#because one of them left a sticky note in a book at the library with their number cause they were bored!!

[rosaacicularis]

….been thinking about writing a little…. scarian chat fic?

[valkyyriia]

Try This On For Size

Words: 2729

CW: Google Translate French, Comte de Saint-Germain’s real name, Semi-Public Sex, Vaginal Sex, Voyeurism?, Mirror Sex, Creampie, Vaginal Fingering | NSFW

Pairing: Comte de Saint-Germain / Female-Bodied Reader

Prompt(s): Fitting Room, Let Them Play Dress-Up With You

Note: I cranked out another one at work tonight. I'm feeling even less confident with this one than I was with the other, but.. I hope it still makes sense.

Crossposted on AO3 here.

For @xxsycamore's event, Sexy Ikemen Summer!

The sticky summer heat of the French countryside was beginning to get to you. No amount of fanning yourself or loosening your collar was cutting it. 

Of all the things you could be missing from the modern era, air conditioning was not expected to be the crux of all of your issues. 

Just as you feared you would begin to melt into the parquet flooring, a cool hand brushed against the back of your neck. “Are you okay, ma chérie? You seem a little warm.” His voice was soothing, but tinged with concern.

“I’m alright,” you assured him with a content sigh, leaning back into his touch. “It’s just hotter than I’m used to.” 

Comte’s hands dropped to your shoulders and he began to massage them. He pressed a kiss to the crown of your head as the tension left your body. “You’ve been working hard lately. I think it’s time you take a break.”

“There’s too much to do for that,” You protested. “Sebas needs help with dinner, and we haven’t even begun cleaning up the book fort Leonardo created in the library.” 

Comte hummed, one of his hands gently caressing the side of your neck. “Should I give it as an order from your employer, then? If a heartfelt plea from your partner isn’t enough.” He moved to kiss your neck under your ear. “Please, mon amour. It wouldn’t do to have you suffer a heatstroke simply because you’re too stubborn to know when to take a break.” His lips moved towards your shoulder, teasing but affectionate. His arms moved to your waist, pulling you back into his embrace. He rested his head on your shoulder and held you close.

You leaned into him, your head draped over his other shoulder. Unlike the stifling heat of the outdoors, Comte’s warmth was comforting and welcome. He nuzzled into the joint between your neck and shoulder. “Let me spoil you today,” he said, kissing your neck again. 

“You spoil me every day, Abel,” you sighed, relaxing further into your partner. He was going to win this and you both knew it; it was just a matter of how long it took you to give in.

“And yet, somehow, I’m still not satisfied that it’s enough. You deserve more, chérie. You deserve the world, and you will get it if I have anything to say about it.” His arms tightened around your midsection, pulling you even closer. 

A cool, inviting breeze suddenly blew through the open window. The air rushed along your face and tousled your bangs. Even nature herself was trying to tempt you. With another sigh, you gave in. “Fine. But you have to let me get up on time tomorrow, okay? I don’t want to leave Sebas waiting again like the last time you took me out for the day.” 

The vampire chuckled into your neck, the reverberations rumbling through your own body due to the proximity. “I seem to recall you left my bed quite satisfied that morning.” 

You flushed at the memory. “I certainly was,” you agreed. “Until Sebas abused my forehead after breakfast. I had a bruise for a week.” 

“Alright, alright,” he relented, stepping back from you with a light chuckle and holding up his hands in defeat. “Let’s get you cooled off.” 

“But it was worth it, non?” He looked up at you from his position on your shoulder. Comte’s golden eyes twinkled with amusement, but they were tinged with a subtle heat. His hands drifted slowly down your abdomen, his gaze never leaving yours. He offered you a coy smile.

You groaned. “It’s too hot, Abel,” you protested. “I will genuinely either melt into a puddle or catch on fire if you continue that line of thought right now.” 

As it turns out, Comte’s idea of “cooling off” was taking a carriage into town and going clothes shopping. For you, of course. His reasoning was that your clothes were heavier than you were accustomed to in your time, so lighter fabric would help fend off the oppressive French sun. Comte’s logic was sound, but you were quite sure he was just fishing for an excuse to buy you even more dresses that you would only wear once. 

As the carriage stopped, he stepped out first, offering you his hand. Taking it, he kissed the back of it before tucking your arm into his. The two of you walked leisurely in the direction of his favorite boutique, the one the both of you frequented. The staff immediately recognized the both of you (you were pretty certain that Comte’s patronage alone could keep this store in business for centuries to come, and potentially push France into the forefront of the modern economy) and ushered you into a large fitting room in the back of the building. 

“How can we be of service on this day, Monsieur le Comte?” 

He looked around the room briefly. “My partner is in need of some lighter summer clothes. The heat is getting to her,” he said, brushing his knuckles against your cheek with affection. You hadn’t really considered it before today, but the dress you were wearing was made of a heavier material that was more suited for the later part of the year. Maybe a couple of thinner summer dresses would be a good idea - you just hoped you could keep your darling Comte from purchasing the entire store this time.

The shop worker nodded in agreement. “The Madame’s dress is much better for the cooler months. Yes, I will bring you some of our best. Un moment, s'il vous plaît,” they said, stepping out to rifle through a few clothing racks.

You looked around the room. Not much had changed from the last time you were here, except now they had frilly sun hats and sunglasses on display alongside the jewelry and shoes. 

“Has anything caught your eye, ma chérie?” Comte asked, tilting your chin up to look at him. 

“Aside from you, you mean?” You ask with a smile. He responds with a chuckle and a kiss to the forehead. 

“You are so.. Séduisant, mon amour,” Comte murmured, amused. “What am I going to do with you?” 

“Many things, I’d imagine,” you said sweetly. “After all, eternity is a long time.”

Before Comte could reply, the shop attendant returned with a large bundle of fabric bunched in her arms. “I selected a few similar to what you’ve purchased for le Comtesse before, along with a couple of other styles I’m sure would look lovely on her.” She smiled at you. 

“I truly think she could make anything look amazing. Merci beaucoup, mademoiselle,” Comte replied with a cordial smile. “We will take it from here.” 

The attendant curtsied on her way out of the fitting room. “If you have need of anything else, please just let us know.” 

Once you were alone, Comte sat on the ottoman in the room and grinned cheekily. “Strip.” 

Your cheeks bloomed a dark pink. “Don’t say it like that!” You hissed, untying the ribbon at your neck at his request anyway. His laughter filled the room. 

You tried on several outfits that day; all of which were far lighter material than what you had on. They were high-quality, lightweight cotton - and definitely outside of your normal budget. Not that Comte cared about price. If you expressed even the slightest desire for something, the vampire would have dozens of the item in question waiting for you within a day, regardless of practicality or expense. One time, you had been playing with Lumière and commented on how cute he was, and the next day you woke up to an entire litter of kittens in your room, courtesy of Comte. You ended up rehoming all but one of them - a little black thing you had named Minerva. She was probably sunning herself in the window right about now, absorbing all the sun she could. Disgusting.

Comte gave feedback on all of them, but he seemed pleased with every dress you tried on. He chose accessories and shoes for everything you tried on. While le Comte de Saint-Germain may not be the most fashionable of individuals, he could at least pick out matching shoes and jewelry. 

Throughout the fittings, Comte’s eyes only left your figure a handful of times, just long enough to grab a pair of shoes or another accessory. The rapt attention from your lover would have made you feel self-conscious if it weren’t so endearing. Your trained eye could tell that Comte grew somewhat more impatient with every article you tried on, but he never once rushed you. You wondered what had him so antsy, but you decided not to ask. After all, you would be done soon enough.

The last dress in the pile was a beautiful, floral-print cotton gown. The base fabric was white, but it was dyed with small daisies all over. You looked at yourself in the mirror and twisted to get a better look. You tried to reach behind you to lace up the back, but you stopped when you saw him come up behind you. Comte’s fingers gently batted yours aside and he began to lace the dress, looking at you in the mirror as he did so. Your breath caught in your throat as you saw the look he gave you - adoration, desire, and hunger. “It looks beautiful on you,” Comte said honestly as he secured the fastenings. He tightened the laces just enough so it would stay on, but not so much your movement would be inhibited. 

“Everything today has looked good on you, chérie,” he added, his now free hands settling on your hips and pulling you flush to him. You could feel his hardness straining against the smooth material of his trousers. He lightly rubbed his hips against yours.

The feeling of his arousal against your backside caused you to bite your lip and make eye contact with his reflection. His gaze had darkened further and you were suddenly reminded that he was a vampire - a predator - and you were his prey. Rather than fear, however, the sight was more arousing than anything. You almost felt empowered, knowing this man craved you so strongly that his control was only hanging on by a thread. 

“I do,” he said, pushing the sleeves down your shoulders and leaving hot kisses on the now bare skin. “I’ve rather enjoyed getting to play dress up with you today, but I have been looking forward to the moment I got to take them off of you. I can’t keep pretending to be a gentleman right now.” He pushed the dress down your hips, the decorated cotton pooling on the floor, leaving you in your chemise. Comte pulled you backwards, still keeping his eyes on you in the mirror, and bent you over the other side of the ottoman. You complied with his direction, your breath hitching when you felt him run his fingers through your already damp slit. You hung your head and inhaled sharply as he slid in one finger, then two, stretching you slightly.

