anything—annoying, ugly, spoiled, cruel, anything but agency-less.

Important to say: The characters are stupid. People are stupid in general, and we react terribly bad under stressful conditions. We’re like enzymes. We stop working if we’re not in the proper conditions of pH and temperature, some enzymes will work in the intestine, but others will only work if they’re in the stomach. Different enzymes work in different environments, and so do people. What drives a story is conflict, so your character is usually stressed. It’s not a 100% of the cases rule, but if you’re character is in a super tricky situation they never been in, don’t make it easy for them to get out of that. If everything turns out easily, why should I care if the character is in a live-or-die situation?

Of course, if they have fought two dragons and survived, I expect them to live when they fight the third dragon. But if they never fought any, I want a good explanation why they’re alive and cracking jokes. As I said, characters are like enzymes. Some will do well fighting dragons but will cry their eyes out if they’re exposed to a sea monsters. Each situation is different, so analyse it.

Now, the character arc.

Your character needs to go through change, they need to find out something at least. It doesn’t need to be a good change; they can become a worse person (negative arc). They can become a better person (positive arc). But they need to go through change. Even if you have an impressive worldbuilding, well-built universe rules, a functional magical system… Everything is meaningless if the character is conflict-less (internally or externally).

There are flat arcs, but they usually serve other purposes. You can read into it if you're interested, but I never focused much on it so... Let's keep going.

Your character arc takes character from point A to point C. Because between A and C there is B, that’s usually the moment the character thinks they have it all, or they give up their journey, then something happens, and they start moving toward C again.

Again, there are many ways to structure a character arc. I usually follow The Heroine’s Journey (Maureen Murdock) or The Virgin’s Promise (Kim Hudson). These were inspired by the Hero’s Journey (Joseph Campbell), which is great too, I just feel like these helped me more. They don’t have to necessarily be applied to female characters only, in the same way that the Hero’s Journey doesn’t have to be used for male characters only. This is just a structure to help you see how your character changes throughout the story and can be used to write any gender.

I recommend you reading the books, this will help you a thousand times more than I ever could.

These are archetypical structures. The “hero” and the “heroin” are archetypes, so is the “virgin.” I also recommend you reading about archetypes, because our characters usually fit one or other, and if you don’t know what’s your character archetype is, you should find out. It helps to identify problems, because sometimes you’ll fall into stereotypes that you not necessarily want.

Fourth, about side characters: In a way, all that I said applies to side characters. But at the same time, it doesn’t.

You don’t need your side characters to be as flashed out as your protagonist(s), but they need to have some depth. The way your side characters interact with your protagonists and vice-verse says a lot of your protagonist. If you create this real nice person, who is supposed to care about everyone and be a selfless person who would take a bullet for their best friend, don’t turn the best friend into the protagonist’s sidekick.

You know those 2000s movies with the usually POC, or queer coded or often regarded as less attractive friend is always there for the protagonist, but then they ask to ONE THING and the protagonist will be like “Actually, I have plans”. Yeah, that. Your very nice character can become a dumbass because they’re never showing empathy toward others, as your very mean character can become a fan’s favourite because they’re treating people with more respect than anyone else in the story. It can’t be intentional, it can’t be part of their character arcs, but if it’s not, beware.

The way the side characters interact with the main characters is as important as the character interacts with the world. The don’t need to have super detailed backstories, but they need to have something. A goal that’s not necessarily is related to the protagonist.

For example, Grover is Percy’s best friend and protector. But he’s main goal ain’t protecting or be Percy, his main goal is to find Pan. Which makes sense (and it makes me so sad, because I love Grover) why his story basically “ended” with PJO original series. He accomplished his goal, and though I’d love to see him amongst the Argo II crew, putting him in that situation would turn him into Percy’s sidekick and nothing else. He’d be throwing all his responsibilities away (he’s literally Lord of the Wild at that point) to help Percy, and though we can argue he could help… Gaea was rising, this probably affects the nature spirits he’s supposed to care.

And most importantly: Percy cares about Grover. We’re shown this multiple times throughout the story, and if he didn’t care as much about Grover (his first friend introduced into the story), we wouldn’t believe that his fatal flaw is personal loyalty.