Comte began to tug on the lace he had just tied up, loosening the bodice of the dress. You looked up at him in surprise. “I thought you liked the dress?”

“You’re already so wet,” he teased. “Such a naughty girl, getting worked up like this in public.” You pushed your hips back against his fingers, but he pulled them out and held you still instead. 

When you heard the sound of fabric rustling, your gaze shot up at the exact time Comte began to press the tip of his cock to your entrance. You looked back at him in surprise, but he turned your face towards the mirror once more. 

“I want you to see how pretty you look while I’m inside you,” Comte said, his voice deep with desire.

“What if someone walks back here?” You asked breathily, biting back a moan as Comte pushed in the rest of the way, filling you completely. “Then we let them enjoy the show,” he replied, snapping his hips against your ass once. You could feel him grinding against the sweet spot deep inside you and you bit your lip hard, straining not to cry out. “I have no intention of stopping. But if you stay quiet like a good girl, they won’t have any reason to come check on us, non?” 

Rather than fucking you into the ottoman, Comte instead opted for shallow thrusts deep in your warmth and continued to grind against you. The constant pressure and friction felt so good it was almost painful. You bit your lip harder, tears springing from the corners of your eyes. Comte reached around to your mouth and gently pulled your abused lip from between your teeth with his thumb. He then slipped the digit between your lips instead, giving you something to keep your mouth occupied without hurting yourself. 

Comte was insistent on keeping your attention on yourself in the mirror. Every time you looked away, he would pull out just enough to where you received no stimulation. When you looked back up at the mirror, you were rewarded with the head of his thick length grinding into your sweet spot again. 

Comte’s other hand slipped between your thighs, his fingers deftly stroking the sensitive bud there. He timed his fingers with his hips, setting a gentle yet insistent rhythm. The lack of movement kept the sounds to a minimum; all that could really be heard around the room was a rustling of fabric and the muffled sighs from the both of you. The extra fabric around the room served as a sort of soundproofing as well, masking the sounds as well. You could feel the tension building in your abdomen, and you pushed your hips back against him. Comte’s lips trailed against your neck, his hot breath puffing against the shell of your ear. 

“Come for me,” he whispered, punctuating his command with a kiss under your ear and the insistent motion of his fingers between your thighs. The pressure in your belly suddenly snapped and you leaned forward, forgetting about the mirror; your inner walls contracting around the cock buried deep in you. Comte’s thumb slipped out of your mouth at the motion, but his hand wrapped around your mouth to prevent you from crying out in pleasure and alerting the store personnel to what exactly you were doing in their fitting room.

With a soft grunt, Comte’s free hand suddenly held your hips still as he too found his release. He instinctually pressed himself even deeper into your warmth and emptied himself inside of you with a shudder. Comte’s mouth settled over your pulse point. The urge to bite you was so intense it was hard to resist. His fangs ached with the desire to sink them into the succulent flesh of your neck, but he couldn't - not yet. Comte instead settled for gritting his teeth and pressing his face against you, a quiet groan escaping his throat. With an exhale and a kiss pressed to your shoulder, he pulled out and neatly tucked himself back in his pants. He moved your underwear back into place, preventing any fluid leakage for now, and smoothed out the skirt of your chemise. 

Comte spent the next five minutes making you both presentable again. Your heart was still pounding in your chest. You weren’t sure you would be able to shop at this store anymore for the sake of embarrassment. Once you were both decent, he shot you a cheeky grin and kissed your forehead. Your face flushed. “You have the worst poker face, ma chérie,” he chuckled. 

“Shut up,” you grumbled weakly in response, exhaling and trying to calm the heat rising in your cheeks.

Comte offered you his arm once more and guided you out of the fitting room. “We’ll take everything she tried on today,” Comte told the store clerk. You groaned in exasperation. You’re going to need a whole wing of the mansion just for your clothes if Comte keeps getting his way. However, that’s a problem for tomorrow you, you decide. For today, you’re content to let him keep spoiling you. 

“Je t’aime, Comte,” you murmur, leaning against his arm. 

“Je t’aime aussi,” he replies, kissing the top of your head. “And I always will.”

Taglist: @natimiles

[dduane]

Today's small mystery

Reshelving some books that got out of their normal shelf in the upstairs bedroom, with the usual side revelations: (a) I need ebook copies of all the [Insert Color Here] Fairy Books, as it'd be good to have a collection of searchable texts*; (b) I need ebook copies (implying searchable texts) of the entire C.S. Lewis collection, as hunting for one of the more obscure quotes online is a waste of time that could be spent doing useful things like baking, or on creating crap renders of the recalcitrant manes of local demigods: (c) Hmm, some of these have bookmarks stuck in them. I wonder what those are about...?

I went through two or three books that had marks in them (blank sticky notes, usually), and in all but one case was able to figure out why I'd marked them, and make a note elsewhere of their content and implications. (I've been flirting with getting into Obsidian to see if it helps me stay on top of this kind of issue, but am not sure I really need it yet.)

This one, though, has left me baffled. It might have simply been where I paused in my reading... but that's not usually how I use my bookmarks. Normally I place them as a reminder that there was something on that page or spread that needed my attention for some reason, or was related to something else that was going on in life, or writing, or something. In this case... now all I have to try to recall is exactly what the issue was.

The bookmark tells me that we're almost certainly talking about something I was reading in 1994, because it's a train ticket from the 5th of September in that year, which I bought on the train (because there's no "from" marking on it), while heading to Wicklow Town. ("Cill Mhantain" is Irish for Wicklow.)

...The book is the Abbey Classics edition of Petronius's Satyricon: the Burnaby translation of 1694. (Interestingly, the National Library of Ireland has the same edition I do. Though I bet theirs is in better condition.) This is what we'd think of as a paperback, though it's actually bound with a soft cloth binding and has a paper dust jacket. (A scan of the front cover and front flap is below.) There are a lot of places I could have picked this up used in Dublin, but my guess is that it comes from one of a number of trips to Hay-on-Wye.

...And here are the pages where the train ticket was stuck in: a passage from the middle of Trimalchio's feast.

So now all I have to do is work out why I marked those pages... thirty years ago. (eyeroll) Yay.**

Something to occupy myself while I go off and make a flammkuchen...

*They're all online at Gutenberg, so that's all right.

**Though looking at the obscure idiom/metaphor "She's a very Pye at his Bolster," I wonder if it was something to do with that. ETA: So the thing to do when you run into a phrase like this in translation is to check another translator and see what they've got. It hadn't occurred to me on first glance that "Pye" wasn't a culinary reference, but a contraction of "magpie". And surprise, the 1913 Heseltine translation at Tufts' Perseus Digital Library has this as "a magpie belonging to a sofa": i.e. a bird that "henpecks" you in your own bed. Ow.

[cherubispunk]

BARK! BITE! BLEED! (INTERLUDE) - FWB!Frankie Morales x AFAB!Reader

summary: the sting of biting one’s tongue is a lesser of two evils compared to the sting of rejection.

a note from Lucy: Not really a full part but still important to the storyline. Just a little bit of a deeper look into the reader and Frankie’s relationship, their characters and their ideas of each other.

playlist | moodboard

wc: 3046

Warnings: 18+ MDNI! no use of y/n, obsessive behaviour, frankie is obsessed and it is very unhealthy, toxic relationships, age gap (reader is 21, Frankie is 27) - though not mentioned in this part, graphic smut, oral (f receiving), face sitting, p in v sex, creampie, biting, softdom!frankie, scratching, references to suicide, references to racial discrimination and othering in American school systems.

“Is it your smile I enjoy…or the parts of me still stuck in your teeth?”

Some days Frankie liked to pretend you were a map. Easy to read. The landmarks recognisable on top of your skin. The world growing with you, shifting over bone. Breathing with life. The valley of your breasts. The bridge of your hips. The high street that was your spine. At the top of the high street, just over the fleshy part at the nape of your neck, was a library. It was locked. Always. Sometimes he would look through the window to see if anyone was still there. Peer in through grimy glass to expect someone thumbing through pages of a book, folding the corners to mark a quote, or a passage that held particular resonance. Alas, they were plastered with dated newspapers and rotting boards nailed to the over closed shutters. So he wandered back down, past the railway tracks of one rib, the empty children’s playground of another. The church on your sternum. The graveyard had no flowers by headstones. Half were smothered by a thick blanket of browning moss. Others were merely so caked in grime and crumbling that names were illegible. And passed over the bridge to the empty bandstand of your navel. Where music would play if someone gave the time of day. Behind him were footprints of marks he left with his teeth. A need to show himself he had been here. I have been here.

Behind the bandstand, deeper in, on a small mound of a hill, lay a wooden gate. And beyond the gate was an orchard fenced off from the rest. Here, Frankie would indulge his selfish tongue in the sweet fruit. Between two trunks of apple trees. Bite after ripened bite. The juice was full with a sweet flavour and sticky as it dribbled down his chin. Stained his fingers with their residue when he wiped his mouth. But there was a sharp aftertaste. And before he knew it the apple rotted in his hand. Dropped to the dew dappled grass and damp dirt.

It was always quiet in that town he roamed. No train on the tracks to go clickety-clack. No child on the swings giggling ‘higher dad!’. No busker at the bandstand humming the hymn of god loving us back. Just him. Eerie and silent with only his footsteps to accompany the low murmur of the tree conversing with the blackbird. And the gutters slugged with stagnant rain. He avoided pavement cracks. His mother would save her back. He rounded ladders. It cut himself seven years of slack. Nothing bad would come of it either way. That map was his mind's creation. So he kissed you hard enough to invert you. Fucked you hard enough to invert you. Maybe then he would see what was inside. What wallowed under your skin and festered hot in the gaps between? Each atom of each cell was a stone he wished to turn over. Because there must be something. You had your walls for a reason. Maybe it was written on you like a book? Carved into flesh, a signature he could run a finger over after reading. Behind the backs of your lids, under the tips of your nails. The crook of a knee or elbow. Or he’d trace the freckles on your skin like constellations. Using them like sailors in the archaic times to pass through uncharted waters. Scylla would come and feast on his weathered ship soon enough. Drag him to Davy Jones’s locker. No vessel of good intent crossed your choppy waters before.

You both agreed that you were not a mother. A wife. A bride. Or anything else he might want you to be other than human. You were happy with your independence. You didn't want to throw anything away just yet. Not at all. Not for a long, long while. You set ground rules. Had a straightforward argument that you bought up without the need for him to ask what this consisted off.

“We tell each other when we have had sex with someone else.” Seemed easy enough to Frankie. “And wear protection with them too.” Another valid request. “But most of all, no feelings. I don’t care who you sleep with, or what you do with them, and if you meet someone who you really hit it off with then we call it quits. But if you start to feel even a shred of something more, Frankie, that's it. We call it.”

That had poor Francisco swallowing back a lump in his throat before it could choke the reply back down him. His stomach felt hot, and burned all of a sudden as he tried to digest what you had said. A knot consisting of a livewire thrummed in his gut and made his skin flush. And it irked him to no end.

Frankie remembered his years as an outsider. In a school where the white outnumbered the other. A child of immigrants, lucky enough to have skin that passed. He heard stories of a boy who sat two rows down from him in his American history class. A boy with dark skin and textured hair. Who was teased about his colour. Who threw himself from a bridge because every time he looked down at his hands, darker than those of other students, he felt like he didn’t belong. Frankie felt it too. He could memorise the names of presidents. He could recite that the capital of Texas was Austin. That the United States of America were at war with the United Kingdom from the twelfth of April 1861 to the thirteenth of May1865. But no matter how much of a textbook he would splurge out from between his lips he was always from the outside looking in. It made him wonder in silence to his pillow if he would ever belong. If any fact, or word, or story would make him fit in. He’d have even the gaps between two. He’d squeeze into it, no matter how small, and make it his to belong in. He thought the army would be his ticket in. That if he served a country he would earn his place in it. A foolish thought. For even now, looking at you, he felt the chill from the other side of the window pane. The side in the cold.

While you lay draped in bed, strewn out like the sheets, smoking a cigarette in languid drags, he thought to himself how little he truly knew. Yes he knew about America. But not a sentence about you. Your past. Yes, he knew you did your laundry on Sundays. You came home from the bar you worked in at 1:00. But nothing of note. Nothing important. Part of him liked it. Mystery left room for the mind to entertain. Often fantasy was far more intriguing than reality and it made you seem all the more interesting. A comfort to know he wasn't wasting his time on no one; But rather devoting it to someone. However, the other part— the part of him that watched smoke serpentine from the glowing end of your cigarette— hated it. The way it felt in his gut. Anxiety. He felt it before. But never in this situation. In combat he knew he didn't have time for it. It didn't ululate or linger. It was there, then he swallowed, and it wasn't. Now? Well…he had these moments between. Moments where you would light a cigarette, inhale, exhale. And he would watch as your chest rose, then fell in a pattern enough to hypnotise him. Something so simple as your breathing engaged him. Frankie wondered what it would be like; to live under your skin and have the steady up and down lull him to sleep at night. A rocking back and forth. To and fro. Up and down. Belonging. Moments where he would trace the line of your spine with his eyes. Too scared to touch what wasn’t his until he would bite his tongue and press a single finger to the dip and back down its soft curve. Earlier in the evening, when the sky started to stain tangerine, you had been canting your hips into his, dragging up and down on his length and singing his praises in a breathy chorus. Lost on the feeling of the stretch. The welcome invasion. Then you did the same with his face. Clit brushing zealously over the hooked, aquiline bridge of his nose. Your slick devoured by his wanting mouth. Frankie was the river that ran and unravelled in valleys to feed into your ocean. He hated being in the dark. Only when he fucked you did he have a chance at turning on a light.

“Read it.” He mumbled, nodding to the book in your hands, and rolling over between your thighs to part them. A classic of some century long past. One he never cared much for. But he wanted something. Needed something to tell you to do. Or just something to say. Because the silence was torture for his lonely mind.

You were halfway through stubbing your cigarette into the chipped ceramic dish on your bedside table when he spoke. “What?” You asked, tilting your head in curiosity, eyes searching his. As if the answer lay in their storm-brewing shade of chestnut. Although in the dark, under nothing but halogen street lamp glow, they looked a lot more like black. A nothingness that promised the existence of something.

“I said,” Frankie mumbled again, his voice firm, low and with a gravely finish to it that was just like him. Rough around the edges. Hard to part with. “Read it.” and then, Out loud.”

The words were smudged into the skin of your thigh as he trailed his lips over the inside of the right. His hands skimmed down the outside and squeezed plush flesh. Plump and smooth. Small divots of silver stretch marks on your flesh like ink carved into flesh. Hand painted by some deity in the sky that paid no mind to him now. When he traced his mouth higher he stuck out his tongue. You were wet and hot with his breath and his spit, his come too, still sticky between your thighs at the apex of them. Your very centre. Where his prominent, aquiline nose traced through your folds before his tongue flicked your clit once. “Frankie…” you whined, toes curling. Because you were so sensitive. So worn and stretched and aching. He hushed you, taking liberty over the time where he called the shots. When he was able to bend you to his will and have your head spinning dizzy instead. He didn't feel so motion sick when that was the case.

“Shhh…” he soothed, and pressed the flat of his tongue to your aching sex where heat melted and spread out through your limbs, seeping into muscle and unwinding tension. “Just read…”

Silence. And he thought he may have taken it too far. Finally sent you over some indiscernible edge that appeared too quickly for him to press the brakes. But then your honeyed voice filled his ears;

“Orpheus wished and prayed, in vain, to cross the Styx again, but the ferryman fended him off. Still, for seven days, he sat there by the shore, neglecting himself and not taking nourishment. Sorrow, troubled thought, and tears were his food.” You started, eyes blurring under the hazy weight of pleasure. His tongue delved a little deeper, circled your clit, flicking over the hood of it once, twice, thrice in quick laps. The tip of it pressed to a point and rolled it in careful, full circles. Your nerves thrummed like livewires, humming the same way telephone lines would in a hot summer rainstorm. Where heat lightning flashed ahead.

“Pretty pussy all used and fuckin’ soaked still.” He murmured into you slick, now in a generous shine across his chin. You whined, keening your hips up so his nose pressed to your mound and the smattering of curls there. He lay belly flat to the mattress, hips rutting slowly in tandem with the torturous, bold, and thick laps of your cunt. “C’mon, baby. Léeme a mí. Keep going.”

You read on, lips quivering, words dying by the dragging slice of a moan, a whimper, or simpering whine. Toes curling as his tongue lapped at you. “Three times the sun had ended the year, in watery Pisces, and Orpheus had abstained from the love of women, either because things ended badly for him, or because he had sworn to do so. Yet, many felt a desire to be joined with the poet, and many grieved at rejection.”

His mouth made a sinful soaking sound, wet and generous and full of your taste. “Que cosa mas linda.” He crooned into your cunt, lips smearing into your drenched sex while you stumbled over the words on your page. “Coño— tan mojado, bebita.” You whimpered again, a pathetic sound, fingers daring to curl into the thick head of brown hair at the crown of his head and press him deeper— because, god, you had never wanted something so carnally in your life. “Son deliciosas.” The glint of wanting in his eyes was like the blade of a knife catching the light. A flash of warning before it sliced tender flesh and let blood bleed red. You watched in quivering liquid smooth heat while he tasted, and favoured, and lusted over the seam between your thighs. It was such a pretty sight. Such a wonderful feeling of freedom that sat aching and twisting in your belly. The feeling of impending relief— release. A little death.

“I cant–” You gasped, legs jolting before the malleable, soft and round swell of your thighs clamped over his ears. Your core bearing down on the plane of his nose at your clit and his tongue that dipped in and out of your slick, drooling hole. Large hands, rough to touch, unforgiving and telling, pressed them back to the mattress again. He had you spread completely, open and melting into a pathetic resolve of messy sounds. He dragged his nose through your folds once more, before his lips enclosed around your bud and drew it between them in a sharp suck that had you seeing stars. Ovid’s Metamorphosis, Orpheus, they were put back between the pages of a closed book. Shimmering away into mere dust of thought. A coiling pressure replaced them. One of pleasure, and a slight pain of overstimulation. Hot like a wire in a ready-to-blow fuse. “Fuck– Frankie…” You yelped, and he replied with nothing more than a guttural groan into your centre. A lewd slurp of the slit of your cunt as if it was his last meal. Like it was divine to him. Tasted sweeter than a slice of heaven. Here he could blur into you and forget he was separate. Ignore that you ended somewhere and he started some place after. No gap between could exist with his face pressed into your pussy. Gushing all over his lips and tongue and cheeks just for him. Drenching his face in the thick shine of your slick.