We don’t know everything about Grover, but we know enough to not break the entire narrative when we think about his relationship with Percy.

Keep this energy with side characters. Not everyone needs their entire story to be told, but you need them to feel as their own person.

Same goes for characters that don’t like your main characters. Some characters can be annoying and mean, but why? Is there a reason this character pesters the protagonist? Are they prejudiced somehow? Does it have something to do with class? Is there a hierarchy that ends up facilitating that sort of behaviour? Why no one does anything? Is it jealousy? Are they getting something by acting like that? Was it caused by something the main character did in the past? Do you protagonist fights back or they don’t? In whatever case, why?

Not every character who dislikes the protagonist needs to be a villain. It’s normal that people might dislike others, nobody pleases everyone, is nice having characters who don’t think the protagonist is the most awesome person in the world.

Just like the main character, it’s important to allow side characters to make decisions and have agency. Even if the reader ain’t inside their mind, these characters need to have ambition. Sometimes, you can use them to drive the plot somewhere, or to teach the protagonist something. Again, look into archetypes it might help.

However, if you keep showing a side character and never gives them a moment to shine, it might disappoint your readers. At the same time, using a character mentioned twice without any foreshadowing might come out as a dumb solution for some conflict.

So beware how you use side characters.

Fifth, write as much as you can… but not chapters yet: If you, like me, is dealing with worldbuilding, timelines and different POVs, you should plan how will this work before you get into the actual story.

Now, you can draft the whole story down as it is in your head.

Again, you don’t need to necessarily write. You can record yourself, or you can draw (I do it a lot), make mind maps (which is my case, I make mind maps to see were different things meet), or you can write multiple paragraphs about it. Just make sure you have a general idea before you start writing, make slideshows, spreadsheets, etc.

Write think pieces about characters relationships, make memes, make incorrect quotes, anything that helps you set things up inside your head.

This is a part that never ends, because sometimes you’ll have to look back and see what is lacking, what needs to be done or redone. Don’t be afraid of coming back here, rearrange the plot points, redraw characters. Your first draft will hardly be the one you’ll stick with.

I use obsidian for worldbuilding. I cannot really explain how obsidian works; it’d be like trying to write down how to draw on Photoshop. But I use the canvas plugin to draw the plot as a mind map, and I also use canvas to make a linear timeline.

This is the outline for a part of my fic, I didn't screenshot it all because it'd be too big. But you get the idea.

This is my linear timeline, is very useful to check info quickly.

To outline chapters, I use spreadsheets. I make enough room for general info, then a little resume of the chapter, and the white blocks beside the chapter I can write what scenes I want for those chapters.

Again, very simple.

I check the spreadsheet occasionally, because I sometimes change order of chapters, or add something. Your outline is an asset not a rule, you can change it if you feel is not working.

Sixth, write: After you went through it all, writing will become much easier, I can assure. But even then, you’ll face moments in which you feel that you’re stuck. But if you can write one hundred words every day, is already better than no word at all.

If you feel it might help, try different writing tools, try editing your document to make it aesthetic and to fit your story vibe. I personally use scrivener (it’s great for organisation) for some stories, and for others I use Microsoft Office, but there are cheaper or free options. Obsidian does basically everything Scrivener does, but it’s a bit trick to use if you’re new. So, it might take some patience, and it’s not as editable as other software (unless you are now a bit of code, which is not hard but is also not for everyone), there is Google Doc, and some open-source options like Libre Office, you can even write on Notion (I used to, I have templates for it even).

When you’re writing, treat yourself. I make myself coffee or matcha, I put some music, or I buy myself cheesecake. Try not to make your writing session a “I have to do it” moment, enjoy it, even if you aren’t writing your intended 10k words (trust me, setting such ambitious goals won’t help you in anything).

Sometimes, nothing good will come out. Sometimes, you’ll feel like you should win a Pulitzer. Just enjoy writing and do be afraid of committing mistakes.

I think this is it. I wanted to go deeper into some things, I wanted to speak of antagonists and conflict more deeply, but it got big enough. I hope I made sense and I helped, be free to ask if my non-native english speaker ass wrote something senseless.

#writing #ask

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