And then there was the slow release of the ache; The coiling heat blooming in your lower belly. Growing with each circle of his tongue over your swollen clit. Your legs twitched from a moment, breathing heavily and staggered as you squeezed your eyes tightly shut. Your vision fizzled behind your eyelids for a moment, making opening your eyes to look down at him retreating would probably have you passing out.

“Bien hecho, chica.” he mumbled as he smeared his lips over your goose pimpled skin, hair stood on end from the tone of his crooning voice, the rough scrape of his moustache over flesh. “Good girl.”

He climbed back up the bed to lie next to you, and the two of you lay still for a while. Your mind felt dormant under the heavy guise of something dragging, your eyelids like paperweights, stinging with the need to just sleep.

“Been meaning to ask you something…” Frankie spoke up, smoothing a hand over your stomach atop the bedsheets you had slipped back under.

“Mhm?’ You asked in a voice that was hazed by the want to sleep, eyes still closed, but awake.

“I’ve got this…thing.” He started, and he watched art you opened one eye to peer at him sceptically, lips pursed ever so slightly. “And all my mates have dates because they're either married, or engaged, or have been planning to get round to proposing…” You scoffed before he had the chance to pick up the trail off of his own sentence. He couldn’t quite meet the scrutinising eyes of yours. The ones that narrowed a fraction as they watched him smooth over the top of your sheets, over a thread that had snagged there when being washed in the machine.

“What thing are you bateing me into going to, Morales?”

“Just a military thing.” He shrugged, trying to be nonchalant, but the way his thick fingers found and pulled at the same stray thread of your duvet cover said otherwise. “A formal.” There was a hint of fear settling like silt at the bottom of a river in his eyes. A flicker. If that. Maybe you could call it a glimmer from afar. Whatever you might call it, it was better left unsaid. You sighed to save him the embarrassment, rolling onto your side and propping your head up with your arm.

“And there isn’t a single soul on this planet that you know of who can accompany you other than me, hm?”

“Please?” He practically begged, rolling on top of you to speak to the skin of your hot neck, skin still slightly salty from the sweat that had previously lain there. “Just as a friend. Nothing more, I promise you.” It would would be nice to have someone there he wished to add, but but his tongue to hold it back. He hated the idea of seeming soppy. Either way, the sting of biting one’s tongue is a lesser of two evils compared to the sting of rejection.

“I suppose I better find a dress then.”

[simon-roy]

The idea of logging on a colonized alien planet brings my mind back to the planet Lalonde from Peter F. Hamilton's Night's Dawn books - a world that had very hard wood as its only meaningful export, and was also stuck developing its economy from agriculturalism (due to investment shortages, though).

All this is to say - Hey! What are some foundational inspirations for your sci fi verse? You gotta have some like recommendations of classic or older sci-fi for us, right? What are some of your suggestions of books and authors to read?

OK SO - My sci-fi tastes have sort of ended up in some very specific niches. Growing up, I was a Larry Niven +Jerry Pournelle man, in part because my dad amassed a huge collection of their books - then gave 90% of them away before i was old enough to read them. So one of my teenage missions was rebuilding that library, trash and all!

Stuff like Footfall, Ringworld, Gil "The Arm" Hamilton, Protector (yes i attempted to name a comic series similarly, and paid for it) "The Mote in God's Eye"... you name it, I read fuckloads of these books. And while they tend to land on a sort of human chauvinist "mankind will win based on his inherent adaptive human-ness, and the aliens will fail because of their rigid alien-ness", this shit was very foundational to me.

Their more collaborative series, The Man-Kzin Wars and War World, also loom large in my teenage mind. The Man-Kzin wars are super fun - humans meet a race of tiger-men, and go from being NWO peaceniks to roughneck cat-skinners in a generation! PEACE AND LOVE WONT DEFEAT TIGER MEN!

Similarly, war world (like lots of that 70s/80s military sci fi) was a sort of catch-all for western military nerds to play with their favorite factions - it was a planet where all the un-ruleable ethnic groups and nationalities had been deported by the authoritarian earth government, and left to rot... until a race of genetically engineered fascist super men land on the world, and start trying to rule the place. Pretty fun shit.

As I got older, I turned hard into William Gibson, and read the absolute shit out of both the Neuromancer trilogy and the Bridge trilogy, as well as his short stories. Bruce Sterling was part of that wave for me, too, and I religiously sought his old paperbacks out too. In terms of novels, "Distraction" is my favorite coherent Sterling Novel - though the short stories in the "Schismatrix" novel/collection of his remain my absolute favorite space opera pieces.

At this age, too, I found my top-top fave Sterling Stories - "Taklaman" and "Bicycle Repairman", both gritty pseudo-cyberpunk stories of the highest degree, in this collection:

This thousand-plus page collection of short stories and novellas was basically my bible for a few years - i put sticky notes on each story i loved and meant to return to, until the book was so festooned with sticky note bookmarks i abandoned the practice altogether. If you have the chance, just buy this book and chew on it for a few years.

As i got into my 20s, Charles Stross became my lode star - his books like Accelerando and Glasshouse were total game changers for me. They come with their own peculiarities, but I loved his transhuman/posthuman musings (or at least i was obsessed with his stuff for a good few years - the venn diagram of his obvious interests and my own overlapped enough that his books were great fodder for a growing sci-fi loving brain).

But since then, my main literary squeeze has been the great man, JACK VANCE. Working on Prophet, my friend @cmkosemen made a remark about how much the early issues of the series reminded him of a book series called "Planet of Adventure" or "the Tschai Cycle", by Jack Vance. The book has a beautifully simple setup - a man from an entirely undescribed spacefaring human civilization crash-lands onto a weird planet. But on that planet, he finds four separate civilizations, each who possess a population of enslaved humans, culturally and physically molded to the needs of their masters. And each book of this series covers our generic hero's interactions with each bizarre expoitative culture. I was extremely intrigued.

Soon thereafter, I found my current absolute favorite book - "THE DRAGON MASTERS". A book about an isolated medieval world... which gets visited, once every few generations, by a black pyramid starship, flown by a reptilian race known as the Greph. The greph capture humans to (surprise surprise) breed them into hyper specific slaves... who in turn become Greph-like in their thinking and demeanours. But the last time the BLACK PYRAMID landed, a bunch of angry medieval dudes stormed the thing, blew it up, and captured a bunch of greph... who became the breeding stock for a whole new human world of slave labour. By the time we meet this planet, the two rival lords of the human-populated regions have been breeding greph slave warriors, or "dragons", for generations, for combat against one another. But soon, the black pyramid will return...

I love this book I even spent a good few months during covid talking with the Vance Estate and several publishers about developing it into a graphic novel, but nobody could quite agree on how it could get made with old Simon getting a paycheque... so sadly it fell apart. There are concept drawings floating around my patreon and other corners of the internet. But one day I'll use 'em...

My other favorite books of his, to name a couple of the MANY books of his I love:

THE BLUE WORLD: A caste system of humans, descended from a crashed prison ship, live on floating settlements on an ocean planet, paying protection to a giant long-lived intelligent crustacean. But one man is tired of giving up all his crops to this tyrannical megafauna...

THE MIRACLE WORKERS: Rival lords on a planet descended to medieval tech (surprise surprise) fight using armies... and rival SORCERORS who employ the powers of suggestion to voodoo each others' warriors... but when facing non-human intelligences, these sorceror's skills fall short.

But there are heaps more, and I love most (thought not all) of the ones i've read. They're generally short, concise, and full of all sorts of bizarre bullshit.

THere are more books i've read and enjoyed in my life, of course, but these are the core ones that I think of when I think of my career as a sci-fi reader... let me know what your top recs are!

[silkbab3y]

Guys shut UP!! They’re just friends… /silly /lh

Issac (red sweater) is @z-shalltear ‘s oc!!!

Little writing fic I did because I loooove Ryder x Issac (it’s unhealthy for me /j)

Ryder likes his friend. And maybe it was just him being delusional, but sometimes it felt like Issac liked him too. Sometimes because Ryder felt as though he overthought things too much, took his friendly gestures as something more. Could you blame him? With a guy as cute as Issac, who wouldn’t hoped that he liked him back?

Ryder can remember their first meeting vividly— vividly because it was almost embarrassing for Ryder, hard to forget. He had given Issac is number at the library on a sticky note before leaving after he had seen the brunette working so studiously with whatever it was. Ryder loved nerds, so cute Issac was instantly his dream guy.

It was embarrassing how long it took for him to do anything, his friend pestering him on the phone to make a move. But he kept chickening out, hence the note. Maybe it wasn’t that embarrassing, but it was for poor ol’ Ryder. And he felt his efforts were in vain when he didn’t receive any call or text, but had assumed that it had just fell before Issac could see it, rather than the worse.

But then he saw him again and had finally introduced himself. That was… mm… a few months ago? Now they were friends and close as ever, making the little few months seem a lot longer.

Ryder was lucky, because not only did his crush liked him as a friend, but also wanted to be around him! That’s… that’s a win right?

Besides him in the food court, he let Issac go on and on about the plants he was taking care of, in return Ryder would talk about the book he was reading. “I think you might like it… I mean, if you’re like… into romance— but it’s not heavy on it—“ Ryder explains, taking a sip of his smoothie. “The girl like… has this tile traveling gene that passes down the woman side of her family, and her traveling companion also has the gene but it passes down to the men in his family. So the setting switches from like… 2011 to 1800s, and it’s a good read… er…” scratching his head, he shrugs, giving up on trying to explain it without spoilers. “I can lend you the first book, I’m on the last one.”

He glances to catch Issac’s eyebrows raise a bit. “Mm.. that fast?” He questions, the brunette smiling a bit. “Didn’t you just start the trilogy a few days ago?” Yeah, which is why Ryder was tempted to reread the whole thing again. Blame his dad for recommending him his now new hyperfixation. “Eeer…” Ryder just gives him a sheepish grin. “Maybe we can read it together?”

After their break, Ryder dreaded having to split for their classes, sometimes even debating if he should skip his to go with Issac. But alas, they both wanted to be good students (Ryder a little less than Issac), and he didn’t want to bother Issac or distract him in his learning (despite wanting to see his cute face 24/7).

Thankfully, their buildings were close by, so they had some time left before they parted. The walkway outside was crowded, most students having just gotten out of class and heading to their next one or heading home.

Ryder noticed Issac almost being eaten up by the crowd, and with an impulse— reaches out for his friend’s hand to pull him to his side. He could almost feel his heart shoot up into his throat at the feel of his hand in his before continues forward, guiding them out the crowd. Ryder couldn’t help but take a few glances back to look at Issac, before facing forward entirely before he ended up staring at the slightly anxious man in the midst of people.

‘He’s so cute.’ Ryder thinks to himself with a small smile. Finally out of the pushing people, standing in front of Issac’s building while his was just a walk away, Ryder holds onto his hand for a second longer before releasing their grip.

This was Ryder’s last class, so he wouldn’t see Issac until Thursday when their schedules align again. Maybe if he’s lucky though, he’ll see Issac tomorrow.

“Well…” Ryder swallows, shoving his hands into her Jean pockets. “Um… I’ll see you later, Issac.” He bids with a smile, waving as he backs away a bit before turning. Hearing Issac walk off into his building, Ryder takes out his EarPods and puts them on, playing whatever song his Spotify had already been playing before.

Ryder didn’t even realize he was still smiling all the way to his class until his other friend had mentioned it. Wiping at his lips as if the smile was a stain, he shrugs at his friend. “Can’t a guy be happy?”

Happy that he got to spend time with his crush, held his hand. Yeah, Ryder likes Issac.

[hungryforpowernotfood]

There Was a Book For That This Entire Time?!

Summary: The reader gets their period & asks Stephen for help, which comes with a little more than expected (sfw)

Warning(s): menstrual/period blood (I have no idea what the quality of this is, I haven't revisited it in so long)

Pairing(s): ftm!stephen strange/ftm!reader (reader can be read as ftnb, but presents & passes as male here)

You woke up earlier than usual with a damp, sticky sensation pressed against you between your legs. You felt yourself tense up at your quick realization of what it was.

You sat in bed for a moment, telling yourself to get up before you were finally able to. The bathroom was connected to your bedroom—as per request—so you didn’t need to risk being seen by anyone. Stephen had been trying to convince you to move into the Sanctum for a while, especially because you practically lived there. He had eventually been able to win you over by offering you a bedroom with your own private bathroom—it was the only luxury he could think of to offer you, the only unique feature any of the rooms had, so you took it.

He always assumed you liked your privacy—you didn’t always study with other people, and you didn’t like meditating around other people at first. He understood the inclination towards independence, so he never questioned you.

You avoided looking in the mirror—you didn’t want to ask to have it taken out because you didn’t want to explain, and you were still learning magic. As soon as you learned a spell for it though, you would have it removed.

You changed in the bathroom after cleaning yourself up, then you did your best to wash the blood out of your clothes. You ran cold water over them, trying to wring out the blood, before eventually just putting them in to soak.

Once you finished, you left, in search of Stephen, or anyone else you could find who could help you get blood out of fabric…and potentially the mattress you may have left a stain on, though you didn’t check.

By now, the stain on your sheet was dry so you would most likely have to resort to magic.

You found Stephen in the library fairly quickly—you were sure he didn’t sleep every night, instead spending some in the library.

“Stephen?” You asked, leaning against one of the shelves.

He only hummed in response, not looking up from his book.

“Are there any spells that can clean blood?”

He looked up and gave you a suspicious look. “Why?”

“I had a nosebleed,” you lied, “I just wanted to clean it up.”

“I can clean it.” He stated, closing the book with one hand. He got up and started walking towards you, you blocked him before he could create a portal, or do anything else.

“Don’t you think I should learn? I get them often, and I’d like to know how to clean them up myself.”

“They can be tricky, but I can show you.” He moved you aside gently with an arm and drew it into a circle—forming a portal and stepping through it before you could object.

“Stephen, it's fine, I don’t need to learn it now.” You objected, but it was too late. He had paused in front of your bed, and you knew he had seen it.

Your heart pounded in your chest and in your ears.

He turned back to face you and gestured for you to step through the portal. Once you did so, he turned back to the bed and cast a spell that cleaned the blood off the bed—letting the portal fall behind you. When he was done, he conjured another portal—a smaller one this time—stuck his hand in, and pulled a book out.

He turned and handed you the book. There were a few sticky notes sticking out of the pages, and the cover looked worn and tattered.

You slowly took the book into your hands, as if you were holding an injured animal—you held all the older books that way.

“The spells for getting menstrual blood and other blood out are different because of the consistency,” He explained, “some of the spells can be a bit tricky. But if you want any help, you know where to find me.”

Stephen winked, and turned, preparing to cast another spell for a portal, when you grabbed his arm, preventing the motion.

“Wait…you’re—”

Stephen nodded. “The Ancient One gave me this book when I first came here. But I know all the spells I need from it, so now you can have it.”

You looked up at him for a moment. “Are you sure?”

“Of course. I’ve memorized everything I need from it.”

You nod.

“Oh, and y/n.”

“Hmm?"

He turns to fully face you. “I understand why you didn’t tell me this…but you can come to me with anything, okay?”

“Okay.”

He smiles at you, before drawing an arm in a circle, a portal being created with it, and exiting your room, leaving you alone with the book.

[fixyourwritinghabits]

NaNoWriMo is around the corner and if I’ve fully moved out by then I think my goal is 30k words (1000/day) to prep for actually getting into writing habits.

I just need to learn to channel some of my ideas into the act of writing lmao.

Okay here are my slap down quick dash rules on how to prepare for NaNoWriMo. These rules assume the following things:

1. You have one project to work on. 2. You have a finishing goal in mind. 3. You will stick to a due date, even if that's not Nov 30th.

Have a lot of ideas? Pick one. - Look, I know. I know. You've got all these ideas. They're all shiny and interesting and fun. But if we're sticking to one project, with the goal of finishing that project, you need to devote the entire month to doing that thing.

And yeah, this is going to suck sometimes. It's going to be real hard not to reach for one of those other shiny ideas just because you can't slog your way through this scene. However. The best way to use NaNoWrimo as intended is to stick with your strongest story idea all the way to the end.

You have no ideas? Find one. - How do you exist. Just how. Okay, fine. You want to write, you just don't know what. Use a plot generator, write fanfiction with the intend to revise it later, grab an outline and get to work. If Tamsyn Muir could get her start in Homestuck fanfiction, you can too.

Have only vague ideas? Hammer that fucker down. - Get down whatever you can. The characters you want to use the most, the events you'd most like to happen. Your idea will likely change a great deal as you write, and that's okay. Just get down whatever specifics you'd like to start with.

You don't know how to take structured notes? Write anything down. - Character names, descriptions of places, scenes you want to happen, etc. Slap them on sticky notes and paste those to a big board. Keep them in a notebook and highlight the ones you'll need the most. Take that notebook with you wherever you go. Embrace being one of those weird writing people.

You don't know where to start with the plot? Sketch out vague story goals. The big fight, the romantic kiss, whatever you desperately want to get into this book. The beginning truly doesn't matter, you will undoubtedly change it in the future, but simply starting with 'John wakes up and his house explodes' gets you out the door. Who gives a shit about the middle, you can figure that out as you go. Having the big climax would be nice, but if all you can come up with 'Alex and Bad Guy fight', then you have a goal to work toward.

Worried about getting stuck? Switch to the inner journey. Sometimes forward-moving plot isn't going to happen. Mapping out your characters inner flaws, wants, and needed changes can get you whole chapters of introspection. You may have to cut that later, but any writing that gives you better understanding of your future finished book is writing worth doing. In figuring out plot goals, don't neglect character goals.

You should also think about:

Use materials you like. I buy special pens from Japan because they're the only brand that doesn't smear on my left-handed ass. I like thicker index card over flimsy ones. Invest in good tools that will help you focus, but don't break the bank for untested methods. Scrivener will only help you during NaNoWriMo if you know it's effective to your writing. You don't want to spend several hours trying to learn how to use it once November starts.

Book out that writing time now. If you build writing time into your daily schedule ahead of November, it won't feel like hitting a wall when you devote that time to writing on 1st. Get up earlier (I hate thing part, but it works). Block spoilers for shows you won't have time to watch. Save those unfinished books and art projects as 'rewards' for after NaNoWriMo.

Check out those writing spaces ahead of time. See if your local library has a quiet corner - and if not, they may let you book a room for a group writing event. Find the cheapest cafes that will let you linger the longest. Clean out a spot in your room or house that you'll be able to focus in the most.

Shit will happen. The world will conspire to keep you from writing. School assignments will be due, family emergencies will come up, you'll have several bad writing days in a row. I see a lot of people quit in the second week because they've 'fallen behind' and won't ever catch up, but reaching your word count is not the goal of NaNoWriMo. The goal is to keep trying to reach that deadline every day for a month. No matter what gets in your way, you'll always end up with more than you start with.

[pebbleswritessometimes]

Rambles

Summary:

Y/N goes to Principal Weems office to catch her breath after a long day. Beginning to ramble about different things, she unknowingly captivates, Larissa.

To say today was a long day, completely under stated what it felt like. You were completely overwhelmed, on the verge of breaking down, and it felt like the most minuscule thing could make everything go tumbling into a mess. Luckily, you knew exactly where to go. You considered your boss, Principal Weems, to be a friend and a safe space. You weaved your way through the students that were left over in the halls.

Exhaling once you made it to the door of her office, you knocked on the door and waited for an invitation in. Immediately recognizing the rhythm and pattern of your knock, “Y/N, you may come in,” Larissa chimed.

You grinned, waltzing over to the sofa near the fireplace. “Evening, Rissa. I hope your day was better than mine,” you chuckled. “It..was certainly something. Would you like to discuss your day?” She questioned. With a downward smile and shake of your head, you laid yourself down on the cushions. Larissa hummed, turning back to her computer and typing away. While you were absentmindedly staring into the flames and twirling your locks, you remembered something you learned earlier this morning. “Larissa! Did you know that the regular coffee they make at the Café is barely even actual *coffee*???”, wide eyed, you waited for her response. she squinted her eyes, tilted her head, and thought, “That would actually explain why it doesn’t taste very much like coffee.”

Your mind started running through different things you’ve learned and seen the past week. From the tiniest mushroom you’d ever come across, to some school gossip you heard from some of the students, and even the weird guy who was hitting on you at the bookstore.

You flew up, twisting your torso towards Larissas desk, and propping your arms up on the back of the sofa, “I overheard one of my third period students talking about a potential prank they may attempt to pull off over the weekend and- oh! There was the cutest little mushroom on the forest trail, yesterday! I took a picture of it because it was just the sweetest looking thing,” you pause pulling out your phone to show her the fungi you spotted on your walk. Closing her laptop and looking at you curiously, she waited for you to finish walking over. You showed her the mushroom, then proceeded to flip through several other photos of things you had spotted this week. Telling her about the most abundant species of frogs that lived near the pond, mentioning their eating habits and habitat preferences. She just stared at you in wonder as you continued rambling about numerous things. In the middle of informing her that a laser can get trapped in water by something called “total infernal refraction,” you pointed at the corner of her desk and checked to see if it was alright with her that you sat there. She waved you off and encouraged you to continue. She was in awe with how colorful your mind was. You had facts and information on numerous topics, you answered nearly every question she had with complete enthusiasm and somehow tumbled into a new area of interest you had. If there was something no one could ever disagree with, it was the fact that you are an incredible story teller. You use your body and voice to completely immerse yourself and your audience. Nearly folding into herself in a fit of laughter, you continued acting out your encounter with the strange pale, bald man at the book store. “He did have a lovely selection of books though! Speaking of books, I think we may need to replace a couple of them from the library,” you laid on the floor with your legs up on the wall, “one of the kids accidentally spilt a sticky drink on some of the pages of a Botany text book.” She scribbled down the note to herself and stuck it away in a planner. You stopped for a few minutes, curled onto your side, with your phone in your hands and playing a new game you had downloaded. She took the opportunity to just observe you. While doing so, she slid towards the cabinet where she kept the bottles of wine and wine glasses. You looked up to start talking again when you noticed she was no longer in her seat. She suddenly appeared above you holding the bottle in one hand and the glasses in the other. “Would you like to enjoy a glass with me?” She smirked. She walked over to the couch, as you flipped yourself over and pushed yourself up off the ground. You both sat there and nearly lost track of time. She found it kind of funny how easily you could get sidetracked and split off into another direction. She made a mental note of the things that got you really excited and the things that didn’t really interest you all that much. “And THATS why Marilyn doesn’t like croissants,” you said. The entire time, she had her hand on her chin and the wine glass resting in the other, simply admiring you. Eventually, you noticed how much attention she had set on you. You weren’t uncomfortable but you weren’t accustomed to having someone actually listen and enjoy your company for long, either. You started to worry that you had bored her with all of your random knowledge. An apology began to pour itself out of your mouth, until Larissa had cut you off. She reassured you that she enjoyed your company and she appreciated everything you shared with her. She was captivated by you, she couldn’t deny. As the later hours slowly crept into present, you could feel yourself growing tired. Thanking her for the wine and for listening to you for hours, you headed on your way to your room. “Goodnight, Rissa. Thanks again,” you closed the door on your way out. “Goodnight, Dear,” she spoke under her breath. Downing the remaining wine, she sat in front of the fireplace. Realizing that she was undoubtedly, in love with you.

Hope this is okay @littledollll ! My apologies, I forgot to ask for preferred pronouns. 💚

[smute]

such a random observation but it somehow fits into the whole "we live in a overheating fascist revival free market microplastics dystopia" thing: i use a lot of these little page marker index post-it thingies for annotating books – these guys ⬇️ – and i need to stock up because im running low

anyway it seems that the paper ones (on the right) are kind of hard to find? they also dont often come in handy dispensers like the plastic ones (on the left) AND they tend to be more expensive??

and like. yeah, its likely a supply and demand thing. the plastic ones probably just sell more. they're also transparent so you can stick them anywhere without covering up text, or even use them as a non-permanent solution for highlighting things in library books for example, but i dont know. it just feels so weird and strangely wasteful to use little plastic sheets as bookmarks when paper sticky notes have been around forever since the 70s. and obviously, paper post-its aren't super eco-friendly either, but jesus christ does everything have to be made from oil?

[dokuixote]

[12:29] | 📓 librarian!wonwoo

“Hey, thought you might like this too. :)”

a boyish handwriting scribbled in a yellow sticky note is taped at a book placed on your favorite spot at the library. again.

it’s the fourth time this month, you recall as you carefully fold the note and store it safely on your pocket. “I think you’ll have fun reading this. :)” “Try this. :)” “This is my favorite author. I think this book is up your alley. :)” you now have a growing collection of book recommendations lacking a name of the sender but always with a signatory in a form of a smiley face.

‘The Miracles of the Namiya General Store’ the cover reads. you scan the room for any sign of the mysterious sender, but to no surprise, everyone within your eyesight is too occupied to care hunched over their papers, books, and laptops. you also flip through the last page and scan the borrower history of the book only to find it empty.

you sadly sigh, wondering when you can meet this person to talk about the story and personally thank them for recommending books you have been genuinely enjoying reading for the past weeks. nameless and faceless, how are you supposed to say that you kept all the sticky notes of annotations in a clear jar at your desk back at home because it makes you smile when you catch a glimpse of it?

defeated albeit eager for a new read, you walk back to the librarian’s desk to officially borrow the book and consume it in the comforts of your own home.

“you again? i’m surprised there are still books here left for you to borrow.” wonwoo teasingly chuckles when he sees you approach with a book and your worn library card at hand.

“oh don’t you worry, i won’t steal your biggest geek world-title.” you roll your eyes at the librarian-turned-friend which earned a laugh from him. from the numerous small talks you had with wonwoo, you discovered he’s few years your senior, likes (and is alike) a cat, prefers mystery over coming-of-age, and he’s on duty during tuesdays, thursdays, and saturdays because he attends classes during the rest of the week and sundays are reserved for campaign mode in his newly-installed RPG.

“hmm, interesting choice.” wonwoo comments while he flips through the book for information.

“you read it? is it good? oh and have you noticed anyone hanging out at my spot recently?” you fire away questions, subtly keen on discovering any clue on who’s been leaving books for you.

wonwoo looks up at you and raises his brows at your flushing cheeks and almost sparkling eyes. he puts his fingers up, “1, yes, i have read it. 2, yes it is good. i liked it. and 3, no, i haven’t seen anyone in your so-called spot which, by the way, isn’t just reserved for you even though you’re our secret-favorite customer. why are you asking?”

“nothing, just curious is all.” you clear your throat and pretentiously say with nonchalance, hiding the disappointment from thinking this is the day you finally have somewhere to start on finding your incognito friend.

wonwoo, knowing better, only gives you a pointed look.

“okay fine, it’s just someone’s been leaving all these books for me and i love every single one of it and i appreciate it and i just,” you explain and mumble, “i want to at least take them out for a coffee or something.”

“oh, then i’ll let you know if i notice something.” wonwoo bites back a smile and hands you the book now permitted to leave the premises of the local library. “hope you’ll like it as much as i did.”

you nod and thank him. “alright, i’ll get going now and trust your word. see you in 3 days! don’t miss me too much, wonwoo!” you jest as you exit.

wonwoo quietly laughs and shakes his head at how goofy you looked while giving him a salute through the glass door. once you were beyond his sight, he goes back to his desk and gets ‘Dollar Good Dream Department Store’. he reaches for a nearby yellow sticky note and writes, “Give this a try. :) <3”

maybe he’d give this book in a coffee shop soon.

[dootznbootz]

Top 3 books?

Okay, sorry I haven't answered yet as...I'm realizing certain ones I THOUGHT were my favorite are sadly probably no longer. Like I still have a soft spot for PJO and HOO but I'm definitely more critical about it now with learning more. And there's a rant about a book series at the end because I love the first so much but the next books made me a bit sad.

Fucking love the Odyssey. Y'all know that. Take a look, it's my favorite book~ Read that fucking rainbow.

I really love "Walk Two Moons" by Sharon Creech.

I haven't read it in a LONG time but I have read it 4 times. (once even outloud to my mom so then she could know about my favorite book :'D I was so mad when she saw the twist ending.) I was a LOT like Sal in many ways a 14 year old as well. "You smell like grapefruit." lol

I really love "Shadow of the Fox" by Julie Kagawa.

Sadly only the first book. I read it from the Library and then bought it because I liked it so much. My copy literally has a bunch sticky notes where my favorite parts are.

Honestly, if you're into M/F romance with a bit of Aro/Ace spectrum vibes then I DO recommend the first book. Because I really loved that aspect. Gives a somewhat Eugene x Rapunzel (just in aesthetic, not personalities) with how it's a girl who hasn't really seen the outside world (lived her whole life in a temple) and an assassin who was basically not allowed to have feelings because magic sword demon showing her that world and finally seeing a lot of beauty in it.

Rant time :')

I really fucking loved not only the story but then the interactions between the characters. I loved the fact that there were no love triangles and just wonderful friendship alongside the very good and cool slowburn romance. Fun fight scenes. Good writing, yeah.

And... that's why I get so sad with the rest of the series. I don't know if the author was rushed or what but that slowburn became really quick basically right away in the 2nd book. In the first book, Tatsumi was figuring his feelings out more as he had more "exposure" in a way and how he had to be so careful with them because uh, the book establishes how if he loses himself, Shit goes bad. (shit does go bad)

But with Yumeko?? It was really neat seeing her figure herself out. Learn more about herself and the world around her.

which is why I'm so saddddddd

As a whole, I REALLY hate how so many YA novels add random unearned smut. 😫 I read novels for a novel. I don't see why sex progresses the story/relationship. And with how Yumeko's established? Really needing to learn a lot of shit that's not in books? Girl in book 1 gets excited about the "Red Lights district" thinking it's a festival of red lights, in the 3rd book has a "I have to have you now" moment? WITH NO PROGRESSION??? There was no realization or just even "Oh, okay, this is where this going." IT JUST HAPPENS. WHO GAVE THIS GIRL THE "TALK"? THE PUBLISHERS BREATHING DOWN THE AUTHORS NECK?

I'm sorry but she had such funky feelings about it all in the first book. "I read a poem once about a lady who threw herself into the ocean because she couldn't be with her lover. I just felt bad for her... That's what love is, right? It just sounds sad. No thank you." and no one explains it or she never really has a lot of introspection on it.

Like, she just says "I love you" basically but it did not really feel like it was earned?? or like she really figured it out yet. It felt like a "This would be a good moment for her to say it. So she's gonna."

THEN EVERYBODY DIES AND SHE'S LEFT ALONE AT THE END OF THE 3rd BOOK!

Yes, Tatsumi gets reincarnated but that was not satisfying. Everything with Yumeko's father and mother was good. Daisuke and Okame was cute!!! TATSUMI BECOMING A HALF-DEMON??? WITH YUMEKO BEING HALF KITSUNE??? I THOUGHT IT WAS LEADING TO "YES!!! SHE WON'T OUTLIVE HIM! They can be immortal lovers!" but then she DOES. BECAUSE HE GETS KILLED.

The ending did not feel satisfying. I really love the first book so much. I would recommend it, but if you love the characters from the first book read the rest of the series with caution. ughhhhhhhhh

I Waited TWO YEARS for the other books 😭 Not because they weren't out, no, it was because I couldn't FIND IT at the local bookstores! and when I finally did, it was only one of each and I bought them both because I had SUCH faith.

I've had a lot of bad luck YA novels and it makes me sad :'(

[this-is-a-podcast-fanblog]

I want a house with a garden. I want to let my dog out the back door and stand there sipping my morning coffee while he runs around inside a little gated off area. I want to own this all; house, garage, and small plot of land with some flowers. I want to come inside to a home that I've had time to clean, to see the cute sticky note my partner left on the fridge alongside the polaroids of our friends and flyers for the library. I want to drive to the store in a pre-owned car that still works and doesn't need constant maintenance, and when I get my groceries I want to buy everything in the cart, even the ice cream with nuts and chocolate chips, and not have to put anything back. I want to get home and unload the groceries and pick out clothes from a closet I can step into, clothes that I've thrifted or that I've made myself, and some that I splurged on as a treat. I want to get started on my work, because I'll work from home in a cozy little office space, proving to everyone that this Creative Writing degree wasn't a waste of time, that I've made something from my life. I want an indoor dance pole that I can go on for exercise, only for exercise now. I want to listen to my favorite podcast while I prepare my second meal of the day, and to know that I haven't skipped breakfast or lunch all week. I want to welcome my partner home and eat dinner together. I want a glass of wine with dessert, only one though, and on the weekends I can have more than that when we're out with all our friends. I want to see my novels in bookshops and be proud of my work, proud to be an artist, a job that cannot be replaced by AI. I want to take up a hobby. I want to start books and finish them. I want to go on weekend trips up north, and to swim in the Adirondack Lakes, and to hike the Appalachian trail.

I, and most of the other people of my generation, will probably never have any of these things.

[frogsandfries]

Hopefully real quick

Because on the one hand it's bothering me, and on the other hand, again, I still want to get some typesetting work done.

So, I know I mentioned that I got a book. I don't think I remember mentioning or showing which book it was. It's Little Bead Boxes by Julia Pretl.

It's supposed to be an easy to follow guide. But it's not. And it's bothering me.

My granny didn't teach me beading. I am entirely self-taught when it comes to beading. My dad kind of just indulged me with a pack of beads and I had to figure it out from there. I did use some magazines from the library to learn some stuff, but of course, the magazines assume you're an adult with a tray of a variety of stuff. I only had one packet of seed beads, so maybe a lot of opportunities were lost there.

I really had to improvise and reverse engineer to figure this out for myself, like last night, digging scrabbling really, with increasing desperation and frustration, for a guide that showed how to peyote stitch a triangle in a way that made sense for me.

From there, now I'm sitting here trying to get a couple steps ahead in my mind. I don't really want to be stuck when it comes to the going into three dimensions with the beadwork, which is the whole point of acquiring the book: Finally learning something interesting to me to do with the beaded projects that I create, seeing as bracelets and necklaces give me sensory issues.

But I'm trying to continue my reverse engineering to really figure out what the hell I'm supposed to be doing, per the pattern, both to increase my skill in reading patterns, as well as to confirm that I'm doing this correctly so that I can ensure when I get to the more complicated patterns, I can actually follow them, since this book is, funny enough, not really aimed at visual learners.

I'm sitting here I wish I had some vellum and some decent quality sticky notes so that I can annotate the book for myself without messing up the book by scribbling all over it.

First, having the rows in the diagrams numbered would have been a great addition. I frogged my triangle like three times thinking I was doing it wrong. Second, some kind of page that explains like you're five how to read the damn pattern. Like, okay, A(1) means one of color A. But what the fuck is "nc"; why is this thing bolded and that thing is not. What the fuck is the ellipse for.

Oh, my third big issue is that increasing is included right there in the written instruction section, but fucking decreasing is in it's own section. What the hell! Who allowed this?? This organization makes no goddamn sense.

Again, I'm not a read the instructions person. I'm a look at the pictures person. I imagine many, many visual creatives are. A little more grace extended toward these types would have massively improved this book. It brags about step-by-step instruction and being suitable for all experience levels. Experience levels, perhaps; learning styles? Not remotely

Anyway, if I'm such a great teacher, why don't I publish my own bead-working book? This book was published in 2006 which was technologically a long, long time ago. I could easily produce a beading book full of painfully complete, step-by-step photographic instruction.

With this all said and out of my head, I'd like to focus on the project I have moved my attention to for the little time I have left till I have to go back to work.

If someone came up to me tomorrow and offered me a job working from home with four ten-hour shifts a week, I would jump ship so fast.

[excessdrive]

closed for: @fvckthepctriarchy ― ( sage ) where: local library when: 11:42 pm.

ending up in a library on a random thursday night had never been in the cards for killian. actually, it was a specific thursday for someone else. sweet natalie had an upcoming project at school and it just so happened that it was an emergency and she was in desperate need for a certain encyclopedia. usually you'd find the trainer already lightly snoring in their bed at such late hour, but when it comes to their goddaughter, killian was more than willing to bend a rule or two if that meant they'd get to save the little girl's day at school.

so here they were, arriving in quite a rush only to find themselves completely lost in the building filled to the brim with all types of books. how can anyone even begin to nagivate through this maze? thankfully, it didn't take long until what seemed like library assistent's desk came into view and the trainer gained a sense of relief. and, as it turns out, they might have relaxed way too soon. because why would a quick trip to the library go as smoothly as they'd imagined it in their head? nothing ever goes according to the plan and despite countless of situations proving exactly that, killian still found themselves being reminded of that simple yet unfortunate fact time and time again. it's like they never fully believed in it. well, until this moment, that is.

the disgusting frown reflected in moody assistent's face upon their inquiry about the layout of the library told them as much as they needed to know. the bastard did not want to help out and given the fact that the library was supposed to close in roughly fifteen minutes only added more reasons for killian to believe that the asshole decided to brush them off on purpose.

❝ oh, for fuck sake. ❞ a barely audible irritated mutter left them as the trainer quickened their pace in hopes of having the quickest possible tour of the place which will, inevitably, lead them to their destination. ideally, since they were racing against the clock and the odds didn't seem to be in their favor so far.

by some miracle, around ten minutes later, killian stopped at what appeared to be the correct row of bookshelves that included various types of encyclopedias. ❝ bingo. ❞ they whispered to themselves while marvelling at the scene. you'd think they discovered some kind of a treasure. taking a couple of steps closer to the bookshelf, killian swiftly fished out a sticky note with the name of the book and mere moments later their eyes fell upon the desired item. ❝ come here. ❝

now that they managed to find what they were looking for, the blond was way more at ease than before and was no longer in such a rush to exit the building although only a few minutes were left before the closure of the calm research space. still, they made their way towards the main staircase and couldn't help but direct their attention towards someone in particular. a person seemed to be resting or even sleeping on one of the research desks. it was obvious enough given that their head was lowered and rested on their arms like they were nothing but a comfy pillow.

a part of them did not wish to intrude or disturb the resting soul, yet the previous interaction with annoying library assitent refused to leave their mind. if it was up to them, killian would take up all of those people entering the library and would guide them themselves. that's how rude of an arsehole this one was. ❝ hey, ❞ killian addressed the person after getting close to their desk, however their approach did not evoke any reaction from the other. the trainer glanced around the place for a second or two, deciding their next move.

they were not really the touchy type, at least not when it came to strangers. so, the thought of potentially touching the other made them hesitate as scenarios of how the person would take their gesture plagued their imagination. then a faint sound of movement ahead reached their ears indicating that the assistent was preparing to close the library and that it was time to make their next move. the blond's glance returned to the other as killian let out a small sigh, leaning closer to where they were resting.

❝ hi, ❞ they tried again, slightly louder than before as the trainer now gently placed their hand on the other's shoulders, applying a bit of preassure in hopes of waking the person up. ❝ sorry. didn't mean to disturb, but the place is closing up and... yeah, it's pretty late. ❞ as soon as they felt movement, killian took a step back, letting their companion assess the situation and remember where they were. ❝ i'm gonna get us a cab. it's too late to be travelling alone, anyway. ❞ with a clear goal in mind, the trainer pulled out their phone with an intention to book them both a taxi, allowing the other to gather their bearings during that time.

[shyrens]

fairy girl, wip

When I was small, I believed in fairies. I would make little habitats for them in the spaces between the tree trunks and ivied vines. I was crafty. The popsicle sticks and broken crayons weren’t missed from my 1st grade classroom. I would leave a note behind apologizing, just in case they were. I practiced my cursive often. No one noticed.

I can’t remember how I became to know about fairies. Fantasy was the first genre that my mother had given me to read on my own. It was her favorite. I would turn off all the lights and find a flashlight from the junk drawer to bring into the closet with me. I devised a complex system of levers and pulleys to gather my supplies at the top of the closet. I had seen something similar at the science center on a school trip. 

My agile body could scale the side of the closet wall, leaping from doorpost to post, to get to the top shelf. I couldn’t manage bringing up all the supplies, and getting up there at the same time. The coat hangers and scarves and belts worked in tandem to deliver the flashlight, the snacks I hoarded, and the books of the night. The coat hanger swung to the ground, latching onto the ribbon hooks I had glued onto all my closet-reading necessities. 

I hung the flashlight on the latch I attached to the ceiling. It allowed me to read hands-free. It was the middle of the day, and I was completely alone. No one looked for me.

I would stay in the closet for hours, reading by myself. My room had a huge Ikea bookcase that spanned from wall to wall. It had to be screwed into the wall so the weight wouldn’t topple onto me, crushing me to death. 

I was lucky. There were never any shortage of books in my life. I had many worlds to devour, and I was starving. I knew it was fictional. For the most part. Sometimes, I would bite down too hard, and the worlds would bleed into mine. Fairies were one such occasion. 

The belief started off tentatively, as many beliefs do. I began to eat books, stories, CD-ROMs, anything. I needed to know about the fairies. The more I read, the more the fairies would begin to consume me. I didn’t care. I needed information, and I needed it immediately. 

I went to the library for more sources. My local library was 3 miles away. I didn’t know how to ride a bike yet, nor did I know where my mother kept the car keys, so I decided to walk. It was chilly outside, so I made sure to wear my gaiter. I put on some sensible shoes, leopard print platform sneakers, of course, and a winter parka. I thought about what else I might need for the journey. I thought about filling a backpack with lunch for myself, but decided against it. 

“Food and drink is not allowed in the library,” I said to myself. I had seen the signs all over the children’s section.

Instead, I went to the laundry room in the basement. I knew my father kept some money in a jar next to the ironing board and washing machine. I stuffed the bills in my jean pocket, and tossed some loose coins into the backpack. Who knows how much money I’ll need.

I walked back up the stairs, and left through the side door. No one saw. 

I started to walk down the sidewalk. I lived in a nice neighborhood, and people waved at me as I walked past their porches. They looked at me strangely. I wasn’t sure why. I was allowed to cross through their backyards, so I did. Maybe 3 miles isn’t so bad after all. I felt moisture on my neck under my gaiter. I pulled the pink fleece over my head with one hand, but it tugged on my thick hair. I pulled harder. My neck was slicked with sweat. I was panting from exertion. I figured that it would be cold out because it was September, but I felt sticky under my parka. The olive green coat was now dark with sweat in some places. I peeled it off my skin. The fur lined hood bristled against my ear.

I wasn’t sure where I was anymore. I shoved the gaiter into my parka sleeve and tied the parka around my waist. My town wasn’t that large, so I knew that I just had to find one landmark. I walked further down the street until I found my school. From there, I just had to walk up the hill to the library. I was getting thirsty. I must have lost a lot of energy sweating through my clothes. I walked into the Dunkin Donuts. I ordered myself a large Blue Raspberry Coollata and paid using the bills I had taken out of my father’s jar.

“Keep the change,” I said, the bell chiming as I pushed on the door, leaving the store. The employee looked pleased.

I could see the squat library on top of the hill. It looked barren on the outside, but I knew it was a trick. Inside, all of the information I needed would be there. I walked through the doors, and the air was cooler. I felt the wetness on my skin dissipate. I knew the layout of the library well because I spent a lot of my time there, when I wasn’t closet-reading, of course. I headed right towards the stairs down to the children’s level. I could feel the noise level rising by a decibel with each stair I descended. The children’s level was wilderness; parents would leave their charges downstairs while browsing the stacks above. I put my parka back on for camouflage. 

The youth librarian approached me. She pointed at my mouth. I stuck my tongue out. It was stained blue.

“Are you doing research on anything in particular today?”

“Fairies.” I responded. She led the way. 

I huddled the stacks of research books in my arms and headed to the Quiet Room. The Quiet Room was circular, with curved bookshelves covering the walls. It was still pretty loud because there wasn’t a door to seal off the sounds of non-Quiet Rooms. In the middle of the Quiet Room was a white, clawfoot bathtub. The bathtub had everything I needed to simulate closet-reading. It was filled with feather pillows. I lifted my leg over the edge of the tub and climbed in. I didn’t have my system of levers and pulleys, so when I was finished with a book, I reached over the lip of the tub, and grabbed the next one. I concealed myself from the wild animals using the pillows. 

After a while, the librarian came in. I poked my head out of the tub.

“Your father is looking for you,” she informed me. I went back under. Clearly, my father had found me. 

“The children’s section closes in 15 minutes,” I heard one of the librarians announce.

I gathered my research to put back onto the re-shelving cart. I walked back up the stairs to where the adults were, a thick silence hung over the open space. The library was huge, with massive metal bookshelves radiating outwards from the circulation desk which sat perfectly at the center. There was a balcony overhanging the space, that gave way to even more sterile metal bookshelves. The shape of the library made it more acoustic. Even the whispering patrons of the circulation desk could be heard in the most remote corner of the upstairs balcony. It was a different ambience entirely than the children’s section.